Life is so much better when you're dead

Some man was being wheeled into the building on a gurney. By then he was most probably unconscious, but maybe he had been aware of what was in store for him before the fabled black car swallowed him. Bruce watched the proceedings on five screens, each set to feed him image from a different angle. Five minutes earlier he had smeared black paint around his eyes. His cowl was sitting on the desk. The man was about to have his heart taken away from him. Bruce had spent most of this day harboring this knowledge, and right now Joker wasn't there with him to help him pretend it was just the way it had to be.

He had known thanks to the bug he had planted the night before. James Sullivan had assured someone the delivery was going to be made tonight, giving the whole operation a very strict time frame. They had to wait until the man on the gurney dies and his heart is safely placed in a cooler. Then, they had to steal his body and burn it, and pass his heart along to Nissenbaum. The delivery was still going to be made, nothing was about to change apart from making this particular instance of organ theft a little more foolproof, owing to Bruce.

The operation was starting, and Bruce watched the first incision as he reached for his cowl. He had about an hour before it would be over, but the trip to the shipyard shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes. He walked to his supercharged BMW--a car that seemed a little worse for the wear and was about a thousand times less conspicuous than the ponderous tumbler. He didn't want to attract any attention tonight, didn't want to run from anyone or anything, he just wanted this to be over with. Joker was out there somewhere, shepherding his little flock of masked tools. Bruce was going to notify him as soon as James Sullivan receives a phone call telling him the harvesting had been a success.

Bruce's route was thankfully quite clear. Not many people were headed in that direction at this hour. He wasn't comfortable in his armor and there was a hungry black hole in the pit of his stomach. He was driving by rote. There weren't too many highlights to that day; Joker was mostly out, getting everything ready. That man could recruit a reliable crew and have everything prepared within twelve hours, and Bruce could count on him to help him make this head dive right on schedule.

Joker wasn't there when Bruce listened to Sulivan's conversation, though. He also wasn't there to see him go pale and paralyzed, or to hear him talk to Nissenbaum in that distant, dry voice. Bruce had only seen him in the morning when he woke up in their designer sheets, his face against Joker's warm chest. Then, they both had work to do, and all he had was his voice on the phone every few hours. He was strung out, just wanting it to be over.

♣ ♣ ♣

The boys weren't talkative in the least. All of them hiding behind clown masks, they didn't want to know anything about their co-workers and were even less eager to divulge anything about themselves. All they knew were their instructions and the generous down payment. Joker was notorious for both his generosity and the occasional abuse of trust that would result in his entire crew dying. Yet, many were brave enough to take the risk, and those men seemed cut for the task. Joker adjusted his mask and checked his phone. Bruce was going to give him the cue to move in as soon as he had rounded up all of the personnel and guards.

Time wasn't moving fast enough tonight. Joker wished for a cigarette, but he'd much rather have Bruce close, putting up his convincing wife act. There were no words to describe how much he wanted this to be over. It would be nice to just go home. He tried not to laugh at himself. He needed to keep up appearances for the sake of the group, speaking in a low, husky voice and definitely not laughing. He wanted to be home, which was just almost as funny as it was depressing. One good thing came out of it--motivation makes for a driven man, and the plan was a surefire way to destroy James Sullivan's little idea in less than thirty minutes.

There was just one thing he couldn't shake off, and it was the way Bruce had sounded on the phone the last time they spoke. He knew all about the little oubliettes bursting open in Bruce's head as he sat before the screens, his eyes glued to them without a doubt. He just knew about everything there was to know. The problem with favorite toys is that you can't put them away until you know exactly what makes them tick, disassembling them screw by screw, putting them back together, maybe rearranging something, maybe giving them your own twist, but still learning whether you like it or not. Sooner or later, a part of you gets trapped inside, maybe the part you could never handle yourself. The toy becomes an extension of you.

Bruce was his favorite toy for the longest time, but one day he just took something Joker offered without asking any questions and buried it deep within him. He turned it against him. All that it led to was this reality--them living together, Bruce fixing the sink, Bruce petting his hair, Bruce smiling at him, Joker trying to laugh away his terror as Bruce tells him one day his fear is going to make him want to pull the trigger.

Knowing Bruce could result in sheer panic. As he waited for his cue sitting in a van behind the wheel among masked soon-to-be cadavers, Joker humored himself with a little honesty. He recalled Bruce sitting in his lap, caressing his face and telling him all about everything that could possibly go wrong. He remembered the comfort it had given him, and to his own satisfaction he concluded that he liked the fear. He wouldn't trade it for anything, and he most definitely wouldn't let it meddle with what they had, because he of all people had his priorities in order.

Joker simply strived for everything Bruce would give him, fear included. Bruce had reconstructed a little part of Joker's ego to settle in, enabling the fear to flourish, but in retaliation, Joker had planted the seed of his own selfless freedom in Bruce. He watched it grow lovingly. He knew when to water it, and he knew when to weed. He still knew Bruce, and he knew by the tone of his voice on the phone that weeding might be in order quite soon.

♣ ♣ ♣

James Sullivan was most probably sitting back and relaxing with a cigar in his office, but the woman who had made the confirming call was now barely conscious, tied to a forklift with the rest of the operating crew, left at a safe distance from the guest house. Guards, supervisors and just about everyone else on the premise shared her predicament. Bruce had resorted to gas pellets and darts, avoiding bruises and broken ribs. Only one man had put up resistance and opened fire, but Bruce had no time for this. He had twenty minutes before the effect would start wearing off.

James Sullivan had no idea he was all alone in the building. He was the type to sit back and relax with a cigar, the old fashioned type with faith in his own cunning and clout. Bruce held much resentment for that type, especially with the image of Carmine Falcone deep-rooted in his mind as the unsuperseded symbol of oppression. From the very beginning and for the longest time, starting with the very words that had compared his father to a begging dog, he could never find a better package for his disgust. Golden rings, cigars, leather chairs, the works. It might help him get in the mood.

Before he entered the office, he knew all the guns inside had empty barrels. He knew where the safe was, and he knew how many minutes he would have to dangle Sullivan from the window to convince him to open it. Joker had been notified. Right now, he was probably loading the heartless carcass into the van.

To nobody's surprise, Sullivan was smoking a cigar and watching TV when Bruce walked inside. The weather forecast he was perusing promised sunshine for days to come. The mandatory reach under the desk, and the expected dread upon hearing the sorry click of an impotent gun. Bruce calmly approached the man, grabbing his collar, hoisting him up, leading him to the window, opening it, pushing him towards it precariously. Joker was probably setting up the explosives.

The expected "What do you want?" escaped Sullivan's wide mouth in the form of a squeal. Bruce wasn't in the mood after all, and all he ended up feeling was mild annoyance. No sense of righteousness. The man was old and scared. An old, organ-stealing, scared man hanging from the window.

"In about five minutes, your guest house will be blown up. In about fifteen minutes, the police will come asking questions. In thirty minutes, they will know the explosion was no accident. Right now, you have a chance to stand innocent in their eyes. You will give me all the documentation that says otherwise, and you get the chance to turn a new leaf."

Bruce couldn't make it any simpler. No over the top scare tactics this time; Sullivan just couldn't win his rage or even repulsion in this instance. Just a scared old man straining to remain professional.

"Yeah, and guess what, my guest house is blown up, I'm dead in two hours." An audible gulp. "There's a fucking heart ready to be delivered, and it's to be delivered right now."

"That's why it's in your interest to let me know right now to whom it should be delivered."

"What are you going to do?" Sullivan's voice screeched to a halt. He was about to surrender.

"I'm going to let you live if you give me what I'm asking for." Simplicity could get you anywhere.

Batman's murderous notoriety worked in Bruce's favor. Two more minutes and Sullivan was reduced to a bundle of all rights and please don't kill mes. Joker was probably at the gates, having his detonator ready and waiting. Bruce dragged Sullivan back inside, his eyes following the scrambling, stout figure maneuvering around the safe. Three minutes and there was a stack of ledgers trembling along with short arms wrapped in bespoke Hugo Boss. Bruce made the obligatory few ominous steps towards Sullivan before the man extended the prize in his direction, still unsure, still hoping for a chance. The sound of an explosion made the parting scene so much easier. Bruce was gone in fifteen seconds.

He put the documentation in a messenger bag, slung it around his shoulder and left the building. Just a couple of minutes before the wound up personnel would fully regain their senses. He made a quick run for the half-awake coven and sliced the ropes holding them together, allowing them to slump to the ground. The orange flames made the situation clear, but the raspy threat gave the best piece of advice those people would ever get. They had no idea what had just happened, they hadn't seen Batman anywhere around them, and most definitely they didn't know who would hold a grudge against them and why.

What they did know is that they'd have to act by the book from now on, aware of Batman watching over them, afraid of the police trying to figure out why anyone would attack their shipyard.

Bruce didn't think of all this, though. He just did what had to be done, he said what had to be said, and as soon as the messenger bag was thrown into the back seat and his hands were clutching the steering wheel, all he could think of was going home.

♣ ♣ ♣

The boys were still demure, maybe a little afraid, finally starting to wonder if one of them was going to reveal a painted face and kill all the others. Or maybe they were just professional, and in that case killing them was going to be equally heart-rending. You don't come across valuable work force very often these days. They loaded and rigged everything with time to spare, and unfortunately they weren't going to live long enough to enjoy the fruit of their talents.

When they were about half-way to the interception spot, Joker made sure no one was looking in his direction. He was driving, and the other five men sat in the back with the black body bag and the procured merchandise. He reached into his pocket in a relaxed, non-alarming gesture, pulled out a small gas mask, wedged it underneath the clown mask and covered his mouth. No one noticed. He reached into his other pocket and pressed a button. A translucent gas filled the van. Again, no one noticed. Finally, they just panicked, cursed, coughed and died.

Just a couple more minutes. Bruce was supposed to take a different route, but they were all going to meet up by the river. Joker rolled down the window by his side, letting some fresh air in. It was a very slow night and a very quiet road; no one bothered a driver in a clown mask.

It was the first job he had ever carried out without the promise of Batman showing up to slap him around and tell his wrong-doing self off. Dear God, was it tedious. There was a long forgotten knowledge that it was the way work was supposed to be--tedious and without prospects. Joker sighed. He heard a silent thud when one of the bodies fell to the ground as he took a left turn.

Finally, he arrived at the spot and parked on the gravel. As soon as he got out, he was attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes and he made a mental note to stock up on vitamin B12. One can never know how many bodies one should have to dump into the river before fall comes. He opened the rear door and turned to Mosheh who got out of his car and walked up to greet him. Joker finally decided to take off his mask, revealing the greasepaint. It had been a while since he last used it.

"Good evening. What do we have here?" Mosheh grabbed his hand and shook it absently even though Joker hadn't extended it, and took a few steps towards the van. The braids of his beard were tied behind his neck; he was probably eating before he came here.

"No, no, no, don't come closer. Gotta let some air in first," Joker said.

"Oh. Nice work with... you know." The man motioned to the assorted corpse collection. "Got the heart ready?"

Joker licked his lips and brushed some stray hair from his forehead. The make-up left white stains on his glove. There was this annoying weight in his chest.

"Sure. Here you go, Gomez," he smiled as he reached inside the van and picked up a small container. Mosheh took it in his hands carefully and paced towards his car. He placed it in the passenger seat. Joker puffed out a sigh, grabbed a canister of kerosene and started pouring it all over the van.

"Seriously just the heart? No marrow or anything?" asked Mosheh.

"Just the heart," Joker drawled and pouted. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He needed it badly. He walked around the van and released the brakes, and after taking a couple steps back, he lit up his cigarette and threw the lighter inside. The car burst up in flames. Bruce arrived just in time to watch it descend into the river.

The rumble of the engine almost brought tears to Joker's eyes, and he took a hearty drag to prevent the inappropriate grin that urged to slide onto his face. Bruce left the car and smiled at him. He was still wearing his cowl. The result was stupefying. Joker didn't bother to watch the van drown or to pay attention to anything else.

"Good evening!" Mosheh exclaimed and approached Bruce who pushed the messenger bag into his hands without a word. As if the mood wasn't heavy enough, what with the mosquitoes, frogs, crickets and stolen organs. Batman would always deliver the final touch of grim brooding and without him the night of Gotham was never complete. Joker smiled as he watched.

"Check the most recent ledger, the delivery address is under today's date. And the number you should call beforehand." Bruce spoke in the familiar rasp even though he didn't have to. No one dared to point that out. Mosheh obediently consulted the page in question, nodded to himself and threw the documentation into his car. He turned around to face Bruce again and gave him a pat on the shoulder with a grin on his face. This man was so awkward and sincere with every gesture, he could be forgiven just about any shortcoming in courtesy.

"Thanks a lot, I'll go now. How long do I have?"

"Forty minutes."

"Better get going then, huh. Thanks again." Mosheh raised his hand and crawled into his car.

"If I find out you're going to pick up where Sullivan's been forced to leave, I will come for you," Bruce said quietly. The hungry black hole inside him demanded something.

"Why would we wanna do that?" Mosheh stared at him with wide eyes. Bruce just turned around and went back to his car, giving Joker a quick look. The man followed him and sat in the passenger seat while Bruce settled behind the wheel. The sound of Mosheh's car gradually died away, and their job was done. Joker relaxed against the headrest and attempted to raise the cigarette to his mouth, but Bruce snatched it out of his hand. He took a drag and exhaled slowly.

Joker watched dumbfounded for a while before he started rooting for the phone in his pocket. He raised it to eye level and took a picture without a word. Bruce sucked on the cigarette one more time and started to laugh, Joker soon following suit.

"That mask makes everything extreme," he cackled.

"That's the idea," Bruce said, this time in his regular voice. The cigarette butt flew through the window.

"Was your day as exasperating as mine?"

"Mine was... nothing special." Bruce hanged his head with a tired smile. Joker tapped the pointy ear of his cowl.

"Take it off," he murmured. Bruce obediently pulled it off his head and soon enough the hard kevlar on his temples was replaced with warm lips. He leaned into the greasepaint-coated kiss and closed his eyes. That was definitely a first for both of them. He liked it.

They drove back to his base to leave the car and the armor. It was a pleasant ride, and the air seemed fresh and cool for a change. From the moment Joker had reclaimed his rightful place which happened to be by Bruce's side, the two of them began to thaw and soften around the edges, but there was still this cross-grained feeling that needed to be resolved. They jabbed at it one bit at a time. They were both tired and gravitated towards what felt the most natural.

When they found themselves in the white-lit hall, Bruce started with doffing pieces of his armor and putting on a black t-shirt and jeans. He didn't bother to shower or remove his make-up. Meanwhile, Joker just kicked back and engrossed himself into one of his favorite activities in this place--spinning in a chair. When Bruce was done changing, he followed Joker's example and sat down, his head lolling back. His eyelids felt heavy. He heard a rustle and the creak of Joker's chair as the man stood up.

Bruce righted his head to look at him. He was just standing there in his worn-out, rumpled jacket, smiling and looking completely spent.

"Why are you wearing make-up?" Bruce asked with a weak smile. Joker shrugged, still staring at him until Bruce began to chuckle. "What?"

"You didn't sound so hot on the phone today," Joker said softly.

"I didn't feel so hot about the whole thing." Bruce hanged his head. "When I watched that guy being carved up, I remembered how I told myself world wouldn't be like this within the reach of my arm," he said and laughed without mirth. "It was a good few years ago, though."

Two things gnawed at Joker--the rending feeling in his stomach at the sight, and the string of little concepts hatching in his brain that would undoubtedly make it all better.

"It's just that... today I kinda felt what this is all about for the first time. I'm running errands without asking questions." Bruce rested his head on his hands and sighed.

"You know what?" Joker started and took a step towards the other man. Bruce looked at him askance. "I could be saying the exact same thing, but you said yourself it's time for me to settle down, right? Other guys my age work their hinds off just so they can have a little peace of mind with their families at the end of the day." He knelt in front of Bruce and patted his knee. "You can see it as running errands, but it's just, uh... just daily grind. All for the sake of my little peace of mind with my family."

Bruce kept silent for several minutes, processing what he had just heard. Oddly enough, he felt like crying. He slid off his chair to the floor and gravitated to what felt the most natural. He eased into the man's embrace and smiled when Joker childishly pressed his face against his cheek, smearing his make-up all over him with each warm, sloppy kiss.

"Some time ago I could only go to sleep when I felt this stuff on my face," Bruce half-whispered and inhaled the smell of greasepaint with a slight, content smile. The familiar white noise claimed him once more, though this time he felt safe giving in to its softness.