Chapter 8
Big Rigs
With both hands resting on the steering wheel, Bruce side-eyes the Joker with something akin to amusement.
The clown is currently tinkering around with the GPS's box, pulling the thing out and investigating it. He's all childlike wonderment and excitement, and Bruce just watches as he flips through the instruction manual, the bags now on the center console. Then he raises a questioning eyebrow at the Joker. "You read the manuals?"
The Joker scrunches up the one side of his face. He rolls down the window, and Bruce can feel the cool late afternoon breeze rush in, just as he brings his hand up to the window.
Then he just tosses the little pamphlet out without a care in the world.
Bruce huffs. "I hope you can figure out how to work that thing," he says before gesturing to the GPS.
"It's not rocket science."
They roll their eyes at each other simultaneously.
There's a short stretch of silence that follows. Bruce is leaning down to dig around in one of the plastic bags when an automated female voice startles him. "Input starting address."
He turns to find that the Joker is holding it as if it's some sort of infant whose parents forced upon him. Then he makes a face down at it. "I don't know. Just find our location." He turns to Bruce. "It can do that, can't it?"
He pulls down one corner of his mouth and shrugs. "It might."
"Input starting address," the voice insists.
"Do it yourself, it's your job."
Bruce snickers at the exchange. And the general fact that the Joker is giving an automated machine some sass. His hand comes across the small bottle of five-hour energy, and he starts unwrapping it with just the two fingers. "Okay, I think we're in Smithfield." He downs the mini bottle with abandon.
Sooner or later, the Joker does manage to input the starting address correctly.
"Input destination address."
"Jeez, I'm gettin' to it." The white sheet of computer paper pretty much materializes in his hands and he's translating the information as fast as possible.
It takes a few seconds for the machine to process the request, but soon it's turned on and fully functioning.
"In twenty-seven point four miles, merge onto route 227 South."
"You heard the lady."
The clown actually takes off his purple gloves in order to secure the GPS onto the windshield.
Bruce takes note of it. Bells go off in his head. He might want to sneak away with the GPS when -or if - the Joker lets him walk free, if only for the fingerprints he's leaving behind.
'Whatever,' Bruce mouths to himself, eyes wide and lips pursing together as he drives.
The Joker reaches for the other bag.
The one with all of the candy and junk food in it.
He pulls out one of the bags of chips, quickly followed by the thing of cupcakes, and he literally is such a child; he holds them up in either hand, seemingly weighing them to figure out which one he wants more at the moment.
He settles for the chips.
Bruce reaches over the small space, putting his palm out. "Can I get a cupcake?" And when one is actually placed into his hand, he nods in surprise.
He's tinkering around with the cupcake in front of the steering wheel, trying to unwrap it, when the Joker decides to put in his two cents: "Bad habits, eating while driving."
Bruce contemplates it, then replies blandly, "Shooting at people while driving. Not much better."
"I never shot at anybody while driving."
Bruce can clearly remember at least two instances in the last six months alone that would prove otherwise. But he doesn't mention any of that. Currently, as far as either of them are concerned, the Batman isn't a thing that exists.
Until the Joker brings up the elephant in the room moments later, of course. "Okay, well, maybe I shot at Batman a few times..."
"Did you?" Bruce cut in, voice fake-amused.
"All out of love. If you knew him, you'd want to shoot at him, too."
Bruce doesn't know how to respond to the conflicting statements, so he just says, "Dunno," in the most vacant, passive, I-don't-think-you're-crazy way possible.
They drive for a while, Bruce making sure to not speed and the Joker making equally as sure.
Then out of the corner of his eye, Bruce sees the joker start rummaging through the bags again. It takes him a moment, but when he remembers the contents of those bags, his eyes widen.
Shit.
Before he has a chance to do anything, anything at all, a purple gloved hand is nonchalantly flipping over a receipt out of boredom.
Bruce goes for the nonchalant route as well. Eyes straight, posture relaxed, heart rate decidedly not running wild. He glances down at the floor to make sure that the gun was still there and not an immediate threat in his captor's hand.
And it is on the floor, right where the clown had left it.
He's reading the receipt out of boredom. Of course he is, of course he's looking over each individual item on that list because he doesn't have a single better thing in the world to do.
Maybe he'll forget about the gun.
Maybe he'll forget about it.
Maybe...
"Bruce."
Silence.
The Joker goes silent, too.
With the traffic he's currently caught up to, and with the rigid posture of the guy in the passenger seat, and with that phone he's got tucked away in his back pocket... This couldn't end in his favor, could it?
It seems that the universe just has a personal vendetta against Bruce Wayne the Idiot.
It seems that way because one second he's passing a big rig truck that's merrily going along its way in the slow lane.
And the next second they're swerving to the right.
The Joker's hands are pulling on the steering wheel.
"Let go!"
They struggle with the wheel for all of a second, but he lets go when they're about a foot away from the truck. Bruce has a chance to get the car back into the proper lane.
"Give me the phone."
"I don't have a phone, you destroyed it, remember?" Bruce is using that commanding voice with him, both hands gripping the wheel for dear life.
The Joker doesn't even have his seat belt on.
He's leaning over and grabbing the back of Bruce's neck and squeezing hard. It makes him raise his shoulders, makes him want to fight it off. The Joker's voice is, peculiar. Slow and threatening. "I'm talking, about the new one."
"Let go of me."
"Give me the phone."
"What phone?" Bruce asks, feigning exasperation. Well, not too much on the feigning part, the Joker exasperates him to no end on a weekly basis.
"The one you just bought. Give it up, Brucey, or we." He punctuates it with another yank on the steering wheel. "Are gonna have some problems."
When Bruce doesn't immediately respond, the Joker pushes him forward, so hard that he almost hits the wheel.
Then they start yelling at each other and uselessly fighting over the thing, shouldering into each other with looks of anger, Bruce trying to pry the hand off of the wheel.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat and pats his hand against leather. He says loudly, "Keep your hands off of this, and I'll give it to you."
Bruce's ears are ringing.
The car finally settles back into relative quietness, and finally, the Joker's hands are being raised up. He's backing off.
He's lost count of how many times he's seen him with his hands up, to be honest.
After Bruce gets their car safely away from all the traffic, he sees a sign advertising a rest stop up ahead. Think quickly. "Let's do this, I'll give you the phone when we get to that pit stop up there. Deal?"
The clown purses his lips. Licks at the inside of his scars. "Uh, no deal. You said if I let go." He gestures to the steering wheel.
"I'm not going to be using it. It doesn't even matter."
He makes a disagreeing sound. "Oh it matters." A few seconds of tense silence follows, one that makes Bruce start to doubt how long he'd be kept alive by this madman. He just doesn't have anything else to say. The offer's pretty much take it or leave it at this point. Fortunately, the Joker apparently decides to take it. "Who did you call?"
Bruce hesitates. "If I called the police, they'd be here by now. It doesn't matter."
The Joker scoffs a laugh. "You really think I'm concerned about the feds."
He just doesn't say anything in response. The clown lets it pass and thank the lord, they go the ten additional miles up to the rest stop in some kind of truce, the steering wheel all to himself and the phone weighing heavily in his pocket.
When they get out of the car, it's simultaneous and Bruce has got his muscles all tensed, eying up the other with blatant distrust. As he walks past the Joker, they do this violent little pass-off where both of his gloved hands are grasping Bruce's one.
He could've sworn he saw his jaw twitch.
And suddenly the clown's demeanor changes; his shoulders relax and his posture goes all uneven as usual, his tongue flicking out and he just looks pleased with himself.
Bruce really fucking hates him. He might actually bash his head against the nearest brick wall, and he's not saying that as only an idle threat this time around.