Break My Fall 3/4
Part One
Part Two
Bruce tosses a pack of cards down on the table between them.
“If you want me to deal, you’re gonna have to help me with the cuffs,” Joker tells him.
“Bullshit.”
Joker flashes him a grin. He grabs his left thumb in his right hand, popping it out of joint with a small grunt. He’s got the left cuff off in a matter of seconds, and makes short work of the other. “Ta-da!” he preens, waving his unshackled hands, dislocated thumbs flopping.
Bruce rolls his eyes, scoops up the pack of cards and starts shuffling. He stretches his sore knee out under the table where Joker cannot see. The ache is constant now, despite the cortisone shots and over-the-counter analgesics. He won’t take anything stronger; he can’t afford to be doped up. He can handle the pain.
“Deal,” he says, slapping the cards down in front of Joker.
Joker pushes his thumbs back into the joints and deals out the cards, a variation of poker he taught Bruce years ago. They play in silence, watching the cards and each other’s faces. It’s almost soothing, the rhythm of the game reminding Bruce of long evenings and quiet conversations. He feels something bittersweet rise in his chest.
Joker must be thinking of the same thing, because he says, “Do you remember the first time you hit me?”
“The interrogation room,” Bruce says evenly.
“No,” Joker is not deterred. “The first time. Tell me how it felt,” Joker demands, and Bruce feels sick. He does not want to talk about that. He does not want the howling pain his memories of Jack bring him.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Come on. Come on, come on, come on. Tell me,” he wheedles, eyes over-bright. Bruce hates him, with a comprehensiveness that is stunning. Rage rises up, blotting out the hurt. It calms Bruce with its tight familiarity.
“You tell me,” he lashes back.
Joker’s scars tuck up into the corners of his cheeks. “Like falling in love,” he says grandiosely. “You always knew how to make me swoon.”
He moves, faster than Bruce would have expected. It is only Bruce’s finely-honed instincts that make him turn his head away at the last second, the punch glancing off his cheek instead of shattering his nose. He plunges forward to tackle Joker, overturning the table with a crash. They both go down, punching and gouging at each other. White noise fills Bruce’s head, the buzz of endorphins coursing through his veins. His hands wrap around Joker’s neck and squeeze. Joker is still gasping out giggles. His long fingers circle Bruce’s wrists, urging him to squeeze harder. He arches between Bruce’s spread thighs, pressing closer, and Bruce leans over him, his eyes staring into the bright, mad eyes below him.
“Come on,” Joker wheezes. “Do it!”
Bruce lets go, standing abruptly. “No.”
“Tease!”
Bruce raps three times on the door to be let out.
“You can’t deny it, Brucie baby,” Joker gasps, his voice hoarse and raw. He levers himself up, his splayed legs and thin cotton pants doing nothing to hide the outline of his erection. “You can’t explain it; you can’t make it fit.”
“I’m not coming back here,” Bruce tells him. His knee is throbbing in time to his heartbeat. It will be difficult to walk out of here without giving some sign, but he’s become an expert at masking his pain.
“If you don’t, I’ll come to you.” Joker chuckles darkly.
The lock slides back and Bruce wrenches the door open.
***
Bruce wakes on Thanksgiving morning to a note taped to the balcony door. He peels it off the glass, cursing the snow that had blurred the sloppy lines of the address that Jack had scrawled across the back of a takeout menu.
A half-hour later, Bruce pulls into the abandoned lot next to a metal-sided warehouse. The side door is unlocked and Bruce slides inside, snow swirling around his boots as he pushes the door closed against the wind.
“Jesus,” he huffs, chaffing his hands and looking around. He is standing in a short hallway that opens into a large storage area. Bruce goes to the entry and looks around. The storage area is mostly empty, metal racks bare, stacks of broken pallets leaning haphazardly against the back wall. Fluorescents buzz overhead and there is a low tone like a plucked harp string, sounding over and over again, and then a nasal voice muttering to itself.
Bruce feels a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He follows the sounds around a half-overturned stack of wooden crates to find Jack, half buried in the top of a battered upright piano. Jack grunts and there is a loud, melodious thunk.
“Got it,” Jack crows. He emerges from the bowels of the piano and spies Bruce watching him. “Hey there sleepyhead, need your muscles.”
“For what?” At Jack’s shifty look Bruce groans. “You want me to move this?” He waves his hand at the piano.
“Only a few blocks.” Jack rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I’ve silenced the hammers so we won’t damage the strings.”
“I hate you,” Bruce tells him, but spends the afternoon laboriously rolling the piano through the snow to a squalid apartment building three blocks away. They somehow manage to get it up a narrow staircase without killing themselves. Jack unlocks the door and they roll it inside, discarding their coats and collapsing against the wall, panting with exertion.
I mean it,” Bruce gasps. “Hatred.”
Jack laughs in his face, but he levers himself up and moves into the tiny kitchen, pulling down a glass. He returns, handing Bruce a glass of water from the tap. Bruce drinks it as he looks around. The apartment is tiny, hardly larger than Bruce’s bedroom at the manor, with a battered door at one end that presumably leads to an equally cramped bathroom. A narrow bed sits in one corner, an overturned milk crate serving as a nightstand. Beside it is a sloping bookshelf, crammed with battered paperbacks. There is a stack of cardboard boxes next to the bookshelf, the top one opened to reveal an old alarm clock, a coil of copper wire, the handle of a hammer and other odds-and-ends. The boxes lean against a tiled kitchen island, the top cluttered with papers, newspapers, a spilled stack of VHS tapes and an overflowing ashtray. The kitchen area is mostly clean, if a bit squalid. On the other wall is an antique-looking dresser, one drawer open to reveal a jumble of bright-colored clothes. There is a large, oak-framed mirror on top, covered in taped photographs, ripped out pages of magazines, post cards from various places. There’s even a ticket stub from the Gotham Opera, tucked against a faded Savemart receipt.
Jack has rolled the piano to the foot of the bed and is standing on the mattress, his head and shoulders inside the back of the instrument. He does something that makes the piano clunk out that low tone again, and then bounces off the bed, dragging a beat-up wooden chair over and planting himself, depressing the pedals experimentally.
Jack takes a breath and begins to play something that Bruce dimly remembers from his four years of violin lessons. The piano is badly out of tune, and Jack grimaces at the sound, but he played the piece through anyway, his long, pale fingers dancing across the keys. He plays with easy mastery, the melody flowing effortlessly from his hands as he plays from memory. Jack’s shoulders rise and fall; Bruce can see his shoulder blades working through his threadbare t-shirt, his head bent to reveal the nape of his neck. His eyelids flutter closed and he strokes the keys tenderly.
Bruce watches him, his chest aching with yearning.
Jack’s eyes snap open and catch Bruce standing there stupidly, openly staring. Bruce tries to wipe the look off his face, but he isn’t sure he is entirely successful. Jack regards him for a moment, the somber melody still lingering in the air, and then he launches into the song again, playing it double-time. He waggles his eyebrows and adds a ragtime rhythm with his left hand. The mood breaks, and Bruce drift over to settle himself onto the bed, leaning against the wall and pulling a book out of his pocket. Jack keeps playing, but Bruce is no longer listening. His eyes are locked unseeingly on the page in front of him, his mind in a riot.
He’d known. Some part of Bruce has always known that he wanted Jack. But he can’t; he can’t. Jack is his closest friend and he cannot lose him. And he will, Bruce knows he will. Jack has accepted so much about him already. But this is too much It’s too much and Jack will leave, and-
The bedsprings creak as Jack settled beside him. He snatches the book from Bruce’s hand, glancing at the page. “’Some love too little, some too long; some sell and others buy. For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die,’” he reads out and then snorts and tosses the book to the foot of the bed. “Oscar Wilde. How apropos.”
He peers into Bruce’s face. Bruce smiles weakly, avoiding his eyes. Jack lets out a little huff and climbs into Bruce’s lap, wrapping his arms around Bruce and burying his face into Bruce’s neck. Bruce’s body burns everywhere Jack touches, warmth uncurling from the base of his spine. Jack’s breath ghosts against Bruce’s skin, causing it to prickle. Bruce sits rigid, petrified.
“Silly,” Jack murmurs, his lips brushing Bruce’s neck.
And then Jack draws back and kisses him.
His lips are soft and warm, slightly chapped. He slants his mouth over Bruce’s, tasting him slowly and languidly. The hand in his hair holds Bruce in place as Jack’s tongue traces the seam of his lips, licking in short strokes that make Bruce gasp, his own lips parting in invitation. Jack does not hesitate, pressing in closer, winding his tongue around Bruce’s. Bruce closes his eyes, head swimming as he kisses back.
Jack makes a noise into Bruce’s mouth and sneaks a hand under Bruce’s shirt to stroke his skin. Bruce shivers, pulls him closer. He cannot believe this is happening. He has wanted it for so long, wanted to lick the inside of that scarred mouth and feel the knots of flesh under his tongue for so long, that he can hardly believe that he is actually doing it. But the sense of unreality slowly fades as their kisses grow more heated. It is happening. Jack is kissing him, and touching him, and he is not disgusted or angry. He wants this.
Bruce breaks from the kiss, gasping hard. His fingers are clawing at the front of Jack’s t-shirt, and he pushes the fabric up, reaching inside to trace his fingers across Jack’s ribs. Jack gasps, tipping his head back and Bruce licks a long stripe up his neck, returning to suck on the skin beneath his chin. Jack shifts impossibly closer, the friction between their bodies making Bruce shiver and moan.
He rocks his hips experimentally up into Jack’s, and Jack hisses a broken, “Yes.”
Bruce goes a little crazy after that. He licks into that scarred mouth again, rocking into Jack’s hips, nearly frantic with need. Jack shifts back and Bruce groans, clutching him close, not wanting to lose an inch of this contact. Jack twists out of his grip, getting a hand in between them. His fingers slide against the erection trapped in Bruce’s pants and Bruce lets out a gasp, his head thumping back against the wall. Jack hums in approval, biting down at the exposed juncture between Bruce’s neck and shoulder.
“Jack,” Bruce gasps, and Jack bites down harder, grinding Bruce’s flesh in between his teeth as his other hand slides over Bruce’s clothed cock. Bruce comes in hot pulses, his mind blanking out.
When he comes back to himself, Jack is smiling down at him, looking equal parts pleased and lustful. Bruce surges up, turning them over, determined to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Jack’s face. His hands go to the front of Jack’s pants, undoing the fly and pulling baggy jeans and underwear down. He’s never done any of this before, but Bruce doesn’t let that stop him. He takes Jack’s leaking cock in his hand, setting a brutal rhythm. Jack arches beneath him, pushing his flesh eagerly into Bruce’s tight hand. It is over very quickly; Jack’s entire body shakes as he comes, his mouth open in a silent scream, spurting over Bruce’s hand.
They stay like that for a few seconds, panting and staring at each other in shocked delight. And then Jack pulls Bruce into a languid kiss, pushing him down onto the bed beside him. He curls into Bruce, not bothering to do up his fly. They lie motionless for a long time, the distant ticking of a clock and the buzz of traffic outside lulling Bruce. Bruce feels Jack press a kiss to his throat and then Bruce slides into sleep.
***
“Gordon.” The man doesn’t startle, but his eyebrows quirk up at Batman’s sudden appearance.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. It is the first time since Harvey Dent’s death that he’s called on the untraceable cell phone that Batman had provided. Which means that whatever this is, it is something only Batman can do. A frisson of bright anticipation trickles down Batman’s spine.
“You know that Vincent Maroni’s been rebuilding his father’s empire, right?”
“I’ve heard,” Batman answers. He’d made a point to find out, after Joker had mentioned it. As far as he can tell, Joker does not have a hand in any of it. That doesn’t mean he’s not involved somehow, though. “Maroni’s got most his father’s old lieutenants on his payroll,” Batman explains. “The Eight-sixers are in disarray with Gambol gone, so he’s taken over their territory. The Russians are in bed with him. Which means that he’s got complete control of guns and drugs in the city.”
“Correct.” Gordon doesn’t sound surprised that Batman knows this, despite the GCPD’s efforts to keep it out of the papers. “What most people don’t know is that his brother, Mario, has decided to turn state’s witness.”
Batman’s mouth curls up in grim amusement. Mario has always been a coward, hiding behind his friends, angry that daddy had passed him over for Vincent. Of course he’s jumping at the chance at some payback against the brother who was always favored above him.
“The problem is that Vincent’s got his daughter. And Mario won’t testify without a guarantee of her safety,” Gordon continues.
“Which you cannot provide,” Batman finishes.
Gordon spreads his hands. “We only just got the Dent Act passed. You know what people are saying. They think Garcia is overreaching, giving the GCPD too much power.”
“It’s necessary,” Batman says firmly. Batman is only one man, and the Dent Act has put dozens of cops on the streets, given Gordon real power to keep men like Maroni behind bars.
“Yes, but we have to play this one by the book. No going in without probable cause. We cannot let Maroni walk on a technicality.”
He removes a map from his pocket and spread it out on the top of the concrete wall. “We think she’s being held here.”
Batman memorizes the location. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. He has leaped from the building, catching the updraft, before Gordon’s ‘thank you’ reaches his ears.
***
Bruce spends the weeks between the winter holidays in a blissful fog. He divides his time between the manor and Jack’s apartment. He lays Jack back on his narrow bed and learns every angle and curve of his body with his hands and tongue. He traces soft fingertips over pale flesh, watching goosebumps spread over his lover’s skin. He gazes in rapt fascination as Jack’s comes apart under his hands, taking in each motion and sound he makes. Sometimes it is him, splayed out and arching into Jack’s eager, scarred mouth. They take their time, memorizing each other in delirious harmony.
Bruce has never been happier.
He pushes down the thought of graduation, and the acceptance letter tucked away in his dresser drawer at home. He should tell Jack. It isn’t fair that Bruce knows he will be going away in a few short months and hasn’t told him. It is cowardly, but he cannot help himself. Bruce has never belonged to anyone before. He does not want to do anything to break the tenuous threads that bind them.
He wonders if Alfred suspects the reason that Bruce is sneaking away more and more often. Probably. But the best thing about Alfred is his absolute faith in Bruce. He will not pry, or offer unsolicited advice. He lets Bruce alone.
On Christmas morning, Bruce lets himself into Jack’s apartment. Jack isn’t there, but this is no surprise. Bruce has learned that Jack will often stay away for days at a time, doing whatever it is he does when he’s in a wandering mood. Bruce doesn’t ask.
He takes off his coat and throws it over a chair. He clears off the piano top; cigarette wrappers, an overfilled ash tray, various coins, screws, matchbooks and detritus, and a snub-nosed Beretta that he’s seen Jack carrying under his coat. Bruce hates guns on principle, but he isn’t going to judge Jack for wanting the protection. It’s a dangerous neighborhood, and while Bruce knows Jack can handle himself, he doesn’t like the thought of him here alone. Bruce sets the gun aside and opens the back of the piano. He pulls out the book he’s brought with him, getting to work. It takes hours of painstaking effort, replacing frayed strings, tightening others, listening to the pitch of the tuning fork to get each note right.
He has just finished tuning the piano when he hears Jack clattering up the stairs.
Bruce closes the piano lid and sits down, playing through a few scales so Jack can hear the ringing, clear notes as he opens the door. “Hey there, man of the house. So glad you…” Bruce’s smile slides from his face as he takes in the blood on Jack’s shirt. His hands still on the keys.
“Are you-“
“It’s not mine,” Jack says grimly. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. Bruce hears the water running. The faded cherry stain of the piano blurred in front of Bruce’s eyes. He can smell the metallic scent of blood in his nostrils, feel it seeping into the knees of his pants as it pools and spreads from the prostrate bodies… He blinks, trying to wrench his mind away from the memory, but it lingers in the back of his brain-a primal, mind-numbing terror. Paralysis seeps into his muscles, gluing him to the spot. Nevertheless, he has the presence of mind to snap his head up as the bathroom door opens, Jack framed in the doorway. His hair hangs in damp strands. Bruce watches him as he crosses the room clad only in a pair of boxers. He pulls on a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. Jack’s scarred chest gleams in the low light. Bruce’s eyes slide from Jack’s pale skin to the Beretta, laying in a pile of odds and ends on the dresser’s top.
He stands, the wooden chair falling over with a loud clatter. His mind is filled with white-noise, soothing rage coursing through his veins, crowding out his terror. Jack turns to him, calmly watching as Bruce lifts a fist and punches him. The smack of his knuckles impacting Jack’s cheekbone is shockingly loud. Jack reels back but keeps his feet. His eyes meet Bruce’s, a slight smile on his face.
Bruce punches him again.
Jack crumples, his smiling mouth opening to pour out laughter and Bruce is on him, howling with rage. He pins Jack to the ground, hitting everywhere he can reach. He loses count of the blows, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t even try to control himself. He grinds against Jack, muscles burning, his mind roaring with fear-the fear of losing something that is his.
Jack is still laughing as he hits him, the sound oddly soothing. He looks up at Bruce affectionately, blood streaming from his nose, and Bruce’s wavers. Bruce draws in a gasping breath. Something knowing enters Jack’s eyes and he shifts a little, arching against Bruce’s thighs. Jack is hard, and Bruce realizes that he is, too.
“You fucking bastard,” Bruce growls, and swoops down to kiss him.
Jack’s lips meet his with equal ferocity, tongues dueling for dominance. Jack’s hands claw and twist in Bruce’s shirt before he wrenches it up, breaking the kiss to pull it over Bruce’s head. Bruce bends to bite at Jack’s throat, licking at blood. Their hips move roughly against each other, pushing, gasping in between biting kisses. The fear is still bubbling over Bruce and he buries his face in Jack’s neck, clinging to him as Jack shutters beneath him.
“Brucie, shh now, it’s all right,” Jack whispers, running soothing hands down Bruce’s back.
Bruce is shaking, his eyes stinging. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling; everything in his head is a tangle of fear and rage and need. Jack takes advantage of his confusion, flipping them over. He grasps Bruce’s wrists, holding him down with a surprisingly strong grip, and bends to kiss him, open-mouthed and sweet. His blood trickles over Bruce’s face and Jack licks it away, lips spreading heat all over Bruce’s body. Bruce shuts his eyes, his brain in freefall. Jack mouths his way down Bruce’s neck, teeth rasping over his veins, nibbling on the flesh of his bare chest. He lets Bruce’s wrists go as he shifts down, and Bruce’s hands catch in Jack’s tangled hair, pulling the other man closer. Jack sucks Bruce’s nipple into his mouth, his tongue lapping at the nub of flesh without haste. His hands smooth down Bruce’s sides, then meet to trace over his fly. Bruce arches and Jack pulls back, smiling beatifically down at him. Bruce lifts his fingers, tracing the lines of scars on Jack’s cheeks with something akin to wonder catching in his chest. Jack playfully bites at his fingers, his own hands unfastening Bruce’s pants and pulling them down to release his straining cock.
Jack bends, sliding his hot mouth down Bruce’s length. He knows Bruce’s reactions better than Bruce does and he presses his advantage now. His tongue moves ceaselessly, licking diligently up the underside, circling the tip, plunging back down. He sucks hard, and Bruce groans, liquid fire pooling in his stomach. Jack’s cups his balls, gently squeezing as his voracious tongue strips every ounce of reason from Bruce’s mind, replacing it with a fever that spreads over his skin in a wave of prickling heat. Bruce lifts his head, wanting to watch that scarred mouth stretching around him. Jack’s meets his eyes and Bruce can see him rocking, his other hand thrust into his brightly-patterned boxers. That realization-that Jack is jacking off while he sucks Bruce’s cock-sends Bruce to another place. He groans and comes, thrusting helplessly into Jack’s hot mouth. Jack doesn’t stop, sucking and licking him through it, as Bruce twitches and moans helplessly. Jack whimpers against Bruce’s sensitized flesh, his whole body shuddering as his own orgasm overtakes him.
Everything is soft afterward. The fear that plundered his mind is gone, replaced by a tired sort of resignation. They eventually get up from the floor and stumble towards the bed, collapsing in a tangle of limbs. Bruce’s fingers stroke over Jack’s bruised face in mute apology. Jack smiles at him wearily, his eyes sliding closed. Bruce waits until Jack’s breath evens out, holding the slighter man tightly against him.
“I wish I could keep you,” he murmurs into Jack’s wild hair. He pulls Jack tighter against him and closes his eyes.
***
The hotel where they are holding the girl is near the freeway; a cheap, rundown hole filled with tired truckers and homeless who’ve scrounged up the money for a night’s stay. There are three guards, sitting at a small table playing cards. The girl sits on one of the double beds, clutching a stuffed bear and watching television. Batman shatters the door with one, well-placed kick. The first guy goes down like a folding chair with one blow, and the other two aren’t any harder to subdue. Its over in a matter of minutes; three of Maroni’s thugs out cold on the dingy carpet while the girl watches him with rounded eyes.
“Are you Jenny Maroni?” he asks, crouching down to secure each man’s wrists. She nods at him, holding her teddy bear to her chest. Batman stands. “Don’t be afraid,” he says. “I’ve come to take you back to your father.” The girl is still regarding him warily, but she allows him to pick her up and take her out to the waiting Tumbler.
He will never forgive himself for what happens next. One moment he is walking towards his vehicle with the girl in his arms. The second, he hears someone shouting at him, “Stop, police!,” and then the pop of a gun discharging. Batman dives for cover. He takes a few running steps and then his bad knee twists underneath him and he hits the pavement a few dozen feet from the Tumbler. He feels the impact of the bullets hit his armor and curls protectively around the girl in his arms, crawling quickly to the vehicle, prying the door open and pushing the girl inside. Bullets ping off the side of the Tumbler, ricocheting against the walls of the hotel, bits of masonry and paint exploding off at the impact.
“Batman, come out! You are under arrest!” He hears a voice call, and he peers over the Tumbler to see two rookie cops ducking down behind the doors of a police cruiser. One is desperately calling for backup over the radio, the wail of sirens already rending the air. Batman dives into the Tumbler, gunning it towards the police cruiser. The cops scatter as he hits the bumper, driving up and over it.
“Hold on,” he tells the girl in the other seat as he floors it, passing two police cars coming up the exit with lights flashing. They turn, giving chase.
The girl beside him lets out a small cry and Batman glances over at her, and then turns his attention more fully onto her, his heart catching. The girl is bent over, both hands clutching her stomach. Red stains her pink pajamas, seeping from around her hands. He reaches out but she shrinks from his touch, gasping in pain with the slight movement.
“Hold on!” he tells her again. “Just hold on!”
He heads downtown, police sirens screaming behind him. More have joined the chase; he can hear their chatter through the police scanner. Minutes tick by as Batman tries to shake them. He makes a series of sharp turns, counting on the Tumbler’s agility to lose a few of his pursuers in the winding, twisting streets of the Narrows. He turns off the lights and runs off the road, skirting the harbor. The cruisers scream past him, still heading downtown, and he throws the Tumbler into reverse and heads back towards the expressway.
“Alfred,” he calls on the radio. “I’ve got the girl but she’s been shot. I’m headed towards Saint Michaels. I need an emergency team outside.”
He glances at the girl again. She sits slumped against the door facing him, her face slack, her sightless eyes staring towards him. “No,” Batman moans, reaching for her. He can’t feel a pulse through his gloves and he peels one off desperately, driving one-handed and pressing two fingers to her jugular. Her hands slip from her middle, blood staining her entire front and puddling on the floor below. “No!”
“Batman?” Alfred’s concerned voice comes through the speakers.
Batman draws back, clutching the steering wheel in both hands.
“Belay that,” he speaks through gritted teeth. “She’s dead.”
He hears the old man’s indrawn breath. He closes his eyes, not wanting whatever comforting thing Alfred is going to say. He switches off the radio and pulls the Tumbler to a stop. The girl has fallen forward and he presses her back into the seat, smoothing brown hair from her face. Anger and grief howl through him, leaving him shaking and helpless. His fist hits the steering wheel, his bare flesh slipping, wet with Jenny Maroni’s blood.
His fault.
He screams, fists hitting the dashboard, leather and plastic cracking under the assault.
His fault.
If had said no, told Gordon the truth… The truth that he has never spoken aloud to anyone. The truth that he has barely acknowledged to himself. The truth that he should have admitted the first time he knew that his leg couldn’t carry him anymore.
He shakes his head. He doesn’t have time for this. He looks over at the small body beside him, nausea twisting his gut. He breaths slowly, pulling himself back together. He pulls out his cell phone. It is answered in one ring.
“Batman, Jesus I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that a patrol car would be-“
“The girl was shot,” Batman cuts Gordon off. “I am taking her to Saint Michaels. Meet me on the roof.”
He hangs up. His hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists. He is abruptly reminded of something Jack said to him the first time they met: There is no fairness in this world. Fair doesn’t matter.
What matters is who wins.
Batman pulls his gauntlet back on and heads downtown.
***
Jack switches on the TV, throwing himself onto the threadbare couch. They are in the boathouse. It is still too early in the spring to swim, but they’ve taken to meeting here rather than Bruce’s bedroom at the manor whenever they aren’t at Jack’s place. Bruce likes the privacy, but if he’s honest, he would rather be in Jack’s space. With graduation only a few weeks away, Bruce is grasping at minutes, he knows--anticipating the day when this is all going to end. If he holds Jack a bit too closely, squeezes too tightly in his frantic need to be near him, Jack says nothing.
Now, Jack surfs through channels until he finds GNC and sinks back. Bruce groans.
“Come back to bed.”
“Waste of time,” Jack calls. “Hey, did ya see that Maroni and Falcone are making nice?”
Bruce rolls out of bed and pads naked to lean over the back of the couch. “I do read the newspaper, you know,” he says drily, laying his forehead on Jack’s bare shoulder.
“Do you think they’ll make Mario some kind of kingpin?”
“That asshole? Never.” Bruce stands, retrieving his boxers from the floor and putting them on before sliding next to Jack on the couch. “He doesn’t have the brains.”
“His brother does, though.” Jack lays his head in Bruce’s lap, still watching the glossy newspeople on the screen. Bruce rolls his eyes at the broadcast, burying a hand in Jack’s hair. They’re calling Falcone a businessman, for Christ’s sake. Talk about unreliable news sources…
“I met him,” Jack goes on.
“Who?”
“Vincent Maroni. He’s smart. Vicious.” Jack grins evilly. “But banal, like all his kind. No imagination. No style. Just the same sort of common criminal that takes over every town.”
Bruce’s hand pets through Jack’s hair, tangling in curls. “Well, maybe we ought to take the town back then.”
“What, become a mobster?” Jack snorts. “No thanks.”
“I don’t mean a mobster. Something else. Something they would fear…” Bruce’s voice trails off.
Jack is looking at his strangely. “Like what?”
Bruce shrugs. He’s never really thought about it. He hates thugs like Maroni, but it’s not like there’s anything he can do about them. The world isn’t fair. No one can change that.
***
“Batman,” Gordon greets. “What happened?”
“Is Maroni downstairs?”
“Yes.” He runs a hand through his silvering hair. “I called him, but I didn’t know what to tell him.”
“Tell him that I killed her.”
There is a beat of ringing silence between them before Gordon turns on him. “Bullshit,” he says vehemently. “That is bullshit and we both know it. I’m not going to-“
“It’s what is needed,” Batman says tiredly. “Think about it. If you convince Mario that I was working for Vincent-“
“He won’t buy that,” Gordon interjects.
“He will. If you tell him, he will.” Batman walks to the edge of the building and looks over. It is a long way down. “Commissioner-Jim. No one likes Batman. The mob doesn’t like me because of what I do, and the public doesn’t like me because I have to do it. It’s why they believed you about Harvey. It’s why they will believe you now.”
He speaks all of this gently, each word tearing a strip from his heart. It is the truth. It has always been the truth. Batman is a necessary evil, but still an evil.
“You’re a hero,” Gordon says, as if reading his mind. “If people knew what you’d done-who you are…”
Batman laughs bitterly. “Maybe I’m just a guy who doesn’t know when to stop.”
Gordon gives a mirthless chuckle. “That’s probably true.” He turns to face Batman, still staring over the edge of the building. “But this isn’t right. It isn’t fair.”
“Fair doesn’t matter.”
Gordon regards him for a long minute before he nods. “I don’t like this. But I’ll do it.”
Batman’s shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you.” He jumps onto the ledge, about to trigger his cape and fling himself forward when Gordon’s voice stops him.
“I want you to promise me something.” Gordon steps closer, his voice intense. “If I do this, if I let you take the fall again, then you have to promise me that you will stop this. I have the manpower, and with Mario’s help we will take out the last of the mob in Gotham. Go out and live your life. Do whatever it is you do, but don’t come back.”
Batman lets his eyes slide closed. Wind whips around his face, stirring the folds of his cloak. His chest aches, but he turns and catches Gordon’s eye. Gordon’s face is creased in sympathy, and Batman can see how much it hurt Gordon to say all of that. He is abruptly reminded of the first time he met this man-a beat cop offering comfort to a child who had just lost his parents.
“I promise,” Batman rasps, chest raw with howling grief. He doesn’t wait for Gordon’s answer-just flings himself into the night.
***
At 9am, Gordon makes the announcement of Jenny Maroni’s death at the hands of Batman, and the subsequent arrest of Vincent Maroni.
At noon, he gets the message that Joker has escaped from Arkham Asylum.
Part Four
Part Two
Bruce tosses a pack of cards down on the table between them.
“If you want me to deal, you’re gonna have to help me with the cuffs,” Joker tells him.
“Bullshit.”
Joker flashes him a grin. He grabs his left thumb in his right hand, popping it out of joint with a small grunt. He’s got the left cuff off in a matter of seconds, and makes short work of the other. “Ta-da!” he preens, waving his unshackled hands, dislocated thumbs flopping.
Bruce rolls his eyes, scoops up the pack of cards and starts shuffling. He stretches his sore knee out under the table where Joker cannot see. The ache is constant now, despite the cortisone shots and over-the-counter analgesics. He won’t take anything stronger; he can’t afford to be doped up. He can handle the pain.
“Deal,” he says, slapping the cards down in front of Joker.
Joker pushes his thumbs back into the joints and deals out the cards, a variation of poker he taught Bruce years ago. They play in silence, watching the cards and each other’s faces. It’s almost soothing, the rhythm of the game reminding Bruce of long evenings and quiet conversations. He feels something bittersweet rise in his chest.
Joker must be thinking of the same thing, because he says, “Do you remember the first time you hit me?”
“The interrogation room,” Bruce says evenly.
“No,” Joker is not deterred. “The first time. Tell me how it felt,” Joker demands, and Bruce feels sick. He does not want to talk about that. He does not want the howling pain his memories of Jack bring him.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Come on. Come on, come on, come on. Tell me,” he wheedles, eyes over-bright. Bruce hates him, with a comprehensiveness that is stunning. Rage rises up, blotting out the hurt. It calms Bruce with its tight familiarity.
“You tell me,” he lashes back.
Joker’s scars tuck up into the corners of his cheeks. “Like falling in love,” he says grandiosely. “You always knew how to make me swoon.”
He moves, faster than Bruce would have expected. It is only Bruce’s finely-honed instincts that make him turn his head away at the last second, the punch glancing off his cheek instead of shattering his nose. He plunges forward to tackle Joker, overturning the table with a crash. They both go down, punching and gouging at each other. White noise fills Bruce’s head, the buzz of endorphins coursing through his veins. His hands wrap around Joker’s neck and squeeze. Joker is still gasping out giggles. His long fingers circle Bruce’s wrists, urging him to squeeze harder. He arches between Bruce’s spread thighs, pressing closer, and Bruce leans over him, his eyes staring into the bright, mad eyes below him.
“Come on,” Joker wheezes. “Do it!”
Bruce lets go, standing abruptly. “No.”
“Tease!”
Bruce raps three times on the door to be let out.
“You can’t deny it, Brucie baby,” Joker gasps, his voice hoarse and raw. He levers himself up, his splayed legs and thin cotton pants doing nothing to hide the outline of his erection. “You can’t explain it; you can’t make it fit.”
“I’m not coming back here,” Bruce tells him. His knee is throbbing in time to his heartbeat. It will be difficult to walk out of here without giving some sign, but he’s become an expert at masking his pain.
“If you don’t, I’ll come to you.” Joker chuckles darkly.
The lock slides back and Bruce wrenches the door open.
***
Bruce wakes on Thanksgiving morning to a note taped to the balcony door. He peels it off the glass, cursing the snow that had blurred the sloppy lines of the address that Jack had scrawled across the back of a takeout menu.
A half-hour later, Bruce pulls into the abandoned lot next to a metal-sided warehouse. The side door is unlocked and Bruce slides inside, snow swirling around his boots as he pushes the door closed against the wind.
“Jesus,” he huffs, chaffing his hands and looking around. He is standing in a short hallway that opens into a large storage area. Bruce goes to the entry and looks around. The storage area is mostly empty, metal racks bare, stacks of broken pallets leaning haphazardly against the back wall. Fluorescents buzz overhead and there is a low tone like a plucked harp string, sounding over and over again, and then a nasal voice muttering to itself.
Bruce feels a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He follows the sounds around a half-overturned stack of wooden crates to find Jack, half buried in the top of a battered upright piano. Jack grunts and there is a loud, melodious thunk.
“Got it,” Jack crows. He emerges from the bowels of the piano and spies Bruce watching him. “Hey there sleepyhead, need your muscles.”
“For what?” At Jack’s shifty look Bruce groans. “You want me to move this?” He waves his hand at the piano.
“Only a few blocks.” Jack rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I’ve silenced the hammers so we won’t damage the strings.”
“I hate you,” Bruce tells him, but spends the afternoon laboriously rolling the piano through the snow to a squalid apartment building three blocks away. They somehow manage to get it up a narrow staircase without killing themselves. Jack unlocks the door and they roll it inside, discarding their coats and collapsing against the wall, panting with exertion.
I mean it,” Bruce gasps. “Hatred.”
Jack laughs in his face, but he levers himself up and moves into the tiny kitchen, pulling down a glass. He returns, handing Bruce a glass of water from the tap. Bruce drinks it as he looks around. The apartment is tiny, hardly larger than Bruce’s bedroom at the manor, with a battered door at one end that presumably leads to an equally cramped bathroom. A narrow bed sits in one corner, an overturned milk crate serving as a nightstand. Beside it is a sloping bookshelf, crammed with battered paperbacks. There is a stack of cardboard boxes next to the bookshelf, the top one opened to reveal an old alarm clock, a coil of copper wire, the handle of a hammer and other odds-and-ends. The boxes lean against a tiled kitchen island, the top cluttered with papers, newspapers, a spilled stack of VHS tapes and an overflowing ashtray. The kitchen area is mostly clean, if a bit squalid. On the other wall is an antique-looking dresser, one drawer open to reveal a jumble of bright-colored clothes. There is a large, oak-framed mirror on top, covered in taped photographs, ripped out pages of magazines, post cards from various places. There’s even a ticket stub from the Gotham Opera, tucked against a faded Savemart receipt.
Jack has rolled the piano to the foot of the bed and is standing on the mattress, his head and shoulders inside the back of the instrument. He does something that makes the piano clunk out that low tone again, and then bounces off the bed, dragging a beat-up wooden chair over and planting himself, depressing the pedals experimentally.
Jack takes a breath and begins to play something that Bruce dimly remembers from his four years of violin lessons. The piano is badly out of tune, and Jack grimaces at the sound, but he played the piece through anyway, his long, pale fingers dancing across the keys. He plays with easy mastery, the melody flowing effortlessly from his hands as he plays from memory. Jack’s shoulders rise and fall; Bruce can see his shoulder blades working through his threadbare t-shirt, his head bent to reveal the nape of his neck. His eyelids flutter closed and he strokes the keys tenderly.
Bruce watches him, his chest aching with yearning.
Jack’s eyes snap open and catch Bruce standing there stupidly, openly staring. Bruce tries to wipe the look off his face, but he isn’t sure he is entirely successful. Jack regards him for a moment, the somber melody still lingering in the air, and then he launches into the song again, playing it double-time. He waggles his eyebrows and adds a ragtime rhythm with his left hand. The mood breaks, and Bruce drift over to settle himself onto the bed, leaning against the wall and pulling a book out of his pocket. Jack keeps playing, but Bruce is no longer listening. His eyes are locked unseeingly on the page in front of him, his mind in a riot.
He’d known. Some part of Bruce has always known that he wanted Jack. But he can’t; he can’t. Jack is his closest friend and he cannot lose him. And he will, Bruce knows he will. Jack has accepted so much about him already. But this is too much It’s too much and Jack will leave, and-
The bedsprings creak as Jack settled beside him. He snatches the book from Bruce’s hand, glancing at the page. “’Some love too little, some too long; some sell and others buy. For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die,’” he reads out and then snorts and tosses the book to the foot of the bed. “Oscar Wilde. How apropos.”
He peers into Bruce’s face. Bruce smiles weakly, avoiding his eyes. Jack lets out a little huff and climbs into Bruce’s lap, wrapping his arms around Bruce and burying his face into Bruce’s neck. Bruce’s body burns everywhere Jack touches, warmth uncurling from the base of his spine. Jack’s breath ghosts against Bruce’s skin, causing it to prickle. Bruce sits rigid, petrified.
“Silly,” Jack murmurs, his lips brushing Bruce’s neck.
And then Jack draws back and kisses him.
His lips are soft and warm, slightly chapped. He slants his mouth over Bruce’s, tasting him slowly and languidly. The hand in his hair holds Bruce in place as Jack’s tongue traces the seam of his lips, licking in short strokes that make Bruce gasp, his own lips parting in invitation. Jack does not hesitate, pressing in closer, winding his tongue around Bruce’s. Bruce closes his eyes, head swimming as he kisses back.
Jack makes a noise into Bruce’s mouth and sneaks a hand under Bruce’s shirt to stroke his skin. Bruce shivers, pulls him closer. He cannot believe this is happening. He has wanted it for so long, wanted to lick the inside of that scarred mouth and feel the knots of flesh under his tongue for so long, that he can hardly believe that he is actually doing it. But the sense of unreality slowly fades as their kisses grow more heated. It is happening. Jack is kissing him, and touching him, and he is not disgusted or angry. He wants this.
Bruce breaks from the kiss, gasping hard. His fingers are clawing at the front of Jack’s t-shirt, and he pushes the fabric up, reaching inside to trace his fingers across Jack’s ribs. Jack gasps, tipping his head back and Bruce licks a long stripe up his neck, returning to suck on the skin beneath his chin. Jack shifts impossibly closer, the friction between their bodies making Bruce shiver and moan.
He rocks his hips experimentally up into Jack’s, and Jack hisses a broken, “Yes.”
Bruce goes a little crazy after that. He licks into that scarred mouth again, rocking into Jack’s hips, nearly frantic with need. Jack shifts back and Bruce groans, clutching him close, not wanting to lose an inch of this contact. Jack twists out of his grip, getting a hand in between them. His fingers slide against the erection trapped in Bruce’s pants and Bruce lets out a gasp, his head thumping back against the wall. Jack hums in approval, biting down at the exposed juncture between Bruce’s neck and shoulder.
“Jack,” Bruce gasps, and Jack bites down harder, grinding Bruce’s flesh in between his teeth as his other hand slides over Bruce’s clothed cock. Bruce comes in hot pulses, his mind blanking out.
When he comes back to himself, Jack is smiling down at him, looking equal parts pleased and lustful. Bruce surges up, turning them over, determined to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Jack’s face. His hands go to the front of Jack’s pants, undoing the fly and pulling baggy jeans and underwear down. He’s never done any of this before, but Bruce doesn’t let that stop him. He takes Jack’s leaking cock in his hand, setting a brutal rhythm. Jack arches beneath him, pushing his flesh eagerly into Bruce’s tight hand. It is over very quickly; Jack’s entire body shakes as he comes, his mouth open in a silent scream, spurting over Bruce’s hand.
They stay like that for a few seconds, panting and staring at each other in shocked delight. And then Jack pulls Bruce into a languid kiss, pushing him down onto the bed beside him. He curls into Bruce, not bothering to do up his fly. They lie motionless for a long time, the distant ticking of a clock and the buzz of traffic outside lulling Bruce. Bruce feels Jack press a kiss to his throat and then Bruce slides into sleep.
***
“Gordon.” The man doesn’t startle, but his eyebrows quirk up at Batman’s sudden appearance.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. It is the first time since Harvey Dent’s death that he’s called on the untraceable cell phone that Batman had provided. Which means that whatever this is, it is something only Batman can do. A frisson of bright anticipation trickles down Batman’s spine.
“You know that Vincent Maroni’s been rebuilding his father’s empire, right?”
“I’ve heard,” Batman answers. He’d made a point to find out, after Joker had mentioned it. As far as he can tell, Joker does not have a hand in any of it. That doesn’t mean he’s not involved somehow, though. “Maroni’s got most his father’s old lieutenants on his payroll,” Batman explains. “The Eight-sixers are in disarray with Gambol gone, so he’s taken over their territory. The Russians are in bed with him. Which means that he’s got complete control of guns and drugs in the city.”
“Correct.” Gordon doesn’t sound surprised that Batman knows this, despite the GCPD’s efforts to keep it out of the papers. “What most people don’t know is that his brother, Mario, has decided to turn state’s witness.”
Batman’s mouth curls up in grim amusement. Mario has always been a coward, hiding behind his friends, angry that daddy had passed him over for Vincent. Of course he’s jumping at the chance at some payback against the brother who was always favored above him.
“The problem is that Vincent’s got his daughter. And Mario won’t testify without a guarantee of her safety,” Gordon continues.
“Which you cannot provide,” Batman finishes.
Gordon spreads his hands. “We only just got the Dent Act passed. You know what people are saying. They think Garcia is overreaching, giving the GCPD too much power.”
“It’s necessary,” Batman says firmly. Batman is only one man, and the Dent Act has put dozens of cops on the streets, given Gordon real power to keep men like Maroni behind bars.
“Yes, but we have to play this one by the book. No going in without probable cause. We cannot let Maroni walk on a technicality.”
He removes a map from his pocket and spread it out on the top of the concrete wall. “We think she’s being held here.”
Batman memorizes the location. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. He has leaped from the building, catching the updraft, before Gordon’s ‘thank you’ reaches his ears.
***
Bruce spends the weeks between the winter holidays in a blissful fog. He divides his time between the manor and Jack’s apartment. He lays Jack back on his narrow bed and learns every angle and curve of his body with his hands and tongue. He traces soft fingertips over pale flesh, watching goosebumps spread over his lover’s skin. He gazes in rapt fascination as Jack’s comes apart under his hands, taking in each motion and sound he makes. Sometimes it is him, splayed out and arching into Jack’s eager, scarred mouth. They take their time, memorizing each other in delirious harmony.
Bruce has never been happier.
He pushes down the thought of graduation, and the acceptance letter tucked away in his dresser drawer at home. He should tell Jack. It isn’t fair that Bruce knows he will be going away in a few short months and hasn’t told him. It is cowardly, but he cannot help himself. Bruce has never belonged to anyone before. He does not want to do anything to break the tenuous threads that bind them.
He wonders if Alfred suspects the reason that Bruce is sneaking away more and more often. Probably. But the best thing about Alfred is his absolute faith in Bruce. He will not pry, or offer unsolicited advice. He lets Bruce alone.
On Christmas morning, Bruce lets himself into Jack’s apartment. Jack isn’t there, but this is no surprise. Bruce has learned that Jack will often stay away for days at a time, doing whatever it is he does when he’s in a wandering mood. Bruce doesn’t ask.
He takes off his coat and throws it over a chair. He clears off the piano top; cigarette wrappers, an overfilled ash tray, various coins, screws, matchbooks and detritus, and a snub-nosed Beretta that he’s seen Jack carrying under his coat. Bruce hates guns on principle, but he isn’t going to judge Jack for wanting the protection. It’s a dangerous neighborhood, and while Bruce knows Jack can handle himself, he doesn’t like the thought of him here alone. Bruce sets the gun aside and opens the back of the piano. He pulls out the book he’s brought with him, getting to work. It takes hours of painstaking effort, replacing frayed strings, tightening others, listening to the pitch of the tuning fork to get each note right.
He has just finished tuning the piano when he hears Jack clattering up the stairs.
Bruce closes the piano lid and sits down, playing through a few scales so Jack can hear the ringing, clear notes as he opens the door. “Hey there, man of the house. So glad you…” Bruce’s smile slides from his face as he takes in the blood on Jack’s shirt. His hands still on the keys.
“Are you-“
“It’s not mine,” Jack says grimly. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. Bruce hears the water running. The faded cherry stain of the piano blurred in front of Bruce’s eyes. He can smell the metallic scent of blood in his nostrils, feel it seeping into the knees of his pants as it pools and spreads from the prostrate bodies… He blinks, trying to wrench his mind away from the memory, but it lingers in the back of his brain-a primal, mind-numbing terror. Paralysis seeps into his muscles, gluing him to the spot. Nevertheless, he has the presence of mind to snap his head up as the bathroom door opens, Jack framed in the doorway. His hair hangs in damp strands. Bruce watches him as he crosses the room clad only in a pair of boxers. He pulls on a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. Jack’s scarred chest gleams in the low light. Bruce’s eyes slide from Jack’s pale skin to the Beretta, laying in a pile of odds and ends on the dresser’s top.
He stands, the wooden chair falling over with a loud clatter. His mind is filled with white-noise, soothing rage coursing through his veins, crowding out his terror. Jack turns to him, calmly watching as Bruce lifts a fist and punches him. The smack of his knuckles impacting Jack’s cheekbone is shockingly loud. Jack reels back but keeps his feet. His eyes meet Bruce’s, a slight smile on his face.
Bruce punches him again.
Jack crumples, his smiling mouth opening to pour out laughter and Bruce is on him, howling with rage. He pins Jack to the ground, hitting everywhere he can reach. He loses count of the blows, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t even try to control himself. He grinds against Jack, muscles burning, his mind roaring with fear-the fear of losing something that is his.
Jack is still laughing as he hits him, the sound oddly soothing. He looks up at Bruce affectionately, blood streaming from his nose, and Bruce’s wavers. Bruce draws in a gasping breath. Something knowing enters Jack’s eyes and he shifts a little, arching against Bruce’s thighs. Jack is hard, and Bruce realizes that he is, too.
“You fucking bastard,” Bruce growls, and swoops down to kiss him.
Jack’s lips meet his with equal ferocity, tongues dueling for dominance. Jack’s hands claw and twist in Bruce’s shirt before he wrenches it up, breaking the kiss to pull it over Bruce’s head. Bruce bends to bite at Jack’s throat, licking at blood. Their hips move roughly against each other, pushing, gasping in between biting kisses. The fear is still bubbling over Bruce and he buries his face in Jack’s neck, clinging to him as Jack shutters beneath him.
“Brucie, shh now, it’s all right,” Jack whispers, running soothing hands down Bruce’s back.
Bruce is shaking, his eyes stinging. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling; everything in his head is a tangle of fear and rage and need. Jack takes advantage of his confusion, flipping them over. He grasps Bruce’s wrists, holding him down with a surprisingly strong grip, and bends to kiss him, open-mouthed and sweet. His blood trickles over Bruce’s face and Jack licks it away, lips spreading heat all over Bruce’s body. Bruce shuts his eyes, his brain in freefall. Jack mouths his way down Bruce’s neck, teeth rasping over his veins, nibbling on the flesh of his bare chest. He lets Bruce’s wrists go as he shifts down, and Bruce’s hands catch in Jack’s tangled hair, pulling the other man closer. Jack sucks Bruce’s nipple into his mouth, his tongue lapping at the nub of flesh without haste. His hands smooth down Bruce’s sides, then meet to trace over his fly. Bruce arches and Jack pulls back, smiling beatifically down at him. Bruce lifts his fingers, tracing the lines of scars on Jack’s cheeks with something akin to wonder catching in his chest. Jack playfully bites at his fingers, his own hands unfastening Bruce’s pants and pulling them down to release his straining cock.
Jack bends, sliding his hot mouth down Bruce’s length. He knows Bruce’s reactions better than Bruce does and he presses his advantage now. His tongue moves ceaselessly, licking diligently up the underside, circling the tip, plunging back down. He sucks hard, and Bruce groans, liquid fire pooling in his stomach. Jack’s cups his balls, gently squeezing as his voracious tongue strips every ounce of reason from Bruce’s mind, replacing it with a fever that spreads over his skin in a wave of prickling heat. Bruce lifts his head, wanting to watch that scarred mouth stretching around him. Jack’s meets his eyes and Bruce can see him rocking, his other hand thrust into his brightly-patterned boxers. That realization-that Jack is jacking off while he sucks Bruce’s cock-sends Bruce to another place. He groans and comes, thrusting helplessly into Jack’s hot mouth. Jack doesn’t stop, sucking and licking him through it, as Bruce twitches and moans helplessly. Jack whimpers against Bruce’s sensitized flesh, his whole body shuddering as his own orgasm overtakes him.
Everything is soft afterward. The fear that plundered his mind is gone, replaced by a tired sort of resignation. They eventually get up from the floor and stumble towards the bed, collapsing in a tangle of limbs. Bruce’s fingers stroke over Jack’s bruised face in mute apology. Jack smiles at him wearily, his eyes sliding closed. Bruce waits until Jack’s breath evens out, holding the slighter man tightly against him.
“I wish I could keep you,” he murmurs into Jack’s wild hair. He pulls Jack tighter against him and closes his eyes.
***
The hotel where they are holding the girl is near the freeway; a cheap, rundown hole filled with tired truckers and homeless who’ve scrounged up the money for a night’s stay. There are three guards, sitting at a small table playing cards. The girl sits on one of the double beds, clutching a stuffed bear and watching television. Batman shatters the door with one, well-placed kick. The first guy goes down like a folding chair with one blow, and the other two aren’t any harder to subdue. Its over in a matter of minutes; three of Maroni’s thugs out cold on the dingy carpet while the girl watches him with rounded eyes.
“Are you Jenny Maroni?” he asks, crouching down to secure each man’s wrists. She nods at him, holding her teddy bear to her chest. Batman stands. “Don’t be afraid,” he says. “I’ve come to take you back to your father.” The girl is still regarding him warily, but she allows him to pick her up and take her out to the waiting Tumbler.
He will never forgive himself for what happens next. One moment he is walking towards his vehicle with the girl in his arms. The second, he hears someone shouting at him, “Stop, police!,” and then the pop of a gun discharging. Batman dives for cover. He takes a few running steps and then his bad knee twists underneath him and he hits the pavement a few dozen feet from the Tumbler. He feels the impact of the bullets hit his armor and curls protectively around the girl in his arms, crawling quickly to the vehicle, prying the door open and pushing the girl inside. Bullets ping off the side of the Tumbler, ricocheting against the walls of the hotel, bits of masonry and paint exploding off at the impact.
“Batman, come out! You are under arrest!” He hears a voice call, and he peers over the Tumbler to see two rookie cops ducking down behind the doors of a police cruiser. One is desperately calling for backup over the radio, the wail of sirens already rending the air. Batman dives into the Tumbler, gunning it towards the police cruiser. The cops scatter as he hits the bumper, driving up and over it.
“Hold on,” he tells the girl in the other seat as he floors it, passing two police cars coming up the exit with lights flashing. They turn, giving chase.
The girl beside him lets out a small cry and Batman glances over at her, and then turns his attention more fully onto her, his heart catching. The girl is bent over, both hands clutching her stomach. Red stains her pink pajamas, seeping from around her hands. He reaches out but she shrinks from his touch, gasping in pain with the slight movement.
“Hold on!” he tells her again. “Just hold on!”
He heads downtown, police sirens screaming behind him. More have joined the chase; he can hear their chatter through the police scanner. Minutes tick by as Batman tries to shake them. He makes a series of sharp turns, counting on the Tumbler’s agility to lose a few of his pursuers in the winding, twisting streets of the Narrows. He turns off the lights and runs off the road, skirting the harbor. The cruisers scream past him, still heading downtown, and he throws the Tumbler into reverse and heads back towards the expressway.
“Alfred,” he calls on the radio. “I’ve got the girl but she’s been shot. I’m headed towards Saint Michaels. I need an emergency team outside.”
He glances at the girl again. She sits slumped against the door facing him, her face slack, her sightless eyes staring towards him. “No,” Batman moans, reaching for her. He can’t feel a pulse through his gloves and he peels one off desperately, driving one-handed and pressing two fingers to her jugular. Her hands slip from her middle, blood staining her entire front and puddling on the floor below. “No!”
“Batman?” Alfred’s concerned voice comes through the speakers.
Batman draws back, clutching the steering wheel in both hands.
“Belay that,” he speaks through gritted teeth. “She’s dead.”
He hears the old man’s indrawn breath. He closes his eyes, not wanting whatever comforting thing Alfred is going to say. He switches off the radio and pulls the Tumbler to a stop. The girl has fallen forward and he presses her back into the seat, smoothing brown hair from her face. Anger and grief howl through him, leaving him shaking and helpless. His fist hits the steering wheel, his bare flesh slipping, wet with Jenny Maroni’s blood.
His fault.
He screams, fists hitting the dashboard, leather and plastic cracking under the assault.
His fault.
If had said no, told Gordon the truth… The truth that he has never spoken aloud to anyone. The truth that he has barely acknowledged to himself. The truth that he should have admitted the first time he knew that his leg couldn’t carry him anymore.
He shakes his head. He doesn’t have time for this. He looks over at the small body beside him, nausea twisting his gut. He breaths slowly, pulling himself back together. He pulls out his cell phone. It is answered in one ring.
“Batman, Jesus I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that a patrol car would be-“
“The girl was shot,” Batman cuts Gordon off. “I am taking her to Saint Michaels. Meet me on the roof.”
He hangs up. His hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists. He is abruptly reminded of something Jack said to him the first time they met: There is no fairness in this world. Fair doesn’t matter.
What matters is who wins.
Batman pulls his gauntlet back on and heads downtown.
***
Jack switches on the TV, throwing himself onto the threadbare couch. They are in the boathouse. It is still too early in the spring to swim, but they’ve taken to meeting here rather than Bruce’s bedroom at the manor whenever they aren’t at Jack’s place. Bruce likes the privacy, but if he’s honest, he would rather be in Jack’s space. With graduation only a few weeks away, Bruce is grasping at minutes, he knows--anticipating the day when this is all going to end. If he holds Jack a bit too closely, squeezes too tightly in his frantic need to be near him, Jack says nothing.
Now, Jack surfs through channels until he finds GNC and sinks back. Bruce groans.
“Come back to bed.”
“Waste of time,” Jack calls. “Hey, did ya see that Maroni and Falcone are making nice?”
Bruce rolls out of bed and pads naked to lean over the back of the couch. “I do read the newspaper, you know,” he says drily, laying his forehead on Jack’s bare shoulder.
“Do you think they’ll make Mario some kind of kingpin?”
“That asshole? Never.” Bruce stands, retrieving his boxers from the floor and putting them on before sliding next to Jack on the couch. “He doesn’t have the brains.”
“His brother does, though.” Jack lays his head in Bruce’s lap, still watching the glossy newspeople on the screen. Bruce rolls his eyes at the broadcast, burying a hand in Jack’s hair. They’re calling Falcone a businessman, for Christ’s sake. Talk about unreliable news sources…
“I met him,” Jack goes on.
“Who?”
“Vincent Maroni. He’s smart. Vicious.” Jack grins evilly. “But banal, like all his kind. No imagination. No style. Just the same sort of common criminal that takes over every town.”
Bruce’s hand pets through Jack’s hair, tangling in curls. “Well, maybe we ought to take the town back then.”
“What, become a mobster?” Jack snorts. “No thanks.”
“I don’t mean a mobster. Something else. Something they would fear…” Bruce’s voice trails off.
Jack is looking at his strangely. “Like what?”
Bruce shrugs. He’s never really thought about it. He hates thugs like Maroni, but it’s not like there’s anything he can do about them. The world isn’t fair. No one can change that.
***
“Batman,” Gordon greets. “What happened?”
“Is Maroni downstairs?”
“Yes.” He runs a hand through his silvering hair. “I called him, but I didn’t know what to tell him.”
“Tell him that I killed her.”
There is a beat of ringing silence between them before Gordon turns on him. “Bullshit,” he says vehemently. “That is bullshit and we both know it. I’m not going to-“
“It’s what is needed,” Batman says tiredly. “Think about it. If you convince Mario that I was working for Vincent-“
“He won’t buy that,” Gordon interjects.
“He will. If you tell him, he will.” Batman walks to the edge of the building and looks over. It is a long way down. “Commissioner-Jim. No one likes Batman. The mob doesn’t like me because of what I do, and the public doesn’t like me because I have to do it. It’s why they believed you about Harvey. It’s why they will believe you now.”
He speaks all of this gently, each word tearing a strip from his heart. It is the truth. It has always been the truth. Batman is a necessary evil, but still an evil.
“You’re a hero,” Gordon says, as if reading his mind. “If people knew what you’d done-who you are…”
Batman laughs bitterly. “Maybe I’m just a guy who doesn’t know when to stop.”
Gordon gives a mirthless chuckle. “That’s probably true.” He turns to face Batman, still staring over the edge of the building. “But this isn’t right. It isn’t fair.”
“Fair doesn’t matter.”
Gordon regards him for a long minute before he nods. “I don’t like this. But I’ll do it.”
Batman’s shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you.” He jumps onto the ledge, about to trigger his cape and fling himself forward when Gordon’s voice stops him.
“I want you to promise me something.” Gordon steps closer, his voice intense. “If I do this, if I let you take the fall again, then you have to promise me that you will stop this. I have the manpower, and with Mario’s help we will take out the last of the mob in Gotham. Go out and live your life. Do whatever it is you do, but don’t come back.”
Batman lets his eyes slide closed. Wind whips around his face, stirring the folds of his cloak. His chest aches, but he turns and catches Gordon’s eye. Gordon’s face is creased in sympathy, and Batman can see how much it hurt Gordon to say all of that. He is abruptly reminded of the first time he met this man-a beat cop offering comfort to a child who had just lost his parents.
“I promise,” Batman rasps, chest raw with howling grief. He doesn’t wait for Gordon’s answer-just flings himself into the night.
***
At 9am, Gordon makes the announcement of Jenny Maroni’s death at the hands of Batman, and the subsequent arrest of Vincent Maroni.
At noon, he gets the message that Joker has escaped from Arkham Asylum.
Part Four