The idea for this chapter comes entirely from my dear reviewer, ninjaxsketcheartx, who is awesome, so hearts. I will warn you now that it monkeys with the TDK timeline just a tad, so for the sake of this story, we're going to say that the Joker's interrogation took place the day after his arrest, instead of the night of. As always, thanks for reading
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight or any other peeps or things incorporated in DC comics. At least as far as I know. The owner could have died and willed everything to me. Although, I am Batman. I carry things on my belt. 'Cause I'm Batman. (Check out How It Should Have Ended: Superman, HISHE: The Dark Knight, HISHE: Spider-Man 3).
Bruce had Alfred watch the reporter for the rest of the day while he partook in several hours of direly needed sleep. The sun set was coloring the skyline a deep blood red when he awoke and returned to the temporary Batcave.
"What's he doing?" he asked, coming to stand behind Alfred.
"It seems your powers of dissuasion could use a little work, sire," said Alfred, indicating the center-most screen. On it, a short, narrow-shouldered man with straight blonde hair and a button nose sifted through dozens of newspapers and magazines, all, Bruce could see by the expensive, high resolution screen, pertaining to him.
Bruce frowned, noticing the vantage point of the camera. "I thought you only planted a bug on the TV."
"He was in the other room. I thought you'd appreciate another view, sir."
"I am. And you're right. I think he needs another chat."
Alfred nodded solemnly. "You can't have him tagging around while you're busy scourging the city."
"He could get hurt," said Bruce. "I think-" he broke off as a screen to the far right flickered to life, displaying the words: Major Crimes Unit James Gordon Cell.
Bruce tapped a few keys and audio came up: "-ing up his home phone, and his cell is disconnected."
Gordon's voice swore softly. "What does the Joker say?"
"Nothing, sir. Not a word. What do we do?"
A pause. "Just…hang on. I'm leaving now. Be there in ten."
By the time the line clicked, Bruce was already pulling on the Batman's armor, and striding toward the elevator.
"What about the reporter?" Alfred called as Batman's feet disappeared into the ceiling, but there was no reply. "Right," Alfred muttered. "How about indirect dissuasion." He sat down in the swivel chair and began typing.
oOo
Crest had spent the rest day digging through the Gotham Times archives, and accumulating an enormous pile of clippings and photographs concerning both Batman and Bruce Wayne. And one of the first things he's realized was that the Batman's first appearance happened the same week that Bruce Wayne returned from the dead. He remembered that week clearly, as it had been the same week that he had first met Philip. By the time Crest started heading home, the sky had darkened to a charcoal black shrouded in smog, the sidewalks lit only by the dim street lamps. His messenger bag was stuffed with the borrowed papers, and the strap scraped painfully against his neck. He quickened his pace, eager to get home and continue his work. As he rounded the corner of 53rd and 25th, his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out, and saw that he had a new text from a blocked number: Major Crimes interrogation room ASAP. Wear the uniform -B
Crest stared at the message, unable to believe his eyes. B. As in Batman. As in Bruce. Crest sprinted the last block home, yanked on the police uniform hanging in the closet, sprinted down into the garage, hopped onto the motorbike he hadn't used more than once since buying it, and raced to the MCU.
No one challenged him when he strode breathlessly into the viewing room at the back of the Major Crimes building. Their eyes were all fixed on the two way glass, watching the two men on the other side. One Crest recognized easily. Six feet tall (although the ears added another two inches), clad in black armor, masked and hulking, the Batman sat hunched in a tarnished metal chair, opposite a man Crest knew only by the mug shots in the newspapers. In person, the gruesome scars and the bright red face paint were even more alarming. He leaned forward intensely, smiling in a knowing way.
"…they'll eat each other." Now he shifted back in the chair, at ease. Crest felt his stomach clench an horrid anticipation. "I'm just ahead of the curve."
In a movement to quick to follow, Batman lunged forward, snatching the Joker up by the shirt and dragging him over the table. "Where's Dent?" growled, dangerously low, devoid of emotion.
"You have all these rules and you think they'll save you," said the Joker sympathetically, seemingly oblivious or uncaring of the fact that the guy holding him off the ground could smash in his skull without breaking a sweat.
The Batman slammed the Joker against the wall between the two viewing windows and Crest winced involuntarily. Several people looked nervously at Gordon, who stood to Crest's left, but he merely nodded and said, "He's in control."
"I have one rule," Batman snarled. His eyes were wide, a stark white against the black mask.
Still as lightly as though they were conversing over drinks, the Joker said, "Oh, well than that's the rule you'll have to break to know the truth."
"Which is?"
The Joker kept talking. Crest was staring so hard at Batman, he didn't even register what he was saying, until Batman flipped the smaller man over his shoulder onto the table so hard it shuddered. The Joker let out a wild hoot of laughter as carried a chair over to the door. Crest saw Gordon run out of the viewing room towards the door, but Batman had already wedged it shut with the chair. Gordon yanked at the door to no avail, and Batman had already stormed back over to the Joker.
Tauntingly, the Joker asked, "Does Harvey know about you and his little bunny?" Batman grabbed him by the hair and smashed his head into the window, sending spider web cracks through the glass. Crest took a step back. A small voice inside his head said, in Philip's voice, This is you if you cross him.
He'd seen enough. The Joker's high-pitched voice grated on his ears. He heard his recite an address, but didn't hear the numbers. He pushed his way blindly through the station, desperate to get out, to burn every scrap of information he'd amassed about the Batman. He was a coward and he knew it, but no story was worth getting killed. Not for a stupid outlaw vigilante. All the way home, Crest dodged around cars and around his own mind. A fierce argument was raging between his curiosity and his self-preservation instinct. He had to know for certain, to have solid proof. But if he found solid proof, odds were he'd be sent to the emergency room with no intact bones in his body. But he had to know! He'll bury you! said Philip's voice.
"Goddammit," Crest whispered allowed. BOOM! He pulled the bike to a stop, gaping at the immense ball of fire which illuminated the entire block to his right. Flaming debris rained on the rooftops and sidewalk, and ash began to fall like rain. Crest sped onward. The explosion had come from almost exactly where his apartment building was.
Giddy relief flooded through him when he saw that 53rd Apartments was still intact, but that the foreclosed building on 52nd and 25th had been reduced to smoke obscured rubble. The entire block was filled with police cars and blaring sirens. Crest past them as unobtrusively as he could and didn't relax until the garage door closed behind him.
It was all too much. He'd been out of his mind to think he could handle this. These people were insane. All of them. There was no story here, only a dead end and a dead reporter. He'd be better off going back to covering restaurants and gang violence.
The mere sight of the grainy photo of Batman at the top of the stack on his kitchen table made Crest's stomach clench with fear. He swept all the papers into a bag and carried them downstairs into the trashy courtyard behind the apartment complex, taking a lighter from his pocket and holding it to the corner of a paper with a trembling hand. And shutting off the flame. Goddammit, he couldn't do it. He couldn't just give up like this. He had to see this through to the end. It was a matter of principle now. He had to do this.
He leaned back, replacing the lighter in his pocket, and looked around a slight rustle. No. Could it be? He thought he'd seen the edge of a black cape whip out of sight. Leaving the papers where they sat, Crest followed the shadow.
Yes! Rounding the corner into the garbage nook, he saw the unmistakable black silhouette moving towards the garage. His garage. Crest neared silently, every muscle tense. Was Batman trying to get into his house? By the dim ambient light, he saw Batman reach up…and removed his cowl.
Throwing caution to the winds, Crest leapt at the man, flicking on his lighter, letting the fire cast a glow upon the face. And…
"Philip?"
Thanks for reading. All reviews appersheated, and apologies for the delayed posting.