Chapter Text
An unbearably humid breeze made its way through the dark streets of Gotham, offering little reprieve from the broiling heat the city endured during the day. It swept under eaves and into avenues, tickling Batman’s face and lazily tugging on his cape as he examined the body.
Batman has seen a lot of things while patrolling the streets of Gotham; penguins roaming the streets, fire trucks set on actual fire, and some truly horrifying hallucinations courtesy of fear gas.
But Batman can’t say he’s ever seen anything quite like this.
He stood in front of an upscale restaurant; large floor to ceiling windows reflecting the red and blue lights of the police cars. From what he knew, the place was originally built in the late 70s, during the height of organized crime in Gotham, and had been a thinly-veiled front for the Carmine family’s shadier business. It was bombed out a few years ago during a hit on the previous head of the family, it got gentrified, as most areas of Gotham did, and went through extensive remodeling under the new owner. Bruce vaguely remembered taking a few dates there, not that he’d ever set foot here again after this.
The victim was laid out on the sidewalk in a large pool of blood, body broken and contorted into unnatural angles from when he’d apparently been dropped from the top of the four-story building. The corners of his mouth were cut into a grisly Glasgow smile, his cheeks and jaw covered in lipstick stains. His expensive suit was covered in large splotches of blood and purple paint, and a bouquet of flowers had been duct-taped into his hands before he was thrown off. A message was written on the restaurant window, the words “Hey Batsy,” punctuated with a small heart slathered on the window with, what appeared to be, lipstick.
Batman could feel a migraine coming on.
While the Joker had never been exactly subtle, he’d never been this forward either.
The whole scene was unusual. It wasn’t Joker’s style to dump a body and leave. Or to focus that much attention on one person. Joker always liked to put on a show and terrorize crowds of people. His crimes were as ostentatious and flamboyant as he himself was. This was too personal: too intimate. Batman briefly considered the possibility of a copycat killer, but he doubted it. No one else in Gotham would be this… flirtatious.
“Well this is new.” Gordon stepped under the police tape, hands in his pockets, and looking very much in need of a nap. Not that Batman was one to talk.
“You got an ID on the body?” Batman asked gruffly. He didn’t have time to waste on idle chit chat. Gordon didn’t seem to mind though, already accustomed to Batman’s abrasive demeanor.
“Name’s Richard Hill, age 37, budget analyst for Wayne Enterprises and newly divorced.” Gordon shoved his hands into his pockets with a frown.
“Any kids?”
“None that we know of.”
Batman hummed in thought. He didn’t remember ever meeting a Richard Hill but he made a mental note to look through the payroll later. So the victim was a middle-aged man with a highly paid job and single. Who does that remind him of?
His square jaw visibly tightened, mouth pressing into a thin line.
“When did Joker escape Arkham?”
“8:32 p.m,” Gordon recited from memory.
“And when was the body found?”
“11:00 p.m.”
Apparently, he had roughly two and a half hours to find Mr. Hill, kill him, stage the body, and dump it. Joker could have easily pulled a random person from the street (It wouldn’t be the first time he had), but there were too many uncanny similarities between himself and the victim to be purely coincidental. Joker must have already been keeping tabs on this person long before he broke out of Arkham.
Batman was going to have to visit his least favorite asylum. Again.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Gordon piped up.
“Whatever he’s doing, he’s gotten my attention.”
~~~~
That June in Gotham was one of the most infamous in the city’s long and proud history of heinous crimes.
Bodies kept piling up in seemingly random places. Mutilated corpses would show up in parks, coffee shops, theatres, and anywhere considered even remotely romantic, including a memorable incident in the Tunnel of Love that the CSI was still trying to clean up weeks later. Law enforcement had to pull double and triple shifts just to keep up. The exhaustion and frustration within the precinct occasionally boiled over into fist fights that needed to be broken up.
All of this, combined with the oppressive summer heat that turned the industrial city into a kiln, set everyone in Gotham on edge.
Bruce was currently holed up in the Batcave, the long bouts of silence only occasionally interrupted by the chittering of the bats and the whirring of a small fan that only seemed to blow more hot air at him. He sat in his desk chair, ruminating over the case. His sleeves were rolled up as far as they would go and his white-button up shirt unpleasantly sticking to his back.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, trying to alleviate the strain of staring at a monitor for several hours on end.
All of the victims fit the same profile as Mr. Hill; white, middle-aged, single, wealthy, and employed by one Bruce Wayne who was currently looking through all the available data to try and figure out where the Joker was hiding.
No one knew where the Joker was. He had searched all of his old haunts and centers of operation, all coated in thick layers of dust and blood stains. He hadn’t hired any new or even old cronies and none of his usual associates had heard from him. No one at Arkham knew where he went or even how he managed to escape. It was as if he vanished into thin air, only to materialize again to leave Batman flowers and love notes in the form of murders. Bruce sighed in frustration, taking a swig from his lukewarm coffee to try and stay focused.
Everyone at Wayne Enterprises was understandably worried and scared, a few even resigning and moving to Bludhaven. In an attempt to keep the casualties to a minimum, he had mandated that all company operations be either stalled or done from home until the Joker was apprehended. His life now consisted of dozens of video conferences during the day, patrolling the streets at night and using every spare hour in between to try and catch the Joker. The lack of progress on the case was frustrating enough without constantly having to put it on hold for another damn video call. If he had to sit through one more Zoom meeting, he was going to scream.
Work was the least of his worries though.
He could handle the Joker being infatuated with Batman. He wasn’t blind. There were always these little glances and comments that made Bruce suspect. It had never been a real issue before now, so he was always content to sweep it under the rug again until their next encounter. But ignoring it wasn’t an option anymore. Having Joker’s infatuation with him confirmed in an all-out murder spree was horrible, but Bruce could work with that.
However, The Joker knowing Batman’s secret identity was one of the worst possible case scenarios. Of course, he had contingencies for this sort of thing (usually involving him faking his own death or creating a new identity and moving to Australia), but those plans were drastic and irreversible.
His life would be over.
He could never come back to Gotham.
He wouldn’t be able to protect the people he cared about.
Bruce leaned back in his desk chair and stared up at the cavernous ceiling, counting the stalactites above him like stars. A bead of sweat rolled off his temple and into his hairline. Maybe he was overthinking this. There was a good chance Joker had just been hiding in plain sight this entire time: Somewhere Batman wouldn’t think to look. He took a deep breath, trying to clear the clutter from his mind.
He breathed in.
And out.
What were some places he hadn’t considered?
His train of thought was violently derailed by the sharp beeping of an alarm clock. Bruce jumped, shoulders seizing up as he moved papers and folders around to try and find the damn thing. When he finally did, the neon blue light of the digital clock assaulted his retinas. He had to blink a few times before he could read ‘4:00 am’ flashing aggressively at him.
Bruce let out a disgusted groan, because really, how was it 4 am already? He dragged a hand down his face. He had a board meeting at 7:30. If he went to bed now, he might just be able to salvage the rest of the day. Bruce stood up, stretching to feel his spine and shoulders pop from sitting still for too long. He turned off the monitor, grabbed his half empty coffee mug, and dragged his feet to the elevator. The gray doors slid close and the elevator took off at high speed, quietly whirring as Bruce tried to blink away the imprint of the bright computer screen from behind his eyes. He yawned as the elevator slowly came to a stop. The doors parted, moving two large bookcases with them. He stepped into the library and froze.
Bruce dropped his coffee mug. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
A pale man in a deep purple suit sat in one of the wing-back armchairs, swirling a glass of brandy. His red lips spread into an even wider grin at the shocked look on Bruce’s face.
“Hi, Bruce.”