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Chapter Text

Jim Gordon taps his foot with nervous energy of a sixteen-year-old boy. He’d ask for more coffee, but he’d already had too much. Three cups, and it isn’t even nine in the morning. Better wait, or he’ll be too agitated to look his wife’s killer in the eye with the one chance he has each year to make sure he faces what he’d done.

Five years, and he isn’t any more certain Wayne understands the gravity of his crime than he was the first time he saw him.

Whether it had been at a fundraiser or gala, or on the front page of a Gotham newspaper, Wayne had always appeared greater than life. Far above the rest. Flighty and grandiose. Rude and filthy rich. But something had happened to the man in Arkham. Not that Jim feels badly about it. He doesn’t. Or he pretends he doesn’t. Whatever Wayne endures in his “prison” is certainly less painful than what the man had put his family through.

Yet, something had changed about the ex-billionaire. Jim recalls looking into the man’s eyes that first year and seeing something so broken but at the same time so cold, he almost couldn’t handle it. Him. After decades on the force.

Every year that same pair of stone blue eyes, on a face as darkly handsome as sin, stares back at him, daring Jim to damn him to hell. And looking not the least bit guilty.

A shiver travels down his spine. He doesn’t know why he even bothers with this formality anymore, his soul not so bitter as it is immune to pain, but it had felt like the right thing to request at the time. Something Wayne’s lawyers had asked, giving the criminal a chance to show some level of regret as the years passed and if he did, the chance to give them both closure. But, rehabilitation had seemed a distant possibility, given the indifference Jim had witnessed.

Leaning back in his chair, he checks the clock on the wall and frowns. Wayne is twenty-two minutes late and although the man is an inmate here at Arkham, he’s punctual. Or, rather, everything and everyone at the asylum is punctual. It operates on a strict schedule, like clockwork, to ensure it receives funding from the state. Granted, Jim only steps foot in Arkham on the anniversary of his wife’s death. He has little to compare it to. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

Three minutes pass by before the door opens. He sits, spine alert, but the cold-hearted, deadbroke convict he expects to see isn’t standing in the doorway.

Dr. Arkham, grandson of the first Arkham psychiatrist, stares down his nose at him. “He’s not coming.”

Any pity Jim had felt disappears. “That’s unacceptable. This is a part of his rehabilitation at Arkham.”

“Given the fever he has—”

“Fever?”

The doctor nods. “103.7. He’s delirious.”

Jim’s brows shoot up. “He’s sick?”

“It isn’t the first time he’s been ill. Some patients don’t weather the environment well. I’m surprised Wayne lasted this long as it is.”

It’s unsettling to think of his wife’s killer in this way. Sick. Vulnerable. Needing medical assistance. “You’re taking him to the hospital, I presume?” If that’s the case, he’ll make damn sure he follows them there with an escort.

“Our physicians are handling it,” Dr. Arkham says. “We can reschedule for next week, if he improves.”

Jim considers the pile of work he has on his desk that won't be done by then. He thinks about his children who are at odds with him—the world—and the fact that his heart may need to sit this year out to survive. He can’t let this go—but he hates to return to this place if he doesn’t have to. Maybe being sick will take Wayne down another notch or two. “No need. The polygraph?”

“Jim,” Dr. Arkham says, frowning.

He meets his gaze, unrelenting. “It’s part of the deal.”

“I understand that, but his symptoms can skew the results.”

“It can wait, like you said,” Jim says evenly.

“He needs a couple weeks.”

Jim just wants to get this over with. “One.”

“If his fever breaks.”

“You’re expecting this illness of his to last?” Seems convenient, in his opinion.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Jim shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

“This wasn’t on purpose. The man’s anxiety has been skyrocketing since the Joker’s transfer.”

Jim, quite frankly, doesn’t care. “I’ll be waiting the call. I want to know if he finally regrets it.”

“You know he does.”

Does he? Are they even talking about the same thing? “I know nothing of the sort.”

__________

Jim tears past the tape and rushes towards the doors of the warehouse, unencumbered. As commissioner, he pulls some weight, and for once, he’s using it for himself.

He can’t put his fear into words or stop his feet from moving towards what will be the worst moment in his life. There isn’t anything he can do but press on and let his life disintegrate before his very eyes. He has to make it through for his children, who deserve to know what happened to their mother.

Swallowing hard, he makes his way through the crowd until he reaches the steps. He heaves a breath, looking up Bullock stops him by his coat sleeve at the last second. “You don’t want to go in there.”

“My wife is in there,” he says, denying it even as he speaks.

Bullock steps in front of him and holds his gaze, his eyes more serious than he can ever remember. “Which is why you shouldn’t go.”

“Which is why I should.”

“Gordon.”

“I’ll never be able to sleep if I don’t.”

“You sure about that?”

They lock eyes, the sirens and cacophony of voices melting into a background of fire, heat, and loss. The building beside the warehouse burns brightly. They don’t have much time. They’ve probably documented most of the evidence, if not all of it.

But he has to see.

“Where is he?” Jim finally says.

Bullock’s grip loosens on his coat, his gaze shifting to the police car beside him. “Already handcuffed and in the back. Bastard hasn’t said a word—”

Jim pulls away from him, taking advantage of the distraction.

Bullock startles, but is too slow to catch up with him. “No, Jim—”

As he slips inside the warehouse, he tells himself it’s the only way he’ll find peace.

After he sees what Gotham’s Prince had done to his wife, and the blood flowing out of her, he knows he’d lied to himself. There will be no peace from this.

Bruce Wayne is the monster who will haunt him for the rest of his life.

__________

Jim stares at Dr. Arkham in disbelief. It has been two weeks since Wayne failed to show up, and not a moment goes by that Jim doesn’t think of the man doing everything in his power—even getting sick—to circumvent what was a vital part of his sentence. “What do you mean, his answers are skewed?”

“They’re the most irregular we’ve seen in years.”

“Your point?”

“They’re more….”

“More what?”

“Honest. Sincere. Uninhibited.”

“Uninhibited?” Jim repeats.

Dr. Arkham nods. “Quite frankly, the results have revealed holes in his initial statement.” He hands him a file. “And maybe a little bit more. Look at them, yourself.”

Subdued into silence, Jim looks over the file, but stops after he reads Wayne’s own words, italicized.

The knife Harvey used is in the floorboards. My prints aren’t on it. His are. My phone is there, too. I recorded the conversation. Some of it, I think.

He stops when his guilt overwhelms him. Even he has to admit that after nearly five years of the same thing from Wayne, these discrepancies are a red flag. Especially since it had always made more sense that Harvey Dent had killed in his grief.

“Well, this changes things.” He closes the file before finishing it, and hands it back, willing his heart to slow down. “You said uninhibited. How? Why?”

“The doctors suspect the medication they’d given him lowered his inhibitions, although it’s possible someone slipped him something. It’s happened before.”

“Before?”

Dr. Arkham grimaces and adjusts his collar. “Unfortunately, I think someone has had it out for Wayne, although this time, it worked for his benefit. We’re looking into it.”

“I should hope so.”

“And...” The doctor exhales a long breath. “To be honest? Now that the Joker’s back at Arkham, I think he’s scared.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

The Joker’s eyes had to be on Wayne, and anyone else with an unusual past.

“I think he’s finally coming clean,” Dr. Arkham says.

“You always thought he was innocent.”

“Didn’t you? Didn’t your kids?”

Jim is embarrassed—no, mortified—that he’d thought no such thing and even his own children had believed in the Prince of Gotham’s innocence.

Instead, when offered a chance to demand reparation, he’d requested to see him each year and take a lie detector test, in the hopes that it would make Wayne face what he’d done. Face the monster he’d become. To make Wayne bleed, like he had bled.

“No,” he admits.

He’d had no mercy for this man.

Only vengeance.

Misguided, unheeded, shameful vengeance.

_________

”I don’t want you to go,” Babs says.

“Yeah, Dad,” Jimmy echoes.

“You always come home in a bad mood, anyway. What’s the point?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Shut up, Jimmy,” she says, frowning. “Just, will you think about staying home for once? Please, Dad?”

He can’t imagine doing that while he’s still grieving and Wayne doesn’t have to think about a dead wife every day. “Someone needs to make sure he thinks about what he did.”

“I’m sure he does every day at Arkham,” she says sarcastically. “It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

“I have to make sure he remembers.”

Her eyes flicker with hurt. “And who will remember us?”

He’s taken aback. “What?”

“I said, and who will remember us?”

“I—I will.”

She crosses her arms. “When? You won’t even come home until later. It’s the day she died, Dad, and you leave us here alone most of the day, like you always do.”

He swallows, the truth of what she said a sucker punch to the gut. He’d never thought of it that way before. He’d thought he was sparing them his pain. “I thought...I didn’t know it bothered you.”

“You never asked.”

His shoulders drop with the burden of failure. “I’m sorry. “Babs—Jimmy—I’m truly sorry.”

She twists her bottom lip between her teeth. “That’s it?”

He frowns. “Yes?”

She exchanges a look with Jimmy. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I’ll make sure to come right home.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I’ll come right home, and we’ll go to the cemetery together.”

Jimmy looks at him crestfallen. “You’re still going to Arkham? But you’ve gone the past two years—”

“—because it’s what needs to be done,” he interjects, ignoring the look of hurt on both of their faces. He has to be consistent, even when they don’t understand. It’s the only way to get through to Wayne, to show him the devastation he’d left in his murderous wake.

“I knew it,” Babs snaps, turning away and bounding up the stairs. “You’re a coward. And mean, to make him see you like that every year, when he lives in such a nasty place. Do you know what they do to the patients there? Besides starving them and giving them experimental drugs?”

He’s heard the stories, but two investigations have revealed nothing in the last five years. “Dr. Arkham would never permit the gross mistreatment of his patients.”

Babs snorts. “How would you know? You only go once a year.”

“Young lady, you are not allowed to talk to me that way.”

“Wayne didn’t even kill anyone!”

Evidence and Wayne, himself, say otherwise.

Babs takes the rest of the stairs two at a time.

“We’re not finished, Babs—”

“This sucks.” Jimmy scowls and bounds up behind her.

“Babs, Jimmy, come back down this instant. We’re not done talking.”

Babs stops in her tracks at the top and twists her neck to give him a heated look. “Apparently, we are.”

“What?”

“You won’t talk to mom at her grave.”

That isn’t true—he does talk to her. He just stands back. “If that’s what you want—”

But his children disappear around the corner in record timing, leaving him in silence—and an overwhelming sense of regret.

__________________

Bruce lies on his cot, his muscles and bones and mind in constant torment. Shivering one moment, throwing off his covers the next, he can’t sleep. Can’t help the tears from stinging the backs of his eyes. Can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel this way. Can’t help but feel like his body was failing him. Can’t help but wish he was anywhere but here.

Can’t help but wish for a different life. A second chance that he doesn’t deserve.

They’d come to talk to him again, but he can hardly make sense of where he is, let alone who is talking to him or what they’re asking of him. At least they haven’t made him attend therapy. He can’t recall the last time he’d had to sit through a session with his psychiatrist, Dr. Ephraim. Has it been weeks? He’d gotten used to the sessions, leaning on his training to get through them in one piece. Until he'd gotten sicker. Until the Joker arrived.

He's not sure he can manage therapy, not like this.

Someone rudely shakes his shoulder.

He grunts, attempting to roll over on his side to avoid the touch, but succumbs to a coughing fit and falls on his back.

“Dammit,” someone says. A new voice.

They help him to sit up, his arms hanging limply at his sides, until he thinks he’s leaning against their chest. He can’t move, his limbs lethargic and his mind even more. The coughing lasts longer than the previous time and, by the end, he’s panting for breaths that he can hardly make, his chest tight as if trapped in a steel vise.

“Mr. Wayne, can you understand me?”

She speaks with authority. The police?

He’s too weak to move, the coughing and breathing sucking every last drop of energy he’d had left since being treated in the infirmary. He’s honestly surprised anyone had bothered to check on him so soon. They seem to gravitate towards the newest and greatest “celebrity inmate,” and Joker is the current favorite. Not Bruce Wayne.

No, thankfully, Wayne is old news. Maybe now he can finally die. In peace. He isn’t getting better, and the Joker is getting too close for comfort. The only way of escape, other than going truly mad, is death.

“Mr. Wayne, do you remember what you told Dr. Arkham?”

Her voice is deeper. Hispanic? Not that it matters. But he’s used to noticing details, although he’s been shit at it, lately. She slips out from behind him carefully, helping him to lean against the wall.

“Mr. Wayne?” she prods.

Peering at his visitor through narrow slits, he thinks he recognizes her.

“Do you remember me?” she asks.

He blinks. The name doesn't come to him. He shakes his head.

“No,” she says with a sigh. “That’s okay. I can see you’re not over the infection they said they treated. Do you need anything?”

“Money,” he says, then instantly curses whatever med they put him on.

His inhibitions are lowered, they always are whenever he is sick, but this time had been much worse. He’s not sure why. He’s not sure why he feels like he’s being targeted.

She smothers a laugh. “I mean, something I could actually do for you.”

Oh. “Shower.” He feels sticky. Like he has a year’s worth of grime on him.

He cough violently, several times, cursing his body.

She waits until he’s finished, to speak again. “I can make that happen,” she murmurs, brushing a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead. “You’re leaving this place tomorrow.”

Leaving?

That’s absurd.

He starts to laugh, but it hurts.

She’s not amused and frowns. “You’re being released, Mr. Wayne. Do you understand?”

He takes the slowest breaths he can manage to keep himself from wheezing, but he still hears that damn squeak each time he exhales.

“Christ, Wayne, you’re a mess,” the woman mutters.

Her eyes spit fire, like he’s to blame for his illness.

His mind starts to drift as she questions him again. He welcomes the darkness, giving him relief from the stark truth. He is to blame for his illness. If he’d been fast enough, he would’ve saved Barbara Gordon’s life and also himself.

Instead? He’s in fucking Arkham, the life-draining institution that poisons its inmates with treatments to “mental wellness.” No one who comes here leaves without incurring more damage to their mental state. He wonders how much he’s changed. He’s had to be resourceful. Give in to their demands. Find ways to survive. He really has no idea what they’ve done to him. The five years he’s been an inmate is both a brutal experience in his head—and a blur.

He’s paying for a crime he didn’t commit, to save a madman’s reputation, destroying his own reputation and family’s legacy. By lying.

He truly is to blame. He’s destroying himself.

____________

By the fourth year, Jim finally gets it. He has to balance this…this...determination…he feels to make Wayne finally react to Jim’s pain with the needs of his children.

They visit the grave each month now, not just on anniversary of Barbara’s death. It’s helping the children, and their family as a whole, but it’s harder than he thought it would be. Because his marriage, he’s realized, had been on the verge of disintegrating before her death.

It isn’t Wayne he’s been trying to punish. Not really. Not always.

It’s himself.

And the other times, he’s used Wayne as the punching bag he needed, diverting his pain to something else. He wants to stop—he knows he should—but he doesn’t know how. He’s caught in a vicious cycle.

He wants to see Wayne suffer, make him feel the same pain he’d left his family in, and that scares him.

He begins to ask himself the tough questions he should’ve been asking himself from the beginning. Things like, why does he delight in tormenting someone else? In particular, Wayne? Why the hell does he dream about making Wayne walk to visit with him each year, although neither of them says a word? Why is he relieved that a man who no doubt endures mistreatment and injustice, is experiencing heartache, too? Why is he doing this, when his children are watching him?

He’s never experienced this much self-loathing.

What kind of man has he become?

_____________

Jim stares at the haggard-looking man across from him. “So, tell me, because I’m a bit confused right now. Bruce Wayne is a masochist? You’re here because you lied about committing a crime you didn’t commit? For no good reason except to be admitted to one of the harshest asylums in the nation?”

Seems they're similar this way. Wanting to feel more pain in the hopes it will alleviate the suffering. It makes no sense, but Jim had long since forgotten what does.

Wayne dutifully inspects his hands, which are neatly folded and resting on the table.

Jim notices immediately that they’re chapped, scarred, and rough beyond what a suave playboy is used to. Has Wayne been working outside? He’s aware of the program here. Every inmate holds a ‘job’ for six months, and then they rotate. Maybe Wayne’s is hard labor. The man’s thin—too thin—and worn, his hair a bit too long, but you can’t miss the lean muscle and the athletic way in which he carries himself.

“It doesn’t add up,” Jim continues. “You must like the treatment here. The isolation. The therapy. I admit, it's all I can come up with.”

Wayne is a lazy-ass billionaire who would never go to jail to protect a man. Even a man like Harvey Dent. The public is going wild about Dent—someone had already leaked the gruesome truth to the press.

“Not once in your life have you acted unselfishly, let alone like a hero.”

Silence.

“When they told me what you said, I thought for sure you really were delusional.” He waits a beat, but seeing no reaction continues. “You gave them the location of new evidence. Evidence that exonerates you.”

Wayne sags into a coughing fit. Jim leans forward, ready to signal for assistance, when the other man takes a shallow breath, looking up at him through his lashes.

“A mistake,” Wayne says raggedly.

Mistake? “The mistake was putting you in here.”

When Wayne’s jaw clenches and his eyes spit fire, Jim is relieved there’s still fight left in him. Five years in Arkham will break a person. Especially an innocent one.

“I thought you were crazy,” Jim adds, when Wayne doesn’t speak. “Insane.”

“I was sick,” Wayne hacks out.

“I see that...and you still are.”

Wayne’s cheeks flush, his eyes flickering back and forth between Jim and the table. “Infection...no good meds here.”

Pity floods his chest—and it shames him. Deeply. He can’t imagine what he’s been through here at Arkham on a daily basis—without the funding that Wayne had once provided, ironically—and doesn’t want to. But he does. He has to in order to reclaim his own humanity. “I’m talking about a different kind of sick.”

Wayne’s gaze says nothing yet everything.

Guilt. Shame. Remorse. Emotions Jim is beginning to understand.

Wayne's shoulders shake as he coughs.

He wonders how hard he should push him. “They’re letting you go.”

Wayne coughing slowly dissipates. Swallowing hard, he sinks lower in his chair, saying nothing.

“Didn’t she tell you?”

Wayne looks at him cautiously. “Who?”

How could Wayne not know? Jim is certain Montoya had stopped by. “Detective Montoya.”

Wayne’s eyes fill with confusion. “When?”

“Yesterday.” How could he have forgotten? Just how sick is Wayne? “Have you had any medication lately?”

“Don’t think.”

Jim will have to talk to Dr. Arkham. Something isn’t right here. “You’ll be released into my custody until your retrial.”

Wayne stiffens. “No,” he rasps.

“I don’t think you’re in any condition to decide.”

“I—I killed her.”

The hesitation is telling. “We both know now that that’s not true.”

“I killed her,” he says, visibly swallowing. “Your wife.”

Jim lifts a brow. He has to admit this is an interesting tactic, especially coming from someone as dimwitted as Wayne, but he’s not taking the bait. “Someone killed her, that’s true, but it sure as hell wasn’t you.”

Wayne’s face grows pained, and he hunches over, sweat beading along his forehead. “L-leave it alone, Gordon. Leave me alone. This is what I deserve.”

The familiarity is unsettling, but the death wish more so. Jim stands to cover his surprise and takes him by the arm.

Wayne stiffens. “Unhand me.”

“I can’t have Bruce Wayne’s demise on my conscience,” Jim says, voice firm.

“Then forget about him,” Wayne says hoarsely, eyes averted. “He has nothing to live for outside of this place, anyway.”

The devastation in Wayne’s voice as he speaks of himself in third person crushes Jim. Not only had Wayne lost his money—his inheritance and company—but his butler and longtime friend, Alfred Pennyworth, had passed away from a stroke several years ago.

The only person who visits Wayne at Arkham is Lucius Fox but, according to Dr. Arkham and the guest log, Wayne refuses to see him.

“I’m sorry you feel this way, but I could never forget about an innocent man.” He waits a beat. “Even though it seems like I did for five years.”

Wayne’s shoulders curve inward until he practically disappears inside himself. “Deserved it.”

Jim slides his hand up to Wayne’s shoulder. He squeezes it in comfort as an afterthought. Something about Wayne’s horrifying state of mind elicits a fatherly concern he’d only felt for his own children.

“My wife died, yes, but whatever you think you did to cause it, you didn’t. I’ve listened to it twice,” he says, speaking of Wayne’s phone.

Wayne leans into his hand a brief moment, before pulling away with a jerk. “Want to go back to m’room,” he mumbles.

“I’m sorry, but you won’t be returning to your room ever again.” He helps him to his feet, highly disturbed when he realizes how pliant Wayne had become, his full-body tremble intensifying at his touch. He places the back of his hand on the billionaire’s forehead and winces at the heat coming from it. “Have you been sick ever since I was here last?”

Wayne’s unfocused eyes open and close and open again. “Not sure,” he says with shallow breaths. “Days are...hazy.”

Jim curses under his breath. Wayne should be better by now, if he’d been treated properly. “Have you been to the infirmary recently?”

Wayne’s glazed eyes close. “No. Not that I remember?”

“They’re not doing their job if they fail to treat you again.”

Wayne snorts, which morphs into another coughing fit, his knees buckling underneath him. Jim helps him sit down again and stands helplessly to the side. By the time Wayne is breathing normally, he’s hunched over, his head a hair's breadth away from hitting the table in front of him, his shoulders heaving with each breath. “Th-they don’t care.”

He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. This is unacceptable. “Given the new development in your case, I was able to pull some strings. They’ll have the papers ready,” he says, grateful for the judge’s quick work. “Let’s get you out of this hellhole.”

“And go where, ‘xactly?” Wayne mumbles, struggling to lift his head.

Jim makes a mental note to call Dr. Thompkins, the physician Montoya had recommended. Apparently, Thompkins makes house visits—at least to desolate ex-billionaire's—and had already approached Montoya, the only one in the office at the time, about Wayne’s condition. “My place.”

Wayne’s eyes flip open, widening with what seems to be—panic?

“You have a problem with my house?” Jim asks gently.

Wayne straightens in his chair with the care of an aged man, blinking several times at Jim.

“I promise you that the children and I don’t bite,” Jim says. “Will you leave with me?”

Wayne stands on what seems to be his last leg.

“I take it that’s a yes.” Jim holds one of Wayne’s elbows while slipping his other arm around his waist to guide him to the door. After a few steps, Wayne relaxes, his head dropping on Jim’s shoulder and burrowing into in what appears to be an act of survival, nothing more. Wayne’s whole weight bears down on him, but Jim, who has had more time on his hands than he ever wanted and joined a gym two years ago at his daughter’s insistence, braces himself easily under Wayne’s lean form.

It seems odd to him, as if their roles are reversed, but he can’t understand why.

After the necessary paperwork, and one of the attendants returning with a very slim bag of Wayne’s meager belongings, the younger man looks like he’s ready to drop. Jim is tempted to take him directly to the hospital but decides against it for fear of catching the eye of some attention-seeking mongrel who will tip off the press.

They take longer than Jim expected to get to the car, stopping twice for Wayne to catch his breath. That Wayne’s hand shakes as he buckles himself into the passenger seat does not go unnoticed by Jim.

The man’s weak. Feverish. Exhausted. Prone to coughing fits. Possibly dehydrated. Jim prays it’s just a relatively simple respiratory infection that will go away with the right treatment. Hopefully, it’s nothing warranting more concern. The last thing either of them needs is another complication during this transition.

He feels Wayne’s eyes on him the entire ride home. He wonders what he thinks of this. If he’s feeling shame, embarrassment, or even resentment. He won’t blame him if it’s the latter.

“Your kids,” Wayne says so softly that Jim gives him a second, sideways glance.

“Yes?”

“Do they know?”

“That you’re coming?” Jim smiles a little. “Yes. Jimmy’s taking the couch, until I turn the study back into the spare room.”

Wayne’s brows meet at the middle.

“You’re not putting him out,” Jim clarifies, although it’s clear Wayne is still doubtful. He adds, “You’re doing us a favor. It’s the first time he’s thought of someone other than himself in years.”

“He’s a teen.”

Jim’s mouth twitches. “Is that so?”

Wayne looks out the window. “I was an awful one once.”

He can actually imagine it, and Mr. Pennyworth’s dry wit steadying him through the years. “So you would know.”

“Yes,” Wayne says faintly.

“I’d like to hear a few stories, someday,” Jim says honestly.

“Hmm.”

Soon, Wayne falls into a fitful sleep, if one could call it that, his head pressed against cool glass. Jim looks at him periodically in concern. Nothing about that cough, or his breathing in general, sounds right.

Not at all.

__________

When Bruce learns the Joker is being transferred back to Arkham, on a technicality that shouldn’t have transferred him out of the asylum to begin with, he has no idea how his life could get any worse. He freezes, both mentally and figuratively speaking, and hides in his cell for as long as possible, feigning a migraine. A symptom of this place that he’s had before, multiple times each month.

The only good thing is that the Joker has no idea who the Batman is—or was.

Since Bruce Wayne’s admittance into the asylum, no one has sighted the Batman. Not that anyone has made the connection. And they won’t. There’s nothing leading the police his way. He’d always maintained his cover, even to the end. Bruce Wayne had killed. Batman never kills.

Besides, the three people who’d known about his identity other than Alfred and Fox—are dead.

Rachel had been the first, murdered by the Joker. Harvey had discovered his identity when Bruce had come to find Barbara Gordon, unsuited and with the naive confidence that he could change his mind about killing Jim’s beloved wife by approaching him as a normal man, stripped down and without his mask. Bruce had had no time to change, given that Harvey had also tried to lure and kidnap Bruce before Barbara, then kill him. But he’d escaped. Once freed, he’d tried to rescue Barbara—and failed.

Without his armor, he’d been all too human. The shot had grazed his side, the wound bad enough to be his downfall—and theirs.

Bruce had been able to disarm and then shoot Harvey in self-defense, but not before Harvey had fired off a bullet that lodged in Barbara’s chest. With raging insanity, Harvey then attacked them both with a knife in his dying breath.

Bruce can hardly think of the rest without completely hating himself. Barbara died not long after Harvey, with only seconds left to speak her mind. She’d been kinder to him than he’d expected. Without blame. Without anger.

She’d accepted her lot and had pleaded with him to help Jim move on without her, making him promise that he’d protect her children.

But he’d been covered with blood—his and theirs—holding the knife Harvey had used, and the gun, sitting on the hard ground, shell-shocked and stunned that he’d failed. He’d hidden the knife in the one moment he’d had clarity, and his phone. The less evidence, the less they’d suspect. He couldn’t lead them to Batman and, then, to Alfred.

They'd arrested him immediately.

Both Harvey and Barbara’s deaths had been on his shoulders, it didn’t matter who’d killed whom, and what better way to atone for his mistakes than to sentence himself to a miserable life?

At least, this way, he’d thought at the time, and after he’d pleaded guilty, he won’t make the same mistake twice.

He gets away with pretending to be sick for some time until, one day, he’s forced to eat his lunch in the cafeteria.

____________

Jim calls Dr. Thompkins when Wayne can’t sit up on his own in bed or answer the simplest question.

He feels like he's hovering by standing over him, but he can't help feel as if Wayne’s life depends on his diligence. Call it instinct. A gut feeling. “How are you feeling?”

Wayne struggles for a full breath, taking significantly shallower ones. His eyes glaze over as he stares up at him.

“Mr. Wayne?” He waits for the address to register, but Wayne maintains an unnervingly blank expression. “Bruce?” he asks gently, squeezing the man’s hand.

It gets his attention. Wayne blinks once.

Jim offers him a small smile. “Dr. Thompkins will be here soon. Do you need anything?”

Wayne licks his lips.

“I’ll get you some water,” Jim says.

“I’ll get it for him,” Babs announces behind him.

Jim turns to look at her. “Babs, you shouldn’t be in here.”

“Can’t sleep. Heard him coughing.”

Wayne’s head lolls to side, and he stares at her through the narrow slits of his eyes.

She stares back at him with equal interest.

“So, you tried taking a vacation in prison. How'd that pan out for you?” she asks casually.

Wayne shrugs. “All right.”

“You’re as pale as a ghost,” Babs says.

Wayne’s lips twitch. “But no one else can say they played cards with Crane,” he says with effort, looking exhausted when he’s finished.

“Yeah,” Babs offers. “Maybe you should've set your expectations a little higher.”

Jim lifts a brow at the exchange.

Wayne sends her a weak grin. “Next time,” he manages before sputtering out a handful of ragged breaths.

“Water?” Jim reminds Babs.

“Right.” She looks at Wayne, frowning. “I’ll be back. Don’t die on us or anything.”

After she leaves, Wayne sags against the pillow.

“I apologize for my daughter,” Jim says, worried that Wayne is close to passing out.

“No need,” Wayne says hoarsely.

Jim pulls the quilt up to his chest. “Better?”

Wayne watches Jim through his lashes, a confused look on his face.

“Can’t have you getting a chill, too,” Jim offers awkwardly.

Wayne nods, gaze dropping as if embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” Jim says.

Wayne looks up at him. “Why?”

Wayne’s gaze is warm and refreshingly honest.

Tongue tied, Jim says nothing.

Wayne blinks. “You did nothing wrong.”

Does he not realize he had not done his job? If he had, he wouldn’t have allowed Wayne to take the blame for what Dent did.

He shakes his head. “I did a lot of things wrong.”

Wayne’s brow furrows. “Such as?”

Sighing, Jim sits on the edge of the bed. “Let’s not talk about that yet. Being here can’t be easy for you. Acclimating to the real world when you’re under the weather.”

“I’ve felt worse,” Wayne says after a pause.

He certainly hopes not. “I hope we can help you.”

Wayne remains quiet, but the silence is comfortable between them as if they’re old friends. Jim, wanting him to rest, leaves him be. A few minutes later when Jim’s almost finished reading the local news, Bab returns with water—and the doctor.

“I was already on my way,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “I had a feeling.”

Don’t they all. “He’s not all right.”

“I can see that.” She sets her bag on the foot of the bed. “I have to ask you to step out while I examine him.”

“Oh.” He takes an uncomfortable step back. “Right. I’ll just…”

He steals a glance at Wayne, who has closed his eyes, looking young and vulnerable in the large bed.

His chest squeezes with an emotion he can’t explain.

“Commissioner?”

“Jim. Call me Jim, especially if we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

She smiles. “Yes, thanks to our mutual friend, we will be seeing each other more frequently. Feel free to call me Leslie. I’ve always appreciated being on a first name basis, especially when so much is at stake.”

He’s not sure he’s comforted by that. He takes a breath. “Let me know when you’re done?”

“I will.” She pauses. “And don’t worry—now that he’s out of Arkham, I’m sure things will get better for him.”

“I should certainly hope so.”

It’s difficult to be on the outside looking in, and he paces the hall, Babs sitting on the floor and watching him every step.

“Dad? Why does this bother you?” she asks.

“Why does what bother me?”

“That he’s sick.”

“It’s my fault.”

“Technically, he’s the who pled guilty when he wasn’t,” she points out.

He shakes his head. “Someday you’ll be a lawyer.”

“I want to be a cop. Well, a detective. Like you.”

He stops. “Babs.”

She sets her jaw like Barbara did when she was upset at Jim. “What? Mom won’t care. She’s not here.”

He can’t help but admit that stings, but he doesn’t want to fight. Not now. “You have time.”

“Not if I want to take the exam this summer.”

“You’ve thought this through?”

“Ever since they wrongly accused Mr. Wayne.”

His brows shoot up. “Really?”

She shrugs. “The man never hurt a fly, unlike Harvey Dent who’d shown some aggression in his college days.”

“How do you know that?”

“I read up on things. So, how could Mr. Wayne have had a breakdown out of nowhere?

“Miss Dawes had been one of his dearest friends,” Jim points out.

“Yet Mom and Harvey Dent had nothing to do with her death.”

That is true, or mostly, given Dent’s involvement in transporting the Joker, who’d escaped.

“The jealous lover,” he suggests, then grimaces. His daughter isn’t quite an adult. Should he be talking about this with her? “Forget I said that.”

She looks frankly at him. “Yet he sleeps with a new pretty face each week.”

“According to the tabloids.” Other than that, Jim can’t come up with an explanation that would be good enough for her.

“Which are always exaggerated. And how did he know how to use a gun? The only things of interest to him—”

“That we know of,” Jim points out.

“—are booze, fine living, partying, and women.”

“And sometimes men,” Jim mutters.

“Dad, I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

She sends him a look.

He sighs. “Listen, you’re right, on some level, yes, it is unbelievable. But his prints were on the gun—the evidence matched up—and he confessed.”

“He confessed too easily, too, if I recall what you told Montoya.”

He never should have voiced that. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

“And you should’ve figured this out a hell of a lot earlier. Maybe it would have kept him from getting sick.”

“Babs,” he warns.

She looks away, but he holds his tongue to salvage what he can of the moment. This is not how he envisioned their evening going.

Dr. Thompkins steps out of the room when the silence between them grows to be stifling. “I’d like to talk with you, Jim, when I explain what I found with Bruce, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve given him a small sedative, so we don’t have long to talk.”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Jim tells his daughter. He follows Leslie inside, shutting the door behind them. “How sick is he?”

“He’s a very sick man, but being here is the best thing for him. However, I’ll need you to bring him to the clinic tomorrow,” she says. “First thing in the morning.”

Wayne sighs. “Leslie.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Bruce.

“Why?” he asks.

“I’ll need to run a few tests,” she explains. “I think I know what’s wrong based on earlier scans, but I won’t know until I take a closer look at his lungs. But, for now,” she continues, looking pointedly at Jim, “Keep him upright, and perhaps you and your daughter can alternate watching over him through the night.”

“Anything he needs,” Jim agrees.

Wayne’s frown deepens. “Unnecessary.”

She squeezes Wayne’s hand. “Just a precaution.” She turns to Jim. “I’ll call in some medicine right away. It should help him sleep through the night without any trouble. Do you mind picking it up for him?”

“I can,” Bab says, having entered quietly and unannounced.

Jim is not surprised to see her. “Fine.” Then to Leslie, “Yes, we can get it.”

“Good,” she says, looking pleased. “We’ll start treating the asthma and hopefully, he’ll get a decent night’s rest. I have a feeling he hasn’t for a long, long time.”

“Wait, did you say...asthma?” Jim asks.

“Yes.”

Wayne’s eyes flash with irritation. “No,” he says flatly. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Leslie says gently. “It is part of the problem, here.”

Wayne freezes. “Part of?”

Her eyes crinkle with worry lines. “You’ve had several respiratory infections over the years, according to your records from the asylum, yes?”

Wayne works his jaw before nodding once.

“And none of them cleared up,” she continues. “Least of all this last one. I’ve seen cases like yours before, especially in the Narrows, Bruce. Stress, mold...previous infection. I have a feeling yours began as a result of several factors. I’m so sorry.”

Wayne’s expression fills with resignation. “Treatable?” he asks. He looks like he’s about to say something else when he is struck with successive coughs.

She waits until he’s done, then corrects, “Manageable. For the rest of your life, but I won’t know how severe your case is until I’ve observed you and I’ve run those tests. It’s very important that I see you tomorrow.”

Jim can’t help but feel Wayne’s health complications are all his fault. “I’ll bring him first thing.”

“That reminds me.” Leslie looks at Jim sternly. “Do you still smoke?”

“On occasion.” Which is a lie. He smokes after work, outside every day.

“If he’s living here with you indefinitely, that has to stop. It will affect his breathing.”

Jim winces. “Not a problem.”

Wayne shakes his head. “I’ll leave. Find something else.”

“The hell you will.”

“I’m not forcing you—”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything. I’ll quit because it’s the right thing to do.” He falls quiet. “Barbara always wanted me to. I’ll do it for her, in her memory, not for you. Does that make you feel any better?”

Wayne waits a beat. “Yes,” he grits out, glaring at him.

He nods and ignores the dark look he’s giving him, that looks strangely right on this once-rich ex-con. “Thought it would.”

Leslie stands. “If that’s settled, I’ll get things squared away at the pharmacy for him. Follow the instructions. He may need help with the inhaler—he’s very weak. Call if you have any questions.”

“I will do that. Thank you,” Jim says.

“It’s my pleasure.” She looks softly at Wayne, who had closed his eyes. “Bruce.”

Wayne blinks himself awake. “Hmm?”

“Alfred never gave up hope the truth would come out.”

Wayne’s eyes water. “He...spoke with you?”

“Every week.”

Wayne’s face scrunches as if he’s trying to suppress an onset of great emotion. “I miss him.”

Jim stands uncomfortably still, witnessing what seems to be a an extremely private moment between friends.

“He knew you loved him,” she whispers. “And protected him.”

Wayne scrubs a shaky hand across his face, nodding in silence.

She takes a measured breath, her eyes flickering with sadness as Wayne composes himself. “Be at peace with that. I’ll see you in the morning.”

_______________

They make him wash his hair and brush his teeth. They make him dress and wear shoes. They make him walk down the hall, flanked by men who eat him with their eyes. They make him listen to their comments about his ass and the smooth way in which he moves. They whistle at him, allow others to whistle at him, and even make a pass at him. They grope him before they enter the cafeteria, laughing when he pushes them away.

It’s not the first time the guards and attendants have done this to him, but it’s been awhile. He’s unused to feeling this dirty, and he hates it. For the first time, he desperately wishes he could fight his way to freedom.

The cafeteria is unusually silent. Bruce doesn’t bother to look for him. The Joker. He finds himself trembling, and he convinces himself it’s the sudden onset of a fever, not fear. He wants to eat in solitude, especially when he’s actually feeling unwell this time. But since his fellow inmate Dr. Jonathan Crane had already invited him to his table, and he doesn’t want to draw more attention to himself, he slips into the seat across from him without resisting, his hair hanging in front of his eyes, the only shield he has.

Crane usually dines alone, for good reason. He manipulates and pushes buttons, becoming somewhat of a bully. Except where Bruce is concerned.

Bruce may be here by choice, for a punishment he deserves, and in the worst possible place for a truly innocent man, but he has years of Ra’s’ training under his belt and the determination that, for Alfred’s sake, he would psychologically survive in one piece.

Mostly.

Therapy is as difficult as hell to get through, probably the thing he hates most, and he dissociates during the sessions. He’d lived two separate lives, before, after all. But he has to be careful to go along with what they want, or he’ll be medicated out his ass. For now, the fates are on his side. He’s only been prescribed one medication, and he’s experienced fewer side effects with it than others. But his life as Batman has grown distant. A memory morphing, ever so slowly, into a dream he’s not sure he even had.

As long as he shows “progress,” or more emotional control and a normalcy the doctors appreciate, he’s able to maintain the status quo. But spending time with Crane threatens his security. And today—with the Joker somewhere in the room—it’s proving even more dangerous to his sanity.

He coughs, hating how weak it makes him feel, before staring down at his tray, bemoaning the next twenty minutes.

“You all right, Wayne?” Crane asks.

“Yeah,” he says, lying through his teeth.

“Doesn’t sound like it. That’s been going on for a long time, if you don’t mind me saying.”

He shrugs and begins to eat. Slowly. Methodically. Chewing each bite completely before swallowing. His fork shaking.

“You’re scared, too, huh?” Crane asks while chewing his sandwich.

He swallows a drink of water. “Of?”

Crane snorts. “Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure.”

Bruce manages another bite, keeping one eyes on Crane, who begins to look around the room earnestly.

He suddenly feels sick. “What?”

“I’m trying to get his attention.”

Dread fills his chest. “Please don’t,” he says in a pinched voice.

Crane chuckles. “After all I told him about the real Bruce Wayne, he’s been dying to meet you. I’m surprised he hasn’t come over here, already.” He stops. “Oh, good. I think he sees us.”

Cursing silently, Bruce pushes his tray away. There is no way he’ll be able to stomach the rest of his food.

A fairly new attendant nearest the table notices. What’s his name—what do people call him—Ryder? He fills in for Wilson when he’s gone.

Ryder’s natural brute strength intimidates nearly all the inmates, as does his six foot four frame, but he had been a model back in the day before his alcohol habit got out of hand. Many of the inmates seemed to be infatuated with the solidly built, middle-aged man, drawn by the longer, raven black hair framing his still-handsome face, the trimmed beard accentuating his chiseled jaw. When Ryder’s not suffering from a hangover, he’s civil enough, but Bruce tries to avoid him, especially now that his own muscle mass has greatly decreased, diminishing his chances of winning a fight.

If only Wilson, his usual attendant, hadn’t taken that vacation. He isn’t so bad and always has something kind to say to him. To everyone.

The fact is, Bruce isn’t sure if Ryder looks out for the best interest of the patients or himself.

Ryder stares down his nose at Bruce. “I was told to make sure you eat your meal this time.”

“Hmm, I’m not surprised.” Crane eyes Wayne. “Your weight is down again.”

Bruce clenches his hands into fists on his lap. “Kinda hard to eat slop.”

Crane lifts an eye. “It’s been nearly five years and you’re finally just complaining?”

“You’ll eat, or—” Ryder mimes a slice to his neck with his index finger.

“Nice try,” Crane says, “but we all know Wayne gets to slide by on this one. He’s kinda special with the other guards, if you know what I’m saying.” He winks. “They prefer him skinny.”

Bruce can’t wrap his mind around what Crane just said. He knows they stare at him—and like to touch him, given the chance—but they prefer to stare at him in a certain condition?

“Can’t say that I blame them,” Ryder mutters, giving Bruce a closer look.

Jaw clenching, he glares at him defiantly. “Do you mind?”

Ryder grins. “Add that fire to that body of yours, and you’re quite the catch.”

“Isn’t he, though?” Crane croons.

Ryder hums his agreement. “I may need a taste.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

Ryder looks amused. “There’s a line?”

Crane crosses his arms. “There’s a line. Trust me. Handsome here plays hard to get.”

“I’ll wait. I know just what to do to wear him down.”

“He’s a bit...fragile.”

“I’d take it easy on him, if he cooperates nicely.”

Something inside Bruce starts to crack. Hearing his reality described as if he isn’t in the room makes it a million times worse.

“Could be a long wait,” Crane says, sounding sorry for it.

Ryder shrugs. “For that skinny ass—and those lips—it’ll be worth it.”

Bruce’s heart beats rapidly in his chest. No one is touching him again. Not if he can help it. “That’s fucked up,” he says, his mind buzzing with a fresh panic.

He can hardly breathe.

Crane leans forward, eyes bright and curious. “If it bothers you, maybe you should eat a little more, hmm?”

Bruce can’t pick up his fork fast enough. He eases another bite of the cold lasagna into his mouth as a shadow falls over him. He ignores the newcomer and forces himself to chew.

If he thinks about gaining more weight and losing the guards’ interest, it almost tastes...good.

He takes a second bite. And another, even when his chest grows painfully tight.

“I have to admit, I couldn’t have managed that any better,” the Joker says, taking a seat beside Crane.

“I know,” Crane says happily. “Look at him go.”

Bruce freezes, his heart catching in his throat along with the food.

The Joker grins. “Oh, don’t stop now.” He swipes his tongue across his lower lip, then looks at Crane. “He’ll be even more delicious with meat on those bones.”

Crane smiles at Wayne then the Joker, his grin widening as he nods. “Thought you would like that. I learned from the best.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, but you…” The Joker cocks his head and stares at Bruce and in particular, the lower part of his face. His mouth. His jawline.

The Joker’s eyes drop to his neck before sweeping up to his face again.

“You, Mr. Wayne, you are quite the looker, aren’t you?” Joker’s once-red smile is still too vibrant to be genuine, the scars just as sinister in the cafeteria lighting as they were accentuated by crimson and white paint. “Have quite the mind, too, I hear. I can't wait to get to know you, especially since we seemed to have, uh, missed each other at your party that one fine day.”

Bruce feels the color leech from his face.

Yes, he has to be sick. He’s hallucinating. All of it. He has to be.

“Oh, Brucie Boy, relax,” Joker murmurs, lifting his eyes to meet Bruce’s troubled gaze. “We’re eating, not having an orgy. Maybe I’ll take the time to teach Crane a few more of my tricks, maybe I won’t. Either way, uh, it looks like we’re gonna have a lot more fun in here than I expected.”

Bruce’s mind spins with countless possibilities, all of which will end horrifically for him. The Joker won’t let this go. He’s too interesting. Billionaire turned murderer? He’ll become the Joker’s next plaything.

He has to find a way out of here.

He has to.

He finishes his plate of food in record time and lets Ryder pull him out of his seat by the back of his neck with a massive paw.

Anything so that he doesn’t have to stay and talk to the Joker.

___________

Jim takes the first shift, since he’s used to staying up late. Although he’s spent numerous nights caring for his children when they were babies, or sick, it is a different ballgame watching over an adult. And Wayne certainly is different.

Wayne is a conundrum. He’s not stupid, or an asshole, but that could be a direct result of the time he's spent in the asylum and the recurring treatment he's receiving. Experiences that would change a man. He’s quick witted and stubborn, which surprises him, too. But he’s also vulnerable. Devastatingly so. He can see it in his eyes and every time he looks at Jim.

Does he think Jim will send him back to Arkham? Change his mind? Wayne is all too human, Jim is realizing. Nothing like the tabloids portrayed him to be, but he still can’t think of him as Bruce, like Leslie does, although a part of him wants to. The part that wins is the same one that can’t reconcile his feelings with his actions. He can’t reconcile his harsh thoughts about Wayne in the past with his compassion towards him now.

For fuck’s sake—he’d brought the man into his home, promising to care for him. Like a damned marriage vow.

He sighs heavily, propping the paper on his lap, trying to read the front page with the light dimmed beside him. The room is filled with shadows—and Wayne’s ragged breathing. Jim can hardly focus.

He checks the clock. Twice. Wayne has only been asleep for thirty minutes. It seems like hours. But not because he dislikes watching over him and making sure he’s actually breathing and breathing well. Quite the contrary. He loses his train of thought every time he stares at him, because Wayne is, simply put, a fine looking man even after five years in that hellish place.

Jim has had trysts with men in the past, but before he’d married Barbara. He’s out of practice with this part of his sexuality. He wonders, off-handedly, if he would have ever managed to hook up with a man like Wayne at some point had he not married. He can't imagine the possibility. Who would want to get involved with a middle-aged widower with two teenagers?

“You keep watching me.”

Jim’s eyes snap up at Wayne’s faint rasp. “Excuse me?”

Wayne opens one eye. “You keep watching me.”

So he does. “You’re different than I expected.”

Sensitive. Introspective. Determined.

Wayne’s expression closes. “Funny. I’ve heard that before.”

Curious, and disturbed by Wayne’s reaction, Jim leans forward. “Is that so?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“You’re breathing better.”

“Tell Babs thanks.”

“You can tell her that tomorrow,” he says.

“I thought...I thought you’d change your mind.”

“I don’t go back on my word.”

Wayne stares at him. “I have baggage.”

Interesting. “No more than the rest of us.”

“Doubt it.”

“Try me.”

Wayne averts his eyes. “I’m not...I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I’ve heard it all.”

Wayne is quiet, then says, “I usually have nightmares.”

It takes Jim only a second. “Is that why you’ve built up a tolerance to the sedative?”

Wayne nods, a hint of guilt in his eyes.

So Wayne can beat the system. He has more than once. First, with the weapon and phone. Secondly, with this. How many other times has he managed? Is this how he'd survived the asylum?

Jim isn’t sure he wants to think too much more about Wayne’s odd habits.

“How?” he asks.

Wayne looks up at the ceiling. “Alfred tried so hard to change my ways, trying anything to get me to sleep soundly, but I just couldn’t. I—I see them—”

“Them?”

“People from my past.” Wayne exhales slowly. “I see them when I’m in a deep sleep. It doesn’t matter if I have a sedative or not. It just is.”

“It sounds...horrible.”

“I met the Joker inside Arkham.”

The non sequitur throws him, but only for a moment. It could mean the former had been worse than meeting Joker. Which, in Jim’s opinion, is a good thing, given the Joker’s heinous crimes. But, then again, this is the Joker.

Whatever Wayne had experienced, Jim senses it had hurt him. Deeply. “I—I’m sorry.”

Wayne clenches the quilt, pulling it to his chin.

Jim, for reasons he can’t understand, moves his chair so he can sit next to him. “Want to talk—”

“No,” Wayne clips, much like a child. He turns on his side, his back to Jim, rigid and quiet.

Jim supposes he deserves it, although it’s possible Wayne isn’t giving him the cold shoulder on purpose. He could have developed an emotional disorder. PTSD. Something had happened at the asylum, and he can’t begin to imagine what. He wonders if it’s bad enough to suggest he see a therapist.

He has a feeling Wayne would shut that idea down in a blink of an eye, but maybe, if he can earn his trust, he could find out what’s wrong and help.

“If you ever do,” Jim says. “I’m a good listener.”

Silence.

“I’m a dad, remember?” Jim asks.

“I remember.” Wayne speaks so softly he has to strain his ears to hear. “Thank you, Jim.”

His chest floods with unprecedented emotion. His name on Bruce’s lips—spoken with that warm cadence—is so trusting—so kind. He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know why he even considers it to be something so...so...memorable.

It points to one thing and one thing alone, and he’s too fucking old to be attracted to anyone. Let alone to the man he’s hated for five years. The man who has been on the receiving end of his revenge. But since he’s learned of Wayne’s innocence, the walls around his heart have broken down. He’s seeing him with new eyes.

How Wayne can be civil to him is beyond him. If he were in his shoes, he wouldn’t be half as forgiving. Or as trusting.

“You’re welcome,” he manages, swallowing hard. Then, with only a little hesitation, he reaches out and squeezes Wayne’s shoulder. “Br—Son.”

Wayne’s body suddenly slackens. “Gordon,” he whispers raggedly.

Unthinkingly, Jim strokes his shoulder, hoping the man will give into much needed sleep. He uses his other hand to massage his neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, as the muscles underneath his fingers relax.

Wayne murmurs something unintelligible and, blessedly, falls asleep, as if a switch had turned off in his brain.

At the same time, a switch goes on in Jim’s brain, and he lets go of the younger man as if he was on fire, stumbling back one step. Wayne had reacted instantly to his touch—to the word son.

And the satisfaction of that, of knowing he had put the man to sleep, that his touch had relaxed him, is astounding.

Oh, God.

He’s lonelier than he thought if he longs for Wayne to trust him like a son trusts his father, and if he's reading that very reaction in Wayne’s behavior. But if he’s not reading into it—or if it’s something else—

Good God. He runs both hands through his hair. He has to think logically. Realistically. He can never replace Bruce’s father, or his other father, Alfred. But maybe he can be someone else. A friend. A good friend. Even for someone with potential Daddy issues...

He stops himself there.

Sinking into his seat, he decides Wayne had needed to be touched because he’s a touch-starved man. Who wouldn’t be after spending time in Arkham? And, Wayne is an orphan. Jim can’t forget that. There must be some study out there explaining this. That has to be all this is. Anything else will be too awkward for the both of them.

But something is there between them, unspoken.

How can that be? They've hardly spent time together. And the time they had, Jim had wished for life to torture him.

Flushing, he inches the chair back ever so slightly, and sits with his spine straight until Babs comes to take his place, taking great care not to look at a sleeping, vulnerable Wayne even once.

Chapter Text

Bruce wakes up on the floor, clutching a blanket with stiff fingers, his body tucked against the wall by the bed. Like he’s five-years-old again. Alone and afraid of the dark, even before his parents were murdered. But he’s not afraid of the dark anymore. He lives there, after all. He has no excuse for it. Yet this is his life.

Uncurling his neck, his back and shoulders burn as if he’d dropped and done fifty not once but twice in his grossly unfit body. Groaning, he forces himself to move despite the pain, an ingrained habit, and turns to take a better look at the room, hoping he is alone.

No such luck. Babs sits on the chair in the corner, looking at him apologetically. He’s surprised it isn’t Jim.

He wishes it was Alfred.

“We wanted to move you back on the bed,” she says, “but decided we shouldn't wake you.”

He’s glad they didn’t try. He would have hated to explain his reflexes, or why he’d punched one of them in the face in self-defense.

She gets to her feet. “Do you need help?”

“No,” he says hoarsely, and attempts to sit up. He does so awkwardly, hit with a wave of dizziness, pressing a hand to his head. “Did I fall?”

“You crawled out of bed on your own, while you were still asleep. I didn’t know what to do…”

He massages his temple, craving a masseuse’s hands on his back. But his days of luxury are long gone. He doesn’t even have a cent to his name. “It’s not a problem.”

She makes a face. “It can’t be comfortable.”

“I’ve been in Arkham for five years. We have cots.”

Her mouth forms an ‘O.’

“I guess the bed’s too soft for me,” he says, and, with a rueful laugh, is as grateful as hell that his penis is, too. His mind and body are broken—he no longer has morning wood. It’s depressing that something is so fundamentally wrong with him, but at least he’s avoided an embarrassing situation with his former partner’s daughter, for fuck’s sake.

“Something wrong?”

“Uh, no. Just anxious to get to the clinic.” Face heating, he gets to his feet, averting his eyes as he grabs the blanket off the floor.

“You slept well, considering. Do you feel any better?”

He decides to lie. “Yes.”

“Hmm. Dad said you’d say that.”

“Did he now?”

“Wanna eat?”

As if on cue, his mouth salivates. Ryder would ask him the same thing just to get him to return to the cafeteria and finish a meal, but with him.

For a reason he can’t pinpoint, it’s hard not to think about the guard who’d tried to shield him from the Joker.

“Mr. Wayne?”

He nods, not trusting his voice. He sinks to a seat at the edge of the bed but, feeling his chest tighten, claws at his chest. He massages the area with two fingers, trying to ease the growing tightness.

She watches him warily. “Something wrong?”

He pushes thoughts of Arkham aside and eyes the inhaler on the table. She retrieves it for him.

“Stress,” she says, her eyes holding more wisdom than any nearly seventeen-year-old should have. “That’s what Dr. Thompkins told Dad in a text. I read it. She thinks once you’re exonerated you won’t have as many clustered episodes. That, and other treatment.”

He hates that word. Treatment. Arkham passes it out to its patients like candy. “Oh?”

She hesitates. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

He has to smile. She’s not the type to let that stop her.

Sighing she says, “I really shouldn’t.”

He fiddles with the inhaler, then brings it to his mouth.

She clears her throat and politely looks away. “But I will.”

He breathes. Waits. Listens.

“Your lungs,” she admits when he’s done, peering at him through her lashes. “She’s worried their negligence at Arkham damaged your lungs.”

It isn’t the only thing they ruined. “Permanently?” he rasps.

She winces, and he’s touched by her obvious sympathy. “I think.”

But now Jim knows. He’s not sure he likes the way his privacy has been invaded, but it isn’t like he has had a say in the matter for some time. Everyone knows his business. Arkham had given him no choice. And if he’s here, living with Jim, they should know what to expect.

He's also disoriented. A rare feeling. He can't quite grasp what it is that he's supposed to do next. Having assistance along the way might be a good thing. Alfred would know what to do.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne. Me and my big mouth—”

“Babs.”

Bruce startles when he sees the man in the doorway. “Jim,” he croaks, before hunching over, coughing.

“Dad.”

“Not now, Babs.”

After coughing once more, Bruce clears his throat. “I—”

Jim holds up a hand. It stops him immediately, and it’s disconcerting. When has he become so—agreeable?

“Don’t try to talk,” Jim says. “Just listen. Babs, if you could, finish making breakfast for Mr. Wayne? Dr. Thompkins suggested oatmeal and fruit. I washed the berries and started cooking the oats.”

“Sure,” she says, although she leaves dragging her feet behind her.

Jim and Bruce stare at each other.

Bruce can’t remember feeling this awkward around the commissioner.

“I thought you’d like to take a shower this morning before we go,” Jim finally says.

He nods. “If that’s...if it’s...okay.”

He feels himself flush. Why does he have to sound so juvenile around Jim?

“That’s fine,” Jim says softly, his gaze sweeping over him.

Bruce shivers under the scrutiny, although he has no reason to be concerned. It’s far from being the looks he received at Arkham.

Jim clears his throat. “I hate to ask this, Son, but how’s the muscle weakness this morning?”

“Fine,” he lies. “Why do you ask?”

“Dr. Thompkins advised me to watch out for you.” He hesitates. “To help you when you need it.”

To help him when he needs it?

What does that even mean? Does she think—and Jim—that he’s helpless? He might not be the man he once was, now bound by a lousy set of lungs and a sordid history at Arkham, but he can do things on his own. Like go to the bathroom, even if he has to drag himself there. “I appreciate it, but I’ll manage.”

“The bathroom’s down the hall, if you want….” Jim frowns. “You sure you don’t need assistance?”

Bruce’s stomach flips. God, no, he does not need help in the damn shower, where he’ll be naked as the day he was born. He silently shakes his head, not trusting his voice.

Jim watches him. “Okay,” he says. “But I think I’ll stay in the hall until you’re done.”

He doesn’t have another change of clothes that would be decent to wear to the clinic. “I…my clothes...”

“I put a new pair of pants and a shirt and sweater on the counter. Socks, too.”

“My size?”

“I took a gander. Rather, Renee did.”

His mind can’t keep up. “Renee?”

“One of the detectives.”

He doesn’t know who that is.

Jim’s eyes soften. “She came to see you, but you were ill, she said.”

He nods, although he still can’t recall her name or face.

“You don’t remember her, do you? Montoya?”

Bruce finally shrugs. “No.”

Jim looks more than a little concerned. “She gave you a speeding ticket before. You don’t remember that?”

“No,” he says curtly, setting the inhaler on the bed and willing his hands to stop shaking.

So he has some memory loss. Strange, unprecedented memory loss. There are worse things, but he can’t have Jim thinking he’s less than he already is, although it’s reasonable to believe that, since he’s Bruce Wayne, not the Bat, whom he’ll never be again. He’s a washed out playboy, with nothing but bad news to his name.

There isn’t any point to proving himself, but he wants to—he needs to.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just make sure you get there in one piece,” Jim says lightly.

Bruce, seeing no way around his scrutiny, rises to his feet and finds his way down the hall with careful steps. His breaths become increasingly shallow when he reaches the halfway point, his limbs weakening in the same disturbing way they had when he’d been in Arkham and treated for his respiratory infections. He’d always suspected his issues were chronic, but the medicine Leslie had prescribed should have helped. He’d slept better, hiding out on the floor aside. He should be able to walk down the hall without feeling like his limbs were going to give out. Without feeling like he’s about to fall flat on his face.

It must be his lungs, like Babs said. His body, not getting the oxygen it needs. He’d hoped—

He doesn’t know what he’d hoped. Nothing has been the same since he’d stepped foot in his cell at Arkham.

He grabs the doorknob for support but can’t turn the damn thing, his fingers fumbling just to hold it. With a sigh, he lets go and simply leans his head against the door.

Jim, who is right behind him, says nothing.

“Do you want to know what the funny thing is?” Bruce whispers after a moment, staring down at the floor.

“What’s that?” Jim asks quietly.

“I never expected to get out, to be free, but here I am. Only, I’m trapped, but in a different way.”

“You could sue.”

“What will that accomplish?” He looks up at Jim, biting his tongue to keep himself from saying what he wants to. That it—this—is a fucking joke.

“You would have money to live wherever you wanted for the rest of your life. Comfortably. Medical expenses paid.”

“By taking money away from patients who need it? No. I’m not going there.”

Especially since Barbara should be alive, not him. He’s not worth fighting for.

“That’s one way to look at it. And very admirable of you,” Jim says softly.

“Admirable?” Bruce scoffs. “Then you don’t know me.”

“No, but I’d like to.”

“We’re not friends.” He has to push Jim away, because once he’s free, he needs to find someone else to inconvenience. He can’t stay here forever.

“You might need one in the near future.”

He grimaces. “You should’ve let me die there.”

He’d be at peace. He’d have that much, at least.

Jim, to his credit, only pales slightly. “You can’t mean that. And you’re not—you’re not dying. This is—manageable.”

Bruce isn’t sure. “Right.”

“I think Dr. Thompson would have told you otherwise.”

But he doesn’t know Leslie like Bruce does. She’s keeping something to herself.

Bruce waits a beat, pressing the soles of his feet into the carpet so he doesn’t fall, then says, “On second thought, I think I’ll skip the shower.”

“I doubt you’ll want to later, or have the energy when we get back,” Jim says.

“No, but I don’t care.”

“The rest of us that live here do,” Jim says wryly.

Bruce sighs. “Jim.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Jim slips an arm around Bruce’s waist, opens the door, and guides him inside. “I’m no nursemaid, but I can make an exception this time.”

Bruce's mind short circuits once he’s standing on the small rug. All he wants to do is take a breath that isn’t a struggle. Maybe take a nap, even though he’d just gotten up.

“May I help you?” Jim asks.

His mind has gone strangely blank. What was it he was supposed to do? “With what?”

Jim blinks at him. “Okay.” He takes a breath. “Okay. Bruce, I think things will be easier if I help you in the shower.”

The shower. Right. “If...if you think,” Bruce says, reaching for the sink to keep his balance.

“Yes,” Jim says without waiting for confirmation. “I do.” He takes the bottom of Bruce’s shirt and guides it over his head, first helping Bruce hold his arms up, one by one, when it proves too difficult for him to do so on his own.

Once his shirt is off—and the reality of the moment hits him—he can’t catch his breath. “W-wait—” Light-headed, he rocks forward.

Jim catches him. “Easy, Son.”

Head dropping onto his shoulder, Bruce reaches blindly for the inhaler that Jim had set on the counter.

Jim presses it into his hand. Bruce uses it, and soon, Jim finishes undressing him like he’s a sick child—his sick child. Bruce tries not to dwell on how humiliating it is for the commissioner—the Bat’s former partner—to see him this broken. Degraded. A shadow of his former self. His thinner, most likely malnourished form. His nakedness, the scars that are uglier than ever against his pale skin. The scars Jim had never seen under the Batsuit but now observes with nothing less than a critical eye.

Does he wonder? Does he suspect? The signs are right under his nose.

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, willing the older man not to ask him questions.

Of course, he’s not that lucky.

“So,” Jim says in a low voice. “About these...injuries of yours.”

Bruce swallows while Jim kindly hands him a towel, the older man’s eyes avoiding looking at anything other than his upper torso and face.

Bruce wraps the towel around his waist as he waits for Jim to start the shower.

Which he doesn’t do.

Dammit. He wants to know—he sees the signs—

Bruce can’t seem to be able to think past that, his pulse thrumming wildly.

Jim blinks at him and steps up to him. Bruce sets his jaw, willing himself not to flinch under his closer inspection.

“These...are too old,” Jim murmurs, fingers gently touching the scar that tells the story of a bullet wound to his shoulder, following another scar to yet another. A stab wound. “Too old to have gotten in Arkham, Mr. Wayne.”

“Polo.”

“Polo?” Jim repeats incredulously. “Polo isn’t this violent.”

Bruce’s stomach churns. “Players these days.”

“I’d say you played the wrong sport.” Jim pills his fingers away. “Next time, try something like...tennis, if you must.”

A shiver travels down his body at the loss of touch, taking its time like a line being drawn from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

Jim’s breath hitches, and he takes a step back. “I promise I won’t pry more. I just wanted to—to understand.”

Bruce can’t meet his eyes. “I know.”

“I can see that it upsets you, but that’s the last thing I want to do right now. There will be time for questions later.”

“Right,” he says hoarsely.

“It’s going to be okay, Son,” Jim says.

A twist of emotion sucker punches him. Nothing is going to be okay again, not with his defenses constantly being stripped away by Jim’s kindness.

Tears sting his eyes. He blinks them back. “Tell that to me once the trial’s over,” he says hoarsely.

“I’ll be sure to do that, when you're drinking coffee as a free man.” Jim averts his troubled gaze. “Guess we better get a move on or your breakfast will get cold.”

Another day, another time, he’d be amused and tease him and say he sounds like an old man. But not today. Not when he’s about to fall to pieces.

Jim starts the shower and guides him into the stall. Bruce’s teeth chatter as if he’s in frigid conditions, not the warm home of a guilt-ridden officer, or under hot water. Instead, he stands there, frozen. Mute. Unable to discern for himself whether he’s nervous or just plain damn weak. If he’s still Bruce Wayne, or if they’d stripped him of that right in Arkham. He should be ashamed, but he only feels as if he’s looking at himself from the outside in. At a grown man, unable to lift a finger to help himself.

His heart shatters that it’s not Alfred caring for him like he should be, and he struggles to bring himself out of his daze, simply because he doesn’t want to face his reality.

But withdrawing isn’t fair to Jim and his family. And Alfred wouldn’t want him to, either. So he tries. For their sake.

Once he’s partially aware of his surroundings, he cooperates as much as he can tolerate, as much as his leaden limbs permit him. Even though a man he now barely knows helps him with the very human task of cleaning him, then dressing him, while he himself never lifts a finger to wash his own body or hold his clothing.

He wonders if he has, indeed, lost himself.

Because, when it comes down to it, when he’s nearly asleep on his feet when Jim’s done, he simply doesn’t fucking care.

__________________

Ryder takes him directly from the cafeteria to the stairs, not the elevators, or the janitor’s closet like he expects. A heaviness spreads in Bruce’s chest as they make quick their escape, the ache blossoming as Ryder secures Bruce against the wall with one powerful arm.

He squirms under the pressure. “Lay off,” he growls.

A door creaks open above them.

Ryder freezes. Bruce takes a useless, gasping breath that doesn’t quite satisfy the yearning in his lungs.

Footsteps echo for a moment, before disappearing into nothing. A door closes with a squeak.

Ryder looks behind them before giving Bruce his familiar cold, hard stare. “No funny business, Wayne. We do this quickly.”

“Here?” he rasps.

“Here.”

Bruce forces a grin. “A voyeurism kink, huh? You don’t seem the type.”

“Given your past, I’m surprised you’re surprised,” Ryder says, fingers tugging at the waist of Bruce’s pants. He stops and stares at him, whispering, “But you seem the type.”

The pants loosen. Bruce grabs at them, his heart jumping in his throat. “Wait...I thought you wanted me to….”

Ryder covers Bruce’s mouth with one hand. “No,” he says softly. “We do it my way this time.”

What? This time? “What do you mean?”

Ryder ignores him, and tugs on Bruce’s pants and underwear. They fall to the floor, and the cold air hits Bruce’s genitals. He shivers, expelling a series of wet coughs.

Ryder stops and looks at him. “You okay?”

He wheezes out a humorless laugh. “That’s a funny thing to ask, when you’re about to assault me.”

And when he’s practically naked and at a clear disadvantage.

Ryder smiles tightly. “You’re not objecting.”

“Would you want to have lunch with the Joker?”

Ryder’s mouth flattens. “Yes or no, Wayne?”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Silent, Ryder holds his gaze, the emotion in his eyes lighting Bruce’s own desire, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in years.

The guard’s expression is a contradiction. Eager, but patient. His eyes softening, yet pleading with him. An apology? Or desperation to fuck Wayne, ex-billionaire?

It doesn’t make sense, but that’s not saying much. Nothing makes sense to him.

He can’t get away. If he called out for help, what good would it do? What is the point in protesting?

A part of him breaks inside. “Fine,” he whispers.

Ryder’s eyes flash. “Say it like you mean it, Wayne.”

“No,” he grovels out.

Ryder smiles. “I know you want this again.”

“Again?” He swallows thickly. “But we’ve never...never…”

Ryder’s smile broadens, changing his countenance and disarming Bruce. “You sure about that?”

His smooth-as-silk voice washes over him, the comfort he hasn’t had in years. Years.

Bruce eases his shoulders back against the wall, his body relaxing under Ryder’s hands, almost against his will. “Y-yes. I am.”

But he isn’t, a voice screams at him.

“Then how do I know you’re so good, Bruce?” Ryder whispers, staring into his eyes and rubbing his shoulder. “How do I know you like a gentle hand?”

He doesn’t like being talked to like a child, but he can’t pull his eyes away from Ryder’s magnetic gaze. He doesn’t want to, but that can’t be right. He can’t actually want this. Can he?

“Well, most of the time.” Ryder grips Bruce’s cock with a firm hand, smile twisting as Bruce hisses out a breath. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

His body answers for him, his cock hardening under the guard’s touch, his mind craving the intimacy.

“Tell me,” Ryder insists, his warm hand the only damn comfort he’s gotten in years.

A lump forms in his throat. Confused, but unwilling to tell him to stop, he lets his head fall on Ryder’s shoulder, and wonders if Arkham has gotten to him so badly that it made him crave pleasure from a stranger.

A voice at the back of his mind tells him this isn’t safe—that something is wrong—but he can’t deny how strongly his body answers to Ryder. As if they had done this before. And Bruce, above all else, is a detective. He’ll comply—and hopefully find answers.

“More,” he breathes out.

“That’s it,” Ryder whispers in his ear. “Let it all go, Wayne. Don’t make it harder on yourself, or me, all right?”

The words are strangely affirming, even comforting, Bruce doesn’t understand why.

Ryder hums. “Keep cooperating, and I’ll help you to the infirmary. The Joker can’t get to you there.”

He could care less if Ryder wants to take care of him, but to be safe from the Joker? That’s all he wants.

“I promise, Bruce.”

He lets his mind drift, falling under his spell. Something pinches his arm. Maybe it had earlier, too. The sharpness and strangeness of it...is familiar.

“What was—” he starts to pull away, but Ryder holds him to his chest, arm wrapped firmly around him.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Ryder murmurs into his ear. “I really am. This is not what I signed up for, but you’re a hard bastard to figure out. The dosage isn’t right yet. He said a few more times, then we’ll know.”

The pain fades. And as Ryder strokes him again, the floaty feeling does not. “He?”

“But I have to make it look real.” Ryder slides his hand up and down his length, ignoring Bruce’s gasps of pleasure and protest, his voiceless plea to stop and pace things.

Ryder’s hand is heaven and hell at once, defying common sense, and what he knows he should do. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this much of a rush with a handjob. Bruce wants it to last and grips Ryder’s wrists, tugging gently, but the guard ignores him. He brings him to the edge only to stop, loosening his grip.

A whine sounds from his throat, and he bucks into him, seeking friction.

Ryder smiles against his cheek. “More, Mr. Wayne?”

He nods, words wrapped up in his desires. Ryder complies, his fingers expertly taking Bruce to a place he’d all but forgotten.

“You are always perfect. So perfect, Mr. Wayne,” Ryder murmurs. “How can that be, hmm?”

The sensations build at the words until he keens into him, losing himself to his touch. Wavering on his feet, Bruce moans, biting down on Ryder’s shoulder as an orgasm overtakes him in a sudden, blinding wave. His hips buck into Ryder, whose hand is locked onto his cock. The guard whispers hushed affirmations, allowing him sag into his arms when the orgasm passes, breathless.

Ryder cradles Wayne’s head against him, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “As enjoyable as this was to watch, I hate myself for it. You will, too, someday. You gotta breathe, Wayne.”

His chest tightens as if on cue. He hadn’t realized he’d been wheezing.

Scattered footsteps echo from above, voices muffled and intelligible.

“That’s our cue,” Ryder whispers, leaning him against the wall. He bites his bottom lip and pulls Bruce’s pants up roughly and without ceremony. “You’re a mess, but we have to get out of here.”

Bruce grabs at his throat, sucking in a shallow, desperate breath.

Ryder grabs his shoulders and says, firmly, “Look at me, Bruce.”

Bruce blinks as Ryder’s face becomes two.

Ryder eases his grip, giving him a small, nervous smile. “Breathe with me.”

Bruce chokes on a breath. “Can’t.”

“Try,” he insists.

He can’t stop wheezing—and if he doesn't, the person descending the stairs will hear him.

“Fuck,” Ryder hisses. He slips his arm around Bruce’s waist and pulls him back towards the door.

But Bruce’s feet won’t cooperate. They simply don’t work at all.

“Dammit,” Ryder growls in his ear.

He eases Bruce to the floor. Bruce blinks, shaking with every breath and every cough.

Ryder crouches in front of him and brushes a strand of hair from Bruce’s eyes, his eyes strangely tender. “Bruce? We won’t make it.”

“I—I can,” he whispers, tensing when he hears the voices at the top of the stairs.

The guard shakes his head. “No, no. You can’t,” he whispers. “It’s the meds. I thought I could take you into the infirmary myself, but I’ll have to tell these other guards, and then they'll see you.”

“Doesn’t...doesn’t matter,” he slurs out.

Ryder’s jaw clenches. “Of course it does—it always does—but when I say I found you masturbating, you’ll have to agree.”

Bruce frowns at him. “But we—I didn’t—”

Ryder clutches his collar. “Promise me you’ll agree. For your sake, you have to, Bruce. Trust me.”

And he does trust him. He does. “I—okay?”

“And when I say you couldn’t eat because of your anxiety about the Joker, you’ll agree. You always agree with me. Got that, Bruce?”

His mind spins, but he nods, blindly grasping onto Ryder’s words, the only things that sound right. Because they are right.

Aren’t they?

And he’ll keep him safe from the Joker.

Won’t he?

______________

Renee’s jaw is already set in anger when she comes in the door. “Where is he?”

Jim finishes drying his hands on the towel and jerks his head towards the kitchen. “Finishing up his breakfast.”

“The Joker’s causing a ruckus now that he’s left,” she says. “Says Wayne’s too crazy to be let out, even if he is innocent. People want to believe him.”

“Well, he is the expert,” Jim says dryly.

She shakes his head. “I think he’s trying to make a point—for a distraction.”

“Think he’ll try to escape?”

“He’s done it before—and succeeded.”

“Shit,” Jim breathes.

Renee walks towards the kitchen but stops at the doorway to the hall, her back to him, her hands on her hip. He’s known her for years, can usually tell what she’s thinking, but she’s hard to read right now. She’s never been concerned about the wealthier citizens of Gotham to the point of agitation, as she is now. What makes Wayne so different?

A voice at the back of his mind tells him there’s plenty to make Wayne the exception to the rule. “I knew he’d caught the Joker’s attention, but I didn’t think he’d be obsessed.”

She sighs, one hand on her hip, and spins around. “You can’t be this surprised.”

“I didn’t think he’d try so soon.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Not yet,” he corrects. “But soon. He’s up to something, no doubt.”

“You could be endangering your family, Jim.”

“You think I don’t know that?’

“You need backup,” she argues.

“Backup?” Another voice echoes faintly.

Wayne is the last person he wants to hear this conversation.

“You finished?” Jim asks, trying to divert his attention.

Bruce nods, limping forward, face weary. “You were saying about the Joker? Jim’s family?”

“Wayne, you don’t have to worry about Jim…” Renne’s voice trails off when he sends her a glare that would melt teeth.

“Bullshit, I don’t,” he snaps. “Do you know what the Joker does to people standing in the way? For sport?”

“Of course she does,” Jim says.

“Really? I didn’t think she was around at the time he first accosted Gotham.”

Jim hardly thinks Wayne is in a position to clarify such a statement. “Let’s keep this quiet for now.” When they’re both silent, he quirks a brow. “For the kids’ sake?”

“Sure, Boss.”

Bruce gives a self-deprecating laugh. “For the kids’ sake, I should find another place to stay. Jail comes to mind.”

“No,” Jim says. “You’re safest here.”

“Really. From the Joker.”

“Have some faith in the system, Bruce.”

Bruce snorts.

Jim ignores him. “Who came with you?” he asks Renee.

“Dex and Jamie, but they’ll will be staying here while we’re gone,” Renee says, mouth pressed into a deep frown.

“Thank you, Montoya,” Jim says, taking the keys from his pocket. “I’m sure it’ll be enough. Bruce? Do you have everything?”

Bruce’s eyes flash. “You should stay—”

“No,” Jim interjects. “You need me with you.”

“With all due respect, Commissioner, I don’t need anyone.”

Seeing the man’s pride on the line, Jim doesn’t state the obvious—he’d just helped him shower.

He merely smiles. “I know this has to be hard on you, but I need to do this, to ease my conscience. Surely you can understand.”

Bruce narrows his eyes before looking away. “Fine,” he mumbles. “I’ll be out in the car.”

Renee studies the ex-con as he leaves with his shoulders forward, back hunched. “Shouldn’t you help him?”

“Yes,” Jim murmurs, watching as Bruce struggles with the simple task of opening the door. Once the younger man succeeds and is out of earshot, he adds, “But I think—after what he just said—he needs a moment or two to himself.”

“Don’t give him too much room.”

“You sound concerned.”

She gives him sideways glance. “I spent quite a bit of time with him the other day.”

“Don’t think he remembers that.”

She pauses. “Probably not, but I discovered something when he was sick, not to mention drugged out of his eyeballs.”

He blinks at her.

“Someone slipped him something.”

“Drugged?” he says slowly. “He had a reaction.”

“Of course Dr. Arkham would tell you that.”

Jim reminds himself that Dr. Arkham had also mentioned something like this, but not that he was excessively drugged. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

She shrugs. “I see it as a call it. You know that.”

“You think he was drugged,” he repeated.

“Just a guess, what with his loose tongue and all being so convenient—I think it has been for awhile.”

“His poor health is not convenient.”

“You know what I mean,” she says, giving him a strange look. “But did you see how much he was shaking just now? The redness of his eyes? Not to mention his memory loss—”

“—and exhaustion,” Jim mutters.

“It was like this before. He’s coming down.”

He’d seen it all, but nothing adds up. Wayne couldn’t have done this to himself, but neither has he found a sign that someone had helped him devise a way out of Arkham.

He sighs, making a mental note to talk to Dr. Thompkins about it. “What else did you discover, Renee?”

Her expression shutters. She moves towards the door, giving him her back as she replies curtly, “You’re smart. I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

_________________________

Five days after being treated for yet another infection—he’s lost count of how many he’s had in the past six months—Bruce is escorted back to his cell.

He doesn’t know why they bother treating him anymore. Other than isolating him from most of the other inmates, and alleviating some of the tightness in his chest, it isn’t helping.

He can’t help but notice something is out of place as he walks the corridors, flanked by two guards who are, thankfully, uninterested in anything but doing their job. It’s smack dab in the middle of the afternoon but the halls are dark, the cells darker still. Even the strangest things seem normal in a place like Arkham, but this has never happened before.

“Someone will be in with your meal at five,” the tall guard says, and locks the door behind them as they leave.

He stands by the door, refusing to try to find his way to his cot in the corner in the darkness. “Can you get me a light?” he calls out.

Silence.

“Hey, a little help?”

No answer.

He pounds on the door. “Hello?”

Silence.

Giving the door a kick, he turns and trusts his instincts to find the cot. He stumbles against the edge of the cot, and falls onto to it ungracefully with a curse.

“Rough day, Brucie?”

Bruce freezes. No. No.

The Joker sighs. “Not talking to me? I’m hurt.”

Heart in his throat, Bruce eyes the shapeless, shadowy corner of his cell. “How did you…?”

“I can be very convincing.”

“You killed someone.”

“No. No. I did not-uh.”

“Threaten?”

“Hmmm. I have my ways.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you, of course. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

A tall form approaches. him from the corner, until Bruce can make out an outline if he squints hard enough. “I was sick.”

The figure stops. “Nononono. I was talking about before that-uh.”

Bruce stretches out on his cot, staring up into the darkness that is his ceiling. His life can’t possibly get any worse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Now, lying really isn’t your style, Brucie Boy, is it?”

The Joker approaches him again, a bounce to his step.

This can’t be happening. “Leave me alone. I’m tired.”

This has to be a nightmare. A side effect of medication. He’s still not well.

The Joker sighs. “This is not the welcome I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

A moment passes, an uncomfortable, tense silence that does no favors for his anxiety. He knows better than to ignore the Joker and refuse to play by his rules. He’s playing with fire.

Sensing the Joker looming over him, Bruce still doesn’t budge.

The Joker hums. “You might want to rethink that. I know about you and uh, your precious Ryder.”

He should’ve known those other guards wouldn’t keep quiet. “He’s not—”

“Oh, but he is.”

Bruce opens his eyes, wincing against the sudden, glaring whiteness of his cell. Although he’s happy someone had turned on the sun, a steady headache begins to pulsate at his forehead. “The lights.”

The Joker grins. “My gift to you, Brucie.”

“How—how did you do that?”

“Magic, of course.”

He coughs. “Why?”

“Just making sure you see me,” Joker says, his green eyes piercing him to his seat.

It's impossible to swallow the enormous lump in his throat, but he can’t let it show that he’s getting to him. “I saw you well enough the last time.”

“Until the Big Guy stole you from me.”

“He didn't steal me.”

“Listen, Brucie, he took you right before my eyes.” The Joker leans his elbow on his knee and leans forward. “And you let him.”

“He’s...a nice guy.”

The Joker cocks his head. “So am I.”

Bruce frowns.

“Don’t believe me?” He scoots in closer and snatches one of Bruce’s hands from his lap.

He tries to pull it away but Joker squeezes his hand until it hurts—and keeps squeezing it.

Bruce hisses. “Stop.”

The Joker clings to his hand. “See. This—making sure you’re alive—is me being nice.”

He clenches his jaw, tears of pain pricking the backs of his eyes—the Joker is crunching his hand—but it’s the steady tightening of his chest that worries him the most. “When have you been nice?”

The Joker rubs a thumb over his knuckles. “I got the lights back on, didn’t I?”

He starts to wheeze. “I bet you turned them off, too.”

The Joker nods vigorously. “A trick I learned from an old friend.”

A lump forms in Bruce’s throat. “Let me go,” he rasps out.

The Joker leans into him, eyes snapping. “Not until you tell me why you were away for so long. Nobody likes it when you disappear, especially Jonathan.”

“Jonathan could care less care about m—” He stops to cough. “I—I thought you’d have an insider in the infirmary.”

The Joker shrugs. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

He’s too tired to think about this. Sighing, he leans his back against the wall, surprised when the Joker lets go of his hand so he can do so. “Then...why…?” He stops, massaging his sore hand. The Joker had nearly broken it.

“I want to hear it from you. Why are you so sick?”

He watches him tiredly. “You got me.”

“You don’t know? I find that hard to believe.”

“The food? Therapy? Company?”

“Why. Are. You. So. Sick.”

Why is he so interested? “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”

“Neither am I, but you...you are more.”

“I’m not,” he says quietly.

Joker’s face darkens. “You are. Just look at how friendly you’ve gotten with Jonathan. No one just does that-uh.’

“We’re not friends.”

“You looked cozy to me,” Joker says, licking his lips. “And not just with him, but with…Ryyyyderrr,” he drawls.

Bruce stares at him. “I doubt you came into my cell just for small talk. What do you want?”

The Joker laughs. “You’re smarter than you look—and you show initiative. I like that.”

“Just a lucky guess. What do you want?”

“These people you attract,” he says, waving his hand at him, ”Makes you important. I wanna know why.”

“You really want to know?” Bruce asks, diverting the conversation.

An eerily calm smile grows on the Joker’s face. “Bruce, Baby,” he murmurs, stroking his cheek with the back of his finger, his eyes glittering dangerously.

Bruce forces himself to be still.

“You are like—a mystery,” the Joker says. “A perfectly wrapped gift I want to open.”

“I’m nothing,” Bruce says through clenched teeth. “A nobody.”

The Joker’s face hardens. “Nononono. You’re a conundrum. I can feel it.” He leans forward, brushing his lips against his in a forceful, claiming kiss.

The clown’s lips are strange, rough, and metallic, their familiarity drawing memories from Bruce that he would rather forget. His breath stutters to a stop. He chokes on a cry, Joker’s tongue slipping between his teeth, the brush of the man’s scars its own horrific tale smeared across his own cheek.

But just as quickly as he’d kissed him, the Joker pulls away. He smirks as Bruce rears back.

Bruce wipes his mouth, grimacing when he is unable to rid himself of the Joker’s scent and sweat. “Ever think of using mouthwash?”

“See?” The Joker giggles. “You are smart. You know what I’ll do to Ryder if you don’t cooperate.”

If he hurts Ryder, he won't be able to live with himself. If he lets the Joker get close—it proves he has nothing much for which to live.

The Joker’s right. He is a box of contradictions.

Bruce exhales a long breath. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know all about you,” the Joker breathes out, his fingers climbing up Bruce’s arm. “Why you’ve given yourself to Ryder—”

Bruce freezes. “It’s not like that.”

“Hmm, and Scarecrow is an angel. I want to know how you, Gotham’s Prince, and fabled airhead—no offense—”

“None taken,” Bruce mumbles.

“—survived five years in a place this crazy—”

“—by minding my own damn business—”

“—and why you thought it was necessary to cover for Harvey.” The Joker stops and watches Bruce, his eyes threateningly bright and clear. “In other words, Darling, everythi—”

Bruce’s door opens without ceremony.

Cursing, Joker hops off the bed, glaring at the visitor and the three guards behind him. “Do you mind?”

“Time to go, Joker.”

“You promised me more time.”

Dr. Arkham cocks his head, arms folded. “I promised you nothing. Time to go.”

The Joker folds his arms, chin raised. “I want more time.”

“Not today.”

“Yes, today.”

“Defy me,” Dr. Arkham says, patting his jacket pocket with a grim smile. “And you will regret it.”

The Joker’s gaze falls on the pocket. He swallows, showing a hesitance Bruce had not expected.

“I’m leaving.” The Joker casts a quick glance at Bruce before glaring at Dr. Arkham. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Depends on him,” Dr. Arkham says evenly. “And you, of course.”

The Joker nods after a moment. Bruce doesn’t know what to think when he leaves with the guards, his eyes drilling holes in the doctor’s back on the way out.

“Dr. Arkham,” Bruce says, more than a little unsettled that the doctor had been the one Joker had compromised. “I wasn’t expecting you. I was just released. Nurse Green—”

“I know, Bruce,” Arkham says, taking a syringe from his coat pocket. “I know. She told me you’d do better in your own cell now. But it’s time for that sedative. You seem a little...strung out.”

“Sedative?” He scoots back onto his cot. “You never said—they never—”

Dr. Arkham catches his elbow, fingers digging into the bone and muscle like the powerful claws of a bird of prey capturing it's victim, his eyes just as predatorial. His mind lagging behind, Bruce is helpless to the needle he plunges into his arm.

“Fuck,” he says, staring at the doctor, feeling betrayed. “Wh-why?

“You won’t remember much of this. Probably a good thing, given your most recent visitor.” Dr. Arkham’s Cheshire smile is the last thing he sees. “Vile, isn’t he?”

_____________

When Bruce falls asleep during a test, just forty-five minutes after they arrive at the clinic, and Dr. Thompkins asks him to step aside so they can talk, Jim knows that there’s more to this diagnosis than meets-the-eye.

“How was he this morning?” Leslie asks after closing the door.

Jim looks up and down the nearly vacant corridor before replying. “Tired.”

“I expected that.”

“And testy,” he adds.

“I expected that, too.”

“I need to know. What is wrong with him?”

She sighs and watches Bruce though the window of the partition. “After we get the labs back, we’ll know more, and then I can tell you.”

“Then let me rephrase my question. What do you think is wrong with him?”

She turns her head and stares at him. “It’s a good thing he put you in charge of his affairs.”

“What?”

She takes out a paper from Bruce’s file and hands it to him. “Mr. Fox delivered this to me this morning. From Wayne’s lawyer.”

Jim scans the letter which gave him—Jim—medical power of attorney. “I—I never—how—?”

She smiles sadly. “He’s not just physically unwell, but mentally, too. He can’t make healthy decisions for himself. Not anymore. For the sake of his case, you need to be in charge of his health. Do you accept this responsibility?”

Although she’s right about the impact this has on his case, and helping them protect Bruce, he can’t just accept this. “I’m not family. He has to have someone—”

“You know he has no one else. Jim, he needs you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing. He isn’t prepared for this. Or equipped. Yet, there’s a part of him that likes being the one to help Wayne. It seems...right.

“I have no choice,” he says.

“You always have a choice.”

“When it comes to Wayne, I don’t,” he mutters.

She smiles. “True. He is hard to deny.”

“What is your opinion of his health, long term? I need to know before I accept this responsibility.”

Her smile drops. “I didn’t think you were the type to run when things got tough.”

“It’s not that—I just—I need to know.”

“Given his symptoms, I believe he’s already in stage two lung disease.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jim swears breathlessly. “He’s too young—too—” Too brilliant. Perfect. Handso—He stops his random thoughts, flushing. “You’re sure?”

She nods. “I’m afraid he’ll be in stage three if we don’t get a handle on his symptoms.”

He closes his eyes in disbelief. “Reversible? Curable?”

“No,” she says softly. “Merely manageable, at this time. Unless we consider experimental surgery, and a possible lung transplant in the future if his prognosis worsens. I’m sorry.”

He stares at Wayne through the window separating them. “This is all my fault. He wouldn’t have been in the damn place...had I not been so angry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were grieving. You can’t blame yourself—and neither can he blame himself. There are a variety of factors to take into account. Not one thing or person can be held accountable for the failures of his already worn body.”

Already worn? “What do you mean?”

“Bruce—enjoyed a variety of sports. Including spelunking.”

It’s an unlikely sport for a billionaire more suited for parties in his penthouse and dates with models, but it does explain the strange scars.

She furrows her brow. “I’ve treated him in the past for what’s often referred to cave disease. He’s already proved susceptible to various lung issues. It’s—a stroke of bad luck.”

“Treatable?”

“Manageable, if we can stop it from developing.”

“How do we do that?”

“Manage his stress levels. Medication. Oxygen therapy. Exercise, but nothing strenuous. Help him with the daily tasks he struggles with.”

Jim is quiet. “I can help him with these things.”

“I know you can, at least when you’re not at the office. I guess Bruce thought so, too. He signed off on this years ago, Commissioner. A precaution if Alfred died.”

He swallows, unwilling to consider why the hell the man had done such a crazy thing. They barely know each other, and except for that one time, when Bruce was just a child, had never experienced an amicable moment between them. In fact, you could say their relationship had been—cool—since he’d see Bruce mostly at the station, or in court, whenever the playboy broke the law, or failed to pay a fine. “Before Arkham?”

She nods.

He shakes his head a bit, frustrated. He could feel it, oddly enough. The puzzle in front of him, almost together. With only a few more pieces to fit. “But his illness in the asylum—”

“Illnesses,” she corrects.

“It’s all a little too convenient.” He should talk to Renee about this again. “And it still doesn’t explain how the hell he just so happened to be so compliant and suddenly willing to tell the truth.”

“I don’t think we should look that gift horse in the mouth. I’m sure we’ll find traces of the drugs that had been in his system.”

“You think someone did this on purpose. To free him.”

“I think someone found out the truth and wanted him out—but who? And for what reason? I have no idea.”

___________

Bruce arrives fifteen minutes late to his least favorite scheduled and mandatory activity in Arkham. He allows himself to slouch as he saunters in, looking only at one person. The man in charge of the so-called group therapy session. Dr. Arkham, himself.

“It’s so nice of you to join us, Mr. Wayne,” Dr. Arkham says with a smile that he wants to wipe off with a punch to his face—

He snaps himself out of his vengeful thoughts and mutters, “Was sick again. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, I know. Have a seat.”

“Well, you’re a real princess, aren’t you, Wayne?” mutters an inmate named Blue to his left.

His neighbor snickers.

Bruce jerks himself to attention but keeps his eyes on his feet—and just in the nick of time. He dodges an unexpected obstacle, Blue’s leg, inconveniently stretched out in front of him.

“Fairy,” Blue sneers. “Can’t even walk straight.”

He opens his mouth to defend himself, but the retort is lost in his wheezing. While he gasps for air, laughter trickles around the room.

“Now, that wasn’t nice.”

Bruce collapses in the first available seat and massages his chest, trying to ease the tightness again, barely registering the nasally voice that had come to his defense.

“You should apologize,” the Joker continues.

“‘We celebrate diversity here,’” another man adds, laughter in his voice

Bruce freezes, not daring to look to his right or his left. He’d somehow managed to sandwich himself between Crane—and the Joker.

Fuck his luck. His life. This is what happens when he doesn’t mind his surroundings.

A hellish existence. One that he deserves.

“But it’s true. You’ve heard the rumors,” Blue sneers. “Hell, we’ve all seen Wayne making eyes at the guards and especially—”

“I hear it’s the other way around,” someone else offers.

Another raises his hand. “I’ve seen them corner Wayne like an animal—”

Bruce’s stomach churns with nausea. “Please… I don’t…”

“Wayne, you’re too easy on the eyes for it not to be true,” Jonathan says, grinning at him. “You just...attract attention by breathing. I mean—look at you. You’re fine in all your carnations. A criminal. An insane man. Ex-playboy. They can’t help themselves.” He pauses, leans in, and winks. “And you can’t either, it seems.”

He’s horrified to realize that Crane must know about Ryder. Knows what Bruce can barely recall but senses had happened between himself and the guard.

With an increasingly sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, Bruce stops to think about that. Is Crane right? Is it his fault? Does he somehow welcome it? He knows he’s close to Ryder, but he can’t remember the things they’re alluding to.

Or can he? Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to.

He looks down at his lap, blinking rapidly, willing his brain to work like it used to. What the fuck is wrong with him that he can’t remember, can’t even defend himself?

The Joker nudges Brue’s side with his elbow. “I can take ol’ Blue out, if you want. He doesn’t deserve the unmentionables Arkham gives him to piss in.”

“That’s enough. I’m sure Blue didn’t mean to hurt Bruce’s feelings.” Dr. Arkham lifts a brow and stares at the offender.

The thin man shrugs back. “All in good fun, right, Wayne?”

Dr. Arkham looks at Bruce. “He apologized. What do you say?”

He blinks. Apology? Had they heard the same thing? “That...that wasn’t an apology. I don’t know what it was.”

“Bruce,” Arkham says with warning.

He grinds his teeth together. “Dr. Arkham.”

The Joker hums. “There’s that fire I saw before.”

“If you refuse to cooperate, Mr. Wayne,” Arkham intones, “We can consider another therapy session to explore why you cannot forgive Blue for something for which he is clearly sorry.”

He can’t imagine enduring more therapy on top of what is already required—and Dr. Arkham knows it.

Bruce forces a fake grin to match the meaningless apology. “No harm done.”

The doctor nods. “Very well, then. We should begin.”

As Dr. Arkham dictates instructions for their sharing circle, Bruce’s heart catches in his throat. Both Crane and the Joker move their chairs, settling in close beside him. The Joker’s hand rests by his thigh for the duration of the session. Bruce doesn’t want to get any closer to Crane and remains as still as possible, even though the Joker seems to be making a claim on him. Because if that is what Joker is doing—he swallows back the anxiety swelling in his chest—he has to do all that he can to appease him. He knows how these things work. And he, Bruce, is caught in the web, already.

When therapy is over, Crane passes him a note before they part ways.

Breathless, Bruce reads it in his cell then shreds the note and tosses the pieces into the toilet. He sits on the floor by his cot with a sob, his hands on his head, pulling at his hair, not caring that he yanks strands of it from his scalp in his frustration.

Crane’s words flash through his mind, over and over. As does the fact that he, given his poor choices, is no longer a vigilante. A hero. A savior.

A protector of the innocent.

No, he thinks to himself, remembering Barbara Jim dying, bathed in her own blood, and now this...

Did you hear what happened to Wilson yet?
He fell down the stairs while you were in the infirmary again. He’s dead.
Poor bastard. Such a horrible accident. The Joker witnessed the whole thing.
Ryder will be Wilson’s permanent replacement. Lucky you.

...he’s as destructive as the Joker.

He kills.

___________

Bruce stares at the blue tablets in the palm of his hand. He hasn’t even been at the clinic two days, yet Leslie prescribed these pills plus five other medications. He has more tests, most likely more meds—will it ever stop? Can he ever go home? Wherever home is?

“You put me on an antidepressant?” he asks Leslie incredulously.

“I did. You received a dosage intravenously yesterday, as well as this morning.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re depressed, Bruce.”

“I’m not.” I’m not, he repeats silently. “I’m adjusting, that’s all.”

“You’re medically depressed,” she says softly. “You show all the signs of that and PTSD, which is normal coming out of the environment you were in.”

He locks his jaw. “It isn’t like I haven’t dealt with that before—and persevered.”

“I realize that, but I can’t ignore what I see, Bruce.”

“I want a second opinion.”

Jim clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but I—we—can’t allow that.”

He glances at Jim, and back to her. “We?”

Leslie‘s eyes fill with compassion. “Yes, we. You are no longer capable of making decisions about your own health, Bruce.”

“I can make decisions,” he counters. “In fact, I can make one right now that leads me back to where I should be.”

Her smile drops. “Which is exactly my point. You don’t belong in Arkham—and you don’t get to go back.

“But I do belong there. You don’t know what….” He stops, face twisting in frustration. He almost forgot. Almost gave himself away. How could he have been so stupid?

“Know what?”

“Nothing,” he whispers, turning his head towards the wall.

“Nothing makes me happier than to know you have someone to watch over you Bruce, when I can’t,” Leslie says quietly.

He nods, biting his tongue. He should feel anger they’ve decided this—that Fox sent them a document he’d never wanted to actually use—but he only feels...relief. But he can’t let them know how fucking relieved he is—he can’t add fuel to their fire—and blinks back the hot tears springing to his eyes.

“Not putting me back in Arkham isn’t right,” he says, rubbing his eyes.

“It is the only thing that is right,” Jim says. “Your time there was a mistake—on me—and you’re paying the price no one should have to pay.”

He wants to care, to counter Jim’s argument, but he can’t keep his eyes open, falling prey to whatever Leslie has given him.

“We’ll make sure you receive the treatment you need.” Leslie takes his hand, which he had clenched into a fist. “We both want what’s best for you.

She pauses and gently pries open his fist, finger by finger, to reveal the pills. “Bruce,” she chastises.

He still doesn’t look at her. “Too tired,” he mumbles.

“I’ve heard that before, but I never thought I’d hear it from you.”

He sighs and turns onto his back, looking at her through the narrowed slits of his eyes. “Fine.”

She hands him a glass of water with a straw.

Irritated, he swallows, glaring at her. “Happy?”

“Not quite.” She motions to him. “Open up.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not that pathetic.”

She puts on a pair of gloves. “We’ve played this game before, Bruce.”

Jim is watching him, but he refuses to look his way, or give him any indication that he is affected by it.

She sends him a pointed look. “You're stalling.”

He sighs and opens his mouth wide as he can, wondering how much more humiliating his life can be.

She prods under his tongue, and around his back teeth—and finds them. Her face is impassive as she pries them from his mouth and returns the pills to his palm—which is never a good sign. “I told you before—this cannot happen again, Bruce.”

“It just did.”

“Never again,” she says vehemently. “You cannot sabotage my treatment. You’ll complicate things for the Gordons.”

He flushes guiltily. “I know,” and dutifully—actually—swallows them.

She checks his mouth again and smiles. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She starts for the door. “Now, you need to talk with Gordon about your arrangements once you’re discharged. Can you stay awake for that?”

He locks eyes with Jim, and is quickly reminded why he has tried so hard not to look at the man.

There is so much goodness—truth—compassion—in Jim’s eyes that it hurts him to the core.

“Um...yes…” He looks at her for affirmation, but she’s already gone.

“It can wait, if you’d like,” Jim says after a moment.

“No, it's fine. Arrangements.” He’s admittedly confused. “What does she mean?”

Jim takes a seat in the spare chair by his bed. “I have to return to work by the end of the week. The kids have school—you can’t be left alone.”

“Why not?”

Jim grows quiet. “Do you remember what we’ve told you about your condition?”

“Lung disease. That about covers it.”

“Stage Two, Bruce.”

“I'll be fine.”

“No, you won't be,” Jim says gently. “Not until you've had a few more oxygen treatments and time to regain your strength.”

Stuck with a tank, with meds up to his eyeballs, and a shortness of breath that will plague every walk, he’ll never be the man he once was. “It will never be the same,” he whispers, staring down at his hands. “I will never be the same.”

“No, but that's life isn't it?”

He looks at him. “I wish I had died instead of your wife.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Why are you here, Gordon?”

Jim stands. “Do you want me to leave?”

He wants things back to normal. He wants to be left alone. He wants Gordon’s family back together—whole—with their mother. He wants Alfred. He wants—

To be forgotten.

“I have a good feeling that even if I asked you to leave, you wouldn’t,” Bruce finally says. “You’d try harder than ever.”

“You guessed right.”

He offers him a wobbly smile. “Then I guess I’m stuck with you.”

Jim’s moustache twitches. “Sounds about right. Now, I’m sorry to hurry this along, but you’re obviously tired, and I have to contact Mr. Fox right away, if you agree.”

He frowns. “About?”

“Having a nurse stay with you at the house during the day—just for a few weeks.”

“Not sure I trust anyone I don’t know around your kids.”

Jim nods. “I appreciate that, but Mr. Fox found the perfect candidate.”

“Oh?” He has to admit...his interest is piqued.

“Someone who has been a consult with Wayne Industries for some time, I hear.”

Bruce crosses his arms, brow furrowed. “Name?”

“Samuel Ryder Warner—”

Bruce grows cold.

“—but he goes by Sam.”

This has to be a coincidence. “Not...Ryder?”

“No,” Jim says. “I’ve looked into his file—and agree with Mr. Fox. He was in the military—he has the skills to protect you—all of you—should there be an incident.”

“The Joker,” Bruce says curtly.

A man who doesn’t need a gun to destroy a human life, or a medical license to shatter a mind. He just does.

“Yes,” Jim says.

“I suppose I have no choice? Fox has no idea about this man.” Does he know he’d been a guard at Arkham? Is he even the same Ryder? How can he be, after what had happened in Arkham?

If he is the same Ryder, something is very, very wrong. And he needs to find out what before someone is hurt.

Jim’s brows hike to his hairline. “You don’t trust your CEO?”

Bruce looks away. “He’s not my CEO.”

“He says otherwise,” Jim says softly.

“Then he’s crazier than I am.” He pauses. “I wouldn’t trust him.”

“Trust him, Bruce. Please. He only wants what’s best for you, and this man checks out.”

He’s so fucking tired of hearing it—we only want what’s best for you—repeatedly. And Fox butting in when he’d asked him specifically not to, before things went down with the Joker. “No.”

“I’ll make sure Renee sticks around, too, for a few more days. Until you’re more comfortable with him.”

“Fine.” He closes his eyes, shuttering the bitterness in with the darkness, and keeping it close to his heart, where it belongs. “But if it goes south, don’t blame me.”

______________

They keep him in his cell until the last possible minute, that detective with him at all times.

He’d never known anyone with a stare as intimidating as hers. It’s almost as if—she wants him to stay here. A criminal. Convicted. Tethered to a crime he didn’t commit.

“Sorry you got stuck with me,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around him with a unprecedented shiver.

“Cold again?”

He grimaces, barely stopping himself from rocking back and forth in a pathetic attempt to keep warm. “Did they turn the heat down?”

“No, and I wouldn’t call it stuck,” she says, moving from her place by the door. She takes out her phone and texts someone. “I sent a message to Jim Gordon. He’ll fix it.”

He coughs, nodding. Not that he doesn’t appreciate his help, but it’s no use. They’re going to realize they made a mistake, that he had killed Barbara, and leave him here.

But if they don’t—

“Can—can you help me find someone that works here? I need to talk with him.”

“Why?”

“He…” Bruce blinks. “He was nice to me.”

She stares at him. “That must have felt strange to you.”

“You think I’m guilty.”

She cocks her head. “It matters to you, what I think?”

“I don’t even know you,” he mutters, scratching his head.

“So you say.”

His head heavy, and feeling out of sorts, he curls up on his cot. “Will you find...find…” He yawns. “Find him?”

Something is spread over him. He squints up at her, but her face is obscure by—a blanket?

“You asked me this an hour ago, and the guard that checked in on you. I did find out about him. I think his name is Ryder?”

The name washes over him soothingly, like a second blanket. He grabs at it eagerly, humming a faint yes, until he bursts into another coughing fit.

She lightly rubs his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she breathes. “He was taken to Gotham General after a fight.”

He stiffens, tries to break out of his comforting haze, but she murmurs nonsense to him, and he, like a child, caves under the tenderness.

“What?” he asks wearily.

“He might not make it. I was told the Joker nearly killed him.”

“I knew he would—you have to—to protect him.”

She shakes her head, eyes haunted. “You know as well as I do, Wayne, that the Joker can get to anyone.” She pauses, looking straight at him before his eyes flutter shut. “Even you.”

____________

After school, the day before Jim has to return to work, Jimmy comes home with Babs and tears through the door without a hello to his father. He runs straight for the man on the couch wearing a week old beard and sleeping the day away.

Jimmy crouches beside Bruce. “Guess what, Mr. Wayne?”

“Hey, Buddy.” Bruce smiles faintly, reaching out tousling the boy’s hair with a smile. “How was school?”

“I made the team!”

“All that hard work paid off.”

Jimmy sits back on his heels and grins. “Will you come watch me play? Dad said you’d get VIP treatment.”

Bruce lifts a brow. “Did he, now?”

“Yep.”

“Mr. Inly cleared it,” Jim affirmed. “Whenever we need the conference room—it overlooks the court.”

“Well, then,” Bruce says, lips lifting into a rare smile. “I’d love to.”

“Great.” Jimmy shoots to his feet. “I’ll be back—I wanna call Paul and the other guys.”

The boy takes the steps two at a time.

Babs leans against the doorway to the living room, sighing. “You should’ve heard him in the car.”

Jim smiles. “The entire way home, I imagine.”

She throws him a look. “I don’t get paid enough to deal with this sh—”

“Babs.”

She tosses her head. “I have somewhere to go tonight, so I won’t be your maid or go-to-girl while you two...do your thing.”

“Our thing?” Bruce echoes.

“Your thing. You know, like a date.”

Jim hopes he isn’t blushing. “I didn’t realize….what do you mean...what....” He stumbles over the words, voice growing faint.

She rolls her eyes. “Every night, it’s the same. You hang out together, playing cards, not talking, but sit beside each other like best friends, expecting me to bring you coffee, snacks, and whatever else you might want while you stare into each other’s eyes.”

“We don’t…”

Bruce clears his throat. “No, we don’t.” He clears his throat again, then coughs. “We don’t do that.”

“You do.” She frowns at him. “And you’ve turned our house into a man cave, Mr. Wayne.”

“It could be worse,” Bruce offers, with a tone that resembles the old Wayne. “It could be a...bar.”

“Bar,” she says, unamused.

“Mmm. With your dad singing karaoke.”

Jim smiles to himself.

“Oh, I’d actually pay to see that,” she teases dryly.

Bruce grins. “Twenty bucks gets you in and two songs.”

“Then you could actually afford the coffee you want.”

The younger man’s mouth twitches. “Just don’t record his performance and post it online. Don’t think your father would appreciate the fame.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Babs grins. “We’d be disgraced. He sings off-key, you know.”

Bruce solemnly nods. “So, I’ve discovered.”

Babs makes a face. “I’m sorry.”

“Get along,” Jim grumbles, waving a hand her way. “Get ready for that date...who is it with again?”

She climbs the steps, looking back. “You’ve met him. At the park last year.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” he says dryly.

“Dick.”

“The playground kid?” He frowns. “Not sure that’s a good idea. He hangs around there a lot—literally.”

“Dad,” Babs says, rolling her eyes.

Bruce cocks his head at her. “Grayson?”

She stares at him. “You know him.”

“Of him,” Bruce corrects. “He seemed nice. Talented. I saw him perform once.” He spares a glance at Gordon. “I liked him.”

Jim lifts his chin. “I know nothing about him, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t interfere.”

Bruce shrugs a shoulder. “My apologies.”

“Well, I’m seeing him tonight, Dad. Be nice, okay?”

Jim sighs after she leaves and sits on the couch by Bruce’s feet. “No offense, but you’re not actually a good judge of character.”

“And you know this how? My drinking escapades? My dating record?”

Jim is suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t mean that...I mean…”

“Yes, you did,” Bruce murmurs.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re protecting your daughter.”

Jim peers into his face, concerned. “I hate leaving you tomorrow.” Especially tomorrow. The trial had been moved up, requiring Jim’s presence. “But I’ll keep you posted. You have a new phone, now.”

“Thank you.” Bruce bends his knees, bringing his legs closer to his chest. He smiles weakly. “Montoya said she’s bringing me jello. Like I’m two.”

Jim laughs. “Sometimes you are.” He stops and smiles down at him. “But I like it.”

Realizing what he just said, his heart thumps wildly in his chest. “What I mean is, those happy, innocent moments...you need more of them.” A lot more of them. Anything to help him live again. “Your smile—your real smile—lights a room.” He stops. “God, that's not a pick up line.” But maybe it is. “Don’t think I care—no, do think I care for you—”

Bruce’s mouth drops open.

“Christ,” Jim mutters, “What I’m trying to say is that I’m just concerned for you.” He pauses. “A lot.”

And—he's just dug himself a deeper hole.

Bruce doesn’t say a damn thing. Instead, he swallows, looks away, withdraws from him. Shuts down. The same thing that happens whenever they start to have a heart-to-heart.

Jim drops his head into his hands, exhaling a long breath, kicking himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume—” that you are attracted to me too, that you want us to get to know each other better— “that you’re not happy.”

“You know I’m not.” Bruce stops, looking like he wants to continue, but holds it in with great control.

Jim watches him. “But?”

Bruce smiles crookedly. “But things like Jello. Jimmy wanting me to come to a game. Living here with you. Being part of a family, when I have no one. Being trusted. It makes me feel...like a person again.”

That’s the most Bruce has talked about himself since—ever.

Feeling like they’d reached a pinnacle moment, Jim reaches for his hand, gently squeezing it before Bruce can pull away. “You have always been a person, Bruce.”

More silence.

He won’t give up. “Don't let the asylum take that away from you.”

Bruce stares at their hands, still entwined, and swallows. “It’s too late for that,” he says hoarsely.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I do, and this—” He glances up at him, shoulders tense. “Whatever this is—is most likely over before it starts.”

Jim’s throat grows tight. “I’m not sure I want to find out.”

Bruce freezes, face pinched white.

“If it would end,” he clarifies quickly.

Bruce nods, gaze down.

“What I mean is,” he says, giving his hand an assuring squeeze. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. Only if you want to.”

“I’m not...and I haven’t been...a person for a very long time,” Bruce says softly. “I can’t put it to you any more plainly that that, Jim.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He doesn’t want to bring up Arkham, although he has a feeling Bruce would need to stop and discuss what happened there sometime, so he resorts to humor. “Even an ex-playboy billionaire has redeeming qualities—he just has to look a little harder than most people.”

Bruce looks up at Jim through his lashes, his fingers unexpectedly curling more around Jim’s. “Whatever the outcome at the trial tomorrow, I want to. I want to be a good person. Help me be one?”

Jim can’t remember ever actually falling into someone’s eyes before, but in that moment, when he feels himself diving straight into their warm, desperate depths, without any desire to get out of them, there is nothing he wants more than to help Bruce believe in himself. To be a part of giving life back to the man he’d wronged. “It would be my pleasure.”

_____________

On a bed in the infirmary, with Ryder’s arms around him, Bruce can almost believe he’s back at the penthouse, the man spooning him from behind the date he’d chosen to bring back with him to boost his image in the tabloids.

“How much?” Bruce asks.

“How much what?” Ryder mumbles, half-asleep.

“How much did you pay the nurse to let you stay the night with me?”

Ryder’s arms tighten around him, and he presses his face into Bruce’s hair, breathing deeply. “Does it matter?”

Bruce coughs, nodding. “Don’t want you to go broke.”

Ryder sighs. “More than she asked.”

“You don’t make enough to just pay someone like that,” Bruce whispers.

Ryder showers kisses on his neck. “Again, does it matter?”

Bruce closes his eyes, reveling in the comfort of this strange man who had seemingly come out of nowhere. “Guess not.”

“She’ll be back in an hour. Sleep—or?”

They’d already had sex that evening, cautiously, given Bruce’s breathing issues. But now the guard wants to use him for his pleasure—again?

Feeling sick, Bruce blinks his eyes open in the darkness, and moves away. “That’s all you’re here for, isn’t it? A fuck toy.”

“No,” Ryder says like he’s shocked. “No,” he repeats earnestly, reaching for him. “This is more than that, Bruce, and you know it.”

Bruce’s chest heaves, his mind responding silently with a resounding yes—and he swears he can see Alfred in the corner, watching him, telling him to trust his instincts.

But what if it’s his instinct that he can’t trust?

What if all the hope he has is when he’s wrapped in Ryder’s arms? When gentle words of affirmation are whispered in his ear? When he’s filled with Ryder’s cock, driven to a pleasure he’d thought he’d never feel again?

“We don’t have much time,” Ryder says, wrapping a strand of Bruce’s hair around his finger, the tugging urging him to return.

He’s not sure to what he’s referring—time here in the infirmary or at the asylum—and that scares him.

“The Joker can’t touch you, Bruce. I promise I’ll take care of him.”

He shivers back into the safety of Ryder’s arms—and, after they make love quickly, sleeps like a baby, oblivious to the injection Ryder gives him but for a slight pinch to his skin, like the bugs found in Arkham’s cells.

____________

Bruce is more disoriented than usual when he awakens. Babs takes pity on him before she leaves with Jimmy, and helps him to the bathroom door.

“I already drew you a bath. Maybe it will help.”

Jim usually prepares the bath, because the knobs are outdated and difficult to turn and Bruce’s hand had slipped when he'd tried, and he'd smacked his face against the wall.

But Jim is at work—and then leaving the office for the courthouse.

His eyes burn, feeling uneasy. Alone. Abandoned. Embarrassed, again. For no good reason.

What the fuck?

He wipes his eyes.

She frowns. “I’ll send him up, if you want.”

“Him?” Bruce sets his oxygen bag down.

“The nurse. He seems nice. Very tall. Quiet—like you.”

She’s gone before he can make sense of things again. He painstakingly undresses himself, cursing the way he continues to fumble and is forced to take breaks.

It must be his anxiety. Or maybe the medicine’s effectiveness has plateaued. He’d text Leslie, but he’d left his phone in the bedroom.

The water is warm, the washcloth and soap at hand. Leaning his head back against the wall, he lets his mind drift.

He’s not sure how he’ll handle the silence between him and Jim today, the waiting, the expectation. If he’s exonerated, he’s not sure he can even handle trying to be normal. Being this. But if he’s sent back to Arkham—he’s definitely not going to live there another five years. He’ll be lucky to last five days. That much he knows.

A throat cleared brings him back to the world, and Bruce slowly opens his eyes, knowing before he does—

Emotion clogs his throat. Ryder—but not Ryder—stares down at him.

He's alive.

His face is leaner. Arm in a brace. Body more slender than he remembers. And jade eyes, chiseled jaw, and curly black hair made to be on the cover of a magazine—that he doesn't remember.

But he has none of Jim’s warmth, or dry wit, or capable hands, or understanding smile—

Yet he has every part of Bruce that had been in Arkham.

“I’m Sam,” Ryder says, mouth set tight. “I’m sure Mr. Fox informed the commissioner of my presence today—and the next few weeks. I’ll be helping you.”

So, they’re playing that game.

“I’m Bruce,” he says.

His gaze flickers over Ryder’s flawless, athletic body before he dismisses the sight of him by closing his eyes, knowing full well he’ll need his help to get out of the damn tub in a few minutes. Knowing full well he needs to solve the mystery of why the hell Ryder’s even here, the connection between Arkham and Fox, his release from the asylum and the newest addition to the protective detail, as covert as it seems to be.

But his anger and confusion get the best of him, and his heart can’t take the memories seeing him brings back.

The awful. Sordid. Beautiful. Destructive. Horrific.

The damning.

“Do you mind?” he adds in perfect Wayne form, his eyes smarting even when closed. “I’m trying to take a bath.”

Chapter Text

Ryder leaves as quietly as he’d come in. Feeling a draft of air, Bruce opens his eyes—and curses. The door isn’t closed.

He can’t get out of the tub without a struggle to close it for more privacy. Ryder had left it open for Bruce’s safety or to annoy him. He suspects the latter, but his head knows the man would never compromise his safety.

Sighing, he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, his body enjoying the warmth surrounding him. But only for a moment. He doesn’t have much time before Ryder returns, but it isn’t like he can actually take a warm, relaxing bath with him waiting around the corner, as much as he wants to pretend his fate wasn’t in someone else’s hands at this very moment. He has no choice but to reach deep inside for the essence of the Bat, for what he’d relied on time and time again. Somehow, he manages to find fragments of his old mask, what he thought the Arkham doctors had stolen from him, unwittingly.

He gets three minutes—three lousy minutes—to consider confronting Fox about Ryder before the man returns. Babs must have told him this is one of his bad days. Ryder comes prepared with a first aid kit, an extra inhaler, and a wheelchair he parks by the door, water bottle tucked into a corner of the seat. As if Bruce is planning to fall and crack his head open and grow an extra mouth, strength depleted by the end.

Ryder is more professional than Bruce expects him to be, never breaking face as he helps him out of the tub and drapes a towel around him, not once mentioning their bonding in Arkham or Bruce’s obvious resentment.

But Bruce, having experienced alternating cold and hot spells since he’d awakened, begins to shiver, the uncomfortable feeling spreading through the top of his head down to his toes, diminishing the urgency with which he feels to ask anyone a single question.

“Towel,” he says, teeth chattering, his fingers stiff, not quite feeling like his own.

He’s in a stranger’s body. It’s alien to him, and failing.

Ryder wordlessly dries him off with a second towel, helping him into a robe when finished, guiding his feet into a pair of slippers. He’s relieved. For a reason he can’t pinpoint, he can’t stand the thought of the fabric of the pants or shirt rubbing against his skin, and the bath had made him cold. He pulls the collar close to his skin, sighing heavily.

Ryder frowns, standing close. Too damn close.

“What?” Bruce bites out.

“Do you feel up to eating?” Ryder asks.

Bruce pauses in indecision before sinking into the wheelchair, oxygen bag at hand, with Ryder’s help. He should eat. He can’t remember if he’d eaten much the day before. And Montoya should have that jello for him she’d promised.

But if he thinks about the trial, and eating while Jim is enduring everything alone, he can’t reconcile the two.

His stomach knots. “I think I’ll pass.”

“You have medication to take.”

Bruce ignores him, rubbing his arms in an effort to warm his body more quickly.

Ryder watches him. “Bruce, I know you’re upset with me—”

“That’s an understatement,” Bruce mutters.

“—but the detective’s here.”

Renee won’t stay still for long.

Ryder sighs. “She will know something’s wrong.”

“So leave.”

“You know I can’t.”

Bruce lifts his eyes and glares at him. “I’m not stopping you, and I imagine the detective won't give a damn if you leave.”

“I can’t leave you,” Ryder insists.

“They paid you well?”

Ryder doesn’t answer, but the guilty look in his eyes is all it takes for him to know the truth.

Bruce sets his jaw, infuriated. It had to be Fox, a man with a dizzying amount of funds. Had he orchestrated this entire thing? If anyone could get him out of the asylum, it would be him. But Bruce had never allowed him to visit. Things hadn’t exactly been smooth between them since things with the Joker.

Or, it could be Dr. Arkham, if he’d actually liked Bruce, but given the treatment he’d received, it was unlikely.

Or the Joker, for kicks, God forbid he knows Bruce’s Identity.

Or Alfred, because he’d do anything for Bruce. But Alfred is dead.

No matter which name comes to mid, his stomach knots, because he’d never asked for this, for escape. For freedom. And—he hates not knowing. Not understanding. Being in the dark. Putting people in danger. “Who hired you?”

“You’re a smart man, Mr. Wayne, not just a billionaire who was at the wrong place at the wrong time, as I discovered in Arkham. I think you know.”

If he did know—and if Jim finds out—or Montoya and then Gordon finds out—they’ll have a huge mess on their hands.

Jim will be at risk. His family will be at risk. If Bruce wants to find out, he has to do it on his own, leaving Jim in the dark. It’s not like he’s never kept secrets from the commissioner before, but this is a big one. It’s possible the police will go around in circles, trying to figure this out for months to come if there are any loose ends.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says, feigning ignorance. “Even so, you’re right. I’m not stupid. I did, after all, run a company. You covered your tracks, I assume?”

“I always do.”

It’s not much consolation, given Ryder is a stranger, relatively speaking. He’s not sure how he’d managed it, but he thinks—he thinks it has something to do with the drugs. The traces of drugs in his system that Leslie found but never told him about.

Why he feels…off.

Why he’d said too much, without consenting to it.

And while he’s thinking of it—the consent he never gave, for fuck’s sake—he never agreed to being freed from Arkham in the first place.

Who the hell messed with his life, taking a huge gamble, and why? Will he ever find out? He has a feeling Ryder won’t be free with the information, and Bruce isn’t exactly in the position to find out for himself. One phone call to Fox won’t suffice. Fox is a man of fewer words than Batman, especially when he doesn’t want to offer information.

“Are you really a nurse?” he asks, thinking, for the first time, that he might actually need one at some point given how weak he’s been.

Ryder rests a hand on his shoulder.

Bruce stiffens. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Ryder flinches and releases his hand, his mask cracking. “No, I’m not.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“But...I’ve done my research.”

“Right.”

Ryder blinks. “Please believe me when I say I never wanted to jeopardize your health.”

“You can stay here as long as I can’t take a damn bath by myself—but no longer.”

“You do realize your condition is progressive? That you can’t expect the Gordons to be able to care for you the rest of your life?”

“You don’t realize that I have dangerously hot buttons—and you’re pushing several of them.”

“I don’t want to make things worse.”

“Leave, and you won’t.”

Ryder flexes his jaw. “I can’t.”

“I will find a way to blackmail you. I have a knack with those things.”

Ryder’s eyes flicker over his face. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?”

“I like to think I know you pretty well, but a blackmailer,” Ryder says, mouth quirking at the corners, “You are not.”

If he’d had a way to wipe off that smirk off his face, he would. He hates that Ryder actually does know him pretty well. Physically, speaking.

“I was a businessman, Ryder.”

“So are a lot of people, but they don’t have that skill.”

“Maybe you should stick around. Find out.” Not that he wants him to—but maybe he does. What if Gordon changes his mind about Bruce being here, living with them like he was a part of his family? What then? Where will he go?

A chill falls over him. Without Jim, he has no one but Ryder to turn to.

Ryder’s brows meet in the middle. “I don’t think you intended that how it sounds.”

Fuck.

Bruce swallows, denying that a part of him is ashamed and torn between two men. “You will never know me that way again,” he lies. “Not that it meant anything to you—or me.”

Ryder’s eyes fill with hurt. “I meant what I said before. It wasn’t just for—”

“You were special ops,” Bruce interrupts before he brings up something they’ll both regret. “Or, SEAL, perhaps?”

The chiseled jaw barely moves—but it does, and captivates Bruce like it had before. His pulse quickens, and he licks his lips unthinkingly.

Ryder’s gaze follows the movement. “You don’t know a thing, Bruce,” he whispers.

“That’s where you’re wrong. You have regrets, or owe someone, because, Arkham?” Bruce laughs lightly, shaking his head. “No one in their right mind volunteers to be in that place.”

Ryder pulls his eyes up to glare at him. “You have nothing on me, Wayne. Neither does my employer.”

He smiles widely. Ryder has no idea how extensively he researches, how fast he can pull a single thread and unravel a life. “Your confidence is impressive, but it won’t work with me.”

“I’m having a hard time reconciling the Wayne I knew in Arkham,” Ryder says slowly. “With this one.”

“That place was a sickness.”

“It’s a good thing you got out when you did,” Ryder says after a moment, voice soft.

Silence.

Bruce firms his jaw.

“You wouldn’t have survived much longer,” Ryder continues.

“Are you expecting a thank you? Because that's not my style.”

But he wants it to be. He is grateful, but he can’t deny he’s also irritated. Frustrated. Angry. He balls his hands into fists, fighting the urge to rage at him, to fight back. He hasn’t felt this imbalanced, even in Arkham.

“He didn’t paint you this way,” Ryder murmurs, eyes dancing across his face. “That’s for sure.”

“He?”

Ryder’s expression closes. “I’ve said too much.”

If it had been Fox, he’s not surprised. He wouldn’t have revealed his life as the Bat for all the money in the world.

But he doesn’t appreciate the way he waves the information in front of his face, mocking his ignorance.

“I can’t say anything else, but please, Bruce. What we had—it meant something to me, even though it had been a job.”

He looks away, saying nothing, his chest tightening, the urge to cough a nuisance.

“Look at me, Bruce. Please.”

He grimaces, rubbing his chest. “I think you should step away,” he says hoarsely, attempting to clear his throat.

Ryder’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

Because he still has the reflexes and the strength to find a pressure point? Because he can’t stop his physical reaction when he’s this damn close, and he can see the curve of his lashes, his ears, his lips?

He hasn’t felt this way in so long, but he can’t deny that he’s attracted to Ryder.

Which is a problem. A big problem.

He can’t do this. Not with Ryder. Not with Gordon. Not with either of them. He should be alone, always alone, to spare them.

Bruce opens his mouth to speak, a wheeze escaping, instead. He takes a shallow breath, every muscle of his body straining to get air into his lungs.

“Shit,” Ryder murmurs as he wheezes again.

His arms are as heavy as bricks, his brain slowing with each effort to take a breath, his throat shrinking. He needs...needs...

“Stop panicking,” Ryder brings the inhaler up to Bruce’s lips, his mouth stern and determined.

The hell he’s this helpless. Bruce drags his hand up, and wraps it around Ryder’s hand, merely stalling the process. But he’s too stubborn to let go, or let Ryder continue.

He clenches his fingers around Ryder’s hand, tugging at him to let go, but his fingers weaken and, then, still. His eyes flutter shut, then open again. The room darkens in an instant.

“Bruce. Don’t fight me,” Ryder says through clenched teeth, yanking the inhaler from him and putting it up to Bruce’s lips again.

Feeling the world spin around him, Bruce’s hand drops to his lap, strength sucked out of him. He breathes raggedly, his reality narrowing into this single moment, his eyes trained on Ryder, whose steady gaze helps him come back to himself.

“That’s it,” Ryder murmurs, eyes tracing Bruce’s face. “You’re pale again. This stress isn’t good for you.”

A whimper escapes Bruce’s throat unbidden, so strangled by a wheeze.

“I care, Bruce,” Ryder says, running the back of his knuckles across Bruce’s cheek. “Don’t think I don’t.”

The soft touch rivals what he desires from Jim, the comfort that he craves. Bruce squeezes his eyes shut guiltily.

“Better?”

Bruce nods, his body pouring back into the chair like liquid, exhaustion hitting him like he'd never slept.

“Jesus, Bruce,” Ryder whispers. “You’ll have to take it easy today. No TV, no phone—per Gordon’s orders.”

“I’ll take it easy—if you don’t antagonize me,” Bruce rasps once he catches his breath.

“I’m only trying to help you.”

“Then leave.”

“I can’t.”

“I don’t want you here,” he lies.

“Really?” Ryder’s jaw flexes. “Because it seems that you do.”

“Everything okay here, boys?”

Bruce’s heart catches in his throat. Montoya smirks at them from the doorway.

He wonders just how much she’d heard.

“Everything’s just fine,” Ryder says, pulling away from Bruce and plastering a smile on his face. “Mr. Wayne just overexerted himself.”

She looks at the bath, now drained. “I…” She stops, glancing at Ryder. “I was going to suggest breakfast, but if he isn’t up to it…”

“It’s a bad day.”

“That’s what Babs said. Think he can handle a bite to eat?”

“He’s right here,” Bruce says dryly.

Ryder smiles charmingly at Renee. “A light breakfast in bed will do, and maybe a coffee for me.”

She doesn’t bat an eye. “I’ll get a tray—and coffee only if I have room for it.”

“I wouldn’t mind a cup,” Bruce says wistfully, not that he expects anyone to listen.

“Dr. Thompkins said no coffee,” Montoya says. “Water or juice.”

He blinks. “What?”

She shrugs. “Take it up with her, Mr. Wayne. I’m just the messenger.”

“Fine.”

“But I’m sure a few sips won’t hurt.”

Bruce is more than just a little surprised. “Th-thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Do you still have the jello?”

He might as well make the most of it.

She hesitates. “For breakfast?”

“It would probably feel good on his throat, and light on his stomach, given how crummy he’s feeling,” Ryder suggests.

She looks at Bruce, her eyes softening. “Your throat hurts?”

It does, now that he thinks about it. He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I think he’s getting a cold,” Ryder offers.

“I’m not,” Bruce protests.

“You’re chilled, and you sound a little stuffed up.”

“So do you,” Bruce mutters.

Montoya narrows her eyes on Bruce. “I hear it in his voice.”

Ryder nods.“I wouldn't be surprised if he has a fever.”

“Hmm, I think you’re right,” she muses. “Mr. Wayne has really had a time of it, lately.”

“I’m sure Mr. Wayne would agree,” Ryder says.

Bruce sighs. “Would you ju—” His nose starts to tickle. He brings his elbow to his mouth and succumbs to a powerful sneeze.

“God bless you,” Renee says politely before turning to Ryder. “He’ll need to see the doctor again.”

“If she can come here.”

“Either way, see to it that she knows as soon as possible.”

“Like he needs a cold on top of this.”

“I’m finding that Wayne doesn’t do things by half.”

Ryder crosses his arms. “It didn’t take you long to figure that out. I’m impressed.”

She smirks at him. “How long did it take you?”

Bruce scowls, waving his hand in the air. “Right here?”

“Take him back to his room,” she tells Ryder, ignoring him. “I’ll return with food.”

“Coffee?”

“Don’t press your luck.”

She leaves, and Ryder pushes him unnecessarily towards his room.

Bruce sighs, head dropping into his hands. “I don’t need all this care—or you two to gang up on me.”

How the hell did that happen, anyway?

“You think you can get there on your own?” Ryder stops the chair and sets the brake. “Here. Go for it.”

Bruce stares at the hallway, which seems to be at least a mile long. The effort that it would take—isn’t worth it. He knows this. Ryder knows this.

“Go on,” Ryder urges again.

Bruce works his jaw. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t—or won’t?”

Bruce scowls. “Does it matter?”

“It actually does.”

“Both.

“That’s the depression talking.”

“Your point?” Bruce grits out.

“No point. Just doing my job.”

“Can you do your job without talking?”

“Why do you hate me? It’s more than we made love, and you were my job?”

The question is intrusive, so he waits until he’s beside his bed before he answers, reveling in Ryder’s mental squirming.

Bruce finally looks up at Ryder, more weary than he’s ever been of living. “Because I wanted to die there, Ryder. And you wouldn’t let me.”

_____________

Bruce sleeps for several hours, awakening when the house is quieter than is comfortable. An odd realization, given he’s long been used to solitude.

But that had been before Arkham. Before the evenings passed by with a different cadence, with screams from addled patients and talk of misordered treatment filling the air, his sleep stolen by the fear he’d never wake up the same again.

Ryder looks up from his book in the corner right as Bruce sneezes.

Bruce groans. “Jim?” he asks, voice rusty from disuse.

Ryder shakes his head. “No news yet. And don’t even think about turning on that television to see.”

Disappointed, Bruce rolls over on his side. He hates not knowing, but he hates not knowing how Jim is faring even more.

“Want company?” Ryder asks, softening his voice.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Bruce says, sneezing two times in a row.

“You hate me.”

“You could get sick.”

”My immune system can take it.” Ryder shrugs. “The door’s closed.”

Bruce waits a beat. “Locked?”

“It can be.”

Bruce curls inward, breathlessly waiting as Ryder locks the door then crawls into bed behind him. Ryder wraps his arms around Bruce, bringing him tight against his chest.

“Don’t worry,” Ryder whispers, handing him a tissue he’d had in his hand before pulling him closer. “You’re not going to give me anything.”

After a moment’s pause, Bruce nods, exhaling raggedly. Hoping that he’s not imagining Ryder with him in the bed.

He’d missed it. God help him—he’d missed this. Warmth. Comfort. Security. None of which he’d had in the asylum most days, except for when Ryder had bribed other guards or the nurses.

He wants it to be Gordon, but he’s not so sure they will ever amount to anything. He’s a bad egg. Worthless, even if he’s freed. Especially if he’s freed.

“So, you and the Commish, huh?” Ryder whispers in his ear.

“I—don’t follow.”

Ryder snorts. “He has power of attorney over you—and you seem to welcome it.”

Bruce can’t possibly explain. “He’s trustworthy.”

“But why? You don’t know him.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says slowly.

“Fine. Keep it a secret. I’ll find out, eventually.”

__________

“Ten million dollars. Four million now. The rest when Mr. Wayne is a free man.”

Ryder doesn’t look at Fox right away. He flips through the file again, the names of the men and women he’ll have to watch closely, before he gets to Wayne. The facility he will have to know like the back of his own hand.

He closes the file and slaps it onto Fox’s desk. “The face of this company is worth just ten million?” He pauses. “No.”

Fox’s brows raise. “You refuse?”

“I’m not sure saving one man—even Bruce Wayne—is worth risking my own sanity.”

“Then I’ve put too much trust in you all these years.”

He doesn’t like the look in Fox’s eyes. “You’re...firing me? Because I refused?”

Fox folds his hands. “It makes me wonder if I can trust you to do the right thing.”

He bites back a sharp retort. “I’ve always been faithful to Wayne Enterprises, even when I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

He’s never understood all that he’s been asked to do over the years, things bordering on sketchy in his opinion—from delivering files to interrupting meetings in various disguises to ordering a coffee only to spill it on some naive customer—but he’s never doubted that it had been for a distinct purpose. To improve the world, or perhaps Mr. Wayne, himself.

“Then what’s stopping you now?”

“If you look at that roster,” he says with a short laugh. “You’d know.”

“It’s precisely why I need to extract Mr. Wayne from the asylum.”

“I can’t.”

“Really,” Fox says, his eyes sharpening enough to cut through his thick skin. “You’d leave an innocent man there to die?”

Ryder flinches. “How do you know he’s innocent?”

“I know.”

He believes him, but doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know Wayne, not personally, but how can he be all bad when this man is clearly ready to do what it takes to protect him? “It’s too risky.”

“The Joker will single him out,” Fox says. “And you are the only one with the skills to—”

“You misunderstand.”

Fox’s eyes narrow.

He licks his lips. “I was already offered the job, by someone I’ve never met and for more money, I might add.”

“Never met?”

“Only his lawyer. His client—my employer— is deceased now.”

Fox blinks, expression softening into something he can’t explain. Sadness, perhaps, although he’s never seen the executive anything but sad. “Deceased,” he repeats. “Of course. It makes sense now.”

It doesn’t, not to him. But he doesn’t care. “Not that it matters to me,” he mutters with a shrug.

“The money.”

Ryder lifts his brows. “What is else there?”

Fox’s lips curve into a distant smile. “Is it worth your sanity?”

“For fifty million dollars—and a vacation home in the British Isles? Abso—fucking—lutely.”

__________ 

Bruce doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s been this sick before—in Arkham—and that’s what scares him. It’s as if nothing has changed. He’s stuck in an endless cycle of despair, pain, and sadness. At least in the asylum he hadn’t felt this guilty for wanting Ryder. Of course, Gordon hadn’t been in the picture then.

But he is now, and he feels like he’s breaking his trust. But he doesn’t want to be alone. He can’t be alone. He doesn’t want to live if he’s al—

His throat shrinks—panic or something else, he isn’t sure. He huffs out a breath, coughing his eyes out in the process. They feel swollen, as if he’s been crying and unaware of it.

He wipes his runny nose with his shirtsleeve, ignoring the wetness running down his cheeks, the emotion nearly strangling him. He’s been sitting up in bed, nursing a cup of hot tea and another bowl of jello, partially eaten and neglected for about thirty minutes now. It had been all he could do; eat three or four cool bites, allowing the bits of orange sweetness to slide down his raw throat. Now the jello is melted into a watered down mess in its warm bowl. He sets it side.

At least he’s alone. Alone with his phone, which he’d confiscated from Ryder, unnoticed, while they’d...spooned. He suspects the man will discover what he’d done soon enough. Until then, he’ll keep watching the news.

It’s surreal to see photographs of him from before Arkham being used to discuss the trial. He supposes he should be thankful it isn’t a photo of him as an inmate.

But he isn’t thankful. He isn’t grateful. He isn’t relieved.

How can he be?

He watches for only a moment more. It’s a moment too long.

When the reporter relays, for a second time, what one of Dr. Arkham’s nurses told the press—that he wonders how stable Bruce is now, given he’d been subject to visits with the Joker and his preceding reputation as a playboy that had made him an easy target for sexual predators—he begins to shake uncontrollably.

The Joker. The Joker.

They know. Gordon will know.

And he deserves it.

He hadn’t been strong enough.

The tea cup rattles its way out of his hands. It spills, over his hands and onto the quilt. He hardly feels it, squeezing his eyes shut, unaware as he rocks back and forth on the bed, his arms around himself, his reality abandoned.

Bruce’s world implodes, swallowing him along with it.

He welcomes the destruction.

_________

Wayne’s not doing well.

When Jim gets the text, just minutes after the verdict is read in the afternoon, when he’s still in his seat in shock, his heart drops. Why else would Renee text him this, unless he needs to do something about it and help Bruce?

He makes his way to the hall and calls Renee, rather than try to say what he needs to when he fumbles in his haste and can’t type properly worth a damn.

“What happened?” he asks when she picks up.

“He’s having an anxiety attack. He saw the news.”

Jim curses. “Which part?”

“About the Joker. His reputation.”

Damn. “How?”

“Stole back his phone.”

This shouldn’t have happened, but given who Bruce is—who he thinks Bruce is—he can’t say that he’s surprised. “I’m on my way.”

“How? Wayne’s free. The press will want to talk—”

“I’m on my way,” he snaps. He doesn’t give a damn about publicity right now. “Don’t let him do anything to hurt himself.”

“Dr. Thompkins is already here, treating him for a cold or an infection—I’m not sure which—but he’s not speaking to anyone.”

With that, Jim almost loses it. “He’s sick again, too?”

“He’s used half of the box of tissues. He hasn’t eaten much.”

That isn’t good. “He has to, Renee. Do everything you can to get some food in him.”

She sighs. “He has a fever—then those chills. He's constantly wheezing. He might be delirious, in my opinion. Food is not the priority.”

“He should be in the hospital. I knew we shouldn’t have let him out this quickly.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Gordon, but I think you wanted him to be living as normally as possible, the sooner the better.”

He clenches his teeth. “I was wrong, okay? If this turns into pneumonia…”

“It won’t,” Renee says quickly.

“You can’t know that. For all we know, we’re the ones who passed on the infection. He could get very sick, Renee.” And, if that’s the case, he won’t forgive himself.

“He has too many watchdogs for that to happen.”

“Tell him I’ll be home soon,” he says. “And that nothing that he heard matters. It doesn’t change a thing about our arrangement.”

She waits a beat.

He sighs. “Renee.”

“How do you know that’s on his mind?”

Because he has a feeling he knows him better than he thinks. This confirms it. Almost.

He's had a lot of time at the courthouse to consider why Wayne had come to him. A lot of time.

“Jim?”

“How do you know—that I know that?”

“An educated guess.”

It’s more than that. Something tells him they need to have a little chat about Wayne. “Just tell him.”

“I will.”

__________

Bullock discards his cigarette by tossing it to the ground, pressing his heel into it. “He’s not coming, boss.”

Jim can’t accept the fact that the Bat has vanished into thin air, but it isn’t the first time he hasn’t shown up since Harvey died. Since his wife had died.

Something’s amiss. And it’s more than guilt for failing to protect innocent people from their senseless deaths. It has to be.

“So, no word. No sign. Nothing.” Bullock shivers and tugs on his coat collar, staring up at the signal in the sky. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

Bruce Wayne killing two people doesn’t make sense, either. “He has to show.”

“He doesn’t,” Bullock points out. “Even though we all know he’s on our side, we’re still hunting him, remember? Maybe he’s hurt.”

An injury that takes him out for weeks? He detests the thought. “Maybe he’s done,” he says quietly.

Bullock gives him a look. “You don’t really think that.”

“He can’t be hurt.”

“Why? Because he’s alone?”

Jim doesn’t answer.

Bullock snorts. “He’s the Batman—he knew from the beginning what he was getting into. He probably has someone on the other side to care for him. He’s too put together not to.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“You’re not volunteering for the job, are you?”

So what if he is? He’d give his life for the Bat.

“Jim,” Bullock says warningly.

He shrugs. “Forget it.”

“If he doesn’t show again—you’ll know.”

The thought of fighting in Gotham’s underbelly without his partner—because he’s injured or worse, dead—depresses him. “And what then? We have a funeral?” he asks sarcastically.

Bullock’s smile is grim. “Jim.”

“He has a reason. He has a fucking reason.”

“And if you never find out what that reason is?”

Jim works his jaw. “I will always wait for him.”

“I know,” Bullock says softly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He doesn’t understand. “Why do you say that?”

“Why do you want him to show so badly?”

“He...does things. Makes people disappear.”

Bullock stares at him for a moment before his eyes startle wide open. “No. You’re not...no.” His eyes flash. “Batman won’t kill for you.”

“He can torture,” he snaps back.

“Jesus,” Bullock whispers raggedly, running a hand through his hair. “Gordon—listen to yourself.”

He ignores Bullock’s reason, and his own sense of shame, even when, deep down, he knows nothing will bring his wife back. “He can at least make sure he suffers in Arkham.”

“I’m not hearing this.”

Jim is not to be deterred. “You know as well as I do Wayne belongs in there.”

“So do the rest of us.” Bullock scowls. “I’m turning in for the night. Coming? Or are you going to sulk out here the rest of the night and plan fucking murder?” he shouts at the end.

Jim winces. “Give me a minute.”

“Sure, Boss.”

Bullock slinks into the shadows.

Jim shuts off the signal five minutes later, knowing full well that Bullock hadn’t actually left the rooftop. He’d stayed instead, making sure Jim doesn’t do something foolish if the Bat shows.

Jim doesn’t return to the roof for three months.

___________

Jim barely remembers the drive home. Shutting off the car. Stepping into his own house.

He recognizes, quite clearly, the rapid beating of his heart, the dread stirring in his gut when he goes into the bedroom.

Bruce doesn’t recognize Jim when he comes by his bedside. In fact, the younger man’s eyes are covered as if by a haze, but his skin cooler to the touch than expected.

Jim removes his palm from Bruce’s forehead and looks at Leslie.

“Why aren’t you taking him to the hospital?” he asks.

“His fever’s gone down again, and he fell asleep,” she says softly. “I can treat it here, where he’s most comfortable.”

“What can I do?”

“I gave him an anti-anxiety med,” she says. “A strong one.”

He’s not sure he understands, and he sits on the bed next to Bruce, watching him as he tries to wake up, his eyes failing to fixate on a single place. “I see.”

“It was the only thing I could give him to calm him until you arrived, without sabotaging his breathing. He hasn’t reacted well to sedatives when he’s this ill. I checked the records at Arkham.” She turns to leave. “Detective Montoya knows his new medicine regime, as does the nurse. I use the term ‘nurse’ loosely.”

He frowns. “He seemed adequate.”

“I’m sure he’s more than adequate at whatever profession he actually is in,” she says breezily. “Keep an eye out on that one. I’ll be back tonight to check on him.”

He drops his head in his hands after she leaves. Should he be concerned she’s concerned? He’d given Fox the benefit of the doubt that this man was clean.

Bruce falls asleep. Jim closes his eyes.

“Leslie?”

Jim lifts his head, momentarily confused until he realizes an hour had passed. “Bruce. You’re awake.

Bruce’s eyes fill with confusion. “Ryder?”

Ryder? Who the hell is Ryder? Jim frowns and leans over Bruce, hesitantly touching his face. “It’s Jim, Bruce.”

Bruce blinks. “Gordon?”

“Yes, Bruce, it’s Gordon. Jim,” he corrects himself. He corrects himself again. “Commissioner Gordon.”

Bruce’s brow crinkles. “Wh-what?”

Oh, fuck. “Just Gordon.”

“Gordon.”

“Your partner,” he adds.

Bruce groans. “I feel like—like…”

“She gave you something for the anxiety.”

Bruce’s eyes finally settle on him. “You know.”

He swallows the thick lump in his throat. “I should’ve figured it out sooner.”

Bruce’s face is as white as the sheet he has pulled to his chest. “He—he left me no choice. I didn’t want to—you have to believe me.”

“I have always believed you.”

“He came to me—I—I don't remember how many times.”

They’re clearly not referring to the same thing.

Bruce’s entire body starts to tremble. “He—he—”

Jim gently grips his arms, which vibrate under his touch. “Bruce, you don’t have to worry about him anymore. He’s not here. He can’t get to you.”

“But he did.”

“Whatever happened,” he continues carefully. “It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

Tears leak from the corners of Bruce’s eyes. “You don’t know what he did.”

The implications of that one simple statement horrifies him. No matter how awful his life has been as a widower, Bruce’s has been a million times worse. As an Arkham inmate, falsely accused and at the mercy of madmen, he has been in a literal living hell for nearly five years.

“The Joker touched you,” he assesses slowly.

He can hardly wrap his mind around it. He’d hoped the nurse had been wrong. Spreading gossip in spite. He’d wished for it to be lies. Anything but this, the truth.

Bruce turns away, coughing.

Jim reminds himself he’s dealing with a man who had experienced unimaginable trauma. “Did he—did he—?”

“I don't remember,” Bruce whispers. “I don’t—I—I don’t want to remember. But they say he did. You heard what they said, didn’t you?”

He has to be honest. What else does Bruce have left? “Yes,” he admits.

Bruce turns his neck to stare at him. His expression cracks, raw and vulnerable, before his eyes. “There’s no good left in me, Gordon.”

Jim’s mind wants to shut down. Wants him to ignore this and pretend he doesn’t care. He’d never—never—expected to witness a mental breakdown, let alone Wayne’s, but here he is, privy to a man who has reached his limit. Witnessing it for himself—and caring for someone else more than he’d ever thought to be possible.

“That’s not true.” He traces Bruce’s profile with a sure gaze, then again because he can, this time stopping at his mouth. His chin. The jawline. The features he’d seen of the vigilante. The only things he’s had to hold on to. Hoping. Wondering. Wishing.

“It is.” Bruce closes his eyes, his face twisting with fresh grief.

Jim knows Wayne is exhausted—but it feels as if he’s shutting him out. “I don’t want you to think that. I would never think that of you, Bruce.”

“They’ll want to put me back in Arkham.”

“Legally, they can’t. I won’t let them.”

“You can’t fight that sort of power,” Bruce says bitterly.

“I will never let them harm you again,” he vows.

“I’m tired, Jim.”

“I know.”

Bruce sneezes. “I—I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he whispers, crawling in behind him as if he’d been doing this for a lifetime, not this once. “Only if you want to—and when you’re ready.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be,” Bruce says, voice hoarse and bleeding years of pain, regret, and loneliness.

“That’s fine,” he murmurs, pulling the hair back from Bruce’s face. “Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. Remember, Bruce. We’re a team. We’re two.”

Bruce goes quiet, but then his body melts against Gordon, relaxing in a way that exudes familiarity.

A familiarity Jim now understands.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Bruce finds himself enveloped by a sleeping Gordon, the older man’s arm wrapped snug around him, chin nestled at the top of Bruce’s head. The closeness brings unexpected and unwanted tears to his eyes and suddenly, he is impossibly—and ashamedly—young again.

His father would often slip beside his son in bed if Bruce was having a nightmare, or was fitful and unwell. Mr. Wayne had been a kind father, if a bit formal with him much of his young life. Generations of wealth paved the way for a foot in the door of the most elite private school. Outside of the classroom, he spent more time with Alfred than with his mother and father. Yet he could count on one hand the times they’d missed an evening meal, the three of them gathered around the table, Alfred milling about, making sure each of the Waynes were taken care of according to their needs. Bruce always had seconds because it pleased Alfred, not because it made his mother smile.

But the days his father stayed with him through the nightmares—nightmares he’d had even before that fateful fall into the well—had been even more precious, despite the discomfort Bruce had felt facing his fears in his sleep. His penchant for nightmares haunts him even now, and he wonders if Gordon had realized this for himself through the night, Bruce tossing and turning, no doubt, and that is why he stayed.

He refuses to think otherwise. Unlike Ryder, Jim Gordon won’t take advantage of him. He isn’t bound by a mystery employer to get Bruce out of the Asylum. This closeness—a warm body gently and cautiously spooning Bruce’s now more slender frame—is most likely similar to the way he comforts his own son.

Bruce’s heart lodges in his throat. It’s not hard to recognize the great love Jim showers upon his children. They may not have their mother, but their father has cared for them both immensely—and it shows. Bruce, admittedly, is envious of the way this family operates. He wishes, not for the first time, that Alfred was still alive, for one more chance to tell the man who had been his father figure—his father—all these years ‘thank you.’

He sniffles without realizing the tears had already made their way down his cheeks, but then he is reminded, too, of the infection, and coughs hardship. He wipes the irritating wetness away with one hand, trying not to wake Gordon, noticing his forehead is warm with fever.

The last thing he wants to do is bother the man when all he’s done, most likely, is cause him to suffer sleepless nights, too, worrying about Bruce.

He swallows hard remembering, now that he’s pretty sure his secret is out, at least to Jim, and all he can see is trouble ahead. Gordon has every right to hand him over to the police for all the laws he’d broken while living the life of a vigilante. Truth be told, Bruce can’t see his future for the looming skyline of the Asylum that seems to follow him at every turn, and the gates that still seem to close in on him.

But what would it do to Gordon and his children, sending Bruce away once more? He closes his eyes, letting out a sharp breath. It could have a detrimental effect, especially on the children. Gordon isn’t going to turn him in, he knows this deep in his soul. But he will question Bruce, maybe not today, but eventually.

“Good morning,” a husky voice greets him from behind.

It is impossible not to tense—so Bruce does—and he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Do you want me to leave?”

The long pause that follows gives Bruce time to dwell on the possibility of it. He’d have to ask—maybe even beg—Ryder to take him away. He knows the man would, if he was given something in return. That something, Bruce muses guiltily, is what he is perhaps addicted to himself. If the physical closeness he shares with Ryder was heathy, he wouldn’t allow himself to feel guilty. But he isn’t sure it’s healthy at all and feels a mixture of pleasure, anticipation, and shame, an addicting combination for a man who’d had nothing in prison but a body—his own. The guilt deepens when he thinks he likes the crazy feelings, dwelling on the “nurse” for another moment.

“I wouldn’t have brought you into my home if that had been a possibility,” Gordon finally says, shifting so he is on his back, moving away as if he could read Bruce’s thoughts and wants to get as far from his deplorable mind as possible. “You know that, don’t you? I will never abandon you.”

Bruce can’t think straight. What Gordon says doesn’t quite register, because he’d been abandoned by Gordon before, and he knows this isn’t the way Gordon would treat him now, but he’s still scared. And he can’t form the correct thoughts to tell Jim. Instead, without the body behind him, the warmth between them disappears in seconds. It makes Bruce want to cry again, and he almost reaches for him. His hands find purchase at the covers, instead, and he blinks furiously to hold back his damn tears—which is a hassle that Leslie must do something about. He can’t be reduced to crying spells whenever things upset him. Then again, it could indicate a medication change is required, and that thought alone overwhelms him. He can’t keep up with what he’s taking, something that would have never occurred to Batman.

But he isn’t Him now, is he? Those days are whispers of a fading memory, a memory he isn’t sure he wants anymore.

“Bruce.” Gordon’s soft voice, so different than expected, and set apart from the miserable emotions Bruce was experiencing, washes over him like a light blanket, falling to mold into his sides. “Don’t shut me out.”

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut. If he does exactly that, will Gordon eventually leave him alone? Shouldn’t Bruce push him away now, rather than later? Shouldn’t he ostracize himself before everything inevitably goes south? He doesn’t think he can take much more.

“You could turn me in,” Bruce says against his better judgement, “now that you know.”

Because he does know. That much Bruce had determined last night.

We’re a team. We’re two.

“Now that I know?” Gordon repeats.

His pulse thrums. Had he made a mistake? Had he imagined it?

After a moment, Bruce carefully turns on his side to face Gordon, who is staring at him. He searches Gordon’s face for a sign—a tell—anything—but his expression is inscrutable. “When did you know?”

“I—only recently,” Gordon admitted, seeming embarrassed.

“But when?” He doesn’t know why he has to know. Only that he does.

Gordon sends him a wry smile. “After Montoya, I’m sure.”

Bruce blinks. “The detective?”

There’s a shift in Gordon’s eyes that Bruce knows he should understand—but he doesn’t—and Gordon reaches out a hand as if he wants to touch Bruce’s face—and he does—and he does.

“Jesus, you’re so warm,” Gordon says, hand pausing.

Bruce’s eyes close, relishing the simple human touch, wanting more, longing for it in a way he didn’t know was possible. But longing for anonymity even more.

“Jim?” he rasps. “The detective?”

“Bruce, yes, the detective,” Gordon says after he brushes Bruce’s hair from his eyes. “She’s here now, and although we haven’t discussed your…former night job…you have nothing to worry about. She won’t talk.”

Bruce’s mouth twists into a frown. Gordon doesn’t understand—if Montoya figured out his alter ego after Bruce’s undoing, who else has?

It’s not himself that he is worried about, but those on the path to Wayne. It’s everyone in the way.

“I don’t want to pry,” Gordon says. “But when you feel up to talking about it, I’d like…” He stops and takes a deep breath.

“To know why I became the Bat?” Bruce finishes for him. “How I managed it all? If I was ever going to tell you?”

Gordon nods, a solemn yet familiar gesture that sets him at ease.

“Ask me tomorrow,” Bruce says, while Gordon grasps his hand. He doesn’t squeeze back, but allows the commissioner to lace his fingers through his even though, in truth, he’s not sure he wants to be this close when he’s an emotional mess. And he can tell just by looking at Jim and the light in his eyes that he is somewhat enamored by the man he’d once been.

But what about who he is now?

———

When Jim does return to the roof, it’s with deep regret and a sorrow from which he can’t run. Hiding is useless so he lights up the sky and spends all night there, dusting off a spot in the corner where he places a blanket and another coat while he waits, as if two extra layers will protect him from Gotham’s chill and the loneliness of the night. As if the Bat will return, simply because Jim wills it. As if his life will return, and his wife, too.

He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t smoke. He just sits, with his reality, staring up at the stars. Somehow, he has to change and find a new purpose or his children will fall into this same damaging cycle that he has.

One appearance from the Bat could make it all better—but deep down, Jim knows that their partnership—for whatever mysterious reason—is over.

————

The Joker doesn’t hurt him as much this time, and Bruce doesn’t know what to do with this.

He tries to smooth his shirt and his pants once he puts them back on like he's preparing for a meeting at Wayne Industries, but his hands shake. The Joker just watches him from the corner, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded, head tipped back. It’s strange to see him without paint, but it also normalizes him.

Almost.

“You should rest,” the Joker says, voice dipping lower than he thinks he’s ever heard it.

Bruce doesn’t bother to answer. He’s finished making himself presentable—because it’s useless—especially after one has been raped—and opts for the floor and a blanket that had dropped there rather than his bed.

The bed reminds him too much—far too much—of what he’s had to give everyone.

He wonders who else will visit him tonight and wishes he were dead.

“Brucie, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Bruce turns his head away from the nagging voice and curls into himself, settling into what he knows best—a series of coughs that rack his body, bringing a headache along with it.

“Give up. You can’t you can’t youcan’tyoucan’tahBrucieBoy,” Joker says, his speech faster at the end as he moves from the corner to Bruce. He stands over him, giving him a little kick. “Upupupup-pup!”

“Hey,” Bruce protests, wrenching his neck to twist around and glare up at him. “Haven’t you done enough?”

The Joker cackles and nudges him again. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, hmmm?”

“Leave me alone,” Bruce pleads. “I’m tired.”

Joker does, surprisingly, and walks the perimeter of the room, muttering long strings of nonsensical words. Bruce tunes him out.

At one point, he thinks he hears the Joker say “Rachel,” but everyone in Bruce’s past has talked to him in his head at least once since he’s been in the asylum so he doesn't linger on the thought—until the Joker mutters ‘sharing a jail cell.’

After that, his brain malfunctions or dissociates or whatever the hell it does when he feels like he’s drowning. He slides across the floor to escape another nudge of the Joker’s foot, which barely misses him. He coughs, breath shallow and his body annoyingly heavy. His limbs, leaded with fear, dread, or illness, or all three, don’t cooperate when the Joker pulls him up from the floor and he’s dragged back to the bed. He closes his eyes when the Joker starts the process again, pulling Bruce’s pants down and then his own, roughly pressing kisses along his collarbone and chest in a wild manner, grasping onto Bruce like he’ll vanish, pushing into him with ease, like he’s been doing this all day and maybe he has. Bruce has lost track of minutes. Hours. Days.

And Bruce tries—he desperately tries—to retreat to another place in his mind, to be back in his manor and in a warm bed, alone, by himself, without someone wanting something from him like people have his entire life.

The Joker doesn’t let him.

———

As he lets Bruce have a few moments to himself, Jim hopes he’s overthinking Wayne’s reaction to his reaction.

He’d sounded like an enthralled teenager, hadn’t he? Now in the kitchen downstairs, he drops his head, letting it hit the wall with a groan and regretting many life choices.

“You okay there, boss?” Montoya asks.

He’s not sure he likes the laughter in her voice, but can’t deny he must look deranged. Rumpled clothing and, yes, a little in a dream state still—he’d just slept beside the Batman, dammit.

“Not sure,” he says.

“Hmm,” is all the detective offers, thankfully.

But, then—when he looks up at her—she snorts. “Finally cut to the chase, did you? With our dear vigilante?”

“Oh, don’t look so smug,” Jim takes a seat across from her at the table. “You spent more time with him than I did.”

She smirks. “I’m not the one he came to see on top of a building a hundred times.”

“Maybe,” he says, giving her that. “But—it shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did.”

“Your mind has been…muddied.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “He’ll explain things to me, to make things clearer.” He pauses. “Tomorrow.”

“He said that, huh?” She leans forward, eyes pressing him. “Take it slow, Gordon, that’s all I’ll say. If Ryder gets wind of this, things could get out of hand. He’s not used to Wayne like you are—and you have to admit, you got stars in your eyes.”

He does. He must. And she’s right about him being used to Bruce. The man is…complex, to say the least.

Frowning, he looks down at his folded hands on the table. “I care—for him,” he says awkwardly, aware of how that sounds. “Not like that, but—”

“You can’t possibly mean not romantically?” Montoya asks softly? “I think we know it’s past ‘just friends.’”

He gives her a look.

“Seriously?” She grins.

He shifts in his seat. “Maybe…for me.”

“For both of you.”

He can’t speak for Bruce, but… “Ryder is important to him.” He is painfully aware of this fact. Sharing Bruce is…complicated.

“Of course he is,” she says sincerely.

Speaking of…”And he is where, exactly?” he asks, lifting a brow.

She shrugs. “Took a cab to the store for a few things.”

His fridge is a bit empty, even for him. He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

Her brow furrows, and it’s not often Montoya is unaware. “Okay.”

He takes a deep breath, stretching the moment, thinking of Bruce, as always. “What if we leave Gotham…”

It surprises her and her mouth drops, as if she knows exactly what else he’s about to say next.

“…for good.”

Chapter Text

When Ryder returns to the Gordons, the rain that began as a drizzle is now a raging storm over Gotham.  Under a canopy of thunder and lightning, he hauls four full bags of groceries inside without an umbrella, puts the items away, and grabs a kitchen towel.  He dries his face and removes his shoes. With the intention of finding Bruce, he enters the hallway.

Jim Gordon leans against the wall by the stairs, arms crossed. Waiting for him, obviously, and Ryder just sighs. “I—we—needed things.”

“I won’t argue with that.” Gordon rubs his mustache. “However…”

”You don’t eat?”

“We’re leaving in the morning.”

Ryder frowns. “To go to the clinic? Is Bruce…?”

“No, not the clinic.” Gordon stalls. “It’s the Joker.”

Ryder isn’t as patient as he seems. “What about the Joker,” he all but growls.

Gordon’s lips turn into a wry smile. “I’m just the messenger.”

All he can think about is how fragile Mr. Wayne truly is, and he steps forward to tower over Jim. “What about the Joker,” he repeats, lacking inflection.

Gordon’s smile drops. “Ryder—you’re Ryder.”

He stiffens. “There’s no law against nicknames.”

“I won’t trust anyone with secrets to care for Bruce.”

Ryder rolls his eyes. “Pot, kettle.”

“So, you are the reason Bruce told the truth?”

Ryder can only surmise Gordon knows about the drug he’d given Wayne. Did he hear it from Fox? “My employer…”

Gordon raises a hand, stopping him. “Yes, Mr. Fox vouched for you but there’s something else…” His voice trails off into an uneasy silence. 

Ryder has to avoid more questions he can’t answer. “Is the Joker a threat while he is in Arkham?” he asks, steering the conversation away from the inconsistencies of the situation.

“He doesn’t have to be in the asylum to be a threat.”

He can’t argue with that. “How long?”

Gordon’s head sags, and he sighs.  “I can’t say.”

“Either way, I’ve never exactly warmed up to Gotham.” Ryder shrugs, slipping beside him and stepping onto the first step. “If you don’t mind, the morning will come quick. We’ll be ready.” He isn’t unconcerned about the situation—he just doesn’t want Gordon picking up on how much he does care. Or that he has a history—if one can call it that—with Wayne.

It doesn’t occur to him that Gordon could possibly know this fact, already.

__________

The inexplicable hum of a house full of people interrupts Bruce’s first good dream since before prison life. He’d honestly thought he’d never have decent rest ever again—and it’s strange. The peaceful image of Wayne Manor dashes away, and he exhales a slow breath, a fierce sense of longing growing. If only he could see Alfred again. He’d dreamt the man had just tuned the piano Bruce swore he never played—but did—in the study.

Hands stretching out beside him, he relishes the coolness of the sheets against the rough pads of his fingertips, the fresh pine scent of his coverings, the stillness of the room compared to the commotion emanating from past his closed door. He has no desire to join in the activity that included, most likely, getting Jimmy to school, breakfast being made and eaten, and the expected camaraderie of a family. At least, no desire…yet.

It isn’t lost on him that his body doesn’t acclimate to change like it used to. His body does not feel like his own, and hasn’t for a shamefully long time. It isn’t just the illnesses he’s had. Part of his body belongs to Ryder—but now, Jim, also. It’s an improvement over being a presumed possession of the psychopath who’d assaulted him in Arkham. He can’t put a finger on it, but this belonging to someone helps him put one foot ahead of the other every day. But what increases the foreign feeling of longing in his chest is something he doesn’t want to put a name to, or describe to anyone—least of all Gordon—that he needs to feel like he can someday…have a life. Feel. Live.

Flashes of something not entirely unpleasant creeps into his thoughts, and his breath catches. Something physical, perhaps? He taps his fingers on the bed, absently using morse code. He can’t pinpoint what it is but it’s on his…skin…

Why would it be on his skin?

Scars? Markings?

Unease courses down his spine, and he whips his head around the bedroom, looking for the hoodie he thought he had. But the discomfort spirals into snips of unfamiliar memories, as if he’s peering into someone else’s life.  Soon they bubble to the surface, boiling hot and ruthless, raging like uncontrollable mini-storms.  He wants to stop the onslaught of these precarious things he doesn’t want to know, but they rush to his very core, ripping open the truth of his relationship with Joker. 

And it always comes back to him.

Nausea rolls through him, and turns on his side, shaking visibly, arms crossed against his chest, fingernails clawing into his bare arms. Nothing calms him as flashes of a dilapidated cell and a formless cot that certainly isn’t his creep to the forefront.  His thoughts accelerate, as if some authority is ruthlessly vetting him, firing questions at him from every side. He feels nothing and everything at once—which had surely been the clown’s goal.

The misery of life sequestered in the asylum tracks him here, a haunting he’s never wanted—or maybe he has. 

His breath hitches as he flips though Arkham experiences he’s tried to catalogue in the furthest corner of his mind. Suppressed. Hidden. Safe.

It inevitably circles back to the Joker.  The clown had asked him if he could carve a token of his “affection,” as the man had called it, and hadn’t Bruce said yes? The truth tastes like poison, leeching deep into this marrow. 

“Oh, god,” he whispers, wanting to vomit. Struggling to sit up, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the floor as he heaves himself forward, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth when nausea rises to his throat.

Hadn’t Bruce said yes?

That he hadn’t been given a choice hardly mattered. Joker had clearly intended to mark him, consent or not. The clown had made sure the scars would blend in with the rest, cackling as he’d inflicted the first round of pain and Bruce’s left side.  One hand loose around Bruce’s neck, stroking something cool and ridged and locked that Bruce doesn’t (want to) remember, the other hand oddly gentle before striking with pain, like venom from a sna— veno—

—It’s then that it hits him, and a violent wave of emotion stings the back of his eyes, horror filling his chest, suffocating him with its dooming fingers. Gasping for air, he reaches a shaking hand up to his neck. It meets chilled flesh. He expects to caress a remnant of his recent past, but his neck is bare, nothing to show that he belongs to Joker—and that isn’t right. It’s wrong.  Wrong.

You know what you need to do, Bruce. You’re MINE. You know, Batsy—such a good boy—

A metaphorical light turns on in his brain.  Relief marks an inhuman groan as it slips from his lips. He grasps his neck with his other hand, mindlessly squeezing his own throat with unexpected vigor, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. Both hands wrap around sensitive skin, and a wave of comfort mixes with coveted desperation to feel what he’d felt as Joker had done the same thing... 

Venom…

Muscles lock, eyes roll back in his head, and he loses himself to an imprisoned man’s influence miles away, unaware that his breaths have become increasingly quicker, shorter, and even more shallow, a sheen appearing on his cheeks and forehead, gaze unfixed.

Venom…

His world, despite the promise of life beyond his limited living space, and a better life than he’d had weeks ago, fading…

————-

Crane has always figured the billionaire to be a strange one, but when he willingly starts wearing a token of Joker’s affection, he realizes no one is immune to the psychopath’s manipulation.

Not even the Bat.

He smiles into the hand on which his chin rests, elbow on the table as he watches said billionaire slip dazedly into the activity room, a slim black collar fit snugly around his neck.  It’s delectable, he has to admit, seeing the playboy fitted with ownership.  Not proper ownership but ownership nonetheless. Wayne’s face is blank in the way it always is, and it makes Crane want to poke and prod until the dark knight’s mask shatters.

Sighing, he watches Joker enter after Wayne.  He’ll just have to let Joker have all the fun. Well, most of it.

Bruce staggers, and Joker takes Wayne’s arm just as he seems to collapse. The clown pulls him over to Crane’s table, Wayne’s feet dragging when he can’t keep up. Most likely, Joker has worn down the poor man already today. Perfect.

“That’s a fine contraption,” Crane acknowledges as Joker jostles the seemingly motor-challenged playboy to a seat.

The clown plops into a chair next to Wayne and fondles the collar with grimy fingers, grinning. “Sweetsy here looks good with it, isn’t that right, Brucie?” 

Wayne’s eyes are closed, his head drifting to the side until he catches himself and sits up. Joker, not kindly, pokes him.  He blinks, tentatively nodding his head once.

Crane allows his gaze to fall on the adornment once more, then lifts his eyes to watch Wayne’s face. “A little glitter would help.”

Joker cackles. Wayne’s expression hardens, surprising Crane. The bat has some fight left in him. Huh.

The clown smacks his lips near the billionaire’s ear.  “Oh, we can dress it up later, along with other, um, things to make Brucie even prettier. But my pet here, uh, needs to get used to all of it first.”

That’s when Crane notices Bruce squirming in his seat, the playboy’s movements weakened by medication. “All?”

Joker’s expression hardens, eyes glinting in the harsh light and shadows. “Dr. Arkham’s minions can be so gullible when it comes to Brucie’s…treatment. A little abstinence can go a long way.”

Crane quirks a brow. “You mean…”

The clown nods smugly, hand reaching down to rest obscenely on Wayne’s crotch. Wayne’s jaw tightens when Joker squeezes the bulge between the billionaire’s legs. “We’re training so he never has a problem ever again.”

Nothing sounded better. “Go on.”

”Since he was caught-uh in the closet,” Joker pauses dramatically, and Crane snickers, “he’s been instructed not to touch himself as it precedes other unhealthy behaviors and makes him, uh, vuln-er-a-ble. So, his pleasure…is mine to draw out.” Joker smacks his lips. “And only mine.”

Bruce’s face pales, and the imprisoned man—in more ways than one—whines as if in distress.

“There, there,” Joker coos, patting Wayne’s cheek with his free hand. “I told you not to make a sound, remember? For Ryder’s sake. I’ll reward you later, if you’re a good boy.”

Wayne eyes glisten, and he whines, this time with what Crane believes is literal need. He clears his throat.  “He likes that,” he rasps.

Joker’s gaze narrows on Wayne’s face, a finger caressing each of his lips, one by one. “Yes, he does.  Such a good boy. A good, little boy who needed a daddy.”  

Wayne’s eyes are bright, breaths short and quick, body leaning toward Joker. A moth to a flame.

Crane pries his gaze way from Joker toying with Wayne, and his own pants grow tight. The Bat so encumbered and reacting to a demeaning nickname is a treat to see.  It’s clear he’s already responding to instruction but Crane wants more. “I’ll need to see it to believe it.”

Eyes as cold as ice stare into Crane’s. “Oh, I don’t share.”

Crane refuses to be cowed. “Dr. Arkham mentioned another therapy option for you this morning. When asked for advice, I gave him my honest, professional opinion.”

Joker’s face freezes. “Overstepping doesn’t look good on you, Scarecrow.”

Crane breaks into a smile. “Oh, I have been working here all along,” he purrs, relishing the shock on Joker’s face. 

To his credit, he quickly schools his features. “What do you mean?”

“It proved more beneficial to learn things whilst…undercover. I was given access to your file—and Wayne’s—as I will be a visible part of the team from now on.  I’m looking forward to treating you, Mr. Joker, and continuing your special friend’s training as well, increasing its psychological nature.” He leans forward, grasping Wayne’s chin and lifting it up, forcing the broken bat’s eyes on him. “We’ll see what else that collar can help you with, Mr. Wayne. Learning how to live—and obey and feel and be—will be well worth a little suffering. Most of the time, you won’t even know you have triggers—or should I say kinks. But they’ll be there, with the right instruction, and will be displayed for the entire world to witness. You’ll finally be free—and beautiful again.”

Bruce seemingly deflates, finally conveying a haunting emotion that Crane revels in.  Beside him, Joker seethes with the anger that he expected. 

“You’ll find out soon enough that the little uh bat-uh need me, Crane,” Joker sneers. 

“Don’t worry, Batsy,” Crane quips, pointedly ignoring Wayne’s first master. “I’ll let Joker watch, maybe even participate.”

Joker’s glare fans the exquisite flame of power in Crane’s chest. It pays to wait and bide one’s time, only to pounce at the right moment, when one’s enemy is delectably disarmed. “Don’t. You. Dare. Touch. Him,” Joker spits out.

Crane shrugs a shoulder, immune to the crazed sense of possession the clown carries for Wayne. His words mean nothing to a man truly in control. “That all depends on you, Napier.”

Joker rises out from his seat like a panther ready to strike, but Crane is faster. With a snap, a guard appears and sedates the clown with a syringe. “Bye, now,” Crane coos as Napier slumps to the ground.  

A strained sound escapes from their mutual captive, the man’s lips working, forming unspoken words. Crane pats the Bats cheek again and grips his hands in one of his own, gently holding them while he takes a pair of gray mittens from his bag.  The playboy’s head sags, his eyes blankly drifting as if his mind somewhere else. Crane is pleased Brucie is so amenable to his treatment as he easily slips the mittens on his limp hands, securing them with a key. ”I see you’ve been aptly and appropriately medicated but this ensures you can’t escape. A bat needs his webbing, yes?” 

He pulls the straps tightly around the wrists, eliciting a sharp hiss from the man. Crane tsks and tugs on them again, eager to see whatever pain Wayne feels etched on his face.  He is not disappointed. Smiling, he pulls out a device he preserved for his most precious works—a restrictive mouth guard that is adjustable to allow for opening—and fits it around the base of the playboy’s neck, snaking around to cross over his lips, then settling its sharp edges along the sensitive, inner parts of his mouth.  

His smile widens as a single tear escapes from the corner of Wayne’s right eye. Ah, finally.  There’s still something there for him to break. “Don’t swallow. At least, not yet.”

The guard retrieve a wheelchair over and lifts the once able-bodied patient into the seat, strapping him in to keep Wayne from leaning forward and falling on his face. 

It’s a good look on Brucie, who looks nothing like the Bat. In fact, he appears less like a human at all and more like the experiment Crane has imagined he could be for years. 

Truth be told, Crane thinks happily, gazing into the playboy’s still chiseled, handsome face and haunted eyes, recognizing undeniable anguish, Wayne is already beautiful. 

————

Montoya isn’t fond to be the one breaking the bad news to Jim the next day, but after speaking with Ryder about Wayne’s state, and their expected departure, she draws the short stick.

Wayne is best left in the care of someone who knows the man best.  This job is left to her.

“Gordon,” she murmurs, approaching the kitchen table. The kids are finishing their breakfast, 

Gordon scanning the front page of the newspaper.  

He looks up over the top of his glasses.  “Montoya.”

She inclines head towards the back door.  “Can we talk for a minute? Privately?”

He nods, following her outside.  “What is it?”

“Wayne,” she breathes out.

“I gathered,” he says dryly.

She really doesn’t know how to break the news.  “He—his condition—has worsened.”

Gordon’s eyes widen a fraction. “How so?”

“Not physically,” Montoya rushes out. “Mentally.”

“Should we be alarmed?”

“Ryder said when he went to check in on him last night, he…” Montoya hesitates, watching the tension grow on Gordon’s face.

“He…what?”

“It’s not good.”

”It can’t possibly be as bad as this,” Gordon says, mouth dipped down in a wry grin, “my best detective failing to find the courage to tell me the status of our patient.”

Montoya shakes her head. “It’s not that. I agree that Wayne needs to get out of Gotham like a bat out of hell.”

Gordon winces.

“Sorry.”

“I’ve had my own turn with poorly planned puns.” He sighs. “Go on.”

“He’s not aware of us—he’s not responding.  He’s not moving. He rarely even blinks. Something must have happened.  A memory or flashback?  He needs professional help. How will he get that if we hide him away in some cabin in the woods—with us?”

“Cabin in the woods,” Gordon echoes. 

“Wherever,” she says, exasperated. “My point is, he needs more than this.”

Gordon turns away from her, shoving his hands in his pocket, his frustration palpable. 

”You know it as well as I do,” she says. “He won’t improve much, Gordon.”

”You don’t know that,” he gruffs, patting his shirt pocket, then gazing at the ground around him as if he dropped his Marlboros.  

“You gave up cigs for Wayne, remember?"

“I should have remembered that,” he murmurs.

“Want me to bring a pack for you, just in case?”

He faces her.  “I have the patch.  I’ll manage.”

“And when you’re too stressed about Wayne to think straight?”

“I’ll chop wood for the fire.”

“So it is a cabin.”

“It's a vacation spot of Wayne's apparently.”

She looks at him.  “How…?”

He shrugs. “I called Mr. Fox about a few things.”

“Was healthcare a part of that conversation?”

He nods. “Of course.”

Montoya remembers a call she needs to make.  “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

“So will we.” He hesitates. “Montoya?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

He swallows. “Your mother isn’t sick, is she?”

She blinks.  “She’s dead. Been so for eight years.”

“Oh, ok,” he says. “Good.”

“Excuse me?”

He flushes.  “I mean, not good she’s gone just that…you don’t have to worry about here when…when we’re…we’re gone.”

“I see.” She really doesn’t.

“Ten minutes and then we’re leaving,” he says, voice more strained than it has ever been. “I don't give a damn if we ever come back.”

He doesn’t mean that, does he? She says nothing as he walks back to the house.

————-

Before Ryder returns after packing their suitcases in the car, Gordon closes the bedroom door and faces the man for whom he cares so very much.

Bruce’s head is slightly tilted, gaze blankly fixed on a spot on the wall, his mouth agape as if to allow a whisper of breath to escape, limbs loose where they'd been placed by Ryder in his chair.

He resembles a broken marionette, if Gordon is honest with himself. 

Emotion pricks the backs of his eyes, and he pulls up the only chair in the room. He stares at Wayne for a moment, desperate to see something in the man other than this blankness. He’s never been a depressed man before but this unexpected turn—this might do him in. 

He reaches and grasps one of Wayne’s hands, gently squeezing it. “I don’t know what happened to cause this, but I want you to know, I’m not leaving you. None of us are.” He clears his throat, rubbing a sleeve across his nose when his emotions get the best of him.  “Dammit,” he breathes shakily, “I don’t cry, yet here I am.”

He stops to watch Wayne’s face, noticing lines that weren’t there before and the hair that is a little too long falling over his eyes like a curtain.  He sweeps the strands back, feeling his forehead, happy to note it is cool to the touch.  At least there’s that. 

Exhaling a long breath, he stands. “Well,” he states, uselessly.  “I hope you don’t mind that I want to carry you down to the car.”

Sometimes he wants to punch Ryder in his smug face—he workouts now, too—and says as much to the catatonic man.

He swears he hears a hitch to the younger man’s breath.  He doesn’t betray the knowledge and bends to gather him in his arms.  It’s easier than he expected.  Saddened, he estimates that Wayne has lost more weight than he cares to admit, and can’t afford to lose more.

Getting him to eat at the cabin will be a feat, no doubt. 

Holding Bruce close, Gordon breathes in the scent of him.  He smells like bath soap and sleep and something else he can’t pinpoint.  He adjusts Bruce’s slighter frame so his head is cradled against his chest and looks up at the door to see Babs standing there, eyes wide. 

“Dad?”

”Follow us to the car, yeah?”

She nods, shrugging her backpack on.  “Got everything?”

“I do now.”

She swallows, gaze on Wayne’s unchanged expression. “What…happened?”

Everything, he wants to say.  A devastation. A gutting. An unwanted, damn metamorphosis of someone who deserved it the least.

He closes his eyes, pressing a kiss on the top of Bruce's head, just like he used to do to the kids when they were little. “It’s just all a little too much, I think,” he murmurs, not just for her sake. “He just needs rest.” 

She clearly contemplates his reply and judges it incomplete. “Dad…”

“It’ll be ok, sweetheart.”  

She follows him out the door, silent.

He makes Montoya drive so he can sit with Bruce in the back.

————

Something is wrong with him.  Something is wrong and not right and not safe Because the Man isn’t here—scarecrow Man—something is wrong—wrong—whereishe this is not good something is wrongwheredidcranego—joker—ineedthem needthem need—wherearethey taking me—something is wrong wi—

He’s trapped in a box. Trapped without Man. They’re moving but he can’t see where or beyond this tunnel or know or why or—whereisscarecrow—heneeds—he—needs—he—

Something is wrong with him.

Something is wrong with him.

Something is wrong with him.

Something is wrong with him.

Something is wrong

Something is

Something

Something

Something

Something

Something

….him?