I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, James Gordon, or Gotham City. I did create Madge and Clarice.
This story is for entertainment purposes, so please read and be entertained.
Madge closed the door of her apartment and turned around. She blinked.
"Bat! What are you doing here?"
His cape fluttered in the breeze coming through the open window. The rest of his form was as still as her furniture. In her fully lit apartment, the vigilante didn't seem the living shadow he did on the dark streets. Every strap and seam of his suit was clearly defined.
His gaze seemed fixed on her bare wood floor. He didn't look up at her question. She was forming a sarcastic remark about this, when he fell to one knee.
She strode over to and knelt down in front of him. Beads of sweat were on what little face his mask left exposed. Madge grimaced and covered her nose.
"You smell of smoke and gas, what happened?!"
"Car exploded."
Her eyes widened. He still didn't look up.
"It's a long story."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Toxin. I'll sweat it out . . . Just need . . . somewhere . . . to sweat it out . . . Couldn't . . . make it . . . anywhere else. I'm sorry."
"Who managed to poison you?"
"Someone . . . who got . . . creative . . ."
"What do you need?"
"Water . . . , as cold as . . . you can get it."
"Okay. Do you want to sit or lie down?"
"I'll lay on the floor . . . , behind the bed . . . , hidden."
"Oh (censored) you will."
With that she grabbed his right arm, dragged him to his feet, and shoved him onto her bed. His feet hung over it until he lifted himself into a sitting position. As he did she grabbed her coffee pot and headed for the bathroom. While the water ran, he spoke to her back.
"If anyone comes in . . ."
"No one's comin in! You stay put!"
"You realize . . . I'll be here all night?"
"Yeah, I figured."
She poured him a few glasses of water. They were as cold as she could get them with the building's plumbing and no ice. As he drank his third glass, she noticed his hand was shaking.
"I think you need a doctor Bat."
"They wouldn't . . . be able . . . to do anything. No antidote. Just need . . . to sweat out . . . the overdose."
"Wait . . . Overdose?"
"More than . . . is necessary . . . to kill me. If there's enough . . . in the system . . . the body . . . recognizes it . . . flushes it out."
"You're serious?"
"Yes."
"And you still don't want a doctor?"
"No."
"I have a gun. I was gonna give it to you the next time I saw ya. I can hold the doc at gunpoint while he looks you over, like in the westerns."
"No."
She scowled down at what she could see of his face. It was pouring sweat. She couldn't imagine what the rest was doing under that mask. She reached for the cowl. He reached up just as slowly, and grabbed her wrist.
She waited for him to squeeze until tears stung her eyes. Instead, he lowered it to the bedspread and let go. His voice didn't rise or lower an octave.
"It's better . . . you . . . not know."
"You need to sweat it out don't you?"
"You can't . . . see . . . my face."
She jerked both her hands out of his reach. Then she launched herself from his bedside. He was almost grateful. It created a slight breeze on his jaw for a moment.
He heard her stomping as he watched her march off toward her bathroom. Then he heard the turn of a squeaky nob, and water running into the tub. She returned with a towel. The water running off it left a trail of drops behind her. She came up to stand at his bedside. The anger in her words was held in check, like a dog straining at the end of its leash.
"Look. This is one (censored) big towel. Now, I'll hold it over your head, you take off that (censored) mask, and I'll put it over that (censored), top secret face of yours. Okay?"
The Bat studied her without answering for a full minute.
"Turn . . . around."
She did.
"Look . . . straight ahead . . . and don't move . . . until . . . I tell you."
She could hear the sound of velcro being ripped apart, slow and a little at a time. This was eventually replaced by the sound of something being pulled off. She was surprised at the stench that followed.
The scent reminded her of a hamper stuffed with a high-school football team's sweaty towels. As she covered her mouth and nose with one hand, Madge felt the towel being taken from the other. She heard it slapping down on skin, then rustling sheets and water being wrung out of cloth. The movements ceased. A long, drawn out breath echoed through the room.
"You can . . . turn back . . . around."
She did. He had removed his mask. The towel was wrapped around his face, with its ends tied into a knot in the back. Nearly the exact same area of his face was covered by it as had been before. The mask itself lay on the pillow, as if a dark, deflated, soulless head lay there. While studying these things, her train of thought was broken by his voice.
"Can you . . . bring me . . . another?"
By the time she stopped running back and forth, he had a towel soaked in cold water wrapped around both of his wrists, and one thrown across over his throat, so the water could drip beneath his chest piece. He even had a piece of cloth wrapped around the glass of water sitting on the nightstand beside him. She'd thought about asking him about that last one when he felt better. After thinking it over for herself, she'd realized it was probably to prevent fingerprints.
He turned the towels by increments so the wettest sides were turned inward and the sides that had dried next to his oven like face were turned outward. When the cloth seemed too dry to do anymore good, she refilled the pitcher and walked back over to the side of the bed.
His blindfolded gaze followed her path. When she came back to stand beside the head of the bed, she explained.
"I'll pour this water on the towel. You won't have to take it off."
He nodded. She poured. After the last drop landed, she straightened. His head hadn't moved, but his lips did.
"Thank you."
She blinked.
"Well, I want you to live, so you can punch out a few more (censored) who have it comin."
"You didn't . . . have to do . . . any of this."
Her voice lowered and softened. There was a catch in it.
"You don't have to do anything for us either."
It was then she realized the slight shaking in his hands had become violent trembling throughout his body.
"Bat?"
"Just the . . . toxin . . ."
"Should I get you another blanket?"
"You . . . don't . . . have . . . another . . . blanket . . ."
Madge jerked open the drawer of her nightstand and grabbed something before slamming it shut.
"I can get one."
She went out, banging the door shut behind her. After striding four doors down, she beat her fist against number thirty-eight. A scratchy, sharp voice from inside shouted a response.
"What!"
"Open up Clarice!"
Clarice did. She stared at Madge with bleary eyes. A lit cigarette was in her right hand. The scent of something stronger wafted from the room behind her.
"What do you want?"
"I need a blanket."
"What?"
"I need a blanket! Here!"
Madge shoved a carton of cigarettes at her.
"I decided to quit. You can have them. Just gimme a blanket."
A look came over Clarice's face that made her resemble a sly, buzzed fox. She swayed forward and backward, to a beat only she heard.
"Well . . . I donoooo . . ."
Madge snatched the box of cigarettes back from her, and held them behind her back with her right hand, while putting her left arm up, elbow pointed out toward the other woman. Clarice's eyes first grew wide, and then hard. Madge stared back into them.
"Blanket. Now."
Clarice disappeared into her room and came back with a disgusting bundle of thick cloth in her arms. When she got within a few steps of the other woman, she tossed it at Madge's head. Madge caught it before it could fall over her like a net, and tossed the last of her cigarettes at Clarice. Then she turned, and strode back to her room.
She got there, opened it with her key, and slipped in before closing it behind her. She walked to the bed with a slight bounce in her steps. Then she threw the blanket over her sweating, trembling, straight-faced guest.
"Here! Told you I could get another one."
"What . . . did you . . . give up . . . for it?"
"A bad habit."
His trembling got worse instead of better. The gleam of triumph disappeared from her eyes.
"Bat?"
"It'll . . . help me . . . sweat it out . . . , but the . . . shaking . . . won't . . . stop until I . . . have."
"Is there any chance you won't?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Bat?"
His voice sounded harder than norm as well as shaky.
"At some point . . . , I'll likely . . . get delirious . . . When that happens . . . , don't mind anything . . . I say . . . , but keep the towel . . . on my face . . . and don't . . . look at it . . . . After that. . . I'll either . . . get better . . . or I won't.
Her face paled.
"What am I gonna do then Bat?"
He was quiet for a moment more, and then replied through chattering teeth.
"Come . . . closer."
She did. She felt sicker than men sick in another way had made her feel in a long time. She sat down at the foot of the bed. She waited for the least sick man, in that way, she'd ever met to speak. He did. She winced at the opening of what was a long speech for him.
"If I . . . stop . . . breathing . . . , get cold . . . , and you can't find . . . a pulse . . . or make me . . . bleed . . . , take off the . . . suit. I already . . . removed . . . the belt."
She knew that. It was hanging right within his reach from the head of the bed.
"Hide it . . . , all of it . . . Then call . . . Gordon."
"Gordon who?"
"Officer . . . Gordon."
The policeman?"
"He's an . . . honest cop."
"The only honest cop," she muttered.
"Tell him . . . I hired you . . . for the night . . . , but got sick. Tell him. . . I told you . . . to stay . . . until I . . . felt better . . . You did . . . , I didn't . . . You finally . . . realized . . . I was dead. In . . . my right . . . boot . . . is three thousand . . . take it . . . for your . . . trouble . . ."
"Should I try to leave the towel-mask?"
"After . . . you take off . . . everything else . . . , you can. . . look . . . , before you call . . . It's even . . . more important . . . in death . . . , than life . . . that nobody know . . . who I was . . . After they . . . take me away . . . , someone . . . might come . . . who knew me . . . without the mask . . . Give everything. . . to them. They'll know . . . what to do . . . with it. Tell them you did . . . absolutely . . . everything . . . you could . . . I wouldn't . . . let you . . . get help. They'll believe you."
"You make a habit of this, huh?"
"You could . . . say that."
"Okay. Is there anything else I can do . . ?"
The Batman shook his head.
"Anything your mom or dad or whoever looked after you used to do? Favorite song or somethin? You're lookin pretty miserable Bat, help me out here."
"They read . . . to me."
"Oh . . . sorry. I don't have any books."
"I know . . . You draw."
"It's kinda creepy you know that, Bat." Madge looked at the towel. "Besides, I don't think that's gonna help you much."
"Can you . . . get your sketches?"
"I can . . . "
"Go . . . ahead."
She got up and, came back with her sketch book in her hands, confused.
"Flip to . . . the first page."
She did.
"Describe it . . . to me."
Madge did as he asked. He listened without comment, nodding at times. Her words distracted him from the symptoms somewhat, especially since he was dividing his attention between it, and listening for any sound at the closed door or open window. Madge paused when she finished describing her first sketch.
"Want me to go on to the next?" He nodded. She did.
The trembling got worse. She stopped at times to pull the blankets up, get water, and pour it in a glass or moisten the towels with it. Every time she asked if he wanted her to keep talking about the drawings he nodded, until he stopped responding to her altogether. She went on checking the towels and moistening them when they dried.
At one point, she ran to get more water. When she returned, he'd turned over. The towel that had covered his face was on the floor next to the bed. She froze.
All there was to see was jet-back hair. His face was turned into the pillow. That was still more than she'd known before.
She rushed over and picked the towel up. Her back was turned towards him. She heard movement, and then his voice. But it didn't sound like him. The speaker seemed confused, frightened, and child-like. The lips speaking were trembling more than ever.
"Mom . . .?"
She froze mid stoop. She didn't dare turn around. She held her breath. He called to her again.
"Mom . . ?"
In a breaking voice she answered without turning around.
"Go to sleep."
"Is dad . . . home yet?"
"No . . . he'll get here soon. Go back to sleep."
"I had . . . a nightmare."
"I'm sorry, but you still have to go back to sleep."
"Something . . . happened . . . to both . . . of you."
"It was only a dream. Just go back to sleep."
"Dad told me . . . not to be . . . scared . . . and be . . . a hero . . . like you . . . I tried . . ."
"Baby . . . you . . . you should really . . ."
"Why won't . . . you . . . look at me?"
"Turn around and I will."
"Why . . . ?"
"Just do it."
She heard rustling on the pillow. Madge stood up without turning. Her eyes bored into the opposite wall. She reached out toward him like a blind person and felt the wet cloth of the pillow, and then wet hair. She closed her eyes, spun around and slapped the towel down before looking.
Madge relaxed when she saw the towel was covering his entire head. He turned toward her, entangling his head into the towel even more. She quickly turned its corner up to reveal his chin, mouth, and bottom of his nose. He took in a deep breath that turned into a sigh.
"Do you feel any better?"
"Not as . . . hot . . . but I can't . . . see you . . ."
"I know, but you can hear me."
"Will you . . . read to me?"
"No . . . you better go to sleep. It will make you feel better."
He sighed again.
"All right. Mom . . . ?
"Yes . . . ?"
"I'm glad . . . you and . . . dad . . . are okay."
Her voice broke again as she replied.
"So am I."
He fell asleep, still trembling. Eventually, he began to shake less. An hour and forty-three minutes later, Madge kept track, he stirred. Half asleep herself, Madge came fully awake and leaned over him.
"You getting better bats?"
She slumped in relief when the voice answered her in the tone she was familiar with.
"Yes . . . You can . . . rest now. I'll look after . . . myself . . . until I leave . . ."
She gave him a bitter, sarcastic smile he couldn't see.
"You look worse than me."
He acted like he didn't hear.
"Get some rest . . . , you deserve it."
"You sure you'll be okay?"
"Yes."
"Guess I'll go sleep in the tub, then. Good morning!" While her back was turned, he gave a half smile she didn't see either.
. . .
In full gear, Batman stepped softly into the bathroom that was barely big enough for him to do so. Madge was asleep, curled up in her tub. He threw the blanket from Clarice over her, then lifted her head to slide a pillow under it. She didn't wake, but snuggled into the comforters. He straightened, then reached into one of his belt's many pouches and removed four, crumpled $500 dollar bills. He laid these folded in half together on her. He placed the empty and dried glass that had sat by his bedside on top of the bills. He glanced back at Madge, then turned and left.
. . .
Madge scowled at the cylinder of tobacco and paper as she held the lighter up to its end.
"I thought you quit."
Madge spun toward the voice. As she did, the fire escape creaked beneath her feet. A dark shadow shot up from the fire escape across from hers. He pinned her own with a black gaze until the creak faded into silence. The rigging had stilled instead of giving way.
With a slight relaxing of his shoulders, The Dark Knight looked up and met Madge's eyes. She was scowling even more sharply at him than she had at the cigarette.
"Do you have anything else to say?"
One of his eyebrows lifted.
"Only my thanks. Does that upset you?"
"Not as much as the other 'thank you,' you left me the night before last."
"The money?"
Looking away, Madge stuck the cigarette into her mouth and sucked in without replying. He continued to watch her.
"You didn't work that night."
"It was my night off!"
Smoke spilled out of her mouth along with her words. His frown deepened.
"You don't get a night off."
Madge looked away. The Batman waited. When she didn't say anything, he went on.
"You didn't ask for anything when I came to you. And what you did was more than I asked for. That says more about you than what you do to survive. What I left didn't come close to repaying what I owe you. I thought of it as lost wages. I didn't want your good deed punished."
Madge's shoulders slumped.
"Okay Bat."
The Batman nodded, turned, and had shot his grappling gun at the roof of the building across from hers. Before it pulled him up, Madge spoke again while stepping on her cigarette.
"Bat . . ."
He turned back to face her.
"You don't owe me a thing,"
She turned and went into her apartment. He watched her go, before disappearing into the night.
If you liked something, tell me, so I can do more of it. If you didn't like something, tell me that too, so I can fix it.