Title: Chelsea Grin – "A God Kissing Carrion" (6/?)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Dark Knight
Genre: Crime drama
Characters: The Joker, Two-Face, Batman, Gordon.
Summary: A conversation can go one of two ways, just like everything else in the world.
Word count: 1,788
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.
Author's Note: I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. School literally came out of nowhere and bit me in the ass, and I didn't get a chance to write anything until yesterday, when classes ended. Ironically, I wrote most of this chapter in my Calculus class, to which I could not pay attention even if you paid me. Hopefully I'll be able to write more often in the next couple of months, but I'm not promising anything. Just know that I refuse to give up on this story! It's basically my baby, so how could I, lol.

One more thing: about two months ago, a reviewer brought to my attention that someone, intentionally or not, had plagiarized me. This person has since taken her story down, but I just want to say that if there's one thing in the world that I absolutely CANNOT tolerate, it's plagiarism. I know there's nothing I can really do about it here on ffnet, but if you see anything that is obviously, obviously plagiarism, whether it's of my work or someone else's, please let the author know so that they can take care of it. Also, if you want to write something that is inspired by or based on another person's work, MAKE SURE that you say so! If you credit your inspiration, then it's not plagiarism, is it? ;)

Oh, and THANK YOU SO MUCH for all your reviews! They really keep me going. :)

A conversation can go one of two ways, just like everything else in the world. You either get what you want out of it, or you don't. These days, Two-Face is pretty good at getting what he wants out of a conversation. With his coin in one hand, a loaded .45 in the other, and his naturally charming smile – now only half-charming – on his face, Two-Face is impossible to refuse. You can't refuse a man who is no longer a man, you just can't.

But Two-Face learns quickly that all three – coin, gun, and charisma – are useless against the man sitting across from him. You can't manipulate a man who doesn't believe in fate, who has no sense of self-preservation, who enjoys the kind of aura that only kings and gods, not clowns, should possess.

So, for once, he doesn't persuade. He just listens.

"You know, Harvey," the Joker says through a mouthful of calamari. "You've got a classic look. Real classic."

"Don't call me Harvey."

"Seriously. Has anyone ever told you that?" He pauses to swallow, narrows his eyes to inspect his companion's face. "It's weird, you almost look like Sundance."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but you don't look like Butch."

He licks his lips and pops another fried squid into his mouth. Two-Face can't help but stare at the scars – they're fascinating, morphing and almost disappearing as the Joker frenetically chews his food. "Yeah, that's true," he admits slowly. "But as long as we're being honest, I don't really look like anybody, do I?" He grins, laughing as he lifts a butter knife from the table and touches the edge idly with his thumb.

"No, no, you don't. But you do remind me of somebody."

"Huh. That's disappointing."

Two-Face opens his mouth.

"No, no, don't tell me." He leans forward and winks conspiratorially, saying, "I'd rather not know." Then, out of nowhere, the Joker stabs the table with the butter knife.

Everybody but Two-Face jumps. "Any reason for that?" Two-Face asks, dead in his indifference.

"Nah. Just a little experiment." The Joker wrenches the knife out of the table, inspects it, and stabs one of the few remaining shrimp on his plate. He grins and throws something – maybe a carrot – at one of Two-Face's men. The man, a well-trained thug named Enzo, barely blinks. The Joker rolls his eyes in disappointment, throws another carrot at the thug, and glances at Two-Face. "I mean. They don't really do much, do they?"

"They do what I tell them to do."

A flicker of surprise flits over the Joker's face. "Already?" he says, genuinely impressed. Some small part of Two-Face feels vaguely disturbed at that. "That's fast work, Harv. Here, have a carrot."

He knifes a carrot and points it at Two-Face. Two-Face stares at it indifferently. "For the last time, Harvey is dead. And I don't like carrots."

The carrot-tipped knife hangs between them for a moment, then retreats. "If you say so," the Joker says darkly, not conceding so much as challenging.

Two-Face isn't sure if he's referring to Harvey or the carrot. He curls his upper half-lip. "I do say so."

"Uh-huh." The Joker moves like he's going to eat the carrot off the tip of the knife, but with one quick flick of his wrist, the knife flies through the air and lands in Enzo's throat. He falls to the floor, gasping and sputtering silently.

The Joker flashes a grin as the other thugs recoil; too quickly, Enzo stops sputtering. Two-Face discards his mask of apathy – which is exactly what the Joker wants, but he doesn't care anymore. This is too much. "Enough of your games, Joker," he growls. "That man was one of my best enforcers."

"My games?" The Joker laughs, gleefully skeptical. "I think you are the one playing games here, Harvey."

Two-Face is silent for a moment. "I set you free," he finally says, softly menacing and deadly serious. "And I didn't do it just because I was bored. If you think – "

"You should stop talking, before you embarrass yourself," the Joker interrupts with a small smile and dead eyes. "You set me free?" He laughs and pushes his hair to the side. "Aw, Harvey, I thought you knew better. D'you – d'you have any idea how ridiculous that is? I've been free since the day I got these scars. You can't set me free."

Two-Face says nothing. The Joker's tongue flicks around under his lips, feeling the insides of the scars, and he continues, with more urgency. "See, freedom? That's just a prettier word, a politician's word, for chaos. Not a lot of people in the world know that. If a person thinks – really thinks –that they're free, you can't control 'em no matter what you do. So, over time, the guys in power changed the meaning of the word: if you're not in jail, then you're free. And people liked that definition, took to it like grape juice. You liked it too, and don't pretend like you didn't. And that's the difference between you and me, Harvey. You think that laws and prisons restrict a person's freedom, you think it's punishment. But me – no one can punish me, because no one can imprison me, you understand? I'll never be a prisoner, 'cause my thoughts are mine – they're intangible, which makes them ungovernable. They're, uh, irrepressible, uncontrollable – even I can't control 'em, and I don't want to. See, you're the prisoner, Harvey. And sure, your thoughts are dark now, but they're still conventional, aren't they? You're a victim of your own conventional thinking. That makes you predictable and confinable. You oughta work on that." He chuckles once, darkly. Proud of himself, too.

Two-Face leans forward. Despite himself, he's interested. "What do you mean, conventional?"

The Joker grins, almost mockingly. "I mean, you want revenge. Not on Batman, not on Gordon – you already tried that, and you failed. You want something bigger. Don't you."

He nods slowly.

"You want Gotham. And, naturally, you want my help." He laughs shortly. He enjoys the cliché. "Like I said, predictable."

"No," Two-Face says quickly, adamantly. "I absolutely do not want your help. We both know that would be impossible, working together." He can't help but let a bit of disgust creep into his voice. Just the thought is appalling.

The Joker's grin widens imperceptibly, a sign Two-Face takes (or perhaps mistakes) for agreement. "What do you want, then?"

Two-Face leans back in his chair. "I want you to do what you do best, and I want you to stay out of my way."

"Funny," the Joker says. "That's what I want, too."

Jim Gordon sits at his desk, completely in the dark, staring at the name in the report he's holding. The print is only slightly darker than the surrounding blackness, but he can make it out nonetheless – it's clearer than a newspaper headline. Which, he thinks grimly, it will be soon enough.

He closes his eyes as a cold breeze drifts across his face. His heart sinks – the window was closed when he came in, and he didn't even hear it open, which can only mean one thing. Batman. For a moment, Gordon is at a loss, doesn't know what to say, but then he clears his throat and manages to choke out, "Tonight is not our night."

Silence – Batman agrees. There's nothing for him to say, so Gordon continues, "More than you know, I mean." He pauses, unwilling to make the newest news true by saying it out loud. "Twenty minutes ago, Harlean Quinselle… she, uh, disappeared from the hospital."

"How?" Batman asks immediately, unable to mask his surprise.

Gordon sighs in frustration. "We don't know. One of the doctors found the cop I put at her door unconscious – poisoned somehow. Someone either kidnapped her or helped her escape, we don't know yet." Probably never will, he thinks.

Batman only says, "You'll find her."

Gordon laughs skeptically. "I appreciate the thought, but I doubt it." He sighs. "Anyway, she's the least of my problems right now." He pauses again, and Batman waits for an explanation. "You know, she told me it was you who let the Joker out."

"She lied."

"Of course she did," Gordon says with a wry laugh, "but I believed her for awhile. She described you perfectly, right down to your eyes, if you can believe it. But then we found fingerprints in the car the Joker gift-wrapped for us." He tosses the report onto the desk. "She definitely lied. We all know you don't leave fingerprints."

Batman walks over to the desk and picks up the report. "Fingerprint analysis?" he asks softly.

Gordon glances at him and sighs, "Yeah."

"You got a match." He doesn't ask. He knows.

"Yeah."

Batman glances at the report, closes it quickly, and places it back in front of Gordon. Silent, he walks back to the window, completely unreadable. Gordon takes his glasses off and tries to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes. "I've been an idiot," he murmurs sadly, "and now all of Gotham's going to pay for it."

"He won't last that long. Neither of them will."

For a moment, Gordon hates Batman for trying to reassure him. He knows that this catastrophe is mostly his fault, but deep in his heart, he blames Batman for everything. The Joker never would have come out of his box if Batman hadn't been such an enticing toy for him to play with, and Harvey Dent never would've become a maniac bent on revenge. Angrily, he stands up to face Batman. He doesn't mean to shout, but he can't help it. "It's only been twelve hours, and we've already got a circus out there! The next few weeks are going to be exponentially more disastrous than last time, and this time, in case you've forgotten, there are two ringleaders out there, ready to raze Gotham to the ground. You can't fix this!"

Batman glances back at Gordon and says, "Maybe not, but I'll fix it anyway." Then, he leaves.

Gordon slams the window shut with an angry shout and stands there for a moment, panting and deliberating. Then, he makes a decision. He grabs the report and throws it into the trash, then rifles through his desk, finds a match, and sets the trash on fire. Five minutes later, he has a new report on his desk, fresh from the printer, declaring in bold, official lettering: NO MATCH. He might as well commit yet another felony, if it'll help in the long run. Gotham can't know the truth. Not yet.