chaiteelatte

Fic: Something Teling pt. 2

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 21:34:13 GMT

Title: Something Telling
Part 2/?
Pairing: None
Summary: In the aftermath of the events of Dark Knight, Anna Ramirez finds herself caught between a rock and a hard place.
Notes: Woo, inspiration!

My cell phone buzzed on my bedside table, and I had to twist my hands in my sheets to keep from answering it. I recognized the number – or rather, I didn’t recognize the number but I knew who would be calling me from a remote number: the same people responsible for my drafty bedroom.

I had seen neither hide nor hair of Batman since that night on the rooftop, but ever since, I had reported an absurdly high number of cases in which we arrived at the crime scene only to find the perpetrators wiped out by some sort of internal conflict mid-job. At least, that’s what we put in the reports. The MCU was constantly buzzing with theories on why the Batman, who had threatened our own Commissioner’s family and murdered Harvey Dent, was still helping us fight crime.

I was startled out of my fragmented thoughts by another phone call, this one buzzing from the pocket in my sweatpants. I had taken to carrying that little phone with me at all times.

Sitting so close between the two suitors vying for my attention, I found myself uncomfortable with taking the call where I sat. I rolled out of bed, dragging my comforter with me, and stepped carefully around the broken glass and the brick I had found upon arriving home. Once safely in the hall, where the other buzz was only a faint mosquito, I answered.

“Hello?” I asked, turning the greeting into a weary sigh.

“What room are you in?” His voice was clipped, as it normally was when I talked to him, and as usual, his only greeting was an abrupt start to a conversation.

I held back a second sigh. “The hallway just outside my bedroom.”

“Don’t go near any windows. They’re here.”

My chest seized up, and abruptly I realized the distant buzzing on my bedside table had stopped. “Shit,” I breathed, glancing toward the fire escape down the hall.

“Don’t run,” he commanded. “I need you to talk to them. There’s been a change in plans. You’re going to play both sides of the fence.”

He couldn’t have knocked the breath out of me any better even if he had punched me square in the chest. My blanket folded to the floor. “What?” I breathed.

“If you want to.”

The vague insinuation took a beat to sink in, and then rage bubbled up in my stomach. “What is this?” I snarled. “Some sort of test?” The fevered banging on the door of my apartment quickly silenced my fury. I could hear low, angry voices and the sound of a phone closing through the paper-thin walls of my apartment, and I was successfully humbled.

“What should I do?” I whispered into the receiver.

“Be angry. You’re being closely watched and they’ll go down with you if they don’t get out and be a little more patient. If you hear anything about the Batman, they’ll know before the police.”

“Alright.”

“Leave our connection open; put the phone in your pocket.”

I followed his instructions, moving into the kitchen. I slipped my gun out of the holster where it hung by the door and tucked it into the waistband of my sweatpants before I edged the door open.

“What do you want?” I seethed, turning dark eyes on the errand-boy mobsters who waited in the hall. There were two – though if Batman’s warning held any merit, there were more waiting in the wings outside – and they both towered over me. I recognized only one, a burly Italian with a handlebar mustache. I thought his name was Davide, but I wasn’t sure about the other one, a rat-faced youth who looked barely older than twenty-one.

“For you to answer our calls,” answered Davide, trying to impose himself into my apartment. I firmly kept the door cracked.

“Get out,” I whispered fiercely. “I’m being watched at all times. Tell your boss that if I go down, you’re going down with me. He’s going to have to be patient.” The younger man’s hand twitched towards his belt and I quickly amended, “And with Commissioner Gordon calling the shots now, good luck finding another rat in the MCU. I’m all you’ve got, so I suggest you get your ass out of my apartment building and wait for me to contact you.”

The phone – this time the landline – rang in my kitchen and it only took a frantic glare to urge the two men into action. “And I better get some money to pay for that window,” I hissed just before closing the door. I took the kitchen phone off the hook, but spoke into the cell phone.

“Oh, hello Smith. No, of course you’re not bothering me. I’m up for a midnight snack.”

“I’ll be in contact,” Batman answered and the connection cut. I spent the next five minutes fabricating a conversation before I said goodnight to “Officer Smith” and then laid out my clothes for Mass the next morning. I hadn’t gone in years, but wearing the little skirt and red heels I had picked out from the back of my closet, I was sure to draw at least a little condemnation.

Fic: Something Telling

Thu, 04 Sep 2008 21:26:40 GMT

Title: Something Telling
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Gen
Summary: In the aftermath of TDK, Ramirez finds herself between a rock and a hard place.
Notes: It took me awhile to get this out and I'm not entirely happy with it, but what can I say? I'm busy now. At the moment, this is a oneshot, but I may continue it based on how much time and inspiration I get... because I have some sparse ideas that could be interesting. But tell me what you think of this first! :D

There’s something telling in eyes. I tend to avoid direct eye contact; stare just a smidge below or above and I could avoid baring all my doubts and fears and betrayals to the casual observer. But lately, I’ve been looking everyone in the eye.

Most everyone met my gaze and carried on their business. The MCU was in a state of half-repair and with the office in more disarray than usual, it was hard to be completely focused. Trying to find a cell to hold the Joker for good had consumed much of our time and resources. Commissioner Gordon was often down at MCU, getting his hands dirty because he claimed to be going stir-crazy in town hall.

I knew he knew. He knew I knew. We had a mutual understanding of suffocating silence, and however much I tried to meet his eyes, he eluded me.

I took most of my free time on the roof, staring at the broken spotlight. It probably would have been a normal reaction had the Batman attacked me, so no one up to their knees in paperwork in the offices below took note of my absences from the break room. Sometimes Gordon was there before me, and I slipped downstairs quietly, and sometimes I was there before him and I pretended not to notice while he fumbled his way back down the stairs.

I think both of us were content to tread carefully around each other, but the media had other ideas. The media always has other ideas.

The Batman scandal was a journalist’s dream, and Gordon and I were both being swept up in their ecstasy. Everyone and their mother wanted an interview with the survivors of the Batman’s bloodbath. Now, I wasn’t an idiot. There was obviously something deeper brewing in the shadows, and Gordon had always been closer to the Batman than the rest of us. I wasn’t about to ruin whatever they had going by giving a conflicting interview, and so I was left only with the option of messy confrontation.

I stepped lightly when I found him on the roof one night. “People are going to start talking about you if you’re always on the MCU roof staring at a broken spotlight, Commissioner,” I said quietly, handing him a mug like it was old times. He took the coffee but didn’t drink it, instead looking me in the eye for the first time since…well, the incident.

I felt an almost compulsive need to explain myself, give the excuse that now sounded brittle and shallow even to my own ears. “It was my mother’s hospital bills,” I blurted, then cut myself short. The look in Gordon’s eyes showed that he wouldn’t take the excuse any better than Dent did. The silence stretched between us awkwardly. Gordon had that floundering look on his face that meant he had something to say, but no way to start the conversation.

In the very least I could do that for him.

“What’s going on?” I asked with a heavy sigh. “Harvey Dent attacked me and made me call your family, not the Batman. I haven’t said anything because my neck is on the chopping block too, but I want to know what’s happening. Why are you protecting Dent?”

I almost stepped away when Gordon took a sudden step closer to me, only to realize he was speaking in a low voice. “It was Batman’s idea. If what Dent did came to light… Everything we’ve worked for, all the good we’ve done cleaning up Gotham, would go to waste.” Gordon let out a deep sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. “Batman is being whatever Gotham needs him to be, and right now it needs him to be the scapegoat.”

I had suspected as much, but just hearing that conviction… the dedication… Wrapping my arms around my middle to keep from shivering, I mirrored his sigh. “Okay… I need to get my story straight with yours before the press flogs me for not giving an interview. I read the official report. I escaped the bloodthirsty Batman by running?”

Gordon’s mustache twitched in what might have been a smile. “And you’re refusing any guards.”

“At least I’ll make for an interesting article.” I fiddled with the hem of my jacket and then motioned vaguely to the door. “Um, I’ll just—”

The Commissioner’s voice bit into me hard, freezing me mid-step. “We’re not done here, Detective. I’m afraid I’m going to ask you for more than your silence.” Dread stirred around in my stomach; he could not ask this of me. Not me. At least he wasn’t broaching the subject gently.

“I can only do so much from my office in town hall. Batman needs someone in the MCU.”

“Someone he can trust?” I muttered spitefully. Gordon wasn’t meeting my eyes anymore.

“I’m not asking you because I trust you.” The gravelly voice came from the shadows, and he emerged as deathly silent as always.

He never failed to make my heart beat faster, slinking around like that. I had never gotten used to it, but this time was different. Never before had he actually seen me. If our eyes had ever met, he had only regarded me as another detective. Now, a dark tint marked his eyes when he looked at me – really looked at me. He knew me too… And he was clearly restraining himself, trying to hold back that glint of hatred.

“I’m using you because you don’t have a choice in the matter.”

I couldn’t stop the instinctive gulp I took. I thought of my mother wilting away in the hospital and I thought of the head who had taken over for Maroni. And I looked at the dark man in front of me, his eyes never leaving mine, and I knew I was going to die, one way or another.

“You will cut all ties with the mob,” the masked man continued, his hard voice cutting through my thoughts. “I will foot the bill at the hospital and you will not follow the money trail. In turn, you will keep me informed. Gordon can show you the proper channels by which to contact me when you must. I will be in touch.”

I turned, open-mouthed, to Gordon for only a split second, and when I looked back, the caped crusader was gone. “I can’t do this,” I hissed to Gordon. “They don’t just let you go.”

“You don’t have a choice, Detective,” Gordon muttered, palming her a small cell phone. “Use that to call me or… well, you don’t call him, but there is a number in there that will get the information to him eventually. He’ll need to tell you more than you’ll need to tell him.”

We stood in the relative darkness of the tiny floodlight above the door, him peering deep in my eyes and me grasping for some way to tell him that he was asking the wrong person.

“I know you’re a good person, Anna,” he said softly. “You’ll do what’s right this time.”

I swallowed an abrupt sob before it made any noise, and it was a good thing it was dark so he wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes or the stake going through my heart. “Good night, Commissioner,” I answered evenly, turning to the door. My shoes tapped out my own funeral march as I descended the stairwell, and I followed the railing with my eyes tightly closed.

Fic: Regret pt. 6 - Thank You

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 05:27:13 GMT

Title: Regret
Part 6 - Thank You
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Hints of Bruce/Rachel and Rachel/Harvey YAY!
Summary: A six-part series covering Rachel Dawes' funeral, each part showing the regret of a man watching - Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon, Mayor Garcia, Harvey Dent, and the Joker.
Notes: Just to bring the story full circle... Also, with this whole moving into college thing, my posting may slow to a very very slow crawl. Or possibly not at all... keep your fingers crossed!

It was ironic how imminent death really clarified everything for Rachel. Harvey had been right about that. But it was not her imminent death that clarified everything, but his. The thought of living with him was cold, unforgiving. So, she told him.

Her wrists were chafing against her bindings and the smell of oil was overwhelming, but she only felt a strange peace. She could finally make the decision that she had been putting off for months.

And then, abruptly, everything shifted. With slight confusion, she realized that she really was facing death, and Harvey was not. A terrible, gripping fear clenched up in her chest, but it was wonderful.

Rachel did feel a twinge of regret, yes, that she would no longer be able to live out the decision she had made, but it was far outweighed by the relief that Harvey’s voice was becoming smaller, farther away from his oil drums.

She was yelling, but a million last thoughts were spilling through her head. In her last second, a familiar face entered her mind.

Thank you, Bruce. Thank you so m—

Fic: Regret pt. 5 - Potential

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 15:29:02 GMT

Title: Regret
Part 5 - Potential
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Gen
Summary: A six-part series covering Rachel Dawes' funeral, each part showing the regret of a man watching - Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon, Mayor Garcia, Harvey Dent, and the Joker.
Notes: Since I was a little cheapskate with Harvey Dent, here's the Joker!

For some men, regret is a vague void; the potential for a little bit of pleasure, a little bit of fun, that never got fulfilled.

The Joker smacked his lips at the attendant who was giving him a wide berth, giggling when she jumped so badly that the syringe she was carrying fumbled out of her hands. His arms flexed against the soft restraints, fingers twitching, as she snatched it up and scurried out of the room, losing the resolve to give him the medicine on her own for the third time that week. And he hadn’t even done anything yet.

To the disappointment of most of Gotham, he had qualified for the insanity plea quite easily, garnering a cushy little room that was more like a hospital than a jail. He was strapped to the bed at all times, but it was a nice little home away from home while he rested up for his next big tryst with the Batman.

A small, black and white television was mounted in the corner of his room and probably had not been touched for decades. He had taken a small break, a teensy tiny break, from the restraints on his bed to plug it in and adjust the antennae. He left it on and tuned to the news, which unnerved his nurses for some reason. But, as he told the doctors, it kept him occupied and not bored. After he had to get up a few times to flip on the power, they finally got the picture and graciously allowed him to keep the television on.

It was obviously a slow news day, because Gotham Cable News was broadcasting a funeral. It didn’t draw the Joker’s attention until his name was mentioned, and he realized with delight that the funeral was in honor of the late Miss Rachel Dawes.

Belting out a laugh, the Joker shifted around in his bed to get a better angle on the screen. “Oooh, ol’ Harvey’d be so happy!” he muttered to himself. Seems the whole city had turned out to celebrate the death of his little girlfriend. There was that cockroach-mayor giving a riveting speech about her life, very poetic. The Joker’s gaze scrambled hungrily over the assembled.

If anything good could be said of Harvey, it was that he sure knew how to pick a woman. She had Commissioner Gordon puffy-eyed and Gotham’s favorite billionaire playboy looked like he might snap off the mayor’s head when they shook hands at the podium. And that wasn’t even mentioning a certain caped crusader she had wrapped around her little finger.

The Joker watched, entranced, as Bruce Wayne stumbled through his eulogy, his dark eyes not matching his casual voice as he recounted some trite childhood memory. The Joker laughed at all the right segments and repeated Wayne’s sentences after him, but he was mostly intrigued by the billionaire’s rigid stance and the well of emotions he kept back from the audience. Who was this woman that held even the notorious Prince of Gotham in sway?

The nurse returned with a small army of medical personnel to give the Joker his sedative, and he greeted them with a pleasant grin. “A real shame about that Rachel girl, isn’t it?” he told them, nodding to the screen. They all regarded him warily, and some even tossed him murderous looks, but he meant it. Just thinking about all the things he could have done with that girl before baiting the Batman had made him jittery with excitement and frustration. It took five of them to hold him down, and the one who finally stabbed the needle into his arm was none too gentle about it.

The cloudy blackness tumbled over his mind and he promised to visit her grave whenever he got tired of the cushy hospital room. Leave flowers or… something…. a little... more……….fun………………

Fic: Regret pt. 4 - Perhaps

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 15:15:01 GMT

Title: Regret
Part 4 - Perhaps
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Summary: A six-part series covering Rachel Dawes' funeral, each part showing the regret of a man watching - Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon, Mayor Garcia, Harvey Dent, and the Joker.
Notes: To those of you hoping for a long, angsty chapter devoted to Harvey Dent, sorry to disappoint. But I think it's funny.

Harvey Dent might have felt regret over Rachel Dawes’ death. He would have felt regret, certainly, had he been in a right state of mind. But the Joker, effectively, killed him, so that is neither here nor there.

Fic: Regret pt.3 - Policies

Fri, 15 Aug 2008 06:25:52 GMT

Title: Regret
Part 3 - Policies (3/6)
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Gen
Summary: A six-part series covering Rachel Dawes' funeral, each part showing the regret of a man watching - Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon, Mayor Garcia, Harvey Dent, and the Joker.
Notes: Mayor Garcia doesn't get enough face time in fanfiction. Here's to the, uh, good mayor.

Also, I'm having trouble with the hyperlink feature on lj. I want to provide links to the former parts, but for some reason whenever I try, the link isn't actually clickable. *sadness* Someone help me out?

For some men, regret is a political policy. One must be able to put on a somber face when necessary, or re-election is nothing more than a far-off dream.

Mayor Garcia did not pretend that he knew Rachel Dawes or had any more grief over her death than any other person he might pass on the street. Harvey Dent’s death had rattled him, certainly, but his feelings towards Rachel’s death might be compared to those he felt a friend’s uncle had just passed away. The sympathy was there with none of the feeling.

What little he knew of Rachel from working with the DA’s office in some of the mob investigations was that she was a strong individual with an even stronger sense of justice. She was a top-notch prosecutor who, had she continued in her career, could have vied for the DA position later in life. He knew she had a small circle of friends, including some of Gotham’s elite due to connections in her early childhood, and that she was very special to Harvey Dent. But, regretfully, Garcia did not know her.

He had never really been good at this part of politics, the part that required him to feel personal sorrow at every death in his jurisdiction. The hypocrisy of it bothered him. He disliked staring into the families in the front row who knew he did not care as much as his speechwriters said he did.

So, he took his time to look each of them in the eye and somehow will them to understand that he was sorry he did not feel the same way as they did. He was just doing what was required of him as a public servant, and usually this absolved him of guilt.

But even when he launched into a speech that lauded Rachel Dawes’ strength of character and fierce determination for justice, he could not shake the dark-eyed stare of Bruce Wayne. Garcia bristled under the onslaught. The man expected the impossible! He could only speak of her as a public servant; Wayne could speak of her as a friend and as a person when he had his chance at the podium.

And so, Mayor Garcia followed his script and looked out over the crowd and over Bruce Wayne’s accusing stare. He expressed his sincere regret for Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent, since the two of them could hardly be separated in life, and political points were to be had in every mention of Gotham’s late White Knight.

Fic: A Clown Car

Fri, 15 Aug 2008 06:12:29 GMT

Title: A Clown Car (Struggled with the title on this one so I'm keeping it simple for now.... I thought also: Greatest Show on Earth, Welcome to the Big Top... Help me out here.)
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Gen
Summary: After escaping from Arkham, the Joker leaves a bloody little present in front of MCU for Gordon.
Notes: Quick warning - might be a little gruesome if you're one of those people that likes to visualize while you read. Nothing too bad though... Also, as I mentioned up there, the name for this one is really eluding me. This might be something of a holder title, but it might grow on me.... so we'll see. Also, what the heck kind of punctuation are you supposed to use with "...but whad'ya know, blah blah blah..." I guessed semicolon, but I dunno..
Going out of town this weekend, so leave me lots of nice comments to come back to!

Everyone in the Major Crimes Unit was running frantic throughout the newly restored office, and the air was filled with the cacophony of telephones ringing, papers rustling, and people shouting. A major breakout had just occurred at Arkham Asylum, and although the numbers had not yet come in, it was fairly certain that the Joker had escaped.

Gordon had a new office down at city hall, but something just rubbed him the wrong way about being out of the action, and so he found himself down at MCU more often than not. That morning he had driven down almost immediately after the initial reports had rolled in and put himself to work, pulling records and making phone calls with the rest of his old unit.

He was standing tersely by the only phone in the office not ringing off the hook when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. Gordon scowled in annoyance; he had told his office specifically to call the phones at MCU unless there was a dire emergency, and little could be more important than the call he was waiting on from Arkham’s Head of Security.

Flipping open the cell phone, he barked, “What?”

“Hi, Commissioner.”

The high, drawling voice made Gordon’s whole body seize up, and quickly he waved for those around him to be quiet. “Joker,” he answered coolly, solidly refusing to stutter.

“You sound upset,” said the Joker, consoling. “Don’t be; it’s not your fault. I just got a little, uh, bored in Arkham – two months is a long time, after all. I figured I’d paid my debt to society already, but whad’ya know; I blow up one little wall and about fifty other guys escape with me. Now, I feel just horrible about it, so I thought I’d do you a little favor.”

“What did you do now?” Gordon blanched, knuckles going white around the phone.

“I told you; a favor. Take a gander out front.”

Warily, Gordon sought out the window of his old office that overlooked the street and fingered apart the blinds. The only distinguishable thing on the street was a garish green Volkswagen beetle parked in front of the station.

Suddenly, a bulky figure wearing a dirty clown mask emerged shakily from the driver’s seat and walked around to the door facing Gordon’s window. With a yank, he opened the side door, and bodies spilled out onto the pavement, all wearing orange Arkham jumpsuits and plastic clown masks. Horrified, Gordon watched as the masked man reached inside and dragged out body after body, flinging them back on the sidewalk when those around his ankles piled too high. Some were still alive, dragging themselves over the other bodies, only to have the next load of men thrown on top of them.

“Wow, they just keep coming,” cackled the Joker through the receiver. “How do you think they all fit in there?”

The spirited, high-pitched laughter startled Gordon out of his shock, and he yelled for his men to follow him down to the street, instructing one officer to call the hospitals in the surrounding areas immediately. He kept the phone glued to his ear, but the only thing coming out of it was increasingly hysteric giggles.

When Gordon burst out of the building, the masked man was getting down to the men who had been smashed on the bottom, and the bodies pulled from the car were disfigured and bloody, with arms and legs poking out in wrong directions. One man was pulled from the car with his clown mask concave on his face, and Gordon’s stomach turned at the thought of how his face looked underneath it. Another’s mask had pulled off in the process, and Gordon did not have to imagine anymore. The Joker made a disgusted little noise that he ruined by turning into a chuckle.

“Get a little sticky near the bottom of the barrel, don’t they?” His laughter escalated into a whoop, and Gordon had to drop the phone to his shoulder.

The police began emerging onto the street and surrounded the car with guns at the ready, but the masked clown ignored them, jerking the last few men out from beneath the seats. With the car emptied, he looked around, his bloody hands twisting nervously in the fabric of his own jumpsuit. Abruptly, he took off in the opposite direction from the police, but before any of the cops could take aim, a shot rang out and the man’s knee shattered sideways, toppling him to the ground.

“Whoops!” hooted the Joker, choking back his laughter with audible effort. “Now, now, now, there’s no need to be all jumpy,” he continued, cutting off Gordon just as he opened his mouth. “I’m just being a nice guy and returning the little runaways. All fifty-six of them.” He gave one more rasping giggle. “No need to thank me now. I’ll be seeing you again soon enough.”

With a click, the voice was gone.

Then, before he could get a proper thought through his head, Gordon’s cell phone buzzed again. Mechanically, Gordon raised it to his ear and managed a breathless, “What now,” into the mouthpiece.

“Commissioner?” came the frantic voice of Arkham’s Head of Security. “I’ve been trying to reach you, but no one in the MCU is picking up. Fifty-seven prisoners escaped, including the Joker. It’s a disaster, sir, with fifty-seven of those crazies running rampant on the streets—”

“Just one,” Gordon cut him off wearily.

There was a pause from the other end, and then, “Excuse me?”

“We have the other fifty-six in custody. I’ll have to call you back.”

Gordon’s phone fumbled thoughtlessly out of his grasp to the sidewalk and he looked out over the writhing, moaning mass of bodies with a mix of relief and horror. “I want patrols all over this area,” he said slowly, unable to drag his gaze away from the sight. “He was watching from somewhere close by, and he couldn’t have gotten far.” He finally managed to rip his eyes away to stare down the officers who were similarly distracted. “Well? Move!” he snapped.

With effort, he turned his back on the carnage and stooped to pick up his phone, quickly switching it off. He’d had his fair share of surprise phone calls for the day.

Fic: Regret pt.2 - Drowning

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 21:42:20 GMT

Title: Regret
Part 2 - Drowning (2/6)
Pairing: Gen!
Summary: A six-part series covering Rachel Dawes' funeral, each part showing the regret of a man watching - Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon, Mayor Garcia, Harvey Dent, and the Joker.
Notes: This time, Gordon!

For some men, regret is drowning. One is swamped on all sides until unable to tell up from down, left from right, and the only option is to claw in one direction and hope for air. Eventually those men will clear the surface and take a deep breath before plunging in to the next wave.

When Jim Gordon watched young Bruce Wayne walk away, putting up a strong front to hide the apparent despair he was feeling, he found his breath stuck in his throat. He was facing the little boy who barely cried in the face of his parents’ death all over again.

He had faced death and failure countless times in his long years with the police force, and it never failed to sting. They were meant to save lives, but they were only human. In the face of the Batman, it stung all the more. How could he become more than human, pull a victim from his building, while they were stuck shielding their faces from the explosions?

The events of the past few months hit him all over again while he stared at the back of Bruce Wayne’s head. Countless homicides had occurred while they couldn’t pin down the Joker, not to mention the rise of fear toxin killings while they couldn’t find Dr. Crane. Then, in the last week, Brian Douglas, who just wanted to help. Judge Serillo and Commission Loeb, who were just fulfilling their public services. Richard Dent and Patrick Harvey, who just happened to have the wrong last names. Lao, for Jim’s overconfidence in the security of the MCU, and Wortz, because he had too much faith in humanity and trust in his unit. Countless others who he couldn’t name, just for the Joker to make a point. Rachel Dawes, the downfall of their White Knight, and the nightmares his children battled every night. The apparent downfall of their Dark Knight.

Just a glance at the faces around him could tell of all the pain that he caused Gotham.

Jim realized abruptly that tears were rolling down his cheeks and he wasn’t breathing. “You’ve got to pull yourself together, Commissioner,” said a quiet voice next to his shoulder. Jim glanced over at the mayor, noticing that people around him were moving to their seats and they were among the last standing.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, drawing a shuddering, steeling gulp of air. Gathering his resolve, Jim turned and slid into the row where his chair was labeled, apologizing to those who he bumped. Reddening as he scrubbed his cheeks, he faced straight ahead and watched the mayor climb to the podium.

Fic: Voicemails

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 16:17:09 GMT

Title: Voicemail
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Bruce/Rachel... kinda?
Summary: When Bruce arrives home from Hong Kong, he finds someone has left a lot of upset messages on his phone.

Fresh back from Hong Kong, Bruce Wayne stumbled into his penthouse, shedding his armor as he went. He had been up without sleep for nearly seventy-two hours, and after dropping off Lao at the station, all he really wanted to do was sleep. He passed through the kitchen, picking up his personal cell phone that he had left at home for the trip, and blinked in surprise. Eleven voicemails?

Stumbling toward his bedroom, Bruce played back the messages.

“Hi, Bruce, it’s Rachel.” Her voice was terse. “Call me back when you get this message.”

Beep

“Hi Bruce, Rachel again. We need to talk.”

Beep

“Bruce, call me back.”

Beep

“Alright, Bruce, if you’re going to ignore me I’ll just tell you in a message. That was one of the most childish things you’ve done in a long time. Taking the entire Russian ballet on a cruise just to ruin my date with Harvey? Can you get any more trivial Bruce? I was so embarrassed, and Har—”

Beep

“It cut me off. I was so embarrassed, Bruce, you have no idea. Harvey bought me a dress, and where did I get to wear it to? A coffee shop by the theatre. Harvey thought it was funny, but he’s not going to let me hear the end of this. You’re not acting like a best friend; you’re acting like a jealous—”

Beep

“You’re acting like a jealous boyfriend. Harvey doesn’t understand why I’m such good friends with you. Couldn’t you just make a little effort to like him? Or at least act normal around him and get him to like you. Well, I won’t fill up your voicemail anymore. Bye.”

Beep

“Okay, Bruce, why haven’t you called me back? Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

Beep

“Bruce, are you okay? Please just give me a call.”

Beep

“Bruce, I’m getting really worried. Are you okay? Please call me back.”

Beep

“Bruce, if you’re there, please call me back. I’m not mad anymore. It wasn’t even a big deal; I still had a good time with Harvey. Just… Call me back, Bruce.”

Beep

“I got a hold of Alfred and he told me you were out of the country, but he wouldn’t say where. I just talked to Harvey and I think I can guess. I’m sorry about all the messages. Please call me when you get home… I love you… bye.”

Bruce couldn’t hold back the small smile that rose to his lips. Sinking down onto his bed, he closed his eyes and listened to the last message one more time. His head was swimming with exhaustion and he was nodding in and out of sleep, but he had to call her back. It was late and he got her voicemail.

“Hi Rachel, it’s Bruce. Sorry, I was in Hong Kong for business and I left my personal phone at home. And I’m sorry about the ballet; it was Alfred’s idea. Sorry I worried you. Everything is okay. I think you’ll be pleased with the present I brought back for you. I’ll see you soon... I...... 'night.”

Fic: Regret pt.1 - Bricks

Tue, 12 Aug 2008 20:14:48 GMT

Title: Regret
Part 1 - Bricks
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Bruce/Rachel elements? Gen
Summary: A six-part series covering Rachel Dawes' funeral, each part showing the regret of a man watching - Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon, Mayor Garcia, Harvey Dent, and the Joker.
Notes: This one gave me some trouble, but it all worked out in the end. I have all the parts written, but I feel like they need to stand alone, rather than in a oneshot. Some of them are shorter than the others, but... whatever. Enjoy part one!

For some men, regret is a load of bricks. They stack and stack, building a burden one will carry for an entire life.

Bruce Wayne did not know when Rachel Dawes’ funeral had turned into a citywide event, but he hated it. Rachel would have hated it. All these people with their fake sympathy and their shallow sadness. But what turned Bruce’s blood the most was the ones with a morbid curiosity for the woman who had died stuck between the Joker and the Batman in their epic criminal face off.

    He wanted to be alone with her, or at the very most, alone with a small procession of her friends. He wanted to collapse to his knees, to hell with the million dollar suit they had shoved on him, dig his hands into the grass to hold on for dear life, and sob into the dirt until his couldn’t breathe. But Bruce Wayne could only stand stony-faced as he glanced into her casket before making way for the next face in the crowd.

    Every move he made seemed sluggish, weighed down by sorrow and regret. Seeing her, white and beautiful, had reawakened every memory of Rachel, every memory of that night. Why had he believed the Joker, the man who reveled in chaos? Why had he trusted the police to be fast enough? Why hadn’t he checked out Gordon’s unit as thoroughly as Harvey Dent insisted?

    He might as well have killed Rachel himself.

    His legs nearly buckled beneath him, and Bruce cast around frantically for the nearest chair.   He sat down heavily and buried his face in his hands, no longer caring who saw the extent to which Bruce Wayne was grieving for Rachel Dawes. A hand fell on his shaking shoulders, and Bruce looked up sharply at the police commissioner before letting his head fall back down.

    “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” Jim Gordon said softly. “I understand you and Miss Dawes were close?” The question in Gordon’s voice was understood: just how close were you?

    “I loved her!” Bruce wanted to scream, but his persona, the necessary Bruce Wayne persona, beat it down before it reached his tongue. Let Gordon draw his own conclusions.

    “Come on, Mr. Wayne, let’s get you to your seat,” said Gordon, helping Bruce to his feet. The Commissioner’s eyes flicked between Bruce, who was leaning heavily on Gordon for support as he walked, and the seat reserved for him at the front. “I may have a pick-me-up myself when this whole affair is over.” The guilt in his voice froze Bruce, and he wanted to look the man in his eyes and tell him that nothing was his fault. And Bruce Wayne wasn’t about to be another brick for the Commissioner to bear.

    Bruce barked out a laugh and separated himself from the officer, forcing his body to stand tall on its own, hold the weight. “As good an idea as any,” he said, voice husky. “Sorry.” He held out his hand to Gordon and gave him a firm handshake. “You’re a good man, Commissioner. There’s your seat; I think I can make it to mine on my own now.”

    Gordon looked unsure, but Bruce flashed him a winning smile and strode to the front, his gait easy, purposeful, and strong.

Fic: Russian Roulette

Tue, 12 Aug 2008 18:41:07 GMT

Title: Russian Roulette
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Gen (yay, back to normal)
Summary: The Joker teaches some new prison buddies a card game.
Note: I got kinda stuck there for awhile on another oneshot that I'm still polishing up, and I thought I was running out of ideas until this little number hit me at 2 in the morning. Late night writing for the win!

Without the makeup smeared across his face, the Joker almost looked normal. But for the scrunching scars and his constantly twitching fingers, he could have passed for another average inmate. His pristine record over the past few weeks had earned him three days a week in the recreation room, though he was handcuffed to the chair he sat in, allowing him no more range of movement than resting his wrists on the edge of the table in front of him.

The other inmates gave him a wide berth, eerily aware that his darting gaze followed them silently throughout the room. He couldn’t seem to sit still, always shifting and shuffling, but he never took his eyes off the people around him.

One day, he produced a deck of cards from nowhere and began messily shuffling it on the table, spreading the cards out and stirring them around with his hands before neatly prodding them into a clean stack. For once, his attention was directed down on the table and not out at the men, at least until his head snapped up and he made eye contact with someone who had walked a bit too close to his table.

“Hey, wanna play a card game?” His voice was loud enough to reach the men around him, but not the guards stationed around the walls. Smacking his lips, he leaned forward over the table and stage-whispered, “I got some, uh… victuals that I don’t mind parting with.” Opening his hand slightly, he revealed a pack of cigarettes he had shoved up his sleeve.

A small group slowly gathered around the Joker’s table, still keeping their distance under the Joker’s quiet, unrelenting stare. Finally, one needy individual stepped bravely forward and stood before the Joker, shifting from foot to foot.

“The rules are simple,” the Joker explained, eyes darting between the player and the spectators. “I flip over a joker, I win. Any other card in the deck, you take a light.” At the wary glint in the player’s eyes, the Joker barked a laugh. “Take a gander if you want,” he said, sliding the deck across the table. “There’s only one joker in there. Mix it up, then give it back.” The man fanned the cards together, and the Joker cut the deck as well before flipping over the top card. It was a two of spades, and the Joker palmed the player a cigarette.

After a few successful rounds of play with no apparent injuries, more inmates became bold and joined the game. The Joker sat at the same table three days of the week with his inexhaustible supply of cigarettes, dealing cards and never once drawing a joker. Those who could overlook his strange antics sometimes even sat with the Joker during his card games, watching with anticipation each flipped card.

Then, on an afternoon about three weeks after the start of his game, the Joker flipped a joker. The gathered crowed roared at the unexpected upset, but the player, one of his more avid customers, blinked in confusion. “So, what’s that mean?” he asked.

A wide smile played on the Joker’s face as he fingered the card. “Well,” he explained, “you lose.” His arm flashed without warning and with a flick of his wrist, the card imbedded in the inmate’s eye. The man dropped to the floor clutching his face as the rest of the inmates froze in horror. The Joker swept the rest of the cards to the floor and threw back his head in a laugh that climbed into hysterics as it echoed around the room.

The laugh ended in a growl and he rocked forward, throwing his hands out before him, rankling against the chains. “How I love Russian roulette! Who’s next?”

Fic: Nothing But Heartbreak

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 04:47:51 GMT

Title: Nothing But Heartbreak
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Rachel/Bruce in the process of breaking?
Summary: One night in Bruce Wayne’s apartment confirms what Rachel has always known to be true. Set during TDK.
Note: What is this? I'm not writing gen?! Well... this isn't so much romance as it is a study of Rachel and Bruce's relationship. I don't like this oneshot as much. I don't think I did Rachel justice... I took her anger at Bruce to mean that she really did love Harvey and was kinda blinded by that relationship, but I don't think I showed that well here. Oh well...

The kiss was soft, comfortable, perfect, but distant. I knew he had another mistress, and he knew I knew. But even as he walked away, I couldn’t help but wonder… Could I do this?

I couldn’t simply flirt with the idea of loving Bruce. Oh, I loved him; I’d always love him, but to be in love with Bruce. Could I do it?

I had tea with Alfred until he left to help Bruce, and then I slept fitfully while I waited for the press conference in the morning. Every time I woke with a start, hoping that Bruce had just walked in to tell me that he changed his mind. That he’d called Harvey and cancelled the whole deal. That, perhaps, my words, my careful flirting with being in love with Bruce, would mean more to him than his mistress. A small part of me clenched with fear every time I didn’t wake up to see him, flashes of a torn, emancipated caped crusader gracing the morning paper playing over and over until sleep overtook me again.

I woke up in the late morning, exhausted, and he still was not there. I fixed myself breakfast in the silent kitchen, overlooking the city that had Bruce so duty-bound. It glared back with taunting sunlight. Could you sleep like that every night? it asked. Could you wake up alone?

I flicked on Bruce’s larger-than-necessary television to distract myself with the political pre-show to the press conference. My heart dropped when I saw Bruce slip into the room, caught by the cameras that loved him so much. I wanted him to leave; I wanted to postpone this decision, this terrible, crippling decision.

Harvey stepped forward. I shot to my feet and nearly screamed at him through the television. Harvey was handcuffed, and Bruce stood by idly.

Rage bubbled up in my stomach, and abruptly I realized that I did love Harvey Dent. More than Bruce Wayne. The shock of it caused my legs to buckle and I fell back into my seat in shock. Then, while I could still see my feelings with such clarity, I dug through my purse for a pen, running to Bruce’s study for some stationary and an envelope. Bruce deserved to know how I felt.

The words were kind, but I funneled all my frustration into the parchment. Harvey being used as bait – a stroke of the pen. Bruce’s mistress, now forced on Harvey as well – crossing the t’s. My indecision causing pain to the one I loved most – dotting the i’s. My decision causing pain, though deserved, to the one I loved longest – signing my name.

There is nothing he can offer me but heartbreak. I know it. When I hand Alfred the letter, I believe he knows it. I’m afraid Bruce is the only one who doesn’t know it. I don’t want him to know it and I want him to know it. I wonder if Alfred will never show Bruce the letter, because he knows how badly it will hurt him as much as I do.

The possibility that he’ll never read it is little comfort.

Because I can’t do it.

Fic: Speeding Tickets

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 18:45:10 GMT

Title: Speeding Tickets
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen (You all should know this by now)
Summary: For anyone who grew up in Gotham, corruption can become a way of life, and Bruce Wayne is no exception.

Bruce Wayne lounged comfortably in a conference chair near the end of the table, headphones in his ears, looking for all the world like a man nodding his head to his music. What his disgruntled board members did not know was that Bruce Wayne was actually nodding his head to static and the police radio.

Nothing of dire importance had alarmed him thus far, but Bruce liked to be informed. So, when the radio crackled and delivered news of a planned bank heist, he was quick to his feet.

Stretching luxuriously, never mind the man he was cutting off mid-sentence, Bruce pulled out his earphones and flashed the businessmen a winning smile. “Well, I trust you gentlemen can carry on without me. I’ve got a date.” With a wink, he slipped out of the meeting.

“I’m driving,” he said, holding a hand out for the keys as he walked briskly toward Alfred in the parking garage.

“Tuning in to the police radios again, are we?” Alfred said, tossing the keys and rounding to the passenger seat.

“Bank robbery,” Bruce answered, putting the car in gear. “I plan to be there first.” Tires squealing, Bruce tore out of the parking garage and weaved easily through traffic at a hair-raising speed.

Alfred sat straight in his seat, hand curled inconspicuously around the door handle, and smiled grimly. “At this rate, sir, you’ll be there with hours to spare.”

The blare of sirens and flashing lights cut off Bruce’s reply, and heaving a sigh, he swerved to the side of the road. The officer took his dear time climbing from his vehicle, during which time Bruce had to endure Alfred’s silent “I told you so”. Bruce scowled at the cop as he finally approached. He didn’t have time for this! His hand went automatically to his wallet and pulled out the three largest bills he was carrying before rolling down the window.

The officer blinked in recognition as the tinted window disappeared and then recomposed himself and asked, “Sir, do you know how fast you were going?”

“Look Officer, I’m in a hurry, so why don’t I just make a little donation to the police department…” Smoothly, he palmed the officer the wad of cash. “Just a little walking around money for one of Gotham’s finest, and we’ll call it even.”

The cop leveled a glare at Bruce until he spotted the numbers on the bills, and then his face went white. “M-Move along, sir,” he stuttered.

Bruce rolled up the window and pealed away as a humored twinkle lit up Alfred’s eyes in the passenger seat. Bruce knew he was going to regret asking, but he did it anyways.

“What’s so funny, Alfred?” he asked as he took a turn at fifty.

“I’m just curious, Master Wayne, are you interested in cleaning up the corrupt of Gotham or encouraging them?”

Bruce almost laughed before the comment caught up with him, and then he paused, slowing down slightly, brow furrowed. “Well, damn,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “I guess I’ll have to start driving the speed limit.”

Alfred looked infuriatingly satisfied. “That may be so, Master Wayne, but it is a small price to pay, is it not?”

As Bruce slowed to the allotted thirty-five miles per hour, he tried not to look crestfallen. “Yeah, a small price.”

Fic: The Rot Runs Deep

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 16:23:44 GMT

Title: The Rot Runs Deep
Series: Dark Knight/Batman (SHOCKER)
Pairing: Gen
Summary: A Gotham Time's reported becomes suspicious of Bruce Wayne's connection with Batman and vows to get to the bottom of it.
Notes: Not my favorite of all my Batman fics so far, but it popped in my head and I had to write it. Don't worry, this isn't a reporter-finds-out-Bruce-is-Batman-and-becomes-his-bosom-buddy/love-interest. Far from it.

Gotham had always been corrupt from top to bottom, but even I had never assumed that the rot ran as deep as I now believed. I did not want to believe this way, but this whole Batman business was so full of holes and discrepancies that I couldn’t let it lie.

With God as my witness, The Gotham Times would have the whole story first, and damn the consequences.

--

First of all, the claim that Batman killed five people is as mysterious as the man himself. None of the murders had witnesses, and the only people who can supply us with the truth, Commissioner Gordon, his family, and Detective Ramirez, who all survived murder attempts by the Batman, are strangely tight-lipped. Another fact often overlooked by the media at large is that several of the Joker’s hostages reported being saved by the Batman, not SWAT operatives, at the exact time that the murders were being committed. Equally strange is that reports of his treachery have not slowed down contrary rumors about the Batman in the slightest. For every Gotham citizen crying “foe!” you’re likely to find another who was recently “rescued” by Batman. That so many people were in on the Batman conspiracy did not concern the Commissioner as much as it did me, and I left his office horrified that he was either blind to the facts, or more horrifying still, a part of the conspiracy himself. I could rely only on myself.

--

I had seen Batman only once, and he had raised disturbing, perplexing questions in my head even at the time. I had been covering a half-political, half-lifestyle piece at the fundraiser that Bruce Wayne had thrown for Harvey Dent. Mr. Wayne had given a riveting speech about the White Knight of Gotham and then disappeared for the night, probably with one of his three dates. Then the Joker had attacked and the Batman had appeared in the full, bright room as if from thin air. He then promptly dove after the assistant defense attorney when she was tossed out the window, leaving the rest of the guests with the madman, who took out his frustration on my camera man and his camera, properly destroying possibly the only photo of Batman ever taken. But that one encounter had been enough to convince me that he was as much a madman as the Joker.

Why would he react so strongly to the Joker threatening Rachel Dawes? As far as I was aware, Miss Dawes was not an outrageously social person, preferring to keep her close circle of friends small. Counted among her dearest friends, those who counted her dear in return, were Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent, neither of whom could be the Batman.

--

Then there was this whole business with Coleman Reese, the near-Batman informant who was recently hired by Wayne Enterprises for a rumored triple his current salary.
“Who?” asked Bruce Wayne, staring at me through half-lidded eyes when I questioned him on the matter. The notorious late-night partier had nearly dozed off only three minutes into our interview.
    “A lawyer we recently hired after he did an exceptional job finding irregularities in Mr. Lao’s books even before the police suspected him in illicit dealings with the mob,” supplied Wayne’s CEO, Lucius Fox. “Coincidentally, he was also on the news lately, involved that whole ordeal with the Joker.”
    Wayne brightened slowly in recognition. “Yeah, yeah I remember that. I crashed my Lamborghini that day. A hospital got blown up, right?”

--

When questioning Reese, I was given the same answer that the Commissioner had released to the press – Reese was a backfired attempt to bring the Joker into the light. Of course, he did not really have any idea who the real Batman was. I noted the nervous tick in his eye.

--

In the face of all logic, I was becoming intrigued with Wayne Enterprises, and in particular Mr. Bruce Wayne, who certainly had the resources to finance a vigilante and the instability (the man burned down his own mansion during a birthday party) to slip into a criminal mindset. His butler and life-long friend, Alfred Pennyworth, flatly refused to talk to me, and in lieu of any other close friends (surprisingly, he has few), I turned to his companions.

“Bruce Wayne?” sniffed one girl who had recently been spotted with him at one of Gotham’s upscale clubs. “He’s a nice man, but he’s not too serious. I feel bad saying this, but he’s very shallow; never talked about anything more than what he’s bought lately.” I almost gave up hope, but a small part of me toyed with the idea that Bruce Wayne was actually Batman.

The real Batman must have scars; thus, I had to find someone who had seen Bruce Wayne without clothing. I never believed such a task would prove so difficult. Renowned for his arm candy, Mr. Wayne is never short two or six women when making a public appearance. All high profile, they are not hard to track down, but talking to them revealed next to nothing. One girl noted that, although he was more than willing to have a good time, he never took off even so much as his shirt. Almost every girl he’s escorted to a social event has reported that he escaped when the night was still young, claiming plans with other women. I finally hit the jackpot with the Russian ballet that Mr. Wayne had taken on a private boating trip, and struck up a correspondence with the prima ballerina, a reported companion to Mr. Wayne during most of her stay in Gotham.

“Ah, yes, he has scars,” wrote Natascha Patrenko. “But they do not make him unhandsome. Bruce is fond of many extreme sports.” Indeed, the billionaire has been spotted base-jumping, spelunking, and scaling cliffs in his free time, which is plentiful. When prodded about his strange social life, she answered coldly, “Bruce is also fond of his privacy.” I gave up my theory as silly, but I still had my eye on the mysterious Bruce Wayne.

--

Interviews with Bruce Wayne that centered on anything but business were almost impossible to come by, but I managed to corner him at the funeral of the late Rachel Dawes, an old friend who was a casualty of the Joker’s rampage on Gotham.

“Excuse me?” he snapped when I approached. I almost shied away; the look of pain, guilt, and anger on his face was both heartbreaking and terrifying, but if my suspicions were true, this had to be done. But I was speechless. “You people never give up, do you? This is a funeral.” His face was stony, but his voice cracked. I spotted his butler making a beeline for me, and I quickly re-found my voice.

“Mr. Wayne, reportedly the Batman rescued Harvey Dent while leaving Miss Dawes to certain death. Do you have any feelings on the matter?”

I was taken aback by the murderous glare he leveled at me, but I wasn’t able to push him to reveal any more than this because the butler intercepted Wayne and led him away. It was worth the warning I got from my editor, because I was surer than ever that Bruce Wayne was an angry, unstable individual, more than capable of being in league with the Batman.

--

I was so close I could almost taste it, and so far that I felt like I was pushing forward through molasses. But I wasn’t about to let Bruce Wayne’s mysterious, “above the press” attitude keep me from saving Gotham from a criminal more vicious and bloodthirsty than the Joker. As recent leads toward the Batman petered off into more rabbit trails and more questions, I turned my attention toward Batman’s beginnings. When had he appeared?

“Well, he really came into the public eye with the fear toxin incident,” an ex-cop who I cornered at a bar told me. Flass, who was out of jail on parole, was among the first to have contact with the Batman. “But he was working before that too. He attacked during a drug deal that I, uh – you’re not recording this, are you? – ignored at the time. Then he almost killed me, dropping me from a building, to get me to tell him confidential police information. The guy’s insane.”

Some digging in the newspaper archives revealed even more intriguing information. The appearance of Batman nearly coincided with Bruce Wayne’s miraculous return from the dead. It couldn’t be a coincidence, and it was all the proof I needed.

Bruce Wayne was financing the Batman.

--

The offices of The Gotham Times bustled with activity – another Arkham breakout – but I was confident that my story would blow them all out of the water. I presented the manila envelope with all of my findings to my editor, beaming with pride. He scanned the notes, reached the bottom, and blanched.

“Bruce Wayne? Are you serious?” he asked, chuckling. “Have you seen the guy?”

My eyes bulged as I tried to display my fervor for this topic. “It’s all here, though. I have proof!”

“No, you have a bunch of odd coincidences, and it’s gonna take a lot more than that to convince me that that idiot is funneling money to the guy killing people dressed as a bat.” He handed the file back with a short sigh. “Why can’t you direct all of that passion to real stories, like the madman that just escaped from Arkham?”

I laughed it off and promised to focus on my assignments in the future. Then I went to a bar at lunch and drowned my sorrows as I poured over my notes one last time. It was all there; I knew it had to be true.

--

The rot runs deep in Gotham and news travels fast. So I probably should have expected to get mugged in some way, shape, or form on the way home. It only seemed logical that I felt hot breath against my ear and a knife on the small of my back while I stood in the crammed metro.

“I hear you have proof on who the Batman gets his gadgets from,” whispered a high voice in my ear. I recognized it instantly from all the hostage videos that had been released a month back.

“Y-Y-Yes. You c-can take it, all of it; please just don’t kill me.”

“Take it? And spoil the suspense? Knowing the financer is a hop, a skip, and a jump away from knowing the, uh, the… the financee. No, no, no, certainly not. In fact, I don’t want you ruining the fun for anyone. You go ahead and hold on to it.” The knife dug deeper into my back, twisting playfully, and I sucked in my breath.

“It’s all in your little head, isn’t it? Who else has read it?”

“M-my editor! He didn’t b-believe it though.”

“He didn’t? Why ever not?”

“He thought it was t-too ridiculous that B—”

The knife stabbed into my back so hard I felt my skin break. “DO NOT SAY IT!” he roared into my ear, finally drawing attention from the other passengers. Almost immediately, the train started drawing to a quick halt, as only city transportation can do, and I stumbled away from him on uneasy legs.

“Well, this is my stop,” he drawled, stepping backwards off the train. People moved to exit after him until he froze just past the doors and whipped off the flamboyant purple hat that had been previously hiding his features. Foot traffic stopped instantly as he stretched his Chelsea grin. “I’ll give your best wishes to your boss.”

How ironic that I’d make the headlines even without publishing my story.

Our car went up in flames.

Fic: Property Damage and Hospital Bills

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 04:40:00 GMT

Title: Property Damage and Hospital Bills
Series: Dark Knight/Batman (I'm on a roll here! Can you say obsession?)
Pairing: Gen
Rating: G
Summary: A talkative guest at one of Bruce Wayne's parties corners him to talk about Gotham's current events, including her views on the nefarious Batman.

There you are, Bruce. I tell you, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Splendid party; the Manor looks as glorious as ever. Now, don’t worry yourself, Bruce, none of us blames you for your actions last year. Not one bit. The press must have positively hounded you upon your homecoming, and all of us, myself included, can understand the pressure you felt. And you’re so young! Some foolishness is to be expected.

    Oh, but I simply must ask you what you think of this whole fiasco with the Joker and the Batman. I understand you lost a close friend in all that madness? Terrible, just terrible. I was lucky enough to escape unscathed. I was in the hospital at the time, if you recall. Yes, nothing serious, just a slight panic attack after that murdering madman started a fistfight in the middle of the street, right outside the opera house, if you can believe it. Truly terrifying! But considering I was in the middle of a fight between the two master criminals of our time, I believe my luck is finally kicking in, Bruce—oh, excuse me. Mr. Wayne.

I do what I can; I really do. I knock on wood, I carry a miniature horseshoe and a rabbit’s foot in my purse, I never open umbrellas indoors, and I throw salt over my shoulder should it ever happen to spill. But all that luck went to naught the moment that vigilante, that madman, the Batman, took up residence in our dear city of Gotham.

    People have been blindly singing the Batman’s praises for months, but I for one am happy he’s finally been unmasked as the criminal he truly is.   While other people were blinded by his short-lived heroics, I always recognized him for what he truly was: a man with no respect for public or private property. I myself have had two cars totaled by that God-awful tank that he calls a car.

And they said he was saving Gotham? No, he was destroying Gotham, one parking garage at a time! No matter that Wayne Industries makes a monthly donation to the city’s maintenance, bless your soul, the tax increases to compensate for all his “lifesaving” have nearly cut my paycheck in half. Property damage and hospital bills, Mr. Wayne, that’s what Batman is really all about.

Oh, I’m terribly sorry, am I keeping you, Mr. Wayne? No, go on, she is very pretty; far more interesting than an old lady talking current events. Go on.

Did you hear? The nerve of that boy, telling a woman twice his age to address him as “Mr. Wayne”. Well, I’ll be! The future of Gotham is looking very bleak in his hands. Yes, indeed.

Fic: Hold Your Tongue

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 15:20:17 GMT

Title: Hold Your Tongue
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13 (really violent, I think)
Summary: Upon meeting a small child, the Joker learns about an unsavory habit he didn’t know he had.
Notes: Yes, I realize I switch perspective throughout the story; that’s intentional. I was trying out a new idea for a Joker first perspective because I feel like my first attempt (A Familiar Taste) had him thinking in a voice that was too sane. This could either crash and burn or work really well, so tell me what you think. Should I change tenses every few sentences as well? Anyways, we’ll call this a test run before I post it to other communities and ff.net. Tell me what you think – should I just put it all in 1st person POV or should I make it even weirder and mix up the tenses as well?
And a quick warning: This fic is to highlight the evilness/insanity of the Joker, so there's violence. Just saying.

It was a new experience, being approached by a child. The Joker watched the girl suspiciously as she approached, sure that she wasn’t coming for me. But she continued into the alley where I was lurking and stopped in front of me, craning her neck to stare up at me and meet my eyes.

“Hello,” she said.

I looked past her at the mouth of the alley, where a woman – her mother, he assumed, from the way the girl turned and followed his gaze, eyes alight with recognition – was talking up a business man with little interest in her.

I had little interest in her either. I turned my attention on the girl, regarding the little creature warily. “Hel—lo,” I answered.

“You’re a clown, aren’t you?” she asked.

At least she wasn’t unintelligent. “Yes.”

“I love clowns,” she explained.

What a lovely child!   It brought a grin to his face. “Do you like me?” I asked, twisting my voice even higher than normal.

The girl beamed. “Yes! You look funny.”

The Joker’s grin broadened, and he could feel his scars stretching. “Do I?”

Instead of answering, the girl blinked and watched him closely. Unnerved, I repeated myself.

Tilting her head curiously, she asked, “Why do you do that thing with your tongue?”

“What thing with my tongue?”

“This thing,” she demonstrated, flicking out her tongue as she talked.

I crossed my arms, affronted. “I do not.”

“You just did.”

Her charm had worn off quickly anyway. “O—kay, little girl, why don’t you stick out your tongue good and far – yeah, like that – and I’ll make sure it doesn’t flick anywhere anymore.” I reached for her head to pull her closer, flicking open a switchblade in the other hand, but her mother chose that moment to re-acquire her motherly instincts and spotted the child next to me.

“NO!” she shrieked, flying into the alley and wrapping the child in her own body.

“Do you mind?” I scowled. “We were in the middle of something.” She only whimpered and drew the girl closer to herself.

“Well, fine, then I’ll just ask you. The girl is under some delusion that I have a bad habit. Tell me, do I look like a person with quirks to you?” She lifted her quivering gaze to him and quickly shook her head. Not enough.

Ripping her away from her daughter, the Joker held the woman’s face easily in one hand and pried her mouth open with the knife he had intended for the little girl. “Be serious; I want the honest truth,” he said, trying to meet her gaze. “Look in my eyes. In my eyes—in my—in my—LOOK!—there we go. Now, tell me true, sweetheart.”

“N-N-No,” she answered, but I watched her eyes rather than listen to her word.

“Lie!” I snarled, shaking her roughly. “Stick out your—no, come here.” I shifted the knife to my mouth and used both hands, one to hold her head steady and one to pry open her lips and catch her tongue.   She was screaming, trying to yell something, but I kept a firm hold of the slippery little thing while I transferred the knife back to my free hand. On the ground by my feet, the little girl had started to cry.

“Be patient,” I told her, not unkindly. “You’ll get your turn.” Then to the woman, I prodded, “So, what quirks, what idiosyncrasies, do you believe I have?”

The woman’s words came out in a garbled mess, stunted by tears and a captured tongue. Scowling, the Joker turned and kicked the girl.

“Hey, kid, translate.” I got nothing in reply except renewed tears, and with a giggle I crouched next to her, dragging the mother down with me by her tongue. “Shushshushshush,” I cooed, petting her softly on the head. “Dry those tears. I need you to tell me what Mommy is saying. Go on, say it again.”

The woman repeated herself, but the child had passed into hysterics, and neither was comprehensible. “Well,” the Joker pronounced, rolling the word over in his mouth. “It seems to me that it is not I who have a problem with my tongue, but you. It might even be catching, and what then? We’d have an epidemic on our hands.” I reached out and stroked the woman’s arm absently, knife still in hand.

“No, no, I’m afraid all that can be done is to cut it off at the source.” Then I locked eyes with the lovely woman, motherly creature that she was, and smoothly sliced out her tongue. Like a knife through butter.

A scream gurgled in her throat as I let her drop back on the ground, already unconscious from the pain. I pounced on the girl next, pushing her flat on the ground next to her mother. With a flourish, I produced the tongue I had recently acquired and jiggled it before her face.

“Ooh, oh, look at it dance,” he cried, giggling hysterically. “Want it? Yes? Here; you can keep it.” He pocketed the little thing in the girl’s palm, curling her hand around it and engulfing her small hand in his own, strong grip. I noted the warmth of her little fist with pleasure; my hand fit perfectly around hers.

“I like you; you like clowns,” I wondered out loud. “This works out so well. I think I’ll adopt you.” With a whooping laugh, I swept the girl into the air and balanced her on my chest. “Is this the right way to do it—Ah, no.” The girl was screaming with renewed temerity right into his ear, and the Joker sighed. “Not as keen on the idea? Neither am I.”   Without transition or hesitation, he flung her little body against the wall and then pried the tongue from her weakening grasp.

“If you’re going to be unthankful, you can’t have it,” he told the girl, even as her breathing labored. I shook my head with good humor. “And you thought I had a problem.” I barked out a laugh as I faced the street and the Joker sauntered out of the alley, his tongue darting out over his lips.

Fic: Our Mutual Friend

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 15:07:15 GMT

Title: Our Mutual Friend
Series: Dark Knight/Batman
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Summary After killing off a room of hostages to lure Batman, the Joker in is for a nasty surprise.
Notes: I like this one a lot better than A Familiar Taste. Just saying.

The scene replayed, unbidden, in Gordon’s head. The hostages whimpering in the background as the Joker made his terms: Batman’s presence or a hostage every half hour. He’d start with the service industry since they never got enough credit and seniority got priority.

The calm, collected old man with not more than a twinkle of fear in his eyes, even as the Joker shoved him before the camera with a gun to his temple. Then the feral yell from off camera and the gunshot, and the Prince of Gotham with the oddest expression on his face. A mixed look of confusion and pain, as if he had not expected the bullet he had taken for the old man to hurt so badly.

There was only one way to deal with it: the strongest brandy he had stocked in his desk. Gordon sat on the roof of MCU, alternating between taking a swig from the bottle and taking another swing at the already broken spotlight.

“Why the long face, Commissioner?” said a high, teasing voice from the shadows. “Sad your bat didn’t swoop to the rescue?”

Gordon started so badly he nearly dropped his brandy – a small feat, as he had a death grip on it – and scanned the shadows for the familiar voice.

He didn’t have to look hard; the Joker loped forward into the light with a sneering grin on his face. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he said, tongue darting across his lips with barely concealed frustration. “I wasn’t too happy myself. What gives?”

Dragging a hand across his eyes just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating – it wouldn’t be the first time tonight – Gordon regarded the Joker with dark eyes. “I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you,” he answered, unable to even muster up the motivation to draw his weapon on the man. The monster.

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” the Joker asked, his high voice dipping into a growl.

“He’s dead.”

At first the Joker didn’t respond, and then he laughed, soft and light. “That’s a good one, Commissioner. You sure he didn’t just want the day off, damn the consequences?”

Gordon barked a bitter laugh and tossed back another drink. The Joker eyed him suspiciously, taking a step closer. “No. Who?”

At this, the police commissioner seemed to re-gather some of his resolve, which he quickly redirected into a fierce glare in the Joker’s direction. “You did. Tonight.”

The Joker bristled, his hands twitching angrily toward his coat pockets, where any multitude of knives waited to disfigure the mouth of any idiot who dared tell such a ridiculous fabrication. “I did not,” he answered, biting off each word. “I would never.”

“You didn’t know,” Gordon answered, finally setting down his bottle so he could pull a cell phone from his pocket, opening it with fumbling hands. “I didn’t know.”

At least not until the note. In the end, the Joker had killed off every hostage without the Batman making an appearance, and even so, the madman had slipped through the police defenses. Gordon had been angry, both with himself and with Batman who had, for the first time, seemed to turn a blind eye. And then his phone had rung.

“‘If you are reading this,’” Gordon read out loud, squinting to see the letters on the tiny screen that seemed to be dancing together. “‘I, Bruce Wayne, Batman, have passed away.’” He paused to take note of the Joker, who had frozen on the spot, a deer in headlights. Gordon continued.

“‘When I undertook this endeavor, early on I was forced to consider the possibility of my death and take appropriate measures as a precaution. I implanted a chip in my body that registers my vital signs, and if I were ever to go for thirty minutes without registering life, these pre-recorded messages were to be delivered.’”

A sudden, hissing giggle cut Gordon off from reading any further. The Joker was shaking with silent laughter, clutching his face in his hands, sudden barks of sound escaping from his mouth intermittently. Then, as his knees buckled, a full, bellowing laugh clawed its way out of his throat, his voice breaking halfway through. He knelt, doubled, laughing so hard that he was in pain. When his hands came away from his face, it was wet and smeared in lines.

Gordon watched in fascination, both his drink and his phone forgotten, until the Joker could barely breathe and sound was not coming from his mouth any longer. Then he roared and slammed his fist down on the concrete, turning his watery, black gaze on Gordon.

“Read the rest,” he wheezed. Gordon didn’t think twice, and the Joker bowed his head as he listened.

“‘Gordon, I have a favor to ask of you. Batman cannot die with me. You see, as a symbol, Batman cannot be confined to one man, stopped by something as mere as death. He is not a hero, not a man, because he goes beyond that. He is an ideal.

‘I have sent similar messages to both Lucius Fox and Alfred Pennyworth, the two other men who know my secret and can prove to you what I am saying. With Lucius is a list of possible candidates I have compiled that may be able to take on the guise of Batman. My request is simply that you would work with them to select the correct man for the job—”

At this, the Joker’s head snapped up and he scrambled across the roof on all fours, staring up at Gordon with imploring, wild eyes. “Me,” he gasped. “Me, choose me! I can do it!”

Even in his inebriated state, Gordon was dumbstruck. Luckily, he did not have to rebuke the Joker’s proposition, because almost the instant the words had left his mouth, the Joker realized how impossible his request was.

“No, no,” he muttered to himself. “It wouldn’t work.” His face fell for a brief second, and then he brightened again. “I could help! When I felt like it… if I felt like it.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Gordon answered firmly.

“No, I couldn’t,” the Joker repeated. Gordon shifted uneasily at the close proximity of the madman by his feet, but the Joker looked like he was thinking again. “Read the rest,” he said, though preoccupied.

The phone fumbled between his fingers and almost fell. “It’s personal,” Gordon said after a pause.

The Joker shot him a glare, intimidating despite the tear stains on his cheeks. Intimidating because of the tear stains on his cheeks. “Read it.”

With a quick swallow, Gordon returned his eyes to the last portion of the note and tried to keep his voice steady as he read.

“‘Finally, Gordon, whether you decide to take up this mantle or not, I wanted to thank you for everything. For being the cop that would comfort a little boy who lost his parents and the one cop who would stand firm against corruption with the Batman. I thank you for never giving up on Gotham. You may not know me as well as I know you, but I have always counted you amongst my dearest friends, and certainly amongst my strongest allies. I half-suspect you won’t accept it, but I have provided for you and your family in my will – in a very subvert way as to avoid suspicion – because I want your son and daughter to grow up in a better Gotham – and a better life – than I did. Please, accept this not as charity, but the passing whim of a rich man with too much money to spend on himself.

‘My dearest hope is that Gotham is restored to its former glory: a time when Batman was not necessary to contain crime and poverty. I believe I can trust you, Gordon, to continue working toward that dream.

‘Thank you and goodbye. Bruce Wayne.’”

Only their breathing and the city sounds below could be heard in the silence that followed. Finally, a husky chuckle escaped the Joker. “I think I need one of those,” said the Joker, pulling himself to his feet and licking his lips as he motioned to the alcohol. Wordlessly, Gordon handed him the bottle.

The Joker took a long gulp, choking it down with a cough, and then giggled. “Wo—ow,” he breathed, handing it back to Gordon as he slung a friendly arm around the cop’s shoulders. Gordon flinched, but the Joker seemed to have something else on his mind. Abruptly, he proposed, “A toast. To our mutual friend.”

And it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that they were mourning a great man for the opposite reasons. It didn’t matter that Gordon would wake up the next morning and want to shoot himself for getting so drunk that he told the Joker everything.   It didn’t matter that a month later, a new Batman was roaming the streets and the Joker played with him with almost as much enthusiasm.

“To Bruce Wayne,” said Gordon, taking a swig and handing it off to the Joker, who raised it to the heavens.

“To Batman.”

Fic: A Familiar Taste

Wed, 06 Aug 2008 20:51:15 GMT

Title: A Familiar Taste

Series: Dark Knight/Batman

Pairing: Gen

Rating: PG

Summary: In the midst of a fund-raising operation, the Joker is confronted with a startling revelation.

Notes: The Joker is hhhharrddd to write, but I just can't get this movie out of my head. I think I'm going to see it for a fourth time tomorrow. :D

Their little shindig was in full swing on the building across from where I stood. A party on top of one of the most extravagant penthouses in Gotham; how quaint. Quaint, but not extravagant anymore. Ever since Bruce Wayne had moved back into that Manor of his – to quite a bit of fanfare, or so I hear; a shame I couldn’t make it – the penthouse had stood empty atop the Gotham Century Towers. No one could afford the rent much less actually buy it. It was enough to give a man the giggles.

My accomplices had already secured the lower floors of the building, though the rest of the building didn’t know it, and were making their way up to the top floor. Mr. Wayne had taken to renting out the empty apartment for social functions, but this particular function only had enough gas to get them the roof. How lucky for them that it had not rained.

Right on schedule, one of my accomplices fired a cable between the two buildings, and without hesitation, I stepped out over the abyss. The wind screamed in my ears, tugging on my legs and my arms to topple me out of my controlled teeter-totter as I danced between the buildings. One wrong step and down, down, down I would fall, only to end up a spatter on the sidewalk. An ecstatic smile rose unbidden to my face, and upon realizing it was there, I had to bark out a laugh.

They all saw me now, of course, and I could almost taste the tension and the fear building into panic. Curiously, one man broke away from the rest of the pack with a purposeful gait, only to be stopped by the gaggle of rent-a-cops that had been hired to prevent people like me from interrupting the fun.

Someone obviously skimped on that part of the party planning.

Abruptly I realized I was a hop, skip, and a jump away from being on the roof, and so I did just that, drawing a semi-automatic from its confines in my coat to unleash it into the sky. And punctual as ever, my accomplices burst through the door to the roof, spreading out to form a perimeter around the building – probably out of habit; no one was going to try and escape by flinging themselves over the edge.

“Hell—o Gotham’s elite,” I greeted the party, savoring every cringe. “I saw you from across the way and let me tell you: I just couldn’t resist joining the fun.”

My eyes darted around until something arrested my gaze. Without warning, I shot the server standing a few feet from me and deftly snatched the platter of shrimp cocktail that had caught my attention out of the air, while the young woman crumpled to the floor. I tossed back a whole little glass of them, ignoring the sauce dribbling down my chin and the shrimp tails being crushed between my teeth.

“This is good stuff,” I noted, prodding the tray towards another guest, who took it after I slammed it into his chest. Returning my attention to the party at large, I thought it only fair to explain the situation to them.

“How many of you feel like learning how to fly today?” No response. I sneered. It was obvious enough to me; why couldn’t they grasp it? I clarified, pulling a detonator from my coat with flourish. “Because if any of you fancy ringing up Gotham’s finest, I’d be more than happy to give you a little lesson, free of charge.”

That one got Gotham’s wealthiest wives chattering like nervous little birds. Chitter chatter chitter chitter. My, but wouldn’t they have something to gossip about for weeks on end. And who was I to deny them something more?

“I’ve got this great little idea stirring around in my head,” I said, pacing between the guests, who gave me a wide berth. “But I’m a little short on funds at the moment. And then it hit me, like a ton of bricks – having been to a Bruce Wayne fundraiser myself and seeing firsthand how successful they can be, I thought to myself, why not just run with the same crowd?” Pivoting on my heel, I grabbed the first man in arm’s reach and tugged him forward. “So let’s open up that pocketbook, Mister. Don’t be stingy; it’s for a good cause.”

The man sputtered as he drew out his checkbook, writing in a shaky, uneven hand. I noted the figure and then tutted. “A little reluctant, are we?” Like a snake, I whipped out the detonator and slammed my fist down onto one of the triggers. People screamed as the building rocked beneath us and I rode the buckling concrete like a captain aboard his tossing ship.

“Let me remind you what a serious problem we have on our hands. A problem only you and your hard-earned dollar can solve.” My grin swept back toward the millionaire who I was still manhandling, and he quickly wrote me a check for triple what he had indicated before. Lovely.

Even some of my accomplices – the more sane ones – looked disturbed now, and I belatedly remembered that I had ordered some of them to stay below and watch the interior, thus putting them closer to a few bombs. Let’s not call them “accomplices”, I told myself; it makes them seem less expendable than they really are. “Goons” will do nicely.

One of my goons – one of the less sane ones who did not care that a few buddies were strewn across the floor a few levels below – was harassing a white old man who was standing between him and the prince of Gotham himself. Bruce Wayne, speak of the devil. I couldn’t hold back the laughter at the irony that he was being held hostage on the roof of his own former penthouse, even as he was gaining profit from this party. How much more hilarious would it be, I wondered, if he died at this party as well?

But my goon, henchman, brother in arms, had already had a similar thought, leveling his weapon at the butler first. And who was I to deprive him a little fun? I turned my attention toward another promising prospect, an old woman with enough rings on her wizened fingers to feed a third world country, or better, to finance more explosives than I could shake a stick at.

“Stop!” yelled Mr. Wayne, his voice coming out in a guttural bark as he stiff-armed my goon and the tore the gun from his hands. Normally, I wouldn’t have stopped to think twice about shooting the annoyance – Gotham’s prince or not, I had half-made up my mind about him anyways – but something familiar about him stayed my hand and turned my head.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I chided, stalking towards him, only to find a split second later that my goon was stretched spread eagle on the floor and Mr. Wayne was rearing back to deliver his next punch to my face.

“Ah, ah—Now, let’s be reasonable,” I said, dancing out of his reach, only to find the young billionaire quite a bit more agile than I had assumed. He still clipped my chin hard enough to split my lip, and I stumbled back, sucking on the familiar taste of grease paint and iron.

For a split second he glared at me – fiercely, not like some fussy prep-school boy who hasn’t seen outside his cushy trust fund – and then he seemed to remember he was supposed to be frightened. But the fear on his face looked more like a façade than the animalistic horror I usually inspired.

Of course, that glare had been more than enough to remind me why he looked so familiar.

It was horrible.

And it was hilarious.

A hysterical giggle gurgled in my chest and then ripped its way out my throat. It was just too much! Throwing my head back, I arched my whole body and screamed my laughter to the cloudy Gotham sky, shaking uncontrollably until my sides ached and a headache hounded every smile. Finally, with a last wheeze of breath, I snapped my head back down to address Batman.

“Bruce Wayne!” I exclaimed, weighing the name on my tongue. A fresh wave of giggles overwhelmed me before I could continue, but I reined in my humor in record time. Bruce did not look equally amused.

    “You really do love to spoil my fun, don’t you?”

    Bruce exchanged anxious, confused glances with his fellow party guests – my hostages – and a violent ire bubbled up in my stomach. Why was he acting so clueless; didn’t he know I knew?

    “Don’t you see?” I prodded. “It’s a bad joke. I’ve had so much fun trying to figure out who it was behind the mask, and you’ve just handed it to me on a silver platter. It’s so anti-climactic, it’s heartbreaking.”

    There was a swagger to Bruce’s walk, even as he backed away from me, that dug under my skin. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” The voice of a man used to being obeyed, stuck now between cockiness and being scared witless. It had no right to be coming out of his mouth. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy—”

    “SHUT UP!” I snapped, shattering the tensioned silence with a guttural roar not unlike the one Bruce had unleashed earlier. It was wrong; it was all wrong, and I couldn’t stand it. Wouldn’t stand it. Three quick strides brought me directly in front of Bruce and my fingers itched to strangle that half-cocky, half-fearful look from his face. It wasn’t right. “Stop it,” I snarled, instead. “Stop acting like them. You’re not; you’ll never be.”

    The look did not disappear from his face, though he did raise a hand to wipe the spittle from his chin with disgust, and I was frantic. This couldn’t be him – except it was, I was sure of it – he couldn’t really be like this behind the mask. This simpering, rich fop, this couldn’t be the real him. We were the same; we had to be the same; he couldn’t be a normal, well-adjusted man in the daytime.

    In desperation, I jerked him towards me by the lapels of his expensive suit jacket and cooed, “I’ll tell them all right now. The Batman. Think of the headlines.”

He didn’t even meet my gaze. With a growl of rage, I flung him to the ground and aimed a kick into his gut. Around us, women whimpered in pity, but for the wrong man. A swift glare silenced that ridiculous racket; couldn’t they see we were fighting?

But we weren’t fighting. Mr. Wayne was curled in a ball on his side and I was simmering with frustration towards someone who wasn’t present. Shaking, I kicked him again, to no reaction. Crouching next to him, I hauled him up enough to stick a razor blade between his teeth, forcing him to meet my eyes so I could be sure. Nothing.

No satisfaction, no certainty. Not one bit.

I pulled away and stumbled to my feet when I heard sirens and distant thok-thok-thok of helicopter blades. Their appearance had been my intention from the start, but my mood was ruined, and the pursuit of any “plan”, any chasing after cars, seemed bleak.

But the dark cloud passed over quickly, as most of my moods usually did, and I wasn’t one to give up so easily. I crouched next to Mr. Wayne one last time and asked, “What are you?’

Then, finally, when my body was blocking everyone else in the room from seeing his face, Bruce Wayne smiled. Not the cocky, fear-façade smile, and not the – well, Batman never really did smile, so there was no point for comparison there – but what I suspected to be the grim smile of whoever the real man behind the mask was.

Bruce’s voice came out quiet, but strong. “As Batman, I am the incorruptible symbol of Gotham, whatever it needs me to be. As Bruce Wayne, I can be the punching bag that draws all your attention away from the other hostages until the police arrive.” Subtly, he tapped his watch, which I realized belatedly had a miniscule electromagnetic transmitter on it; one that would certainly disrupt the signal between my detonator and all those little bombs I had stashed.

That was more like it. Cracking a wide grin, I rocked back on my heels and cackled. I was deliriously happy, even though my escape route was probably turned on its head by this point and the Commissioner would probably be waiting with an even more inventive jail cell for me. He had killed the suspense, but I could probably scrounge up a handful of Batman-possibilities and make up enough versions of my revelation that I wouldn’t know for sure.

But at least, right now, I could be sure that my favorite enemy, my favorite friend, really was just like me.

Fic: After Dinner Conversation

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 01:39:02 GMT

Title: After Dinner Conversation

Series: Gokusen

Pairing: Faint/One-sided Shinkumi

Rating: K

Summary: Ever since Sawada started coming over for dinner, the after dinner conversation became a bit awkward for Yankumi.

Kumiko remembered the good times, back when she could lounge around with her family after dinner to enjoy light conversation. The mood had been softer then, quieter perhaps. And she had always been remarkably less red in the face. That all changed when Sawada Shin started visiting for dinner.

It had been nice at first – like a novelty – to have a student in her home. It was a relief to have someone she could share her family with. It was exciting to have a student she could share with her family.

Then Sawada started to get comfortable.

And the family became accustomed to having him around the house.

And now they felt so at home with him that they felt it perfectly reasonable to share humorous anecdotes from her childhood.

Kumiko knew it wouldn’t be long before Sawada lost any trace of respect he had gathered for her, both as a teacher and as a friend.

Kyou had his arm flung over Shin’s shoulder as he recanted one of Kumiko’s amorous plans to woo her middle school crush. Shin looked uneasy under the heavy arm, but he wore a small smile nonetheless. Across the table Yankumi was vainly trying to put up a good front, but a cherry colored blush had already spread across her face.

“Mou… Kyou-san, does he really need to hear all this?” Kumiko whined. Sawada’s grin widened as he chalked up this comment to the running total. So far Yankumi had said the same thing fourteen times that night.

“Why not?” Kyou chuckled. He gave Shin a sharp pat that might’ve been friendly if it hadn’t cracked his back. “It’s a good story. Who doesn’t want to hear about you and your overzealous crushes?”

Yankumi managed to turn a shade darker and she moaned again, “But do you really have to tell him?”

Aah…Fifteen.

Once again ignoring Kumiko’s pleas, Kyou turned back to Shin. “It took our poor Ojou three years to figure out Takashi didn’t like her. And that only happened because he flat out knocked her down.”

Across the table Yankumi seemed to have given up. Her head was nestled in her arms so they couldn’t see her face, but Shin could still see two red ears peeking through her hair.

“Naturally, Ojou knocked his lights out,” Kyou concluded. “Nearly put him in the hospital from what I heard…” His eyes twinkled and Kumiko’s head snapped up.

“That is not true!” she exclaimed. “One moment – One! – of a lapse in self-control and suddenly it’s turned into a big story. I slapped him, and that’s it.” Huffing, she folded her arms and looked away. Sawada was impressed. He had never seen her become so flustered that she pouted.

Kyou looked sheepish. “Well, I may have exaggerated here and there… but Ojou, you can be a bit…er… oblivious when it comes to guys.”

Kumiko started to protest, but she was cut off by Shin’s quiet mumble. “No kidding…”

Kyou shifted slightly and his eyes narrowed. He understood.

“Hey! What do you mean ‘No kidding’?! Oi, Sawada! Hey, what did you mean? Oi!”

And as usual it sailed straight over Kumiko’s head.

Fic: It just made sense

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 18:53:31 GMT

Ok, so I wrote this late last night. I've read over it maybe once, so I fully expect to come back to it later and wonder why in the world I posted it... but what can you do? A short drabble involving Ginny's impressions of Sirius at Grimmauld Place in the first few weeks. It's been awhile since I read OotP, so forgive me any grievances. There are probably major characterization flaws... and Remus was probably there before the Weasleys, but no matter! Onward!!

Mmm, well, low and behold, not more than an hour after I posted this, I come back to realize that this is not an adequate portrayal of Sirius at all, in accordance with OotP anyways. Too late! XD Think of it as AUish.

Sometimes I wondered how Harry could see a father figure in him.

He did nothing more than lay around the house, a firewhisky bottle sometimes clutched loosely between his fingers, his hair matting more each day. He smelled constantly of dirt and sweat, and his current goal in life seemed to be finding out how much stubble he could grow before my mother cornered him with her wand.

Sometimes he wandered vacantly throughout the house, his pale, sunken eyes searching the walls with a vivid, acidic distain. When he was drunk, he sometimes talked to the elves heads on the walls, saying things my mother would hex me into next week for saying. Sometime he screamed back at his mother’s portrait. I learned words I hadn’t known existed.

He never spoke to me, but sometimes he stared. He talked easily with Ron, and even Hermione when she came.

When my mother began to crack down on the alcohol consumption in the house (“Do you want Harry to see you like this?” I overheard my mother shrieking when he challenged her on it. “Completely irresponsible—horrendous life model—!”), I noticed him sitting alone in various corners of the house, sulking.

He was utterly lazy. When my mother rallied us into the greatest cleaning attempt of the century, we were all understandably reluctant. He dragged his feet at every step, glaring at each room as we entered, his knuckles white and his mouth in a tight line.

After some time, I realized that he sat alone to keep us from seeing his shuddering back and nail-pocked palms.

When Professor Lupin came to live at Grimmauld Place indefinitely, I saw a new side to him. Behind the pale, haunted eyes, a furtive spark lit. Occasionally, the same sort of spark lit in Professor Lupin’s eyes, and on those occasions, I learned to keep to my room. Fred and George, on the other hand, were enthralled, and did their level best to ignite the spark in the older men’s eyes every night. There was a rather loud period of time in Grimmauld Place that involved a lot of feathers and imaginative Transfiguration, but my mother put a stop to it. I found myself missing that strange, youthful spark in his eyes. But it wasn’t gone after all; just more subtle.

But he still cried. I came across him late at night in the kitchen, once, nursing a firewhisky he had no doubt hidden from my mother’s purge. He just shuddered into the table and didn’t hear me come or go.

And then Harry came.

I saw him, matted hair mostly combed out and wearing clean clothes for the first time that week, engulf Harry in a bone crushing hug. I saw him cling to Harry, and Harry cling to him, and then I saw him throw himself at life for the sake of Harry. And the spark that lit in his eyes around Lupin was nothing compared to the light that overcame him when he was around Harry.

I guess it just made sense after a while.

Fic: Boggart

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 18:31:51 GMT

A generic Ginny-conquers-her-fear-of-Tom story. I was just intrigued by the backbone Ginny seems to grow in the time in between COS and when she becomes a major character again in the books. This was my first HP fanfiction back in the day. :]

Ginny Weasley had been dreading this day since the beginning of her third year. She had known it would come because Ron had gone on for ages about his boggart – the way he had made the legs pop off that giant spider. It wasn’t much help to her. Ginny was fine with spiders and popping the legs off her boggart would hardly help.

She held back a shiver as she followed the rest of her class into an empty classroom where Moody had contained the boggart. He explained briefly the way a boggart could be exterminated and demonstrated the riddikulus charm, which they practiced until Moody was satisfied with them. Ginny tried to take her place at the end of the line, but ended up somewhere near the middle. It seemed some other people were wary of facing their boggarts also.

Once the lesson had gotten underway and Ginny was nearing the front of the line, she waved Moody over. He glanced back at Colin, who was dealing well with some sort of giant vampire, and stomped over to Ginny.

“Proffessor, I can’t do this,” Ginny said quietly. “I know what my boggart is going to be and there’s nothing I can do against him– it.”

“Nonsense,” Moody answered gruffly. “Everyone has to learn to deal with boggarts – JAMES ALLEN, BACK OF THE LINE!” Ginny watched her professor thunder to the front of the line and shove the next student forward before half the room burnt down.

Ginny bit her lip as the line moved forward. She didn’t want to do this; she REALLY didn’t want to do this. She did not want to face—

And then suddenly she found herself at the front of the line and the boggart turned on her. With a whip-like crack, there stood the smiling figure of Tom Riddle.

“Hello Ginny,” he said quietly, a small smirk rising to his lips.

Ginny’s breath caught in her throat and her fingers twisted tighter around her wand, which was still hanging uselessly at her side. She could barely hear the confused whispers behind her – “Why was Ginny’s boggart a handsome young man?”

“Riddikulus!” Moody reminded, urging her to act.

After a few moments it seemed only natural to reply. “Hello Tom.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again Ginny,” Tom answered, stepping towards her. Ginny felt his dark eyes boring into her, but she could not move. “So tell me, how does it feel to know that Tom Riddle – no, Lord Voldemort – is living on, in part, through you?”

More than a few girls let out small screams and Ginny stiffened more. Moody had moved to take over when Ginny had failed to even lift her wand, but he had abruptly stopped short and hobbled back a few feet.

“It hadn’t occurred to you?” Tom asked, letting the smirk widen. “It may only be a boggart, but its projecting me isn’t it? The way I’m preserved in your memories and in your fears…” He paused, close enough now to tap a long slender finger sharply against her temple. “After all this time, I’m still a part of you.”

When she did nothing he turned his back to her and walked away again. “After all this time, I’d expected you to grow a backbone.”

He was right, Ginny realized, startled out of her thoughtless state. How would she ever get Harry to notice her if she couldn’t even stand up to a boggart? But then… maybe this shouldn’t even be about Harry.

Squaring her shoulders, Ginny set the back of Tom’s head in a glare. “Tom Riddle, you listen here!” she said, surprised by the strength in her own voice. She purposefully used the name by which she had known him her first year, because she wouldn’t be able to do this if she considered him as…him.

Tom turned and shocked her with an equally powerful glare.

But she was determined not to falter. “I may be afraid of you for the rest of my life,” she said slowly, clutching her wand in white knuckles as she raised it. “But every time I come across a boggart I will have the distinct pleasure of seeing you in the ugliest pink dress I can imagine.”

The boggart-Tom narrowed its eyes at her. “Let’s find out if clothing is enough to make you forget,” he sneered.

“Riddikulus!”

SPAZING OUT

Wed, 05 Mar 2008 05:09:01 GMT

Ok so I do stats for wrestling at my school. It's my last year (since i'm a senior) and most of the wrestlers are seniors as well. So, we're making all the guys scrapbooks. 8 of them. By Saturday. We started today. And we still don't have all the pictures. And the mother of the wrestler I am doing expects a lot... like perfection. O_O

Do you have any idea how expensive scrapbooking is? it's ridiculous. @_@ I'm saving my receipts and hoping the school compensates me. So I'll just be glad when this is over.
Only about a week until Sr. trip in the Dominican! Hold on!

Oh so frustrating...

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 03:42:36 GMT

Have you ever had that immense urge to write something, anything, only to find out you're fresh out of ideas? I really feel like writing something new even though I have about a zillion unfinished stories... I especially feel like writing fanfiction oneshots, but here's the funny thing about me and oneshots. They come to me very sporadically, usually when I'm about to fall asleep, and usually only after I've gone through what one of my "Wow I'm bored, let's re-read ____" sort of weekends. This most often happens with Harry Potter... I feel nerdish just writing that, but whatever. Heee...

So right now I have the biggest urge to write either a Gokusen or HP fic and I am fresh out of inspiration. Guess I just can't force good ideas... have to be patient. :[

Fic: Teacher

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 05:02:11 GMT

Thought I'd post some of my Gokusen fanfiction on here. Just a little oneshot that hit me while I was re-reading the manga (I do that sort of thing when I'm really bored on long weekends...). I love Kyou in the manga, and after reading the chapter about him training Kumiko, I could see this happening plain as day. So.. without further ado.

Fandom: Gokusen
Title: Teacher
Characters: Kumiko, Kyou
Summary: Kumiko has a dilemma, and in her mind, Kyou is the only one who can help her with it.

In hindsight, Kyou really should have realized something was wrong when Kumiko dodged right into his punch during their afternoon fighting lesson. He had been so alarmed by the bloody nose he’d given her that her dazed eyes and red cheeks didn’t come to his attention.

He really should have noticed when she didn’t scold him for smoking later that evening. Or when she failed to make dinner into an all-out battle. Or when she ran into her bedroom door.

Instead it took five consecutive days of this behavior for Kyou to start suspecting something was wrong with their young Ojou. It all came to a head when she got her third bloody nose in two hours. Kyou was guiltily beginning to wonder if he was going too hard on her.

“Ojou, you alright?” he asked cautiously. He had never been very good with words, and he didn’t want to hit their temperamental Ojou’s weak spot on accident. “You’re not concentrating.”

Kyou started as Kumiko turned a violent shade of red. She tried to hide her face by not meeting his eyes, but Kyou could tell she was embarrassed. “No…” she confessed, “I mean, only a little.”

“What’s wrong?” Kyou asked, crouching to her level. Even though Ojou was in junior high now, he still towered over her, head and shoulders. “Someone bullying you again? ‘Cause if they are, you have my permission to knock their heads together. No holding back.”

Kumiko still avoided his gaze. “No, that’s not it,” she said, twisting one pigtail around her little fingers.

Kyou was left to ponder what in the world could bother a middle school girl so much. If it wasn’t bullies, what could it be? Their Ojou was very bright, like her parents, so she couldn’t be struggling with her studies. Maybe a teacher was causing her trouble. Or maybe—

“Kyou-san, can you teach me how to kiss right?”

All thought ground to a halt. Kyou certainly hadn’t been expecting that. Kumiko was facing him now, and her eyes held that same hard, fiery determination they had held when she had asked him to teach her to fight.

“U-Uhh…” Kyou stammered. He collected himself and mumbled, “I don’t think it would be right for me to teach you, Ojou… something like that…” There was an awkward silence as Kumiko’s little brow began to furrow. Thinking quickly, Kyou blurted, “Why?”

Ojou’s fingers wove together and she looked away again as her cheeks flared up. “T-There’s this… boy… at school…” she mumbled. “And… And…” She met his gaze again and her eyes had that dangerous gleam. “You’re good at it, right? Aren’t you popular with the girls at Wakamatsu-san’s wife’s bar? So, I need to learn how to kiss so he’ll like me.”

Now it was Kyou’s turn to flush. When had Ojou gotten so perceptive; especially about things like kissing and boys? “Uh, what’s his name?” he asked, stalling for time. Maybe he would get lucky and someone would come out looking for the little girl.

“Takashi,” Kumiko answered dreamily. Kyou glanced towards the house. Damn, no luck. “Well?” she asked expectantly.

Slowly, Kyou stood to his full height and then crossed his arms. Somehow he felt he needed this leverage over the little girl. “Ojou… You’re twelve and I’m almost thirty. It’s not right.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kumiko answered, waving aside the moral dilemma with a flick of her wrist. “It’s practice. And you’re Kyou-san.”

Under normal circumstances, the amount of trust and familiarity she had managed to stuff into his name would have brought a tear to the older man’s eye. Instead, it filled him with a sort of dread. “It’s not that simple,” he offered weakly.

“Yes it is! You’re the only one who can teach me! Grandpa is too old and Wakamatsu is already married.” Ojou was gathering steam, and Kyou could see the oncoming tirade. He braced himself.

“If you don’t teach me, no one will! And then I’ll never get Takashi to like me and no one will ever like me. I’ll be a little old maid and yakuza won’t even like me! And it’ll all be your fault! All because you were too…too cowardly and unmanly to teach me how to kiss!” When Kumiko began to emphasize her points with sharp jabs to his ribs, Kyou caved.

“Alright!” he thundered, quickly checking for any nearby people. Seeing no one, he swept Kumiko into the air and gave her a swift peck on the cheek. Kumiko was giggling uncontrollably when he set her down, and he checked once more to make sure no one had seen.

“I can’t kiss like that!” Kumiko gasped between giggles. “I’m shorter than Takashi!”

Kyou laughed uneasily and scratched the back of his head. “Oh… well…” Finally, he reached out and tilted her chin up, then tipped her head a tad to the side. “Like that,” he said. “You just sort of lean up from there. And try not to slobber.”

Kumiko bit her lip. “We can’t practice?”

“Well, no, I—”

“But what if I mess up?”

“You’ll be fine. Just… do like I said…”

“He’ll hate me! They’ll all laugh.”

“Ojou, I—”

“Please, just once!”

“OH, didja hear that? Wakamatsu’s calling me. Gotta go!” And then Kyou fled like the coward she had accused him of being.

~*~

The next afternoon when Ojou came home, her face was a splotchy red color. A few household members tried to console her, but her bawling yells still reached the whole house.

“KYOU-SAN! YOU ARE THE WORST KISSING TEACHER EVER!”

It raised quite a few eyebrows and Kyou didn’t hear the end of it for nearly six months.

I feel kinda lost here...

Tue, 12 Feb 2008 04:30:22 GMT

So I finally decided to get a lj. I have a myspace (never really liked it that much) and a facebook (LOVE... I am addicted, actually), but a lot of fandom is on lj. Fanfiction stuff and whatnot. So I thought I'd give it a go.

But I'm lost...

Hopefully not for long. XD Just a lot of getting used to the format sort of things...