Sunny Side, Part Two
Title: Sunny Side
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied violence.
Characters, Pairing: Batman/Joker
Summary: "You want revenge, am I right?"
He could hardly contain himself. Hopeless, really-he could hardly manage to breathe. And he was having the time of his life. It was all he could do to keep the spasm from bursting and giving him away to the street-not that there were many left to hear him. If a tree falls in the forest…
He was biting his lip hard enough to be bleeding, clutching the railing with both hands. His shadow flickered on the wall as he shook, silently-violently. In a minute, he’d break the silence in half, but this, this he couldn’t interrupt. It wasn’t time for that now. Not yet, not yet. There were three silhouettes down in the alley and only one of them was moving, but he still couldn’t risk ending the show. His Bat was such a wonderful performer, after all-and how he’d outdone himself this time. Bravo! If he’d had roses, he would have thrown them down onto the stage.
He sobered quickly. This was new, at least from an angle, and he wouldn’t want to ruin what could be so fragile by rushing into it headlong. Curiosity kills, and don’t you know it. He still had yet to find his bearings in this particular wreck of events. It wasn’t that he’d been skeptical. No, no that would be the wrong phrase. But he was-he’d have to admit-he was that slightest bit surprised. That broadcast could have been such a clever little bluff in a less precarious state of affairs. And he’d been prepared. Exactly the way one ought to be when walking circles around the spring trap-everything down in your pockets and tucked up your sleeves. And from a third-floor fire escape in a back-alley he’d witnessed every bit of that rendered moot. He wasn’t shocked. No, not in the slightest. But he was-surprised.
Batsy wasn’t bluffing. A trick might have been a touch underhanded, yes, but it paled in comparison to the truth-to the honesty behind that oh-so-charming threat from the ten o’clock news. He’d always known he had it in him. Like the candy at the back of a piñata-all it took was patience and one good swing. Bang. Bulletproof glass with a lifetime’s worth of cracks straight down the middle. Someone took the liberty of dropping that last straw, and now this was it-the end of the line. How long had he been waiting for his Bat to catch up to him here?
So he came-got himself front row tickets and set about watching Act One. Below him, Bats ran the interrogation, questioned the small-timers, broke them on walls-exercised his utmost favorite pastime. So wonderfully predictable. The Batman might not kill, but he could certainly crush a ribcage as well as anyone in Gotham.
Now, though. Now, now, now-he was watching the good old familiar, set in all the right colors and dripping with all the wrong shades. The Bat dealt blows that weren’t meant to stun, snapped bones in the head and the neck and the chest-and at once it wasn’t enough to play the audience. Unchained, he was glorious-the masterpiece he’d always known was hiding in the stone. And he wanted to be close enough to taste the way he seethed as he stood falling apart.
He was silent slipping down from his perch, wore invisibility better than most-ever the opportunist-might not be able to blend the way his Bat did, but he knew how people saw, and their eyes could only ever be in so many places at once. Batsy was preoccupied-trying to remove his grappling hook from the spine of that last failed informant, poor dear. It was stuck. And, really, that had been a riot-who knew the Bat could make such creative use of his toys? Improvisational too. He was winning brownie points here by the second. And he was close now-one, two-enough to touch the Kevlar. Batsy had to have heard him. He had to know he was standing there, an arms length away, knife out and held at his side. He had to be waiting.
“Y’know,” he started, flipped the blade back to rest in his hand with the handle out, “A knife might work better.”
And then, only then, did the Bat turn around, “Joker.”
The greeting was classic-and we all know bats dine on razors and sawdust-he must have been mauling his throat. The details, though, all the subtleties-nasty little things. They laid everything bare. The word was anything but toneless. It might sound that way to Average Joe listening in through his window, but play him four years of that meat grinder of a voice and he’d be hearing it too-the Bat was surprised. Caught in the act. All proud and ashamed, like the kid who’s just had his first porno mag found by Mummy in the space under his bed. Oh, goody-if Bats had ever stopped to mourn his One Rule he was done with that drama by now, and really, he could just see it-it must have been swallowed by everything else in that cesspool floating around inside the cowl. The Bat always had been one to take things hard. So much the better. They were both, it seemed, in line for the grandest of evenings together.
He waggled the knife impatiently and Batsy took it on reflex. Of course, his expression changed when he sussed that he was, in fact, holding the Joker’s switchblade. But it didn’t change by much, “What are you doing here?”
It wasn’t a threat so much as a question-an inquiry-complete with a warning and the subtle, sideways barring of metaphorical teeth. It told him everything he needed to know. There were so many vendettas, ten thousand gallons under the bridge and a laundry list of unforgivables-this new Bat might well kill him-but not just yet.
So the Joker smiled-a wide, slow smile-all for his Bat.
“Watching.”
“‘Watching.’” The Bat repeated after him, and the threat was that much darker now that they’d gotten themselves warmed up, “What do you know about this?”
But of course-they both had to know-the honest answer would be very little. Any other plot twists and the Joker would have found himself dead at hello. He knew, and he took his time to reply-circled the bodies and the blood that had pooled in the gutter. Even as a killer, the Bat was so blunt-a born executioner-it was a marvelous production of slaughter they had on display.
He nudged a corpse with his foot, “Assassinations aren’t really my style, Batsy."
A few more steps forward, straight under the streetlight-he wanted a knife in his hand, counterproductive as it would be.
“But I did hear about Gordie. Shame, really,” he lowered his voice, the perfect conspiratorial whisper, “I hear he took it right between the eyes.”
And that-that should have been it. The Bat was never known for his patience. He waited to see the rage that so often ripped through his eyes-to feel a fist, or a knife, or a grappling hook if that was his pleasure of the day. And-nothing happened. Beneath the cowl were traces of a smile, just for spite, just to show the words had held no sway. The eyes, if anything, were vacant. For a moment it wasn’t funny at all, and then it was simply hilarious. And he had to know. In his pacing he made sure to stop with his back to the Bat, to give him the utmost temptation-stood there like a statue, counting in his head. Nine, ten. And after one long moment, stretched-like rotting taffy-the Joker grinned. He was still facing away. And he was still standing.
Now they were getting somewhere.
So he spread his arms for a little dramatic flair and turned, silhouetted in the streetlight.
“You want revenge, am I right?”
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied violence.
Characters, Pairing: Batman/Joker
Summary: "You want revenge, am I right?"
He could hardly contain himself. Hopeless, really-he could hardly manage to breathe. And he was having the time of his life. It was all he could do to keep the spasm from bursting and giving him away to the street-not that there were many left to hear him. If a tree falls in the forest…
He was biting his lip hard enough to be bleeding, clutching the railing with both hands. His shadow flickered on the wall as he shook, silently-violently. In a minute, he’d break the silence in half, but this, this he couldn’t interrupt. It wasn’t time for that now. Not yet, not yet. There were three silhouettes down in the alley and only one of them was moving, but he still couldn’t risk ending the show. His Bat was such a wonderful performer, after all-and how he’d outdone himself this time. Bravo! If he’d had roses, he would have thrown them down onto the stage.
He sobered quickly. This was new, at least from an angle, and he wouldn’t want to ruin what could be so fragile by rushing into it headlong. Curiosity kills, and don’t you know it. He still had yet to find his bearings in this particular wreck of events. It wasn’t that he’d been skeptical. No, no that would be the wrong phrase. But he was-he’d have to admit-he was that slightest bit surprised. That broadcast could have been such a clever little bluff in a less precarious state of affairs. And he’d been prepared. Exactly the way one ought to be when walking circles around the spring trap-everything down in your pockets and tucked up your sleeves. And from a third-floor fire escape in a back-alley he’d witnessed every bit of that rendered moot. He wasn’t shocked. No, not in the slightest. But he was-surprised.
Batsy wasn’t bluffing. A trick might have been a touch underhanded, yes, but it paled in comparison to the truth-to the honesty behind that oh-so-charming threat from the ten o’clock news. He’d always known he had it in him. Like the candy at the back of a piñata-all it took was patience and one good swing. Bang. Bulletproof glass with a lifetime’s worth of cracks straight down the middle. Someone took the liberty of dropping that last straw, and now this was it-the end of the line. How long had he been waiting for his Bat to catch up to him here?
So he came-got himself front row tickets and set about watching Act One. Below him, Bats ran the interrogation, questioned the small-timers, broke them on walls-exercised his utmost favorite pastime. So wonderfully predictable. The Batman might not kill, but he could certainly crush a ribcage as well as anyone in Gotham.
Now, though. Now, now, now-he was watching the good old familiar, set in all the right colors and dripping with all the wrong shades. The Bat dealt blows that weren’t meant to stun, snapped bones in the head and the neck and the chest-and at once it wasn’t enough to play the audience. Unchained, he was glorious-the masterpiece he’d always known was hiding in the stone. And he wanted to be close enough to taste the way he seethed as he stood falling apart.
He was silent slipping down from his perch, wore invisibility better than most-ever the opportunist-might not be able to blend the way his Bat did, but he knew how people saw, and their eyes could only ever be in so many places at once. Batsy was preoccupied-trying to remove his grappling hook from the spine of that last failed informant, poor dear. It was stuck. And, really, that had been a riot-who knew the Bat could make such creative use of his toys? Improvisational too. He was winning brownie points here by the second. And he was close now-one, two-enough to touch the Kevlar. Batsy had to have heard him. He had to know he was standing there, an arms length away, knife out and held at his side. He had to be waiting.
“Y’know,” he started, flipped the blade back to rest in his hand with the handle out, “A knife might work better.”
And then, only then, did the Bat turn around, “Joker.”
The greeting was classic-and we all know bats dine on razors and sawdust-he must have been mauling his throat. The details, though, all the subtleties-nasty little things. They laid everything bare. The word was anything but toneless. It might sound that way to Average Joe listening in through his window, but play him four years of that meat grinder of a voice and he’d be hearing it too-the Bat was surprised. Caught in the act. All proud and ashamed, like the kid who’s just had his first porno mag found by Mummy in the space under his bed. Oh, goody-if Bats had ever stopped to mourn his One Rule he was done with that drama by now, and really, he could just see it-it must have been swallowed by everything else in that cesspool floating around inside the cowl. The Bat always had been one to take things hard. So much the better. They were both, it seemed, in line for the grandest of evenings together.
He waggled the knife impatiently and Batsy took it on reflex. Of course, his expression changed when he sussed that he was, in fact, holding the Joker’s switchblade. But it didn’t change by much, “What are you doing here?”
It wasn’t a threat so much as a question-an inquiry-complete with a warning and the subtle, sideways barring of metaphorical teeth. It told him everything he needed to know. There were so many vendettas, ten thousand gallons under the bridge and a laundry list of unforgivables-this new Bat might well kill him-but not just yet.
So the Joker smiled-a wide, slow smile-all for his Bat.
“Watching.”
“‘Watching.’” The Bat repeated after him, and the threat was that much darker now that they’d gotten themselves warmed up, “What do you know about this?”
But of course-they both had to know-the honest answer would be very little. Any other plot twists and the Joker would have found himself dead at hello. He knew, and he took his time to reply-circled the bodies and the blood that had pooled in the gutter. Even as a killer, the Bat was so blunt-a born executioner-it was a marvelous production of slaughter they had on display.
He nudged a corpse with his foot, “Assassinations aren’t really my style, Batsy."
A few more steps forward, straight under the streetlight-he wanted a knife in his hand, counterproductive as it would be.
“But I did hear about Gordie. Shame, really,” he lowered his voice, the perfect conspiratorial whisper, “I hear he took it right between the eyes.”
And that-that should have been it. The Bat was never known for his patience. He waited to see the rage that so often ripped through his eyes-to feel a fist, or a knife, or a grappling hook if that was his pleasure of the day. And-nothing happened. Beneath the cowl were traces of a smile, just for spite, just to show the words had held no sway. The eyes, if anything, were vacant. For a moment it wasn’t funny at all, and then it was simply hilarious. And he had to know. In his pacing he made sure to stop with his back to the Bat, to give him the utmost temptation-stood there like a statue, counting in his head. Nine, ten. And after one long moment, stretched-like rotting taffy-the Joker grinned. He was still facing away. And he was still standing.
Now they were getting somewhere.
So he spread his arms for a little dramatic flair and turned, silhouetted in the streetlight.
“You want revenge, am I right?”