Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, Doctor Who, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (though they are in the Public Domain), or Betty's House of Pies (but then you knew that, didn't you?). I do own this plot.

Chapter Fifty-Two: Joker

It takes Batsy about a week to "get his head together".

There's a lot of sleep and, ah, alone time involved. (Not like that, you cute little perverts! Pain meds, remember?). I stay out of his way, unless he needs me to get water or change his bandages. My nurse uniform is nice and fresh by now, so once again I can amble around the house, creeping out the boys.

And so, as if by magic, a month goes by.

A month filled with healing: doing exercises ("Put your back into it, Batsy! C'mon, the timer's a-tickin'!"), catching up on Doctor Who ("Yes, Joker, I see the similarities between the Doctor and the Master and us…and no, that isn't why I got into this show"), sleeping (and snoring, in Batsy's case), and planning ("…No. Nonononooooo, that's too simple, Batsy! We want this big, don't we?").

Wash, rinse, repeat.

I watch as Batsy pulls on his red-and-black button-down shirt, the black trousers already showing off his, ah, atrophied legs.

"Ready to get outside and…feel the sun?" I ask, as Batsy easily buttons the shirt in a few seconds.

Batsy rolls his eyes. "No, I want to sleep another week."

I snicker. "Glad to see you're ah, willing. I'm sure Betty's dying to have a new customer."

"Is business really that slow?" Batsy adjusts his collar and raises an eyebrow. "The way you gush about her, I'd think business is booming."

I shrug. "You know Gotham—always full of surprises."

"It is, isn't it?" Batsy smiles—something I haven't gotten sick of yet—and heads toward the door. He checks himself in the mirror, tweaking his hair a little. "Think this'll work?"

"You look great," I tell him, adjusting the hair gel-created spikes a little, making sure they really stick out. "But we'll see what the, ah, sheeple think. The boys aren't coming with us this time, unfortunately. They're staying behind to…keep an eye on things—just in case the, ah, boys in blue come around."

"I told Schiff and the others they could have my leftovers if they did their job well," Batsy tells me as we head downstairs.

I think Batsy's going to make controlling these goons a little…easier. The boys are still gonna be under my thumb, of course. Batsy'll just be another, ah, instigator. He's good at that.

Speaking of the boys…they scurry out of sight once we make our way through the house to the garage. The house is weirdly quiet, actually, save for Jack playing with his little catnip mouse, purring and smacking it into the chairs and walls of the kitchen.

What d'you know…we can be peaceful.

"We're taking the Bentley, by the way. And you are riding shotgun."

Batsy looks around the garage curiously, examining every detail—I guess he is still a detective, in his own way. I laugh when he sees the Bentley—his expression goes from surprised to, ah, bitter. Looks like somebody reeeeeeeally loves his toys after all…

I unlock the car and open the door, grinning as Batsy sighs in exasperation.

"You still don't trust my driving?"

I give Batsy a look and climb into the driver's seat, stroking the well-worn leather wheel lovingly. "Batsy, I don't think I'll ever trust your driving. See, this is where not being born with a silver Batarang in your mouth comes in handy."

Batsy adjusts his, ah, sleek leather jacket, rolling his eyes. "At least I don't shoot cops who try to give me a speeding ticket."

I sigh. "Batsy, that was just one time!"

"Yes, because no one else wanted to risk it happening again."

"Batsyyyyy…" I croon dangerously, gesturing toward the empty seat. "Hop in!"

For a moment, Batsy looks like his old…restrained self. And not in a good way.

"I'm keeping an eye on the speedometer."

Some things never change, huh?

Warily, Batsy climbs in beside me, buckling himself in. Good. I just got him back in one, new-and-improved piece again—I don't want him in…pieces.

I chuckle and start the engine. "Hey, if it makes you…feel better, I do trust you on a motorcycle." I pause as we roll out of the garage and out onto the road. "…Well, ah, most of the time."

"I'm flattered," Batsy says dryly, rolling down the window and leaning his hand out, spiked hair already getting a laid-back, windblown look.

It's a good look for him. Looks like it was a good idea (his, actually) to turn his hair into a porcupine. It's really not a "Bruce Wayne" style—which makes it ideal for keeping those "Bruce Wayne/The Batman Is Dead!" rumors and headlines flowing along.

Because, y'see, Bruce Wayne and Batman are dead—deader than, ah, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They've been pushed aside by the public and "unmasked" by the very person who…played those roles.

And hey, let's face it—Batsy played them well. But now it's time for a new role…a new performance.

And I'm more than happy to provide the, ah, opening number.

That's why we're going to visit Betty's House of Pies. (Houston, we have a tonguetwister!) Last time I checked, the place still had a tie to Gotham's underbelly. It'll be the perfect place to find out what we've missed in our, ah, R&R.

After being stuck in traffic by some idiot (and writing down the license plate to, ah, hunt down later) we finally get to the shop.

"So…are we just going to park out here?" Batsy looks around reflexively, checking around us for anything…off.

"Yep, always do. See? Nobody here!" I hop out, Batsy taking one last look around before following me. "Oh, ah…by the byyyyyy, it'd be a good idea to, ah, keep things cool if anything goes bad."

"How so?" Batsy asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

I lock the car. "There might be some Mob freaks here that…recognize you, or try to, ah, engage me. Just smile, eat your pie, and remember—"

"—Joker, either way, they're getting what's coming to them." Batsy suddenly stops and stares at the exterior of the shop. I bump into him.

I peer around him. "What's eatin' you?" I ask with a hint of irritation.

"Joker." Batsy turns and looks at me, that damn scowl back on his face. "It's cute. It has little cartoon pies and coffees, and hearts all over the walls and windows." He turns around. "I'm not going in there."

"Too bad," I reply—doing my best to keep my, ah, smile in place, "I'm going in there. And I'm going to have some dee-li-cious pie. And get some info."

I step forward. Batsy doesn't move.

I roll my eyes and take another step. Batsy still doesn't move.

I sigh. "Finefinefiiiiine, I'll make you a deal. You come in with me, eat some pie, get some info, and after that you and I will go see some kind of, ah, manly action movie or something. Deal?"

Batsy folds his arms over his chest. "Only if it's Gladiator."

"Deal-io."

The door lets out a familiar ding-a-ling-a-ling as we walk in, heading for the counter. Looks like we're the only customers. That's actually kinda nice—no, great—since this way we can get the info (and pie) we need and just skedaddle.

The Christmas decorations are gone. The usual cutesy cartoon cows and lambs prancing around the walls have returned—they were hidden by all the tinsel and lights and other red-n'-green things.

Betty looks up from her Cosmo magazine and just beams at the sight of me. "Hey, Mr. J! I haven't seen you in forever!" She somehow manages to hug me over the counter, still holding the magazine. "Who's your friend?"

Despite the hug and cheery smile, I know full and well she just considers me easy money, nothing else. Typical, huh? And as far as she's concerned, Batsy's just extra cash.

Batsy gives her a small, quick smile. "B. Nice to meet you."

And suddenly, judging by the…twinkle in Betty's eyes, that "extra cash" suddenly became something a bit more, ah, physical.

They shake hands while I get myself…comfy in my usual seat—second from the middle. Batsy sits a seat away from me, letting us both get a good view of the street. Batsy looks through the menu silently, while Betty gives me "the usual"—Lemon Meringue.

"So, Mr. B, what are you having?" Betty asks, a…flirty tone to her voice. It sounds more than a little weird coming out of her mature, raspy mouth. "I'm sure Mr. J could make a few suggestions. He's probably eaten every pie I've ever made!"

"And there's never a pie of yours I didn't like!" I add, chomping away on the delicious, cool, tarty lemon. "So pick a pie, 'B', any pie."

Batsy shakes his head and looks at the menu one last time. "Let's see…the Cocoa Crème sounds good."

"Whole or in slices?"

Batsy blinks in surprise before saying "Whole, please." He remembered his promise, how…nice of him.

Betty grins. "Coming right up!" With that she bustles away, humming under her breath.

I lean closer to Batsy and whisper in his ear "She liiiiiiiiiikes yoooooou…"

"Shut up and eat your pie." Batsy says.

"She waaaaaants yoooooooou…"

"And I know that you're less than pleased with the idea. Don't stab the potential informant."

I snort. "Good one."

"Thank you." Batsy smiles that quick little smile as Betty sets his pie down in front of him.

"So who's paying on this little date?" Betty asks, winking at me.

Batsy takes out his new blue leather wallet and pulls out a fifty—one of the few scraps of cash left after his so-called "friends" ripped his trust fund to shreds.

"I am. Will this do?"

"Oh, that's just fine." Betty takes the fifty and opens the cash register with loud ka-ching. "Now, Mr. J, I know you're here for more than just pie."

"You got it," I manage to say through a mouthful of pie. "So, how're thingssince I've been, ah, busy?"

"The Families have been out celebrating—parties, get-togethers, basically blowing lots of cash and having fun. They don't seem to miss you at all—but then again…" Betty shrugs and smiles good-naturedly.

I keep my temper light and cheery as Batsy finishes his pie and pulls out the note I wrote.

"If you see any of the Mob, give them this address." Batsy hands her the note. "Spread the word about a get-together. We would like to see all the 'businessmen' there. No kids, no ladies, just them."

"Why?" Betty asks, her expression suspicious. "What's so special about this place?" She looks down at the note. "Are you putting on a show or something?"

"Uh-huh," I say, giggling as Batsy's eyes take on a dark gleam. "It'll be one hell of a time, won't it, B?"

"Oh, yes," Batsy replies, smirking and getting up from his seat. "A night to remember."