Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. Only this plot.
Chapter Thirty-One: Bruce
Gasoline.
It's a favorite of people who don't want certain things to be discovered. Arsonists have a love affair with it. And everyone else just needs it for their car.
I wonder what category I fall under tonight?
I drop the containers of gas by the rundown hotel—the place where I've been committing the same mistake over and over again for the past two years or so—and make sure the Tumbler is in a secure hiding place, but easy to reach.
I look over the building—the dusty windows, the torn drapes, the creaking door, the shadows that seem to crawl all around the place.
Memories haunt this place. Memories I want gone.
With that in mind, I dump gasoline on the interior and exterior and light a match.
I stand back and watch as the flames lick the door, the windows, the seat he and I sat in only last night, "celebrating" the successful Mob meeting. The flames rise higher—now they're probably destroying the stairs, the rooms we defiled with our very presence.
Soon it'll all be gone. Good.
Just as the smoke begins to become more obvious, I take my leave. I don't want to be found here.
--
While Gordon and his men investigate the fire, I double-check the Mob's progress in "going straight".
So far, everyone seems to be following the rules—no death threats even from inside their many opulent houses, less drug trafficking (it'll get better in time), no meaningless violence.
It seems that for once, things are going well—but I shouldn't hold my breath. This is Gotham.
I jump down from my perch on the roof of a drug trafficking den and head back to the Tumbler. Now, I can finally have a night off. I can have dinner with Alfred, catch up on Pride and Prejudice, watch the news…
"Having an easy night, hmmm? Thought you'd, ah, take up arson on the side?"
I barely glance at Joker, who's leaning against the Tumbler, arms folded over his chest. There is more than irritation showing in his eyes.
"It had to be done."
"Oh? Y'know, if you didn't like the place, you should've said so. There's plenty of places to pick." Joker steps back from the Tumbler, moving toward me. "And I know you're still all grumpy about what happened last night, but you drank the hot chocolate."
"And you brought the drink." I shake my head, trying to clear it. "I don't have to deal with this. Go away."
Joker walks toward me, expressionless. "You want me to 'go away'? Me?" He giggles, almost looking nervous as he takes out his favorite knife. "Me, Batsy?"
"Yes, you. You're ruining me." I turn away, ready to open the Tumbler. "If this continues, I won't be able to keep Batman a secret."
"What, this whole sha-bang is a secret? GCPD must be smokin' something."
I don't say anything.
"If it was something I said, well…I said it. You'll live."
I don't move.
"Oh, and by the way, this, ah, this silent treatment? It's a liiiiiittle bit…re-dun-dant. I mean, you're normally the so-called 'Strong-and-Silent-Type' anyway, so…"
There is silence. I tense up, ready for him.
"Joker. I'm not playing your games any more. I won't take the bait."
Suddenly something lanky and surprisingly heavy smashes into me, knocking me to the ground. Joker sits on top of me, his knife close at hand, his lips curled back into a yellow snarl.
"You," Joker growls, his breath smelling like grape soda, "are lying."
"No, I'm not," I retort, despite having his knife so near my face. "Get off me."
"Of course not."
"Get off, I said—"
"We've got work to do!"
"You think I'm lying, Joker? You're the real liar. Look at you—when you don't get your way, you use force—"
"—Because that's what gets you hot n' bothered, Batsy—"
"No. You use force to get your way. There are other ways."
Joker sits there quietly, his legs on either side of my stomach, knife poised. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me. I reach up and grab his shoulder, pushing him off me with surprising ease. I get to my feet. But as soon as I do, Joker lunges at me again, eyes wild.
I find myself hitting him over and over, and the two of us are soon fighting tooth and nail—it was bound to happen. We slam into the alley walls, shoving and clawing at each other.
"Let go," I growl, as my cape rips loudly under Joker's clenched fists and knife.
"No, you let go!" Joker snarls and attempts to squirm out of my hold of his lapels. "I mean, c'mon, I know you're P.O.'d and all, but is this really necessary?"
He suddenly knees me in the stomach. I back up, swinging my fist toward him, landing a solid hit, making him falter.
"You attacked me first," I say, finally shoving him away, watching in a detached way as he bumps against the closest wall. "You're such a child. When things don't go your way, out comes the knife."
Joker gasps for breath, shaking his head and pocketing the knife. "And yet you're the one who dresses up as a flying rodent and rails on me when things get too tough for you." He grins. "Don't try the 'holier-than-thou' schtick with me, Batsy. All that ego can't be good for your, ah, dietary needs."
I walk back toward the Tumbler, my boots crunching in the snow.
"Because as we both know, you can take the man out of the bat…"
I can hear the crunch of his shoes following me, but keep walking…until he suddenly steps in front of me. His expression is collected, smug. He takes hold of my torn cape and moves closer, pulling me toward him.
I make sure to betray no emotion, even as I find myself being submerged in the smell of greasepaint and the musky-sweet cologne. Joker's hand rests easily on my cowl, pulling me closer. I try to fill my mind with other things—such as the burning rubble that was our rendezvous point only a short while ago.
I will not give in.
Joker's fingers are sliding down the cowl. His thumb traces my chin as we enact the familiar beginnings of our dance.
I will not give in.
"…Buuuuut…" Joker breaks away and grins at me, knees brushing against mine. "You just can't take the bat out of the man, can you?"
I don't give in. I push him away and continue toward the Tumbler, not looking back. I know that there's a chance that I could too easily reverse myself.
Joker's laughter has an edge to it. "Well, Batsy? What d'you say, hmmmm?" he calls after me, but I open up the Tumbler and climb inside.
I know he'll show up at the Christmas Party—or that he'll make an appearance in public sometime soon. That much is obvious. So I have to prepare myself. Make sure I'm ready for him.
If there's one thing Joker taught me, it's "always come prepared".
