A New Variable to The Equation- Part II: Off to Oz, Chapter 1: Not In Kansas Anymore
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Arial">
Bruce Wayne awoke to the squabbling yowls of what sounded to be two street-cats. Or maybe that was his delirious imagination running amuck. He couldn’t quite differentiate reality from psychosis. The world was naught but a dull-colored haze; tinged with sour aromatics and glasglow smiles. No, wait, that was real. The dark-haired playboy came to a slow and lethargic realization that he laid facedown upon an awful-smelling cot. The cold, stale air prickled the now bare flesh of his newly exposed back. Most of his upper body armor had been peeled away and discarded to a small corner of the room. He fought to lift himself just enough to crane his neck to one side.
In that instant, all of his suspicions, all of his sensory calculations, were affirmed. In the center of what looked to be an old abandoned studio flat, two mangy-looking felines darted after one another; swiping and clawing at whatever they could grab hold of. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, willing their shrieking cries and irate hissing to a lesser part of his consciousness. A sharp pang of anguish spread over Batman’s right shoulder blade. His hissed through his teeth; jaw clenched as his eyes glimpsed a purple haze from somewhere in his peripheral vision. Kneeling over him on the side of the cot, the Joker was prodding at his seeping knife wound like an errant child. Warm, sticky crimson trickled over the taut curve of his broad shoulder; mingling its coppery scent with that of something that smelt akin to greasepaint. Lifting his eyes up towards the other man’s face, he noticed that his ‘mask’ was nearly gone. A few smears of white around the edges of his jaw and ears left little evidence of its prior existence.
Bruce groaned, futilely attempting to hide his obvious discomfort with each deft poke at the skin surrounding his injury. He inhaled slowly, feeling his chest ache. God, he felt like shit. But one glance back up towards the frazzled Harlequin and he was sure that the other man felt worse.
“Where, where am I, ughn, cut that out,” he rasped. It hadn’t even crossed his mind if his identity was still intact or if it had been cast aside just as ‘carefully’ as the rest of his armor. He thought about bringing a cold hand up to brush over the bridge of his nose but another throb of pain warned him otherwise. As his groggy, sleep-depraved mind trudged its way back into a fully-functional state a torrent of discerning logic flooded his thoughts. He was not at his penthouse, that much was obvious. So where else could he be? A vague memory of being dragged through innumerable tunnels crossed his mind right before he has presumably passed out from apparent exhaustion and blood-loss. Why had the Joker even bothered to save his life? More images of their previous encounter overwhelmed his hindered consciousness. Feeling distinctly upset, Bruce tried to turn his focus onto his immediate surroundings.
Ratty curtains were pulled over several windows; barring the light of day (or night, he wasn’t so sure) through thick, wooden planks. Most of the doors leading away from the main room were blocked off as well in much the same manner. Streams of CAUTION tape, blazing yellow. were still pinned across one particular doorway like some morbid party streamers. Furniture was scarce. A card-table was shoved up against the far wall, littered with the jester’s few possessions: numerous make-up products, a few stray spools of thread, a myriad of assorted knives, and curiously enough a small pile of DVDs. He was not surprised to see a single drum of gasoline and some stripped wiring in another corner either. This place was more eerie than the Batcave, he mused.
~*!*~
“Oh my, now what is it I’m supposed to do with this bugger, eh? Ha, squishy…squishy…” The Joker, currently looking rather pallid despite the absence of his usual stark white face paint, was looming over the one and only Batman. He poked at the other’s deep gouge of a knife wound with the strangest air of child-like immaturity. The criminal was reminded of something he once said, about how he was like a dog chasing a car. If he ever got the car, he wouldn’t know what to do with it! So here was Batman, Joker had him…but he didn’t know what to do with him! Nor did he know what to do with that wound. Sure, in a lifetime of chaos and violence, the deranged clown had seen and experienced more than a fair share of bloody wounds. Usually, like a curious kid, he’d end up picking at his own wounds and never truly attending to them. Which was kind of what he was doing to his black-clothed antithesis now-prodding but not at all fixing. To actually fix his favorite toy, why, the honor would be so great that it would overwhelm him! Indecision doesn’t befit you, Joker.
With marked fascination the ace of knaves watched as a thick stream of scarlet fluid dripped so slowly down the dark knight’s backside.
“Oh, he bleeds…” murmured the jester, as if he hadn’t expect Batman’s body to respond to injury in a human manner. Tilting his head and furrowing his brow, the agent of chaos watched, utterly captivated, by how the blood looked against that skin, bare skin….yes he had removed some of the Bat’s armor near his upper chest to get a look at the knife-wound that presented itself in so gory a manner under the kevlar.
“Ah! You’re breathing too!” narrated the green-haired man with a twitching jerk (which didn’t quite agree with the constant pain of his abdomen).
When the Bat requested (more liked growled) for his wound to stop being unnecessarily poked, the Joker gave it a few more jabs before he actually ceased.
“You’re so grouchy! But, to answer you, you’re at my place, Batsy. Didn’t I tell you that already? Oh, right, you probably forgot, you did pa-ASS-” he giggled at the emphasis there, “-out on your way here. I got you here and took a look at your lil’ boo-boo, hehe!” Despite the calculated (calculated to annoy Batman as much as possible) tone of cheer the Joker was inflecting, he too just like his unlikely companion was in a great deal of excruciating pain. One of his hands was actually clutching instinctively over his stomach.
“Yep, home sweet home, this is it!” he announced grandly, looking about the dim room with one shifty pair of eyes. The squabbling cats got his glinting emerald-eyed attention. “That kitty is Bitchy. The other one is Bitchier. The names fit them, don’t they?” Leave it to the Joker to first explain the awful names he had bestowed on the warring feline first instead of explaining the crime-scene tape. “Hrm. Yes, I keep forgetting to get rid of that crime-scene tape. I don’t care for yellow -purple is much better let me tell you- but…somehow it adds that little special touch, a little hooomey charm to this shit-hole, right, right? Let me tell you a bedtime story. And this one isn’t about my scars! And no, it doesn’t rhyme, sorry, Bats if you dig the whole Dr. Seuss thing. I was never a fan. Anyway, it goes like this: you wanna know why those doors are boarded up? Why there’s caution tape? Why everything seems so deliciously desolate? Well, it’s because some ‘tragedy’, they call it, happened here years ago. Ever since then, not a soul would live here. Other than me, HA! Apparently two gentlemen hung themselves from the shower curtain rod…if I remember correctly. Something about not being allowed to get married?” The jester shrugged callously and then stood. Now that he told his demonic little tale (and surprisingly every word of it was true, it being a sort of urban legend based on actual events) he didn’t have much of a clue of what to say.
Both luckily and unlucky for the clown prince of crime, a knock rapped upon the door. The Joker did not startle at all though, not thinking for an instant that it could be the assassins. not just because no assassin in their right mind would knock so politely, but because he knew just exactly who it was. The clown knew he definitely didn’t want the Bat to know too much about his life that didn’t involve striving for the knight’s attention.
“Hey, Joe!” a voice from outside called, “I got some more flicks! This one…I think it has Vincent Price…or maybe it was just another Three Stooges movie? I can’t remember…in my age, my memory ails me…these boxes don’t have Braille on ‘em, so I can’t even check…” The voice did sound aged, most likely an old man’s. Apparently, a blind old man’s. “Joe, are you in there?”
The Joker immediately tensed up (although he did allow himself a twitch of a smirk at the name ‘Joe’, which of course wasn’t his real name) at the familiar voice.
~*!*~
Bruce didn't allow the sad tale of the two lovers dent his impermeable, emotional resolve. Instead, he attempted to, once more, lift himself from the rank cot. Expectantly, pain radiated from the gouged muscles in his shoulder blade and reverberated through the nerves in his entire arm. He groaned inwardly, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he desperately tried to shove his agony aside and stand up. Blood continued to seep from the agitated laceration; rolling down the curve of his spine in thick streams of crimson. The half-dressed vigilante managed to swing his legs over the side of the cot not more than seconds after someone began to talk through the front door.
"Joe?" he muttered incredulously. By instinct, and that was what frightened him most, he immediately declared 'Joe' as too normal--too mundane--a name for one like the scarred harlequin. 'Joe' did not ooze the bitter promises of chaos and sadistic humor as much as the pseudonym 'The Joker' did. But Joker couldn't be the man's real name, now could it? Moments like these made the disrobed vigilante stay up until the wee hours of the morning simply contemplating how to scrape away at the scarred mien of the demonic clown and catch a glimpse--even so much as a speculation--of the man he had once been.
The wounded man shifted his feet, which now felt like lead, across the cold floor with a grating scrape. He winced internally as the sound, amplified by the walls around him, dug into his sensitive hearing. Lifting his chin, those sapphire eyes studied the clown's naked face. Even with the lack of white greasepaint, the Joker looked quite pale. And by the way he cradled his abdomen with one arm, absently, he must have been in hell of a lot more pain.
Opening his mouth to speak, the Bat felt something rattle in his chest and fling from the back of his throat. He hunched forward suddenly, throwing his hand over his face to muffle the terrible noises. When the coughing and hacking subsided, Bruce loosened his shoulders and dropped his hand away to rest upon one knee. In the awkwardness of the overhanging lights--bare of covers or shades--the spackled blood practically dazzled, against his kevlar armor like tiny rubies. He tried to swallow around the coppery tinge that overwhelmed his sense of taste all the while forcing his upper body to remain still so as not to further agitate his wounds. He licked his dry lips, tinting them in a vermilion paint that could have made the Joker, himself, jealous while his eyes once again took to examining his surroundings for a source of water.
"Ask him if he has a first-aid kit..." Batman huffed, once again hacking up more blood. He feared that the blade had punctured one of his lungs. What a disappointing end--death by drowning in one's own blood...
~*!*~
One of the Joker’s vividly green eyes made a near twitch when he heard Batman utter the name ‘Joe’ under his breath rather skeptically. Still, the Joker staid still, staring at the door as if there were a monster on the other side. His trance of near horror was hacked to bits, however, when he heard some rustling and coughing coming from the vigilante. The wily clown looked back over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as he watched Batman in the weakest state he had ever seen the dark knight before. It made his heart beat irregularly, to watch, and the pain in his stomach all the more real, to listen the to Bat hack up blood. But all that left the Joker’s lips concerning that was a callous, dismissive,
“Try not to get it on the floor, will ya?”
He headed for the door, then feeling at his face. His face…it wasn’t on. Oh ew this just won’t do-- He had been about to turn back to do a quick job of applying his make-up, but then the rapping came at the door a second time, this time more impatient.
“And…and my name isn’t fucking Joe!” he hissed over at the Bat, because heavens forbid that that he be normal or boring in any sort of way. Not to mention it really wasn’t his name but…that wasn’t the main point of this all anyway. What is the point…?
The was when the harlequin made an outright growl of frustration, feeling as if he were being pulled in three different directions: the man at the door, the make-up…and the Bat, who was now requesting some surely needed medical help. The young man with the curled green hair clenched his fists, his eyes smoking and smoldering with something absolutely livid. If I see those dumb-ass hitmen again, I’ll kill them I’ll make a good job of it and make them really, really smile…
In the order of things: first it was the door. With jaunty steps like a spider the clown prince of crime opened the door wide to reveal a stooped old man, endearing, but also dressed in possibly the most uncoordinated outfit ever. Brown here, blue there, maybe even orange. The sunglasses along the old man’s pinched and wrinkled hook-nose were an indicator of just why his outfit was so terribly put together: because he was blind.
At first the Joker was silent when he opened the door, leaning against the doorframe with his head hung somewhat. Clearly he did not like the current situation he was in. The old man hobbled in,
“Joe so I was thinking and-oh…someone else is here?” the old man titled his head, a moss-green fishing hat toppling off his head. He could sense the presence of somebody else, heavy breathing and coughing. “Oh…Joe! Is it a girl! Do you have a girl here! That’s great, how great-“
“It is not a girl…” the Joker protested in a low, hardly restrained growl.
“Oh…it’s a man? That’s okay, Joe, that’s fine. I always thought you did seem like the sort to swing for-“
“-Oh EW stop it!” the Joker suddenly began to whine, his cheeks actually looking a tad flustered (the very suggestion that he and the flying rodent…? Oh no!) flapping his hands in the air for a few moments out of annoyance.
“No, listen Vincent just ah…ah…ah…” he trailed off and muttered viciously under his erratic breathing ‘shut the fuck up’. Of course, the old man was hard of hearing, and didn’t hear what the Joker had just muttered. In fact, clearly, the old man didn’t know that this was the Joker. He thought it was ‘Joe’ his new next-door neighbor who, like him, shared a liking for oldies music and classic movies.
“…Do you have a first-aid kit? Yes? I thought you would, seeing as you’re-“ the Joker was about to say ‘one of those overly cautious sorts’, but he stopped himself not wanting the Bat to get the idea that he was even remotely close to anybody or knew anybody like that. How disgusting! The Joker was now thinking that he should have stabbed Vincent the moment he had met him. Although, then he wouldn’t be getting his fix of all those great movies. Ah yes, such sacrifices…as an agent of chaos, he couldn't exactly swing by Blockbuster whenever he wanted. So, Vincent had his uses.
Feeling as if his entire body were on fire from the agitation, the Joker stormed out once Vincent directed him as to where in his home, next door, the first aid kit was. With the psychotic criminal mastermind gone to retrieve the kit, that left the kooky clueless old man as Batman’s sole company.
“So…are you his boyfriend? Somehow I don’t believe Joe when he says you’re not….”
~*!*~
Bruce watched the Joker stomp off to the next housing flat with an irritant flourish all the while clutching at his rattling chest. More blood filled his mouth and he fought his initial desire to simply spit on the floor. What did the crazy bastard care if he got a spot of blood on the carpet? Although, his 'home' was surprisingly organized when taken careful inspection of. Despite its generally decrepit theme, everything was stacked and arranged to different corners of the room. He had all his DVD's stacked, one atop the other in...dare he say it? Alphabetical order?! The dark-haired man squinted to read the titles printed onto the sides.
‘So, are you his boyfriend? Somehow I don’t believe Joe when he says you’re not.’
The question quite literally caught the half-naked superhero off balance--nearly toppling onto the floor in a fit of ragged hacking and shuddering breaths. It wouldn't have been such a big deal, coughing so violently as he was, if there wasn't a 6-inch gash in his back. Funny...he didn't recall ever pulling the blade out.
"No, not even close...We're just..." Bruce swallowed once more, his mouth feeling more like it had been stuffed with sawdust and his voice much more hoarse than usually; utterly dry. What were they; the Joker and him? Friends? No, that would be a blatant lie. Enemies? Ha! and have the poor old man running mental circles around himself...
"We're just acquaintances." Batman replied simply, biting back another coughing fit. Awkwardness settled into every nook and cranny of the room. Bruce shifted his feet once more, for they were beginning to grow numb from sitting at such an odd angle. When he first attempted to stand, a sudden wave of nausea warned him otherwise. He'd lost quite a bit of blood.
Eventually, he just settled for inspecting the complimentary collage of colors before him. The room was so dreary and stuffy--just the bare sight of the old man, Vincent, seemed to make the whole apartment lighten up. He stared up into those unseeing eyes and only saw his own distorted reflection in those obsidian shades. Impatience began to sing a lovely melody with his general anguish as Bruce waited for the Joker to return with the necessary medical supplies to patch himself up.
~*!*~
The Joker was not smiling, which was funny considering his usual philosophy.
Over at Vincent’s place, a small room that was just as mismatched and haphazard as the man’s clothing, the Joker was rifling through the old man's things trying to find this first aid kit as quickly as possible. He was actually stressing himself out over it quite bad. Suddenly finding the thing was this grand, epic mission of supreme importance.
“Oh good fucking gracious this blows like a smoking hairdryer!” the Joker grunted as he accidentally hit the corner of a dresser against his bruised mid-section. Calm down…well no, don’t even try calm down, because you’re not capable of that but…focus!
“I can do that!”
Eventually the clown found it-a white plastic cube-shaped box with a broken clasp-- but before he headed out the room he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Make-up gone, hair dye fading….he couldn't recognize himself.
Meanwhile, Batman and Vincent were still back at the Joker’s lair…which was rather unlike what a stereotypical villains ‘lair’ should be, seeing as there was a distinct lack of anything too grand. Although, the gallery of knives in the corner (all organized by blade size, width, hilt type, balance, etc) certainly was sinister.
Vincent was unable to see any of it, though, and was clueless as to just who ‘Joe’ was, and also the identity his visitor (of whom he was still convinced was Joe’s boyfriend).
“Oh I see…” the old man murmured, skeptically in response to Batman, but still deciding to drop the subject.
“Ta-daaaa,” the Joker enthused with marked sarcasm as he made a near stumble back into the room. He noticed Batman in a fit of coughing. Blood was smearing along his mouth. Nice lipstick, Bats, is it cherry-breeze shimmer? I myself use Mediterranean coral when I’m feeling especially foppish… The Joker considered saying that, but remembered how he wanted to keep Vincent in the dark. Dammit he wanted to keep Batman in the dark, too. He didn’t like the vigilante knowing that he hadn’t killed the old man yet, and more than that, seemed to be slightly more than just an acquaintance. It made the morbid jester feel…horribly vulnerable. And that was just downright gross.
“Here, go to town with it,” the Joker stated to the injured knight, tossing the first aid kit at the other man’s feet. His gaze lingered for a few moments as he went silent, as if trying to determine something just by staring at his antithesis. Quickly he knelt beside him, “I guess I have to, yuck, help you with this? I wouldn’t want you trying to do it yourself and ending up squirting blood all over the place. I have standards, y’know!” he began to say to the Bat, chastising him, as he opened the case. His emerald eyes refused to meet the other's sapphire ones. More quiet, and then Vincent croaking in question, for all he could hear at that point was heavy breathing and the slick noise of the Joker licking his scarred lips.
“It’s quiet. Are you two…doing something? You should have said something, I can’t exactly see what’s going on. I should probably leave, then…”
~*!*~
Bruce didn't withhold a snort of morbid amusement as soon as old Vincent shuffled his way back out the front door of the Joker's less-than-humble abode. Of course, subsequently, his chest ached from the movements required to laugh and he sent himself into another bout of wheezing coughs. Wiping his mouth against the back of his hand, the dark haired man leaned back and straightened his back as best he could. He reveled in the temporary relief one feels when they are able to stretch fully from a previously cramped and uncomfortable position; in the Bat's case--hunched forward with his head practically wedged between his knees.
"Christ, if he comes back with a condom I don't think I'll make it through the night." Bruce didn't spend even a moment to consider all of the possible meanings of his last statement. Laughing only made it worse; almost impossible to breath. He knew what he meant and there was hardly any use in trying to convince a murderous psychopath otherwise. "Here, give me that." he turned his head to cough once more into the crook of his arm before prying the banged-up first aid kit from the clown's shifting grip. He ended up breaking off the other clasp trying to get the damn thing open but hardly thought anything of it as the little plastic clip tinkered under the bed.
Thankfully, the pack was fully stocked with an assortment of bandages, anti-inflammatories, and an old-fashioned suturing kit. He meticulously laid the contents out along his thighs: gauze, thread and needle, peroxide, cotton swabs, and a small flashlight.
"You sew much?" he inquired under his breath; not at all realizing just how uncomfortable the disheveled Clown Prince looked...and not just because of the injuries to his torso. Bruce unraveled a small spool of thick, black string; feebly trying to thread the hooked needle in his clumsy fingers. Perhaps it was because of the pain--or simply because his fingers were more adept at strangling drug-dealers than practicing his cross-stitch.
God, he missed Alfred...
Venture onwards for more!
Arial">
Bruce Wayne awoke to the squabbling yowls of what sounded to be two street-cats. Or maybe that was his delirious imagination running amuck. He couldn’t quite differentiate reality from psychosis. The world was naught but a dull-colored haze; tinged with sour aromatics and glasglow smiles. No, wait, that was real. The dark-haired playboy came to a slow and lethargic realization that he laid facedown upon an awful-smelling cot. The cold, stale air prickled the now bare flesh of his newly exposed back. Most of his upper body armor had been peeled away and discarded to a small corner of the room. He fought to lift himself just enough to crane his neck to one side.
In that instant, all of his suspicions, all of his sensory calculations, were affirmed. In the center of what looked to be an old abandoned studio flat, two mangy-looking felines darted after one another; swiping and clawing at whatever they could grab hold of. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, willing their shrieking cries and irate hissing to a lesser part of his consciousness. A sharp pang of anguish spread over Batman’s right shoulder blade. His hissed through his teeth; jaw clenched as his eyes glimpsed a purple haze from somewhere in his peripheral vision. Kneeling over him on the side of the cot, the Joker was prodding at his seeping knife wound like an errant child. Warm, sticky crimson trickled over the taut curve of his broad shoulder; mingling its coppery scent with that of something that smelt akin to greasepaint. Lifting his eyes up towards the other man’s face, he noticed that his ‘mask’ was nearly gone. A few smears of white around the edges of his jaw and ears left little evidence of its prior existence.
Bruce groaned, futilely attempting to hide his obvious discomfort with each deft poke at the skin surrounding his injury. He inhaled slowly, feeling his chest ache. God, he felt like shit. But one glance back up towards the frazzled Harlequin and he was sure that the other man felt worse.
“Where, where am I, ughn, cut that out,” he rasped. It hadn’t even crossed his mind if his identity was still intact or if it had been cast aside just as ‘carefully’ as the rest of his armor. He thought about bringing a cold hand up to brush over the bridge of his nose but another throb of pain warned him otherwise. As his groggy, sleep-depraved mind trudged its way back into a fully-functional state a torrent of discerning logic flooded his thoughts. He was not at his penthouse, that much was obvious. So where else could he be? A vague memory of being dragged through innumerable tunnels crossed his mind right before he has presumably passed out from apparent exhaustion and blood-loss. Why had the Joker even bothered to save his life? More images of their previous encounter overwhelmed his hindered consciousness. Feeling distinctly upset, Bruce tried to turn his focus onto his immediate surroundings.
Ratty curtains were pulled over several windows; barring the light of day (or night, he wasn’t so sure) through thick, wooden planks. Most of the doors leading away from the main room were blocked off as well in much the same manner. Streams of CAUTION tape, blazing yellow. were still pinned across one particular doorway like some morbid party streamers. Furniture was scarce. A card-table was shoved up against the far wall, littered with the jester’s few possessions: numerous make-up products, a few stray spools of thread, a myriad of assorted knives, and curiously enough a small pile of DVDs. He was not surprised to see a single drum of gasoline and some stripped wiring in another corner either. This place was more eerie than the Batcave, he mused.
~*!*~
“Oh my, now what is it I’m supposed to do with this bugger, eh? Ha, squishy…squishy…” The Joker, currently looking rather pallid despite the absence of his usual stark white face paint, was looming over the one and only Batman. He poked at the other’s deep gouge of a knife wound with the strangest air of child-like immaturity. The criminal was reminded of something he once said, about how he was like a dog chasing a car. If he ever got the car, he wouldn’t know what to do with it! So here was Batman, Joker had him…but he didn’t know what to do with him! Nor did he know what to do with that wound. Sure, in a lifetime of chaos and violence, the deranged clown had seen and experienced more than a fair share of bloody wounds. Usually, like a curious kid, he’d end up picking at his own wounds and never truly attending to them. Which was kind of what he was doing to his black-clothed antithesis now-prodding but not at all fixing. To actually fix his favorite toy, why, the honor would be so great that it would overwhelm him! Indecision doesn’t befit you, Joker.
With marked fascination the ace of knaves watched as a thick stream of scarlet fluid dripped so slowly down the dark knight’s backside.
“Oh, he bleeds…” murmured the jester, as if he hadn’t expect Batman’s body to respond to injury in a human manner. Tilting his head and furrowing his brow, the agent of chaos watched, utterly captivated, by how the blood looked against that skin, bare skin….yes he had removed some of the Bat’s armor near his upper chest to get a look at the knife-wound that presented itself in so gory a manner under the kevlar.
“Ah! You’re breathing too!” narrated the green-haired man with a twitching jerk (which didn’t quite agree with the constant pain of his abdomen).
When the Bat requested (more liked growled) for his wound to stop being unnecessarily poked, the Joker gave it a few more jabs before he actually ceased.
“You’re so grouchy! But, to answer you, you’re at my place, Batsy. Didn’t I tell you that already? Oh, right, you probably forgot, you did pa-ASS-” he giggled at the emphasis there, “-out on your way here. I got you here and took a look at your lil’ boo-boo, hehe!” Despite the calculated (calculated to annoy Batman as much as possible) tone of cheer the Joker was inflecting, he too just like his unlikely companion was in a great deal of excruciating pain. One of his hands was actually clutching instinctively over his stomach.
“Yep, home sweet home, this is it!” he announced grandly, looking about the dim room with one shifty pair of eyes. The squabbling cats got his glinting emerald-eyed attention. “That kitty is Bitchy. The other one is Bitchier. The names fit them, don’t they?” Leave it to the Joker to first explain the awful names he had bestowed on the warring feline first instead of explaining the crime-scene tape. “Hrm. Yes, I keep forgetting to get rid of that crime-scene tape. I don’t care for yellow -purple is much better let me tell you- but…somehow it adds that little special touch, a little hooomey charm to this shit-hole, right, right? Let me tell you a bedtime story. And this one isn’t about my scars! And no, it doesn’t rhyme, sorry, Bats if you dig the whole Dr. Seuss thing. I was never a fan. Anyway, it goes like this: you wanna know why those doors are boarded up? Why there’s caution tape? Why everything seems so deliciously desolate? Well, it’s because some ‘tragedy’, they call it, happened here years ago. Ever since then, not a soul would live here. Other than me, HA! Apparently two gentlemen hung themselves from the shower curtain rod…if I remember correctly. Something about not being allowed to get married?” The jester shrugged callously and then stood. Now that he told his demonic little tale (and surprisingly every word of it was true, it being a sort of urban legend based on actual events) he didn’t have much of a clue of what to say.
Both luckily and unlucky for the clown prince of crime, a knock rapped upon the door. The Joker did not startle at all though, not thinking for an instant that it could be the assassins. not just because no assassin in their right mind would knock so politely, but because he knew just exactly who it was. The clown knew he definitely didn’t want the Bat to know too much about his life that didn’t involve striving for the knight’s attention.
“Hey, Joe!” a voice from outside called, “I got some more flicks! This one…I think it has Vincent Price…or maybe it was just another Three Stooges movie? I can’t remember…in my age, my memory ails me…these boxes don’t have Braille on ‘em, so I can’t even check…” The voice did sound aged, most likely an old man’s. Apparently, a blind old man’s. “Joe, are you in there?”
The Joker immediately tensed up (although he did allow himself a twitch of a smirk at the name ‘Joe’, which of course wasn’t his real name) at the familiar voice.
~*!*~
Bruce didn't allow the sad tale of the two lovers dent his impermeable, emotional resolve. Instead, he attempted to, once more, lift himself from the rank cot. Expectantly, pain radiated from the gouged muscles in his shoulder blade and reverberated through the nerves in his entire arm. He groaned inwardly, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he desperately tried to shove his agony aside and stand up. Blood continued to seep from the agitated laceration; rolling down the curve of his spine in thick streams of crimson. The half-dressed vigilante managed to swing his legs over the side of the cot not more than seconds after someone began to talk through the front door.
"Joe?" he muttered incredulously. By instinct, and that was what frightened him most, he immediately declared 'Joe' as too normal--too mundane--a name for one like the scarred harlequin. 'Joe' did not ooze the bitter promises of chaos and sadistic humor as much as the pseudonym 'The Joker' did. But Joker couldn't be the man's real name, now could it? Moments like these made the disrobed vigilante stay up until the wee hours of the morning simply contemplating how to scrape away at the scarred mien of the demonic clown and catch a glimpse--even so much as a speculation--of the man he had once been.
The wounded man shifted his feet, which now felt like lead, across the cold floor with a grating scrape. He winced internally as the sound, amplified by the walls around him, dug into his sensitive hearing. Lifting his chin, those sapphire eyes studied the clown's naked face. Even with the lack of white greasepaint, the Joker looked quite pale. And by the way he cradled his abdomen with one arm, absently, he must have been in hell of a lot more pain.
Opening his mouth to speak, the Bat felt something rattle in his chest and fling from the back of his throat. He hunched forward suddenly, throwing his hand over his face to muffle the terrible noises. When the coughing and hacking subsided, Bruce loosened his shoulders and dropped his hand away to rest upon one knee. In the awkwardness of the overhanging lights--bare of covers or shades--the spackled blood practically dazzled, against his kevlar armor like tiny rubies. He tried to swallow around the coppery tinge that overwhelmed his sense of taste all the while forcing his upper body to remain still so as not to further agitate his wounds. He licked his dry lips, tinting them in a vermilion paint that could have made the Joker, himself, jealous while his eyes once again took to examining his surroundings for a source of water.
"Ask him if he has a first-aid kit..." Batman huffed, once again hacking up more blood. He feared that the blade had punctured one of his lungs. What a disappointing end--death by drowning in one's own blood...
~*!*~
One of the Joker’s vividly green eyes made a near twitch when he heard Batman utter the name ‘Joe’ under his breath rather skeptically. Still, the Joker staid still, staring at the door as if there were a monster on the other side. His trance of near horror was hacked to bits, however, when he heard some rustling and coughing coming from the vigilante. The wily clown looked back over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as he watched Batman in the weakest state he had ever seen the dark knight before. It made his heart beat irregularly, to watch, and the pain in his stomach all the more real, to listen the to Bat hack up blood. But all that left the Joker’s lips concerning that was a callous, dismissive,
“Try not to get it on the floor, will ya?”
He headed for the door, then feeling at his face. His face…it wasn’t on. Oh ew this just won’t do-- He had been about to turn back to do a quick job of applying his make-up, but then the rapping came at the door a second time, this time more impatient.
“And…and my name isn’t fucking Joe!” he hissed over at the Bat, because heavens forbid that that he be normal or boring in any sort of way. Not to mention it really wasn’t his name but…that wasn’t the main point of this all anyway. What is the point…?
The was when the harlequin made an outright growl of frustration, feeling as if he were being pulled in three different directions: the man at the door, the make-up…and the Bat, who was now requesting some surely needed medical help. The young man with the curled green hair clenched his fists, his eyes smoking and smoldering with something absolutely livid. If I see those dumb-ass hitmen again, I’ll kill them I’ll make a good job of it and make them really, really smile…
In the order of things: first it was the door. With jaunty steps like a spider the clown prince of crime opened the door wide to reveal a stooped old man, endearing, but also dressed in possibly the most uncoordinated outfit ever. Brown here, blue there, maybe even orange. The sunglasses along the old man’s pinched and wrinkled hook-nose were an indicator of just why his outfit was so terribly put together: because he was blind.
At first the Joker was silent when he opened the door, leaning against the doorframe with his head hung somewhat. Clearly he did not like the current situation he was in. The old man hobbled in,
“Joe so I was thinking and-oh…someone else is here?” the old man titled his head, a moss-green fishing hat toppling off his head. He could sense the presence of somebody else, heavy breathing and coughing. “Oh…Joe! Is it a girl! Do you have a girl here! That’s great, how great-“
“It is not a girl…” the Joker protested in a low, hardly restrained growl.
“Oh…it’s a man? That’s okay, Joe, that’s fine. I always thought you did seem like the sort to swing for-“
“-Oh EW stop it!” the Joker suddenly began to whine, his cheeks actually looking a tad flustered (the very suggestion that he and the flying rodent…? Oh no!) flapping his hands in the air for a few moments out of annoyance.
“No, listen Vincent just ah…ah…ah…” he trailed off and muttered viciously under his erratic breathing ‘shut the fuck up’. Of course, the old man was hard of hearing, and didn’t hear what the Joker had just muttered. In fact, clearly, the old man didn’t know that this was the Joker. He thought it was ‘Joe’ his new next-door neighbor who, like him, shared a liking for oldies music and classic movies.
“…Do you have a first-aid kit? Yes? I thought you would, seeing as you’re-“ the Joker was about to say ‘one of those overly cautious sorts’, but he stopped himself not wanting the Bat to get the idea that he was even remotely close to anybody or knew anybody like that. How disgusting! The Joker was now thinking that he should have stabbed Vincent the moment he had met him. Although, then he wouldn’t be getting his fix of all those great movies. Ah yes, such sacrifices…as an agent of chaos, he couldn't exactly swing by Blockbuster whenever he wanted. So, Vincent had his uses.
Feeling as if his entire body were on fire from the agitation, the Joker stormed out once Vincent directed him as to where in his home, next door, the first aid kit was. With the psychotic criminal mastermind gone to retrieve the kit, that left the kooky clueless old man as Batman’s sole company.
“So…are you his boyfriend? Somehow I don’t believe Joe when he says you’re not….”
~*!*~
Bruce watched the Joker stomp off to the next housing flat with an irritant flourish all the while clutching at his rattling chest. More blood filled his mouth and he fought his initial desire to simply spit on the floor. What did the crazy bastard care if he got a spot of blood on the carpet? Although, his 'home' was surprisingly organized when taken careful inspection of. Despite its generally decrepit theme, everything was stacked and arranged to different corners of the room. He had all his DVD's stacked, one atop the other in...dare he say it? Alphabetical order?! The dark-haired man squinted to read the titles printed onto the sides.
‘So, are you his boyfriend? Somehow I don’t believe Joe when he says you’re not.’
The question quite literally caught the half-naked superhero off balance--nearly toppling onto the floor in a fit of ragged hacking and shuddering breaths. It wouldn't have been such a big deal, coughing so violently as he was, if there wasn't a 6-inch gash in his back. Funny...he didn't recall ever pulling the blade out.
"No, not even close...We're just..." Bruce swallowed once more, his mouth feeling more like it had been stuffed with sawdust and his voice much more hoarse than usually; utterly dry. What were they; the Joker and him? Friends? No, that would be a blatant lie. Enemies? Ha! and have the poor old man running mental circles around himself...
"We're just acquaintances." Batman replied simply, biting back another coughing fit. Awkwardness settled into every nook and cranny of the room. Bruce shifted his feet once more, for they were beginning to grow numb from sitting at such an odd angle. When he first attempted to stand, a sudden wave of nausea warned him otherwise. He'd lost quite a bit of blood.
Eventually, he just settled for inspecting the complimentary collage of colors before him. The room was so dreary and stuffy--just the bare sight of the old man, Vincent, seemed to make the whole apartment lighten up. He stared up into those unseeing eyes and only saw his own distorted reflection in those obsidian shades. Impatience began to sing a lovely melody with his general anguish as Bruce waited for the Joker to return with the necessary medical supplies to patch himself up.
~*!*~
The Joker was not smiling, which was funny considering his usual philosophy.
Over at Vincent’s place, a small room that was just as mismatched and haphazard as the man’s clothing, the Joker was rifling through the old man's things trying to find this first aid kit as quickly as possible. He was actually stressing himself out over it quite bad. Suddenly finding the thing was this grand, epic mission of supreme importance.
“Oh good fucking gracious this blows like a smoking hairdryer!” the Joker grunted as he accidentally hit the corner of a dresser against his bruised mid-section. Calm down…well no, don’t even try calm down, because you’re not capable of that but…focus!
“I can do that!”
Eventually the clown found it-a white plastic cube-shaped box with a broken clasp-- but before he headed out the room he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Make-up gone, hair dye fading….he couldn't recognize himself.
Meanwhile, Batman and Vincent were still back at the Joker’s lair…which was rather unlike what a stereotypical villains ‘lair’ should be, seeing as there was a distinct lack of anything too grand. Although, the gallery of knives in the corner (all organized by blade size, width, hilt type, balance, etc) certainly was sinister.
Vincent was unable to see any of it, though, and was clueless as to just who ‘Joe’ was, and also the identity his visitor (of whom he was still convinced was Joe’s boyfriend).
“Oh I see…” the old man murmured, skeptically in response to Batman, but still deciding to drop the subject.
“Ta-daaaa,” the Joker enthused with marked sarcasm as he made a near stumble back into the room. He noticed Batman in a fit of coughing. Blood was smearing along his mouth. Nice lipstick, Bats, is it cherry-breeze shimmer? I myself use Mediterranean coral when I’m feeling especially foppish… The Joker considered saying that, but remembered how he wanted to keep Vincent in the dark. Dammit he wanted to keep Batman in the dark, too. He didn’t like the vigilante knowing that he hadn’t killed the old man yet, and more than that, seemed to be slightly more than just an acquaintance. It made the morbid jester feel…horribly vulnerable. And that was just downright gross.
“Here, go to town with it,” the Joker stated to the injured knight, tossing the first aid kit at the other man’s feet. His gaze lingered for a few moments as he went silent, as if trying to determine something just by staring at his antithesis. Quickly he knelt beside him, “I guess I have to, yuck, help you with this? I wouldn’t want you trying to do it yourself and ending up squirting blood all over the place. I have standards, y’know!” he began to say to the Bat, chastising him, as he opened the case. His emerald eyes refused to meet the other's sapphire ones. More quiet, and then Vincent croaking in question, for all he could hear at that point was heavy breathing and the slick noise of the Joker licking his scarred lips.
“It’s quiet. Are you two…doing something? You should have said something, I can’t exactly see what’s going on. I should probably leave, then…”
~*!*~
Bruce didn't withhold a snort of morbid amusement as soon as old Vincent shuffled his way back out the front door of the Joker's less-than-humble abode. Of course, subsequently, his chest ached from the movements required to laugh and he sent himself into another bout of wheezing coughs. Wiping his mouth against the back of his hand, the dark haired man leaned back and straightened his back as best he could. He reveled in the temporary relief one feels when they are able to stretch fully from a previously cramped and uncomfortable position; in the Bat's case--hunched forward with his head practically wedged between his knees.
"Christ, if he comes back with a condom I don't think I'll make it through the night." Bruce didn't spend even a moment to consider all of the possible meanings of his last statement. Laughing only made it worse; almost impossible to breath. He knew what he meant and there was hardly any use in trying to convince a murderous psychopath otherwise. "Here, give me that." he turned his head to cough once more into the crook of his arm before prying the banged-up first aid kit from the clown's shifting grip. He ended up breaking off the other clasp trying to get the damn thing open but hardly thought anything of it as the little plastic clip tinkered under the bed.
Thankfully, the pack was fully stocked with an assortment of bandages, anti-inflammatories, and an old-fashioned suturing kit. He meticulously laid the contents out along his thighs: gauze, thread and needle, peroxide, cotton swabs, and a small flashlight.
"You sew much?" he inquired under his breath; not at all realizing just how uncomfortable the disheveled Clown Prince looked...and not just because of the injuries to his torso. Bruce unraveled a small spool of thick, black string; feebly trying to thread the hooked needle in his clumsy fingers. Perhaps it was because of the pain--or simply because his fingers were more adept at strangling drug-dealers than practicing his cross-stitch.
God, he missed Alfred...
Venture onwards for more!