Disclaimer: Don't own Batman and that ole cup o' tea.

I was certain that I'd been shot, but I felt nothing. Maybe that's what happened when you got shot. You just didn't feel anything.

I wished I was right.

I didn't realize I had my eyes squeezed shut until I pried them open and stared at the cool marble of Bruce's floor. Then I saw the blood that was slowly flowing past my right flip-flop. I turned.

Then screamed.

"Isaac!" I shouted, collapsing to the floor next to my best friend. I took his head in my hands, setting it in my lap. His eyes were closed, and a small dribble of blood streamed from the corner of his open mouth. His bloody chest wasn't moving as one should with the labor of breathing. I could feel the tears accumulating in my eyes and bile rising in my throat. Something cool pressed to the top of my head and I looked up.

Joker stood above me, and the cool thing I'd felt had been the barrel of his gun.

"Looks like I missed ya," he said, grinning. "But I won't now." He cocked the gun, loading another deathly round into the chamber. I just sat there. I couldn't move; couldn't think. My mind was screaming at me to run, to go somewhere, but my muscles wouldn't comply. It was like I was a robot, and someone had pressed my off switch. I sat there staring death in the face, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

They say that your life is supposed to flash before your eyes before you die. Boy do they lie. All I could think of was that this was one cruddy way to go. Shot down by a homicidal maniac in the home of someone you don't even like.

At least you tell yourself you don't like.

As I waited for Joker to pull the trigger, several things happened at once. First, someone shouted at the criminal, and he turned, firing his pistol. Then he looked as if some three hundred pound quarterback had just body slammed him, because he flew sideways into what I assumed was the parlor or something. I stared after him wide eyed, then looked up at who'd just saved me.

It was Bruce.

He kneeled down by me, looking at Isaac's corpse. I looked down again, surprised. I think I'd forgotten he was there, because new tears came and I felt the undeniable urge to vomit. I set Isaac's head on the floor and stood, running for the nearest place I could, which was out on the front walk. I doubled over and proceeded to retch all over Bruce's drive.

When I finally stumbled back inside, Bruce had covered Isaac's face with a suit jacket. He stood to the side, looking at me sadly, holding one arm. I saw blood around his hand on his green shirt.

"You were shot!" I exclaimed. He looked down at his arm, then shrugged.

"Oh ho-ho! You think you're funny, don't you Brucey?" came Joker's voice. He stumbled from the parlor, a bit of blood on his forehead. He still wielded the pistol, and it was level with Bruce's chest.

"I'M THE ONLY FUNNY ONE HERE!" shouted Joker, then fired.

"NO!!" I screamed, making for Bruce.

Nothing happened.

Joker pulled the trigger again, only to have it click each time. He began to chuckle, then downright laugh.

"It's empty!" he squealed as he continued his mad laughter. Bruce began to walk toward him, and the madman backed up.

"Harley!" he yelled. She came immediately, free of the ropes Bruce had imprisoned her with.

"Should really tie better knots, hon," she said, smirking as she twirled part of the rope around her fingers.

"Shut it, Harley," Joker commanded. He pulled out a small sphere. "Gotta run, Brucey. But we'll be back!" He threw the sphere down and it began to emit green gas.

"Evelyn! Get back!" I heard Bruce shout. He grabbed my arm and rushed me down the hallway. Joker's maniacal laughter echoed through the house. Bruce gently shoved me into a room, then closed the door, quickly telling me to stay there.

I stared at the closed door for at least a minute before I turned around. I was in a bedroom, and I assumed it was his by the suits that were in the closet, and the one jacket that had been thrown over a chair. I walked slowly to his bed, standing above it silently.

Then I laid down on it and started to sob.

Bruce had vanished back into the Batcave. He retrieved a gas mask, and quickly relayed Alfred a summary of what had happened.

"It can wait," Bruce said as the old butler fussed about his arm. Gas mask on, he returned upstairs.

The green fog was thick around the small smoke bomb. Bruce walked through it, opening the front door and all the windows around him. He grabbed a large fan from his storage closet- not exactly the use he'd bought it for- and set it up in the hallway. He plugged it in, then turned it on, watching it blow the toxic green smoke from his home. Alfred came up behind him as he removed his gas mask.

"Where is Miss Larrabee, sir?" he asked. Bruce nodded toward his room. "Shall I get her, sir?" Bruce shook his head.

"I will. You call the police again. Don't say anything about Evelyn, but tell them everything else. And that we have a body." He cast a glance at Isaac's corpse.

"Done, sir," Alfred replied, then tooled to the kitchen, where the phone was. Bruce walked slowly to his bedroom, then pressed an ear against the door. When he didn't hear anything, he opened it quickly.

She was asleep on his bed, tear tracks down her face and small wet spots on the pillow. He walked up to the bed silently, kneeling down by her face. He pushed her hair out of her face, then just sat there, staring at her.

"Master Bruce," came Alfred's voice from the door. "I've called the police, sir. They're on their way."

"Good, Alfred," Bruce replied as he stood. He pulled the comforter carefully over Evelyn, then turned, walking out of the room.

I was awakened the next morning by somebody yanking the blinds open, pouring the morning sunlight onto my face.

"Close those, Isaac!" I whined, not thinking. I looked over, and for a moment it looked like him. His lazy black locks framing his face, and his pale green eyes sparkling in the sun. Then he moved, and the image was immediately replaced by one with brown hair and equally brown eyes.

Bruce stood there, looking down at me. He seemed to ignore my first comment-at least the Isaac part- because he replied with "Good morning to you, too."

I threw the comforter off of my legs and stood, facing him.

"I-I'm sorry," I said quickly. "For, y'know, kind of stealing your bed like I did." He shrugged.

"That's alright. I have plenty of guest rooms, so I still had a bed," he replied. I looked at the bandage around his arm, and last night came flooding back like a plague of lotus. He followed my eyes to his wound. "It's nothing, really," he said, thinking I was concerned about him.

"Where's…," I trailed off a moment.

"Isaac?" he finished for me. I nodded meekly. "The corner took him to the Gotham morgue. I told them I had him over as a guest when Joker showed up. I'm pretty sure he followed you here, though. I've called his family, and paid for the funeral, " he said. I was at a complete loss.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

I cleared my throat.

"Why did you do all of this for me?" I asked, folding my arms over my chest. He was silent, contemplating, for several tense moments.

"The car's out front, for you to take Miss Larrabee to retrieve her things, sir," the old butler said suddenly, making me leap in surprise.

"Great!" Bruce said to Alfred. He turned to face me. "Let's go get your things, Evelyn." I stared at him in disbelief.

"What do you mean?" I questioned as I followed him down the hall. He looked back at me over his shoulder.

"You're going to stay here," he said. I stopped, my face growing hot with the thought of staying in Bruce's house.

"You don't…no. I can find somewhere," I said quickly, resuming my pace and catching up to him.

"Nonsense, Miss Larrabee," Alfred said, smiling. I stopped again, staring at the two of them angrily.

"But why!?" I shouted. "Why are you doing all of this for me?!" They looked at me, then each other, then back to me. Bruce turned and kept headed outside.

"Wayne! Get the hell back here!" I screamed, starting after him. Alfred's hand on my arm stopped me.

"We both care deeply about you, Miss Larrabee," he said.

"Then why can't Wayne say it to my face?" I spat hotly.

"Master Bruce is…" Alfred paused. "Having an inner conflict at the moment, miss," he said. "He made me promise not to tell you, and I plan to uphold that, but I can tell you this: Master Bruce cares a lot about you, Miss Larrabee." He turned and walked after Bruce, telling me not to doddle and follow him. I stood in the expansive hall a moment longer, then trailed after the two of them.

It didn't take me very long to gather up my few things from Isaac's suite. I shoved his things in my bag as well, being careful with the picture of the two of us he had. It was back in college, and he'd flown us to Hawaii with his dad's money. It was a photo of us in front of a giant tiki head with leis on. We each held a bottle of Smirnoff, our arms over each other's shoulders, laughing.

"It's a nice photo."

Bruce startled me, to say the least. I nearly dropped the picture as I fumbled to keep a hold of it when I jumped in surprise. I turned around to face him, my heart pounding in my ears.

"Please don't do that," I said. He chuckled, apologizing.

"It is though," he repeated, referring to the picture. I looked down at it.

"He got so hammered that night," I said, remembering. "I remember…we went scuba diving the next day, as a lesson, and we both had terrible hangovers. The scuba instructor absolutely hated us." I laughed sadly. I could tell Bruce wanted to say something, but he bit his tongue and remained silent. I threw the photo in the suitcase, then zipped it up. I walked past Bruce and into the hall.

"Are you ready to leave, Miss Larrabee?" questioned Alfred. I looked around the suite one last time before I nodded.

One last morbid thought flew through my head as we re-entered Bruce's Lamborghini. At least now I'm the only one who knows who the Theatric Phantom is.

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