Out of curiosity, after this fic is finished…how does a soundtrack list sound with a "Author's Final Words On The Subject"?
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, Sid Vicious, or Queen. Incidentally, the song lyrics in this chapter are from "Play The Game", "Bohemian Rhapsody", and "The Vision". I own this plot.
Chapter Forty-Five: Batsy…?
All around me is darkness, with only snatches of Queen songs for company.
It's so easy, when you know the rules
It's your life…
I feel myself move closer to the sounds, but am distracted by another tune:
Goodbye, everybody, I've got to go
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth…
I follow that tune—then hear another:
I had a dream
A vision when I was young
A dream of sweet illusion
A glimpse of hope and sanity…
I feel my head is going to split in two. The tunes spin and slam around in my mind, beckoning me this way and that. I feel as though I'm stuck on a spinning top, going out of control.
—
I open my eyes.
There's something warm against my hand. Something warm underneath the slickness of plastic. I look up at the ceiling and find Sid Vicious smirking at me from a black and white poster, dressed in leather and playing his guitar as though it's a part of his body, recently plastered there with what looks like never-ending slices of scotch tape. In red pen, someone has scribbled "THAT'S MY BOY" over his crotch. I can only guess who. The drapes are drawn, but I can tell there is sunlight behind them.
I turn my head and find myself face-to-face with a white skirt and a familiar long-fingered hand gripping mine. The plastic exam glove covers his hand. I look over, and find Joker—dressed in a nurse uniform of all things—lounging half-asleep in a purple inflatable chair, one leg hanging over the armrest. His eyebrows are twitching—he must be dreaming.
I lift my head up gingerly and find another shocking sight—Joker's "boys" are sleeping, strewn around the room. They're in chairs with newspapers and Playboy magazines still in hand, or with cards pooling at their feet; or on the floor, in jumbled up piles. They look like recently discarded toys, waiting for their child to pick them up again.
There's a Queen CD lying by a CD player. Now my strange "mental tunes" make sense.
I can see Schiff curled up next to Joker's chair, snoring softly. A ball of gray fur is nestled on his lap. It must be the cat whose food dish I've seen before.
The cat's ears twitch. It pokes its head up, blinks owlishly at me with orange pumpkin-colored eyes, and lets out a surprised chirp.
"Good morning," I mouth at it, and the cat yawns in response.
Joker twitches in his sleep and mutters something about frying pans. His eyes flicker briefly.
I squeeze his hand slightly, and his eyes snap open—a wild, chocolate brown—and he is instantly awake.
"Well good morning, dear patient o' mine," Joker says with a grin, getting up and handing me a glass of water. "For awhile there I thought I was, ah, waiting on a corpse."
"Glad to disappoint you," I reply, struggling to sit up. "What happened…exactly?"
Before Joker can answer, the rest of Joker's "boys" wake up and start babbling amongst themselves. "He's up! He's up! Isn't that great, Boss?"
Schiff looks ready to throw himself at me—not a great prospect, judging by how stiff I am. "I'm making soup! Soup's good?"
Everyone starts getting even louder after that. Joker closes his eyes and keeps hold of my hand, his lips curled into a "you're-trying-my-patience" grin. Finally, when the noise reaches a screeching crescendo, he lets loose.
"BOYS, it would be great if you all could…go out and get some, ah, groceries for us. We're running out, aren't we?"
The henchmen nod and scurry off, leaving us alone. The room still reverberates with their noisy presence. I hand Joker back the glass, which he puts to one side.
Joker sighs with relief.
"Joker, what happened."
"Okay. Okay, okay, okay. What happened, Batsy? I'll tell you what happened. You and Al flounced off to the bookstore, and you got into a, ah, pickle."
"Pickle? Joker…what happened?" I put more force behind my words—though I don't feel forceful at the moment.
"A black car was tailing you. A car with 'suspicious' written aaaaall over it." Joker wiggles his fingers for effect.
"Black car? Who?"
"Patience, my young bat."
"Joker…!"
"Okay, okay, Gawd…So I followed in my car—y'know, the van? The one you nearly squashed? And before I knew it, some Mob creeps hopped out and…"
He pauses—for effect I'm sure—and my patience is running thin.
"—And started shootin' away at you!"
I close my eyes. "…Alfred?"
Joker fidgets uncomfortably. "He, ah…didn't do so hot."
I scowl. "How bad?"
"He took lots of bullets for you. I tried to get you both outta there as fast as I could, but…"
"I see." I open my eyes and stare up at Sid Vicious again. He looks smugly down at me, as though I shouldn't be asking for answers I already know. "What happened then?"
"Welllll…I brought you to Gotham City Hospital…both of you. And, well, as soon as they saw their precious prince—that's you—they hopped to it. Unfortunately, Al didn't make it to the operating table. You, on the other hand, did make it to surgery without any…complications."
I force myself to not think about Alfred—not yet.
Joker pulls at the drapes, and they roll open, exposing the bright sunlight. He toys with the tassels, looking out the window.
"I…did a lot of pacing. I mean, I'm not a big fan of hospitals myself." He laughs softly. "Well, except for things like this."
He points to his nurse uniform, thrusting his hip out for good measure so that the skirt fabric ripples over his tanned leg. For a brief moment I wonder if he's wearing any underwear—and catch a glimpse of white satin French knickers.
"Cute." I lazily point to the peeking underwear, and Joker chuckles.
"Anyway, I was actually patient for the twelve hours it took for them to patch you up. Cute surgeon, by the way. But don't you worry—I'm a little…crazy for you."
"How bad was it?" I carefully begin to feel around for bandages. I find several.
"You were hit in the right thigh, and a few other places. But your leg was the worst."
Joker looks back at me, his expression unreadable.
"A little, ah, problem they had with a…big artery. You damn near died, y'know. You wouldn't stop bleeding." He giggles, and his eyes grow dark. "You were like that—that commercial. The blood just kept going and going…and going and going and going…the van was covered with it…"
"Joker…?"
He shakes his head from side to side, as though to get rid of a nightmare.
"So, ah, yeah. They patched you up—but they…noticed things. You have way too many scars and bumps and bruises for the average playboy."
I can't help but smile softly at that. "I mostly have you to thank for that."
Joker grins back. "You're welcome. They put two and two together, and…I only just got you out of there before some idiot called the GCPD. I brought you here, been keeping you nice and warm, changed your bandages, and…here we are. Fade to black, ending credits."
I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. "…Could you close the drapes? I need to think."
Joker nods. "Gotcha. I'll, ah, be in the bathroom. Holler if you need me."
He walks out of the room, white skirt swishing as he goes. I'm alone with my thoughts.
I don't want to be alone. But…
I cover my face with my hands, feeling a tremor wrack my body. It grows and grows until I'm shaking uncontrollably, making strange muffled noises behind my hands.
…Alfred is dead. And I couldn't help him.
I try to fight the memories back, memories of Alfred bandaging my bruises from childhood, Alfred trying to teach Rachel and I to cook pancakes for Mother and Father, Alfred comforting me after nightmares, Alfred giving advice as I put on the Kevlar suit, Alfred playing Poker with me in the late hours of the evening…
Worst of all, however, is the constant replaying of his comforting words:
Have you given up on me yet, Alfred?
Never.
I hear a strange deep groaning noise, and it takes me a moment to realize it came from me. I try to hold the sounds back, but they fight past my teeth and pierce the air.
"I told you, holler if you need me," Joker says. The bed creaks softly as he sits beside me. "Hey, now. Hey."
"Damn…" I manage to say, my eyes squeezed shut.
"If I knew how, ah, angsty you'd be when you woke up, I would've left you to bleed. But guess what, Bruce? I didn't. And now—unless you want me to, ah, put you out of your misery—you're going to have to deal."
I open my eyes—my vision is blurry. I struggle to sit up, trying to see Joker.
"…What did you call me?"
Joker's red lips twitch into a mocking, familiar smile. "Bruce."
I shake my head. "Don't call me that." I try to reach out, grab him by the shoulder. "Don't you dare call me that."
Joker looks surprised. "Would you like Batsy, then?"
I rub my temples. "…I don't know. I just…don't know right now." I feel myself shaking again.
"C'mere." Joker moves next to me on the bed, puts his arm around my shoulder. "You're a bit out of it right now, I know. Just close your eyes, and get some rest. We'll try some of Schiff's soup later, okay?"
I nod as Joker's body heat seeps through me, and I close my eyes.
