After this chapter, we will be back to our normal updating schedule (i.e. weekends).
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, or any of the songs mentioned here.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Joker
I arrive at the hotel at midnight on the dot, and as soon as I step inside I know Batsy's just as…punctual.
"So, how'd the date go, Don Juan?" I ask, as Batsy appears from the shadows, right on cue. He's dressed to impress—50% Kevlar, 50% "Serious Business".
"None of your business."
Why did I expect anything different? Oh well. He's here. I'm here. We're here. That's all that matters.
"And here I thought you were pleased with your, ah, rendezvous…" I shrug off my coat and look sideways at him. "What happened—she ditch you?"
Batsy glares at me as I gently place my bag of goodies on the floor. "Not exactly. She had a bad cough, so I sent her home."
"Hmm." I crack my shoulders and neck and stretch my legs. "Sure you did. You just wanted to get here on time, didn't you?"
Batsy doesn't answer. I shrug and unzip the bag, taking out a thermos of hot chocolate liqueur that I prepared myself, two crystal glasses and a box of strawberries. I carry the stuff toward the nearby cushy lounge chair—which is really getting on in years—and sit down, patting the space beside me.
"How did you know I like strawberries?" Batsy asks, looking uneasy.
I grin. "I have my sources. Sit down. Sorry it's not exactly, ah, luxurious, but you'll live, right?"
Batsy's eyes flicker with what I think is mild amusement.
I pop open the thermos and pour the two of us some "hot chocolate", handing Batsy a glass. "Think you can handle a bit of, ah, alcohol in your blood? You've drunk champagne before, right?"
"I don't drink," Batsy says, but he sits down anyway and takes the cup.
"I thought so." I take out one of my knives and open the box of strawberries, beginning to slice them up. "There's really only a tiny bit of liqueur in there."
"Fine. I'll try your damn poison." Batsy takes a sip and rests the cup on his knees.
"Strawberry?" I ask, holding a juicy slice between my fingers.
Batsy nods and takes the slice from me—not ex-act-ly what I had in mind. We sit quietly, drinking and eating, getting used to each other. After awhile, the only thing left is the sweet tastes on our tongues. There's still plenty of "hot chocolate" left for later.
"Y'know, it's a good thing I always come prepared," I say, breaking the silence as I walk back over to the bag and drag it toward the lounge. "Looks like I was wrong about that radio—some punk stole it, I bet. Sooooo…"
I take out a small radio and rest it on the chair, turning it on. Lucky—"Stuck In The Middle With You" by Stealer's Wheel starts playing. Perfect.
"C'mon, let's dance!" I grab Batsy by the hand and pull him up, moving with the beat. Batsy looks very, very uncomfortable.
Of course, he is still in his Kevlar. Not exactly dancing attire. Oh well.
"No," he tells me, sitting back down.
I roll my eyes. "Oh, c'mon, Batsy. Everyone can dance. People just like to pretend there's a formula." I step back from him and move easily. "Just…close your eyes…and follow the beat."
"No." Batsy picks up the thermos and slowly shakes it. "If you're so keen on dancing, you do it."
"Okay, then!" I say cheerily, walking around the room, getting into the beat. "Y'know, Batsy, you really should relax more. Otherwise…that little wrinkle there between your eyebrows? Yeah. That's gonna be permanent if you're not careful. And we wouldn't want your made-for-gossip mug this wrinkly early in the game, right?"
"What do you care?" Batsy pours himself another glass of hot chocolate as I spin around, turning his face and the world around us into a long, gooey strip—like chewed up bubblegum.
"When you're stressed, you're not at your peak." I shrug and try my hand at the Moonwalk, making sure I don't, ah, bump into anything (i.e. my bag filled with very fragile objects) and don't pull a face-plant. "And when you're not at your peak, I'm not at my peak, because I'm too busy trying to figure out what put you off. See?"
Irene Cara's "What A Feeling" comes on, and I pick up the pace. I start really strutting my stuff, spinning on my heel and Moonwalking with quick, deliberate steps from wall to wall, my eyes on Batsy the whole time. He's watching me silently, taking "socialite sips" from his glass, one hand on the armrest, practically lifeless.
"When I hear the music…close my eyes, hear the rhythm…what a feeling!" I warble, squatting and then jumping up, arms outstretched.
"I'm sure," Batsy says dryly, a small smirk on his face.
"Hey, you're the party pooper," I retort, deciding "what the hell" and see how far back I can bend. Turns out I can only just touch the floor with my fingertips.
Shortly after "What A Feeling", "Makes Me Wonder" by Maroon 5 starts up. Another old muse, I guess you could say. I try and give it the, ah, proper justice: swinging my hips from side to side, brushing my hair out of my eyes with one hand, while the other hooks into one of my suspender straps.
Batsy is not amused. Not that I care right now. I grin and sway down to my knees, my eyes still on him. His hands are beginning to clench.
Cue "Disturbia"—the first lines probably fit Batsy's thoughts very well. I begin to unbutton my waistcoat from the top down, giggling as Batsy's fists grow white knuckled.
"Don't," he growls as I toss the waistcoat away.
"I was…hot," I say innocently, hips still swaying. "What, are you, ah, reminded of something?"
"No."
"Oooh," I purr, leaning in so that I'm a little closer than I was before.
Batsy's hackles go up. Lovely.
"Put on your break lights, you're in the city of wonder…ain't gonna play nice, you might just go under…" I sing along perfectly (of course), my hands on my knees, then on my hips, then on my stomach. "Better think twice, your train of thought will be altered…"
And the blue patterned shirt just has to go, much to Batsy's obvious, ah, discomfort. By the time the song is over, Batsy's still drinking his hot chocolate, with me happily "rocking out" to David Bowie's "Let's Dance"…shirtless.
Batsy remarks, his voice a little more, ah, subdued than it usually is, "…you're a good dancer."
"Thanks." I grin and click my heels together. "I think a long, long time ago, I wanted to be the new Fred Astaire."
"…what happened?"
I shrug and sit down, suddenly wanting to rest. "Good question."
We sit quietly through the lame radio ads, letting it become white noise—the same as the "normal" people. "Society" is just…static, really. But nobody seems to get that.
After a little while, the music comes back, and the world gets back into focus.
"Strawberry Swing" by Coldplay starts up, and suddenly a strange thumping noise adds to the beat.
I turn and look at Batsy. He's tapping his foot, his eyes glazed over. I want to reach over and snap my fingers in front of his nose, just to see what happens, but as soon as I move he turns and looks at me coldly.
"You like this one, hmm?" I ask, chuckling as Batsy stops tapping and takes another sip of his hot chocolate.
--
After having danced solo for an hour or two with little comment from Batsy (which I'm guessing is a compliment), it's getting late.
"Okay," I say, "It's oh-dark-thirty. Time for bats to go back to their belfry."
"…'kay," drawls Batsy.
I turn to look at him as I pull on my coat and see a strange…and very relaxed smile on his face.
His eyes are unfocused. His face is flushed. And if mine eyes do not, ah, deceive me, Beer (Liqueur?) Goggles are quite obvious. What makes this even better is that he's still in his Kevlar suit—complete with the mask.
Yes, Batman, alias The Dark Knight, Gotham's savior, is absolutely, drunk.
Batsy gets to his feet and wobbles, eyes rolling like marbles in his head, and I rush to his rescue and put an arm around his shoulder. Batsy looks at me shakily, as if trying to remember who I am. Then he nods, his eyes still going every which way.
"…hi," Batsy says, limply waving at me.
"Hey yourself, tiger." I grin and help him walk to the Tumbler, shivering as we're blasted by cold winter air. "Looks like I'll have to…escort you tonight."
"yeah," Batsy slurs, nodding as I fiddle with the little remote control on his belt, opening up the Tumbler and shoving him in. "yeah. you do that."
I fasten Batsy's seatbelt for him and try to figure out exactly how this damn thing works. Batsy tries to help ("the stick thing, gotta pull the stick thing!") but eventually it's me who figures out the general stuff like brakes and how to turn and how to blow things up, and off…we…go.
"wheeeeeee…" Batsy drones as I zip past corners and street lights, nearly hitting a few people on occasion. Ah, the Narrows. Such a lovely place to drive through.
"Wheeeeeee" is right. I'm surprised Batsy even let us have that rendezvous in here not so long ago. This car is…special. But then, Batsy is a rich playboy—maybe he even has spares.
…Which just begs the question: where exactly am I going to put the Tumbler? I mean, I have no idea where Batsy's Belfry is, or whatever he calls it, but I do know where his penthouse is. And it's not like I can just park it in the lot or something…would that mean Batman's visiting Bruce Wayne?
"Pssst…Batsy." I poke his head, making him turn slowly to look at me. "Where do you put the Tumbler in emergencies?"
Batsy stares at me for a few seconds before replying "…turn left."
I do, knowing that a drunk Batsy does not a reliable GPS make. Surprise, surprise—Batsy has his own underground network that connects from the Narrows. I should've known.
As we drive through the tunnel to Batsy's penthouse, bright lights flick on ahead of us, illuminating the white walls and floor, making sure that we don't somehow hit anything. He thought of everything.
But then, he is Batman…
After awhile, we come to a huge white room—obviously the makeshift parking space. I shut down everything and open the hatch, pulling Batsy out after me. He's still unsteady, so I slip my arm around his shoulder and shuffle over to what I think is a nearby elevator.
It is. Batsy really does think of everything.
As we pass various floors one by one, Batsy starts talking again. Really talking.
"hey…joker? …you're a coooooool guy…"
I can't help but giggle as Batsy's…sociable tone.
"…and yer one helluva dancer…"
"Thanks, Batsy. I'm glad I, ah, kept you entertained."
Once we get to the top floor, I have to drag Batsy out of the elevator. He's still babbling on without a care. I have to try and keep him quiet. Another rare event. My arm is still around his shoulder, and his is shakily trying to pat mine.
He's got one hell of a big penthouse. It'll be a miracle if I can even find his room. Sure, I found the ball rooms (plural), the bathrooms (plural again), the kitchen…and no bedroom. And Batsy isn't helping.
"…you have reeeeeeeally crazy eyes…" Batsy tells me.
"Oh, good. I shine them every morning. Where's your bedroom, Batsy?" I whisper, though I'm not quite sure why. I mean, it must be empty by now, right?
"…almost there…down the next hallway…go straight." Batsy's shoulder's shake, and I realize he's laughing. "straight, get it? straight!"
I giggle as we keep walking—maybe I'm a little…crazier than usual too. Batsy's shoulders keep shaking, and I can't help but con-gra-tu-late myself. After all, it was my drink that made him like this.
One more fragment of his shell…cracked.
When we reach the bedroom, I take of his mask and dump Batsy onto the bed, watching as he sinks easily into the mattress. He has a drunken smirk on his face as I stand over him, trying to figure out what the hell to do now.
I walk over to the other side of the bed and sit down, looking out the huge windows at Gotham City in all its early morning glory. I feel the bed shake a little, and hear Batsy roll over onto his side.
I need to get in touch with the boys before they start getting a little…crazy in my absence. I stand up, and hit speed dial on my cell phone. Batsy tries to sit, but just flops back down instead.
"…joker…?"
I grin, looking at Batsy's wide stare. "Yeah, Batsy?"
"…'f you weren't a—a scumbag? Maybe…"
"Hmm?" I look back toward the bed. "'Maybe' what, Batsy?"
My only answer is a soft, rumbling snore.
