Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. Only this plot.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Bruce


My bath is a little shorter and less relaxing than I expected, but at least it wakes up my body and makes sure that my mind is trying to work properly.

I lean my head against the beautiful Italian marble and wash myself with honey-scented soap. My movements are robotic as I scrub from my face to my feet. I wash my hair and pay particular attention to the white and red streaks Joker was kind enough to give me during the night. The water is warm, calming, perfect for making me forget about the green-haired "Freak Like Me" in my home.

Soon the water starts to turn cold. I rinse and get out, pulling on a new pair of grey trousers and a white-collared shirt. I don't slick my hair back today—chances are I'll be back in bed soon enough.

I can hear Joker's laughter even as I walk through the halls, growing louder and louder the closer I get. I hope Alfred's handling him—he's never let me down before.

When I enter the parlor—which isn't really a parlor so much as a room filled with a panoramic view of the city and a green couch and sofa—I'm greeted by the sight of Joker sitting comfortably in what I consider my sofa, with Alfred sitting on the couch, clearly having just finished the famous Joke He Knows. Apparently it's been passed down the Pennyworth family for generations, and is the ultimate crowd pleaser.

Joker leans his head back and lets out one final burst of laughter, grinning. "Oh, Al, you're a scream. It's hard to believe you're Batsy's butler."

He looks toward the door and sees me. A grin slithers across his face, making his smudged, half-red scars wriggle in response.

"Hello there, Batsy."

Alfred looks up at me, looking faintly relieved.

"Was the water warm enough, sir?"

"It was fine. Thanks," I assure him, my gaze locking with Joker's interested expression. "And now it's time for our 'guest' to go back to whatever hole he crawled out of. We have work to do."

"But Batsy, I love work," Joker purrs, cracking his knuckles for effect. "Especially if it's…creative. Like, say, getting rid of a few speed bumps?"

"I have an annual Christmas Party to start planning. I won't need your 'help' for that." I tuck my thumbs into my belt loop. "I'll show you to the door."

Joker sighs and scratches the back of his head, his expression a strange mix of irritated and amused. He slowly gets up, his long arms swinging almost lazily before settling into an eerily still position. He looks up at me through green, messy curls, a slow smile on his face.

"Lead the way, Batsy. I'll be…right behind you."

"I don't doubt that," I say, squaring my shoulders. "That's why you're going in front of me."

"How about side-by-side?"

Alfred has already left the room, I note.

"We won't fit through the door."

Joker's eyebrows rise mockingly, that slow smile still on his face. "And here I thought you wanted me gone…"

I sigh and gesture toward the door. "You first. You're going to need your clothes."

Joker pouts and after a tense moment does what I want, scuffing his feet on the rug. We make our way through the halls, Joker's skulking walk soon becoming an easy lope. His "war paint" is smudged and not quite covering everything, making his head a mass of white, black, red and pink splotches.

"Hey, Batsy. Are you, ah, holding up okay?" Joker cranes his head to look at me, grinning sardonically. "Y'know…for a guy with a hangover, you're back to your old style pretty fast."

"I do my best." I try to keep him walking, not talking, but I can't help but be a little smug.

When we reach my bedroom, Joker immediately begins picking up his clothes and putting them on, looking at me all the while. It takes my mind a moment to remember vaguely that he changed into different clothes after the Mob meeting, while I was out.

He puts on one sock first, sliding it slowly up his foot to his knee before letting go of it with a snap. He then puts on his trousers (black, oddly enough), performing the same sort of routine as the sock. His bare toes curl and uncurl slowly, and I find myself somehow staring at them.

"Something wrong?" Joker asks, his long fingers pulling on his shirt, settling it over his shoulders. Hearts, spades, clubs and diamonds slam into my vision. "Want me to, ah, speed up a bit?"

"Just get dressed," I say, turning and looking out the window.

Suddenly a tinny series of high-pitched notes erupts from somewhere nearby. Joker instantly leaps up and begins hunting for the source, expression unreadable despite his hurried movements.

"C'monc'monc'mon, be patieeeent…" he whines, eyes flicking to me every so often. His trousers are slipping down around his thighs.

Finally he grabs his coat and digs in the pockets, finding what he's looking for—a cell phone, of course. He turns it on and presses it to his ear, flashing a mocking grin at me as his trousers pool at his knees. He pulls them up grumpily once I don't respond.

"Hiiiii. Who's calling?" A grin blossoms on his face. "Schiff, hmm? What's going on, old…friend? Jack puke on your shoes again?"

There's a series of muffled, short sounds on the other end of the phone—and what sounds like something breaking even from here. Joker gingerly holds the phone away from his ear, looking irritated.

"…You still there, Schiff?" Joker slowly presses the phone back to his ear, a small smile on his face that is clearly trying to be reassuring. "Oh, good. Is Seymour there? Yeah? Good. Get him over here so I can, ah, get the point of all that noise."

Joker taps his foot impatiently, growing more irritated by the second. I turn back toward the window, looking out at the snow-covered buildings that seem to be glittering even more than usual in the winter sunlight.

"…Y'know, I don't think I, ah, heard you right, Schiff. What do you mean you can't get him?"

I feel very bad for Schiff. Joker clearly means business. I don't move—I just keep looking out the window, watching a lone pigeon fly past, brown feathers lit by the sunlight.

"Okay, never mind. Just…hold tight. Keep 'em busy. I'll be. Right. There."

I turn around and find that Joker has turned off his phone, his eyes glittering with undisguised rage. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Something wrong?" I ask, trying to keep my confident, cool façade.

Joker shrugs and goes back to getting dressed, easily snapping on the black suspenders—a somber color for him. "Oh, the boys're just acting up because I'm not around." He sighs. "Typical. I turn my back for five minutes, and off they go, stabbing each other in the back and ruining all the nice furniture."

"So what are you going to do?" I ask as Joker puts on his blood-red tie, his smile saying the opposite of what his eyes are conveying. "Since you clearly want your hideout intact…"

"I have my ways." Joker adjusts the lapels of his jacket and rolls his shoulders. "Most of them you've come to…know and love, right?"

"Of course not."

Joker giggles and shakes his head, and for a moment the rage is gone. "Repression, thy name is Batsy."

I feel the headache returning already.

Joker shoulders his bag and gives me an incredulous look. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you gonna show me to the door?" Joker taps his foot impatiently.

"You were the one who took his sweet time."

"Geez, finefinefiiiiine," Joker grumbles, rolling his eyes and moving closer to me. "I'm off to work, darlin'. Give Daddy J a kiss!" He puckers his lips to emphasize the point.

I grab him by the shoulder and shove him out, letting Alfred take care of the rest.

I need to lie down.

But before I can, Alfred calls over the intercom, while Joker grumbles in the background. "Master Bruce, I'll need to speak with you after I let 'Mr. J' out."

I rub my temples. "All right. I'll be in my room."

"Of course, sir."