It disgusted him how easily he fell into old habits. Truthfully most of the old habits had clung to him ever since his escape. The damaging scrubbing every night at exactly eleven forty-three incase she would come home and want him, the kingly feasts he would spend hours preparing only to sit on the floor once they were finished and watch as the flies carried it away piece by infinitesimal piece…
It occurred to him that it really didn't matter whether he was here, there, or anywhere. He was hers, you see. Every last bit! He'd wash for her, clean for her, cook for her, cower for her, remain pure as the newly fallen snow for her! He'd tried, oh god how he'd tried- but he could just never bring himself to do it. There was nothing for it. Whether a thousand miles away or chained to the vanity, or to the--green walls--or at the end of her hand. He would always live for her, so he might as well be here!
He stood up a little straighter, grasped the suitcase a little more tightly in his hand even though his fingers ached and cramped. He wondered how long he had been at work even though he knew he could never be sure. He'd never had a head for times, days, dates--none of it. Life was a string of events. Was and had always been a fulcrum swinging and crashing and blurring by of events mangled and twisted into a space between reality and hallucination, between truth and denial, between ether and gravity.
His fingers were burning. He remembered when he used to loathe working. He used to fight as she'd dress him in a suit, place a cigar in his mouth, place the shoes on his feet, and walk him to work. He'd hate his job. He'd slouch and slump and sigh and sleep. She'd always catch him and he'd deserve every burn he got. Once the shards of glass had gotten stuck and he nearly died. He remembered. It hurt bad. Real bad.
"That won't happen anymore! Nope! Nope! Nope!" He chimed as his spasming fingers clutched tighter to the suitcase.
He wondered what she was doing at that moment. Couldn't be anything too fun as he was at work. He bet she missed him. He didn't know if he missed her, all he knew was that the lunch bell rang!
He could never seem to hold it in after he ate. In fact, his office smelled horribly and the rug and walls were stained both sickening yellow and brown. A neatly folded pile of soiled suits rank with urine and excrement was piled in the corner, but it would be wrong not to eat the lunch she so lovingly packed for him. He sat on the suits and opened his suitcase and squealed with glee upon finding five pills and an orange peel.
He tried to take the pills, he really did. But after dry swallowing the forth pill and nearly choking on it all he managed to do was vomit the entire contents of his stomach. Yellow bile poured from his mouth and coated both his chest and the floor before him. The pills came up and lay amidst the bile. He tried to pick them up and retake them, but every further movement made him so dizzy that he could barely breathe and the putrid scent of his own leavings nearly caused him to vomit again.
Unable to suppress his vertigo he shakily stood, leaving handprints of bile on the walls as he fought to stand and await his well-deserved punishment. He was so very dizzy. The little white pills danced before his eyes, swimming in bile as he pushed sticky strands of hair out of his eyes and moaned miserably. He felt so hollow, so afraid, and so very dizzy. He wiped one hand on his suit at the time, using the other to retain balance.
"So dry." He murmured sadly as he licked his lips. "So dry."
"Master Wayne,"
Bruce looked up from the unread papers he was shuffling to pass the time at his long-time butler. The man was positively glowing with excitement.
"Alfred, what's going on?" He asked with an amused grin and Alfred seemed unable to stop himself from smiling. He held out a dirty envelope that had been clumsily ripped open as if it were a prized relic. Bruce sighed and grasped the letter. He pulled out the paper inside and found two words inscribed in pen.
Lyle LaVigne
His breath caught in his throat. Was this it? He read down further to find an address. 1344 Mesa Road, Sedona Arizona.
"Alfred, is this it?" He held the identity of a previously unidentified man in his hands.
"No."
Bruce's heart sank.
"However, it is close enough to be a relative. It is our first clue!" The old man was nearly yelping with glee. Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"Alfred, it doesn't say anything about how close of a match this is. How could you possibly know?"
"I asked an old friend for a favor." He answered quickly and Bruce's eyes narrowed even further. Alfred sighed. "I had Jim Gordon run a strand of the Joker's hair we had through their databases of criminal DNA."
"That's brilliant!"
"Thank you, sir. Turns out his closest relation is Lyle LaVigne, Professional Pimp."
Bruce looked as if he was about to either cackle hysterically or cry. "You're joking."
"No sir. He got out three years ago after spending five years in jail for racketeering."
Bruce remained quiet for a long while before suddenly looking up at his butler. "You still haven't explained how you know all of this."
"Turn the paper over sir." Alfred deadpanned and the younger man did to find all that his butler had previously stated.
Bruce rose from his chair, a determined look in his eyes. "Have some fake ID's and disguises ready for tonight."
Alfred nodded and left his office.
andaere: Thanks for the review! Glad you like it. And if you think it's bad for the joker now...