Chapter Text
The bullet catches him in the chest with rib-cracking force and Batman feels the air go out of his lungs all at once. He drops back behind the counter, flattening one hand against his chest, trying to drag air back in.
In the back of his head, he can hear Lucius’s voice talking about kinetic energy, how the bulletproof panels of his suit stop the bullet from piercing his flesh but they still hit with the force of an eight gram piece of copper-coated lead flying fourteen hundred feet per second, which, spread across the width of his breast plate, means a bullet hits him with the same force of someone hitting him in the chest with a sledge hammer. He’s lucky he didn’t crack a rib, although honestly if he can force his lungs to draw in a breath he’s going to be pretty goddamn happy.
Bullets splatter into the marble floor like water in hot oil, flinging chips of marble into his face. He hears one of the guns stutter to a stop, empty, and then the crack-slap of a new clip being slammed into place. The other gun continues in an extravagant waste of bullets, arcing over the walls and windows and counter, effectively holding him in place.
“Don’t waste all your bullets on one little bat,” drawls a voice from somewhere out of sight on the other side of the counter. “There are other cops in the sea.”
“There wouldn’t be cops here if you hadn’t taken the fucking hostages—” one of the gunmen snaps, on the edge of hysteria.
Air rushes back into his lungs all at once. Batman sucks it in, staring out across the chewed-up expanse of marble floor. There’s a dead hostage on the floor by the far wall, his face turned away from Batman. The cheerful posters on the walls with pictures of savings bonds and personalized credit cards have been torn to shreds by the rain of bullets.
The other gun stops, not empty but waiting. Batman runs his hands over his belt. Handcuffs, grappling gun, three tear gas canisters and an empty spot where he used the fourth. He yanks out another canister, pulls the tab and throws it, already flinging himself in the opposite direction, towards the other counter that’s nearest the far door. He can’t escape yet because there are two more hostages to save, but he can’t stay pinned down where he was, either.
One of the gunmen shouts and there is a spray of startled bullets, not towards him, thank god, but towards the tear gas can. Batman reaches the far counter and spares a glance towards the three bank robbers.
The two gunmen wear black clothes and ski masks and hold semi-automatics. One of them has drawn a skull on his ski mask in silver marker. At their feet are the two hostages, duct tape wrapped around their mouths, wrists and ankles. Batman briefly gauges whether they’re still alive, then turns his eyes up.
Squatting up on the teller’s counter is the Joker. He doesn’t bother with the black clothes and the ski mask. He doesn’t even have a gun. He is digging under his fingernails with a hunting knife.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” the skull-faced gunman says, coughing and wiping at his eyes. “There wasn’t supposed to be any cops and hostages and Batman.”
The Joker looks up from his knife. “Where’s the fun in robbing a bank if you can’t take hostages?”
“The money, douchebag,” says the other gunman.
The Joker stands up, one hand touching the ceiling over his head. For a second he turns his head to the side and his eyes meet Batman as if he knew he was watching. From across the room his eyes look black as a sparrow’s eyes, glossy and blank. He smiles, and then he drops down to the floor.
“Kill the Batman and I’ll give you my half,” he says.
“Half?” exclaims Skull Face. His gun swings up towards the Joker’s chest. The Joker’s arm snaps out like a striking snake, getting a fistful of the guy’s ski mask. His knife digs into the flesh under Skull Face’s jaw, settling there. Skull Face’s Uzi presses against the Joker’s breastbone.
“Try it,” snarls the Joker. “Just try it.”
The other gunman takes a step back from the both of them. Everyone is breathing hard. Batman edges around the counter, looking down the length of the floor to the two hostages. One of them, a man, has his eyes squeezed shut. The other, a woman, is watching the gunmen with wide eyes.
Batman takes out his grappling gun and aims it steadily, waiting.
“I’m not going to shoot you,” Skull Face says shakily. “On the count of three, okay?”
The Joker smiles at him, his eyes heavy-lidded.
“One,” Skull Face says, easing his finger off the trigger. “Two. Thr—”
Blood jets sideways as the Joker cuts out his carotid artery. Skull Face chokes, raising the gun again, but the Joker knees him in the gut and he bends in half, folding like wet paper. His blood sheets the floor, half his blood volume gushing out in three beats of his heart. He’s gone before he hits the floor.
“My half,” the Joker says breathlessly to the other gunman.
“Holy shit,” says the gunman, taking another step back.
Batman pulls the trigger. The recoil jolts his ribcage, sparking pain. The hook lashes out and hits the Joker in the thigh with an audible thump. The Joker twists away, grabbing at the cable as if he’s going to yank it out. Batman braces himself against the counter and hits the switch to retract the cable. The cable goes taut and then the Joker hits the ground and starts sliding.
The other gunman opens fire on Batman. Batman rips the tab and flings another tear gas canister at him. The Joker hits the other side of the counter and hangs on. The grappling gun is yanked from Batman’s grip. It reels in to slap against the Joker’s leg. The Joker rolls over, away from Batman, and yanks the barb of the grapple out of his thigh. Blood spills.
Batman scrambles out from behind the counter, slipping on the marble floor. He grabs the back of the Joker’s shirt and yanks him backwards. The Joker’s back slams into Batman’s chest and Batman slings one arm around the Joker’s neck, the other around his waist.
The Joker twists in his grip like an angry cat, one of his hands flailing backwards with the hunting knife. It catches the edge of a plate of armor and digs in.
Something flashes in the billowing smoke and Batman realizes belatedly that the gunman is shooting at them even though he can’t see. Bullets crack into the counter over their heads.
“Tell him to stop shooting!” Batman shouts at the Joker, trying to drag his struggling weight back behind the counter.
“He doesn’t work for me, sweetie,” laughs the Joker, working the knife deeper under the plate of armor. Batman feels it reach his flesh, just a scratch across his side. He unreels one arm from the Joker’s neck and slams the heel of his hand into the Joker’s wrist. The Joker hangs onto the knife, driving the crown of his head back into Batman’s chin. Greasy green hair slaps his face. He hits the Joker’s wrist again.
Something hits Batman hard in the chest again and Batman grunts involuntarily as his bruised ribs protest. The Joker drops the knife and then Batman feels the heat running over the arm he has wrapped around the Joker’s waist. His brain makes the connection—that was a bullet that hit him in the chest, and it went right through the Joker to get to him.
Another bullet clips a plastic tray over their head, sending deposit slips flying. This isn’t going anywhere near according to plan. Batman rolls them over, covering the Joker with his body. Something kicks him in the back of his thigh, and another bullet slams his forearm.
“Stop shooting!” Batman screams over his shoulder. The Joker is laughing underneath him, clawing for the knife again, still holding onto the grapple gun. Batman knocks the knife away, sending it skidding across the floor, and then hoists the Joker up and heaves him behind the counter.
Behind the counter, the Joker twists around, a grin on his face, his voice a rasp. “That’s your p-plan? To sh-shout at him?” His shirt is soaked through with blood.
“Shut up,” Batman growls. He hears footsteps coming towards them and the Joker’s eyes focus over his head. Batman flings himself forward, pinning the Joker to the floor, when the gun stutters again. Three bullets hit him in the back. This time he can hear his ribs crack. A bullet hits the marble next to his head and the Joker cringes away from it, pushing his face into Batman’s collarbone.
“Why don’t you fucking die?” the gunman shouts. The Joker yanks one arm free from Batman’s grip and raises the grappling gun.
Something hits Batman in the back of his head, hard. It feels like a shovel but it’s probably a bullet. His face bounces off the marble floor, the mask absorbing only some of the blow. His vision fizzes out for a second like a bad television.
The Joker rolls them both over and Batman flails, feeling like his skull is going to slide apart. Somewhere, fuzzily, he thinks of the gunman and tries to roll them back over but the Joker easily holds him down, straddling his chest.
“My dark knight,” the Joker snorts. “Took a bullet to the head just for me.”
Vision returns slowly. He has a bad concussion, he can tell. It’s going to make escaping that much more fun. He blinks a few times, clearing his vision.
The Joker reaches down to Batman’s belt and takes the handcuffs. He picks up the key, shows it to Batman, and then flings it over his shoulder. It clatters somewhere across the room. He closes one cuff around Batman’s wrist.
“The police will come in any second,” Batman says. His voice sounds distant to his ears.
“Look.” The Joker drags up the hem of his shirt, showing a pale, muscled belly and a raw bullet hole, still gulping blood. “I think that bullet was meant for you.”
Batman’s eyes fix on the wound. It doesn’t smell like ruptured intestine, but if he keeps bleeding like that, he’ll be unconscious soon.
The Joker closes the other cuff around his own wrist. “Let’s wait for the police together,” he says, the scarred corners of his mouth curling up.
With effort, Batman hoists himself up onto his elbows. His head swims dangerously but he forces himself to focus. The police can’t arrest him. He can’t allow that to happen.
“Not today,” Batman says, pushing the Joker off his chest. Behind him, on the floor, the other gunman lies with a grappling hook in his eye. Batman gets his hands and knees and then pushes up to his feet, pulling the Joker up with him. The Joker staggers a little and it’s almost ridiculous, the two of them moving drunkenly across the bank floor. The hostages are watching them in fear.
“The police will come in soon,” Batman says to them. When he bends to take the grappling hook from the gunman’s face, he nearly falls over. The Joker sways against him. Batman regains his balance, pulls the hook free, and then looks towards the glass doors where the police are waiting.
He turns away and pulls the Joker towards the back door. The police will be waiting there, too, but all he needs is enough time to shoot his grappling gun into the sky. There will be bullets, but he can handle it.
“Where are we going?” the Joker asks, his voice starting to slur. Batman clamps his arm around the Joker’s waist, pulling him tight against his side. He readies the grappling gun, and then raising his foot to kick the door open.
“We’re going to fly,” he replies.