Chapter 6:
At first, Bruce didn't notice the dull, throbbing pain in his head.
But all too quickly, it came crashing down, and he groaned aloud, his hand moving to his temple.
He'd been woken by the sun filtering through a window off to his right.
It took some seconds for his mind and vision to clear as he glanced about the defunct apartment complex.
It came back slowly, remembering the Joker hanging from the ceiling, him standing beneath, trying to get him down, and then… when he realized what had happened, he groaned again, covering his face with his hand, shaking his head.
"Stupid." He mumbled.
It was then he noticed his cowl was missing and his eyes went wide.
"Where?" He breathed, alarmed, his eyes moving about.
And then they fell on it, placed beside him.
"How in the hell…?"
The Joker must have removed his mask. But how? There was a safety mechanism…
He reached quickly to a point just above his collarbone, feeling where the suit had been cut open.
"Sonofabitch…" He muttered angrily.
Now the question of why the lunatic had taken his cowl off forced itself in to his mind.
And very quickly, everything fell in to focus.
He was sitting upright, on a bed he realized, and he then became aware of a pillow, supported behind his neck, against a wall.
The Joker must have done all this. Moved him here and placed the pillow.
How utterly bizarre he was.
Batman's frustration was immense in having to admit how very little he understood the Joker, what it was that drove him to act as he did. It was one moment the clown was savage and uncontrolled, brutally violent, without reservation or hesitation of any kind, and the next, he was taking the time to create a more comfortable situation for a man who routinely made it his business to beat him to hell.
Inexplicably Bruce experienced what felt very much like guilt.
He shook his head.
Why the hell would he feel guilt?
The bastard had almost killed him with his ridiculous antics!
The thought suddenly occurred to him that the Joker wasn't within sight and he glanced around quickly, at once finding himself defensive.
But it seemed he was alone.
He breathed in deeply through his nose, pushing himself from the mattress.
His curiosity consumed him then.
It struck him as odd, for whatever reason, that the Joker had actually been living in an apartment. He'd always imagined the lunatic holed up in some abandoned factory someplace. That notion was supported by his having found the Joker in exactly those sorts of places in the past.
But as he thought about it, he came to the realization that most times, he and the Joker had met on the street, or some other place public, as though they'd found each other, and it was rare for him to actually come upon him in whatever shelter he'd taken up. Batman thought then that the madman likely stayed often in apartments like this one here.
He'd just never found him in one.
As he scanned his eyes over the room, he felt his curiosity grow stronger and he wondered if maybe he could find something out about the Joker from what was here.
The place was small. One room, with a bathroom and a kitchenette at the area's left hand side.
It was also sparse, from what Bruce could tell.
There was the bed, in the upper right hand corner. A single's mattress on a rickety looking frame. There was a single pillow and no blanket.
Reaching out, Bruce pressed his fingers in to it. It creaked loudly and he could feel the metal springs through the thin material on top. It would be hell to sleep on it, he thought. Glancing at the pillow, he saw it was riddled with small, dried spots of blood.
He frowned, leaning in closer to look at it.
He studied the blood for a few moments, noticing some of it seemed fairly fresh, maybe from the last day or so. Other spots still looked old.
Turning from the bed, Batman's eyes moved to the kitchenette.
It looked barren.
And for the most part, it was.
He found a box of cereal in one of the cupboards, as well as an empty can of coffee. But that was it.
Seeing the miniature refrigerator, Bruce bent down, opening it.
Inside were a couple of cans of Coke-A-Cola and an unopened TV dinner. One of those ones they make for children.
Bruce almost smirked at the sight of it.
He found himself wondering how the Joker could stand living like this. He'd always envisioned the lunatic as living it up, somehow, as immersed in luxury. He supposed he thought that because of how finely the Joker always dressed. There never had been a moment when he'd found the madman clothed in anything less then high end Italian imports, save for those times when he was locked up in Arkham.
But from the looks of everything here, the Joker lived in practical squalor.
Looking to his left, he spotted what could only be described as a ridiculous number of hundred dollar bills, lying scattered and unorganized in one of the room's corners.
Moving towards it, Bruce could see right away that there must have been close to a half a million in cash, just lying there, unattended, some of it stacked and rising up against the wall, the rest splayed out at the bottom. If anyone were to stumble upon it, they would take it up greedily and hide it away some place safe. But these bills were collecting dust, in plain sight for everyone to see.
And now, apparently, the Joker had abandoned it.
Bruce turned away.
With as much as he'd stolen over the years, the Joker could be living a life comparable in luxury to his own playboy persona.
But very clearly he did not.
Scanning the room again, Bruce noted the now knocked over ironing board from earlier.
And then he spotted a box by the foot of the bed. Going towards it, he saw it was filled with what looked like toys.
His brow furrowed as he grabbed hold of the cardboards edge and pulled it out a little.
They looked to be just normal toys. But with the Joker, it almost always was the case that appearances were deceiving.
He grabbed hold of a teddy bear, lifting it up, scrutinizing it closely. But nothing with it seemed unusual.
He rifled through some of the other toys. They all were normal.
He pushed the box back with his foot, a sinking feeling consuming him suddenly.
Looking up, he noticed the bathroom, walking to it and pushing the door open.
Inside was tiny. Just a sink and toilet and a corner which contained a shower. There barely was enough room to stand under the head and with as tall as the Joker was, Batman wondered how he stood under it at all.
He noticed along the dirty, tiled floor were yet more blood stains, and along the rim of the sink. Sat on its side was a bottle of hair gel and shampoo. The mirror above it was dirty and cracked.
He could hear the Joker's voice in his head, telling him when he was ready, he would let him know where to find him.
Suddenly he became aware of how much time had past, again noticing the light filtering in from the other room.
What time was it?
Alfred would doubtless be worried.
He needed to get home.
/
"Tum, tum, tutum, daa, dee daadaa." The Joker smoothed his hands over the cotton sheets of the bed, enjoying the feel of it against his palms.
It had been an inconvenience, finding a new place. But with Batsy struggling most apparently with that little thing called anger management, his knowing where he'd been living wasn't ideal. The tight ass was going to have to blow off a little steam before that would work.
He'd been lucky, coming upon this apartment. Three neighborhoods from his old place, in yet another abandoned complex. He'd gone through several units, until he found one still furnished, if only barely, and just slightly larger then his other. It had this bed, with what looked like clean sheets. In the corner across from it was a recliner.
The only other piece of furniture was a dust covered dresser with a lamp on top. The bulb was burnt out and there were no other lights in the place. The Joker had sighed at the prospect of having to get light bulbs. He hated doing things like that.
Ruffling around in his pockets, he realized he had no money.
Not that that was really much of a problem.
Sure, it was easier walking in to a grocery store and paying for things. But it was also just plain boring.
And besides, if he was being honest, going anywhere as himself was never an easy affair.
In any event, conditions as they were weren't conducive to work.
The thought of rest past briefly through his mind as he tried to recall when last it was he'd actually slept. It had been several days, that he knew, though it was rare he ever saw more then forty minutes sleep on days he actually was able to attain it.
A rapid fire succession of ever changing thoughts kept him awake, and then dreams in slumber would inevitably drive him to consciousness, his mind perpetually active.
It was only under heavy sedation he ever experienced more then an hours rest.
But he'd always thought it better, being as he was. Sleep, after all, seemed such a waste of what little time there was. Fun, he'd deduced long ago, was the only worthwhile endeavor in this world.
The doctors at Arkham told him he was sleep deprived, that his body, essentially, was running on empty; that he was putting copious amounts of stress on it, forcing it in to a state of constant exhaustion, and that eventually, it was going to catch up to him.
But he didn't pay their warnings any mind.
He felt fine, full of energy and enthusiasm, and his mind sharp.
He would just as soon go entirely without sleep, if it were something possible.
As it was, he often forgot even to try.
And still he had yet to ever, really feel the effects.
There'd been a few times where he'd felt less then stellar, to be sure, but that was usually when he'd been suffering some type of injury. A gunshot or knife wound maybe, and even then, it took more then physical fatigue and a loss of blood to slow him down.
Sleep could wait.
There was still adventure to be had that day.
/
When finally he reached home, pulling in to the batcave, he saw Alfred slumped over the control board of the main computer monitor, sleeping.
Funny enough, the sound of the engine powering down was what seemed to wake him. He shot up, his head spinning around in the cars direction, and for a few moments he stared at it, bleary eyed, until the cockpit roof slid open and Batman jumped from it.
Almost immediately Alfred rose.
"Master Bruce!" He exclaimed. "Thank heavens! Where have you been!"
"It's a long story Alfred." Bruce sighed, not at all feeling like talking about this.
Alfred watched him carefully as he moved past, practically falling in to the seat the butler had only moments ago occupied.
"It's been more then 24 hours Sir." Alfred calmly noted.
He paused, eyeing the vigilante.
"Is there something you want to tell me, Master Bruce?"
Again Bruce sighed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
"No Alfred. I'm fine."
"Are you quite certain?" Alfred pressed, seeing right through him.
Finally Bruce looked up at him, forcing a faint smile.
"It's just this whole Joker thing is all." He waved a hand dismissively.
Alfred's posture straightened even more.
"I see." He said. "It's been quite troublesome for you, hasn't it?"
"I'm always on edge when the Joker's loose." Batman replied.
"Yes. That is accurate. Though recently, it seems you've been more bothered by the madman's freedom then what you normally are."
"Alfred, really, I'm fine." Bruce insisted, his impatience coming through. "I've just been tired."
"Indeed." Alfred said, his expression entirely skeptical. "But please Sir, do remember, if you need to talk…"
"I know Alfred." Bruce answered. "I know."