overlithe (overlithe) wrote in batmanjoker, @ 2009-05-10 01:29:00 |
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Current mood: | accomplished |
Entry tags: | author: thanks_to_god, chaptered story: yellow spots, fanfic, knight vs anarchy round 9, rating: pg15, team knight |
Team Knight - Round 9 - Yellow Spots, part 7 [Fanfic]
Original poster: thanks_to_god
Title: Yellow spots
Pairing: Batman(Bruce)/Joker
Rating: PG-15 (i suppose)
Words: ~2800
Warnings: slash, violence, sexual content
Disclaimer: don't own anything
Summary: Something happens with the Joker, something that may change his life forever
Beta: elizabeth_elf
Sorry for the delay but i did have a terrible week :(
Also, i've finally got a real beta! =D Thank you, Liz, dear! <3
Now, the chapter may seem a little depressing, but things will get better later :)
Chapter 7
Bruce gives up on his attempts to sleep because he doesn’t want to lose any more time in vain when he can spend it with use.
He does more and more work Lucius gives him, completely burying himself in papers and documents. Sometimes, while he types like crazy and his hands just seem to move on their own accord. He even succeeds in forgetting the man, the murderer who he let run away because of his credulity. He would bite on his lip, hard and painful, feeling the lump in his throat every time he thinks about the Joker, every time like he falls on the ground from the sky, painfully, over and over again.
God, how could he be so stupid? He was dealing with the Joker for fuck’s sake. How could he let his guard down to allow the Joker to escape? Bruce is now very responsible for each life the clown takes away, for each person the madman hurts, for each tear that runs down the cheek of a child the Joker somehow damaged. Because this is completely Bruce’s fault. He let himself be driven by his own emotions and wishes, and where did it lead him?
Bruce closes his laptop roughly, hearing a small crack, but not caring enough, too furious with himself, with Joker, with
What was he hoping for? For the Joker to become a sane, normal man all of a sudden? For the clown to feel guilt for the things he had done? Bruce growls, realizing deep down that is exactly what he had hoped for.
He sighs, leaning on the large wall-sized window he has in his office which gives a wonderful sight of the whole city beneath him. He presses his forehead to the cold glass, closing his eyes tiredly, and stands motionless for some time.
There’s downpour outside, and Bruce feels the vibration of the glass under the heavy raindrops hitting the window. He presses his palm to the glass, his skin hot for some reason, and he draws some lines absent-mindedly on the steamed up window.
Bruce watches the city beneath him being swallowed by the rain, making it hard to see through the heavy grey fog. The sky is so dark Bruce almost thinks it is night already, but he knows only an hour or so passed since he last checked the time. It must be 3-something pm, now, but Bruce wants desperately this day to end already.
He looks with astonishment at the part where his hand was drawing on its own and he can read the word ‘Joker’ written on the steamed glass. He turns around sharply, wiping the name away, not wanting to think about the man.
He begins to pace around his office, myriad of emotions storming inside of him, emotions that are too much for him to take, he doesn’t want them, doesn’t want to feel them, any of them, he doesn’t want to feel anything –
He can feel fear and rage and desperation, so much desperation, he doesn’t know how to hide from it, it tears him apart and he stops dead in middle-step, cursing loudly and screwing his eyes shut until he sees stars. God, God, where did the fear come from?!
He stops, his face covered with his hands and he pants, chest rising and falling unsteadily. The world’s spinning around him and he wonders bitterly, when did it all go wrong? When did he bring himself to that point? His chest is tight and there’s a lump in his throat. He swallows with a great effort, calming himself from causeless emotional attack.
He so needs sleep.
There’s soft knock on the door and Molly Lewis enters the room, files in her hands. She looks at him with concern and Bruce feels sick.
“Are you alright, Mr. Wayne?” she asks him softly and Bruce nods. He probably looks like a mess, if his appearance causes questions. He swallows again, turning away from the red-headed secretary. He’s sick of her attempts to flirt with him. It’s not her, she’s really attractive, and even hot, really, and Bruce would flirt back any other time, but not now, not when he’s like this…
She watches him, but even if she sees his lying she lets it go, not asking any more questions, and leaves, and Bruce feels great gratitude to her for that.
He makes his way back to the chair and opens his laptop once again. There’s only one way to lock himself from the world – do his work, so he sits back and puts a laptop on his knees. Lucius is doing all the research about Harvey Dent, so Bruce doesn’t have to think about it, at least for now. All he has to do is to wait for the results.
The Joker stands by the street lamp, leaning his back on its post, heavy raindrops hitting his body, his head, washing away the green from his hair, washing the make-up from his face.
He is paranoid. He can’t force himself to stay in his apartment anymore. Of course, he changed the place after… the incident and made sure nobody knew about its whereabouts, killing his realtor afterwards, but he can’t, fucking can’t stay there alone. He would start from any single noise outside, whether it is wind or creak of the door, his heart would pound painfully in his chest and his throat would get tight, his palms wet.
He would smell the cigarettes.
He would hear whispers all the time, and the world would spin around him.
Fear would swallow him whole.
Joker would rather stay outside in the rain than be alone in his apartment, feeling like someone’s watching him, even when all the lights are on.
He’s furious, so furious and angry with himself that he would fall through and become a mess like that after being raped. What the hell is wrong with him?! He’s not the only one in the world who was raped or even beaten but it doesn’t give him a right to be a sniveler like that!
It doesn’t give him a right to shiver at every simple noise! It certainly doesn’t give him a right to imagine shit like hearing things he can’t hear, so, again, what the fuck is wrong with him?!
The cold rain all over his body, he feels lost as never before, not knowing any way of solving the problem, of getting out of this situation. He screws his eyes shut, listening to the raindrops hitting the ground with a loud noise. Everything’s dark around him, so he’s sure to stay under the lamp, the only light in the street.
He’s so tired and angry and lost and all the other things he’s not use to feeling. The images keep flying in front of his eyes, the images of Batman, Bruce, fragments of his dreams, Harvey Dent…. He growls with rage, these sensations, images tearing him apart, cutting him to shreds, turning him inside out. He can’t do anything; he can only feel helpless, defenseless in front of his own dreads, trapped in the box of his fears.
His heart begins to pound in his chest and his pulse quickens as he thinks of Bruce fucking Wayne, not Batman, but the man behind the mask of playboy billionaire, and he feels his soul tearing apart in two persons, each one screaming at another, making his head spin. Joker howls, panting, as he feels the desire, the unconquerable wish to see Bruce and talk to him, and tell him about all the shit that is happening to him, to say it finally to anybody because he can’t, can’t keep it to himself anymore, he needs to say it and set this free.
He slowly slides down, now sitting with his knees by his chest, and he wraps his arms around his knees, curling himself in a defensive position, his eyes still closed and his heart beating in his ears. He lets out shaky, shallow breathes through his barely parted lips and something inside him trembles and shivers with tension, right inside of his chest. The rain never stops and he can’t see a thing through the wall of water around him.
He lifts his head, facing the sky and letting the rain to wash his face. He doesn’t like rain. It reveals his face behind the make-up. It reveals the true city he lives in. It reveals too much, too much truth he doesn’t want to accept. But there’re moments like that when he doesn’t want to deceive himself anymore. So he lets the water run down his face and take all the make-up with it.
A sound of a thunder makes him let out a sigh of astonishment. He wonders what Bruce is doing now, in this late hour in the night. Probably can’t fall asleep, lying in his large bed and listening to the rain outside. Or maybe sits in the kitchen, buried in his work, typing in his laptop furiously, his mind somewhere far away. Joker thinks about the man and in that moment he wishes nothing more to be in the lighted room with Bruce sitting on the edge of his bed.
Another sound of a thunder makes him snap out of his thoughts and his heart is racing again, the air around him seems to chill, and Joker looks around nervously, biting his lower lip slightly.
The next moment Joker’s teeth clatter against one another, the hair on his arms standing up with goose bumps, hands and legs numb from the sudden cold in the air, as he sees or thinks he sees a black mist of shadows dancing across the street through the wall of rain. He stills, not daring to move, and shadows shift.
Joker watches, horrified, as the mist of shadows and lines moves around him, around the street, too fast for his eyes to follow. In one quick movement he reaches to his inside pocket and grabs a knife, a thought in the back of his mind telling him, it won’t be of a great use.
There’re whispers around and in his head, but Joker can’t recognize the words no matter how much he tries. Everything seems to freeze, everything except for the dark shadows, and suddenly Joker feels like crying. He shudders, looking around each second, trying desperately to see anything through the rain and darkness, his limbs numb with horror and cold, his heart beating so fast it’s as if it’s about to explode.
There’s a chuckle against his right ear, and the Joker’s hair stand up and his guts leap, and he turns his head to the right so quickly he could get a dislocation but there’s no one near him. He pulls his legs closer to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around them. He bites his lip harder as it starts to tremble. He squeezes the knife in his right hand so tight, his knuckles go white.
His breath catches up in his throat and he screws his eyes shut, not wanting to see it, to hear it, to feel it. He wants to will himself to calm down. To will all these things to disappear. He wants to cry for help but the absurdity of the thought hits him, so he keeps his mouth shut, his chest hurting, everything shaking inside him.
More whispering, taunting and threatening. More shadows, dancing and shaping around him, coming closer, circling him.
He’s shivering. Cold.
So fucking cold.
His eyes sting and he screws them shut even tighter, willing this to stop, willing this to disappear, everything’s spinning around him, and his body explodes with sudden pain, cutting him to shreds. He gives in to his fear and desperation, and he cries out loud and whimpers, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t be strong anymore, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t –
The next moment it all goes black and he slips into unconsciousness.
It’s 7 in the morning and Bruce is eating the sandwich Alfred made for him, when he suddenly feels something wrong with it. He grimaces as he fishes the tomato from the sandwich with two fingers and puts it onto the paper napkin.
What muck. He never liked it. What is it doing in his sandwich?
“Alfred!” he calls loudly, trying to outvoice the TV with news running on the fifth channel. The butler doesn’t make him to wait long, appearing in the kitchen at once.
“Sir?”
“Alfred, why did you put it here?” Bruce asks him, motioning to the tomato, the childishness of the whole problem goes unnoticed.
Alfred stares at him, his face unreadable and his whole body goes tense immediately.
“I…” He pauses uncertainly, hesitation evident in his voice. “Didn’t you… uh, asked me to, sir?” he mumbles, glaring at Bruce, as if wanting to burn a hole with his glare. Bruce presses his back into the chair, a bit apprehensively.
“No,” he says cautiously. “No, Alfred, I didn’t.”
Alfred glares at him for some long moments, before finally stepping forward and carefully taking the tomato away.
“My mistake, then, sir,” he says flatly.
Bruce frowns slightly, noticing once again that Alfred doesn’t call him by his name anymore, not ‘Master Wayne’, especially ‘Bruce’, just ‘sir’. The fact makes him uneasy.
Alfred turns on his heels and walks away before Bruce has an opportunity to say something about their relationship.
He’s about to stand up and head for the door, when the word ‘Joker’ from the TV catches his attention. In one quick moment Bruce is in front of the TV, making the sound as loud as possible. There’s a news program and Bruce listens attentively, holding his breath.
“One of the most wanted criminals,” the speaker is saying, “known as the ‘Joker’ was found this morning unconscious on 52nd
Bruce freezes in front of TV screen, too shocked to move. The Joker was found. It means they would now put him back in Arkham.
The thought makes Bruce react not quite the way he expected himself to.
On the one hand, Bruce is immensely relieved that he’s now free of worrying all the time about the people Joker kills, and not being able to do anything about it. The Joker is caught; Bruce can quit feeling guilt. The clown will soon be placed in Arkham, where he won’t be able to do any more harm.
That is what Bruce should be feeling.
But he’s not.
Instead, he feels like something very important was taken away from him, and Bruce feels extremely sad about it, about letting it go, his heart screaming for it to be given back. Bruce growls with annoyance as the thought of what he’s about to do now appears and he tries desperately to shove it away. He can’t risk his name, his work, he can’t risk so much for one small man. He can’t go against the law for the psychotic mass murderer, now can he?
Bruce swallows the bile he feels in his throat and closes his eyes for a moment; his wishes can’t be understood even by himself.
God, why is he feeling that way? What is he to do now?
He certainly shouldn’t do what’s on his mind now.
Yeah, he certainly shouldn’t.
But he will.