Note: Another random tidbit, this time the songs I've primarily been writing "Grace" to:
Bonkers – Dizzee Rascal
Time is Running Out/Hysteria – Muse
Where is my Mind? – The Pixies
Smiley Faces – Gnarls Barkley
S&M/Disturbia – Rihanna
I'm Gonna Make You Love Me – Diana Ross and the Temptations (So Jack's theme tune)
Wolf Like Me – TV on the Radio
The Bitter End – Placebo
Chapter 4
"Boss?"
Jack remembered the days when being called "Boss" had been satisfying. Now, it was just annoying as hell: after all, a fucking parrot could be taught to squawk the sort of shit his boys came out with. There was no real reverence either: that required far more brain cells than they collectively possessed. Rather instead, there was a terrified and tentative laughing fear in their voices (the real reason he had the nickname Joker, or at least that's how he remembered it this week).
He slapped one boy on the shoulder, sending the man shaking even more, then slipped behind the counter of the comedy club's – Split Sides - bar. A well-aimed fist to the cash register sent the drawer flying open. He pulled a slight face at the mediocre takings then siphoned off roughly half into his coat's inner pocket.
"Drink kiddies?" he turned his back to pick a nice bottle of whiskey out from the display. Turning his back was one of his favourite things to do, in any company. It was the perfect opportunity, yet so few people took it. The few who did tended to get promoted or "demoted" (and by "demoted" he of course meant dismembered and thrown in the river).
"Thanks boss," came the crowed, tremulous chorus. Jack slopped the whiskey into smeared glasses and shoved them down the bar towards the lumbering idiots. He took his own and necked it without really tasting the stuff.
"Haven't seen you around boss," one man dared to come out with, having swallowed his liquid courage. Jack leaned against the counter and gave a solemn sort of nod.
"Busy."
"Rumour is-"
Jack leaned towards the man, interest in his eyes. This particular boy, Jack recalled, was actually the "owner" of the establishment. Though they weren't visible, Jack remembered that the man had huge scars up either side of his body: his sides had split. It hadn't been one of Jack's more subtle gags but it had got the point across and the man had stopped trying to put money aside for himself or his daughter's education or some other such shit. Still, the near death experience had definitely stiffened the guy's backbone and so his gulp at Jack's apparent interest was a smallish one.
"You're turning against all your," the man considered his words and Jack simply smiled interestedly as he waited, "Your old…friends. Colleagues."
"Well that's a very valid concern, Tom-"
"My name's Paul-"
"Well Tom," Jack paused to hop up on the counter and sit, cross legged. A couple of the youngest guys flinched until they seemed convinced that Jack had simply ensconced himself, "That really is a very valid concern. You, as a bright, ambitious businessman are concerned that your angel investor has made a poor business decision that may impact negatively upon your revenues. Isn't that right Tom?"
"I suppose boss but-"
"So ask yourself this Tom," Jack cut across, taking up the whiskey bottle and swigging a little before continuing, "Daring business decisions aside, who would you prefer to have in your corner? Hm? A guy in a bowler hat, a guy with an umbrella, a girl with a houseplant, or me," Jack carefully extracted a lighter from his coat pocket, "the guy sat on your bar with spirits and access to fire?"
"You, boss," Paul blurted out hurriedly, nodding so hard Jack wouldn't have been surprised to see the man's head go flying off across the club floor, "Of course, you."
Jack dropped down onto the floor beside Paul, squeezing his shoulder for a moment as he murmured in his ear.
"Never fucking doubt me you piece of shit," Jack paused momentarily before snorting with laughter. The snort became a howl and the howl, in turn, lead to fat tears rolling down his face.
"Boss?" another kid asked carefully.
"In joke," Jack explained, a smile still gripping his lips like a vice as he headed back out. He paused by the door as he caught sight of a little blonde thing, wide eyed and, had she not been in the middle of trying-not-to-piss-herself, probably bushy tailed too. Jack tamed the smile down a bit and held out his hand to her.
"Oh, no, that's not one of our girls, boss," Paul explained weakly, "That's my daughter."
Jack turned around to shrug haplessly.
"I see no difference," Jack took the girl's unoffered hand and pulled her to her feet, "Come on sweet pea. I've got something that needs a woman's touch."
"Oh?" the young woman whispered, shooting a look to her father as she was dragged outside.
"Yeah. Me."
!
"There's no one who can say you do things by halves, Master Wayne."
Bruce turned to give Alfred a sheepish smile.
"I ran out of room on the corkboard."
Alfred placed the day's paper on one bedside table and walked the length of the room. He scanned the myriad papers that coated the walls, giving the impression of a covering of feathers with the way they curled and lifted away in places. The pages varied: some were hastily scrawled notes, others photos. Some were snippets from websites or newspapers, others simply pages torn from books. All of these were connected by pinned lengths of red string and, at intervals, ragged red lines drawn right onto the wall itself ("Jack's" doing, Alfred assumed).
"You can say that," Alfred muttered.
"It'll be gone soon," Bruce promised. The words, unintentionally, set Alfred frowning.
"Three days until the deadline, isn't it Master Bruce?"
"Yes," the young man agreed softly, pacing the length of the wall. Alfred noted that the man was studying a branch that appeared to lead off in the direction of a collection of photographs of Ra's al Ghul, "Not long."
"Practically all of Gotham's criminal class are behind bars again Bruce. Thanks to you," Alfred said with a weak smile.
"But not Ra's al Ghul."
"Or Mr Napier."
Bruce's eyes continued to scour the length of the wall and he spoke in a distracted, distant voice.
"They all speak of a man in charge. It's Ra's."
"You will do your best, Master Wayne," Alfred insisted, coming to stand by the young man's side, "And it will have to be enough. I'm not sure you should focus all of your attention on Ra's though, even if he is at the heart of all this madness."
"You mean Jack?"
"Of course I do," Alfred agreed, "He must go back to Arkham. Even when the threat to yourself has gone with the capture of Ra's, Gotham will not rest until Joker is back where he belongs."
"He's helped," Bruce's gaze dropped to the floor, apparently seeing beyond the information he had gathered and plastered on the walls.
"Possibly helped you," Alfred conceded, "But I can't help wondering how many people he helps when you have your eye off him."
It was, of course, a butler's place to know when his presence was no longer desired and Alfred liked to think he was especially fine-tuned to his own young master's moods. He chose, therefore, to simply give the fresh newspaper a pat on his way to the door.
"I brought the Globe, Master Wayne. I took the liberty of cutting out the page that related to that wrestler you've been keeping your eye on."
To Alfred's relief a flash of his old Master Wayne returned at the words. Bruce turned and shot him a genuine, if tired, smile.
"What would I do without you Alfred?"
"With the greatest respect Master Wayne," Alfred smirked, "I haven't the foggiest."
!
The first thing Bruce's eyes lit upon was the blurred, ghost-white outline of The Wall. His mind quickly, if puzzledly, noted that the shadows had lengthened, the writing that coated the wall forming a blur in the gloom. Only after he had considered his Rolex and noted the time – gone midnight – did another realisation dawn on him. He had, he was certain, fallen asleep at his desk. Now, he was laid on his bed, looking out at the neatly ordered piles of paper on that table. And not just that: behind his head there was the warmth of a body; the firm press of a shoulder. The smell of a cigarette reached him, causing his nose to wrinkle.
"Good morning sweet pea," Jack murmured through a ring of smoke. Bruce moved to sit up and away from the other man, openly frowning.
"You looked like you'd get a bitch of a neck crick so I just woke you up long enough to get you onto the bed. You rolled over; didn't wanna move you and wake you. Billionaire playboys shouldn't have dark circles like those."
"We should have gone on patrol tonight."
"Tomorrow. You aren't sleeping right," Jack muttered around the cigarette dangling from his lip, "Not everyone can rock that lifestyle y'know. Bane will still be giant and jacked up then."
Bruce let out a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as he simply gave into the temptation to lay back against his pillow once more, albeit with his open eyes staring, blurrily, at the ceiling.
"Go back to your room Jack."
"I was working: lookin' at the, er, the stuff on the wall, so no freaking out that I was molesting you in your sleep or anything," Jack griped. Bruce flinched in a way that indicated that the man hadn't even considered the possibility. The reaction gave Jack cause to chuck lowly.
"Calm down princess, I'm not planning on talking about the gazebo incident any time soon."
Bruce let his eyes fall close and his brow knit. He felt the darkness wrap about him. He felt too how close Jack sat at his side, the warmth and weight of his body on the bed beside Bruce's.
"I don't understand Jack."
He heard Jack blow out another smoke ring.
"Bane's not really on planet Earth. He's just a whole heap of steroids and testosterone. There's no sense to him, just a lot of rage."
"No, you," Bruce said, firmly but sleepily, "I don't understand you."
Jack gave a quiet laugh. Now, the laughs scarcely touched Bruce, let alone set his teeth on edge.
"Me? Oh I'm simple as can be."
"I doubt that."
"No, really," Jack's finger poked his side and Bruce slit his eyes open to see the man looking down into his face. Shuffling up the bed, Bruce sat up so that the two were eye to eye, "I just do what I like, when I like. That's it. Simple."
"But why don't you just-"
"Nono," Jack shook his hand dismissively, "I just explained, okay? There's no questioning it. There's no imploring a hedonistic shit like me Bruce. So don't worry your pretty little head over me. Worry about the guy who could snap your spine like a toothpick. Pick your battles."
"You could have killed me just now. I was unconscious, inches from you," Bruce insisted. His attempts to catch Jack's eye failed as the man took to looking out at the inky blue pitch of the sky outside, taking another drag on his cigarette, the ash drooping down at the tip.
"And why," Jack asked through a mouthful of smoke, "Would I want to do that, hm? I told you, before. Or is it that you see the Batman as something separate, someone else? That'll change, don't worry," the man said, giving Bruce's arm a pat that only caused Bruce to frown harder.
"Told me what?"
"You complete me," Jack smiled, teeth glinting in the gloom, "Killing you now would be such a waste."
"But not later?"
Jack shrugged coolly, flicking the cigarette, "Hey, I don't plan. I just do what I like. Pay attention Master Wayne."
"We are going to end up killing each other, aren't w-"
Jack cut him off with a kiss. Bruce felt bile rise in his throat but he failed to stop himself from opening his mouth in reply. The bitter taste of smoke slipped down his own throat before the billionaire pulled away, head bowed. He pulled the cigarette from the other man's hand and crushed it on the night table, drawing a snort from Jack.
"The truth's far worse than that, isn't it?" Jack murmured as he slipped closer still to Bruce, breathing in the warmth that Bruce had just exhaled, "I have no fucking idea what we're going to do to one another but it's gonna be-"
"Spectacular?" Bruce supplied. Wearily, he rested his forehead against Jack's, his eyes firmly closed as though to ward off the nightmare of the other's eyes staring back at him.
"Terrible," Jack corrected.
!
It had taken minutes before Bane had even been able to stop laughing at the sight of his adversary. The Dark Knight simply stood there and stared at the man in the darkness of the gym he was using as his base.
"You look bigger in the newspaper photographs," Bane explained, still with a rumble of humour, when he finally sobered.
"So do you," the Batman returned – an utter lie. If anything, the wrestler looked even wider, taller, each and every vein straining in his arms and neck. The flesh of his arms looked hard like hide, thick and leather-like from the constant abuse it was put through.
"I know what you have been doing to the others," Bane took a step forward and the floor vibrated with the shifting of his weight.
The Batman remained silent, simply watching. The silence apparently maddened Bane and the man pressed on, coming to a stop right in front of the Batman, toe-to-toe, where he easily cast the man into shadow.
"You know why you could catch them?"
The Batman's face remained impassive but his eyes never left Bane's face, dark and unreadable as they were.
"Because they are weak," Bane stretched out his shoulders and the Batman could hear how each muscle creaked, how the skin practically groaned at the motion, "I do not have that problem Batman. Let-"
The word was punctuated with an easy swipe of the man's arm that the Batman was unable to block or sidestep and the man was thrown off his feet with a grunt.
"Me-"
The arm came down upon the Batman's prone figure as he attempted to scramble to his feet.
"Show-"
In desperation the Batman simply covered his head with his arm only for a punch to be landed on the limb. He closed his eyes tight against the shock of pain and force that ran through the limb on impact.
"Y-"
Bane was cut off with a choked sound. In the darkness, the Batman could make out two different sorts of gloom: one a solid, immoveable darkness that hung in the air of the gym itself. The other, darker still, was moving quickly behind Bane's back. The wrestler was attempted to spin about to grab that darkened figure but instead contorted with a hideous, machine-like groan. The Batman ducked once more as behind Bane a flurry of motion, like a nest of snakes, began to flail and tear at the air: the Venom pipes.
Pouring their hideous, violently green contents into the air and onto the walls, the wrestler began to gasp and buck. His over-large arms tried desperately to clamp at a few of the pipes, only for the force of the Venom cascading from them to send them flying out of his grasp once more. It was only a matter of seconds before the wrestler had dropped to the ground, shaking violently and moaning. His skin seemed to turn darker, almost bruised in appearance, as the veins and flesh both relaxed, flattening and slackening against the man's abused muscles.
Joker pulled off his balaclava to reveal his customary – although of late quite rare – face paint, smeared by the Venom that had sprayed it.
"Fuck, what's the equivalent of Golden Showers for Venom fuelled wrestlers?" the man asked, his voice giddy with adrenaline. He shook his hair drier and approached the Batman's side. As he did so he ran a gloved finger over the knife he had evidently used to slash the pipes and sucked a fat globule of Venom off the fingertip. He smacked his lips together.
"That stuff has a bite," the man muttered, instantly walking faster whether from the drug or its placebo effect. Joker "accidentally" trod on Bane's outstretched hand as he reached the Batman's side, drawing out a feeble groan from the wrestler.
"We're getting fucking good at this," Joker grinned, his face lit up with the kick of energy the Venom was providing, "We really need to start charging. I keep hearing about this bald guy who's looking for some people-"
"Shut up," the Batman insisted, practically implored. Joker quirked an eyebrow.
"Did he get a shot in?"
The Batman offered a lone nod.
"Arm's broken."
Joker, curiously, reached out to prod the offending limb, hanging limply at the Batman's side. The man bit down on a hiss and instead chose to grab the clown by the front of his Venom splattered black sweater with his good hand.
"Here," Joker ran his finger over the other side of the knife's blade once more and gathered another drop of Venom from the metal. He extended the finger to the Batman's thin line of a mouth, "Open up."
"No."
With a clean finger Joker poked the broken arm once more, causing the Batman to grit his teeth once more. Under the cowl there was the slightest movement: the knitting of a brow, perhaps.
"Just do it, it'll take the edge off until you set it," Joker insisted, "I went around with a bullet in my thigh for a week just by sipping a few Venom smoothies."
"It's addictive."
Joker rolled his eyes.
"Not in this quantity, genius."
The Batman simply returned Joker's stare coolly.
"C'mon, Batman, all the cool kids are doing it."
"Will you shut up if I do it?"
"Unlikely."
Shooting something that might have been a despairing look off to one side, if Joker had been cruel enough to analyse the expression, the Batman grabbed Joker's hand with his own good hand and practically bit the Venom from the fingertip, teeth dragged over the leather as he sucked the droplet up.
"Well someone's clearly never given head," Joker muttered, earning him his own hand twisted a little roughly before being let go by the Batman. The effect on the man was fast: his shoulders straightened, jaw relaxed and the man turned to walk back out of the gym, albeit it careful not to move his other arm as he did so.
"The Venom also ought to help you accept," Joker said, sliding into the Tumbler's driver's seat, "That with one arm you're really not up to driving this thing. Want me to buckle your seat belt, sweet cheeks?"
The Batman refused to respond but remained still enough to allow Joker to scramble across him and pull the seatbelt into position.
Before pressing the ignition (Joker had watched the Batman driving enough times to know how to get the Batmobile going – kind of), Joker turned to smirk at his silent, stony faced companion.
"We're a good team Bruce."
"I'm not Bruce."
"No?" Joker quickly stole a kiss that, to his surprise, he found was returned, hurriedly and furiously by the Venom fuelled "hero", "Then I ought to warn you, I'm giving it away all over town."
"Oh?" the Batman asked reluctantly.
"Yeah," Joker got the Batmobile to set off with only something of a mild bounce and judder, "I've got this really sweet piece of ass across town. Billionaire, industrialist, playboy."
"Sounds nice," the Batman muttered.
Joker turned to consider the Batman for a moment. It might have been the gloom of the Batmobile's interior playing tricks – it probably was – but he could have sworn the Batman had the hint of an upward tilt to his lips. It was too much to claim that it was a smile, per se, but it was enough for Joker. Enough for now.