A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Thank you also to my anonymous reviewers: Nara, Tasha, xxJokersGirlxx, and Censes!
Disclaimer: I don't own Batman.
Enjoy!
Alfred wished Master Wayne would shut that bloody thing off.
The television had been blasting all night, the perennially cheery face of that Sarah whatever her name was framed by black smoke and scorched marble, the news ticker at the bottom of the screen recording the escalating death toll. The butler couldn't believe these vultures, thriving on the pain and destruction for the sake of ratings and "truth;" it was almost inhuman.
But, as was his way, he wouldn't say a word about it to Bruce.
Assembling the last of the early breakfast, he lifted the tray and crossed into the austere hallway, following the growing sounds of the television like a beacon. The sun hovered just beyond the horizon, Alfred noted through the expansive windows, its light leeching into the blackness controlling the sky. A half hour more, and Gotham would be filled with its welcome presence. Passing the threshold of the modern lounge, a term he loosely used, he knew who wouldn't notice through his own despair.
The subject in question sat solemnly on the couch, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, head in hands. Listening to the reporter interview a sobbing family member, Alfred wanted to toss his teapot through the screen, for all the good such grief was doing Bruce. This was the fifth such interview they had shown in six hours, the required human emotion piece before the vultures returned to the Batman conspiracy.
Ah yes, there they went again. Placing the pewter tray on the table, Alfred struggled not to listen.
"Without a doubt, the question on everyone's lips is whether the Batman is responsible for this horrific tragedy." The blonde stood straight in her expensive suit, fire truck and smoking rubble behind her. Another body was lifted from the ruins, the camera greedily locking onto the image, and the fatality ticker in the corner advanced to ninety-six. "He was spotted in the lower tunnels by several witnesses before the bomb exploded, one of whom – an Amelia St. John, member of train maintenance – called Gotham Central's security office and issued an evacuation warning. She is still reported missing, though we talked earlier with George Calendar of Gotham Central security, who received that call. With us we have a witness from the lower tunnels, Matthew Sparks of Bank of America. So, Matthew," the reporter turned towards the middle-aged man, mouse-brown hair stained with soot. "Tell us what you saw."
"I was on the 8:02 Palisades train, track 37. I see a flash of cloak as I'm boarding the train, and it's the Batman, heading for the main concourse from the lower tunnels. Next thing I know, the sirens are going off and everyone's shrieking, pushing to get out of the building." He shook his head, weary and more than a bit annoyed. "That wasn't a coincidence; I'm telling you the Batman put it there. The bastard was fleeing too fast – set it with enough time for him to escape before blowing the rest."
"You think he would honestly do this?"
"Hell yes, I do. The guy's a nutjob in a bat suit, just look how he let Dent turn himself in, and then killed him. He's already killed, what now, five? Ten? A vigilante who takes the law into his own hands is a dangerous thing, a mad dog that should be put down. Blowing up trains to get at Wall Street…." Turning towards the camera, he shook his finger, fury written upon his face. "I hope you're listening, whoever you are, because you screwed up. And now, thanks to you, a hundred people are dead!"
The television clicked off, obeying the remote in Alfred's hand.
"Best not to listen to that, Master Wayne." He pushed the tray closer to the younger man, a steaming cup of coffee prominently displayed. "Try a scone and some coffee now; get something in you before you collapse."
And for the first time in six hours, Bruce spoke.
"He's right, Alfred. I did screw up." His hands slowly slid down his face, revealing eyes haunted by a thousand sorrows and latent fears. "I should have known that it was a trick –"
"You couldn't have, he's never done this before –"
"– I was just so sure that the hostage was with the bomb. But there was nothing there, Alfred, just more oil drums than I thought possible and enough explosives to bring down the building. I couldn't figure out the mechanism in three minutes, or how it was rigged. I had just enough time to get out…" His fingers absentmindedly ghosted over the shallow shrapnel wounds in his arm and side, tossed from the explosion. "By the time I got up to the main tunnels, the sirens were already going. There wasn't anything I could do."
Alfred shook his head slowly, wishing he could make Bruce see the truth in what he said. He considered Master Wayne a son, the only one he had, and his heart broke to see him so miserable. "Exactly, there was nothing you could do. Batman couldn't have done anything, and the Joker is exploiting that. He realizes that he can't actually drag you down to his level, so he'll do it in the minds of the public instead. This is something you had no control over."
But Bruce wasn't listening to the voice of reason, too enmeshed within his own sorrow. Gaunt face turned towards his butler, Bruce stared with hollow eyes. "Do you want to know what the worst part is, Alfred? I left her with him. She was right there and I didn't even save her. He got both her and the building."
"It was one versus thousands, Master Wayne. You had no choice."
A tone of disgust entered his charge's voice, twisting his features. "It isn't about that, Alfred. It's just…" He leaned forward, gesturing with his hands as he tried to explain the lethal vine coiling in his brain. "She was asking Batman, asking me, to save her; I saw it in her eyes. I saw her fear and the prayers, but I turned away and played the Joker's game. I just left her there with that freak…. Dear God, you should have seen her, Alfred. The blood on her shirt… he had been torturing her, and I let him have her. He's probably torturing her now, and it'll be because of me."
A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, broken and disconsolate. "That man on the news was right, Alfred, it is my fault – I didn't plant the bomb, but I didn't save those people. I didn't save her either."
Alfred didn't know what else to tell him, it was something that nothing in the world could heal, requiring Bruce to forgive himself for reaching one of his limits and leaving another person to the Joker. The bloody madman didn't know how closely he had hit a nerve, struck a blow that even Batman might not recover from. The butler began to walk away as Bruce slumped and turned further inside himself, his voice echoing down the corridor.
"The building would have come down if you were there or not. And, Master Wayne…having saved this Anna, wouldn't have changed Ms. Dawes' death."
Bruce didn't reply, head in his hands once more.
She needed to steady her nerves.
Pulling futilely at the ropes binding her to the chair, she cast her eyes about the room, looking for anything in a bottle. Anna didn't suppose Jack had any vodka on hand, and even if he did, the thought of her asking him for it was enough to make her want to laugh.
Only she knew she would start to cry.
The scene from the rooftop had been replaying nonstop in her head, projected on the backs of her eyelids by some inner machine she couldn't shut off. It had nearly caused her to bring up the first meal she had received in ages, some stale bread and a bit of cereal, swallowed dutifully in the name of self-preservation as the carnage continued on inside. She had dreamed of it while unconscious, reenacting every minute detail a hundred times, just as immobilized and horrified as the first. Sometimes the dreams were altered slightly and screaming never stopped, continuing on and on until his laughter finally drowned them out.
He had practically done as much as it was.
After one final shout, the voices ceased in the kitchen and the door slammed; he had finished with his orders.
Speak of the devil.
Anna could hear his footsteps in the hallway, a sound that had lately come to foretell nothing but pain and sorrow. The door creaked as he threw it open, stepping grandly inside like a conductor accepting applause for his efforts. Purple of his coat nearly submerged beneath light tan grit, he seemed a little worse for wear but no less joyful, greasepaint hopelessly smeared in what looked like an attempt to remove the dust.
A part of her burned to see him without it.
"So, darling, want to know how we did tonight? We ah, knocked 'em dead... all one hundred and ten of them." He chuckled at the horrible joke, his face slowly falling as he took in her clear disgust. "Oh I forgot..." He took hold of her hair and wrenched back her head, whispering into her ear as her breathing grew quicker. "You never liked my sense of humor."
"You never had a sense of humor."
It slipped out before she could think.
His grip slackened a bit and she could see him start to think, tongue creeping to the corner of his mouth as if deep in thought. He was mocking her, she knew, but the habit was enough to cause a slight pang in her heart. "Hmm, you could be right, darling. I suppose I had to … get one to make up for yours. I'm always ah, smiling thanks to you, why shouldn't I be laughing?"
She didn't respond to the barb, trying to ignore the smell of dust, sweat, and decay that came from his presence beside her. Underneath the stench of the coat, she could smell what she knew to be him, familiar and almost horrifyingly comforting if she thought of him as Jack. He still was Jack, she reminded herself, the same man whose arm would find her in sleep and curl protectively around her, the same face she would see first in the morning and last at night.
Ironic now that after three years this was again true.
But tonight had proved that some of him hadn't changed all that much, she thought, watching as he tired of waiting for an answer and stalked to the dresser. From the time they had moved in together, she had seen his violent tendencies, the rapid mood swings and chronic possessiveness that would often drive him to rage. She had controlled him then, rafted through the turbulent waters of his fury and come out on top, enforced her law and he had followed.
This man picking through fish hooks to stab into her flesh… he had listened to her earlier, obeying her as he was drawn into the past. Obeyed her as Jack would have.
She could be assuming too much… but she was willing to bet that a part of him had even wanted it.
Having seen how readily he upended her over the guard rail seventy stories above the street, she knew she couldn't count on her survival. He would enact his revenge and take his amusement, and she would be killed as easily as the poor individuals inside Gotham Central that night.
Dear God… the building falling…
Struggling to stop her stomach from roiling once more, she could barely believe the ideas floating around in her head, having thought she had abandoned that game long ago. It was something she never wanted to return to, but she had that night, hadn't she? If it meant the difference between another victim and perhaps escaping, she was almost compelled to try.
Observing as he hummed to himself and shifted through his toys, she couldn't help but return to the memory she had called up earlier.
It was one she could have gone forever without seeing again.
It would be a year before she was scarred.
She draws the knife carefully across his stomach, metal icy to her hand.
It was a trick she had learned in college, putting the knives in the freezer to produce a different sort of sensation. Incidentally, even something a few steps above a butter knife tended to feel sharper that way, for better or for worse. Judging by the way he hummed beneath her hand, it suited him just fine.
A slight grin creeps on her lips, hidden from his blindfolded eyes. Seeing him happy is enough, it causes a warm rush to course through her, and she is reminded why she does this in the first place, all for him. Her touch is precise and her hand steady, to avoid breaking the skin. A part of her knows that is what he wants, but she can't bring herself to do it, the same way she can't bring herself to use the potato peeler as he had asked last week.
Her smile fades, a grimace taking its place.
The knife dances over his chest, and she remains in tune with the knife and with his body. Knife play isn't exactly the most interesting thing for her, but he had… asked for it so nicely, and she did get to bind him in the bargain. The ropes securing his hands above his head are sturdy; she had had to go to a merchant marine store to learn a new manner of tying one after he had pulled out of the earlier types. This seemed to be doing the trick so far, and he enjoyed it.
Sliding her leg over him, she hovers over his body, enjoying the position more than she would ever admit aloud. Taking a breath, she brings the knife around his neck, decreasing her pressure for safety reasons; he shifts in protest, a slight moan escaping his lips. But she is in control here, and she won't compromise on this, especially near his jugular. He's damn lucky she's even doing this; it's honestly just to make him happy.
The knife trails down to his stomach again, and she finds herself wishing they could go back to one of their earlier activities. He's close now though, she can feel it, so she decides to keep going… and then stop, of course. Usually he loved that, for some reason.
"Permission to speak?" He gasps out.
She lifts an eyebrow, waiting as if she were deliberating. There wasn't much chance she'd say ever say no. "Speak."
"Permission to… to make a request?"
Sighing inwardly, she wishes for once she had refused him, not liking where this is going. "Say it, but I demand repayment regardless. Of my choosing."
He nods eagerly, dirty blonde locks shaking charmingly.
"Stab me."
Her hand pauses in its ministrations much to his discomfort, brow furrowed in alarm. She keeps her voice cool and steady, however. "No."
"Please, Anna" he gasps again, "I'll say – I'll say I was jumped. Please just… I'm asking you. Just please, I want you to do it, Anna. Anywhere you like, I want you to do it…."
She knew he was into this sort of thing, but she hadn't heard anything this radical since he wanted her to slam his fingers in the window last summer. That had been turned down too, for obvious reasons. Yet even that wasn't deadly.
"No." Anna stops and pulls the knife away. "And I did not give you permission to speak again." More than a little annoyed, she gets up and goes to the closet, ignoring his promises and flattery. She should have seen it coming, as it is, she'll let him lay there for a little while to think about it – the closet needed to be cleaned, anyway.
Taking out a few of her brightly patterned shirts and laying them on the chair, she smoothes out the wrinkles, his pleas falling on deaf ears. She knows it isn't as bad as he says it is, he likes it anyway, but she knows the secret is just not to do anything. That's the worst, and she knows from experience, however much it wasn't her cup of tea.
They had switched places once in the beginning, and he was horrible in her position, she remembered. One had to be in tune with their partner and he was far from it, too interested in his own pleasure and completely missing the point. Plus, she really didn't like to be in his position anyway – she didn't have his assured sense of self. Control was interesting and, when done safely, exciting, but she feared that she was more than a little too tame for him.
He came when she called, he did what she commanded, but there was always that last mile she refused to go.
Jack could never seem to accept that.
Her irritation fanned by his pleas, she couldn't help but be cross. Who the hell asks their wife to stab them? Who the hell wants someone to stab them? From medical books she knew it was one of the most painful places a person could be injured, and there he was, begging for it. That went way beyond what she knew was usual, even for most masochists; there was something not quite right about her husband, but she hated when she was confronted with the fact.
Anna hates being reminded that she can't please him.
Hands balling into fists, she drops the shirts and walks quickly over to him, taking hold of his chin and turning his face towards her. She only needs one word.
"Stop."
Greasy hair tossed in all directions, he faced her with a grin, three fish hooks held in his gloved hands. Clasping them tightly, he shrugged off his coat and savored the pain as they dug into his flesh, and she couldn't explain why the expression on his face sent warm shivers running through her.
Well, she could explain, but she certainly didn't want to.
Whatever he had planned, she knew it was nothing enjoyable, determined that the fishhooks should come no closer. Fighting her own nausea, she decided it was time to act, discontent to be as helpless as the people fleeing Gotham Central and blocking the doors with their own bodies.
She swallowed and wet her lips, slipping back into the tone she used so many times before. Dear God, she knew she was going to fail, but she had to try - she didn't want to be face up and six feet under any time soon. The Joker was invincible, but Jack was Jack.
"Before you come any closer, you will take off those gloves."
They needed to talk, and she needed him to stand still long enough to listen.
A/N: Wow, that flash was so fun to write! I was uncertain of putting it in, but I did anyway. I hope you enjoyed it...
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