Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. I do own the news of The Gotham Times.
Chapter Fifty: Batsy…?
When I wake up, sunlight slams into my eyes, making me squeeze them tightly shut.
"Whazzat…?" I groan, struggling to sit up. The light hits me again, and I slide back down.
"Well hiiiiiii, Sleeping Batty." Joker steps in front of the light, giving my eyes a break—in a sense. "Did the patient have a nice nap? Hmmm?"
He shuts the drapes suddenly, letting me snap into focus. The nurse uniform is gone (for the moment?). In its place is surprisingly casual attire—a white shirt and black trousers. The same outfit he wore for that memorable "massage" incident. His war paint looks to be recently applied.
"Well?" he asks, sounding a little impatient.
"I've had better," I reply, scratching my head. "When did you get back?"
"Around, ah, 4:4…7 or so. You were out like a light. Barely even twitched when I walked in." Joker yawns and settles himself comfortably in his purple chair, fingers tapping out a jazzy tune on the armrests. "Still want me to, ah, 'go play nurse somewhere else'?"
I wince as I try to move around—my bandages need changing. "No," I say softly.
Joker raises an eyebrow. "Hmmm? What was that, now? I…didn't catch that."
"No, I said." Louder now, so that he can't possibly mistake me.
"Glad to hear it. Now." Joker claps his hands and rocks off the chair, already getting the new bandages ready. "Let's see what we can do…"
He settles down next to me on the bed and begins to work.
There's an awkward silence as he picks off the bandages and replaces them, already getting into a routine. I know how much he hates routines, so I try to prepare myself for anything out of the ordinary.
But I'm not prepared for the light touches he brushes across each of the bandaged wounds with his fingertips. Sometimes, I fidget and try to move away, other times I feel nothing at all.
"Looks like you're getting…feeling back. Good." Joker grins and slides off the bed, grabbing my crutches. "Wanna try walking again?"
I nod.
As luck would have it, with Joker close by and my crutches to keep things going smoothly, I can make it into the hallway.
It's a defining, dramatic moment. My feet are slapping against the cool wood floor, and I'm not out of breath even as I move closer to the bathroom.
"I think it's time I had that bath," I say, as Joker goes ahead of me to open the door.
"Your wounds are healed enough that a little, ah, soak won't be a problem. Yeah, seeing you…greasy is a bit odd." Joker opens the door with a flourish, ushering me in. "Go on, go on."
I hobble in and barely even glance at my surroundings. It looks like Joker proved once again that he is always prepared—a small stool is sitting in the middle of the tub, waiting for me.
I somehow get my shirt off and, with Joker's help, ease myself into the tub and onto the stool. He's being almost tentative as he makes sure I'm steady before turning on the water.
"How about a shower instead?" he asks, running his hands through the water.
"That's fine." I attempt to stretch my legs out, jumping slightly as the showerhead is turned on, blasting warm water on me.
"Oh, crap!" Joker ducks his head back out of the shower, pulling the curtains back, but not before I see his disgusted expression as his dripping hair sticks to his face.
I allow myself a chuckle before scrubbing at my skin and hair, trying to get the greasy feeling out. It feels soothing, makes me feel more human.
"I heard that." I can see Joker crouching down beside the bath through the shower curtains. He sounds pleased, regardless. "I'm just here if you, ah, need anything."
"Right," I say, not really paying attention as I grab the green shampoo bottle and begin washing my hair.
"…Y'know…your penthouse was bought by one of your, ah, socialite buds. Says so in the paper." Something crackles—the newspaper, obviously. "Want me to…go shopping over there? They're auctioning stuff off."
They're already auctioning things off. Just as I specified in my Will. It's as if the Wayne family is an antique already.
"I don't know…well, maybe my candle-making kit, the books…" I let myself go on autopilot, making a (small) list of things I want to keep, little things, nothing anyone besides me would miss.
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Batsy! I don't have a notebook on hand, y'know…" Joker snorts and tosses the paper away. "I'll…see about all that stuff. It might take a few trips."
"Good." I rinse away the shampoo and pick up the conditioner nearby. "Could you pass me the soap? It's fallen behind me."
I hear Joker brushing the curtains aside and trying to grab the soap with little success. I can hear it slipping and slurping out of his increasingly frustrated grasp. At first, I don't pay much attention—but once he starts growling and the soap starts smacking against the walls, I can't help but crane my head to see what the commotion is.
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to catch this piece of—" Joker jerks back as the soap slips from his grip and smacks him in the forehead.
I bite my lip.
"Ow. Son of a gun-toting-bitch." Joker reaches down and grabs at the soap, digging his fingernails in. "Y'know, this would be a great murder weapon. Just…throw it at somebody, and pow—instant loss of an eye, or worse!"
Unsurprisingly, he sounds absolutely giddy about that possibility.
"Hand me the soap, please." I reach behind me.
Joker carefully places the soap in my hand, and our fingers touch—they're cool in comparison to mine, the tips lightly brushing against my fingers with a hint of scraping.
I pull my hand away, making sure the soap doesn't slip from my grasp as well. Joker pulls the curtains back, humming softly to himself.
"I'd like to check out the news soon. I'm sure I'm missing some important headlines."
"I'll say. Here, lemme get the paper again…"
I can hear Joker's feet slapping against the floor over the roar of the hot water pouring down on me, and the sound of the paper crackling and rustling in his hands as he picks it up.
"Ohhhh-kay. So. On the front page, we have 'Comissioner Still On The Hunt For The Joker'…then something about the Mayor giving another, ah, reassuring press conference to the poor sheeple of Gotham. Next page…'Wayne Enterprises Still Afloat'…ooooh, here's something about you, Batsy: 'Gotham Finally Grieves for Dead Wayne'."
"Read that one," I say, the soap still lathering my skin.
I can see Joker holding a hand to his ear mockingly through the curtains. "…Please?"
"Yes."
"Oh, ho-ho, aren't we a smarty-Bat today…" Joker rustles the paper and starts reading:
"'Gotham has experienced it's share of funerals these days, but none with such a mixed reaction as that of Bruce Wayne's, Gotham's own Playboy Billionaire. Wayne was reportedly killed by a shootout—blahblahblah, we know, moving on…Wayne's butler, Alfred Pennyworth, was buried beside his parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne. Bruce Wayne's body has yet to be found'."
Joker chuckles and rustles the paper. "I can, ah, fix that soon enough. No worries there."
The paper rustles again, and Joker continues: "'The funeral itself was small, with Jim Gordon, Lucius Fox, and several board members in attendance, including one Coleman Reese. Otherwise—in an unexpected twist—the once-infamous playboy had very few mourners. Gotham Times set out to investigate why'…"
I find myself surprised at such a small gathering. It's a little disappointing, actually, but then I "designed" my playboy persona that way—easy to forget in the glamour and the plasticity of "my" existence.
Joker reads on, talking of various socialite "friends" of mine while I listen intently, washing myself instinctually.
"Joker?"
"…Mmm?"
"…I need your help. I need to lean on you for a moment."
"Gotcha." Joker puts the paper down, shoves the curtains aside and rests his hand carefully on my shoulder. "Wouldn't want you to try it yourself and slip, right?"
It's strange, how suddenly very real he seems to me. His skin feels so solid, his grip so secure, his eyes so cruelly honest as he stares at me, that cynical light in his eyes mixed with something else as he pushes the curtains back aside and starts reading again.
"…'There has been some speculation over The Batman's strange absence in the last few days, coinciding with Wayne's death. Some say that Bruce Wayne was The Batman, others say that The Batman is searching for the killers as well. Commissioner Gordon has refused to comment. When asked what they thought of the "Wayne-As-Batman" theory, the criminals in Gotham's prison had intriguing responses."
I switch off the water, feeling the air suddenly grow colder around me. The water slides down my back, my shoulders, making sharp plinking noises as they drop onto the marble floor.
"You okay in there, Batsy?"
"I'm fine. Keep reading."
"Okaaay…'One criminal remarks, 'I don't think The Bat-freak's gone. No way. This is prime time for bashin' guys like me into a pulp'…cute, huh Batsy?"
"My teeth are rotting at the sweetness of it. Anything else?"
"Hmm…let's see…then it says 'Upon hearing of this particular theory, an entire block of criminals bowed their heads and remained silent for a moment before refusing any more questions. Still others went into a frenzy, causing a small riot in the mess hall. The prison guards were disturbed by this behavior—previously, the prisoners had only cursed The Batman and all he stood for. 'It's just not right,' one jailer told Times, dragging one particularly distraught prisoner to the more secure area of the prison. 'These people hated The Batman. They called him a freak. But they also had some sort of respect for him, see, like he was some Patron Saint of Freaks. Now that he's dead—or at least gone—there's no telling what these creeps will do'…"
Joker sighs.
"Looks like that's where it stops, Batsy."
I brush my wet hair out of my eyes, looking down at my knees. I run the image over in my mind—an entire block of criminals—criminals—bowing their heads in silent remembrance of a symbol, a symbol that locked them up and left them to rot.
And yet, all the "normal" people—the glittering socialites, the people who run (ran?) my company—they all forgot about me as easily as taking a sip from a martini. They dropped both "Bruce Wayne" and "The Batman" like a ruined desert. (Gordon, of course, is playing along—he has to). I'm dead to them—I've probably been dead to them for a long time.
The "good" people of Gotham barely even register my death, but the people I worked so hard to destroy are, in their own strange way, paying their respects.
I rest my head in my hands, feeling my shoulders start to shake.
"…Batsy?" Joker brushes the curtains aside, resting his arms on the tub's edge.
I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. "Let me see the paper."
Joker hands it to me, and I read the entire article through twice. It's exactly as Joker said. Every mocking comment made by an ex-flame, every detail of the prisoners' strange behavior, it's all there, stated plainly in black and white.
It's actually a bit funny.
The paper tears under my hands as I rip it to shreds, my shoulders shaking. Suddenly everything's a blur of black and blue and bits of paper, as my mind hits "replay" over and over again:
Bruce, show the world who you really are
Something inside me is breaking apart.
Show the world who you really are
One piece snaps away—
Show the world who you really are
Then another—
Take off your masks, Batsy
And another—
Take off your masks, Batsy
And I'm laughing softly—
Let go
It feels good—
Let go
So good—
Let go
I think I'm flying.
