Since I'm not too sure about next weekend's schedule, this may be the last chapter for a week or so.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Bruce
…Ow.
The sun hurts my eyes as I slowly sit up, a pounding headache combined with my alarm clock serving as my wakeup call. I can hear Alfred making breakfast, but even the smell of crisped-to-perfection bacon and eggs is too much.
I bolt for the bathroom, bending over the toilet, my whole body shaking. Is this what hangovers are like? If so, then alcoholics are even more a mystery to me.
I stagger back to the bedroom and collapse face-first onto the bed, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep.
"Good morning, Master Bruce."
Never mind.
I raise my head and see Alfred standing at the door, breakfast tray in hand. He looks faintly disdainful. "I can imagine the bed will be grateful for your absence, sir."
I look down and realize that I'm still partly in the Batsuit—the shoulder pads are still in place, as are the gauntlets, and most of the leg pieces are still intact—but the rest have been placed on the floor in neat rows. If anything else is off about my appearance, my head hurts too much to care.
I feel my vision blur. "Sorry, Alfred, but I'm not really in the mood for breakfast."
Alfred looks at me shrewdly, and suddenly I'm reminded of my childhood, when Rachel and I constantly tried to ransack the kitchen for sweets. My shoulders actually start to hunch reflexively.
"…I can smell the liqueur on your breath from here, sir," Alfred says coldly, pulling up a chair and sitting beside me. "It looks like your night was a little more extravagant than is usual."
"You'd better believe it, Watson," an all-too-familiar voice replies, as one long tanned arm reaches over and tries to grab at my blueberry muffins. "Hey, breakfast in bed. Haven't, ah, been pampered like this in awhile."
I very nearly let out an undignified shout as I jerk back, head pressed against the window. Alfred looks slightly ruffled as well—both of his eyebrows are raised, and his posture is frozen. Joker giggles to himself and takes a muffin, chewing away. He isn't wearing a shirt, but he is wearing briefs, if the cotton brushing against my leg is anything to go by.
"I would advise you to get out of Master Bruce's bed, sir," Alfred says, his tone like ice. "We do not tolerate men like you here."
"Ohhh, I, ah, beg your pardon, sir." Joker smirks and continues to eat. "Hate to break it to you, but 'Master Bruce' here tolerates me very well. By the way"—he waves the muffin around, littering crumbs on the expensive sheets—"my com-pli-ments to the chef."
"You're not supposed to be here," I growl, feeling my headache grow. "…What are you doing here, anyway?"
I can vaguely remember watching Joker dance with burlesque grace in front of me, a glimpse of green hair in the glow of city lights, but not much else.
"I brought you home after you drank yourself stupid." Joker shrugs and reaches for the second muffin, but I smack his hand away. He pouts. "And then, since we'd been having a pretty good streak of luck, I figured I'd just…relax."
I look down at the pile of Kevlar, then at the remains of the Batsuit I'm still wearing. "What happened to this, then?"
A flash of glittering brown eyes and blood red lips curled back into a yellow grin flash through my mind.
Alfred clears his throat. "I believe I know the answer to that, sir."
That's when I see the white greasepaint marks and red splotches on my arms and my sides.
"You filthy little—" I start, grabbing Joker by the shoulder and digging in. "How dare you take advantage of me in my own home!"
Joker's expression is one of bored amusement. "You're the detective, Batsy, you figure out if I 'took advantage of you'. And besides…" His voice morphs into a purr. "…you know the signs of my, ah, markings by now. And those aren't them."
I sigh and close my eyes. "Now isn't the time, Joker."
"Hey, you asked."
"Such vulgar information was not required, sir." Alfred's as unflappable as ever.
Joker rolls his eyes. "God, you people are impossible! What is this, the Inquisition? Poor Batsy isn't up to it, Albert."
"It's Alfred."
"Okay, Alger!"
I can feel my headache mounting. "Look, you two—"
"Master Bruce requests you leave, sir. I'd suggest you do as he says."
Joker grins and rubs shoulders with me. "Do you really want me to leave, Batsy?"
Alfred's eyebrows rise again, and I can see a hint of amusement in his eyes. "A charming nickname, Master Bruce…"
I groan and rub my temples. "Never mind, Alfred. It doesn't matter. Right now, I just need a hangover cure."
"Orange juice," Joker and Alfred reply simultaneously. They both look scornfully at each other as Alfred hands me the glass of juice already on the breakfast tray.
"Thank you," I say, taking a sip. I make sure not to directly state who I'm thanking—if looks could kill…
"Hey, Batsy. If you're, ah, not starving or something, mind if I eat a bit more?" Joker asks, still acting friendly with me. "I'll be nice and…share, too, if that's what you'd like."
"I'm fine."
"Shall I get the bath ready, sir?" Alfred asks, eager for direction.
"Sure. I'll be in in a second."
"Right then." Alfred inclines his head toward Joker. "And don't you put Master Bruce in even worse shape, Mr…?"
Joker grins. "J. That's Mr. J, Al."
"Mr. J." A brief flicker of what looks like a smile passes across Alfred's face.
Once Alfred leaves, Joker moves closer to the food, letting me get a better look at him.
I've never seen him this way in the sunlight before. He looks as though he's spent many days running around in the sun—his arms in particular are very well-tanned—odd for this time of year. He's lithe, sleek—almost catlike. His chest has the faint line of a scar, as if something sharp (a knife?) scraped across the skin…one of my gauntlet launchers? His stomach seems to have been spared any injuries.
"Looking for something, are you?" Joker looks at me, an amused expression on his face. "I think you'll, ah, find what you're looking for back here." He jerks his thumb toward his back.
I lean, looking behind him. There's a tiny pink mark in the middle of his otherwise unmarred back—another scar, possibly even older than the scars on his face. I remember brushing my fingers against it on occasion, thinking of it as nothing more than a blemish.
It looks like…a knife wound.
"Funny, huh?" Joker giggles and pops another forkful of eggs into his mouth. "Too bad the guy who made that didn't…a-ppre-ci-ate the joke."
"…Funny…" I say softly, going back to my original position and taking another sip of juice.
We fall back into silence—save for the sound of Joker chewing and his fork clinking against the plate. I continue looking him over.
"…By the way, what exactly did I do last night?"
"Oh, lots of things you'd be ashamed to know about. Like, say, complimenting me." Joker rolls his eyes and grins at me. "You're such a charmer when you want to be. If only you could be so chummy…sober."
I sigh and drink my juice. "I'm never drinking anything you give me again."
Joker pouts. "Awww, Batsy, don't be a spoilsport! You had fun, right?"
"Whatever 'fun' I had, I can't really remember it."
Joker leans closer to me, his nose nearly rubbing against my cheek. "I can, ah, reenact it for you. Just for kicks."
"No."
Joker sighs forlornly. "Uh-oh. Looks like I've got a grumpy Bat on my hands."
Alfred taps lightly on the door and steps in, his expression perfectly composed. "Your bath is ready, sir."
"Thank you, Alfred," I say, getting up and heading toward the door.
"You're quite welcome, sir."
I hear the bed creak and turn to look at Joker—he's wearing only a pair of tropical print boxer-briefs. He stretches leisurely, his arms above his head, the sunlight illuminating his scars.
"Soooo…where do I go, hmm?" Joker tucks his chin and looks coyly at me. "It's a bit, ah, rude to keep a guest waiting on his host in…your social circle. Unless…my copy of Emily Post de-ceives me."
"Where indeed," I murmur, before turning to Alfred. "Alfred, take him to the parlor. Keep an eye on him."
"Of course, sir."
As I cross the threshold, I hear the slap of bare feet on the floor, and see a blur of green and tan rush by me, screaming "Tag, Alter, you're it!"
Alfred sighs and takes his time, shaking his head at me as he walks past. "Master Wayne, sometimes I wonder about the company you keep."
I don't feel like commenting.
