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It’s time.
Or: their sell by date is a distant speck behind them and Joker’s been putting this off far too long. That would be his one regret, that he didn’t do this two years ago when they still struck sparks across the smog screen Gotham skyline. The fire still roars but the hearth is just for the two of them, their guests long turned in for the night. It needs doing, before they burn down to embers. Better to burn out than fade away and Joker always imagined making his exit stage left with a bang.
He does his very best to make it a momentous occasion, but when the Bat arrives on the scene it’s clear he hasn’t picked up on any of the hints Joker’s been dropping. His stubble is run through with grey and he still limps from a nasty break Two Face gave him years back.
Batman rises to the occasion in much the same way he always has. Emerging from the shadows without a sound, so that Joker doesn’t realise they’re together until they’re on top of each other; pushing and pushing and pushing. Their stamina isn’t what it once was and they have to pause in between blows to catch their breath, always nice enough to leave each other alone until they’re back with their head in the game.
The game is so much fun. The maggot people that flood the streets below them scramble for front row seats at this heavyweight grudge match, looking up with deep seated envy. It doesn’t matter how many hits they take, how many times they have to claw their way back to glory, Batman and The Joker are living legends and everyone wants what they have.
“Let’s go, Joker.” Batman hisses, a hand on Joker’s shoulder.
The Joker laughs. Are they supposed to leave? Abandon all this? The spotlight is irresistible and the show must go on, right up to the closing number.
The fight of the century, the Salle Le Peletier on opening night. Joker flashes his best smile for the crowd, letting the simpletons lap it up. All this blood and theatrics, the one true shared pastime of Gothamites.
The strings speed up, the timpani pounding hard on Joker’s heels. His dance partner rushes to catch up to him and the brass wells, pulling them into the final movement. And in the coda, the next generation must decide if they can live without them.
“What are you doing?” Batman leaps the final gap Joker will ever ask him to bridge, between two rooftops in the meatpacking district.
The GCPD will be here soon enough, and from there all this will turn to towering inferno. Joker waits for the great beast to realise that the numbers don’t add up. Eyes narrowed, shoulders going slack, the wind dying in his cape. “Joker…”
The Batman steps forward, holding out his hands in sweet surrender. Joker mirrors him, because that’s what he does best and as the cymbals crash in triumphant climax, the sirens start up. Nothing left to do but take Batman’s hand, pull him into position to start the final waltz and let him wonder what life might have been like if he had let himself do this from the start.
“Let’s go.” Joker breathes. “No more encores.” He sets the detonator between his teeth in place of a rose. What’s in a name? That which we call fire by any other name would burn as bright.
It’s a glorious thing to be ripped limb from limb. The human body is a jigsaw puzzle desperate to be disassembled and scattered into the bottom of a box. Joker would laugh about it if he weren’t screaming, if he weren’t crying, if he weren’t spitting in the face of fate.
If his skin and bones weren’t lighting up for the very last time and if Batsy weren’t along for the ride. The only thing worth laughing about is that by the time the ash has settled, the maggots will never be able to tell the two of them apart.