Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight.
Chapter Eighteen: Bruce
Tonight's patrol is a little less difficult than it usually is.
So far, I've caught two would-be robbers, asked Gordon about any new leads (there were none), and kept an eye out for Joker's goons. And so far, nothing.
I feel the urge to move, to act—I've felt this way since my "lunch date" with Joker. We've never met in broad daylight before, and the conversations we had have been weighing on me. From the "superficial mold" argument to the "serious stare", every gesture, every word, has stuck to me like glue.
Just when I think that maybe finally—finally—Batman might have a night off, two of Carmine Falcone's men come tearing out of the home of a socialite, guns still drawn, and hop into a chromed car. I'm after them as soon as they rev the engine.
The Tumbler roars down the highway after them, only a few feet behind. They try to pick up speed, but I'm already catching up. Just like I always do.
We turn corners and swerve through lanes, go through the lower levels and disrupt the slow stream of drivers down there, and finally the car screeches to a halt. I leap out of the Tumbler, next to the car.
"You never learn, do you?" I wait for the backlash.
Sure enough, one of the men leaps at me, but with a blow to the neck he's finished. The other man tries using a gun, but of course that doesn't do anything either.
Soon I have two more men handcuffed to a streetlight, my job over for the moment.
Someone is clapping loudly out of my sight. I turn around and there's Joker, of course, crossing the street, still clapping and ambling along without a care in the world. The streetlights illuminate him in a strange mixture of yellow and orange, turning him into a pop art painting.
"Well, Batsy, you've still got it!" Joker crows, meeting me at the sidewalk. I have to admit I'm relieved he has his "war paint" back on. "I thought you were, ah, going soft on me. Glad to see that's not to case!"
"What do you want now?" I growl, stomping back toward the Tumbler.
"Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to see you in action." Joker walks in step with me, hands in his coat pockets and his shoes scuffing the pavement. "Since, y'know, normally I'm not an…outside observer. I like seeing what you can do."
I know there's another reason for him being here. His double entendres are almost subtle tonight.
"Which reminds me…"
His favorite knife appears with a flick, ready to go.
Automatically I move backward, guarding my face with my gauntlets as Joker rushes me, his knife scraping against the Kevlar and sometimes even breaking through the ridges in the plates. I feel the familiar sparks of pain—I'm bleeding, but the wounds aren't too deep. Luck, I suppose.
I slam into a nearby street lamp and then he's on me, that knife inches away from my exposed mouth.
He still smells like bubble gum and cherries. The scent is almost cloying.
"We haven't done this in…quite a while. Miss it? Hm?" Joker grins and licks his lips. "I'll bet you do."
"Get off me," I growl, pushing him back.
"You really should choose your words better." Joker looks at the knife and spots the small droplets of blood tarnishing the blade. Running his pink tongue along the blade, the blood vanishes into his dark cave of a mouth. "Mmm…I think you're my, ah, favorite flavor, Batsy. Salt n' vinegar."
"Vampirism suits you."
Joker's expression is nothing short of offended. "Batman—Chiropetra—"
Sometimes I'm grateful for Joker's long-windedness—it's given me the time I need. I lunge for him, grabbing him by the collar. He just smiles and slips the knife deftly into his coat pocket.
I roll my eyes and slam him into the Tumbler. "If you want to fight—"
"Want to? We just did!" Joker's eyebrows rise mockingly. "Uh-oh, some-bodies in-sat-iable…" he chants, head bobbing from side to side. "A true-blue society batty-brat, aren't you Bru—"
"Get in the Tumbler. Now."
Joker hops in and bounces up and down gleefully as I enter on the opposite side, shutting the lid and revving up the engine. We roar off to the remnants of the Narrows.
There is a moment of awkward, tense silence.
"Y'know…" Joker licks his lips again, and I find my composure slip slightly. "Before we started our little, ah, power struggle, your dating life was fairly consistent—or as consistent as a guy like you can be. One to six girls at a time, at parties, movies, charity galas…you've probably been with every girl in Gotham once. But now…now you're often seen alone." He gives me a look. "Have you been, ah, squeezing your squeezes?"
I shake my head, clutching the steering wheel.
"Oh. Too bad. It'd make for a fun hour or two. We could tag-team."
"You're sick."
"Call me what you want, I'm loving it." Joker looks out the window, watching the streetlights go rushing by. "Hey…does this place look, ah, familiar to you?"
"Not really," I lie, stopping the Tumbler under the shadow of two music label companies.
"Liar, liar!" Joker chants in a sing-song tone, leaning easily into my personal space. "This is the place where I knew."
"Knew what?" That sweet scent is distracting.
Joker's disturbed expression would almost be comical if not for the fact that it's clearly fake. "What, you don't remember the interrogation? Bad, bad Batsy!"
"I remember," I say, feeling my voice grow constricted as we instinctively move closer. "All too well."
"You…complete…me…" whispers the bitter memory.
"Then tell me what you remember," Joker whispers, "about this place."
Apparently this is his idea of foreplay. Cut me one moment, pretend to be sentimental the next.
"You were going after Harvey in that truck. I was going after you."
"How did you feel?"
I pause and watch Joker's long, slender fingers absently remove his tie. "Angry. At you, for the most part, but at Harvey too."
"Because we weren't playing by your, ah, precious rules?" The long fingers toy with my cape, then my shoulder armor.
