Chapter 3

Note: Just another quick FYI: this fic will be fairly fragmented and not overly plotted, if that's not already obvious. It's hard for me to do otherwise, knowing as little of Batman as I do. I hope that doesn't detract. Hope you enjoy!

If Jack hadn't given any thought to the five goons he had shot at the time of their deaths he sure as hell did now. The result of his actions had been Bruce not only concocting plans (and how Jack loved those) but devising checkpoints and timescales. When the cowl went on, these instructions were barked out with all the warmth and affection of an army drill sergeant.

Knowing what he did now, Jack would have at least peeled the goons like so many apples to make it a fair trade.

"Listen."

Bruce didn't exactly shout the word but the slam of his fist on the table between them jolted Jack back to his senses.

"I am. Maybe you should record yourself sometime, see how you come across when you lecture, it might help you to vary your delivery-"

"If you kid, you die."

"I know enough about Croc to know what to expect," Jack yawned. He picked up the blurry photograph Bruce had managed to obtain of the elusive man, "As big as a house, skin complaint, habit of eating people in sewers. Tells some really dirty stories. Pretty good ones."

"He was in Arkham?" Bruce guessed.

"Not exactly; more like he visited," Jack explained, "I hate to give away trade secrets," he emphasised the point by pausing with apparent reluctance before conceding "Croc was handy for contraband, y'know, going through the sewers and all."

"And no one at Arkham knew that was how people were getting contraband into the asylum?"

"Sure they did," Jack sighed, throwing the photo back onto his "information pack" of bull-shit about Croc that did nothing to bring out the man's personality. Like how he had a particularly pneumatic way of snapping his jaws down on bone marrow or how all his sharpened teeth glinted in a pally kind of way when Jack told a good gag, "But there's only so many times security are going to go and check the sewer pipes when their friends don't come back after that particular assignment."

Bruce, his expression darkening, seemed decided at that particular comment.

"We'll do it tonight."

"I still don't get why we can't just do this wholesale. Poison Ivy on a Tuesday, Clayface on a Thursday, I'm losing beauty sleep with this kind of routine."

Bruce looked up from shuffling his own papers into a neat pile to send Jack a quizzical look.

"Wholesale? As in draw everyone to us? All of them together?"

"Sure."

"How, exactly?"

Jack shrugged, gnawing on the pad of one thumb, "Do something-"

"Terrible?" Bruce supplied.

Jack's gnawing turned to a small, sloping smile.

"Spectacular."

"We stick to the plan," Bruce dismissed, sliding the folder back into drawer of his desk, "And we do it tonight. I need to go ready the Tumbler. You stay here," the man commanded, although that was hardly necessary considering the reinforced door that had magically appeared on Bruce's expansive bedroom overnight the week before, "I'll come get you when it's time."

"I'll be counting the minutes honey pie."

Jack walked Bruce to the doorway and watched Bruce lock him in like a poorly behaved dog. He tilted his head with the closing of the heavy door, tracking Bruce's gaze for as long as he could. To his credit, the billionaire returned the look with eyes that gave nothing away.

!

"I fucking hate these sewers."

The Batman would have turned to scowl at his companion but their precarious position, edging along the small ledge that lined the sewer tunnel, made the feat all but impossible. He focused attention ahead instead, eyes narrowed against the gloom and ears pricked for any sound from Croc.

Joker must have sensed his disapproval however. The man mumbled an apology, apparently recognising that he had broken "the rules". Still, when the pair reached a slightly wider ledge the man forget himself once more.

"I'm telling you, a giant pile of corpses right next to a manhole would have drawn him out. Just have to make sure they're fresh," the word "fresh" made Joker's expression turn queasier in light of their rotten surroundings. The Batman simply ignored his inane comments.

Upon reacheding a second, wider landing sounds of splashing reached the pair. Jack, instinctively it seemed, reached inside a jacket pocket to retrieve his gun. Lightning fast the Batman pulled the weapon from him, depositing it in an empty holster of his own belt for safe keeping.

"No guns. I warned you."

"And I didn't listen because the guy is eight foot tall," Jack held out his hand, "Gimme the grapple gun. I'm not wading through this crap," a quite literal description, the Batman noted, "He's down that tunnel on the left."

"It's the right. The map I provided you with shows that they link up to a larger tunnel that's currently dry," the Batman held out the grapple gun to Joker, frowning in the expectation that he would turn it on him somehow. The man did no such thing, firing at the ceiling and managing to wrap the claw about a metal girder hanging down in the gloom. With surprising grace the man flew across the gloom then released the gun. Taking a little bow he set off down the tunnel. The Batman opted instead for the right hand tunnel, using his zip line to make faster progress.

By now the smell in the sewers had begun to catch in his throat, clogging his mouth and nose and practically choking him. It wasn't just the expected smells of waste and stagnant water, the Batman appreciated, but the sweet and bitter smell of rotting flesh. When he had reached a sufficiently wide ledge in his current tunnel to pause, the Batman gave into the temptation to simply heave the little food he had eaten that day into the festering waters that slipped by in curiously oil-like puddles and patches.

"Jack."

He was careful in turning on his ledge, careful to whisper so that his words did not echo back off the curved walls that hugged him, bringing the darkness closer. In the gloom he heard nothing bar the trickle of water on the walls and the gush of more waste joining this trunk tunnel from another tunnel branching onto it. There was no chuckle, no purr of agreement, no word spoken.

"Jack. Answer me."

The Batman turned into the next tunnel and went stock still once he had found a suitable foothold. On the far wall of this new pipe there were shadows, moving shadows. The shapes they formed were vague, blurred but they were large and solid, not tricks formed by the patterns of mould on the brick and cement. He edged his way down the tunnel, each step deliberate, timed to coincide with his slow, deep breaths. His fingers gripped tighter still when his cowl picked up the sound of a voice.

"He'll be really tough and chewy. Trust me, I've just got a feeling."

"He'll be of no help to you."

There was the whisper of a laugh in the Batman's ear, one he was becoming all too familiar with.

"Honestly, Croc, has he been of help to anyone in Gotham so far? Hm?"

"He's helped me," Croc rumbled back, each word a crunching, gravelly noise over the cowl's communication system, "If he didn't keep catching degenerates, if the courts didn't keep sending them to Arkham instead of Blackgate, if they didn't keep asking for cigarettes and crowbars, I wouldn't get those security guards."

"What'd they taste like anyway?"

"Oh," there was a moment's consideration, "A little like venison. They spend all their days sitting on their backsides watching security camera monitors, it does wonders for the flesh."

"Now, see, I'm stringy. I'll bet the scars taste rubbery too."

Croc's laugh was so low that the Batman almost felt it rumble through him.

"I think it's time you called out for your Batman, Joker," the monster said, "While you still have a voicebox."

"Fine, there's just no talking to you today-" Joker sighed. The Batman felt a strange thrill run through him when he heard Joker speak softly, as though stood next to his ear. The words were only truly audible through the cowl and the Batman heard no echo of them down at the far end of the tunnel.

"Oh, do save me, Dark Knight. I'm in mortal peril, yadda yadda. Is that what they usually yell?"

He compiled, using the zip line to land in the mouth of the dried up tunnel Croc had made his base. He made no effort to hide. Instead the Batman set his jaw and shoulders. His eyes were dark pits in the black of his mask. Croc, however, seemed to seek them out, trying to appeal to him somehow.

The man (verging on creature) made a show of replacing the knife against Joker's jugular. The man, balaclava gone, simply gave the Batman a blank look. The press of the metal against his flesh seemed either not to register or, almost, to bore him. Perhaps it struck a man who enjoyed explosions and games as rather a mundane end.

"Why kill him?" the Batman asked, his loud and echoing along the length of tunnel until it sounded as though he had brought a legion of shadows with him.

"Because his allegiance has been tested and he's failed us."

"What do you care for allegiance?" the Batman asked, stepping further into the claustrophobic tunnel only for Croc to press the knife threateningly firmer against Joker's neck.

"I might have exotic tastes but that doesn't make me any different from the good old fashioned generation of-"

"Criminals?"

"Everyone needs to make a living," Croc said dismissively, "Joker's young, he's shaken things up too much. And look what he's done now, he's a blackguard," Croc turned Joker enough so that he could look into the man's face with a little grin. His teeth, shark-like, were all on display.

"Bad time to swap sides, Joker."

"You know about the plan," the Batman pressed on. He made sure not to walk closer to the man but he ensured his tone was threat enough.

"Of course," Croc snapped another grin in the Batman's direction, "We all know. And here Joker goes, warning you. Which is why I've made the executive decision to cut our loses and eat him," Croc sighed, "As he said himself, he'll probably be a disgusting dish so there's no joy on my part. The way he's gotten himself sliced up and all the filth he's imbibed over the years."

"Look, eat me if you want," Joker grumbled, "But just do it, would ya? I draw the line at having my lifestyle choices criticised by a cannibal."

The Batman did his best not to smirk his approval at the sentiment.

"If you don't release him you'll be sent to Arkham," the Batman insisted, "And you won't just be roaming the sewers this time."

The comment earned Joker a slice to his cheek. The man flinched but made sure to laugh afterwards. To the Batman, however, it was obvious that the laugh was calculated and the flow of blood from the diagonal gash was considerable, sliding freely over Joker's pale skin.

"No more threats, maybe?" Joker hissed, "Let's all just be pals."

He should not have revealed his position, the Batman realised now, bitterly. If he had simply used stealth to edge down the tunnel, through the shadows, he might have surprised Croc. He might have had an advantage. An uncharacteristic urgency had taken him over and now he was left without an option. As the bleak thought crossed his mind, he felt an unusual weight at his waist.

"Is he going to be sick?" Croc asked, and the Batman realised distantly that the man was referring to himself, not Joker. He assumed that the blood had drained from his face at the thought that dawned, darkly, across his mind.

It had to be quick. It had to be unexpected. The latter would hardly be difficult, considering it was one of the things he was notorious for: not having a gun. In a fluid motion he drew Joker's from his side, squeezed the trigger and caught Croc's arm holding Joker in place.

The shot exploded with sound in the tunnel, as did Croc's howls. Joker, however, stood surprisingly silent, eyes wide and trained on the Batman.

"Run," the Batman commanded, turning before he could make out the damage he had caused the cannibal. Behind him, he heard Joker tried to keep his pace. The pair retraced their path through the tunnels, faster, more recklessly this time, each threatening to lose their grip on the tunnel walls as they edged back along ledges. It was only when they had regained the Tumbler that Joker found his voice, hoarse though it was.

"Give me the gun."

The Batman, with a hand that held a slight tremor, obliged.

Joker popped open the barrel and tapped out the remaining bullets, dropping them to the floor of the Tumbler before he took the empty gun and threw it across the wasteland to land wetly in the rancid waters at the mouth of the sewer. The action seemed to calm the Batman, his shoulders less stiff at the sound of the gun disappearing.

"Would you?"

"Have killed him?" the Batman asked and with the waiver in his voice he sounded far more like Bruce Wayne.

"Yeah. Have you ever fired a gun, for that matter?"

"Yes. And I don't know. Never ask me again."

Joker studied him in silence before leaning back against the Tumbler's head rest, still and sombre, the blood beginning to congeal on his cheek.

!

"Hey, where are you going?" Jack watched as Bruce, having finished stitching Jack's cheek, turned to pick up his coat and walk to the door.

"I have a party tonight. I need to collect my new tuxedo. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

"I'll come with," Joker nodded enthusiastically. Bruce offered a taut sort of smile.

"You won't. Stay here."

"Doesn't it make more sense to let me go? I mean, you could either leave Joker alone in your manor with plenty of flammable objects or you could take Jack out to a party," he added, as though it was a clincher, "Why'd you think I got the nickname Joker? I'm fun at parties."

"Really?"

"I used to own a strip club."

"Your scars will raise too many questions," Bruce said with a shake of his head.

"Okay," Jack conceded, shrugging his own coat on all the while as though oblivious to what Bruce was saying, "How about this: give me a couple of hours. Meet me on the corner by your penthouse in the city. If I look presentable, I get to go, if not you can lock me in there until tomorrow. Then I won't even be near your party to spoil it."

When Bruce looked less than convinced Jack pulled out his ace in the hole.

"Look, I just planned for you," Jack said the word as though it caused him physical pain, "Let me go to a party, at least."

Bruce's eyes narrowed but he raised his wrist and glanced quickly at his Rolex.

"The penthouse, eight pm. If you break your word the Batman won't play cat and mouse. He'll just knock you unconscious and lock you in the penthouse. I don't have time for you tonight."

!

Were it not for the fact that he was stood where the pair had agreed, a bottle of wine in either hand, Bruce would have looked straight past Jack. Sliding into the Lamborghini beside Bruce, the man gave a little appreciative whistle.

"Well this is pretty nice," he nodded, stroking a hand over the leather, "Not Batmobile nice, but nice."

"Where are your scars?"

Jack's perfectly smooth lips stretched into a smile.

"It's good, right? I know a girl who does make up for movies," he ran a hand over his own smooth cheek, "No fires tonight now, with this amount of plastic on my face I'd go up like a torch. I brought a bottle of Petrus, hope that'll go down okay with your crowd."

Bruce gave up on trying to mask his interest in Jack's appearance. Even during the time the man had been living with him, he hadn't seen him look quite like this. Certainly, the disappearance of the scars made a dramatic difference but it was more than that. His hair, for one, looked newly shorn, if still on the long side. It was clean and curled about his face. His skin looked brighter and fresher than Bruce could ever recall having seen it too. And the suit, in its sombre colour and classic cut, all added to the oddly dignified and proud air pouring off the man.

"Bruce? Stop falling in love with me a second would ya?"

"How did you get a bottle of Petrus?" Bruce slipped the car into gear and moved back into the traffic (an easy enough feat: the Lamborghini parted the sea of cars like it was Moses).

"Like anyone else would: with money."

"And how did you get the money?"

"Now you're just prying," Jack dismissed. His eyes roved over the Lamborghini's dashboard to light upon the music controls. After some fiddling Jack seemed to light upon a song that met with his approval.

"Turn that off."

"No, you need to get in the mood," Jack insisted, "You're Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy tonight. You need everyone to think you aren't capable of having a thought in that pretty little head."

"And how can you help with that impression?"

"By pretending to be your equally idiotic friend," Jack said. He decisively turned up the music until it pounded through the car, thrumming through the seats themselves thanks to the hidden bass speakers. He wound down the car window and popped the champagne's cork out into the road. Jack took a swig from the bottle and sang along as Gotham slid further away behind them in the gathering darkness.

!

"Bruce," Lucius Fox stepped forward to shake Bruce's hand after the billionaire had disentangled himself from a gaggle of female acquaintances, "How are you faring?"

"Well, Lucius, thank you. How's the best CEO the world's ever seen?"

"Far too humble to respond to such a title, of course," Lucius smiled. His eye, however, fixed curiously on Bruce's guest who had been lighted upon just as quickly as Bruce himself. To the untrained eye, Lucius' interest was polite. Bruce, however, knew better.

"I know that you prefer that I don't lie to you Lucius," Bruce said, cryptically enough to avoid drawing any attention from eavesdroppers. Lucius nodded.

"So we'll leave your decisions to yourself, Bruce. Enjoy the party, but not too much," he warned before walking over to a more officious looking group of men talking over glasses of champagne and cigars.

Returning to Jack's side, Bruce had difficulty catching what the man was saying until he realised that Jack was in fact affecting a total different voice. The American drawl was now replaced with a curt, crisp and, for that matter, utterly convincing British accent.

"We met at Oxford, the business school," he was explaining to one curious business partner of Bruce's, "I'm sure he won't mind if I say that we both had our time weighted rather more in favour of play than work. That's how he got to be in such good shape though, plenty of rowing."

Bruce studied the man discreetly for a moment before reluctantly moving on to idly chat to a board member's wife with a suitably vapid smile on his own face. Still, he allowed his gaze to stray on occasion back to Jack. Each time, to Bruce's consternation, Jack pointedly returned the look with a nonchalant smile.

When people had begun to form little groups and were happily chatting Bruce allowed himself to stop playing host long enough to walk over to Jack's side. En route, Alfred, a tray of drinks in hand, beckoned him to one side. Reluctantly, Bruce followed.

"I hate to question your judgment Master Wayne," the butler said in such a way that Bruce knew he really had no such difficulty, "But do you really think it wise to invite your friend Jack tonight? You how he can get," the man said simply, letting his stony expression belie the true depth of his concerns.

"It was that or let him wallow at my penthouse," Bruce replied in kind, "And you know what he's like when he's left to his own devices."

"Don't I just," Alfred murmured, "Be careful Master Bruce. You're living very dangerously."

Bruce gave a grimace of agreement and walked back to Jack's side, moving him to one corner of the room.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bruce asked in an undertone, being sure to smile as he did so and sending a polite nod to a stakeholder passing by.

Jack quirked an eyebrow, lowering his champagne glass from his mouth.

"What? I'm good at this," he said, his accent reverting to usual.

"Why British?"

"Why not? Don't stifle me," Jack placed his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and seamlessly moved to grasp a full one, bringing the new drink to his lips.

"Don't get drunk. You might say something stupid."

"Just trust me," Jack said coolly, "You think I came to control Gotham through stupidity, hm?"

"How do you control Gotham?"

"Oh sure, you control the skies, the rooftops, the things people never see and never need to know about," Jack muttered, sending a little wink the way of one woman who seemed enamoured of him. The gesture sent her grinning and blushing back to conversation with her friends, "But I control the alleyways, I control the subways, I control those streets with the broken streetlights that they've really gotta go down if they want to get home. I control your people's fear."

"I thought you were my ally?"

"For now," Jack smiled, "What? You like being BFFs now, is that it? Trust me Bruce, or you're screwed. And if that means I want to pretend to be British, I'll be British. Got it?"

"Fine."

"Does it scare you though?"

"Nothing about you scares me."

"No, not me exactly," Jack said, leaning back on the sideboard behind him, "I mean how easily I can become part of this world. How acceptable I can be."

"So?"

"So, you see know no similarities, huh?" Jack quirked a brow.

"What the hell do you mean?"

"This is what you do, isn't it?" Jack pressed ahead fiercely but softly as it became apparent that Wayne Enterprise's Chief Finance Officer was about to whisk Bruce away, "You become a part of this world so easily too."

"I am a part of this world. I trespass on yours to stop you destroying my world."

"Really?" Jack pursed his lips, "Are you sure it's that way around? Because I see you here, and you could be that guy," he gestured subtly with his glass to one young, wealthy business associate of Bruce's, another, another (their names failed Bruce), "Or that one, or that one. But there's only one Batman."

"Why did I ever let you into my house, Jack?"

"I think you know the answer to that question too," Jack smiled politely, giving Bruce a little clap on the shoulder, "But if you'll excuse me, that charming little lady over there looks like she wants me to - ah, how to put it in respectable company – plough her in your gazebo."

"Fuck you."

"If you insist, just check with your CFO first that little Bruce Wayne's being a giant fag wouldn't drive down Wayne Enterprise stocks. The markets are bearish enough without that revelation," with that, Jack sped up through the flung wide French windows, hooking the blushing woman of before's arm with his own. While surprised, the woman merely gave a little laugh and leant against him as they hurried down into the lantern-lit garden. Bruce's first thought, unbidden and unwelcome, was that of how different the woman's reaction would have been, had Jack done exactly the same thing in a purple suit, purple gloves and warped, week-old make-up.

!

"Can you believe Wayne?" Jack said in something of a stage whisper to his new acquaintance, "He's trying to get me to talk about equity when it's a night like this and there are companions like you around. He doesn't know how to switch off that man."

"Are we talking about the same Bruce?" the woman laughed, the sound loud and vulgar from too much champagne, "Spelunking, sky diving, partying Bruce Wayne?"

"Oh, he's changing," Jack led the woman by the hand inside the deserted gazebo at one end of a rose-lined path, "He's changed a lot already. Much more serious now."

"Well the board will be happy about that-" the woman tilted her head to allow Jack to nibble and kiss at her collar bone, his hands pressed against the gazebo's wooden frame behind her, possessively canopying her.

"I'm not so sure," Jack said. His accent cracked but his companion seemed too content to comment, "You see, I have a little theory about Bruce. It's a bit crazy though: wanna hear it?"

Apparently, as good as the neck nibbling (and now, earlobe sucking) was, the woman could keep quiet no longer and lowered her chin and her gaze back down to Jack's.

"Are you American?"

"Possibly," Jack conceded. He moved one hand now so that his body formed a pleasant sort of prison about the woman's, trapping her in place, "Do you wanna hear it?"

"I've heard your voice before…" the woman said, frowning in confusion.

"Maybe you have but," Jack leaned in closer still, voice a growl, "Do you – want to – hear it?"

"Yes?" the woman whispered, eyes sad and startled by the change in her companion. Jack smiled and leant forward again, drawing out a flinch instead of a happy tilt of the neck from the woman now.

"I think Bruce Wayne is the-"

"Jack."

Jack blew out his breath in a loud, exaggerated manner. Letting go off his little hostage and seeing her stumble over to Bruce's side, he raised his eyebrows.

"What?" his real accent (or at least, what Jack thought was his own real accent) sounded out now, "You know it's rude to interrupt people when they're having a conversation."

"Bruce, I've heard that voice before-" the woman repeated in a confused whisper.

"Liza, please go back to the party. It's fine. My friend here has just has a little too much to drink, he can get nasty like this. I'm sorry if this has spoiled your evening," Bruce said, quickly and so smoothly it sounded heartless to Jack's ear, "Now please go back to the house."

"But Bruce, doesn't he sound like-"

"Go back to the house," Bruce said, all hint of the polite host gone now.

With a shake in her step that wasn't the result of the alcohol alone, the woman made her way back along the long path, back through the manor's French doors.

"You sick fuck," Bruce hissed. Jack grinned, falteringly, as though at a funeral and aware of how inappropriate the expression was.

"No, listen," Bruce said and now it was he who had Jack trapped, just as Jack had trapped Liza moments before, "You sick fuck."

When Jack refused to stop breaking out into fits and starts of smiles and grins, Bruce simply grabbed the man's jaw in a powerful grip and squeezed it with a dangerous, pincer-like strength.

"About to break your one rule?" Jack whispered, spluttering with the effort to work his jaw against Bruce's hold.

"Never," Bruce snarled back, shoving Jack's head back against the wood of the gazebo with a resounding crack. Jack let his eyes flutter shut, rather like Eliza's had when he had kissed and licked at the join of her neck to her shoulder.

"You sick fuck," Bruce hissed, "I know your promises aren't worth shit but I thought self-preservation would stop you from doing something so stupid."

""Self-preservation"?" Jack repeated, words slurred.

"If you tell them who I am, the Batman will die," Bruce said vehemently, pushing Jack harder against the wood as though to convey the truth of his words, to emphasise them, "And then where will you be?"

"Why, I'll just be a poor little clown without a circus!" Jack sobbed out, mocking. His mood instantly flipped however and he added in a growl, "Is that the answer you're expecting?"

"I don't expect anything from you, you little piece of shit," Bruce said, voice getting lower.

"What will happen," Jack said, reaching up a hand of his own to clutch at the back of Bruce's head. The other man tried to duck the hold but the other was insistent, vicious, fingers twining in Bruce's hair to keep him still, "What will actually happen, if I tell that little girl who I am, and who you keep around you-"

"Stop talking, just stop fucking talking-"

"Is Bruce Wayne will die," Jack whispered this time, and Bruce fell into silence, chest heaving.

"Poor old Bruce Wayne will die," Jack yanked at Bruce's hair for emphasis with each snarled word.

Bruce was visibly trembling as he tried to return the long, hard stare Jack was fixing him with.

"And I think we all know where the Batman would be if Bruce Wayne died. Having the time of his li-"

Jack brought his other hand up to Bruce's neck to steady the man. He worked his mouth against Bruce's as it practically sobbed and growled against his; gnawed at his. Jack pushed his body forward, hard and furious, against Bruce's rocking hips. And when the Batman snarled and ground, raw and painful against him, Jack cried out in desperation. And when Bruce sobbed and tried to push him away in the aftermath, Joker let the whole world hear his laughter.

!

Notes: For anyone interested, Jack listens to "Bonkers" by rapper Dizzee Rascal. Naturally.