Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight or Beethoven's Fur Elise. Only this plot.
Chapter Fifty-One: Joker
…Well.
Y'know, even though I thought The Plan was sunk after my little, ah, epiphany, it turns out that it worked after all…in a round-about way.
But it's not like I can say that—no, it's gone now. Now, it's time to make sure Batsy doesn't…hurt himself.
So I help him to bed, and let him sleep—he's out like a light. I put a pain pill by his bedside…just in case.
I've got some…things to think about.
Batsy does too. I know that feeling of, ah, breaking free. It takes time to…adjust to the change. To the freedom of it all.
I'll let him rest.
I walk downstairs to the kitchen, grabbing an apple out of the fruit bowl on the white marble counter. I turn it over in my hands, not really looking at the perfect curves, the sickening green, the little brown spots. I lean against the counter, head bowed.
My chest feels…tight. Not light or heavy, just…tight. Like something's stretching against it, squeezing it into nothing. My head's throbbing, my legs feel like lead, and my throat feels cold and lumpy.
The apple drops to the floor and rolls away, boxed around by a playful, hungry Jack, who purrs with delight at his good luck.
The boys shuffle past me, armed with decks of cards and, ah, curvy mags. I ignore them, wrapped up in my own thoughts.
I sit by the window and watch the cars drive by, so oblivious to the fact that Gotham's Finest are only just to the right of them. It's amazing how the world just…rolls on and on even though something amazing just happened only a few minutes ago.
I rest my chin in the heel of my hand, not really looking at anything in particular anymore. The thing is, now that The Plan's basically, ah, come full circle…what do I do now? What do we do now?
In a way, this feels waaaaaaay too much like what happened with Harvey from Harvard and Rachel The Beautiful Bait. When they're on the playing field, they don't seem like much. You kill 'em, and lo and behold, they have hidden details. Details I could've…played with.
And now, Batsy is Batsy, and…well…I'm just not too sure about that.
I rub my temples, feeling my head pound an even heavier rhythm. Nothing like a headache to make things even more ridiculous…
I wobble up to my room, where Batsy's probably sleeping snug as a bug.
Sure enough, there he is, practically smothered under all those covers, dark wet hair sticking to the pillow, chest rising and falling as he breathes slowly. His lips twitch—I think he's having a good dream. His hands are clutching the blankets, long and paling and so artsy-looking, like mine, only with a bit more of a rough feeling to them.
I grin and keep my distance—don't want to, ah, smother him myself.
Quietly, I walk past my room into the little room just down the hall—a place I had set up to be a…"music room" of sorts during the winter. I close the door behind me, leaning against it and sighing.
"Miss me?" I ask the huge sound system, piles of CDs, and grand piano. "Well, I sure missed you."
I make my way over to the piano, sit down and begin to play. My fingers slowly shuffle across the keys, at first not really having a tune, then slowly turning into a jazzy ragtime number. I slam out the tune, closing my eyes and letting it slowly…uncurl as my mood switches to a blank nothingness.
By that point I'm…somehow managing Beethoven's Fur Elise. Even in my topsy-turvy mood, the music is still…relaxing. A nice change of pace, even if it is clunky and awkward when I play.
Thankfully I'm not playing loud enough to drown out Batsy's call. "Joker?"
I'm out of the room in a flash, keeping my steps easy and careful. I poke my head through the door. "Yeah?"
Batsy slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Was that you a little while ago? Playing that music?"
I fidget. "Um…yeah. Yeah, that was me."
Batsy nods. "Not bad."
"You need your sleep." I get ready to leave.
"So do you." Batsy's lips curl slightly up, and I feel the headache go away a little. "You look worn out."
I shrug. "Guess so."
I move over to my purple inflata-chair and slump down into it, hands on my lap, legs over the armrest. My…usual pose. Batsy rests his head back on the pillow, eyes drooping sleepily. I can't help but notice the, ah, ever-so-slight looseness in his body. He used to be all high-strung and stiff, but now there's a bit more slack in his shoulders.
"Say…did you feel like this after you…?" Batsy gestures vaguely, but I get where he's going.
"Yep. 'Course, I didn't…have company then, or a familiar face. Count yourself lucky." I wag a finger at him, grinning. "Or…not. I'll try to be out of your hair—looks like you're doing okay now."
"I still feel…strange, though. My head can't pull itself together."
I nod—I've felt that before too. It's like there's a, ah, tornado inside your head, mix-mashing everything up. "It'll take a few days…and sleep."
Batsy blinks and, with a little trouble, rolls himself onto his side, now facing me fully. "We still need to take care of the Mob."
I can't help but grin. "I was…hoping we'd get to that. But not yet. You're not…coherent right now. Sleep first, heal second, mass-murder later. Okay?"
Batsy smiles wryly at me. "Of course you're going to sleep too, right?"
"Uh…no. Nurses can't sleep on the job—"
"You've got bags under your eyes. There's a wrinkle on your forehead. We wouldn't want to make those permanent, right?"
I blink.
What—
Batsy's smirk widens.
The—
I blink again.
Hell…?
"Got you," Batsy says, closing his eyes. "Now go to sleep. It's not like I can go anywhere."
I stare at him for a moment, as his body goes limp with sleep. I watch his eyelashes flutter, his paling hands curl and uncurl. He's going to need to go outside soon—he'll be white as a sheet if this keeps up.
No, it's not like he can go anywhere…yet.
I sigh and get myself…comfy in my chair, the tight feeling in my chest loosening.
