Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. Only the three hitmen and this plot.

Chapter Forty-Eight: Joker

I glare down at the steering wheel, as I zip down the road, more than willing to get away from my…patient.

I switch on the radio and turn up the volume so that it ROARS in my ears as I drive, not even bothering to watch the speedometer. I can still see him—the dark, tired scowl, the look in his eyes that he thinks hides everything be tells me all I need to know…

He wants me to leave? Fine. Let him piss on the sheets, for all I care.

I'll do something…worthwhile in the meantime. Something that he may expect, but won't really think I'd do.

I got a good, long look at those Mob creeps that day. I know exactly where to find 'em.

Like good stooges, they always pick the…simplest places.

Apparently, they thought having a drink or two at their place was a good idea. They thought their, ah, connections kept 'em safe.

They didn't expect a nurse at their door. They didn't expect knockout gas either (thank you, Damien). So it didn't take long for the three stooges to pass out, their drinks spilling all over the floor into golden rivers.

I drag them over to the nearest chairs and tie them up with whatever was handy—suspenders, ties, drape ropes—and begin to have some fun.

I slap the doughy one—the one who had the getaway car—and grin as he slowly opens his eyes.

"Well, good morning, Tubby!" I slap him again, watching with glee as his eyes go wide in realization and dumb horror. "Looks like you know me, hmmm? Great, great. Charmed, I'm sure."

"Wh-what d'you want with me?" he asks, his jowls wobbling.

"Oh, nothing…too bad," I say, taking my knife out of my pocket and waving it in front of his face, watching his eyes follow the blade. "Just want to play with you."

Yes, a little bit of a familiar line (the movies tend to like repetition sometimes), but nonetheless it gets the reaction I want: more wobbling jowls, the hint of a tear in Tubby's eye. He's beginning to panic.

"What k-kind of game?" he asks, his body starting to shake and make the chair rattle.

"Oh, it's just a little…guessing game." I smile and brush the strands of greasy blond hair out of his eyes—I want to get the, ah, perfect view, after all. "How much money were you paid to bump off…Bruce Wayne?"

Tubby gulps. "I—I dunno—we don't have the money yet! We haven't heard from the Boss!" His eyes are telling me something different.

"Oh?" I press the knife to his ear, still smiling as sweetly as a good nurse should. "Well, you just…hold still. I'll fix that little, ah, problem for you."

Tubby whimpers. "Nonononononopleasedon'tI'lltellyounononononono—"

"What's that?" I say loudly, putting a hand to my ear. "Sorry, I can't hear you!"

Tubby screams, a long line of drool pooling out of his mouth, soaking his gray t-shirt.

I clean the knife on his shirt and lean closer.

"Now. Tell nursie…how much were you paid?"

Tubby's crying without any restraint now. "Tuh—ten thousand…in cash…"

I nod agreeably. "Well, that's an…okay number. But y'know what?" I lean so close that I could almost kiss him—not that I want to. But it's the closeness that makes things…memorable.

Tubby sniffs as a long trail of mucus pours out his nose.

"That wasn't enough."

I slit his throat without a second thought, listening as one of the other stooges starts shaking his chair, trying to break loose.

"Rise and shine!" I call out, skipping over to him, curtsying for the hell of it. "Glad to see you're ready for our playdate."

"Let me go!" the skinny man screeches. "You sick freak, what the hell are you doing—"

"Language," I chide, putting my knife to his mouth. "I could just make sure you'd never, ever speak again…but I need you to yakyakyak a liiiiiittle while longer."

The skinny man bites his lip, drawing blood. "I won't tell you anything."

"Oh, c'mon now, it's just a…little question." I tap my knife against the edge of his lips, grinning. "In fact, call it a…hobby question."

The skinny man gulps as the knife begins to slowly dig into his skin, beginning a new, ah, smile for him to enjoy.

"Tell me…did you, ah, enjoy pulling the trigger on Bruce Wayne and his butler? Did you feel…strong? Ahead of the curve? Maybe even a little, ah, hot and bothered?"

"It was only a job, goddamn it! A stupid job!" The skinny man squirms in his chair, struggling to break free.

"What did I tell you about language…?" I let my…sweet demeanor slip for a second as I pull the knife away. "What about your Boss, hmm? Who gave you this little job?"

The skinny man keeps struggling, his eyes wide. "It—It was the Mob!"

"Well, duh. Anything more you can tell me?"

The skinny man gulps. I only just make out the name. Something tells me it's not quite…true.

I don't feel anything as I stab through his chest, watching the blood seep out.

The last guy—a bulky bear of a man—doesn't fare any better. However, he does give me a bit of a, ah, pick-me-up: his eyes show so much more than the others, not just fear but hatred and there, just in the far corners of his eyes, there's this sense of acceptance. As if he really knows the time has come, and there's nothing he can do about it.

He spits in my face before I slit his throat.

Soon, I'm covered in blood, staring at their dead bodies.

I don't feel anything.

I look down at my hands, also smeared with blood, then at the dark pools that are sinking into the ratty gray carpet.

I don't feel anything.

I back away from them, lean against the wall. Why can't I feel anything? I should be happy as a clam, having the time of my life! Why isn't this working?

I close my eyes, and the answer pops up like a clown from a jack-in-the-box:

Batsy lying in the van beside Alfred, bleeding everywhere, that damn wrinkle between his eyebrows, arm dangling limply off the seat, pulse all a-flutter.

Batsy swooping down from the rooftops, arm pulled back into a fist, ready to, ah, rumble once again.

Batsy stepping into the hotel, cape fluttering behind him, eyes so dark and intense it makes me smile.

Batsy taking off his mask for the first time, putting this game at a, ah, whole new level.

Batsy trying so hard to get to the little fishies on the clock tower on time, teeth clenched in a snarl, eyes on the road.

Batsy storming after me on Halloween, slamming me into the wall, his body almost…trembling in rage.

Batsy going incognito with me as we try and be normal at Pasquale's Bistro, arguing over our delicious food.

Batsy and I struggling in his precious Tumbler, bodies pressed together, hot and needy.

Batsy at the Mob meeting—before and after, all confident and hopeful and smiling…just a little.

Batsy drunk, calling me "a great dancer" and doing other, ah, un-Batsyish things.

Batsy burning down the hotel, trying and trying to let go of me, but knowing he can't—and never will.

Batsy storming into the house in his tacky tux with pure confusion in his eyes, which soon becomes something…better.

Batsy staring at me as I turn him away from all those, ah, mundane problems he worries over so much, the bells on my suspenders jingling away as the carols keep playing.

Batsy waking up beside me, noticing the little details he would never have noticed two years ago.

Batsy, dour, dark, desperate, delicious, dynamic Batsy, my fellow, my equal.

Suddenly, it all clicks.

Oh, no. Oh nonononono…

I feel a chuckle scrape it's way up my throat, then slither out of my mouth. And another. And soon I'm kneeling on the floor, shaking with laughter at the comedy of it all.

Batsy seems to have a…knack for completely derailing everything I do, doesn't he?

Batsy. B-A-T-S-Y. The Batman. The GODDAMN Batman. The Dark Knight. The Caped Crusader. The Dark Detective. Mr. "I Won't Let You Beat Me". The guy who somehow makes an interrogation gone bad into, ah, spine-chilling foreplay. The "pitcher" and the "catcher". The King of (Side)tracking Criminals. The very definition of "denial".

When I get my brain back together, I find myself crouched down, my head in my hands, kneeling on my skirt, rocking back and forth.

And while I know all you folks at home are, ah, enjoying the image, this really isn't the time.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," I mutter, still laughing to myself as I get up.

I fix myself, sighing at the mess on my pretty dress. "Typical. I get myself all pretty and sterile for a few days, and boom! I go out on the town and this happens."

I make my way back over to my little, ah, playmates with a new spring in my step, my knife ready for action again. I click my tongue as I pace around them, an idea forming in my wonderfully wicked head.

"You guys really have to, ah, pull yourselves together," I chide, tapping Tubby's nose disdainfully. "You need to get your…heads on straight."

I fish around in the pockets of my dress before I find what I'm looking for: my mini sewing kit. I grin at their lifeless eyes as I make my way back around, trying to pick which to "fix" first.

"Well, don't you worry. Nursie'll fix you right up."

I settle myself on Tubby's knee and get to work.