Disclaimer: Batman © DC comics
A/N: To lessen format confusion, Batman speaking inside Bruce's head is now written in bold. Tried to blend in some dark humour, and a dead body to make up for said humour.
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The Heart
Part 04 —
love and a shrink(ing) room
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"Things only feel true
when someone's abusing you
You are sometimes startled you are never surprised
There are only two speeds: fast and faster
now you're lashed to mast and lashed to master
Whether you're in bed or in court, everybody gets off
So she smokes to keep from eating
and you fuck her to keep from feeling
and this is a taste, and this is a waste
and these are all of your days sacrificed"
The Golden Palominos — Ride
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(The black beast spreads its mighty wings and shrieks. It claws on the satchel of human skin that contains it, demanding to be let out and to serve a swift and blood speckled justice. It acts like a mad dog, foaming at the mouth, bloated with disease. You know what happens to mad dogs, don't you? They are put—)
Bruce recoils and pushes Batman
(—down.)
The echo booms inside him.
"...Hey, you alright? Again, I'm real sorry."
Bruce takes a deep breath, rises to his full height, and turns to whoever's standing in front of him. Batman stirs, but stays quiet. Someone who has experienced firsthand the cruelty the Joker is capable of will not forget. He is the only one who has the slightest understanding of this individual.
Batman knows the Joker like a lover.
The contour of his gaunt, bleak face. The smile, thin lipped and inhumanly wide, frozen, with crinkles at the side. The widow's peak. Pupils small like grains, eyes the colour of spew. Even without a face Batman recognize him, sees the ways he move, recognizes his speaking patterns.
Bruce knows the Joker like a ghost.
His hair is bleached blonde, the grainy after growth barely visible. It hasn't been cut in a while, curling at the tips. He's very gaunt. His complexion is still pale, sickly so, but he seems more like a recluse afraid of sunlight than an unstable psychopath. A pair glasses hang on his shirt pocket. He wears the uniform of the place, complete with a green apron and old jeans. Bruce thinks of a butcher—and if he squinted, those spots of mud could easily be blood.
This analysis of his appearance is done in under 2.5 seconds. He uses another half to plan a strategy.
"You said something about an apartment," Bruce says carefully.
"Yeah. I rent a place upstairs." The man rubs the back of his head. "Uh, let's... I mean, come with me please."
The walls barely allow the broad shouldered Bruce to walk through. He has to walk in sideways to not hit shelves of pots and water jugs. There are scratch marks all over the wallpaper, revealing a pastel, floral one from the fifties. As they walk through the mace of creaking stairs and small halls, the other—as Bruce has oh so creatively called the not-Joker—attempts at conversation.
"It's a two street building. It's like a long, brick rectangle, with Darling Buds at one end and some granny food joint at the other. That's why the place smells like a cocktail of potato skin and meat soup. Her food corrodes into the house."
"I see," Bruce says, attempting iron out any tension his voice might hold.
"I'm... Jack, by the way. Jack Napier."
"I'm Bruce."
"Hello Bruce," Jack says, and laughs subdued and low, slightly awkward. "Sorry. I talk too much. Anyway, here's the apartment." The number on the door is 32. He fumbles with the key chain, which only contains two others.
The apartment isn't big. He walks right into a combined kitchen and living room, surprisingly sterile in comparison to Jack (who is clean, but still—there is something filthy about him). Baby pink linoleum. Baby blue furniture. No visible television, or computer. A big window, revealing the streets bellow. Hail whips against it. Except the entrance, there are three doors. One has a small figure of a peeing boy on it, marking it as the toilet. The second must lead to the bedroom. What about the third? Unused?
Bruce feels odd, as if he's been let down. As if he'd expected something more.
"Um, I'll just get a tee for you or something. Don't think I have anything else that's your size."
The shirt is in L and it says FREE THE ELEPHANTS on it. Jack explains he got it in the mail together from an animal activist group after he'd donated 120$ to them.
"Why did you do that?"
Jack shrugs. "Felt like it, I guess. I don't have many hobbies. I get books cheap from the second hand shop next door, and I'm allowed to do some minor gardening on my job as well. Rest of the money just sorta heaps up."
Bruce prefers to change in the bathroom, which is just as pink as the rest of the apartment. He contemplates Jack Napier. While Bruce thinks the man is alright—if not a little odd and antisocial—Batman continues to scream in his black hole belly. He will not let it go.
(It is him,Batman says, I can smell him, feel him, taste him. Hurry hurry!)
Bruce walks out. "Hey, thanks for the shirt, I guess."
"No problem. You want coffee or something? I don't have guests very often."
"I—" He remembers his date. Although there's four hours until their date, he'll need to make arrangements to please her. And he'll need to research this Jack Napier further. "I'd liked to, really. But I have a date."
"Yeah, well, you're very pretty, so I guess you're popular too." It is a strange choice of words, but there is no malice on Jack's face. "I guess this is goodbye, huh?"
Bruce thinks fast. "I'll need to return the shirt to you. And I think you're better at removing stains than me, so if you wouldn't mind...?"
"'Course not!"
"Great. I'll see you around. Here's my number." Bruce lays his card down at the table. "We could have coffee then, eh?"
Jack nods, almost too enthusiastic. "Sure! I'll just... call you when I've washed it, yeah?"
Bruce gives one last wave. Batman is eerily silent.
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White, round pearls.
The Waynes had died that night, shot by a mugger in a back alley. Little Bruce Wayne had withered, sitting in a pool of rain and blood and pearls. The Bat had been born; an idea that consumed him. This tale is an old one.
"Brucie? Bruce!" Alana—a model, 5'9, blonde—snaps her fingers in front of Bruce's face. They are at a party, sitting near a window. "I asked, what do you think of my necklace?"
"It's gorgeous, Alana." Bruce wears a brittle smile. "Like you."
"Christ. You're not really paying attention to me, are you? What is so interesting that you have to space out?"
"I'm thinking about my parents."
(That is a lie, Bruce. We both know who you were really thinking about, don't we? Beneath it?)
Hearing her is hard because of the loud music and constant chatting around them, but hearing Batman, oh, that is easy. More personal. Closer.
"Oh... I'm sorry, Bruce. I just feel... unimportant, I guess. Not prioritized. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. Just honest." Little pieces of herself slips through the stone façade. Alana runs a hand through her golden locks, then shots another glass of rye whiskey. "I haven't seen you lately. Been weeks. It seems like you're not enjoying yourself when you're with me."
"I've had a lot on my mind." The ox steak is too sinewy and the music too loud for Bruce's liking.
Alana bites her lip. It smears her lipstick. She fishes up a new one from her purse. Booze and sadness makes her hand tremble, making another smear of… blood.
Bruce sharply turns away, "I told you I don't like it when you wear red lipstick."
"You're… you're not listenin' to me. Not looking, not really. Can't reach you! You're some place far away."
"I'm right here," Bruce says quietly.
She shakes her head.
They finish their meals without another word.
She thinks of broken relationships, and he thinks of Jack Napier. She'll dream of a prince in silver armour, and he'll dream of the Joker.
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It's one of those dreams where you know you're dreaming:
The Joker is on the far left, head dangling like a doll's. His lips are ripped off, revealing lots and lots of rotten yellow teeth, so many that he struggles keeping them in. The teeth fall out from a never ending supply. He's laughing hysterically while shoving them back in.
Batman is on the far right. He's also transformed. Claws have ruptured through his gloves and boots, cape sewn into his arms like wings, armour torn and tattered. He's open mouthed, shrieking, batting his hideous wings.
Bruce stands a distance from both. He watches the grotesque performance with mild interest, more interested in the storm behind them. Their struggle is something that doesn't concern him. There is mud under his feet, and he's sinking. He doesn't care. He's very lonely.
Then, out of nowhere, grabs his neck and helps him up. Bruce freezes, not daring to turn his head. When he does, he sees a lanky man, smiling awkwardly at him.
And Bruce?
Bruce feels a cracking kinship.
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This is their last date. Bruce can feel it. It is a new place; fancier, more exclusive. Perfect for a breakup. The tabloids will slurp it up, tonguing the sore for details.
Alana is a smart one. Has to be. Gotham's model industry is corrupted with drugs, prostitution, eating disorders and shady porn agencies. If you work with the wrong guy, you're bones. And only dogs want bones. Still, she is like many women of this city, slim and busy, bearing a slimmer hope that there is place in some man's life for them. Therefore, just like he calculated, she initiates the breakup.
"There's someone else, isn't there?"
Bruce inhales sharply. That was not what he expected. "What?"
"I said, there's someone else, isn't there? In your life. Like, another woman. Don't lie. I've known for a while." Alana tucks a loose hair strand behind her ear. With the other hand, she clasps his. "Hey, it's okay, I didn't think it'd work out anyway. Sorry. Found someone myself." She waits for him to say something; to reject her, stand up, scream obscenities at her. But she knows he won't. In truth, there is no one else. She just needs to know. Hope is a terrible fucking thing.
"…I see. I'm happy for you. I hope he'll treat you better than I did."
If someone asks about Bruce Wayne, she will tell them the relationship was a one night stand that lasted for three months. Bruce will pretend he doesn't remember her, but he does—she is just one of many who have suffered despair because of him, indirectly or directly. Necessary despair.
"I see," she echoes sarcastically. "That's all? You see? I don't think you see, you don't see me, you're busy fucking—" Then realization dawns on her, and she lets out a pathetic little sob, abruptly standing up. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I… I need to go. Bye Bruce. Say hello to your friend from me." Alana staggers out, leaving him alone in the restaurant. Poor girl. She really did like him. She thinks Bruce is in love.
The food hasn't even come yet, and there are three dishes. Salmon Carpaccio, medium rare steak, and blueberry thinks about the strange dream. He gets his phone. Types a number. The transmission has a duration on three brrrs before it is answered. "H—hello? Bruce?" Jack stammers.
"Yeah, it's me. I was wondering about that shirt of mine."
"I, uh, am sorry. Really. It's finished cleaned. Should've called. 'Fraid you'd forgotten."
"If you want, you could deliver it tonight."
"W—what?" Jack sounds horrified. "Like, at your place?"
"No. I'm at a restaurant right now. My date stood me up."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Never mind that. Wanted to know if you'd like to come instead."
"Me?" Jack remains stunned, before exclaiming, "But I have nothing to wear!"
"People here are too drunk to notice, even if you come in costume."
(—dripping makeup clown grin scarred red diseased pastry flesh blood splattered purple suit—)
"Won't do that! I have a shirt and a nice pair of pants, I think."
"I'll call a cab to come get you in twenty minutes. Again, don't worry about appearance."
"Thanks. Guess I'll see you soon."
"See you." Bruce hangs up. He does not entirely know what prompted him to call the Joker (no, his name is Jack, Jack Napier), but even Batman doesn't scorn him for that one. He dials the number to a taxi company, ordering and paying on behalf of Jack. Once that is done, he gestures to a waitress and curtly tells them of the change of plan. "…She had a headache or something. I don't know."
"I'm sorry."
They all are, these days.
"It's fine. I got someone else coming over." The mild sympathy she had for him dies. "So I'll postpone the dinner to… half an hour later, okay?"
First at the sight of a 100$ bill—waved impassively between two fingers before snatched up (so fast it's near instinctive)—she becomes agreeable, smile wide and fish lipped. Two greasy worms, curling. "No problem Mr. Wayne! I'll alert the cooks."
Bruce leans back in the shadows, and Batman takes over for a minute. He analyzes the area. Not the best place for an interrogation, but it'll do. Frosted glass. The door less entrance does not dim noise, but music outside might. An interrogation must not be disturbed. Small room, table for two; might increase a feeling of claustrophobia.
(Let him squirm.)
And Jack does, looking surprisingly human a shirt and pants. The whiteness of his shirt does nothing to lessen his paleness. He nearly trips on a bundle in the red carpet, dropping the plastic bag that contains Bruce's shirt. The driver walks him to the door, professionally nonchalant. After that, the guy is completely lost.
The restaurant isn't big, but it's very crowded, just not only by people. Nature is the latest fad. This results in wooden furniture and plants and actual trees curling in every open space there is. The waiters and waitresses move like they're boneless, avoiding the sticks that protrudes from the oddest of places. They're even dressed in earth colours and a lot of people have glasses (very natural and in some cases very ugly, reminding the customers of their own beauty), reminding Bruce of art teachers. Ironic, because everything that touches Gotham decays. Even the fake plants have ants.
A waiter finally takes it upon himself to help Jack, asking him who's he's meeting and guiding him to Bruce's little palace chamber on the far right. It is deliciously devoid of anything "natural". Simple.
The waiter says, "This man says he knows you." The disbelief is so clear one of Jack's eyes starts twitching. There's sweat under his shirt arms.
"He knows me."
Jack sits down, and awkwardly hands Bruce the plastic bag.
"Uh. Hi."
"Hello, Jack."
"Never been to a place like this before. Thanks for inviting me, I guess."
The first course is served right after that. Those serving have the decency to not stare at Jack like he's a stain under their boot. Bruce will tip them extra for that. They present the dish and accompanying drink; a bunch of fancy names of a big plate with tiny pieces on it and far more drink. Bruce isn't listening.
Jack drowns his glass of beer. "No spots."
"What?"
"Managed to get all the dirt water outa' your shirt. It was a nice shirt. Real expensive." He talks very fast. Not used to alcohol? "Saw your name in a magazine. You're famous! I don't have internet, or television. Or alcohol, for that matter. My," a pause for a hiccup, "doctors say I'm not supposed to."
"...Doctors?" Batman shifts.
Jack blanches. "Shit shit shit. Not supposed to talk about that. Nope, lips are zi—pped."
"Oh. Sorry for intruding."
"No, didn't mean it like that... Just aren't supposed to talk about it." Jack closes his eyes for a moment. "I checked into a mental institution a couple of years ago because of stress related issues which were solved after a brief stay." That sentence is practised. Read out of a book.
The second dish is brought in. One waitress stares at Jack, frowning. It's the first one, the one that gladly accepted the 100$ bill. Wine is set at the table.
"You should try it."
"What?"
"The wine."
Bruce isn't there right now. Batman is leant back and scowling. The shadow from the chandelier forms a mask on his face.
Jack drinks it. His face contorts. The wine is strong, and he coughs a bit, excusing himself. But before he's even sat the glass down, Batman is pouring it while at the same time asking, "More wine?"
"Uh, thanks."
By the time he's finished, Jack is swaying.
"Are you on drugs?" Batman asks.
"'M not 'posed to tell you."
Batman grabs Jack's hand, and Bruce reminds him to be gentle. They never fight as much as when it comes to this person. "It's alright. We're friends. Friends worry about each other."
"Friend?" Jack gapes at him. "Never had that... Doctors said I didn't deserve—"
"I don't care what the doctors said, I care about you." The words come too easy to be lies. When did Batman ever wonder about the good doctors at Arkham? "Do you use drugs?"
"Yeah."
"What kind?"
"I dunno. Meds that keep me calm. Sedated. Pills."
"You should have told me. It's not good to mix medicine with alcohol."
"You're right," Jack says, twirling his thumbs. "Friends trust each other. You're my friend. I should've told you. Sorry. I'm really, really sorry."
"Don't... Don't worry, okay? I shouldn't have forced you."
"No, it's alright. Just... Just bad at this, I guess. This friend thing is new to me."
For the first time, the silence isn't an uncomfortable one.
Bruce lets his gaze drifts. He feels whole, or secure, somehow, like the moments when a supervillain is in the Tumbler and not running berserk on the streets. The Joker is secured, and by Batman alone. He's accustomed to time bombs. He prefers the time when they tick to the aftermath of the explosion or explosion itself. He knows he has a long time to go with Jack Napier, but it is in these moments he exhales.
"Bruce?"
He straightens. "Yeah?"
"...It's nothing."
Bruce is about to inquire further when he sees something over Jack's shoulder. The sourpuss waitress is talking on a phone, smirking right at them. She slams the phone down, triumphant. The restaurant is wired. Bruce's phone beeps a moment later. Alfred listens to every word that escapes the room. A message from him appears instantly.
Waitress been making phone calls to many popular paparazzi journalists; too many to be paid off. You need to leave. Good luck. You'll need it.
"Thanks, Alfred," he mutters under his breath, standing up. Jack does too, a tremor moving through his thin body. "We need to leave. The paparazzi have found us. They'll make up a story that I cheated on Alana with you, and her fans will tear you to shreds."
"Fuck," Jack says.
"Correct," Bruce replies mildly. "Let's go. And no, don't tip the waitresses. Jack no."
They hurry through the artificial jungle. Bruce's hand is tight on Jack's wrist, managing to acrobatically avoid drunkards and trees. If he's correct, he already hears cars backing up outside the restaurant. He storms into the kitchen, knowing of a secret backdoor. He never chooses restaurants without knowing everything about them.
"Wait! You can't—"
Too late. The door shuts after them.
It's a long, chill hall, functioning as a freezer for two restaurants at once. Most of the workers there just frown at them and go about their business (they're not paid enough to interfere with billionaire playboy business), but a morbidly obese hairy chef blocks their path. "What you kids doin' here?" he gruffly demands, crossing his arms.
"Please," Jack begs, "We don't want any trouble."
"Fuck you."
Behind him, Jack shifts.
Batman and Bruce are not two different people—they're different ideas.
Right now, the idea is to get past.
"Move," he breathes. "Move."
The chef has the look of a soldier trying to demonstrate courage while at the same time looking like he's going to piss himself. But then he moves, tail between his legs, staring at the floor in shame.
Bruce is about to walk, but Jack stirs against him. He turns. And is face to face with the Joker.
For a brief moment, Jack has a lean and hungry look—the look of a killer. A glimpse of madness, directed at the chef. And then it's gone. Jack promptly pukes on the floor, to the cooks' disgust.
"Let's go," Bruce says, quieter. They walk hand in hand through the freezing hell.
In the backyard, a car on autopilot is waiting on them.
They get in, and Jack is sweating and coughing in the leather seats, looking ill and miserable. The car is fancier on the inside than outside, meant to be so to avoid paparazzi. "I'll take you home, ok?" Bruce says gently.
Jack doesn't reply.
They swing out to the front road, and take a lesser known road.
"Look Jack, about—"
A corpse halts Bruce's apology.
It lands rather perfectly on the car's roofs, making several bulks, before it rolls down the front window. All Bruce sees is a hacked up face before it rolls further, smearing blood all over the glass. Bruce's foot presses at the brake. The car swings from side to side, crashing into other cars. Everything becomes wrong. Bruce isn't quite sure what's happening, because in one moment his face hits the steering wheel and in the next he's ripping open the door and crawling into the streets. There's smoke around him. Broken cars parts. A dead body, too. The world is spinning.
The paparazzi arrive before the police.
And in the next second, he's overwhelmed. Microphones come out of the mists and into his face, a thousand faces screaming at him in curious, malevolent unison. Wanton, wanton, wanton.
"Mr. Wayne do you think this is a message directed at you—"
"Mr. Wayne where is the person you dumped Alana Star for—"
"Mr. Wayne what do you feel right now—"
He wants to say please, and please stop, and he wants to find Jack, but they're pressing him up into a corner and he opens the door to the car again and
Jack is gone.
Bruce passes out, and people are busier taking photos of him than helping him up.