A dinner party gone horribly, wonderfully wrong. Revenge is a dish best served raw after all. Slash. Nolanverse. I like myself an angry!Bats. I do not own Batman Begins or The Dark Knight in any way, shape or form.

LINES IN THE SAND

Part I

That night is a reoccurring bad dream. You still jolt back to reality in a cold sweat, fingers trembling, hard blue eyes softened by the threat of tears you never shed at their funeral. In the nest of Italian sheets and goose-feather pillows, you feel the hiss of winter wind in a dark alley behind a movie house. The smell of gunpowder lingers on your skin like the too-strong smell of the last girl you slept with. (Two weeks, Bruce? Are you losing your touch?)

Morning comes, bringing with it the warm glow of sun over Gotham and the façade of the man content with money, near-nothing waistlines and fast cars.

Alfred switches on the 'telly'. You accept black coffee with a tight smile, tasting nothing but the blood in your mouth (an explosion claiming the lives of two police officers…killed immediately…leaves behind a grieving wife and two daughters…).

The cuts in your shoulders are an angry red as you don a crisp white shirt. Today it's a salmon tie. You've worn it once this week. The dreams plague Bruce Wayne as it does the man behind that mask. You notice your mistake, jaw tightening and you replace it with something a little too conservative for the reckless playboy-grin you'll be wearing at your party tonight.

***

Elevator music and champagne flutes set quite the mood. Men and women alike turn their heads twice as you politely brush past them. Envy. Awe. A mixture of both reserved for Gotham's focus of gossip. (But you'll listen intently to this, even when the headlines have settled down to a tolerable hum. The focus must be on this part of you, what little is left. Not on the more dominating beast lurking in the tendrils of your shadow).

Pleasantries and hollow compliments fill up the air. It's stifling, almost. ("A party. What a wonderful idea, Master Bruce. Patch up the cracks in Bruce Wayne's persona." Damn Alfred and his all-knowing smile and the love in those eyes.)

Your arm candy has arrived, legs smooth and pale under that too-short-for-formality mauve. Her name is like the colour of her hair dye - exotic enough but vague, more or less an unnecessary detail. A curl falls across one eye and you absently brush it away. She puts a hand on your forearm, smiling softly in a way that makes you uncomfortable.

"You look gorgeous," you whisper into her ear to cover for the twitch in your jaw.

"You don't look too bad yourself, handsome," she whispers back, twining her fingers with yours.

You smile and make some sort of excuse that requires you to pry her fingers away from yours. Alfred's not making his usual rounds with the tray of drinks. Funny. Come to think of it, you haven't seen him for a good twenty minutes. Strange for the Englishman not to be on the watch with so many people around.

As if he can hear your thoughts, the near-invisible ear-piece goes off with a low buzz before Alfred's voice filters through. "Master Wayne…breach of…can't seem to get into - …."

You excuse yourself, get out into the balcony and try to figure out what he's trying to say. At least you attempt to.

The large hall doors swing open with a thunderous crash, sending glass and bits of wood flying in all directions. A figure strolls into the room as if it were an everyday occurrence to make such an entrance.

"Ladies and gentle-man."

That voice. You would know it anywhere.

And it seems everyone shares the sentiment. People shrink away as the man makes his way to the middle of the floor, eyes locked on yours as you reenter the room.

"Apologies, Gotham, for uh…disrupting your little socialite gathering. Really, I'm not looking for a fight."

"Then what are you doing here?" A brave and rather foolish man barks from the crowd.

His head snaps in the direction of the voice, eyebrows raised in mild amusement. "Tsk, tsk. Tough crowd. Can't a man enjoy a party?"

"Not without an invitation." You step forward. No - Bruce Wayne steps forward. The man in a suit whose buttons are worth more than the toupee on the Wayne Enterprises board member five feet away. You radiate arrogance, confidence and sheer hard-headedness. (Perfect.)

"Mr. Wayne," the Joker smiles, showing yellowed teeth and pulling out a knife from god-knows-where in that ugly purple trench coat. He's playing with it now, the bastard, running it lightly over his lips like he's asking for another set of scars. Circles you like a hawk but at a cautious distance. "Your, uh, 'guests' haven't exactly been the most welcoming." He licks his rouge lips and abruptly snatches something from a nearby woman. "Mm, nothing like the old bubbly, huh, Brucie?" He drops more champagne than he slurps and throws the glass close to your feet.

"Get out," you growl and then shut your mouth. (No, don't lose control. Don't let him out of his cage. Not yet.) You put on a collected, tight-lipped smirk. "Unless you want security to escort your sorry ass back to Arkham where you belong, Joker."

A few people in the crowd titter. They'll scurry like cockroaches if the freak wants to carve a smile into your face as a keepsake. You have to stop yourself from shaking your head. You'll be spitting venom if you don't keep that train of thought from going any further. (See? He's doing this to you. He's breaking you. He's fucking breaking you, Bruce.)

The Joker drops the knife and raises his hands. In surrender? Don't be too sure of it. That damn smile with teeth is on his face but he's taking a step back. Now it's two. Three. Four and the crowd's moving with him like it's some sort of dance. They're scared of him, of how this could turn out if they slip up and what equates to slipping up in the madman's eyes. (They're green. Not a bright colour but that of murky water. With a strange gleam akin to that of a child. You know that. You've memorized these details.)

"What do we do?" Your date seems to have found her voice and one free of the French accent you were just growing accustomed to.

"Uh-uh," the playing-card-turned-freakshow wags a gloved finger, "No comments from the pretty lady." There's a flash of silver and he's pulled out another knife. "This is between us, Brucie. Why don't you let the poor rich kids hurry home so the adults can have a little heart-to-heart?" Another jerk-like movement of his arm and he has a pistol in the air, eyes locked on yours as he fires a round. "Out!" He snarls at the cowering crowd. "Or I'll paint the walls a nice brainy pink. What do you say, Mr. Wayne? In need of a little re-decor-ating?"

But they're not waiting to hear the rest of his speech. You watch the backs of tuxedos and up-do's filter out of the room in frantic dashes. Leaving you and the madman under the glare of light fixtures and the low hum of a waltz Alfred could do with his eyes closed.

"I take it the mansion isn't done yet," the Joker casually takes a seat at a nearby table, putting his patched elbows on the tablecloth surface, "If you're using the penthouse as party central."

You acknowledge the fact with a noncommittal grunt, still standing. He follows your gaze to the hall doors and bursts into a fit of wheezy giggles. When he manages to stop the god-awful noise, he leans over, pats the spot in front of the other chair, and sits back with a soft 'thump'. "No one's here if that's what you're worried about. Even Jeeves can't get through the hell I've pulled on your security. I didn't kill anyone." He adds in a faux-sheepish voice. He rolls his eyes when you're still glaring daggers at him. "Didn't even make a scratch in your precious little Englishman. Cross my black heart. Sit down and we'll talk like civilized people."

"Civilized," you mutter darkly, taking the seat, earning you a grin - those damn teeth again - and something cold against your thigh. You growl and he pulls back whatever it is down there.

"So uptight," he murmurs absently. It was the pistol, which he puts on the table along with the second knife. Like a silent truce. "Wine, mi amour?" He pops the cork of a bottle and splashes more than he pours.

You grimace at the mess he's making of the 'ivory' tablecloths you battled a thick-framed, lisped designer for. He notices your expression and slides your glass towards you, taking a great slurp from his own.

"You're disgusting," you supply with a wrinkle of your nose.

"Flattering me isn't going to get you as far as you think." He winks and props his makeup-smeared face onto his palms. With his tangled green-blonde locks slicked back, he looks like a little girl awaiting some sort of pleasant news. A homicidal little girl, of course. "Thought I'd smarten up a bit. For this auspicious occasion." He added in a happy hiss. "Before we delve into all the dirty details - liquid courage." He gestures at your untouched glass. "Regaleali."

You blink.

"What?" he frowns, "My label-reading skills not up to your standards?"

"Oh," you say blankly, and then chuckle despite yourself.

"Got a laugh out of you," he grins like he's won the lottery, even does a little clapping, taking a strangely refined sip from his glass. "Mm, a little fruity for my tastes. I prefer the stronger stuff." He looks around. "Got any firewater?"

"Seeing as you shooed out the servers…"

"You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Uh, well…a little more pizzazz. Secret doorways, fake books with secret keys on the inside - you know what I mean." He gestures abstractly with his gloved hands. "Secrecy. Suspense. All that jazz." He shakes his head. He slowly leans forward as if sharing a secret. "For a cover up, it's pretty pathetic if you ask me, Bruce Wayne."

"What are you talking about?"

He pulls out another knife and it barely misses your hand. You let your lips tremble, betray the fear Bruce Wayne would show at a time like that. "Don't pull that stunt on me, Brucie," he growls. His voice drops to a low, fervent whisper. "Don't think for a second that I appreciate this half-ass attempt at denial, Bats. There's no one here but us, no one but us, no one but--"

You slam your first on the table, hard, and lean forward. "What do you want, Joker?" Your voice is raspy and guttural. Your throat will sting at that board meeting tomorrow but you prefer this. There's a sort of honesty to it that the deep purr of a billionaire just can't pull off.

"Hoo hoo hoo!" The Joker licks his lips and does a little drum solo on the table. "Good. Good."

"What. Do. You. Want."

"Ooh, you got a little fight in you. I like that. No, I love that."

Your lips are set in a tight, angry line. How dare he? After what he did. To them. To her.

"Don't take it personally but I never had much interest in the girl. Sure, I needed her to lure the cops out but, uh…Rosie…Ra-- what's-her-name…pretty thing, wide-eyed--."

But you've already stood up, stormed around the table and hauled him up by his collar. There's a loud ripping noise under all that wheezing laughter. "Batsie, baby, I thought we were taking things slow."

"Shut up."

He looks almost comical, feet off the floor, dangling like a marionette, bright argyle socks showing under the pinstriped purple.

"Who the hell are you?" You snarl, faces inches from his.

"Nobody," he barks, hitting you with a wave of wine-and-shit breath. And then he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. When you freeze under him, you feel the rumble of his laughter against your mouth.

You let go, hear the satisfying thump as he hits the ground, wiping your now lipstick-stained lips with the back of your palm.

He gets to his feet effortlessly, smiling and bowing as if he wants fucking applause or something of the sort. "A taste of the forbidden fruit and you're red-carded out of paradise." He takes a step forward, peeling off the purple coat. "She squealed like a pig. Couldn't even take a lighter to the knuckles." He coughs, clutching his chest for a few moments. "I think I might have misjudged our little firecracker. Not much fight in her after all."

Your first connects with the side of his face and he's on the floor again, this time with his nose and mouth covered in blood – who'd have thought the fucker would have something so…human in him?. But he's laughing, holding his side and face and rocking a little. "Did ya love her Brucie? Did ya fuck her Brucie?"

You see red. You want to see more of it. You want him to beg for mercy, to grovel at your Mephisto-clad feet.

"One rule, Batman," he says in a sing-song voice

"Rules were made for breaking."

"So were bones." He spits on your trousers and bites your leg. Hard.

Ouch! I wonder if the Joker has rabies...

I have a vague idea where this is going. Things get a bit more graphic in the next chapter/part/what have you. Please bear with me. Reviews are love and love, even with a fic like this, is welcome.