It would be wrong to say that Bruce had been avoiding Alfred, but every time his butler approached him with that unusually sheepish expression, he found some reason to leave the room. Eventually Alfred stopped creeping about him and things returned to a kind-of-normal.

'You're playing a lot of Eric Marienthal, Sir. I thought that was more my thing than your thing,' his butler commented, casting a bemused glance over at the gramophone.

'Well, I like Jazz Alfred.'

His butler smiled at him doubtfully, shaking his head.

'Did you know John's a Jazz man too?'

Now Alfred was far from smiling. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it, burying his nose in his book instead.

Sensing a kind of Alfred-moment closing in on him, he bid his butler farewell and set off for tennis early. He was much, much too wise to Alfred's strategies. The man's silence was not a given. You never knew what, or indeed from where, he was going to spring on you: back you up, sit you down and start. Bruce wasn't having any of it. He was having tennis instead.

…

Hamstrings stretched; Bruce practiced with his racket in his typical wait-for-his-partner routine. Dr Elliot soon came jogging on court in his whites, puffing and shaking his wrists with his usual sarcasm.

'Tommy, you're here early,' barked Bruce.

'Ha-ha. Just be grateful I could come at all! God, I am a busy man…' said Dr Elliot, stretching his body importantly.

Bruce mirrored him, though with less sarcasm, '…I wish I was busy.'

Sighing, Eliot shook his head like a schoolmaster reprimanding a pupil. 'Bruce – you're never busy! Don't wish for something those soft fingers have never experienced,' and Eliot put his surgeon's hands commandingly on Bruce's shoulders. 'It's kid-gloves all the way for you my friend,' he confessed in his ear.

Bruce laughed. 'Are you saying my brain is soft, Tom?' he tittered, slapping his friend on the side of the arm.

'Softer than the sweetest peach,' said Dr Elliot, tenderly touching Bruce's cheek in a manner reminiscent of 50's Hollywood. Hammily, Bruce blinked back at him.

'Wat-up faggots!' cried a voice from behind them.

Bruce whirled – Tiffany!

The young black woman stopped in her tracks and covered her mouth. 'Oh – god. That was awful! I – I am sorry. I didn't mean to be un-P.C! I – I was being one of the lads, you know?!' she insisted desperately. Her short curls spun frantically between the two of them. 'Is that not what you guys do?'

'It is EXACTLY what we do,' rumbled Elliot. Sliding his hands around Bruce Wayne's waist, the doctor rested his chin irresistibly on the wide shoulders and fluttered his eyelashes slow and seductively.

Tinkling laughter erupted from Tiffany, who Bruce could tell was laughing in genuine mirth.

'Jesus! You're face Bruce! I didn't take you for a homophobe,' she said: half teasing, half serious.

'I am no – ' Bruce started to snap.

Elliot held a hand up: 'BRUCE! PLEASE. ' Then he turned to Tiffany. 'He's not – ' and Dr Elliot planted a great wet kiss on the side of Bruce's head: MmmmmwwwWA!

The hilarity erupted again. 'GOD Bruce! You're the colour of a lobster,' Tiffany gasped.

Oh god, don't look down.

But the attention was on Tommy who had put his hands on his hips in a power stance, proclaiming boldly: 'I have that effect on him.'

'So, who is this delightful young woman? Come on Bruce…introductions.'

Glad of the change of topic, Bruce seized on it: 'Tommy meet Tiffany, the late Lucius Fox's genius daughter, now employed by Wayne Enterprises – '

Dr Elliot cut across Bruce and with genuine empathy he consoled, 'OH! I am so sorry…I heard.'

'Don't,' she cautioned, 'you get used to it…'

Wanting to spare Tiffany any unwanted emotion, Bruce encouraged Dr Elliot's good manners: 'Glad to see you can be gracious, Tommy.'

The surgeon showed his respect for a few more seconds before becoming animated with his usual boyish cheek. Turning affably towards Tiffany he invited her: 'You're dressed for it – come join us!' and, further affirming his hospitality, he said, 'I am sure we can negotiate a three-sided tennis match. Strategy: you and me bomb Bruce.'

She giggled appreciatively, but faltered. 'I am meeting friends. I am so busy most of the time, I hardly get to see them – so – '

'You see Bruce: another human being who is actually busy!' gasped the doctor in astonishment.

A black hand playfully punched towards the doctor. 'Hey! Bruce is a busy guy too!'

Raising one thin and reedy eyebrow, Elliot looked at her dismissively. 'Yes?' he enquired, oozing scepticism.

Tiffany opened her mouth wide in Wayne's defence, but catching the look in his eyes she hesitated. 'At…at press-ups!' she quacked.

Tommy Elliot was suddenly a torrent of guffawing laughter. 'Yes!' he cried, 'so he can pin all the twinks down!'

'Stop it!' Bruce scolded.

'That's the extent of his LGTB policy at Wayne Enterprises, ha-ha!'

Uneasily she chuckled and then changed tack. 'Gotta run!'

'See you later, Miss Fox.'

Before Tiffany turned to leave, she cast Bruce an I-am-sorry-face and he accepted it with a slight nod; he loved Elliot, but in small doses. Feeling completely justified, Bruce glowered at his friend.

'Oh, come now, Bruce, you're much too boring to be a puff…might make you more interesting if you were. Might,' concluded Elliot.

'Thanks Tommy…' said Bruce uncertainly.

'So, what is the latest happenings in the land of Gotham's billionaire playboy?'

'I've been building a new feature in the garden – '

Elliot scoffed. 'My. God. Bruce. Are you settling? Who is she?' he demanded, for the first time showing genuine interest in Bruce's news.

'No – I could never! Girls are like chocolates: one and often!'

His friend chuckled, 'Girls are like chocolates…well, my wife likes chocolates.'

'So do you Tommy, so do you,' and Bruce patted his pal's skinny, but fluid belly.

'Yes, well 'they're' not attainable unless you have nothing to do but crunch…and I am a BUSY man!'

Smirking, Wayne pushed his friend, who, now all fired up, announced: 'En garde …TO TENNIS, Sir!'

Swinging their rackets, the two men got their game on.

…

Meetings out the way and neurotic employers pacified, Bruce made his way back to the Manor with his brain engaged, but emotionally a little weary. Some respected him, most envied him and some let him know they thought he didn't deserve half of what he had. They were never overt, but just snide enough to dig him. He didn't care; not really. Most had never known real pain. The kind of pain where material becomes simply material.

He had an appointment with John that he wasn't going to mention to Alfred. He was going to make a quick snack, have a quick shower, avoid Alfred in the study and then take the long way to Arkham. He might even pause and take some scenic pictures of the countryside; some more snaps for his album. Meandering about the hall, with a towel around his waist, Bruce straightened the objects he encountered with his free hand, while the other dried his hair. He hated things amiss. Tommy laughed that the décor hadn't changed in over 60 years, but Bruce insisted he was preserving and not, what had Tommy said: frigidly clinging onto sentiment and trappings. Tommy was a futurist.

'Master Wayne!'

Oh shit.

'Hi Alfred.'

'You're back late, Sir. Can I make you something to eat?' asked Alfred kindly.

Bruce turned his body slightly away from the man, letting his hair fall in his face. 'All sorted Al, thanks.'

His Butler came to a stop and studied Bruce's fingers as he moved a porcelain vase a micro-fraction. 'I wondered if you fancied a game of cards, Sir?'

'Sorry, Al. I am going out,' Bruce offered a little too casually. Slicking his shiny, black hair back, he was about to add – .

'John. I know,' voiced Alfred.

The porcelain vase was centred correctly and the silence stretched between them.

'Good. So, I better be off then.'

Alfred simply stared at him. 'Master Bruce in your 39 years of life you have never before shut me out. Why now?'

'Alright Alfred – got to get ready and all,' and with that Bruce shut his bedroom door briskly in his butler's face. Holding his breath, Bruce waited, listening for Alfred's footsteps. He could feel the man's presence vibrating on the other side of the door. Eventually there was a clip-clip of feet and a faint scrape. Bruce stuck his head out: the porcelain vase displayed its blue side, not its red side. Bastard!

…

Once more confined within the faded walls of the private 'visiting room' he had requested, Bruce expectantly leaned forward in his chair, waiting, in hope, for John to return his greeting. All that was returned, however, was a vacant, empty, soulless expression that reminded him of a figurine. Bruce wasn't sure if there was a simmering malice hidden under that Casper-face; in wait for the right word to fall into the wrong place. The slack lips said 'no', but a glitter in the eyes said 'yes'.

He was sick of John's misery.

'Hi John,' he repeated, as if he was Joker greeting himself. Promptly he pulled out a fat scrapbook and found the page he wanted. 'I thought today we could go to London', he sparkled positively.

'Broadway?'

'No John, they have the West End.'

Violently, metal snapped. The chains around Jokers wrists rattled as he wrung his hands in the empty air. 'WHY are you ALWAYS correcting me!' the crescendo voice spat.

The hiss lingered between them, and Bruce looked hesitantly into John's perfectly round, black pupils. Black and glassy, like the taxidermy lynx on the east landing of Wayne Manor.

The pallid hands folded apologetically. 'I am sorry. West End it is. BRUCE!' Joker grinned, though unconvincingly.

'Ok,' he shrugged, turning the pages of glossy photos and precision-cut tape. 'Let's start at 'The Serpentine Gallery'…and we take a walk through 'Hyde Park'…we see 'Nelson's Column'…afternoon tea…'

'Do they do that?' interrupted Joker. 'The British? Eat their scones off a Union Jack?'

'No. That's what I had at hand. I had to build a set, John.'

'Did you take all THOSE pictures?!'

'No. I took some. I thought it was more intimate.'

Both men paused, observing the other.

'Why do you have a British flag?'

'That's NOT the point John!' and Bruce closed the book in irritation.

'GEEZE! What's biting you?' scoffed Joker, curling his lip up like a ribbon pulled across a blade. Then in the most remarkable Brit-upper-crust voice he drawled, 'Care for a scone, Master Bruce? A scoone. Scooone. ScooOOone . ScooooOOOOooone. Na-ha-haaa!'

Hating the silliness, Bruce glared at an empty corner of the room. 'Alright something natural,' and he opened the book again, determined to be upbeat. 'See: gardens and pressed flowers! Positive, wholesome things!'

'I am BOOORED BRUCE! - hey! are those real?'

Good. He likes something.

Encouraged, Bruce passed the book to John. 'Yes – take a look.'

Spidery hands fingered a pressed tea-rose, bringing it up to those inky discs to scrutinise it carefully. Then the intensity passed and Joker, still keeping hold of the flower, lowered his hand and turned his attention to Bruce's left ear instead.

'You know, I never did SEE that saxophone,' Joker glowered quietly. His black eyes glittered like malevolent beetles rolling across a plaster mask. '…I hear other people playing it, though.'

'Well, I am sorry to hear that. I bought it. I bought 10 of them. Earn some gold stars and you might get a go…'

John pulled an expression like he'd been slapped, then he jerked forward, straining as far into Bruce's face as the rattling chain would allow. 'Is that your solution for everything?' he spat. 'Step into line, suck up other peoples shit and be grateful? It's easy when you're the one everyone else is sucking shit off – isn't it?!'

'What's that supposed to mean?' now Bruce lowered his tone too, raising his chin a little higher. The sharp nostrils flared arrogantly.

'It MEANS!' burst Joker,articulating with his hands. '...It means…I've never seen that BLACK girl in a courtroom. And I am a WATCHER. BRUCE! The staffs' phones, the TV, the chit-chat. I am guessing that'd be quite a scandal! I am bound to notice something…' and Joker turned to him baring his teeth in a wide, yellow grin. 'So, Bruce! When's she facing justice?!'

Joker's violent, irrepressible gasps continued. Wayne was silent.

'UNBELIEVABLE! I FACE JUSTICE for YOU! AND SHE WALKS FREE OF HER CRIMES! WHAT! She only murder ONE Bruce so that's alright! – OR she's privileged SCUM like you? – from your circle so SHE'S IN! What am I? A NOTHING? A NOBODY?!'

The outburst still ringing in his ear, Bruce closed the book with finality. He was sick of this. Eventually, in a steady voice he offered, 'It's more complicated than that.' Then, unable to stop himself, he rounded on the ragged shape, breathing at him from across the table: 'Tell me something John: why can't YOU be more complicated?'

Eyes larger than ever, Joker looked at him. 'OH! I am plenty complicated! THANKS BRUCE!'

A large, gloved hand closed tight on Joker's shoulder, and as fast as a cat on fire Joker headbutted the security guard. Launching from his seat Bruce grabbed John and he bit him, hard and rabidly on the neck. Then Joker's nose exploded like a smashed cherry; laughing manically as Bruce repeatedly slammed his head into the metal table.

At some point an alarm must have gone off, and amongst the wailing siren, and screeching, vehement laughter, six burley men entered; and the room was a squash of biceps, and arms, and bodies pushing into each other.

Bruce, covered in blood that was not his own, watched as they thrust a needle into John's buttock…and the laughter slurred. The frenzied movements slowing and the eyes bulging; like a wild animal fighting back against the anaesthetic that would inevitably lead to collapse.

Bruce steadily became aware of his own ragged breath, taking ownership of his scrapbook that was now in tatters. Table turned over, chairs thrown: Joker was dragged up and out and Bruce listened as the shrieks and giggles, like devilish flatulence, faded far up in the corridor.

Defeated and furious, he made to leave.

'Mr Wayne!'

Dr Hibbert came trotting down the corridor like a weedy Valkyrie. 'You can NOT make contact with patients! We normally insist talking through a screen with category one, but – '

'We are grateful of Mr Wayne's most sincere and philanthropic generosity!' issued the ringing voice of Dr Phillips, also appearing. 'Aren't we, Dr Hibbert!' he added commandingly.

With a swift nod the woman left, clearly brow beaten into silence by her superior. When she had most definitely gone, Phillips turned. 'Even so, would Mr Wayne not prefer a screen?'

'No. I need it as normal as possible – for John.'

'I see. Well let's leave it a couple of weeks. Let the man calm down.'

Bruce nodded softly.

'Oh, and the inmates really do appreciate the instruments! With all the money you have so kindly bequeathed us we are building a new activity wing! The hospital is most grateful Sir!' the doctor gushed, and wanting to stress his seriousness he added, 'Most grateful!'

Bruce found his voice. 'You're welcome. I am glad to help. These people – '

'Deserve our pity and support, Sir. I know,' finished Dr Hibbert, smiling earnestly in a show of his understanding.

Bruce tried to smile, and the corner of his eyes cracked. His mouth trembling a little at the edges.

…

He didn't know how long he had been driving, but the sky was slowly going dark. Knowing he could not face Alfred tonight, Bruce booked himself into a hotel on the outskirts of Gotham city. He had a spare set of clothes in the back; he could hide his bloody shirt in the toiletry bag. Pausing in the red glare of a set of traffic lights, he examined himself in the car mirror. Swollen and a deep purple, the bite inflicted by John was steadily bruising up and around his jaw. Damn. A couple of days and it will be gone, a soft voice reminded him. Good. He really didn't want to have to wear a neckerchief: he'd look like a right twat. BEEEEEP! As much as a surprise to the neighbouring car as to himself, a great swell of anger had suddenly ruptured, and he surrendered to a torrent of curses and hexes as he beat on his steering wheel. He finally stopped and caught site of the woman in the next car, nose crinkled like he was something disgusting. He held up his hand and smiled boyishly. She simply turned her head away. Then he was following the rest of the traffic. Jesus John. I am trying. I am really fucking trying.

…

It had been a good few day since he had put John on the floor, and the bruise had more or less gone. Wayne Manor was a big place, even so, it was amazing how quickly Alfred could move. They had been playing a kind of hide-an-seek, as Bruce nimbly dodged his butler; leaving rooms as if he had never been there. However, it looked like his luck had run out.

Bruce raised his head and pretended not to notice Alfred's determined strides as he marched down the garden. Bending low, he continued to weed; a fistful of green in his worn leather gloves.

'Master Bruce. A word, kindly.'

He looked up. Alfred was wearing an expression that looked like a bulldog who had just been licking piss of a thistle. 'Yes?' enquired Bruce innocently.

'What are those, Sir?' Alfred trembled, pointing accusingly towards the house.

'What's-what Al?

'I open them Sir, and I think to myself: pray tell, what pantomime is Master Bruce performing in? But the thing is Sir, on examining them – they won't fit Master Bruce, will they? – because they look like they fit a man who has spent most of his life in Belsen!'

'Wha – ? What are you on about now?!' carped Bruce, rising from the damp grass.

'The clothes! The purple-clown clothes, Sir!' and the finger continued to shake with indignation.

Bruce Blinked.

'They're not clown clothes, they're Italian!' and with that, he threw his gardening gloves down like a 14th century nobleman initiating a duel. 'Why are you opening my shit, Alfred!' he seethed.

His butler raised both hands in the air despairingly, pleading for anything; a voice from the heavens to boom and talk some sense into the man that he, quite frankly, thought was riding on the edge of insanity.

'Coooey! Helloooo!'

Interrupted, they both watched as a small, animated rainbow made its way gayly down the garden path.

'Hey guys! Thought I'd come say hi!' beamed Tiffany.

Bruce beheld her, from her luminescent shoes to her curly black hair. She had on, quite literally, every colour in the rainbow, and on her chest, blazoned with love-harts, it said: 'Proud Ally'.

Horrified, Bruce turned to Alfred, who, eyes peeling back, shook his head (I never!).

'I brought some films, AND some popcorn!' she tinkled. Then she began listing the films: 'We have, 'The Birdcage', 'I love you Phillip Morris' – Ewan McGregor's in it – cute!'. The list continued and as it did Bruce's eyes grew larger and duller as each fag-flick was given the spotlight. ' – and finally: ' MILK' – the story of Harvey Milk, legendary activist!'

His butler gawped, mouth moving up and down. Also reeling, Bruce frantically looked for inspiration, and then he announced: 'A DISNEY!'

…

He didn't know what had made him choose that particular Walt classic. It was a good film. All ages thought so. Still, THEY were making it weird.

The three sat, watching uncomfortably as Bambi lost his mommy, was initiated by his father and matured into a juggernaut of a stag, ready to take on all mother nature could throw at him. "Bambi! Quick the thicket!" They're fidgeting was unbearable.

Eventually, little-miss-rainbow left and Alfred made towards him with his mouth open.

'NO ALFRED! Not now!'

Bruce kept himself in his study as much as possible, shutting himself in his bedroom during breaks. Ever since 'the incident' there had been this pit in his stomach, were at the bottom there felt a churning, wild sea. Disappointed in John, disappointed in himself: he despaired. Shivering, he unwrapped one of his most precious objects, taken from a draw. It would be a huge thing to give him, but maybe that is what John needed: a piece of himself.

…

After 30 minutes of his most delicate persuasion, Bruce finally managed to get Dr Phillips to allow him to come and see John outside his cell. This meant a clandestine muttering through the hole in John's door.

The hatch was opened and John's face appeared, looking like he had just woken up, or was just going to sleep; one or the other.

'Bruce?' he rubbed his face drowsily.

'I want to give you something,' and Bruce pressed his whole body to the hole.

A little more animated now, Joker leaned in.

'Now this, 'this' is more than it looks.' The earnestness in Bruce's voice bled through, and he began to unwrap a small, delicate parcel, taken from a yellowing cigar-box. Unveiled from its musty tomb, Bruce held the nugget of brown like it was a holy relic once possessed by the pope.

'Now this, this John is 'The Pipistrelle'…and it came all the way from England,' he breathed.

Joker's eyes widened.

'It absolutely terrified me as a child,' Bruce continued. 'I had recently seen the Tutankhamun mummies, and then, after that, THIS THING sent me doolally…but I could never part with it…it has lived in my sock draw ever since I was six...I take it out when times are difficult…it is a tiny black angel…a – a totem. It's a totem John for when times are hard. I want you to have it.'

The large, angular hands held the desiccated bat out to John. Its leather wings curled organically about its fuzzy body, and its lips shrivelled back to reveal a remarkable set of tiny white fangs.

Hungrily Joker stared, reaching out for the bat, baring his own teeth in a manic display of greed. Then he faltered, the white hand fell away and he looked utterly disgusted with himself.

'I can't take that from you Bruce.' he said, aghast.

'No – I want you to have it!'

'No!' said John softly, but firmly. 'And I told you. I don't easily part with things. What if you want it back? I have problems letting things go…don't offer it to me Bruce! That is YOUR Pipistrelle!' The thin voice rung, and then it added: 'Your pipistrelle from Buckingham Palace!'

'No John. From England,' Bruce corrected him.

'Your pipistrelle from London!'

'There are more places in England than London, John!' he stressed.

'The QUEEN of England's Pipistrelle…wow!' John whispered, eyes looking dreamily at the dried nugget.

Reluctantly, Bruce put the pipistrelle away. He couldn't tell if John was being deliberately stupid or he was so wacked up on meds this was the best his brain could do. Bitterly, he swallowed the disappointment pricking in his throat. But, before he turned to leave, John looked at him with an expression so fiercely human, it caused him to stop in awe.

'Thank you. Bruce,' the Joker said, and Bruce's heart contracted and then expanded. An aching, brilliant, dazzling glow filled every nerve of his body. Oh…John.