Disclaimer:Batman and those affiliated with the DC universe don't belong to me. In no way am I profiting, just, uh, self fulfillment.
Past Prompt from A Freak Like Me, a Batman/Joker community on LiveJournal: "Carve your name into my arm." -Placebo (Every Me and Every You)
Warnings: Possible character death, colorful language, and some OOCness
Summary: The Joker was many things and suicidal was not one of them.
A/N: This is me taking a crack at mystery. There isn't supposed to be an answer. It's really up to your own interpretation.
He didn't realize he'd done it until it started to bleed.
The flash of the crime scene photographer's camera lit and captured the ragged, crimson lettering carved across the body's pale stretch of forearm.
"Any guesses on what to make of this?"
"… given what we have here… I'd say the Batman had it and didn't want the guy to forget that."
Another click and flash stained the roll of film with the deceased's face.
Colorful stills of the gruesome scene were spread across the brightly lit table top. His tense form hovered over the images of bloody asphalt and numbered bits of evidence. Eyes darting from one glossy photo to the next, rearranging them and struggling to piece the scene together outside of the coroner's conclusion. No matter how hard he trained his eyes on the lacking signs of a struggle, dark pupils would helplessly squint till they relented and punished him with the blood-curdling sight of his name wet and sticky, instilled to be forever dripping from that frail limb. A guilty sting twisting his insides. The mutilation's owner appearing to be peacefully resting in the next shot.
Black hollow pits camouflaging long, blonde lashes brushing the sunken skin under those once lively eyes; slack, white jaw relaxing that always smirk and leaving nothing but a forever cherry grin curling up his cheeks.
Suicide, the labs had confirmed.
Hard eyes stared, quietly pleading, at the haunting face. His thin lips mouthing a swollen throated, Why?
"Master Wayne, you're going to be late if you don't start getting ready now."
He remained rooted to his spot, still locked in a one-sided staring contest with that damning picture. As if his desperate determination would be rewarded with the inked eyes meeting his and those loose night crawler lips twitching a familiar smile.
The older man retained his distance, hands primly clasped at his midsection and face serene. His pale eyes idly wandered to the cavernous ceiling coated in darkness. The approaching night luring its children judging by the stirrings of fluttering wings and small squeaks. The soothing downpour of water on rock lending to the chill now swallowing the makeshift workspace set off to the side, not far from where the suit was kept watching and waiting. Coffee maker consistently set to brew and a hardly touched cot.
Then there was the man at the center of it all: A towering knot of muscle sporting the same dark clothes since he'd seen him last, and that was three days ago. Ever since the news greeted the man's rousing mind over a full plate of breakfast those two long weeks ago, he hadn't been the same. The Wayne heir had never before been tip top by any means but this past week had proven it could get worse.
Much, much worse.
"Sir?" The old butler firmly prompted, knowing it wouldn't be necessary to remind him of his obligations and that those nightmarish pictures were not one of them.
Any second now and the answer would reach out from that glossy finish and smack him in the face. Mutilations made pre-mortem-cause of death- but no signs of a struggle. No bruising or scratches and nothing suggesting restraints. Maybe someone held a gun to his head and forced him to do that to himself -with his own knife. Yes, he had no reason to do that to himself otherwise- right? But why my name? Why the fuck me?
I can hear him laughing now…
"Master Wayne!" cracked like a whip against his turned back. Several minutes of gently vying for the young man's attention with nothing to show for it but blatant disregard lost its patience.
Except the source of his frustration barely stirred. In fact he didn't even turn to acknowledge the extra occupant in the cave when he muttered, "I'm not going."
"Sir, the committee is very much expecting their highest contributor to attend the banquet."
"They have my money. What do they care if I show?" No, this. This is more important.
"You haven't been out of the house in over a week."
"I have too." The far off splash of waterfall and the rustling of leather wings above well hid his growl.
"He-" The butler's tone implied the vacant and menacing figure in the glass case. "- doesn't count. Bruce Wayne hasn't been to work or shown up in a gossip magazine since Tuesday."
His teeth grinded painfully -lips pulling tighter together- at the calm, accusing stare his oldest friend (more like a father really) had fixed upon him. The blunt truth piercing through his dark shell and impaling all his worries and fears on the slippery, jagged cave wall behind him, pinned and vulnerable for them both to see. Needless to say it zapped all the fight out of him, so that he held his tongue and reluctantly brushed past to the lift. He lingered for a moment -his hand on the lever- but when the old man made no move to join him, instead insisting on cleaning the mess with a tired sigh, Bruce allowed himself to topple against the railing and the jolt and groan of the old elevator carry him up to his parent's newly rebuilt home.
Ever since the news broke -the Clown Prince's brutally carved arm and his lifeless face splashed across every media outlet (t-shirts even!)- Gotham endured a spout of bipolarism. Initially, a burst of disbelief and jovial celebration, as if the Wicked Witch of the West was dead. Then of course the city-patented suspicion; Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon having proven people do come back from the dead. Paranoia and that sinking sense of dread weighing down every citizen's stomach, waiting for the eye of the storm to pass and the next circus-themed terrorist attack to strike. Those pictures just had to be fake, and this had to be some kind elaborate scheme cooked up to be worse than Oklahoma City [1]. Intensity gripped the city -people weary to venture out during the day and refusing the night- and everyone so afraid to breathe easy. That was just the first week.
As days bled into the second week and the start of a new month, the residents found themselves easing back into the state of pre-Joker era but reaping the benefits of the aftermath, because in their minds he wasn't coming back. Yeah, okay, so someone did steal the body from the morgue. Probably his jingling sidekick that lost the perk in her backhand spring or some other sick fuck. As long as the maniac was dead, whatever desecration befalling his cold flesh was deserved as far as the population was concerned. The police launched no investigations to reclaim the corpse so no one cared. Gotham could finally move on, now that the laughter resided in the fiery depths of hell. With apprehensive mobsters and the comforting thought that if the Joker was still breathing, his impatience would have pushed him to act already, the rotting city moved swiftly to somewhat of a renaissance. Crime in a brief reprieve; more festivals and city-wide celebrations; chances to rebuild what was lost and put on hold; more successful public charity events; the mayor being so bold as to elude with his "Two-year Plan" the city could rejoin the ranks with such locations that received the great honor of hosting the Olympics. Yep, everyone in and out of Gotham couldn't be happier, all sharing a knowing smile.
Everyone except the healing kingdom's prodigal son.
Passing through the double doors of the lavish banquet hall -an uncharacteristically quiet entrance- Bruce Wayne's billion dollar self looked like hell: Dark hair damp and hastily combed back, paler than a hangover with matching purple circles around his downcast eyes to boot, and his arrogant smirk straightened to a hard line. Without a supermodel on each arm, he went virtually unnoticed to a vacant corner. A passing waiter offered him a flute of champagne, but he waved it off. His suit appeared ill-fitting: His tall, muscular physique hunched and withdrawn; his usual proud, puffed out chest sank and fabric pooled there. Sagging against the wall, his vision lazed across the span of high society. Eventually his eyes unfocused themselves; the all-business men and their plastic trophy wives, the sophisticated older widows dripping family jewels, the colorful debutants and big-haired cougars on the prowl for young, single men blurred into a writhing blob.
One gunshot to the ceiling. I wonder how fast they'd run. The corner of his mouth quirked up the slightest bit. His boredom dulling the disgust for the odd thought. He knew instantly where it came from: Two weeks of loneliness and compensating for the loss came natural. Really, who was Batman without the-
"Bruce? Bruce Wayne is that really you?"
No, you must be mistaken. [2] His line of thought broken, he matched gazes with that of recently divorced, Molly Caradean. He could only groan -looking elsewhere- and praying the marble floor would swallow him up whole. She was one of the cougars: At it for years but the final papers were signed just this past March. The hunt now involved more at stake for her, needing another wealthy stud to pay her bills, and Bruce Wayne's scent had been stuck in her cosmetically altered nose for months. Him being the richest and certainly most handsome bachelor in the continental U.S. only further motivated her efforts.
Please find someone else to bother. Please. Please. Please.
"It is you! How have you been?"
Fuck.
Her smile pained him to see: Overly bleached, too much gum and a sliver of mauve stretched thin across the top and a fat collagen injection for a bottom lip. "Haven't seen you in awhile."
Despite his exhaustion he had a role to play after all, so he raked his fingers through his hair and shrugged, throwing on a coy yet charming smile. "Works been keeping me busy." Batman: The CSI edition made it less of a lie and more of a mislead. Something the clown babbled on about once: "My word means whatever I want it to mean."
"-about finding you other ways to distract you from that mean, old, nasty work." Her botoxed face in a playful pucker and her petite frame leaning a bit top heavy towards him.
Is she still talking? His mind wanting his body elsewhere, like the cave pouring over those photos and making sense out of them. The blood and paint wouldn't leave the forefront of his thoughts.
"It's such a crime that you spend so much time in that big mansion all by yourself," she said with a mock-sad expression. Yesterdays's injections making the gesture look wrong and disturbing.
"I'm not alone. I have Alfred to keep me company."
"Who?"
"Alfred? My butler? You must have met him at least five times."
She was… drawing an absolute blank. How was she to know? She could hardly remember Lupe-Margareet-Margarita, Carmalita- whatever her name is and she's been with her for years. "Why yes, of course!" she lied. "Please excuse my - forgetfulness. So many names and faces in so little time, you know how that is."
Smile twitching, he nodded with a snobbish upward tilt of his sharp chin. "Yes, I do. I am a Wayne, or did you forget that?" The playboy façade slowly circulating throughout his being. The script required very little thought.
Molly was apparently pleased, because she sidled up closer -her full D implants imposing against his arm- and giggled shrilly. His fist clenched in instinct to punch, but then he remembered Batman sliced jagged in sallow flesh. Nausea gripped his gut, and she said something he missed so when she led him by the arm to a quartet of unfamiliar socialites, he was utterly confused.
Something about my- my not having a date? Fuck if I know.
"Bruce!"
"Oh Bruce, it's so good to see you!"
"Long time, no see."
"Wow, you look… great."
High society insists upon an obscene level of politeness when it comes to interacting with one another and saying someone more wealthy than yourself that they look like shit is frowned upon. If they're below, by all means. Bruce Wayne was above them all (in more ways than one) but he did not look well.
"Good evening ladies and gentleman," his voice superficial and cheerful. He grinned despite remembering none of their names: An older businessman with his wife (or mistress?) and two plastics with probably only first names to offer: Something such as "Candy and Fontana," like cocktail waitresses.
"So what have you been up to?" The twenty-something blonde -Candy, maybe- filled that small lull in conversation. Her brunette counterpart with decent model looks appeared reluctant to say much of anything. It was the Prince of Gotham after all.
He tested the vice grip Molly had on his arm -like a fucking steel clamp- and scanned the room with that billionaire apathy, murmuring, "Work mostly…"
"How is Wayne Enterprises doing?" The self-important man piped up. His gun metal gray suit and gold cufflinks screaming the kind of idiot that would brave the city streets at night, get mugged, then be left as a blubbering mess for Batman to find.
"I'm sure you read the stocks, you tell me." Bruce laughed, provoking the others to do so whether they saw the humor or not. To be perfectly honest, he was serious. With the whole Joker uncertainty, he had no idea how his company was getting along without him. Lucius seemed to understand he needed his spare time more so than Alfred did.
The man had come up with some witty remark of his own which escaped Bruce's hearing, so he tossed in a mindless chuckle for the group to interpret as they pleased. "So- how are things with…" As if the playboy could remember. "Your, uh, work?"
Keen interest sparked behind the businessman's oval spectacles like asking a Trekky nerd to tell of the many trials and tribulations of Captain Kirk. "Mergers and acquisitions has been-"
From there Bruce had checked out. His physical presence rooted to the floor and tethered by Molly's strong hold; but mentally he was sifting through the graphics burned into his corneas. As many times he's looked at them so far, they had yet to lose their shock-value. Was that his plan- no, no, bastard insists -insisted- he doesn't plan. Did he- god damn I don't know anymore. I simply don't know. Bruce, think. The clown is -shit, was-- a lot of things and suicidal wasn't one of them. The only way he would- Okay, what happened was- Jesus, the fumes coming off her hair is making me dizzy. I wish she'd let go of my arm- digging her nails.
They're talking. They're all still talking. Do they even suspect what I do- what I am?
A freak. A freak with a pretty face and bags of money. A freak-
"Like me."
He kept catching himself watching the doorway, but no one beside those later than him entered. Deep down he hoped that any minute now the double mahogany would bust open and spew forth men in clown masks wielding machine guns, shouting for everyone to get down and stay put. Then, hopefully, strolling in at last -as if he owned the place and maybe in a way he did- would be the painted devil himself, devoid of a gun.
"Guns are too quick." That was his reasoning. One of the many random quotes Batman committed to memory while going over the interrogation room footage. Rachel was burning, Harvey lost his face (half anyways) and there the clown sat looking pretty and utterly content. Content because of me - because I fell into his trap - because he needed me then.
Chocolate eyes burned in concentration from willing the invasion to come to fruition. ComeonComeonComeon. He really wanted it to be so, even if it would put him in a compromising situation; he would figure it out then. Bruce just needed a more solid confirmation, so he could sleep again. All these days going without proper rest was eating away his mind. Am I the only one that feels like this? I should be the happiest person in town, but I'm not. What's wrong with me?
"How about you, Bruce?" Molly jerked him from his deep thinking, once again disorienting him. Faces stared at him with curiosity. His vision snapped into sharp focus. A bemused expression settled across his masculine features.
"Huh?"
Molly grinned, stroking his arm. Lavender being the wrong color for her overly tanned skin. Pale, he really liked pale. There's a certain purity to it. "Robert was just telling us about his business venture to China. I've personally never been and these two, um, ladies haven't also. We were wondering if you…"
China? What do I care about China? "Uh… sort of…"
"'Sort of'? How do you sort of-"
"Well look who's here."
"Never thought I'd see him here. Isn't it eight hundred dollars a plate?"
"Can you afford that on a cop's salary?"
"I highly doubt that."
"Who?" Bruce lazily tried to act interested. Stupid gossip. What did it matter anyway?
"There." A French-manicured claw sliced through his line of vision and pointed to the other side of the vast room. "Commissioner Gordon."
Bruce actually paid attention to this. Yes, there he was in a cheap navy suit looking out of sorts. His wife, Barbara, on his arm. People came to greet and congratulate him for such outstanding police work on that whole clown mess, but the couple was generally left on their own.
"Do excuse me," the billionaire announced and moved to go talk to him. Low and behold Molly was not going to give him up that easily. Single women on the hunt are constantly aware of each other, and she'd be blind to say she didn't notice the attention he was attracting.
Knowing he would cause a scene if he were to wrestle for his arm back, he grudgingly pulled her along. The click-click-clicking of her heels from his smooth, fast pace grated on his nerves. Coming up to the couple, his cheeks stretched to accommodate a smile that wasn't there. "Commissioner, pleasure to see you again."
"Bruce Wayne." Gordon offered his hand but didn't look exceptionally pleased to see him. Another reason why Bruce was so fond of him. They shook hands.
"So who is this beautiful, young woman you're with?" Because Bruce Wayne doesn't know squat about Jim Gordon's life.
"This is my wife, Barbara."
She gingerly placed her hand into Bruce's and quietly said, "Nice to meet you."
Being the suave playboy, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against her pale skin. "It is very nice to meet you." A devilish grin wrung his pink lips.
The married couple blushed, each for different reasons. Gordon's peppered mustache bunched, hiding the disgusted wrinkle on his lips. His hand moved to touch the small of his wife's back; the gesture wasn't lost on Bruce though. He struggled to suppress a smirk. Jim, seriously it's me. Sometimes I wish you knew that.
"Bruce," was hissed into his ear.
Rolling his eyes, he gestured between his present company. "Jim, Barbara Gordon - Molly Caradean."
"Miss Molly Caradean now," she giggled and shook hands. Her spider leg eyes burning holes into the side of Bruce's skull.
"So, Jim, never saw you at one these before…" He had to pace himself, even though all he wanted to do was rush into the one subject that mattered.
"Yeah, well, the mayor wanted to buy me dinner…"
"You deserve it for such fine work," Molly interjected, surprising Bruce. "Going against that psychotic took a lot of courage." A serious expression on her face. Bruce's eyebrows reached to his hairline, shocked that she knew anything about current events. That's the effect the harlequin had on people, he supposed: He made even the most self-involved care. He united the broken city with just a shared hatred for him.
Bruce's chest inexplicably ached.
Jim Gordon was always a good cop; he just wasn't used to other people pointing that out to him, and it showed easily by his pink cheeks and nervous fidgeting. "Um, thank you, Miss Caradean. I had some help then, so I very well can't take all the credit."
A tenderness flickered in Bruce's eyes. Thanks, Jim.
Molly merely scoffed at this. Traces of humility vanished. "You don't mean that caped murderer, do you?"
"Well, yes, Batman helped a great deal-"
"Back then, I'm sure when he hadn't killed several cops, but where has he been lately?"
"I'm sure just because he isn't in the news, he isn't out there on the streets." Bruce then added in a small grumble, "Every. Single. Night."
"Oh don't be so obtuse, Bruce. The man's a criminal. All we need is good men like the Commissioner here….. And besides I'm sure the Bat's busy mourning for his dead boyfriend anyway." Her haughty laughter raked hot spikes down his spine. Never before had he wanted to rip someone's hair out so badly.
The Gordons smiled politely, biting their tongues. They knew the truth of the vigilante's innocence as well as Bruce but did a way better job of masking their distaste. The fist in Bruce's jacket pocket trembled in light of his strained smile.
"I'm not doubting Jim here isn't a good man, Molly, but we're all acting as if he killed the clown himself." He chuckled: A sour note at the new theory. Jesus, this paranoia had to stop.
Surprisingly Gordon found that statement to be highly amusing. "Nope, can't say I had the pleasure, Mr. Wayne. Just a clean cut suicide, no pun intended."
Pearly teeth bit down on the meaty insides of his cheeks. Did he- did he just make a joke?
"… wow, I should only hope I don't die in Jim Gordon's jurisdiction." It came out sounding more bitter than intended. With only a brief exchange of words, the Bat inside him hardly recognized his colleague.
"Mr. Wayne, you're of a bit more importance than the Joker. He was a cold blooded killer- well, a suicidal cold blooded killer."
"You don't honestly believe that, do you?" Bruce unconsciously took a step closer and towered over the smaller couple. "The Joker wouldn't ever do that to himself." Not when he had me- to hurt him.
Gordon paled slightly, having recognized something in the billionaire that just simply couldn't be. "I- I believe he was a sick individual that just got fed up with it all."
"That's it? It's that open and shut?" Hostility seeped from the cracks in Bruce's mask.
"Bruce, what is the matter with you?" Molly tugged on his arm. So tense under her touch -rock hard muscle- that she was rather uneasy about instead of swooning. He wouldn't budge though, truly wanting an answer.
"I don't understand. You of all people should be relieved. I recall the Joker murdering a close friend of yours," Gordon shot back with an anxious adjust of his glasses.
Hearing this, Bruce barked out a dry laugh. "I should be, shouldn't I?" He bowed slightly, his soft, venomous tone bleeding straight into the other man's ear drum. "A man is dead, Jim, and all you can do is sip fucking champagne."
Both men repelled from each other: Gordon clearly rattled and urging his wife to move elsewhere with him. Her shock absorbing the playboy's swift retreat. "What just happened?" she whispered to her husband's other ear. She merely received a gargled grunt in reply and a dismissing shrug.
Bruce was only too happy to move away: His violent nature wanting to lash out on his friend and the fear of knowing it would be so easy to. He managed a few steps onto a more open space amongst the small huddles before realizing the resisting weight on his arm and the alarmed squawking in his ear. He whirled around to face Molly: His heart thudding; air flowing in and out from him in angry pants; the listless eyes from earlier this evening a piercing onyx.
"Let. Go."
She looked so small and fragile. Breakable. "But I- we-"
"No- no we. Let go of me. I've been accommodating enough."
"You- you really sh-shouldn't be alone right now. You d-don't look well."
That harsh snap of laughter again. "I don't look well, because I don't have any circulation in my left fucking arm! Now kindly take your hand off me before I announce to all these people how pathetic you are for trying to rob the cradle and that I'd rather vomit than have you lay another damn finger on me!" His voice already loud enough to gain interest from the surrounding groups.
Already matching glances with other people already listening, she let go as if scolded. Eyes on the floor, she snarled, "You're a real bastard, Bruce Wayne."
"That's what they say," he murmured with an eerie smile. It fell away as soon as she strutted into the waiting throngs of gossip hounds. There, Alfred, ya happy? My face will be plastered on every rag come tomorrow morning.
Still panting, he wandered further into the open space and swept disheveled locks of brown back into place. Sucking in air to settle the dizziness. He watched the crowds without really seeing them. Glittering cardboard cut-outs toasting to his loneliness. The lights too bright, searing his retinas. Their laughter- no, that's not laughter. Sounding so hollow and flat. Just pitchy, stuttering coughs. It made him itch. He practically ran for the exit, not caring who saw or had to comment on it. He just- he just couldn't breathe.
"Goodness, was that Bruce Wayne?"
"… dunno, maybe."
Hours passed and the night's slow progression tracked him to the worst part of town. When he started walking -more like stomping along the sidewalk, wishing to thin away the flurry of sick emotions consuming him- he didn't think to where he was headed, inadvertently ending up in the Narrows. Somewhere to be alone. So vulnerable in his nice suit, maybe his motives ran darker, deeper. He could easily get mugged out here; it's a wonder why it hadn't happened yet. Perhaps if and when that individual, as desperate as him, demanded for his watch and wallet, he'd put up some sort of a fight - just to have that contact again. Maybe that person would have a gun and during the struggle it might accidentally go off and-
Stop it, Bruce.
That would be a cowardly thing to hope for. He looked up from his damning thoughts and instantly recognized the alley in the pictures. A heavy sigh gushed from his tight chest as he headed for it with hands jammed deep into his pockets. Bruce Wayne had never been here before, but Batman has.
Many times. Every night since it happened.
The orange glow of the closest streetlight barely grazed the mouth of the narrow stretch of street. Bypassing the mounds of trash, the cleansing blackness beckoned him close. Tonight he'd forget about searching for that defining clue, that one scrap of evidence the police overlooked and would prove all this pain absolutely useless. A mere hoax on the clown's part.
Now, being here made Bruce feel closer to him.
He collapsed against the filthy brick, closing his eyes and breathing in the rot. A strip of yellow crime scene tape rustled in the breeze. He was thankful last Sunday's rain had finally washed away the chalk outline that made his skin crawl. Everywhere else paled in comparison to this place; it being the last home to the man's steps, thoughts, chuckles, breaths. "The latest refuge for the Mad," the clown would probably say. He had a way of turning the most inane things into something grand, something to really be cherished always.
His sad grin gritted into a pained show of teeth. Is this how Batman mourned? Was he actually mourning for the jester? Yes, I suppose I am. He knew how Bruce Wayne dealt with death, learning to shut out the pain at an early age. He and Batman had that in common at least. But where they shared, they also differed: The man ran away from his problems while the Dark Knight buried himself alive with them. The masochist in him. Why do they leave me in back allies?
His parents were taken from him, and that ache would always remain throbbing in his heart - but this was entirely different. It seemed to hurt more. His parents' deaths were out of their control -his control- so he couldn't hold either of them responsible. The Joker though… he promised -fucking promised- he wouldn't leave him, for anything. As long as there was a Batman, there'd be a Joker.
"Well, I'm still here, you bastard… where are you?"
I can't believe you willingly left me.
"Why?"
What did I do wrong?
Before he had always denied the feeling of utter completeness knowing the clown was out there, but now why lie to himself? Batman needed the Joker just as much as the other way around. Bruce missed that close bond, even if it was built on fists, blood, and confusion. Better than being alone, he reasoned.
A hot flash of rage surged through his system. His fist smashed against the wet pavement; the pain was nothing. How come none of it made sense? His head banged against the wall; white spots dotting his vision and distracting his eyes from glassy tears. The Joker didn't deserve to have someone cry over him. Everyone would rather celebrate. Was this the humanity the scarred man told horror stories of? Good people like Jim Gordon cracking jokes over spilt blood and Alfred preferring the idiotic antics of Bruce Wayne over the noble efforts of Batman?
Didn't I matter to you, Joker? What happened?
Everything seemed as right as rain since their last encounter, albeit a short one. He had escaped from Arkham and no more than three hours later Batman had swooped down and returned him to his rightful cell. The process barely involved the physical altercations the pair was so famous for. The man still seemed pleased, didn't he? Laughing and making jokes at Batman's expense. What changed since then?
"You said I'd see you soon. Did you mean like this?" He gestured at the silence and grime. It couldn't be though. If the Joker were to plan his own death, it wouldn't be a whispered cut in side street seclusion. There'd be explosions, chaos, music, and he wouldn't be the only one dying. Even then he would have given Batman the chance to save him somehow.
A silent "I love you."
Batman. Batman. Batman. His name stained in blood.
As if the clown blamed him.
Even with all the stress and guilt and anger he had boiling inside, he felt like he could drift off into sleep, laying here charmed by the man's memory [3] Every year on the anniversary of Thomas and Martha Wayne's deaths, a brilliant red rose is left in the alley behind the opera house. That kind of sentimentality didn't fit well with the Clown Prince. Resting his head and curling up in a ball was the best he could offer, given his current state. Shutting his weary eyes for the first time in days and imagining that crimson smile close to his lips and those dark, twinkling eyes staring deeply into his own.
"Bats?" That nasally voice, oh how he missed it.
"Hmm?"
"Are you going to agree with what I said now? That we complete one another?"
A dreamy grin curled Bruce's lips as he yawned. "Shut up, Joker."
Dear God, I'm losing my mind. But I swear I'll figure this out, for the both of us.
Even if it kills me.
[1] The Oklahoma City Bombing
[2] A jab at American Psycho (very subtle)
[3] A loose continuation of the lyrics of "Every Me and Every You" by Placebo"Carve your name into my arm, Instead of stressed I lie here charmed."
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It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style.
-Oscar Wilde