Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight.
Chapter Four: Bruce
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm absolutely determined not to see him tonight.
My office at Wayne Enterprises seems comforting as I sit here, doodling on my paperwork, the buzz of my employees muffled from behind the doors. The lights are comforting, dimmer than usual. I'll take my leave at 1:30 this afternoon. I told Mr. Fox to carry on while I was out—"I haven't been feeling well".
I wasn't lying.
I'm tenser than I've ever been before. I keep waiting for explosions, gunshots, some damned maniacal laughter to come bursting through the doors.
That was why, despite Joker's "handiwork" (the bruises—Alfred did his best) I'm at work today. I just can't—
Rrrrrring.
I nearly jump as my black phone starts to ring. I put the intercom on, ask the secretary at the front desk who it is.
"It's someone named Joanna Dawes, but I'm not sure if it's a him or a her. Shall I put 'it' through?"
Rrrrring, the phone mocks. I glare at it.
"Yes." I very nearly growl out the word, and I'm relieved when the secretary hangs up. I switch the call to my private line.
Rrrrrri—
I quickly grab the phone and hit the call button. "Hello?"
"Pickuppickuppickup—OH! Brucie-baby, how're ya?" Joker's eerie giggle and fake girlish tone sets me on edge again, makes the connection crackle.
"Why the hell are you calling me?" I clench my free hand into a fist.
"Why not?" Joker asks sweetly. I can hear him fidgeting on the other end. "Tell me…do you…always work this much? Or are you, ah, just…bein' a coward?"
"Batman isn't a coward." I let my anger loose in the form of a familiar growl that I always take on when I'm Gotham's Dark Knight.
Joker giggles again. "So…what does that make Bruce Wayne, then?"
I close my eyes and try to think, to keep control, but it's always difficult when it's him.
"Whatcha wearing right now, if I may be so bold?" He has suddenly shifted perspective again, and I attempt to change accordingly.
"A suit. A business suit. Why?"
"What color is it?"
"Black."
I can hear Joker trying to hold in his laughter. "You never change, do you?"
"I have a date at 1:30," I tell him, and begin to hang up.
"No you don't."
I feel a bead of sweat roll down the back of my neck. "What do you mean?"
"I have your little, ah, black book here. You just love this color, don't you? Oh, I can see right here that you, Mr. Playboy, don't have anything goin' on after work today."
I look through my pockets, my briefcase. He's serious. It's not there.
Damn.
"How did you—"
Joker's laughter is loud and far-too-clear this time. "Now, that'd ruin the game, wouldn't it?"
"I don't have time for games, you sick bastard." I open my desk drawer and reach for my Batarangs—just in case he's closer than I think he is.
"Oh, c'mon, Batsy, don't pretend that you n' me…that we don't do things every other night. That you're more than happy to play games when it, ah, suits you."
"Where are you," I ask, putting as much venom into my voice as I can.
"Awww, are you worried about me?"
"No. Now, where are you."
"Fine, fine. I'm…hmm…about a block away from your shiny company. I'm coming to visit you, see?"
"No. No, no, no. Don't come anywhere near—"
"But what about your book?" He sounds almost forlorn.
"I'll buy a new one. And I'll fill it in from memory."
"Ah."
Silence.
Then… "So…who's this Alfred guy?"
Unfortunately, that settles things.
"What're you waiting for?" I snarl.
His laughter hurts my ears as he hangs up.
--
It disgusts me how Gotham's soul is decided every other night by our "affair".
Joker creates some kind of havoc one night, and I go out to combat him, as I always do. We fight, I win (he goes easy on me, I know he does) and we both go home to clean our wounds. It's an established "dance", as he calls it, a twisted tango we've both learned the steps to, through practice alone.
The next night, we meet in a hotel—the same hotel every time, because usually we can't stand to not be on time, either of us. If I'm late, he takes it out on me. If he's late, I simply don't come.
But he's never late. Ever.
Once we meet, the "games" begin. We have sex—painful, strange sex that makes my mind hurt more than my body. There is no established order, really—whoever grabs the other first prevails. There are no emotions attached, save for need. Once we get what we want, we go home to clean our wounds. Again.
I hate him. He knows this—perhaps he even revels in it, revels as I use him for my own brief, bitter satisfaction. Revels as he slams me against the walls of that hotel, whispering terrible things as I do as he pleases, hating myself but also accepting the situation.
Sometimes he'll talk about Rachel. About how—just for a moment, at the party—he wanted to see her in the throes of mindless want, soft curves against his hands, all his. The feeling of her hair, silky and loose and wavy in his hands, able to be toyed with and stroked and tugged.
About that time I start to either pretend he isn't saying anything, or punch his smirking face.
Other times, he'll ramble about Harvey. About how he would've liked to have taken Harvey's innocent, naïve body and taught him the other lessons he had wanted to teach him.
"Chaos, you see, has all sorts of…nuances," Joker has informed me, his eyes hazy with thought. "Harvey didn't know half of it."
And then he'll come back to the present, smirk and say "Well, Batsy, you're much more fun than they would be."
It's times like those that I want to kill him.
But, of course, I can't. I'd like to say that it's because of my One Rule, but in reality it's far, far different. In reality, I need the loss and gain of control Joker freely gives me. I hate to admit it, but I doubt any other person would be so able to give me what I want.
It's the only way to save me from myself.
