Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, only the dream.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Batsy?

I close my eyes and try to get some sleep.

But I know I won't be able to. Not with all the frustration and the bitterness and the loneliness that's pulsing through my head, through my veins.

With a little struggling, I roll over onto my side. Once again, I find myself "comforted" by the greasepaint-and-blood smell that is Joker. There's antiseptic, too, of course, something that makes my nose cringe. If I had to choose between antiseptic and Joker's musk, I'd pick the latter…after much consideration.

There's a faint undercurrent behind the musk—the smell of Old Spice cologne. My cologne.

The cologne Alfred recommended—"To give yourself a gentlemanly flavor".

I struggle over onto my back, wincing as sparks of pain wrack my body. It's definitely time for another pain pill—then sleep.

I slowly lift myself up on my elbows and take one of the pills, popping it into my mouth and choking it down with water. Then I slowly lower myself back onto the pillow, closing my eyes and letting the medicine do its job.

I'm out like a light quicker than I expected.

Thankfully, Joker isn't wearing the nurse uniform in this dream.

He's in his usual purple suit, sitting beside me on a rooftop, holding something in his hands, tossing it up and down absentmindedly. He's humming some sort of children's song under his breath, his legs thumping against the wall of the building in time, looking out at the city lights. The moon is shading his green-brown hair in silver tints, highlighting the rest of his face in silvery-white, his lips bright red.

I'm holding something too. It's wet, warm…pulsing. No, beating.

I look down and find myself staring at a heart covered in white greasepaint stains, which is pooling blood onto my hands, my lap.

Joker looks at me, almost sheepish. "Sorry 'bout the, ah, mess there. But it's not like this is a clean sort of thing. At least we're in the same boat."

I take a closer look at myself—and my mind recoils. There's a gaping hole in my chest, dark and seeping red blood.

Joker moves closer, his grin becoming less sheepish, more confident. "We're in a bit of a…pickle, hmm? Nothing's ever easy for us…"

His forehead presses against mine, and I see his blood soaking into what remains of his waistcoat, seeping from the dark hole in his chest.

"But then, would we have it any other way?"

I squeeze the heart in my hands slightly, and Joker winces. "Of course not."

Joker clutches the heart—my hearttighter than I had expected, and I nearly topple backward. He winks. "Be gentle, now. It's a little…tender in spots. Like yours."

I let something similar to a smile pass my lips. "I can't guarantee that."

"Good…I can't either." Joker slowly stands up, and with barely a flicker of emotion pushes my heart into the empty space in his chest.

I press his heart inside the black hole in my chest…

I wake up, my real heart pounding.

I gasp for air, clapping my hand to my chest, trying to make sure it was all a dream. Yes, there are no holes, only scars and a thudding heartbeat. I brush my hair out of my eyes, trying to get myself back together.

It was only a dream. Only a medication-induced dream. It means nothing.

I slowly reach over to the bedside table and grab the glass of water, careful not to spill any on me as I drink. It's 6 p.m.

My eyes lock onto Sid Vicious, glaring down at me from the ceiling, looking smugger than ever.

"What're you looking at?" I mutter, struggling onto my side. I'm going to have to get Joker to tear that poster down. It's a bit unnerving.

I force my mind to think of other things, not the dream or Joker in general.

Somehow, I know it's going to be a long night.