CHAPTER 12 – AFTERMATH

The Joker and Harvey Dent finally brought the car to a halt just in front of the DA's office. The Joker threw his head back and laughed, slapping Dent on the back amiably.

"Thanks for saving me, Harv! But there's one problem. Now Batman knows you're back to your old criminal ways…"

"I'm not a criminal," hissed Dent, "You forced me too..."

"Do you think Batman's going to care about that?" laughed The Joker spitefully, "He sees you as a nut. He'll be glad to put you back in Arkham!"

Dent wanted to tell The Joker that he was wrong, that Batman would understand, that he hadn't just blown his last chance at salvation. But he couldn't say any of that, because it would be a lie. And as much as he wanted to reach over to the passenger's side and wrap his hands around that clown's throat and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze…he couldn't. He just slid back into the driver's seat, silently fuming, his anger twisting him up inside. The Joker got out the car, and then leant back in to continue talking to Dent.

"If I were you, I'd lay low for a while. Batman may know we're working together, but he has no evidence. Our plan may still work. I'll be in touch."

The Joker slammed the door shut, and walked the rest of the way back to his hideout - The Boon Dock Bar & Grill.

Once he got in, he turned on the new lights he'd had installed. Red grid lights along the ceiling. Very nice. The whole incident with Dent being exposed was...unfortunate. Dent's status as DA would be discredited, so framing Bruce Wayne would be more difficult. But as he had said, The Bat had no evidence. Their plan could still work.

The Joker sat down, giving a grimace of pain as his back cracked back into place after being thrown out by Batman earlier. For now, The Joker would continue with his plan. He had already decided on his next victim...

…

Back at the DA's office, Harvey Dent had let himself in. Nobody else was there, he was alone. He was slouched behind his desk, all the blinds drawn shut. His head was cradled in his hands.

What had he done? Now Batman knew he was a fraud, that he was working for The Joker. The fact that he was doing so against his will was irrelevant. It was only a matter of time before everything he had worked so hard to regain would be snatched away from him once and for all.

With a strangled roar of frustration, Dent swiped his arm across his desk, knocking everything to the floor. He sat there for a second, surveying the damage he'd caused. Then he quietly got up, walked round in front of his desk and picked everything up, sitting it all exactly as it had been before.

Within a few minutes, everything was back on the desk, except for one framed photograph, which Dent held in his hands. His new life may be ruined, but he didn't want to let go of the dream just yet. Sitting the photo back on the desk, Dent trudged out of his office, closing the door gently behind him.

…

Meanwhile, at the Batcave, Batman was also returning to his hideout. Loyal as ever, Alfred was there, waiting for him.

"Seeing that you're even more miserable than usual," he said, "Can I assume that you were not successful in catching The Joker?"

"Yes, Alfred, you can," snapped Bruce, pulling off his cowl, "I need you to look at this wound for me."

Batman sat down, and Alfred walked around behind him. Alfred let out a low "tut-tut" under his breath, the same way he did every time Bruce presented him without another night's worth of battle scars. It was the noise you'd expect him to make when faced with a scratch on a car-door. Bruce couldn't help but smile subtly to himself.

"Oh dear, Master Bruce," he said, pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, "I'm afraid this is going to need stitches."

"Just get it over with," answered Bruce.

Alfred nodded, taking out his medical kit. And the two men sat in silence as Alfred worked away. They had been through this ritual together so many times that they knew words were not unnecessary. Quite literally an unspoken agreement.

Bruce closed his eyes, blocking out the pain. Sitting like this, Alfred methodically stitching him up, reminded him of his childhood, when his father would look after him after he'd fallen and scraped his knee.

"Trust me, I'm a doctor," dad would say, giving Bruce a wink and a knowing smile.

And then he'd make it all better. Bruce had thought his dad was a miracle worker, that he could solve any problem. And that was one thing that made his parents' death hurt all the more. Alfred had tried, tried so hard, to be a substitute father to Bruce, to be the one who could fix things for him, the one who would always be there for him. But as much as Bruce loved Alfred, and thought of him as family, it wasn't the same. He remembered one painful conversation he'd had with Alfred as a child, shortly after the funeral.

"Dad was always there to make it all better," he'd cried, big fat tears rolling down his cheek, "But who's going to help me now?"

For as long as he lived, Bruce would never forget the pain on Alfred's face on that day.

"Master Bruce," he'd replied, "Some wounds never heal…"