Author's Preface: This takes place between the end of Batman Begins and the beginning of The Dark Knight, which means that, at this point, no one knows who the Joker is. Well, at least none of the main characters do. The plot, by the time it catches up with TDK, won't really follow the movie plot. At all, probably. So, yeah, don't expect a regurgitation of movie quotes from this story.
As for what you can expect, I don't really like straight-out simple pairings, so this will be a Bruce/Batman/Rachel/Joker fic. And who knows who will end up with who? (No, really, who knows? I don't, not yet.)
Anyway, I think that's all you need to know. So, read. And if you enjoy, review? Please? (Even if you don't like it, please tell me what I'm doing wrong.) Thanks! (:

&

Rachel really wanted to slap Bruce.

She clutched the newspaper tightly in her fist, fuming. The clicking of her shoes echoed sharply along the close, tall walls of the dark streets. Most of the lights in the overlooking apartments were off at this hour, and she could feel her absolute solitude like a physical presence. So much the better. She wasn't sure what she would have done if she'd encountered someone in the streets. Probably something she'd soon regret.

She could still hear their argument echoing in her mind.

"Rachel."

She spun around, her arms crossed defensively in front of her. "What?"

Bruce clenched his jaw, set off by her anger. "What do you want from me? I'm just trying to do the right thing—"

"You mean getting yourself killed?" Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she held them back stubbornly. She held out the newspaper. "What do you call this?"

He looked at it, not moving to take it. He knew what the article said. "A close call," he said, his voice tight.

"A close—" She stood back. It was suddenly painfully clear to her: Bruce was never going to let go of Batman. Not even for her. "Fine," she said, defeated. "Fine then. Waste your life."

"It's not a waste," he said, his voice rising. "At least I'm doing something about the evil in this city."

That was too much. She shook her head. "Goodbye, Bruce."

"Rachel—"

But she was already out the door.

She'd made her choice, he'd made his. That was it. She was shutting the door to that part of her life. If he wanted to keep being an idiot, let him. He didn't see—wouldn't see—that with each criminal he captured, ten more appeared in his place. There was no stopping the hydra. She wouldn't have anything more to do with his misguided plan.

But even as she decided this, her heart twinged. Bruce, her oldest friend, her first—

She turned the corner onto her apartment's street. A man lay completely still on the pavement. A dark pool of blood radiated out from his body.

"Oh God," Rachel whispered, rushing forward. White noise swallowed her thoughts. She skirted around the blood, but there was no avoiding it: it covered the sidewalk like velvet. Bending down near his head, she placed two fingers on his throat. His pulse was strong and insistent. Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. Gotham had seen enough deaths for a lifetime.

Calmer now that she knew he was alive, Rachel knelt down next to him, careful to keep her knees out of his blood. His head rested at an awkward angle, tilted away from her. Hesitantly, Rachel reached out, her fingers resting lightly on his jaw, and turned his face toward the light.

She couldn't hold back her shocked gasp. The bruises weren't even the worst of it. It was the scars that held her attention. Her stomach clenched, and she leaned away, keeping her lips pressed tightly together, waiting for the nausea to pass. Puckered, angry-red scars marred his face. Even unconscious, he grinned up at her sardonically. Who would do this to a person? Rachel reached a hand out to brush a few strands of stringy hair away from his forehead.

The man's eyes snapped open, and his hand closed bruisingly around her wrist. With practiced ease, he twisted it, wrenching her to one side. His breaths were ragged, heavy, his eyes burned feverish in the dim light.

"It's all right," she gasped. "I—I want to help you."

The man's eyes narrowed, watching her.

She didn't dare move. For someone who lay in a pool of his own blood, his grip was surprisingly strong. "It's okay," she urged quietly.

He blinked a few times, eyes slowly focusing on her. His grip never relaxed.

"Were you shot?" she asked. It was so dark… she couldn't see any wounds on him, but that didn't mean anything. She didn't wait for his answer. Shaking her hand free from his grip, she fished frantically through her purse. Where was her cell phone when she needed it? Well, wherever it was, it certainly wasn't in her bag. Rachel ran a hand through her hair. She had to call the hospital, but to do that, she would have to go up to her apartment, and she couldn't just leave him out there on the street. What if whoever it was that did this to him came back to finish the job?

"All right," she said slowly, deciding. "All right, can you stand?"

He raised his eyebrows, but nodded wordlessly.

Rachel gripped his wrist, pulling his arm over his shoulder and doing her best to support him. He staggered the first few steps, but with each step they took, he stood straighter, limped less. By the time they'd reached her apartment door, he was standing on his own.

She raced to the phone, her hands shaking. Wherever her fingers touched, they left smeared red prints. She dialed the last 'one' and held the phone to her ear, doing her best to slow down her frantic breaths. But all she heard was dial tone. Rachel took the phone away from her ear, looking down at it, confused.

That was when she noticed that he was leaning heavily against the counter in front of her. One bloody finger pressed down on the phone's hook.

"What are you doing?" She hated how her voice squeaked at the end, but she was just now beginning to realize that maybe it wasn't such a good idea taking a complete stranger up to her apartment.

"There's no need for an ambulance." His voice was rough, but strangely high-pitched. He sounded completely calm.

Rachel stared at him, raising her eyebrows impatiently. She couldn't show him just how shaken she really was. "You're bleeding on my floor," she said. "I'd say that's a pretty good indication that you need help." Without giving him a chance to argue, she pushed his hand away from the phone, dialing the nine before he slammed the phone away from her hand. Her heart was beating ridiculously fast. "What—"

"I said not to call." He clenched his side tightly, and Rachel noticed for the first time how pale he was, saw the faint sheen of sweat that made his face shine. He was in pain, that much was obvious, no matter how he might try to hide it.

"Why not?"

His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I don't have insurance."

What, did he think this was a joke? "You might die," she sputtered. Men, always trying to act tough… She tried not to think of Bruce, failed.

"From this?" He let out a forced laugh, but looked like he regretted it when a fresh gush of blood escaped from between his fingers. "Listen, girl, if you want to help, you'll get me a needle and some thread."

"What?" Everything had started buzzing around her, the lights seemed further away, the ground tilted beneath her. "You can't be serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" he said. "I've already had some experience. See?" And then he grinned. His scars bunched and puckered horribly.

Rachel couldn't look at anything but his blood-red smile. Just thinking about what he would do with the needle… she placed a steadying hand on the counter.

"Needle," the man said quietly, prompting her. "Thread."

Rachel met his eyes. His head hung forward slightly, and he stared up at her from beneath lowered brows. If he didn't look so crazed and bloody, he might have looked innocent. At the moment, though, he looked like a bull readying himself for the charge, a predator readying himself for the kill. She closed her eyes, just to get rid of the creepy feeling he gave her, and clenched her jaw. "All right."

She skirted around him, focusing on the bathroom door down the hall. Behind her, she heard his lurching footsteps. Hotels always left an emergency sewing kit in her room, one of those small cardboard deals, and Rachel always took them. She had a few in her medicine cabinet, and she took one out now.

He took it from her hands before she offered it, slipping the needle out and handing it back to her. "Sterilize it."

"What?" It was so sharp. She held the needle gingerly, as if it might impale her if she weren't careful.

"Ster—" He snatched the needle back from her, swearing impatiently under his breath. "For fuck's sake." One hand still holding his side tightly, he stumbled off down the hall, back to the kitchen. Rachel followed him, worried what he would do next; what if he went for her knives?

But he stepped in front of the stove, turning the flame on full blast, and held the needle directly into the flame. After a few seconds, he turned the stove off and pushed her aside, lurching back to the bathroom.

She called after him weakly. "I think I should call the hospital."

He stopped, snapped his head around to glare at her. "You even think of doing that, and I will rip the cord out of the wall." He didn't wait to see how she reacted to this, but continued into the light bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, he undid the buttons to his coat, easing it off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. With each successive layer removed, the blood stains got worse. The whole left side of his dress shirt was black with blood.

Rachel stood watching him, phone still clutched tightly in her hand. So exposed, he looked wasted away. His ribs stood out beneath his skin, his bony shoulders looked as sharp as knives, his prominent spine curved down his back like a centipede. But even though he looked so sickly, lean muscles rippled beneath his skin with every movement.

He shifted stiffly, meeting her eyes in the medicine cabinet mirror, smirking. Rachel tore her eyes away, her cheeks hot. But when he'd turned away again, her eyes found their way back over to him. This time, though, the deep red gash in his side caught her eye.

"Oh God," she whispered. It looked deep, but it was hard to say, because dark red blood still oozed out of the wound. It wasn't the only one, either. There was a painful-looking cut on his shoulder—a close call—and several more, shallower cuts on his chest and his sides. Rachel wondered, not for the first time, what exactly she'd gotten herself into.

He pinched his skin together and, without even a pause, his hands surprisingly steady, poked the needle into his skin. His skin caught on the needle's hip, and his back tensed. His eyes were shut tightly, his face dangerously pale. But then he sucked in a deep breath—and started laughing. It started deep in his chest, a low chuckle, and at first she thought that she was imagining things. But then she saw his shoulders shaking, and his lips pulled apart in a terrible grin as the strange sound worked its way up his throat until it was a hysterical cackle. He pulled the thread through the puncture, and poked the needle through again, working quickly. He bit his lower lip, not out of pain, but more as a way to stop his incessant giggles. By the time the wound was completely sewn up, there was a growing puddle of bright blood at his feet and his laughter had dissolved into intermittent bursts of near-silent chuckles.

He snapped the end of the thread, threw the needle into the sink. Very calmly, he turned to stare at her over his should, and still smiling, said, "Do you have any alcohol?"

&

Author's Note: I'm not sure if I should continue this… I've had a hard enough time figuring out how the plot will work, that I don't really want to spend the rest of my summer trying to make everything make sense if everyone hates it. So, what do you think?
Also, the title might be temporary. I'm not quite sure yet. That's usually the last thing I think of. :p