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Description
I DO NOT OWN JOKER, BATMAN, YOU, OR GOTHAM. THEY BELONG TO DC.

A NOTE: THIS IS THE TRUE ENDING TO MY SERIES, THE KNIGHT. IF YOU WANT TO READ THE GOOD ENDING, PLEASE CONSULT THE DESCRIPTION.

True Ending

It took everything he had to keep a level head. The Batman had been in situations like this before. Situations in which the people he loved had been taken by the Joker and other villains, and almost all all of them had made it out fine.

Almost.

A tombstone and a red helmet flashed through his mind and he gritted his teeth, forcing the reminder of his greatest failure away. Focus. All he had to do was focus and make a plan and everyone would escape this ordeal in tact.

Focus.

The Batman had tracked down where he thought you were being held through a series of thugs and stooges, beating his way to a warehouse by the docks. He’d arrived on the Batboat, knowing that’s how they would least expect him.

There were two guards on the docks, armed with guns and black beanies. They were talking about some poker game when The Batman through a gas pellet for each guard at their feet. Smoke flew out of the capsules and before either guard had time to react they were on the ground. He tossed their guns into the water before grappling up to the roof.

Through a listening device he attached to the roof he could hear an all too familiar voice.

“You see, my dear, I need you. That’s the only reason you’re still alive! If you’re dead, me and ole’ Batsy can’t have any fun!” A sick smack of something hard on something living and a grunt of pain came over the speaker.

“And this is why I love the crowbar. I sometimes forget if it’s been a while, but then you whip it out and BOOM! Oh, I gotta say, there is nothing quite like it.” The sick pleasure on the voice of the Joker made The Batman’s stomach churn. He would have to act soon. “One side can rip the meat right off you, the other can spread your ribs apart. And every side can pulverize your bones and make you bleed. Mmm. Just one more swing and I think you’ll see what I mean, my dear. Shall we?”

Before anything else could be said or done The Batman leapt on and broke the glass ceiling. He hurdled down to the ground below, unprepared and angry. He was struck with surprise when he saw that the only things in the room were you, gagged and bound to a wooden chair and on the brink of unconsciousness, a Joker thug with a crowbar in hand, and a radio.

Over the radio a slow, pleased laugh echoed in the silent room.

The Batman easily punched out the thug and started untying you from the chair as the Joker’s voice continued to come through the radio.

“Oh, I had you for a moment, Batsy, I know I did. May I just say that your little girlfriend is a very cooperative hostage. Only spat on me twice! Sweet girl. I only wish I had more time with her so I could--” the voice was cut off by a batarang flying straight to the heart of the machine, silencing it for good.

“Damn clown,” he muttered.

As he finished releasing you from your bonds he took stock of your injuries. It didn’t look too bad from his preliminary inspection. You had a cut above your right eye and bruise blooming on your left. It looked like the thug had broken your leg with the crowbar, leaving a splintered mess of your shin; he would have to carry you out of here. In the few hours he’d had you, The Batman was surprised Joker hadn’t done more. He’d wreaked more havoc in less time.

For now he decided to take the blessings where he could find them and lifted you gingerly into his arms, careful to support but not irritate your leg.

“Y/N,” he said softly as he carried you, trying to keep you awake. “Y/N, I need you to stay awake, you might have a concussion.”

You were still in the lacey red dress. It was ripped in a few places but he could remember what you’d looked like up on the stage doing what you loved. The memory made him almost smile.

“Hrnnn...” you groaned, blinking in and out of sleep.

“That’s it, keep your eyes on me,” he encouraged.

“You came,” you mumbled drowsily. Were you in shock or drugged? Or perhaps all the excitement and pain had simply drained you so badly that you were having trouble staying up, he didn’t know.

“Of course I did,” he told you, looking down at you. He was equal parts amazed by you and furious at your bruises. Why hadn’t he gotten there sooner? He could have spared you a trip to the hospital and months of counseling if he’d just been a little faster.

The Batman forced himself to push these thoughts of self-pity and bitterness away. He knew all too well the danger of wallowing in the past. Instead he focused on the good things.

You were safe in his arms, warm and capable of thought. If what Joker had said was true, you’d even put up a pretty impressive act of defiance by spitting at him. Twice.

Your giggle shook him from his daydream.

“What’s funny?” he asked, resisting the urge to laugh along and share in your joy.

“I was thinking of the first time we met,” you told him, your smile widening. He was glad to hear your voice becoming clearer alongside your mind. “You just--whoosh!--let me come with you. Why was that?”

He paused, deciding how or if to phrase the truth. Eventually he replied, “I knew from when I first saw you that you were something extraordinary, something I’ve never seen before or will ever see again. In your candor, in the way you interact with people, and the way you treat yourself. I knew I had to see more.”

This sent you into an explosion of laughter. It was so loud and violent he almost dropped you. It was a cacophony of breathless cackles, unending. Had his words been so cliche that they warranted the response of a hilarity storm? He couldn’t look at you for fear of mocking eyes.

The Batman was about to be embarrassed when you gasped between laughs, “Something’s...wrong...”

He looked down at you in alarm, a coldness spreading through him when he saw you. His ears rang and every limb down to his toes began to tingle with a terrified energy.

Your face was contorted into a painfully wide grin, exposing all of your teeth, even back to your molars. You’d paled too, to an ill and powdery color. Tears were streaming down your face, seeping into the cracked creases of your smile, running through them like rivers in a valley.

“Oh no,” he whispered. He gaped at you in awe and terror before his senses kicked in. He began to run out of the warehouse to the boat. He didn’t know if he had any cure for the Joker’s venom in there, but he had to, right? He was sure he kept some in every vehicle. As he ran he muttered things to you, just loud enough to be heard over his drumming heart.

“No, no, no,” he said. “Y/N, you have to stay with me, okay? Just a minute and I promise you’ll be okay. Are you listening? You’re going to be fine.”

It was horrible seeing you warped this way. Taken from him and made into fodder for the Joker’s amusement. Your laugh, the thing he possibly loved to hear most in this world, perverted into a morbid joke.

“Helpme,” you laughed. “Helpmeplease. Helphelphelp.”

He finally made it to the batboat. Gently, he laid you on the floor of the boat. You rolled on the ground, oblivious to your broken leg, clutching your stomach and heaving out strangled laughter. More tears soaked your cheeks.

Frantically he scrambled through his stores of tools and gadgets. There was no time for calm, no time for cohesive thought, there was only “Save her, save her, save her.” He could feel the boat rocking and tipping with your shuddering body.

Finally he found a blue vial bearing the correct label and he rushed over to where you lay.

“Y/N, I need you to try and hold still for just a second,” he said to, able to regain his composure with the end in sight. “I’m going to inject you with the cure, but I need you to lie still.”

He saw you stiffen your muscles in an attempt to calm your quivering limbs. Your chest still shook from the stifling laughter, but you managed to quiet most of the chuckles. With your muscles so tight, it would hurt more and be harder to get the needle into you, but it was better than having you flail around as he tried to inject you.

“Please...please...help...help...” you wheezed.

He took a deep breath and jabbed the metal needle point into your forearm. You continued to laugh uncontrollably. It would take a few seconds for it to kick in, but you were going to be okay.

He sighed and moved your head onto his lap. Saliva had started to spill out of your permanent smile and onto your chin. The Batman wiped it away and looked into your eyes again. Despite the assurance that the cure was rushing through your veins, in your eyes he could still identify the terror, in terrible conflict with your grin. It was the fear of an animal in a slaughterhouse, or an inmate about to be sentenced to death.

“You’re going to be fine now, (Name),” he reminded you. “You can calm down, it’s okay. You have the cure.”

“Nonononono,” you gasped. “Didntworkdidntwork.” His eyes blurred. “Hurtshurtshurts.” His fingers went too limp to hold you anymore. “Helphelphelp.” A cold went to his chest. “Helphelphelp.” He could swear that his heart had stopped altogether as he gazed down at your broken smile, lost. “Icanseeiticanseeit.” You were going somewhere else. “Singingsingingsingingsinging.” Why couldn’t he say anything? “Coldsocoldcoldcold.” Say something, dammit! “Imscaredimscared.” Say something!

“Don’t be scared, Y/N. It’s going to be okay,” he lied. “You’re just tired. You’re falling asleep. See? Just...” he had to pause and swallow. The sight of your frightened grin made him feel sick. “Just tired. You’ll see. You’ll fall asleep and when you wake up you’ll be right at home.”

“Dontleavedontleavedontleave,” you cried, shuddering as your body began to shut down. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

“I’ll stay right here,” he promised. He regained use of his arms and lifted your head up to his chest. He rested you under his chin and held you firm despite your body still being wracked by laughter. “I swear, I’ll stay right here with you.”

Then, in a voice as full of clarity as you’d had at the party just earlier that night, you said, “Thank you.”

The world was still. You stopped shaking and there was no more laughing. The splash of the waves against the side of the boat and a distant helicopter were the only sounds.

“Y/N?” he said quietly. No answer. “Y/N)?” he said, a little louder. He stopped himself before he started to scream it at the top of his lungs. His mouth dropped open and for second he felt nothing, he could only look down at your horrible, grinning face.

And then there was the weight, the weight of an ocean slammed into his chest and he lost his ability to take in air. He started to wheeze just to take in oxygen and then the tears came. They dripped slowly, not like yours, which had been so bountiful that they had left wet spots on the floor of the boat. He pulled you in closer to him, holding you as tightly as he was able without hurting you.

He remembered that you couldn’t be hurt by anything anymore and suddenly dropped you. He felt the immediate need to get away from you. He couldn’t stand being in the presence of this you that wasn’t quite...you. It felt so unmistakably wrong to be around you like this.

He left you on the floor, not daring to even close your eyes, and went to the head of the ship. He drove without looking back once at you or the warehouse. Somewhere on the way the tears stopped, leaving only an ache in his chest and throat, like he’d inhaled sand.

Once at the dock near the city he carried you to the hospital himself and handed you off to a pair of nurses.

“Joker venom. On the docks,” was all he said before he turned and walked stiffly away without looking back.

🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

At the cave Alfred did his best to comfort Bruce, but he simply sat in front of the batcomputer and stared at the black screen in his robe, hands in a joined fist over his lips. He ate whatever Alfred brought him, knowing he needed to stay healthy and keep his strength up.

He only gave himself a day and a half of this before returning to his exercise regiment, and the night after that he went back on patrol. He went to every stop on his route, even the alley where you’d first met and the one by your house, though he did go through them a little quicker than normal.

Neither Bruce Wayne nor Batman attended your funeral. He heard that it was lightly attended by your close friends and family and a couple people you’d met while singing, but he’d earned no place there. There was no reason for your employer or the man who got you killed to attend.

About a month after the funeral the Joker turned up. When The Batman apprehended him, Joker made a comment about Batman “Liking his little surprise” and Batman punched him so hard that he was unconscious for an hour and a half after he was safe back in his cell at Arkham.

Bruce Wayne had lost an entire future that night, but The Batman had to remain himself. For him, nothing could change. The Joker couldn’t be killed, and the innocents couldn’t be brought back, no matter how much they deserved to be.

Before heading out for patrol, Bruce stared at the one photo he had of you: a still from a recording of your performance at his ball the night you died. You were just finishing a song, releasing a soft, low note into the microphone, a tiny smirk on your lips. Your real smile--not the artificial one from the venom that night.

His lips twitched upward ever so slightly for a moment, and he tucked the photo into a pouch on his belt. Bruce stood and grabbed his cowl, examining it for a moment before tugging it over his head and sliding into the batmobile.

The Knight rode out into the darkness once again.

Description
I DO NOT OWN JOKER, BATMAN, YOU, OR GOTHAM. THEY BELONG TO DC.

A NOTE: THIS IS THE TRUE ENDING TO MY SERIES, THE KNIGHT. IF YOU WANT TO READ THE GOOD ENDING, PLEASE CONSULT THE DESCRIPTION.

True Ending

It took everything he had to keep a level head. The Batman had been in situations like this before. Situations in which the people he loved had been taken by the Joker and other villains, and almost all all of them had made it out fine.

Almost.

A tombstone and a red helmet flashed through his mind and he gritted his teeth, forcing the reminder of his greatest failure away. Focus. All he had to do was focus and make a plan and everyone would escape this ordeal in tact.

Focus.

The Batman had tracked down where he thought you were being held through a series of thugs and stooges, beating his way to a warehouse by the docks. He’d arrived on the Batboat, knowing that’s how they would least expect him.

There were two guards on the docks, armed with guns and black beanies. They were talking about some poker game when The Batman through a gas pellet for each guard at their feet. Smoke flew out of the capsules and before either guard had time to react they were on the ground. He tossed their guns into the water before grappling up to the roof.

Through a listening device he attached to the roof he could hear an all too familiar voice.

“You see, my dear, I need you. That’s the only reason you’re still alive! If you’re dead, me and ole’ Batsy can’t have any fun!” A sick smack of something hard on something living and a grunt of pain came over the speaker.

“And this is why I love the crowbar. I sometimes forget if it’s been a while, but then you whip it out and BOOM! Oh, I gotta say, there is nothing quite like it.” The sick pleasure on the voice of the Joker made The Batman’s stomach churn. He would have to act soon. “One side can rip the meat right off you, the other can spread your ribs apart. And every side can pulverize your bones and make you bleed. Mmm. Just one more swing and I think you’ll see what I mean, my dear. Shall we?”

Before anything else could be said or done The Batman leapt on and broke the glass ceiling. He hurdled down to the ground below, unprepared and angry. He was struck with surprise when he saw that the only things in the room were you, gagged and bound to a wooden chair and on the brink of unconsciousness, a Joker thug with a crowbar in hand, and a radio.

Over the radio a slow, pleased laugh echoed in the silent room.

The Batman easily punched out the thug and started untying you from the chair as the Joker’s voice continued to come through the radio.

“Oh, I had you for a moment, Batsy, I know I did. May I just say that your little girlfriend is a very cooperative hostage. Only spat on me twice! Sweet girl. I only wish I had more time with her so I could--” the voice was cut off by a batarang flying straight to the heart of the machine, silencing it for good.

“Damn clown,” he muttered.

As he finished releasing you from your bonds he took stock of your injuries. It didn’t look too bad from his preliminary inspection. You had a cut above your right eye and bruise blooming on your left. It looked like the thug had broken your leg with the crowbar, leaving a splintered mess of your shin; he would have to carry you out of here. In the few hours he’d had you, The Batman was surprised Joker hadn’t done more. He’d wreaked more havoc in less time.

For now he decided to take the blessings where he could find them and lifted you gingerly into his arms, careful to support but not irritate your leg.

“Y/N,” he said softly as he carried you, trying to keep you awake. “Y/N, I need you to stay awake, you might have a concussion.”

You were still in the lacey red dress. It was ripped in a few places but he could remember what you’d looked like up on the stage doing what you loved. The memory made him almost smile.

“Hrnnn...” you groaned, blinking in and out of sleep.

“That’s it, keep your eyes on me,” he encouraged.

“You came,” you mumbled drowsily. Were you in shock or drugged? Or perhaps all the excitement and pain had simply drained you so badly that you were having trouble staying up, he didn’t know.

“Of course I did,” he told you, looking down at you. He was equal parts amazed by you and furious at your bruises. Why hadn’t he gotten there sooner? He could have spared you a trip to the hospital and months of counseling if he’d just been a little faster.

The Batman forced himself to push these thoughts of self-pity and bitterness away. He knew all too well the danger of wallowing in the past. Instead he focused on the good things.

You were safe in his arms, warm and capable of thought. If what Joker had said was true, you’d even put up a pretty impressive act of defiance by spitting at him. Twice.

Your giggle shook him from his daydream.

“What’s funny?” he asked, resisting the urge to laugh along and share in your joy.

“I was thinking of the first time we met,” you told him, your smile widening. He was glad to hear your voice becoming clearer alongside your mind. “You just--whoosh!--let me come with you. Why was that?”

He paused, deciding how or if to phrase the truth. Eventually he replied, “I knew from when I first saw you that you were something extraordinary, something I’ve never seen before or will ever see again. In your candor, in the way you interact with people, and the way you treat yourself. I knew I had to see more.”

This sent you into an explosion of laughter. It was so loud and violent he almost dropped you. It was a cacophony of breathless cackles, unending. Had his words been so cliche that they warranted the response of a hilarity storm? He couldn’t look at you for fear of mocking eyes.

The Batman was about to be embarrassed when you gasped between laughs, “Something’s...wrong...”

He looked down at you in alarm, a coldness spreading through him when he saw you. His ears rang and every limb down to his toes began to tingle with a terrified energy.

Your face was contorted into a painfully wide grin, exposing all of your teeth, even back to your molars. You’d paled too, to an ill and powdery color. Tears were streaming down your face, seeping into the cracked creases of your smile, running through them like rivers in a valley.

“Oh no,” he whispered. He gaped at you in awe and terror before his senses kicked in. He began to run out of the warehouse to the boat. He didn’t know if he had any cure for the Joker’s venom in there, but he had to, right? He was sure he kept some in every vehicle. As he ran he muttered things to you, just loud enough to be heard over his drumming heart.

“No, no, no,” he said. “Y/N, you have to stay with me, okay? Just a minute and I promise you’ll be okay. Are you listening? You’re going to be fine.”

It was horrible seeing you warped this way. Taken from him and made into fodder for the Joker’s amusement. Your laugh, the thing he possibly loved to hear most in this world, perverted into a morbid joke.

“Helpme,” you laughed. “Helpmeplease. Helphelphelp.”

He finally made it to the batboat. Gently, he laid you on the floor of the boat. You rolled on the ground, oblivious to your broken leg, clutching your stomach and heaving out strangled laughter. More tears soaked your cheeks.

Frantically he scrambled through his stores of tools and gadgets. There was no time for calm, no time for cohesive thought, there was only “Save her, save her, save her.” He could feel the boat rocking and tipping with your shuddering body.

Finally he found a blue vial bearing the correct label and he rushed over to where you lay.

“Y/N, I need you to try and hold still for just a second,” he said to, able to regain his composure with the end in sight. “I’m going to inject you with the cure, but I need you to lie still.”

He saw you stiffen your muscles in an attempt to calm your quivering limbs. Your chest still shook from the stifling laughter, but you managed to quiet most of the chuckles. With your muscles so tight, it would hurt more and be harder to get the needle into you, but it was better than having you flail around as he tried to inject you.

“Please...please...help...help...” you wheezed.

He took a deep breath and jabbed the metal needle point into your forearm. You continued to laugh uncontrollably. It would take a few seconds for it to kick in, but you were going to be okay.

He sighed and moved your head onto his lap. Saliva had started to spill out of your permanent smile and onto your chin. The Batman wiped it away and looked into your eyes again. Despite the assurance that the cure was rushing through your veins, in your eyes he could still identify the terror, in terrible conflict with your grin. It was the fear of an animal in a slaughterhouse, or an inmate about to be sentenced to death.

“You’re going to be fine now, (Name),” he reminded you. “You can calm down, it’s okay. You have the cure.”

“Nonononono,” you gasped. “Didntworkdidntwork.” His eyes blurred. “Hurtshurtshurts.” His fingers went too limp to hold you anymore. “Helphelphelp.” A cold went to his chest. “Helphelphelp.” He could swear that his heart had stopped altogether as he gazed down at your broken smile, lost. “Icanseeiticanseeit.” You were going somewhere else. “Singingsingingsingingsinging.” Why couldn’t he say anything? “Coldsocoldcoldcold.” Say something, dammit! “Imscaredimscared.” Say something!

“Don’t be scared, Y/N. It’s going to be okay,” he lied. “You’re just tired. You’re falling asleep. See? Just...” he had to pause and swallow. The sight of your frightened grin made him feel sick. “Just tired. You’ll see. You’ll fall asleep and when you wake up you’ll be right at home.”

“Dontleavedontleavedontleave,” you cried, shuddering as your body began to shut down. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

“I’ll stay right here,” he promised. He regained use of his arms and lifted your head up to his chest. He rested you under his chin and held you firm despite your body still being wracked by laughter. “I swear, I’ll stay right here with you.”

Then, in a voice as full of clarity as you’d had at the party just earlier that night, you said, “Thank you.”

The world was still. You stopped shaking and there was no more laughing. The splash of the waves against the side of the boat and a distant helicopter were the only sounds.

“Y/N?” he said quietly. No answer. “Y/N)?” he said, a little louder. He stopped himself before he started to scream it at the top of his lungs. His mouth dropped open and for second he felt nothing, he could only look down at your horrible, grinning face.

And then there was the weight, the weight of an ocean slammed into his chest and he lost his ability to take in air. He started to wheeze just to take in oxygen and then the tears came. They dripped slowly, not like yours, which had been so bountiful that they had left wet spots on the floor of the boat. He pulled you in closer to him, holding you as tightly as he was able without hurting you.

He remembered that you couldn’t be hurt by anything anymore and suddenly dropped you. He felt the immediate need to get away from you. He couldn’t stand being in the presence of this you that wasn’t quite...you. It felt so unmistakably wrong to be around you like this.

He left you on the floor, not daring to even close your eyes, and went to the head of the ship. He drove without looking back once at you or the warehouse. Somewhere on the way the tears stopped, leaving only an ache in his chest and throat, like he’d inhaled sand.

Once at the dock near the city he carried you to the hospital himself and handed you off to a pair of nurses.

“Joker venom. On the docks,” was all he said before he turned and walked stiffly away without looking back.

🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

At the cave Alfred did his best to comfort Bruce, but he simply sat in front of the batcomputer and stared at the black screen in his robe, hands in a joined fist over his lips. He ate whatever Alfred brought him, knowing he needed to stay healthy and keep his strength up.

He only gave himself a day and a half of this before returning to his exercise regiment, and the night after that he went back on patrol. He went to every stop on his route, even the alley where you’d first met and the one by your house, though he did go through them a little quicker than normal.

Neither Bruce Wayne nor Batman attended your funeral. He heard that it was lightly attended by your close friends and family and a couple people you’d met while singing, but he’d earned no place there. There was no reason for your employer or the man who got you killed to attend.

About a month after the funeral the Joker turned up. When The Batman apprehended him, Joker made a comment about Batman “Liking his little surprise” and Batman punched him so hard that he was unconscious for an hour and a half after he was safe back in his cell at Arkham.

Bruce Wayne had lost an entire future that night, but The Batman had to remain himself. For him, nothing could change. The Joker couldn’t be killed, and the innocents couldn’t be brought back, no matter how much they deserved to be.

Before heading out for patrol, Bruce stared at the one photo he had of you: a still from a recording of your performance at his ball the night you died. You were just finishing a song, releasing a soft, low note into the microphone, a tiny smirk on your lips. Your real smile--not the artificial one from the venom that night.

His lips twitched upward ever so slightly for a moment, and he tucked the photo into a pouch on his belt. Bruce stood and grabbed his cowl, examining it for a moment before tugging it over his head and sliding into the batmobile.

The Knight rode out into the darkness once again.