All the Sinners
All the Sinners
Disclaimer: All characters featured are the intellectual property of D.C. Comics and Time Warner. No infringement is intended with their usage.
Author’s Note: Although this has some basis within the Batman Begins/The Dark Knight canon, it is an AU. What if Bruce had never gone into the restaurant to talk to Falcone and thusly never been set on the path to become Batman?
Summary: Bruce Wayne is a successful private investigator in Gotham City, using his limitless resources to help the police force. Unbeknownst to Bruce, his latest case is in fact a twisted game set out by an individual who becomes very close to him.
Rating: R for violence and sexual situations.
Pairing: Eventual Bruce/Joker.
Chapter One
“…So, Father, I think that pretty much brings us up to date on my, uh, sins. Am I forgiven?” The priest on the other side of the confessional remained silent. He was, after all, dead. His killer smirked, wishing he could stay to see the look on the face of the old cleaning lady when she found him. Nothing made people flap and flail more than the death of a clergyman.
This thought brought a snarl to his face. They all preached that life was sacred, all life had meaning and all lives were of equal worth. They had to know - they had to - that it was all an insidious lie designed to make the masses feel better about themselves. Every time these pious hypocrites read about the death of a gang-banger or some other scummy lowlife in the newspaper, they smiled inside and praised their Lord: all part of the plan, right?
The Joker cussed them out under his breath, considered apologising to the Big Guy for doing so whilst still inside the church, and then laughed at the absurdity of the thought. He was already a sinner of epic proportions, therefore there was no doubt at all about where he was ending up whenever he made it to the other side.
His laughter trailed after him as he slipped out of the building.
-
Right hand gripping the to-go coffee cup as though his life depended on it (which, he argued, it might well do, since it kept him alert), Bruce pushed the door to his office open with his left, taking care not to trip over the carpet as he did so.
Setting the coffee down on his desk, Bruce checked to see what the time was: 8:30. Julie, his secretary, wouldn’t be in for another half-hour. That gave him time to get everything ready for his meeting with the Commissioner later today. Bruce liked Jim Gordon a great deal. He honestly wished he had better news.
Hmm. Time for a distraction. He began the futile task (futile because it would be horrendously untidy again tomorrow morning) of trying to make his desk look presentable, putting papers and notes he didn’t need into the desk drawers and boxes where Bruce would later inevitably have to frantically dig them out of.
He didn’t mind though, honestly he didn’t, because while being a private investigator was often unpleasant in regards to the ugly sides of humanity Bruce all too often witnessed, he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. In his own way, Bruce got to make Gotham just a little bit better, like his father had done.
His father.
Bruce shut his eyes, instantly drowning the memories that threatened to break to the surface.
All in all, fate had decided his path for him and Bruce Wayne was simply making good on the promise he had made to his parents all those years ago.
-
Jim Gordon paused outside Wayne Investigations, running his hands through his hair and straightening his clothes in a desperate effort to look more presentable. Right now, judging by his reflection in the glass panel of the door, he looked like he’d been on a three-day bender and still hadn’t made it to bed yet.
If only. A bender would’ve been heaven. The reason for his exhausted appearance was that he had spent every waking moment trying to solve the gruesome murder of a gang leader. Well, perhaps solve wasn’t quite the word, since everyone knew damn well who was responsible. Gordon just couldn’t figure out the motive behind it, much less prove it. The victim, Joseph Monroe, was still a kid for Christ sake! His gang, all teenagers like himself, were into petty crime: what reason could there be for Carmine Falcone, the most powerful gangster in the entire city, to have had Monroe killed?
Sending a message. It was usually the case. To someone like Falcone, anyone who was a threat had to be taken care of. The age of that person was immaterial. Still, Gordon just couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it.
Pushing aside his inner debate, he stepped inside and murmured a greeting to the young receptionist, gratefully accepting her offer of coffee.
“Thanks, Julie,” he said when she brought it to him. She smiled and sat back down at her desk, folding her arms in front of her as they both waited for her boss to appear.
“How are Barbara and the kids?” she asked conversationally. Gordon took a sip of the piping hot beverage, wincing a bit as it burned his tongue.
“They’re uh…well, to tell you the truth, I’ve barely seen them all week.” Why the hell was he telling her that? Gordon studied the floor as though it were fascinating, waiting for the inevitable chastising comment. It didn’t come. He looked up and saw that Julie was watching him, her face showing nothing but apparently genuine sympathy.
“It’s a horrible case, I don’t know how you can deal with these things. Once I accidentally caught sight of this photo - I think it was an autopsy photo or something - on Bruce’s desk and…” she trailed off with a shudder. It was Gordon’s turn to nod sympathetically. He’d seen more corpses than he could care to remember and, contrary to popular belief, it never got any easier.
Gordon started at the sound of someone clearing their throat. Turning around, he saw Bruce Wayne standing by the reception desk looking as haggard and worn down as Gordon felt.
“Good morning Commissioner,” Bruce said pleasantly, voice slightly raspy, probably from lack of sleep judging by the dark circles under his eyes. “If you’d like to come through…” he gestured for Gordon to follow despite the fact they’d done this a million times before, therefore such formality was, strictly speaking, unnecessary. But Gordon liked that about Bruce. Despite his wealth he never took anything for granted.
They entered Bruce’s office, which was neat for once, but going by the way some papers seemed to have been rather hastily shoved into various boxes, Gordon guessed the clean up had been somewhat rushed and very recent. Barbara’s right, I really can’t turn off ‘detective’ for five minutes.
Grinning slightly, Gordon took the chair across from Bruce. “So what have you got for me?”
“Honestly? Not much I’m afraid.” Bruce dropped his gaze to the folder on his desk, which presumably contained everything he had on the Joseph Monroe case. Gordon couldn’t help but notice it was a pitifully thin folder. He tried his best not to look disappointed. Wayne had always come through for him before. It was just going to take some time.
Gordon also had to remember that this case was somewhat different from what he had collaborated on with Bruce in the past. None of them had been quite this high profile and the higher the profile, the harder they were to crack due to the amount of ass covering - not to mention the “disappearances” of crucial witnesses - which the alleged authorities did on behalf of the mob.
Gordon was doing his best to change all that but, as uphill struggles went, he often felt that attempting to scale Everest would be a far more enjoyable and productive pursuit.
“Give me what you do have,” he said finally. “Anything is useful right now.”
Bruce told him that, from what he could gather, some of Monroe’s gang knew a couple of younger siblings of guys who worked for Falcone and they had made some pretty explicit threats of retaliation.
“But they’re all just kids!” Gordon burst out. “Surely Falcone saw this mess coming?”
“Yeah, well…maybe he thought they’d be too intimidated to do anything?” Bruce suggested. “Either way, I think this is going to get really ugly, really quickly.”
Isn’t that always the way? Gordon thought ruefully. “What else?”
Bruce hesitated a moment, picking up a page from the file and studying it with a frown. He seemed to be silently debating with himself over something. “Some kid named Johnny Frost has been going around boasting that he actually knows who killed Monroe…I haven’t found anything to back this claim but…you never know.”
This, Gordon recognised, was Bruce’s way of indirectly asking him whether he should follow the Frost lead up or not, trusting Gordon’s wealth of experience over his own. Gordon appreciated it.
The lead was a long shot if he ever saw one. Some kid looking for attention, most likely. Still, his intuition was that it should be followed up, if only to avoid wondering later on if, by ignoring it, they had missed a vital lead. Every once in a while, it was the long shots that paid off.
Both Gordon and Bruce needed this to be one of those times.
“Talk to him,” he said. Bruce raised an eyebrow sceptically but chose to stay quiet and simply nodded.
“Okay.” His tone was more than a little dubious.
-
In the middle of Crime Alley, right next to the Gotham Opera House, Johnny Frost was bleeding. Dying.
Every now and then the fingers of his left hand twitched and the Joker had to fight the desire to stamp on them, to feel the fragile bones give way under the blows. To let Johnny Frost know, as though it weren’t already clear as crystal, just how little he thought of him.
But the Joker didn’t do it. The smile was enough.
Ah, the smile. Truly it was the crowning glory on this little tableau of his. Johnny’s lovely cheeks were sliced wide open into a horrifying, eternal grin. It wasn’t quite perfect, sadly, but there was nothing to be done about that.
After all, no smile could ever quite match the beauty of the Joker’s own.
Grinning and shaking his head, the Joker glanced down and saw that, finally, Johnny Frost had stopped moving.
“Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” he murmured almost lovingly, and then chuckled to himself. The streetlights flickered to life around him as evening turned into night. Humming, the Joker strode away, happy with the world.
Disclaimer: All characters featured are the intellectual property of D.C. Comics and Time Warner. No infringement is intended with their usage.
Author’s Note: Although this has some basis within the Batman Begins/The Dark Knight canon, it is an AU. What if Bruce had never gone into the restaurant to talk to Falcone and thusly never been set on the path to become Batman?
Summary: Bruce Wayne is a successful private investigator in Gotham City, using his limitless resources to help the police force. Unbeknownst to Bruce, his latest case is in fact a twisted game set out by an individual who becomes very close to him.
Rating: R for violence and sexual situations.
Pairing: Eventual Bruce/Joker.
Chapter One
“…So, Father, I think that pretty much brings us up to date on my, uh, sins. Am I forgiven?” The priest on the other side of the confessional remained silent. He was, after all, dead. His killer smirked, wishing he could stay to see the look on the face of the old cleaning lady when she found him. Nothing made people flap and flail more than the death of a clergyman.
This thought brought a snarl to his face. They all preached that life was sacred, all life had meaning and all lives were of equal worth. They had to know - they had to - that it was all an insidious lie designed to make the masses feel better about themselves. Every time these pious hypocrites read about the death of a gang-banger or some other scummy lowlife in the newspaper, they smiled inside and praised their Lord: all part of the plan, right?
The Joker cussed them out under his breath, considered apologising to the Big Guy for doing so whilst still inside the church, and then laughed at the absurdity of the thought. He was already a sinner of epic proportions, therefore there was no doubt at all about where he was ending up whenever he made it to the other side.
His laughter trailed after him as he slipped out of the building.
-
Right hand gripping the to-go coffee cup as though his life depended on it (which, he argued, it might well do, since it kept him alert), Bruce pushed the door to his office open with his left, taking care not to trip over the carpet as he did so.
Setting the coffee down on his desk, Bruce checked to see what the time was: 8:30. Julie, his secretary, wouldn’t be in for another half-hour. That gave him time to get everything ready for his meeting with the Commissioner later today. Bruce liked Jim Gordon a great deal. He honestly wished he had better news.
Hmm. Time for a distraction. He began the futile task (futile because it would be horrendously untidy again tomorrow morning) of trying to make his desk look presentable, putting papers and notes he didn’t need into the desk drawers and boxes where Bruce would later inevitably have to frantically dig them out of.
He didn’t mind though, honestly he didn’t, because while being a private investigator was often unpleasant in regards to the ugly sides of humanity Bruce all too often witnessed, he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. In his own way, Bruce got to make Gotham just a little bit better, like his father had done.
His father.
Bruce shut his eyes, instantly drowning the memories that threatened to break to the surface.
All in all, fate had decided his path for him and Bruce Wayne was simply making good on the promise he had made to his parents all those years ago.
-
Jim Gordon paused outside Wayne Investigations, running his hands through his hair and straightening his clothes in a desperate effort to look more presentable. Right now, judging by his reflection in the glass panel of the door, he looked like he’d been on a three-day bender and still hadn’t made it to bed yet.
If only. A bender would’ve been heaven. The reason for his exhausted appearance was that he had spent every waking moment trying to solve the gruesome murder of a gang leader. Well, perhaps solve wasn’t quite the word, since everyone knew damn well who was responsible. Gordon just couldn’t figure out the motive behind it, much less prove it. The victim, Joseph Monroe, was still a kid for Christ sake! His gang, all teenagers like himself, were into petty crime: what reason could there be for Carmine Falcone, the most powerful gangster in the entire city, to have had Monroe killed?
Sending a message. It was usually the case. To someone like Falcone, anyone who was a threat had to be taken care of. The age of that person was immaterial. Still, Gordon just couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it.
Pushing aside his inner debate, he stepped inside and murmured a greeting to the young receptionist, gratefully accepting her offer of coffee.
“Thanks, Julie,” he said when she brought it to him. She smiled and sat back down at her desk, folding her arms in front of her as they both waited for her boss to appear.
“How are Barbara and the kids?” she asked conversationally. Gordon took a sip of the piping hot beverage, wincing a bit as it burned his tongue.
“They’re uh…well, to tell you the truth, I’ve barely seen them all week.” Why the hell was he telling her that? Gordon studied the floor as though it were fascinating, waiting for the inevitable chastising comment. It didn’t come. He looked up and saw that Julie was watching him, her face showing nothing but apparently genuine sympathy.
“It’s a horrible case, I don’t know how you can deal with these things. Once I accidentally caught sight of this photo - I think it was an autopsy photo or something - on Bruce’s desk and…” she trailed off with a shudder. It was Gordon’s turn to nod sympathetically. He’d seen more corpses than he could care to remember and, contrary to popular belief, it never got any easier.
Gordon started at the sound of someone clearing their throat. Turning around, he saw Bruce Wayne standing by the reception desk looking as haggard and worn down as Gordon felt.
“Good morning Commissioner,” Bruce said pleasantly, voice slightly raspy, probably from lack of sleep judging by the dark circles under his eyes. “If you’d like to come through…” he gestured for Gordon to follow despite the fact they’d done this a million times before, therefore such formality was, strictly speaking, unnecessary. But Gordon liked that about Bruce. Despite his wealth he never took anything for granted.
They entered Bruce’s office, which was neat for once, but going by the way some papers seemed to have been rather hastily shoved into various boxes, Gordon guessed the clean up had been somewhat rushed and very recent. Barbara’s right, I really can’t turn off ‘detective’ for five minutes.
Grinning slightly, Gordon took the chair across from Bruce. “So what have you got for me?”
“Honestly? Not much I’m afraid.” Bruce dropped his gaze to the folder on his desk, which presumably contained everything he had on the Joseph Monroe case. Gordon couldn’t help but notice it was a pitifully thin folder. He tried his best not to look disappointed. Wayne had always come through for him before. It was just going to take some time.
Gordon also had to remember that this case was somewhat different from what he had collaborated on with Bruce in the past. None of them had been quite this high profile and the higher the profile, the harder they were to crack due to the amount of ass covering - not to mention the “disappearances” of crucial witnesses - which the alleged authorities did on behalf of the mob.
Gordon was doing his best to change all that but, as uphill struggles went, he often felt that attempting to scale Everest would be a far more enjoyable and productive pursuit.
“Give me what you do have,” he said finally. “Anything is useful right now.”
Bruce told him that, from what he could gather, some of Monroe’s gang knew a couple of younger siblings of guys who worked for Falcone and they had made some pretty explicit threats of retaliation.
“But they’re all just kids!” Gordon burst out. “Surely Falcone saw this mess coming?”
“Yeah, well…maybe he thought they’d be too intimidated to do anything?” Bruce suggested. “Either way, I think this is going to get really ugly, really quickly.”
Isn’t that always the way? Gordon thought ruefully. “What else?”
Bruce hesitated a moment, picking up a page from the file and studying it with a frown. He seemed to be silently debating with himself over something. “Some kid named Johnny Frost has been going around boasting that he actually knows who killed Monroe…I haven’t found anything to back this claim but…you never know.”
This, Gordon recognised, was Bruce’s way of indirectly asking him whether he should follow the Frost lead up or not, trusting Gordon’s wealth of experience over his own. Gordon appreciated it.
The lead was a long shot if he ever saw one. Some kid looking for attention, most likely. Still, his intuition was that it should be followed up, if only to avoid wondering later on if, by ignoring it, they had missed a vital lead. Every once in a while, it was the long shots that paid off.
Both Gordon and Bruce needed this to be one of those times.
“Talk to him,” he said. Bruce raised an eyebrow sceptically but chose to stay quiet and simply nodded.
“Okay.” His tone was more than a little dubious.
-
In the middle of Crime Alley, right next to the Gotham Opera House, Johnny Frost was bleeding. Dying.
Every now and then the fingers of his left hand twitched and the Joker had to fight the desire to stamp on them, to feel the fragile bones give way under the blows. To let Johnny Frost know, as though it weren’t already clear as crystal, just how little he thought of him.
But the Joker didn’t do it. The smile was enough.
Ah, the smile. Truly it was the crowning glory on this little tableau of his. Johnny’s lovely cheeks were sliced wide open into a horrifying, eternal grin. It wasn’t quite perfect, sadly, but there was nothing to be done about that.
After all, no smile could ever quite match the beauty of the Joker’s own.
Grinning and shaking his head, the Joker glanced down and saw that, finally, Johnny Frost had stopped moving.
“Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” he murmured almost lovingly, and then chuckled to himself. The streetlights flickered to life around him as evening turned into night. Humming, the Joker strode away, happy with the world.