Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You will visit me,” Joker says.

The words splash into the silence like pebbles, rippling air which up until now has been oppressively still. Bruce manages not to react, but the muscles in his body tense all the same; he suspects they always will at the sound of the Joker’s voice.

Especially after tonight.

“What?” he says, keeping his eyes on the road.

“In Arkham. I want you to visit me regularly, at least once a week. If we’re gonna do this I want you to keep your end of the deal.”

Bruce’s thoughts grind to a screeching halt; his skin bleeds hot sweat under the kevlar. His heart slams in his neck. He tries to fit this new development into what happened not an hour ago at the funfair, and the concept is suddenly too big, too impossible to settle in his head, a bit like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that he’s trying to forcefully jam into the wrong part of the picture.

He almost doesn’t dare ask, in case it’s just another joke. But he can’t afford to hope, either.

“So you’re saying —”

“Yes,” Joker says. Quietly, like he hates himself for it. Like he thinks he’s making a big mistake, but can't stop himself all the same. Like he’s already regretting even this much. “Yes, I’ll do it. Okay? I’ll — I’ll try. With you. But you have to promise you’ll visit.”

Bruce is silent. The puzzle piece still doesn’t want to fit, not after everything that’s happened, and he thinks he may have been a fool to ever think it would.

Only now, despite everything he’s said back there at the fair, Joker’s promising to try and make it fit. The implications of that are just too momentous for Bruce to consider right now.

“All right,” he makes himself say, and thinks, Oh, God.

And then he thinks, Jim. Barbara.

I’m sorry.

But it’s worth it. Just taking that step, even knowing it may well amount to nothing… it’s worth it, and if Joker wants to try, even now, maybe one day Bruce will find the words to explain why it matters so much, and maybe, one day, the Gordons will learn not to hate him.

Joker is quiet in the passenger seat, cuffed and bound, gazing out the window at the splashes of red and blue of the police car lights trailing after them. Rain rattles against the panes and smudges the lights into a mess of bright color. Joker’s hair drips water onto the seat, onto the muddied suit, down the hollows of his white face and the corners of his downturned mouth. He looks broken, his vivid colors washed away into pale shadows against the flashes of red and blue.

Bruce looks away and back to the road.

“Don’t turn the flashlight off on me, Bats,” Joker says quietly, much, much later, when the black spires of Arkham sharpen against the sky.

Bruce feels the muscles in his jaw tense. His fingers tighten on the wheel.

“I won’t.”

***

Bruce keeps his word and visits the Joker once a week.

The first time he comes, Joker refuses to speak to him, and they spend fifteen minutes staring at one another as Bruce tries and fails to get him to confess why he’s agreed to this in the first place.

The second time he comes, Joker is singing. It’s a love song. He stares right at Bruce as he sings it, and his lips are fixed into a grin that feels just an inch too stretched. He refuses to stop. Bruce leaves after three minutes.

The third time he comes, he brings cards. It seems to work; Joker sits down to a game willingly enough. They play in silence until about ten minutes in, when Joker asks, “And how is the lovely miss Gordon doing these days? I imagine the surgery must have cost an arm and a leg. Or two legs, as the case may be.”

Bruce shoves his chair back, hard, snatches the cards away, and slams the door. Joker laughs him out. He sounds as angry as Bruce feels.

And, in the end, it’s the anger that keeps Bruce coming back, even more than the promise. When he catches glimpses of it under Joker’s theatrics, hope beats against his chest, however tiny, that maybe this could work, because what the anger means is, Joker's lashing out. It means he resents Batman for making him agree to this, to give up what makes him him. He’s hurting, and he wants to hurt Bruce right back for it, but he’s hurting because, at least for now, he’s keeping his word.

Bruce can take the anger. He’s prepared for it. He knows how to deal with it. And he knew, even as he made the offer for the first time, that this was never going to be easy.

Besides, this could still be little more than just another game, and Bruce takes that into account every time he strides through the cold corridors of Arkham. It's far too early to get his hopes up, and he knows the risks. He knows who he’s dealing with. He’s careful, and doesn’t give Joker any more openings than he absolutely has to, and wonders, every time - providing that it really isn’t a game - if today is going to be the day Joker gives up for good, and throws the deal back in Bruce’s face.

Sometimes, in the small hours when the night begins to drain away from the sky, Bruce wonders if he’s not subconsciously hoping for it.

Even so, he keeps coming back, and he brings the cards with him, and sometimes they even manage to finish a game without Bruce storming out in the middle.

“You expect me to crack,” Joker says one evening, about two months into this new, shaky arrangement. He’s looking into his cards and not at Bruce, pointedly so; his voice tries to be light but there’s steel underneath it.

Bruce sees no point in lying. He says, “Yes.”

Joker’s mouth curls into a smirk. He lays his cards down on the table. It’s a winning hand.

“Good thing I excel at doing the unexpected,” he says.

Bruce gathers up the cards and leaves.

He doesn’t wait a whole week before visiting again. Joker isn’t the only one here with something to prove.

***

The doctors at Arkham don’t like it. They say it’s hopeless; they say there’s no evidence of Joker’s genuine desire to reform; they try to talk him out of it, for the good of the city. Alfred does the same. Barbara doesn’t answer his calls, and Jim hasn’t turned on the Bat signal in over three months, even though he’s refused to take time off to recover and look after his daughter.

Bruce doesn’t blame any of them, and he doesn’t try to talk to Jim on his own. The words of explanation aren’t quite here yet. They both need time.

And meanwhile, he keeps visiting. Twice a week now if he can spare the time, but he makes a point to avoid a regular schedule to keep Joker on his toes. He brings the cards with him, and has started to bring candy, too, after a visit goes particularly well.

“Trying to condition me, Batsy?” Joker asks, sly and delighted, popping an expensive chocolate truffle into his mouth.

Bruce watches him. “Maybe.”

“Excellent. I want lemon ganache next time. Hate cherry. Belgian milk will do, too.”

Bruce lets him swallow the truffle and reach for another. He asks, “I can convince Arkham to resume your therapy. Do you want me to?”

Joker pauses. The truffle stops halfway to his mouth, staining white fingers brown. He searches Bruce’s face.

“Will you keep visiting?”

“Yes.”

“Then I couldn’t care less what they do. Go ahead and parade a whole host of lab coats through here if you think it’ll work, as long as I get to see your lovely face.”

Bruce ignores the baiting, like he always does, but as soon as he leaves, he heads straight for Arkham’s office.

Predictably, the doctor isn’t happy.

“We’ve tried all forms of therapy before,” he murmurs, pressing hands to his forehead as though to ward off a headache. “What makes you so sure it’ll work this time?”

“I’ll be personally involved.”

Arkham snorts. “Sure, be my guest. We’ve already broken every rule in the book letting you have free roam of the place, might as well make you an honorary doctor and be done with it. Do you want a pair of glasses to make it official? A clipboard? A white coat?”

Bruce keeps his face still. “I don’t do white.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Arkham eyes Bruce resentfully, a vein in his forehead throbbing. “You’re taking too many chances with him, and putting this whole city at risk as a result. Even you can’t guarantee results.”

“I can’t,” Bruce agrees quietly. “All I have is a gut feeling.”

“And what’s your gut feeling telling you?”

Bruce’s fingers curl into fists. “It’ll work.”

He can’t explain it to Jeremiah Arkham, any more than he can explain it to anyone else. And he could be wrong. But he doesn’t think he is, not this time, not with the signs he’s been reading in Joker’s body if not in his words.

It’ll work.

***

Joker escapes five months into his renewed therapy. Bruce finds him just outside the Asylum gates, sitting on the grass, his jumpsuit caked with mud. Joker giggles when he sees Bruce melt out of the shadows, but the sound is quiet, and he doesn’t move to stand up.

“Hello, darling,” he says.

“I’m taking you back in.”

“Okay.”

Bruce takes a step closer. Joker watches him, unmoving, and if anything, he looks tired.

“Just keeping you on your toes, Bats,” he says when Bruce eventually offers a hand to help him up. “Can’t have you growing too complacent, now, can we?” He giggles at that, too, and this time, it sounds bitter. “’Sides, they amped up security. They can’t give me a new challenge and then expect me not to take it.”

“How many people have you hurt?” Bruce asks.

Joker shrugs, and lets Bruce push him out of the tree cover and onto the road. “Maybe three. None of them will die and, with any luck, there won’t even be any scarring. Consider it a gift, from me to you.”

Bruce’s fingers curl over one bony shoulder, hard enough to bruise. “If you’re not going to take this seriously —”

Joker looks at him. The smile is still there, but his eyes are hollow, cold. “You think I don’t?” he whispers. “You think I’d be sitting out here in the cold, waiting for you to pick me up, if I didn’t? I could have better things to do than rot here, drugged half to death and bored out of my mind the rest of the way. I could be organizing parties. Visiting friends. Dancing…”

The smile stretches. Bruce pushes him on and thinks of Barbara, weeping in the hospital bed.

“We’re not dancing,” he tells Joker.

Joker sighs. “Not anymore.”

Bruce chooses not to answer. He moves his grip from Joker’s shoulder to his arm. “Come on.”

“There’s more than one kind of dance, you know, Batsy,” Joker whispers when Bruce waits with him at the gates.

His voice, small and trembling, is laced with hope, and so are the eyes he raises to Bruce. Bruce thinks he understands. Joker needs something to replace what he’d agreed to lose, and Bruce can’t quite stop himself saying, “Yes.”

There are other kinds of dances. And he can’t help but feel that he’s just agreed to take Joker’s hand, all over again.

Only this time, Joker doesn’t know the steps. He’s asking Bruce to lead. And Bruce isn’t all that sure he knows the steps either, but they both know he’s gonna do his damnest to figure it out, and maybe that’s good enough for now.

***

Bruce invests more money into Arkham, anonymously at first and then as an overblown publicity stunt, and the chief purpose of that is to revamp the Arkham labs. It's obvious that, due in no small part to his chemically-altered physiognomy, the meds Joker currently receives do a whole lot of fuck-all, and there's no way the treatment can proceed without some medical aid. So one crucial part of his new therapy, as Bruce sees it, is new, effective medication.

And Bruce makes it crystal clear that Batman intends to be part of the development process every step of the way.

Arkham only puts up a token resistance, and eventually gives them his blessing. They start by collecting a small team of finest experts in psychiatry, both local and imported, who begin by signing a bunch of NDAs and then examine Joker, take blood samples, run tests and analyses, and hold brainstorming sessions that run late into the night. It's a long, frustrating couple of months of trial and error in fumed-up labs and depressingly dark rooms, and Bruce finds himself spending more time holed up with the doctors than he does out in the streets; and more often than not, he keeps brainstorming even as he perches up on the rooftops or tries to sleep. The process seems to drag on forever, but then they finally experience a breakthrough, and manage to come up with a starting dose of anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, tranquilizers, suppressants and mood stabilizers that Joker actually responds to.

And that?

That changes everything.

The new meds mean the visits become even more erratic. Uglier. Jokes is still able to focus on Bruce, but doesn’t seem to be there half the time. And when he is, he’s either silent or pretending to rave, trying just hard enough for Bruce to see through the act, probably to coax guilt out onto Bruce’s face.

Bruce doesn’t play into his hand. He watches, and supervises, and though they only play perhaps half the time these days he still brings the cards, and the sweets, too. And when he thinks Joker’s lucid enough, he asks questions he knows won’t be answered.

In the meantime, he tries to put a stop to the electroshock therapy sessions that Joker still regularly receives. Curiously, even with the new working meds, the staff fight him on it harder than they'd fought him on anything else in the past. It’s integral to the treatment, they claim, and Batman has no legal authority to refute that. He’s already meddling too much, interfering, overstepping, and eventually, Dr. Arkham threatens to cut the visits entirely if he doesn’t relent.

“We’re risking a lot just letting you in,” he insists. “If word gets out you’re involved with the meds, they’d shut this place down faster than you can say ‘bat’. I won’t have you telling me and my staff how to do our jobs.”

“He doesn't need electroshocks anymore. The meds are working,” Bruce reminds him.

“We don’t know that yet, and in the meantime, we're going to take every precaution we can. It’s still too early to tell.”

Except, it really isn't. Bruce can already see the effects clear as day. The Joker laughs less, and he’s calmer, his eyes less manic, the muscles of his face more relaxed. His fingers don't twitch as much. His smiles no longer stretch unnaturally wide, most of the time, and his edges seem softer, his voice quieter. Those changes are small, and Bruce can only look for them when the medication doesn’t make Joker zone out or lose it altogether, which it still does, with the doses being constantly readjusted. But they’re there. For the first time, the treatment is having an effect, and hope struggles to shine through the cracks around the door of Bruce’s self-control no matter how hard he tries to shut it out.

Until the Joker escapes again, and this time, he doesn't wait for Bruce to pick him up. No, this time he fights, manic and wild like he seldom is anymore, nails slashing and teeth biting and “No no no please no” and “I want to go back to how we were” and “I don’t like this dance” and “Just let me go.” He struggles madly in Bruce's arms all the way back to the Asylum, and it gets bad enough that Bruce needs to knock him out just to avoid him slipping away. He still wakes up just before they lock him back in the cell, and he screams and trashes all through it, and they have to sedate him to inject the meds into him by force.

"We found a week’s worth of undigested pills hidden in the cracks in the floor under his bed," one of Joker's doctors tell him. She's one of the new psychiatrists they invited to help with Joker, a short, stout woman with long black hair swept into a bun, dark skin and dark, knowing eyes. "He really doesn't like the new medication. You do know what that means, don't you, Batman?"

Bruce says nothing. He watches the guards manhandle Joker to the cot, restrain him and inject the IV with the meds into his arms as he screams and screams and screams, and his pulse races hotly in his ears. He stays all the way to the end, until Joker's wild eyes finally cloud over and close and he slumps on the cot, and the screams haunt him long after he leaves.

There are no more incidents after that.

Still, it’s what finally drives Bruce to act on a thought that has been building and building ever since Joker’s first escape, and when he returns to the cave that night, he shares the plan with Alfred.

“This is very stupid,” Alfred says after a long, long spell of silence, “and very brave. Which should be the title of your biography, sir, should you ever feel the need to authorize one.”

He’s shaken, Bruce can tell. It only comes through in tiny changes to his usual tone and posture, but it's there. And Bruce's heart aches for him, but he’s determined now, and if he wasn't, what he saw at Arkham that night would have settled it. His mind is made up, and he knows one thing for sure: if this is to have any chance of succeeding, Joker cannot stay at Arkham.

“We can make this work,” he says. “I’ll make sure of that. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“And what about Master Jason?”

Bruce grits his teeth. “For now, he’s with Dick and the Titans. I will inform him of the plan… in due course.”

“You mean you intend to hide this from him until everything's settled.” Alfred’s voice gains a sharp edge of disapproval.

Bruce looks away. “He wouldn’t understand. It’s for the best, Alfred. He’d fight me on it —”

“Perhaps with good reason.”

“— and I just know it’ll help. Think about all the lives we’ll save if this works.”

“That's still a big if, sir,” Alfred points out. “Don’t you think Master Jason should have a say in what goes on in his own house?”

He’s right, of course. He always is. “It’s my call. I’m making it,” Bruce says anyway, because while his heart hurts for Jason, he knows his duty, and his gut is telling him that this is it.

Alfred sighs. He isn’t quite meeting Bruce’s eyes. “There’s no talking you out of it, is there?”

“No.”

“I see.” Alfred’s shoulders don’t slump, exactly, but they do drop an inch or so, and Bruce has to swallow over the spike of remorse that, once upon a time, might have made him reconsider.

“He won’t hurt you,” he repeats.

Alfred looks at him. “It’s not myself I’m worried about.”

Bruce pretends he doesn’t know what he means.

***

Jim Gordon stands by the lit Bat signal, smoking. Bruce waits until he finishes his cigarette before jumping onto the roof, right where Jim can see him. This is important.

“Jim,” he says quietly.

Jim regards him quietly, foot driving the remains of the cigarette stub into the roof.

“I had an interesting conversation with Wayne the other day,” he says.

Bruce nods. “Yes.”

“He said it was your idea.”

“It was.”

“I don’t have to tell you I hate it.”

“No.”

Jim gazes into the lenses of the cowl, and Bruce looks right back. It lasts about a minute. Then Jim sighs, and turns his back on him.

“I hear you’ve been visiting him,” he says quietly, looking out over Gotham’s skyline, and though he tries to hide it, Bruce can still detect the bitter edge to his voice. “Some new sort of therapy, they say. And he’s playing along. So, what, you think this plan of yours, that it’s the next step?”

“I do,” Bruce says, sincerely.

“And what if you’re wrong and he ends up killing Wayne and escaping?”

“I’ll make sure it won’t happen. I’m working on adequate precautions.”

“He’s done the impossible before.”

“Yes,” Bruce admits, “but that was before. Like you said, he’s cooperating now.”

“And how long do you think that’ll last?”

Bruce says nothing. There’s no promises to be made here, and they both know it. He waits.

“I don’t have men to spare,” Jim says eventually. “We’re stretched thin as it is. Wayne is going to have to shell out on his own security.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I want access to security tapes — I’m assuming you’re gonna install surveillance?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I want to be consulted on security measures, too. This is still going to be a prison.”

Bruce nods. “Of course.”

“Okay, I gotta ask,” Jim says, turning back to him, “how does Wayne expect to keep it under wraps? It’s gonna leak. No way it won’t. And then he’s going to have the whole city on his doorstep, with pitchforks and flaming torches.”

Bruce has considered that. He says, “I have ways of ensuring it won’t leak, at least for a while.”

Jim turns to look at him. He doesn’t seem convinced. “You gonna try and personally intimidate every single Arkham employee and journalist in this town?”

“If I have to.”

“I can’t believe we’re even considering this,” Jim mumbles, and his fingers twitch like he’s yearning for another smoke. “This is sick. He’s sick. And I’m sick just thinking about it.”

Bruce’s throat feels cold. Dry. “I know how difficult this must be for you —”

“Do you?” Jim looks straight at him, and his eyes are the coldest Bruce has ever seen them.

He waits a beat, and then continues: “But I’m trying to make a difference. So what happened to you… and Barbara… won’t happen to anyone else.”

Jim tenses. His hand hides in the pocket of his coat, and Bruce knows he’s fingering his gun.

He stands still, and watches Jim as Gotham carries on below.

“It’s on you,” Jim says eventually. “Whatever he does? It’s on you.”

Bruce nods. He’s accepted that from the start.

***

Two months later, the gates of the Wayne estate open at four in the morning to admit a single black van, unmarked and with an ordinary license plate. Bruce, fully decked in the Batman suit, waits for the van to park by the East Wing.

“Where’s Wayne?” Arkham asks, getting out of the van.

“He preferred to spend the night elsewhere. He’d rather not be here to see the patient.”

“So the man does have some sense,” Arkham mutters. Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“It was my idea,” he says, “I talked it over with Wayne. I should be the one to introduce the Joker to his new home.”

Arkham shrugs, and so do the police officers he’s brought with him. The doctors frown. One of them, a slight blond woman who looks no older than twenty, confesses she’s been hoping to talk to Mr. Wayne about visiting hours and possibilities for continuing therapy. Bruce promises her she’ll be able to schedule an appointment. She looks appeased, but still apprehensive, and clutches her clipboard tight to her chest as they finally decide to wheel out the patient.

Joker's sedated and looks to be asleep, or maybe unconscious. They still felt the need to put him in a straitjacket and chain his feet. Bruce doesn’t comment on that, and silently leads them all into the manor by the side staff entrance, taking over to push Joker’s wheelchair himself.

On the third floor, he quietly explains the extensive security measures installed in the furthest closed-off section. To all intents and purposes, the third floor of the East Wing is now a fortress. It doesn’t look like one, though, wires and lasers and surveillance cameras camouflaged behind bright colors and comfortable furniture. Joker gets three rooms to himself: a bedroom with an ensuite, a parlor, and a gym. The windows in all three are bulletproof glass, big and wide to admit plenty of sunlight, and look out into the gardens with Gotham’s sharp skyline still looming in the distance because Bruce knows Joker needs the comfort of that sight as much as he does. The rooms are spacious and bright, fully furnished, with a small library complete with a writing desk and a wardrobe filled with new clothes custom-made to fit according to Bruce’s instructions. A dumbwaiter has been installed so Alfred won’t have to come anywhere near here, with the lift and the chute both much too small for Joker to fit into them (and even so, there are alarms in place to prevent any such attempts).

“This is all very… generous,” Dr. Arkham admits grudgingly as he surveys the rooms. “I wish Wayne were here so I could discuss the details with him personally.”

“He said he will come to your office tomorrow,” Bruce promises.

“Hmm.” Arkham runs a hand across the lacquered wood of the writing desk, its edges blunted, then drums his fingers against it, frowning. “This is so much more than the bastard deserves.”

In the chair, Joker sits quiet and still, head bent low like it’s been since they brought him out of the van. Bruce says nothing.

“It’s still a prison,” the young blond doctor observes. She's frowning too, her eyes flitting to Joker and Bruce like she’s fighting the urge to insert herself between them.

Bruce thinks he might have to keep an eye on that one.

“It is,” he agrees. “I helped design the security systems. Wayne is aware of the risks.”

“And yet he still invited the scumbag into his home,” Arkham murmurs.

Bruce says nothing.

“Let me take over from here,” Alfred says from the doorway, soft-footed as ever. “I will show you the control room and we can discuss the details of the guard rota while our… guest settles in. Right this way.”

“I don’t think we should leave the two of them alone,” the young doctor protests.

Arkham rolls his eyes and grabs her by the hand. “Come on, Batman’s a big boy. I’m sure he can handle a drugged man in a straitjacket.”

She pulls her hand away. “That’s not what I —”

“Dr. Quinzel,” Arkham barks. “We’re leaving.”

She grits her teeth. Her eyes, when she looks at Bruce, are hard with warning, and he's almost touched that someone should feel so protective of Joker.

Almost. She's so young, and Joker has a way of getting to people. He’ll have to have a talk with Arkham about that.

Alfred escorts the group of doctors and police officers out, giving Bruce a long look as he does. The doors click shut. The reinforced metal wall slides into place with a hollow bang of finality. Soon, all the systems will go online, and…

And it’ll be done. There'll be no going back.

Not that Bruce was ever going to.

“They’re all gone,” he says quietly after a moment. “The cameras won’t go online for another fifteen minutes. You can stop pretending now.”

“Nice place you got here, Bats,” Joker whispers. His voice scratches out of his throat with effort, and he only lifts his head a few inches. His eyes, when he pries them open, look muddy, unfocused. The pupils still zero in on Bruce as he moves to stand in front of the wheelchair, and the corner of Joker’s unpainted lips tugs up.

Bruce keeps his face blank. “It’s not my —”

“Oh all right, your day mask’s then. Come on, Batsy, I think we can drop the act at this point. You’ve invited me to move in with you. It’s a new dance, remember?”

Bruce searches his face, considering. He’s had his suspicions, but…

“If it’s a new dance,” he says eventually, “and you think you know my name, why not give me yours?”

“You know my name.”

“The real one.”

“My name is the real one, Bats. You know how this works.”

Bruce doesn’t want to argue. He isn’t sure he can. Instead, he points out, “Even so, I still have a different name to retreat to when the night is over.”

“Hey, whatever floats your bat-boat. Personally I never saw the appeal.”

“You will eventually, if we’re still doing this. The goal is to get you back out there. You’re going to need a name.”

Joker lets out a sound that’s not a sigh but not a giggle either. “Let’s cross that bridge if we get there, shall we?”

Bruce takes note of the if, and he knows Joker knows that he does. He keeps his face still.

“All right. What do you want me to call you in the meantime?”

“Just keep using my name. It shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

They hold each other’s eyes for a minute exactly. Then Joker blinks, like keeping his eyes open is a challenge, and his chin drops onto his chest. Either he’s about to pass out, or he’s faking it. Bruce decides it’s probably time to face the inevitable.

“I’m going to carry you to the bed,” he says loudly to focus Joker’s attention back on himself. “Then I’ll release you from the straitjacket. You’ll have free roam of the rooms here and the balcony, provided you don’t try to break out into the other parts of the house. Can you —” Bruce walks up to the wheelchair. “Joker. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, sweetie darling,” Joker mutters, a smile in his voice pushing through the drug haze. “Go ahead an’ suh, sweep me off my feet.”

The less alert part of Bruce wants to roll his eyes. He suppresses it, because even now, the man in front of him is dangerous, and he’s about to get way too close. To distract himself, or maybe both of them, Bruce starts talking as he bends to slide his arms around Joker. “There will be security guards in the control room watching you. The cameras have no blind spots. The walls and widows are reinforced. You're not allowed to handle chemicals or sharp objects, and nothing that can be made into a weapon.”

“You smell nice,” Joker observes sleepily.

Bruce locks his muscles into place and pulls Joker up into his arms. “You don’t,” he murmurs.

Joker giggles, and lets his head roll onto Bruce’s shoulder.

“You’ll be given three meals a day. You can address the cameras and ask for more if you’re hungry. Someone will let the staff know. In time, if you behave, we can work out a way for you to go out into the gardens, but for now you’ll be confined to the balcony. It has a force field around it so you can’t jump out. There are alarms in place to prevent you leaving your quarters in any way. I have precautions to knock you out if you decide to make trouble. There are books in the parlor. The TV will only be used for video therapy sessions, but if we decide you’re responding to the treatment, we might reconsider.”

Joker’s curling hair tickles the exposed skin around Bruce’s mouth. It’s just a bit stiff, but still softer than anything permanently altered by chemicals has any right to be, and it smells of sterile hospital soap, like it’s been freshly washed. The straitjacket reeks of old sweat and mothballs, and Joker’s body feels light, frail, wiry under Bruce’s fingers. The chains seem to be responsible for most of the weight. He’s mostly limp as Bruce carries him over to the bedroom, but he does try to press closer to Bruce’s chest, and Bruce doesn’t quite manage to ignore it.

“Your treatment will continue,” he says. “Like I said, your sessions will be conducted through video. There's an alarm installed that will remind you to take your medication at regulated times.”

“And if I don’t?” Joker asks as Bruce lowers him onto the bed.

“If you don’t, we will know,” Bruce says sternly, “and the medication will be administered intravenously.”

“How exciting. Will you be the one manhandling me?” Joker’s smile is almost eager.

“Maybe. But you’ll be unconscious for it anyway, so it’s better for all involved if you don’t try to find out.”

“Killjoy.”

“You’ve agreed to this,” Bruce reminds him. “That’s the only reason you’re here. I know you can probably bypass most of my security measures given enough time, and I’m ready for it. But you’re here by choice, and I’m not going to go back on our deal as long as you don’t. But I want you to know this.” Bruce leans closer, making sure Joker’s eyes stay on him. “The moment you try anything… the moment I decide you’re back to your old tricks… the moment you make anyone under my roof fear for their safety… You’re back to Arkham. The deal is off. No more visits, no more coddling, no more… dancing. Do you understand?”

Joker keeps his eyes on him. His smile, although tired, settles into something mocking, something cruel. Still, he nods, then turns onto his side to look out the window where dawn is spilling vivid pinks and oranges all over the sky.

“It’s about trust,” Bruce says, watching the play of sunlight on Joker’s gaunt face. “You’re here to get better, and to prove to me you actually want to. This new arrangement is supposed to make it easier for you. If you’re serious about making an effort, you won’t throw this chance away.”

“Here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo… here comes the sun,” Joker sings softly. “And I say, it’s all right… it’s all right.”

Bruce waits a beat. He turns to look at the sunrise, then back to Joker.

“I’m going to release you of the straitjacket now,” he says.

“Little Batsy, it’s been one cold lonely winter,” Joker hums. “Little Batsy, it feels like years since it’s been here.”

Bruce bends over him to carefully undo the restraints. Joker keeps humming, voice going softer and softer, even after Bruce is done and his arms and feet are free.

“Trust,” Bruce repeats. “Remember that.”

“Little Batsy, I feel that ice is slowly melting. Little Batsy, it seems like years since it’s been clear…”

“I’ll be back tonight.”

“Here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo.”

Bruce watches him for a moment longer, until Joker’s voice drains away entirely and his eyes fall shut. His breath, now unrestrained, evens out.

That’s when Bruce clasps the custom-made slim metal shock bracelet over Joker’s wrist, and locks it. The signal on the bracelet blinks green, activating. Only then does Bruce turn to leave.

Trust only goes so far.

Chapter Text

Alfred sits at the computer in the cave, watching the camera feeds from Joker’s rooms. He doesn’t turn when Bruce walks up to him and stands beside the chair - a curious role reversal that, at any other time, might have made Bruce smile.

“What's he doing?” he asks, reaching for the plate of canapes Alfred brought down.

“Preening.”

“Preening?”

“Yes.” Alfred points to one of the monitors, and Bruce’s eyes follow. The feed shows Joker in his bedroom examining himself critically in the mirror, wearing one of the suits Bruce has ordered for him.

It fits perfectly. Bruce doesn’t even want to begin to examine how he feels at the knowledge that he’s estimated Joker’s measurements this accurately.

“How long has he been at it?” he asks, swallowing the discomfort with the canape and washing it down with water for good measure.

“It’s been an hour since I came down here, Master Bruce. This is the third suit I have had the misfortune of seeing him try on.”

Bruce fights the urge to smirk. “And yet you’re still here.”

“Indeed. It’s rather like watching a plane crash, sir. One just cannot look away.”

On the screen, Joker poses in front of the mirror, one of the showy, ridiculous poses he could well be striking in the middle of one of his more theatrical “performances.” Hip thrust out, hands the air, long fingers stretched out like a dancer’s. Then he moves into another pose, and another, testing the fabric, watching it stretch and yield over his thin, spindly frame.

Bruce has to agree with Alfred’s assessment — it really is impossible to look away.

“He looks better,” he observes quietly. “The drugs wore off?”

“I was told by the lovely Dr. Quinzel that he would wake up sometime around noon. It seems that her estimate was on the money. Incidentally, she insists on a meeting.”

“I’ll call Arkham in the evening,” Bruce promises. His eyes track Joker around the room.

Alfred clears his throat. “Master Bruce, I did my best not to question your decisions regarding this matter,” he says, moving to stand up. “I understand that... this... is an important project for you, and that you need to do it your way.”

Bruce’s throat clenches. He nods. “I appreciate it, Alfred.”

Alfred makes way for him, and Bruce takes his seat in front of the computer.

“Even so, I must wonder, sir… is it wise to indulge him like that?”

“I’m not indulging him.”

“The clothes you've provided are all in his preferred colors.”

“I saw no harm in that,” Bruce says. Joker is now trying to finger-comb his hair, with little success.

“And the doctors, Master Bruce? What did they have to say on the subject of encouraging his… peculiarities?”

Bruce sighs, letting his head fall back against the headrest. His eyes follow Joker as he begins to waltz around the room, humming, One two three, one two three.

“We’re trying to do things differently this time,” he says. “Arkham hasn’t been able to beat, drug or shock the clown out of him. Maybe that’s not the way to go. Maybe the clown himself isn’t the problem.”

“And you think you can keep the clown, but drive out the sadistic murderer?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce confesses. “That’s the point of all this. To find out. Arkham wasn’t about to trigger anything new in him — he’d been there for too long. He knows all of their methods inside and out. But this? It’s all new.”

“For him and for you,” Alfred mutters.

Bruce keeps his eyes on the monitors and pretends he didn’t hear that. Joker keeps humming, whirling around the room with his usual strange, jerky grace, and little by little, as Bruce watches him, the full, terrifying realization of what he's done finally settles like bile in his chest.

He’s in my home. He’s in my home.

The coldness of it clutches at his chest and squeezes, much too tight. He presses his eyes closed for a moment, and breathes out. It was a mistake, he thinks, it was all a mistake, it can never work.

But it has to. He has to make it work. There really is no going back now.

“What do you think, Alfred?” he asks.

“Well, he’s no Bette Middler,” Alfred judges. “His pitch needs work.”

“No, I mean…” Bruce lets out a long sigh, trying not to imagine Alfred giving Joker singing pointers. “About all of this. About him. Being here.”

Alfred takes a long time to answer, and when he does, he puts his hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“I think, sir, that you’re doing something that you feel needs to be done. I cannot in good conscience fault you for that, even if I have to admit it does make me feel rather… uneasy.”

Bruce nods, throat tight. He can’t quite make himself look back at the screens.

“Besides,” Alfred says in a much lighter tone, “this arrangement will definitely help me while away all those long, lonely afternoons. Our new resident is much more entertaining than Family Feud.”

Bruce presses his hands to his face. The tightness in his chest is starting to ease, and give way to gratitude.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Alfred’s hand on his shoulder squeezes, and then lets go.

"Enjoy the show," Alfred says. "Myself, I've just about had my fill of clown-related excitement for one day. I think I'll cool off with a spot of knife-sharpening." He pauses, and glances up at the screens. "If nothing else, it's going to sound like violin music after his screeching."

And Bruce almost, almost, smiles.

***

As expected, it doesn't take long for the news to spread; Dick calls Bruce when he’s out on patrol that very same night.

“So,” he says over the comm link, “you’ve officially lost your mind. How’s that working out for you?”

“You’ve been talking to Alfred,” Bruce sighs, scanning the streets below.

“No. Barbara. Did you know she’s found a way to hack into Arkham? Even the super secret files?”

Bruce takes too long to answer. Dick, of course, translates that correctly.

“You didn’t,” he accuses, “because you’ve been too busy adopting clowns to actually talk to her. What the hell were you thinking, Bruce?”

“Does Jason know?” Bruce asks.

“Um, yeah? He’s right here. He doesn’t want to talk to you, though, and I can’t say I blame him. He’s extending his holiday, by the way. Doesn’t feel very homesick right now.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “Please tell him I’m sorry.”

“Are you though?” Dick presses, openly angry now. “What about Babs and Gordon? Why haven’t you told anyone, Bruce?”

“Because I knew you’d try to stop me.”

“Well, duh! Because it’s a crazy idea! Bruce, he shot Babs! You saw! And you saw what he did to Gordon, and that’s not even going into all the other people he’s hurt or killed! How can you even think about — about what, shacking up with him or something, I don’t even know what you’re trying to do here!”

“I'm trying to cure him,” Bruce growls into the comm. “I’m trying to stop him from ever hurting anyone else again. Arkham wasn’t working. Maybe this will.”

“You think a change of scenery is gonna do what years and years of treatment couldn’t?”

“It’s different this time, Dick.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“Because he’s agreed to it,” Bruce whispers. “He’s willing to work with me.”

“That’s what he told you?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe him.”

Bruce sighs. “I do.”

“Bruce, I don’t know what to tell you. You know him. You’ve known him the longest of any of us, maybe except Gordon. But sometimes you get so — frustrating, when it comes to him, like there’s this giant blind spot, and I — But you don’t want to listen to me, do you? You never have. Me, or any of us. You’re the big bad Bat, and you know best. You know what? Fine. Adopt him for all I care. And when he breaks out and, I don’t know, kills Alfred, or finds his way into the cave, or puts you in a damn chair…”

“That won’t happen.”

“Tell that to Babs!”

Bruce waits a beat, counts under his breath, and keeps himself still. A few moments, and Dick’s hard breathing begins to even out. Only then does Bruce allow himself to speak.

“I haven’t talked to Barbara because she hasn’t answered any of my calls,” he tells Dick quietly. “I tried. But she needs time, and I respect that. I wanted to give her the space she needed.”

“And you didn’t wonder how she’d react when she learned you took the guy who shot her into your home? From a goddamn file?”

“I didn’t —” Bruce closes his mouth, searching for what will sound the least wrong. “I didn’t realize she’d gain access to those files. I was planning to tell her myself, when she was ready to see me.”

“Well, she damn sure doesn’t want to see you now. Especially since you made Gordon keep it a secret from her, too. Well done, Bruce.”

“I was trying to protect her.”

“Is it true what the police said?” Dick asks suddenly, and Bruce’s heart feels like it can’t possibly shrink any smaller. “Babs told me some of the officers said they saw you two. You and the clown. Just standing there in the rain… laughing. Together. Before you took him in. Is it true?”

Bruce sighs. He was wrong; his heart can, in fact, get even smaller. “They told Barbara that?”

“Yeah.” Dick sounds cold, unforgiving. “That’s why she didn’t want to talk to you. Well?”

“Yes,” Bruce whispers. “It’s true.”

Dick hangs up.

He might as well have been there to slap Bruce with his own hand — the tiny click of the link breaking feels just as sharp and stingy against Bruce’s heart. He’s left standing there in the cold night air, listening to the never-changing static of his city, and this time, it isn’t quite loud enough to cover up the silence that rings like an accusation.

You’ve chosen him over us.

And Bruce knows it’s not true. It could never be true. He’s only doing what needs to be done, and… Well. It’s not the first time it’s costing him things and people he cares about. He’d only hoped it would hurt less and less every time he has to make that choice.

It doesn’t.

***

The next day, he calls Arkham to make arrangements regarding therapy. It looks like the young doctor Quinzel is still one of the few volunteers left willing to interact with Joker, and Bruce doesn’t comment on her because it would be suspicious of Wayne to express concern over someone he's never officially met. But he does make a note to visit the Asylum later as Batman. That young lady seemed too… invested. That’s not a good thing to be when you’re going face to face with someone like Joker.

Bruce should know.

He goes up to the control room for the first time that evening, too, because he knows he should. It’d be wrong if he never showed his face up there even though he’d gone to all the trouble of setting the whole thing up. But he doesn’t do it lightly, and he has a sinking feeling keeping up the Wayne mask is going to be especially difficult with no champagne and glitter and music to hide behind.

He brings coffee and tea instead, and donuts.

He hopes it’s enough.

“How are we doing, gentlemen?” he asks loudly, stepping into the dark room. “Is my new guest behaving himself?”

There are two people in the control booth — a man and a woman, Bill Winston and Lakeisha Jones. Which Bruce knew perfectly well going in. He still acts surprised to see a female security guard, and makes a show of catching himself and grinning at her like he would grin at any socialite at a party.

To her credit, Jones clearly couldn’t be less impressed, and reaches for her donut with an expression that quite eloquently communicates to Bruce she eats buffoons like him for breakfast.

“Finally decided to show your face, huh?” she murmurs. She points at the screens. “See for yourself, sir.”

Bruce does, and what he sees makes his eyes go wide.

“Is he — ”

“Swinging on the curtains, yeah,” Winston confirms, slouching in his chair with feet propped up on the control panel. “Apparently, the gym was no fun.”

“That's some sturdy stuff,” Jones remarks. “You’d think the rod would break, but it’s holding up.” She munches on her donut, turning away from Bruce and towards the screens. “Then again, how much could the clown even weigh?” she muses. “He’s pretty much all bone.”

160 lbs, Batman wants to say. Bruce keeps his mouth shut and stares at the screens, where Joker is, indeed, climbing the old curtains in the parlor and swinging himself back and forth with delighted chuckles - which, true to form, still manage to sound disturbing.

“How long has he been at it?” Bruce wonders.

“Around half an hour,” Winston says. “He was jumping on the bed earlier and making a mess of the library. I think he was going to rearrange all the books by color before he lost interest.”

Bruce looks at the floor of the parlor. It’s littered with books, many of them spread open, their spines bent, their pages rustled. “Cute,” he murmurs. “Maybe I should get him some coloring books instead.”

Winston chuckles appreciatively. Jones snorts and rolls her eyes. “For all we know, he’d appreciate it,” she judges. “Creep.”

“You’re in for a treat, Mr. Wayne,” her colleague observes. “It’s almost meds time.”

Bruce knows. He schools his face into amused interest anyway. “Is it really? He give you any trouble yesterday?”

“Actually, no,” Jones says. “He did ask about the Bat though. A lot. And then he just kind of… sat on the bed and stared out the window. You know, like a creep.”

“And took the meds in the morning again when the alarm went off. Bit disappointing, actually, I kinda wanted to see what the bracelet does.”

“You still might.” Jones sits back in the chair, reaching for another donut. “It’s only day two.”

“I’d rather not have to activate it if it’s all the same to you,” Bruce says. “It packs quite a punch, if Batman's to be believed. I have a delicate stomach.”

“Cover your eyes then,” Jones says bitterly. “If anyone deserves a good electroshock, it’s this clown.”

Bruce gives her a sharp glance. He’s screened all the potential security guards to weed out those whose families have been hurt by Joker, or those who have been victimized by him personally, and she seemed clean. She shouldn’t have a personal vendetta. Then again, Gothamites have a tendency to take every slight against their city personally. Maybe she simply doesn’t like to see anyone hurt. Bruce can understand that.

The alarm goes off before he can comment. A shrill robotic beep, a pause, then another beep, followed by the mechanized voice instructing Joker that “It’s time to take your medicine.” More beeps. The message repeats. And again. And again.

Bruce watches as Joker stops swinging, then gracefully slides down the curtain to the ground. “Cease your yammering,” he whines, looking up at the closest camera. “I get it, Betty. It’s happy pills time. Shush.”

He waves his hand imperiously, as though that could stop the noise. He makes his way towards the dumbwaiter, where the pills are already waiting next to a plastic cup filled with water. Bruce watches him as he stops just short, just out of reach, and studies the pills like they’re a sizzling bundle of dynamite sticks.

He turns his head to the camera again.

“Who does a clown have to disembowel around here to get a cup of tea?” he demands.

Bruce’s heart beats hard and fast. This is it. This is where he finds out if he’s read the Joker right.

“May I talk to him?” he asks the security guards.

Jones shrugs. “Be my guest, but don’t expect anything but quips and bad puns. He has to take the meds within the next, what, ten minutes? Or the bracelet will fry him.”

“Okay.” Bruce leans over the control panel between the guards and tips the microphone towards himself, then clears his throat. His skin feels clammy, and he prays his body won’t give him away now.

“Hello, Joker,” he says into the microphone. “You can have tea if you behave.”

The reaction is immediate. Joker twirls in place and spins his entire body towards the camera, and his back shoots up straight so he’s suddenly much taller and seems to fill out the frame. Light goes off in his eyes, as though someone flipped a switch. His grin shows off rows of sharp teeth, and there’s a spring in his step that hasn’t been there before.

He has an audience now. He’s performing. Bruce holds his breath, and waits.

“Could it be?” Joker chirps, waving at the camera. “Is that you, Brucie darling? My, ha, knight in shining armor, finally come to survey his battle prize?” He giggles, bright and manic, and executes a flawless pirouette. “I'm so honored. I was starting to feel so sad and lonely, I almost thought you weren’t gonna come!”

Bruce forces his mouth into a smirk. “I couldn’t pass up the chance to say hello to my celebrity guest,” he says lightly. “How do you like your new home?”

“Oh, it’s splendid, it really is. Much better than the stinky dives I’m used to. Personally, I’d go for more color, but maybe I can talk you into that later, eh, Brucie? Five out of five, would pilfer again.” Joker laughs, fingers twitching, entire body moving with the sound. “I love the curtains, by the way. Did you know they make fabulous swings? I bet you do. I can just picture you, tiny baby Bruce, going up up up, flying high, like a brave little robin… or an owl… or a bat maybe… ”

“You have a perfectly good gym just through the door,” Bruce points out, trying to ignore the rush of blood in his ears.

“Bah!” Joker shakes his head. “It doesn’t even have a trampoline.”

“Would you like one?”

“Would you give me one?”

“Maybe.” Bruce smiles so it shows in his voice. “If you’re good.”

“I am good!” Joker assures him. “Ask your goons! I’ve been very good!”

“Let’s see it, then,” Bruce says. “Take your meds.”

“Will you come down if I do?” Joker bats his eyelashes, and it isn’t the first time he’s done that at Bruce but the stab of vague discomfort in his gut is still the same.

“No, but if you do, you won’t get electrocuted,” Bruce advises him.

“Oh, so is that what this shiny beauty here does?” Joker points at the bracelet still fastened securely around his wrist. “I’d wondered. Thought maybe Batsy just wanted to give me something pretty.”

“The Batman doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who does that,” Bruce says, relief pooling in his chest. He’s guessed right: Joker won’t expose him. There seems to be some measure of common sense under all those green curls, or maybe he thinks it’s more fun this way. But for now, he’s playing along, and Bruce feels a bit more confident in his own skin.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joker drawls, “I hear he lets Catwoman keep some of her loot. Those diamond earrings would look much better on me, don’t you think?”

He poses for Bruce. Winston chokes on his donut while Jones looks on with disgust, fist tightening on her lap.

“I’m sure they would,” Bruce says, “but before we find out, you should really take your meds. You know there’s a time limit on this?”

“Oh all right, if that’ll make you happy,” Joker grumbles, some of the spark going out of him as he turns to look at the pills again.

He stares at them for about a minute. Then, he snatches them in his hand, all at once, and practically shoves them into his mouth, like he can’t stand to even watch them get closer, and washes them down with water as soon as he can. Then he shudders, and slams the cup back down on the tray. He rests his hands on the wall and bends over, hair falling all over his face.

The beeping dies. All is quiet. In the sudden silence, Joker’s heavy breath grates on Bruce’s ears.

It’s not the pills that make him pant like that, Bruce knows. Their effect is not that immediate. It’s Joker himself, going against… whatever it is that drives him, and either he’s putting on a show, or he must really hate taking the meds.

“There,” Joker says after a moment, quietly, lifting his head just a little. “All done. Do I get a treat?”

“I think you got plenty of treats,” Bruce observes. “My butler tells me you liked the suits I got you.”

“Don’t they look good on me?” Some of the spark is back — Joker pushes himself back up, and this time, when he leans against the wall, it's to strike a modeling pose that shows off the slim cut of his waist and the way the suit jacket stretches around his shoulders. “I must say, I’m impressed you got them to fit so well. Then again, I suppose Batsy gave you some tips, didn’t he? We’ve waltzed the night away together so many times, Batsy and I, and he must have an eye for that sort of thing…”

“You call that waltzing?” Bruce interrupts. “Most people wouldn’t quite agree.”

“Most people are stupid lifeless drones who wouldn’t see the bunny in the moon if it bit their noses off.”

“Bunny in the moon,” Winston echoes in a whisper, shaking his head in disbelief. “What the everloving…”

“Should I feel insulted?” Bruce asks into the microphone, and Joker giggles, hand burrowing into his mess of wild green curls.

“Oh, but you’re not at all like them, Brucie darling,” he assures him. “You’ve invited me in, haven’t you? And I bet you’re a terrific dancer. You should come down here sometime, handsome, show me your killer moves.”

“I’m no good without a pretty lady on my arm,” Bruce replies. Jones huffs. Bruce decides he likes her.

“I would gladly wear a dress for you, Mr. Wayne,” Joker offers, twirling. His voice drops low, into a purr he probably thinks is seductive, and the tension in Bruce’s gut turns uncomfortably hot. “A nice long one, tight, to emphasize my waist. And heels, too. Not too high, mind, I wouldn’t want to tower over you. I’d even let you lead. Carry me off, dance me away in the pale moonlight…”

“Jesus Christ,” Winston whispers. Jones glares up at Bruce.

“Are you quite done?” she snaps. “Can we get on with our job?”

“Of course.” Bruce gives Jones one of his more charming smiles, which only seems to irritate her more. “I’m sorry. Let me just say goodbye.”

She rolls her eyes again, but sits back with arms crossed over her chest as her colleague eyes Bruce uneasily. Bruce leans back to the microphone.

“I’ll think about it,” he tells Joker. “I need to go now. Do you want anything?”

“I want Bats to keep his word,” Joker says, suddenly menacing, all flirtatiousness gone in a blink. “Don’t let him ignore me. He doesn’t want to ignore me.”

“I’ll… pass it on,” Bruce promises. “Anything else?”

“Tea. And chocolates. I need looooooots of sugar to make up for those nasty pills you’re feeding me.”

Bruce nods. “All right. I’ll make sure the staff gets you everything. Alfred makes wonderful tea, you’ll like it.”

Joker nods, temporarily appeased. He makes his way to the sofa and flings himself on it, and idly picks up one of the books littering the carpet.

“Your first therapy session is scheduled for tomorrow at noon,” Bruce informs him.

Joker grins lazily at the camera. “How exciting.”

“You can request privacy for the duration, but I’ll be watching the rest of the camera feeds.”

“I’m counting on it, handsome.”

“Goodbye, Joker.”

Joker blows the camera a kiss.

Bruce turns off the microphone and straightens up, and rests his hands on his hips. “Well,” he tries, “that went… pretty well, considering.”

“Had fun, did you, Mr. Wayne?” Winston asks. “Good for you. Me, I thought I was gonna hurl.”

“If you think that was bad, you should come to one of my charity galas.” Bruce looks around. “Do you have everything you need? Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“Short of installing beds?” Jones says dryly. “Nah, I think we’re good.”

Bruce nods. He’s furnished the control room with comfortable armchairs, sofas, a coffee maker, a teapot, a microwave and a fully stocked fridge, as well as a bathroom with showers, and he hopes that will be enough. The security guards have their own hallway, staircase and entrance and aren’t allowed access to the rest of the Manor any more than Joker is. Alfred had insisted.

“If anything comes up, let my butler know, he’ll take care of everything,” Bruce says.

“What about you?” Jones asks. “Can we contact you too?”

“Alfred has my phone number. I’ll be spending most of my time in the penthouse downtown. I’m sure you understand.” He gestures at the screens, and Winston nods with sympathy. “I can’t really invite beautiful ladies here anymore, can I?” Bruce adds anyway, because it never hurts to go the extra mile.

“A damn shame,” Winston commiserates. “It’s one hell of a house, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thank you.” Bruce nods at him, then at Jones. “Have a good day.”

They let him go, and he leaves them to the sound of Joker’s giggles.

***

He visits Joker as Batman early the next morning, after he comes home from an uneventful patrol. They play cards. He wins. Joker smiles at him throughout, and goes to bed after Bruce leaves with a promise to return soon.

According to Alfred, that’s the first time he’s fallen asleep on his own since he came here.

***

Joker, as it turns out, is an insomniac.

Bruce suspected as much, but now he has proof. In the following fortnight, Joker only sleeps for two-three hours at a time, sometimes four if he’s taken the meds right before, and always during the day - and manages even this little only once every two days or so.

Bruce talks to the doctors at Arkham about it, and when he proposes to research a sleeping drug for Joker, they agree to help, though with marked reluctance.

“We’ve tried that before,” one of them, called doctor Lancer, says. “But he’s immune to most medication and chemicals, as you know. We couldn’t find anything that'd work on him short of actual tranquilizers, and even then, the dose was enough to knock out a rhino.”

“Let me see your files,” Bruce asks. “Maybe we can figure something out.” No therapy is ever going to succeed without a proper sleep pattern, and the project takes up most of Bruce’s brain space for the next couple of months.

Alfred doesn’t hesitate to point out the irony of the situation. Bruce tries to take longer naps just to shut him up.

At least, he points out, both he and Joker are eating properly. Alfred claims it’s “not as reassuring as you think it is, Master Bruce.” Bruce shrugs, and keeps on working.

Once, on the way to the Arkham labs, he passes Dr. Quinzel in the hallway. She glares daggers at him through her glasses, and walks around him without a word. He nods at her and doesn’t try to deflect the unspoken accusations, because they both know he was the one responsible for her being taken off the Joker rota.

It’s for her own good.

***

He delivers the surveillance tapes to Jim after the first three weeks. Jim returns them the very next night, and the sight of his face drives a nail across Bruce’s heart.

“I couldn’t,” Jim says, shoving the tapes at Bruce. “I just couldn’t. I watched a few minutes maybe, and then I had to go throw up. Can’t stand even looking at that —” His voice breaks. He shakes his head, and his fingers tremble when he reaches for the cigarettes. “Keep them,” he tells Bruce, “just — keep them, and tell Wayne not to send any more. I’ll give him a call if anyone here needs them, but I can’t — can’t keep them in the house. Barbara might accidentally… Just keep them.”

Bruce accepts the tapes silently, and nods. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Jim nods back. His hands are still trembling.

“How is Barbara?” Bruce asks quietly.

“She’s… adjusting,” Jim says, after a long drag. “It’s hard. We never realized how damned difficult it is for people in wheelchairs in this town. And she’s always been so…” He looks out over the city, wind blowing smoke in his face. “It’s hard,” he whispers.

Bruce gives him a moment, before he asks, “Is there anything I can do?”

“You figure out how to fix her spine in that cave of yours?”

“No.”

“Then no,” Jim says, “there’s nothing you can do. Except your job. Make damn sure no other freak ever gets close enough to hurt her again, and keep that one locked up. That’s all anyone can do.”

“She has you,” Bruce reminds him.

“She does,” Jim sighs, “God help her.”

Bruce takes the tapes and leaves, and drops off four thugs at Central that night.

***

He gets Joker a trampoline. Joker is cuffed and bound in his wheelchair as the security guards assemble it in the gym, and Bruce as Batman can feel him positively vibrating with excitement as he keeps an arm on his shoulder, waiting.

Then, when the guards retreat, he releases Joker and stands there for a bit, just watching.

He doesn’t realize he was smiling until he watches the security tapes later that day.

***

About two months in, Joker points out that his hair and nails are getting too long. That prompts Bruce to look more closely at his face, and once he does, he also notices a dusting of green stubble on Joker’s chin, oddly sparse given how much time has passed but clearly getting thicker. Joker’s not allowed to do anything about it himself — no scissors, nail clippers or files are permitted anywhere in his quarters. His hair has gotten rather long, falling almost to his shoulders now, and as for the nails, Bruce takes his word for it.

He has planned for this — mostly thanks to Alfred, who had pointed out to him the need for proper grooming — and he gets in touch with Arkham. They set up a date. The Asylum’s resident barber, along with a pair of janitors, are driven to the Manor and shown into Joker’s quarters, and Batman stands by, supervising as the janitors clean up the rooms and the barber takes care of Joker’s hygiene swiftly, all without a single word. For his part, Joker prattles at them all incessantly, his eyes swiveling between the Arkham employees and Bruce, and his fingers twitch, and his legs jerk nervously like he can’t quite control his excitement at having someone else to talk to besides Bruce.

He’s cuffed and bound, of course, and the staff seem used to his word-vomit. They still look as relieved when it’s over as Joker is disappointed, and Alfred sends them off with handsome tips to make sure they don't get any bright ideas about selling the story to the press.

“Are we going to do it like this every time?” Joker asks next time Bruce sits down to a card game with him.

“Yes.”

Joker sighs. “Not that I mind the chance to mess with old Shrimpy and the band every now and again,” he murmurs, “but I was hoping for a more… personal touch.”

“I can’t cut hair,” Bruce tells him. “You’d look terrible.”

“Meaning I don’t look terrible now?” Joker perks up, smiles coquettishly, and runs a hand through his much shorter hair. “Why thank you, honeycakes, I do try to make myself pretty for you. Speaking of which, I want lipstick. I can hardly look my best without it.”

Bruce sighs.

“You walked right into that one, sir,” Alfred tells him when Bruce shows up for lunch later in the afternoon.

“You were watching?”

“Of course. Someone has to keep an eye on you, Master Bruce.”

“That’s what we hired the guards for.”

Alfred sets a cup of black coffee down on the counter, pats Bruce on the shoulder, and leaves.

***

A week later, Bruce buys Joker lipstick.

It’s a small thing. It can’t do any harm. And Joker’s lips look all wrong without it, too empty. Too wide and small all at once, the scarring all the more horrific without anything to smooth it over.

“You’re spoiling him,” Alfred says.

“I’m not.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow at him, and goes back to cleaning.

***

Next time Joker asks for something, it’s music.

“It’s too quiet in here,” he pleads. “Not even a grandfather clock to distract me!”

“That’s the point. We’ve decided to limit your sensory stimulation,” Bruce explains.

“Come on, Batsy!” Joker extends his leg to kick him under the table. “I miss the city! The noise, the cars, the sirens, the screams, the crying babies...” He closes his eyes as his lips stretch into a smile, like he’s immersing himself in whatever memory of Gotham’s relentless soundscape carries him away; and for a moment, the expression of pleasure looks so intimate, so obscene, that Bruce has to fight the compulsion to look away. “I don’t know how you can stand being away,” Joker mutters almost sleepily. “Not a moment of silence, out there on the streets. It’s divine, Bats. No need to hear yourself think.”

Bruce watches him shuffle in his seat, then fold himself in, long legs crossing on the small chair. A drop of sweat beads on Joker’s white temple. The serene expression is wearing off quickly; Joker’s pupils, when he opens his eyes, are dilated. He’s still smiling, but it looks stiff, stretched and cruel, and Bruce braces himself nevertheless.

“And then take Arkham,” Joker says, leaning forward, warming up to it, his words starting to come faster now. “They have some lovely sounds there too, Batsy. You should spend the night there some time, maybe even in my cell! Keep my old bed warm! I bet it still smells of me.” He giggles, one hand pressing against his forehead. “Oh, do excuse me. But yes, Arkham! The doctors strolling about. Pens and clipboards. Keys jingling, and ol’ Danny boy whistling showtunes when he’s bored. And oh, my fellow inmates! Yelling, banging, crying… It’s wonderful, old friend. Wonderful. It’s music.”

He’s getting agitated fast, fingers twitching against the cards he’s pressing close to his chest. He looks out the window, at the dry morning sun, at the gardens, their fresh stark green edged by the woods and stretching as far as the eye can see.

“Here,” he whispers, “there’s… nothing. Just me. Just — me. I can’t even hear the little birdies and other assorted woodland creatures since you made the whole goddamn place soundproof!”

“Your doctors claim you’re constantly overstimulated,” Bruce says, taking note of the twitch in Joker’s left eye. “We’re trying to minimize your sensory input to see if being cut off from excess noise will help with your mental balance.”

“How can it help?!” Joker throws his cards down on the table violently and pushes his hands up into his hair, pulling at it hard. “Bats, I’m going crazy!”

Bruce doesn’t smile. It isn’t particularly funny, and he has a feeling Joker isn’t trying to be.

“It’s too quiet,” Joker mumbles, still pulling at his hair as his eyes begin to zone out. “Too quiet, too quiet, too damn quiet.”

Bruce puts his cards down too, and gets ready. This looks bad. “Joker…”

Joker pushes himself to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor. Bruce tenses, but Joker doesn't attack him — instead, he launches into a frantic pace as though he can't bear to stand still for a second longer, marking a wide circle around the parlor, his hands flying all over his body now, frustrated fingers grasping and pulling at his suit and skin alike like they're desperate for something to hold onto.

“Too quiet, too quiet, too quiet, TOO QUIET.” He kicks the sofa. He grabs a book at random and hurls it at the metal wall. “I can’t stand it!”

He laughs, and grasps blindly for another book. Bruce is by his side in an instant. He catches Joker's wrist in his hand, and holds on tight when Joker tries to push him away. The other hand comes at him, fingers crooked like claws, ready to scratch, and he catches that one too, then twists it behind Joker’s back.

“Oh, are we finally going to dance again?” Joker laughs, loud and hoarse. Tears swell in his eyes — Bruce doubts Joker’s even aware of them. “Come on, sweetheart, I know you’ve missed this as much — as — I — have —” He tries to wrestle free, to kick and bite, and Bruce tries not to feel the thrill that suddenly sparks in his gut because this is not the time, because he has to make this quick, no matter how much his body may yearn to slip back into that one of a kind rhythm it knows too well.

This is Joker being unwell, not dangerous. An episode — which seems to have been building for quite a while now, judging by the intensity — not an assault. Remember that, damn it.

“Need us to come in?” the security guard asks through the speaker.

“No,” Bruce tells her, “I’ve got this.”

Joker tries to headbutt him, still laughing. Bruce wrestles him to the floor so they’re both sitting down, and remembers what the doctors told him about manic episodes. He starts counting out loud, timing it with his own heartbeat, and clasps Joker’s hands together in one of his while the other grabs firmly at the nape of Joker’s neck. He makes Joker look at him. He keeps counting, and doesn’t let Joker move away.

“Breathe,” Bruce urges. “Look at me and breathe with me.”

“I’m always look, huh, looking at you.” Joker's hyperventilating, his pupils two tiny points of hate and distress, but they do fix on Bruce even though they appear hazy, unfocused. He’s still jerking away, violent full-body jerks that test Bruce’s hold.

“We’re sedating him,” the security guard announces.

Bruce grits his teeth. “No!”

“But Batman —”

“No!”

“Delicious voltage,” Joker sings, weakly, between one ragged shard of breath and another. “Sweet, sweet voltage. Let ’em, Bats, let ‘em zap me, let ‘em zap me good…”

He coughs, and as his eyes squeeze shut with the motion, tears break free to streak down his hollow cheeks.

Bruce tightens his hold on the back of Joker’s neck, and gives it a hard shake. “Focus,” he pleads. “Focus, damn you!”

Joker laughs until he can’t anymore, until it’s either stop or choke.

And Bruce looks on helplessly, watching as Joker's breaths get shorter and shorter, and wonders that maybe activating the charge in the bracelet really is the only safe thing left to do…

And then he remembers darkness. He remembers a swarm of black shapes rushing him, hundreds of beady yellow eyes, the flap of leather wings against his face. He remembers screaming, and crying, and the frantic thump of his heart, and not being able to breathe, and choking on his own air, and he remembers…

It’s okay, Bruce. You’re safe now. Mommy’s here.

She’d pulled him close, onto her lap, and pressed his face to her chest so he could listen to her heartbeat. He can still hear it, even now, the strong, steady, comforting sound against his cheek. He can feel his own heart slowing down at the memory.

He looks at Joker, and sees a child lost in a cave.

Joker can’t feel his heartbeat through the suit. It’s the one downside of armor Bruce never anticipated. But he remembers the way Joker leaned into him that first morning when Bruce carried him to the bed, and maybe it’s worth a shot, so he tightens his grip on the back of Joker’s neck again and says, “I’m going to pull you close now.”

Joker doesn’t seem like he’s heard him at all. He's got no quips to offer, and doesn’t fight it when Bruce makes good on his promise and coaxes him closer, or when he presses Joker’s face to his chest, or when he lets go of Joker's neck just long enough to remove one glove.

He guides Joker’s fingers to press against the pulse in his own bared wrist. “Feel,” he urges. “Feel my pulse. Breathe.”

Joker’s nails have been cut short and filed blunt, but Bruce still braces himself for an attempt to claw the skin of his wrist open. Tranquilizer injections lie in wait in his belt, and he knows he can get to them before Joker inflicts any real damage.

It doesn’t happen.

Joker’s fingers stay where Bruce leaves them, still for once and deathly cold. He doesn’t move away from Bruce’s chest. There’s a twitch when Bruce rests his hand at the back of Joker’s neck again, but it isn’t a violent one, and when Bruce starts to stroke there, Joker’s breathing finally, finally begins to even out.

It takes a long time. Bruce doesn’t know how long exactly, but it feels like hours. He keeps counting, makes breaks for breathing deliberately deep, and feels absurdly rewarded when, at last, he catches Joker’s pulse trying to sync with his.

The fingers on his wrist shudder, then press on their own against the exposed veins just under the skin. One finger moves, bends a little, traces an invisible line over Bruce’s wrist. It tickles. Bruce keeps himself still. The finger is gentle, not in a delicate way but like it’s curious; and soon, the other finger moves too, following the same line. Then they both press, lie still for a beat, and move again.

They follow the rhythm of Bruce’s fingers on Joker’s neck.

It’s working. It’s working.

Bruce doesn’t move away, not even after Joker’s breath finally eases into a normal, healthy pattern. The fingers on his wrist reach out, circle it, close in a grip that’s strong but somehow unthreatening; Joker’s other hand rises from numbness to trace the lines of Bruce’s stomach.

And the thing is, Bruce expects to have to fight a wave of revulsion at this, but it never comes.

It worries him. He’ll think about it later.

For now, Joker’s hair brushes and tickles around his mouth, and Joker’s heartbeat beats slow now, tired and strained, and quiet sounds struggle past Joker’s lips that could be his attempt at humming but which don’t resemble any tunes Bruce knows.

He holds on. They sit there, on the floor, breathing in sync.

In the end, Joker doesn’t fall asleep, exactly — his eyes stay open. His body stays aware. His mind, though, drifts, and he’s disassociated almost entirely when Bruce does finally move to stand up.

He’s expected that. He carefully guides Joker to the sofa, sits him down, and asks for water.

“It’s okay,” he says to the cameras. “I think it’s passed.”

He takes the plastic cup of cold water from the dumbwaiter — thank you, Alfred — and carries it to the little table by the sofa. “Drink,” he instructs Joker. “I’ll leave you now.”

“I need it to not be so quiet,” Joker whispers. He's staring at nothing in particular, eyes zoned out, fixed on a point in the carpet.

Bruce watches him for a moment, thinking hard. “I’ll talk to the doctors,” he promises.

Joker twitches, but he doesn’t reply.

“See if you can try and get some sleep,” Bruce suggests. “I’ll check on you later.”

He leaves in silence, and immediately goes down to the cave to watch the camera feed of Joker's meltdown over and over and over.

***

At night, he takes the recordings to Arkham and shows them to the doctors, and says, “I don’t think he’s faking it.”

“You gonna let him bully you with tantrums into giving him what he wants?” Dr. Lancer asks, his eyebrow quirking up skeptically.

“He’s not faking,” Bruce insists.

“If you cave in now, he’s gonna think he can manipulate you into anything by going spare.”

“He isn’t a spoiled child, doctor.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Batman,” says Dr. Mulligan, watching Bruce sharply with her deep brown eyes, “need I remind you that limiting the stimuli was your idea?”

“He does what he wants anyway,” Dr. Lancer grouches. “I don’t see why he even bothers to consult us at all.”

“The Joker might have been transferred to a different facility,” Bruce says calmly, “but he is still a patient of this institution. I need your expertise.”

“I think the silence is a good idea,” Dr. Mulligan admits, shooting her colleague a glare, “but obviously, a period of transition is necessary. We are still going to control the external impulses he receives, but maybe we could introduce some… variety, at fixed hours of the day.”

Bruce nods. He’s been thinking along similar lines. Only… “Nights,” he corrects. “He’s most active at night. That’s when he’ll need the distraction the most.”

“All right,” Dr. Mulligan agrees. She doesn’t seem surprised, and studies him, her astute gaze dislodging something twitchy and uncomfortable in Bruce’s stomach. “You handled the attack rather well,” she comments in a level voice. “He hasn’t responded like that to anyone here.”

Bruce does not fidget. He says, “Let’s brainstorm.”

They do, and two days later, Bruce Wayne introduces Joker to his new schedule. They're going to play him one hour of jazz standards a day, in the evening, and after that, they're going to play pre-recorded ambient noise tapes with the soundscape of Gotham at night between 10 pm and 2 am. The tapes will be quiet and unobtrusive, and won’t contain anything more exciting than police and ambulance sirens every now and again, but Joker is still beside himself with relief, and climbs the shelves to the nearest camera to actually kiss it, leaving smears of lipstick on the lens.

And the worst thing is, Bruce understands. That’s what he couldn’t explain to Dr. Lancer. He knows Joker wasn’t faking because he can’t imagine functioning so long without the soothing hum of his city each night, and for better or worse, Joker is a city boy, carrying Gotham in his blood just as much as Bruce does. Gotham is noise. The silence of the Manor drives Bruce into distraction too, and he still has his night patrols to shake it off.

He should have thought of that sooner.

***

The first time they play the music, Bruce sits in the cave by the monitors, watching. Joker has decided to celebrate by wearing the finest suit Bruce has provided and slicking his hair back with water, and he’s wearing shoes too, complete with spats, looking to all intents and purposes like a vaudeville artist about to go on stage.

Which is exactly what he does when Sinatra begins to croon through the speakers.

“Ah, at last, someone in this house can pull off a decent foxtrot,” Alfred comments, amused, standing beside Bruce. “Maybe you should ask for lessons, sir.”

“If you couldn’t teach me, no one can,” Bruce parries. “But maybe I should start sending him to parties in my stead. He’d have enough fun for both of us.”

“Enough skill, too,” Alfred adds mercilessly. “Maybe he was a dancer in his old life. That would explain some of the showmanship.”

“Maybe,” Bruce muses.

He watches Joker glide through the floor of the parlor, leading an imaginary partner in his arms as he sings along... and wonders.

***

“Do you remember anything from your old life?” Bruce asks a week later during another early morning visit.

He’s brought Joker crayons, and watches as Joker lies on the floor and covers page after page with color.

“Oh Bats,” Joker murmurs, “don’t be boring.”

“I’m curious.”

“I’m sure you are, I just can’t imagine why. It doesn’t matter who I was. You made me, and that’s it.”

“Did you have children?”

Joker’s hand scratches against paper in a jagged line. He stills, then frowns up at Bruce.

“Maybe I did,” he says, shrugging, “maybe I didn’t. Maybe I left behind an orphan who’s going to become your new bird-boy when you get bored with the current one. Where is he, by the way? Not watching us right now, surely? Or did he finally decide to ditch the tights?”

“He’s away,” Bruce says quietly. “Don’t you remember at all?”

“Why would I even want to?” Joker smiles, not quite one of his manic grins but a slier one, and bends over the paper again. “Can you imagine me saddled with some mewling brat? No sireee. I wouldn’t know which end to feed. Kids are boring, Batsy.” He giggles, high-pitched and just a touch hysterical. “No wonder you like them so much.”

He presses hard against the paper, red crayon digging deep enough to tear the sheet in half. It looks like blood. Bruce stands up to take the crayon out of Joker’s hand, and hands him a lavender one.

“This color looks better,” he says.

Joker laughs, and paints a long lavender swipe across Bruce’s chin.

Bruce slaps his hand away. “Stop that.”

“But you said you liked it! And you look so much better this way.”

Bruce gets up and leaves, and Joker laughs and laughs and laughs.

***

Bruce calls Dick that evening, and asks for Jason.

Miraculously, after a minute or so, Jason agrees to talk to him.

“How’s the clown?” he asks straight away. “He still in the house?”

“He is.”

“He try to break out yet?”

“No. There’s only been one serious episode so far.”

“Then he’s planning something.”

“Maybe,” Bruce agrees. “Maybe not. He hasn’t tried to attack anyone.”

“Yeah, you can’t tell me that’s not suspicious.”

Bruce says nothing. He glances at the monitors, where Joker sits on the windowsill, singing and rocking back and forth as he stares out at the flickering lights of Gotham.

“Look, Bruce, do you think you need me there?” Jason asks, brusquely, like he’s angry at himself for it.

“I wouldn’t mind the extra help,” Bruce admits, carefully. “I’d feel much safer knowing there’s someone in the house with Alfred when I go out.”

“That’s all you need me for?” Jason snaps. “To be your clownsitter?”

“No,” Bruce says. He takes a moment to think, really think about what he’s going to say next, and the truth doesn’t quite want to make it out of his mouth. He settles for, “I need my partner.”

It’s what Jason wants to hear, he knows. It also is the truth, even if not the whole picture.

Jason is quiet for a long time.

“I’ll be back in two weeks,” he says eventually. “But only because you’re too fucking dumb to watch your own ass.”

He hangs up immediately afterward, but Bruce still smiles to himself as he reaches for his coffee.

***

“So,” Selina says, dropping in front of Bruce on the rooftop of the Gotham Cathedral, “word on the street is you’re no longer content adopting little bird boys, you’re adopting clowns now, too.”

“Hello, Selina.” Bruce doesn’t get up from his crouch, but he nods in her direction. “Is that the only word out there?”

“Aww, look at you, so cute thinking I’ll just give you the intel for free.” Her teasing smirk is familiar, but with a sharp edge Bruce has never been able to read. “How about some of those diamonds you keep in your family safe? They might help jog my memory.”

“You’re not getting them.”

“Well, it was worth a try.” Her smirk turns sharper still, white teeth gleaming in the streetlight. “Then how about a different sort of trade? My place isn’t that far, you know.”

Bruce sighs and turns to watch the streets. Selina saunters over and sits beside him, legs dangling freely over the traffic far below.

“Oh all right,” she says after a minute. “I might give you a freebie this time. For old times’ sake.”

She grins. Bruce ignores the bait, his eyes fixed on the slow-moving traffic.

“Well aren’t you just a party boat tonight.” Selina sighs dramatically. “I remember now why I ditched your ass… even though it does look damn yummy in tights.”

“Will you get to the point?”

“Okay.” Selina’s expression, or what Bruce can see of it out of the corner of his eye, turns serious, all pretense of flirting gone from her voice. “First of all, they only know that the Joker's gone from Arkham. They don’t know where he is.”

“But you do.”

“Of course I do. I know everything.”

“How, Selina?”

“I spied on your house,” she explains easily, without a single trace of shame. “I do that sometimes when I’m bored. Your butler should seriously consider stand-up.”

“I’ll let him know you said that,” Bruce mutters, mentally promising himself to talk to Lucius about new security systems for the Manor. Selina is one of a kind and can get places even he can’t sometimes, but it’s still disturbing.

Selina is silent for a minute, eyes fixed on the string of car lights. Then she sighs.

“It has leaked that you’re personally involved in his therapy,” she says, “and that he’s playing along for once. Most of the smarter bosses are taking it with a grain of salt and waiting for the other shoe to drop, but some of the others… Harvey’s already given the orders to loot Joker’s known dives. He’s hounding Joker’s goons, too, and Cobblepot and the others won’t be far behind.”

“They’re slicing up the cake,” Bruce murmurs.

“Yeah. And there’s a lot of cake to go around. Joker’s taken over some valuable territory and the others want in on that. There’s talk of big money stashed away in the warehouses. People are starting to believe he really isn’t coming back this time. There might even be a turf war.”

Bruce nods. “I expected something like this might unfold,” he says. “Just… not so soon.”

“Soon?” Selina gives him a raised eyebrow. “Bruce, from what I heard, it’s been what, a couple months now? Joker has never stayed put for so long before. I’m surprised it’s taken the other players this long to make a move.”

Months. Bruce supposes she’s right. The realization jolts him, and he isn’t quite sure why.

“It’s working,” he whispers to himself.

Beside him, Selina says, “Or he’s playing you.”

“Maybe,” Bruce agrees. “But even if he is, he’s been off the streets for this long. If it’s all a game to him, it’ll still have been worth it.”

“Of course he’s stayed put,” Selina whispers with a sudden bite, “you’re finally paying attention to him the way he’s wanted you to from the start.”

Bruce looks at her sharply. “What?”

“Oh please.” She rolls her eyes, claws gripping the stone ledge. “Don’t say you haven’t noticed, detective. That creepstain wanted nothing as bad as to be your bitch ever since you first pummeled his sorry ass into the ground.”

Bruce’s throat clenches suddenly. He looks away. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

Bruce can feel his jaw tightening, teeth pressing into each other to the point of pain. Selina’s eyes drill into him, sharp and perceptive. The smirk fights its way onto her face again. It’s far too knowing for Bruce’s liking, as is the huff she lets out a moment later.

She doesn’t comment. He’s grateful for that much.

“You know what’s going to happen if he does break out and gets back out there and all his assets are gone,” she says quietly, after another minute or so.

“Yes.” Bruce can picture it pretty damn clearly. Mostly in red. A shudder runs down his spine, and the muscles in his shoulders go tight. “I don’t know if I can stop them.”

“Then don’t focus on stopping them,” Selina suggests. “Focus on keeping him in. It’s one bloodbath the city really doesn’t need.”

“I know. I’m trying.”

“Try harder. The underworld is starting to talk. And they all hate the Joker almost as much as they hate you. However this all plays out, it’s gonna be ugly.”

Bruce nods. Selina moves to leave, and Bruce doesn’t try to get her to stay.

“Be careful,” she tells him before she backflips her way into the night. “Gotham would be boring without that idiotic signal of yours.”

Bruce finds a smile for her before he, too, leaves and gets to work.

He goes after Harvey’s men that night, and gathers intel on all his latest operations. It’s about time his old cell in Arkham saw its occupant again, and with time — who knows? — Harvey might agree to a similar deal he’s extended to Joker.

It has been months now. Bruce thinks he’s allowed to feel hopeful tonight.

***

The conversation still pries on his mind next time he visits Joker, and he finally decides to ask.

“Why did you say yes?”

Joker looks up at him from his cards. He shrugs. “They do make rather amazing strawberry shortcakes in that Italian place in Fashion District.”

Bruce frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“The last date I agreed to go on,” Joker says with a smirk. “Why, what were you talking about?”

“A date you —” Bruce shakes his head, as though that could dislodge the sudden mental image he decidedly doesn't want, and pierces Joker with a glare he knows the clown can detect even through the cowl. “I mean this,” he growls, making a sweep with his arm to indicate the parlor. “The deal. Why did you take it?”

“Oh, that.” Joker lets out a long puff of air, like it’s the most boring topic Bruce could possibly choose.

It’s an act, and they both know it. Bruce keeps silent, and waits.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Joker demands eventually, squirming in his chair. “I should think it’s obvious. You’re supposed to be able to out-deduce Sherlock Holmes, Batsy-booby.”

“Maybe I need you to spell it out for me,” Bruce insists.

“Tsk-tsk. When have I ever made anything easy for you?”

Bruce keeps looking at him. He doesn’t want to call it quits just yet, even if it’s just a gut feeling telling him he should keep prodding.

And anyway, he thinks he has figured it out, for the most part. He just really, really, really doesn’t want to think about the conclusions.

Selina’s knowing smirk flashes in his mind, mocking him. He pushes it away.

Instead of pursuing the subject any further, though, Joker lays his cards down on the table. He looks at Bruce expectantly.

Bruce sighs, and stands up to leave without showing his hand. Joker’s voice, unusually soft, stops him right by the door.

“Gordon,” he whispers. “He didn’t… he didn’t crack.”

All of a sudden, Bruce feels cold. “No,” he says, sharply. “He didn’t.”

Joker nods. He seems hesitant, almost vulnerable, and Bruce is suddenly thrown off-balance by how much he hates seeing him like this.

“If he didn’t,” Joker whispers. “If one bad day didn’t send him round the bend… on top of all the other bad days. If he…”

Bruce waits, heart and breath and thought all still, but Joker never finishes the sentence. It dies on his lips like so many had died from his hand, and like Barbara had almost died from his gun.

Suddenly, it’s important to remember that. Important to pitch that against the hot twist in Bruce’s gut, and the urge to linger, to reassure.

Because he thinks he knows where that sentence was going. And he thinks he can understand.

In any case, it does make the picture slightly more coherent, providing it’s not a lie.

Somehow, Bruce doesn’t think it is.

“And you laughed,” Joker says softly. “You laughed with me.”

Bruce nods. His throat is filled with sand, but still he forces out, “I did.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re ridiculous,” Bruce whispers.

“Heh.” Joker smirks, a poor shadow of the smiles that usually light up his face, and he stretches his legs out under the table, folds over it, hunches. Makes himself smaller. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’d wondered if you realized. The thing is, though… I made myself ridiculous. It was on purpose, see, to mirror you. You’ve started it all, darling. So what I wanna know is, why am I the one who’s gotta change?”

And just like that, Bruce is angry. His fists tighten, pressure builds in his gut. “I never killed anyone,” he snaps.

Joker points to him, then at himself. “Mirrors,” he repeats. Like it’s obvious. Like it explains everything. Like Bruce should see the joke.

He leaves before he can say anything more, and stays away from the camera feeds for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Bruce doesn’t regret his decision to stay away from the camera feeds. Gotham gives him enough release for the anger that, by the time he gets back, he feels ready to review the conversation with Joker with fresh eyes. He gets out of the car, intending to do just that - when the look on Alfred’s face stops him dead in his tracks.

Oh no.

“What has he done?” Bruce demands. “Has he hurt anyone?”

“Not, ah, not exactly.” Now Alfred seems embarrassed, of all things, and though Bruce is only able to tell from the hesitant tremor in his voice and nothing else, he still can, and his heart does a painful lurch down his stomach.

“Alfred,” he insists. “What the hell happened?”

Alfred gives him a long, measuring look. Then, he reaches out for the cape and cowl, and Bruce reluctantly surrenders both, his apprehension only growing at the obvious attempt to stall.

“Why don’t you change first, Master Bruce,” Alfred suggests.

Bruce does, but only because he can recognize the tone of his voice. In a way, Alfred can be just as stubborn as he is, and it’s clear now Bruce won’t find out anything else unless he does as he’s told.

“The security guards were quite distraught,” Alfred tells him, following him around the cave as Bruce sheds his costume piece by piece, and the night with it. “They… Well, they demanded that we give them a raise. For psychological damage, I believe they claimed.”

Bruce stops, the suit halfway off his chest. “Details, Alfred. Now.”

“Perhaps you should review the tapes,” Alfred says at last. Now his expression turns cryptic, and Bruce doesn’t like it one bit.

“Tell me what to expect,” he demands. “Has he breached security? Has he tried to hurt himself?”

“Not hurt, per se,” Alfred tries, choosing his words like a man navigating a verbal minefield. “Let’s just say there is one thing both of us have… overlooked.”

Bruce’s gut feels like someone’s doused it full of ice cubes. He makes short work of the rest of the costume, leaves it for Alfred, and strides for the shower without another word, because if it’s not urgent then Bruce would much rather face whatever the hell this new crisis is not stinking of the rich and fascinating wildlife of the Gotham River.

By the time Bruce re-emerges, freshly scrubbed but still feeling uncomfortably sticky, Alfred has made himself scarce, and the only thing stirring in the cave are the bats up above. It only spikes Bruce’s suspicions. He towels his hair dry as he sits in front of the computer, and he grants himself one more minute of blissful ignorance, just one more, before he seeks access to the Joker tapes. He has a nasty inkling he can guess what it was that made the guards and Alfred so uncomfortable, and he isn’t at all sure he’s ready to see it now.

Or, for that matter, ever.

He wouldn’t, Bruce tries to convince himself as he fast forwards through the day, starting from their morning conversation and speeding past the usual footage of Joker’s aimless mucking about around the rooms. Would he?

But of course he would. He’s the Joker. If anyone would, it would be him.

Still, Bruce holds onto a paper-thin shred of hope like it’s one of his grapples until he arrives at the footage from late evening, during Joker’s scheduled one hour of music. Joker chose to spend it in his bedroom, jumping and twirling on the bed to the mellow beat, which, on its own, is regular enough. What isn’t regular is how… joyless the jumping looks this time, and how violent, how — resentful. Like Joker isn’t doing it just because it’s fun, not because he wants to, but out of spite, out of boredom, for someone else’s benefit — Bruce’s, Batman’s, the guards’? Or maybe his own. Maybe he’s trying to keep up appearances to prove a point, though what that point could possibly be, Bruce can only guess.

It reminds him of some of the visits they’d had earlier, at Arkham as well as the Manor, and especially while they’d still been developing the meds. Joker had been trying to appear his insane, unpredictable self back then, and Bruce was able to tell the difference just as he is now. This is not thoughtless frenzy — this is calculation. Like a child who’s had his candy taken away trying to pretend he’s not bothered. Sticks and stones can break my bones. Look at me, I’m fine.

And sure enough, Joker proves Bruce right by abruptly stopping mid-twirl, body snapping into place and long arms flapping loosely at his sides as the momentum propels them on. He stares at his own feet. His entire frame is still for three heartbeats exactly.

And then he says, “This isn’t fun.”

His voice is low. His pupils dilate. Bruce can see a vein pulsing in his long white neck.

For a moment, he fears he’s about to witness another episode, one he wasn’t there to subdue. His mind instantly leaps to images of destruction: books flying, bedsheets torn, bedposts kicked into smithereens, Joker hyperventilating until the bracelet zaps him with enough voltage to bring down Killer Croc. What happens next only confirms it, at first.

“This isn’t FUN!” Joker complains, wild pupils suddenly darting around in search of a target, or maybe a weapon, and he loses all pretense now, fed up with the act and maybe even disgusted with it. Long legs kicking, he throws himself back onto the bed, then begins to roll across it, this way and that, this way and that, his body twisting into a fetal position and then unfolding again, only to curl back in on the next roll. His mouth stays in constant motion, mumbling nonsense the camera doesn’t catch, far too fast for Bruce to lip-read. One hand shoots up to claw at the headboard; the other flails just as the rest of Joker’s body does, and for a moment, it looks like he might start hitting his head against the wood.

But then it all… stops. As suddenly as he’d stopped dancing, Joker stops moving, landing on his back and catching himself there. His body is wound so tight Bruce could count the veins bulging just under his skin. His eyes are open and glazed over, fixed on the canopy above the bed, but Bruce imagines they’re not seeing a single thread. Joker’s chest rises and falls violently, and ragged scraps of breath struggle their way past the music, which is much quieter now, the guards likely having turned it down to hear if they should intervene.

It lasts for two minutes, maybe three.

Then, even before his breath calms down, a gleam lights up in Joker's eyes, and he smiles.

“That wasn’t fun,” he drawls, turning to stare directly into the camera with eyes which are still far too bright, the pupils two tiny black points rimmed with toxic green. “But I know what might be.”

His hand rests on top of his chest, over his heart. His smirk turns nasty.

And then, slowly, he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt.

Bruce forces himself to sit still and keep watching, because that alone may not be leading to what he’s afraid it is. Joker might just be feeling too hot. Maybe he wants to get more comfortable. At this point, it could still be completely non-sensual.

But Joker’s fingers linger on each button, circling it like he’s relishing each moment of preparation, and that is sensual. Sensual is the way he opens his shirt, slowly, and lets his fingers whisper against the skin underneath. And sensual is the way his right hand eventually drifts to ghost against the zipper of his pants.

The moment it does, Bruce slams the pause button and pushes himself away from the control panel as though it’s caught fire.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He’s not going to watch this, he decides right then and there. He already knows what the tape contains. He does not need to see any more, and he’s going to have a long talk with Alfred about what kind of surprises are and are not okay.

He manages to make it halfway to the stairs before he stops and growls, “Damn it.”

The screen still shows Joker on the bed, flat on his back, his shirt open, one gloved hand arrested in the motion of skimming along his abdominal muscles while the other presses indecently against the zipper. It’s perverse. Repulsive.

Bruce can’t make himself look away.

The bathroom adjacent to Joker’s bedroom is equipped with cameras too, of course it is, and as such, like it or not, Bruce has seen more of Joker in recent months than he ever thought he would. He’s always fast-forwarded through the bathroom footage when he reviewed the tapes at the end of each day, not looking away from Joker’s nakedness but purposefully not lingering on it either because while monitoring him at every turn is necessary, it still doesn't sit right with Bruce. He’s tried to distance himself from it, to regard the eerily white, scarred, disfigured expanse of Joker’s body in strictly clinical terms, and if anything, the fast-forwarded footage usually helps ground him in the knowledge that Joker is, in the end, human.

Even if seeing him unclothed, all his sharp angles and hard, lean muscle on display, his white skin oddly blotchy, discolored and vulnerable without the bright colors and concealing cosmetics to set it off, does at times feel… wrong. Voyeuristic. Like Bruce has no right to see Joker like this. Like the power imbalance between them in their current situation only comes out in sharpest relief during those most private, most intimate, most human moments, because Bruce has the power to see Joker in those moments now, while Joker…

Joker is there to be watched. To be looked at. He’s seen nothing of Bruce in return.

And it doesn’t matter that Joker doesn’t seem to mind; that he isn’t at all bashful about undressing, showering and going to the toilet with the cameras trained on him. It still seems… unjust. Unbalanced.

Not to mention that the sight of Joker's naked, unadorned, unpainted body inevitably spirals Bruce’s mind back to the ACE Chemicals vats, and the putrid stench of acid, and a hand slipping from his, and the terrible splash when his body hit the surface.

It’s mostly why Bruce never, ever allows himself to look away. It’s his mistake. His responsibility. He will own it, like he owns everything else.

And that’s all there’s been to it, he tells himself.

Up until now.

Christ, Bruce hadn’t even thought about — He’d never stopped to consider —

But of course he hadn’t. Pleasure isn't exactly something he's got space, time, or energy for. Most of the time, he just doesn’t think about it. By the time his patrols are over, he's too drained to do much of anything at all except sleep or — more often — work, and… physical things… simply aren’t on his radar.

Ha. Joker, on the other hand, has nothing but time, and plenty of energy to spare. Bruce should have realized. He should have predicted Joker would, in time, pull something like this.

His eyes catch on where Joker’s fingers lightly touch the planes of his stomach, and want to turn lower.

Bruce curses and looks away.

The Joker won’t win this round. He fucking won’t.

Heat throbbing furiously just under his skin, Bruce stalks back to the computer. His fingers shake as they hover over the keys. The chill of the cave doesn’t stop him from overheating, and he swallows, pulling his body under control.

He should just delete the feed, from the files and from his mind. He does not need to see any of it. He doesn’t want to.

His finger pauses just over the “delete” button.

On the screen, Joker’s lazy smile taunts him like he’s saying, I know you’re watching, I know you can’t resist, I’m doing this for you. Bruce wants to punch his teeth in. To grab him by the lapels of the suit and shake and shake and shake him, until the smile is wiped clean off. He wants —

He groans, pressing his hands to his face. “You sick bastard,” he mutters. Warmth pools in his gut, hot, prickly, insistent, and he can’t seem to be able to will it away no matter how hard he tries. “You sick, sick bastard.”

Bruce knows, with that cold, blunt certainty of someone finding himself in the middle of the rail tracks with the train speeding right at him, that after tonight, he will never be able to review the footage of Joker’s nakedness with the same detachment again. He will always be reminded of — of this. Of Joker as a sexual being. Joker will never let him forget.

And, of course, that means he’s already won.

Damn him.

In the end, Bruce isolates the feed from the entire night — using the timestamps to navigate so he doesn’t need to actually see any of it — into a separate file, then encrypts it under five layers of passwords and hides it deep in the labyrinth of completely unrelated files, where he’s sure it won’t be accidentally dug out by anyone other than himself. Like it or not, the feed is a resource. Bruce isn’t in the business of discarding anything that might prove useful in the future, and rationally, Joker has just given him additional intel not only about his unique physiognomy, but also about his sexuality, or what he wants Bruce to think his sexuality is. Either way, it’s new information, new details to store and preserve and consider, and when it comes to this man, Bruce won’t treat any insight lightly.

Actually, looking at it from this angle, Bruce probably should watch it, if only for this new bit of information which may or may not prove critical in the future.

He just… can’t.

The feed blinks out from the screens a moment later. Bruce leaves the cave before he can change his mind and heads straight for the gym, ants of restlessness crawling up and down every muscle.

He figures he isn’t going to catch any sleep anyway.

***

The first thing Bruce does in the morning is give the guards a raise.

Then, in the evening, he visits doctor Mulligan in her office, getting in through her open window. She gasps when she turns to see him standing behind her.

“Dear god,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “If that’s how you always choose to show up, it’s little wonder we’re running out of cells.”

“The Joker,” Bruce says.

She sighs, sitting back in her chair. “Yes? What has he done this time?”

The questions push to the tip of Bruce’s tongue and linger there, balancing precariously on the edge. What do you do when the inmates need — privacy? Do you afford privacy at all? What about the inmates’ sexual urges? How does that work? Doctor Mulligan is watching him, sharp as always, and Bruce isn’t sure if it’s the power of her gaze freezing the words in his mouth, or if it’s his own fault, but he finds he can’t let any of it out after all.

“The sleeping pills,” he says instead. “I think they’re ready for testing. I will have them administered tomorrow.”

“Oh.” She shifts, crosses one leg over the other, and blinks. “All right. Do you want one of us to be there?”

“No. I will deliver the tapes later. But you should be informed.”

“Yes, well, of course.” Doctor Mulligan adjusts her glasses. “Is that all? You seem kind of… on edge, though I honestly have no idea how I can even tell.”

Bruce thinks of the recording buried deep on his hard drive. His jaw tenses. “That’s all.”

“Okay. In that case, I have lots of work to do, so if you don’t mind showing yourself out…”

Bruce is out the window before she’s done speaking.

***

Joker isn’t told about the pills.

Instead, Bruce grinds the testing dosage into powder and sprinkles Joker’s food with the stuff, and sits by the computers in the cave watching and waiting for the results.

The pills knock Joker out for ten hours straight.

And Bruce tries not to think of it as revenge, but there’s still ugly satisfaction wriggling in his gut as he takes to the streets that night.

It’s a new dance. Joker himself said so. These are new rules.

Bruce has simply evened out the score.

***

When Jason returns — a week later than he’d promised — he’s still angry, and he’s not alone.

“Show us,” Dick demands, stepping into the cave behind his younger adopted brother, though Bruce knows neither of them thinks of the other like that.

Both their expressions are stony, unyielding; they wouldn't take well to small talk. Not that Bruce expected any. He nods at them both, then invites them to join him by the computer, where he taps into the camera feeds and talks them through every detail of security. On the screen, Joker lies on the floor of the parlor, reading; seems like it’s a quiet day.

“All right, that seems solid enough,” Dick agrees eventually, with obvious reluctance. “But I’ve seen this guy fight his way out of Arkham using nothing but a toothbrush.”

“This isn’t Arkham,” Bruce says.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Jason has his arms crossed firmly over his chest, radiating disapproval. “And you’re not a fucking doctor, Bruce.”

Language, Bruce wants to say, and doesn’t. It’ll only make Jason swear more, and point out that Bruce isn’t his real father, and while true, the words always cut.

“I’ve been working with the doctors,” he explains quietly. “He still has therapy sessions twice a week. I’m not doing this alone.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Dick mutters under his breath.

Bruce pretends he didn’t hear that. It’s easier that way.

“That voltage in the bracelet,” Jason says after a moment. “Can we control it?”

“Yes.”

“Can we make it high enough to kill him?”

Bruce spears him with a glare. “Jason.”

“What?” Jason shrugs, unrepentant. “I’m just asking. Technically it’s my house, too. I just wonder how far you’re willing to go in case he decides he’s bored with this damn experiment.”

Bruce looks away. “Never that far.”

“Seriously?” Jason strides up to him and forces Bruce to meet his eye. “Not even as a precaution? Do you have failsafes or something to stop anyone from pulling the trigger?”

“There is no trigger,” Bruce says, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “The voltage only goes high enough to incapacitate him and prepare his body to intercept the sedative dart, which will knock him out. That will be sufficient in case of emergencies.”

“Unfuckingbelievable.” Jason turns to Dick, as though expecting help there. “Did you hear that? He thinks stunning the clown will be enough if he… if he…”

“It will,” Bruce insists. “If Joker ever finds a way to break out, or the will to, the discharge and the sedative will give us time to lock him up again. He’s monitored day and night. He won’t get far.”

“And what if none of us are here to intercept him?”

“The guards know the code for the bracelet. They can activate it and lock him up themselves.”

“Grayson,” Jason says, turning to Dick. “You tell him. This can’t be just his call.”

Dick looks at him, and then at Bruce, his eyes cold and searching. Bruce makes himself sit still, holds his head up high, and accepts the scrutiny. It hasn’t been easy for them recently, but Bruce hopes that despite all their disagreements, the most important lesson stuck.

His heart feels sore when Dick walks past them both and leans on the control panel, looking up at the screens. His eyes narrow dangerously, the pulse in his neck throbbing hot and tight. The bones in his wrists whiten as he clenches his fists closed.

“There's nothing I’d like more than to get half an hour alone with that grinning maniac, after what he’s done to the Gordons,” he whispers. Then, however, he sighs, deep and heavy as though the weight of an entire cargo ship is bearing down upon him, and Bruce hears the but in his voice before Dick even articulates it; and there may have been moments in his life when he felt more relieved, but he’d be hard-pressed to find one right now.

“But,” Dick says after a moment, “I think it is Bruce’s call, in the end. He’s the one who orchestrated this whole mess, and he’s the one responsible for it. And as much as I hate Joker, I… I don’t think a lethal voltage would be right.”

Bruce is careful to keep his face very still, to not react. But his muscles want to relax, just a fraction, and he lets them, and the next breath he takes flows much more easily. Some of the soreness in his heart eases. He feels lighter, and relieved, and —

Proud.

He wishes he could tell Dick.

But Jason is watching them both now, eyes big with outrage and incredulity, and Bruce keeps his mouth shut because he’s already made too many mistakes with the two of them and he’ll be damned if he stumbles into another one. They don’t need to be pitted against one another any more than they already are. They’re both his.

He can only hope Dick will know.

“I should have known you’ll be soft about this too,” Jason bites. “And here I thought you were finally tired of licking his bat-boots.”

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who couldn’t wait to get into my Robin costume.”

“Quiet,” Bruce orders before this can escalate.

“Am I the only one here who thinks about this realistically?” Jason demands, sharp as the blades he still likes to hide in his boots when he thinks Bruce can’t see. “The fucking Joker lives in our house. Where we live, and eat, and sleep, and where — hello, this detail might have escaped you — the Batman also lives. How long do you think until he figures it out?”

That seems to knock some of the wind out of Dick’s wings; he turns to Bruce, expectant. “Killer Porcupine here’s got a point,” he admits reluctantly. “Got a plan for that, Bruce?”

Bruce opens his mouth, then closes it. His stomach twists itself into tight knots as his thoughts trip over themselves in their hurry to weigh all the pros and cons and outcomes, and rationalizations, and excuses.

He can’t tell them the truth. He will lose them for good.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he can’t lose them.

So he settles for a half-truth, and tells them what matters most: “He’s not interested in who Batman is. Even if he figures it out, or — or if he has already — that’s not what he’s after. It’d spoil his fun, ruin the game. Our identities are safe.”

For now. He hopes.

“You act like you can actually predict what he’s going to do,” Dick mutters. “Even you aren’t that good.”

“Joker is predictable in some things,” Bruce points out. “You know that. The spectacle, the performance, the pattern… There are some things that won’t change for him. This one is crucial.”

“That’s a lot riding on just a hunch,” Jason argues.

“It’s more than just a hunch.”

“Oh yeah? Then correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this thing supposed to be about him finally changing the game? Isn’t that the point, to flip the board? You honestly think normal rules still apply if he’s living under your roof? That, what, the two of you got some sorta code?”

“No code,” Bruce says.

“Then what?”

Bruce looks into his eyes. “Just trust me on this one.”

“No!” Jason counters, voice rising, anger finally pushing through. “Not this time. You don’t get to demand our trust, not after you went ahead with this behind everyone’s backs. If we’re gonna do this, you gotta trust me for a change, dammit, and you gotta share some fucking information for once! Or else I walk and you can have him for a sidekick.” He gestures to the screens. Despite the oppressively heavy air between them, Dick snorts.

“Good luck getting him to wear the tights,” he comments, and then pulls a face. “Ewwww, okay, you know what? Gross. The image’s in my head now. I need like, ten showers and a Playboy.”

“Don’t try to distract us, Grayson,” Jason snarls. “If you’re not gonna help then at least shut the hell up.”

“I told you everything you need to know,” Bruce insists. Jason rounds on him again.

“Not good enough! You asked me to come back, and I’m not staying until I know for sure it’s safe.”

“It is.”

“Because you say so?”

“Yes.”

“Um, guys?” Dick tries. Bruce can barely hear him.

“You need to have better contingencies in place,” Jason presses.

“There are plenty of contingencies. They’re adequate.”

“Arkham’s security was supposed to be adequate, and guess what? For freaks like him, that pretty much means a revolving door!”

“Guys.”

“Joker hasn't tried to break free even once since he came here.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

“It means he’s keeping his word.”

“As if! He’s playing you like you’re a damn card, or maybe he just likes living on Bruce Wayne’s dime for a change. What do you think he’s gonna do when he gets bored?”

“Excellent question, Robin,” Dick interjects forcefully before Bruce can argue his corner. “If you two would kindly look at the screens, you might get an idea.”

All senses going on the alert, Bruce’s eyes snap to the computers, and his heart grinds to a screeching halt when he finds Joker staring right back at him. A smile, small and pensive, lingers on his painted lips, and he keeps himself unnaturally still, not a muscle twitching.

“He’s been sitting like this, being creepy, for at least a full minute now,” Dick says, leaning over the control panel. “Should we, and I’m just spitballing here, do something about it maybe? Or is that normal for him now? You’re the expert, Bruce.”

“It’s not normal,” Bruce tells him, frowning. “Joker's never still if he can help it. Something’s up.”

“He can’t… he can’t hear us, can he?” Jason asks, going quiet.

“No.”

“Because it kinda looks like he’s listening.”

“He’s not. That’s impossible. No, he’s… waiting for something,” Bruce judges. And then his eyes snap to the clock at the bottom of the screen, and he realizes: it’s almost time for Joker’s afternoon meds.

As if on cue, the reminder alarm in Joker’s quarters goes off, the shrill beep-beep-beep and the electronic announcement, and Bruce’s body was already tense but now it’s trying to go tenser still. Something is definitely wrong. He can see it in Joker’s eyes, in the cold, cruel curve of his smile.

“Well that’s disturbing,” Dick judges, turning to Bruce. “What happened, all the creepier alarms were sold out? I thought the point was to cure him of evil, not make him froth at the mouth every time he’s gotta take his pills.”

“Why is he not taking them?” Jason narrows his eyes, lips thinning into a hard line. “Bruce?”

Bruce says nothing, and keeps looking at the screens.

Minutes pass. The alarm keeps going. Joker doesn’t move from his spot on the floor.

Finally, a guard’s voice, mechanically altered to sound sterile and impersonal, breaks through the signals and says, “Joker. Take the medicine.”

Joker’s smile turns almost sweet as he shakes his head. “No.”

“We’re gonna have no choice but to release the charge and tranquilize you if you don’t.”

“Go ahead, chums!” Joker offers his hand up, the bracelet catching the stark midday sun and setting it off to bounce around the room in bright gleams. “Make sure the shock’s nice and strong, Wally, I’ll know if you slack off!”

“My name isn’t Wally,” the guard snaps.

“Well I gotta call you lovely guardian angels something, don’t I? Anyway, you sound like a Wally. I knew a Wally once, and he sounded a lot like you before I had to crush his windpipe.”

“Take the goddamn meds,” the guard orders.

“I don’t think so, Wally old chum.” Joker stretches his legs in front of himself and leans back against the sofa, crossing his hands behind his head. “I think I’ll take the good ol’ brain massage instead. I’ve missed it, you know?” He sighs dreamily, closing his eyes. “That doctor Lancer, always so eager to bring in the thrills. Had a good hand for the lever and knew just how to make me tingle in allll the right ways. Mmm…”

He giggles. It sounds studied, just as his jumping on the bed had been. Bruce feels cold.

“Don’t make us come in there,” the guard warns.

“Oh, but wouldn’t that be fun?” Joker grins, cold and joyless. “We could have a nice tea party together. It’s been ages since I saw an entire human face and not just a pretty cowly pout!” He puts his fingers in his mouth and pulls the corners down, eyebrows shooting into dramatic arrows down his forehead, imitating a scowl.

Dick snorts. Bruce and Jason glare at him.

“What?” he murmurs, turning back to the screens and shrugging. “It was a pretty good impression.”

“We’re not fooling around, clown,” the guard barks. “We gonna electrocute you for real.”

“But, see, that’s what you said the other night, Wally dear, and yet what have I to show for it? A damn spectacular orgasm, sure, but not a single ziggy-zaggy spark to truly make my night!”

“The hell?” Jason’s brows go so high up they disappear into his hairline, and on the other side of Bruce, Dick looks equally stunned.

“Bruce, why’s he talking about orgasms?”

Bruce grits his teeth. “Quiet!”

“You don’t think we gonna do it?” the guard demands. “You testing us?”

“Nah,” Joker admits with a shrug. “Sorry, Wally, no offense, I’m sure you’re sweet an’ all, but I couldn’t give two hoots about you. You’re the D-list, and I’m only batting for the big boys.”

“Well, it don’t matter if we press the button or not,” the guard points out. “If you don’t take the meds in three minutes that thing’s gonna go off anyway.”

Joker looks into the camera again. He licks his lips, smirking. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

“Bruce?” Dick turns to him. Bruce puts up a hand to silence him, mind racing.

The guards have no idea he has his own link to the feeds. If he reacts now, he’ll blow that cover, and they will demand explanations. That could jeopardize the entire set-up.

On the other hand…

The timer keeps going. Two minutes left until the first discharge. Joker is still smiling into the camera, his eyes narrowed.

Damn it.

“Joker,” Bruce growls, activating the cave’s comm connection. “What are you doing?”

Joker’s eyes narrow further, and Bruce knows, in that moment, that this was precisely the plan: to get him involved.

“I had a feeling you’d be watching, sweetheart,” Joker croons. “Stick around, the show’s about to get properly electrifying!”

He laughs. Bruce’s knuckles whiten as he grips the microphone. “Take the meds,” he insists.

“No.”

“This wasn’t the plan, Joker. You’re breaking the rules.”

“But Bats,” Joker hisses through his cold, cold smile, “I thought you preferred me all Sleeping Beauty!”

Oh. Oh. Bruce wants to curse, and chews on the words until he finds his voice again.

“Is that what this is about?” he demands. “You’re going to hurt yourself to punish me for trying to help you sleep?”

He knows he’s got it right as soon as he says it. It’s clear in the feral glint in Joker’s eyes.

“Was that it? Was that you helping me?” Joker drawls, his voice dripping with menace. “Because it seemed like you drugged me to keep me out of the way, like a, like a rabid dog, without so much as by your leave! And after I put on such a lovely show for you, too!”

He’s angry. He’s shaking with it, laughing it out in Bruce’s face.

Bruce glances at the timer.

50 seconds.

“We’re developing sleeping pills for you,” Bruce says urgently. “I’ll explain later, but you have to take your meds.”

“You’ve broken the rules!”

“I have not. I’m still helping you.”

“You promised to work with me, Bats!”

“The meds, Joker.”

“Fuck the meds.” Joker folds his hands in his lap, licking his lips again. “It’s been too long. I wanna feel something for once.”

10 seconds. The red light on the bracelet sparks to life dangerously, and begins to blink in and out in warning. Joker claps, delighted. “Ooooooooh, hold on tight, kiddos, here comes the drop!”

“Joker!”

“Hope you got your seatbelt!”

Dick grabs Bruce by the shoulder. “It’s gonna —”

The bracelet glares in red. Joker laughs, and the sound turns terrible when, in the very next blink, the first charge goes off.

Bruce is out of the chair and bounding up the stairs before the cry dies out and Joker’s body hits the floor, Dick and Jason hot on his heels. The bracelet is programmed to release three rapid charges, separated by a five-second window, to weaken Joker’s body enough for the dart of tranquilizer, inserted three seconds after the third charge, to take hold. Bruce knows that, unless he has grossly misjudged the dosage, Joker will be out cold by the time he makes it to the enclosed area. There really isn’t any need for him to run, the rational part of his brain points out as he sprints out of the cave and makes his way up to the third floor.

He keeps running anyway.

“Jason,” he barks on the way, “get Alfred. Tell him it’s code green. He’ll know what to do.”

“You do realize none of us are wearing our suits?” Dick points out, running beside him, as Jason darts off in the direction of the kitchen.

Shit. Bruce almost forgot. He keeps running all the same, but as he does, he wills himself to switch from Batman to Bruce Wayne. It's difficult, but by the time he reaches the metal door to Joker’s quarters, he's reasonably sure he can pull off his other self more or less convincingly.

It’s a good thing, too. The guards, Winston and Benjamin Carter — whom Bruce only recognizes from his resume — are already by the door and punching in the security code. They turn when they hear Bruce and Dick charging up the stairs.

“Mr. Wayne!”

“Gentlemen.” Bruce nods at them as he makes a show of stopping and leaning on his knees for a moment, panting. “I heard there was a bit of a problem with my guest…?”

They both eye him, clearly puzzled. Then, they look at Dick. He offers them a winning smile.

“My charge, Dick Grayson,” Bruce explains, pulling himself back up but still taking care to breathe heavily, as though unaccustomed to even this much physical strain. “He’s come over to visit for the weekend, and I was just about to take him out to town when Alfred alerted me to the situation.”

“We didn’t know you was home, Mr. Wayne,” said Winston.

“Dick really wanted to see Alfred,” Bruce explained smoothly. “We took a nice long walk around the grounds. Gotham downtown doesn’t have much to offer in the way of fresh air, I’m afraid. Now…” He looks to both men and asks, “What seems to be the problem?”

“We can deal with this,” Carter tells him curtly, his eyes sharp and narrow. “No need to go in there with us, sir.”

“I’m sure you’re more than capable,” Bruce assures, “but even so, I would like to check on the patient personally. I am responsible for his well-being. I’d be a very poor host indeed if I didn’t make sure everything’s under control.”

They consider him, hesitant. Bruce takes a leaf out of Dick’s book and grins at them. “At the very least,” he says, “you may need me for the heavy lifting.”

“All right, sir, but be careful,” Carter says eventually, still unconvinced. “The inmate should be knocked out, but he’s a tricky son of a bitch. Sir.”

Bruce’s congenial smile settles into a smirk. “Duly noted. Now, let’s take a look.”

They order him to step back anyway, and to wait for their signal, and Bruce makes himself listen even though every nerve in his body screams to take charge. By his side, Dick whispers, “When this is all over, you and I are gonna have a talk.”

Bruce’s shoulders want to square. He keeps them hunched, even though his fingers flex in the pockets of his pants.

“It’s okay, sir, you can come in now,” Winston calls out from Joker’s parlor. “He’s out.”

Taking a deep breath and schooling his face into apprehension, Bruce goes in.

Carter is on the ground, kneeling by Joker’s body and feeling his pulse. Winston hovers over them, face crinkled into fear he’s trying and failing to conceal, and he makes way for Bruce when he comes closer and crouches on Joker’s other side.

A violent impulse surges in him to knock Carter’s hand away and order both men to leave so he can tend to Joker himself. He squashes it, but his teeth hurt from gritting too hard.

“What happened?” he asks, acting puzzled and confused and out of his depth.

Carter sighs, and lets Joker’s wrist drop lifelessly onto his skinny chest. “Bastard refused to take his medicine. The bracelet activated and zapped him and put him to sleep, so now we’re gonna have to hook him up to an IV and do this the hard way.”

Bruce widens his eyes into an exaggerated expression of shock. “Has this happened before?”

“Not like that, sir,” Winston says. “He had an episode once, but Batman kind of… dealt with it.”

“Mr. Wayne, did you know Batman has direct access to the feeds and his own comm link to the rooms?” Carter asks.

Bruce shrugs, ignoring his searching eyes and looking at Joker’s slack, gaunt face. “He may have mentioned something,” he offers, “but to be honest, I didn’t get most of what he talked about. I had a late night and it sounded so very… technical.” He makes an embarrassed face. “I guess it makes sense? He's got all sorts of gadgets. He’d probably want to keep an eye on this one personally.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” Carter mutters. “I mean, what are we even here for? Are we necessary? Can he hear us talking in the control room? Why didn’t he tell us?”

“From what I know of the Batman,” Dick says from the doorway, “he’s not really big on telling anyone anything, not even Gordon or his own sidekicks. Don’t take it personally.”

Bruce keeps his eyes fixed on Joker and chews on the urge to glare at his adopted son.

“Creeped the hell out of me, that’s all I know,” Winston whispers. He looks at Carter. “Hey, d’you think he saw —?”

“Probably,” Carter agrees, his face a picture of disgust. “God only knows what he makes of it.”

Bruce knows exactly what they’re talking about, but still, he lifts his head and asks, “Gentlemen? Something I should know?”

“No, sir,” Winston tells him immediately. “Nothing you should concern yourself with.” He looks down at Joker’s body and sighs, a bone-deep sigh of someone who hates what he’s about to do but knows he has to do it anyway. “We should probably get him to the bed…”

Carter nods, his handsome face set into grim lines. “Please step aside, sir.”

No, Bruce thinks. The word rings out in Batman’s voice. You’re Wayne now, he reminds himself. Get it under control.

He clears his throat and gives both men a sheepish smile. “Actually,” he says, coloring his voice brighter, “how about I do it? I’ve been working out, you know, and I want to see if it paid off. I didn’t have the chance to try it out before now, and if I can’t pick up a woman when I try, it’s just gonna be embarrassing.”

The guards blink. They look to one another. “You actually want —”

“Indulge me,” Bruce pleads, and laughs awkwardly. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this close to an actual supervillain without them taking me hostage. It’s actually quite exciting.”

From the doorway, Dick narrows his eyes at him, and Bruce can feel him glaring a hole into the side of his head. He’s going to want to talk about this, too, or at least be Eloquently Silent at Bruce as soon as they’re alone.

Bruce will worry about this later. For now, he slips his arms under Joker’s unmoving body before the guards can protest, cradles him in his arms, and slowly gets to his feet.

“At least now we know this thing definitely works,” Winston says after a spell of charged silence. “That’s… good.”

“Indeed.” Bruce nods, smiling at them both. “I’ll take him to bed. If you would please get the restraints ready…”

They scramble to grab the chains and cuffs, and Bruce turns to carry Joker to the bedroom.

You idiot, he thinks, glancing down at the clown’s face. You damned fool. You absolutely had to, didn’t you? You just had to prove your point. The Joker’s face stays still, lips caught in the shadow of a smile that the discharge froze on his mouth, and it’s like he knows, and is mocking Bruce even when he’s unconscious.

And then there are other thoughts crowding in Bruce’s head and pushing to the front, like that Joker’s lost weight. Considerably. Last time Bruce carried him, there was the straitjacket in the way, softening some of Joker’s sharp bony angles, but even taking that into account the discovery is… worrying. Is he eating enough? Bruce thought so, and Alfred never reported any trouble, but then…

He’s going to have to keep an even closer eye on his guest from now on.

“We’re ready, Mr. Wayne,” Winston says by the door to the bedroom.

Bruce nods, and carefully lays Joker down on the bed.

The guards set to work at once, fastening the cuffs around Joker’s wrists and ankles with a chain connecting the two sets to limit the patient’s movements as much as possible, and Bruce lets them, listening to their murmurs. It’s clear they’d much rather add the straitjacket to the ensemble, but that’s out of the question, and the reason for that wheels into the room a moment later, Alfred announcing himself with a polite cough.

“Good Lord,” he says, looking at the bound figure on the bed with studied, controlled alarm. “You’re not leaving anything to chance, are you?”

“We’re leaving plenty to chance, Mr. Pennyworth,” Carter murmurs. “I used to work at Arkham. I saw what this freak can do with the chains, and it ain’t pretty.”

“Then we had better hurry,” Alfred says, pushing the tray with the IV drip already prepared. “If you would be so kind as to stand aside…”

They do, and Alfred swoops in, taking control, his hands sure and steady as he gets ready to attach the IV to Joker’s arm. And Bruce knows he should leave. He should make up some sort of ludicrous and cowardly, transparent excuse to scramble out of here and let them work. That’s what the guards probably expect of Wayne.

The problem is, he isn’t quite Wayne now even despite his best efforts, and he can’t make himself — his true self — move from his spot by the window. He’d be leaving not only the guards, but Alfred, with an unconscious but still dangerous Joker. And that’s impossible, plain and simple. He’s responsible for them. He has to be here to protect them.

He looks at Joker’s face, and a small, traitorous voice hisses in his ear, All of them.

***

Both Dick and Jason stand with their arms crossed over their chests, staring him down. Dick says, “Now can we talk?”

“You’re not allowed to say no,” Jason adds.

Bruce glances at the monitors. The feed from Joker’s rooms shows him on the bed, under the covers, his pillows thrown to the floor and his body tucked in on itself across the bed and against the headboard, angled in the single position that hides his face from all of the cameras in the room.

“Bruce,” Jason snaps. “He’s fine. Stop looking at him.”

Joker’s not fine, and the ostentatious position screams at Bruce that he wants to communicate that to the world. Bruce unglues his eyes from the screen all the same, and faces his sons. They won’t let him escape that. Might as well get this over with.

“I’m… listening,” he tells them.

“Wouldn’t that be a first,” Dick mumbles. Then, in his full voice, he presses, “What the hell, Bruce?”

“It’s not normally like that,” Bruce counters.

“Yeah, that’s not exactly reassuring,” Jason snaps.

“What was all that about sleeping pills?” Dick demands.

Bruce can feel himself bristling, closing up on them. His fingers want to curl into fists. He keeps them firmly spread open on his lap, and looks right back at them, unblinking.

“I'm developing a drug to help regulate his sleep pattern,” he explains with all the calm he doesn’t feel.

“You?”

Bruce grits his teeth. “With the doctors at Arkham.”

Dick raises an eyebrow at him. Jason prompts, “And?”

“I tested it yesterday, and the result was encouraging. The dosage had en effect.”

“Okay.” Dick nods, expression tight. “So far so good. Now feel free to add what you were trying to leave out.”

“I wasn’t —”

“Come now, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, descending into the cave with a tea tray. “We all have to own up to our sins from time to time.”

Bruce glares at him. “I haven’t done anything I regret,” he says. “It was necessary for a proper test. If Joker had known about the drug, he would have refused to take it, or tried to fight it, and —”

Dick holds up a hand. “If he’d known? You mean you drugged him without telling him first?”

“I had to,” Bruce insists.

He watches Dick’s eyes harden, and excuses try to tumble out of his mouth. That’s when Jason steps forward.

“Okay, this actually makes me feel a bit better,” he admits, giving Bruce a searching look. “He’s a murderous maniac. He doesn’t need coddling. You did what you had to do.”

“That,” Dick says sharply, “or you went on a power trip.”

Bruce meets his glare with one of his own. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it? Are you absolutely sure? Because he seems to think it is,” he argues, pointing to Joker. “And you know what? Suddenly what happened today makes a whole lotta sense.”

“Dick —”

“He’s taking back control,” Dick carries on, voice laced with the same steel that gleams in his eyes. “He thinks you’ve taken away his control in a way he didn't consent to, so he’s reacting in the only way he thinks he can. He may not have a lot of choices, but he still has some, and he’s exercising them.” He takes a deep breath and looks to the ground. “Or, you know. At least that’s what it looks like.”

Behind Dick, Alfred allows himself a smidgen of a smile. He obviously agrees with Dick, and it sets Bruce’s teeth on edge.

“It’s not about control,” he insists.

“Yes it is! I saw you with him today, Bruce! It’s all about control! You wouldn’t even let the guards handle him, and don’t think I didn’t notice how badly you wanted to chase them out of the room and do everything yourself! You think you’re the one in sole control of him now, and for some goddamned reason he’s agreed to let you. But now you can’t resist pressing the point on him and, and, and he’s pushing back! And you’re telling us it’s different this time, that he’s changing, but what I saw today is just more of the same, the same stupid old game you two have been playing from the start. Only now that the scale is so much smaller, neither of you can hide what it’s always been about!”

Bruce’s pulse is slamming in his neck. He opens his mouth. “It’s not —”

“Personal? Yes it fucking is, and you know it. It’s all about the two of you. You’re still playing the game, Bruce. You never stopped.”

“What’s gotten into you, Grayson?” Jason asks before Bruce can object. “Suddenly you’re a clown lover, after what he’s done to the Gordons?”

“I remember what he’s done,” Dick hisses. “But I also understand what Bruce has done, and what that means.” He turns to Bruce now, and his face turns even colder. “He’s your prisoner. You’re responsible for him. You’re the one with the power. He cannot leave, and you’re the one with the power to feed him, clothe him, house him, or zap or drug or hit him whenever you feel like it. Tell me there isn’t a part of you deep down that enjoys this. Tell me that’s not what you’ve always wanted.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. His fingers curl on his lap. “I’m doing this to keep my city safe.”

“See, I really want to believe that,” Dick says. “I think you believe that, mostly. But after today…? I don’t know that you won’t let this get the better of you. What you did with the drugs wasn’t ethical, Bruce, and it’s not for that damned clown’s sake that I’m worried, you know that, don’t you?” His tone turns quieter now, almost pleading. He takes a step forward. “The most important thing you taught me,” he says, “the one that’s gonna stay with me no matter how hard I sometimes wish it wouldn’t. Justice, not vengeance. This? I have no idea what this is.”

Silence settles over the cave. Some of the bats above stir, some take flight. Water drips down the walls. From the computer, police scanner reports mingle with street traffic and even deeper silence from Joker’s quarters.

Bruce knows what he’s supposed to say. He just… can’t.

“If I may, Master Richard,” Alfred interjects quietly, inserting himself into their circle and putting three full tea cups down on the control panel by Bruce’s elbow, “I really do not think it’s either.”

He locks eyes with Bruce and smiles lightly. Bruce works his throat, not sure how to react.

“Maybe,” Dick allows. He sighs and physically deflates, as though most of the steam oozed out of him along with his breath. “It just, it doesn’t feel right.”

“Dramatics,” Jason mutters, rolling his eyes.

Dick holds Bruce’s gaze for a moment longer, and then turns to Alfred, forcing a smile for him. “Sorry, Alfred, I won’t be staying,” he says. “You can have my tea. I’m going to visit Babs.” He turns to Jason, expectant. “You coming?”

“You go ahead,” Jason tells him, “I’m gonna visit her some other time. Not so big on third-wheeling.”

That brings a chuckle out of Dick, a haggard, awkward little thing that dies on his lips a moment later when he glances at the screens. He turns and makes for the stairs.

“Dick,” Bruce calls out to him, and Dick stops.

“Yeah?”

“Please tell Barbara…” Bruce considers, then sighs, and massages his temples. “Please give her my best.”

“She may not want to hear it, but, okay.” Dick shrugs and turns away from them for good. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back here. Be seeing ya, I guess.”

He leaves. The three of them watch him go, and then Jason turns to Bruce.

“Well, are you just going to sit here and mope all night, or are we going out?” he asks, ignoring Alfred’s attempts to get him to drink his tea.

Bruce steals a glance at the screens. Joker hasn’t moved from his curl by the headboard.

“Uh, unless you’d rather go and —” Jason points to the screens, frowning.

Bruce turns away from the computer and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Let’s go. There’s work to do.”

“Look, don’t listen to Grayson,” Jason says, following Bruce to where they store the suits. “He’s gone soft. You’ve done what had to be done and if anything, it kinda… it made me feel better about the whole thing.” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at the computer. “It’s still a fucking mess though,” he adds under his breath.

Bruce doesn’t respond. He grabs the suit. “Come on, Robin,” he says.

Jason follows him.

***

Gotham winds fail to blow Bruce’s mind clean of Dick’s voice; Harvey’s men fail to intercept his frustrations. Jason’s presence at his side is a comfort, but a small one, and by the time they return to the cave, Bruce feels no less full of that itchy kind of restlessness than when he’d left.

Jason doesn’t comment until they’re both changed from the suits into their day clothes, or, in Jason’s case, pajamas, and then, quietly, he touches Bruce’s shoulder.

It lasts no longer than a blink, and then it’s gone. Jason looks away, ducks his head, bends to tuck in the laces of his sneakers. He looks embarrassed — even angry, like he’s just revealed a weakness. Obviously he wants Bruce to pretend this moment never happened.

And Bruce wants to say something, but the words shrivel up and scatter to dust in his throat before he even knows what they are. So pretend he does.

“I’m gonna stay for a while,” Jason says, avoiding Bruce’s eyes. “It’s a mess over here. You obviously need me to keep things straight.”

“I… all right.”

Jason nods, curt and final, signaling a definite end to the uncomfortable interlude of feelings. Bruce would smile if he didn’t feel like he was balancing on the edge of a razor blade in the middle of a snowstorm.

Then Jason leaves, rubbing the back of his head as he goes, and leaving Bruce with an enormous yawn in lieu of a goodnight.

Bruce turns toward the computer, now blank. For a moment, his fingers hover over the keyboard.

…No. Not this time.

His footsteps kick up furious echoes to scatter around the cave as he stomps back up to the Manor, startling the bats into flight.

***

“It would appear our resident Clown Prince is trying out a new diet,” Alfred says as he serves Bruce and Jason their dinner.

Bruce looks up at him. “What?”

“Oh, was that too vague? I meant to imply that he is not eating. At all.”

Jason groans and drags his hands down his face. “Whatever,” he says. “Let him starve if he wants to, who cares?”

Bruce frowns as Alfred ladles out the goulash onto his plate. “Did you try sending him candy?”

“Indeed, Master Bruce. He returned it untouched, just like he returned everything else.”

“Let him do whatever he wants,” Jason argues. “He’ll crack soon enough, and if he doesn’t, well, big fucking loss.”

“Waiting him out won’t work,” Bruce mutters. “I know exactly what he’s doing.”

There's a pause, but Bruce doesn’t register it until Alfred coughs politely. He blinks and looks first at his surrogate father, then at Jason. They’re both staring at the fork in his hand.

It’s not until he looks down at it too that he notices he’s been gripping it so hard he’s bent it out of shape.

***

It’s not an apology, as Bruce tried to explain to Jason before Jason stormed off in a huff murmuring “Can’t fucking believe this.” It can’t be an apology when Bruce still maintains he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Hot butter melts between the cracks of the two buckets and drips onto his fingers; Bruce holds the popcorn away from his shirt as he waits for the metal wall to slide open.

“Waiting for Lakeisha’s go-ahead, sir,” Carter explains. “We told the clown to stand by the far wall where we can see him going in.”

Bruce nods. “Sensible.”

“Are you absolutely sure there’s nothing in your pockets?” Carter insists, even though he gave Bruce a thorough pat-down not two minutes ago. “Not even a pen or a paperclip? I’ve seen the bastard kill with less.”

“Positive,” Bruce assures him with a smile. “See, I’m not even wearing a tie.”

“I’d feel much better about this if the Bat was here to supervise,” Carter mumbles, patting the communicator at his belt.

“I’m sure he’ll be watching from wherever it is he hides during the day. Now how about that door? I’m getting butter all over my good shirt.”

Carter is not amused; even when Jones greenlights the operation from the control room, he hesitates before entering the code, and his dark brown skin seems to turn pale when the doors groan open. Bruce’s heart skips, and then picks up the pace as Carter tells him to follow him inside, but he keeps his face open and vulnerable, and trains it into an embarrassed smile when he meets Joker’s eyes from across the room.

“Well,” he offers, clearing his throat for added theatricality. “Hello. Good to finally meet you properly.”

Joker, as has been promised, is standing by the windows, too far from Bruce and Carter for any violent attempts to go undetected. He’s dressed casually for a change, in a bright yellow t-shirt and purple sweatpants with his feet bare, and if anything, it makes him look even skinnier — sharper, more gaunt, even gangly with his jutting elbows on display — but no less dangerous. He isn’t smiling. Instead, his eyes search Bruce’s face with such focused intensity it makes the hair on the nape of Bruce’s neck stand on end.

“Just checking up on you after all the… unpleasantness the other day,” Bruce says. He puts the popcorn forward like a peace offering, or maybe a shield. “I thought you could use a distraction. Let’s see, we have…” he pretends to take a moment to think, “A Night at the Opera, The Cocoanuts, Horse Feathers and Go West, or if you prefer something else, there’s also some Chaplin and The Three Stooges Collection, and —”

He doesn’t miss the way Joker’s eyes flicker, but the emotion that glimmers across his face is too rapid, too bright to pinpoint, like shadows thrown across the room by the flutter of a moth’s wings against a lightbulb.

Then, he does smile. To a casual observer it might look innocuous, perhaps even childlike, especially when he claps his hands and twitters, “Ooooooh, is this a movie date?”

Bruce can read him better than that now, and he knows: nothing is yet forgiven.

“If you feel like it,” he says, still smiling. “You do like classic comedy, right? That’s what they told me. The popcorn was a shot in the dark.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Joker assures him eagerly, forgetting about Jones’s instructions and leaping onto the sofa. “I want to watch all of them, Brucie, all of them!”

“Looks like you’re feeling better,” Bruce says, smirking, and then he ignores Carter’s warning glare and comes over to the sofa to take a seat on the other end, a nice, respectable distance from Joker.

“Sir, the handcuffs…” Carter starts.

“I think we can probably do away with the handcuffs this time, can’t we?” Bruce suggests, turning to Joker. “We’ll have a nice quiet afternoon watching a movie or two without any trouble, isn’t that right?”

“Oh absolutely,” Joker assures him sweetly, batting his eyelashes. “I’ll be good, I promise. Besides, if I wanted to, I could easily brain you with the cuffs, or use the chain to strangle you, or —”

“Thank you, you’ve made your point,” Bruce parries, and of course he’s well aware of all that; that’s why he didn’t want the restraints in the first place. If he’s going to be confined to a room with Joker for any extended period of time, he’d much rather Joker was unarmed, and Joker has proven time and again that in his hands, restraints are weapons.

“So,” he says, making himself comfortable on the couch and putting the popcorn buckets on the floor by his feet, “let’s say two movies today? What do you want to start with?”

“You’re not going to give me the popcorn?”

“Ah.” Bruce gives him a sunny smile. “Not yet. I heard you haven’t been eating, and in your state, the popcorn will only upset your stomach. You need to eat some soup and bread first.”

“But,” Joker frowns at him, “you brought two.”

“Yes. And as soon as you eat the delicious soup my butler has prepared for you, you can have some.”

Joker’s frown turns stormy as his lips plunge into a petulant pout; he crosses his hands across his chest and angles himself away from Bruce. “The food here doesn’t agree with my delicate constitution,” he murmurs. “Makes me all… drowsy.”

Yes, Bruce had a feeling this would come up sooner or later. He sighs and promises, “That won’t happen again. I’m gonna make sure they inform you next time they want to give you anything.”

“And what about our beloved flying rodent friend?” Joker asks, still scowling. “He fine with you coming over without him playing Caped Chaperone?”

Bruce meets his eyes, unflinching. “The Batman isn’t here.”

They look into each other’s eyes for perhaps a minute or so, and then Joker sits back, stretching his legs in front of him, and cocks his head at Bruce.

“No,” he allows, “I suppose he isn’t. He’s probably out there somewhere, though… listening, eavesdropping with those pointy little ears.”

“There’s very little I can do about that.”

“Ha!” Joker lets out a hoarse bark of a laugh, then winks at Bruce. “Let him peep in on our little date if that’s where he gets his bat-kicks. We’ll have all the fun, you and I.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “What makes you think it’s a date?”

“Let me pretend, handsome. Otherwise I’ll be so rusty when I get out, I won’t be able to charm my way into a bus, let alone somebody’s knickers!”

The attempt at manipulation is transparent, but Bruce still smiles because this is the first time Joker’s mentioned a life beyond his rooms. He also used “when” this time. And that is part of his manipulation too, no doubt, but it’s still hopeful, and Bruce settles in a little more easily on the couch.

“Fine, you can pretend it’s a date if you want,” he allows, “so far as you keep to your end of the couch.”

“Hands to myself, got it, Brucie. Hey, did you know there’s a lot of words that rhyme with Bruce? Spruce. Deduce. Apple juice. I even made up a little rhyme for you. Wanna hear?”

Bruce blinks. “I…”

But Joker is already in performance mode, jumping to stand up on the couch and gesturing dramatically. “My good friend Bruce is strong as a moose, but, alas, somewhat obtuse. His pants, y’see, only come loose when a kitty-cat naps on his caboose. A moment of truce did request my friend Bruce, a thought that to me seemed rather monstrueuse, but so sweetly he coos, and so cute his excuse, that I can’t help but BEG for his abuse.”

His teeth glint cruelly as he stretches his painted lips in a victorious grin. He sketches a deep bow, every inch as scathing as his words, and holds the position, waiting.

And Bruce… Bruce is lost for words. His mind tries to scramble for them, but it keeps running into a wall, erected by that one final word.

Abuse. Abuse.

And God, that makes him angry. Angrier than the obvious dig at Selina, angrier than all the mock flirting could ever make him feel, because seriously, abuse? Bruce could show him abuse, that grinning, self-aggrandizing piece of filth —

But the word makes something else stir in his gut, too. Something far sharper, far colder, which helps him keep a lid on the anger. Something he simply doesn’t want to accept.

He won’t let the clown guilt-trip him. No fucking way.

“The rhythm needs work,” he manages eventually, and has to clear his throat immediately because the words scratch on the way out. “Also, there’s a z sound in monstrueuse.”

Joker looks up. “What?”

“The word monstrueuse,” Bruce points out, enunciating it carefully. “It ends on a z sound, see?”

“I know. J’ai pris quelques libertés artistiques, mon chéri, mon trésor,” Joker refutes, waving his hand carelessly and folding his long legs under himself once again. The process is rather fascinating, seeing just how much sheer leg Joker has to fold, and Bruce is momentarily distracted until Joker coughs to get his attention again.

“I didn’t know you were a poet,” he tries.

“Poetry and comedy are intimate bedfellows, bay-baaaay! Didn’t you know? And what was that about my rhythm?”

“Well, it’s a bit… shaky, isn’t it? Could be tighter.”

“Oh, everyone’s a critic.” Joker crosses his arms protectively over his chest, sticking his nose in the air. “As if you could do better.”

“All right,” Bruce allows, despite that nagging little voice that urges him not to back out of the challenge; no way in hell is he getting himself into a poetry slam against Joker. “You’re right, I couldn’t. So how about you pick a movie and we get on with it?”

“God yes,” Jones says through the speakers. “Please. Let’s get this over with.”

Carter snorts. Joker grins and starts rocking back and forth as he sits cross-legged on the couch.

“Let’s roll A Night at the Opera then, please,” Bruce says, addressing the closest camera.

Joker claps and lets out a delighted ooh sound when the panel on the wall between the tall windows moves out of the way to reveal the screen they’ve been using for Joker’s video therapy sessions. It blinks into activity just as the automatic curtains block out the sun and the lights in the parlor dim, and Bruce is acutely aware of Carter’s presence behind them, sharply watchful, even as he tries not to steal glances at the picture of whiteness mixed with garish color he can see out of the corner of his eye.

Silently, he picks up one of the popcorn buckets from the floor and grabs a greasy, buttery handful.

The movie starts.

And Joker knows the entire thing by heart.

Of course he does, Bruce muses, munching on popcorn as he tries to tune out the sound of Joker acting out all the scenes along with Groucho and company. Bruce should have expected that. He himself can recite most of the Zorro movies — though of course he’s never put that to the test since that night in Crime Alley — and now that he thinks about it, there’s a good chance Joker will know all the lines of every other classic comedy movie Bruce can offer.

Behind them, Carter is barely holding it together. From how the man twitches and grits his teeth, it’s obvious he’d like nothing more than to gag Joker, or better yet, knock him out entirely. Bruce knows he should be feeling similarly murderous, and maybe that’s exactly what Joker wants.

The thing is, though, Bruce… doesn’t. It’s only mildly annoying instead of infuriating, and some of Joker’s takes on the dialogues are actually quite… amusing.

Not that he would ever admit that to anybody, including under torture. But still.

“Ha ha ha!” Joker laughs along with Fiorello, and actually jumps to his feet for this part, turning to Bruce with his arms thrust up. “You can’t fool me! THERE AIN’T NO SANITY CLAUSE!”

“Sit down,” Carter growls. Bruce isn’t looking directly at him, but from the corner of his eye he can see movement, and guesses Carter’s reached for his baton.

“Sorry, got carried away for a bit here,” Joker sings, reclaiming his end of the couch. “It’s my favorite bit.”

Bruce sighs. He thinks he has a pretty good idea why.

“Though I suppose good old Jimmy Gordon might disagree,” Joker whispers, and it’s like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice-cold water down Bruce’s shirt — just like that, he’s disassociated, Wayne blinking out of him in a single heartbeat, and it’s Batman staring wide-eyed at the greyscale figures moving about the screen, and they’re blurring, and all he can really see is Jim, stripped naked and collapsing into his arms with tears streaking down his face.

“Don’t,” he says. He isn’t sure if he’s talking to Joker or himself.

He doesn’t turn to look at Joker. He doesn’t dare. Heat surges up to his fists and crowds against his fingertips, and if he did turn, if he spotted even a hint of a smile, he knows he would lose control.

“Don’t,” he repeats.

Joker is silent. There’s a tense three seconds, three rapid heartbeats, where the world hangs in a strange no-man’s-land, suspended between truce and aggression, and Bruce knows, just as he knows his own two names, that right now it could fall either way. He knows which one they both want. He knows which one they can’t allow, because if they do, everything, all of this, is over.

He has no doubts that Joker has sensed his transformation, that he knows he’s sitting next to Batman now and not Bruce Wayne. He could choose to attack. He could choose to — dance, to retrace their old steps, right here, right now.

He wonders if Joker realizes how important this moment is. He wonders if Joker wants — whatever this is — enough to keep it going at the expense of whatever sits there coiled tightly inside of him just as it coils in Bruce. He wonders if he does.

He wonders if that’s what the line about Gordon was meant to prove — that Joker can tease Batman out of him with only a few words. Maybe Dick was right. Maybe, in a way, it really is a power play.

And then the three seconds stretch into four, then five, then into minutes, and the moment is gone, and then the longer they sit there keeping words in, the more impossible it becomes to ever let them out.

And then —

“Pause it,” Joker says quietly after about fifteen minutes of existing in this strange between-state. “I think I’ll have that soup.”

Bruce breathes out. He can feel Wayne pressing forward until he pushes Batman out of his skin entirely, and along with him, the hot ache in his heart begins to steam away to leave behind the usual, more manageable, dull pain Bruce doubts will ever go away. Time resets, seems to rush back into place. He can hear the movie still going, which is strange because he’s sure he hasn’t heard a single word. He gestures for Carter to give the orders, and they wait for the soup in a silence that doesn’t feel alien anymore even though Bruce would never call it comfortable.

“Back with us, sweetie?” Joker whispers.

“Don’t talk about Jim Gordon.”

“I can’t promise you anything of the sort, you know that.”

“Try.”

Joker appears to consider this. Then he smiles, wide enough that Bruce can see it in his peripheral vision.

“I do like you, Juicy Brucie,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind you visiting from time to time instead of the big guy, if… If Batsy won’t mind me two-timing.”

Bruce sighs. “We’ll see.”

“He still has to keep coming, of course.”

The dumbwaiter bell rings. Bruce rubs his temples. “Eat your soup.”

Astoundingly, Joker does, standing up to retrieve his dish in silence and then sitting back down with the tray on his lap. He looks into Bruce’s eyes as he guides the first spoonful of Alfred’s signature tomato cream soup into his mouth, and keeps holding eye-contact as he swallows.

“Mmm,” he says after a moment. “Your Jeeves really knows his stuff.”

Bruce nods, allowing the corners of his mouth to climb. “That he does,” he agrees. “Don’t eat too quickly. Can we get the movie rolling again?”

Jones restarts the picture, and this time Joker is quiet until the end, eating his soup with bread and then reaching for the now-cold bucket of popcorn by Bruce’s feet. When they play Go West next, he doesn’t resume his act of following the lines, but limits himself to laughing; and when the reminder to take his medicine goes off in the middle of the movie, he meekly stands up and takes the pills without any urging.

It feels like a success. Bruce isn’t quite sure it is, yet.

But he’ll take what he can get.

***

“You’re being way too soft on him,” Jason complains when, one week later, Bruce gets ready for another movie session.

“It’s working,” Bruce argues. “He’s opening up.”

“He’s using that as a new way to try and piss you off.”

“He just needs attention. If I don’t give it to him, he’s going to regress out of spite.”

“For that to happen there’s gotta be progress in the first place.”

“There has been progress.”

“Oh yeah? Like when he drew all over the walls of the gym last night?”

“He needs distractions.”

“Have you seen some of the stuff he drew? There was a fuckton of bats. Just sayin’.”

Bruce ignores him and waits for the microwave to bing.

Jason watches him for a moment longer, and then points with his finger at Bruce’s jacket. “The fuck you wearing that for?”

Bruce’s eyes widen. “What? It’s just a jacket.”

“It’s your nice jacket. It’s one of those you usually wear to Wayne Enterprises shindigs.”

“Is it?” Bruce turns away to watch the popcorn. “I didn’t notice.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Jason throws his arms up in the air and stalks out of the kitchen. “I’m taking the Harley,” he yells over his shoulder. “I really don’t want to be anywhere near here for the next three hours because frankly, you two are disgusting. Just don’t expect me to mop your remains off the floor when he guts you.”

“That’s what I’m paying Alfred for,” Bruce murmurs, then does a quick sweep of the kitchen to make sure Alfred isn’t anywhere within earshot.

He takes the popcorn and visits Joker as Wayne again, and he doesn’t quite laugh at Joker’s interpretations, but he does smile.

When Joker reaches out to steal his popcorn, Bruce doesn’t stop him.

Chapter Text

Harvey's expecting him. Gunfire rains on Bruce when he crashes through the window into the dingy warehouse where Harvey holds temporary court, and goons rush him even before all the glass scatters to the floor. Bruce does his best to dodge the spray of bullets as he makes short work of the goons, and kicks the gun out of Harvey’s hand before tripping him and pinning him to the floor face-down.

“I’m taking you back to Arkham,” he growls, tying Harvey’s arms behind his back with the rope from his belt.

“You idiot!” Harvey trashes under him, trying to reach the knife in his sleeve which Bruce swiftly intercepts. “You have no idea what —”

“Quiet.” Bruce presses his knee into Harvey’s back until the man stops moving. “The police are on their way. Tell me where you took the Joker’s men.”

“The hell do you care?” Harvey spits out onto the dirty floorboards. “You should thank me! That’s a dozen of those damn clowns off the streets!”

“Where,” Bruce’s knee digs deeper into the hollow of Harvey’s back, “are they?”

“Probably at the bottom of Gotham River by now. They weren’t a very smart bunch. Or very lucky.”

Harvey laughs, a hoarse, quietly horrible sound that feeds straight into the tight angry coil in Bruce’s stomach. He twists Harvey’s arms behind his back until he hears them crack. Harvey groans in pain.

“That wasn’t very smart,” Bruce tells him.

“What, you’d rather that scum run amok?”

“I’d rather they serve out their sentences in Blackgate.”

“The rest of them still might, if you can beat the others to them,” Harvey pants through a cruel smirk. It stretches the scarring on the left side of his face into something straight out of a nightmare, making Bruce wishes he could see the other side, too.

“What others?” he snarls, bearing down on him. “Cobblepot? Black Mask?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Harvey’s smirk curves, the corner sharp like a pointed blade. “Say, where’s the clown?”

Bruce says nothing. He keeps Harvey pinned until the wail of the sirens finally struggles through the restless silence of the Dixon Docks.

“You got him, don’t you?” Harvey demands. “You got him locked up somewhere underground? Or did you finally come to your senses and put a bullet through that demented green head?”

Bruce grits his teeth. “Shut up.”

“Tell you what, I’ll cut you a deal. You tell me where the clown is, and I might just let slip something about my esteemed colleagues that will definitely catch your attention. Whadya say?”

“No,” Bruce snaps.

“But you won’t deny you got him.”

“Why are you suddenly so interested in Joker?”

“He stole some of my best men,” Harvey mutters, the smirk gone in a blink. “He messed with their heads and snatched them right up from under my nose. Did the same to the others, too. Stole whatever he damned well pleased: men, territory, jobs, guns, whatever. He’s gotta pay. They all do.”

“But you waited until he was out of the picture before you started gunning for him. That’s real brave, Harvey.”

Harvey snarls, the sound raw and feral as it makes it through the ruin of his mouth. He tries to struggle. Bruce holds him still and doesn’t give an inch, until Harvey asks, “He really isn’t coming back this time, is he?”

“It doesn’t concern you anymore.”

Harvey huffs and deflates under Bruce. “Doesn’t matter anyhow,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna snuff him out sooner or later. You can pass that on to him, with compliments.”

He spits. He does, however, go willingly enough once Bruce hauls him to his feet, and doesn’t try to break free when Gordon’s men barge in and cuff him.

Down in the docks, Bullock's just about to slam the van doors on him when, suddenly, a blade of all-too-familiar noise stabs Bruce’s ears.

An explosion.

The ground shakes under their feet. Police officers shout and fall to their knees all around Bruce, expecting waves of flame to rush them, but when Bruce looks up, he sees the blood-red haze of fire licking the skies further down the bay.

“Tricorner Yards!” he calls to Jim, who follows the direction of Bruce’s gaze and nods, his face painted in stark grim lines.

“Batman!” Jason calls into the comm, breathless.

Bruce jumps to block the van with his own body to make sure Harvey can't escape in the commotion, and even as he does, two more explosions go off one right after the other, painting Gotham River in pulsing swathes of red and orange.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

“It’s Black Mask,” Jason shouts into the link. “His gang tried to break into one of the warehouses. Said something about Joker’s money. And then, I dunno, they must have tripped a wire or something, 'cause suddenly this carnival music started to play and there was a recording with Joker babbling nonsense, and then the warehouse exploded, and —”

Bruce curses under his breath. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I kept my distance, but a lot of the thugs got caught in the blast. Can’t see much through all the smoke.”

“Stay where you are,” Bruce orders. “I’m on my way.”

“The hell's going on out there?” Jim demands.

In the van, Harvey laughs. “Gotta give it to the clown,” he barks. “He’s a mean hand for booby traps. So, which sucker was dumb enough to barge right in? Please tell me it was Falcone.”

Bullock slams the van doors in his face with a bang that does nothing for Bruce’s ringing ears.

“Get an ambulance,” Bruce tells Jim, getting ready to leave. “There might be people caught in the rubble.”

“Tell me what’s going on!”

But Bruce is already scaling the nearest crane, asking for Jason’s precise location. There could be survivors — there’s not a moment to lose.

There are five, in the end; Bruce and Jason manage to save three of Black Mask’s goons from the ruins, and the rescue workers uncover two more. They’re all in bad shape, and two are headed straight for intensive care. Jason said he’d seen eight go in. Bruce keeps searching for the remaining three until it becomes devastatingly clear there’s nothing left to look for, other than grisly body parts and bloodstains smeared over the wreckage. Black Mask himself is, naturally, long gone — he'd had the sense to stand well away, clear of any danger, as he sent some poor unlucky bastards to their deaths.

Bruce vows to go after him next.

“You gonna tell the clown about this?” Jason asks as they watch the GCPD move around the wreckage.

Bruce shakes his head. “No.”

“You could just ask him about the other hideouts, you know. How to diffuse the bombs. Where he keeps his stuff. He’s not gonna need it if he’s really as bent on going clean as you say he is.”

“No.” Bruce squares his shoulders. “He wouldn’t tell us, and he doesn’t need to know he’s taken lives even when he’s in captivity. It would only set him back. We can figure this out on our own.”

Jason looks like he’s about to protest, mouth settling into that stubborn line which never fails to put Bruce on the defensive, when Jim calls him over.

“Figure it’s another trap,” he murmurs when Bruce stands beside him over a music box guarding a trapdoor in the floor, half-buried under the rubble. Jim looks like he wants to kick the toy to smithereens, or maybe go and find a quiet spot to be sick. His skin tinges faintly green in the glow of the flashlights.

Bruce bends over the music box and nods. “It’s a trap all right,” he judges. “I’m going to need time to figure this out.”

“Fine. I’ll secure the perimeter. Tell me what you need.”

“Time,” Bruce says, “and no interruptions. Keep your people out of the way. There may be more explosions.”

“Sick bastard,” Jim whispers, and Bruce doesn’t miss the way his voice catches and trembles on the last syllable.

He grits his teeth, and gets to work.

It takes hours, but finally, he manages to diffuse the explosives in the music box and dismantle what he hopes are all of Joker’s rather ingenious booby traps. Even then, he goes down the dark, dusty, cobweb-strewn staircase fully expecting the shadows to spit foul green venom in his face.

It doesn't. There’s no venom. And neither is there much of anything else.

What Bruce does get for his trouble, besides lungfuls of smoke and dust, is a single playing card waiting for him on the floor - a Joker, of course, and it’s not even coated in laughing gas. Bruce’s scan confirms it to be nothing more but harmless cardboard.

He picks it up. The front is plain; the back boasts a simple “HA HA HA,” written in red lipstick.

Bruce stares at it for a long time before he carries it up to Jim.

“What the — ?” Jim’s eyes are wide and cold as they stare at the card in Bruce’s hands. He doesn’t move to take it. “You didn’t find anything else?”

“No. There is nothing else.” Tension pulls Bruce’s jaw tight. “That’s supposed to be the joke, Commissioner. All this effort for nothing.”

Jim shakes his head. “How the hell did he manage to set this up? He was locked up at Arkham before you —”

Bruce is glaring behind the cowl. “I don’t know.”

But he fully intends to find out.

***

He doesn’t let himself forget about the explosion and its victims when he visits Joker as Batman. But, true to his word, he keeps himself from asking questions; Joker's more than intelligent enough to read between the lines, and the last thing they need is his bloodlust, rekindled by the news.

Which doesn’t make Bruce any less angry. And Joker notices. He always does.

“Say, what crawled up your delicious bat-butt and died?” he asks the following morning, stretching out his legs as he lets his deep maroon dressing gown slip from one bony shoulder. Then, he laughs. “I do hope nothing did in the literal sense, for my sake as well as yours. Did it?”

“Shut up and deal.”

Joker’s smile is altogether too knowing as he shuffles the cards with just one hand, flashy, much like the street artists in Newtown. “Rough night?” he asks as he deals. “One of my delightful friends giving you trouble?”

There’s a twinkle in his eye, a keenness that goes deeper than just his need for amusement. Bruce ignores it. They haven’t given Joker the privilege of keeping up with the news about the outside world, and Bruce isn’t about to volunteer anything — especially not about last night.

“Oh very well, I’m just gonna make up something on my own,” Joker sighs when it becomes clear Bruce won’t indulge him. “How’s about we make a game of it? Eh? Hot an’ cold. Stop me if I get too close. Humor me, darling! Was it aliens?”

“One game at a time, Joker.” Bruce accepts his cards and studies them.

“Did the aliens have tentacles?”

“Shut up.”

“Ooh, is that why you’re so stiff? Did the tentacles go where they weren’t supposed to?”

“It wasn’t aliens,” Bruce snaps.

Joker laughs. When he starts to guess again, Bruce drops the cards and leaves. If he stayed even one minute longer he would snap, and punch the smile right off Joker’s face.

And worst of all, he has a grim feeling that Joker knows.

***

At night, the anger pushes him to work harder to make sure no other mobster makes the mistake of recklessly triggering any of Joker’s other traps. Not that it’s likely; word spreads fast in Gotham’s underworld, and after Black Mask’s blunder, the other criminals are bound to be much more careful. Still, Bruce has his work cut out for him if he wants to beat them to Joker’s old hideouts, and he runs both Jason and himself ragged each night chasing leads and collecting Joker’s bedraggled strays to drop them off at Central two or three at a time.

The bombs, when he finds them, are a devil to diffuse. It takes infinite patience and rock-steady hands to get anywhere close to the hideouts in the first place, and then Bruce has to be careful about the smallest gestures, ticks, noises — even his own breath — because the sensors are sensitive enough to react to a feather’s brush.

And then, of course, after all the long hours it takes him to deal with the bombs, he gets the real punchline: each of the three hideouts Bruce has managed to track down so far are as empty as the first one.

There’s nothing under the floorboards; nothing in the basements. No hidden chambers or safes, no underground passages, no disguised buttons to surrender treasure caches. All Bruce inevitably finds under the second layer of security is a single Joker card waiting to be picked up, the relentless “HA HA HA” meant not to kill, but to humiliate.

Bruce knows the punchline is meant for Joker’s crime boss competitors, and not for him. He still crumples the card in his fist every single time, until the grotesque painted visage doesn’t resemble anything remotely human.

“Where do you think he’s hiding the real stuff?” Jason asks, standing next to Bruce in yet another abandoned red-herring dump.

“We don’t need to know that,” Bruce mutters.

“So why the hell are you so angry?”

Bruce doesn’t reply. He starts back up the stairs. “Let’s go.”

Jason and the police help him spread the word down the arteries of Gotham’s underbelly, and Bruce hopes it’ll be enough to deter the smarter mob leaders, at least for a while. It does buy him more time to discover some of the other hideouts, and Gotham seems to be enjoying a temporary respite from the escalating turf wars, but he’s not as naive as to expect that things won’t go south again. Joker has already sculpted himself into a legend in Gotham’s fanciful collective consciousness; his conspicuous absence now seems to be elevating him, not to a religious figure exactly, but something close enough for Bruce to begin to worry. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes across a clue to the real thing, or claim that they did, to stir up a whole new gold-digging frenzy.

For now, though, Joker's taped warning before the explosions shook Tricorner Yards has done its job. It's instilled fresh fear into even the thickest of Gotham's criminals, feeding their superstition and Joker's legend both. Bruce banks on that fear, as well as on Joker’s reputation for unpredictable behavior, to keep things under control.

And then Alfred shows him a tape from the evening news.

“Where is the Joker?” asks Summer Gleeson, hair and scarf caught in the wind, the pointy shapes of Arkham’s towers brooding behind her. “This is Summer Gleeson, reporting live just outside the gates of Arkham Asylum where, some sources claim, one of the cells may be once again missing its occupant. For months now, Gotham’s most notorious criminal, known only as the Joker, has kept unusually quiet. After his brutal assault on Commissioner Gordon and his daughter during his last reported escape, we assumed the Clown Prince of Crime was back under lock and key, but now word has reached us that this may no longer be the case.”

The report cuts to a darkened room to show a figure swathed in shadow, face hidden, voice mechanically altered. “The Joker isn't in Arkham anymore,” the mysterious source says, leaning away from the camera. “He’s gone. I have a family member being treated at Arkham, and I overheard the doctors talking about it. When I asked about it, my bro— the family member, he said it was true, that Joker was nowhere to be seen, and they never hear him laughing anymore. It’s like he’s just. Like he’s just disappeared.”

“Since then, we’ve had more anonymous sources come forward to confirm that the Joker is no longer contained in the asylum. We’ve reached out to Jeremiah Arkham and the other doctors for comment,” Gleeson says, staring somberly into the camera as the asylum looms behind her like a black ominous beast, “but they have refused to confirm or deny the rumors, and barred the media from entering the institution. Meanwhile, word on the street is that the explosion in Tricorner Yards a week ago may be attributed to the Joker. Eyewitnesses reported hearing his signature laughter just before the bombs went off, claiming three lives and putting five more men in hospital with critical injuries. Police Commissioner Gordon had this to say:”

Now the report cuts to Jim, walking briskly towards a police car as the cameramen and Gleeson run to catch up with him, and the camera steals a close-up on him just as he grumbles, “I’ve got nothing to say to you on this matter, so why don’t you go and find something else to blow out of proportion? Me and my people, we’ve got work to do.”

“Commissioner Gordon, has the Joker escaped again? Should we fear for our safety? Why is Arkham denying us access to the facility? Have you heard from Batma—” Gleeson tries, but Jim slides into the car and bangs the door shut in her face.

“Since the authorities refuse to provide information, we asked the citizens of Gotham to see what they think about possibly being kept in the dark about the Joker’s escape.”

“This is outrageous,” says a white middle-aged man in a suit, frowning into the camera with all the self-righteous confidence of being a middle-aged white man in a suit. “We have a right to know what goes on in that loony bin, especially where that maniac’s concerned. My daughter almost died in one of his bombings. I want to know what the city is doing to keep us safe in our beds.”

“I was held hostage by the Joker’s gang once,” says an Asian woman, pulling her coat close around her as she darts nervous glances to the sides like she expects Joker to jump out from between the cars parked behind her. “If he’s out, I want to know so I can take proper steps to protect myself.”

“Batman should have killed that clown ages ago,” an elderly Black lady says, giving the camera a stony glare. “Instead, he lets him attack and murder people over and over. If it’s true that he’s out again, my family and I, we're packing our bags and moving to Metropolis.”

“They have no right to keep this a secret from us,” a white teenage girl tells the camera angrily, while her friend nods. “We deserve to know! What if, like, what if he targets our school, you know? What if he tries to blow it up and we’re not prepared?”

"Freaks like that is why every American citizen oughta have a gun," says yet another white man. "Let us protect ourselves and our families. And if Joker's really out there? I ain't afraid of him. Let him come. Let him face a real man for a change, not a coward who hides behind a goddamn mask. I've got a bullet with his name on it, right here." He pats his pocket. "Do what the cops or the Bat are too chicken-s**t to do."

“I think you’re making this up,” a young Black man murmurs, rolling his eyes. “If the Joker's really out, we’d know by now. That guy's incapable of not starting s**t. I don't give a damn about the GCPD, but Batman, now, that guy knows what he's doing. I'll believe your fearmongering when I see the Bat out, clownhunting. Till then? I'm gonna go about my business as normal.”

A smirk steals its way onto Bruce’s face before he can stop it. On the screen, Summer Gleeson maintains her concerned expression as she says, “I have just received news from the studio that Dr. Arkham is about to issue a statement on the — here he comes!” She spins, apparently alerted by the studio execs talking into her earpiece, and the camera closes up on Jeremiah Arkham stalking down the path towards the gate with two security guards in tow.

As head of a prominent mental health institution, he doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. His hair sticks out in rebellious strands as though he tried to pat it into obedience mere minutes ago, coffee and grease stain his white coat, and shadows stand out under his eyes, visible even with the thick-rimmed glasses. The lights of the TV crew only accentuate the hard set of his brows and the surly line of his thin mouth. Bruce feels a temporary stab of respect for Summer for standing her ground as he advances on her like an angered spirit, spat out by the architectural nightmare behind them to exact vengeance on those who dared disturb its rest.

“Dr. Arkham,” Gleeson asks, unflinching, “does this mean you’re available for comment? Where is the Joker?”

“Safe,” Arkham barks, stopping just before the gate and glaring at her through the bars. Deep shadows settle into the gaunt crevices of his face, making him appear small, helpless, cartoonish.

“So he hasn't escaped?” Gleeson presses.

"No."

"And he's still in his cell here at Arkham?"

“Well... no,” Jeremiah admits. Gleeson looks like she’s about to pounce, but he doesn’t let her, immediately cutting her off with, “We’ve moved him to a more secure location, to continue his treatment in a place better suited to his individual needs. He's a very sick man, Ms Gleeson.”

“But hasn’t the Joker been deemed incurable by your own doctors, not so long ago? Haven’t all attempts at therapy been suspended?”

“We do not give up on our patients,” Arkham snaps with conviction which might have been be admirable if Bruce didn’t know any better. “We’ve been experimenting with new forms of therapy since his last escape, and that is all I’m going to say on the matter.”

“Will you not disclose the Joker’s new location?”

“Absolutely not. I won't allow you to bring your media circus to his doorstep and set back months of progress by indulging his manias like you always do. The Joker is secure and locked up, and that's all you need to know.”

“So has this new therapy been successful?” Gleeson doesn’t give an inch of ground as she sticks the microphone in Arkham’s face through the iron-wrought bars. “Can we expect the Joker to rejoin society as a cured man?”

All Arkham gives her in response is a dry smirk, and then he turns to start on the path back to the asylum.

“So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” Gleeson says, turning back to the camera. “Joker is no longer in Arkham, but allegedly still locked up, and is being treated once again. It remains to be seen how successful those new attempts at therapy are, and whether or not the Joker really is as securely contained as Dr. Arkham claims he is. This was Summer Gleeson, reporting live from Arkham Asylum for the Gotham News Network.”

“They kept Batman out of it,” Bruce points out after a moment. “That’s something.”

“Frankly, I'm surprised it's taken our friendly neighborhood jackals this long to get a lead on this story,” Alfred muses. “Dr. Arkham must be remarkably good at bribing and intimidating his employees.”

Bruce doesn’t comment. He already knows which story is most likely to grace tomorrow’s front pages, and does not like it one bit, but at this point, unless he wants to break into every printing press in the city, he can’t stop it. The media kraken has sensed its prey now, and won’t be so easily silenced. He can only hope Alfred's right and no one at Arkham will feel the temptation to earn themselves an early Christmas bonus by spilling even more to the press.

He thinks he'll pay the doctors a visit again, just to make sure.

***

As Wayne, he brings popcorn again, and again, and again. He doesn’t exactly mean for their movie-watching ritual to become a regular weekly thing, but it sort of happens anyway, which the guards eventually accept but are none too pleased about.

“At least let us tie him up, sir,” Lakeisha Jones insists before escorting Bruce into Joker’s quarters. “My wife's only back in college thanks to one of your science scholarships. I wouldn’t want them cutting the program just because you let some maniac cut you.”

Bruce makes a mental note to look up Lakeisha's wife, and see if he can do more for her, even as he smiles and shakes his head at Jones. “I really don’t think that’s necessary. My guest hasn’t acted in any threatening way in the past. I'd feel so awkward watching a movie with someone tied up next to me, wouldn't you?”

“Awkward is better than dead,” Jones snaps. Then she sighs, shoulders drooping. “Can I at least gag him? Just for a bit? I swear if I have to sit through another movie with him spewing nonsense throughout, they’re gonna have to commit me.”

“I rather enjoy it,” Bruce says, and firmly doesn’t examine what percentage of that statement is a lie.

Jones rolls her eyes. “Rich people,” she grumbles as she punches in the security code like she has a personal vendetta against each button.

Joker's waiting for them, grinning the grin that is still one of the most terrifying sights in Gotham, and asks, “Did you bring me flowers?”

“Maybe next time,” Bruce allows before claiming the side of the sofa he tries, and fails, not to think of as his. “For now, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers will have to do.”

“Ah, a pair of rare flowers in their own right,” Joker judges, some of the edge in his smile coming off. “Will you sing with me, Brucie?”

“How about we let the actors do their jobs?” Bruce counters as Top Hat’s opening credits roll.

“I’ve always seen myself as more of a… transformative connoisseur.”

And he proves it a moment later, launching into his own rendition of No Strings (I’m Fancy Free) which carries him all around the parlor, and which sounds much more cynical in Joker’s mouth than Irving Berlin ever intended. Joker never looks away from Bruce as he performs this one; his green eyes are all at once alight with cold irony, defiance, and a deep, rueful kind of sadness Bruce has only seen there a handful of times before.

It reminds him of a joke told on a rainy night, their reflections in puddles fracturing into pieces under the raindrops. His stomach clenches.

He doesn't let himself look away.

***

“You’re about to run out of classic comedies to placate him with,” Alfred points out as they pore over this week’s selection. He’s right — Bruce’s collection is depleting at an alarming rate.

“We’ll order more,” Bruce says, shrugging. “And maybe he’s up for other kinds of movies, too. We’ll just have to screen them first to weed out the violent ones.”

“Parental supervision,” Alfred sighs. “Why do I suddenly feel like we’ve adopted another Robin?”

“Only this one’s in his 30s,” Bruce points out, and then he pauses, because how old is Joker, anyway? They’ve known each other for a lifetime and a half, and Bruce still has no idea.

Alfred clears his throat. Bruce blinks and looks at him, suddenly aware that he must have spaced out. To cover it up, he picks the first movie to catch his eye and hands it to Alfred, who raises his eyebrows at him.

“Really, Master Bruce,” he says. “Crossdressing? After our guest made it crystal clear he would, and I quote, gladly wear a dress for you? You know he’s going to think you’re encouraging him.” Then, his eyes narrow and his mouth plunges into an expression of almost satirical disapproval. “Are you?”

Bruce sighs, and holds out his hand for the tape. “You’re right,” he allows. “We’ll go with something else.”

Alfred steps out of his reach, hugging Some Like it Hot close to his chest. “Absolutely not,” he counters. “You deserve to sit there and endure every lewd comment the clown can possibly think of.”

“Why, what have I done now?” Bruce prods, amusement bubbling up in his chest and pushing through the fog of exhaustion. Alfred turns on his heel and strides out of the library, leaving Bruce with the eloquent condemnation of a single raised eyebrow, a sight which used to be downright terrifying when Bruce was all of six years old and prone to breaking priceless family heirlooms at an alarming rate.

It’s no less terrible now, and has the added power of pushing Bruce back into the skin of that six-year-old boy again. Which, if he's honest with himself, isn’t always so… terrible.

He shakes off the feeling, and follows Alfred out of the library. He’s about to spend another afternoon with Joker; the last thing he needs right now is to feel like a child.

***

There's one good thing to come out of watching Some Like it Hot with Joker, in the end. To escape the barrage of prattle — which, yes, is predictably inappropriate — Bruce was forced to seek refuge in literally any distraction at all. Which was when he first noticed that, perhaps, he should start paying closer attention to Joker’s hands.

Those hands, he’s realized, are… eloquent.

He rewinds the feed by a few seconds, catches the moment he was looking for, watches it closely, and then rewinds the whole thing again. There’s a chill in the cave, cold air curling against the naked skin of his hands and neck and face, and a part of Bruce is grateful for it. It lends his thoughts the clarity he needs to not get sidetracked by Joker’s delighted rambling about which dress from the movie would suit him best.

Instead, he zooms in on the way Joker drove his blunted nails over his own skin, hard enough to leave angry red tracks.

It startled Bruce the first time, especially since it happened in the middle of one of Joker’s inane monologues, and he seemed entirely unaware of doing it. Once Bruce started to pay attention, though, he caught Joker at it every few minutes or so. Joker’s hands have never been capable of staying still, Bruce knows that much, but he had never before that afternoon spied this typical agitation turning to self-harm, which, like it or not, is what seems to be happening now. And it’s not just the scratching. Over the course of the movie, Joker also managed to pick the skin of his right thumb almost bloody — with healing scabs around the nail and picked cuticles suggesting this to be a regular thing — worried the fabric of his lime green shirt with fingers so twitchy they looked like a pair of white spiders scuttling across the fine material; and chewed on his bottom lip almost to the point of mangling it, nearly licking the lipstick clean off as though he wanted to replace it with actual blood.

And that was just one afternoon.

Bruce didn’t say anything, but he observed, and cataloged every little moment, and turned what he saw over and over in his head until he could steal time to descend to the cave alone and review the footage. The doctors have never talked to him about Joker’s propensity for stimming, and if they noticed any changes in Joker’s subconscious behavioral patterns, they never told him.

It could be nothing. It could be an act designed specifically to send Bruce off-balance. Or it could be genuine, and an important element to consider in therapy going forward. Either way, Bruce needs to know, and he wants to equip himself with more than just anecdotal evidence from a single afternoon before approaching the doctors about it.

His coffee’s gone lukewarm. Bruce drinks it anyway, and moves on from the footage of the movie-watching to skim the feeds from the last few days, reaching for his pen and notepad.

He gets to work.

Jason finds him hours later still at it, investigating the footage for miniscule gestures and subconscious ticks, some of them quicker than a single blink. Bruce senses his silent presence by the chair, but doesn’t turn or say a word of greeting, too absorbed in what the feeds are showing him. He directs all his focus to a quiet scene from two nights ago which, at first glance, appears to be insignificant: it’s just Joker sitting on the windowsill in his bedroom, pushing his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, looking out over the rain-swept grounds.

The posture alone is alarming and full of clues, but it's Joker’s fingers that Bruce can't look away from. Elbows resting on his knees, Joker has both hands pressed into the back of his neck. He appears to be alternating between scratching across it, and pressing against it in a gesture which looks disturbingly like a choke-hold, and yet not quite.

And more than that, something about it looks... familiar.

And maybe it’s because Bruce has been staring at this single moment for what feels like a full hour, or maybe Jason’s presence forces him to see the scene with the fresh eyes of an outsider. But it’s only then that he notices something which jolts a spark of electricity from his brain all the way to his stomach:

It’s a rhythm.

His heart launches into a furious beat. He pauses the feed. When he swallows, his throat burns raw, and he gives himself a moment to center, re-balance, and clear his thoughts as he teeters right on the edge of discovery, one wrong thought from spooking it away.

It’s a rhythm, yes, but not just any random rhythm.

It’s a rhythm Bruce knows.

The moment it clicks, a wave of sharp exhilaration pushes Bruce to rewind the feed again. His eyes widen when he realizes he’s right. The forceful press-and-release of Joker’s fingers against his own neck is definitely a controlled, regular ebb and flow, timed, Bruce realizes now, to Joker’s uncharacteristically steady breath. Bruce zooms in until the screen fills with a set of slim bony fingers, and he finds himself counting under his breath as he lets the feed play out.

One, two, three. One, two, three. In — press, out — release.

He’s breathing with the recording now, Bruce realizes. His heart, racing a mile a minute just a few seconds ago, is now trying to follow the count, and it’s calming, soothing, almost hypnotizing. For a blink or maybe two, Bruce wants nothing more than to just let himself sit there and breathe, just like the Joker on the screen is doing.

And then, finally, the penny drops.

Without thinking, Bruce pauses the feed and then, on another screen, he searches through the Joker tapes with fingers that very nearly stutter over the keyboard. He isn’t sure if he wants his suspicions confirmed or not, but a cold fist is already closing over his chest, and he knows, with that sixth sense you have to develop if you want to brave the streets of Gotham at night, just what he’ll find.

There. He picks the scene he’s been looking for, then brings the two feeds side by side on a single screen and plays both recordings at once.

He sits back, and breathes out. His mind seems to rush with white noise. His fingers twitch. Cold, humid air trickles its way into his lungs, and suddenly, Bruce is acutely aware of its arctic fingers over his naked skin.

He watches both recordings in perfect silence as the realization of just what he's seeing rushes through him with each breath; which, he knows with a curious sense of detachment, is still synced with what's going on on both screens. With Joker, breathing on his own, massaging his neck and dragging nails across it to the pace of Batman’s steady counting and breathing in the adjacent video.

One. Two. Three.

Feel. Feel my pulse. Breathe.

He remembers, Bruce thinks through what feels like layers of cotton. Or at least, Joker’s body remembers. He breathes to Batman’s rhythm, and on the screen, it looks like Batman's subduing both the Joker in his arms and the Joker on the neighboring screen.

And Bruce…

Bruce can’t seem to articulate a single coherent thought.

His eyes, taking charge while his mind's too scrambled to control his fine motor impulses, catch on the reflection of his own gloved hand on Joker’s neck. He remembers the cords of strong, wiry muscle, the throbbing tendons jumping under his fingers, the coldness he could feel even through the glove. He remembers exactly the moment when he felt Joker’s body give in; remembers applying steady pressure to that neck, stroking it, drawing circles across white skin. He almost expects to see black lines streaked by the movement of his fingers on the screen, and when he sees Joker slumping against him, trying to breathe along with him, trying to follow, his fingers beginning to move against Bruce’s exposed skin —

His wrist throbs. It remembers, too. Bruce wants to scratch against the phantom sensation, to rub the memory of Joker’s questing fingers away, but his hands lie still.

He didn't let himself watch the recording of that particular scene again, after he delivered it to the doctors. He couldn't say why. Something kept him from it, some kind of mental block that felt too much like fear.

Well, he’s watching now. And the sight of both of them, him and Joker, pressed against one another, their hands mirroring each other against the other’s skin, it…

He gulps. The saliva gets stuck in a throat, which has gone so dry it feels like swallowing through barbed wire. He can’t stop the numb, insistent heat pooling in his stomach. The itch in his wrist gets worse. He flexes the fingers of his other hand, imagining what the skin at the nape of Joker’s neck would feel like if —

“What the hell are you doing.”

Bruce blinks, letting the fingers of both hands curl in on themselves like a pair of spooked snails. He’s forgotten all about Jason.

Shit, he’s forgotten all about Jason, who's standing right there.

Bruce blinks again, hard. He struggles to reorient himself, swallows the cool dank air, and focuses on the gentle hum of electricity and the sharper murmur of the waterfall. The itching in his wrist doesn’t go away, but the sensory focus helps, and after a few sharp heartbeats, Bruce’s head feels clear enough that he thinks he can control his own voice.

“Working,” he says, and the word drags out through his too-dry throat with difficulty.

“You call that work?” Jason points to the screen. “The hell is this supposed to achieve?”

“I’ve… noticed something. I’m confirming a hypothesis.”

“By cuddling him?”

Oh. Oh, so he doesn’t mean —

If he could, Bruce would have slapped himself. He needs to focus, dammit. He reaches out to pause both recordings, and tries not to think that the feed to the right looks exactly like what Jason said it does.

Like he and Joker are cuddling.

“That’s old footage. He had a panic attack, and I had to subdue him,” Bruce explains tersely. He almost reaches out for a last gulp of cold coffee before he remembers he emptied the mug hours ago.

Jason sounds skeptical as he drawls, “Right.”

Bruce ignores him. Now that he seems to be able to think clearly again, he grabs the yellow notepad and quickly jots down his latest observation, trying to convey it through as clinical and impersonal a tone as possible: “J. seems to exhibit positive reactions to external physical pressure. Self-stim, subconscious? Rhythm like feed #147, see: P.A. #1. Possible coincidence. Anxiety relief? Review.” He underlines possible coincidence for his own benefit, so his brain doesn't get carried away; but if Gotham's taught him anything, it’s that there's no such thing as coincidence.

So. The facts. Either Joker's baiting him, and performing just to rile Bruce up with speculation, which is entirely possible. Or…

Or he relies on the memory of Bruce’s fingers on his neck, on Bruce’s breathing and his pulse, to ease some of his stress. Even subconsciously.

The thought, bright and hot, falls like a lit match onto a tender place in Bruce’s heart he never wanted to be warmed. Not by anything related to Joker. He tries to call out to the cave, to wrap its chill around himself like a cloak to stop the warmth from spreading, but it’s no use, it does anyway. Because of Joker. Because of something he’s done for Joker, the man who —

No. Bruce knows he needs to stop that. That way lies darkness, and madness, and anger of the kind that won’t be quietly banished to the back of his mind. Bruce has no time for that now. What he’s just seen could mean progress, it could be critical, and he can’t discard it just because he’s too damn afraid of his own guilt to press on.

Bruce sits up straight in the chair and promptly wills his mind to clear, sending the impending panic, as well as the warmth, back to their drawers at the back of his mind. He’ll have plenty of time for guilt later. Now, he's got work to do.

He quickly skims the notes he’s already taken before he starts reviewing snippets of footage all over again, looking for the same rhythm in clips he’s already watched ad nauseam. He takes new notes almost furiously, wrinkling paper, his heart stuttering every time he counts under his breath and finds it matching the pace of Joker’s self-stimulation and breathing control on the screens. He loses himself almost to the point of forgetting about Jason’s judgmental presence by his side all over again, until Jason clears his throat and inserts himself between Bruce and the screens, his shadow thrown over the notepad.

“It’s past midnight now,” he says, his tone vague, closed-off, almost hostile. “Should I head out alone? You wanna spend some more quality time with Giggles here?”

Bruce glares at him sharply, and smoothes a hand over the tortured notepad. “No. Give me two minutes to change.”

“I mean, I could,” Jason calls after him as Bruce heads for the bat-suits display. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account. I’m sure I can go it alone.”

Bruce ignores his baiting as he changes and activates the car.

Jason settles into the seat next to Bruce, and they silently watch as the metal portal groans open, twin rows of floor lights flickering to life on either side of the long cave passage.

Then, as they speed through the tunnel into the night outside, Jason whispers, “He’s getting to you.”

Bruce’s hands tighten on the wheel. “He’s not.”

“Yes he is. You’ve always been obsessed, but this —”

“I’m working on his therapy,” Bruce snaps before he can control the frustration cloying hotly in his gut. He can feel Jason’s accusing stare boring into him, and the instinct to defend himself against it is almost overpowering. I’m not obsessed. I’m not letting him win.

It sounds petulant even to his own ears, and he keeps his mouth shut.

“His doctors are supposed to do that,” Jason points out.

“His doctors can’t always see what I see.”

“You think you’re more competent at psychiatry than they are?”

Bruce’s teeth want to grit together. “I’m more competent at Joker than they are.”

“Yeah,” Jason murmurs after a few tense moments. “Not obsessed at all.”

Bruce minces on his reply as he drives on, Gotham waiting for them with her arms wide open.

***

Jason’s skepticism achieves one thing: Bruce refrains from visiting Arkham and accosting the doctors with his findings right away. Instead, he keeps observing and taking notes, and in the meantime, he has Alfred order books, journals and research papers on the subject of developmental psychology, self-stimulation, self-harm, hypersensitivity, sensory stimulation, even autism, ADHD and similar disorders on top of more general research geared towards criminal psychology and pathologies he doesn’t already own. If he’s going to get this invested, might as well educate himself to know just what it is that he's observing before he jumps to conclusions which may, in the end, bring more harm than good.

If Alfred wonders what’s the point of all this, he keeps it to himself. He only sighs that world-weary sigh of his, and accepts his new task with an air of resignation that unsettles Bruce, because it suggests that Alfred saw this turn coming from a mile away.

“You don’t approve?” Bruce asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m sure my approval, or lack thereof, will have very little effect on your involvement, Master Bruce.”

“But you don’t think I should get involved.”

“I think, sir, that if you’re going to do it anyway, educating yourself is a good idea,” Alfred answers with his typical professional panache. “Far better than rushing in blindly.”

Bruce bristles. “I don’t rush in blindly into anything.”

“I’m sure you believe so, sir.”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have the books delivered as soon as possible. Oh, and see if you can find anything about relieving anxiety and panic attacks, too.”

Which he really ought to have researched at the beginning of this mad venture, but then again, he didn’t really believe he’d actually need any of this knowledge.

Now, though…

Now, he’s out of excuses. It’s obvious they’re in it for the long haul. Might as well commit himself properly to make sure all of his and Joker’s efforts pay off in the end.

If there ever is an end.

“You don’t actually believe all this conventional stuff will be effective on the Joker?” Jason asks from the desk by the high windows of the library, where he’s pretending to be doing his homework. “I mean, seriously. They’d have tried it at Arkham already if they’d thought it’d do any good.”

Bruce considers his next words very carefully. “They have… their own ways of doing business at Arkham,” he says, and knows that that’s putting it mildly. “They’re not the most open-minded of people.”

Jason snorts. “And you are?”

“I try to be.”

Jason rolls his eyes, and goes back to his books.

***

Soon, it turns out Bruce isn’t the only one who’s decided to step up his game.

“A message for you, from Dr. Mulligan,” Alfred says politely, slipping the envelope onto the desk next to Bruce’s coffee.

Bruce looks up from the papers about Temple Grandin. “What’s this?”

“I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘letter,’ sir.” Alfred pushes the envelope closer towards him.

Bruce glares at him - more out of habit than anything else because if he’s honest with himself, he’s too exhausted to put any real heat behind it - but he dutifully reaches for the envelope and tears it open. He scans the message, which turns out to be more of a list of new therapy methods and specific items to be provided for Joker for the next stage in his treatment.

“The next stage,” Bruce repeats under his breath, eyes stuck on the simple phrase. His heart seems to shrink, hold in a breath, and then expand all at once. “She thinks we’ve gotten this far?”

“Interesting,” Alfred judges. “I’m sure I couldn’t tell the difference.”

Neither can Bruce. That’s what has him worried.

He scans the list again. It seems innocent enough, mostly requesting plenty of paper and multi-colored markers, and a steady supply of crayons, non-toxic watercolors, and sponges. Specific books. Anti-stress balls and fidget aids. Crossword puzzles, adult coloring books, math, science and logic problem workbooks, mindfulness exercise compilations. Cleaning supplies, so Joker can take proper care of his living space on his own when a productive mood strikes him, and so he doesn't have to wait for the scheduled visits from Arkham janitors.

That last one's going to be a headache. Bruce knows he can’t supply Joker with anything that can be used as a weapon, so that excludes mops, brooms and anything with a handle; nor can he provide any cleaning detergents if he doesn’t want to end up with a home-made bomb exploding in his face. Joker will have to make do with water, but maybe Bruce can give him some better rags, those special ones Alfred uses to keep “their” part of the Manor spotless.

Dr. Mulligan has also provided a set of exercises for Joker to perform every morning and evening — “But he needs to decide to do them on his own. Prompting the patient will only result in antagonizing him.” — and a schedule for the sleeping pills. “No more than once every three weeks,” she writes. “Patient has agreed to the suggestion, provided the pills are not administered to him with his food.” This comes as a surprise to Bruce — he’d been sure Joker would never agree to take the pills willingly after that first disastrous test.

But apparently, Joker has one other caveat.

“Patient J. requested that the pills be given to him by Batman personally, and only when he specifically asks for them.” Not exactly surprising, but it still gives Bruce pause, and he sends the condition to nag at the back of his mind as he ponders the rest.

There are also new diet restrictions, or, as Dr. Mulligan politely calls it, suggestions. She also requests that “Patient J. be allowed fresh air every once in a while, with proper security on-site, of course.” This pulls Bruce’s eyebrows up, his mind already spinning with all the ways it could go wrong.

He has promised his doctors and Joker this would happen eventually, though. He just didn’t expect they'd ever get to this point. And never expected it would come so soon.

Only, is it soon? Bruce isn’t so sure anymore. Nothing about this situation so far has gone the way he expected.

The most worrying condition, however, is the last one.

“Batman must not be allowed to watch the tapes from the patient's therapy sessions. From this point on, the sessions are strictly confidential. It's critical for the good of the patient.”

Bruce reads this sentence four times before the meaning sinks in, and then his hand wants to close over the letter to ball it up into a scrap so hard it almost begins to shake.

He hasn’t been watching any of Joker’s therapy tapes. He promised as much as he gave Joker the rundown of the rules as Wayne, and up until now, he’d been keeping his word, fast-forwarding through the video sessions during each review of the daily footage. He didn’t try to interrogate Dr. Mulligan, or any of the others, about the contents of the sessions, nor did he question the guards, and Joker himself never had anything to say on the topic. Although curiosity gnawed at Bruce more often than not, he’d kept out of it, recognizing when something was beyond him.

Recognizing that he owed Joker at least this much privacy.

He won’t break that resolution now. He’s better than his baser instincts.

Even though his baser instincts now scream at him to run down to the cave and watch each and every single one of the therapy sessions, out of sheer spite.

He ponders the letter for a few more moments, committing its contents to memory, then manages to surrender it to Alfred without tearing the paper in the process. “Take care of this, please,” he says. “I’m assuming the new food won’t be a problem.”

Alfred accepts the letter and reads it over. Bruce can pinpoint the exact moment when his gaze rests on the last request. “Oh dear,” he says, looking at Bruce. “Now I see what brought on the pulsing jaw thing.”

Bruce forces himself to unclench his teeth, with some difficulty. “The pulsing jaw thing?”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred points to Bruce’s jaw. “You have a way of clenching it when you’re really angry, and it makes the muscles there —”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce forces out even as his teeth want to clench all over again. “Just… see to all this stuff, will you? I have to get on with my reading.”

“Certainly, Master Bruce.” Alfred turns to the letter again, and hums softly. “I daresay I might just order more of those stress balls than the good doctor prescribes. The Joker isn’t the only one who might benefit.”

He’s out of the room before Bruce can reply.

***

“You never told me you’ve been working on a new routine with your doctor,” he says next time he sits down to cards with Joker. He doesn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation, and barely stops himself from wincing when it does anyway.

Joker catches on to the undertone immediately. His eyes glint, bright even in the pale murky haze of the rainy morning outside.

“Just because you’re keeping me here like a pet doesn’t mean I have to tell you everything.” He blows Bruce a kiss, as if to soften the blow. “No need to be jealous, sweetie. You’re still my main man.”

Bruce tries to shrug off the flirting, as he usually does. He asks, “So, is Dr. Mulligan working out for you?”

“Eh, she’s a bit too old for my tastes but I guess she’s all right,” Joker allows magnanimously, then grins, as though struck with a pleasant memory. “I can’t decide whether she’s more or less fun than good old Lancer. It only took a few choice words to set that guy off. The new broad is definitely more… challenging.”

The remark sits uneasy on Bruce’s mind. Joker’s attempts to manipulate his doctors are legendary and well-documented, but… “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Dr. Lancer in the context of unprofessional behavior,” he observes.

“Third,” Joker corrects him, the fingers of his left hand tapping an irregular pattern into the table. When Bruce doesn’t react, his smile turns lewd. “Oh Batsy, you adorable prude, don’t tell me you haven’t watched the show I put on for you!”

The two rows of Bruce’s teeth push against one another. The image of Joker spread indecently on the bed flashes in front of his eyes; Bruce firmly slams a lid on it, just like he banished the footage from the main files.

To put the conversation back on track, he presses, “Do you mean to imply he abuses his position?”

“You haven’t! You seriously haven’t! Why, you sweet, sweet creature, you! I’m almost offended!”

“Joker.”

“Say, speaking of doctors,” Joker says as he leans on his elbows towards Bruce, “what happened to that lovely young thing, what’s her face, the one who said her name was Harlequin?”

Harlequin?, Bruce wonders, before the name breaks apart into individual puzzle pieces.

“Dr. Quinzel?” he asks, and finds a confirmation in the wide set of sharp white teeth Joker rewards him with. Bruce frowns under the cowl. “Dr. Quinzel hasn’t been in contact with you for months now. You’ve never asked about her before.”

“Oh, has it really been months? Huh. Must've slipped my mind.” Joker scratches his chin thoughtfully.

And then, entirely without warning, he bangs his head face-first into the table.

He's up again before Bruce can react, his smile a little woozy but still in place, an impressive bruise quickly purpling on his forehead. “Yes, you’re right!” he exclaims with some degree of wonder. “Golly, how the time flies. Anyway, what happened to her? They haven’t fired her for flirting with the patients, have they? That’d be a shame. I liked her.”

“I had her taken off your rota as soon as you got transferred,” Bruce informs him. He’s still reeling from the head-banging. “Don’t do that again, Joker,” he snaps. “You could do yourself serious harm.”

“But mooooom,” Joker whines, “it helps me think! Don’t you have those little, you know, those morsels, those tiny things just on the tip of your tongue, all shy and prim and refusing to come say hi? I’ve got lots. I forget things all the time. Too much clutter up in the old attic, you understand?”

“You’ve been trying to manipulate her, haven’t you,” Bruce counters, frankly refusing to follow up on this latest ramble.

“Me?” Joker laughs, throwing his head back. “Batsy, she was the one who was all over me! You shoulda seen her! Flashing those legs, getting all close and cozy… Oh, I could certainly have some proper fun with that one. She had an edge. I like them with an edge.”

“You mean to say she flirted with you?” Bruce demands before he can stop himself.

Joker grins, delighted, his gaze pointed on the cards in Bruce’s hand. They’re getting crumpled. Curses crowd against the back of Bruce’s teeth as he consciously struggles to relax his grip on them, but it’s too late — the moment's passed, and hangs between them now, suspended like fine dust on the table.

“Now now, dearest,” Joker whispers. “Hush now. Your edges are still my favorite.”

Bruce wants to clear his throat, and doesn’t. It would feel like defeat.

“If Dr. Quinzel, or Dr. Lancer, abused their authority over you —”

“You mean like you have?”

“ — then I need to know, so I can take steps to investigate your claims and have them removed from the facility.”

“Oh, leave the blond bimbo alone,” Joker says flippantly, slouching in his chair. “If she’s lasted this long, I’m sure she’s settling in nicely. She’s clever and creative and will be going places, which, of course, most people at Arkham don’t really like, but that only makes it better. I hope she gets to write that book she was trying to use me for. You gotta admire the ambition, at the very least.”

“And Dr. Lancer?” Bruce asks, making a note to once again review the data he has on both doctors.

Joker laughs, tight and high-pitched. Bruce lets his gaze fall to his hands, and doesn’t miss the way the fingers of Joker’s left hand scratch against the back of his right really, really hard.

When Joker abruptly changes the topic to food, Bruce lets him, but he keeps observing Joker’s restless fingers. The cogs in his mind turn. He remembers a passage in one of his new books, and he thinks —

Maybe. Maybe it would work. And now is as good a time as any.

“Joker,” he says abruptly, cutting off Joker’s deranged monologue about the many virtues of strawberries.

Joker's eyes bear into him. They’re bright, anxious and unsettled. Restless, just like his hands are, and have been ever since Bruce brought up the doctors.

Bruce stands up. He says, “I want to try something.”

Joker watches him warily as Bruce walks around the table towards his chair. When Bruce kneels in front of him, Joker actually gasps, and his entire body flinches - but he falls silent when Bruce reaches out to hold both his hands firmly between his.

He waits a beat, then starts to press, slowly, in time with his heartbeat. In, out. In, out. In, out. He watches Joker’s fingers, frozen between his, and is keenly aware of what this must look like, of what he’s allowing, of what Joker must read into their current positions.

There’ll be a price to pay later, Bruce knows. For now, his eyes are stuck on black against white.

“Bats,” Joker whispers. He sounds breathless. Bruce doesn’t allow himself a glance at his face.

“How does this feel?” he asks instead, schooling his voice to betray nothing. “Should I stop?”

“No,” Joker says quickly, too quickly, and his fingers stiffen and twitch in Bruce’s grip. Then he giggles, high-pitched and still breathless with wonder, or maybe something else entirely, and after a moment he says, “If you wanted to hold my hand, you only had to ask!”

“It’s not about that,” Bruce protests. “You’re restless. I want to help.”

“Warn a guy next time?” Joker laughs again, and this time it’s nakedly nervous, unsure. Bruce wants to bite on the inside of his cheek, but he can’t allow Joker to see his own hesitation, so instead, he focuses on maintaining his rhythm as his hands keep moving, applying deep, steady pressure.

Joker’s hands are cold. Even through the gloves, Bruce can sense it. It worries him. He wants to ask, but the moment is too fragile for that; he knows that much. He keeps pressing, and the more he does, the more Joker's hands relax between his.

He slows his breath down deliberately, to match the rhythm of his hands. It doesn't take long for Joker's to match. And then, for a few precious seconds, all is silent.

Right until the comm link breathes static at them, and a guard demands, “Batman. Step away from the prisoner.”

Joker shudders like a man who’s been shaken awake. The vibrations tremble through his entire body and reverberate through Bruce’s, too. When he finally glances up, he sees that Joker’s eyes are half-closed, heavy-lidded, the feverish spark gone to be replaced by the blackness of pupils which are blown so wide they spill out, leaving only thin rings of bright green iris. They gaze at Bruce and into him, straight through the cowl, questing, prodding, searching.

Bruce gives them another heartbeat, presses one last time, before allowing his hands to fall away.

His gloves still bleed the coldness of Joker’s skin onto Bruce’s own as he stands up and addresses the closest camera. “I meant no harm,” he clarifies. “It’s a way to relieve anxiety.”

“We cannot allow such close contact,” the guard counters.

You have before, Bruce wants to say. He doesn’t. He turns back to Joker, who's still watching him, one of his hands now massaging the other the same way Bruce was doing for him not a moment ago. His mouth is half-open, but not in a smile; instead, he looks at Bruce like he’s never seen him before.

Bruce realizes he can’t carry that gaze much longer. He turns away.

“Wayne will see to it that you receive everything Dr. Mulligan prescribed,” he says curtly. “Let me know when you want the sleeping pills.”

“Maybe you should take one,” Joker suggests quietly. “You don’t exactly strike me as someone who’s getting his 8 hours’ due.”

Bruce can barely hear him through the rush in his mind. His thoughts are spinning. He thinks he knows what he needs to do next.

“Don’t you worry about me,” he tells Joker, making his way to the door. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Joker asks.

Bruce lets the metal wall slide closed behind him without a word.

***

Dr. Mulligan doesn’t seem to be surprised to see him in her office as she comes in from an evening session with Nigma.

“Hello,” she says, making her way over to the desk. “I figured you’d show up.”

“We need to talk.”

“Yes, I daresay we do.” She sits down in her chair, then swivels towards him, her rich brown eyes cold and unyielding. “The part about you not watching the sessions is non-negotiable. If that’s why you came to see me, you may as well skedaddle and save us both the trouble of an argument.”

Bruce sets his jaw, and stands tall under her scrutiny. “I haven’t been watching the sessions,” he tells her as his chin tilts up.

“Good. Then I’m sure you’ll respect my wishes now that it’s so much more important.”

“Why is it so important?” Bruce demands, even though he vowed he wouldn’t. Something in her voice grates at him, the hot indignation threatening to spill past his self-control, but if the doctor senses that, she doesn’t let it phase her.

“You mean, apart from affording the patient some semblance of privacy? The next step of his therapy is very delicate,” she says, holding his gaze without a flinch. “You cannot possibly deny that you're a major influence on him. I have reasons to believe you might interfere with my intended course of treatment, and I can’t have that.”

“Is that treatment likely to cause distress?”

“Most certainly. A patient as set in his psychosis as the Joker, any form of infringing on his sense of self will inevitably cause him immense distress. If he experiences it, it means the treatment is working.”

Bruce takes a moment to think about it, to cross-check that against what he’s been observing. Then, under Dr. Mulligan’s questioning gaze, he says, “In that case, I have questions.”

He shows her the snippets of tapes he’s isolated from the daily feeds. She doesn’t seem surprised to see any of it, and confirms Bruce’s observations with thoughtful nods.

“He’s been hiding the symptoms from me during our sessions,” she muses, “but I have noticed the signs once or twice. It was only to be expected. It’s not uncommon for patients undergoing intensive treatment with anti-psychotics to engage in self-stimulatory behavior, you know. In some, it’s a nervous response, others feel the compulsion to compensate for their sensitivity thresholds being reduced by the drugs. The meds react differently with each patient, and of course, Joker’s dosage is still very much experimental.”

“So you think it’s the medication?”

“Well, not exclusively.” Dr. Mulligan turns in her chair to regard him. “We also have to factor in increased anxiety resulting from his current circumstances, most notably, the significantly reduced access to external stimulation. The Joker is a brilliant mind trapped in an enclosed space with very little to do. To put it bluntly, he’s bored. His mind isn't equipped to handle boredom. He needs challenges, he needs excitement, otherwise I predict his nervous symptoms will only get worse and turn inward.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “To self-harm?”

“Among other things, yes. He was notorious for self-destructive behavior when he was still a resident here, which I’m sure you’re aware of. It’s all in the files.”

Bruce nods. He is aware. It had been his habit to keep up with the files of all of Gotham’s most notorious criminals even before he’d struck the deal with Joker, and he remembers the chilling reports of Joker baiting the guards to get them to turn to violence; of his claims that the electroshocks were an erotic experience; of him banging his head and other body parts against all available surfaces, without reason or warning.

“Isn’t that just his way to stay in control of the situation?” he ventures, the frown pulling at the tight skin of his face under the cowl. “I assumed that’s what it was. A way to turn his containment into a choice, to exert control over the people around him. If only to reassure himself.”

Dr. Mulligan is silent for a long moment, regarding him with her head cocked, strands of gracefully graying black hair falling over her eyes. She tucks a wayward one behind her ear and readjusts her position on the chair before she clasps her hands together, and allows herself a small smile.

“Interesting,” she says softly. “Is that how you interpret his infamous masochistic reactions during your past hostile confrontations, too? Do you see them as the Joker’s way to turn the power balance in his favor when he was losing to you?”

Tension builds in Bruce’s jaw. “Yes.”

“Hm.” Dr. Mulligan presses the tips of her joined fingers to her mouth. “I’m not denying that there's an element of power play to his performance. That much is obvious,” she says at length. “But has it really never occurred to you that, on top of the psychological power struggle, he simply enjoys pain?”

Bruce is silent for a heartbeat too long. Dr. Mulligan’s smile makes a brief reappearance before she clears her throat and says, “I suppose your focus on the psychological aspect of it makes his behavior easier to accept, doesn’t it? Then you can rationalize and compartmentalize it. You’d rather not consider your fights with the Joker as something that gave him genuine physical pleasure. That’s entirely understandable.”

The implications graze something tender and raw in Bruce’s stomach. He opens his mouth. “I don’t think —”

“Of course, saying that the Joker enjoys pain is entirely too simplistic,” the doctor allows. “The reality is naturally more complex than that. The tests we've performed on his skin weren’t conclusive, but they have confirmed him to be hypersensitive to all sorts of physical stimuli, including pain and pleasure. We believe this to be the after-effect of the chemical bath. I have also determined, and some of my colleagues agree, that not only is the Joker uncommonly sensitive to both, he craves them. That’s a major motive for everything he does: stimulation. Distraction. Physical sensations on top of the thrill of a mental challenge. It's my belief that the physicality allows him to ground himself, that it feeds his deep-sated need for experience, and the more extreme the experience, the better. One could compare it to sado-masochism, and certainly the patient’s responses have an erotic undercurrent, which he himself freely admits. A bit too freely, according to many of my esteemed colleagues.

“So, not only is he bored,” the doctor continues when Bruce doesn’t make a sound, “he's also denied any forms of physicality which have sustained him for so long. On top of that, the medication dulls his senses, mellows out his responses and slows down his sensory input and thought processes, which he will inevitably construe as a threat to his very sense of self. It’s little wonder he’s experiencing increased levels of anxiety and letting it show through subconscious self-stimulatory behavior. At the very least, it’s his way of regaining control of his own nervous system, providing input of his own to counteract the numbness induced by the drugs.”

She straightens her back, then, and calmly reaches out for a bottle of water. She watches Bruce closely as she takes a long sip. They sit there in silence while the doctor’s clock slices time into neatly-measured minutes.

Finally, Bruce trusts himself enough to say, “Can we do anything to relieve some of those effects?”

“And why would we want to?” Dr. Mulligan counters easily. “All of those effects are necessary for the therapy to really take hold. We have to first deconstruct the Joker to be able to help him construct himself again. My colleagues have tried similar approaches before, but it wasn’t until now that he has allowed himself to be treated, which really does make all the difference. We must strike the iron while it’s hot, to put it crudely. It’s going to get much worse before it gets better, and you must understand, Batman, that many of his issues really are impossible to cure. At most, and this is partly what I’m trying to achieve now, we can steer him away from violence and crime and teach him to seek fulfillment through outlets which are more… shall we say, socially acceptable? But which will still make full use of his unique faculties.”

“Should we prepare for more panic attacks, then?” Bruce asks quietly.

“Most definitely. Panic attacks, tantrums, violence, other forms of erratic behavior. I can provide a list of ways to deal with them for everyone who comes into contact with the patient, but once again, it's vital that you do not interfere with the sessions themselves. Now,” something softens in her eyes as she leans back, “I have prepared a set of mental exercises for the Joker to work on between sessions to keep his mind occupied. In time, I will also ask Mr. Wayne to provide him with more crossword and jigsaw puzzles, problem-solving books, etcetera. We'll be gradually increasing his access to distractions, without rushing it. He needs to be made more… malleable first.”

“And what of,” Bruce tries to let the word out without the rawness in his throat trickling out along with it, “his physicality? Will you be allowing him… outlets for that, too?”

“I don’t see how we can,” says the doctor with a frown. “Letting anyone touch him is out of the question. At most, we can equip him with techniques to relieve some of his physical tension on his own, but…”

Bruce grits his teeth. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

A spark of interest lights up her eyes as she leans forward, sharp and alert.

She watches the footage of Bruce holding and massaging Joker’s hands in silence which gives nothing of her thoughts away, and then quietly tells him to rewind the scene three times before she sits back in her chair and starts drumming her blunt fingernails thoughtfully against the flat surface of her desk. Her mouth is pursed, and her brows plunge down, but - as far as Bruce can tell - it’s an expression of contemplation rather than disapproval.

“You’ve been doing some reading, haven’t you?” she says at last. She doesn’t lift her eyes to meet his.

Bruce nods. “Yes. I wanted to test a hypothesis.”

“You’re not the first one to suggest we try deep pressure touch on the Joker,” Dr. Mulligan says. “The young Dr. Quinzel also thought it might be beneficial. Dr. Arkham shut that suggestion down pretty fast.”

Bruce’s fingers curl. “And what do you think?”

She's silent for another few minutes before finally lifting her eyes to look into the slits of his cowl.

“I think the guards were right to intervene," she says bluntly. "Surprising the patient with something like that, after months with no external stimulation whatsoever, could have disastrous consequences, and that's not even touching on ethical considerations. I understand you've been reading about autistic, ADHD and bipolar patients, Batman, and there may be some overlap, but you must understand that deep touch pressure administered by actual human touch is fraught with issues, and an absolute last resort. The Joker is an adult man, and your personal relationship with him is, shall we say, volatile. I don’t think I can allow any more of such… experiments. Naturally, the guards won’t either. They're responsible for the patient, as well as for those who come into contact with him. I suppose you may try with a weighted blanket first, a squeeze machine maybe as a last resort, but please refrain from instigating physical contact with the Joker unless it becomes necessary to subdue him.”

“But the touch did help calm him down,” Bruce argues.

Dr. Mulligan’s eyes turn cold. “Yes. Because it was you doing it.”

Bruce’s fists tighten by his sides. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, Batman, that you can no longer afford to maintain your denial when it comes to certain aspects of your relationship with the patient you would rather ignore. You have to move past it. You’ve volunteered to be responsible for him, and responsibility is exactly what I ask of you now. Do not take advantage of your unique influence on the Joker to confuse him. By all means, keep him company, distract him, reassure him, do what you’ve been doing so far. But you have to get over your own inhibitions and make your peace with what may be uncomfortable if you really are to be an agent of any meaningful progress. That's all I’m going to say on the matter.”

Bruce doesn’t slam the door on his way out of her office. He has a feeling Dr. Mulligan knows he wants to anyway.

Jason looks up from his phone when Bruce gets back into the car, and immediately asks, “Okay, what pissed you off this time?”

“Nevermind.” Bruce starts the engine and turns his attention to the police scanner. “Any emergencies?”

“Not really. There was a robbery in Tricorner, but Montoya and Bullock dealt with it.” He glances over his shoulder at the dark bulk of the asylum, then turns back to Bruce. “So, where to next?”

Bruce sets his teeth. “Central. I need to have a word with Gordon.”

Jason sighs, but Bruce ignores him. Dr. Mulligan’s words rattle around in his head like stray ricocheting bullets as he pulls away from Arkham and speeds along night-dusted roads, and his thoughts crystalize into purpose even before darkness reluctantly makes way for Gotham’s aggressive lights.

He knows, in his gut, that the doctor is wrong. The touch worked. And Bruce can do so much more. He’d promised Joker he would work with him, and that’s precisely what he’s going to do. Because Dr. Mulligan is right about one thing at least: Joker is his responsibility now, and she’s right that Bruce can influence him, but that only means that he can do things for him that no one else can.

And if Bruce can, well. To him that’s only ever meant one thing.

He needs to talk to Jim.

***

He can see from Jim’s face as he explains his plan that the Commissioner isn’t exactly enthused, but then again, Bruce didn’t expect enthusiasm. He knows better than that.

“I don’t know,” Jim says, looking away from him. “The guards are there for a reason. Joker's a dangerous maniac, and he needs to be watched constantly or he will find a way to get out of there.”

“He won’t know,” Bruce insists. “No one will tell him. As far as he’s concerned, he’ll still be under surveillance 24/7.”

“You think he won’t figure it out if you start… whatever it is you plan to do to him?”

“He’ll just assume I bribed the guards. I’ll encourage this assumption. He’ll have no reason to suspect what’s really going on.”

“And the shrinks?”

“I’ll take it up with Dr. Arkham directly. He’ll agree.” After some wrangling, but he will. Jeremiah Arkham gave up on Joker a long time ago. Whatever Bruce does, it’ll be all the same to him, and once Bruce has his written permission, Dr. Mulligan won’t be able to get in the way.

“That still leaves a window for him to operate without supervision, though.”

“No,” Bruce protests. “I’ll be there. I’ll make sure he stays put. And if I’m not in the room with him in person, I’ll stay in the control room until the guards return.”

“What about the tapes?”

“The cameras will still be online, but I’ll isolate the feeds and erase them from regular footage so that the guards will have plausible deniability. They won’t be implicated. I’ll assume sole responsibility.”

“Too bad you can’t give that to me in writing.” Jim sighs and lights a cigarette. Bruce doesn’t stop him. He watches silently and gives Jim time to mull it over, letting the wind press against the exposed skin of the lower half of his face.

“I don’t know,” Jim repeats at length. “I don’t like it. This entire setup is risky as is. Too many people know about it. There’s too many ways it could go wrong. And now you’re asking me to turn a blind eye while you… while you do whatever the hell you want to the bastard.”

“You’ve allowed me to operate on my own this long because I can do things the law can’t,” Bruce points out. “Things that must be done in the shadows. Things that can’t go through official channels. This is the same, Commissioner. I believe I can actively help with Joker’s recovery, and now I think I know how, but the doctors cannot know about it and neither can the guards. I must have elbow room to do this my way.”

“Your way,” Jim echoes grimly, gazing down at the traffic below. “You realize how that sounds? Like you’re gonna snap his neck or something. Like you’re gonna pummel him twice a week for an hour and expect me to sanction it.” He takes a long drag on the cigarette, his back to Bruce. “Thing is,” he whispers, so soft the words are barely whiffs of breath caught on the wind, “I really want you to.”

Bruce is silent. There’s nothing to be said to this confession.

Finally, Jim throws the cigarette onto the roof and stomps on it, sharp and angry, and he snaps, “Fine. Fine, damn it. I’ll sanction it. An hour twice a week without the guards to breathe down your neck, do what you want as long as no one else gets the blame when things go apeshit. For all it’s worth, I hope it ends with him in a body bag, but I know you better than to hope for that.”

Bruce nods. “I’ll have someone instruct the guards.”

“I’ll do it. They’re gonna want to talk to me about it anyway, so might as well make it official from the get-go. Just let me know when you get the green light from the shrinks. Do we tell Wayne?”

“None of this concerns him personally,” Bruce says. “The fewer people are involved in this the better.”

“Yeah. Right.” Jim snorts, tucking his hands into the pockets of his long coat. “Vigilante therapy,” he murmurs. “Just when I thought I’d seen it all.”

“I appreciate your trust.”

“It’s not about trust, and you know it.” He sighs again. “Just make sure none of this leaks, or it’ll be both our heads on the chopping block.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Bruce promises, and then he’s off, joining Jason on the neighboring rooftop and leading him towards Robinson Park.

“Something you wanna tell me?” Jason asks as they scale roof after roof, hidden in Gotham’s welcoming shadows.

“Later,” Bruce says. “I may have a lead on Black Mask’s latest operation. We’ve got work to do.”

Jason glares at him, but lets it go and follows without any more questions. Bruce knows the kid, and Alfred for that matter, will have plenty to say once they hear about the new plan, but they’ll deal with it when the time comes. He still has to secure Arkham’s permission, which might take about a week, give or take; and for now, no one else needs to know.

In the meantime, he’ll look into the squeeze machine Dr. Mulligan mentioned…

As well as into Arkham’s internal files. He has a feeling it might be time to have a long talk with some of the asylum’s employees.

Starting with Dr. Quinzel.

Chapter Text

Dr. Quinzel doesn’t scream when she sees Batman melting out of the shadows between her and her car in the Arkham parking lot. Instead, she swears, plunges her hand into an inside pocket of her gray woolen coat, and points a charged taser straight into Bruce’s face.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she snaps.

She holds the taser with the steady hand of someone who knows how to use it, and suddenly, Bruce has no doubt that she has used it, and more than once, too. The fact that she's clearly gearing up to use it on him, of all people, already tells him more about this petite-looking young woman than the Arkham employee files ever could.

“I believe you, Doctor,” he tells her. “I only want to talk.”

To prove his point, he stays right where he is, just on the edge of the puddle of light spilled down onto dirty concrete from the old rickety lamppost. He also takes one measured step to the side, to indicate that he's not going to stop her from forcing her way to the car.

The taser stays aimed at his face.

“Well I don’t wanna talk to you,” the doctor snaps. “Get outta my way before I run you over, B-man.”

“B-man,” Bruce echoes. "Haven’t heard this one before."

“Oh yeah? Well I sure as hell ain’t calling you Bats. That’s way too familiar for someone who’s out to ruin my career,” Quinzel snarls, and though her hand stays remarkably steady, her accent betrays her, slipping into something more street than Harvard.

She moved here from Brooklyn, Bruce remembers, thinking back to her file. And now she's renting an apartment in the East End. Another piece of her story coalesces, and the steadiness of her hand makes even more sense.

He says, “I’m not out to ruin your career, Doctor. I did what I did for your own good.”

“Ha! And they say chivalry is dead.” Dr. Quinzel rolls her eyes, pushing the glasses up her nose with her free hand. “Come on, B-man. Save that crap for one a’ them adoring adolescents you like to keep around you so much. We both know you didn’t step in just 'cause I’m some cute fragile lil’ doll who needs saving from the Big Bad Joker. You just thought I was inconvenient, and you’d rather not have me poking into your so-called methods.”

Right. Well. Bruce was going to try and do this diplomatically, but the doctor's clearly determined to make his life difficult, and frankly, he's got better things to do than stand there being yelled at by a frustrated woman nearly half his age. The hard way it is.

He watches Dr. Quinzel’s face very, very carefully when he says, “He said you flirted with him.”

Her eyes, a storm of indignant blue just a blink ago, widen, and then go very, very still. The muscles in her face freeze. Her mouth hangs half-open, all fight suddenly punched out of her, and her cheeks go blotchy red under the lamplight.

And Bruce thinks, Damn.

Joker wasn’t lying.

It isn’t until this precise moment that Bruce realizes just how prepared he’d been to assume the allegations were a lie. That it was just another game Joker had come up with to rile him up, to send him running around chasing dead leads, and make life difficult for one of his ex shrinks — a long-standing hobby of his. But what Bruce sees in Dr. Quinzel’s face now is guilt, and a shock of betrayal, and it’s as good as a confession.

Damn it.

“He told you?” Dr. Quinzel asks. Unlike the hand still holding the taser, her voice has dropped. She sounds small now, and her body seems to be trying to make itself smaller, too.

Bruce gives her a tight nod. “He did.”

“Huh.” The doctor takes a deep breath, closing her eyes — and then, slowly, she lowers the arm holding the taser by a few inches. “Then I guess you’re gonna go ahead and have me fired now.”

“You’re not going to deny it? It’s your word against his.”

“What’s the point? You’ve already made up your mind about me. ‘Sides, I’m not…” She trails off. Sighs. Her shoulders droop, and finally, she hides the taser back into its secret pocket. “There’s a tape,” she whispers, her gaze fixed on the ground. “All sessions are taped. He knows it exists, and knowing him, he probably knows where it's at. So I’m not gonna try and gaslight my way out of it, okay? Too many people have tried that on him already, and I’m not like — I’m not like that. I’m better ‘n that. I know when I done wrong.”

She sighs, presses her eyes closed again. Her face crumples. For a terrifying moment, she looks like she’s about to cry, but then something in her expression hardens, and Bruce remembers, She had an edge. I like them with an edge.

Bruce can see that edge now, he thinks. And suddenly, he understands why Joker might have found that appealing.

Because there's steel in Dr. Quinzel’s blue eyes when she looks at him again, and her back straightens, and her chin juts out in provocation. She's regrouped, and is ready to fight once again.

“Now look here,” she says. “Yeah, I’ve crossed some boundaries. I ain’t gonna deny that, okay?” Her accent keeps going back and forth between studied and native. She thrusts her hands in the pockets of her coat and attempts to stare Bruce down. “But it’s not what you think. It’s not like I’m some silly clown groupie with a crush.”

It doesn’t escape Bruce that the tips of her ears glow pink as she says it, though, or that she chews lightly on her upper lip before she realizes what she’s doing and stops herself. There's a lie in that statement, and Bruce is hit smack in the heart with how unprepared he’d been for this particular revelation, or for the ensuing wave of red which suddenly floods his vision.

His fists crawl. He keeps them steady by his sides, under the cape, as he stands there waiting on the edge of light and shadow.

“I needed a way to get to him, all right?” Dr. Quinzel says, heat and challenge in her voice. “I needed to get him to trust me. That wasn’t gonna happen if I was just another white coat, just one’a them sticklers, doin’ it all by the book. A guy like him, there ain’t no book. There ain’t no rules. That’s what those crooks and phoneys don’t understand. They think they hafta break ‘im, ta get ‘im ta fit the mold, and they never stop to think that maybe it’s the mold that needs changin’. Didya know a guy once tried ta cure ‘im by making him watch shitty reality TV on loop, over an’ over, for, like, at least two months before me an’ Nisha put a stop to it?” She accentuates this last sentence with a hard stomp of her flat-heeled boots against the pavement, her eyes burning. “You don’t know half the shit that goes on here, B-man. I was actually tryin’ ta do good.”

“By telling him your name sounded like Harlequin?”

“It was working!” She's squaring her shoulders now, fists curling at her sides like she’s trying to fight the urge to hit him. “I was gettin’ somewhere! He was actually on ‘is way ta trust me, and he was telling me stuff, openin’ up ta me, and then you —”

“He was feeding you lies, Doctor,” Bruce tells her flatly. “Taking advantage of your confidence to turn it back against you. You would have ended up as just another victim.”

“You can’t know that!”

“I have a pretty good guess.”

“Well I guess we’ll never know for sure now, will we,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because you just had ta waltz in and ruin everything. Unless…” Now the bright gleam in her eyes turns shrewd, carried on a new thought, and her lips curl into a cutting smirk when she says, “You could tell Dr. Arkham to reinstate me on the Joker’s rota.”

Oh for crying out loud. “You can't possibly expect me to let you anywhere near him after your unethical behavior.”

Color spots her cheeks just as she lets out an indignant noise, and she stomps her foot again, and she practically yells, “Unethical? Unethical?! You’re actually gonna lecture me about unethical, when you’re the one who, who keeps him locked up day and night, and won’t let him see anyone but you, and — and — you keep the cameras on him 24/7, and you don’t ever let him go outside, and you control his every move and his meds and food and drink and sleep, but I’m the one who’s unethical?”

Bruce’s body itches to step forward, make himself big. It yearns to be Batman. He pushes it down by reminding himself that Quinzel isn't a criminal — she just doesn’t know any better. She’s a naive youngster with a crush and an entitlement complex a mile long. He doesn’t need to defend himself to her.

And yet, his mouth still opens, and words tumble out anyway.

“You attempted to instigate a romantic relationship with him while he was a patient in your care,” he points out through the red haze that only seems to solidify the harder he tries to disperse it. “You tried to use him as a springboard to fame.”

“That wasn’t all it was! I told you, I was tryin’ ta help him! And sure, if I could get a book deal outta that then all the better, because guess what, B-man, college debt is a bitch. But the thing is, I'm actually qualified. I knew what I was doing going in, because I have the knowledge and the learnin’ and a diploma, an’ I worked my ass off for all a’ that! What have you got, huh? What makes you qualified to decide what’s good for him? Far as I know, all you got is a history of beatin’ ‘im up!”

“Doctor Mulligan is the one in charge of Joker’s therapy,” Bruce reminds her, and doesn’t let his voice waver one inch as he faces her with all her anger and charges and accusations. “She’s more than qualified.”

“Oh great, so now you’re gonna hide behind Nisha. FYI? She hates this whole thing just as much as I do, she just doesn’t think arguing against it will do any good. Well, guess what? You won’t keep getting your way much longer. In the meantime, if you ain’t gonna arrest me or help me, I think we’re done here.”

“You care for Pamela Isley now, don’t you,” Bruce says.

She eyes him like she might eye a rabid dog, hostility still burning bright in her entire body. “Yeah? So? You gonna take Ivy away from me, too? Because newsflash, genius, her pheromones don’t work on me.”

“None of the other doctors call her Ivy.”

“I believe in other people’s right to create their own identities,” Dr. Quinzel snaps. “I’m gonna call her whatever she wants to be called. You of all people should understand that much. Now move.”

Bruce stays where he is. “Dr. Mulligan told me you suggested adding deep touch pressure to Joker’s therapy.”

She blinks, taking a step back. Her shoulders relax a little, like the confusion is enough to make her forget about being angry. “I did,” she admits. “So?” Then, in a heartbeat, the anger is back, and she points a finger at Bruce. “You tryin’ ta accuse me of using that as an excuse to get up close and personal with him? Because it wasn’t about that at all.”

Bruce doesn’t believe her. Still, he says, “I’d like to explore that idea. I would appreciate a look at your research.”

That clearly kicks the wind out of her, and she stares at him for a full minute, blinking, before her features once again assume the acute look of someone smelling an opportunity.

“You bring me back on board and you got it,” she says.

Bruce narrows his eyes. “No. But I may not report your misconduct.”

“Gee, you’re a piece a’ work, ain’tcha? No idea how to negotiate.” She hides her hands in the pockets of her coat again, defiant. “Thanks but no thanks, B-man, I’ll take my chances. Get away from my car.”

“I thought you said you wanted to help him.”

“Yeah, sorry, I ain’t gonna be one a’ your enablers. You got no right to keep him for yourself and do whatever you want to him, and I want no part in that if you can’t accept someone who’s willing to call you out on your bullshit.”

Something clicks into place in Bruce’s mind. The red haze shatters, and turns cold.

“You were the one who alerted the press,” he realizes.

Her eyes harden. Her hand inches towards the inside pocket of her coat again. “Get. Away.”

“Why?” Bruce presses. “Why would you do something so monumentally stupid?”

“I ain’t tellin' you shit. You can’t expect to have everyone’s approval for everything you do, hero. Now move, I had a long day and a guy threw up on me and I really wanna go home.”

“You can’t tell them where he is. It’ll ruin everything.”

She smirks. There’s not a trace of humor there, and once again, Bruce is reminded of edges.

“Say, how about you sign up for therapy?” she drawls, leaning forward. “First consultation’s free. I’d say delusions of grandeur and narcissism to start with, an’ a serious case of paranoia compounded with trust issues, plus a pathological need to prove yourself, which probably stems from deep-seated childhood trauma. Anger issues and violent tendencies, obviously. A hero complex. Should I keep going?”

Bruce’s hands burn with the need to move, to do something, to reach out and shake her until she sees sense. It’s that very urge which makes him step back, clearing her way.

She’s too young. She doesn’t understand. She wouldn’t even if she wanted to, even if she wasn’t blinded by her own sense of wounded pride and jealousy.

The thought doesn’t make the cold, cold feeling go away. But it helps keep it in, and that’s… that’s something, Bruce supposes.

Dr. Quinzel stomps past him to the car and slips inside, then bangs the door shut behind her. Before she drives off, though, she rolls the window down and glares into the shadows where Bruce still stands.

“If you really wanted to do some good around here,” she mutters, hands tight on the wheel, “you’d go after the other staff. Pummel and book the real sons of bitches who beat on the inmates and do whatever the fuck they please, because they know they can get away with it, instead of wasting your time harassing me. But you don’t care about any a’ that, do you? You couldn’t give a damn what happens to those poor bastards after you bring them here. Just so long as they don’t break out. Well, screw you.”

“You could give me names,” Bruce tells her, but she’s already rolling the window back up and starting the engine, and speeding away, angry tire tracks trailing after her, the car spouting fumes in his face.

***

Three days later, Arkham approves Bruce’s request with a curt, “Don’t make me regret this.” Jim takes care of the rest. Dr. Mulligan wastes no time unleashing a storm of angry calls and letters, some of which are co-signed by Dr. Quinzel and a handful of others, but it’s nothing Bruce hasn’t expected. The calls he ignores easily, without even a stab of remorse, but he does read the letters, and archives them with the same care he archives all his resources.

None of them convince him to even consider changing his mind. If anything, they, and the confrontation with Dr. Quinzel, only reassure him that he’s doing the right thing. He’s still only just beginning to seriously investigate Arkham, but even with the limited amount of time he can devote to it he’s already deeply disgusted with what he’s learning, and he figures the more distance he can put between Joker and that place, the better.

He still trusts Dr. Mulligan to know what she’s doing. But she’s one of the very, very few, and she seems to be close with Dr. Quinzel, and her insistence to keep the sessions private still chafes. Bruce isn’t sure what to make of it. Which only makes his purpose all the clearer.

Alfred and Jason’s reactions, predictably, aren’t as easy to shake. Jason has stopped talking to him in the house altogether — which is somewhat easier to weather, since he hardly ever spends any time in the Manor these days anyway — and on patrols, he limits himself to monosyllabic responses. And Alfred…

… is Alfred. He’s still the same steady, unshakable force Bruce has known and relied on all his life. But he’s quieter, and his comebacks are sharper, and there are lines drawing tight around his mouth when he brings Bruce his meals.

And that’s even worse than Jason’s ostentatious surliness. That cuts. Clearly, Alfred has words for him, words he doesn’t think Bruce can handle, and the worst thing is, Bruce has a pretty good guess what those words may be, and he isn’t all that sure Alfred's wrong. He really doesn’t want to hear any of it.

Because he knows he’s right. He’s caught that same wind of purpose which carried him when he first brought Joker here. He only needs to play this right, be smart about it, and it’ll be fine. It’ll work out. And he already knows what his first move should be.

So when he gets the cold, reluctant go-ahead from Alfred before his very first unsupervised hour with Joker, he goes in as Batman without hesitation, his step assured, his heart steadfast and determined and focused like it is out on the streets. He has a plan. He's on a mission. It’ll be all right.

Joker sits curled up on the sofa, reading. His head snaps up at the sound of the door opening. Bruce meets his questioning eyes without a word. He's got a duffel bag in his hand; he strides over to the sofa, and dumps it at Joker’s bare feet.

“I’ve got something for you,” he says.

Joker’s eyes go wide. He presses a hand to his chest with a theatrical gasp. “Oh my, have I missed Christmas?”

Then, his brow furrows, face marred with actual intense consideration as though the playful comment has made him realize something profound. His tongue flicks out to lick across his lower lip, and he massages his temples for a blink before he decides, “I have, haven’t I? Holy guacamole. I must have. There’s no snow outside, and that, my unfeeling friend, means that you let me sit here and dawdle while my favorite holiday came and went, completely unmarked! Shame on you, Bats. I thought we were friends. The least you could do is let me keep a calendar.”

That's actually a salient point, and something Bruce will have to consult with Dr. Mulligan once she cools down enough to have a conversation with him that won’t involve throwing pens. It might still be too early for a calendar, and there’s been nothing about it in her letters, but the possibility is there.

Later. That’s not why Bruce is here today. He lets Joker’s Christmas-related distress wash off him, and instead, he opens the bag to select the first item.

“Hand cream,” he says, tossing the tube at Joker, who catches it entirely on instinct before his eyes light on the label and his mouth falls open. “You've got three tubes of it in here,” Bruce explains. “All natural ingredients. It should last you for a few months or so.”

He watches as Joker opens the tube with oddly hesitant fingers, and sticks it up to his nose to take a long, long sniff.

“Ahhh,” he sighs, his eyes closing, his lips curling into a lazy, satisfied smile. “Smells like ruthless capitalist exploitation of third-world countries,” he judges, giggling. “And a bit like fresh rain.” He squeezes a tiny drop of the cream out onto his index finger, a dab of white against white, and smears it daintily into his skin with his thumb. Bruce is gripped by an absurd sense of coiled anticipation before Joker sighs again, deep and delighted.

“Feels like fresh rain, too!” Joker breathes in wonder, flashing Bruce a grin that, for once, doesn't resemble a razorblade. “Good job, Batsy!”

He wastes no time massaging a heroic amount of the cream into his hands until they gleam, completely ignoring Bruce in the process. Bruce takes the opportunity to watch his fingers dance for a bit before he goes for the next thing in the bag, some of that tight anticipation releasing in the face of Joker's pleasure.

“Face cream,” he says, and puts the small bottles on the sofa next to Joker’s legs. “Foot cream. Moisturizer. Face masks. Shower gel. Shampoo. Conditioner.” He hesitates on the last item, feeling profoundly silly just thinking the words, but then he gets over himself and presents the last jar, and manages to say, “Body butter. All organic. Not that it’s likely, but if you try to mess with them, we’ll know.”

Joker gazes at the goods at his feet, then at Bruce. His eyes go huge and quarter-dollar round. His hands are still pressing into one another, as though they can’t get enough of the new smoothness.

“Do I get to keep all this?” he asks, sharp with suspicion.

All at once, Bruce’s heart shrinks to the point where it hurts. He nods. “Yes. I’m not taking them away. But you have to remember —”

Joker scrambles to snatch up the bottles and tubes and jars so fast he sends the book in his lap flying to the floor, like he’s afraid Bruce will change his mind after all, like they might no longer be there if he blinks. He giggles, enraptured, and starts inspecting bottle after bottle, tube after tube, unscrewing and sniffing and touching each one with alarming greed. Bruce leaves him to it, finding himself disturbingly fascinated, and unbidden, a thought creeps up on him from behind: This is what a starving man looks like when you sit him down to a feast.

Immediately, a maw of guilt opens up under his feet and very nearly swallows him whole. Bruce tries to shake it off, but it clings on like a stubborn spider, and he remembers how easy it used to be to not feel any sort of guilt towards Joker at all, or to push it away when he did.

He doesn’t think he’d realized just how much things have changed until this very moment. Until he’s left standing here watching Joker revel in the simplest, most basic of human comforts, feeling like a benevolent master who graciously deigned to do something nice for his captive, and for a moment, the thought makes him sick enough that he glances towards the sliding metal wall.

Joker doesn’t let him plunge any deeper down that slippery slope, though; he jolts Bruce out of his dark reveries by kicking impatiently at the bag with one foot.

“What else you got in there, Santa baby?” he demands eagerly. “The bag’s still full. Do I get to sit on your lap to find out?”

Bruce breathes out through his nose. He closes his eyes for a moment under the cowl. Then, silently, he bends to retrieve the next thing: an enormous warm layered blanket, patterned in lavish purple and green and lined with luxurious white fur on the underside.

“Bats,” Joker gasps, dropping the jar of body butter onto his lap. “For me?”

Bruce nods. “I noticed you were cold, so I —”

“Gimme!” Joker makes a grabby motion at the blanket, and Bruce lets him tear it out of his hands. He watches, the tightness not entirely gone from his heart, as Joker shoves his assortment of new fragrant goodies to the floor to wrap himself up in the blanket from head to toe, so that only his face and a few rebellious green curls peek out from the mountain of color.

“Ooh,” he sighs, collapsing against the sofa’s backrest, his eyes falling closed again and staying that way. “It’s so soft. Just how daddy likes it. Oh yes, I think Reggie and I are gonna be very happy together…”

“Reggie?”

“Reggie.”

Bruce doesn’t have a comment for that, which is probably for the best. He gives Joker a minute or two to bask in the glory of his new blanket before he clears his throat, and goes for the bag again.

Joker watches him out of lazy, half-lidded eyes, his lips curling. “Oh, darling. There’s more?”

“Yes.” Bruce retrieves the warm alpaca wool sweaters, soft silk shirts and loose pants, and lays them out carefully on the parts of the backrest that the happy mountain of blanketed Joker isn’t currently leaning against. “Some new clothes for you. I noticed the ones you have are getting worn. Warm socks, too, and new underwear.”

Joker giggles. “Kinky.”

“You’re spitting on the blanket.”

“Reggie doesn’t mind. He’s kinky, too, just like you, my leather-loving sugar daddy.”

“It’s not leather, it’s — nevermind.” Bruce shakes his head before he allows himself to get drawn any deeper into this nonsense.

“You’re not protesting the sugar daddy part.”

“That’s because life’s too short.”

Joker discards his comment entirely, pondering, instead, “Or would it be Brucie who’s my sugar daddy? He paid for all that, didn’t he? And he comes over for movie dates. I bet you’re jealous of our movie dates.”

That almost, almost makes Bruce smirk. “I’ll survive.”

“Survive is such a dour little word, my love.” Then, Joker perks up again, and giggles into his blanket. “If you’re gonna be bringing me panties though, can I ask for leopard print next time? And lace. They’ve gotta be silk, too. A kept clown’s gotta have standards.”

“Joker.”

“I bet Brucie would appreciate me in silk lace.”

Bruce blinks, and is glad Joker can’t see that through the cowl. He says slowly, “You’re not seriously trying to make me jealous?” He doesn’t add of my own alter ego but it’s there in the air between them anyway.

Joker bats his eyelashes at him. “Why, is it working?”

And that, for a terrifying moment, makes Bruce seriously consider grabbing one of the socks from the bag and throwing it in Joker’s face.

He doesn’t even know where the impulse came from, which is unnerving, because Wayne could feign playfulness from time to time — if never actually feel it — but Batman? Never. Playful doesn't exist in his vocabulary when he’s wearing the cape and cowl. Not to mention that he hasn’t felt such ridiculous, immature urges since before the dark alley, before the gunshots and the blood and the clatter of pearls onto dirty wet ground.

The memory instantly pours cold water on a situation that, for a moment, felt dangerously close to unraveling. Bruce breathes, in and out, and feels more like himself again.

It’s reassuring.

It is also, inevitably, bittersweet.

Joker's still waiting for his reaction, though, so Bruce looks at him, keeps his expression blank, and simply says, “No.”

Something about his delivery makes Joker laugh himself into a coughing fit. It takes him a while to calm down, which Bruce appreciates, because it gives him some much-needed time to get himself under control. He’s still unsettled, though, and doesn’t quite know how to shelf the weirdness of this moment away because he hasn’t prepared compartments in his mind for something as mundane as feeling silly. The Batman had never needed them until now.

Until Joker.

The takeaway here is probably that he’s spending entirely too much time in Joker's company. And Bruce almost wants to laugh at the irony of the situation because here he is, in the middle of executing a plan which relies on doubling down on that time rather than cutting it.

This isn’t about him, he reminds himself. This is about Joker, and what Bruce can do for him.

And, by extension, for Gotham.

He seeks refuge in the comforting familiarity of that thought and lets it steady him, and then reaches for the last few items. Wordlessly, he lays them out at Joker’s feet, one by one.

And that, that stops Joker laughing, the last of it dying on a gasp. He stares at Bruce from his blanket cocoon, his tongue darting out uncertainly to taste the chewed-on skin of his bottom lip.

“But I thought —” he starts hoarsely, eyes skipping between Bruce and the items at his feet.

Bruce sets his mouth and looks into his eyes, patiently waiting until Joker’s lock on him and stay there. Then he says, “You’ve earned it.”

Joker's throat's working furiously, Adam’s apple bobbing. He holds Bruce’s gaze for another three seconds, and then his eyes dart down again; and though he makes no move to collect the modest collection of new makeup, Bruce can see his fingers twitching under the blanket.

He imagines himself reaching out, pulling the folds of the blanket apart, and holding Joker’s hands in his until he calms down, like he did before. The fierce wanting at the thought catches him by surprise, and he stops himself before it can blossom into real urge.

This time, he’ll wait. He’ll ask. He can do this much.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he warns instead, and is surprised by how soft his words sound in the silence of the room.

But maybe he shouldn’t be. It’s no worse than thinking about holding Joker’s hands. And he has no space in his mind right now to examine that.

Joker looks back up at him. He blinks, and then, slowly, his face sort of… rearranges itself. Muscle by muscle, like a coal painting someone accidentally smudged, the expression of uncertain, even suspicious wonder blurs into one of knowing, bitter, sad amusement. Suddenly, he reminds Bruce of nothing so much as a painting, though which one, he couldn't say.

“Oh Bats,” Joker whispers over that gently mocking, bittersweet smile. “How could I? You regret this already.”

He doesn’t wait for Bruce to respond. One pale hand nudges the blanket apart to brave the chilly air outside, and touch the cosmetics with long curious fingers. He picks up the mascara first, then the eyeliner, then the eyeshadow palettes and the different powders, concealers and rouge. He’s careful with those, trailing delicate touches over the glossy plastic of the containers with none of the recklessness from earlier, and it’s a bit like the difference between gorging oneself on food after near-starvation and tasting the dessert once the worst of the hunger has passed.

He goes for the new tubes of lipstick last. His face stays locked in near-blank thoughtfulness as he tests each of them on the skin of his forearm, just above the metal bracelet; and then, without raising his eyes to Bruce, he grabs one of the tubes, the brightest, most glaring shade of red of them all, and starts to draw on his own skin.

And Bruce finds himself asking, “Do you like it?”

It nudges him out of balance again, both the asking itself and the fact that he wants to know in the first place. And once more, a sudden flare of tight anticipation pushes him to lean forward before he can catch the feeling and stomp it out.

Joker giggles, softly. Bruce tells himself the clown has absolutely no way of knowing what he’s feeling or thinking right now.

It doesn’t quite work.

And Joker keeps him waiting, touching the lipstick to his skin with focused purpose, as single-minded in this small creative pursuit as he used to be in his destruction. Bruce watches until, from the chaos, emerges something like the bat-shape, its edges smeared in red.

It looks like a brand.

And suddenly, sweat beads on the back of Bruce’s neck, because he doesn’t want to see it. He wants to reach out and rub it away, he wants to wipe Joker’s hand clean and pure white so he doesn’t have to look and see and think, and ponder, and feel so goddamn sick —

But the thing is, he can’t seem to make himself move. Or even look away.

Until, finally, Joker sighs and breaks the odd little spell they seem to be caught in, and he’s the first to move. He gathers up the cosmetics and starts putting them back into the duffel bag. Startled, Bruce watches him without a word until everything sans the clothes and the blanket is packed, and then Joker stands up, letting the blanket pool on the carpet around his bare ankles.

He grabs the bag with one hand. The other, he extends to Bruce.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers, the words warm on his smiling mouth.

Bruce looks at the hand, eyes catching on the angry red mess of a bat and then the cold glint of the bracelet beneath it.

“What now?” he asks.

“Just come with me. I want you to do something for me.”

“Joker, what is it?” Bruce insists, even as he reaches out to take Joker’s hand.

Joker only smiles, and leads him past his bedroom — Bruce's gut twists oddly at this — to the bathroom.

Once there, he offers no explanations, busying himself instead with carefully arranging his new cosmetics on any available surface. Left with nothing better to do, Bruce leans against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest and watches Joker, and tries to make sense of the seemingly random way Joker orders the creams and bottles and makeup on the sink and along the shelves.

It goes on for a bit, with much fuss and rearranging, until there are only the shampoo and conditioner left, and Joker doesn’t leave those in the shower.

Instead, he turns to Bruce and walks up to him, offering both.

“What,” Bruce asks. “You don’t want them?”

“Don’t be obstinate, darling,” Joker says, rolling his eyes as though what Bruce said was particularly thick. “I want you to wash my hair, of course.”

Bruce stares at him.

“You want me to —”

“Yes, that’s what I said, didn’t I? Come on, baby, do keep up. I know you got places to be. Take those gauntlets off now, chop-chop, this isn't the time for leather play.”

Then, before Bruce can protest, Joker starts unbuttoning his own shirt like it’s nothing, like he undresses in front of Bruce every day, and in a way — Bruce glances at the cameras positioned strategically in the bathroom — he does. Bruce has never been there to see it in person, though, and while it doesn’t seem to make a difference to Joker, it does to Bruce.

You were going to touch him anyway, Bruce reminds himself sternly. That was the plan all along. That’s why he got rid of the guards. He was going to give Joker the clothes and the cosmetics and the blanket, and then suggest that maybe he could apply the lotion to his hands for him, and ask if it felt good, if he should do that more often. The thing is, though, that plan didn’t involve nudity, or water, or quite this much — closeness.

Joker’s shower cabin is small.

But the longer Bruce hesitates, the longer he takes to say no, the more obvious it becomes that his objections won't matter. Joker doesn’t have a whole lot of clothes to take off, and he’s quick and to-the-point. The shirt's gone all too soon, and then he’s unlacing his sweatpants and letting them fall to the floor, and then he’s reaching to the waistband of his boxer briefs, and —

“Stop,” Bruce says.

Joker does, but he shoots Bruce a funny look and points at the nearest camera. “You’ve obviously seen me in my birthday suit.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to see it again,” Bruce counters. “The boxers stay on.”

“But Baaats, they’re gonna get all wet and sticky and gross.”

“These stay on, or we’re not doing this at all. You’ve got a whole new set of underwear to replace them.”

“You're such a spoilsport sometimes, Batsy dearest, I swear to comedy god. So afraid of some dangly bits. You know I’m not hiding a snake in there or anything.”

“Joker.”

“Fine.” Joker affects a put-upon sigh, like Bruce is the one being unreasonable. He puts two fingers under the waistband of the briefs, pulls, then lets it snap against his bony hips, the skin there pinking instantly. “You’re lucky you’re so charming when you’re being Puritan. Now hurry up. If you’re gonna spoil me, you gotta do it right.”

With that, he turns around and skips into the narrow cabin, all long gangly limbs and jutting bone and endless, impossible white. It’s even starker against the similarly white tiles on the walls and the floor, and absurdly, Bruce thinks he should have this bathroom repainted. It already bears the battle-scars of Joker’s unrestrained bursts of creativity, just like the rest of his living space; but even with scraps of poems and song lyrics and misshapen doodles adorning the walls, Joker looks lost in here, washed out except for the shock of his wild hair and the black cotton of the briefs.

Guilt tries to paw at Bruce again. He shakes his head clean of it, and steps forward.

“How do you imagine we do this?” he asks, resigning himself to the fact that apparently, they are doing this.

Joker grins. “Easy. I get down on my knees for you.”

And, leaving Bruce’s mind to stutter on the mental images exploding after his words, he does just that, his knees hitting the cabin floor between the back wall and where the spray would fall if the shower were turned on. He sits down on his haunches and spreads his thighs invitingly, making space. He's just skinny enough that Bruce can squeeze himself in there too, but there’s not nearly as much space as he’d like between the two of them; and besides, Joker’s knees aren't going to take that well.

“At least get a towel,” Bruce says, grabbing one from the rack by the cabin. He throws it to Joker, who catches it deftly and quirks an eyebrow at him. “For your knees,” Bruce explains.

“It’s gonna get sodden.”

“There’s more here. And we can always get you more towels if you need them.”

Joker snorts, hand flying to press into the bridge of his nose, and he closes his eyes, laughing softly to himself. He lets the towel drop to the floor. “Incredible,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Bruce comes even closer. “What is?”

“You. You and Brucie. We can get you more. Just like that, snap, magic trick, make a wish, no problemo. Waste the towels, all the towels, waste it all, there’s more where that came from, don’t you worry, don’t you worry, child, this house is a cornucopia and you'll never want for anything, ever, ever…”

He's pressing both hands to his face now, laughing. His fingers bend like talons to rake across skin.

“Stop that,” Bruce says. He reaches out to touch Joker’s shoulder.

The pale body jerks violently before he can, and Joker’s head snaps up, and his eyes burn when he demands, “What the hell, get me another one. No, get me three! I want soft! I want fluffy. Why not? We can always have more, eh, Batsy ol’ pal?”

“Yes,” Bruce says slowly. “Yes, you can.”

Joker giggles again, bends his head and goes back to clawing at his own face, muttering in a strange sing-song cadence, “Save, save, save, don’t use that, Jackie, hang on, we can both fit, make a game of it, silly little game, bang-bang-bang, stop that tickles…”

And that, finally, gives Bruce the push to make up his mind. It helps him remember why he’s here in the first place.

Right. Right.

He grabs another towel from the rack and offers it to Joker, who's still ranting nonsense under his breath. He struggles out of his boots and protective socks, gathers up the cape to keep it as out of the way as possible, takes the shampoo, conditioner and shower gel, and carefully steps into the cabin.

Joker only begins to calm down when Bruce turns the handles to release the water from the affixed shower head, opting for a gentle mist spray first, since Joker’s head is directly in the way of the water. Joker stays on his knees, and slowly begins to snap out of whatever daze he’s worked himself into enough to lift his legs and bunch the two towels under himself. Once settled, his legs spreading again, his laughter softens as the spray gently washes over his head and pearls in his hair.

Bruce listens to his shallow breath as he tugs his gauntlets off. He hangs them over the towel rack and, schooling his voice into a mild tone, he asks, “Who’s Jackie?”

Joker blinks. For a breath, he holds himself very, very still, and his eyes dart around in puzzlement like he’s surprised not only by the question, but by the very sound of Bruce’s voice, and by his own position, and why he’s here at all, kneeling in the shower and getting wet.

He says, “Jackie who?”

Bruce sighs. “Nevermind.” Then, he fortifies himself with a deep breath and says, “All right. I’m going to touch your head now.”

He gets a small, breathless giggle in response, and turns to face Joker properly.

Joker, who's kneeling before him with his head bent low, practically naked, open and defenseless and trusting that Bruce won't hurt him, the lipstick-red bat branded on his forearm.

Don’t think about it, Bruce tells himself firmly, even as his breath catches in his throat and his stomach flares up with a surge of heat. Don’t. Stop. This situation will only mean something if you let it.

All the same, his eyes seem to be stuck on the dull gray of the bracelet, and the stain of red above it. Nausea stirs in his stomach again.

It’s not like that. It’s not.

But he can’t stop himself seeing the two of them like an outsider might, imagining the picture they make, and Dr. Quinzel’s accusations shoot through his mind with the ferocity of bullets. It’s probably that which makes him ask, quietly, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Joker looks up at him through increasingly wet curls. “As sure as I am of anything, baby,” he says, smiling, looking entirely lucid again, then turns to the cameras. “Hear that, guardian angels? I asked! No need to pat our gallant hero on the wrist, here! Though of course,” he adds, turning thoughtful now, “I’m not entirely sure what I had for breakfast this morning, so my consent here might not mean all that much.”

Bruce sighs. “Get ready.”

“I’m always ready for you, sugar.”

Bruce decides it’s in their both best interests if he doesn’t comment on that.

Except, then he wishes he had commented, wishes he had kept the banter going, even if it meant descending into meaningless babble. Because now, he's out of excuses to stall. Because now, he has to get on with it and actually touch Joker’s hair.

And in the silence, the moment when he does, when his bare fingers reach out to carefully part the thick green curls to reach the skin of Joker’s scalp, suddenly feels altogether too…

Big.

But maybe Joker thinks so, too. The full-body shudder that wrecks him the moment Bruce’s hands rest on his head nearly vibrates through the walls of the cabin, and he sucks in a breath, and Bruce can see his muscles locking tight.

“Joker?” he asks.

Joker says nothing for a long, long moment.

Then he breathes out, and asks, “Hey Bats, you ever plucked a goose?”

Bruce lets some of the tension out through his nose. His hands press deeper, start moving, slow and careful, massaging water into green hair, and Joker lets out a small moan but keeps himself very still otherwise, and Bruce recognizes what this is. What the question was supposed to achieve.

He’s almost grateful for it, in his heart. They could both use the distraction.

So he picks up the ball Joker tossed him and turns it back around. “Have you?”

“Nah, but now I want to. I’m pretty sure one of those feathery bastards chased me down a sidewalk once in my careless youth. Ooh, hey, stop me if you heard this one, but a goose walks into a bar, right, and the barkeep, he says, Hey, it’s a goose. And the goose looks at him. And she says, Yeah, and? And the bozo says, No shirt, no service. So the goose jumps him and bites him on the nose until it falls off, and the bozo falls to the ground, and the goose, she rips his shirt to shreds and puts a scrap of it on, and she goes, Look who's shirtless now, sucker!”

Bruce lets him laugh, steadying his head in place with one hand as the rest of Joker's body shakes, and turns the spray to regular, the water running nice and hot now, leaving flowers of steam on the tiles. It gets on his face and drips down his suit in rivulets, but he ignores it — the suit’s waterproof anyway — and positions himself closer, leaning down slightly to get more comfortable as he starts to massage Joker’s scalp in earnest, long, measured strokes, pressing deep.

“That reminds me of a dream I had,” Joker babbles, his voice slightly unsteady and wavering into higher pitches like a chaotic improvised melody. “There was a bar. I was mixing drinks. Eddie wanted a tequilla sunrise, so I go and reach for the grenadine, but instead I’m holding a gren-a-de, ha, geddit, and I pass it to him, and he tries to drink it and then it explodes in his face, and he looks at me and tells me, Joker, I’m not angry, I’m disappointed.”

Bruce reaches for the shampoo and squeezes some onto his hand. Instantly, the cabin smells of citrus, fresh and sharp, and the gel is lukewarm on his fingers, and diamond particles twinkle in it like glitter as he rubs it thoroughly into Joker’s hair.

It foams up in his hands almost immediately, suds of soap dropping down onto the cabin floor and swirling there until they disappear down the drain. Joker begins to catch them, giggling, and rubs them into his body, temporarily distracted from his tirade. Bruce takes the opportunity to keep massaging his head to the rhythm they both know very well by now: one, two, three, one, two, three.

He doesn’t realize that his own heart has slowed down to match it until Joker starts humming it out, turning his head in Bruce’s hands to guide them where he wants them, almost nuzzling, his voice low and hoarse, soap sluicing down his body.

The humming accompanies Bruce when he gently rinses the shampoo out and then applies it again. Then it dies down, only to start up again as a melody, or several melodies bleeding one into the other with no rhyme or reason, the lyrics a disjointed mess, like Joker can’t quite decide which song he wants to be singing and only knows that he wants to be singing something.

Bruce only recognizes a few of them. He suspects Joker's making half of them up on the go. He keeps pressing, slow and steady, and tries not to lose himself in the rhythm and the lulling cadence of Joker’s voice and the steady hum of the shower, and the heat, and the steam, and the smell of citrus.

Then, Joker stops singing.

He whispers, “Harder.”

And Bruce presses harder. “Like this?” he asks quietly.

“Harder,” Joker insists. “Please.”

Bruce swallows. It’s getting really hot in the cabin, the steam now almost oppressive as it tries to swirl its way into his suit. And there really isn’t a whole lot of room.

Which means that getting on his knees in front of Joker really doesn’t make a whole lot of strategic sense, but after a breath, that's exactly what Bruce ends up doing.

It’s not an ideal position. The cabin's hardly big enough, and Joker has to nudge his legs further apart to make space for Bruce between them until his knees are pressed up against both walls. Bruce’s feet are smashed uncomfortably against the glass doors of the cabin. They're close enough now that Bruce can count water droplets collecting in the hollow of Joker’s collarbone.

He still can’t see Joker’s face, though — it’s hiding behind a wall of wet hair — and that's probably for the best. Not to mention fair, since Bruce is hiding his face too, and he has the privilege of a mask.

The thought makes him want to reach out and part the green curls to see what it is Joker's trying to hide from him. He resists the urge, feels a little sick at having it in the first place, and instead, he silently reaches for the conditioner.

This time, when he starts to massage it into Joker’s head, he does go harder, the new position making it more comfortable and the angle better, and Joker lets slip a sigh that’s caught halfway between distressed and blissful. The sound teases at parts of Bruce he's not prepared to acknowledge, so he sets his jaw against it and chooses to just keep going.

It’s the steam. The steam, misting on his face and suit, and clinging and cloying and making it hard to breathe.

His fingers trace the curve of Joker’s scalp. His right hand lingers there, and then inches down to the back of Joker’s neck, scratching gently at the base.

“More,” Joker pleads, breathless, “harder, Bats, do that again but harder.”

Bruce does, dragging his nails over sensitive shower-pinked skin, and his breath would have stuttered if he hadn’t fought so hard to keep the rhythm of it steady, because the words, and the tone of Joker’s voice, it sounds so much like —

He’s not going to think about the tape. Or Joker’s nudity. Or — or anything else even remotely connected to that. He’s here to help, and that —

Now both his hands scratch over Joker’s head, and this time, it’s not a sigh that he gets in response.

It’s a moan.

Bruce’s eyes want to slip down, to where the sodden black briefs hug Joker’s taut skin. Resolutely, he keeps them on the top of Joker’s head, on his own hands, going down to the nape of the clown’s neck and then back again, and up, and down, drawing circular patterns, massaging, pressing, scratching…

Joker’s head turns. He nudges at Bruce’s right hand.

Bruce lets it slip down over his ear, and slowly touches there, drawing a circle over the lobe. It’s hot from the shower. The skin behind it feels soft and tender.

“Itches,” Joker tells him, his giggle small, taut as a bowstring.

Bruce scratches there, gently, and smoothes his fingers over the reddened skin. “Is that better?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Do that again.”

Bruce does, and then repeats the movement with Joker’s other ear. Slowly, he lets his thumbs caress Joker’s temples, pressing in tight.

Then, he catches sight of Joker’s arm, the red bat partially washed away but still lingering. His mind sets.

“Here,” he says, one hand falling away from Joker’s head to take the marked arm and bring it up under the water. “Let’s get that off.”

Joker makes a distressed sound when both of Bruce’s hands leave his face, but then he sits quiet and compliant when Bruce’s fingers begin to scrub at the remnants of the lipstick. It comes off easily enough, in faint reddish smudges which mix with the soap suds, and Bruce makes sure to press at the skin there with the same regular pace as he did before.

He can feel the hardness of bone underneath, easy, too easy, and worries. So skinny.

Then, he moves back up, urging Joker’s bent head under the shower spray once more to rinse for the final time.

“There,” he says quietly, his hand stroking over wet hair. “We’re done.”

Joker sits there without a word. He still isn’t looking at Bruce.

And then both his hands come up around his skinny torso, and he hugs himself, hands tucked into his armpits, and he leans back as if he wants to bleed into the wall behind him. His breath is shallow. His body tense.

He says, “I’m gonna need to jerk off now.”

It takes a moment for Bruce to catch the meaning behind the tight, clipped words. He sits back, feeling hot, his throat much too dry.

“Oh.”

“You’re welcome to stay and watch, but —”

“No.” Bruce pulls himself up, banging awkwardly against the cabin with his knees and elbows as he goes, and steps out. “I’m — I have to go anyway.”

Joker giggles all through the frantic process of Bruce pulling on his gauntlets and boots, and keeps giggling when Bruce all but bolts from the bathroom, grabbing the empty duffel bag on his way out. Once the door shuts, though, the giggle almost instantly bleeds into a moan, and Bruce stands there in the middle of Joker’s bedroom for a heartbeat or two, breathing in air which smells wonderfully stark and fresh after the cloying swirls of steam and citrus.

God, he needs air. He can’t seem to be able to catch his breath properly. His mind is a racing blur, and he doesn’t want to picture Joker there in the cabin, but —

Alfred’s voice comes to his rescue just as Bruce starts to wonder if he's losing his mind.

“Sir,” he says through the speakers, “I hasten to inform you that your time is nearly up.”

Bruce blinks, hard. His suit's dripping all over the carpet, but that doesn’t matter, not when blood's rushing to his throbbing cock so fast Bruce is nearly dizzy with it, not when he still feels like he’s suffocating.

“Sir,” Alfred repeats, urgently.

In the bathroom, there's another moan, loud enough to struggle past the rush of the shower and the closed door.

Bruce’s hands curl. The gauntlets, all of a sudden, feel a size too small. The heat of Joker’s skin still itches on his fingers.

He swallows, once, heavily, and looks up into the cameras.

“I’m going.”

Silence follows him out. There are no more moans that he can hear. He tries very hard not to imagine that he's just heard Joker come.

***

He almost trips over himself in his hurry to get out of the suit once he stumbles into the cave. Once free, he ignores his near-painful erection, changes into sweatpants and a tank top, and rushes back up, then out, to run laps around the Manor gardens in the chilly air.

He knows Alfred's watching from the windows. He catches sight of Jason, too, before the boy disappears back into the house. He ignores them and runs, and runs, and runs, until the chill finally bites into him hard enough to chase the smell of citrus from his mind.

By the time he makes it back to the house, he’s almost ready to rationalize the whole thing away, including his own arousal. After all, it’s only natural that Joker would react this way. He’d been starved for physical touch for months, and Bruce knows by now what a sensual creature he is. He’d been a fool for not expecting that. Won’t make the same mistake again.

As for his own reaction…

He’s just going to need to work harder on self-discipline. It’s clear his body isn’t as completely obedient as he needs it to be yet. Bruce has had a dry spell for a long time now, neglecting his socialite persona, and he’d worked himself up. Nothing more to it.

He almost manages to convince himself of that, and not feel too sick and self-hating by the time he cloaks himself in the night again — choosing the spare suit this time — and heads out with Jason at his side.

They bring in Sionis and his gang that night. That helps.

And if Jason takes notice that Bruce seems to be extra brutal taking down the gang, he keeps his comments to himself.

***

Next time he visits Joker, he's ready to face him again without his thoughts tripping over memories of the shower.

Or so he expects.

Still, he lingers in the doorway, caught off-guard by what he sees, and stands there watching for a while before he asks,

“What are you doing?”

Joker barely spares him a glance. He’s too busy pushing his desk across the floor to the other end of the parlor. He’s wearing his new makeup though, his eyes rimmed in black and painted purple, a touch of rouge on his cheeks, and his lips gleam a deep red, and the tube of hand cream peeks out from the pocket of his new purple sweatpants. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Behind him, the double doors to the balcony are thrust wide open, wind tumbling in, ushering in the smell of cut grass and wet leaves and Spring.

“Redecorating,” Joker informs Bruce, and grunts with the effort, sweat glistening on his forehead.

Bruce can feel the muscles in his face tighten. “Redecorating?”

“Obviously.”

“But,” Bruce starts, and then shuts his mouth because while a storm of furious objections instantly erupts in his head, he can’t seem to find one he can dress in proper words.

But it’s my home. But it’s been the way it is for centuries. You can’t just go around and change things in my home.

He knows it’s stupid. He’s been changing things himself, and much more drastically. But that’s the thing — the cave is an addition. Just another element of the house, which had had new elements added to it by each new generation of Waynes to make it even grander, bigger, better. He’s just… added his own stamp on the place, like his parents had done before him, and his grandparents, and grand-grandparents.

Joker's not a Wayne. Joker is a sick criminal who just happens to be occupying this particular part of the house, one which Bruce never felt any particular attachment to in the first place. And maybe that’s the problem.

But also, Bruce may have changed things, even in these particular rooms to turn them into the fortress they are now, but it was always for a practical purpose. Moving furniture around? Just for the sake of it? To make it look different? Alfred's never done it, in all the years he’s worked here, and Bruce has never once considered that was even an option. The rooms are furnished the way they have been furnished ever since Bruce can remember, with only minor and necessary variations, and he likes it that way. There's no need to change anything. No need to — meddle.

To disrupt. To interfere.

But he can’t say any of that out loud. He settles for, “Don’t you like the way things are?”

“It’s boring,” Joker whines, panting. “I’m bored. Doc Mulligan says it’s good to refresh your living space every once in a while. And this place is like a museum, Batsy, so… stale.”

“Stale,” Bruce echoes, and can almost imagine the house grumbling in the same offended disapproval that swirls in his gut.

“Yeah. Be a dear and give a clown a hand, will ya? Put them hero muscles to good use for a change.”

Words crowd against the back of Bruce’s teeth. Harsh, unkind, ugly words. He tries to swallow them down, and succeeds after the second try.

It’s Joker’s space now, he reminds himself. No longer a proper part of the Manor. In a way, it’s like his cave. No one else has been using these rooms anyway, and, likely, no one will again. Whatever Joker does in here, it’s his right, and it doesn’t matter.

He keeps that on the forefront of his mind when he finally makes himself move, and stands beside Joker.

Instantly, he catches a whiff of citrus and has to fight the hot flush away from his face, and wonders if Joker is feeling any similar discomfort. If so, he's not showing it one bit, and instead, he spits into his hands to rub them together, and says, “All righty then, heave ho!”

Together they push the desk into the corner across from where it stood before, and Bruce focuses on the physical strain of it to hush the objections which continue to rattle around in his head. Joker insists that they move the desk this way and that until he's satisfied with how the light from the windows falls on it.

“Okay,” he pants, pushing his hair away from his forehead. “Now for the sofa.”

“What’s wrong with the sofa?” Bruce snaps, irritable, but Joker shushes him with a wave of his hand and skips over to the offending piece of furniture to regard it with exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Hm. Hmm. Hmmm. No, no, no, this won’t do, this won’t do at all. Too predictable. Needs surprise. Needs panache. Needs that ooh factor!” he mumbles, walking around, the sun catching in his glossy, noticeably softer hair, which bounces around Joker’s head in curls that look almost perky.

“It’s a sofa,” Bruce points out, frustrated, because that’s better than looking at that hair and remembering how it felt wet in his hands.

Joker ignores him. Instead, he jumps in front of the sofa, then pushes it back a few inches with noticeable effort, maneuvers it into a position sideways to the screen in the wall, and happily upends the entire thing onto the floor.

“There!” he claps, breath heaving. “That’s what daddy’s talking about!”

Bruce abandons all attempts to make sense of the situation. Instead, he asks, “Happy now?”

“Don’t be silly, my dulcet Dark Knight!” Joker turns to him with a blinding grin. “We’re only just beginning!”

Turns out Joker wants to attack the bookshelves next, and when he discovers that it’s impossible to get them to move, he consoles himself with grabbing armfuls of books and moving them from one shelf to the one across and arranging them into patterns that make sense only to him. This takes some time, and Bruce is roped into helping, and he gets so exasperated with Joker’s bossy attitude that he forgets to be angry about the redecorating itself. Next, Joker recruits Bruce to rearrange the gym, directing in an overly cinematic, lordly manner where to move this and that, and he seems to be having the time of his life ordering around Batman like he would one of his goons.

In the end, Bruce bites down on his bottom lip and doesn’t protest too much. It keeps them both occupied, and the grunt work distracts him from their previous meeting, which can only be a good thing.

Besides, when he stops overthinking, he rather enjoys the exercise, even if Joker’s pedantry is enough to make the most patient man on Earth contemplate increasingly violent ways to shut him up.

The bedroom comes last. It takes both of them to move the ancient mahogany wardrobe, then the massive bed, but eventually, they manage to invert the entire room into a mirror image of where things stood previously, and a part of Bruce has to admit that it does look somewhat… better. Fresher. New.

Joker seems happy enough with this arrangement, anyhow; he collapses onto the bed with a bounce, some of the lipstick smeared, his body gleaming with sweat in the grated pool of sunlight struggling in through the windows.

“Nothing like a bit of Spring cleaning, eh, Bats?” he chirps. “I’m gonna need to change these sheets next. Get someone to send up new ones, would ya?”

“You changed your sheets a week ago.”

“And now I want to change them again. Feel fresh. It’s important to feel fresh when there’s a new beginning afoot, don’cha know?”

“A new beginning?” Bruce asks, but Joker only starts to sing and kick his legs to the rhythm, and Bruce decides not to press it.

He leaves after that, because his hour is nearly up and Joker doesn’t seem to be in the mood for anything calmer anyway; and he's surprised that, even though his back and arms are on fire, his step feels just a bit lighter than when he’d come in.

He looks around at the halls he’s spent his whole life in, noting each portrait, each curtain, each carpet and shelf and lamp and cabinet. He knows them all so well he could easily navigate around with his eyes closed, and yet, it somehow feels like he’s noticing them properly for the first time. He wonders why each piece stands where it does. He tries to imagine what it would look like if he moved this armchair, this suit of armor, this mirror.

Maybe there’s something to it. Maybe he could think about moving things around in his own bedroom, too. See if it would help him sleep better.

Just because something’s been a certain way for a long time doesn’t mean it has to stay like that.

***

Some of that lightness stays with him when he makes his way to another private hour with Joker the following week. He doesn’t want to call it hope, but there's definitely some… anticipation, and not of the kind which sits tight and heavy in his chest, but rather of the kind that flutters, despite his best efforts to keep it in check. He doesn’t know what he’ll find behind the metal wall this time. And today, the prospect doesn’t seem as bleak as it did before.

But then he spots the frail, unassuming figure of Dr. Mulligan waiting for him by the doors to Joker’s rooms, and whatever lightness may have sat in him is snuffed out like a candle flame.

She's looking at him warily from behind her glasses as he approaches, looking smaller in simple red sweater and jeans and jacket without her white coat, hair tied into a practical ponytail. She clutches a handbag close to her chest, waiting, and Bruce slowly makes his way toward her, wondering why on Earth Alfred decided not to warn him about this.

“Doctor,” he says levelly, coming to a stop a little distance from her.

“You never answered any of my letters,” she says curtly, “so I decided a more direct approach was in order.”

Bruce says nothing, and waits.

“What you’re doing is outrageous,” she says. “It violates every rule of ethics and plain common sense. Don’t you realize how dangerous your idea is, to both of you?”

“I’m not hurting him,” Bruce says coldly. “I’m doing my best to help.”

“And how do I know that, if you’re not letting anyone see?”

“Because I give you my word.”

“That may be enough for Commissioner Gordon, but he certainly doesn’t have the patient’s best interest at heart.”

“You have your ways, Doctor, and I have mine. You said yourself that I can influence him in ways other people can’t. I’m using that for good.”

“And who’s to be the judge of that, hm? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“It’s done, Doctor.”

She breathes out, pushing the glasses up her nose, and murmurs, “Yes, I know. Yelling at you won’t do any good. I’ve… made my peace with it, for now.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To give you this.” She reaches into her purse, pulls out a midnight blue folder packed with documents, and hands it to him. “I promised I’d compile a list of methods to cope with anxiety and panic attacks and to relieve the less extreme symptoms, so here it is. If you’re bent on going through with this insanity, you’re going to need it. I left one for the guards, too. Incidentally, they don’t seem too happy with this new arrangement either.”

Bruce accepts the folder silently and leafs through it. “Thank you,” he says.

She sighs. “Don’t. Just because I’ve stopped protesting doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you. You’re making my job even more complicated, and that job is treating the Joker. I hope you appreciate what that puts me through.”

“I’m not going to willfully counteract your therapy, Doctor.”

She glares at him, hard and unforgiving. “You have no way of knowing that if you keep your word and refrain from watching our sessions. And from what my patient tells me, you’re already messing things up.”

Bruce sets his jaw. “Meaning?”

She shakes her head, gazing down at the carpet. She sighs. “Just — be responsible,” she says quietly. “Observe, keep an open mind, and don’t antagonize him or lead him astray. Or on. We must be very clear on that. Whatever you let him believe must be genuine, founded in reality, or this will all backfire spectacularly and there may be no one left to pick up the pieces.”

Bruce thinks the words over, and stores them for further examination even though they don’t sit well with him at all.

Then, because she has shown herself to be more patient and understanding than he had any right to expect, he asks, “Would you like to go in with me now and see him?”

She doesn’t look surprised by the offer, and chews on her bottom lip as though it’s something she was asking herself not too long ago.

“No,” she says at length. “But I would appreciate it if you let me watch from the guard room. Just this once. I want to see how you two interact when you’re not fighting.”

And Bruce doesn’t like this suggestion, but he owes her, so he makes himself say, “All right.”

She steps aside, then, to let him through. Before he can punch the code in, she says, “Harleen told me you accosted her in the parking lot.”

Bruce pauses with his hand over the keyboard.

“Accosted is a strong word,” he says.

“Well, it’s the one she used. Leave her alone, Batman. She’s young, she’s learning, and I’m keeping an eye on her. I agree that letting her stay on as Joker’s doctor might have been catastrophic, but let her move on and learn from her own mistakes.”

Bruce hesitates. “Do you think she's a good doctor?” he asks.

“I think she has the makings of a great one, under the right guidance. Which I’m willing to provide.”

“And what about Dr. Lancer?”

Dr. Mulligan’s face darkens. There's a hard gleam in her eyes. “The sooner they fire that bastard, the better.”

Bruce nods. “I’m investigating him.”

“Good. That, I will gladly help you with.”

Bruce turns from her to enter the security code, and this time, she doesn’t stop him.

***

It’s a quiet meeting for them, with Joker the one to suggest a game of cards, which lulls them into a quiet rhythm of familiarity. He’s wearing makeup again, and this time it’s stronger, his eyes shaded so that their toxic green seems to gleam all the brighter. He’s tried to style his hair, too, combing it more to one side, and he’s wearing one of the purple suits, topped with an elegant green bowtie. He tries to make small talk, babbling about some of his favorite ex-neighbors from Arkham.

Bruce lets him talk and laugh and squirm as much as he needs to, and watches him, and listens. Maybe it’s his wishful thinking, but Joker looks better. Calmer. Happier.

He hopes Dr. Mulligan can see it, too.

She’s gone from the guard room when Bruce makes his way over there after the meeting. There’s no message for Bruce anywhere in evidence. So Bruce stays there watching Joker until he hears the guards climbing the stairs, and then he leaves by the secret back door he’d installed there.

“Done spoiling your pet for the day?” Jason asks him when he makes his way to the cave; he's covered in oil stains, a rag in his hand, scrubbing at his motorcycle.

Bruce opens his mouth to protest, and then thinks better of it. “Yes,” he mutters, reaching to take the cowl off. “Now I’m going to sleep.”

Jason shrugs. “Whatever, old man. By the way, Grayson called. Wants to know if the clown’s gutted you yet so he can inherit everything and move in.”

“Hilarious. You should get some sleep, too, we have a long night ahead.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going out later.”

Bruce stops halfway to the showers. “Where are you going?”

“Just out, okay?”

Bruce gives him a long look. “You’re not getting into trouble, are you?”

Jason rolls his eyes at him. “Don’t sweat it, Bruce, Jesus. Believe it or not, I have a life outside of this place.”

That does very little to alleviate Bruce’s suspicions. He says, “You know you can tell me if you need anything.”

“Sure, dad. Now go wash off those clown cooties before they catch.”

Bruce watches him for a minute longer, then turns away. He thinks maybe it’s a good time to activate the tracking bug he put on Jason’s motorcycle.

***

He follows Falcone’s grunts to a gun drop-off that night. The Italians seem to be cooking something big again, with the amount of unregistered arms they’re bringing in, and now that Black Mask is out of the picture, Bruce can give them his proper attention. He skulks through the shadows after the unremarkable delivery van, Jason cornering another one coming in from the other side, and it’s looking to be a clean, swift takedown once they get to the rendezvous point.

And then there’s static in his earpiece, and a mechanically altered, level male voice says, “Batman.”

Bruce stops dead in his tracks. He touches the comm in his ear. “Who’s there?”

“The weapons are not in the van. It’s a diversion. They’re leading you into a trap.”

Bruce clings to the shadows of the rooftop, tracking the slow-moving van as it inches along in the traffic below. “Who are you?” he demands. “How did you manage to hack this channel?”

“I’m a person with the means and the willingness to help,” the voice says, curt and to the point. “Now, you’re wasting time. The real delivery will happen by the D’Angelo Sewage Treatment Plant, and it’s scheduled for 1:30. If you hurry up you can still make it.”

“How do I know you’re not leading me into a trap?”

“You don’t. You’re just going to have to trust your gut.”

There’s a click, signaling the end of the connection. Bruce swears under his breath. “Robin. Come in.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Yeah, they used the open channel. So, do we split? You go to the Plant and I follow the vans?”

Bruce grits his teeth. “There’s no reason why we should listen to this tip.”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

Dammit. Bruce presses his eyes closed as the wind beats against him.

“Just go,” Jason urges. “I’ll deal with these guys and call you in if it gets ugly.”

“Keep in touch.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Bruce watches the van for a moment longer, then grits his teeth and turns away.

An hour later, they have the Italian mobsters tied up and waiting for the police, and a truckload full of illegal firearms immobilized as evidence. As Bruce and Jason watch the arrests from the rafters, the voice cracks in their comms once again.

“Looks like your gut worked this time,” it says.

Bruce isn’t amused. He demands, “Who are you?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then the voice says, “You can call me Oracle.”

The link dies. Bruce looks at Jason, who shrugs.

“Don’t ask me. The tip was good. Maybe they really do want to help.”

He isn’t looking at Bruce, his eyes locked on the proceedings below. Bruce studies his face carefully.

“I’m going to track down the transmission,” he says.

“Sure, you’re going to try. Might be hard though. I mean, they did hack into our system. They probably know how to cover their tracks.”

“And yet they expect us to trust them.”

“You did, though, didn’t you?”

Bruce looks away, down at the mobsters being loaded into the police van. “No,” he mutters. “I simply had no other choice.”

Jason shrugs again, and that seems to be it.

Back in the cave, Bruce examines both their communicators, and runs decryption and voice recognition on the recordings from this Oracle person, only to come up empty-handed. Jason was right — whoever it is, they do know how to cover their tracks. That doesn’t make Bruce any more inclined to trust them, but maybe it’s a one-off thing. Maybe they won’t reappear.

The question of security remains, and Bruce spends the rest of the evening carefully going through his entire system to detect any possible breaches. The fact that there don’t seem to be any only spikes his suspicions, and he resets all his passwords and encryptions and other security measures to make their communication lines and servers secure. What happened tonight is unacceptable. Even if the tip was solid, Bruce has to make sure it won’t happen again.

After all, he has more than his own secrets to protect now.

***

His mind still buzzes with thoughts of Oracle days later when he makes his way to Joker’s rooms, and he can’t help but be distracted. Joker, of course, notices.

“You’re not listening to me,” he complains, putting his cards down on the table without bothering to hide them. “And here I’ve been telling you such an interesting story, too. For shame.”

Bruce doesn’t have it in him to protest. He surrenders his own cards too and sits back heavily, allowing his shoulders to slump, just a little.

“Trouble at work, honey?” Joker asks, affecting concern.

Bruce sighs. “There’s always trouble.”

“One of my lovely associates discover the gifts I left for them, is that it?”

Suddenly, all thoughts of Oracle fly out the window. Bruce sits up straight and spears Joker with a glare.

“Ha!” Joker leans forward, resting his chin in his hands. “It’s about time. I did wonder.”

“How many bombs are there, Joker?” Bruce asks, abandoning all pretense. Now that Joker brought it up himself, there’s no use beating around the bush.

Joker takes a moment to think about it. He knocks at his own head, squinting, tongue sticking out. “Four?” he guesses. “No, five! No, wait, six. Yeah, six. I’m pretty sure it’s six.”

“How?”

“A magician never reveals his tricks, silly.”

“Joker.”

Joker makes a zipping motion over his lips, then blows Bruce a kiss. “How many have you found yet?” he asks eagerly, curling his legs under himself on the chair.

“Tell me where they are. All of them.”

“But it’s fun though, isn’t it? Like an Easter egg hunt!”

“The bombs,” Bruce growls. “Where. Are. They?”

“Sheesh.” Joker blinks, then pulls a face at him. “Keep yer hotpants on, Buster, I’ll sing. But only because you’ve been so nice to me.”

“I’m not in the mood for this today, Joker. No games. Just tell me.”

Joker watches him for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, three. Then, he shoves his chair back abruptly and stands up, and strides over to the desk.

He goes for marker and paper and scribbles something furiously, then comes over and drops the piece of paper on Bruce’s head.

“There,” he says, his eyes cold, his mouth pinched thin. “Knock yourself out.”

Bruce grabs the paper and studies it. It’s a list of addresses, barely legible but there, and four of them are of bombs that have already been neutralized, including the one which went off in Tricorner Yards.

Joker stands over him with his arms crossed over his chest, expectant. Bruce looks up at him.

“I still want you to tell me how you set this up,” he says.

Something gleams in Joker’s eyes, something hard, something cold. He turns away from Bruce and disappears into the bedroom, and shuts the door behind him.

Bruce groans, pressing his hands to his face. He waits a beat, and calls out.

“Joker.”

Nothing.

“Joker!”

Still nothing.

Bruce stands up, and contemplates just leaving, just getting the hell out of here, because it’s clear he’s no use to anybody in his current state and is in fact only making things worse. The door looks inviting as hell right now, and it’s probably the more sensible thing to do. He could just come back as Wayne next time, and bring popcorn and a movie, and try to placate Joker again until —

He sighs, hands balling into fists. No. That won’t work. Joker won’t let himself be appeased this easily again.

And he seemed really angry.

So what, a part of Bruce insists, he’s a murderer, his bombs killed people. You had a right to interrogate him, and he knows it. He’s just being difficult.

Another part remembers that Joker is a mental patient, and, eventually, directs Bruce’s steps toward the bedroom door.

He raps against it, three times, and waits a few seconds for an answer that never comes.

So he says, “I’m going in,” and pushes the door open.

“Go away,” Joker says, and Bruce sees him standing with his back to the door, tucked into a corner by the far wall, shoulders hunched, hands pressed into the wall.

Bruce steps into the room.

“Joker.”

“I said go away.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Gong, thong, dong.”

Bruce takes a deep breath, and starts walking toward him.

When he gets close enough, he notices the trembling, and the frantic way Joker’s fingers scratch at the wallpaper. The tense set of his shoulders. The hair at the nape of Joker’s neck, standing on end.

He hesitates, but only for a moment. Then he keeps walking.

“If you don’t go away now, Batsy boy,” Joker whispers, wound tight as a spring inside a jack-in-the-box, “I will claw your pretty face open.”

“Why?” Bruce asks quietly.

“Because I want to. Because you’d look pretty. Because I haven’t seen someone else’s blood in ages. Because it’d be fun.”

“I don’t think you mean that,” Bruce whispers, though in his heart, he does.

Joker turns. His hand flies at Bruce, fingers primed to hook into his mouth, and he’s fast, but Bruce is faster, and catches the blow before it can land.

“Don’t,” he urges. “Don’t.”

Joker struggles, but he’s clearly not giving it his all, and he doesn’t try to strike Bruce with his other hand. Instead, he keeps himself still, his eyes closed, his breath heavy, like he’s fighting something monstrous inside himself that refuses to back down.

Seconds pass. Turn into minutes. Neither of them moves.

Until Joker slumps, and his knees buckle, and he’s about to fall forward but Bruce catches him and guides him gently to the bed.

He sits them both down, then, and lets Joker lean into him, and takes both trembling pale hands in his.

He massages them in silence, hard, stubborn. He waits.

It takes a while, but eventually, Joker’s breath syncs with his again. They sit there in silence, breathing, leaning on one another.

Touching.

And for once, Bruce allows himself not to think.

Chapter Text

A few nights later, Bruce steps out of the shadows in Jim’s office and hands him the list of bombs.

“They’ve all been neutralized,” he says curtly as Jim goes through the usual motions of gasping, catching his breath, glaring at him and mumbling something about being too old for this. He waits silently for Jim to take a good look at the list and process it at his own pace.

Finally, Jim looks up at him. “Are these —?”

“Yes.”

“How the hell —”

“He gave me the addresses.”

“What.” Jim pushes his chair back as if to stand up. “You mean — you mean he —”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ, what have you done to him?”

Bruce tries not to bristle. “Nothing,” he says. “He volunteered the information on his own.” And then, after a moment’s pause, he adds, “I only had to needle him a little.”

Jim looks back at the list. His face is pale, and when he combs his hair back, there’s a tremor in his hand Bruce pretends he doesn’t see.

“Well, fuck me,” he whispers. He looks up at Bruce again. “I don’t suppose he told you how he did it?”

“No. But I'll get it out of him eventually.”

“Looks like your vigilante therapy thing is working.” Jim takes a deep breath, slumping in the chair. “I’ll be damned.”

“You can send the cleanup crews to the sites. The bombs have been disarmed, but I didn’t remove them. You might need them for evidence.”

“Sure, sure. Hey, if you get any more tips from the pasty bastard, feel free to —”

Bruce is already jumping out the window.

***

“I took care of the bombs,” Bruce tells Joker the next day. He stays by the door this time, only taking two steps into the room.

Joker watches him from his desk. He’d been furiously scribbling something in red marker before Bruce interrupted; sheets of paper litter the floor around his chair, some of them crumpled or torn into scraps, all of them scrawled over in bright red letters which look sharp and jagged even from Bruce’s limited vantage point.

Their eyes catch and hold. Then, Joker shrugs, and goes back to his writing.

Bruce watches him, throat working, and says, “Commissioner Gordon appreciated your list.”

Another shrug.

Bruce waits a beat. He opens his mouth, closes it again. He says, “So did I.”

The scribbling stops, but Joker doesn’t look up.

“No you didn’t,” he decides eventually. “If you did, you’d say thank you.”

Indignation climbs up Bruce’s throat, but he catches and holds it in before it can spill. He’s bigger than this… pettiness.

But no way is he thanking Joker for graciously fixing something which had put people in danger in the first place. Instead, he takes a moment to regroup and asks, “Would you like to go outside?”

“What,” Joker’s hand hovers, suspended over paper, “now?”

“No, not now. But soon. I did promise that we’d find a way to do that if you behave.”

“Oh, so I’ve been a good little lap dog, have I?” Joker giggles, but even with the distance between them, Bruce notices that the hand which isn’t currently clutching the marker digs painfully into the edge of the desk. “A good lil Jokey? Here boy, fetch the bombs, there’s a good clown, have a Joker Snack?”

There’s that hot surge of indignation again, and this time, it locks into place. Two can play this game, and if Joker insists on putting himself in this demeaning position, well then. Bruce can certainly oblige.

“Yes,” he says.

A shiver races up Joker’s spine. He closes his eyes, a small, secretive smile lingering on his painted lips. “Well, at least you’re being honest,” he giggles. “And I suppose there’s a thank you in there somewhere, eh?”

“Do you want to go outside or not?”

“Do you even care about what I want?”

The question catches Bruce unawares. He gives himself a moment to consider the phrasing, then chooses his answer with care.

“If you don’t want to go, we won’t force you,” he says. “It’s your right, not an obligation.”

“Really? Even if Doc Mullie-Wullie says I should get some fresh air?”

There’s a sinking sort of feeling in Bruce’s stomach as he makes himself ask, “Why do you assume I’d force you?”

This earns him peals of shaky, nervous laughter, Joker bending so far over his chair that for a moment, it looks like his spine might snap in half. He wipes tears from his eyes and looks at Bruce, and manages, “Oh sweetie, do you really not understand how this incarceration thing works? Or are you just playing dumb? Because I seem to recall a certain incident with the pills…”

Bruce swallows. “That was — poorly handled,” he allows, the words tasting sour. “I’ll admit that. But you’re a mental patient, and your ability to make informed decisions is legally limited, and —”

“Ah yes, they really loved spouting that particular load of horseshit at dear old Arkham,” Joker interrupts. “Worked like a magic trick on the suits. Amazing what you can slip past inspections if you have the right piece of paper and know the magic words…”

He falls quiet, the words trailing in the air and tainting it with shadows. Joker seems to stare at the gaps in the air his voice had left. The smile dies on his face. For a moment, it’s like Bruce isn’t even there anymore.

And suddenly, Bruce knows he can't leave him like that.

“Joker,” he calls.

Joker jerks, but doesn’t look at him. His eyes don’t focus.

So Bruce calls his name again, louder, and because there’s an opportunity opening up here, he realizes that, like it or not, he has to take it. He’d been putting it off long enough as it is. He takes a deep breath and makes himself ask, “At Arkham, did they… Did they make you do things you didn’t want to do?”

Joker shakes himself out of his reverie and laughs even harder, hugging himself, coughing.

“You’re adorable,” he manages.

The sinking feeling sharpens, turns into the hard jolting pain you get when you trip and hit the ground. Something fierce sparks in Bruce, fierce and bright and hot. He keeps his mouth shut until the last of the laughter dies in a violent coughing fit, but now he knows he has to press for more, so he tries,

“Joker? Do you…” Dammit, he doesn’t have the vocabulary for this, nor the training. He’s fumbling in unfamiliar darkness with no nocturnal visors to guide him along. Still, he’s never let that stop him before, so he tries to marshal his resolve and offers quietly, “Can we talk about that? About Arkham? About… About Doctor Lancer?”

For a moment, Joker's silent, pressing his forehead to his bony knees, bare toes curling over the edge of the chair. He likes going barefoot, Bruce notices, even despite the cold. He wonders why that is, and thinks that maybe he ought to have given Joker a fluffier rug.

But of course the thought is a distraction, and a pointless one at that. Bruce steels himself, and waits.

“You dirty hypocrite,” Joker whispers, soft enough that Bruce almost misses it. He giggles again, hugging himself closer.

Then, his head snaps up at Bruce, and he’s grinning, and it’s like he’s shed a mask, or maybe put on a fresh one. He chirps, “Yeah, we can go outside! Sure. Why not? Maybe I’ll get a tan.”

Bruce watches him until his own heart calms down. He wants to sigh. That bright fierce spark is still burning inside him, but he looks at Joker’s aggressively cheerful smile, and thinks, … Maybe later.

The thought is shaded in relief. And that, in turn, bleeds into guilt.

But Joker clearly doesn’t want to talk about Arkham, and Bruce won’t just bully him into it. Not today. Not until he can offer something substantial in return.

“All right,” he allows. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

“And I want Brucie to visit.”

Bruce hesitates. “Okay,” he says softly.

“Tell him to bring the sleeping pills. I want them from him.”

And Bruce doesn’t know what to make of that, nor of the weird stab of hurt which feels like an icicle’s suddenly poked him from the inside.

“Fine,” he says, just short of a snap.

He’s almost at the door when a thought occurs to him.

He turns.

“Joker.”

“Yes, sugar-plum?”

Bruce hesitates for only a heartbeat before he asks, “Do you know anything about a person who calls themselves Oracle?”

Joker’s eyes light up in a sharp gleam, and his body uncurls somewhat from its protective squat on the chair. He taps his chin thoughtfully. “I’m guessing you’re not referring to dear old Pythia.”

“No. It’s someone here in Gotham.”

“Ooh, a new player on the chessboard! What fun!” Joker claps and looks genuinely excited for a hot moment, like a shark sniffing blood in the water. “Have you tried beating up Maxie Zeus? He’s got a lock on that whole Greek schtick, maybe it’s one of his little birdies. Why anyone would want to copy that stupid hack is beyond me, but hey, this is Gotham.”

Bruce smirks. “I’m pretty sure that’s not it. Maxie's still locked up.”

“Never stopped me,” Joker points out in sly delight.

Bruce wants to say, Yes, but you're you. He closes his teeth against the words before they can tumble out all wrong.

“So you don’t know anything,” he ascertains.

“Sorry, pumpkin, can’t help you there.”

“Well.” Bruce turns back to the door. “Goodbye.”

Only when the doors close behind him does Bruce allow himself to breathe.

***

He comes back as Wayne that very same night. He brings the sleeping pills, and Joker insists on taking them before they start the movie.

“The noise helps,” he explains with a coy smile.

He settles himself comfortably on the sofa and wraps himself in Reggie the Blanket, and tries to stretch his feet over Bruce’s lap.

“No touching,” Lakeisha Jones snaps.

Joker sighs theatrically, and resigns himself to curling his feet under the blanket just by Bruce’s thighs, sticking his tongue out at her.

The movie starts. Bruce tries to make himself pay attention, but Snow White has never been a particular favorite of his and Joker’s feet aren’t helping — they sneak closer to Bruce inch by inch as the movie rolls, until they press up against his thigh through the blanket. Bruce can feel the toes curling and uncurling as though Joker tries to knead him, and the thought conjures up mental images so ludicrous that it takes considerable effort not to smile.

Lakeisha doesn’t seem to notice. She stands silent guard behind the sofa as Joker slowly drifts off to sleep, and she doesn’t say a word when Bruce decides to stay where he is until the screen finally blinks out into total black.

He doesn’t remember anything from the movie.

But he does remember the feeling of Joker’s feet pressing into him, and can’t get it out of his head even as the night carries him over the city rooftops.

***

It’s another week until they hear from Oracle again, but when they do, Bruce is ready.

“Batman,” the electronically-altered voice catches Bruce as he drives down the Kane Memorial Bridge into the city. “Oracle here. I have a tip for you.”

Jason turns to watch him, silent. Bruce can feel the vein in his temple throbbing. He activates tracking algorithms and patches Alfred into the connection as he grits out, “This is a secure channel. I won’t accept any tips from you unless you tell me who you are, and how you managed to hack into my systems.”

In response, the dashboard lights up on its own, and a map flickers to life on the display screen, pointing to a small dead-end street in Crime Alley. “I could take over control of your car right now and you wouldn’t be able to stop me,” the voice says. “I didn’t. Make of that what you will. And as you make up your mind, I believe there’s a meeting going on in the spot I just showed you that you might want to check out.”

The screen blinks into a feed from the security cameras in a corner Bruce recognizes, of several thuggish-looking, mostly white men and women, some of them with spiked hair and lurid tattoos and garish makeup, shuffling along down the street. A few of them move with the uncertain gait of people trying to conceal firearms under their hoodies and jackets, despite having little to no prior experience with guns. They pass the lantern-mounted camera one by one, in what looks to be roughly 5-minute windows, and veer left into the dead-end alley Bruce saw on the map. Then the screen changes again, this time to a series of grainy, pixelated close-ups of the suspects’ faces. The pictures clear. Names and criminal records are matched to some of them.

Bruce’s stomach drops as he realizes, “Joker’s people.”

“Got it in one,” Oracle confirms in their grating, metallic voice. “A few are probably just punks who thought joining a Joker gang would be good for their rep, but most of them worked for the clown at some point. Now here’s the kicker: they’re walking straight into a trap. Cobblepot’s guys planted a fake summons. The clown worshippers think their big guy is back, but all they’re gonna get is a gut full of lead if you don’t hurry up.”

“Why me? Why didn’t you send this to the police?” Bruce demands.

“Because you’re the only one who can get there in time.” There's a pause. “And because I don’t want to see good cops gunned down over clown scum.”

“So you’re sending me into the fire instead.”

“You got your fancy bulletproof suit, don’t you? Besides, I thought rushing into the fire is what you do.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Good thing I didn’t expect you to. Feel free to cross-check the feeds with your own resources. But if you don’t want to see a bunch of misguided idiots in black bodybags, I suggest you hurry up. Oracle out.”

“Alfred,” Bruce says as soon as the connection dies. “Did you get all that?”

“Indeed, sir. Verifying the images as we speak.”

“See if you can track the frequency while you’re at it.”

“Of course, sir. Would you also like me to hack into the Pentagon? Shut down the satellites, maybe?”

Jason snorts. Bruce waits for the results, turning and swerving through the traffic as fast as the city allows him.

“Everything appears to be in order, sir,” Alfred confirms a moment later. “The timestamps on the feeds are from tonight. Updated images show the street to be empty, but I can see a few suspicious-looking individuals crowding around the alley, which seems to give credence to Oracle’s theory. Sir, it… It may already be too late.”

Bruce swallows a curse and slams his foot on the gas pedal.

They can hear the gunshots from the distance as they get closer. There isn’t enough space in the alley to jam the car between the gangsters and their trapped prey. Bruce barks a curt, “Stay in the car!” at Jason, and launches himself into the firefight, aiming with batarangs to take out as many guns as he can before dropping a smoke bomb into the alley and getting to work.

Jason doesn’t listen to him. He’s out of the car seconds after Bruce, and starts to fight his way to the basement, knocking out the gangsters with brutal efficiency.

“Robin, no!” Bruce yells after him, but Jason's already at the door and kicking it open, and somersaulting inside under a spray of bullets.

Bruce keeps fighting off Cobblepot’s grunts as he strains to make out the sounds of struggle in the basement, and as soon as he delivers a knockout blow to the last man standing, he rushes in to help. Blood drips down the stairs. There are puddles of it inside, and Bruce narrowly avoids tripping on it as he rushes to help Jason incapacitate those of the clown gang still swaying on their feet.

It doesn’t take much.

Police sirens wail urgently by the time Joker’s people are tied up and Bruce takes the vitals of the poor bastards lying on the floor. Two of them are dead, blood oozing from fatal bullet holes in their heads and chests, but the others…

The others can still make it.

That’s gonna have to be enough.

He helps get the bodies on the gurneys, and stands by to watch the ambulances carry the injured away. He explains the situation to Montoya, who knows better by now than to try and bring him in for a statement. Jason hovers silently at the back, watching.

Only when they make their way back to the car does Bruce turn to address him.

“This will not happen again,” he snaps, engine purring into life.

Jason looks out the window. His face scowls at Bruce from the tinted windowpane. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmurs.

“You didn’t listen to me. You deliberately disobeyed an order. They had guns, Jason, and your recklessness could've gotten you killed.”

“I bet you never told Grayson to stay in the car.”

Tension throbs under Bruce’s jaw. “I did. Many times.”

“And did he listen?”

“Why do you think I decided to send him away?”

Jason’s head snaps around to him, demanding, “You saying you gonna fire me, too?!”

“I’m saying you need to be more careful,” Bruce deadpans. “You’re supposed to be assisting me, not creating more problems and endangering yourself in the process. You’re no help at all if I have to worry about your recklessness instead of focusing on the fight.”

“You wanna keep me away from bullets, how about you get me a costume that actually covers me, huh? Or are you broke now that you’re spending all your cash on a murder clown?”

“If you want a new costume, we can talk about this,” Bruce promises through the hot rush in his ears. “But I need you to listen to me and do as I say in the field. When I tell you to stay in the car, you stay in the car, understood?”

“Maybe Grayson let that sort of shit fly,” Jason mutters defensively, “but I thought I was supposed to be your partner. Partners listen to each other, Bruce, it’s not just — it’s not like you’re gonna call all the shots all the goddamn time. You’re not my boss.”

“When we are in the field, I am,” Bruce insists. “You’re my responsibility.”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t wearing a shock bracelet,” Jason spits out, arms folding across his chest. “The only one responsible for me is me.”

Bruce grits his teeth. “You knew what you signed up for,” he reminds Jason. “You know the rules. If you can’t follow them…”

“What are you gonna do about Oracle?” Jason asks sharply, angling away from Bruce to stare out the window again.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m serious. That’s the second tip from them that turned out solid. What do you figure?”

A sigh builds in Bruce’s mouth, but he keeps it in. “Nothing,” he says quietly. “Not until I manage to crack them.”

“You’re still not going to trust them?”

“This Oracle character has the means to take remote control of the Batmobile. Of course I don’t trust them.”

“Hm.”

“Jason,” Bruce presses, “is there something you want to tell me?”

“Oh, I wanna tell you plenty,” Jason murmurs. “But you ain’t gonna listen to none of it.”

“I meant about Oracle.”

“No.” Jason slumps in his seat, some of the prickliness deflating. “I got nothing.”

At that point, a police report about a robbery in Diamond District crackles through the radio, and Bruce has no choice but to shelf this conversation for another time. But Jason won’t escape it, and seems resigned to his fate as he resumes the silent treatment for the rest of the night.

***

“Any luck tracking the Oracle broadcast?” Bruce asks when they make it back to the cave some hours later, windswept, irritable and bone-tired.

Jason's already marching up the stairs, still in his costume. Bruce watches him go until Alfred clears his throat.

“Alas, I’m afraid our new hacker friend is rather skilled at hiding their footprints,” he says.

Bruce looks to the computers. “Are you sure you tried everything?”

“Quite sure, though I know you'll stay up for the rest of the night double-checking anyway,” Alfred replies wryly.

Bruce doesn’t try to contradict him.

But he doesn’t fare any better than Alfred, and by the time he finally unglues himself from the monitors and drags his exhausted body upstairs, he’s ready to interrogate every single louse in the city for anything resembling a lead.

But maybe he doesn’t have to. He remembers Jason’s stubborn silence, thinks back to how Jason watched him during Oracle’s interruption. He falls asleep turning the nagging suspicion over in his mind, and dreams of a mysterious voice telling him he should keep a clear head while Joker laughs and laughs and laughs.

***

There's nothing to connect the men they captured in Crime Alley to Cobblepot, and if there is, Cobblepot’s lawyers handle it with their usual white-gloved efficacy. Bruce expected nothing less.

He still stakes out outside the Iceberg Lounge for the whole night after the arrests, making sure Oswald sees him up on the roofs.

It’s warning enough.

***

Bruce keeps his word and starts arranging Joker’s very first venture outdoors a few days later, after a brief consultation with Dr. Mulligan, which boils down to him asking, “Is he ready” and her replying, “Yes.”

Nothing after that is quite this easy.

First of all, they need more guards. Jim isn’t at all thrilled and grumbles more than his usual fill, but he does eventually agree to station police officers over the Manor grounds along the route he and Bruce map out together. Bruce tries to convince him to reduce the amount of officers, but Jim refuses to budge, and eventually, Bruce surrenders. The memory of the funfair is still much too raw on both their minds.

The when isn’t as clear-cut either. They need a date that won’t coincide with any events that will require police presence or it will leave Jim short-handed, and there’s also the question of the weather. Sunny days in Gotham are few and far between even in summer - unless the city happens to drown them in heatwaves - and the weather forecasts tend to be wrong more often than not. In this respect, Gotham's almost as capricious as Joker himself, and the question of his mood on the day they choose gives Bruce a headache.

Then there’s the how. At first, Bruce wondered if maybe there could be a way to let Joker walk on his own, but both Jim and Dr. Mulligan shoot that idea down without a blink.

“He's nowhere near the point where he can be trusted not to run away,” Dr. Mulligan insists. “Even heavily restrained, he can still be a danger to himself and to others.”

“No way am I letting him have free roam of anything,” Jim agrees.

They discuss other options. Jim pushes for the upward gurney, but eventually, they settle on the wheelchair plus straitjacket combo, with Joker’s legs being shackled to the chair so he cannot kick or get out of it. That seems to satisfy both parties, and even Alfred appears to be comforted by the decision when Bruce relays it to him, observing,

“Good thing you weren’t planning a picnic, sir. Should the local paparazzi fight their way to the grounds somehow, the pictures of you feeding the clown would cause quite the stir.”

“You’re not helping, Alfred,” Bruce sighs, even as his mind starts buzzing with all the security updates he’s going to need to see to before the big day. The grounds are already pretty much intruder-proof, especially when it comes to the press, but Alfred's right — they can't possibly allow anyone not authorized to be there to spy even a strand of green hair.

Good grief.

All in all, Bruce is almost relieved when urgent Justice League business pulls him away from the whole logistic nightmare. Fighting off mindless extra-dimensional space monsters gives him some much-needed catharsis, and when he punches and punches and punches it feels like he’s punching out some of the helpless frustration with Oracle, with Joker, and with himself.

“Looks like you needed that, huh,” Clark notices when they’re standing in a steaming pile of space monster carcass.

Bruce breathes out through his nose. The air stinks so bad his stomach rolls in protest, the goo's going to be a nightmare to wash off and he’s going to need three thorough baths before he feels clean again, not to mention the throbbing ache in every single muscle which means that even with his training, he’s going to be waking up sore and stiff for at least a week.

“Yes,” he says.

Monsters aren’t complicated. He’s almost forgotten how good it feels to punch something uncomplicated, to face a problem that has a clear, simple solution. His head feels light with pure physical fatigue and satisfaction after a job well done, and Bruce basks in it before it can be pushed away by all the trouble he’s managed to leave behind.

Clark lets him enjoy the feeling in silence.

Until he ruins it all by saying, “We’re worried about you.”

Bruce sighs. “Who’s we?”

“Well, me, mostly.” Clark looks sheepish. “And Diana. And Hal, though he’ll deny it if you say anything.”

“I don’t want any lectures.”

“And I’m not going to give you one. Just tell me this one thing, Bruce: are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

No, is what Bruce doesn’t say. It crowds on his tongue anyway, but Bruce knows it’s just a temporary lapse in resolve, brought on by… well, everything. It’ll pass. The confusion, the… discomfort that Joker seems to evoke in him more and more these days… It’ll all pass.

And then he thinks about the feeling of wet hair in his hands, and feet kneading against his thigh. He remembers the moan muffled by bathroom door.

He closes his eyes.

Dammit.

“Look, Gotham is my turf,” he says firmly. “I’m doing things my way. So far, it seems to be working.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“Okay. Just, maybe let me know when you decide to adopt any more supervillains?”

“What, you want to call dibs?”

Clark snorts, and lets it go.

They stand in silence again, but though Bruce tries to summon back the post-battle glow, it’s no use — the lightness is gone. Instead, his head is full of green hair and sharp red smile again, and his stomach goes tight, and the headache starts to throb in warning just under his skin.

There’s still so much to do…

“You can trust Oracle,” Clark says suddenly.

Bruce glares at him. “What?”

“She’s contacted some of us. She seems to be building some kind of… network, I suppose. For the crimefighters. A database and emergency hotline and… stuff.”

Bruce thinks about this. “She,” he echoes.

Clark smiles, and Bruce knows the use of the pronoun wasn’t accidental. “She,” he confirms.

“So you know who she is.”

“I know she has good intentions.”

“And that’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“Afraid so. Sorry, but if she doesn’t want to reveal herself to you, it’s not my business to interfere.” Clark shrugs, an apologetic smile lingering on his mouth, and Bruce turns away, accepting his explanation. Frustrating as it may be, he understands and respects the importance of keeping other people’s secrets. He would have done the same.

Still, the fact that Clark would vouch for this person…

It helps. Not by much, but it does. Some of the frustration connected with Oracle’s sudden appearance in his life eases, his thoughts clear, and though he isn’t going to trust her anytime soon, he realizes he can give himself some time to crack this particular case.

Especially since, he thinks, he finally has a lead.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment, and Clark replies with a grin and a fond pat to Bruce’s shoulder.

“No problem. Just, remember you’re not alone, okay? I know you and the Joker have a… special sort of relationship, but if you ever need help, just —”

“You worry about Luthor,” Bruce tells him, gently shrugging off Clark’s hand. “Let me worry about Joker.”

Clark doesn’t try to bring the topic up again, and Bruce is grateful.

He has more than enough on his plate as it is.

***

When they finally come for Joker on what Bruce has started to refer to as Day Zero, for a moment, it looks like all their plans are going to have to be scrapped. Even though Joker's been warned and prepped thoroughly about what the day will entail, he still studies the small invading army of police officers trooping into his living space with no small degree of hostility, and actually retreats into the far corner of the parlor, fingers twitching furiously. Bruce, wearing his Wayne persona like the expensive suit and million-dollar smile that come with it, has to force himself to stay still and not come up to him to comfort him in front of all these people; and makes himself watch silently as forward steps Dr. Mulligan, smiling her distant, professional smile.

“We don’t have to do this today,” she assures Joker. “If you want us to go, you only need to say so.”

Joker holds her gaze with an expression he’s keeping uncharacteristically blank, which, in Bruce’s experience, means that something's very, very wrong. Then, he shoots a suspicious look out the window, where the weather, thank god, remains mercifully clear, with just a few gray-tinged clouds ambling across the bright blue sky.

Then, his eyes find Bruce, and stay there. After a heartbeat, some of the light seems to trickle back into his gaze. His face relaxes.

“Let me get dressed,” he says. A grin tries to fight its way onto his face, and though it looks both skittish and just on the wrong side of cold, Bruce can feel some of the tightness in his own chest give.

Joker disappears into his bedroom. No one speaks, but the collective relief in the parlor is still palpable, and it feels like everyone released their breaths all at once. Bruce shares in the feeling. The thought of having to organize the entire thing from scratch at some other date is not a pleasant one, and for a moment, it looked like a very real possibility.

But now at least one variable has been neutralized, and Bruce steels himself for…

… well, for everything else that can still go wrong.

“You really don’t have to be here, Mr. Wayne,” Dr. Mulligan tells him quietly, coming to stand at his side. “We can handle this.”

“He asked for me,” Bruce reminds her. And it’s true — Joker was very emphatic about how much he wanted “Brucie dearest” to accompany him on his very first ‘stroll’. There was much foot-stomping and hand-waving, and even the threat of another hunger strike. Which made things so much easier for Bruce, who was going to be there one way or another, watching from the trees as Batman if he had to.

Dr. Mulligan sighs. “Indeed. I just hope you didn’t take that as a compliment.”

Bruce shrugs at her and smiles, and she rolls her eyes. She exchanges looks with Lakeisha. Men, they both seem to be saying, or, quite possibly, Rich white men. Bruce had no idea the two of them had any sort of rapport, but now he feels ganged up on, and wonders if he should worry.

Joker keeps them waiting for what feels like an hour before he finally emerges in the full glory of his nicest suit, painstaking make-up and white satin spats over gleaming black shoes. He dances through the door, poses dramatically at the threshold, and blows Bruce a kiss.

“Now I’m ready to party,” he announces, and his voice sounds as strong and assured as ever now that he has his costume on and has had some time alone to work himself up into performance headspace.

“All right, pretty boy, let’s get you saddled up,” says Benjamin Carter, approaching Joker with the wheelchair. Next to him, Lakeisha steps forward with the straitjacket, and though her face stays clear and determined her body is tense, poised for a fight. The pair of them are covered by Gordon’s police who have their guns trained on Joker. He regards each of them with a delighted grin, gaze sliding from one face to another as though he’s trying to commit them all to memory as he dramatically thrusts his arms to the sides.

His audience. His spectacle. The officers have been trained for this, and they're trying to not let Joker phase them, but unease thickens in the air anyway, charging with each passing second. Joker’s gaze touches each of them like a lewd promise and a threat all at once, truly predatory like Bruce hasn’t seen him in months, and he senses the effect he has on the people in the room — Bruce can see it in the way his eyes light up, in the way his lips stretch upward.

He basks in the attention and the fear like a cat in a pool of sunlight. Bruce’s hands itch, and he chants in his head to make himself keep still.

Joker knows the consequences. He won’t fuck this up for himself if he knows what’s good for him. This is all just — spectacle, a warm-up act, indulging old habits. It won’t go any further than this.

Not if Bruce has anything to say about it.

“Mind that you don’t get too frisky, ma’am,” Joker tells Lakeisha when she gets close enough, winking at her, licking over his bottom lip. “My boyfriend’s watching.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she tells him in a voice dripping ice. “Hold still.”

“I thought you said the Bat was your boyfriend,” Carter grunts as he helps his partner manhandle Joker’s spindly arms into the jacket.

“I've got plenty of love to go around,” Joker explains happily. “Want some, big guy?”

He jerks forward with his tongue sticking out, like he wants to lick Carter’s temple. Every gun in the room clicks in warning as Carter pulls a disgusted face and shoves him away, and Joker laughs so hard tears bead in his eyes.

“Now, Joker,” Dr. Mulligan snaps, putting her hands on her hips. “Do I need to remind you what we agreed on?”

Joker attempts to school his face into an expression of wounded innocence. The effect is somewhat spoiled by the bouts of giggles still hiccuping out of him. “Just a harmless little prank,” he coos imploringly. “I haven’t had a proper audience in ages, Doc!”

“One more stunt like that and we’re done,” she warns him, and in that moment, she resembles nothing so much as a kindergarten teacher, about to tap her foot at a naughty child who doesn’t want to eat his veggies. “Leave the guards alone. They’re working hard enough as it is.”

Joker turns to wink at Bruce again, then gives his doctor a meek nod, dropping his head in mock submission. Lakeisha repeats her command to hold still, and miraculously, Joker does, though not without a meaningful grin at Carter. He stands there patiently, and only fidgets a little as the two guards finally maneuver him into the straitjacket and onto the chair; and he giggles when they shackle his ankles.

“All bases covered, huh?” he throws over his shoulder at Carter. “All this attention! I’m blushing!”

“Don’t get used to it,” Carter snaps. He looks at Bruce. “You sure you want to do this, Mr. Wayne?”

“Yes,” Bruce says, looking at Joker. “Let me.”

He comes up to the wheelchair and stands behind it, and Dr. Mulligan joins him, taking up a position on Joker’s right flank.

“Ready?” she asks, addressing the question to her patient.

Joker takes a deep breath, and looks first at her, then at Bruce — craning his neck as he does — then back at his doctor, and finally at Bruce again.

“Remember what we talked about,” Dr. Mulligan says softly.

Joker’s breath releases. His smile sets into place as though it never left.

“Come on, slowpokes, we’re burning daylight! Onwards!”

Bruce looks at Dr. Mulligan, who gives him a short nod. So do the guards. The police officers slowly lower their guns and clear the way for them, and Bruce starts to push an excited Joker out of the room and into the corridors beyond for the very first time.

Alfred's nowhere to be seen, though Bruce knows he’s watching. So is Jason. They’ll know what to do. Joker’s absence will give them an opportunity to do a sweep of the rooms and install Bruce's surprise, and with a little bit of luck, Joker will like what they prepare for him.

They make an odd little procession as they make their way down the third floor corridor and reach the ramp leading down to the gardens: Bruce pushing Joker’s chair at the front and Dr. Mulligan strolling beside them, with a cordon of watchful police closing the ranks in neat rows at a certain distance. Bruce knows by heart the spots for the officers stationed all around the grounds in case their prisoner does try to somehow make a run for it, and he hopes Joker won’t be able to spot them. Bruce would never hear the end of it.

He has to be careful as they progress down the ramp. The decline is gentle, but the heavy wheelchair tries to respond to the pull of gravity anyway, and Joker's beginning to squirm so hard he makes the wheels rattle. Mercifully, they manage to reach the bottom of the ramp with no accidents, and then Bruce pauses, squinting in the sudden onslaught of sunlight.

It’s a warm morning, and getting warmer still. The air tastes sweet with lilac and mowed grass, and there’s just a hint of rain too, from yesterday’s downpour that's teased out stark, bright colors in the oasis of the gardens. The birds sing in their nests up on the roofs and in the branches on the edge of the woods, chipper little melodies that bleed into a soothing harmony. Dappled stains of shadow glide over the neat lawns as lazy wind gusts shepherd the clouds across the sky. Joker sits directly in the way of the sun now, and Bruce looks down to see it catch in his hair as he jerks his head to the side.

“Anyone got sunglasses?” he pleads, trying to shake his hair into a curtain to block out the light, to meager effect.

“Sorry,” Bruce starts to say, but then Dr. Mulligan steps forward, unfolding a pair from her pocket as though she expected this.

"Here," she says, sliding the sunglasses up Joker's nose. “We’ll put the sun behind us in a moment.”

She nods at Bruce, and he pushes the chair. The gravel rustles under the wheels. Joker keeps fidgeting until Bruce steers him onto one of the winding garden paths, and as he does, the lilac explodes around them in a burst of smell and color, splashes of vivid purple and green in the bushes flanking them on both sides.

And Bruce hates himself for the way his heart begins to pound in anticipation, because this particular path was his idea. He thought these colors in particular might appeal to Joker, maybe ease him away from potential sensory overload with their familiarity. He slows down, notices that Joker’s squirming is beginning to subside, and waits with his heart rattling, suddenly altogether too tender-raw.

For a moment, Joker doesn’t say anything.

Then, he sneezes.

“Oops,” he says sheepishly, grinning up at Bruce and his doctor. “Sorry. Someone bless me before my soul leaks out through my ears?”

“I don’t think that’s quite how it works,” Dr. Mulligan says coolly.

If Bruce could, he would have slapped his forehead. “Please don’t tell me you’re allergic.”

“He’s not,” Dr. Mulligan cuts in as Joker opens his mouth. “He’s just trying to mess with you.”

“Aww, Doc,” Joker pouts. “So determined to ruin my fun.”

“Let’s just move on, shall we?” Bruce offers, feeling all at once tired, silly and — it has to be said — somewhat disappointed.

“Not quite yet,” Joker protests. “Brucie dearest, do you think you could get one of them pretty flowers for me? It’s my color.”

Bruce breathes out and makes himself smile down at Joker, thinking, That little shit.

But of course he can’t call Joker out on the mind games. Not as clueless, good-natured I Just Want To Help Wayne. And not without admitting that he’d been eager for a positive reaction from Joker in the first place.

So he forces a laugh, and turns to Dr. Mulligan, asking, “If you’re really not allergic, I guess I see no harm in that?”

She nods, so Bruce steps away from the chair for a moment to pick a plume of the fragrant purple flowers, one which isn’t currently surrounded by buzzing wasps and bees. He snaps gently at the base of the twig and comes up to stand in front of Joker’s chair.

“Where do you want it?” he asks.

“In my hair,” Joker decides at once. He bats his eyelashes at Bruce. “That way we’ll keep the color scheme intact, geddit? It’ll look like the lilac is growing out of my head! Now isn't that funny?” He giggles.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “It’s going to bother you in a minute or two,” he warns. “And it’s not exactly the kind of flower to —”

Joker only grins. “Then I’ll ask you to fix it somewhere else,” he reasons. “I’m sure you’ll find a way, clever boy.”

Bruce sighs. “Fine.”

He gently collects the hair behind Joker’s left ear. As his fingers brush against the soft shell and the skin behind it, he has to suppress a shiver, remembering the last time he touched Joker this intimately. Joker makes it even worse by closing his eyes and exhaling, deeply, like he’s thinking about the exact same thing.

Behind them, Lakeisha taps her foot warningly on the gravel, raising one of the Arkham-issue charged cattle prods. Bruce shoots her a grin he hopes looks placating, and makes it as quick as he can, managing to arrange Joker’s hair so that the plume of lilac stands up in it. It’s not going to hold if the chair hits a bump or if Joker fidgets too hard, but for now, it’ll have to do.

Bruce steps away, ignoring the tingle in his fingers. He gets behind the chair again. “Ready?”

“I was born ready, bay-bay!”

And so Bruce starts pushing the chair along the path, into the cloud of overwhelming smell and insect buzz. The police keep their distance behind them, as per prior agreement. It’s not exactly privacy, especially with Dr. Mulligan keeping to Joker’s right, but at least Joker can’t see the officers trailing after them. And that seems to make him… chatty.

Once they leave the corridor of lilac and venture into the gardens proper, he starts to ask about the other flowers. He wants to know all the names, and then makes up stories about them, ludicrous, often violent stories, and he watches his companions closely to gauge their reactions. Dr. Mulligan stays quiet and mostly distances herself from the conversation, so the responsibility to keep Joker distracted falls on Bruce, a task which, he realizes, he doesn’t really mind.

“Peonies,” he explains patiently. “It’s not their time yet, but in a few weeks, they’re going to be in full bloom and then they’re going to look beautiful. There are around 30 confirmed species, though the scientists still argue about several. They’re native to Europe, Asia and Western North America. They were especially cultivated in China, where people used them for flavoring. And this, here, is the Peruvian lily, Alfred loves it because of the color. The asters look delicate but they’re actually very sturdy, and can grow on almost any type of soil, and…”

He keeps talking. Soon, Joker doesn’t interrupt him at all, and only opens his mouth to prompt him for more, so Bruce lets himself get carried away by the knowledge he didn’t realize he still had. It’s good to find out that he still remembers everything he learned all those years ago, when he was still a child crying in the dark and needing something to help him stop thinking. Back when he decided to learn and memorize all the names for the flowers Alfred tended to, so he could help, so he could get busy. Back when he collected books about plants and birds in their region, so he could walk around the grounds with Alfred and point and categorize, This is the golden finch, this is the woodpecker, this is the mourning dove…

Back when the simple act of naming and assigning helped him believe that the world could still make sense. Back when those simple walks made him feel like he could still be close to someone. Back when the connection with Alfred, and with the garden his family had tended, was…

Everything.

The nostalgia creeps up on him before he can stop it, and lodges something lumpy, prickly, at the back of his throat. His eyes don’t burn, thank god, but it’s difficult to push that lumpy thing down, and even more difficult to stop expecting to hear his mother’s soft laughter as they turn towards the rosebushes which she used to look after personally.

Dammit. Bruce doesn’t need those memories today. He doesn’t need… all of that. What he does need is to keep his mind clear, focused, ready —

“Say, Brucie, how come you know so much about gardening?” Joker asks. He stretches to let his head hang upside-down over the edge of the chair so he can look up at Bruce with the grin of the Cheshire cat, upsetting the lilac plume, which falls to the ground.

Bruce picks it up and slides it into the collar of the straitjacket, trying to ignore Joker’s smile, which looks like he can read Bruce’s mind and has just found the perfect spot to tickle.

Which is absurd, Bruce knows. His hands still tighten on the handles of the chair.

“I learned,” he says. “I wanted to help Alfred take care of the place.”

Dr. Mulligan turns her sharp eyes to him. Bruce pretends he didn’t notice.

“That after your mommy and daddy got gunned down?” Joker wants to know.

Bruce sighs. The tight lump seems to grow. “Yes,” he admits, “well done.”

“Did it help?” Dr. Mulligan asks softly as Joker giggles.

Bruce glances at her and tries on a tight smile, which he imagines she sees right through. “Sometimes,” he says. “Not much that can help, really. But it kept me busy. Gave me something to do.”

“A distraction?” Dr. Mulligan guesses.

Bruce lets his gaze drop down, to the path in front of them. “I guess,” he whispers. “But then…”

“It made you feel guilty for seeking out distractions in the first place?”

The smile hurts when Bruce’s face settles into it. Now his eyes are starting to burn, and he tries to shake his head clear of the ache, sighing. “Yeah,” he agrees in a voice that sounds entirely too small. “Something like that.”

The doctor looks like she wants to say something else, maybe ask more questions. Please, no, Bruce thinks, I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it. And especially not with Joker listening.

Joker chooses this moment to cheerfully tell them, “I’m pretty sure I killed my parents.”

“Really.” Dr. Mulligan’s voice is icy. “Last month, you told me you didn’t know them and that you grew up in an orphanage.”

“Well, I might have!” Joker insists. “I mean, if I killed them, of course I’d end up there, that’s just common sense.”

“And last week, you tried to convince me you grew up on a farm and ran away from home when your parents tried to set you up with a neighborhood girl. You told me the girl’s name was Nisha.”

Joker chuckles, legs twitching. The chain between the shackles jingles. “That was a good one, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Dr. Mulligan adjusts her glasses, “it wasn’t then, and it isn’t now.”

“Aw, come on, Doc! You gotta admit that — squirrel!”

They both look to where Joker tries to point with his chin, and see nothing. The grass is clear of any scurrying creatures, fuzzy-tailed or otherwise. Joker checks up on their confused faces, and bursts out laughing, so loud that the police officers get noticeably agitated and Bruce even spies some of them reaching for their guns.

“All right, smart guy, you got us,” Bruce sighs, pushing the wheelchair onward and nodding over his shoulder to show the guards that all is well.

“That felt good,” Joker boasts, stretching as much as the straitjacket allows him. “But where are the real squirrels? I want to see some squirrels.”

“Maybe we’ll spot some when we get closer to the edge of the woods,” Bruce promises. “They tend to stay away from the gardens most of the time.”

Joker seems to accept this explanation, and hijacks the conversation again to draw their attention to a pair of mourning doves - existing ones this time - that calmly peck the ground in the shadow of the small stone fountain not too far from where they are. The birds seem to put Joker in a romantic mood, and he starts singing under his breath, voice rising over the quiet hum of the gravel and the whisper of the fountain.

“Stop for a bit, Brucie,” he asks after a moment. “Let’s watch them for a while.”

Bruce nods. He pushes the chair a little closer to the nearest iron bench, and he and Dr. Mulligan both sit in a warm puddle of sunlight. They watch the birds as they hop around the garden in their patient quest for food, and listen to Joker humming.

“Stars shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you…”

And, for a while at least, things are almost… peaceful. If one can forget about the police, and somehow overlook the straitjacket and the shackles.

Which Bruce can’t. Nor does he want to, he reminds himself sternly.

But the day really is warm, and the smell of late Spring and fresh flowers glides enticingly in the air, and the fountain hums a tranquil beat to Joker’s song.

Bruce lets his eyes fall closed, suddenly tired under the weight of his own eyelids. They feel hot. He rubs them, and lets himself breathe in deeply, the flowery scent caressing his nose.

I should come here more often.

Joker keeps singing. His chain jingles as he taps his foot to the rhythm. They don’t move from the bench for quite a while.

But then the mourning doves decide to take flight, shooting off towards Gotham, and Joker absolutely insists that he needs to see at least one squirrel before going back. And so, like it or not, Bruce wheels him off the path and onto the grass closer to the woods. He lets Joker strain his eyes as he glances at the watch.

They should be getting back soon.

But Joker, as if sensing his thoughts, demands to be wheeled further along the edge of the woods, and then back, and then back again. The squirrels, he insists, think of the squirrels, Brucie! Bruce looks at Dr. Mulligan and she nods, clearly thinking along the same lines.

Joker is stalling.

“We really do need to be getting back now,” Dr. Mulligan tells Joker when he demands to go back to the garden to see if he can get a butterfly to sit on his nose.

“Five more minutes,” Joker pleads. “If I can’t see a squirrel, at least let me watch the butterflies.”

“We can do that another time,” Bruce offers. “We could bring some food for the squirrels, too.”

“And the ducks in the pond?” Joker asks hopefully.

“Yes,” Bruce agrees, “and the ducks.”

“And the other birds?”

“Sure. But now —”

“I don’t want to go back yet,” Joker insists, shooting a resentful look at the Manor looming behind them.

“It’s not really up for negotiation, I’m afraid,” Bruce explains, trying to sound regretful. “The guards have other duties they need to attend to, you know.”

“Let them. I don’t want them here anyway.”

“Joker —”

“Fifteen more minutes,” Dr. Mulligan interrupts. “I think we can allow this much, don’t you, Mr. Wayne?”

“I —” Bruce looks at her, surprised. Then he looks at Joker. “Well, if you think it’s all right, Doctor…”

Joker shoots Bruce a smile of such profound gratitude, fondness and affection that Bruce has to look away, up at the graying sky. The clouds have thickened in the meantime, blotting out the sun almost entirely, and the wind's picked up too, chillier than before.

Joker doesn’t seem to notice. He picks another song to hum as Bruce wheels him back toward the garden, and he decides he wants to stop by the fountain again, this time pointing to the beds of forget-me-nots which line the stone edge in a graceful little circle of blue.

“Can I have some for my room?” he asks. He looks straight at Bruce. “They remind me of your eyes.”

“You’re a menace,” Bruce tells him, and he can’t quite conceal the note of fondness that creeps into his voice. “You know you can’t have anything to put them in. They’ll wither.”

“I can put them in one of the books to dry.”

“Well…” Bruce looks to Dr. Mulligan, who lets out a sigh and shrugs as if to say, It’s your funeral. He looks back to Joker. “Okay,” he says.

He picks up a few blossoms, and affixes them next to the plume of lilac by Joker’s neck. He got too close, though — and Joker thanks him by stealing a kiss to his cheek before Bruce can pull away.

“Thank you, gorgeous,” he whispers, and giggles like a giddy schoolgirl.

Bruce touches his cheek. He can’t see, but he’s pretty sure there’s a smear of color there, the same bright red as Joker’s lips.

He forces himself to laugh, because that’s what Wayne would do. He shakes his head at Joker and murmurs “You fiend,” good-natured, indulgent, unphased.

Inside, though, he’s anything but, and the spot Joker kissed seems to burn, and it doesn’t matter that it was hardly a peck, no more than a graze of the lips — Bruce knows he’s going to feel it on his skin for the rest of the day.

And then things get even worse.

“All right, that’s enough,” Carter commands, forcing his way to the front with Lakeisha. He grabs the handles of Joker’s wheelchair. “We’re taking you back inside, funny boy.”

“Brucie and Doc said fifteen minutes,” Joker protests, but Carter only glowers down at him and starts to push the chair away from the fountain.

“Mr. Carter, wait,” Bruce tries, noting the unsettling gleam in Joker’s eyes. “It was nothing, just a little joke, I didn’t —”

“I’ve seen this one bite a man’s ear off, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce pauses and looks at Joker, who shrugs as if to say, Well, what’s a little ear-biting between friends? He touches his cheek again, feeling vaguely sick, and wants to kick himself.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Still, he did promise, so he opens his mouth to argue, especially since he really, really doesn’t like the brightness in Joker’s eyes.

He’s too late. Joker decides to take things into his own hands, and ruins everything when he twists to look Carter in the eye.

“Benjy Carter, you old dog, how ya been?” he chirps happily. “I knew I recognized your broken schnoz! How’s the wife? How’s the kids? They still live in that dingy old place on the corner of Fisher?”

“One more word about my family, clown —”

Joker twists his entire body to reach behind him, and snaps his teeth around Carter’s right hand.

At that point, without the cape and cowl, Bruce can’t do anything but watch as the chaos unfolds: the police jumping to pry Joker off, blood trickling down Carter’s hand as he punches Joker in the face, Joker laughing, his teeth bloodied, even when Lakeisha shocks him in the legs with two charged cattle prods. It isn’t long before he slumps in the chair like a loose rag, the last of the sparks still jumping around his body, bruise purpling around his left eye, blood dripping down his mouth.

“Field trip over,” Lakeisha growls, panting, coming up to take over the handles of the wheelchair. She gathers the hair from her face and tucks it behind her ear. “Anyone got a problem with that?”

“No,” Bruce manages, looking at Joker. He’s still twitching in the chair and laughing softly. The flowers in his collar crumble, completely fried.

“It’s almost time for his meds, anyway,” Dr. Mulligan judges. She comes up to Joker, cool, collected, frowning. “We’ll talk about your behavior during our next session, young man, make no mistake,” she warns.

Joker ignores her. When he lifts his head by an inch or so, it's to seek out Bruce. He’s breathing heavily, but still smirking, and manages to look predatory, smug and strangely hollow all at once.

“Now that…” he pants, “was a bite. Benjy… should be smart enough… to know the difference.”

He licks the blood off his lips. Lakeisha’s face turns into a grimace of fury, and she pushes the wheelchair with a jerk that nearly has Joker toppling out of it. He reacts by struggling to turn to her and attempting to talk about her wife — how the hell he knows anything about Lakeisha or the others, Bruce is going to have to find out — but she cuts him off by banging one of the deactivated cattle prods against the frame of the chair.

“I’m gonna tranquilize you, you son of a bitch,” she growls. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Mulligan says. “Will it, Joker?”

“Oh, I think I’ve had my fun.” Joker’s voice is quiet, hoarse. “It’s enough for now that Mrs. Jones knows I know where she lives.”

Lakeisha swears. Dr. Mulligan starts reprimanding her patient, and he laughs again, still quiet but somehow all the more terrifying for it.

Bruce steps forward. “Should I come with you?” he asks, and god, it’s a struggle to keep his voice Wayne and not Batman.

“I think it’s best if you stay here, Mr. Wayne,” Dr. Mulligan tells him in a voice that makes it clear this is not a suggestion. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

And so Bruce stands in his spot, watching them go, watching the police cordon closing ranks behind them, and slumps down onto the bench. He hides his face in his hands for a moment, and rubs his temples, listening to the silvery trickle of the fountain.

…Christ, what a disaster. And the day had been going so well, too. They could have made it without any of that, if not for the damned forget-me-nots…

If not for Bruce forgetting himself, and getting too close.

He looks up at the fountain, watching the water rise and fall.

Then, he gets to work, and analyzes the day piece by piece to figure out what went wrong.

Alfred finds him some time later still going at it, still sitting on the bench and examining different what-ifs in his head until he wears them thin. He clears his throat quietly and asks, “May I…?”

Bruce nods. His mind feels like a squeezed sponge by now. “How did it go?” he asks.

“Well. The good news is that our guest didn’t attack anyone else, though I have to say he very much looked like he wanted to.”

Bruce sighs. His heart aches. “And the bad news?”

“He… got agitated again. Started calling for Batman, that he needed to talk to him. It got bad enough that Dr. Mulligan gave the guards the clearance to sedate him. They're feeding him his medicine through the IV drip as we speak, and I understand that it’s a stronger dose.”

“Damn it.” Bruce closes his eyes again and presses his hands tight against them. “I should be there.”

“The doctor and the police are handling it, Master Bruce,” Alfred counters softly. “Your presence isn't needed. And Joker wouldn’t be conscious to appreciate it, anyway.”

“But you said he called for me.”

“Not for you, sir. Not as you are now. He called for Batman. And I’m sure Batman will come see him as soon as he can. Now, though, you wouldn’t be helping anybody.”

“I just —” Bruce breathes deep, and the air trembles on its way out. He presses his hands tighter against his face. Breathes in, and out again. “I thought he was making progress,” he whispers.

Alfred is silent for a moment. Then, he puts his hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“I’m afraid it’s never that simple, sir,” he reminds him softly. “You know that. Progress is never just a straight line pointing forward. You knew there would be better and worse days when you took him in. And today, you took a big risk, taking him out of his comfort zone, surrounding him with strangers after near solitary confinement, giving him attention he hadn’t had in a long time… I don’t pretend to be an expert on matters of the brain, sir, but it’s little wonder that he didn’t manage to stay on his best behavior.”

“I know. I know. Still, I —”

“You couldn’t have predicted that he’d bite someone’s hand, sir.”

“I should have. I know him, Alfred, and yet…”

He swallows the rest of that sentence, and it tastes of salt going down.

Alfred gives him the time to pull himself together. His hand never leaves Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce is quietly grateful. They sit there in silence, the fountain humming its steady song.

Then Alfred says, “On the bright side, sir, they had to sedate him before he got to see his latest toy. Now you get to be the one to present it to him, and I have to say, I'm very much looking forward to the demonstration.”

For a moment, Bruce is confused. And then he remembers: the squeeze machine. The one he’d ordered to be installed in Joker’s gym while the clown was out in the gardens.

Well, shit.

He imagines himself as Batman, climbing between the heavy rolling pins, telling Joker how to use them, and the mental image is so ridiculous that he barks out a laugh before he can stop it in his mouth.

And that’s when he hears more footsteps on the gravel, and a cheerful voice saying, “Yeah, I’m kinda looking forward to that one, too.”

Bruce raises his head. Dick's marching along the gravel towards them, a blinding grin plastered firmly on his face and a determined air to his step. He nods at Bruce.

“Hiya, old man. Quite a show you two put on. Been watching from the trees.”

The back of Bruce’s throat is getting clogged again, but he finds it impossible not to smile in return. “Hello, Dick. Will you…” Bruce hesitates, but Alfred’s hand is squeezing lightly on his shoulder, and he swallows against the doubt. “Will you stay for dinner?”

Dick regards him with his head cocked, then sighs. “Yeah, sure,” he allows with a smile. “I’ll stay for dinner. We’ve got some catching up to do, anyway.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Alfred declares, getting off the bench. “Someone has to make sure you all get fed.”

“Need help?” Dick offers, but Alfred shakes his head no.

“You two enjoy the weather,” he says. “Let me cook in peace.”

Then, he shoots Bruce a look that says You’d better not mess this up or else, and removes himself from the gardens, back straight, hands clasped behind him like a king strolling around his property.

Which, in a sense, he is.

Dick watches him go for a while, then turns to Bruce.

“A walk?” he suggests.

Bruce nods, feeling somewhat lighter. He gets off the bench. “A walk.”

***

Dick goes easy on him at first. They stroll along the gravel paths, and Bruce listens as his boy tells him about Bludhaven, the Titans, his plans to join the police force, the criminals he has come up against. He spends a significant amount of time regaling Bruce with tales about the joys of apartment-hunting — “Don’t ever do it, Bruce, it’s a nightmare” — and about the many encounters he’s had with his elderly neighbor lady, who apparently got it into her head that Dick isn’t eating enough and took the task of feeding him upon herself.

Bruce is grateful. He takes that time to let Dick’s voice balance him, and collects his own thoughts so that when the shoe finally drops, he’s ready for it.

“So,” Dick says, plopping down onto the grass beside the edge of the pond. “Sorry, but I’m afraid I ran out of small talk.”

“That’s all right.” Bruce joins him on the grass, and only spares a single thought towards his pants. He can always get more if Alfred can’t get the stains out. “You can tell me why you’re really here.”

Dick chuckles. “What, can’t I just come over for a family visit with no hidden agenda?”

“Did you?”

“Well, no. But I could!” Dick reads his face, then sighs, and lays down on the grass completely. “No, you’re right. We’re not there yet. But I like to think I made an effort.”

Bruce opens his mouth, then swallows, and admits quietly, “I do appreciate it.”

“Ha.” Dick closes his eyes against the sun. “If only.”

“I do,” Bruce insists.

Dick is silent for a moment. “It’s nice to hear, anyway,” he admits at length, glancing up at Bruce with a smirk. “So. The clown.”

Bruce sighs. “The clown.”

“Jason called. He told me you went off the deep end, that you bullied everyone to allow you two to have some quality time all on your own.”

“I didn’t bully anyone, I just —”

“You were very, very persuasive. Yeah, I know how it goes. Probably better than most,” he adds under his breath. “So what’s the point of all that? Because I know you well enough to know that there’s always a point. I just can’t see it this time, and I don’t really blame Jason for missing it too. What’s the deal? You beat him up?”

“What?” Bruce snaps, bristling. “No.”

Dick smiles, like Bruce has just scored some points in a competition he didn’t know he entered. He seems to relax a bit. “I thought so, but it’s nice to have that confirmed. What, then? Why else would you want the guards out of it?”

Bruce hugs his knees. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

And so, like it or not, Bruce does, explaining quietly about Joker’s hypersensitivity and how he seems to calm down when he’s being touched, and about the research, and Dr. Mulligan’s opinions. He mentions Dr. Quinzel and her proposal. He talks about autism and the squeeze machine and how it could help. Hesitantly, he also mentions the panic attacks, and how he dealt with them, and how it’s impacted Joker. He lays it all out much like he did for Gordon, much like he tried to do for Alfred and Jason, and feels so exhausted by the end of it that he barely has the energy to worry about what Dick will say.

Which, at first, is nothing. Dick takes some time to think about it, instead of lashing out all at once.

That’s… something.

“So, like,” he starts, “you just, what, hold his hand for an hour? And you say it’s helping?”

“No, not exactly.”

“But it’s about physically touching him.”

“… In a way. When he needs it.”

“When he tells you he needs it?”

“Well, yes, but sometimes, he's in no shape to ask for it in so many words. The goal isn't to keep up the contact every time, but to be able to make that call when I think it’s necessary.”

“Was it necessary to wash his hair for him?”

“He asked for that specifically.”

“Yeah, okay. But it’s still you making that call even if he doesn’t.”

“He’s a mental patient, Dick,” Bruce reminds him, feeling himself bristling again. “He doesn’t always realize what’s best for him.”

“And now you sound like a controlling parent. Sorry, but you do. What’s best for him? Really?”

“That's why I had the squeeze machine installed for him,” Bruce snaps. “So he can decide whether he wants to relieve the tension with that, or…”

“With you?”

Bruce closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“Okay, fine. Choice is good. This is good. But you’re still gonna insist on those private meetings even if he goes with the machine?”

Bruce gives him a cold look. “I am,” he says. “It’s not that easy. From time to time, I might still need to interfere outside the parameters the guards can allow.”

Besides, he won’t go just for the machine is what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t think he needs to. Dick has come to know Joker pretty well himself, and must realize that the if in his scenario is the size of Wayne Tower.

“Well, I guess we’ll see,” Dick mutters after another spell of charged, heavy silence. “Though I’ll have you know I really, really don’t like it.”

“I suspected you wouldn’t.”

“And you won’t kick him out after he actually bit a dude’s hand?”

“Today was… different,” Bruce tries to explain. “Difficult for everyone, and especially for him. The meds… The stress. I can make some allowances if he promises never to do that again. Of course, Carter will be compensated.”

“You gonna consult with the doctor about that?”

“Yes.”

“All right. As long as you’re consulting someone, I guess, just… don’t get carried away.”

“I never do.”

“Sure, Bruce, whatever you say.” Dick pushes himself up, then gets to his feet. “Come on, I’m hungry.”

Bruce follows him up, and slowly, they start on the way back to the Manor in silence. Dick only speaks again when they’re at the door.

“Hey, Bruce?”

“What?”

“You have lipstick on your face.”

He laughs and leaps into the house, leaving Bruce standing there in the doorway and touching his cheek.

***

There’s still some time until dinner, Alfred informs them. Dick offers to help Alfred set the table, and Bruce descends into the cave in the meantime, taking the opportunity to watch the security footage.

He makes himself sit through the entire recording, though Joker’s screams are terrible enough to chill his blood. He really did call for Batman, or rather — Batsy, though there's nothing coy or flirty about the pure, unadulterated fear in his eyes, which seems to have seized him up out of nowhere. His trashing is terrifying, and so is the way he loses control entirely just before one of the police officers shoots his neck with the tranquilizer.

At least they didn’t resort to electroshocks this time, Bruce thinks, and aches. He kills the recording. It does nothing to stop the screams though — they still bounce off the walls of the cave until his ears overflow.

“Hey, Bruce?” Jason calls, taking a step or two into the cave. “We’re ready to eat. Alfred said to tell you your meat is getting cold, and if you don’t like that then you can reheat it yourself.”

Bruce sighs. “I’ll be right there.”

Jason disappears without a word. Bruce glances up at the screens one last time, at the feed which shows Joker in real time, lying comatose on top of the covers on his bed. There’s a good chance he won’t wake up until morning, which, all things considered, is probably for the best.

Bruce turns the feed off and stands up, and each step he takes makes him feel a hundred years old.

Chapter Text

Dawn finds Bruce in the cape and cowl, sitting on the edge of Joker’s bed.

“Sir, please,” Alfred insists through the speakers. “This is exceeding even your quota for ridiculous behavior. You need to rest.”

Bruce watches the darkness slowly drip off Joker’s face while, outside, the sun begins to poke first tentative holes in the murk of the night.

He says, “No. I need to be here when he wakes up.”

“What you need is six hours of sleep at the very least, and then a good warm breakfast.”

Bruce thinks about the cries recorded on the security tapes the day before. He stays right where he is.

“Sir.”

Bruce takes a deep breath.

“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Pennyworth, but it isn't needed. I know what I have to do,” he says formally, Batman elbowing his way into his voice despite the fact that he’s sent the guards home early and there's no one there to listen in on them.

“Okay, but, just so you know? We’re here,” Dick’s voice tells him. “We’ll be watching.” There's a pause and then, “Shit, no, I mean, just to make sure you’re okay and not, uh... I wasn't trying to make that sound like a threat. Though it kinda totally sounded like a threat. Dammit. Sorry, this whole business is making me nervous, and —”

“What Master Richard's trying to say,” Alfred interjects, “is that we have your back. Should anything happen, sir.”

“Yeah,” Dick agrees. “That’s right. That’s totally what I meant.”

“Fucking pathetic,” Jason comments from the sidelines, but still close enough to the mic that Bruce can hear him.

Bruce raises his head to the nearest camera and nods his acknowledgment. He's too worried to let that display of his family being — well, themselves — amuse him, but he appreciates it all the same, and slices carefully at the edges of this moment to preserve it and store it away to warm his heart later, when he’s ready to let it.

Then, he lets his gaze drop again. He watches as the strands of Joker’s hair, spilled as they are over the pillow in a mess of curls, grudgingly shed the vague gray the night gave them to replace it with richer and richer green.

And he thinks, Joker was right. It is eerily quiet in his rooms. The Manor itself is ancient, and as enthusiastic about conversing with its inhabitants as all old houses are, but the soundproofing here means that even the familiar groan of the woodwork, or the soft tap of footsteps, get absorbed into the walls. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. Like a hostage situation in which Joker is, for once, not the perp, and isn’t that ironic? As a result, all Bruce can hear now is the soft brush of air going in and out through Joker’s nose. He can’t help but focus on it, and count in his head, letting the sound grow and grow until it presses against the walls of the room like it’s trying to push Bruce out.

He still doesn’t move from the bed regardless, and waits in what now feels like an act of spite more than anything else. He lets his hand lie there on top of the covers six inches away from Joker’s and not an inch closer, even though his eyes are drawn to the gooseflesh breaking out on Joker's white, white skin.

Idly, he imagines his own cape draped over Joker’s body, and isn’t quite fast enough to shut the image down before it hooks into his brain. His stomach tingles. His fingers want to stretch, just a little, to breach the distance, to see what would happen.

Bruce keeps his hand rigidly in place, distracts himself by counting Joker’s breaths, and doesn’t notice when his own breath slows down to match them.

Joker first stirs when the sky spills into the deep periwinkle halfway point between purple and blue, not quite ready to commit, the sun still undecided whether it should shine on Gotham at all. It starts with a twitch of one eyelid, a muscle spasm near the mouth, the pinky finger jerking into a rapid curl-uncurl. Bruce watches Joker’s eyes twitch, pulling the skin around them taut as they struggle to open before they abandon the effort altogether. Joker shifts to push himself onto his side, releases a deep breath, hugs the pillow close to his face, and relaxes, all this with his eyes stubbornly closed.

It looks like he’s about to go back to sleep, and Bruce suddenly doesn’t know what to do. Does he call out, alert Joker to his presence? Or should he just — go, come back again later? Dr. Mulligan would probably say to leave Joker be, considering how little sleep he gets on the whole. That would be the sensible thing to do.

But then, before Bruce can make up his mind, Joker’s nostrils flare. His eyes still shut, he sniffs the air like a hound catching wind of a fox, or maybe the other way around.

He whispers, “Bats?”

Bruce holds his breath.

“Joker.”

“Huh?” Joker cracks one eye open, searching. It falls on Bruce and widens somewhat, bloodshot, struggling to focus. “Not a dream, then,” he croaks with effort, everything about him sticky with the kind of deep sleep only sedatives can bring. “Wuh, what are you doing here?”

Bruce’s stomach gives a sharp lurch. “You called for me.”

“I did?”

“Yesterday.” Bruce hesitates. “The garden. Don’t you remember? They took you back in, and you called for me, and then the guards —”

“Shh.” Joker closes the one eye again and presses his head into the pillow, hard. “Shhhhhh.”

Bruce isn’t sure if Joker's trying to hush him, or the buzz in his own head. But either way, he gives him time, making himself sit still. Joker’s hands come up to massage his head, questing, insistent, as if he could push the fingers through the skin of his scalp and use them to physically tease the memories out.

Bruce’s own fingers itch, and he curls them over the bedsheets.

Eventually, Joker asks, “Batsy?”

“Yes.”

“Do me a favor and go to the parlor.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you nicely.”

“I’m not sure you should —”

“Now. Please.”

Bruce takes a long look at him, then gets off the bed. He makes it to the doorway and lingers there, giving Joker a chance to call him back in, but the clown never does.

So Bruce leaves him there, curling in on himself and frantically pressing his face to the pillows. He stalks over to the sofa and sits down, settling in to wait, and as he does, he can’t quite rid himself of the keen sting of —

Disappointment.

Which is ridiculous. Bruce has absolutely no reason to feel disappointed at Joker’s reaction to seeing him. None at all, except…

Except that Joker had called for him. He'd wanted to see Batman so badly he’d worked himself into an episode. So then, why would he kick him out now? Why would he act like Bruce had done something wrong by heeding the call and coming to see him?

Bruce thinks back to the scene, and realizes that, okay, maybe hovering over him as Joker slept may not have been the optimal way to go about this. But then he remembers the kiss on the cheek from the day before, Joker asking that Bruce put the flowers in his hair. The — the shower. All the pet names, affectionate smiles and gestures, all the free, enthusiastic expressions of gratitude. Ever since Joker came to live here he’s always been more than ready to express his appreciation of both Wayne and Batman, with very little restraint. And it’s not that Bruce got so used to it that he’s come to expect it, but…

Liar, hisses the voice in Bruce’s head that activates sometimes when the rest of his mind is too busy rationalizing to keep it under lock and key. You totally expected it. You thought he’d swoon over how romantic and considerate you are, and now you’re grumpy that he didn’t.

Bruce can feel the rest of him rebelling. No, he insists, it’s not like that, even as the voice asks, Like what? and Bruce’s entire face heats up. He forces himself to articulate in his thoughts: Like I’ve grown so used to Joker showing me affection that I’ve come to rely on it. And the little voice seems to preen in smug satisfaction, because the moment Bruce let the thought crystallize into words, he lost.

It’s true. God help him, it’s true, and the disappointment still churning in his stomach is evidence enough. Same with the tingle on his cheek where Joker marked him with his lips the other day. He’s been letting his guard down. He’s let Joker’s affectations crawl under his skin somehow and settle there, to the point that he almost feels betrayed at their lack.

Dear God, he's a mess.

But no, he decides, pressing his hands against the cowl as though this could shut down the conflict twisting his mind raw. He’s just tired. He and Joker both. They’re just… tired, and maybe once Joker has had the chance to get himself back together, he’ll —

The door to the bedroom creaks open, and Joker steps into the parlor.

He’s changed from the good suit the guards left him in yesterday, standing there by the threshold now in his sweatpants and a loose tank top, his feet bare, his skin looking translucent where it intercepts the struggling sunlight. The shadows lick up his arms and settle in the crests of hard wiry muscle which, along with the way the clothes hang off him, only seem to bring out how skinny he is. Bruce knows for a fact that he could easily span Joker's entire waist with just one arm, and lift him off the ground with no effort at all…

Something hot and itchy stirs low in Bruce’s stomach. He doesn’t quite manage to stomp out the tingle as he studies Joker’s face, and catches on how yesterday’s lipstick has mostly rubbed off, except along the outer lines where some of the red still lingers; how the old eyeliner smudged around the corners of Joker’s eyes into dusty shadows, setting off the natural ones; how his mascara has chipped away into tiny grains that cling to Joker’s lashes. Dawn settles under his eyes, and sets off the haze of medication still muddying the normally vivid green.

Joker looks a fright. And yet, Bruce can’t help but feel that this unkempt, almost rugged creature before him… Well, that there’s something compelling about him, exactly as he is now. About Joker being this unstudied, this open, this — raw.

At the same time though, disappointment stings him all over again. If he hoped that Joker would be a bit more cordially predisposed after he’s had some time to put himself together, the tension around Joker’s downturned mouth shatters those hopes with one merciless blow. Joker appears more lucid, but that’s about all that can be said here, and facing him now, Bruce finds himself caught in a conflict he never expected or wanted to grapple with.

He only hopes he can keep it all in, and out of his face.

“They drug me?” Joker asks, his voice groggy, thick and hoarse.

“Yes.”

“How long was I out?”

“They sedated you at a little past two pm yesterday.”

Joker looks down to his own feet, processing the information. His face breaks into twitches and spasms as lines crack along his forehead, his tired eyes closing in concentration, and Bruce can practically trace the sluggish progress his thoughts make, laboring to churn against the chemical sludge in his brain.

“Did you watch me sleep the whole time?” Joker demands.

“No.” Bruce watches his face, considering. “Only for a little while,” he lies.

“Hah!” It’s a bark instead of a laugh, humorless, sharp. The smirk Joker cracks is much the same. “I suppose you expect me to gush over how sweet that is,” he minces. “My Dark Knight, so gallant, so caring, watching over his pale traumatized bride.”

“You’re not my bride,” Bruce protests, even as heat explodes in his cheeks again at just how close to home Joker’s words hit.

“Precisely, Dracula. So do me a favor, and next time this happens? Don’t. Don’t just sit there and fucking watch me sleep. This place is Big Brother enough as it is.”

“I only wanted to make sure you were okay,” Bruce snaps, grasping to relocate some of his dignity. “You called for me. I assumed you’d want me here when you woke up.”

“Then next time kindly assume that when the quacks put me under for the better part of the day, I might want some time to myself. To put the world to rights again without you breathing down my neck when I’m not ready to… entertain.”

Right. Right. Bruce nods tightly and says, “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

“How gracious. Now, why don’t we — what's this?”

Joker looks in bewilderment down at his own feet, which are now nestled in the soft, delicate tufts of deep hunter green that stick out like blades of grass from the new carpet. Bruce watches in silence as Joker tests it by skating his right foot over it, then his left, and finally crouches to repeat the test by pressing his open palms down against it. He lets out a thoughtful “hmm.” He looks up at Bruce.

“Your idea?”

Bruce nods, not daring to let himself hope again.

Joker’s eyebrows ride up almost all the way to his hairline. He cocks his head to the side, green curls raining all over his face.

“You sneak in any more surprises while I was away?”

Bruce regroups, steeling himself. He has a feeling he’s going to need all his faculties about him for this one. “As a matter of fact…”

Joker pushes himself back to his feet, clearly intrigued. Some of the focus sharpens in his eyes. Bruce rises from the couch and indicates the gym with his arm.

“After you.”

The look Joker shoots him as he shuffles past on his way to the gym is one of deep suspicion, not unlike the looks Alfred gives him when Bruce tells him he has a plan. Amused despite himself, Bruce doesn’t immediately follow, but rather gives Joker some time to take in what awaits him in the gym before he comes to join him there, not letting himself expect anything.

“What,” Joker demands quietly, “is that?”

Bruce steps around him and stands by the squeeze machine. He touches one of the vivid purple-and-green rolling pins. “This is for you,” he tells Joker.

“Obviously. What is it for?”

“Applying physical pressure. When you feel you need it, when you’re — agitated, or restless. Then you… You can lie here between the pins. You can adjust their height by turning these knobs here. Like this.” Bruce demonstrates, adjusting the upper pins to rise enough for a slim person to crawl underneath. “And then you can lower them as much as you need. Full body or just for specific areas, like your legs or chest. You choose.”

Joker’s eyes go wide, and this time, he manages to clear the fog of medication enough to pin Bruce in place with the storm of emotion crowding in his face. Bruce cannot tell if the emotion is good or bad, only that it’s strong, and he tenses where he stands, his world tunneling to the worried twitch in Joker’s fingers.

Then, Joker’s face changes again. And this time, Bruce no longer has any difficulty putting a name to what he finds there.

“How dare you,” Joker demands, his voice dropping barely above a whisper.

Bruce’s hands itch for the sharp edges of a batarang. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw Joker this angry. “I’m trying to help,” he reasons carefully. “We made a deal. Your doctor —”

Joker turns on his heel and stalks out of the gym. A moment later, Bruce hears a thud, and then another, and another, and another, bang, bang, bang.

Well, shit.

Bruce holds his breath and barrels after him into the parlor, expecting the worst. “Joker!”

And then the cry dies on his lips.

Joker stands by the windows, glistening with tension, facing the reluctant dawn. His fists fly at the glass time and time again. But it’s the sides of his fists that collide with the reinforced panes, not his knuckles, and though it still looks painful, he's in no danger of cutting himself open this way. The windows, unimpressed with the assault, take the force of his blows, absorb it, and throw it right back at him harmlessly in hollow bangs that shoot off into the room.

And this — this gives Bruce pause.

Because there is a purpose behind Joker’s strikes. They’re not erratic. They’re not the helpless flailing of a man losing control of his mind. Joker's clear-headed enough to hit in a way that won’t hurt him too much, and he's steady about it, almost methodical; and suddenly it reminds Bruce of nothing so much as his own training routines.

So he stands clear. He watches Joker, and waits.

“Those windows won’t break,” he says after a moment.

Joker pants, “I know.” Bang, bang, bang.

Bruce nods. “You’re not trying to break them.”

“No.” Bang, bang, bang, heavy breath stuttering out in huffs.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“If I don’t do that then I’m going to hit you, my love, and —” bang, bang, bang, “I’d rather not —” bang, bang, “since it seems that for now, I’m —” bang, bang, bang, “in the clear.”

“In the clear?”

Joker lets out a feral growl, delivers one last hit with enough force to rattle the pane, and then he staggers back, sweat beading on his temple. He stands there bent low and panting, face hidden in dirty hair.

“Since you brought me that monstrous contraption, I’m assuming you’re not kicking me out,” he rasps out eventually.

Ah. Bruce keeps his face clear, relaxing by a fraction. “No, I’m not,” he agrees.

“But I bit that guard.”

“Is that why you wanted to see me so badly? To make sure that I wouldn’t kick you out for it?”

“Well.” Joker giggles breathlessly. “You did say, and I quote, If you ever step out of line…”

“Not this time,” Bruce says. “Those were… unusual circumstances. But there will be consequences.”

“Such as?”

Bruce’s jaw sets.

“No music hour for a week. And… Neither I nor anyone else will visit you for three consecutive weeks.”

“Ha,” Joker breathes. “Ha! Ha… hahahahaha…”

He seizes up, his knees hitting the floor, his arms coming around his torso, the laugh jerking out of him in coarse spurts and building, and building, and building. Before it can peak in a proper crescendo, though, Joker’s abused voice breaks like a twig snapped in half under a boot.

“Fine,” he croaks after a moment. “Maybe we need a break, anyway. If you think… If you honestly think you can bring me something like that, and then expect me to appreciate it when you’re… you’re…”

“You’re distraught,” Bruce says coldly. “You’re in no shape to talk. Get some rest. I’ll be back in three weeks. Maybe you’ll feel better by then.”

“Hey Bats,” Joker calls before Bruce can reach the door.

He stops without turning around. “Yes?”

“I still got teeth.”

Bruce looks at him over his shoulder. “Yes, I noticed,” he deadpans. “So?”

“So, I want you to remember that. I still got teeth. The only reason I haven’t used them on you, or Brucie, is because I’m choosing not to, every. Single. Time. I chose to bit that guard. I chose to kiss Brucie. I still got teeth, baby. Don’t ever think that I don’t.”

Bruce looks into his eyes. Joker holds his gaze. His eyes look clear and bright for the first time since he woke up.

Then, Joker smiles, and Bruce turns away.

***

Lakeisha Jones is waiting for him by the door to Joker’s rooms, a piece of paper in hand and a determined expression on her face.

“I quit,” she says.

Bruce stops dead in his tracks, and she takes advantage of his surprise to shove the piece of paper at his chest. He catches it and skims the writing.

It’s a notice of termination.

He looks up at her and opens his mouth, but she cuts him right off, voice trembling.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she says. “He threatened my wife. I have to pick up my wages and sell our apartment, and move the hell out of this town before this maniac gets to either of us. And don’t you tell me he’s locked up! I’ve heard stories, Batman. I know he can have my entire family killed without lifting a finger.”

“This isn’t Arkham,” Bruce reminds her. “He can’t give anyone orders anymore.”

“Says you! I’m not going to stake my life and my future on that.” She takes a deep breath, pressing a hand to her chest. “Look, I’m not going to make this any more difficult for you, or for Wayne. I’m going to keep working until you find a replacement. Ben’s staying on, he’s a tough guy, he’s seen much worse at Arkham. But me…”

Bruce’s throat wants to close up. He forces out, “I understand.”

“I really don’t think you do, but then again, what does it matter? I already talked to Wayne’s butler. Just wanted to tell you in person.”

“Thank you, Mrs Jones.”

“And I know all about the non-disclosure agreements. Don’t worry, I won’t talk. I just want me and Layla to be safe.”

“You will be,” Bruce promises. “You have my word.”

Her eyes turn cold. “Thanks, Bats, but I think I’ve had enough of you for one lifetime. You’re half the reason I’d been wanting to quit for weeks now.”

“What?”

“It’s not right. Keeping us out of what you’re doing to him? It’s not right. I hate the Joker as much as anyone in Gotham, but you’re breaking all the rules you like without batting an eye, and the Commish is letting you, and honestly? I don’t want to be a part of any of that anymore. Makes me sick.”

And, just like that, Bruce feels tired. It settles over him like a puff of cigarette smoke someone’s blown in his face on the sidewalk. Suddenly, it’s an effort to keep his shoulders from hunching and his head from dropping to his chin, and his eyes burn, and his cape feels much too heavy. He’s tired. With Joker, with the responsibility, with the anger and the need to justify his every move, and he just.

He just wants to sleep for a day.

But he still nods at Lakeisha, and tells her, “I appreciate your service, Mrs Jones. I’m sure Wayne will see to it that you're properly compensated. I wish you luck.”

He slopes past her. She doesn’t try to stop him. Bruce makes his way to the master bedroom, feeling the struggle of every single step in his bones.

Alfred's waiting for him in the bedroom. He accepts the costume once Bruce sheds it, and as Bruce undresses, he tells him, “Remind me to get in touch with the company later today. I want to transfer Lakeisha’s wife to the Metropolis division, with full compliments. A nice apartment. Secured internship and employment once she finishes school. We’ll ensure a job for Lakeisha with the MPD, or anywhere else she chooses to apply.”

Alfred nods, his face inscrutable. “Very good, sir. Anything else?”

“Is Dick still around?”

“Yes, though he did say he wishes to pay Miss Gordon a visit in the afternoon.”

“Fine. Wake me up after three.”

“Of course.”

Alfred leaves him alone after that, with no further quips or jabs. As soon as the door falls shut behind him, Bruce drags himself over to the bed and collapses there in his underwear, not even bothering to crawl under the covers.

He closes his eyes…

… And opens them again half an hour later, his eyelids stingy with sand but his mind still much too loud. Even with the curtains closed and exhaustion weighing him into the mattress, he lies there restless, his eyes open much as his mind is, caught in a maelstrom that somehow spills through to his stomach and squeezes there time and time again.

This makes him think of Joker’s sleeping pills, and he remembers, Maybe you should take one. He presses a hand to his forehead, then rubs it down his face.

…Maybe he should.

***

He didn't, in the end, but he must have fallen into a fitful daze at one point or another, because he wakes up some unspecified time later to find a note waiting for him on the bedside table.

It’s in Dr. Mulligan’s careful hand and reads,

I need Batman to come see me in my office as soon as possible. Tonight, if at all convenient.

Bruce stares at the note for a minute before he breathes out loudly through his nose, closes his grainy eyes one last time, and pushes himself up. He rings for Alfred.

It’s time to eat, and then…

He's got work to do.

***

Dick and Jason go on ahead without him that night to keep the city in check as Bruce knifes through the thick, jagged-shadowed fog that hangs just above the cracky tarmac that weaves through the woods to Arkham.

He’s still tired, the exhaustion settled deep in his bones, but that doesn’t matter. The caffeine cruising in his system helps him fend off the weight on his eyelids, and even more than that, the urgency of Dr. Mulligan’s message keeps his mind on high alert. He listens to police reports and the boys checking in with him every few minutes, and hopes dearly that nothing big hits the city while he’s away.

The sight of the Asylum creeping out from the fog does even more to clear his mind. Bruce’s body tenses up when he first spies the tips of its towers, like lance-points aimed at the sky, and the pressure in his gut only abates a little when he reminds himself that Joker isn’t there anymore. The clown, though probably the worst horror in there, was only one in a place of many, and most of the others still dwell inside, locked away from the world until they can claw their way out again…

… Or so it feels like when Bruce braves the imposing iron gates and makes his way up the drive to the main doors. He looks up. He’s never felt dwarfed by Gotham, with its forest of glass and steel and stone, as at home with its gargoyles and cathedrals as he is on top of corporate skyscrapers, just another shadow to keep the others company. Arkham, though… Arkham isn't his. It doesn’t belong to him the way Gotham does. It belongs to…

Well, it belongs to Joker, as much as it can belong to anyone. Still does, even though Arkham’s darling star is no longer there to feed laughter down her corridors. Bruce feels it in the cold stone walls as he passes, smells it in the air which hangs stale and pregnant with chemicals, senses it in the way this place seems to push against him and yet reach out for him all at once with impatient, grimy little fingers, One of us, one of us, one of us.

He pauses before the cells, and takes a deep breath.

Stop this, he tells himself firmly. Just — stop. There's nothing supernatural about this place, its very human tragedies and the unfortunate souls locked up in here. He knows that better than anyone, in the same vein he knows that there's nothing supernatural about him.

But Gotham loves her myths, and embraces them with a passion that borders on desperation. Arkham lies at her center, and for better or worse, the Batman is one of those myths now as much as Joker, and as much as the asylum itself, have become. There's no escaping that now. And within those old Gothic walls, it’s all too easy to surrender yourself to such — flights of fancy, and let the mythology of this place leech into your skin, far too deep for reason to reach.

Especially with as little sleep as he’s had. Bruce clenches his entire body to bring himself back to reality and grits his teeth hard for good measure, then sweeps past the dim corridors without lingering to peer into the cells, ignoring the fact that the insistent whispers of One of us, one of us still seem to follow him just on the edge of hearing.

Dr. Mulligan is already waiting for him in her office, peering into her computer with the single-minded focus Bruce recognizes all too well. She smiles when she sees him come in, and the air of brusque practicality clinging to her helps Bruce get his act together. When he closes the door, it seems that he’s shutting away all that is inexplicable about Arkham and entering a comfortingly human space where no nonsense is permitted, and it feels like coming up for air after fighting your way out of a river current.

“Not the window this time?” the doctor says with a touch of humor. “How considerate. I’m going to take that to mean you’re warming up to me.”

“Why did you want to see me, Doctor?”

“Because of this.” Dr. Mulligan uses a key to open a locked drawer in her desk and retrieves three unremarkable black memory sticks, which she pushes to Bruce across the desk. “You said you wanted to investigate Arkham,” she says, “and I said I’d help. This is me keeping my word.”

Bruce stands by the desk and picks up one of the memory sticks. It’s smaller than his thumb, looking painfully fragile and breakable against the kevlar glove. The one he's holding is blank, but the other two are marked by thin strips of band-aid, one inscribed with ‘rogues’ and the other bearing a simple ‘J.’

“What’s on them?” he asks.

“Records from our digital archives. Everything I had the clearance to access that I thought might be useful. We’re currently in the process of transferring our paper files to digital, so I took advantage of that to get my hands on older documents too. There’s video recordings and sound clips and… well, you’ll see for yourself.”

Bruce nods. He secretes the pendrive into his belt and does the same with the other two. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“You didn't get those from me. If the leak gets out I’ll not only lose this job, but forfeit all my career prospects in the field of psychiatry altogether, I hope you understand that.”

“No need to worry. I know how to handle secrets.”

Dr. Mulligan keeps her face expertly blank as she adjusts her glasses. “Of course you do. Anyhoo,” she picks up, “I put in files on all sorts of patients — only things you need to see, of course, I do have some professional integrity left — but you will find mostly Joker-related recordings on the third one. Since they’re of… special interest to you right now.”

There’s a jab hidden in there somewhere, but Bruce doesn’t care to try and parse it right now. He simply nods.

“I appreciate it.”

“How incriminating those materials turn out to be, well, that's up to you and the Commisioner to decide. But I trust you'll contact Arkham’s board of directors or, even better, the APA’s Ethics Committee. I’d have done so myself years ago if not for — well, if not for the fact that I’d rather work to fix the system from the inside than rock the boat and not get to work at all. Besides, they’re not all morons here. The truly incriminating materials have all been either deleted or buried so deep in the system that us do-gooders can’t access them. For that, you'll need more expert hacking skills than mine, and I regret to say I can’t just give you a copy of my security badge for clearance, for obvious reasons.”

“Understandable.”

“In any case, you'll find names there, and that’s always a good place to start. People that actually could use some of that intimidation you inflicted on poor Harleen. Her name is not in here, by the way, but don’t worry, I’m keeping an eye on her like I promised.”

“That is a lot to go on,” Bruce says quietly. “You took a big risk.”

“Yes, like I said, I’m perfectly aware of that, so you’d better work hard to make sure it pays off. Let me know if you need any further help once you start chasing leads.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Bruce touches the cache with the pendrives, then after a moment’s hesitation asks, “Doctor, can we talk about what happened with the Joker yesterday?”

She sighs, sitting back in her chair. “I figured you’d ask that,” she says. “You watched the whole thing, of course?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“Will you schedule an extra session with him to talk through the incident?”

“An extra session? No.” Dr. Mulligan taps her fingers against the desk, long fingernails making a series of rapid little clicks. “Our video meetings are every Tuesday and Friday. It’s Saturday.”

Bruce frowns. “But —”

“Batman, I'm already subjected to more Joker time than any sane person should reasonably need or want in one lifetime. I really don't need any more. What happened was nothing out of the ordinary, no matter what you might imagine. In fact, he still exhibited what, for him, passed for remarkable restraint. If I scheduled an extra session because of an isolated violent incident I would be feeding into his ego and implying that he is special enough to warrant more focus and attention from me than my other patients, which is simply not the case. My schedule's filled to bursting — here, take a gander if you don’t believe me.” She taps a planner hidden behind the stacks of folders on her desk, and Bruce shakes his head.

“I’ll take your word for it.” He pauses, considering, and then decides to press his point anyway. “The thing is, Doctor, I fear extra sessions might be necessary, at least for a month.”

Doctor Mulligan skewers him with a look so pointed Joker himself would be proud. Her fingers knit together as she demands, “What did you do.”

“I had to punish him for what he did to Carter.”

“What. Did you do?”

Bruce takes a fortifying breath to weather out the storm. “I told him he won’t get any visits for three weeks.”

Doctor Mulligan doesn’t react all at once. She lets Bruce stew, her eyes like twin knife-points driving hard as though they could siege their way past the cowl and through the soft flesh of his eyeballs all the way to his brain.

“Not even from Bruce Wayne? Not even from the Arkham barber?” she asks quietly.

“No.”

“I see.” She sighs, closes her eyes and massages them hard as she slumps in her chair. For a moment the formidable doctor persona chips off her like bits of armor, revealing underneath a little old lady who's as tired and overwhelmed with her life as Bruce feels. “Let me get this straight,” she murmurs into her hands. “You’ve essentially taken it upon yourself to sentence the Joker to a month of solitary confinement.”

Bruce’s first instinct is to protest. But Dr. Mulligan’s eyes are cold, and defeated, and he knows she won’t take kindly to excuses. He considers her words and realizes that he can only say, “Yes.”

“Splendid. Well done. And I suppose you expect that seeing my face on a video screen every other day or so will be sufficient to alleviate the symptoms your decision will, without a doubt, trigger?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce admits, his chin dropping. “But he might… need the extra attention.”

“I’ll…” She sighs again, pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’ll see what I can do. Is there anything else I should know?”

“He…” Bruce swallows. “He didn’t take kindly to the hug machine.”

“Indeed? And did you find that surprising?”

Bruce can feel the vein above his brow pulsing. He says, “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Fine. Now, if that’s all —”

“Do you think we could ever let him go outside again?” Bruce asks before he can talk himself out of it. “Maybe we could amend the procedure?”

Doctor Mulligan graciously gives the question some thought before replying, “Yes, and yes. In time, if we can get the Commissioner to agree. I’ll work out an amended plan and let you know.”

“All right.”

“Keep me posted on your progress, will you?”

“If I can. I’d rather keep you out of it so no one can suspect your involvement.”

“It might get ugly,” she warns him, her voice dropping. “There’s… rumors. And open secrets. Things I’ve been trying to do something about, but… Just… be ready to learn things you’ll probably wish you didn’t.”

Bruce can feel the steel coming over his heart in a cold, familiar grip. His hand stays firm and protective over the cache with the pendrives.

“I never regret knowledge,” he says quietly. “Not if it helps me to get those things to stop.”

Dr. Mulligan studies his face for a minute before she nods, perhaps in understanding, perhaps in acceptance. Bruce swoops out of her office the same way he came in — through the door, and into the impatient arms of the asylum eager to keep him inside.

And maybe it’s his imagination — most likely is — but without Joker here, Arkham feels different. He’s noticed that before, but it jumps at him now how hungry the whispers appear, how desperate, as though they want to hold him hostage in exchange for the whirlpool of madness they’d lost. The silence hangs a touch too heavy without Joker’s laughter feeding into it. The air charges with expectation, directionless, lost.

Or maybe that’s just because Joker has meant Arkham, and Arkham has meant Joker, for so many years now in Bruce's mind that it’s difficult to conceive of one without the other.

He wonders if Joker’s consciousness will eventually sink into the walls of his own home the way it's sunk into Arkham, and warp them into its likeness like it did here. He shudders and walks faster, pushing through the air that tries to sink into him and pull and pull and pull, One of us, one of us, one of us.

I’m not, Bruce tells the cold stone walls. You can’t have me anymore than you can have him.

The Asylum seems to hiss at him, and Bruce can’t shake off its whispers even as he all but runs to the car.

***

He makes himself wait with reviewing the files until after his patrol is finished. Jason goes straight to bed, but Dick elects to stay behind in the cave, and sits beside Bruce when he activates the first memory stick and starts parsing through the files, starting with the employee records.

“Those are the crooked ones, then?” Dick asks as Bruce goes through page after page of personal information about mostly guards, but also some doctors and board members.

“Presumably. Or those turning a blind eye.” Bruce copies the whole folder and marks it with a reference number before moving on to the patient files, starting with one called “1809.TWO_FACE”.

In the folder he finds video and sound files, along with copies of incident reports. Most of them appear to be in the same vein: inmate 1809 tripped on the stairs. Inmate 1809 incited a scuffle. Inmate 1809 provoked the guards. Inmate 1809 engaged in a verbal altercation with another inmate and needed to be subdued. Then a litany of consequences: lacerations, bruises, broken bones, sedatives, extended shock therapies, withdrawal of privileges, solitary confinement.

“Whoa,” Dick whispers by Bruce’s side. “They sure as hell aren’t playing.”

“No,” Bruce agrees darkly.

“Still, you know… it’s them. The freaks. Maybe it's necessary just to keep the place going from day to day.”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He plays one of the video clips.

It’s a feed from a surveillance camera in Harvey’s cell, showing him on his bunk, reading the Gotham Gazette. A guard Bruce recognizes from the personnel files comes up to stand by the glass. He bangs his truncheon against it — three times.

“Yo Dent,” he calls, “that bother you?” He gives the glass three bangs again. “No? How ‘bout now?” It’s nine this time, at irregular intervals. “Still no? How about —”

Harvey snaps his book shut and gets off the bunk. He comes up to the glass and stands proud and tall, looking down his considerable height at the guard like he’s a dead toad smeared on the side of the road.

“Go. Away,” he orders.

“Shit, you’re one ugly motherfucker,” the guard tells him. He turns to the side and calls out to someone, “Isn't he, Bobby?”

Another guard comes up to stand beside him, chuckling, glancing up at Harvey with the sort of ugly, vengeful self-satisfaction little men like him like to bask in when bigger, stronger, scarier people are suddenly brought lower than themselves. “Ugly as fuck,” he agrees narrowing his eyes as he smirks at the prisoner. “What does it remind you of? Because I can’t decide if it looks more like burnt pizza that got run over by a truck, or maybe, like, if someone spat out a fuckton of chewing gum.”

“Hello?” Harvey addresses the camera, putting on a mildly exasperated front which is belied by the vein beginning to throb in his forehead. “Is no one going to do anything about this?”

“Awwww, what’s ‘a matter, lawyer guy? We not hoity-toity enough for you?”

Harvey sighs. “And what, precisely, is your problem with me, gentlemen?”

“Didya hear that, Johnny? He called us gentlemen!”

The first guard grins and bangs his truncheon three times against the glass right in front of Harvey’s face. Both men laugh. Harvey waits for them to stop, and then he says, quietly, “You'll leave me alone now, or I'll make sure there won’t be enough left of your faces for your poor mothers to identify at the morgue.”

“Well, now you done and stepped in it, big guy,” the first guard croons in triumph. “He just threatened us, Bobby!”

“He did, too,” Bobby agrees. “Which means we get to do this.”

He swipes his key-card into the slot. The cell dings and opens. Harvey turns to the camera. “Can I get some real guards in here?” he calls as the two men step in, cattle prods charged and ready. “Hello?!”

“Tough break, Pizza Guy,” the guard called Johnny gloats. “It’s just us down this block tonight.” He swings, and the recording breaks just as Harvey puts his arm up over his face.

The next shot is of the cell half an hour later, empty. The door is open. No one stirs out on the corridor.

Bruce watches until the frame goes dark, and only when Dick clears his throat does he realize he’s been sitting there staring at a dark screen for the better part of the minute.

He tries to move, and feels rigid. His arm barely unclenches enough for him to click on another recording. Beside him, Dick keeps quiet, and holds his breath as they watch another ugly scene, in the cafeteria this time, two different guards trying to goad Harvey into a reaction and then clubbing him to submission when he snaps and punches one of them in the face. Another shows Harvey being escorted somewhere and the guards freely insulting him, while a doctor whom Bruce doesn’t recognize follows them and does absolutely nothing. Yet another recording shows a nurse coming up to Harvey’s cell and offering him a coin, then laughing when Harvey lunges and doesn’t manage to catch it. The other recordings are much the same: petty verbal and physical abuse, negligence, humiliation, and perhaps worst of all, obvious cuts suggesting even more heinous ugliness removed from the main surveillance.

“What the hell,” Dick breathes quietly in his chair. “What the hell.”

Bruce doesn’t have any voice in him. He clicks out of Harvey’s folder and selects Nigma’s. His hands don’t shake, but that's only because his anger has rocketed way, way past that.

Riddler seems to be better than Harvey at keeping his temper — no surprise there — but his way of dealing with the abuse is to assert his superiority over everyone else, which doesn’t sit well with the Arkham crowd at all. Bruce makes himself sit through several recordings of the staff reacting badly - and disproportionately - to Riddler’s snide, indignant insults, then clicks out of the folder and browses the others.

He doesn’t go through everything. He can’t. Each new video is like another drop of water eroding what little hope and faith he had left in Arkham as an institution. His only comfort is that any attempts at sexually harassing Ivy failed miserably, but the Asylum is home to scores of other female inmates who can’t rely on poisonous skin and deathly pheromones for protection. Though the tapes don’t contain rape attempts, as such - the staff at Arkham wouldn't leave those on file - there’s more than enough violence and abuse to fill in what the recordings leave out.

Which Bruce does. He connects the dots, fills in the gaps, draws the inevitable conclusions.

And God, he is angry.

“It’s not your fault,” Dick says quietly as they go over the files on the regular, non-celebrity patients. “I know you’re thinking that, but it’s not.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Bruce lies.

“Right, and I wasn’t checking out Starfire’s butt the other day. I know you. I can hear you guilt-tripping yourself from here.”

Bruce closes his eyes and presses a hand to his face. He breathes out.

“I should have looked into Arkham sooner,” he whispers, and his throat feels like sandpaper. “I should have paid attention.”

“Look, no. I mean sure, there were rumors, but there’s always rumors, and I mean, you couldn’t know —”

“I should have,” Bruce insists. “It’s my responsibility.”

“Bruce —”

“I put them there. And then I just — left. And then, when they broke out, I brought them back without a second thought, because I didn’t want to think. Because that would have made it all more… complicated.”

“Fine, if that’s how you want to go about it. Thing is though... What other choice did you have? They can’t go to Blackgate. And there’s nowhere else —”

“I should have made sure they had proper care. I should have done more. I should have reviewed the employee files, looked into the patients, investigated —”

“This is Gotham,” Dick insists, voice rising. “Weeding out the corruption here is like trying to chop off hydra heads. And it’s not like in that Disney movie where you can just slice your way out from the inside, like a…”

Bruce’s head snaps up. The wheels turn. He looks at Dick.

Dick opens his eyes wide and cocks his head at him. “What? What did I say?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He looks back to the screens, his mouth tightening just as the beginnings of a plan coalesce in his mind.

“Oh no,” Dick says. “No, no, no. Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“Go to bed,” Bruce tells him. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

He stands up, but Dick doesn’t. He looks at the last pendrive and picks it up, finger tracing over the little ‘J.’.

“Aren’t you going to go over this one?” he asks.

Bruce looks at the pendrive, and for a second the ‘J.’ seems to grow until it fills his entire world.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not tonight.”

Dick studies his face, then nods and puts the pendrive down. His face goes blank. “Okay. Let’s go get some shuteye,” he agrees, and doesn’t try to smile.

They trudge up the stairs without exchanging any more words, and part in silence with the sun already halfway up the sky. And once again, Bruce can’t sleep. The recordings play out before his eyes one by one, and he thinks about the cuts, and what else there is for him to see, and he thinks about the ‘J.’ pendrive... and aches.

***

He's summoned to the company for a monthly review the next day, and feels like a sleepwalker as he dutifully goes through the motions: smiling, shaking hands, nodding approval, signing on the dotted line. He makes himself pay attention as his employees give presentations and trade feedback. He thinks he's done a decent job of it when, at the end of the day, no one asks him what’s wrong, or expresses concern over him not being quite there - but Arkham refuses to leave his mind even for a moment, and sits like a lump of coal in the pit of his stomach as he makes his way back home.

Dick is waiting for him in the study. So is Jason. They both have their arms crossed over their chests, and look up at him sternly, and the lump of coal only grows as Bruce tries and fails to read their faces.

Then Dick says, “So, I went over the Joker pendrive with Jason when you were away.”

“I see,” Bruce manages.

“I don’t get how that makes what he did any less horrible, but Grayson here needed a Kleenex,” Jason informs Bruce with a chin pointed haughtily at the ceiling.

“I did not need a Kleenex,” Dick corrects with a roll of his eyes. “Still, it was… Well. You should see for yourself.”

“I will. Now, what’s this all about?”

“I know what you’re planning to do, Bruce.”

The lump of coal turns to ice. “How can you —”

“You’re going to go undercover to work as a guard at Arkham, aren’t you.”

Damn. “It did cross my mind,” Bruce admits reluctantly.

“Is it because of what I said? The Hercules references, taking the beast out from the inside? That was just a figure of speech!”

Bruce can feel his walls going up, and it’s a struggle to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. “I have to,” he tells both of them, looking at Dick and Jason in turns. “I need to see what it’s really like on the inside from day to day. It needs to be done.”

“Maybe,” Dick agrees, “but not by you.”

“What?”

“I’ll do it.”

The flood of horror crashes over Bruce instantly, closing over his head, dragging him under, clogging his throat. “No,” he growls, and his voice trembles on its way out. “That won’t happen.”

“Bruce…”

“That place is dangerous. I won’t let you do this for me.”

Something hardens in Dick’s face that halts the words in Bruce’s mouth. “I’m not doing this for you,” Dick says. “I’m doing this for the patients. I’ve seen the tapes too, Bruce. It’s just plain common sense. You can’t be working there undercover and operating as Batman at the same time, and you need to do that to interrogate the guards and so on. Besides, they all know you. You’re good at disguises, but you can’t change your entire face. The crooks will recognize their pal Matches Malone, and if they don't, they'll sure as hell recognize Bruce Wayne.”

“Grayson has a point,” Jason pipes in. “His ugly mug isn’t nearly as notorious as yours.”

“That’s a funny way to pronounce dazzling good looks,” Dick shoots at him over a smirk before turning to Bruce again. “Look, I’m doing this whether you like it or not. I went undercover with you hundreds of times before, and besides, it’ll be good training before the Police Academy. And let’s face it, Casanova, you’re gonna be needed here.” He points up, indicating the third floor with a meaningful tilt to his eyebrows.

Bruce looks away. “I told him I won’t visit him for three weeks.”

“Yeah, and no way you’re gonna wrap this thing up in a month. He’s gonna raise hell if three weeks pass and you’re still not there to see him.”

“He started a countdown," Jason tells Bruce, helpfully. "He marked a line on the wall of the bedroom this morning. Bet he’s gonna keep count of the days until you come back.”

And Bruce has no idea what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He turns to Dick.

“It’s too dangerous,” he insists.

“You didn’t think so when you thought you’d be the one going undercover.”

“That’s because I wasn’t going to risk anyone but myself.”

“I’m doing this, okay? You can’t. They need you out there on the streets. I can do a better job of it anyway, and the bottom line is, you can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

This part hurts. It hurts like the punches and cuts and kicks never do, and Bruce suspects it will keep hurting for as long as he lives. He’s been trying to stop seeing Dick as that child he brought home from the circus, but he can’t quite manage that even now. That’s not fair to Dick, he knows, and he hasn’t exactly been an exemplary father. But he can’t help but want to keep trying.

Even though, deep down, he knows it’s much too late.

One of us, one of us, one of us, the whispers echo in his head, and he shudders. He’d been dreading the prospect of entering Arkham not just for a short visit but regularly, for hours at a time, but the thought of Dick going down that rabbit hole is so much worse. He tries to imagine his son patrolling the grim cold corridors and dealing with the likes of Ivy and Riddler and Harvey every single day, and he feels sick, and the urge to stride up to Dick and hug him tight until he can talk him out of it sparks up so violent and volatile that Bruce is momentarily terrified.

He must have let some of that fear show in his face despite his best efforts, because Dick’s eyes soften, and he takes a step forward. His arm rises like he’s considering putting it on Bruce’s shoulder before he aborts the movement and lets it drop by his side, fingers curling. He sighs.

“I’ll be careful,” he promises. “I won’t go looking for trouble and I’ll keep my head down. I’ll try to stay away from the really bad guys, won’t volunteer to feed Killer Croc, and all that. Okay? And if there’s a riot I won’t try to save everyone on my own. I'll call you as soon as it starts looking like something bad’s gonna happen. Pinkie bat-promise.”

He tries on a smile, which only succeeds in reminding Bruce how that smile used to look like when Dick was nine. He aches down to his bones, and the ache is made so much worse by the fact that he really can’t do anything to stop his child anymore.

Like it or not, Dick is a man now. And at the end of the day, Bruce has to learn to at least try and accept it…

But damn if he won’t do everything in his power to make sure his son is safe.

“We’ll train for a week,” he tells Dick sternly. “I won’t okay this until you successfully convince me you can keep your disguise going for extended periods of time. You'll have a communicator with you at all times, and a customized utility belt to go with your uniform. You'll follow strict protocol, won't stray from my instructions, and you'll pull away as soon as we get the evidence we need.”

Dick lets out a deep breath, and his smile settles into something much more tangible. “All right,” he agrees. “That’s… reasonable. I guess. For you.”

Bruce nods, already regretting every single word that left his mouth. He can practically feel himself going gray, and the urge to hug Dick and keep him close still hasn’t abated.

Good luck falling asleep now.

“You two and your damn bleeding hearts,” Jason comments under his breath, looking disgusted with the proceedings. “These guys are fucking criminals. They deserve everything coming their way.”

“We talked about this,” Dick turns to him, lifting an eyebrow. “Extensively. It’s half an hour of my life I’ll never get back, so let’s not retread old ground here, yeah? I’m doing this.”

Jason mouths something that sounds suspiciously like ‘hero complex,’ and Bruce is too tired and overwhelmed to call him out on the hypocrisy. He isn’t sure he can deal with this conversation going on any longer, so he makes his excuses and heads straight to the cave, where he struggles with himself for five minutes before pulling up the live Joker surveillance.

He watches Joker as the clown busies himself with some writing, and fights against the urge to zoom in and read the scribbles over his shoulder. The ‘J.’ pendrive sits on the keyboard by his elbow but Bruce can’t bring himself to pick it up. Not yet. He knows he’s being a coward about this, but he's far too frazzled already, and whatever's there on the pendrive will only make it worse. This…

This will just have to wait.

He rests his head in the palms of his hands and watches Joker, and as he does, he lets his mind churn over the recordings and files he saw last night to come up with an itinerary. He’ll visit the injured and retired guards first and see what confessions he can get out of them, and then he and Dick will decide whether he should pursue the current employees immediately or wait until Dick gets settled in so as not to spook the suspects prematurely. And then…

He jolts awake sometime later to Alfred shaking his shoulder, and to his hands going numb from the weight of his head resting on top of them. His mouth tastes sour and his throat is dry, and his stomach rolls at the smell of roast Alfred's brought down to the cave.

“What time is it?” he asks groggily, his eyes sticky and his back aching from the uncomfortable position.

“Almost eight pm, sir.” Alfred coughs politely, nudging the plate with the roast closer to Bruce. “You still have some time to move to an actual bed.”

Bruce blinks and rubs his eyes. “No. I have to…” He looks up, and realizes that he's fallen asleep with the Joker feed still playing on the screens. Joker's no longer sitting by the desk but jumping on his trampoline in the gym, his back ostensibly turned on the hug machine.

Bruce watches him until Alfred clears his throat and pushes the roast unceremoniously right under Bruce’s nose.

“Right.” Bruce nods at him and picks up the knife and fork. “Okay, okay, I’ll eat. You don’t have to stand over me.”

“That remains to be seen,” Alfred murmurs skeptically. “The young masters have expressed a desire to know what you’ve planned for the night, sir.”

Bruce nods again as he carves out a piece of the roast for himself and puts it in his mouth. It’s rich, juicy and delicious as always, and he can’t seem to bring himself to appreciate the taste anyway.

“Bring them down here,” he tells Alfred. “I’ll brief them as I eat.”

When Alfred leaves, Bruce watches Joker jump for a few more minutes before he closes the feed and brings up the police patrol reports instead. By the time the boys arrive he's almost in the Batman headspace, or close enough that he feels confident in his words when he explains the plan to them. The sour taste of the unplanned nap still lingers in his mouth and muddies his vision, bringing on the first tingles of what will no doubt bleed into a full-blown headache, but neither Jason nor Dick make any comments about his state and that has to be good enough.

They go out that night expecting answers, but come back sorely disappointed. None of the ex-guards want to talk. They aren’t as afraid of the Batman as everyone else, probably because they’d had proof time and time again that he doesn’t kill, not even scum like Joker. Some of them even try to sass him before he threatens to put them in the hospital if they don’t cooperate. It doesn’t work. Even intimidated, the people he interrogates seem determined to protect their former colleagues, though Bruce can tell they have no love to spare for Arkham itself.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Jason complains on the drive back to the cave. “Why would they go out of their way to protect the place if they hate it so much? I don’t get it.”

“It may be an us vs. them thing,” Bruce muses aloud. “Like a dysfunctional family. Or maybe they’re too scared.”

“You think there’s someone big and important behind this whole thing?”

“There usually is when money’s involved,” Bruce agrees. “But that’s not the whole picture. I think it’s also a matter of principle. They may not see the abuse as wrong if it happens to…”

“Criminals?”

“Yes.”

“Well, in that case yeah, they’ve got a point,” Jason says stubbornly, as if daring Bruce to argue.

“Not now,” Bruce admonishes him. “I’m thinking.”

Jason laps into a sulk, and maintains it all the way to the cave where they meet up with Dick, already dismounting his motorcycle.

“I guess there’s nothing for it,” Dick observes as they gather by the computers. “Looks like operation Secret Superspy Dick Grayson is officially go.”

“Want me to play the Mission Impossible theme for you?” Jason grouses, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No need, Robin,” Dick tells him magnanimously. “There was more than enough epicness in that sentence already.”

“Do you think this is a joke?” Bruce asks sharply, and Dick’s face falls.

“Of course not,” he says. “But seeing how it’s obvious we’re gonna have to go ahead with it anyway, I decided that a little humor might make the prospect more palatable.”

“Not to me.”

“You’re not the only one here, Bruce.”

“Right, so, this is super awkward,” Jason comments after a moment of icy silence. “That’s gonna be my cue. See you both tomorrow.”

“Be ready with a disguise,” Bruce orders Dick. “We begin training as soon as you get some rest.”

Dick sketches him a sarcastic salute before he follows Jason up the stairs. For a brief moment Bruce contemplates joining them, but he knows that even with the throbbing headache, he won’t be able to fall asleep now.

He eyes the ‘J.’ pendrive.

… Might as well get it over with.

His stomach pinches tight as he sits down and activates the pendrive, and it only gets worse when he goes through recording after recording, file after file, telling a story as cruel and perverted as those of the other inmates. There’s beatings, insults, ‘pranks.’ There’s more of what he saw in the other files. Except, something about Joker seems to invite another sort of abuse entirely that Bruce didn't see so much with the other male inmates: homophobic slurs. Those, and referring to Joker as a woman, a lady, a princess or the belle of the ball, commenting on his painted nails and makeup and figure, cracking jokes about Joker being this and that man's girlfriend, and "taking it up the ass," or being on his period, or giving other men blowjobs, all seem to be far more common than Bruce would expect.

Not all of it happens to Joker's face. In fact, most of the instances Bruce sees happen out of his earshot, which isn't surprising. But there are at least a few occasions where the guards feel brave enough to provoke him like this directly, and for his part, Joker seems to take it in stride. Even to encourage it, at times, dropping provocative comments to add fuel to the fire, flirting with the guards, batting his lashes, pretending to want to take them up on their "offers." That doesn't make it any better, though, and some of the guards' conduct in particular sends Bruce's skin crawling. For one thing, the viciousness of the attacks stands out, showing prejudice that goes beyond the kind of hatred of Joker that Bruce has come to expect from Gotham's citizens. And for another...

Not all of them sound like they're joking.

Even more unsettling, though, is the fact that Joker seems to invite the abuse. He acts like he wants the guards to beat and kick him, to pull his hair, to starve and insult and isolate him, to treat him like garbage, like something less than human. And the thing is, Bruce should have expected that, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch.

He thinks back to Joker biting Carter in the garden, and realizes that it's the same pattern of behavior. A bid for control, a point to be made, an illusion of choice.

I still got teeth.

Which, in this case, would mean, You can’t do anything to me that I don’t want you to. The only reason I'm being hurt is because I want it. I made you do this. It's my choice. Not yours.

Bruce wonders if Joker really believes that. Or, if he needs to. The thought is…

Sad.

But that's not the worst thing.

Another thing about the Joker files that Bruce notices, the further he digs into them, is that the guards don’t seem bother to censor those as much as they censored the other recordings. There’s still obvious cuts and missing footage, but what Bruce sees here is far more brutal and petty than what got into the other files, which — his throat seizes up — means that the guards thought it was okay. That there would be no consequences.

That no one would care.

And the worst thing is, everything points to them being right.

Bruce spends the rest of the pale morning hours going through every single file in Joker’s archive. He didn’t intend to, but now that he's started, he finds it impossible to stop. He doesn’t know what’s worse — the beatings? The pranks, like leaving the door to Joker’s cell open just so the clown would wander out into the waiting arms of the guards ready to punish him? Messing with Joker's medication? The few therapy sessions he saw, including the “bad reality TV” therapy Dr. Quinzel mentioned, and others, just as incompetent and even more egregious, full of gaslighting and humiliation and power struggles? The outright, unchecked homophobia? Or the electroshocks, which in Joker’s case seemed to have been administered pretty much on a whim, with no regard to the patient’s well-being or endurance but just as a means for revenge, or just plain shutting him up? Or maybe the cold uncertainty of the cuts, the unspoken in-betweens, which invite Bruce’s mind to supply his own parade of horrors.

Bruce doesn’t know. He makes himself watch scene after scene of Joker strapped to a table, convulsing and writhing helplessly as electricity surges through his body, and lets the images feed into the maw of the dark, angry beast stirring deep inside him.

They will pay, he promises the pathetic pale figure on the screen. I give you my word.

They will pay.

Chapter Text

A week later, Bruce watches from a safe distance as his son — hair dyed a dusty blond, stubble on his chin, Arkham guard uniform looking painfully flimsy even with the protective kevlar vest underneath — flashes his brand new badge at the first security posts, about to get swallowed up by the one place in Gotham Bruce genuinely hates.

“You all right?” Jason asks, quietly, as they watch Dick disappear within the unforgiving walls.

“Yes,” Bruce says even as his fingers clam up from the effort of not shaking. This is a mistake, his mind chants. This is wrong. I need to stop it. I need —

“Grayson’s gonna be fine,” Jason whispers, turning to look out the window at the Asylum. “You’ve set him up with every precaution imaginable, and then some. He’s literally carrying a mini armory in his pockets.”

The last words come out pointed, carrying more than a touch of resentment. Bruce looks over to Jason with some effort and studies the tight lines of his body, turned away from Bruce.

“Do you find your own equipment lacking?” he asks after a moment.

“Who’s saying that? I’m not saying that." Jason crosses his arms over his chest. "And I’m sure as hell not saying that you spent more time getting Grayson ready to wave a truncheon around and change chamberpots than you did preparing me to fight mobsters on the streets every night.”

… Oh. Bruce narrows his eyes, taking in the tense, defensive posture, the pinched lines of his face, the tight fit of the mask hiding Jason's eyes. Some of the panic in him releases to make way for a quieter ache, and the kind of helplessness Bruce is all too familiar with but still hasn't quite learned how to handle.

“I’ve trained you,” he tries, knowing the words are all wrong even as he lets them out. “And if you have ideas as to how we can improve your arsenal, why don’t you —”

“That is so not the point, Bruce, oh my God!” Jason kicks the floor of the car. “And don’t you dare try to dad me now,” he snaps when Bruce opens his mouth. “Save us both the embarrassment.”

“Jason —”

“Uh, Team B? Hello? I’m in,” Dick’s voice cracks over the sudden static from the com link. “My very first shift at the loony bin, hooray! Feel free to insert a confetti pop somewhere in here.”

Jason glares at the radio and, very pointedly, not at Bruce. Bruce sighs and turns up the volume, heart thumping. “Did anyone suspect anything?” he asks.

“Nope! Practically breezed through security. They did frisk me on the way in, but the rulebook says that’s standard procedure. The guy doing it cracked some lame jokes about breaking me in, and mentioned something about a hazing? And oh, one inmate tried to flirt with me. Not one of the usual suspects though, don't worry. I'll be making my first rounds with a guy called Swanson in a bit, just as soon as he’s done with his coffee.”

“Good. Keep your eyes open, and see if you can find a way to hack into their surveillance.”

“Yes, o captain, my captain. Should anything happen, I want you to know you’re both in my will, and —”

“Dick.”

“Hey, rude. I’m the charming college dropout Chris Bukowsky, or have you forgotten already?”

“Stop being cute and go do your damn job, Grayson,” Jason mutters, which gets him a chuckle.

“I actually do gotta go,” Dick says. “Will report back in a bit when I’m on my break. Kisses!”

“Don’t you mean, Over?” Jason grouses, but the link is already dead. Jason sighs and slumps in the passenger seat. “He thinks he’s in a goddamn movie,” he mumbles. “It’s gonna get him killed.”

“He got in without any trouble,” Bruce points out, over the dread squeezing his heart. “He’s a good actor.”

“Or they’re just that desperate. No one in their right mind will work at freaking Arkham if they can do literally anything else. You saw how quick they were to hire anyone who applies. They didn’t even do a proper background check.”

“Which will only work in Dick’s favor.”

“Whatever. I still don’t know what it is you two are trying to find.”

“Evidence,” Bruce tells him quietly.

“You’ve already got evidence. Three pendrives of it. Can’t you just, I dunno, take that to Gordon?”

“You know that won’t be enough. What’s on the tapes may be grounds for a disciplinary hearing and an inspection, maybe some of the guards getting the sack for show. But with the system being what it is, I doubt it’ll even result in that. We need something stronger. We need proof of criminal activity no one will be able to ignore.”

“You honestly think you’re gonna find it?”

“We have to try.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna come out and say it. If you need someone to hack into Arkham so bad, why not ask Oracle? They’ve already shown they can hack pretty much anywhere.”

Stubborn denial rushes up Bruce’s spine and into his throat, and he tightens his grip on the wheel. “I’m not asking her,” he says.

“Oh. So you know — I mean, you think it’s a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Got any other leads?”

Bruce turns the ignition and lets the engine warm up. He murmurs, “No leads. Only suspicions. And I won’t share them until I know for sure.”

Jason snorts, angling towards the window again. “Fancy way of saying you’re just too goddamn proud to ask for help.”

“Too careful,” Bruce corrects. “She's an unknown. That makes her a liability. This is a delicate project. I won't entrust it to a stranger.”

“So you’re gonna risk Grayson’s life instead?”

That hurts, as Jason probably knew it would. Bruce holds in a sigh, and gives himself a moment to regroup before replying, “That’s not fair, and you know it. I was ready to do it myself. You were there. You know that it was Dick who insisted.”

“Yeah. And you trust him, obviously. But if…” Jason hesitates, obviously regretting what he’s started. He looks so deeply, painfully young in that moment that the ache flares up in Bruce’s gut again, and settles there.

But then Jason rallies, and looks up at Bruce with the same determination that guides his fists to fly into the faces of criminals night after night.

He asks, “If I was the one to volunteer, would you trust me, too?”

Bruce’s Yes comes a few seconds too late. He can see it in the way Jason’s body shuts down, rigid, angry. Dejected.

“You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you,” Jason whispers.

Bruce's mind flies into a momentary panic, and it takes him a moment to get over it. He tries, “Jason, you’re too young. They would never hire a teenager. There was never a question of us sending you.”

“Yes, but I’m not talking about that, am I? I’m talking about… everything. You’re… dammit." Jason sighs, deflating, sagging in his seat. His voice comes out quiet and small when he says, "You’re disappointed I’m not more like Grayson.”

Well, fuck.

“Jason, no,” Bruce tries, the helplessness rising like bile in his mouth. “That’s not — It’s not like that. We may have our disagreements, but that doesn’t mean —”

“Yes it does. You’re afraid you can’t control me. And if Grayson decided to stay, you wouldn’t think twice about kicking me out.”

“No,” Bruce tells him forcefully. “That wouldn’t happen. You're Robin now. Dick's found his own way, and you’re…”

“An adequate replacement?” Jason whispers, sounding small. Looking it, too.

“A good soldier,” Bruce finishes quietly.

“… A good soldier.”

“Yes.” Bruce hesitates, and then lets his hand fall on Jason’s shoulder.

Jason looks up at him. The domino mask hides his eyes, so Bruce can't read them, but the tension around his mouth never gives an inch, and neither does the set muscle in his jaw. He holds Bruce's gaze for a heartbeat, and then shrugs Bruce’s hand off.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Unless, of course, you wanna stay and gaze longingly at the windows all night.”

“No,” Bruce decides, glancing out at the spires of the Asylum. “You’re right. Dick can handle himself.”

I can’t do this, he realizes as he guides the car away from its cover in the woods and onto the road. He just can't handle teenagers. He had no idea what to do with Dick when he was that age, and now, with Jason, it’s so much worse. He’s entirely out of his depth as a guardian, and clearly it got bad enough that Jason started to notice.

The sense of failure only adds to the tangle of anxiety already knotting in Bruce's stomach, and when he looks in the rear view mirror, he sees the sharp, jagged silhouette of Arkham growing distant as it traps his other son inside. For a cold, cold second, the panic gets so bad that Bruce almost slams down on the breaks and drives back to pull Dick out of there by the scruff of his shirt, kicking and screaming if he has to.

You can’t have him, he imagines himself screaming at the asylum with its quietly jeering walls and its greedy little hands reaching out for both of them. You can’t. I won’t let you.

He manages to overcome himself enough to keep driving. Jason keeps sending him quick, resentful glances all the way back to the city, but he doesn't say anything, and neither does Bruce. He isn't sure Jason would welcome more reassurances, and it's not like Bruce is any good at them.

So he lets the silence build, and fill, and the sick knot in his stomach keeps tightening long after Arkham disappears from view.

***

The fear doesn’t abate any as the night runs its course. It’s still very much there the next day, pummeling at the walls of Bruce’s mind and chasing away even the hope of restful sleep.

But then Dick comes home to report to them over dinner, smiling and safe and unharmed, and the dread… ebbs, somewhat, pulling away just enough that Bruce's throat no longer feels quite so tight.

It helps that Jason makes the attempt to be civil for once, or, at least, not quite so openly hostile. Bruce knows better than to hope that their talk last night patched anything up between them in any real way, but he’ll take what he can get.

“What passes for coffee in that place is hands down the worst thing I've ever had in my mouth, and I breathed sewer water,” Dick tells them between bites of Alfred’s excellent chicken and potato mash, light and easy and charming as always. “Still, drinking that sludge helps me get in character. Does its job, too; I thought I’d never sleep again.” He flashes them a grin, reaching for water. “Another fun fact? They have this weird clock up above the reception desk. And I mean, like, wayyyyyyyy up, you know the one, Bruce? Yeah, so, thing is, no one knows how the clock got up there. And Swanson says it keeps running late no matter how often they get Paul to fix it, which is a major issue ‘cause there’s no ladders there tall enough to reach it properly. Paul’s the janitor, by the way. Offered me a smoke when I was on my break, and of course I said no, Bruce, so you can put that disapproving glower back where it came from, thanks.”

“Why don’t they just take it down if it's such a bother?” Jason wonders.

Dick shrugs. “Beats me. I think it’s a bit like, part of their local folklore? Though why they’d need any more of it than they already have is beyond me. I've seen haunted castles with fewer ghost stories than Arkham has. Doesn’t help that they keep Croc’s tank upstairs instead of the basement. It makes the pipes groan like the damned. No wonder no one they admit ever gets better.”

"Did you see the ghost of Amadeus Arkham?” Jason asks over a smirk.

“Nah. Don't think a ghost of his calibre would waste his time on a newbie. Frankly, ghost stories aside, it was pretty anticlimactic. From the way you’ve been acting,” Dick looks pointedly at Bruce, “I kinda expected blood leaking from the walls.”

“Arkham is dangerous with or without its ghosts,” Bruce says quietly. “Considering its history —”

“Yeah, yeah. Murder, madness, blood for mortar, I know.” Dick pauses to chew over a mouthful of chicken before continuing, “Don't get me wrong, I’m not saying that it’s a nice place. It’s not. Everyone hates working there, especially the nurses. Some of them probably do think it’s haunted. You can see it in their eyes. And with the noises, and the inmates, and the architecture, it’s kinda… yeah.” He goes quiet for a moment, and then his voice drops low when he adds, “But it's not the supernatural that makes that place so horrible."

Bruce’s heart shrinks. “Did you see anything?”

“Not much,” Dick confesses. “I kept an eye out, but no one trusts the new guy. I gotta work for it. Went on a round with Aaron Cash though, you know, the sergeant? We escorted the nurses. And one of the inmates, I didn’t recognize him, one of the relatively normal ones... Anyway, he… Well, when we got there, there was a lot of blood in his cell. On the walls. And he lay on his cot with his forehead smashed open. The surveillance footage went missing, they said it was a camera glitch. They also said the guy had a habit of running into walls, and maybe that's true. But if it was, and they knew about it, wouldn’t they keep him in one of the padded cells? And the wound didn’t look right. Not like an accident. The guy’s too out of it to talk, and they transferred him to the medical. Apparently he’ll be okay. But…”

He falls quiet, picking at the salad.

Bruce looks at him across the table. He asks, “Do you want to pull out?”

“What? No.” Dick puts down his fork and faces Bruce with a painfully earnest expression. “If anything, that only makes me want to stay. Gotta get to the bottom of this, Bruce. They can’t keep getting away with this stuff.”

Bruce nods. The fear is slowly inching back, but from the other side surges pride, so fierce and sudden that it chokes him. He has to seek refuge in the plate before him to hide it from the boys.

His boys. Both of them.

“I did hear a story though,” Dick picks up after a moment, looking at Bruce with something careful and guarded now. “Dunno how true it is, but you're gonna want to hear it, Bruce. And you're not gonna like it. It's about the clown."

Bruce sits up. "Tell me."

"Well..." Dick shifts in his seat, glancing down to his plate. It's a longer moment before he speaks again. "Basically... Remember when Carter said Joker bit some guy’s ear off?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do. Anyway." Dick sighs, and when he picks up, his voice is heavy and measured. "Apparently, when the Arkham people want to really scare the noobs, they tell them Joker stories. I was no exception. Most of it was... Well, it sounded like stuff Joker would do, and I guess I didn't act shocked enough for their liking, so one of them decided to up the ante, and here's where the bad part comes in. He told me I should be grateful Joker's no longer there, because this one time, he went and... bit off some guard’s, uh…” He hesitates, looking pained, and glances over to Jason.

"His ear?" Jason prompts, impatiently. "But we already knew that. It's messed up, sure, but hardly the worst thing the clown's ever -"

“No, not his ear. That's a different story." Dick shakes his head. He glances to Bruce, briefly, and then back to his plate. He takes a breath, and says, "He said Joker bit off that guy's... privates.”

There's a clink when Alfred puts away his spoon. It's loud in the sudden silence, and no other sounds follow it for a good long while.

“Okay, hold up.” Jason sits back, his eyes huge and incredulous. “You mean, like... All of it? His entire fucking junk?”

“No, not his entire junk,” Dick snaps. “Jesus, don’t make me imagine that, how would it even be — no. I mean, he bit off the guard's penis." He fidgets in his chair again, putting away his fork. "Well. Some of it.”

“Damn,” Jason breathes.

Bruce keeps his eyes on Dick. The warmed-up metal of the fork he's squeezing etches hard lines into the inside of his palm almost to the point of pain, but he can't make himself let it go. “Is this true?” he demands.

“I don’t know." Dick shrugs without looking up. "Could be an urban legend. There’s lots of Joker stories going around, and frankly, it's hard to tell which ones are true 'cause they all sound like they might be. Except maybe the one where he - nevermind." Dick shakes his head and squares his shoulders, and finally looks up to meet Bruce's eyes. "The thing is, though... I asked around. And many of the older guys? They didn’t want to talk about it. They kinda went all quiet and looked at the ground, and told me to mind my own business. One even snapped at the guard who told me the story to shut up about it already, and looked properly pissed about it. And that’s…”

“Suspicious,” Jason finishes, and for a brief moment, the four of them sit there silently considering the implications, coasting along the same cold, terrible wavelength.

“Did you get a name of the victim?” Bruce asks quietly. His voice sounds like it’s coming through a padding of cotton.

“No, but I’ll try to find that out when I go back there tonight. You’re gonna want to pay him a visit, right?”

“Yes.” Bruce can’t quite get himself to nod, and when he chooses his next words, they come out struggling, raking sharp fingernails up his throat. “If the story's true, then I need to find out how Joker found himself in a position to do that in the first place.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought too." Dick nods, his mouth settling into a grim line. "The uniform pants aren’t exactly silk. It’d take quite an effort to bite through the jeans. Croc could have done it easy, but Joker…”

“Wait.” Jason sits up in his chair, looking at both of them in turn. “You don’t think —”

“I don’t think anything yet,” Bruce lies. “But we need to look into it.”

“I agree,” Dick says seriously. “They sold it to me like an oooooh, Arkham so scary kinda story, and I think that’s how it was sold to them, too. But like I said, the older guards didn’t exactly reassure me.”

“Did you talk to any of the doctors?”

“There were only two of them there that night. Lancer and Biggs. Neither of them very chatty. Dr. Quinzel is supposed to have the night shift tonight, so I’ll try and see if I can get anything out of her... But she’s still kinda new, too. I don’t know if she’s gonna have anything useful.”

“Get the name of the guard the Joker supposedly bit, if he exists,” Bruce tells him. “It could… it could be a lead.”

“Right.” Dick takes a moment to study his face, and then offers, “You could also ask Joker? I mean. He’s right here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bruce manages.

“Well, I dunno. If the story checks out there’s a good chance you’ll be looking at statutory rape, if not… you know, the actual thing." Dick's voice gains a hard note at that, and he lets the word rape linger in the air for a moment before he adds, "Investigating that behind his back, without his consent… Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“We’re jumping to conclusions here with an anecdote as our only lead,” Jason reminds them. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It may not be... that.”

Dick nods, reaching for his water again. For a few minutes they eat in silence, each of them preoccupied with their own thoughts, until Dick clears his throat.

“Dammit,” he offers quietly, with a bittersweet smile. “This story could be comedy gold when you think about it. The Joker, going around biting off people’s junks? And here I am, totally unable to milk it for a single joke.”

“That’s because it isn't funny,” Jason tells him. “It's gross. Thinking about the clown and dicks in one sentence is gross.”

Dick’s forehead furrows. “Hey.”

The two of them lapse into a familiar back-and-forth, almost aggressively so, as though compensating extra hard to dispel the horror of that one word that still hangs dark and heavy over the dinner table. Bruce is already tuning them out. Let them ease the tension with banter, if that’s what they need. He can’t do that. He can’t allow himself to, not when the horror is lodged too deep in his heart already.

There's two more weeks to go before he can visit Joker in person. There were moments, during the last week, when he regretted his choice of punishment, but never as acutely as he does right now. All at once he's seized with the urge to throw a frustrated fuck you at his own decision and storm into Joker’s rooms, and to beg him for reassurance.

Please tell me it's not true. Please tell me it wasn’t like that. Please tell me they didn’t hurt you.

But he can’t. If he goes back on his word now Joker will no longer respect his resolve and authority, and that could very well end in disaster. He can’t give Joker more reasons to think he’s weak, or that he’s… getting too comfortable with him. That he’ll keep forgiving Joker no matter what.

Besides, it’s no use. Bruce already knows the story is true, with that bone-deep certainty he experiences sometimes when he’s close to cracking a case. Every instinct in him tells him so. The question to determine now is just how bad that whole situation was, and that…

He looks at his plate.

He can’t even think about taking another bite.

“Hey, Bruce,” Dick asks quietly. “Doing okay up there?”

Bruce can’t bring himself to look up. He pushes his chair back and stands. “Finish your meal,” he tells them stiffly. “I have to… I need to go.”

He feels their eyes on him as he leaves the dining room, but nobody tries to stop him.

***

Dick doesn’t manage to get Bruce a name that night. Or the next.

Someone else does.

“Batman?” Oracle’s synthetic voice catches him in the evening, still in the cave with police scanners on one screen, the Arkham files on another, and the feed from Joker’s rooms playing live to Bruce's left. The blank screen on his far right glares to life seemingly on its own, and presents him with another Arkham personnel file.

“I believe this is the man you’re looking for.”

Bruce isn’t even surprised at this point to discover that Oracle can hack into his own private system, even with the new security measures in place. He sighs. “Is there a point to asking how you did that?”

“Nope.” The digitally-altered voice carries a hint of smugness. “No point in asking how I know you’re investigating Arkham, either. Your best bet right now is just to accept that I know everything.”

Bruce remembers Clark’s reassurance, and his quiet, You can trust Oracle. He’s still reluctant to take it at face value, but he looks at the file anyway, noting the name - Andrew Lautner - his age, and the dates of the man’s employment at Arkham.

“Contract terminated due to injury,” he reads aloud. “There’s no description of the accident.”

“Exactly,” Oracle confirms. “But if you check the records at Gotham General, you’ll discover that a man named Andrew Lautner was admitted that very same night with an injury that... shall we say... matches the Joker story.”

Bruce checks the dates again. If they're accurate, then that means the incident happened four years ago. “Do you have the file?”

“Here you go.” Lautner’s Arkham file blinks out, and is replaced with his hospital records.

Everything checks out. Jesus, it checks out. Bruce looks at the man’s face, and feels very, very cold.

“Where is he now?” he demands.

“Dead.”

“What?”

“He’s dead,” Oracle repeats. “He left Gotham as soon as he was discharged. Changed his name to Allen Smith. Five months later they found him dead in New York. Joker gas.”

Bruce stares at the file. He feels numb, a familiar sense of detachment creeping up on him along with the cold fingers of the kind of pointed, subdued anger - not so much the flailing, chaotic fire, but a pointed arrow made of ice. He pieces the events together: the rumors, the dates, the injury.

“It was revenge,” he whispers.

“Maybe,” Oracle allows. “He died during one of Joker's escapes. And he wasn’t the only one.”

Seven other employee files jump onto the screen. All of them are men, most of them white, aged from around 25 to 50. Bruce recognizes five of them from his visits to Arkham over the years.

“All of these men were found dead in their apartments shortly after leaving Arkham," Oracle explains. "Some of them in Gotham and some, like Lautner, in other cities under fake names. Not all were killed with Joker gas, but they were all murdered, no question about that. The investigations went nowhere in the cases where Joker gas wasn't involved.”

Bruce stares at the files. “How —”

“I’m good at spotting patterns,” Oracle says succinctly. “And all these men worked at Joker’s ward at one point or another.”

And now they’re all dead. Which isn’t at all unusual for Arkham employees, but…

“They all worked at Arkham at roughly the same time as Lautner,” Oracle points out. Bruce nods. He’s noticed that, too.

“Can you get me names of other employees from that period?”

“You have one right under your nose. Benjamin Carter quit his job at Arkham a few weeks after the Lautner incident.”

Bruce frowns. Carter was the one who first tried to wheel Joker away after Bruce got too close in the garden, triggering the chain reaction of disaster. With his history, it makes sense that he’d be extra careful around Joker. Curiously though, even with Joker making it clear he remembers the man from Arkham, Carter's presence alone didn’t seem to trigger him — he only reacted with violence when Carter tried to impose his will on him.

That, and the fact that he’s still alive, seems to point to his innocence in whatever it was the other men did. Even so, he might know something, and Bruce makes a mental note to stop him for a chat when he finishes his shift in a couple of hours.

“It may not be what you think it is,” Oracle warns after a moment. “They may have been decent men who didn’t laugh at his joke, or withheld his pudding. The clown’s killed for less.”

“Lautner’s injury says otherwise,” Bruce says. He hesitates, and then makes himself add, “Thank you for your help.”

“I’m not doing this for you or the clown,” Oracle snaps, the barb detectable even through the masking effects. “I’ll be in touch if I find anything else. Oracle out.”

Bruce glances at the Joker feed. Joker's out on the balcony, sitting in a fort of pillows and blankets by the wall, wrapped up tight despite the warm weather and gazing out at the distant glow of Gotham beyond the woods. His face is wan, tight, shaded with the deep charcoal of anxiety, exhaustion and lingering anger. His fingers scratch absently down the sides of his face, one two three, one two three, and his lips move in a jamble of words too quiet for the cameras to catch.

Bruce thinks back to him in Arkham - in his sparse, dark cell, wearing the coarse jumpsuit - and thinks of everything he's seen on Nisha's pendrive.

Of the cuts, and everything the feeds didn't show.

What have you done, he asks the pale figure on the screen. What have they done?

“Master Bruce?” Alfred calls from the top of the staircase. “I brought refreshments. And your daily dose of nagging.”

Bruce sighs. “Can we do a raincheck on the nagging? I’m… busy.”

“Yes, I can see that. Gazing forlornly at our guest, even though it was you who decided to banish yourself from his presence, must burn a heroic amount of calories.”

“Alfred.”

“Hence, refreshments.” Alfred sets down a plate of Bruce’s favorite pastries and a vegetable shake. “To replenish all that energy you expel on brooding. And what’s this?” He points to the files from Oracle, one eyebrow riding up. “I thought you already had all the intelligence from the good doctor memorized.”

“This isn’t from Dr. Mulligan,” Bruce explains quietly. “It’s from Oracle.”

“Oh.” Alfred is silent for a spell, and then asks, “Had a little chat with her, did you, Master Bruce?”

“Just now, yes. And I’d really like to know how the hell she keeps hacking into my systems no matter what I do.”

“Maybe she’s just better than you.”

“Thanks for that, Alfred.”

Alfred gives Bruce's shoulder a fond pat. “Anytime, Master Bruce. So, do you have any idea as to who she might be?”

“Well…” Bruce hesitates for a moment, reaching for the shake. But Alfred has always been his primary sounding board, so eventually he decides to share. “I suspect it might be Lois Lane.”

“… Lois Lane,” Alfred echoes.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Bruce looks up to search for a confirmation in Alfred’s face, which, as if to spite him, remains infuriatingly blank. “It was Clark who told me to trust her. He was the one who told me she’s a woman. And Lois is a celebrated journalist with a network of connections and resources that could be easily utilized to aid the crimefighters. She has access to LexCorp technologies, too. Maybe she decided to start helping Clark in more tangible ways.”

For a moment, Alfred says nothing. His blank expression isn’t quite as effortless as usual, though — there's a strain to it, manifesting in lines breaking around Alfred’s eyes and a tightening to his mouth.

“Well,” he says at length, “this is certainly… a sound theory, sir.”

“You’re not convinced.”

“Miss Lane is a very busy woman, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, then takes a moment to clear his throat. “Could she really spare the time for this sort of… activity?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce admits. “But she’s my only suspect so far.”

“The only one?”

Bruce narrows his eyes at him. “Alfred, are you trying to tell me something?”

“Good heavens, no. Far be it from me to tell you anything, sir. You’re the detective in this family.” But there’s sharpness to Alfred's sarcasm, and an edge that goes beyond the usual verbal sparring, and when he bows, the gesture is stiffly exaggerated. “Now, if that is all, I think there’s silver upstairs in need of my polishing expertise.”

“Alfred —”

“I will tell you this, sir: get some sleep. Fifteen-minute naps can only get you so far, and believe me, the clown isn't going anywhere. Maybe once you get some proper rest you'll be able to see things more… clearly.”

Bruce chooses not to comment on that, which is moot anyway since Alfred is already on his way back up the stairs. Bruce watches him go, sipping on the shake, and then turns his eyes and mind alike back to Joker.

Who's still on the balcony. His head hangs low now, hidden in his knees and arms, and his fingers rake through his hair, twitchy, anxious, sharp. Something jerks in his body - could be laughter, could be something else entirely.

And Bruce is not prepared for how much the sight of it hurts.

Fiercely, he wishes he could just… go. Get to him. Maybe disable the force field around the balcony for long enough to lower himself onto it, to perch down beside Joker. Sit next to him. Ask him, gently.

Why did you kill these men? What happened at Arkham? What did they do?

In Bruce's imagination, Joker would make a big show of turning his back on him, maybe tell him to go away. But then he’d thaw and scoot closer, and Bruce would take his hands in his, and press in, and ease the anxious twitches away. And then perhaps Joker would rest his head on Bruce’s shoulder like he did the last time they were this close, and Bruce would open up his arm, and…

He closes his eyes. His hands come up to try and rub the fantasy clean from his mind.

He’s just learned that Joker killed even more people than he’d thought, and that’s how he chooses to react? Joker was right. They need a break. Bruce has become far too comfortable with him.

Still, the urge to come up to the balcony doesn’t let up. Not when Bruce launches himself back into his work, and not when he finally gives up and goes to put on the suit. The mental image of him and Joker sitting together on the balcony persists like a tick sucking deep into his skin, and he has to remind himself, No. No. No. Two more weeks, that was the deal.

He’s too tired and shaken to wonder why it’s getting so difficult to resist.

***

Carter looks surprised to see him waiting in full armor by the guard exit to the Manor. If Lakeisha is, she doesn’t let it show, and brushes past Bruce with a nod and not much else.

“Thought you were taking a break,” Carter says, lingering. “The new shift are already upstairs if you wanna —”

“I want to talk to you,” Bruce tells him.

“Oh.” Carter doesn’t look at all happy with this development. But then he shrugs, and comes to stand to the side of the staircase so he can lean his back against the wall and light a cigarette. He settles in with a quiet, “Sure,” and offers Bruce a smoke.

When Bruce declines, Carter smirks, and looks up at the sky. “I’d like to cut right down to the chase if you don’t mind,” he says. “Wife’s waiting. She’ll rant my head off if I’m late.”

“Works for me,” Bruce says. “How well did you know Andrew Lautner?”

Carter stares at him for a moment, and mutters, “Well, shit.”

Bruce watches him as Carter takes a long drag, his gaze plunging down to examine the tips of his polished shoes nestled in the neatly-trimmed grass. His hands shake just a bit before he gets a grip on himself. “You’re onto that, huh?” he asks quietly.

“Right now I’m trying to determine what that is.”

“A dirty goddamn mess,” Carter tells him bleakly. He glances up at Bruce before letting his eyes drop again. “That's what it is, Bats. Me, I tried to stay away. I don’t know much, I’m gonna tell you that right now.”

“I already know Lautner is dead. I’m trying to determine what happened.”

“The only guys who know for sure are the ones who were there,” Carter tells him. “All the rest of us got were rumors, and the sight of that idiot Lautner taken out on a gurney, his crotch bleeding through the sheet, and the Joker shut in solitary for three months.”

Bruce closes his eyes. He breathes, “So it’s true.”

“I’m not even gonna ask how you know about it, but yeah, it’s true. The cover-up job on that one was masterclass." Carter's voice drops to something low and dark. "It’s not like anyone cares what goes on at Arkham as long as the crazies stay put, and you learn to expect the clown will find a way to maim and maul every once in a while, so normally, they don’t bother. But… shit, a scene like that? There should be questions, at the very least. But none came. No press, no police, no nothing.”

Bruce’s voice hardens. “What do you know?”

“Like I said, not much,” Carter insists. “Why do you think I’m still alive? I stayed well away from the high risk freaks. That place is like a fishbowl though, so I… heard stuff. Stuff about the clown. About how if he liked a guard enough, he would try to get the guy to fuck him. It’s possible,” he carries on, oblivious to the blaze suddenly exploding to life in Bruce’s gut. “There’s places where the surveillance don’t reach. Your standard broom closet, old passages, the cells in the subbasements. And people said Lautner was one of those guys for a while. That didn’t work out so well for either of them though, huh.”

“Is that… accepted?” Bruce asks quietly, trying and failing to contain the fury worming into his face and threatening to leak through the cracks.

His mind flashes him images of Lautner, the picture from the personnel file, with Joker. Inside a filthy broom closet, together. Bodies pressed close, hands touching, lips meeting, Joker laughing, and dropping his pants, and turning, and bending over —

The beast in his chest roars and wants out, and Bruce has to tell himself, Stop it. Stop it. Not now.

By the wall, out here in the cool night air of the real world, Carter shrugs. “Not on paper," he says. "But in practice? Yeah, more or less. Place like that, you wanna find something to keep you from going crazy. You want something to take the edge off. The inmates and the guards, they’re all stewing in that hellhole together, and sometimes it’s ‘us vs them’ and sometimes it’s ‘any warm body will do,’ you know? It got so that I couldn’t keep track of who was fucking who. Doctors and nurses. Nurses and guards. Guards and doctors. Inmates and other inmates, and inmates and… well, everyone.”

“Inmates,” Bruce repeats hollowly, “who cannot consent.”

“Yeah,” Carter agrees. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I don’t know how true that is about Lautner and Joker, because frankly, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to even touch the clown. But Andy was one nasty son of a bitch himself, so maybe they clicked over that? But I’m gonna tell you this, Bats, if he really was fucking the Joker, he wasn’t the only one doing it with an inmate. There’s plenty of those poor fuckers in there who are far easier pickings. Psychotic, insecure, scared, you can talk them into basically anything if you're patient enough, and they won’t try to maul you if you get too close. Most are just plain lonely. Many of them will get their kicks anywhere they can, you know? One compliment, one kind word, and they’ll be climbing all over you like a goddamn tree. Plus, you know, half the time they’re all drugged out of their minds anyway. And the kinds of bastards that get jobs at Arkham, they’re not above using that. Taking advantage. Sometimes people got fired, but only when they were stupid enough to get caught in flagrante. As long as no one catches you with your pants down, you’re fine. No one bothers to follow up on rumors. And even if you do get caught and fired there won’t be any criminal charges because, well. You know how the system works.”

Bruce does, God help him. “Names,” he demands. It comes out closer to a bark than anything. “I need names of all the people you remember who took advantage of the inmates.”

“I can’t know for sure, okay?” Carter insists. “I told you, I did my best to stay away from that shit. What I do know, I heard on the grapevine. ‘Sides, lots of those bastards don’t work there no more. Fired, quit or dead, you know the turnover rate that place has. I don’t know who’s who anymore.”

“Names.”

“Well, okay.” Carter studies him carefully, narrowing his eyes through the screen of cigarette smoke. “I’ll get you a list tomorrow. That all?”

“I want you to look at this,” Bruce says, stepping closer and handing Carter a printed list of the other murdered guards. “They all worked on the Joker ward. Do you recognize the names?”

“I knew Jimmy,” Carter allows, squinting at the names. “Donnel. Cartwright. Miller. Kosminsky. Why?”

“Were they good guards?”

“Hell no. They were rotten. I know for sure they took bribes, and smuggled in all kinds of contraband. Drugs, weapons, intel… And I know Cartwright had a thing going with one of the meeker female patients at some point. That’s what got him fired. If you’re looking for bastards to interrogate, they’re a good place to start.”

“They would be,” Bruce agrees coldly, “except they’re all dead.”

“Shit.” Carter lets out a long breath, his eyes going wide. “All of them? Even Jimmy?”

“Yes. And I’m trying to figure out why.”

“The clown?”

“Possibly.”

“Shit. Shit.”

Carter stumbles back, and his hands shake when he takes a long drag on his dwindling cigarette. He stares off into space for a bit, and then his gaze moves up, to the patchwork of light thrown on the grass from Joker’s windows.

“I’m starting to wonder if Lakeisha didn’t have the right idea,” he whispers.

Bruce says nothing. If he opened his mouth now, he might have said I was going to replace you anyway, if only for the fact that Carter obviously knew about the corruption at Arkham and did nothing to stop it. Bruce doesn’t want that kind of person looking after Joker, and he doesn’t want the man’s presence to remind Joker of his Arkham days either. But it’s not like he has crowds of volunteers to pick from, so he makes himself shelf that decision for later.

“I’ll be waiting for that list,” he says quietly. “And anything else you think I should know.”

“Right. Right.” Carter’s hands are still shaking, and he’s still staring up at Joker’s windows.

Bruce uses the opportunity to pull himself up on the grapple, up to the roof. He lands in a spot that gives him a clear view of Joker’s balcony, and he pauses, giving in to the urge to glance down.

Joker's still there. Still huddled in on himself, still swathed in blankets, shaking without seeming aware of it, and looking like the picture of misery. He's so close, and it would be so easy for Bruce to let himself touch down now, and lay his hand down to stroke Joker's dirty hair.

But his thoughts are a mess of red-hot outrage, and Bruce wouldn't trust himself around Joker now even without the self-imposed exile. He needs to give himself time to let the blaze steep, until it crystallizes into the kind of cold, calculating, motivating fury he can mold for his use.

Joker shouldn’t see him like this. It could end… badly.

Still, Bruce can't help but linger on his perch up on the roof for just a little while longer, watching and breathing and hurting. Joker doesn’t let his head lift once — not until the murky sky in the distance suddenly lights up with the familiar shape of the bat-signal.

Both Bruce and Joker look up to it at the same time. Joker sits there watching it for about three heartbeats, and then he jerks to his feet, still wrapped in his purple blanket. He turns away sharply and disappears into the parlor, slamming the balcony doors shut, rattling the panes and Bruce’s heart alike.

Bruce's comm link crackles. Jason’s voice urges, “Batman.”

“I know,” Bruce responds, his eyes tracing the Joker’s shadow as it moves about the parlor. “I’m going down to the cave now.”

As he does, he thinks about what Carter told him, slicing it into bite-sized chunks so he can compartmentalize it. By the time he and Jason get on the road, he's reasonably sure he can keep the rage under lock and key, and not let it out on whoever is stirring mayhem in Gotham tonight.

He’s still no closer to understanding what truly happened than he was before the conversation. But…

The pieces are there. All he needs now is an edge.

***

Though Joker is noticeably more anxious and agitated from day to day — aggressively painting on the walls, exercising, dancing jerkily around the rooms, climbing on furniture, talking to himself nearly all the time — two weeks pass without any major incidents.

It's surprising, but then again, Joker's both stubborn and proud. It seems that he's determined to utilize both those qualities to show Bruce that he isn’t affected by Batman's absence at all, and lets the contrary sentiment propel him through the long, long days.

In some ways, it’s a relief. But it also has Bruce wondering if, out of the two of them, he's the one who has a harder time sticking to his word — and that, on top of everything else, chases all hopes of sleep from his mind for good.

Except, then the third week rolls around. And maybe by then, the stubbornness or pride isn’t enough anymore. Or maybe something else came into play. In any case, something in Joker… breaks.

Bruce gets the word in the middle of the night, right in the thick of battle with Mr. Freeze. The bat signal burns high in the sky, shimmering off the coating of ice that the man in the protective suit spews, trying to dodge Bruce’s batarangs.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred breaks through the haze of action as the comm link activates, “are you just about ready to wrap up?”

His voice is… strange, Bruce notices as he dives under a blast of ice.

Something’s wrong.

“Hopefully,” Bruce pants, trying to get in a position to get a good angle on Fries. “I can’t talk right now, Alfred.”

“Very good.” Alfred hesitates, his voice still tight, on edge. “Still, if you could, ah, speed things up, there’s something…”

“What is it?”

“Actually, sir, don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure we can handle it.”

“Alfred —”

But the connection is already cut, just in time for Bruce to leap out of the way of another blast.

He tries to make quick work of Fries after that, spurned on by the worry now twisting tight over his heart. He doesn’t linger to escort Freeze back to Arkham, trusting that the GCPD will be able to handle it from here. He tries to get back in touch with Alfred as he speeds home with Jason tailing him on his motorbike, but it’s no use. Alfred doesn’t respond.

When Bruce gets close enough to see the Manor ablaze, its many windows lit up in activity like they only ever are for charity functions, his heart lurches and sinks all the way to his feet. It only gets worse when he spots the ambulance parked just outside the front door. He can see silhouettes running back and forth as he swerves up the drive, and he runs up to the third floor almost on autopilot, still in costume, passing busy, determined medical orderlies who pause in their tracks to stare after him.

He gets to the third floor and Joker’s wing just in time to catch Sandra Ramirez, Lakeisha’s replacement, exiting through the outer security doors and letting it slide shut behind her. She looks exhausted, long curly hair escaping from her tight ponytail and her face marked with shadows.

She freezes when she spots him, and her mouth hangs open.

Then, after a moment, she reaches for her walkie-talkie and speaks into it. “Hey, Lee? Will you tell Doctor Mulligan that Batman’s here?”

“Step aside,” Bruce demands, but Ramirez shakes her head, ear pressed into the walkie-talkie.

“Okay.” She sighs, pressing her eyes shut. “Yeah, I’ll tell him. Over.”

She raises her eyes to Bruce, looking small and tired but determined all the same.

“Dr. Mulligan says not to let you in,” she tells Bruce quietly. “Sorry.”

“Step,” Bruce repeats, “Aside.”

Ramirez sighs again, rubbing her temple. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, and it is, Bruce remembers, only her third day here.

“Joker's in no shape to see you, Batman. You won't be any help in there."

"What happened?" Bruce demands, tempted to just shove past her and see for himself, but needing to hear some sort of explanation first.

"He ran into the force field,” Ramirez whispers, hugging herself. “Repeatedly.”

For a moment, it feels like at least one of Fries's blasts hit home after all. Bruce finds it hard to breathe through the shards of ice-cold panick stuck up his throat. “What?”

“He was out on the balcony,” Ramirez explains, looking down at the carpet. “Brooding. He’s been doing that a lot. And then your signal came on, and… something must have happened? Something snapped? I don’t know. One minute Joker was sitting there babbling to himself, and the next he was up on his feet. He touched the force field and it burned his finger. We tried to get him to stop and come back inside, but he just... laughed, and then he did it again." Ramirez shudders. "Then he got angry. Started to pound on it, and… yell stuff, and… and then he threw his whole body at it like he wanted to jump out, and, well, it… it burned him.” She closes her eyes again, like that could help wipe the images out of her mind. She lets out a shaky breath and whispers, “It was horrible.”

Bruce tries to speak, and fails. An orderly runs up the stairs and past him, carrying an armful of ointments and ice packs. He shoots Bruce a fearful look, but shakes it off when Ramirez enters the security code to let him through, and Bruce takes a few steps forward.

“Let me in,” he demands.

Ramirez shakes her head. “Dr. Mulligan’s inside,” she tells him, “and so are the orderlies and two other guards. I think they’ll be taking him to the hospital just as soon as they can move him.”

Bruce swallows. “I want to go with you.”

Ramirez hesitates. “I don’t think that’s a —”

The outer door slides open again, releasing Alfred, pale and jacket-less but collected, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. He pauses when he spots Bruce, and takes care to act surprised before he schools his face into professional neutrality and greets him with a nod. “Ah. Good to see you made it, sir. You’ll be pleased to know that everything is now in hand.”

“I want to see the patient, Mr. Pennyworth,” Bruce demands, struggling not to shout.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. Dr. Mulligan was very strict on that point. You are not to be let in, and you are not to follow the ambulance.”

“But —”

“Loath as I am to refuse our city’s hero anything,” Alfred insists, a note of steel settling in his voice, “we do have the situation under control. We don’t need any further assistance. And the inmate is in no state to appreciate your presence anyway, so there’s no need to waste valuable time haunting the corridor… sir.”

He strides past Bruce with a meaningful glance, and reluctantly, Bruce follows him, though not without considerable internal struggle. Once they find themselves out of the way, Alfred whispers, “You'll find the footage in the cave, no doubt. I’d tell you not to watch it, but I’d only be wasting my breath. I'll need to see our guests out, so let me reiterate, Master Bruce: you will not follow the ambulance, is that clear?”

“We’ll see about that,” Bruce snaps.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred stops him from stalking away with a firm hand on his arm, squeezing through the cape. “I’m serious. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re very likely the cause of tonight’s kerfuffle, and I cannot imagine that seeing your face even as he’s transported to a venue not associated with you will in any way help the Joker pull himself together. In this, Dr. Mulligan is quite right. You’re worried and you feel responsible, but just this once, please trust other people to know what they’re doing.”

Bruce works his throat, and thinks back to the Arkham files. He thinks of the electroshocks, the sham therapies, the beatings, the abuse. He thinks of Andrew Lautner.

“I can’t,” he manages, and it comes out closer to a sob. He can’t trust anyone with Joker anymore. Not after…

He just can’t.

Some of the edge in Alfred’s face melts away. His grip softens, and he smoothes his hand down Bruce’s arm. “I’m sorry, Master Bruce,” he says, gently. “It really is for the best. For both of you.”

Bruce doesn’t have it in him to respond. He lets his head drop, and pulls away.

***

He doesn’t exactly follow the ambulance, in the end. But he uses Joker’s bracelet to track its progress and determine which room they put him in. Then, he gets in the car, swings onto the roof, peers into the windows of Gotham General until he finds the right room, and doesn’t leave until he's absolutely sure that the place is safe.

He can’t see much of Joker himself. The clown is heavily sedated, which, judging from the amount of bandages covering him, is probably a good thing. He looks small and pathetic lying there in the spacious hospital bed, alone in the dark room amid the quiet thrum of machines, and Bruce finds it much too hard to make himself leave.

I’ll be back, he promises both Joker and himself as he gets back on the road. Soon.

***

They keep Joker there for a week, and Bruce comes to check on him twice every night. By the time they discharge him and transport him back to the Manor, Bruce is a nervous wreck, and he’s pacing the cave impatiently until it’s safe for him to go up, at which point he all but runs to the third floor.

He's got so much he wants to say to Joker. So much he wants to ask. He's got the lines prepared, and they all crowd on his lips as he punches in the code and waits on pins and needles for the doors to open.

"Joker —"

“Go away,” Joker says quietly as soon as Bruce comes in through the door. He has his back to Bruce, standing there in thin pajamas and gazing out the windows, bandages and band-aids still covering patches of healing skin.

Bruce freezes mid-step as though he's been hit. He might as well have been, for the effect Joker's words have on him — the pain of them punches like a physical thing, all the stronger for how little Bruce expected it.

“Joker.”

“I'm serious, Bats. Go. I don’t want you here.”

Bruce waits for one, two, three minutes more, struggling to accept it. He doesn't want to. He wants to stay right where he is and demand that Joker turn around and face him, and hear him out.

Except.

Except Joker's asked him to leave, and Bruce still has Arkham fresh on his mind.

Consent, he thinks. That's what they're building this whole thing on. That's what he needs to remember. Arkham never respected it, and Bruce must do better.

So he leaves, before Joker can ask him a third time.

Even though his heart feels like a lump of lead, and even though every instinct he has screams at him to stay.

***

He comes back the next time his scheduled private hour arrives, and this time around, he brings flowers.

He stands there by the door for what seems like ages, holding the Styrofoam bottle with plumes of lilac and forget-me-nots, vivid and bright. Joker stares at him without a word, the whole length of the parlor between them.

When he can't stand the silence anymore, Bruce puts the bottle on the floor and says, “If you want me to leave, I will.”

Joker looks at him, and his eyes burn.

Bruce is staring right back at him, so he catches the exact moment when something in his eyes changes and when, suddenly, Joker's face flashes with something hard and fast and tight, going from shut-off to nakedly desperate in less than a blink.

Just like that, Joker's all movement, starting forward and jumping over the sofa. He breaches the length of the room in just a few wide leaps, closing the distance between them, and Bruce hardly has the time to lock his muscles, expecting an attack.

That... is not what happens.

Instead, next thing Bruce knows, skinny arms and legs come up fierce and close to locking around his neck and middle. Joker's skinny body presses up against his. Green hair pushes into his mouth, and his nose rushes with the scent of citrus and acid and burn salve. He stumbles backward before he catches himself, and he manages to hold Joker up on pure instinct before he realizes what's happened.

“I hate you,” Joker whispers into Bruce even as he presses his face to the crook of his neck, between the hard and unyielding armor plates, hugging onto him for all he’s worth. “God, I hate you so much, you giant, stubborn, self-righteous idiot.”

The flowers lay in a sad heap now, scattered all over the floor, the Styrofoam bottle kicked over, the water spilled all over the carpet. Bruce closes his eyes against the sight — it hardly registers as it is. All he can think about now is holding Joker up, his arms hooked around Joker's waist and under his backside, and when he turns his face, the skin of his chin brushes against Joker’s ear, the curls tickling his mouth.

The white skin there is warm. It’s just by Bruce’s lips. Bruce’s head spins with it, with all of it, and he wants to press closer so fiercely he has to bite on his bottom lip to stop himself from brushing it against Joker’s temple.

Yes, he thinks, before regret and guilt can sink in. Yes.

Joker pulls himself even closer, locking in tighter. Bruce responds in kind. He closes his eyes, and listens to the erratic slam of Joker's pulse right under his mouth.

He isn't too sure when he makes the conscious decision to move, but he does eventually, starting forward. Joker clings to him without a word as Bruce slowly navigates his way to the sofa, where he tries to sit backwards, his arms still full of warm, sharp-edged clown. By some miracle, he manages to settle them both without falling over, and Joker never lets go, wriggling until he’s comfortably nestled in Bruce’s lap.

He seems completely heedless of his bandages. But Bruce isn’t, and when his arms come up around Joker again, he’s careful to avoid the burnt spots. He locks one arm around Joker’s back and rests the other in his hair, stroking through it. He breathes out, and lets the moment wash over him along with Joker's scent.

“Why did you do that?” he asks quietly, but Joker shakes his head, pressing closer to Bruce.

“No,” he whispers raspingly, “don’t ruin it. I’m still mad at you but I don’t wanna to talk, so just — let’s just —”

He nuzzles Bruce’s neck. Bruce hums in agreement, and holds him close.

They sit like that in silence, holding each other, breathing the hour away. At some point, their heartbeats sync into a familiar rhythm, and Bruce closes his eyes as he hides his mouth in Joker’s shoulder.

He could fall asleep like that, he realizes even as something pricks hot under his eyelids. In here. Lulled by the count of his enemy’s breath, touched by the smell of citrus and acid.

The thought is warm, like bedsheets after a restful night. Bruce doesn’t have it in him to rationalize it away.

***

"Well?" Dick asks, waiting for him out in the corridor when Bruce finally makes his way out. "Did you talk to him?"

"No," Bruce snaps, moving past him. It comes out cold and harsh, but he can't help it. He doesn't have the strength to talk to Dick, or anyone. He's far too shaken for that.

"Are you going to?" Dick presses, falling into step behind him.

"Not now, Dick. I need to —"

He isn't even sure what. To think, probably. To get his head in order.

To stop thinking about Joker's arms around him, and how much he wants to go back in there, and feel them again.

"I'll be in the gym," he tells Dick. "Tell Alfred he can bring the food up there. I won't be coming down."

"Okay," Dick says, quietly, and stops. He doesn't follow Bruce any further.

Bruce spends the rest of the evening working his body all the way to the edge of exhaustion, and then right past it. It helps some, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

Joker is still all he can think about hours later, lying there on the mats sweaty and worn out and aching. When he closes his eyes, they swim with images of white skin and green hair and burns.

He wants to go back there. He wants to take Joker in his arms again. He wants —

And that's precisely why he can't.

***

It's another few days of frustration, confusion and thinking himself in circles before Bruce finally finds the edge he’s been missing.

Just not in a form he expected.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says politely, sticking his head into the study where Bruce is busy parsing through the materials he and Dick have slowly been amassing. It’s still far from a breakthrough, but they’re gradually getting the suspects rounded up, the case against them building night after night into something they could perhaps present to Jim with reasonable assurance that something would be done.

“Yes?” Bruce responds without lifting his gaze from the documents.

“You have a visitor.”

“Tell them I’m not home.”

“Normally I would, sir, but… Let’s just say that this is someone you'll definitely want to see.”

“Alfred, I’m busy.”

“Just trust me on this one, sir.”

Bruce sighs, sitting back in his chair and squinting up into the sunlight streaming through the windows. “Fine.”

It’ll be good to stretch the stiffness out of his back after hours of sitting, anyway, he thinks as he rolls his shoulders and turns his aching neck to the sides. Maybe once he deals with whoever's out there, he'll go for a run. Clear his head a bit, so he can sit back down to work with a fresh perspective.

He's still thinking about that as he follows Alfred out of the study, and then almost walks right into Alfred's back as the butler stops just beyond the door.

Then, Alfred steps aside to make way for him. And just like that, all thoughts of running — or even Arkham — scatter like so much smoke.

Oh, God.

"Hi, Bruce."

“Barbara,” Bruce whispers.

Barbara Gordon is right there, in the corridor outside his study, with Dick and Jason standing guard behind her. In a wheelchair, looking beautiful — and fierce as ever — with her long flaming hair swept in a severe ponytail and thin-rimmed glasses over her eyes. She looks up Bruce with a stern, unflinching, thin-mouthed expression that's almost aggressively determined, and the sight of her takes Bruce’s breath away.

He hasn’t seen her in… God, how long has it been? He doesn’t even remember. Suddenly the weight of all those months crashes down on him, and the guilt threatens to swallow him whole right where he stands.

Jesus, Barbara.

She doesn’t give him the time to regain his balance. Her eyes flash with a hard, unforgiving gleam, and she demands, “I want to see him.”

Bruce takes a moment to blink, and parse her words. That, finally, jolts him enouh that he finds something resembling a voice.

“I’m not sure that —”

“Bruce,” she cuts him off, cold and relentless, “Don’t even try. I’m ready, okay? It's taken me months, but I am, and I need to do this. I need to face him. I have a right to face him. Now, you can either step aside and let Dick take me there, or you can come with me. Those are your only options.”

They all stand there and look at him: Dick, Jason, Alfred, Barbara. A united front, waiting to see what he'll do, what he'll say, ready to fight him on this if need be. Fight against him. And he loves them, all of them, but he doesn’t remember the last time he felt this acutely alone.

He looks into Barbara’s eyes, searching them, and finds nothing but bravery. Nothing but steel. Nothing to belay her words, and hint at vulnerability underneath.

She's right, he realizes. She does deserve this. Bruce has no right to hold this back from her.

“Alright,” he says.

Barbara looks surprised by that, obviously gearing up for a longer argument. But then some of the tension easies from her face, just enough that Bruce notices, and she nods. “Let’s go,” she says.

Bruce begins to move behind the wheelchair, next to Dick, but Barbara's faster, and starts pushing herself down the corridor without their help. Dick exchanges a look with Bruce and they all fall into step behind her, Jason trudging behind them, Alfred leading the way to Joker’s wing.

Bruce isn't wearing the batsuit, so they have to wait for one of the guards to come down and escort them in. Soon as Winston steps into the corridor, Barbara waves a piece of paper in his face.

"This is a statement from my father, Commissioner Gordon," she announces. "He's granting me permission to see the prisoner."

Patient, Bruce wants to interject, but he's got enough self-control to hold it in. Winston takes some time to examine the paper. He glances to Barbara, then down to her chair.

"You sure about this, Miss?"

Barbara's eyes turn stormy as she tells him, "Open that goddamn door."

The air grows tense and thick as Winston sighs, turns around and reluctantly enters the code, telling Joker through the speaker to back all the way to the balcony door.

The door slides open. They file into the room, Winston first with his cattle prod in hand, then Barbara, then Bruce and Dick bringing up the rear. Jason holds back in the corridor, and so does Alfred. Joker is already waiting for them by the windows, as instructed, and wears a studied expression of mild curiosity — until his eyes land on Barbara.

Don't say anything, Bruce begs him in his thoughts, staring at him with an intensity he hopes will distract Joker. Please, just this once. Don't make it worse.

Joker opens his mouth, his bright, sparkling, cruel eyes still locked on Barbara, and Bruce almost wants to pounce on him to put his own hand over his lips to shut him up before it's too late.

Except, then, as if the sheer condensed power of Bruce's desperation compels him to, Joker glances up to him. And maybe some of Bruce's plea made it to his face. Maybe Joker reads it as a warning. Or maybe he's haunted by the memory of their hug as much as Bruce is, and doesn't quite want to ruin that tentative beginning to a new, fragile truce between them again so soon.

In any case, whatever it is, it works. The cold, provocative spark goes out of Joker's eyes. His mouth falls shut again, and his smirk drops away into something careful, distant and guarded. Whatever cruel thing he was going to say dies on his lips when he looks back to Barbara, and he stands there by the windows, waiting for her move.

Bruce can't see Barbara's face from this angle — just the back of her head. So he can't tell what sort of expression she's wearing. But the rigid line of her shoulders and back, and the charged, loaded texture of her silence, tell the story well enough that he thinks he can imagine it, which doesn't make standing there behind her, doing nothing, any easier.

Especially when the silence lingers, and builds, getting more difficult to stand with every second measured out by their careful, heavy breath.

And then Barbara says, quietly, “You took nothing from me. Do you hear me? Nothing.”

She doesn't hang around for Joker's reaction. The moment the words leave her mouth, she turns as fast as she can and makes for the door, somehow managing to make it look proud and dignified — less like a retreat, and more like Joker's reaction is of no interest to her whatsoever, and like she refuses to waste another second in his company.

Dick follows with a guarded, lingering look at Joker. Bruce is the last to leave, and takes a moment to glance over his shoulder.

Joker sees them off with a smirk now back and settled firmly on his face, and the cruel spark is back in his eyes. He sketches a bow in Barbara’s direction, but his eyes are on Bruce, and the message is clear.

He's done this for Bruce. He's held himself back for Bruce, and him alone. You're welcome, darling.

Bruce studies him, and then forces a nod — curt, and cold. It's as much of a thank you as he can afford.

He steps outside without glancing back again. The moment he does, and the moment the door shuts behind him, sealing Joker on the other side, it feels like an invisible hand released its grip on his lungs. He stands there and just lets himself breathe for a bit, heavy and relieved all at once.

He doesn’t know why, but it feels like they’ve all just passed a very important test that he didn’t even know was coming.

“I did it,” Barbara whispers, clutching Dick’s hand as he strokes his hand down her hair.

“You did, Babs,” Dick agrees, warm and gentle, kneeling beside her wheelchair. “You did it, and now it’s over. It’s over. You did it.”

“I feel like I'm gonna throw up,” Barbara confesses, and gives a wet, breathless little laugh before giving up on it and just taking in gulps of air to calm herself down. “Oh God, it feels so… I don’t even know.”

"Awesome, I should think," Jason comments from the sidelines, giving Barbara a lopsided grin. "Way to go, Babs. You showed that fucking clown who's boss."

Alfred comes up to face her too, and bends down to hug her, saying, “It’s so good to see you here again, Barbara. I'm so very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Alfred." Barbara hugs him back, and once again, watching them, Bruce feels the dull sting of loneliness cutting him open. He wants to come up to Barbara, too, to congratulate her, and tell her how proud he truly, genuinely is.

But he doesn’t know if she’ll accept it from him. He doesn’t know if he has the right.

So he stands to the side and gives them the time they need to let the moment sink in, to process it and breathe and laugh and hold each other through it. He watches them, and aches in silence.

Until Barbara turns to him with an expression that brims with pain and pride in equal measure, and lets out a long exhale, and holds out her hand.

“Come here, you big baby,” she tells him, just a bit too loud. “I can’t believe I’m saying that, but I missed you.”

Slowly, trying to swallow against the bile in his throat, Bruce comes up to kneel by her chair and takes her hand. He squeezes it, hard. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She gives him a smile that’s more bitter than sweet, and, after a heartbeat, she opens her arms. Bruce lets himself be hugged, briefly, and returns it as much as he thinks he’s allowed. Neither of them is ready for more.

Still, this is… enough. More than enough. Some of the weight lifts from his heart, and he feels that, for the second time this week, he’s on the path to being forgiven.

As it turns out, though, Barbara isn't quite done with him yet. The moment Bruce steps away, she tucks some of the wayward strands of hair behind her ear, glances briefly at Dick, and then turns back to Bruce with some of that determination bleeding back into her eyes.

“There’s something else I want to do,” she says quietly. “We're gonna have to get down to the cave for that.”

Bruce nods, surprised. “Of course.”

Dick, Jason and Alfred don’t join them on the way down; they hang back, watching the two of them leave. Barbara doesn’t comment on that, as though this is something they've agreed on beforehand. Once again Bruce gets the acute feeling that he's being ganged up on, and he has no idea what to make of it.

But Barbara doesn't speak on the way to the cave, so he doesn't, either. They take the elevator down to the cave in silence, tension lingering between them still, even despite the hug. Bruce knows better than to hope that things would mend between them this quickly. For now, he’s relieved and grateful for the first step.

Once down, Barbara makes straight for the computer without waiting for Bruce to help her. She stops by the controls and turns to face him, the glare of the computer reflected in her glasses.

It comes before Bruce can stop it: the memory of the last time she was here. Standing tall and proud and fearsome in her very own suit, her legs strong, ready to carry her to fly over the rooftops.

Barbara’s smile is small and fragile, and Bruce imagines she’s thinking about that, too.

“Let’s not,” she whispers. “I cried enough over it as it is. That time's over, and that’s that.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce repeats, and she shakes her head, closing her eyes.

“Stop,” she commands. “Okay? Just — I don’t want to do this. I didn’t come here so I could wallow in self-pity, or so I could... I don't know, yell at you, and feed into your martyr complex. I meant what I said back there, Bruce. Joker may have taken away… a part of me, yes. A part that I loved." She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again, her voice comes out firm and steady. "But there’s more to me than that. And this is what I came down here to show you.”

She turns to the computers without another word. She enters the password Bruce uses, the only one with maximum clearance. And then, she starts tearing her way through file after file, folder after folder, with a destination that, once Bruce realizes what she’s doing, becomes coldly, frighteningly clear.

“Barbara,” he tries.

She doesn’t turn. She keeps breezing through his security like it’s a set of riddles in a five-year-old’s workbook. The clicks of the keyboard rattle off like gunshots into the cave, merciless, inevitable. Barbara only stops when she arrives at the one folder Bruce had hoped no one would ever be able to uncover.

The one with the Joker tape.

“How did you do that,” he breathes, though — through the furious drumming of his heart — he thinks he already knows.

“I told you,” Barbara says quietly, without turning around. “There’s more to me than that. I can do so much more than just be Batgirl. Dick went off and found his own identity separate from you, and… Well, and so did I.”

Bruce can’t speak. His eyes burn, and he feels so goddamn stupid he wishes he could travel back in time and grab himself by the shoulders to shake and shake and shake until he’d see sense.

“You’re Oracle,” he manages.

“Yeah.” Barbara's voice comes out tinged with a bitter smirk. “Bravo, detective.”

Bruce’s throat wants to close up again. He comes up to stand next to Barbara, keeping his arms stiffly at his sides.

“Does Dick know?” he asks quietly.

“He does. So do Alfred and Jason, and a few others.”

“Clark?”

“Sure. You do realize the guy can see through walls, right?”

The urge to kick himself into oblivion only grows. He should have known. Jesus. He should have known.

“Dick and Jason lent me some money to get the equipment I needed,” Barbara tells him, softly. Stiffly. “Alfred helped, too. They gave me access to your servers. So I guess you don’t have to worry. Your security isn’t all that shoddy to someone from the outside.”

When Bruce, far too overcome, says nothing, she turns and touches his hand. “Look, just — Don’t be mad at them. They were trying to help. And they did, tremendously. Without them I’d… I'd never have gotten that far.”

“But you didn’t want to involve me,” Bruce whispers hollowly.

“No. And I think you understand why.”

“I do.” Bruce tries to get his voice under control, and looks at the folder on the screen.

Barbara is silent for a moment. She says, “You've always underestimated me. I gotta say, it felt good running circles around you for once, keeping you in the dark. I enjoyed it more than I probably should have.”

“And…” Bruce takes a breath, and struggles to force the words out. “And this?”

“Yes.” Barbara sighs, slumping her shoulders, dropping her gaze. “Let’s talk about this, shall we? That one thing you locked under layers and layers of passwords? You do realize what this looks like, right?”

“I —”

“Because to me, it kinda looks like you’re a middle schooler hiding his very first dirty mag under the bed,” she says, sharp and cutting, a challenge written all over her face. “And then you didn’t even watch it.”

Bruce opens his mouth. He closes it. Fuck.

“Did you?” he asks.

“Yes. Because I’m not afraid. Not of him. Not anymore. And I'm certainly not of sex, either. I watched that, and pretty much everything else, including the stuff you got from his shrink. And you haven’t. If you had, you’d have gotten on the Arkham investigation so much sooner, and certain people would already be out of jobs.”

“What?”

“Why haven’t you watched it, Bruce?” Barbara presses, hard and unyielding, glaring up at him. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Barbara —”

“You’ve seen him naked. Hell, you washed his hair for him, and yeah, I’ve seen that little shitshow, too. What is it about him being sexual that scares you so much?”

Bruce stares down at her. His mind is little more than a scream right now, and he does his best to grasp for words but he stumbles, and finds only fear, and cold, cold sweat, and a heart that beats so hard and loud that it pushes out everything else. Barbara keeps up the eye-contact relentlessly, never letting him back into a corner, never letting him escape, and under her sharp gaze, Bruce feels flayed open, naked, everything wrong and dark and evil about him laid completely bare.

She can read the answer in his face. In his heart. She won’t be fooled.

Unlike Bruce, she doesn’t need to be.

“Watch it,” she tells him after the silence stretches too tight for either of them to endure for a second longer. “If you’re serious about putting Arkham to rights, you'll do this. And whatever it is you’re afraid of… well, maybe it’s time you face it. This stupid little game of yours has been going on for long enough. You owe him that, and you owe yourself, too. Denial won’t get you much further.”

“Barbara…”

“Alfred will patch up a two-way link between us so you can contact me when you need me,” she says, slipping into a cold, impersonal tone, pushing away from the computer. “I’ll keep working on the Arkham case with Dick. He’ll drive me home now."

She starts to make her way to the elevator. Bruce watches her over the chaos swimming in his mind, and manages to get enough of a grip to call out, “Tell me what you need. Equipment, computers, a workshop. I’ll pay for all of it and help you as much as I can.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” She turns and wheels herself backwards into the elevator. “This hasn’t been easy for me, I hope you appreciate that.”

“I do.” And before she can disappear, Bruce tells her again, “I really am sorry.”

She tries to smile, and doesn’t quite make it. Then, the elevator closes on her and begins to climb, taking her with it. Leaving Bruce alone.

He looks up at the folder, and bites down on his lips, still hesitating. Still sweating, still feeling like his heart would fly out through his mouth if he only opened it a fraction. Still trying to reason himself out of this, even now.

He collapses into his chair, stares at the folder for another few seconds, and then bangs a fist against the casing, startling the bats above.

Goddammit. God fucking damn it.

He gives himself another moment, just to breathe. Just to gulp in lungfuls of cold cave air, enough so his heart settles into something that isn't calm, exactly — far from it — but that no longer threatens to send him into a cardiac arrest.

And then he clicks play.

The recording starts from the beginning: Joker jumping on the bed, whining and complaining, and sending himself into a near-panic attack. Bruce watches it all play out all over again, nearly breathless with his own panic and the anxious anticipation. Knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it any easier, and if anything, from the way his hands are sweating, going through with it now probably isn’t a good idea.

But he doesn't turn it off, and resists the urge to skip forward. He makes himself sit through all of the build-up, trying to understand Joker's frame of mind.

It doesn't help that the entire scene feels like it happened ages ago.

You can do this, he tells himself. He remembers the long, long hug he and Joker shared just a few days ago, and he thinks, well, maybe Barbara was right about this. Maybe it really has been too long, and maybe that's what made the tape so looming and scary in Bruce's mind. Maybe it’s time to confront… whatever this is, and maybe if he does, it'll make things easier going forward...

Except Bruce knows it won't. Except, deep down, he knows what's really at stake here, and why he's resisted this for so long, and what it might mean if he finds himself... reacting.

He thinks he's known that for years. He just pretended he didn't, because it was easier that way. Because it meant that he could...

That he could indulge the way he did for so long, so that their dance could go on. Undisturbed. Uninterrupted.

Unchanged.

He isn't ready to confront that. Isn't ready to face the truth, to look his own ugliness in the face and live with the consequences. Isn't ready to have all the carefully constructed and compartmentalized delusions he's worked so hard on, over all these years, stripped away from him now in one fell swoop, the way he suspects they will be in a matter of moments.

Especially since they're already damaged. And badly. All those little moments between him and Joker, chipping away at his walls, little by little, exposing layer after layer after layer, and he's let them, because he's been too weak not to. The hug, the jealousy, Joker's hands in his, green hair between his fingers, the kiss burning on his cheek, soft eyes and laughter and Darling.

The need to be close. To protect, to control. To touch.

He's had excuses for all of it, but they're wearing thinner and thinner with each new thing. With each new indulgence Bruce tries to rationalize away, only to have it expose more of him, and make him weaker still. Making it more and more difficult to cling to everything he's been telling himself was the truth, just so he could live with himself.

There aren't all that many layers left. He's barely holding on. This...

This could be the thing that brings it all down.

But if Barbara's right, there's vital information here that could turn the tide for Arkham and all her patients, not just Joker. It could mean justice, and reform, and the edge Bruce needs to bring them about.

And that means more than his fear.

It has to.

Still, even with that thought forced to the front of his mind, he almost pauses the recording again when Joker lays himself out on the bed and starts pressing his hand against the zipper.

No, he snaps at his own mind. No. No more cowardice. He'll see this through, and whatever happens... happens.

He fixes his eyes to the screen until they start to water, and keeps his hands rigidly on the keyboard.

On the screen, Joker is touching himself, the shirt falling open over his chest, fingers whispering over skin in a series of teasing touches that look like they tantalize more than relieve. His other hand, though, presses down over his crotch, rubbing slowly up and down the zipper, going harder with each long stroke.

“Okay, you can stop that now,” says Winston’s voice through the speaker.

“Stop? Now? Just as I’m getting started?” Joker bats his eyelashes, lifting his back off the bed so he can make a show of skimming his hand down the zipper, past the growing bulge, so he can cup his balls through the material. “I don’t think so, my darlings. Now, you can watch or you can turn away, but either way, daddy’s gonna have some fun now.”

“We can electrocute you,” Winston threatens.

“You can,” Joker agrees, easily, winking at the camera. “And then you’ll have to explain to the big bad Bat why you did it. And then won’t you look like a pair of silly blushing geese!”

He laughs, and it hitches when he squeezes through the material again. His face contorts into a grimace caught somewhere between pain and relief.

“Mmm,” he purrs, and stretches, his other hand coming up to comb through and then pull at his own hair. He closes his eyes, slowly rubbing himself up and down through the fabric, back arching off the mattress like he’s posing for an act.

His pants aren’t even open yet, and already it’s one of the most provocative, most erotic displays Bruce has ever seen. The cold sweat is gone now, melted by a flare of heat which starts deep in Bruce's groin and throbs as it spills to all the rest of him.

He should look away. While he still can. The heat is the first warning sign, and it comes at Bruce far stronger, far quicker than he was prepared for. He can't fight it now. He's too weak, and soon, it'll be too late.

Except, it already is. Joker's beginning to shift so he can undo his zipper, and Bruce realizes that no force on Earth short of the apocalypse could make him tear his eyes away.

It’s not that Joker is attractive, as such, with his lean, long build and twig-like thinness and sharp angles, and scarred, disfigured skin, except that… Well, he is. He is. He draws Bruce's eye to himself easily, effortlessly — always has — and his nakedness comes without a shred of shame. And Bruce doesn’t know how he does it, but the languid, graceful way he moves, the throaty, breezy voice, the flirty, heated looks he shoots for the camera… and the confidence. The confidence most of all, the kind of open, uninhibited freedom Joker has with his own body, an awareness of it without the self-consciousness, as if in defiance of his disfigurement, as if to demand, Look at me...

It’s alluring. Fuck, it's hot, nevermind how much Bruce doesn’t want it to be.

And he can't look away.

His throat goes dry when Joker, almost lazily, undoes the zipper. There's hardness tenting Joker’s underwear underneath, and the drop of moisture beads through the white cotton, and for a white-hot moment, that tiny point is all Bruce can see.

And then the dryness in his throat turns into sandpaper when Joker begins to inch the underwear down his hips, to allow his thin, pale, half-hard cock to spring free.

That's when Bruce's world well and truly narrows down to this one screen, and this one cock. He's seen it before, but never aroused, not naked and up close like this. Just the sight of it is electrifying, especially when Joker’s long gloved fingers wrap around it with the kind of shameless familiarity that's as alien to Bruce as the urge to do anything at all sexual for someone else’s viewing pleasure. But the cameras only seems to turn Joker on, and he poses for them as he gives himself a quick, hard squeeze, turning his head, his legs flexing, his toes curling, his eyes shutting close while his mouth tightens as if in pain and shudders on a breath.

And then he kicks his pants and underwear off altogether, and shrugs off the shirt. He's quick about it, and almost jerky with impatience or something darker still. The clothes slide to the floor while Joker stretches out on the bed again, pale, naked except for the gloves, which for some reason he's decided to leave on. He smiles at the camera almost angelically, then grips his cock at the root and rolls over onto his stomach with his legs spread wide.

“Oh yeah,” he breathes, closing his eyes, sucking down hard on his lower lip as though trying to bite clean through the flesh while he presses his hips slowly down against the sheets. “Mmm, yes, this is nice. This is very nice. You got really nice quality bedsheets, Brucie dearest. The silk... oh… excellent taste.”

His hips move up and down, undulating, a smooth, continuous, deliberate slide that can only be born out of practice. For a moment, it makes Bruce think of Selina, except Joker isn’t nearly as graceful about it as she is. For all of Selina’s smooth curves, he's all protruding ribs and sharp shoulder blades and hipbones, and tight lean muscle, and unnervingly white, unevenly textured skin — and scars, so many of them littering him all over, most of which Bruce can recognize as the result of his own hand but some of which are a mystery.

None of it makes him any less captivating. The opposite, actually. Bruce finds himself staring at the steady rise and fall of his ass, two unnaturally white cheeks, well-defined from years of running and almost non-stop movement, flexing now as his legs spread in something that has to be a promise.

Bruce wants to touch them. He wants to feel that skin under his hand, with all the scars, and all that skin stretched far too thin. He wants to —

“They don’t have quality like that at Arkham,” Joker breathes with his eyes closed, a small, strained smile now playing on his half-open mouth. He goes down, rubs himself against the silk sheets, keeping a firm, gloved hold on his cock. “Ah… no, the sheets there are so coarse, it’s like fucking on one of those medieval hair shirts. And the bed bugs, don’t get me started on the bed bugs! I managed anyway, but this is much better, so much better.”

He hums, letting go of his cock just so he can press down on the sheets with nothing in the way.

And Bruce is hard. Dear God, he’s hard to the point that it hurts. His hands twitch on the keyboard in their urgency to give himself some relief, but he keeps them put. He swallows, and keeps watching.

“Enjoying the view, Batsy?” Joker asks one of the cameras, flipping himself on his back once again, cock now fully hard and leaking precum, which he slowly spreads down the shaft over his glove, which he never takes off. “I wonder, do you ever think of me like that? Because I think of you. All the time. When I touch myself, and when I let other men fuck me, I always think of you, my sweet. Imagining it's you inside me. Speaking of.” He giggles, and brings his left hand to his mouth.

He bites on the glove to tug it off, tosses it to the floor, and sucks two fingers into his mouth.

“Could really use some lube,” he muses out loud, grinning over the fingers. “Oh, well. Not like I’m not used to doing this the hard way. Still, if Brucie could get me some lube next time he comes over, that’d be just peachy… The high end stuff, if you please, darling. What with my skin and all. Ooh, and maybe some toys, too? A nice big dildo would be lovely. And, darling, when I say big, I mean big. I like to feel it when I'm fucked. For now, though, this will have to do... ”

Oh no. No, Bruce doesn’t think he can stand that. It's already too much, just this, far, far too much, and he can barely keep his hands from flying to his own zipper; but, of course, Joker's entirely oblivious to his conflict. He sucks hard on his fingers, spits into his hand for good measure, and then collects some of the precum from his cock, too, to get as much lubrication as he can.

And then, slowly, his hand moves to his ass. And he’s lifting his hips off the bed. Pushing the fingers in, both of them at once, all the way in.

His other hand flies to grip the base of his cock, and holds on tight, probably to distract himself from the pain of entry. Or maybe not. The moment Joker's fingers begin the steady slide in and out of his ass, all at once, without pause, without any time to adjust, his face smoothes out for the first time since he's started this. The line of his mouth relaxing, his forehead clearing, his eyes falling shut now in true, genuine pleasure. The moan he lets out is soft and breathy but undeniably content, and sounds like true relief.

And Bruce… isn’t thinking anymore. Not when he’s so hard he can barely stand it.

He won't be able to meditate this one away, he realizes, distantly, as though through layers and layers of cotton.

And then it gets worse.

Joker stays silent for a longer while this time, moaning quietly through his teeth as he eases the fingers in and out. He moves his hand to the sides, catching deliberately on the sensitive nerves around his rim, his hips beginning to lift and circle and undulate, searching for an angle.

“Oh!” he gasps finally, eyes snapping open, and he laughs breezily, and pushes his hips down onto his hand. “There we go,” he breathes, giggling, “now it's a party. I do love this, Batsy, I really do. Would be better with a nice thick cock, but I’ll take what I can get… Mmm, bet your cock is big, darling. Thick and long and so, so delicious. I like to think about it when —” he cuts himself off with a gasp as his fingers ease out and then in again, sharper, faster. “You probably get the picture,” he chuckles, and yes, he's absolutely right, Bruce does get the picture. He gets many, many pictures, most of them of Joker in his cell at Arkham, or on a bed in a hideout somewhere, masturbating just like this, fucking himself breathless on his fingers to thoughts of Batman.

God. God.

His hands itch and burn, and so does the cock straining in his pants, but Bruce doesn't dare move. His hands might as well be glued to the keyboard at this point. Bruce's entire body holds itself so stiff now that it feels like the slightest movement will break him.

“Andy’s dick was okay, I suppose,” Joker rambles in a light isn’t-the-weather-nice-today tone, fingers moving in and out of his ass leisurely now, hand still gripping his cock in place. “Not the best I’ve had, mind you, but he made up for it with that he liked to play rough. He hated me, you see. One of those repressed, self-hating closet types. He thought fucking me in the broom closet was somehow humiliating me, if you can believe it. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that actually, it was the other way around.” His breath hitches again, and his hips stutter; he must have hit on an especially good angle. Bruce whines through his teeth, hating himself for the way his own cock jerks in response even as Lautner’s sullen face blinks in front of his vision.

“Billy, now, Billy was good,” Joker breathes after a moment, regaining equilibrium even as his face gets flushed. “Dear old Billy. He was in love with me. I don’t always take my henchmen to bed, but poor guy was so obvious about it, I decided to take pity on him. It was fun, for a bit. He was just big enough to drill me into the mattress, just how I like it, and he made a nice cuddle pillow, too. Shame he got so clingy in the end that I had to kick him out, but oh well, c’est la vie. And I was always thinking of you anyway, Batsy. Ha!”

He spreads his legs wider and plants them firmly on the bed. White fingers disappearing into equally white flesh at speed now, three instead of just two. Slender white cock nestled in a patch of wiry green hair, caught in a silk purple glove. A breathless smile, slick with pleasure, flush fighting onto a pale face, green eyes hazy and glazed and dark.

And Bruce is seeing red. He can't help it. His mind swims with images of Joker spreading himself like this for others, big, burly, thuggish men with Lautner’s face. Of those men, touching him. Taking him. Fucking him.

“Are you jealous, my love?” Joker asks in a low, breathy voice, somehow managing to read Bruce’s mind even from a months’ old recording. “Do you want to hear about the others? All the other men I used to stand in for you? There weren’t all that many, you know. I can only play with them so much before it becomes… ahhhhhh… depressing. But I had some fun… mmmm, yes, yes, I did.” He closes his eyes and sighs, loudly, and takes another break from monologuing to pleasure himself more forcefully, more quickly. His head turns to the side, teeth biting hard into his lower lip. Sweat gleams on his body and soaks into the sheets, and yet, his gloved hand still doesn't move to rub at his cock.

From that point on, Bruce doesn’t know anymore what's performance and what's abandon, because he can see both in Joker, the showmanship alongside true sensual urgency. Joker isn’t talking anymore, and the cave echoes with nothing but his moans, his rushing breath, and the groan of the bed under him.

He's close. Fuck, he's close — Bruce can tell from the way Joker's fingers speed up, from the flush spilling up his chest, from the frantic curl of his toes, from the way his body begins to coil and writhe in building tension. He gasps, and opens his eyes to pierce the closest camera with a gaze so bright and fevered with desire that Bruce’s cock throbs in yearning.

“This is for you, Batsy,” Joker whispers, hoarse and breathy. “It’s all for you.”

His back arches. His fingers plunge in deep, and his buttocks clench tight around them. He moans, and then the gloved hand flies up his shaft once, twice, three times, only to stop and squeeze at the tip, hard.

That's when Joker's entire body shudders and twists up, and the choked, strangled sound he lets out when thick globs of come spill out from the head to sluice down his gloved hand is something Bruce instantly knows will haunt him for years.

He sits there, all but paralyzed, transported almost completely from his own body, as Joker pants and gasps and rides out his orgasm for all it's worth, his fingers still moving frantically in his ass, massaging the last of it as if, this way, he can make the pleasure last and last and last.

It takes him a while to come down from it. Feels like ages until, at last, his body collapses in a boneless heap, eyes closed and mouth open, and he lets his gloved hand slowly drop from his cock to rest across his flushed, heaving stomach. Even then, he still doesn't pull the fingers out of his ass, keeping them still and clenching down on them instead, and not stopping until his breath evens out almost completely.

When he finally does move again, it's slow and careful, and he takes his time reluctantly pulling the fingers out one by one. He winces when the last finger makes it out, and his ass clenches tight as though to compensate for the sudden emptiness. Joker closes his legs and then lies there like that, breathing deep, unmoving, the hints of color slowly draining from his face and chest.

He looks like he's about to fall asleep. For a moment, Bruce thinks he did. But then something flashes across Joker's face that contorts it into a grimace, like a stray thought reminding him of something, and his body curls in on itself and he rolls to his side.

“Congratulations,” Joker whispers, peeling his eyes open. They're bright and feverish still, though the glaze is rapidly draining from them as he returns more and more fully to reality. “You're now one of the handful of people who've seen me come entirely without violence." He hesitates, curling himself up tighter still, and then adds, "Not even dear old Dr. Lancer can lay claim to that.”

Joker’s giggle is bitter and sharp, completely at odds from what it sounded like just seconds ago. That's all it takes for Bruce’s riled-up mind to snap into painful focus.

“Though he tried, the old goat, did he try…" Joker muses, going quiet. Closing his eyes again. "And when he realized he wasn't getting anywhere, he threw a party to let others have a go. He likes to watch, see? Ha. Maybe you should send him this tape. He'd just... love it.” Joker sighs deeply, bringing his arm up, tucking his face into the crook at his elbow.

He lies there in silence for a few minutes, his body curled up, his face hidden, pressed tight into his own skin. His toes and fingers twitch and convulse to whatever thoughts are now crowding in his brain. Steadily, his fingers hook and begin to scratch at his scalp.

And then, as though in an attempt to banish the lingering echoes of his last words and whatever memory inspired them, he starts to sing.

“I wanna be loved by you, just you, and nobody else but you. I wanna be loved by you alone… boop-boop-bee-doo!” He makes himself move, pushes off the bed. He stands, sways a bit, and slowly pads over to the bathroom, still humming. His voice carries shakily, soft, with breathy pauses, “I wanna be kissed by you, just you, and nobody else but you… I wanna be kissed by you alone…!”

The shower starts. Joker tugs off his one soiled glove, drops it to the tiles, and stands under the spray, humming quietly, his eyes closed as the water trickles down his face. He keeps his back to the camera, and, slowly, brings both arms around himself.

The recording ends. The screen goes dark.

It leaves Bruce frozen in the half-gloom, ears ringing in the sudden silence.

He takes a breath. Then another, and another. They struggle on the way out, as though kept back by a weight sitting on his chest, or maybe the dryness of his throat.

Or maybe something else. He doesn't know. He can't — he can't think. It's all —

He blinks, and his eyes sting and water, dry from how furiously he kept them glued to the screen. He tries to focus on the physical sensation of it, on the scratch in his throat and the tears pooling in his eyes, and that helps just enough that he's able to start thinking about moving.

His fingers are so stiff that flexing them practically hurts. Bruce tries it slowly, bending and unbending them, and then does the same for his neck, turning it this way and that before he's ready to look down.

His cock throbs and aches in his pants, harder than it's ever been.

He won't be able to will this away. Not this time. Not after everything he's seen and heard, and not when his entire body feels like it's on fire, blood rushing through him like an electric current, his mind a tangle of hot white noise and —

And need.

And Joker, and need for Joker.

Need that he can no longer deny. Not like he used to when Joker struck similar urges in him in the past. Back then he'd just bite through them, and meditate or exercise or punch his way through to the other side until he could pretend they were never there, because he knew that to give in, to actually touch himself riding on those urges, would be the same as defeat. As giving in.

As admitting the unspeakable.

Somewhere out there, in the barely-functional part of his brain, he knows he should focus on Joker's claims. On Lancer, and what it could mean, and what to do with the hints Joker's dropped.

But.

But to do that, he needs to concentrate. And that feels impossible while he can't chase the sight of Joker's face, open in pleasure, out of his eyes.

Bruce breathes deep, but it's no use. The chill of the cave no longer helps. He's still far, far too hot, and his hands ball into fists over the keyboard, nails digging into skin. The unspeakable creeps up on him from within, spilling more tingling, throbbing heat down his veins, and he shuts his eyes on an impulse, hoping against hope that it'll help him focus.

It doesn't. It only makes it worse. The moment the physical reality of the cave around him disappears, Joker is all he can see: the scarred white body, the red lips opening on a moan, the length of his cock, the fingers pushing into a tight, tight entrance.

This is for you, Batsy. It's all for you.

He tries to think of something else, anything else. Anything to keep that last, flimsy shred of denial like a lifeline. But his mind refuses to cooperate, and shows him more images of Joker instead: the two of them pressed close on the sofa, Joker's kiss to his cheek, the shower, the twitching fingers stilling in Bruce's hands, nails dragging over the inside of Bruce's naked wrist, those same fingers plunging as deep into Joker's ass as they will go.

There's no coming back from that. Bruce squeezes his eyes so hard that white afterimages begin to dance over his eyelids, and in the meantime, his mind slips into a fantasy that now feels inevitable — of him, in the suit, barging into Joker's rooms. Standing over the bed. Watching Joker finger himself, and then bending over him to pull both his hands up by the wrists, and wrestling him down, and replacing Joker's fingers with his own.

He gasps, and that's it. He can't take it anymore. His hands jerk from the keyboard as though they've been burned, and fly to his zipper, fumbling it open. Bruce isn't trying to banish the fantasy anymore — he can't. He clings to it instead, desperately so he doesn't think, so he doesn't have to focus on the fact that he's just pulled his aching cock out of his underwear.

The first touch hurts. Bruce cries out, but even that doesn't scatter the fantasy, and Bruce nearly sobs when he starts stroking himself furiously almost on autopilot, lost deep in images of himself in the suit leaning over Joker to fuck him unconscious.

For you, Batsy. All for you.

He keeps his eyes closed, and imagines fucking Joker on the bed, in full view of the guards. Then in the shower, imagining what would have happened if he'd stayed instead of run, imagining pulling Joker up by his hair and turning him around, and pushing him up against the tiles to kick his legs apart. And then on the carpet in Joker's parlor, just — reaching over and grabbing Joker by the collar in the middle of a card game, and throwing him down on the floor, and pinning him down, and taking him.

Joker would let him. Joker would want it. Joker would kiss him with everything he's got, and whisper Darling in his ear, and he'd moan, and tell Bruce to go harder. He'd —

Bruce gasps, his hand speeding up, slicking precum down his shaft. He's close, so close, and then the fantasy changes again, and he's up on the rooftops, and Joker's there with him, in the rain, grinning bloody in a flash of lightning, and flicking a switchblade, and coming at Bruce with a laugh, his eyes wild and bright and free.

Bruce's breath hitches, and he comes so hard that for a moment, everything around him swims — even the fantasy.

It takes him ages to open his eyes, and when he does, Joker's laughter still peals loud and clear in his ears.

God. God.

His breath comes hard and fast and trembling, and his heart rattles to the point of pain. He gives himself time until the last of the fantasy — the memory — clears, and looks down.

The chill of the cave curls against his exposed, sensitive cock. It's still hard, only just beginning to soften. Cum clings to his hand, dripping down.

Bruce stares at it for a moment longer, and then collapses in the chair, closing his eyes again. Bringing a hand up to press into his face.

It comes away wet, but Bruce hardly notices. He's only got space in him for one thing, now.

What the fuck have I done.

Chapter Text

Dick finds him still hunched in the chair, bathed in a pool of too-bright, sterile light from the screens. At least Bruce had enough energy to tuck himself back in, but that's about it. He can't even bring himself to look up.

It takes a while for either of them to speak.

“So.” Dick waits a beat.

Bruce keeps his head down and doesn’t accept the invitation to begin the conversation. There’s nothing to say. Or maybe, there’s plenty, there’s too much, and he doesn’t — he can’t —

“Babs really is something else, isn’t she,” Dick offers after a moment, and Bruce lets out a breath.

“Yes,” he agrees, “she is.”

“Are you…” Dick clears his throat. “Are you mad at us?”

“Mad?” Bruce blinks. The question is so far removed from the turmoil currently eating him up that he needs to take a moment to process what Dick means. He whispers, “No. No, I’m not… mad.”

“Okay. So then… I don’t have to apologize for keeping you in the dark about Oracle?”

Once again, Bruce takes a few seconds to figure out a way to verbalize what he feels. Catching that thread through the blizzard of what he’s still processing about himself and Joker is… difficult.

He settles on, “I’m glad you all were there for her. She can rely on you. I… She can’t rely on me, so… at least there’s…”

His throat seizes up, and the words crash against it in a pile, halfway out.

Dick watches him without a word. After a moment he steps closer, leaning back against the computer so he’s facing Bruce’s chair, folding his arms over his chest, looking down at Bruce.

“She doesn’t exactly need any of us, you know,” he says eventually. “Not you, not me, not anyone. That’s the thing. She would have worked out how to do this Oracle thing on her own even if we hadn’t helped her out. She’s just — strong like that.”

“I know.” Bruce swallows. “And I’m… proud of her.”

“Wow.” Dick cracks him half a smile, dry and restrained. “So you do know that word! Who’d’ve thunk?” Then his gaze drops, and he clears his throat. “You know, she could stand to hear that from you personally.”

“Could she?” Bruce finally raises his eyes to him. “I’m not so sure.”

But no, that’s not quite it. He is sure. Pretty damn sure he's forfeited the right to tell Barbara anything of the sort.

“That’s for you two to work out,” Dick tells him, shrugging. “I’m not gonna speak for her. But we did talk about it, a lot actually, and… Since you brought Joker here, Babs has been able to watch him, too. And that's made a difference. Maybe not a huge one, but she’s... seen the low points. And I think she’s starting to accept that the guy really is sick, in the medical sense. I don’t really know if that makes what he did to her better or worse, but... it’s there.”

Bruce nods, because that’s all he can bring himself to do. His throat is still much too congested, and he isn’t sure he could even say Joker's name out loud.

I’ve failed her, he thinks, I’ve failed all of you.

Memory of pleasure, too close, too raw, still tingles, still threatens to coax all of the heat back out, and it has Bruce looking away from Dick like a coward. He can’t stand to meet his son’s eyes now, not when he was sitting here with his cock out, touching himself frantically to images of Joker not two hours ago.

Jesus. What he’s done. How it felt, and, in a way, still does. What it means, for him and Joker and, by extension, for his entire family… It’s been well over an hour, and he still can’t bring himself to articulate any of it.

All those months, all the… longing, the urges, the conflicts that he worked so hard to keep bottled up. All of that — gone, spilled all over the floor of the cave. Squeezed out of him with that one orgasm, because now, now that he gave into the weakness and let it happen, now that he's felt the physical proof of his own come sticking to his hand, he can no longer deny any of it. It’s out. It’s done. His deniability, gone, burnt to a crisp, his feelings laid bare, and it feels like it's written all over his face, his hands, his body. The shame, the… transgression.

The fall.

His family — do they know? Do they suspect? Barbara must, but Dick, and Jason… and Alfred… How on Earth…

And then Dick asks, “So, did you watch it?”

Bruce can’t speak. He can barely breathe. The weakness overtakes him, and he presses both hands to his face.

“Guess that means yes.” Dick is quiet for a moment before he asks, “Was it really that bad? ‘Cause I haven’t seen it. I only know from Babs that it exists and frankly, my life would be so much happier without even that bit of info. Though, come to think of it, it's been months. Kinda weird that he's only done that — what, once, in all this time?”

"Twice," Bruce whispers.

"Right." Dick's voice is quiet, and just a little strained. "Weird, isn't it? Not like he's camera-shy. Think it's the meds? Babs says they can really mess up your sex drive. And he's got all that weird body chemistry. Maybe —"

“Dick,” Bruce begs, “not now. Please. I need to… think.”

Dick sighs, and grants him a few moments of silence.

But only a few.

“See, Bruce, I really, really want to believe you," he says. "I'd love nothing more than to drop it and let you brood this one out, like you do everything else.”

As if to telegraph his point, he pushes himself up to perch on the computer console, settling in. Obviously whatever he’s come here to say is going to take a while, and Bruce barely stops himself from snapping at him.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it. I don’t, either,” Dick asserts, swinging a leg, kicking Bruce’s chair. “But the thing is, we've left you alone to brood for far too long. I think, by now, it’s pretty safe to say it’s not working out all that great for you. So, Babs and I agree that it’s time for… an intervention.”

Bruce’s fingers dig hard circles into the skin of his forehead. He wants to get out of here. He needs to. “I don’t need an intervention,” he protests roughly, but Dick's having none of it.

“Oh yeah?” he challenges. “That why you’re practically crawling into a fetal position in your chair after you watched a clown rub one out?”

He kicks the chair again. It jerks, and Bruce’s head jerks up with it.

“Dick,” he warns.

“You’re doing the voice at me.” Dick’s smile is incredulous, theatrically so, and just a little sad at the corners. “Wow. Bruce, I’m only trying to help.”

“Don’t. None of this concerns you,” Bruce growls, and, indeed, feels himself slipping deeper into the Batman headspace, more out of defensive impulse than conscious choice. Wishing, fiercely, for his suit. For his cowl, for any sort of armor whatsoever, for anything to hide behind, and feeling naked, naked, naked.

“It does, actually,” Dick counters with the sort of calm that only fuels Bruce’s spiking defensiveness. “I’m your adopted son, remember? Just because I flew the coop doesn’t mean I no longer care. Besides, I’m on the case now. I even dyed my hair blond, even though it totally clashes with my complexion. If that’s not commitment, I don’t know what is.”

Bruce tries to stand up. Dick is faster, and traps him in the chair by planting his feet firmly on Bruce’s thighs.

“Oh no,” he says, “no you don’t. We’re going to have a heart-to-heart right now, and you’re going to sit through it or I swear to God I will cuff you to that chair.” He pats the Arkham issue handcuffs hanging from his uniform belt.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Yeah, I guess I am. Whatcha gonna do about it, old man?”

They stare each other down as a fight charges and crackles in the air.

And the scary thing is, for a moment, Bruce actually considers following through. If he had his suit on, that’s probably what would happen — he can hardly control the fight or flight response as is. He wants to fight, he wants to kick and punch and hurt and be hurt until the memory of Joker and his own pleasure gets pummeled out of him, and maybe it would even bring relief, however temporary. It’s tempting. The Batman in him urges to shove Dick’s feet off, to lunge, and go for it. It’d be so much easier. His muscles tense, and he calculates…

But this is Dick. This is Dick. Bruce can’t fight Dick. He can’t use his son as one of those anti-stress sand balls Alfred ordered for Joker and sneaked into Bruce’s own bedroom. It doesn’t matter that Dick's a good fighter and could hold his own, he just — he can’t.

Dick must read the surrender in his face — the tension in his feet releases at the same time as Bruce forces his own muscles to unclench. They stay put on Bruce’s thighs, though, as though expecting a trick, and for a moment, Bruce is almost proud.

Or would be, if he had any room for that underneath the cold, cold claustrophobia.

“Come on, Bruce,” Dick coaxes, gently. “You know we’d have to have this conversation at some point.”

Bruce looks away. He bites the inside of his cheek before he can stop himself. He forces, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah you do. And I think it’s time. So I’m just gonna… I’m gonna come out and ask the big one now, okay? So we can get that out of the way and focus on solutions. So.” He pauses despite his own announcement, and for a moment, he looks almost as uncomfortable with this situation as Bruce is.

But then he meets Bruce’s eyes again, and his expression settles into something altogether too tight. Too steely. Too determined.

He asks, “Do you have feelings for Joker?”

Bruce’s heart stops. So, it feels, does time itself. He stares into his son’s bright, earnest eyes, and works his throat while every single drop of blood drains away from his face.

And behind Dick, on the biggest screen, the folder with Joker’s recording looms over them both and burns into Bruce as if to say, in Joker’s voice, Go on, try to deny it, I dare you.

He wants to try. He goes as far as to open his mouth. But the words refuse to line up, and scramble every which way as they crash into the memories — the recording, the hug, Bruce’s own inability to stay away. His fingers, gentle in Joker’s wet hair. Their heartbeats joined in a single rhythm, one two three.

He can't keep any of it out of his face anymore. He can tell by the way Dick's face begins to soften as if in pity, some of the tightness easing into cleaner, plainer sadness.

He's the first to look away. He lets one foot drop from Bruce’s thigh to swing and kick against the frame of the computer. He keeps his silence for another few heartbeats, and then takes a breath.

“You know, I think I’ve come to know him pretty well over the years,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up despite the sadness still clinging to it at the corners and making his eyes dull. “Probably better than Gordon does. I know you tend to forget that, that you consider yourself the big Joker expert, and yeah, you are. But I’ve been there for most of your spats. If I had a dollar for every time I got kidnapped and held hostage by him, I wouldn’t need your trust fund to get into college.”

The smile spills into the other corner of his mouth now, fragile, more delicate and breakable than Alfred’s favorite china.

“And one of the things I remember?" he picks up. "You two used to have fun. Not just him — both of you. Don’t deny it. Back then, when we fought him, I saw you come alive like you rarely do for anything else. You smiled more, you bantered, you had this... this energy, like you just couldn't wait to face him again. Couldn't wait to see what wacky thing he'd do next to challenge you. For a while, when all he did was those ridiculous goofball robberies with giant vacuums or, I don’t know, pogo sticks and stuff, when he left you clues and you chased him around like a pair of kids on a playground, you’d always tell me to take care of the henchmen, but the Joker was yours. Always yours. And that’s what he wanted, too — I never really mattered. It was all Batsy, Batsy, Batsy. Like it was all just a great big game, and Bruce, you used to love playing along.”

Dick falls silent, and when he raises his eyes to Bruce again, they shine with more than just determination, and Bruce’s heart twists. “I didn't realize it back then, I thought it was just — banter. But now I see that he flirted with you, in his own way, and you flirted right back. And you know what else I remember?” he picks up, the smile trembling for just a blink. “Whenever he kidnapped me, there’d be the waiting, when we both held our breaths waiting for you to drop through the window. I loved those moments, I honestly thought there could never be anything cooler. And when I look back at all that, I think that’s what he thought, too. That all those pranks and crimes and kidnappings were so he could watch you at your best, to give you a chance to show off, and I kinda think you did show off. I used to think it was for my benefit, you know? To show the kid how cool it was to be Batman’s sidekick. Now, I… I’m not so sure anymore.”

Bruce swallows, again. The fingernails of his right hand rake hard over the palm of his left, leaving angry red tracks. He whispers, “That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah. I know. They put him in Arkham and everything changed.” The smile is gone, replaced by a sadness that Bruce feels his own face mirroring. “Thing is, though, the game may have changed, but your commitment to it never did. He was always on top of your list. One way or another. The city, then him — even when he wasn't the worst threat around. Didn’t occur to me to be jealous of that back then. I was just a kid and I didn’t understand. But still, there were moments when I…”

He shakes his head, looking away, smirking with more than a touch of bitterness. “Anyway,” he breathes out, “there’ll be time to air all that later. What I’m trying to say is, I’ve been thinking about the good old days a lot recently, probably because watching you two interact now, it’s kind of… not similar, exactly. But it’s made me understand some things a whole lot better. And the moment it really clicked for me, I think, was when I watched you out in the gardens. When you put the flowers in his hair, and the way you two looked at one another. I don’t think anyone else really noticed, but I did. And now… in a weird way… I guess it all makes sense.”

“Dick…” Bruce tries. Dick shakes his head again, and lightly kicks at Bruce’s knee.

“I’m not outraged,” he says earnestly. “Hell, I’m not even surprised. Like I said, I’ve been watching it build for ages, it’s just that it’s only now that I actually understand. I don’t think Barbara does, or Jason. They still hope it’s some sort of, I don’t know, physical thing. That you can still shake it off if you just confront it and work your way past it, kinda like you did with Selina. But they haven’t watched you two all these years. They weren't there. I was, and… well, I know it’s not that simple.”

He falls silent. It’s not expectant, doesn’t feel like he needs Bruce to fill the growing space between them with his own words, which is a good thing because Bruce doesn’t have any. He doesn’t think he’d be able to force out so much as a “yes” now.

He blinks, and his eyes feel wet.

“Am I wrong, Bruce?” Dick asks softly. Both his feet have found their way back on Bruce’s thighs, in comfort this time.

Bruce’s throat contracts. He drops his gaze down to Dick’s feet, and they swim, and he thinks the wetness is leaking through but he can’t be sure. He hopes not. The last thing he needs is for Dick to see him cry.

“Bruce?”

Dick’s voice is gentle. And that somehow makes it harder. If he was mad, if he raged, lashed out, called Bruce disgusting, Bruce might have been able to retreat behind the familiarity of his walls and press right back. But as it is, the quiet, sad acceptance leaves no room for walls. No room for aggression. Only honesty, however raw and uncomfortable it might be, and from that, there's no escape.

Barbara said, You owe him that, and you owe yourself, too. And she might have been right about that, but it’s not the whole truth, is it? Because it’s not just the two of them anymore. Bruce has a family now, and he owes them, too.

Dick is still looking at him. He doesn’t move his feet, and the message is transparent: You’re not going to lose me over this.

And that, perhaps more than anything else, stops any words Bruce might pick up from ever getting out, because God, Dick is too good for him and Bruce doesn’t deserve him. Not his acceptance, not his support, not his love, he just — he doesn’t deserve any of it, hasn’t earned it, and yet, he knows he wouldn’t be able to do without them, and isn’t that just a goddamn mess?

Still, for Dick’s support alone if nothing else, he really owes him the truth.

And so, he breathes out.

And he shakes his head.

“Right,” Dick says after a long, long time. His feet don’t move. “Right. Okay. That’s… better, isn’t it? Doesn’t that feel better?”

Bruce shakes his head again, and Dick sighs.

“Yeah, fine. All right. It’s a can of worms. But at least you admitted it. Which means we can start on what comes next.”

Bruce blinks, and brings his hands up to catch whatever might leak out.

Nothing does, so far. He’s still keeping the tears in. But it’s only a matter of time, and that only makes the sting in his eyes worse.

“Bruce?” Dick kicks lightly against his leg. “Hey, are you… okay?”

Bruce’s breath shudders, and he whispers the first thing that lines up to force its way out of his throat: “How can you even look at me?”

Dick freezes. “What?”

“He’s a murderer,” Bruce chokes out, just as the truth of it, of the hell he’s tumbled into at full speed without even knowing when or how, finally releases over him. “A murderer. And I —”

This time when he blinks there's no holding back the tears.

“I failed,” he whispers. “All of you, everyone… I failed, and I can’t — I can’t —”

He can’t be Batman anymore. Batman cannot love a murderer. He cannot allow himself to be broken like that. If he does, if he did, then he’s corrupt and unfit to protect his city, unfit to wear the cowl, unfit to —

— to honor the memory of his parents. How can he, if he’s in love with one of the monsters that killed them? Joker may not have been the one to pull the trigger on them, but he's done so on countless others, and he's of the same breed, the same wild, ruthless, merciless breed that sees no value in human life and is willing to step on it like it’s nothing, like it’s dirt, like it’s a joke —

Cold shivers break out all over Bruce’s skin when he imagines his mother and father looking down at him, much like Dick is doing now. Only their faces aren’t painted with concern, but disgust. With anger, disappointment, rejection. And they turn their heads away, and whisper, Traitor.

I’m sorry, he pleads, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I never meant…

That’s when a hand rests on top of his head, and through the burn in his throat he realizes that he’s been repeating that out loud.

“Bruce,” Dick whispers, and he’s standing over him, putting his other hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce doesn’t turn towards him, but, selfishly, he doesn’t shake Dick’s hands off either. They’re cold — they remind him where he is, what is real. He bends, pressing his hands to his face again. He tries to breathe. The tears keep flowing, and he doesn’t know how to hold them back but he tries all the same because focusing on that is so much easier than acknowledging the fact that his world has all but crumbled into ruin.

Everything he thought he knew about himself. Everything that’s been holding him up. Undone, ground into fine dust by the grin on a painted face and the feel of white skin and a spark in green eyes. And the worst thing is, he thinks — no, he knows that Dick is right, that he’s been building this up inside himself for a long, long time.

Oh, Joker would love that. How he would laugh, if he only knew. If he could only see Bruce right now, see what he’s reduced him to, he would laugh himself raw. And Bruce wants to punch him for that until the imaginary laughter turns to bloody gurgles, except he can’t, because none of this is Joker’s fault.

It’s Bruce’s. It’s Batman’s. If he hadn’t tried to break the cycle, if he hadn’t put them on this trajectory in the first place, starting with the time he came to visit Joker in his cell to talk about their fates…

… They’d probably end up dead. They would end up killing each other, sooner or later, like he predicted that fateful night. Remembering that, why he’d reached out in the first place… helps, but only just barely.

I don’t quite understand why ours should be such a fatal relationship, Bruce had said, then, a whole lifetime ago, and now the words make him want to laugh. It should have been obvious, really. He should have seen it much sooner. But their dance had been so familiar, so comfortable in its regular beats, that it had given him all the excuses he needed to just keep on going like a racehorse, along the predetermined track, the blinders firmly in place.

Well, looks like he doesn’t have that luxury anymore. The track is derailed, the blinders are off. And finally he sees what’s been building around them both, all this time — a raging fire.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and Dick’s hand smoothes over his hair.

“What I said about Barbara,” he says slowly, quietly, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder. “About how she realized that Joker had actual medical issues? That goes for me, too. I’ve always known in this abstract way, like, oh, sure, he’s insane, but I guess it wasn’t until I saw him function from day to day here in the Manor that I actually understood what it meant. It’s been… an education, that’s for sure.”

Bruce shakes his head. “I can’t afford to turn a blind eye,” he insists. “Barbara… Jim… all the people he murdered…”

“No, of course not. I’m not asking you to. Hell, I’ll never forgive him for any of that either, and to be honest, I’m going to need a long, long shower after playing devil’s advocate for the guy.”

Dick is silent for a moment, thinking, never stepping away from Bruce, and then he says, “Okay, let me ask you a question. Say some grieving parent files a case against Joker with the state, and they decide, fine, let’s do this. Say they hire a really good prosecutor and have them prove to the jury’s satisfaction that Joker's competent to stand trial, which means that he must be held responsible for his crimes. He can be pretty damn rational when he wants to, he can pass for sane, and they could use that against him. And the jury says, he’s guilty, because of course he is, and so the state sentences him to the chair. Would you just stand by and let it happen?”

Bruce tenses. “You know I wouldn’t,” he manages, “but —”

“Exactly. Because he is ill. And broken, and probably traumatized, and who the hell knows what else. Anyone who's talked to him for longer than two minutes can tell the guy's pretty far detached from reality — hell, he doesn't even think other people except you two are real. What's that thing he keeps calling us?"

"Shadow puppets," Bruce whispers.

"Yeah. That. Pretty damn insane if you ask me. And some of his other delusions, like that this is just some great big story for example, are just as... telling, I guess. Then there's his hair trigger temper, no functional processing filter, all sorts of personality disorders... It's a lot. And despite all that, he’s staying put, first in Arkham and now here, because of you. For you. Because you asked him to. Because you reached out to him — right after what he did to Babs and Gordon, might I add, which honestly should have clued everyone in, you most of all."

Dick pauses for another breath, and continues, "You saw some sort of potential there when no one else did. And it’s paying off, but Bruce, you have to accept that he’s not doing any of it for himself, or because he’s seen the error of his ways. He’s doing it for you. That thing with Babs up there, just now? Prime example, and yeah, I've seen that little exchange you two had. Which only proves that you have the power to keep him on this track, just — all I ask is that you do it responsibly, and that you let yourself make the same allowances for him that you expect from others.”

“You don’t understand,” Bruce insists. “The fact that I would… that I could feel anything at all for him…”

“Would loving him stop you from bringing him to justice if he broke out and did something awful?”

Bruce pauses, and actually thinks about it. Would it? He wants to believe that it wouldn’t, but the thing is, he can’t be sure. He can’t be sure of anything about himself anymore.

“You’re overthinking it again,” Dick comments when Bruce takes too long to answer. “I think it wouldn’t stop you. You turned a blind eye on Catwoman sometimes, but that’s because she was never a murderer, and her crimes tend to mostly upset rich old pricks who have way too much money anyway. And you still hauled her ass to jail when she did something too big and blatant and harmful. Having a fling with her never stopped you from being Batman. I don’t think it’d be too different this time. When push comes to shove, you can be hell-bent on going against your own self-interest… infuriatingly so.”

“What are you saying,” Bruce asks as his eyes slowly clear and the tears finally seem to stop coming, “that I should actually… act on…”

To finish the sentence is unthinkable. And perhaps Dick thinks so too, because he quickly says, “Look, I’m not telling you to do anything. I’m just trying to… help you put things in perspective, before your brain blows this whole thing out of proportion. Though I see it’s probably too late for that.”

Bruce wants to protest. He’s not overthinking anything, he’s doing the exact right amount of thinking that's appropriate in this situation. He opens his mouth to tell Dick just that, and looks up into Dick’s bright eyes…

He’s seeing your tears, he realizes. You’re letting your son see your tears, and he’s going to carry that image with him for the rest of his life.

Of Bruce, being weak and leaning on him for support.

And suddenly, all he knows for sure is that he can’t let that go on. Whatever else might be at stake right now, he can’t let his child be his crutch. Dick doesn’t deserve that kind of weight — no one does. It’s Bruce’s to carry, for better or worse.

The resolution helps reorder his mind somewhat, and the worst of the panic retreats grudgingly to the corner of his mind from which it will no doubt spring again once Bruce is alone. For now, he has to be stronger than this. He has to be the man Dick had for the longest time thought him to be.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and though his voice isn’t strong, exactly, it doesn’t waver either. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

Dick’s face crumples. He takes his hands away.

“Come on,” he tries. “It’s not —”

“No.” Bruce wipes his face again, and this time, when he sits back, he manages to reassert some semblance of control over his own body and mind. “I really am sorry. This is my problem to deal with.”

“We’re family,” Dick protests.

Bruce looks into his eyes.

“Exactly,” he says, “and I’m supposed to be your guardian. You may be grown up now, but it shouldn’t be your responsibility to babysit me. It should be the other way around. I can’t let you carry any of that weight for me, and I’m sorry that I did.”

Dick looks uncomfortable now, and takes a step back as though Bruce has physically pushed him away. “You can’t be strong all the time,” he argues. “Not even you. You’re going through some fucked up stuff. It’s okay to need help.”

“Maybe,” Bruce allows with some difficulty, “but you shouldn’t be the one to provide it.”

“We’re family,” Dick repeats. “We’re here for you. Don’t shut us out again. I’m not going to leave over this, so… so don’t… don't make me, okay?”

Bruce stands up and tries to read his face, and is taken aback by how difficult the task turns out to be. He’s never had any real trouble with that — Dick has always worn his heart on his sleeve, or at least Bruce had thought so up until now. Maybe because he accepted what Dick projected at face value and never thought — never bothered — to look deeper, and doesn’t that just prove how much he’s failed the kid already?

It’s that, more than anything, that makes him say, “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just — I’m trying to be responsible. For once.”

Now it’s Dick’s turn to look away, and he does so almost awkwardly, rubbing his shoulder much like he did when he was twelve and had just broken a crystal wineglass trying to help Alfred with the dishes. Bruce’s heart hurts for him, and he takes a step closer.

Dick doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t move at all. More than anything else, he's now telegraphing disappointment, and suddenly Bruce is struck with the thought that maybe Dick enjoyed seeing him fall apart. Being the stronger one, for once. Finding Bruce at his most vulnerable and being the one to pick up the pieces, being the mature one, the adult, turning the tables.

It’s a petty, ugly thought and Bruce hates himself for it instantly. That doesn’t stop it from taking root.

You’re no longer on a pedestal, and haven’t been for a long time, he tell himself. You have no one to blame but yourself. He’s made far too many mistakes, with Dick and then with Jason and Barbara, and Selina… Far, far too many.

Even so, he can’t let Dick carry him. No one deserves that, and certainly not the little boy Bruce took in to make his life just a little bit easier — not even if that’s what Dick thinks he wants.

“I appreciate your help,” Bruce says slowly, every word a struggle. “I’ll… think about what you said.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Dick still hasn’t looked up. “Do you… do you want to keep talking? Because there’s a lot. And I mean a lot. To get through.”

Bruce takes a deep breath. “No. I think we’re done here.”

“So what are you going to do?” Dick blurts out, like he’s unable to stop himself. “You’re going to keep seeing him? Are you just going to ignore the, uh… the tension?”

Good question. What is he going to do?

“We’re on a case,” Bruce decides. “I’m going to keep investigating. So will you. Everything else…” He closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. He can do this. He’s got this far. “Everything else will have to wait.”

“I don’t think you should keep investigating, actually,” Dick judges quietly. “You’re not exactly a neutral party. You’re too invested. Your judgment —”

“Enough,” Bruce tells him, decisively. “I do appreciate your words and your… support. Despite everything. I don’t think I deserve it, but I… appreciate it. Nevertheless, I’ll keep working the case until I can put all the perpetrators behind bars and that’s that.”

“You still haven’t told him what you’re doing, though, have you?”

“No. I don’t want to upset —”

“Coward.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Dick challenges, finally meeting Bruce’s eyes again. “I think you’re afraid to tell him. You’re afraid of how he’ll react, and how you will react to knowing the truth about how they hurt him.”

“I don’t know if they have,” Bruce counters, defensiveness pushing through again. “Carter said Joker was known to try and seduce the guards. There may have been no… assault.”

"You don’t believe that, I know you don’t. It doesn’t add up. And even then, we're still looking at statutory. That's all but confirmed. And Babs said Joker said something incriminating about one of his doctors?"

He likes to watch, see?

"He has the right to know," Dick finishes, quietly.

Bruce turns away. “Enough.” He starts towards the suit storage, leaving Dick in the square of light from the computer.

He may not be worthy enough to wear the suit anymore — perhaps he never was — but he has one more job to finish. He will see it through, however long it might take, and after that…

He starts to change, and thinks, in the end, the city will tell him what to do. It always has.

“Where are you going?” Dick calls after him.

Bruce hesitates. The cowl glares at him from his hands, and he stares at it, working his throat, before he finally fits it over his head.

Nothing happens. The cave doesn’t collapse. The bats don’t take flight in a flurry of anger and disdain. The heavens don’t part to strike him down and call him a usurper.

It’s just — heavy. Perhaps a little heavier than it’s always been, this time. A touch tighter, where it bites into the skin of his face.

Bruce breathes out, and feels Batman crawling over him with the touch of kevlar.

“Blackgate,” he tells Dick, reaching for the cape.

“Why the hell would you —”

“You should try to see if any of the inmates or other employees are willing to testify.”

“Yeah, I’m working on that,” Dick says, sighing. “Cindy and a few others are almost ready to talk, I think. Harleen, too, and Nisha, though that last one goes without saying.”

“Good. Then we’re getting closer.”

“Except all we have on some of those bastards is hearsay, and vague insinuations from the clown,” Dick points out. “And we know he likes to mess with his shrinks. Don’t — don’t fly off the handle just yet.”

Bruce glares at him, stalking towards the car. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Right. Right. Want me to go get Jason?”

“No.”

When he gets into the car, Dick doesn’t try to stop him.

***

They’ve learned to not ask the Batman too many questions at Blackgate. When he says he needs to interrogate an inmate, they only ask which one, and then they lead him to the the private interrogation room. He finds himself a shadowed corner and waits there until they bring in his first prey for the night: Dmitri “Sweet Tooth” Nikolaevich Barashkov, aged 37, ex-henchman of the Joker, imprisoned for life.

Bruce has read up on this one before, and knows that Dmitri emigrated from Russia for reasons unknown when he was a teenager, and worked odd jobs at the Gotham docks before the always-greedy underworld finally snatched him up. His criminal record includes anything from shoplifting to grand theft auto to murder, and he worked for the Maroni family before he deserted them for Joker. This is how Bruce remembers him best: the cold, silent bulk of a shadow looming huge and threatening behind Joker, not the sharpest switchblade in the pocket but reliable, fast with the trigger and — most important of all — loyal to a fault. That’s one of the reasons Bruce wants to talk to him.

The other is that during the man’s many trials, it has been determined that Dmitri is rather… slow on the uptake. The appointed court psychologist has diagnosed him with a cognitive learning deficiency — surprising most, since Joker isn’t exactly known for his patience with the mooks — and that means he might be slightly easier to crack than some of Joker’s other known regulars.

Bruce isn’t exactly proud of acting on a plan that involves taking advantage of another person’s disability, but tonight, he’s desperate. He has to press somewhere. Dmitri might not know anything, but for a long time, he and Joker were close. It’s worth a shot.

And so, as the man turns to peer into the shadows, Bruce steps out behind him and says, “Hello, Dmitri.”

Dmitri freezes where he stands. To his credit, though, he doesn’t scream or bolt for the door. He doesn't even seem particularly disturbed by Bruce's presence, once he gets over the surprise. He only turns to stare at Bruce, his lone brow furrowed in confusion and not much besides.

He takes a minute to consider Bruce in silence, and then gives him a nod. “Bats,” he says, neutrally. Almost politely. “It's been a while.”

He doesn't wait for Bruce to return the pleasantries. He moves to take one of the chairs, turning his back on Bruce as he does, his body language open and easy — almost relaxed. The plastic cracks under his considerable weight, the chair barely able to contain him, but he doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice. When he looks up at Bruce, his expression is that of mild curiosity, as if to say, Well?.

Bruce gives it a beat, and then takes the chair across the table from him.

“I’ve come to ask —”

“Where is the boss?”

Bruce narrows his eyes. Dmitri stares him down, impassive, and his bright gray eyes take on a hard gleam.

“He’s safe,” Bruce tells him.

"With you?"

Bruce hesitates. Gossip spreads fast in a prison, and he can't afford to risk too much getting out. But...

"Yes," he tells Dmitri. "Joker and I... we made a deal. He's fine."

"You take him out of Arkham?"

"I did."

Dmitri studies him for another heartbeat. Bruce doesn't move a muscle, suffering the scrutiny patiently.

It pays off. Dmitri nods, and lets himself relax. “Good," he says. "That's good, Bats. Thank you."

Bruce resists the urge to curl his hands into fists over the table. Thank you?

"You look after him well though,” Dmitri warns Bruce, voice thick with the remnants of his accent. “Make sure he's safe. Or else next time I see you, I make you eat lead.”

Ah. The show of loyalty isn't exactly surprising — Bruce has seen it before. He knows Joker's terrifying talent for inspiring it all too well.

But the ferocity of Dmitri's protectiveness, and the particular hue of it — almost parental — is. Bruce takes a moment to consider it, and then allows, “That’s fair.” He gives them a beat to let the understanding between them settle into something binding, and then says, “I’ve come to ask you a few questions.”

“About the boss?”

“Yes. And Arkham.”

“Why?”

“I’m on a case.”

That puts Dmitri on the alert again, and he eyes Bruce mistrustfully, twirling his thumbs. “About Arkham?”

“Yes.”

“What case?”

Careful, now. This is the part where Bruce tries to play the poor bastard. One wrong word, and it can all fall apart.

“The Joker has… given me hints,” he tells Dmitri. “I’m following up on them to see if they’re true. You were pretty close to him, for a time. I hope you can help me.”

Dmitri falls silent, face cracking into worry. The faded tattoos peeking out from his growing fuzz wrinkle as his forehead breaks into lines. His eyes drop to his huge, scabbed hands, cuffed and folded on top of the table, and he starts to visibly chew on the inside of his cheek.

“What hints?” he asks. "What did he say?"

Instantly, Bruce’s mind flashes snippets from the Joker recording at him. The wrong ones. He tries to ignore the surge of heat, and all the subsequent pangs of anxiety that come with it, and makes himself focus on the relevant bits.

He tells Dmitri, “He implied that he slept with the guard, Andrew Lautner. He also dropped insinuations about Dr. Lancer. Something about the doctor... liking to watch." He pauses, and watches Dmitri very carefully. "Do you know what Joker meant by that?”

Dmitri takes a moment to answer, some deep internal conflict digging deep ridges of worry across his hard, scarred face. “You say implied,” he mumbles slowly. “You say insinuations. He give you details?”

“No. That’s why I’m here.”

“Then I won’t give you details either. I'll just say, it’s true. You should do something.”

“I wanted to.” Bruce reaches for the belt and retrieves the printed photographs of the murdered men. “But I think you got there before me. Did you kill those men, Dmitri?”

Dmitri peers at the photographs. He doesn’t react immediately, but watching his face as he realizes just what it is he’s looking at is fascinating — Bruce can practically trace the flow of his thoughts as they tick and twitch across his face, widening his eyes, pulling his mouth into a tight, tight line. He’s recognized the men, and his opinion of them is crystal clear.

Before Bruce can stop him, he spits on the photographs. He sits back and stares Bruce right in the eye.

He says, “Yes.”

There’s no remorse there, no hesitation. Only rage, and bone-deep disdain settling behind his eyes, and pride for having dealt with the problem. For a hot moment the hard, remorseless coldness in his eyes reminds Bruce of a night a long time ago, a dark alley and two gunshots, and —

He clears his head. He asks, “Why?”

“They hurt Mr. J,” Dmitri explains with alarming simplicity. “Mr. J and I, we tracked them down. And we killed them dead.”

A chill crawls up Bruce’s back. He demands, “For what, Dmitri? What did they do that you felt they deserved the death sentence?”

“I told you. They hurt Mr. J.”

“That’s what Joker told you?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s all you needed to kill seven men? His word?”

“Yes.” Dmitri’s eyes narrow, the lines of his muscles tense under the prison jumpsuit. “I believe him. Mr. J never lied to me. And our people at Arkham, they say, it’s true.”

Bruce frowns. “You have… people? At Arkham?”

“Sure.” Dmitri looks genuinely surprised that Bruce would even ask. “Lots. Mr. J is good at playing people. Bribes, threats... we have a network. They’re afraid of him, or they want to get rich, whatever. Most of the big bosses have people in Arkham. It's easy.”

“Who?” Bruce demands.

Dmitri clamps his mouth shut, and says nothing.

“Who, Dmitri?”

“You want to help Mr. J?” the gangster asks, and Bruce has to sit back, fists clenched.

“Maybe.”

“Then you stop asking. It’s our business.”

“I’m going to find out eventually.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. But not from me.”

Bruce considers, and finally gives him a terse nod. “Fine. And those... people... Did they confirm Joker’s story?”

Dmitri nods. He doesn’t offer anything else.

So Bruce asks, “Dmitri. What exactly did they confirm?”

“Sons of bitches hurt Mr. J.”

“How?”

Dmitri shakes his head, looking distressed now as he begins to rock in the squeaking plastic chair.

“Look,” Bruce tries, “if you cooperate, I could see to it that a good lawyer reviews your case so that they may take some years off your sentence.”

Dmitri shakes his head again, more vehemently. Bruce’s jaw tenses. He really, really doesn’t want to do this. But it seems Dmitri’s loyalty, misplaced though it is, really does run remarkably deep, leaving Bruce very little choice.

Goddammit.

“See, I don’t think they hurt Joker,” he challenges, leaning forward across the table, pitching his voice low. “I think Joker lied to you, and then to me. I think he only wanted them killed because that’s what he does. He hurts the people who try to help him.”

Dmitri’s reaction is immediate. His eyes flare open, and furious color spills across his cheeks, and his back shoots upwards as he yells, “Nyet! You're lying!”

Bruce doesn’t relent. He says, “He only accused them because he wanted to destroy their lives.”

“You don’t know anything!”

“I know Joker. I know how petty he is, how he enjoys making people suffer. Why should I believe anything he says?”

Dmitri shuts his eyes, pressing his cuffed hands to his enormous chest. His rocking gets harder now, and his hands fidget. “Shut up,” he whispers, “shut up.”

“They were only doing their jobs.”

“No they weren’t!” Dmitri yells, sweat beading on his temple.

“Of course they were,” Bruce presses, hating himself for it even as he does. “They had to exact discipline if Joker was acting out.”

“No! They weren’t doing their job,” Dmitri protests. “They weren’t, they weren’t.”

“How would you know?” Bruce demands. “You’re not a doctor. You’ve never been to Arkham. You wouldn’t know a thing about what’s needed to keep the peace in that place, or to —”

“They beat him!” Dmitri explodes, face red with outrage, desperation squeezing tears out of his eyes. “They beat him all the time, for no reason! Went into his cell and just hit and kicked him! Gave him electroshocks all the time just because they liked that he was weak afterwards! They locked him up in solitary, no food, no water, no toilet! And they drugged him, and when he couldn’t defend himself, they took him to the basements and they… and they…” He closes his eyes, and sobs, and big fat tears spill down his cheeks.

Bruce’s heart is racing. Blood drains from his face, sweating cold under the cowl. His imagination spins images of the scenes Dmitri's described, and fills in the gaps, and his stomach churns, wanting to be sick.

Fuck. Fuck.

“They drugged him,” he repeats, barely able to keep his voice steady, “and took him to the basements… to…?”

And Dmitri is nodding, tears spilling out of his crinkled eyes, and Bruce — God, he can’t breathe. Blood rushes in his ears, and he can’t breathe.

“He never told me,” Dmitri sobs, rocking in the chair, twisting his own fingers. “Never gave details, only said, they hurt me, we need to kill so and so. And I don’t ask. But one of our Arkham guys, he came to talk to me. He heard those motherfuckers talk about it in the bathroom, how they took revenge for Lautner, Lautner was their friend, Mr. J hurt him so they hurt him back. And he was drugged. Maybe he don’t even remember it all. But they bragged about it, and they said shit like, no one gives a fuck at Arkham, lotsa guards do it with the inmates, and everyone hates Mr. J., and he had it coming, and he's a freak so he probably enjoyed it anyway, and…”

Suddenly, the words break into a ragged gasp. Dmitri’s eyes widen and his pupils shrink. He stares up at Bruce, and his face is a picture of absolute soul-crashing horror.

“No,” he whispers, “no no no, fuck, Mr. J., I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

He pounds his fists on the table in helpless desperation, chain clanking. His palpable distress helps Bruce momentarily overcome his own, and in this precious moment of clarity he bounds across the table to yank the man’s hands away before he can do himself serious harm.

“Stop that,” he urges. “Dmitri. Stop.”

“No! You don’t understand!” The tears keep coming, and the despair in the gangster’s eyes twists Bruce’s heart inside out. “He never told me! You can’t — you were never supposed to know —”

“Dmitri.”

“He’d never want you to know —!”

He tries to wrestle his hands out of Bruce’s grasp. Bruce holds on, and demands, “Are you sure of this?”

Dmitri sobs for another few moments before he nods, still guilt-stricken and miserable.

“And what does Dr. Lancer have to do with this?" Bruce manages. "You never killed him, and yet —”

Dmitri doesn't reply all at once. He sits there sobbing, keeping his eyes shut, for another minute or so, until the weight of what he thinks he's done sags his shoulders and pulls his gaze down to the floor. He breathes through it, deeply, and Bruce can practically see the gears turning in his head, weighing the consequences of telling Bruce anything else in the face of what he's already spilled.

“Mr. J wanted to save him for last,” Dmitri whispers eventually, turning away from Bruce. “And a few other bastards. He said, let them stew. He planned something big. But then you happened, and he did the Gordon thing, and we never finished business.”

“Why?” Bruce presses, barely recognizing his own voice. “What did the doctor do? Tell me so I can punish him.”

Something in Bruce’s voice knifes through Dmitri’s panic, enough that he looks up and meets Bruce’s eye. His own still glisten with tears as he takes his time considering, trying to read Bruce through the cowl.

“You believe me?”

“Yes,” Bruce confesses over a heart that wants to wring itself dry.

Dmitri sniffles and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jumpsuit. He tells Bruce, quietly, “Dr. Lancer, he gave the drugs. Electroshocks first, and then drugs. And he stood guard. Gave them alibi. Made sure no one interrupted. And he… watched.”

He likes to watch, see?

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

All at once, Bruce's body is trembling with the effort to keep itself still. He doesn't want to keep still. He wants to tear out of Blackgate and all through the city until he crashes through Lancer’s window, and cracks his skull open on a damned wall. He wants to drive to Arkham and right through the iron-wrought gates, and burn that nightmare to the ground. He wants to line the entire staff up against the wall and demand answers from each and every one of them until they confess to every single horrible thing they've done, or known about and done nothing to stop.

He wants to go to Joker, and — and —

“A few other doctors, they know,” Dmitri whispers, slumping in the chair. “And they let it happen. Mr. J wanted to kill them, too, only…”

Bruce sets his jaw, finally letting the man’s hands drop heavily from his grip. His eyes are flooding red and his gut is screaming at him to go out and hunt and hunt and hurt, but he forces himself to stay put, and squeeze Dmitri’s shoulder.

“You did good,” he tries over the burn in his throat, but Dmitri shakes his head, and his eyes once again spill over.

“No,” he protests, “no, I didn’t. I said too much. Mr. J, he’s — in a situation like that, your dignity is all you have, dignity and revenge, and I took one away from him just now, don’t you get it? It was his choice whether to tell you or not. He cares about you, he fucking loves you, and he didn't want you of all people to —”

He fucking loves you.

Bruce can feel his resolve slipping. He looks at Dmitri, and is swept in a wave of self-hatred so strong it nearly trips him to the floor. This man, right now, is showing more respect for Joker than he is, and what he’s done is ugly, it’s so ugly, and what he’s feeling, what he wants to do right now is uglier still, and —

And he could do it. Here and now, he could. He wants to. It's all he wants.

Jesus Christ, Dick was right. He was right. Bruce isn’t fit to carry on with this case anymore. He has to — he has to step aside. Before he does something that can’t be undone, even uglier than — this.

“They will be punished,” he promises Dmitri, because right now that’s all he can do. “I promise.”

Suddenly Dmitri lunges to his feet, nearly knocking Bruce over to the floor.

“If you hurt him, Batman —” he cries, stepping into Bruce’s personal space, “if you hurt him —!”

Bruce meets his eyes. Something — complicated bubbles to the surface, over the rage and despair and ugliness, and he finds himself promising, “I won’t.”

He won’t be able to keep his word. They both know it. But…

But he wants to. He wants to be able to. And maybe Dmitri recognizes that in his voice, if not in his face.

He collapses back onto the plastic chair. He hides his face in his hands.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” he pleads.

Bruce turns to leave, but something stops him. He looks back at Dmitri. He reaches out to touch his shoulder.

“You’ve taken good care of him,” he whispers.

Dmitri sobs, and doesn't stop. Bruce can still hear him long after he leaves the room.

***

Bruce's rage pushes him from Blackgate all the way to Doctor Dominic Lancer's apartment in the better part of eastern Midtown.

Finding it empty feels rather a lot like crashing full-body into a brick wall — Bruce feels just as disoriented, just as lost, when all the violence building up inside him is denied an outlet. It's that frustrated aggression that has him forcing open a window anyway, and dropping inside, and violently searching through the unremarkable, generically-decorated apartment for...

He doesn't even know what. Something. Anything. Evidence, or clues, something he missed before, something to jump out at him and point and go, See? A sign. Something he could have spotted. Anything to indicate that an ordinary-seeming middle-aged man, divorced, father of two, gainfully employed and paying his taxes, is secretly a monster.

He doesn't find anything. No confessions, no journals, no photographs or tapes or anything related to Arkham. Just picture albums of Lancer's family, framed photographs, mementoes and keepsakes collected over decades of psychiatry work, bills, invoices, receipts... All the clutter that typically follows a structured, normal life.

Normal life. Normal apartment. Normal, unremarkable, and as ordinary as Arkham is monstrous.

Seeing it only makes Bruce angrier — and even more lost.

His gut is telling him Dmitri's telling the truth. That the nightmare really happened, right under Bruce's nose, and he had no idea because he focused on the monsters that proudly labelled themselves as such, and let the hidden ones slip.

Again.

And if that's true, then that means that there are others Bruce missed because he wasn't looking. Other normal-seeming people capable of the kind of petty, vengeful cruelty masquerading as self-righteousness, or justice, or necessity that Bruce sees every day, and is helpless to prevent.

Other victims, too. But then again, Bruce already knew that.

Lancer didn't figure in Nisha's files prominently. Maybe he had a vendetta against Joker specifically, and hasn't facilitated the abuse of other patients. Or maybe he's better at hiding it. The thing is, Bruce doesn't know, and he doesn't have the luxury to assume anymore.

Everyone's a suspect.

And if what Dmitri said Lancer did is true...

The rage surges up, chokes him, and he barely resists the urge to grab one of the pristine bar stools by the kitchen counter and hurl it at the window.

He won't find anything here. It's clear that Lancer's one of the many doctors who prefer to keep their Arkham work confined to their office. Which leaves Bruce with two options.

He could go to Lancer's office next. Search it. Confront him, if Lancer's there. Demand an answer. Punish him.

Or he could admit that Dick really was right, and that the rage burning inside him right now is too much — it's too personal — for Bruce to contain.

That the idea of Lancer taking part in Joker's abuse is making him want to hurt the man, and then keep on hurting him, and not stop.

That he doesn't trust himself to stop.

Justice, not vengeance, Dick's voice reminds him as he stands there in the middle of Lancer's living room, trembling with impotent rage. Justice. Not vengeance.

Justice.

Fuck.

"Robin," he speaks into the comm as he makes himself march to the window. "Go back to the Manor. Gather all the evidence Dr. Mulligan provided. Leave it with Gordon."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"What's happened?" Dick's voice echoes in his ear. "What did you find out? Where are you going?"

Bruce stops on the ledge, and spares one last look at Lancer's empty apartment. The rage inside him roars, and he turns away, squeezing his eyes for a moment and trying to breathe through the worst of it.

Whether he likes it or not — whether he's worthy or not — he's still wearing the cowl. He's still carrying the bat symbol on his chest. That symbol means something now, and makes him responsible, and it falls on him not to sully it any more than he already has.

Justice, not vengeance.

"Gotham Central," he manages. "Meet me there."

He jumps out through the window, and turns away from the road to Arkham before it can pull him in.

***

Tonight is Dick's night off, and he's already waiting for Bruce on the roof to GCPD, his Nightwing suit on, his dyed hair hidden under a black wig. His face looks pinched and wary and grim, and he doesn't ask any questions. Instead, he silently follows Bruce through the window down to Jim's office, and keeps to the side when Bruce takes up a place among the shadows.

Then, with both Jim and Dick watching him in tense silence, he finally relays everything he’s unearthed over the course of the investigation — including Dmitri's story. Keeping it clinical helps. Clinical, technical, to the point. It gives him a faint semblance of distance where there's none, a power to keep his voice steady enough to get the words out, and to keep still instead of bolting out the window and over to Arkham like he still wants to.

He can't quite stop his fists shaking where they stay rigid by his sides. If either Jim or Dick notices, though, they don't bring it up.

In fact, Jim doesn’t say anything. He never once interrupts Bruce until he’s done. Then, he leans his elbows on the desk, takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes, giving in to a deep, deep sigh.

“Can you prove any of this?” he asks.

“Working on it.”

“Then we can't really —”

“I’ll give you enough evidence to put them under arrest. Just do it.”

“My detectives will need something to go on.”

“I’ll provide it. Enough material and leads to build a case that can stand up in court. Arrest them. Start with Dr. Lancer.”

Jim sits back, studying him with a tired expression. “We’re starting a full-on assault on Arkham, I take it?”

“Yes. It’s about time.”

Jim nods, slowly. “I guess," he mutters. "Everyone knows that place is a hellhole. But…”

He takes a moment, and Bruce feels sick to his stomach because, yes. That’s what he used to think, too. But.

But a necessary hellhole. But it's best to leave it to its own devices. But nothing better can be arranged, and after all, it’s impossible to weed out all corruption altogether, especially in Gotham.

Well, no more. They can do better, and starting tonight, they will.

“I hope other victims come forward,” Jim says eventually. “The charges will never stick if it's just the clown. Hell, the perps’ll get a standing ovation.”

Bruce breathes out through his nose. “It’s not just him,” he says as his heart pounds in his ears.

“Fine. God. You got anything for me to justify the arrests so I can get the mayor off my tail?”

“Robin's on his way over. He'll get you everything we have.”

“Fine. I'll review it, and then we’ll decide how to go about this. I imagine you’ll want in, so why don’t we coordinate —”

Bruce is already climbing out through the window and flying onto the adjacent building, Dick hot on his tail.

"Bruce —" Dick starts, but Bruce cuts him off.

"Not now, Nightwing."

"Do you believe him?" Dick presses. "The guy from Blackgate. Think he was telling the truth?"

"I believe he thinks it's the truth."

"Yeah, that's not an answer."

"I don't know what to believe," Bruce confesses. "I can't rule anything out. I can't afford to."

"You're gonna let the police handle it?"

Bruce shuts his eyes, perching on the edge of the roof. "I have to," he whispers.

"Okay." Dick hesitates, then adds, quietly, "That's good, Bruce. We'll make sure that justice is done. I have people here who have already volunteered to testify, they just need to come forward when the GCPD come knocking. I'm proud that —"

"I need to be alone," Bruce tells him, and launches himself in the air.

He sprints and flies over the rooftops to perch on the spires of the Gotham Cathedral, looking out for any criminal activity, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help a bit. He’s still a mass of boiling, helpless, frustrated rage, and the emotion coils in his every muscle, in every white-hot thought.

It’s going to take time. Jim will need to review the evidence they’ve collected and come up with “anonymous sources,” he’ll need to mobilize the force, assign detectives, work out a strategy, get warrants. Hold interrogations. Collect reliable witnesses. Let his detectives pore over the security tapes and the files on their own, so they can arrive at the conclusions independently. Convince the D.A. that the case is worth taking to court. And then, the hearings, the trials, the uncertainty of the verdict — that is going to take ages, too, and it’s going to be torture.

But much as he wants to, Bruce can’t intimidate confessions out of the suspects. Not the Arkham crowd. They’ve seen too much, they know too much, and they’re not as afraid of him as they ought to be.

Bruce can work on that — later. When he’s relatively confident that he’ll be able to stop himself from smashing Lancer’s head open again and again and again and again, because as it is…

The rage presses up tight against his skin, like it’s trying to push him out of his own body. And underneath, Dick’s words from the cave still linger, and the fear, the self-loathing and guilt and heartache, and he’s…

He’s still not sure he deserves to be wearing the costume. He might not ever be again, especially now, especially after the conversation with Dmitri. He’s losing control. He’s letting himself slip. His city deserves better, a defender who can actually keep his shit together, who isn’t so goddamn broken, and he looks out over the blaze of a million little lights, praying for a sign…

A scream cuts through the air, and he turns. Below, a terrified woman is clutching a child close to her body while a man waves a gun in front of her face, demanding something, onlookers scattering in fear. No one is trying to help. No one lingers to stop the attacker, even when he shoots his gun into the air in a show of strength.

Bruce narrows his eyes. Is this his answer? Is this how he’s supposed to read it?

He doesn’t know. But there’s no time to think — the thug is taking aim.

So Bruce adjusts the cowl over his face and ignores the tightness, and swoops down to do his work.

And as he does, he thinks, yes, he might be broken. He might be unworthy. But he’s the only one the city has right now. And maybe it doesn’t need him to be perfect — maybe it just needs him. Because in the end, he’s the only one who can do this, and it’s what it’s always come down to.

If he can, then he must.

***

He spends the night like he usually does when he has no big cases to work on, stopping a dozen petty crimes, seeking them out with a desperation he knows is mostly borne out of the need to distract himself. It doesn’t work. He only manages to exhaust himself, to think in circles until he’s ready to either scream or collapse, and he’s no closer to thinking up a solution to all this than he was at the beginning.

Maybe there is no solution. Maybe this time there is no strategy he can plan out. Maybe he just… he just needs to wait and see, and test himself, day after day.

Which, of course, is no comfort at all. It can’t be. But by the time he drags himself home he's so drained, so completely overwhelmed, that he has no choice but to accept it.

Still, instead of to his own bedroom, his steps carry him up the stairs. He doesn’t even think about it — he’s too tired, so terribly goddamn tired. He just — somehow, he thinks that this is where he should be. Where he has to be. He needs to confront it, this feeling and himself, one more time.

To be sure.

He stops before the door to Joker’s rooms. He looks into the camera.

“I need time alone with the prisoner,” he demands with all the authority he can muster. “You can take it up with Commissioner Gordon if you don’t like it. I’m moving our unsupervised hour from tomorrow to now.”

It’s a mistake, the rational part of his brain says, and he agrees. He’s just too tired to care, and he needs — he needs —

The guards pass him on their way out, eyeing him warily. He waits and makes sure they’re gone, lured away for the hour with the promise of tea and hot buns from Alfred, and then he punches the code.

He just — he needs. He’s so tired, and he needs to find out, to make sure, to settle how he feels and see if he can control himself still, and to protect, too. But most of all he just — needs.

The doors open. Beyond, the parlor is dark and still, the curtains drawn, filtering in weak slivers of the coming sunrise.

Bruce lets the doors close behind him and calls, “Joker?”

He steps into the parlor and takes a moment to listen to his own heartbeat. It doesn’t seem to want to calm down no matter how much he tries to steady his breath, and only picks up its pace when he peers into the bedroom.

“Joker?”

He’s on the bed, pale and still in the half-gloom. He stirs when Bruce steps in, pushing himself up on his elbows, a thin, spidery figure rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Darling?”

Bruce swallows and closes his eyes. His heart skips, and the world swims under his closed eyelids. Darling.

He fucking loves you.

“Darling,” Joker whispers, and Bruce can hear him shuffling on the bed, “what’s wrong? You look like death warmed over. And trust me, I’d know all about that.”

He giggles. Bruce keeps his eyes closed, suddenly afraid of what he might do if he opens them.

He's failed. He's failed his family, himself, and now he knows that he's failed Joker, too. And still, he needs, and he — and he —

He shouldn’t be here. He should keep his distance, and think of ways to help Joker without coming into his presence so often. He should play it cool, and pretend, like he used to. He should find it in himself to do that for both their sakes, but —

Long, gentle fingers touch his face. Bruce can smell citrus, and just a hint of sweat and a chemical whiff underneath it all, and what he supposes is the smell of Joker’s sleep-warmed breath.

“Darling,” Joker coos, leaning in, cupping Bruce's face in his hands. “What is it?”

Bruce releases a breath. He risks opening his eyes and looks straight into Joker’s, green and sleepy but getting more alert with every passing second. Warmth rushes him all at once, warmth and need and shame and guilt and everything in between, and his heart rattles, and his eyes sting.

He tries to speak. He can’t.

“Oh, baby,” Joker whispers, rubbing a thumb gently across Bruce’s cheek. Bruce wants to lean into his touch, and it scares him just how much. “Come on,” Joker coaxes. “You look just about ready to keel over.”

He takes Bruce’s hand and pulls him to the bed.

And Bruce follows, because he’s too tired and too lost to fight it, and the need to get close to Joker, to touch and hold and protect him, to make sure he's here and safe and hidden away from everyone who'd hurt him, shoots into all of his nerve endings. He lets himself be pushed down onto the bed, and he lets Joker crawl down beside him. He lets Joker cradle his head close to his chest, lets himself be tucked into Joker’s slim body. Him in his armor, Joker in thin pajamas, with arms that smell of sleep and warmth and chemicals winding around Bruce's neck and head.

Joker's legs tangle with his. Bruce's own arms come up over Joker’s to close around his back before he can stop them. He breathes out, and his lips stutter against Joker’s shoulder. Joker coos quietly as he strokes his head through the cowl, and Bruce can barely feel it but that’s probably for the best.

He closes his eyes. They sting, hot and sandy, and he breathes. Slowly, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat, just like when Joker jumped into his arms the other day, the riot in his heart begins to ease.

And the thing is, this time, the fact that it does doesn’t scare him. Maybe he’s too drained for that, too exhausted, but he thinks a part of him knew that he’d react like that, and maybe this is what he needed. This warmth, this — calm, proving beyond a shadow of doubt what the ache in his heart really is.

He’ll examine it all, from every angle — later. Later. When he has the energy to feel guilty again.

For now, he holds on. Dmitri’s confession still rattles in his head, and with Joker so close it's impossible not to imagine the worst of it. And he hurts, hurts not so much for himself but for this man who is now holding him with no idea about how much Bruce really knows, and Bruce aches with how much he suddenly yearns to just whisk him away from everything, disappear somewhere, just the two of them, so they could have a sliver of a chance to maybe sort this mess out between them in peace.

But of course he can do no such thing, and the only peace they can have is in moments like this one that they carve out for themselves by force.

And Bruce… wants more of them. Which, in and of itself, is all the confirmation he really needs.

He still needs to figure out what to do about all this, including his own confused mess of feelings, but now… Now, he thinks, all he really wants to do is feel. Doesn’t matter how much it may hurt. He deserves to hurt.

If that makes him selfish, then so be it.

“You’re tired, is that it?” Joker asks in a warm whisper. “So tired. Poor Batsy. It’s all right, baby, you can stay here with me as long as you like.”

If only that were true. Bruce holds him closer on an instinct he doesn't have it in himself to supress, and he hears rather than feels Joker pressing a light kiss to the top of the cowl.

“You really should consider trying out one of my miracle pills,” Joker suggests. “They do wonders for insomnia.”

“Shut up,” Bruce whispers, roughly, because it's better than what he actually wants to say.

Joker chuckles, stroking gentle circles over his cheek.

“Any particular reason why you’d come to me?”

Bruce bites down on his bottom lip. There's so many reasons. Too many, and none of them are something he's ready to, or should, share.

But, here and now, Joker is warm and kind and open while Bruce can't help but be weak. Bruce is too selfish, too raw, too untethered, and he wants more of it. So he whispers what still rings all too true: “You’re the only one fucked up enough to get me.”

Joker doesn’t say anything for a minute.

Then he murmurs, “Yes. Yes, I am.” He brushes another gentle kiss to Bruce’s head. “Birds of a feather, you and I, mmmm?”

“No,” Bruce breathes, and feels Joker shudder against him when the words ghost right over his naked skin. “We’re not. But…”

“I know,” Joker hums. “I know.”

And maybe he really does.

Maybe they’ve both known for ages.

They go silent, just breathing together. Joker doesn’t let it last. Soon enough, he picks up a melody, and hums it into Bruce’s cowl. His chest vibrates with it, and Bruce can feel it in his face.

He presses his eyes closed again. He sighs.

“That’s a terrible song.”

“It’s a wonderful song,” Joker protests, and then he sings out loud, “You know I can’t smile without you… can’t smile without you. I can’t laugh, and I can’t sing… I’m finding it hard to do anything…”

“You’re a terrible singer,” Bruce tells him, and Joker chuckles, patting him fondly on the cheek.

He keeps humming, and Bruce doesn’t interrupt him again. Instead he counts each minute, measured by the flow of Joker’s raspy, scratchy voice, and lets his heart settle against Joker’s.

He doesn’t let himself fall asleep, but it’s… close enough.

Close enough.

Chapter Text

”I… I have to go now.”

Finger doodling idle patterns against his cheek. Pausing. Turning, the sharp point of the nail pressing in, dancing on the razor’s edge of pain.

A whisper.

”Then go.”

Warmth, sleepy, comfortable, fitted all snug around him, denying the words, trapping him in. The heartbeat, humming through the layers of flesh and skin and cotton just against his face.

He turns his head, just a little, touching the tip of his nose to where the unbuttoned collar of the pajama shirt falls open to tease a hint of skin, the sharp jut of collarbone.

So close. Too close. The tip of the cowl’s nose is sharp, and drags a faint fleshy line over white skin, no longer than the width of a pinky fingernail. He can see the spot reddening, can measure its distance to the closest scar half-peeking from under Joker’s shirt.

He remembers the scar. Remembers the flash of a batarang skidding across a silk yellow shirt, tearing through. The red splash of blood, the cold lash of wind.

He breathes out, and as he does, his lips steal against the warmth, inches from the scar.

A stutter in the heartbeat. A sharp intake of breath.

”Darling.”

The fingers twitch, uncertain. Remorse churns in Bruce’s gut, heavy, intrusive, a sharp drop like the split-moment mid-jump when the grapple rope takes just a blink too long to snap taut.

He pushes himself up, and then away.

”I’m sorry.”

”For what?” Green eyes, sharp and questing, pinning him down with a gleam of altogether too keen understanding. For all the armor between them, Bruce feels like he’s the one exposed. He turns away, mouth tingling from the warmth of white skin pressed close, close, much too close.

He pulls himself to his feet, sheets rustling. “I’m going now.”

A deep sigh. “Oh, fine, if you must.”

One last look, stolen over his shoulder, at the red streak of a smile in the blur of dawn. Fresh early sun, stealing into the room through the narrow cracks between curtains, has settled in bright smears of light over Joker’s hair, lining his shoulders, dripping down his cheeks.

Bruce’s world tilts. His heart skids and fumbles like a foot catching on a loose roof tile. The suit bites into his skin, and he…

“Master Bruce?”

Alfred's waiting for him by the stairs. The sun's painting over his lines, too. But unlike the warm-skin haze of Joker’s bedroom, here the light is stark, brightly aggressive, and standing in it, Alfred looks starker still, an altogether too real presence challenging the specters Bruce hasn’t quite begun to clear.

There’s the sharp jolt of a drop again, tearing through the haze. Bruce blinks, and tries to stifle the urge to turn away and rush back into the comfort of the gloom beyond the doors of steel.

Alfred steps closer, his brows drawn tight, his posture stiff. “Sir, is everything…?”

Bruce breathes. His arm shoots out, blindly, to seek the support of the banister. His fingers curl over the sleek, polished wood, and then his palm presses in hard.

His home. The same wood his ancestors had carved years and years and years ago. Solid, familiar, real. Bruce lets it steady him, even through the haze that doesn’t quite want to fall away.

“I’m fine, Alfred,” he says, and his voice booms down the grand staircase to be swallowed up in plush red carpets.

Alfred’s mouth curls in disapproval. Bruce passes him, descending, letting first the banister and then the solid dependability of his own home guide him to the bedroom. Alfred follows, as softfooted as ever, and Bruce almost wishes he’d stomp, if only to give his mind something else to focus on — something other than the memory of Joker’s fingers doodling on his cheek.

“Bedtime now, I think,” Alfred says, reaching out for pieces of the suit.

Bruce’s hands, obedient like a sleepwalker’s, come up to undo the clasps like they have every morning since he started the Mission…

And then his mind catches up, and they stop just inches away.

Alfred's looking at him. “Master Bruce?” He pauses, and then adds, gently, “You’re not going to start sleeping in that thing now, are you?”

Bruce can barely hear him through the layer of gauze that seems to have grown over his mind.

Because the suit, it’s… It’s still carrying the warmth of Joker’s bed on it. Bits of dark, hazy dawn have settled in the crevices in the armor, stuck like grains of sand in the joints. Echoes of Joker’s voice, Darling, darling, streaked over the plating. A coating of citrus over the cowl. And the thing is, the thing is…

Bruce isn’t sure he’s quite ready to give it up.

“Sir.”

Bruce’s eyes snap to Alfred, and suddenly, he’s eleven again, caught reading one of his mother’s harlequin novels in the pantry. Reality pierces the gauze again, leaving him bared, tender and raw, and younger than he’s felt in years.

He undoes the clasps and, roughly, starts to shed the suit piece by piece, his muscles stiff, his face heating up.

Even then, the cowl is the last to go, and the sudden kiss of cool air against the sweat gluing his hair to his brow helps Bruce keep his face blank when he hands it over to Alfred and spots the twin red stains across the top.

The kisses.

He stares at them until Alfred, gently but firmly, negotiates the cowl from his grip.

“That’s enough of that now,” he says. “I’ll — wash it. It’ll be ready again for tonight.”

No, Bruce wants to say, don’t you dare. It crowds against the skin of his face, a hot flush spilling over his cheeks, squeezing down on his breath.

He turns his back on Alfred before he says or does something he won’t be able to take back, like wrestling the cowl back and putting it away somewhere safe so it’ll always carry the marks Joker gave it. This means he's now facing his own bathroom, its door ajar and promising sanctuary, and he takes refuge in the idea, telling Alfred, “I’ll shower now. Let me know if anything comes up.”

“I…” Alfred hesitates, and Bruce can hear the questions in his voice. His shoulders set into a tense line. Alfred sighs.

“Very well,” he says at last. “Maybe this time, you’ll actually manage something resembling a proper rest.” The emphasis on proper grazes Bruce somewhere too-raw, too-tender, and he stalks away to the bathroom before Alfred can see. He’s done letting people see him this unguarded and vulnerable. He’d much rather nurse the rawness in peace, and when he shuts the door and locks it, it almost feels like he’s locking out the world with all its confusion, responsibilities and piercing, questioning eyes.

Almost.

He allows himself a certain degree of sluggishness getting into the shower. The same reluctance that had him hold onto the suit and then the cowl guides his hands now to hover over the knobs. As soon as he turns them, the smell of citrus will be chased away for good, drowned under an ice-cold spray of water…

… but so, too, will the haze. Or so Bruce hopes. And with any luck, some of that raw, naked, exposed feeling will sluice down the drain with it.

He turns the knob, steps right into the shock of cold water, and lets it whip him as a stand-in for his mind, which clearly isn’t up to the task.

The facts, he tries to think, staring vaguely into the white squares of the tiles. His eyes trace a single drop questing down the sliver of grout. The facts…

The facts.

Thing is, though, Bruce isn’t quite sure he wants to concentrate on them right now. He’d much rather just stand there and count water drops on the tiles, and soak up the lashes of water like the punishment he knows he deserves. Because right now, the facts are a big toothy maw eager to swallow him up into pitch-black darkness and shred him on the way down, and all this will achieve, he knows, is it’ll spit him out the other side a torn, bleeding wreck.

Too bad it’s never been about what Bruce wants.

So… the facts. And fact number one, the one he's got to face before anything else, is that — as far as he and Dmitri know — Joker was raped at Arkham.

Fact number two: the knowledge strikes Bruce right down the middle with a zap of lightning so fierce and sudden he’s like a tree catching fire, and every time it happens, it gets harder and harder to put the fire out.

Which brings him to fact number three, and it is this: he’d gone to Joker for comfort, and — fact number four — he got it.

And that ties neatly with fact number five, which is that Bruce wishes he was still back there in that half-dark room, listening to a raspy love song, smelling chemicals and citrus.

His hands find his upper arms and close in, digging into skin. Without thinking about it, he starts to press his fingers into skin one by one in a rhythm he only half-recognizes, one, two, three on the one arm, one, two, three on the other, pause, repeat, one two three, one two three… His heart swells with the count and then shrinks, and swells again, and feels like it might bruise against his ribs if it grows any bigger.

He shakes his head, sending water to splat against the glass walls of the cabin. His breath's coming short, and the tiles blur into one another. Bruce steadies himself against the wall of the cabin and slowly lets himself crouch down, dropping his head, letting ice-cold water hit against the nape of his neck. He struggles to concentrate past the throb of panic. He focuses on his breath.

Easy. Easy…

He gives himself time, and slowly, slowly, manages to meditate the squeeze on his lungs to release. Then, he levels himself back up and turns the knobs to let the water warm up. As he does, he thinks of Dick and his earnest face, and his reassurances, and that might be a mistake because his heart wants to grow bigger again despite his best efforts, for entirely different reasons this time, only driving home that he doesn’t know what to do about any of this. Now that he’s given up the reins of the Arkham investigation, he's without direction, a hapless, adrift molecule bouncing off one feeling and into the next; and it seems that, inevitably, the one molecule he crashes against most often is Joker.

Joker, with his sleep-lined eyes and yesterday’s unwashed lipstick, and a halo of dawn gleaming in his hair as he smiles Bruce out of the room, sharp edges blurred, white skin warmed, lines softened into something pliant, inviting, promising…

Bruce’s heart stirs, and, despite the earlier assault of cold water, so does his cock. He groans and leans his forehead against the chilled tiles. He breathes. In, out, in, out…

Because, fact number six… he can’t do anything about any of… that. Not yet, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much he suspects Joker might want it too, which, ha, isn’t altogether clear. Not that it matters either way. For now, he’s Joker’s caretaker slash watchdog, and making any sort of… move… is unacceptable.

Even if he knew what sort of move he’d be ready or willing to make in the first place, which is a whole other question, and one he really isn’t going to investigate now that he’s standing here half-hard and pathetic in the shower feeling sorry for himself.

Fact number seven: he needs a new case. Or… anything, really, to throw himself at that isn’t related to Joker at all, just so he doesn’t lose the thread of reason and purpose entirely, so he doesn’t give in to the panic, or — worse — to what caused the panic in the first place. A project he can summon when he has to visit Joker again, to help Bruce keep his distance and offer a retreat if things get dangerous.

And since none of the current Arkham inmates look prone to escaping at the moment, he’s just going to have to think of something himself.

The resolution helps. At least a little. Even if Bruce can’t exactly sleep while his brain is desperate to come up with a project, he at least tries to spend a couple of hours meditating on the bed, which is the next best thing. When he emerges out into the house some hours later, he makes sure to check if Joker's okay, and then announces that he’s off to the office.

“Want me to come with you?” Dick offers, waving his Haly’s Circus mug at him and nearly spilling what’s left of his coffee.

“No.” Bruce adjusts his tie and then looks around the kitchen. “Where’s Jason?”

“Said he was going to town,” Dick says with a shrug, and he draws into himself, looking uncomfortable. “He… He’s taking this Joker thing quite hard, you know.”

Bruce pauses. There’s that squeeze on his lungs again.

“Were you watching us?” he asks.

If anything, Dick looks even more uncomfortable, and doesn't meet Bruce’s eye. “Look,” he says, “it’s too early to talk about that. I need at least… three more coffees, okay? And Jason needs — time, I guess, or possibly Xanax. A lot of Xanax.”

“Don’t we all,” Bruce murmurs.

Dick snorts. “Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is still Arkham-blond although his naturally dark roots are already peeking through. “Go on, Alfred and I can hold down the fort.”

Bruce nods and turns to leave.

“Cuddlebear,” Dick adds under his breath when Bruce is almost out of the kitchen.

For the good of all involved, Bruce pretends he didn’t hear that.

***

Salvation saunters into his life later that day in the striking form of Selina Kyle, glittering her way into the office with all the ease and comfort of someone who knows without any shadow of doubt that she owns any space she enters.

Late afternoon light catches in the tasteful — and no doubt stolen — gold pieces adorning her neck and ears. She grins, her lips lined in brave dark lipstick that, on her, looks stylish rather than tacky, and she click-clicks on her painfully high stiletto heels over to the spare chair across from Bruce, crossing her legs and primly resting her jeweled purse in her lap.

Bruce’s heart jumps at the sight of her — it always does. He doubts that will ever change, no matter what sort of current romantic entanglements they may or may not be having. He almost wishes he could still spark in himself the old nag of longing, but it’s no use; he’d doused it a long time ago, and with good reason. These days, the jolt Selina gives him is softer, not quite as dark, but with more than enough anxiety and regret thrown in to make up for the lacking passion.

It’s his fault, of course. That only makes it harder to meet her eyes now, and find them bright but shuttered off, guarded, her playfulness as much of an act as his own, the only difference between them being that Selina is a much better actress and has been doing the act for much longer.

So when she greets him with an easy, “Hi” and a wink, Bruce is almost, almost taken in.

“I decided to let myself in, hope you don’t mind,” Selina says, brushing away a strand of short hair that blew over her eye.

Bruce, amused despite himself, returns a fraction of her dazzling smile and waves at his assistant Julie, who hovers anxiously in the doorway. She gets the hint and, blushing furiously, closes the door on them.

“Julie's under standing orders to let you in at any time of day or night,” Bruce reassures Selina, pressing the button that shutters off the office windows.

“Is that so?” Selina purrs, shooting him an intrigued look from under her hooded, heavily shaded eyes. “I thought I detected a considerable lack of opposition when I decided to barge in uninvited.”

“You’re always invited, Selina.”

“If only that were true,” she whispers, and Bruce shifts in his chair, his bubble of relatively good humor burst. He clears his throat.

“How can I help you?”

Instead of replying right away, Selina looks around, at the blinds now shielding them from the prying eyes of the city. She gestures at them, the gold bracelet on her graceful wrist snatching bits of sunshine and scattering them all over the office. “Is all this really necessary?”

“Yes,” Bruce says simply. "We both have scripts to maintain.”

“I’d much rather have the new script be that I kicked your sorry womanizer ass to the curb.”

“Not so much a script, that,” Bruce points out, and she grins.

“As long as you admit it.” She studies him for a moment. “You’re a difficult man to get a hold of,” she accuses, “even when you’re not wearing the tights. I’m surprised to see you here actually doing work.”

Bruce glances at the screens of the two laptops and one tablet spread over the desk, and at his own notes strewn around the space. He doesn’t want to admit, even to Selina, that he’d holed himself in here for the better part of the afternoon going through all of Wayne Enterprises projects, looking for something to moor himself to before he drifts too far off course. That, of course, makes him think of Joker again, and he clears his throat to center himself, Selina’s presence both grounding and distracting, especially when a corner of his mind start to compare his feelings for the two of them side by side, to measure and judge and decry him as being out of his goddamn mind.

That’s not helpful. He stamps down on the impulse and leans his elbows on the desk, and holds Selina’s increasingly amused gaze.

“Why did you want to see me?”

Selina keeps him waiting for exactly four heartbeats before she says, her eyes never leaving his, “I need a loan.”

“Fine.”

Selina’s smirk turns incredulous when she cocks her head. “Aren’t you going to ask what it's for?”

Bruce shrugs. “I trust you.”

“I could be planning to use the money for a heist.”

“You could,” Bruce agrees, “but you’re not, are you? You’re too proud to ask for help, especially money. You wouldn’t come to me unless it was serious.”

A sharp spark lights up Selina’s eyes, and she leans forward, clutching the purse. “You think you know me so well, don’t you?”

Bruce lets the corner of his mouth crack up. “Well enough. Or am I wrong?”

She regards him for a few more seconds, poised and ruffled, spiked for a confrontation, before she relents with a huff. She snaps open the purse and picks up a sleek black memory stick, which she slides to him across the desk. Then, she sits back without another word and watches him expectantly, folding her hands across her chest.

Bruce accepts the challenge and plugs the memory stick into the closest out of the two laptops. He can feel Selina’s expectant gaze on him as he clicks into the single folder he finds, labeled “EECC.” He selects the first file out of the several that are revealed, and blinks, surprised at what he finds.

“Selina,” he asks, studying the image, “what is this?”

“Plans,” she explains, standing up and taking a few brisk steps to loom behind him, resting one manicured hand on the back of Bruce’s chair, her shadow draping over Bruce and the desk.

“Yes, obviously.” Bruce maneuvers the first image around on the screen, puzzling out the rough 3-D outline of a building. “You want to build a house?”

She snorts. “Honestly, detective, would I come to you if I wanted anything as simple as a house?”

“What, then?”

She's silent for a moment, letting Bruce explore the other plans in the folder, and though he’s not looking at her, Bruce can tell she's stiffening, some of her playful affectation cracking at the seams.

She whispers, “I guess I’m trying to give back.”

Bruce swivels to look at her, and she retreats by a couple of steps, as though suddenly the weight of Bruce’s attention is too heavy for her. She perches on the far end of the desk, playing with the thin golden band around her wrist.

It takes her a moment to find her voice again, but Bruce doesn’t press. He waits patiently, admiring the play of light on her earrings.

“I’ve been… well. You could call it a personal trip down memory lane,” Selina confesses. Her eyes trace the movement of her own fingers over the bracelet. “Going back to my roots. You can take a girl out of the East End, but…” She smiles, bitter and self-deprecating, and her hand stills. “Point is, I’m trying out a new thing. Not exactly altruism, I wouldn’t go that far, but… close. Close enough, actually, that I think you’ll be interested in helping me. You do know I’m from the East End, right?”

Bruce nods. Her smirk turns tighter, and once again, she looks away.

“Right now it’s in worse shape than ever,” she explains. “It’s always run on drugs, but these days it’s overrun. I’ve been trying to do something about that, but ultimately, you can’t stop anyone from ending up on the streets if you don’t give them any alternatives. So… this is mine.”

She points to the plans on the screen, and Bruce’s gaze follows.

“It’s not much,” Selina says, scooting closer, “but it’s a start. And the East End could really use a proper community center.”

… Oh. Bruce studies the plans, trying to ignore the way his heart suddenly brims with warmth. “Am I getting this right? You want to build a community center?”

“I’ve got half the money,” Selina says, voice spiked with challenge, “and I need you to help me out with the other half. A loan, mind you, not charity. I do intend to pay you back.”

Bruce smirks. “You’re a proud woman, Selina.”

“Yes, I am.” Now that they’re beginning to wade back out of the uncomfortable territory of feelings and the, no doubt difficult, admission that Selina Kyle might possibly be planning to do something entirely unselfish, some of her studied ease returns. She drums her sharp fingernails on Bruce’s shoulder in a manner that’s not so much seductive as fond. “Well? Will you help a girl out?”

“Tell me more,” Bruce asks, turning to her. “What exactly do you want it to be?”

“It’s still a work in progress,” Selina admits, suddenly businesslike, turning to the screen. “I talked to Leslie Thompkins. We want to build a bigger, better clinic next to the center so she could move her practice there. And as for the activities, I was thinking free evening classes and courses for kids and adults, whoever wants to participate. We’d offer help with getting qualifications, job advice… that sort of thing. We’d have arts and crafts too, naturally, dance lessons, music lessons, language courses, the works. And a shelter for everyone who needs a safe place for whatever reason. Sex ed. We’re still hammering out the details, but that’s the general plan, and I want it to run both on paid professionals and volunteers if we can swing it. The lot I have in mind would also leave some room for a small park at the back.”

When Bruce doesn’t say anything immediately, she prods him lightly with the tip of her shoe, prompting, “Well? What do you think?”

Bruce swivels to face her. He suspects Selina wouldn’t appreciate the full extent of pride he’s feeling right now, so he tries his best to curb it, but some of it still slips out when he says, “Selina, this is wonderful.”

He means it, so much, and she can probably tell, judging by the pleased gleam in her eyes and the haughty tilt of her chin.

“I’m not doing this to impress you,” she asserts, but she’s smiling when she says it, and Bruce is this close to smiling back. “So? Will you lend me the money?”

“Of course,” Bruce says, and her smile grows, turns from coy to genuinely pleased.

“I knew you couldn’t resist a good cause,” she taunts, and Bruce lets her, commenting under his breath, “I’m glad to see you’re beginning to see the appeal of good causes, too.”

“Hey.” She swats him on the shoulder. “Don’t you dare climb that high horse. We still need to talk business.”

“Yes,” Bruce agrees, amused, “excuse me.”

And so talk business they do, discussing the plans, the costs, the logistics, the timeline. Bruce gets in touch with his trusted city planners, construction specialists, designers and cost analysts while Selina keeps jotting down the suggestions and rough estimates, and adds her own insights. Hours fly, and by the time they’re ready to wrap things up for the day, it’s nearly dinnertime.

Which is why, despite his better judgment, Bruce lets himself get dragged to the Italian bistro around the corner, where he indulges Selina in her eager toast.

Truth be told, it’s impossible to refuse her anything, not when she looks radiant with fresh purpose, bright and strong and driven like she hadn’t been in a long time, and possibly the most beautiful Bruce has ever seen her. It’s easy to endure it with good grace when she teases and laughs at him, because her manner is free and familiar rather than malicious, and the twinkle in her eyes tells Bruce she doesn’t really mean it when she calls him a dour sourpuss.

And the thing is, it’s so easy to remember why he fell so hard for her all those years ago, watching her now as she twinkles and dazzles and charms even this pompous little place into something comfortable and exciting. Why he still does love her, in a warm, distant, achey sort of way, dulled with guilt and just a touch of relief that things hadn’t worked out between them after all. Selina once called him a killjoy, and that’s what he’d been for her, standing in her way, dragging her down without ever meaning to, never once daring to return her promises with any of his own because when it came down to it, she came from a world of grays and ambiguity he couldn’t possibly understand. That… wasn’t fair, to either of them.

Now that she’s decided to liberate herself of him for good, or attempted to, she’s thriving. She’s free and spirited and powerful again, with a new sense of direction he envies very much while at the same time feeling prouder than anyone possibly could. It hurts, of course it does, to see that she’s only been able to regain her footing after she’d let him go; Bruce guesses that at least a small fraction of her charm today is amped up just to drive home how well she’s faring on her own, to twist the nail of guilt just a little deeper…

But he’s happy for her, Bruce realizes, touching his glass of water to her red wine. Even through the tangle of his own anxieties, he is. Besides, she clearly hasn’t booted him out of her life completely, and he does suspect that the invitation to participate in her new project was an overture of friendship as much as anything else. He’s grateful for that.

Especially since she might have just helped him find a new direction of his own.

They part with a handshake that Selina doesn’t try to prolong. She doesn’t suggest that they meet in their works clothes later tonight, either, and Bruce greets the absence of her usual flirting with grace and stoicism that surprise him. Her parting smile is the most genuine one she’s given him all afternoon, and the truth is, the air between them seems to be clearing like it never has before.

From the knowing look in her eye, Bruce guesses Selina's thinking along very similar lines.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she tells him when they step out of the bistro and under Gotham’s russet skies. “I know you have your hands full these days, but try to remember to have some fun, okay?”

“You sound like Alfred,” Bruce complains, craning his neck to spot if any taxis are lurking in the sluggish crawl of the evening traffic.

“Good. Alfred's a wise man.” Selina nudges him with her elbow. “I heard about what you’re trying to do with Arkham. I’d say good luck, but if you ask me, they should have razed that place to the ground a long time ago.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. These days, he isn’t all that sure he disagrees.

“I think you’re being quixotic again,” Selina tells him quietly, moving closer so Bruce can hear her over the city soundscape. “Better steer yourself for disappointment now before it’s too late.”

“Maybe,” Bruce mutters. “Maybe not.”

“You’re infuriating, I hope you realize.” Selina shoves him lightly, and Bruce turns his head just in time to catch the edge of fondness in her smile.

It warms him, and he’s encouraged to point out, “You’re the one who’s trying to build a community center in the East End. You can hardly get more Cervantes than that.”

“Doing anything decent in this goddamn city is like fighting windmills,” Selina sighs. She stands there quietly for a moment, and then asks, “Is this what’s bothering you?”

“What?” Bruce glances down at her, letting a potential cab pass them by.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” Selina observes. “Is this about Arkham? Or is it about… the clown?”

Ah. Bruce wondered when that would turn up. He opens his mouth, but immediately, Selina cuts him off.

“Because if it is about him, I don’t want to hear it,” she says, bristling slightly. “Notice how I didn’t ask about him all evening? That was on purpose. I don’t wanna talk about him. If we do, we’ll probably end up fighting, and I don’t want to fight today, Bruce.”

“That’s…” Bruce falters for a moment, swallowing. “That’s fair,” he admits roughly.

She nods, as much to herself as to Bruce. “As long as he stays put, he’s your problem, not mine,” she whispers. “But…” she pauses, “if it’s anything else… you can talk to me. Okay? You can, and I’ll try not to be… Well, I’ll try not to fuck it up.”

She means it, too, Bruce realizes, looking into her eyes. There’s a ball in his throat. He manages a quiet “Thank you” through it, and she looks away, looking, if possible, as awkward as he feels.

But then a taxi rolls to a stop by the curb, and she squares her shoulders, and shrugs off the discomfort in favor of her usual sparkle, sunset gleaming in her eyes.

She tiptoes up to Bruce and brushes a light kiss on his cheek.

“Take care of yourself,” she tells him before patting him on the bicep and disappearing into the backseat of the cab.

Bruce stands there on the pavement and watches as the cab carries Selina off, doubtless to another mysterious errand, and when he starts to slowly amble back towards Wayne Tower, he nurses the residue flecks of warmth to carry with him up into the office.

***

Selina’s idea for a community center is a welcome distraction and plants the seed for more ideas in Bruce’s head. But it’s not enough to take his mind off his Joker problem entirely, and by the time Bruce returns to the Manor, he’s almost back to square one.

He wants to go to Joker again. Badly. And this is precisely why he can’t. Not until he figures out how he should, or can, act around him. Besides, he’s already used up his guard-free hours for the week. If he visits Joker two days in a row, it will raise some eyebrows.

So he keeps his distance, and manages to go for all of three days before he caves and arranges another movie night for the two of them.

It goes peacefully, right up until Joker — obviously still in high spirits after their last meeting — once again tries to knead him under the blanket. Bruce suspects it’s the thrill of doing something inappropriate under Ramirez’s watchful eye as much as any need to touch him, but he doesn’t mind, not when each surreptitious press of white toes sends voltage of sensation zapping his blood. And the terrifying thing is, Joker’s boldness must be catching, because Bruce feels a touch of reckless daring strong enough to send his own hand sneaking under Reggie.

His fingers find the curved instep of Joker’s bare foot. Gingerly, they ghost over it, careful not to tickle, and Joker’s sharp gasp — which he immediately tries to pass off as a laugh — encourages Bruce to glide the knuckles of his fingers higher, over the smooth skin around the protruding bone of the ankle.

He sketches a circle around it, mindful not to move his hand too much and attract Ramirez’s attention. Joker responds by curling and then uncurling his toes against Bruce’s thigh. Bruce risks a glance, and intercepts Joker’s eye. Joker's smiling in a way that wouldn’t be out of place in a gay porn magazine, and through the rapid-fire drum of his own heart, Bruce thinks, Shit, this was a mistake.

His fingers don’t want to acknowledge that. They linger around Joker’s ankle, and then stroke down along the curve of the foot, slowly, by fractions of inches, until they catch on the ridge of an old scar halfway down to the toes. Intrigued, Bruce investigates, trailing the tip of his index finger over the scar’s jagged length, up and then down, imagining the shape of it, wondering how many other scars he could explore if he could let his hand wander up Joker’s long, long leg…

Joker’s toes curl into him, and he moves his hand back up to the ankle, pressing slightly in return.

God, he’s losing his mind.

It’s a jolt to discover he doesn’t really care though, not in a way that counts. Mostly, Bruce feels electrified, and excited, and giddy in a way that’s entirely new to him. Mid-thirties is much too old to be acting like a schoolboy, but here he is, and here Joker is, winking at Bruce like they’re a pair of horny teenagers playing footsie under the desk when the teacher isn’t looking, and the moment is a fragile bubble of clandestine awareness so sharp and clear Bruce feels like he’s under magnifying glass.

And fine, okay, they shouldn’t be doing this. It doesn’t matter that Joker started it — Bruce should know better than to encourage him. They’re being ridiculous.

But it’s been ages since Bruce had last allowed himself to be ridiculous, and maybe that’s why he keeps his hand warm over Joker’s ankle all the way to the credits.

***

Later, when Bruce thinks back to that evening, he appreciates it all the more. It was a high point, and they don’t get many of those in the best of circumstances.

In the weeks that follow, they don’t get any at all.

The disasters don’t snowball over them all at once. As usual, the thing to herald the avalanche is a single pebble. And in their case, it takes the form of a question, posed the very next time they meet and sit down to their routine game of cards.

Joker seems pensive from the start that morning, quieter, subdued, less liberal with his smiles. Bruce notices the shift in his mood right away, but he tries not to let it worry him.

Not until Joker asks, quiet and tight in a way that immediately spikes Bruce to alertness:

“Batsy?”

“Yes?”

“You ever think about what happens next?”

Bruce stills. He keeps a tight grip on the cards as he studies Joker’s face.

“What do you mean?”

Joker shrugs, and keeps his eyes on his own cards.

“After I leave here, what happens?” he whispers.

Oh. Oh.

Bruce tries not to glance with longing at the door as he puts his cards down and leans forward over the table, resting his hands in the middle of it.

“Have you been thinking about that?” he asks, and silently congratulates himself on managing to keep his voice calm even though his mind's kicking up a storm.

Joker smirks. “It’s crossed my mind,” he allows in a tone that makes it clear it’s a massive understatement. He asks, “Well?”

Something dark and pointed agitates Bruce’s stomach. Joker’s eyes capture his, and hold. His face is cold and guarded when he abandons all pretense and drops his cards into a careless heap, leaving them both without excuses to hide behind.

This, all of a sudden, turns the situation into a delicate balancing act, and Bruce prays to all that's holy that he won’t misstep where it matters most.

“Of course I've thought about it,” he says.

“And?” Joker’s fingers drum a rapid-fire one two three, one two three against the smooth surface of the table.

Bruce works his throat. Careful, now.

“You’ll get your freedom back,” he tries. “A new life. A fresh start —”

“Yes, yes, of course. A fresh start. How positively lovely. I absolutely cannot wait for a chance to toe the line like everyone else in this drab little town, just another haggard no-name, until someone takes pity on me and shoots me in an alley. Funny definition of freedom you got there, Bats.”

“What’s yours?” Bruce asks, trying to move past the obvious dig at his parents; but Joker's shoving his chair back and getting to his feet, and coming to stand by the window, staring out over the grounds and the hints of Gotham beyond. His hands come up around his chest, gripping around the biceps, fingers flexing one by one and then again.

And then, Bruce has no idea what to say. He can only watch Joker’s profile in helpless, frustrated silence until Joker asks, “And in this shiny brave new world. If we ever get there. What will I be to you?”

Oh god. “Joker —” Bruce starts, but Joker shakes his head, his gaze still dull and pointed out the window.

“If I’m one of them, will I matter?” he whispers, and his voice sounds like he hasn’t had a drop of water in days. “If I'm no longer there to challenge you, to fight you, to make my point. To stand against you. Will you even remember me? Or will I just be… another face to save. Will I become one of the shadows?”

“Joker.”

“Will I?” Joker might as well have thrown one of his knives to lodge itself between the cracks of Bruce’s armor plates — the pain is much the same. “Tell me,” he demands, his fingers wrinkling the sleeves of the purple jacket. His voice goes raw. “Tell me you won’t just forget about me and find yourself a new dance partner, a new mirror, as soon as they say I’m cured. Tell me I’m not helping you kick me to the curb by rotting here day after day.”

Bruce’s heart races a mile a minute, and his skin gets clammy. The weight of the suit steals his breath. He still doesn’t know what to say, and his eyes zero in on the agitated twitches in Joker’s fingers.

Once again, just like back at the funfair, they're standing on an edge. An edge that he’s brought them to, and he’s not as blind as to deny the responsibility. His actions are his own, and so are his feelings, and he realizes that what Joker’s doing right now is, essentially, asking Bruce for a reason to keep going. And if he doesn't get it one...

Then this is all over. And they're right back to where they'd started.

Bruce remembers Dr. Mulligan’s stern warning, Don’t lead him on. He can feel the gravity of the moment, of every single word he says right here and now. Whatever it is, it has to be rooted in the truth. It has to matter. And he’s nowhere near approaching ready yet, but he has to be, because Joker needs this — and, when it comes down to it, maybe so does Bruce.

He gets out of the chair before he can talk himself out of it. He stands behind Joker, and lays a hand on his shoulder. Joker tenses, but doesn’t jerk away, and Bruce takes it as permission to touch his other shoulder, too, and then his hands smooth down Joker’s arms, closing over two sets of tense fingers.

He whispers the only thing that comes to his mind, and the one that rings most true.

“You matter.”

Joker releases a breath. Bruce holds his. He has no words to verbalize any of this, but he wants, desperately, for Joker to lean back against him so Bruce could hold him properly, and stroke his hair, and assure him that everything will be all right. That he doesn’t have to worry, because there's no way on Earth Bruce could ever let him fade away, that Joker matters and will always matter, that no matter who or what he is, Bruce will always, always need him…

The fierceness of his own instincts surprises him. But not as much as Joker pulling away.

“I’m tired,” he says, putting distance between himself and Bruce and, effectively, shutting down whatever else might have been said.

Bruce’s heart takes a dive, and he wonders how much of it Joker can read in his face. He tries to take a step closer.

Joker takes one back.

And so, in the end, there’s nothing for Bruce to do but leave.

***

After that, things only go downhill.

Logically, Bruce knows that Joker has absolutely no way of knowing anything that's happening with the Arkham investigation. But as the GCPD starts to carry it out in earnest, he responds as if he did. His mood plummets just as Jim’s police start making arrests, and when Bruce visits him, more and more often he gets less of Joker the Entertainer and more of Joker the Prisoner: morose, detached, cynical…

Quiet.

Joker doesn’t try to ask him about the future anymore, but Bruce can tell it sits on his mind all the same. He tries to ask what’s wrong. He gets no answers, only barbs that cut him wide open, or silence that hurts even worse. Once, Joker gets as far as to say, “I don’t like Dr. Mulligan,” but when Bruce asks him for details, he purses his mouth shut and looks away.

“It might be the meds,” Dr. Mulligan offers when Bruce asks her about it. “That and… well… the isolation. He’s never stayed in one place for so long before. It’s natural that he’s starting to feel claustrophobic.”

At her suggestion, they start to arrange for another trip outside. But the prep takes time, and Joker only seems to be getting worse, and Bruce doesn’t know what to do.

The only thing he can think of is more attention, and he makes a point to come to Joker as Wayne again on top of his regular Batman visits. He arranges another movie night, hoping that it’ll help like the last one seemed to.

But it doesn’t. Instead of the sofa, Joker elects to sit down on the floor, at Bruce’s feet, and he judges Bruce’s choice of movie with a cruel tilt to his smirk Bruce doesn’t understand at all.

Joker doesn’t react to the goings-on on the screen with any of his usual vivacity, and if anything, he seems to detach himself from it with every passing minute.

Until he observes, quietly:

“I couldn’t see the fireworks.”

Bruce, who hasn’t really been paying attention to There’s No Business Like Show Business himself, glances down at him. His hand rests idly on the couch a tantalizing distance from Joker’s head, and the curls call to him, and it’s all too easy to imagine breaching that distance and twining a strand around his finger.

It’s getting too long again. He should ask the Arkham barber over soon.

“Fireworks?” he asks, shelving the unhelpful impulse away.

“Oh, say, can you see… ” Joker hums, tilting his head to lay it on the edge of the couch and look up at Bruce from the awkward angle. “Well, I couldn’t. That’s hardly fair, Brucie, don’t you think? It’s like Christmas all over again. The least you and Batsy could do is let me know when my favorite holidays come and go. I wouldn’t even have known it was the 4th if I hadn’t gone out to the balcony and seen just a teensy little bit of the fireworks over the city.”

“I —” Bruce makes a show of looking back to the screen, curling his fingers. They itch to reach out and brush some of the strands out of Joker’s eyes. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. They told me not to tell you.”

“Dr. Mullie did?”

“Er… yes.”

“I can’t even know what day it is?”

“Maybe they’ll let you have a calendar soon,” Bruce offers.

Joker huffs and looks away. He starts to twist his fingers where they rest on his drawn-up knees.

“Was there a parade?” he asks after a minute or so.

“There’s always a parade.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s the same every year,” Bruce points out.

Joker smirks. “Not when I was involved it wasn’t.”

God, isn’t that the truth. Bruce doesn’t want Joker to start reminiscing about the good old days though, so he observes, “I didn’t know you were so patriotic.”

“I’m very patriotic,” Joker assures him in a voice that’s almost comically deadpan, and he gazes up at Bruce upside-down again. “I love parades. I love fireworks. Tell me about them, sweetie, won't you?”

His tone carries none of the affection the pet name implies. Even so, Bruce tries to indulge him, and knows even as he does that he’s making a piss-poor job of it. Holidays hardly ever register for him as anything more than functions he has to show up for every once in a while, maybe make a speech, and most of the time, he associates them with his villains anyway because hardly a holiday goes by without one of them trying to hijack it.

Joker, of course, used to be the worst offender, and the thought is like a bucket of ice emptied over Bruce’s head. With everything going on in Bruce's life right now, his obligatory Independence Day party speech was nothing more than a pesky distraction from the real work. But for Joker, he realizes now, it would have been so much more, and Bruce didn’t even think…

He feels his failure as an acute pang of pain when Joker’s face morphs from neutral to downright unimpressed, to tight with something else entirely, more sinister and elusive than Bruce can name. His heart twists. He really wishes the guard wasn’t standing behind them so he could stroke Joker’s head, and maybe ease some of the unsettling something away like Joker had done for him. But he can’t do a damn thing, and sits there simmering in his own helplessness while Joker plunges deeper and deeper into himself, until he says, softly, “I think you should go now, Brucie.”

His tone's distant, and his eyes are cold. Bruce nods, even though leaving is the very last thing he wants to do right now.

“Okay. Do you need anything?”

Joker doesn’t respond. He’s still gazing up at the ceiling. And because he’s so still, when his little finger twitches, it almost makes a sound of its own.

Bruce glances over his shoulder at Winston, who looks pale and alarmed, clutching the cattle prod in both hands like he’s trusting it to save him from the whims of the pale demon at Bruce’s feet. Bruce wants to scream at the man to get out, but without the cape and cowl, he has absolutely no authority, and the frustration nearly burns a gaping hole clean through his chest when he makes himself sit still and gently nudge Joker’s shoulder with his knee.

“Joker?”

Joker’s eyes snap to him much too fast.

“I asked if you need anything,” Bruce offers, even as the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand on end.

Joker studies him. His eyes go colder to a dispassionate, almost clinical degree, dim in the dazzling splash of technicolor magic spewing from the screen. The garish lights ripple over his pinched face, spelling away the vivid shades of his hair and mouth, sucking vibrance out of his clothes. Under the flashes of color and noise Joker suddenly looks drained and small, and all at once, Bruce is struck by an overwhelming feeling of Wrong.

God, he wants to do something. He wants to grab him by the shoulder and shake off this patina of wrongness until he bullies Joker’s natural colors back to life. He wants to ask, Why aren’t you dancing, because Joker should be dancing, he should be up there on the floor competing with Marilyn Monroe for Bruce’s attention, twirling and sparkling and teasing Bruce with gleams of sharp white teeth, himself a human firework.

Instead, it’s like the all-singing, all-dancing spectacle is calling Joker’s bluff, or like it’s showing him everything that he could have had, but gave up. Bruce hates seeing him like this, and even more than that, he hates that he can’t do a damn thing about it.

And then Joker laughs at him, and the sound is all wrong too, washed out much like the rest of him.

“Nothing you can give me, Brucie boy,” Joker whispers. He pats Bruce’s knee with all the condescension and none of the affection to soothe the blow. “Go.”

He’s still on the floor when Winston guides Bruce out of the dark room. Bruce barely manages a polite goodbye to the man before he rushes down to the cave and brings up Joker’s surveillance; but Joker stays on the floor until the movie’s larger than life finale exhausts itself out, and doesn’t move in the darkness that follows.

“At least it’s not a panic attack,” Alfred volunteers when he brings the tray with Bruce’s lunch down to the cave.

“No,” Bruce agrees.

In many ways, it’s so much worse.

Chapter Text

Bruce really, really wants to do something for Joker.

It's partly because he knows, now, just how bad things used to be for Joker at Arkham. Partly because of Joker's mood, getting bleaker and bleaker with every passing day. Partly because of the panic that grabs Bruce tight at the sight of him, and the looming, terrible consequences he can already see unfolding if he doesn't find a way to ease Joker's mind somehow. At this point, it's no longer a matter of why.

It's matter of what.

And there aren't a whole lot of options here. Bruce can’t very well make Joker’s rooms bigger, or let him out to tour the Manor and stretch his legs, without heaps of paperwork and planning and construction, all of which would take time Bruce thinks they no longer have. He can’t quickly prepare a new wing for him, to introduce some variety. And he can’t drive Joker to Gotham to smell the city, which, he suspects, is what Joker might actually need, but which could trigger a massive regression just as easily as it could help.

He can’t do much of anything at all, other than what he’s been doing already, with meager results. Gifts no longer help. His visits, as either Batman or Wayne, only seem to make things worse. Joker needs something, big, something new and poignant and meaningful to reassure him he's not making a mistake, and Bruce finds himself helpless in the face of that — out of options, out of ideas, running into mental wall after wall after wall.

All in all, the mounting sense of his own impotence frustrates him almost as much as the ongoing Arkham case...

... And that’s saying something.

To give the GCPD their due, the investigation doesn’t start out disastrously. At first, despite Bruce’s worries, the police actually seemed to be making good on their promise to evaluate what he, Dr. Mulligan, Dick and Barbara discovered. Dr. Lancer is among the bastards Jim’s officers round up for questioning; and some of the inmates and employees, many of them influenced by Dick’s gentle encouragement during his brief stay at the Asylum, decide to come forward. A court psychiatrist gets appointed to collect written and recorded testimonies from the patients to assess how valid those testimonies may be, and some of the patients are deemed competent and credible enough to stand in the witness box if they so choose.

Thankfully, no one seems to want to collect a similar testimony from Joker.

“The official story is, he’s not competent to stand trial. Unofficially? No judge or jury in their right mind would take the clown’s side in anything,” Jim says, and like it or not, Bruce has to agree. “We’re actually wondering if we should show any of those recordings you got me. Of… of him. For all we know, those might actually sway the jury in the perps’ favor.”

That, Bruce doesn’t want to believe, not after he’s seen Dr. Mulligan’s tapes with his own eyes. But he has to concede that it's better this way. It means that Joker won’t have to talk to any lawyers or psychiatrists about his experiences, and they won’t have to drag poor Dmitri into it, either. Joker’s story will remain private, at least for now, and he'll be kept out of the whole thing. Lancer’s misconduct against Joker is far from the only instance of malpractice they found on the guy, and the other recorded cases should be enough to ensure some sort of punishment.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Even so, several times over the course of the investigation, Bruce very nearly breaks his promise to stay out of it and crashes into Lancer’s apartment to demand the truth. The only reason he doesn’t is the sad, quiet reproach in Dick’s eyes as he reminds him, “Justice, not vengeance, remember?”

And Bruce never actually says it, but those moments make him thankful as hell that Dick decided to stay, at least until the case is closed. Jason draws more and more distant with every passing day, and Bruce…

… Well.

Bruce needs the reminders.

Probably to forestall any investigations into his own complicity in the horrors of his institution, Jeremiah Arkham not only cooperates with the police, but also personally invites the APA’s Ethics Committee to weigh in on the accusations and conduct a thorough inspection of the Asylum. That doesn’t convince Bruce of his innocence at all, but it’ll likely mean that Arkham will get to keep his position as head of the facility when the dust settles.

Which, in the long run, only means that Bruce will have to make his own involvement in the day-to-day operations of the Asylum more personal to keep a closer eye on him. He already has a few ideas how to go about it, and most of them are things Arkham's gonna hate, making them all the more appealing.

In the meantime, in the post-arrests power vacuum, Aaron Cash gets promoted from Sergeant to Head of Security. Dick smiles at the news, and reassures Bruce that Cash is “a good guy, honestly, a bit broken but actually trying his best.” Bruce does his own background check on him that confirms Dick's assessment, and he lets himself feel a little more optimistic about the change. That, coupled with his own plans and the general progress on the Arkham case, has him actually hoping that, for once, the system might not fail them.

Right up until Dr. Lancer gets released without a trial.

“He and some of the other doctors we nabbed, turns out they’ve got friends in the D.A.’s office,” Jim tells him grimly on the GCPD roof, running a hand through gray hair. “They dropped the charges. Insufficient evidence. Tapes disappearing from storage, or getting 'accidentally' wiped. Intimidated witnesses withdrawing testimonies. The usual." He sighs, lighting up. "They’re gonna carry on with some of the guards for the sake of appearances, but most of the doctors will get a pat on the wrist and a transfer. Nothing we can do about it.”

There’s very little Bruce can do about it, too, because that very same night, Poison Ivy decides to explode a wall in her cell. Bruce is on his way to Lancer’s apartment when Barbara tells him about the breakout, and by the time he makes it to Arkham, Ivy's long gone, all hopes of tracking her dissolving into the wind whooshing into her now-empty cell.

And that’s not the only bad news.

“She’s actually helping her escape,” Cash murmurs, standing next to Bruce as they watch the surveillance footage from Ivy’s cell. “What the fuck was she thinking?”

“I’d wager she wasn’t,” Bruce replies, rewinding to the moment when Dr. Quinzel steps in front of Ivy’s cell, uses her security badge to open the door, and presents Ivy with a potted plant.

The footage's got no sound, and Quinzel stands with her back to the camera, so there’s no telling what the two women say to one another. But the sharp, pointed darkness in Dr. Quinzel’s face when she got in gives Bruce a pretty good idea. The young doctor doesn’t flinch when Ivy manipulates the plant to grow and forces its tendrils into the mortar, and when she steps aside from the exploding rubble, it’s out of pragmatic self-preservation rather than anything close to fear.

“Here,” Cash says, pointing at the screen. “Isley was gonna leave her behind.”

Bruce nods. It does look like Ivy’s first impulse was to bolt without sparing her rescuer a second thought.

But then, Dr. Quinzel shouts something after her that gives her pause. For a moment, the two women look at one another like two opponents about to go toe to toe in a boxing match, seizing one another up, waiting for the other to blink.

Then, in a move that shocks Bruce even on his second viewing, Ivy extends an engorged leaf for Dr. Quinzel to step onto. And the doctor does, shrugging out of her lab coat and letting it drop to the floor. She takes Ivy’s hand.

They disappear into the night together.

“I don’t get it,” Cash whispers, shaking his head. “That’s not — that’s nothing like Harleen. She’s good. She'd never do something like that.”

Bruce has his doubts. He remembers the shrewd, sharp woman from the parking lot, and remembers the way she looked at Joker. If she knew anything about Dr. Lancer and what he did, or what he enabled, and if she learned about him going free…

The dots connect. Bruce's eyes widen.

Fuck.

He dashes out of the control room and down the corridors to the car as fast as he can. He breaks every speed limit twice over in a mad race back to the city.

He's too late.

He finds Lancer naked on the floor, lying face-up in a pool of his own blood and saliva. His face is an ugly blotch of purple, his tongue sticks out of his mouth, and his glassy, unseeing eyes bulge out in terror and pain. There are angry red vine imprints bruised into his throat, which point to asphyxiation — and a slow one at that — but Bruce also counts shallow knife slashes across the man’s face and chest, made with the intent to hurt rather than kill, and when he turns the body over, he more of them across Lancer's back and thighs, and...

His sphincter.

There’s no weapon. But there doesn’t need to be. The vine marks are more than enough to pinpoint a suspect, and as for the knife wounds…

Bruce stands up, gazes down at the corpse, and takes a centering moment to try and pin down his own feelings.

Coldness, maybe. But mostly, he feels hollow. Blank, and curiously detached, as though his subconscious is for once trying to protect him from drowning under internal conflict. Death of criminals hardly ever gives him a sense of closure, or even security — quite the opposite. He tends to feel every loss of life, criminal and civilian alike, just as deeply, and they all weigh him down, all add to his sense of responsibility and guilt and failure.

But now. This time. This man.

Bruce looks down at the disfigured, mutilated corpse, and only feels a twinge —a vague echo of the storm of grief that usually follows.

He wonders what that says about him. He wonders what it means. He wonders if, deep down, the twinge he does feel isn't one of grief, but of...

Satisfaction.

Justice, he reminds himself. Not vengeance.

But when he stands there in Lancer's apartment, he isn’t all that sure the difference between them is quite as clear-cut as he wants to believe.

***

“You’re gonna have to tell him now,” Jason says when Bruce finally reports over the comm.

Yes, Bruce thinks. Joker deserves to know.

For better or worse.

“We’ve got another problem, too,” Barbara points out through the radio when Bruce is on his way to scour the city for signs of Ivy. “That Dr. Quinzel? She knows where you keep the clown.”

Bruce’s stomach lurches when he realizes that Barbara’s right. Christ, and not only that, she was actually there when they first brought Joker in. She's seen all of Bruce’s security measures.

Shit.

“You don’t think she’d try to break him out, do you?” Dick’s voice chimes in, clearly worried. “Ivy’s never been friends with Joker, and Harleen can’t do much on her own. She’s just a psychiatrist.”

“Crane was just a psychiatrist,” Barbara points out. “And Pamela Isley was just a botanist. Never underestimate Gotham’s ability to break decent people and turn them into monsters.”

“But, I mean… I know Harleen,” Dick insists. “She was one of the nice ones. She was up to date on all the science, and tried new methods and all, and she treated the patients like people. Nisha Mulligan trained her. Sure, she could get a bit radical, and she had this thing for Joker, and she does have a mean streak, but…”

“For all we know, she's just been a willing accessory to torture and murder. That’s a bit more than a mean streak, Nightwing.”

“We don’t know why she decided to go rogue,” Jason tries. “She could've just wanted to get Lancer, and in that case, she may already be in the wind. Or maybe Ivy decided to kill the doctor all on her own, and ditched Quinzel somewhere as soon as they got out of Arkham. We don’t know that they’re even still together.”

“One of you should head back to the Manor just in case,” Barbara suggests.

Bruce is just about to say that he’s on his way, but Dick, as though sensing his urgency, beats him to it.

“I’ll do it,” he declares. “I’m closer. Batman, you should keep looking for them out in the city with Robin. I can keep an eye on the clown.”

“I’ll see if I can track Quinzel’s phone or credit card records,” Barbara volunteers. “Someone should probably check her apartment before the cops swarm all over it, if they haven’t already.”

“Robin,” Bruce commands, and Jason replies with a prompt, “I’m on it.”

“You’re not going to fight me on the clown thing?” Dick asks Bruce over a private channel once the others disconnect.

Bruce very much wants to. But he also knows he has a better chance of tracking Ivy in the city than Dick does, and tells him as much. He adds, “Just keep him safe.”

Dick doesn’t comment on the tone of his voice. “It has to be about Lancer,” he muses instead. “Harleen hated the bastard. She must have gone ballistic when she learned he got off scot-free.”

“That’s what I think, too,” Bruce agrees darkly. “Hopefully, his death will be enough to appease her.”

“Yeah,” Dick murmurs. “Hopefully.”

But he doesn’t seem convinced, and when it comes down to it, neither is Bruce. Barbara’s right. Gotham has a certain propensity for twisting people’s minds into her own image, and Harleen Quinzel has been a red flag ever since Bruce first set eyes on her.

None of this looks good.

***

In the end, the only trace of Ivy and Quinzel they manage to find that night is a robbery — in a Party City store, of all places. Bruce is reluctant to pin it on the two women until eyewitnesses claim that they saw them breaking in and leaving almost immediately, and the security footage confirm it. The escapees didn’t even bother to cut the cables so they wouldn’t get caught on camera, and that worries Bruce even more than the fact that apparently, they’re still working together, or at least were at the time of the robbery.

There are three items missing. A cartoonishly giant mallet, a set of theatrical-quality face paint, and a Halloween costume the store records list as “Sexy Harlequin, adult female.”

Bruce remembers what Joker told him about the doctor saying that her name sounded like “harlequin,” and his sense of dread only thickens, just as the night seems to do all around him.

Not another one, he prays on his way home, please, not another one. Gotham has enough of costumed horrors as is. The last thing anyone needs is another one for the collection, especially one that seems to be taking her inspiration from a very specific source.

Joker's been missing from Gotham’s crime scene for a long time now. His legend is still alive and well on the streets, which breed no shortage of clown wannabes. But maybe, now that the gang wars seem to have eased, the city decided that wasn’t enough. Maybe Gotham ruled that it was time to let someone fill the clown-shaped void Joker left behind.

Bruce still hopes that’s not the case, but things only get grimmer when he finally arrives home to find Dick waiting for him. Dick's face is set into grim lines as he leads Bruce out to the grounds, and shows Bruce the sad remains of his security sensors lying in the grass just beyond the walls protecting the Wayne property from outsiders, crushed between what could only be Ivy’s vines.

“They came here. No question about that,” Dick says. “I didn’t see them, but it looks like they perched over there for a while, up in the branches. It’s a good hiding spot, especially if you can manipulate the foliage to hide you. That, and. Uh. It gives you a good view of the clown rooms.”

Bruce investigates the spot Dick indicates, and has to agree. There are clear signs of intrusion in the foliage and in the tree above, and flowery paths marking the trail of Ivy’s footsteps. Ivy could have easily made it so that none of it would be visible after they left, and again, her carelessness worries Bruce down to his bones. It’s like the two women are making a statement and want to be seen.

In Gotham, that’s never a good sign.

Still…

“They didn’t try to break him out?” Bruce confirms, and Dick shrugs, looking helpless.

“Not that I know of. He's still in his rooms, and I didn't see anything pointing to them trying to force entry. Looks like they just sat there, and kinda watched him for a while. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Did he see them?”

“No idea. The guards kept a close eye on him, and when I asked, they said he didn’t act any different than normal.”

Which only leaves Bruce with one actionable conclusion: they need to update their security. Badly. In the meantime, Bruce gets Alfred and Jason to set up new sensors around the place, and goes up to interrogate the guards, who can only offer him a rehash of what Dick’s already told him.

“Nothing happened,” Carter insists. “We didn’t even know anything was going on until your ex-Robin came in and told us to be careful. Here, see for yourself.”

He does a quick fast-forward through the footage from the entire night, and indeed, nothing about it looks extraordinary. Joker exercised for a bit, took a shower, paced around the parlor, swung aimlessly from the columns of his bed, and then sat down to slowly rub body butter into his skin. He didn’t smile once through this entire process, and looked lethargic the whole time, but that has recently become the new norm for him.

There is one moment that Bruce catches and asks Carter to slow down: at one point during the night, Joker went out onto the balcony, and stood there for about fifteen minutes or so. The timestamp of the recording more or less corresponds to the estimated time when Ivy, possibly with Dr. Quinzel, sat outside the wall.

But in the end, Joker does nothing, only stands there and looks out over the grounds, resting his hands on the marble banister. Eventually, he retreats back to bed and lies down on his back to stare up at the ceiling, and that seems to be it. The cameras outside, once Bruce checks, haven’t caught any suspicious movements either. As far as anyone knows, there's been no contact between Joker and the two women.

And that…

Bruce has no idea what it means.

***

The following days bring no answers. Barbara’s report proves that Quinzel hasn’t used her credit cards or bank account once since the escape, and the doctor’s e-mails, once Barbara hacks into them, reveal nothing about her plans. There’s very little in her apartment in the way of clues, except for copious amounts of books on criminal psychology and, as Jason reports with disgust, “A fucking Joker scrapbook.” Her phone stays silent, too. Her family back in New York claim they haven’t heard from her, and city surveillance doesn’t offer much beyond fake leads. There’s no shortage of attractive young blond women in Gotham, and trying to catch her in the crowds at this point is an exercise in futility.

Ivy's staying quiet for now, too. There’s no trace of her in her usual haunts, which means that she might have moved beyond city limits. It’s not exactly a surprise — Ivy often likes to take her time recuperating in forests, somewhere with fresh air and sunshine and clean water. She’ll make her move soon enough, Bruce has no doubt about that, but the waiting drives him out of his mind.

“Can’t help you there, sorry,” Selina says when he asks her about Ivy next time they meet to discuss her project. “Ivy isn’t exactly a huge fan of mine. Besides…” She shoots Bruce a sharp look. “I’m no snitch. I like you, but I’m not your sidekick.”

“Noted.” Bruce breathes out, sitting back in his chair.

There’s nothing for it but wait.

***

His instinct is to procrastinate on telling Joker about Lancer, which is how he knows he has to do it quickly. Stalling won’t get him anywhere. And he does mean to interrogate Joker, subtly if he can, if he noticed anything strange on the night of Ivy’s escape.

Bruce still waits until his next unsupervised hour, which is scheduled for two days later. Not that the extra time helps him any. His lines may be prepared, but nothing else about him is; and stepping into Joker’s rooms that morning in full Batman regalia, he feels that he might as well be naked for all the good the armor does.

The anxiety gets so bad that when Joker pokes his head from out of the gym and tells him, grouchily, to go away, that he’s not in the mood, Bruce feels a wild temptation to comply. But he can’t. If he puts it off now he’ll keep sitting on the information until it blows up in his face, and more importantly, Joker deserves the relief the news of Lancer’s death might bring him.

That, of course, means that Bruce finally has to own up to investigating Joker’s Arkham history behind his back, but that’s… fine. He can do it. He’s a grown man, for fuck's sake. He can take responsibility for his own decisions.

The resolve lasts him two steps, maybe three.

His “No” seems to use up all that’s left of it.

At least Joker seems curious now, if the tilt of his brow is any indication, and he deigns to emerge into the parlor. He gestures to Bruce’s usual chair, and takes up residence in his own. When Bruce remains standing, he turns to face him, but doesn’t say a word.

“I need to talk to you about something important,” Bruce says.

Joker nods. “Obviously, or you wouldn’t be badgering me.”

“It’s about Arkham.”

Joker’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Batsy,” he says, “from one showman to another, I do appreciate your talent for physical suspense. But trust me, honey, don’t try to build it up with words. Leave it to the professionals.”

“I’m not putting on a show,” Bruce protests, but Joker waves his hand dismissively.

“We’re always putting on a show,” he corrects Bruce impatiently, “so please, be a dear and give me my lines already.”

Bruce works his throat. He scrambles for the lines he’s prepared, but they unravel in his hands.

He’s dropped hints for you, he reminds himself. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want you to investigate. So just — spit it out already.

“Dr. Lancer's dead,” he says, watching Joker’s face.

For a moment, it betrays nothing. Then, Joker looks away, and his fingers begin to dance over the table. Bruce gives him time, even though his heart beats loud enough for the cameras to pick it up, punctuating every passing second with a painful thump, thump, thump.

“A shame,” Joker manages eventually. “I was rather looking forward to sending him off into the Great Everlasting myself. Who did it?”

“Ivy,” Bruce whispers. “She… may have had an accomplice.”

“Pam's out in the wild?” Joker only seems mildly interested in the news, still tapping his fingers on the table, still looking away. “How marvelous. Do give her my best next time you two butt heads, won’t you? She's always such a hoot.”

Either he really didn’t make any contact with the escapees, or he’s putting on an act, and there's no way for Bruce to be sure which it is. So he decides to finally move to the meat of the matter.

“Joker,” he says, cold sweat beading under the cowl. “I know what they did to you at Arkham.”

The tapping stops.

“Do you,” Joker whispers.

“Yes.” Bruce clears his throat. “I… saw some of the recordings. And I — I talked to Dmitri.”

Once again, Joker keeps him waiting, stretching the moment until it’s ready to burst; until Bruce wants to grab him by the shoulders and force Joker to face him, and shout, Say something!. Then, he sighs through his teeth and locks a hand on the back of his neck, pressing in.

“I see,” he murmurs. “And how is the lovely old card, hm?”

“He’s in Blackgate, much like most of your gang,” Bruce tells him, hurting with the tension. “But that’s not the —”

“So you went over there for a little chat, did you? Had yourself a bit of a chinwag? No wonder I could feel my ears burning! That’s nice, Bats. That’s splendid. I’m sure dear old Dmitri enjoyed the company. He is a dear, isn’t he? A great big cuddlebear with an accent. And let me guess,” Joker’s voice climbs louder, higher with every word, “he told you a nice little story, did he? About yours truly, and all the mean things the big bad men did to me once upon a time. And now you think you know everything. Isn't that right?”

“Not everything,” Bruce says, “but I know enough. And — I’m sorry. I never should have —”

“Listen to the man!” Joker claps, springing to his feet. He begins to pace from one end of the room to the other, gesticulating, with only the sofa between them. “Ladies and gentlemen, isn’t he marvelous? Such heroism! Such tortured regret! You’re positively Byronic, Batsy ol’ pal! Why, I think I might swoon!”

“Joker.”

“In fact, in fact, dearest heart of mine, you’re so magnificent, in fact, that I’m almost loath to disabuse you of your righteous convictions. Regret suits you so very well, my love. And guilt as well! I can’t decide which one looks better on you. No! No, I shall not, I will not choose, you can't make me choose!”

Bruce glances at the nearest camera and mouths, The pills. He only hopes Alfred’s lip-reading skills are as polished as they used to be. Then, he looks back to Joker, who’s stopped pacing now and is glaring at him with eyes so bright and cold that it feels like dipping his entire body in an ice-hole.

“So that’s how you want it to be,” Joker hisses. “You, the hero, and me, the damsel. Is that our new script now? Does that make things easier for you, baby? Neater? Does it help you sleep at night? And what if I told you," his voice drops low, "that I dangled that carrot in front of you just to watch you run into a wall, and none of what you think you know is true?”

“Stop that,” Bruce pleads. “There’s nothing wrong with needing help. It’s okay to say they hurt you.”

“Is that right? Is that what you think? And what if I told you I ordered Dmitri to lie?”

Bruce closes his eyes, and takes a fortifying breath. “I wouldn’t believe you,” he says slowly. “Even you can’t plan this sort of thing a year in advance.”

“Are you sure about that, Batsy? Are you absolutely sure?” Joker jumps onto the sofa and kneels on it, leaning on the backrest so he’s facing Bruce. “Or maybe I didn’t order Dmitri to lie. Maybe I told the sordid tale of woe to my Arkham henchman, and he lied for me to poor loyal Dmitri so he’d have no qualms about helping me kill those mooks for entirely unrelated reasons! After all, there’s no proof, is there? Nothing! Nada! Gar nichts! And now — ha! — now all the witnesses are dead. There’s no telling just what happened in that basement, if anything happened at all. Have you considered that, Bats? Or were you so eager to play the avenger and shove me into your new neat little drama that the possibility never even crossed your mind?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Bruce tries. “Please. I’m trying to help.”

“I never asked you to help me!”

“Then why all the hints? I saw how you reacted whenever I brought up Lancer,” Bruce insists. “You kept mentioning… things. I think you wanted me to look into it and punish those responsible.”

“Or maybe I sicced you on them just for kicks,” Joker counters sharply. “Do you honestly think I can't take my own vengeance?”

“That’s not what I —”

Many things happen all at once. Bruce hardly even registers Joker moving — he's fast, terrifyingly fast, bounding across the couch, a blur of white, a hand rising to strike — before he feels a flare of pain across his chin. His head flies to the side, and he staggers, and Joker kicks at his shins to unbalance him and send him sprawling to the floor.

“You’ll never know what really happened,” Joker hisses, climbing on top of him, straddling him, pinning Bruce’s shoulders down with his knees. He leans down so his quick, trembling breath ghosts over Bruce’s mouth. “Never, you hear me? I hated Lancer. Sure. And I killed the others. But what if it’s not at all for the reasons you think? What if it’s only because I’m every inch the petty monster people say I am? You’re so eager to see me as some sort of victim, Batsy, and you’re so sure you’ve got all the answers. Well, let me tell you this: maybe they did rape me. Maybe they didn’t. No one can tell you the truth but me, and guess what: I never will. Ever. No matter how much you think you know, you’ll always, always have this nagging bit of doubt in you, and you’ll always doubt me.”

“Get off me,” Bruce orders, trying to keep still. “Now.”

“No.”

“Joker.”

“No. You’re going to have to make me, sugar.”

And Bruce looks into his eyes — feverish, the pupils contracted to pin points, the madness he’s somehow managed to compartmentalize away over the last few months staring at him now with all the force he seems to have forgotten, naked and wild like the storm. And he knows, then, that Joker means it. That this time around, there's only one way out of this.

That Joker's done playing.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bruce tries anyway, even knowing that he’ll have to.

“Here’s the thing, darling,” Joker whispers, voice caught midway between a purr and a growl, leaning over him, hair sweeping over Bruce’s chin, filling Bruce’s nose with the smell of citrus shampoo and acid. “I don’t care.”

He sticks his tongue out, and licks a long stripe from the corner of Bruce’s mouth up to the cowl’s eye. And something in Bruce just…

Snaps.

His fist flies to connect with Joker’s jaw. A sickening crunch tells him the blow landed. Suddenly, the weight pinning him down is gone, and Joker's down laughing himself into hysteria over a bloodied mouth.

“Very good!” he gasps from the floor. “Excellent! Let’s have another!”

He jumps to his feet, and lunges, and this time around, Bruce is ready for him.

He blocks Joker’s punch and twists his arm. Joker slashes at his face, and Bruce moves with him, quick and fluid, and he pushes back. Joker retreats only to advance again, punch, dodge, kick. Hit, bite, swerve. Punch-block-push. Push-punch-block.

One, two, three. One-two-three.

“Good,” Joker pants, grinning, blood smeared over his teeth, darker than his lipstick. “Come on, Batsy. Let’s dance.”

He spins to kick at Bruce’s face. Bruce catches his foot mid-air, twists it and tugs, tripping Joker, who only laughs harder and kicks his way to freedom until he’s ready to lunge again.

And Bruce doesn’t say it out loud. But in the privacy of his mind, he thinks, Yes. Let’s.

He’s missed this, he realizes distantly, like a voice underwater as his body glides on muscle memory and a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic in its familiarity. God, he’s missed this so much. It’s been so long since they’ve done this. Since their feelings for one another could be narrowed down to pain and blood, so they could pretend it wasn’t complicated. So long, and yet when Joker’s fingernails fly at him and Bruce ducks under them, it feels like no time has passed at all. Joker punches, and Bruce punches back, and his consciousness soars somewhere above the both of them, disconnected and somewhat bemused; but at the same time, everything around him is sharper, and clearer than it’s been in months.

The stale summer air from the open windows. The copper taste of blood on his mouth. The smell of citrus, and sweat, when Joker once again slithers much too close. The thrilling pain of hitting too hard, and knowing that Joker can take it, and give back as good as he gets. The heightened awareness of danger, and knowing beyond any shadow of doubt that they’re both, in this single moment, for this one single heartbeat, alive.

They can’t escape all the complications in the long run. They can’t pretend that this will make anything simpler. Not with the ugly rage in Joker’s body or the frost in his eyes, not with the desperation between them, not with all the things that have gone on unsaid for far too long. But even knowing that, Bruce can also understand the need to distract both of them from the specter of Arkham — and from these rooms, and everything they stand for — and to at least try and recapture what used to be.

If only for the two of them. If only for a moment.

If only to see if anything could be simple between them again.

And so when Joker jumps out of Bruce’s reach and turns to run, Bruce runs after him.

It’s when the fight spills into the gym that he notices Joker’s bracelet flaring red in alarm, and he yells at the cameras, “No! Turn it off!”

“Batman —” Dick’s voice tries to argue, but Bruce insists, “Turn it off right now!”

Joker tries to launch himself onto the trampoline and somersaults onto one of the mattresses lining the floor, laughing breathlessly. Bruce jumps after him, and is just a hair’s width too late to catch his ankle. Joker kicks him in the face so hard Bruce sputters blood, and he pushes the hug machine at Bruce with everything he's got, and lunges back into the parlor. His bracelet's still blinking.

“I can handle this,” Bruce manages, sputtering and wiping his mouth on his gauntlet. He staggers to his feet, kicking the hug machine back. “Turn that damned thing off.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Dick sounds skeptical, but Bruce hardly even registers his reply at all. He’s already rushing after Joker, and has to duck from a book flying straight at his head.

“Come and get me, baby,” Joker taunts, and darts into the bedroom, laughing all the while.

When Bruce gets there, he only has a split second’s warning before Joker’s feet slam into the side of his head. The bastard’s latched himself onto one of the bed columns and swung around to kick him, and when Bruce staggers back with ears ringing and black spots dancing in front of his vision, Joker swings himself back again, and lands on the other side of the bed. He’s panting, his skin's already bruising, his hair's a mess, and blood gushes from his mouth and nose.

He looks more alive than he had in weeks.

“Oh, I missed this,” he croons, loud and wild and unsteady, echoing Bruce’s own thoughts. “Feels good, doesn’t it, Bats? Maybe that’s the way to go. Maybe I should just swing it back to Wonderland and let things go back to how they were. Maybe then you’d respect me again.”

“I respect —” Bruce starts, but Joker's already flipping over towards him across the bed, his fists swinging and his mouth splitting into a roar.

Bruce ducks the first punch, and blocks the second. Joker twists to his feet and locks his other fist with Bruce’s, and they grunt as they each try to overpower the other, feet sliding over the carpet.

“Joker,” Bruce pants, “that’s enough.”

“You don’t mean that,” Joker counters, laughing. “Look at all the fun we’re having!”

But his eyes belie that, and so does the deadly edge to his laughter. This isn’t only about fun for him, and Bruce feels cold, and he realizes a second too late that he shouldn’t be paying this close attention to Joker’s eyes — not when there are his legs to contend with.

He regrets that in the very next blink when Joker spins away, tilting Bruce off balance, then grabs his head in both hands and drives his sharp knee into Bruce’s gut as hard as he can. The armor absorbs most of the blow, but Bruce’s stomach still explodes in pain, and a second later, so does his head when Joker jams his elbow down onto the back of it.

Right. This may have been fun, and maybe even necessary.

But playtime’s officially over.

When Joker tries to climb one of the bed columns and launch himself across the bed again, Bruce catches him around the middle and pries him away, then throws him back into the wall. Joker’s back crashes against it with a painful thud, but before he can fall to the floor, Bruce catches him by the front of his tank top and pins him against the wall, then blocks Joker’s punches, locks both of Joker’s wrists in one hand, and bodily slams him back.

They pant into one another, gasping each other’s air, their bloodied faces no further apart than the width of a thumb.

And Joker's hard. Bruce doesn’t need to glance down to feel the erection tenting his sweatpants where Bruce’s thigh pushes his legs apart, and he wants to swear because he’s getting hard, too, only the design of his codpiece was never meant to accommodate anything like that. It fucking hurts, and he barely pays attention through the rush in his ears and the cloying, satisfying, heady swirl in his mind, and the heat spilling everywhere, everywhere, thick like honey.

Joker’s eyes are rapidly darkening with lust, his pupils blown, darting between Bruce’s right eye to his left. His tongue peeks out to taste the blood on his own mouth.

And, god, Bruce wants it on his own. So fucking much.

“Enough,” he whispers, Joker’s shallow breath puffing into his face. “That's enough now.”

“This is… cozy,” Joker pants, mouth stretching into a razor-sharp grin. “Isn’t it? Aren’t you… excited?”

He rocks his hips. Bruce can’t feel much of anything through the armor, but they’re pressed so close together, Joker’s cock trapped against Bruce’s thigh, that all Joker has to do is move, and Bruce’s imagination does the rest. It doesn’t help that for just a blink, Joker’s face smooths out into pleasure before he’s all lethal sharpness again, and Oh god, it’s all Bruce can do not to grab his hips and move them himself, and kiss and kiss and kiss him —

“No one dances with you like I do,” Joker whispers, leaning his face closer so the heat in his cheeks nuzzles against Bruce’s skin. “Say it, Batsy. No one.”

“Joker…”

“Say it.”

Bruce gulps. He closes his eyes. “No one,” he whispers, and his hand slips from Joker’s shoulder to his waist, squeezing through the tank top.

“That’s right.” Joker’s lips move against his cheek. “Good boy. And no one ever will. Because I’m not some damsel, Bats. I’m not one of them. I killed those men, darling. I killed a whole lot of people, and I liked it. I’m a monster, I’m so ugly inside, and no matter what happens, I’ll never let you forget that, got it? If you want me…” He rocks his hips again, bloodied teeth grazing over Bruce’s cheek, and Bruce’s fist closes over his hip hard enough to bruise, “you’re gonna have to take all of me.”

For a moment, Bruce honestly thinks Joker will kiss him. Or maybe he doesn’t think at all. Maybe he’s too delirious for anything as coherent as that. But he does register a cold jolt of fear when, instead of Joker’s lips touching his own, he feels fingers prying into his mouth, and dropping something onto his tongue before they retreat; and when he focuses on Joker again, none of his own desire is reflected in Joker’s face anymore.

Instead, Joker’s eyes are cold.

“That’s one of the lovely pills you like to feed me so much,” he says in a cool, collected voice, tip of his finger caressing Bruce’s chin. He leans in again to whisper conspiratorially, “I’ve been saving some of them.”

How, Bruce want to ask, but Joker’s hand forces his mouth shut, and he smiles with all the sweetness of a shark about to feast.

“Now be a good bat and swallow for your uncle J.,” he purrs. “And then… we’ll be even. Unless you don’t want to.” He retreats, rests his head against the wall, and lets his smile drop. “Unless you think that you’d rather not walk the walk with me, in which case maybe drop me back at Arkham, and we’ll forget this entire sorry business. But if you’re serious… if you want to keep going… I need you to prove it.”

And Bruce knows what this is about. It’s punishment. For going behind Joker’s back, but also for all the uncertainty, anxiety and sacrifice, for all the mistakes, for changing the script and putting Joker in this situation.

Punishment, yes. But also commitment. A statement.

They’re in this together, or not at all.

Bruce doesn’t know which pill Joker selected for him, but in the end, they’re all tailored specifically for Joker and his unique biology. For anyone else, the effects could be disastrous, but Joker probably knows that all too well. He’s waiting to see what Bruce does.

Together… or not at all.

They look into each other’s eyes.

And Bruce swallows the pill.

“Good,” Joker whispers as his eyes narrow. “Enjoy that.”

He leans in to kiss Bruce’s cheek. His lips move against Bruce's skin when he says, “Now get out.”

He pushes Bruce away, and Bruce doesn’t protest. He starts to move. The effects of the pill don’t hit all at once, but when he’s crossing the parlor he can already feel his heart rate speeding up, his stomach churning uneasily, his hands beginning to shake…

Dick's waiting for him beyond the door. Soon as Bruce staggers out, he says, “Med bay. Now.”

Bruce can’t belie that. Mostly because there’s a sharp heave in his stomach, and he has to turn away, and throws up on the floor.

It doesn’t stop there. The nausea stays with him even after that, and he has to let Dick guide him down to the cave, where Alfred gets busy tending to him, checking his vitals, making sure he doesn’t need a detox. Dick hovers behind them through the entire process, and Jason's nowhere to be seen. It’s just one pill, and thankfully the effect isn’t life-threatening but it’s enough to decommission Bruce for an hour, and he lies there sweating and being sick and fighting the spin in his eyes.

“That was moronic,” Dick judges quietly, sitting by Bruce’s makeshift bed. “Why would you even… Jesus Christ, Bruce. He could've killed you.”

Bruce closes his eyes, and says nothing. He can’t explain any of it. Not in a way that would make Dick understand. Can’t explain about power, about agency, about control, about challenge… About punishment, and being able to take what he himself dishes out. About balance. About rhythm. About ugliness, and being fucked up together, all their broken parts fitting just right.

He isn’t sure he understands any of it himself.

But it’s not about understanding. It’s about feeling, and knowing, and getting it in a way that has nothing to do with reason. That’s how it’s always been between them. That’s how it’s always going to be.

If you want me, you’re gonna have to take all of me.

… Yeah. Bruce wants him.

God help him, Bruce wants all of him, and he wants to prove it. He wants to commit.

Swallowing the pill was one thing.

Now he needs something bigger.

***

The idea comes to him when he’s on enforced bedrest, trying to sleep off the events of the morning and mostly succeeding in short, restless naps that leave him more exhausted than before.

He likes the idea. He thinks it might get across what he can’t, as of yet, quite put into words.

He gets on arranging things as soon as he’s officially cleared to be mobile again, and a week later, at five minutes to midnight, he steps into Joker’s rooms for the first time since their fight.

If Joker's surprised to see him, he doesn’t let it show. He only asks, “What’s it gonna be this time?”

“The balcony,” Bruce tells him. “Come on.”

He goes out into the warm late August night without looking to see if Joker follows, counting silently.

He doesn’t turn when he hears soft footsteps behind him. Joker’s silhouette is a green-white-purple shimmer on the edge of his vision, and Bruce is too nervous to look at him properly.

His heart is speeding up, and he tries to keep it down as he breathes and waits.

They’ve crossed a bridge. And he's about to send it up in flames.

“Batsy, what’s going on?” Joker asks, sounding just a touch unsettled. “You seem… manic. And it’s me telling you that.”

“You don’t want to know how I’ve been doing?” Bruce asks, mostly to cover up the nervous knot in his stomach.

“I knew you’d be all right,” Joker whispers. “I know you.”

“Well,” Bruce takes a deep breath, “I know you, too. And I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“A… surprise.”

It’s down to seconds now. Bruce really hopes the team he hired doesn’t fuck this up.

He turns to Joker.

“Yeah,” he says. “Happy 4th of July.”

Two heartbeats later, the first whistle of a rocket tearing through the sky disturbs the piece of the Manor grounds, and Bruce lets himself breathe even when the bang that comes next seems to explode inside his chest. The supernova of color rips a hole in the night, then streaks down onto the woods in a gentle sizzling purple rain; but before it can fizzle out, the night lights up in another explosion, and then another, splash after splash after splash of light, on and on until there’s hardly a fleck of black left in the sky.

And Bruce doesn’t actually remember a time when he liked fireworks. Even as a kid he wasn’t overly fond of them, and preferred to watch the bright displays from a distance where the crack-flash-bang wouldn’t split his skull from the inside. And then, after Crime Alley, the bangs always sounded a little too close to gunfire for comfort.

But none of that matters now, because Joker does like fireworks. Just as he likes everything that’s as big and bright and loud as himself.

And Bruce will be damned if he lets him lose any more of his colors.

Still, he only gets enough courage to actually look at Joker a few minutes into the display. But then he does, and afterwards, he can't look away. The expression of shocked, naked wonder captures him even more than the spectacle in the sky does, and perhaps that’s fine because he can watch the fireworks as they reflect in Joker’s wide-open eyes, which are so much more captivating. And so's the ripple of light dripping down Joker's pale gaunt face, and the shadow-light-shadow-light play in his hair, and the dark contours of his half-open mouth, and shit, Bruce is in love. He’s so in love he aches with it right down the middle.

Accept this, he pleads silently. Accept me.

He thinks he’s already accepted Joker — and everything he is — a long time ago.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there watching Joker watch the fireworks, and feeling utterly, absurdly tender-raw. But it must have been a while, because when Joker finally turns his head to face him, his eyes shimmer like they’re wet.

Joker mouths, Thank you.

His fingers breach the distance to fit between Bruce’s.

And Bruce swallows, and nods, and holds Joker’s hand.

“We’re going to have to talk, you and I,” Joker whispers.

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees. “But not tonight.”

“Okay. Not tonight.”

Joker turns his head back up to the sky to watch the fireworks, and with some difficulty, so does Bruce.

Neither of them lets go until the last of the fireworks twinkle and blink out into the night.

Chapter Text

This, Bruce thinks as he stands in front of Joker’s door two days later, might just be the second hardest thing he has ever had to do.

His hand touches the security panel, just below the buttons, brushing over them but never actually pressing. It’s been doing that for nearly ten minutes now.

Ten valuable, guard-less, camera-less minutes he’s already wasted, suspended in cold paralysis over the enormity of what he’s about to do.

If he goes in there now. If he says what he’s prepared himself to say — painstakingly, writing down script after script after script, rehearsing them in his bedroom until the words etched themselves into his brain. If he does this...

Bruce breathes in, and out. He stares at the buttons without seeing them at all. And he wonders, not for the first time since the night of the fireworks, if he shouldn’t talk to his family first. Give them some sort of warning. But he discards the thought much like he did all the other times he had this argument with himself. In the end, it all comes down to the fact that he doesn’t trust himself to go through with this entire thing if he actually sees, with his own eyes, the reactions he’s imagined ad nauseam in the pale cold 3am in the morning. He knows, thanks to the conversation in the cave, that Dick will stay in his corner, and he suspects — hopes, with all his heart — that Alfred will too. But…

But there’s also Jason, who these days alternates between glaring and snapping at Bruce and ignoring him altogether, and who has refused to don the Robin costume two nights in a row. And then there’s —

Barbara. Bruce has a pretty good idea of how that particular conversation is going to play out, and he’s not ready to face the fallout. Not even remotely. With the two of them, he suspects, it’s going to come down to a choice. Us or him. Him or us.

To face that choice, and the sacrifices that will inevitably follow, he needs to know where he stands. He needs to have a plan. Proof that he's right. A promise that there's something to choose, solid and real and confirmed, so he isn't risking everything for nothing. And so…

He stares at the door, and wants to throw up his own rattling heart.

Just do this, he tells himself. You’ve faced worse.

And he has, theoretically. He knows he has. That still doesn’t change the fact that he’d much rather go up against Darkseid, alone and armed with nothing but his batarangs, than brave this door right now and face whatever future will take shape for him inside.

Whatever happens here is going to change everything.

Everything.

He needs another four painful, thumping heartbeats before he can force himself to enter the security code. Another two to step inside. The nausea only churns harder as he does, and fear steals out of him in a sheen of sweat that clings uncomfortably to his back, and telling himself that it’s okay, it’s fine, it’s only feelings, only… feelings, does jack shit to help. If Bruce had been any good with feelings they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

And besides, even now, even having examined and rationalized his way through the situation until he’s exhausted all of its myriad angles, he still isn’t convinced he’s allowed to feel the things he does to begin with, let alone act on them. And he’s about to give Joker enough ammunition against him to last an entire lifetime, willingly. And. And, and, and.

Nothing for it now, though — he’s inside. The door has closed behind him. And sure, technically he could still turn back and leave, but Bruce knows he won’t. The stubborn thing inside him locks an loads, and whispers, now or never.

And the thing is, he doesn’t want to accept “never" as an option, anymore.

So.

Bruce lifts his eyes to face Joker.

And just like that, what he sees makes him feel like he’s stepped right through the looking glass.

Joker is sitting at the table, a deck of cards spread in front of him in a game of solitaire. He doesn’t turn his head when he hears Bruce enter, and the way he sits, his sharp profile sketched out in dark contours by the pink-orange sun setting beyond, drapes his face in shadow.

Maybe this is why Bruce finds himself choosing the words that he does.

“Hello. I came to talk.”

I’ve been thinking lately. About you and me. About what’s gonna happen to us, in the end.

Just like back then, Joker doesn’t look up. Instead, he snaps a card face-up onto the table, and the sound is much too sharp. Much too loud.

Bruce watches him for a second or two before he moves. Coming up to him, choosing a seat across from him, only reinforces the looking glass effect. The scene isn’t exactly like the one Bruce remembers; for one thing, they’re in a spacious room rather than a small dank cell, and instead of a prison jumpsuit, Joker is wearing high-waisted purple suit pants and a glossy velvet shirt in a garish shade of yellow Arkham would never allow. His cell was dark, nearly pitch-black — Bruce’s preferred colors — and here, the tall windows admit generous sunset that pools over them in a purple-pinkish checkerboard that’s all Joker.

Then, of course, there’s the fact that the man sitting across from Bruce now is definitely, without a doubt, the genuine article.

But those differences only seem to emphasize the similarities, and absurdly, though he knows this couldn’t possibly be the case, Bruce wonders if Joker set it up like this on purpose.

God, that night in Arkham feels like a dream now, so distant, so impossibly removed from where they are now. And yet, Bruce experiences the same hollow chill in his bones now that he did back then. The same odd sense of destinies grinding, the tracks forking, shifting gears. That night, he wanted to talk to Joker about life and death. He thinks, distantly, that there’s some deep, dark irony in the fact that today, he’s here for a reason that’s completely different and yet just as life-changing.

Just how close were they to a world in which this evening would have been impossible? Where would they be today, if Joker never changed his mind? Would one of them be dead by now, like Bruce predicted? Or would they still be rushing head-first into mutual destruction, one fight at a time?

The thought comes at him viciously and grabs him somewhere all too vulnerable, exposing anxieties he didn’t even know were there. Bruce tries to stave off its cold, cold talons by tracing the play of sunset over Joker’s face. The light settles over Joker’s skin and hair and shirt in a warm, tender touch, softening him, smoothing out his angles, and it makes Bruce want to touch him too.

He breathes out, and takes some comfort in the fact that he can see Joker like this in the first place.

They’re here. They’ve come this far. This is their reality now, not the bleak alternate present where he never touched Joker with anything other than violence. And there’s a future opening up for them that has hope in it, which is something Bruce could never have imagined back at Arkham that fateful night.

He clings to that as he watches the man he’s fallen in love with, letting the feeling swell in his chest until it grows to the point where anxiety has no choice but to move out of the way.

Or, move out of the way enough. Bruce knows better than to hope it'll leave him entirely, not when there's still the matter of actually talking about how he feels, and not when the outcome is so uncertain.

For now, though, he decides to settle in and wait. Let Joker have the next word. Bruce can give himself a moment or two to just sit there, and watch him, and breathe, and just… be.

Joker takes a while to answer. Almost as if he can sense the weight of the moment, too, and needs the time to find his place in it as much like Bruce does. He takes his time picking the next card from the deck and laying it out on the table — the king of hearts.

That doesn't seem to surprise him. He smiles at the card, just a bit — just enough — and his smile is a tense, unsteady little thing, it but stretches and settles on his face when looks up at Bruce.

That's when Bruce’s heart gives a sharp jolt of something that's far too much like hope, because even though Joker’s eyes are guarded and just a bit too bright, they aren't cold. That sharp, hateful, muted look of the last few weeks is gone. Instead, Joker gazes up at Bruce now in something that's admittedly skittish and careful but that, through it all, looks like an invitation. Like a door, perhaps, not entirely ajar but open just enough for Bruce to put his foot in and force it the rest of the way, if he wants to. If he can.

Bruce thinks he can work with that.

“Look at you, so dramatic,” Joker observes, quiet and tense but with more than a trace of fondness as though it's something he can't quite help. He sits back in his chair, putting even more distance between them, and his eyes twinkle in the purple sunlight. “But I suppose the situation does call for it. This is what I think it is, isn't it, darling? The moment where we finally… have it out?”

“Looks that way,” Bruce says, and is glad to hear his voice doesn’t crack. It's a near thing, what with the way his heart is thumping.

The script, he reminds himself. You’ve prepped for this. Except that doesn't in any way mean he's ready. He’ll never be, no matter how many conversations he rehearses with his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. This is simply too big. Too important.

But then the corner of Joker’s mouth twitches, and Bruce thinks, maybe he isn’t ready, either. And that… helps. It shouldn't, but it does. Bruce knows how to be strong when someone else is weak.

He thinks maybe Joker needs him to be the stronger one here. Not that he'll ever say as much.

“Geez.” Joker affects a full-body shudder, comically exaggerated, probably to distract from the way his smile stiffens and shrinks in on itself. He hugs himself, and his leg starts to bounce to match the nervous giggle that escapes him before he says, “How about you do me a favor, darling, and knock me out, then wake me up when you’re done? It's not like we're cut out for this sort of thing, you and I.”

Bruce almost wants to smirk at that, if only because he’s sincerely tempted to ask Joker for the exact same thing.

“It’s you who said we need to talk,” he points out.

“I’m a mental patient,” Joker parries. “I can’t be held responsible for what I say.”

Bruce does smirk this time, and allows, “Nice try.”

“Yes, I’m very wily,” Joker agrees, then rests his elbows on the table and supports his chin in his hands. “But fine, I suppose. Let’s make like a pair of preteen tykes at a slumber party. But what about…?” He points with his head to the nearest camera. “You sure you want to bare your little bat-heart to me with everyone watching?”

“No one’s watching,” Bruce tells him. “I’ve dismissed the guards and disconnected the cameras. Whatever happens here won’t be recorded.” He takes a deep breath, not letting himself look away from Joker. “I hope you appreciate what that means.”

“My, my. A show of trust. Now that’s what I call a strong opening statement!” Joker’s smile grows sly when he points to the bracelet on his wrist. “But you still have a way of activating this here beauty, I take it?”

“Of course,” Bruce agrees. “I’m not stupid.”

“Good.” Joker kicks his leg under the table, fondly, and holds his eyes. His smile eases into something soft - vulnerable, almost - and so does his voice when he adds, “I’d hate to discover I’ve wasted my heart on an idiot.”

Bruce’s breath catches, and just like that, he can’t quite get enough air. Oh God. Oh God. This is... it. This is it, and now that he’s staring the moment right in the face, now that Joker has all but grabbed him by the heart and plunged them both right into deep water, he’s all too keenly aware just how unprepared he is for any of it.

But it’s his turn. His move. Joker’s laid his cards out on the table, and damn, if Bruce isn’t jealous of the ease with which he can do that, just… drop that kind of bombshell between them as a matter of fact, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it is, for him. After all, he's embraced his feelings for Bruce ages ago, and has been telling Bruce about them, overtly and otherwise, for just as long.

Bruce can’t do that. He never could. Maybe once upon a different lifetime, when he wasn’t everything he is today, he could look into the eyes of his mother and father and talk about love - but the person he is now is beginning to clam up just thinking the word. He simply can’t work past it.

But he has to find a way — it’s only fair. Even if it does mean baring himself wide open for the man who, not so long ago, fought him violently with everything he had.

Before he can take that step, though, he has to know.

“Do you mean it?” he makes himself ask. “No tricks,” he whispers. “No jokes. Just, tell me. Tell me if that’s really how you feel.”

Joker’s eyes search his. As they do, his smile changes into something almost as soft as the light outside, and his gaze clears, and he lets his hands drop to the table over the cards, the tips gently nudging Bruce’s.

“I thought you were supposed to be a detective,” he says in a low, gentle voice that makes Bruce think of white arms cradling his head and soft pillows and warm silence and the haze of early dawn. “I don’t think I could’ve made it any more obvious that I’ve been in love with you since the night we met.”

Bruce’s heart still can’t find its footing, and seems to rattle without rhyme or reason in his ribcage, wanting to grow way past what Bruce’s chest can hold. It radiates warmth into the rest of his body, into his blood, into his bones. He doesn’t think he can keep it all in. It’s too big. There’s no room for his voice anymore, no words for him to say.

But he owes it to Joker to respond in some way that will match his earnestness, and there's one thing he can think of that might work.

He brings his hands up to the cowl. He clicks it open, then slowly lifts it over his head. He puts it in his lap, and then looks up and faces Joker with nothing in the way. No white lenses to shield his own eyes, no protection, nothing to hide behind; just his own vulnerability, his naked humanity, and the effect of Joker's words on him, right here on full display.

The air in the room feels cold against his heated face, but in a good way. It helps. He tries to focus on it instead of the stifling grip of self-consciousness, or the love surging to overwhelm him, opening him up, making him soft and weak.

Joker stares at him. His mouth hangs open, and his eyes are pulled wide. He stays like this for a good long while.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispers, finally, and then blinks furiously, as though trying to bring himself back from a trance. “This is. I'm sorry, darling, it's just... Wow.”

“You knew who I was,” Bruce points out, sounding hoarse and just a touch insecure to his own ears.

“Yes, but…” Joker runs a trembling hand through his hair, his lips stretching into an incredulous smile that, of all things, looks fragile, like it’s about to shatter. “I mean. It’s one thing to know and another to… I mean, when I dealt with one of you at a time, it was…” he sighs, then rubs his eyes. “Excuse me. I don’t think I was ready for this. I need a moment.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce manages. He thinks he needs one, too. Or make it several.

He watches Joker's attempts to calm himself down, and only then does it begin to dawn on him that maybe Joker didn't want to see his humanity. That maybe, by taking the cowl off, he's unknowingly shattered something about the careful way Joker's been navigating the issue of Bruce's and Batman's identities, and taken away one of his ways to cope.

That he's stripped away some of Batman's mysticism, leaving vulnerability that doesn't quite fit with the myth Joker's constructed around them both.

There's guilt coasting on that thought, but Bruce does his best to discard it before it takes root. This was going to come up sooner or later, and if this is to work, it's that very mythology that needs to be confronted with reality either way. He's taken a step towards that, to show that he's serious and ready to take things to a new level. It's still the best token of his feelings that he can think of, for now.

In the end, it's another change. Terrifying, but inevitable, and one of many.

He takes a deep breath, and waits for Joker's move.

Joker’s fingers drum against the table. He grabs a card at random and starts to fiddle with it, bending a corner this way and that. They sit there staring at one another, painfully open, painfully exposed with no masks in the way, and in the meantime, the sky outside steadily bleeds from pink to darker purple.

Then Joker says, “Well. Whose turn is it now? I got a bit lost.”

He looks it, too, under the skittish smile and the uncertain twitch in his fingers. On impulse, Bruce reaches out and covers one of Joker’s hands with his own, and as he does, both of them let out a breath. Their eyes hold. They can’t feel each other’s pulses through the thick glove, but Bruce’s own heart is at last beginning to slow down, and he imagines that Joker’s might be doing the same.

The touch, and the feeling of Joker’s hand stilling under his, helps him remember the words he’s prepared. He thinks now might be the right time to get back to them. He knows better than to hope that Joker can be counted on to stay within any sort of script, but he can at least get them started, and now that Joker’s confession seems to have finally settled into something Bruce can begin to parse and accept as the truth, he thinks he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

So, after a deep fortifying breath, Bruce says, “I have a new deal for you.”

“Do you indeed,” Joker whispers.

“Yes.” Bruce studies his face for another moment, allowing his hand to press a little closer. He clears his throat. “An arrangement. If you want. It’ll be your decision. But if your therapy is successful... If they ever let you out… I'd like to ask you to stay."

"Stay."

"Yes. With... With me. Not here,” Bruce sweeps his gaze over Joker’s parlor, “but properly.” He pauses, and adds, "Together."

Joker’s eyes widen. He says, “Oh.”

And then, for a long time, he doesn’t say anything at all.

This time, the pause takes ages, and by the time Joker does anything Bruce is all but ready to throw up all over the fluffy carpet, or alternatively, leave with his tail tucked between his legs and never come back. He thinks he still might when Joker abruptly pulls his hand out from under Bruce’s, then gets up, strides almost violently over to the door and flicks the light switch. The soft, late-evening half-gloom is instantly banished; Bruce blinks in the stark yellow light that chases it out.

Joker moves back to his chair, then hesitates, but eventually he sits back down. He studies Bruce, fingers of one hand once again tapping on the table, chin cradled in the other, nails scratching over skin, his leg jerking violently.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” he asks finally.

“It means…” Bruce swallows and makes himself soldier on. He has a script. He’s prepared for this. He’s thought this through six ways to Sunday, and he’s made his choice. He just needs to let the words out. “It means that I want to give us a chance,” he finishes.

Joker’s eyes narrow almost dangerously. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to be clearer than that, Batsy," he says. "Do you want a relationship with me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Bruce closes his eyes as he breathes out, and then in. He looks back to Joker.

“Yes.”

Joker sits back, drawing in on himself, hugging his own arms. His face begins to twitch in violent ticks as though it doesn't quite know what expression to wear. His fingers, his hands, his jerking legs, his entire body, it all draws taut and tense, and the ticks only get worse. The silence charges as the moment builds and builds and builds, and Bruce has timed his visit so that Joker would still be under the effect of his meds but he thinks he knows what’s coming.

Sure enough, seconds later, Joker loses the struggle to contain his feelings. The first shards of laughter — quiet, almost repressed — spill out into the silence, almost painful in contrast. Bruce tries not to take it personally; he’s seen enough by now to know that Joker reacts with laughter to pretty much any emotionally charged situation, and if this doesn’t count as one, he doesn’t know what does.

Besides, Bruce rather wants to laugh at them both, too. If only to let out just a little bit of the tension now choking him up.

He wonders what it must feel like for Joker, after all these years, and then shuts that train of thought down as soon as it coalesces because he knows it would only end with his brain going into guilt trip overdrive. He doesn’t need that now, and neither does Joker. All Bruce can do is try to make things right in the here and now.

Still, what Joker says next makes not looking back in regret all the more difficult.

“You have no idea,” he chokes, “no idea…”

And just like that, everything in Bruce goes soft soft soft. He watches as Joker’s eyes begin to glimmer just as his voice thins, straining like it’s forced to hold way beyond what it’s able to carry. He’s shaking his head and digging fingernails into his arms through the velvet shirt like he needs the grounding pain of it to keep believing this is real.

It’s real, Bruce wants to reassure him over the soft, almost sweet ache in his gut. He wants to come over to him and stroke his hair and kiss his face, over and over, however long it might take to help Joker believe it.

Once again he'S reminded how close they came to never having this conversation at all. He can’t imagine living that way anymore. It gives him the strength to keep himself still as he promises,

“We can try. If you still want it by the time you get out.”

Joker's beginning to, slowly, settle down. At least, he gets lucid enough to point out, “That could be a while.” He looks up at Bruce with eyes that shimmer much too brightly. “You sure you won’t change your mind along the way?”

“Pretty sure,” Bruce whispers, and means it. Now that he’s accepted what he feels for this man, he doubts he’ll ever be able to make himself stop. The urge to close his arms around Joker still hasn’t gone away, and neither has the softness — in fact, they only seem to be getting worse.

And maybe Joker can read it in his face. At any rate, he sees something there that helps because his entire face flushes, and when he looks away it’s almost demurely, his mouth twitching like he can’t quite hold in whatever feelings are swirling in his heart. He makes himself small in the chair, body hunched and drawn in and shaking but the smile trembling around his mouth all the same, and Bruce takes the chance to soak up the sight with everything he is, letting it steady him, and warm him in turn. He thinks he’ll never forget the way Joker looks in this one moment, and what it feels like to be seeing it, until he dies.

And then, as is his wont, Joker ruins it.

“It’s like…” he sighs, and giggles to himself a touch hysterically. “It’s like the flashlight joke all over again! Do you get it, Bats? Only this time around you’re dangling a carrot, too!”

“That’s not —” Bruce starts, but then he gives up. There’s no use. Not when Joker is off laughing his feelings out again. Bruce sits back and lets him, and watches him writhe on the chair, hugging himself, lifting his legs, rolling this way and that.

My new normal, he thinks. He’ll need to get used to reactions like this, and learn to read them for more nuance so he can tell all of Joker’s different laughs apart. He zeroes in on the tears squeezed out of Joker’s squinted eyes, on the tight grip he has on himself, and thinks, maybe he’s already halfway there. He certainly understands him well enough by now to recognize the signs of agitation in the pitch of his voice and the lines of his face. Agitation, anxiety… hesitation, still. Even now.

Bruce doesn’t think he blames Joker for not letting himself quite take this development at face value. He doesn’t know if he could.

Still, distantly, he wonders if he wouldn’t feel better if he could just laugh all of his feelings out for once, too.

He doesn’t feel like laughing so much as throwing up, though. Maybe it amounts to the same thing.

Even more than that, now even more than before, he wants to clear the distance between them and hug Joker close until the laughter soaks into his chest; until his own bones rattle with it.

He doesn’t. There’s still so much they need to talk about, and he doesn’t trust himself to stick to his agenda if he gets distracted. If he starts touching Joker now, he might not be able to stop.

So he makes himself wait until Joker quiets down again before pointing out, “If you agree, we’ll need to set up new rules.”

Joker wipes the tears on the sleeve of his shirt. He flashes Bruce a toothy smirk that looks huge and painfully bright while still wobbling a little at the corners. “Rules," he repeats, then snickers. "Of course, dear. I’d expect nothing less from you.”

His voice sounds so much better now; stronger, steadier. It’s like a good deal of his anxiety has left him along with the laughter, and when he straightens in his chair now, it's with some degree of assurance, like he's beginning to find his footing again.

This is… good. It’s good. Bruce likes seeing him this way. He clears his throat; the softness has spread so far now that it’s threatening to spill all over his eyes.

“I’ll get you a calendar,” he promises, struggling to keep his own voice steady. That’s the least he can do; God only knows what his face is doing right now. “You’ll get more trips outside, provided you don’t act out like you did with Carter. And in time, maybe we can figure out a better way for you to leave here than in the chair.”

“You mean I’ll actually have to walk?” Joker pulls a disgusted face, extra theatrical now, giddy with a fresh spark in him that hasn’t been there in months. “On all that grass? Think of my shoes!”

Laughter lurks in his words, just under the surface. It twinkles at Bruce playfully from Joker’s eyes. Bruce can’t help it; he lets it contaminate his own self-control and responds with a smile of his own.

“I’ll get you new ones,” he promises, and wonders just how goofy they both look right now.

It’s a warm thought. Light. Soft. Bruce wonders if he'll ever get used to it.

Joker opens his mouth as though to say something, but then he looks at Bruce, and something about what he sees catches him short. Whatever theatrical expression he was gearing himself into melts away into a gentle, almost serene smile that does very inconvenient things to Bruce’s heart and lower gut alike.

“You know,” Joker whispers, eyes gleaming, pale cheeks tinted pink, “you actually look very beautiful like this.”

Bruce stares. He has no idea what to say to that, especially with all the warmth that is now choking him up.

So he decides to plow right on through the awkwardness and clears his throat, and resolutely gets back to his agenda. It’s better this way, for both of them.

“I’ll keep visiting you as always," he manages. "But apart from just talking and card games, I suggest we spar for an hour every month. It’ll help you release some of the tension and keep you in shape.”

Joker’s eyes twinkle. He looks like he’s trying to hold back laughter again, bursting with a new, restless kind of energy, and like he can see right through what Bruce doesn’t say, mainly: I need this just as much as you do.

“So you did miss it,” he teases.

Bruce clears his throat. “No more messing around with your meds,” he challenges. “You need to take all of them. Where were you even stashing them?”

“I have my ways.” Joker tilts his head coyly, letting messy green curls fall over his eyes.

“I’m serious, Joker. You need to take all your meds. And you need to give me all the pills you’ve been hiding away. They’re in the bedroom, aren’t they? How did you manage to stash them without the cameras catching you?”

In response, Joker only looks smug, sitting up straight and winking at Bruce. Bruce supposes he can let him have this one; as far as misbehaving goes, when it comes to Joker, not taking your pills when you’re supposed to and hiding them away is practically innocent.

Or it would be, if Joker’s meds weren’t so central to his therapy.

They’ll deal with it later. If Bruce is to have a hope of ever getting through this conversation, he needs to take it one hurdle at a time. So he struggles to remember the script, and gets to the next item.

“At some point, maybe even soon, you’ll have your visitation rights reinstated,” he recites. “All visits will be supervised and we’ll have to clear them with your doctor and the GCPD, but if you keep showing signs of progress, it can all be arranged.”

“Oh goody,” Joker leans forward, chin in hands once again. “Will I get to make phone calls too? And cable TV? I’ve missed so many episodes of House Hunters.”

“If you keep behaving, we can negotiate,” Bruce promises.

Joker appears to mull this over. “Define behaving.”

“You’ll stick with your therapy,” Bruce tells him. “You’ll commit. You’ll treat it seriously. You won’t try to sabotage yourself, and you won’t try to… to test me, like you did with the pill. I’m committed to this, Joker. I won’t quit on you. But I need to know you’re serious about this, so that if you ever tell me you want to stop and get back to Arkham, I’ll know you mean it.”

Joker looks into his eyes, letting seconds tick by. With every one that passes, his smile fades into something almost too earnest for Bruce to handle: a naked intensity, demanding nothing but the truth.

“And if I do play nice, as a reward, I’ll get you?” Joker asks quietly.

Bruce swallows. That’s a very crude way to put it, but… “Yes,” he agrees. “If you make it through, we’ll give it a chance. I… I want to.”

They look at one another.

“You know, I almost escaped,” Joker confesses. “I was this close.”

Bruce’s throat closes up. He knows it had been bad recently, but apparently he’d underestimated just how bad.

“Why didn’t you?” he manages.

Joker never once breaks eye-contact, but he does let his mouth stretch up, just an inch. He whispers, “You decided you want me back.”

He watches Bruce for another beat, then stands up. Trailing long fingers over the length of the table, he starts to make his way around it, over to Bruce. Bruce’s mouth goes dry as he watches him, and his heart picks up in something that's fear and excitement and everything in-between.

“Yeah?” he tries, hoarsely.

“Yeah.” Joker's smile blooms wide and bright as he stands over Bruce. His eyes shine just a bit wetly, just a bit manically, when he lifts a hand to Bruce's face.

It hesitates, stopping halfway. Bruce holds his eyes and finds a question there, and doubt, some last remnants of uncertainty.

Then Joker's eyes harden into determination, and his hand moves. Bruce is careful not to flinch when Joker's fingers touch his forehead, linger to give Bruce a chance to move away, then gently stroke along Bruce’s hairline. They're cold; Bruce wants to warm them up.

Joker gets closer. He glances down at Bruce’s lap and then back to his face, and it's almost too quick to notice - but not for Bruce, who's incapable of noticing anything but Joker right now. Yes, come here, he thinks, putting the cowl on the table and making space for him even as the rational part of his brain instantly unrolls an entire parchment of reasons why that's a very bad idea. Just now, he can’t bring himself to care. Not when Joker is so close, and not when his finger is still trailing little patterns along Bruce’s temple.

Just this once. Just for tonight. There’s still one more rule he's got to impose, and it's the worst one yet, but it — it can wait, yes God it can wait. Bruce wants this too much, and this conversation has wrung him dry. He's rattled and raw and needy, and he thinks Joker must be even more so, and frankly, they've already made more breakthroughs this one evening than they have in the whole time they've known each other. They both deserve a reward for getting this far.

And so, when Joker moves to perch on his lap, somehow managing to look both sharp-edged and yet painfully soft, Bruce’s arm comes up around his waist and urges him closer, objections be damned. Joker’s hipbone juts under his hand through layers of high-waisted pants and Bruce’s own gauntlet, and Bruce lets his fingers curl, stroking a circle around it. His other hand finds Joker’s thigh and presses in, slow to smooth down its length from knee to hip and feeling every inch of it, and God, it's feels so wrong-and-right to allow himself even this much. When he breathes in, the air rushes with citrus and chemicals and the herbal tea he can smell on Joker’s hot breath, and he’s lost. His mind is a haze of love and want and heat which crowds both his head and much much lower, and once his eyes snag on Joker’s blood-red mouth, he can’t pry them away.

“Am I wrong?” Joker whispers. His finger reaches the corner of Bruce’s mouth and teases a feather-light touch to his bottom lip. Even now, his touch is hesitant, like Joker's testing both their boundaries, and Bruce gets that. By God, does he ever.

They've done worse than this. Been more intimate than this. But the intent behind it changes everything, and makes each touch feel like the first one, charged with a whole new meaning that feels like it might burn them if they aren't careful.

They've broken so much new ground. And they're about to break even more, move the boundaries again, step into completely new territory with nothing but their gut to guide them.

It's terrifying.

It's thrilling.

It's everything in-between, and teetering right on the edge, all it needs it just one more step, one little thing to settle the change and seal it into reality, and Bruce realizes he can't stand another minute of not taking it.

“Am I wrong, darling?” Joker whispers, leaning closer.

“No,” Bruce breathes, and that’s all he can manage before he closes his eyes and kisses him.

A part of him — one that's still coherent enough to form thought — expected heat, and passion, and force.

It did not expect to find the body in his arms stilling almost to the point of paralysis.

Even Joker’s breath seems to have stopped dead, and in response Bruce stills, too, suddenly cold with worry. He’s afraid to open his eyes and see the damage he’s done, even though inside he’s thinking, No, that can’t be, there’s no way he could have possibly misread Joker’s invitation. No way he could have miscalculated this badly. But Joker’s lips stay frozen under Bruce’s, and Bruce doesn’t dare move to push or pull away now, waiting, his heart hammering —

Joker breathes out into his mouth. The sound is jagged, trembling on its way out, tickling Bruce’s skin. And then, just as he was marble stillness a blink ago suddenly he’s all movement, shifting in Bruce’s lap, his hands shooting up to trap both sides of Bruce’s face, under his jaw, at the junction where naked flesh meets armor collar. His long fingers hook like talons, catching on Bruce’s skin with the sharp points of his fingernails, dragging just past the edge of pain. Bruce opens his eyes to find two acidic green ones spearing into him with an intensity that steals his breath, and all coherent thought with it.

Then Joker’s fingernails dig in even harder, urging Bruce back in, and this time when their lips touch Joker’s mouth is open for him. And this, this is what Bruce expected when he let himself imagine this moment in stolen, guilt-ridden moments of weakness. The intensity from Joker’s eyes, from his fingers, from his entire tight-coiled body, bleeds from his mouth into Bruce’s, pressing their lips as close as they can get without melting their skin together. Their mouths move against one another with the kind of urgency that goes slow but deep, looking for the right fit, Joker’s pointed nose nuzzling Bruce’s cheek, Bruce’s chin rubbing his, Joker’s fingers dragging over Bruce’s face, Bruce’s hands curling and pressing into Joker’s slim body, two men who have denied themselves for years and are finally beginning to figure out a new kind of physicality that’s familiar and yet not at all. Bruce is drunk with it instantly, with the kiss itself and with how much more of Joker there is for him to know and explore; and when Joker lets out a desperate little sound caught halfway between a sigh and a moan it shoots down Bruce’s throat and straight to his stirring cock, and he can’t help but respond with a groan he imagines sounds much the same.

He can’t believe this is actually happening. That this is real, and that he is letting it be real. The thought is laced with guilt and self-loathing and You’re kissing a fucking murderer. But even that familiar emotional blade isn’t quite sharp enough to poke holes in the heady, citrus-scented haze Joker’s lips bring, and the spike of it, when it mixes with Bruce’s arousal, only makes him tighten his hold on Joker and press their mouths deeper, as if in defiance, as if owning his decision and everything it means, claiming this moment for what it is rather than what it's supposed to be. He wants to savor it. He wants to experience every second, every heartbeat, every sensation, and sear them into his memory.

Especially since he knows he won’t get a chance to do this again any time soon.

That thought is finally cold enough to let him regain his senses enough to pull away. But not before he leans in for another short kiss to Joker’s mouth, and another, and one more. His mouth tingles all over, and his face is flushed to the point where he’s sure he looks ridiculous, but when he looks up it's to the sight of Joker looking at him through half-lidded eyes that gleam bright and hot and aroused and so heartbreakingly fond, and he’s smiling shakily, brokenly, his lipstick smudged all over his mouth and chin.

Bruce feels that smile all the way down in his heart. He didn’t think it was possible for him to feel any warmer but there it is, and for a moment he’s so dazed he forgets what he was going to say.

“You’re a mess,” Joker observes quietly, letting his thumb circle Bruce’s lower lip and just below. His breath is rushed and so is his voice, coming out coarse and thick and unsteady, and Bruce almost shudders imagining what it would sound like in his bed. “I got lipstick all over your face,” Joker murmurs, leaning close again, brushing his lips to Bruce’s ear, purring into it. “Looks good on you.”

He giggles softly, nervously, then kisses Bruce’s ear and closes the lobe between his teeth, lightly, to tug at it like a pup playing with another dog. Or maybe to tether him into the moment, into the performance - his words sound just a bit too studied to match the shudder in his voice. In any case, the sensation it brings scrambles Bruce’s mind into a shock of electric currents he’s altogether unprepared for. Maybe it’s the panic at something so unexpected so soon that finally sobers him up, but he manages to rally against the rush of lust and, gently, puts one hand on Joker’s heaving chest to push him to a safe distance.

“There’s one more thing,” he rasps, proud of himself for mustering even this much restraint.

Joker tips his head to the side. Underneath his very obvious arousal he still looks fragile and shaken and just a bit amused, and lets his arm slide around Bruce’s neck in a gesture so painfully familiar it almost kicks Bruce’s resolve to the wind all over again.

“And what is that?” Joker asks.

“One more rule,” Bruce manages.

“Of course there is. Do tell.”

Bruce takes a deep breath. God, they shouldn’t have kissed. Not so soon. Now that he got a taste he finds what he’s about to suggest all but impossible, and the reasons for that decision no longer seem so solid. It doesn't help that he's pretty sure Joker's going to hate it.

But somehow, miraculously, he manages to relocate his sense of duty. It’s for the best, he reminds himself. You know it is. So stop thinking with your dick.

He opens his mouth and recites, with altogether too much difficulty, “Starting tomorrow, I won’t… touch or kiss you like this, or at all, until this —” he touches the cold gleaming metal of the shock bracelet on Joker’s wrist — “comes off.”

It takes a moment for Joker to parse this. Bruce can tell from the slow way his expression changes: the spark in his eyes going dim, the smile dropping off by bits. He whispers, “What?”

“I won’t touch you until you’re officially cleared to leave,” Bruce rephrases, already hating himself for every single word.

Joker’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Bruce half expects him to bite him again, and not at all playfully this time. He thinks he’d still prefer it to what Joker actually does: he slides off Bruce’s lap, jerks violently to his feet, and instantly puts way too much distance between them, his body once more drawing in on itself like he's been burned.

“You're serious about this,” he tries, a shaky hand coming to touch the smears of lipstick on his face. "You really are?"

“I am,” Bruce agrees, heavily, trying to keep his face still and mustering whatever authority he still can, which isn’t much.

“Wow.” Joker grabs his own hair, pulling at it hard. “That’s — wow, Batsy. Fuck.”

“It's not because I don't want to.” Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to keep his breath under control. The room seems much too cold now without Joker’s warm body and breath so close. “It’s got to be this way,” he struggles anyway, knowing that it’s the right thing to do no matter how much his own body might disagree.

He’s thought this through. He’s determined… or tries to be. It’s so difficult to stand by this decision now with the tingle of Joker’s mouth still hot on his own.

“Then why?” Joker demands, loud and furious now, anger mixing in with whatever arousal still lingers in him, shrinking his pupils, painting his eyes almost supernaturally bright. “Enlighten me, Batsy, because my poor broken noggin can't quite follow you on this one. Explain to me, pretty please, how it could possibly make sense that you’re fine with us beating the crap out of each other, but you draw the line at cuddling?!”

“You’re trying to make it sound more ridiculous than it is,” Bruce accuses. “You know there’s a difference.”

“You’re the one who started the cuddling!”

“I know. But it needs to stop. And it will, after tonight. I will only touch you if you really, really need it, in case of panic attacks and other extreme circumstances, and only when you actually ask for it. But that’s it.”

“Why?!”

“You need an incentive to keep working on getting better,” Bruce whispers. “I’m giving you one. This way, you’ll have something to look forward to.” He takes a deep breath. “We both will.”

Joker opens his mouth, and then shuts it. He considers Bruce, putting his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes. More than anything else right now he looks curious, of all things, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“You would seriously do that,” he says, slowly. “You would actually withhold physical contact to manipulate me into therapy?”

Bruce winces. He doesn’t care for the wording one bit. He opens his mouth to say as much, to explain himself better, but Joker forestalls it with an incredulous chuckle that sounds almost like a bark.

“Why Batsy,” he says, “if I weren’t so mad I’d be proud of you. That's what someone like Lexie would do!”

“It’ll be better this way,” Bruce insists, trying not to let the comparison rattle him. “The rules will be clearer. No more misunderstandings. And you’ll still have the hug machi —”

“Don’t you dare mention that thing,” Joker snaps, all traces of previous amusement gone as he turns away from Bruce, bringing his arms around himself.

Bruce swallows. He doesn’t want to argue about the hug machine now, so he lets it drop.

“Joker,” he implores after a moment. “You know that it’s the right thing to do as long as you're an inmate here. It wouldn't be ethical otherwise.”

"Ethical," Joker echoes. "Well, now, that obviously changes everything, doesn't it. We wouldn't want Batman to do anything unethical."

"Joker."

“Can we have our first sparring session right now?” Joker asks tightly. Loudly. “Suddenly I have this tremendous urge to punch you in the face.”

Bruce slumps in his chair, rubbing his face. He sighs. “I don't want this, Joker,” he insists. "If anything..." He hesitates here, but, well, it's the truth, and one that he thinks Joker would want to hear. "In fact," he picks up, "I can't stand the idea of not kissing you."

That, apparently, is not the right thing to say. Joker's flinch, and a sharp gasping snort, tell Bruce as much.

“You know what? I’ve got a rule, too,” Joker all but yells. “In fact, I’ve got two! One — you’ll drop the playboy act. If I gotta go blueballed then, baby, so do you. I don’t care how you explain it, say that you switched to yoga or that you found God or that you donated your dick to charity, I don’t care. Just make it so that I don’t have to wade through a parade of tabloids describing how you seduced this and that supermodel while I rotted here doing crossword puzzles.”

“All right,” Bruce whispers. This actually won’t be too difficult, he thinks; he hasn’t worked on the playboy act in months. It’ll be relief to have an excuse to drop it altogether, and besides, he doesn’t think he could make himself fake it convincingly now, anyway, even if he wanted to. “And the other rule?”

“If I have to suffer this inane therapy, then so do you. I’m not the only one here with issues, honey.”

Bruce fights down a spike of apprehension. “What do you mean?”

“You get yourself a therapist. See how you like it. Then later we can compare notes.”

This is ridiculous, Bruce wants to say; the words come this close to tumbling out. But the sharp warning in Joker’s voice stops him cold, and he knows this is no joke. He has to be careful.

So he takes his time weighing his options, and finally, grudgingly, he allows, “Fine. If that’ll make you happy.”

“Thanks ever so,” Joker murmurs, and refuses to turn to face Bruce.

Get ready, Bruce thinks bitterly as he stifles another sigh, you’re setting yourself up for a lot more where this came from. That, too, is gonna be the new normal.

A part of him dreads the prospect. Another part of him dreads this entire thing, and wants to beat himself over the head with a rolled-up newspaper until he starts paying attention, pointing out, This is a criminal, a murderer, and you’re talking about having a relationship with him.

Mostly, though, he misses the weight of Joker’s body on his lap, his bony form under his hands, his lips on Bruce’s.

“Joker,” he calls, quietly. He hesitates, and then risks, “J. Come here. Please.”

Joker twitches. His body tenses as he glances over his shoulder at Bruce.

“You've no idea what you're getting yourself into,” he whispers. “You know who I am. You know what I am. I told you: you’re gonna have to take all of me. They can drug me all they want, and I can dance to your tune if that's what it takes. But they can’t change me. Not really.”

Bruce swallows. “I know,” he promises. “I know that.”

“And you still want me?”

Bruce considers him, then says, in a low voice, “I think I just made that pretty clear.”

When Joker doesn’t respond, Bruce chooses his next words extra-carefully. He’s thought a lot about this, and he thinks he finally does have an answer.

“I want you,” he says. “I want the man who willingly agreed to participate in therapy when I asked him to. I want the man who’s trying to change things.”

Joker looks away again. His grip on himself gets tighter. “So you don’t want me," he whispers, "you want the washed-out loser. Figures.”

“No,” Bruce denies, hotly. “No. I want you. Look, this whole thing… It’s hard. I haven’t figured it all out yet. I’m — confused. But I want you, and I want to give us a chance. And if you want it too... if you’re with me... then you won’t be out there killing people, and that… I guess I can work with that.”

“So, what, being my boyfriend is a noble sacrifice? You’ll date me to save Gotham? Damn it, Bruce, do you even hear yourself?”

Bruce. He swallows around the word, and it goes down thick and lumpy, dropping into the pit of his stomach.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

“J —”

“I’ll make your life difficult,” Joker challenges, his voice cold. “I’ll be a pain in the ass. You’ll be fed up with me five days out of seven. I’m not an easy person to live with, Bruce. And there's only so much I'm ready to sacrifice for you.”

“I — realize that,” Bruce whispers.

“Think you’re ready for that?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says, honestly. “But I want to find out.”

Joker turns. His eyes search Bruce’s, and it's a comfort to see them go just a little bit less stormy.

“It might be a really long time before you can,” he says.

Bruce tries to meet his gaze without turning away. He replies, “That is entirely up to you.”

"You don't get it," Joker mutters, glancing to his bare feet. "You're taking so much from me. And now you want to take even more, with nothing but a promise to tide me over."

"I keep my promises," Bruce insists. "Coming to you today is the hardest thing I've done in my adult life. But I'm here."

“I need to be sure,” Joker whispers. “I’ll stay, and I’ll stomach all of your stupid rules and your doctors and your pills for as long as it takes, and I’ll keep playing along if you want me to. But I need to know that you won’t just kick me to the curb. That what waits on the other side will be worth it.”

“What can I do?” Bruce asks over a tight, tight throat.

“Tell me,” Joker pleads. “Tell me what you feel for me. I want your word.”

Oh God. This is exactly what Bruce had been dreading. Because he can’t articulate it in words; it wasn’t until the fireworks that he could even verbalize it in his own thoughts. He can’t say it. He just physically can’t, and he feels himself clamming up, and each second that passes makes it harder to even open his mouth until it’s all but impossible.

And maybe Joker realizes this. His gaze never loses its intensity, but some sort of softer, gentler understanding creeps in as well. He lets the silence brim between them for several moments, then turns to face Bruce fully, and takes a step closer.

“Batsy. Do you care for me?” he asks. “You can nod or shake your head.”

Swallowing, feeling grateful, Bruce nods. Joker considers him, and then he nods, too, and takes another step towards him.

“Do you need me?”

Bruce nods again.

“Do you want me?” Another two steps.

“Yes,” Bruce forces out.

God, yes. So much.

Joker stands over him now, just like he did before, except he isn’t touching Bruce this time. Yet. He still looks cautious as he lets his arms drop to his sides, and stays just an inch out of Bruce’s reach. He gnaws on his bottom lip, and drops his eyes down to his feet again.

“You called me J.,” he whispers.

“Yeah.” Bruce lifts his head to meet his eye, heart pounding.

“I think,” Joker starts, then takes a deep breath. His eyes go softer still as he lifts them to Bruce's, some sort of decision made. “I think I like that,” he whispers, and Bruce’s insides warm all over again.

He puts his hands on his knees, desperate to reach out and pull Joker close. “Come here,” he says. “Please.”

Joker glances up, to the cameras. He asks, “This idiotic rule of yours. When does it go into effect?”

“Tonight,” Bruce says, “after I leave here.”

“Mhm.” Joker turns back to him. “And how much time do we have until the cameras go back on?”

Bruce consults the electronic display in his gauntlet. “Thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes,” Joker echoes, pensively. “Well then.” Finally, his mouth lifts into a thin, careful smile, small and breakable but there. “I suppose we’d better make the most of it while we can.”

He sits down on Bruce’s lap again and lets himself be cradled close. He leans in, and that's all the invitation Bruce needs this time; he catches his lips halfway, and kisses him with all the need and hunger he knows he’ll have to keep under lock and key from now on.

Not quite yet, though. For now, they can still enjoy what stolen moments they can, and Bruce intends to use them to show Joker exactly what'll be there waiting for him on the other side of all this.

And as he kisses him, he wonders, distantly, why Joker never asked if Bruce loved him. But maybe he understands. He wants to believe he’d say yes but he isn’t sure he could, and that hesitation is probably the very thing Joker didn’t want to risk.

So he kisses Joker all the more fiercely, to show rather than tell him the truth, and prays that it’s enough to finally convince this man that he really, absolutely means it. He tries to tell him with his mouth…

… And then, when that no longer seems like enough, he tries with his hands, too.

He stops the kiss and gently pulls away. Joker looks frustrated at that, his mouth plunging into an unhappy line, and he opens it to say something, possibly complain. But he shuts up when he notices what Bruce is doing, and watches wordlessly as Bruce unfastens the gauntlets and starts to tug them off, one by one.

Bruce leaves the gloves on the table next to the cowl. He turns to Joker, and shudders at the look of deep, dark desire he finds in his wide-blown pupils.

He touches the top button of Joker’s shirt.

“May I —?”

Joker’s breath catches, and he nods jerkily. “Knock yourself out, baby,” he purrs a second later, as though trying to cover up his earlier surprise, and Bruce smiles. God, he’s in love.

He undoes the first button. Then the second, then the third, working his way down until the shirt falls open, still clinging to Joker’s shoulders, still tucked into the high waistband of the pants, but inviting Bruce’s hands to come on in and explore. He looks up to Joker once again for permission, and finds it in the way Joker licks his mouth, watching him with dark, dark eyes.

Shit. This may have been a mistake. They won't be able to stop at this rate.

Even so, Bruce’s hands slide into the shirt before he can even articulate why they shouldn’t, and touch along Joker’s sides. Lightly at first, delighting in the small shudder that runs through Joker’s body at the contact, and then pressing closer, more firmly. Bruce trails his hands down to Joker’s sharp hipbones and then back up, over the hollow of a skinny, unnervingly tiny waist, over the rise of ribs, up to the armpits. His fingers snag on scars, so many of them, tender raised skin, pink and criss-crossing in spiderwebs of ridges Bruce traces with careful, careful hands. He touches down Joker’s sides again, lingering over his waist, before moving his hands over the flat stomach, also lined with scars. It shudders under his touch, skipping as Joker sucks in a quiet breath. Slowly, his eyes enthralled just as his hands are, Bruce outlines the thin, defined muscles up until he reaches Joker’s chest and maps that out, too. Feeling brave, he circles the pale nipples, which stand up perky and alert as if inviting Bruce to kiss them.

He doesn’t let himself go quite this far just yet — doesn’t dare. He isn’t sure either of them could stand it without spontaneously combusting. But God, he wants to, so much, especially with how hard Joker grips at his shoulders, and how hard and fast his breath is coming, and it’s heady, it’s fascinating, to see just how sensitive he is to Bruce’s touch, how easily he lets himself come undone for him. How little they know of one another in this way, and how much there's still for them to learn.

Bruce wants to learn all of it.

He looks into Joker’s eyes, just to give himself a second to calm down.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Joker’s hands come up to cup his face. “If you don’t kiss me right now,” he whispers, “I’m gonna chew out your eyeballs and eat them.”

It almost ruins the mood when Bruce’s mind unhelpfully tries to visualize the threat, but Joker doesn’t give him the time. He leans in to claim Bruce’s mouth, and shifts so that his exposed chest rubs against the batsuit. It should be painful, especially on Joker's extra-sensitive skin, but it's pleasure he moans into Bruce’s mouth, hot and urgent. God. Bruce sneaks his hands around him to press them into his back, feeling the jut of bones moving under his fingers, the shift in Joker’s breath.

They stay locked like that, desperate to be close, kissing out of what seems like necessity more than desire, Bruce’s hands moving over Joker’s upper body for all they’re worth, Joker’s chest catching on the hard armor plates of Bruce’s suit, his hands carding through Bruce’s hair and running over the suit and then back to his face like he can’t decide which one he likes touching better. Bruce can feel his bracelet snagging against his skin, a shock of chill contrasting with their heated bodies, and holds on all the more tightly, all the more firmly. At some point the shirt slips from Joker’s shoulders entirely and hangs down over the ground, forgotten, still tucked into the waist of Joker’s pants, revealing more skin for Bruce to explore. Which he does, gladly. Hungrily. It’s hot and urgent, and Bruce’s head swims with it, and he never, ever wants it to end.

By the time it has to, his cock strains painfully in his codpiece and there’s an urgent tent in Joker’s pants, tipped with a tiny stain of moisture where precum has soaked through. He's close already, just from this, and Bruce tries not to look for fear he’ll never let go if he lets himself linger on it, but even as he tries to get up Joker refuses to stop kissing him.

“Will you be watching?” he asks, a whisper of hot air into Bruce’s mouth.

“Yes,” Bruce promises, without hesitation. He doesn't need to ask what Joker means by that.

“Good.” Joker kisses his cheek, his temple, his closed eyes. “I want you to touch yourself when you do.”

Bruce is too far gone to respond with anything but “Yes.”

“And I expect one hell of an orgasm when I finally get out of here.”

“You’ll get it,” Bruce whispers, “I promise.”

“Don’t you forget it.” Finally, Joker steps away, and Bruce opens his eyes to see him sigh and shiver in the cold air, half-naked and hard and disheveled by Bruce’s own hand.

“You’re beautiful,” Bruce tells him before he can stop himself.

Joker looks at him and tries to smile, looking sad and small now though still obviously overcome.

“I bet you say that to all the clowns,” he murmurs, starting to pull the shirt back over his shoulders with shaky, trembling hands.

Then, he turns to pick up one of Bruce’s gauntlets from the table. “Put your hand up.”

Bruce does, and watches with a closed-up throat as Joker fits it carefully over his hand.

“Now the other.”

The other gauntlet finds its way back on Bruce’s hand too, and instantly, Bruce wants to tug it back off, just to keep the heat and texture of Joker’s skin on his own a little bit longer. He watches as Joker picks up the cowl, running his fingers over it almost lovingly as he does, and looks up at Bruce questioningly.

“Should I —”

“No.” Flushed as he is, putting on the cowl now would be torture. Bruce takes it from Joker’s hands and holds it in one hand, and tries to ignore the feeling of wrong wrong WRONG at the thought of leaving now.

“I’ll be back,” he promises over the sandpaper in his throat.

“I know.” Joker finds a smile for him, tight and small. “Go now, before I climb you like a tree.”

Bruce steps in for one more lingering kiss. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Joker doesn’t reply. He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t move at all, not even when Bruce finally steps away and moves past him to the door.

He leaves Joker there in the parlor, and as soon as the door closes behind him he rushes down to the cave as fast as he can. He doesn’t bump into anyone on the way and is grateful for it — he wouldn’t be able to explain the lipstick stains now if he tried.

He activates the cameras as soon as he gets to the control station, then sits down and watches as Joker lies down on the fluffy carpet, his pants open, his pale cock in his hand. He looks like he’s waiting for something, but then he chooses a camera to look into and focuses on it, and doesn’t smile, doesn’t say anything at all, hardly even blinks as he begins to give himself quick, urgent, furious strokes, squeezing down on himself in a way that looks painful more than anything.

Bruce keeps his word and watches him, and opens the codpiece to take his own cock in hand, and tries matches his strokes to Joker’s. He counts under his breath.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One two three, one two three…

It's not long at all until they’re both coming. Joker's first, eyes screwed shut, his entire face sketched in tension, gasping soundlessly and straining his back into a bow over the carpet as his come stains his hand. That's all it takes for Bruce to follow.

God. God. Fuck.

Once he recovers, Bruce isolates the recording from the main feed to hide it away with the other tape. His hands shake as he does so, and continue to shake even as he finally drags himself into the shower.

He stands there for a long, long time, and decides to skip patrol that night. He wouldn’t be any use if he went. His head brims much too full with mouths and hands and eyes and sighs and Joker, and desire for Joker, and love for Joker.

Desire, which is returned. Love, which is returned.

Bruce spends the rest of the night in his own bed thinking about it, and remembering, and doesn’t quite smile. It’s much too early for that, and there are more difficult conversations to be had. More feelings to sort through. More vulnerabilities to bare.

He feels light and heady all the same, right until the sun peeks over the horizon and sleep finally lures him in with dreams of red mouth and pale hands, promising, Soon.

Chapter Text

Sitting at the ancient mammoth-sized kitchen table with bright afternoon sunlight still holding onto the grounds outside, Bruce looks at the faces of his family.

They’ve all assembled here when he asked them to and are now displaying various stages of apprehension typical of anyone who’s just heard the words “we need to talk”: Dick, trying so very hard to maintain an encouraging expression but blinking just a tad too often; Jason, tight and rigid, ostentatiously staring down into his Wayne Tech smartphone as though the glare of bluish sterile light can shield him from what’s about to happen, and, in contrast, hardly blinking at all; and Alfred, his sharp keen eyes a touch of life in a face that is, otherwise, a model of composure. Maybe they already suspect what he’s going to tell them. Bruce thinks Dick certainly does. He isn’t all that sure it’s a comfort.

Barbara should be here, too, rends through his mind, and Bruce looks down, knowing full well just why she isn’t. It’s because when it comes to things that matter Bruce is a coward, and just this once, he wants to measure out the blows if he can. With Jason, Bruce still has a tentative, trembling flicker of hope. But Barbara won’t want to have anything to do with him after this, and he isn’t quite ready to face that just yet.

He opens his mouth…

He looks at Jason’s face, and then at Alfred’s, and closes it again.

He could lose them. Both, or just one, but either way, he could. He only has seconds left in which he can still call them both his; in which he still has the right to sit in their company. The oldest friend and supporter he’s ever had, and a child he’d sworn to protect as his own. As the thought strikes something in his mind changes gears, and time seems to trickle into a near stand-still, and each of those remaining seconds stretches and stretches and stretches until the moment spreads too thin to seem real anymore.

He knew the cost going in, he reminds himself. It’s far too late for second-guessing. All that’s left to do now is to face what he’s done, and pay whatever price he has to…

And he’s terrified. Even more terrified than he was facing Joker. Because when he’d gambled then he was playing to win something, and even though a part of him knew that he was also possibly trading something else away it didn’t seem real as it was happening. Not when he saw the smile on Joker’s face, and not when he made his promises into warm arms and welcoming lips and won hope in return.

It does feel real now. And away from Joker’s room and the warmth of his skin, in the sobering light of day, Bruce isn’t all that sure that the choice he made was the right one, anymore.

But right or wrong, it’s happened, so he stifles the impulse to run and stays put. He lets his index finger trace down the smoothness of his coffee mug, warmed up now from both the hot liquid inside and the heat of Bruce’s hands.

The mug has the bat symbol on it. It was a Christmas present from Dick. Dick had traced the pattern out of a batarang over cardboard and cut it and sprayed it over the mug under Alfred’s watchful eye (which Bruce knows about because Alfred had shown him the pictures). Bruce’s eye catches on the little bat, and as it does, his throat catches with it.

Doing this in the kitchen was a mistake.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred prompts. “We’re ready when you are.”

Bruce can’t peel his eyes away from the little bat symbol, and thinks, definitely a mistake. The kitchen is the one place in the Manor that still feels warm and homely, and like family. Maybe not the family Bruce remembers, not the sunny mornings with Alfred and Mom and Dad with the air rich with coffee and pancakes and laughter and love, but a family all the same, and just as important to him with new aromas of its own (Dick helping Alfred with the omelettes. Jason assembling a BLT as Bruce reads the paper. Alfred smiling at him and making him hot chocolate as he chides him for getting up at three pm.). In here, the other world — the world of Batman and the world of Joker — has always felt distant enough that Bruce could shrug it off, even if just for a blink, and it’s probably the only place left where that is still possible. This is why Bruce had chosen it in the first place — for its warmth, for its reassuring safety. He’d hoped it would fortify him and carry him through.

But as he sits here, one thing becomes starkly, abundantly clear: the Joker really doesn’t belong in here. Thoughts of the Joker, even all the new warmer, softer thoughts, don’t belong in here. Across the kitchen threshold the clown fades from a stark and all-too-real presence to a distant silhouette, and with him, up to a point, so do all of Bruce’s complicated feelings towards him.

That doesn’t change the fact that deep down, he can’t really deny that although Joker doesn’t belong in this kitchen yet, a tiny part of Bruce is beginning to hope that one day, he… might.

He tries to picture Joker sitting next to him by the kitchen isle in his loose pajamas, eating Alfred’s pancakes and commenting on Bruce’s choice of coffee. The image jars like a buzz of static interrupting a game show broadcast during a storm. It’s too far removed from his reality. It doesn’t want to fit. Right now, Bruce can’t imagine ever making it fit.

But he remembers that he’s felt this exact same way the night he drove Joker back to Arkham and Joker said yes. That image also didn’t want to fit, and Bruce couldn’t imagine, back then, that it ever might.

Now look at them both.

Bruce’s world can stretch. It can accommodate. He knows that now. He’s been making it bigger and bigger for years, whether he wanted to or not, and the faces around this table today are living proof. Maybe a sleepy Joker in pajamas drinking coffee with him in the mornings is a ludicrous idea now, and maybe it will always stay that way, but…

Bruce looks at the little bat on his mug.

No escape, he thinks. Even if it means having to choose. If he does this, now…

They’ll be one step closer to the maybe. To all sorts of maybes, the bad and the… different.

He looks up. He cradles the mug a little closer to his chest, hiding the bat with his hand.

Just do this, he tells himself. You’ll pick up the pieces later. Whatever’s left. You’ve done this before.

The thought doesn’t make him feel any better, but the faces around the table are getting restless. He needs to just… speak. And see what happens.

He needs to respect them all enough to try.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, “I’m not… sure how to do this.”

“Actually talking might be a good start,” Jason mutters. He’s leaning back in his chair and keeping his head bowed over the phone, scrolling. Bruce has a feeling he’s keeping his feet off the table only because Alfred is here.

Bruce wonders if it’s not too late to relocate them somewhere where the specter of this conversation won’t forever taint the one truly domestic space they have left.

He holds the mug tighter.

“I need to talk to you all about the Joker,” he manages. “There… there might be some changes in the future.”

God, even saying this much feels like he’s just fought off a giant space monster all on his own, only the result is more dread instead of the usual sense of satisfaction after a job well done. He lets out a breath, and thinks, It’s done. He forces his own stiff neck muscles to move and faces the results.

On the surface, not that much has changed. Dick’s expression has grown somewhat strained and Jason is holding himself even stiffer, and concern muddies Alfred’s calm eyes, but other than that, they’re still here. They’re still listening, still waiting.

Right.

“As you know, I went to talk to him last night,” he starts again, clearing his throat, his face heating up, “and we… reached an understanding. There’s a good chance that if he ever does get better, he… he might move in here.” Bruce gazes down into the black swirl in his mug. “For good.”

Silence.

Dick is the first to react, which isn’t a surprise. Meeting his eyes isn’t quite as difficult as looking at the others and even though the memory of their conversation still sits cold and heavy in Bruce’s gut, he can’t help but be grateful for it right now.

“So nothing’s actually gonna change all that much,” Dick observes, struggling to keep a playful tone. “Right? I mean. He’s already moved in. So either way we’re not getting rid of him.”

Bruce wants to groan. God. Dick is trying so hard to diffuse the tension and Bruce is so grateful he can barely keep it out of his face, but the clam-up is already building in his throat and he knows he’s going to have to wrestle each new word out of himself the longer this thing goes on, and he doesn’t have all that many of them to begin with. Making light of things is only going to make it all worse.

“I don’t mean as a prisoner,” he corrects with some difficulty, fighting through the thickening miasma on his tongue. “He’d be a…” Oh God. He swallows. He has no idea how to even phrase it, and his face no longer feels hot — it’s gone all cold instead. “A resident,” he decides. And refuses to let out anything further than that.

Dick releases a sound that’s somewhere halfway to a snicker before he can salvage it with a fake cough. He covers his mouth with his hand. He mutters, “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

Jason is still staring at his phone, even though he hasn’t moved a finger over it since Bruce started talking. His mouth is a thin, thin line, and getting thinner still. Bruce doesn’t dare look at Alfred.

Silence.

“Right, so,” Dick says eventually, drawing Bruce’s eyes to himself again. He’s resting his arms on the table, hunching over, letting hair fall over his young, young face. “Guess I’m gonna have to be the spokesman here. And I know I speak for everyone when I say none of it is exactly a surprise.”

He glances to Jason. So does Bruce. Jason is still refusing to look up from the phone, but his mouth is twisting, and Bruce’s heart is too.

Dick clears his throat. “Though I am pretty… shocked, I guess? That you actually went and talked to him. That’s… big. That why you cut the cameras?”

Bruce forces a nod.

“Huh. Okay. Probably better this way.” Dick sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Damn,” he mumbles, letting his gaze drop to the gleaming table surface. He gives it a small, rueful smile. “I was gonna make some stupid joke about how I hope you guys used protection,” he says, “but actually, I don’t think I can. Sorry, Bruce. I know we talked and all but it’s… wow. It’s hard.”

Bruce’s eyes escape to the table, too. They trace swirly patterns in the marble.

“I know,” he whispers.

“I mean. I want to respect your feelings, but with everything he’s done…”

“I know.”

“We’re just gonna need time.”

“I know.”

“Right.” Dick lets out a long breath, sitting back in the chair. “Right. So long as you don’t expect us to be ecstatic.”

“I don’t,” Bruce assures him — all of them — quietly, making himself look up. He seeks out Dick’s eyes and moors himself to the stubborn, unrelenting support he finds there. “I know it’s asking a lot,” he says earnestly. “And I’m… sorry for putting you in this situation.”

That’s when Jason slams the phone onto the table with an ear-splitting crash that rends the delicate balance to shreds.

“Horseshit,” he snaps, finally looking up to glare at Bruce, his face twisted up in fury. “You’re not fucking sorry. If you were you wouldn’t have gone to the clown in the first place!”

“Jason —”

“Tell him, Alfred!” Jason rages, turning to Alfred. “Grayson’s too far up his ass to tell the truth but you must see what’s going on! So just — tell him that he can’t do that!”

The center of the room shifts to settle on Alfred. At this point Bruce has no choice but to let his eyes follow, and for the first time he faces what he’d been dreading the most.

Alfred’s eyes are on him. Suddenly Bruce gets the uncomfortable needle-pinprick certainty that he’ been staring at him for the entire conversation, and heat swells behind his eyes, especially when he takes notice of just how old Alfred looks all of a sudden. Old and tired like Bruce has never seen him, with deep shadows under his eyes and his face lined in wrinkles and his mouth turned down and his normally-rigid shoulders hunched like he has no strength to keep them straight anymore, and his eyes holding so much heartbreak that Bruce can barely stand to witness it for more than a second.

In the quiet that follows, Alfred asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bruce blinks. Tries to find his voice. “What?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Alfred repeats, and his voice is quiet. Worn out. Thin, and old.

Bruce holds his gaze, suddenly unable to look away now even if he tried. He doesn’t understand. Of all the questions Alfred could ask…

“Who cares!” Jason shouts into the void of silence that drapes over the kitchen following Alfred’s words. Once again the attention in the room pivots to him, and in its light, he gets to his feet. Bruce manages to blink back the tears pressing at his eyes and faces him, although Alfred’s expression still clings to him, settling dark and heavy over his shoulders.

“I can’t believe this,” Jason accuses, glaring at not just Bruce now but at Alfred and Dick, too. “He never said anything because he was ashamed! And with good reason! Are you two serious right now? You’re not gonna call him out at all?!”

Dick presses a hand to his forehead. “Sit down, Jay.”

“Fucking no. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you talking like this isn’t — like he’s not — What about Babs, Grayson? Or have you forgotten about that already?”

“I’ll never forget,” Dick says fiercely. “But this isn’t about —”

“Fucking listen to yourselves! You’re not making any sense! And you —” He locks his eyes with Bruce’s.

Bruce holds his gaze. The moment charges, like a night just before a lightning strike. Distantly, a part of Bruce’s brain wonders if he’ll have to defend himself physically from his own adopted son.

But then Jason just shakes his head and strides out of the kitchen, slamming the door until it rattles on its hinges.

“Jason —” Dick starts, but Bruce is out of the chair before he is.

“I’ll take care of this,” he decides. “It’s my mess.”

He rushes out after Jason into the hall.

It’s easier to breathe, out here in the open, chasing Jason upstairs. Away from Dick’s attempts to cloak his heartbreak, away from Alfred’s naked one. Away from the air tainted thick and muddy with too many uncomfortable confessions. The further he gets from the kitchen the clearer his mind becomes, and he thinks, Jason’s anger is familiar. He’s been ready for it, and he can at least try to handle it. What’s about to happen next will hurt, but it’s a kind of hurt Bruce knows by now he can shoulder. He can open himself up to Jason’s shots, if that’s what it takes.

“Jason,” he calls. “Jason!”

Jason ignores him. His feet thunder across the floor until he reaches his own room and promptly shuts himself in.

Bruce stops before the door. He tries, “Let me in.”

“Fuck off!”

“No. You have to listen to me. Let me explain.”

“I don’t have to do anything!” Jason yells through the door. “And I sure as shit don’t want to listen to you talk about how it’s not a big deal that you wanna fuck the clown!”

“I never said that it isn’t a big deal,” Bruce counters quietly, powering right through the sting in Jason’s words. He’s always found it easier to stay calm when other people are angry. In that way, Jason’s reaction is almost a relief, because now at least Bruce can fall back on his own tried and tested instincts.

“I know this is difficult,” he forces. “It is for me, too. I never expected things would turn out this way, but they have, and now I have to think of —”

“I don’t care, Bruce. Okay? I don’t want to hear any of it.”

“I can keep him from hurting other people,” Bruce presses nonetheless, because he knows he has to at least try and explain. “If he’s with me,” he implores, “if I can get through to him…”

“God, you’re such a hypocrite!” Jason yells. “You keep telling me that I’m too brutal when I fight criminals but you’re totally fine getting touchy-feely with a guy who singlehandedly keeps the undertakers in business?! Are you for fucking real?!”

“I’m not totally fine with this,” Bruce protests. “I’m not ignoring what he’s done. But things are what they are and if I can use my influence to stop him from killing, don’t you think that’s worth a shot?”

“Right, because that’s totally what this is about. It’s not at all about you wanting to suck face with the guy who’s the reason Barbara’s in that chair.”

Bruce winces. He makes himself take a few deep breaths to steady himself, find his balance. He touches Jason’s door.

“I don’t expect you to accept the situation overnight,” he says. “Nothing may change for a very long time. Maybe before it does, you’ll…” He pauses. Works his throat. Changes course. “I’ll respect your feelings no matter what happens,” he promises. “I understand if you don’t want to give him any chances. Just… don’t do anything rash, all right? Take the night off. Maybe we’ll talk in the morning.”

Silence. The door stares him down, and Bruce lets his hand drop.

It’s a long way down the stairs back to the hall, every step a struggle; but when he sees Alfred waiting at the bottom of the staircase, he’s almost tempted to turn back and let Jason yell at him some more. Alfred is still wearing that same heartbreaking expression and Bruce knows it will feature prominently in his nightmares for the foreseeable future.

Because he’s disappointed Alfred. He’s broken Alfred’s heart. That alone is enough to block his throat all over again, and he’s not ready to hear the confirmation of that come from Alfred’s own mouth.

Still, he struggles to drag himself over to him, pausing with his hand on the railing, feeling small and inadequate and wishing the ground under his feet could just swallow him up. He isn’t ready to look into those worn, tired eyes up close. Isn’t ready to face the rejection he’s sure to find there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I really am. You must believe me that I never meant —”

Alfred’s face sort of… crumples, folds in on itself, the lines deepening, creasing age into his skin, painting his eyes impossibly sadder. Bruce can’t stand the sight. He looks away, and struggles to find his breath, and the tears are back to stabbing insistently at his eyes, and all at once he rushes, “I know you’re ashamed of me, I know it’s terrible, and I’ll understand if you — if you want to leave —”

“Bruce.”

There is a hand on his shoulder. Firm, warm. Squeezing through the fabric, like it did so many times in the past. Bruce takes a weak, stuttering breath but he can’t make himself look up, even when another hand grabs his other shoulder, turning him to face Alfred fully.

“Bruce,” Alfred repeats softly, “my dear boy. I’m so sorry.”

It’s the shock alone that finally makes him look up, wide-eyed, the dread still choking him so that he can’t even voice the What?.

“I failed you,” Alfred whispers, still tightly holding onto his shoulders as though he’s afraid that Bruce will slip away if he lets go. His eyes glimmer, and Bruce completely freezes at the sight — it feels like the bedrock that’s held him up for most of his life, to the point where he stopped seeing it as such, suddenly gave way, suddenly crumbled, and he doesn’t know what to do in the face of any of it. “I failed you more than I ever realized,” Alfred is saying, “if you felt you couldn’t come to me with a matter that must have caused you so much grief.”

Bruce blinks. The tears are beginning to slip out down his face and he doesn’t even notice.

“I don’t understand.”

“Nobody chooses to fall in love,” Alfred says, tightening his hold on Bruce to the point of pain. “Not even you can do that. You must have felt so alone, and even though I could see the signs, I… hesitated, and waited, and I never offered to help, never asked you to share any of the burden.”

“That’s not —” Bruce swallows hard, tries to relocate a semblance of his own voice. “It’s not your fault. I just — I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to worry you, and I was afraid you might…”

He closes up, the familiar blockade rising up at the back of his mouth, and if possible, Alfred looks even sadder.

“You were afraid I’d leave you,” he finishes for him, barely above a whisper.

Bruce drops his head.

Silence.

And then the hands on Bruce’s shoulders pull him closer, pull him in, and there’s two old, bony arms closing around his neck, and his head is cradled against the soft fabric of Alfred’s jacket. It smells the way it always does — of Alfred’s pine-scented fabric softener and polishing paste, and Alfred’s cologne, the same one he’s used probably since before Bruce was born. It smells like warmth and childhood, and tears and rainy graveyards, and tea and sandwiches and disinfectant at 4 in the morning. Alfred’s hold on him is tight and strong with the same desperate need to hold on, or maybe to forestall any attempts to fight it, but it isn’t necessary — in this single moment Bruce feels weaker than a baby and wouldn’t be able to break away if he tried.

“I did fail you,” Alfred is saying, forcefully now, and as Bruce is beginning to shake his head he insists, “I did, if you can’t trust me to stand by you when you need it most.”

Bruce is crying into his shoulder now, his eyes squeezed shut, and Alfred holds him even closer.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “And please let me put that to rest right now: I am not leaving here, not even if you hired a team of bulldozers to pry me away.”

Bruce brings his own arms up around him, returning the embrace, letting himself be hugged as if he was still eight years old. He feels eight, so it’s not that difficult to allow himself this much.

Still, he can’t quite let himself accept it, and whispers, “But he’s — but I’m —”

“Love should never be a source of shame,” Alfred tells him, with strange intensity. “Never. Like I said, we don’t get to choose when it happens, or whom it chooses. I’m never going to abandon you over choice of partner.”

Bruce breathes in and closes his eyes again, letting the hug last just a little longer just as Alfred’s words finally begin to sink in. Alfred tightens his hold almost imperceptibly, but Bruce notices, and tightens his own in acknowledgment before finally, slowly, pulling away.

“So…” He starts, and pauses to wipe his eyes on the back of his hand. He meets Alfred’s eyes again, still not quite ready to let himself believe. “So you don’t… disapprove?”

“Now, let us not go quite that far.” Alfred is offering a smile for him now, a crooked, fragile one that’s so much closer to the Alfred Bruce knows best that already it’s much easier to breathe. “Naturally I wish nothing but the best for you. That man is… not.”

“So you are disappointed,” Bruce translates.

“Just a smidgen,” Alfred admits. “Not with you, dear boy — with fate. I had rather hoped you and miss Kyle might eventually, in time… reconnect.”

“Well.” Bruce rubs the back of his neck. “That’s not happening.” And Selina is better off for it.

“Obviously.” Alfred sighs. He still looks tired, but some of the light is coming back to his eyes. “You must not begrudge an old man his fantasies of peace and tranquility for you somewhere down the line. Your choice of partner is hardly likely to bring you either.”

Bruce hangs his head. “I know. It’s going to be — hard.”

“Indeed.” Alfred’s smile turns rueful. “Still, you never were one to make things easy on yourself so I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that you’d choose the most difficult path even where the heart is concerned.”

Bruce thinks there may be warmth, even an exasperated kind of fondness under the admonition, but he doesn’t quite dare to accept it even now. His heart releases all the same, and grows an inch or two.

He won’t lose Alfred. To know that, to have it confirmed… Bruce doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the words to articulate how much it means right here and now.

“I’ll need your help,” he confesses.

“What else is new,” Alfred parries, and this time there is definitely a dry smile in that sentence. Bruce breathes out and lets it, and everything it brings to the table, warm him as much as it can. “I just hope you don’t expect me to let him into my kitchen right away… or call him ‘sir’.”

They both wince. Bruce can’t even imagine it happening.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he decides. “His therapy might take years. And a lot can change in the meantime. He could decide he doesn’t want to move in after all.”

“But you want him to, don’t you,” Alfred asks quietly.

Bruce takes a moment. He confesses, “Yes.”

There’s a spell of silence. And then Alfred clears his throat. “Well then, I suppose I had better start getting used to the idea,” he says, adopting his normal, distinguished, sarcastic tone. “And hide the good china. And maybe child-proof all the rooms again while I’m at it. For the record, I never had to do this for either of the young masters.”

Amused by this despite all the weight of the moment, Bruce points out, “Joker isn’t a child.”

“He isn’t a very good clown either and yet, that doesn’t deter him from trying.” Alfred eyes Bruce as though realizing something for the first time, and then judges, “I suppose I do see where some of the attraction might come from. With his flair for the dramatics, the Joker should fit right in.”

“That’s not very funny, Alfred,” Bruce comments, barely containing his own smile.

“Neither is he,” Alfred parries without missing a beat. “But I shall try to contain my skepticism. That’s as much as I can promise for now,” he warns. “I’m afraid he’ll have to earn anything else himself.”

Bruce nods. “That’s already more than I can ask of you.” He pauses, and then adds, “Thank you.”

It’s Alfred who looks away this time. “Yes, well. Let’s take things one crisis at a time, shall we?” he says. “I’ll talk to young Master Jason. Maybe Master Richard,” he glances pointedly at the doors to the kitchen, “has an idea how you can keep yourself occupied till nightfall.”

Bruce follows the path of his gaze to see Dick gingerly stepping into the hall, face burning.

“Hi. Um.” He offers them a sheepish smile. “I definitely wasn’t eavesdropping.”

“Perish the thought,” Alfred comments with a twinkle in his eye.

“So Bruce, you wanna go down to the cave?” Dick turns to Bruce now, ignoring him. “We could… work on some cases. Maybe see if we can find a trace of Ivy or Harleen.”

Bruce gives them both a grateful smile that feels entirely inadequate as an expression of the warmth spilling all over his heart.

“Sounds good,” he tells Dick.

Alfred pats Bruce’s arm comfortingly as he passes him on the way up, to Jason’s room. Bruce gives himself a moment to watch his retreating back. Then he calls, “Alfred.”

Alfred stops in his tracks and turns to face him. “Yes?”

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Bruce promises. “If he ever tries, I’ll stand in his way. For you, too,” he tells Dick. “For all of you. He’s not getting out until I’m absolutely sure you won’t be in danger.”

Slowly, Alfred nods. Dick puts a hand on his arm.

“Come on, old man,” he says. “We both need a rest after all the dramatics.”

Bruce nods. When he moves to join Dick on the way to the library, it is with a much lighter mind than just a few minutes ago, although he knows all too well he’s not out in the clear just yet. It’s far too early to start feeling hopeful. For one thing he still needs to talk to Barbara, and that will be a whole other emotional struggle, but…

But he’s not alone in this. He’s got people in his corner, even now, even despite… everything.

When he follows Dick down into the cave, the glimmer of a smile still lingers just on the verge of slipping out.

***

“Give him time,” Dick suggests quietly when they stand on the roof of Wayne Tower later that night, watching the crawl of traffic below. “He might come around.”

Bruce gives him a sidelong glance. “I’m not so sure.”

Dick shrugs. “Me neither, but who knows? I’m still kinda processing it too. Though granted, I’ve had much more time to think about it. I think Jason preferred to stay in denial.”

They stand side by side, letting the winds push and pull at their backs. “He wasn’t the only one,” Bruce says quietly.

“Well, shit.” Dick looks at him with incredulity under the Nightwing mask. “You’re actually admitting it!”

“Don’t push it, Nightwing.”

“Sorry. Just, let me have this. Wow. Wow.”

He gives himself some time to cherish the moment in silence, and Bruce doesn’t interrupt it. He wouldn’t know what to say in the first place.

“So, who’s next?” Dick asks eventually. “Barbara?”

Bruce swallows the sigh that wants to steal out into the thick night air.

“Barbara,” he agrees.

Dick’s face settles into something frighteningly somber.

“Good luck,” he says, and Bruce nods in thanks.

He knows he’s going to need it.

***

Barbara’s window in her old bedroom in Jim’s house is open. When Bruce perches on the windowsill it is to the sight of her practicing her upper body strength, inching across a set of railings on bulging, trembling arms. Perspiration beads over her strained muscles and down her temple; there’s a vein jutting out over her brow from exertion. She doesn’t look at Bruce. She groans quietly as she makes it to the end of the railing, her legs trailing behind her, and then inches backwards towards the chair waiting at the spot where she started.

Bruce doesn’t say anything until she collapses into it with a sigh, sweeping away the strands of hair that have escaped from her tight ponytail. Only then does she look at him. She is panting, and her face gleams with sweat. She holds Bruce’s eyes for a moment before she wheels herself over to the bathroom.

Bruce slips into the room. He stays by the window.

“Barbara.”

“I know why you’re here,” she says, her voice quiet but still carrying easily into the room.

Bruce chews on the inside of his cheek before he can stop himself. “Dick told you?”

“He didn’t need to.” She wheels out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her neck. She’s put glasses on, and is glaring at Bruce over the rim with all the warmth of Clark’s arctic fortress. “I saw the recent tapes. That was quite a stunt you pulled with that pill.”

She turns away from him. Which is a good thing, because if she hadn’t, Bruce would have. God.

“What, you’re not gonna tell me off for hacking into your system again?” Barbara snaps, bitterly.

“No,” Bruce whispers.

She lets him stew before she minces, “Fireworks, huh? You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Barbara…” But of course he doesn’t know what he could possibly follow it up with. I’m sorry wouldn’t cut it here. And worse, she’d know that he doesn’t really mean it all the way.

He doesn’t regret the fireworks. He doesn’t regret the pill. Not in the way she’d want him to. So he says nothing, and waits for her judgment.

It’s a long time coming, but finally she turns halfway towards him and says, “If you ever need Oracle, I’ll help you. But beyond that I don’t want to talk to you. So don’t try.”

Bruce lets out a breath. He manages a tight, “All right.”

“We’re not friends. We’re not family. We’re people who have similar purposes and may work together from time to time, but that’s it.”

“All right.”

“If that ever changes, I’ll let you know. But don’t hold your breath.”

Bruce bites back another All right. Barbara is done with him; there’s nothing more to be said.

So he steals out of her room as quietly as he came in, and doesn’t linger to see the cold hardness in her eyes.

***

He stops by Jason’s bedroom before he goes to bed that morning. He raps against the door.

“Jason?”

Nothing.

He tries the handle, but the door is locked from the inside. He waits another few beats, but nothing happens.

Right.

So Bruce hauls himself to bed and tries to breathe through the tangle of worms wriggling in his stomach until, eventually, the bone-deep exhaustion and headache combine to pull him under.

***

He’s woken by Alfred’s frantic voice, and a face so creased with concern he barely recognizes it at the first few blinks.

“What’s wrong,” he mumbles, trying to shake off the dust of restless sleep still clinging to the edges of his mind. “Joker —?”

“It’s Master Jason,” Alfred tells him. “He’s gone.”

Bruce opens his eyes as far as they’ll go, suddenly wide awake. “What?”

Instead of explaining, Alfred gives him a sheet of paper, and Bruce sits up to read it through the cold, cold dread that scrapes him raw.

The note is short, scrawled in Jason’s messy, hurried hand. It reads:

I got a lead on my mother and I’m going away to look for her. Don’t go after me. You can take the price of the motorbike out of my trust fund, I don’t want it anymore.

There’s no signature, and instead, the tracker Bruce had attached to Jason’s bike is taped to the bottom of the note, bent out of shape, bits of wire sticking out of the now-dead circuitry.

Bruce looks up and faces the distress that’s etched deep into Alfred’s skin.

“I’m sorry,” he forces out, holding the letter tight.

“Master Richard went after him,” Alfred informs Bruce quietly. “With any luck, he’ll bring him home.”

Bruce nods. He doesn’t believe it though, and he thinks that deep down, neither does Alfred.

***

Dick doesn’t bring Jason home. Nor does he return to the Manor himself. When he calls Bruce three days later it’s from New York, telling Bruce that he did catch up with Jason but lost track of him again, and that he’ll be going back to Bludhaven for a while.

“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, as if he’s somehow able to sense the plunge in Bruce’s thoughts all the way in New York. “I’m not cutting ties or anything. I promised I wouldn’t and I’m not going to, but… I do need some time away. I think I’m finally gonna apply to the academy. You know… Do my own thing for a while.”

Bruce needs a second or two to make sure his voice doesn’t leak anything he doesn’t want it to. “Okay.”

“Will you be all right?”

“I… yes.”

“Jason’s fine,” Dick assures him. “He’s a smart kid. And the good news is he hasn’t thrown away his debit card so you still have a way to support him.”

That almost makes Bruce smile even through the concrete-thick sheen of worry. “You talked him into it, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” Dick admits, almost reluctantly. “He’s almost as stubborn as you are. But practical, too. He only made me promise you wouldn’t try to track him, so, you know. Don’t make me break my word.”

“I… won’t try to see him until he’s ready,” Bruce decides with some difficulty.

“Way to go straight for the loophole there, Bruce. You are going to track him, aren’t you?”

“I need to make sure he’s safe,” Bruce insists.

“Yeah, thought so. I suppose that’s gotta be good enough,” Dick allows. There’s a tight pause. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Dick,” Bruce lies, trying for a reassuring tone and ending up with something that he fears makes him sound constipated. He changes the subject before Dick can call him out. “When you apply, let me pay your tuition fees like we agreed. And tell me if there’s anything else you need.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dick sighs, sounding resigned. “You take care of Alfred and, uh… keep clown boy in check, yeah? I’ll be seeing you.”

Bruce hangs up and turns to Alfred, who’s been hovering in the doorway to the library, listening.

“I suppose that means Master Richard won’t join us for dinner any time soon,” Alfred whispers, sad creases around his eyes.

“No.” Bruce sighs, wondering just how much his own face mirrors Alfred’s. “Looks like it’s just the two of us again.”

“Three,” Alfred corrects after a tense minute.

He looks up at the ceiling, and impulsively, so does Bruce. In the uneasy silence that follows Bruce imagines the sound of restless footsteps over their heads even though the soundproofing in Joker’s rooms catches everything before it can sneak out to haunt the rest of the Manor.

He regrets that decision now.

“The house is going to seem so quiet,” Alfred says after a moment, echoing Bruce’s thoughts. “I’ve got… rather used to having children around.”

Bruce nods. So has he. The I’m sorrys are already lining up in his mouth but he knows they won’t do either of them any good, so instead he walks past Alfred and makes his way down to the cave and tries to work his feelings away.

When that doesn’t seem to achieve much, he gathers the Wayne persona about him and goes to Joker. They watch a movie together. Halfway through Joker presses his feet against Bruce’s thigh and Bruce doesn’t do anything to stop him.

***

He’s surprised when, the following evening, Alfred comes down to the cave bearing not only his usual plate of food but also a small yellow sticky note.

“What’s this?” Bruce asks when Alfred pointedly fixes the note to the central monitor, right in Bruce’s line of sight.

“A reminder,” Alfred informs him.

“Alfred.”

“I have taken the liberty of securing an appointment for you with Doctor Leslie Thompkins,” Alfred explains, and Bruce is so surprised he sits back and swivels to face him.

“Leslie?” he parrots. “Why?”

“Because it’ll be good for you.”

Bruce glares at him. Alfred glares right back. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, Master Bruce, please keep in mind that I did change your nappies,” he warns. “Now, Leslie was quite pleased to hear you’ll be coming and it would be rude to disappoint her.”

“But I don’t need a doctor,” Bruce protests.

“Debatable,” Alfred judges, giving him a critical once-over topped with an eyebrow lift that makes Bruce feel all of seven years old. “A proper check-up wouldn’t do you any harm, sir. But that’s not why I arranged the meeting. If I may be so bold, Master Bruce, you need to talk to a professional. She’s the best choice we have.”

Finally the implication sinks in, and as it does, something small and vulnerable inside Bruce sinks, too. His face pulls tight. Contrariness stomps a foot and lunges to stick up his throat like a fishbone.

“But Leslie’s a GP. She’s not a therapist,” he argues.

“Master Bruce, Leslie has held a therapist license for roughly as long as you’ve been alive.”

Bruce’s eyebrows ride up as he stares at Alfred, mouth open. “But…”

Alfred’s gaze softens, and as it does, understanding dawns.

“So all those times she came over before,” Bruce says slowly, staring past Alfred now and into the memories he’d really rather not revisit. “All the times she talked to me. You said it was because she was your friend.”

“She was,” Alfred agrees, coming closer now, the bite gone to be replaced by a worried air of pity Bruce cannot stand to see. “And she still is. She came to see you because I asked her to. But I did so in the first place because I had hoped that she would be able to help.”

Bruce hangs his head, to escape the look in Alfred’s eyes as much as to collect his own scrambling mind. He’s having some difficulty deciding how to feel about this revelation. It’s not exactly a sense of betrayal, as such, but…

He doesn’t really like to remember anything from that time, for obvious reasons. But even if he tried — and he did — it’s difficult to forget the steady parade of well-meaning therapists, all of them trying to wear the same identical worried expressions as they probed and probed and probed him with invasive questions his 8-year-old self had no idea how to answer until he felt raw and small and more alone than even before. He doesn’t want to associate Leslie, with her warm hugs and work-rough hands and kind, understanding silences, with any of them. It feels wrong.

“Please don’t think that she was just pretending to be your friend because I asked her to,” Alfred is quick to intervene, somehow sensing the direction Bruce’s thoughts have taken. “She is a friend. Just because she was trying to look out for you as well doesn’t mean she wasn’t sincere.”

Bruce breathes out and manages a tight nod, then presses his hands to his temples. Alfred’s probably right and he needs to get over himself. Leslie is a good person and she’s stayed a friend all through Bruce’s adulthood, even though — he realizes with a pang of remorse — Bruce himself has never made a proper effort to maintain contact. And she never lied to him. Talking to her did help him, even if just a little, and even if the feeling never truly lasted.

Besides…

He thinks of flashing green eyes and biting words, and his own promises in return. Guilt nips at him viciously as he realizes that this really is the best option he has, and one he hasn’t even thought about when he gave Joker his word.

“Fine,” he agrees. “I’ll go and… talk to her. I made a promise I would seek someone out anyway,” he confesses.

That seems to take Alfred by surprise. “To whom?”

“To him,” Bruce says, pointing to one of the side screens that’s been commandeered to display the live feed from Joker’s rooms on a more or less permanent basis.

Alfred’s eyes go wide. He turns to watch the screen and for once, he doesn’t seem to have a snide remark at the ready. Oblivious to the attention, Joker is busy doing crunches to the breathy, winded tune of “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” which he hums with far too much gusto for someone who’s in the middle of strenuous physical exercise.

They both watch him in silence. Then Alfred turns back to Bruce.

“Explain?” he asks.

“That’s part of the deal,” Bruce tells him, eyes on Joker, something achy and fond fluttering in his throat and melting away bits of the fishbone edge there. “He made me promise I’d take up therapy while he’s here.”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.” Alfred watches the screen some more, and as he does, there’s a bemused but closed-off air about him that Bruce can’t quite read. “Well now.” He clasps his hands behind his back. When he once again turns to Bruce his face is smoothened out of all expression save for his habitual butler face, but the tension in the set of his shoulders betrays the surprise still lingering over him. “I suppose that did work out rather nicely, then, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess,” Bruce allows reluctantly. A part of him is relieved to discover he won’t have to seek out ‘proper’ therapists after all; he’d been dreading the thought ever since Joker introduced it. Leslie is… a good compromise, given the circumstances. For a start, she knows Bruce is Batman, which should make talking about certain things much easier, loath as he is to talk about anything at all. And besides, Bruce trusts her. He knows she’ll remain open and respectful no matter what, and won’t judge him, and that, at the very least, she’ll actually listen.

He’s owed her a visit for ages anyway.

***

Bruce is used to seeing Leslie’s East End clinic at night, washed in dull streetlight and bustle of distracting activity, its dirtier, uglier parts mercifully cloaked in Gotham’s many rich black shadows. He thinks this might be why, as he gets out of one of his least flashy cars, the sight of peeling paint and various anatomically-incorrect graffiti and crumbling mortar, exposed down to the cruelest detail in daylight, gives him a start. He makes his way up the stairs to the main door slowly, cataloging all the wear and tear with a sinking heart, and shakes his head, more at himself than anything else. He doesn’t even remember the last time he was here, and during his visits as Batman he usually had more pressing things to worry about than the state of the masonry, but…

No excuses, he tells himself firmly. He should have checked in on Leslie sooner.

He clears the entryway and manages to shush his own disquiet enough to flash a brilliant smile at the harassed-looking receptionist, who at the sight of him attempts to make herself appear marginally less harassed.

“Mr Wayne!” she enthuses, sweeping long, mousy hair over one shoulder self-consciously. “How lovely to see you!”

“It’s been too long, er… Sarah?” Bruce makes a show of reading the girl’s nametag, although he remembers most of Leslie’s permanent staff pretty damn well. On one memorable occasion, Sarah Fairfax helped set Batman’s shoulder and did so with brisk efficiency despite her initial shock at seeing him stagger into the clinic in the dead of night. Bruce is comforted to see her still at her post, holding down the fort with Leslie even after so many years.

“Leslie’s expecting you, but she’s with a patient at the moment,” Sarah explains, looking pained. “I’m so sorry but I’m afraid we’re running late. Maybe if you left me a phone number, I could let you know when the line lets up…?”

“No need,” Bruce decides, “I’ll wait.”

“But —”

“It’s no problem at all. To be honest it’s either that or death by board meeting, so you’re helping already,” Bruce assures her. “I’ll just help myself to a magazine, shall I? And please, call me Bruce.”

“Well, sure, but we only have Teen Vogue and housekeeping weeklies,” Sarah informs him with an apologetic shrug.

“Excellent.” Bruce makes sure his grin stays appropriately wide. “Maybe I’ll finally manage to absorb some useful knowledge for a change.”

“Not that you need it,” Sarah observes. “Doesn’t your butler do all the cleaning?”

“Oh, he does. But it doesn’t hurt to learn some independence, don’t you think?”

“At what, forty?” Sarah’s eyes glimmer with amusement.

“Thirty six, actually,” Bruce corrects her. “That’s what I keep telling the ladies anyway.”

“Right. Off to a good start, I see.” Sarah’s smile turns crooked as she says, “I’m sure poor Alfred could write those housekeeping columns himself at this point.”

“I’m not altogether sure he hasn’t,” Bruce confesses in a stage whisper.

Sarah laughs. “Right this way then, Bruce —” she points with her arm — “room 06.”

“Thank you.” The parting grin he flashes her is genuine, and Bruce only struggles a little to keep it on his face as he makes his way to the waiting room.

Right up until he takes in the state of the people crowding it, and then the grin dies entirely on its own.

There’s some children here; a girl with a bleeding knee, a boy hugging his own stomach with a pained expression as a worried mother strokes his back, another girl with her arm in a sling giving him a wide-eyed look of wonder. There’s a middle-aged woman with a bruised face and a split lip who, in contrast, doesn’t look at him, or at anyone in the room, and keeps her eyes fixed on the floor. An elderly lady bent nearly in half as she leans on a cane even sitting down, leafing through a glossy magazine. A burly, bearded middle-aged man who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, and who’s barely able to hold his eyes open as he peers at Bruce with a bleary expression Bruce recognizes from too many patrols outside Gotham’s legion of disreputable pubs.

He offers a strained smile at everyone as he finds himself a sliver of wall to lean against, attempting to look as inconspicuous as he can and wishing suddenly that he’d worn jeans and a t-shirt instead of the woolen pants and white shirt combo. This is the East End, and Leslie’s patients tend to be East End people to the bone. He’s sticking out like a sore thumb.

To hide the awkward spell of self-consciousness Bruce makes good on his word and grabs for the pile of magazines to the old lady’s left. He flips through it to discover he’s picked up one of the housekeeping weeklies Sarah has warned him about, and he finds, to his own mortification, an article about himself in the celebrity gossip section.

“This one’s a useless rag,” the old lady informs him suddenly, glaring at the magazine in Bruce’s hands like Jim Gordon glares at nicotine patches. “Everyone knows you need lemon water to clean tea kettles properly, no expensive chemicals necessary.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Bruce admits. “I’ve been told I’m helpless in the kitchen.”

That’s not entirely true — he likes to think his homekeeping and culinary skills, while limited, are perfectly adequate to see him through whenever work takes him out of Gotham for any extended period of time. Which doesn’t exactly stop Alfred from disparaging him any chance he gets.

“Men ought to know how to cook,” the lady grumbles, directing her cutting glare at Bruce. “You can’t always expect your wife to do it for you.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Bruce replies, and chooses not to add that the chances of him ever getting a wife have at this point plunged into the negative numbers.

The old lady harrumphs, still radiating disapproval, and despite himself, Bruce finds her militant attitude engaging. He lets himself be drawn into a lengthy and startlingly educational tirade about the many and varied applications of lemon water, which continues on as the line slowly thins, the patients alternating between two doctors on duty.

At one point, he is distracted by a tiny hand reaching tentatively to tug at the loop of his belt. He looks down to find the girl with the bleeding knee, now firmly bandaged, peering up at him with huge brown eyes.

“My brother Jerry says you know Batman,” the girl announces without preamble. “Do you?”

There’s a derisive snort, coming, Bruce guesses, from the bleary-eyed man in the far corner who’s still waiting his turn. Bruce ignores him, and the piercing gaze of the old lady, to kneel in front of the girl so he can meet her at eye level.

“I don’t think anyone actually knows Batman,” he tells her quietly, trying not to take the look of disappointment she gives him to heart. “But I’ve seen him a few times.”

“You are the rich guy from the papers, right?” the girl inquires, inspecting him critically. “The one with all the cars?”

“Well,” Bruce hesitates, “I suppose.”

The girl seems unimpressed, but apparently, she decides to go ahead with her mission nonetheless.

“Batman saved my mom,” she tells him in a whisper. “She was there the last time Riddler held up a bank. Can you tell him I said thank you?”

Touched, Bruce smiles for her, nodding. “I’ll do my best,” he promises, and is silently glad that the girl’s mother wasn’t involved in anything orchestrated by Joker. That thought jams a brand new nail of guilt into him to keep all the others company — just when he thought there wouldn’t be any room left for more.

“Good.” She returns his smile for a fraction of a second before waving goodbye and darting off without much regard for her wounded knee, curls bouncing in a fierce tangle around her head.

Heartsore and unbalanced, Bruce gets back on his feet to find Leslie smiling warmly at him from the door to her office, holding the hand of the girl with the arm in a sling. Before he can say anything, she turns back to the girl and squeezes her hand.

“Come to me if anything happens, all right?” she tells her, and the girl nods, her expression muted as she gazes fixedly into the floor. “Lina? Do you promise?”

“Yeah, okay,” the girl murmurs.

“And tell your mom to come see me. I have something she should try for her leg.”

“Fine.”

“Now if those girls ever bother you again, you just let me know and we’ll find a way to deal with them, okay?”

Lina nods, but she doesn’t seem convinced that any attempts to deal with anyone will have any lasting effects. Her despondent expression twists Bruce’s heart as he finds himself drawn to the little drama unfolding between the two of them, before Leslie sends the girl on her way with one last kind, concerned smile, and then directs the same expression first at Bruce and then at the old lady.

“Mrs Turpin, you can come in now,” she says. “You’re next,” she tells Bruce, eyes twinkling. “Think you can wait another few minutes?”

“You’re taking away my conversation partner so I can’t promise anything,” Bruce tells her as Mrs Turpin starts making her shaky way over to Leslie’s office, already grumbling something about her back.

“You’ll manage,” Leslie opines, and Bruce does, taking advantage of the lull to catch up on his e-mails. The conversation with Mrs Turpin has helped him keep his own anxiety about the impending meeting at bay and he’s desperate to keep distracting himself, so he keeps his attention on his phone, only looking up to check on the situation in the waiting room.

He’s the only one left by the time Leslie is ready for him — the bleary-eyed man has been admitted to the second doctor in the meantime, leaving Bruce to a silence that now feels oddly inappropriate for this place. Bruce gazes at the faded pastel pink paint and the worn chairs, and the cracks in the floor, and wonders if it’s because of the hour, and how long until the next batch of distressed East Enders gravitates over seeking help, and whether Leslie is getting any time to herself at all. As soon as the thought sparkles to life he can practically hear Alfred’s snort and a haughty Look who’s talking, so he shuts it down, glancing back to his phone and typing off a quick question to Lucius about the coming month’s charity budget and how far it can be stretched.

The text exchange that follows distracts him to the point where he can almost forget the dull, quiet weight growing and growing in the pit of his stomach with every second that separates him from Leslie’s office. Soon now she’ll open the door again and invite him in, and he’s going to step inside, and look into her eyes, and…

He bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes, squeezing the phone. He thinks of Joker, warm and pliant on his lap. The taste of his kisses echoes on Bruce’s mouth even now, stirring his blood, and he holds on to the longing as he tries to clear his mind again, telling himself, This is for both of us.

That isn’t quite enough to silence the angry little voice insisting that he doesn’t need therapy and he shouldn’t be wasting his time here, and the fact that it’s Leslie he’s about to see isn’t very soothing either, this close to the actual appointment. The prospect of talking to her about anything that’s happened during the last year or so is, quite frankly, terrifying. He has no idea where to start, and he doesn’t want to.

But he doesn’t let himself be tempted to just cancel the appointment and split as quickly as possible. Instead he stays where he is, standing up, pressing his back to the wall and measuring the passing seconds by the agitated beat of his heart.

When the door to Leslie’s office opens again to release a still-grumpy Mrs Turpin, Bruce has worked himself so close to the edge he nearly jumps, and now the panic goes straight for his throat, clawing hard. He tries to convince himself that this can just be a social visit and he doesn’t have to say anything he doesn’t want to say. Leslie is an old friend. He’s about to see an old friend. That’s it.

He clings to that thought for all he’s worth as he drags himself over to the office and closes the door behind him. He turns —

Leslie sweeps him into a fierce hug, pulling him down even as she stands on tiptoe. All at once Bruce is awash with the sharp smell of antiseptic and something pleasantly herbal that floats distant memories of long, quiet afternoons in the garden or in the Manor library, a quiet voice reassuring, a hand gently stroking his hair. He surrenders into the hug, returning it with care, and breathes out into Leslie’s gray hair.

“It’s so good to see you,” Leslie says into his shoulder, and Bruce’s stomach pinches with remorse.

“You too,” he tells her with feeling.

She releases him to gaze fondly into his eyes, then ushers him into the little room beyond the office, with the worn sofa Bruce remembers bleeding onto on a few choice occasions and a couple of equally used, comfortable-looking armchairs. Leslie invites him to make himself at home as, radiating crisp energy, she busies herself around a cabinet on top of which a serviceable coffee machine catches the last of the evening sun.

“I don’t know about you but I need reinforcements,” Leslie mutters, shooting Bruce a warm look over her shoulder. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Bruce replies with some degree of relief. At the very least it’ll give his hands something to do as he fumbles for words he doesn’t have.

“I hear from Selina you’ve been very helpful with our big project,” Leslie tells him conversationally as the coffee machine sputters and gurgles along. “I cannot even begin to say how grateful I am. It’s such a wonderful idea.”

“It is,” Bruce agrees. “I wasn’t surprised to hear you’re involved in it.”

“What can I say? Selina’s a difficult woman to say no to.” This time when Leslie looks at him she grins. “Although you seem to be immune.”

“Hardly,” Bruce says. “I’m giving her the money, aren’t I? And anyway, I don’t think you fought all that hard.”

“I didn’t mean the project, Bruce.”

Bruce sighs. “I know. It just —” he takes a deep breath. “It just didn’t work out.”

And it was mostly his fault that it didn’t, too, but then again, he imagines Leslie suspects as much. He half-expects her to start nagging him about it, but thankfully, Leslie doesn’t, and only gives him a commiserative hum as she returns to her coffee preparations.

“It happens,” she agrees, setting down two small white cups. “Especially when you’re both so… busy.” She flashes him a smile as she carries the cups over to the small wooden table and takes up residence in one of the chairs across from Bruce. She reaches for one of the cups and takes a sip, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Mmm,” she hums, “I needed that.”

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” Bruce tells her quietly. “If you’re busy —”

“Nonsense,” Leslie cuts him off immediately. “Sarah’s on duty and so’s Clarence, they can handle things well enough on their own. And I always have time for you.”

Bruce glances to the side, at the armrest of the sofa he’s currently perched on. It’s mostly clean, save for a few stubborn stains that could be anything at this point, and there is nothing to suggest all the times he’s come here in the middle of the night seeking help for himself or, more frequently, for others. But he still remembers that he has, and that Leslie and her staff were always ready to help no matter the hour, and no matter the person Bruce wanted them to patch up.

He nods, reaching for his coffee. It’s strong and bitter and hot going down.

“So.” Leslie makes herself comfortable in her chair, cradling the cup in her hands as if to warm them. “How are you?”

“Really?” Bruce gives her a hint of a smirk. “Is that how you want to begin?”

“I’m curious,” Leslie admits with an easy shrug. “You haven’t staggered in here to bleed on my furniture in quite a while and Selina is usually too busy to gossip. I must admit that Alfred’s call surprised me.”

“How much has he told you?” Bruce asks as he seeks refuge in the sharp taste of the coffee; he senses that the difficult part is just around the bend.

“Not a whole lot,” Leslie admits, face setting into something more serious. “He said it might be better if I let you explain in your own words. But he sounded very concerned. He also mentioned that the Joker is involved — said I should be ready for it. You can imagine my state of mind after that little tidbit.”

Bruce hangs his head. “Yeah. He is,” he manages.

Leslie watches him expectantly, her face warm, open and just a touch worried. It should be reassuring but instead it only makes Bruce’s hesitation worse; he isn’t quite ready to start talking about himself just yet. He needs more time. So to fill the silence before it chokes him up, he asks, “Do you know Dr. Nisha Mulligan? She’s a psychiatrist at Arkham.”

“Not personally,” Leslie tells him, eyebrows knitting tight together. “The doctors at Arkham are a very… insular crowd. There aren’t exactly a lot of opportunities for socializing when they spend most of their waking hours up there, and you won’t be surprised to know that they have a certain… reputation.” Leslie’s eyes twinkle with flecks of amusement before she readjusts her glasses. “But I do remember I was at a conference she attended and I read a few of her papers.”

“Do you think she’s… good?”

“I’d say so, yes.” Leslie takes a moment to think about it. “She struck me as very competent. Her papers had some interesting insights into the nature of criminal pathology. To be honest, I didn’t even know Arkham managed to snag her — I’d say good for them.”

Bruce lets out a breath. “So you think she can be trusted?”

“I can’t exactly vouch for someone I’ve never met,” Leslie points out, “but as much as anyone at Arkham can be trusted, I’d say, cautiously… maybe. Why?” Now the concern wins over as Leslie leans closer to peer into his eyes. “Are you considering her as your doctor?”

“No,” Bruce tells her immediately. “No, it’s not that. But…” He gazes into his coffee. “She’s the Joker’s doctor,” he explains. “I had hoped you might ease some of my doubts.”

“You don’t think she’s a good fit for him?” Leslie drinks more of her coffee before setting the cup back down on the table. “I’m sorry, Bruce, but that could be said of just about anyone.”

“I know,” Bruce agrees. “And she’s had more results with him than anyone else before. But…”

He trails off, feeling the weight of Leslie’s gaze on him.

“I’m not exactly surprised to see you’re so involved in the treatment of your more colorful enemies,” Leslie says after a moment. “But is there a particular reason you’re bringing this up now?”

“Yeah.” Bruce tightens the hold on his cup. Here goes nothing. “I’m responsible for the Joker in more ways than one. You probably heard that he’s been moved from Arkham?”

Leslie nods.

“Well.” Bruce takes a long sip, letting the coffee scald the walls of his mouth. “He’s been in my house the whole time.”

There’s a tight, fragile silence. Then Leslie suggests, “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

Bruce nods. Yeah. He thinks he can do that.

So he concentrates, struggles to find a neutral space in his mind to keep his narrative as emotionally removed as he can, and gives Leslie a shortened, heavily edited account of how he tried to approach Joker with the offer of a truce; how the horrors of the funfair unfolded and culminated with Joker agreeing to take his hand; how Bruce got involved in his therapy; how he got the idea to move Joker to the Manor and how that particular experiment has played out so far. Leslie listens attentively, crossing one leg over the other, knitting her hands together in her lap and never once interrupting, even though she nods or frowns from time to time, reassuring Bruce of her attention. This manages to see Bruce through the safer waters of pure fact and gets him as far as his discovery of the corruption at Arkham, at which point he falters, stumbling over his own words, suddenly losing ground.

He can’t really proceed from there without telling Leslie about his feelings for Joker and their consequences, and suddenly it’s like he’s back in his own kitchen, looking into the faces of his family. Leslie has been impacted by Joker too. She’s treated more of his victims than Bruce can count. His stomach twists up in violent knots as he opens his mouth, and closes it again; as he stalls for time with the rest of his coffee, which by now has gone cold; as his face heats up with memories as much as shame.

“Bruce,” Leslie asks after a moment, a warm, cautious question offering nothing but concern and goodwill, “are you all right?”

Bruce sighs. “No,” he whispers.

“Is there anything I can do to make things easier for you?”

“Not really. It’s just… This next part,” Bruce hesitates. “The next part is exactly why Alfred wanted me to see you. And it’s the one that already cost me two people I…”

He closes his eyes.

“Cost you,” Leslie echoes after a moment. “How?”

“Jason and Barbara,” Bruce tells her, tense all over. “When I told them, they…” he takes a deep breath. “They decided they no longer want to have anything to do with me.” And they were right.

There’s another delicate moment of silence as Leslie digests this, her mouth pursed. “But they didn’t cut ties when you brought the Joker into the Manor in the first place,” she murmurs, thinking aloud.

“No,” Bruce agrees. “That wasn’t quite the last straw, even for Barbara.” He makes himself look up into Leslie’s eyes as he forces himself to say, “It was what I… came to realize, about myself and Joker… that finally drove them away for good.”

Leslie’s eyes go wide as color drains from her face. She holds herself stiff in the armchair as she processes his words.

She whispers, “Oh Bruce.”

Bruce hangs his head and lets the moment, with all its pregnant silence, weigh him down.

“I’m assuming it’s serious,” Leslie says finally. “Since you told the others…”

“I don’t know,” Bruce whispers. “I think — yes. Serious enough.”

“No wonder you can’t bring himself to trust his doctor after everything you’ve uncovered at Arkham.”

Bruce looks up at her, to see nothing but worry digging deep lines in her face. There’s no trace of disgust there. No revulsion. He swallows.

“Leslie,” he says, “are you serious? You don’t have any comments about anything else?”

If possible, Leslie looks even sadder as she asks, “What were you expecting me to say?”

“Not that. Not — not that.” He presses a hand to his face, into the spot that’s beginning to pulse with pain. “Jason is disgusted with me,” he says. “So is Barbara.”

“And did you expect me to be, too?”

“Aren’t you?” Bruce doesn’t even try to hide the barb in his voice at this point. “Be honest. Do you even get what I’m trying to say?”

“You’re telling me you’ve discovered you have feelings for the Joker,” Leslie translates steadily, without a falter.

And God, hearing it put into words by someone else — so calmly, so steadily, like it isn’t the most revolting thing Bruce has ever done…!

“I can’t believe you just said that with a straight face,” Bruce struggles, something dark and simmery inside him flaring in rebellion against her calm, wanting to challenge it, wanting to make her react. “He’s a murderer,” he insists, and the last word comes out with an emphasis he doesn’t even intend to give it. “A murderer,” he repeats, feeling cold under his collar even as a flush creeps up the back of his neck, “and I kissed him, Leslie. I wanted to kiss him. I —” He closes his eyes. His headache is getting worse by the second, and there’s something like vice clamping around his mind. “I kissed him, and I invited him to live in my house. I chose him over my family.”

The last word comes out like a wheeze, and scrapes as it leaves his mouth. His breath is coming short. He tries to gasp in air to wash down the taste of the words, but they linger, painting his tongue black and red.

After a minute Leslie stands up and starts moving around the room — Bruce can’t bring himself to look up and see what she’s doing. His head feels cottony, light and heavy all at once, and the noises of her bustling come muted, as though filtered through multiple layers before they reach him.

He starts counting under his breath, One, two, three.

That only makes him think of the taste of white skin, and Jason’s and Barbara’s faces, and drags him to drown even faster, going down, down, down.

“Here,” Leslie whispers, closer to him, her voice struggling to clear. Bruce feels a dip in the couch next to him, and something cold pressing to his forehead, a slashing chill piercing the gathering fog. “It’s water. Drink some.”

She keeps pressing the startlingly cold glass to his temple before he takes it from her, and his hands tremble as he lifts it to his lips. There’s ice in the water, lots of it, and it nips fiercely at his fingers through the glass. The cold water shocks its way down into his stomach.

Bruce breathes out and blinks. He drinks more water.

“Try holding onto the glass,” Leslie advises quietly. “Press yourself into the back of the sofa as much as you can. Look for an anchor. And breathe.”

Breathe. Like what he told Joker to do, the first time he let him collapse into his arms, like —

He closes his eyes again and holds onto the chill of the icy glass like to his own grappling hook. The purpose is much the same, he thinks, distantly, foggily. In both cases it’s to stop himself falling. He sits back too and tries to mold himself into the sofa’s backrest, seeking the resistance of the cushions, needing them to be much harder than they actually are. He thinks with longing of the walls in the room, but knows he should probably stay put for now, even as his face burns with shame that he’s letting Leslie see any of it.

“Would you like me to touch you?” Leslie asks after a moment. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

Bruce doesn’t want to nod, and hates himself for the fact that he does anyway. The feeling abates somewhat when the warmth of Leslie’s hand lends itself to his shoulder, gently at first and then firming, offering strength for him to borrow just like it used to do when he was eight years old and bleeding from a whole other wound.

This doesn’t quite feel like it did back then — not quite the twisting pain of a chest ripped wide open, of a gaping gunhole where his place in the world should have been. It’s duller, slower, rather like the difference between a gunshot and a much smaller knife wound. Thick. Sluicy. Bleeding out of him drip by drip instead of all at once.

He wonders if it had been dripping for years now without him realizing.

And then he thinks, Oh, you realized all right. You just chose to ignore it like everything else.

He breathes out, and takes another moment to let the ache slowly settle into something more familiar.

“Does this happen often?” Leslie asks once all the water is gone and only ice clinks in the glass. “The shortness of breath, the… pressure in your chest? The panic?”

“Not as bad,” Bruce tries. “But…” he trails off, unsure how to voice any of it, and fiercely not wanting to.

“I see,” Leslie says quietly. “Do you have trouble sleeping, too?”

Bruce just looks at her. She sighs, squeezing his shoulder.

“Obviously we’re dealing with quite severe anxiety,” she says after another pause. “Given the circumstances and the load you’ve taken upon yourself, that’s hardly surprising. We’re going to try and ease some of that first, I think, before we start on everything else. Does that sound all right?”

“Do you mean,” Bruce frowns as his mind clears back into sharp focus, “medication?”

“Yes.” Leslie pats his shoulder before she stands up and moves to her office, only to come back again with her prescription notebook.

“No,” Bruce tells her. “I can’t take medication.”

She stops short, raising an eyebrow at him. “And why on Earth not?”

“You know why,” Bruce shoots back. “I’m — you know what I am. I need my mind clear for work.”

“Exactly,” Leslie counters, “and this is going to help you with it.”

“But the side effects —”

“We’ll start with small doses. I’ll add sleeping drugs too, to help you get back to a regular schedule. This should make a big difference on its own, but for impending anxiety attacks, take half a Xanax pill when you start feeling symptoms. It shouldn’t slow you down much, if at all, and it will help stop the anxiety from overpowering you.”

She starts scribbling in the notebook, then tears out the page with practiced efficiency and presents it to Bruce.

He eyes it, gripping the glass tight.

“Bruce,” Leslie implores softly. “This is for your own good. You can’t keep expecting to shoulder everything all on your own, and this situation is clearly overwhelming you. You need the help.”

“I don’t,” Bruce insists over a dark, swirly prickle rising up his chest. “I can handle this. I just need to — to think about it, to move past it, start planning, to figure out what to do —”

“Then why are you here in the first place?”

“Because I promised Joker,” he confesses quietly. “I promised him I’d find a therapist, and then Alfred —”

“There we go, then.” Leslie’s eyes shine with triumph. “You’ve found one. And I’m going to do everything in my power to offer you what assistance I can. This is how we start,” she waves the paper at him, “and besides that, I want you to meet me once a week.”

Bruce sighs and slumps against the sofa. “Once a month,” he argues. He knows there is no dodging that one, not after his display, but he can still negotiate.

Leslie sighs but agrees, “All right, once a month. But I won’t accept any excuses. And the meds —”

“I’m not taking the meds.”

“Is the Joker taking meds?”

“Well, yes,” Bruce bristles. “But —”

“Do you think you’re better than him?”

“Leslie,” Bruce says slowly, narrowing his eyes. “He is a psychopathic murderer.”

“So you do.” Leslie’s voice is hard, challenging. “You have feelings for him and you say you’ve invited him to move in, but you think you’re above the kind of treatment he is receiving.”

“That is not fair. You’re trying to manipulate me. He’s sick — he actually needs the treatment. And I —”

“You do too.” Leslie takes a step closer, still holding out the prescription. “You just had a panic attack on my couch,” she says, letting her voice soften just a touch. “You’re going through a tremendously difficult time that’s obviously creating a conflict inside you that you are not equipped to deal with. You’re still processing an impossible situation that stands directly against what you previously believed about yourself, and you’ve lost some of your support network which must have been a horrible blow. You’re probably going through deep depression and self-questioning, if not self-hate. And that’s just what’s happening right now.”

Bruce can’t meet her eyes right now. He can’t see her face. Anger bubbles in his throat to crowd against his teeth, a hot, tight pressure. “Leslie —”

“That doesn’t mean you’re weak,” Leslie insists, coming to crouch in front of him. “Bruce, do you understand? It doesn’t. I’m not saying that. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, that your anxiety is on the same level as the Joker’s problems, that you’re — broken. Taking medication doesn’t mean any of it. Admitting that you need help doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means you’re human.”

There’s nothing wrong with needing help. It’s okay to say they hurt you.

Bruce shuts his mind against the memory of his own voice, but it does nothing to stop the flashing image of Joker’s face — tight, cold, contorted with rage — from slipping in under the cracks.

God. He’d always known they were more alike than he’d like to believe, but this is not how he’d ever wanted to see those similarities reinforced.

“Listen,” Leslie tries again, gently. “I know you’re stubborn. You’re stubborn enough that apparently you’ve pushed the Joker himself into accepting help. If he can do it, so can you. Do you think any less of him because he’s receiving treatment? Do you think he’s a weaker man than he used to be because of that?”

Bruce breathes out, mind whirring. “No,” he allows. The opposite, actually. He can’t even imagine what it must be taking out of Joker to stay in those rooms day after day, being watched, being fed, being… treated. Allowing people to think he needs it. Accepting, before himself, that maybe he really might.

Bruce can’t help but admire that, and the reminder goes some way to allow a degree of warmth back into his heart.

“Then why do you think that of yourself?” Leslie asks.

And now Bruce almost snorts, because there is nothing he can possibly say to that.

Leslie seems to read the desperation in his face because she sighs again, looking, possibly, as tired as Bruce feels. She says, “If his ridiculous pride can take it — which, I’m assuming, is for your sake, because frankly I can’t conceive of any other reason he might have agreed to the whole thing — well, if he can do it for you, you can do it for him. Think of it this way: you’re fulfilling a promise. You’re sacrificing your pride for him just like he is doing for you. Is this the kind of reciprocity you’re ready for?”

“This is not about pride, Leslie,” Bruce protests, the hot prickle back at his throat with a vengeance and sticking to his palate. “It’s about being Batman. I already don’t know if I can keep working if I’m — if I’m the kind of person who can kiss the Joker. If I have more openings for people to exploit, if I’m weak —”

“You’re not.”

“But the meds, if I take them, then that means —”

“Bruce Wayne, will you take the damn prescription.” The steel in Leslie’s voice takes him by surprise, pulling his eyes wide. “For me,” she insists, “for Alfred, for the Joker if you have to, but take it, and take the pills to feel better when you need it. They won’t make you weaker. They’ll help you cope. This is what you need to be effective, isn’t it? You know this. You’re just too goddamn stubborn to admit it.”

And Bruce wants to argue more. He wants to keep protesting, No, no, you don’t understand. Leslie really doesn’t, and neither does Alfred, nor Dick, nor anyone — they don’t understand that he needs to be strong to keep them all safe, night after night after night. But then…

He looks at the prescription. And remembers the weight of a warm pill on his tongue, and the brush of Joker’s fingers putting it there.

He remembers about clarity, and about balance.

He lets himself think about Leslie’s words.

Is this the kind of reciprocity you’re ready for?

Good fucking question, and he wonders what it means that he isn’t ready to commit to an answer.

It’s the challenge in that last thought that finally makes him look up again, and reach out to — very slowly — take the prescription from Leslie’s hand.

She breathes out as he does, and pulls herself up to once again sit beside him on the couch. For a while they sit in silence, each of them simmering in the moment as — now popped — it slowly bleeds its own weight away.

“Well,” Leslie says at length, “I think I’ve tormented you enough for one evening. We should call it a day.”

“Right,” Bruce manages curtly, and gets to his feet.

“First Friday of next month,” Leslie decides, “same hour. I’ll do my best to clear the line for you next time.”

Bruce looks at her, clutching the prescription.

“No excuses?” he says.

“Nope.” Leslie makes an effort to give him a grin, just a little worn, spread just a little thin. “I won’t be letting you off the hook. I’ll sic Selina on you if I have to.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.” The grin grows stronger, easing away some of the prickle from Bruce’s mouth. “And in the meantime, I think I’ll make a few phone calls to see if I can get that doctor Mulligan out for coffee.”

“Thank you,” Bruce tells her earnestly, reading right through the veiled implication. He glances at the bit of paper in his hand. He swallows. “For everything.”

“Oh, come here,” Leslie says, standing up and opening her arms for him.

He surrenders to another hug, gentler this time, much shorter — and wants to believe it helped soothe more of the barbed protests and tension from his muscles. It doesn’t, not really, he is still far too bristly and raw for that, the dark thick swirl in his stomach far too strong.

But at least he can breathe normally now. That has to count for something.

Even so, the weight still sits hot and tight in his stomach as he walks out of the clinic, itching, buzzing, restless with dark energy. Most of it seems to be concentrating in the hand still clutching Leslie’s prescription.

He considers it a success that he doesn’t tear it into pieces as soon as he shuts himself in the car.

***

Some time later, he is sitting in the cave, in the comfort of his own chair among the soft chirping of the bats and the hum of machinery, examining the little plastic container and wondering if he’ll ever be able to look at it without a spike of resounding NO.

“It’s a good step, Master Bruce,” Alfred reassures him as he catches him at it. “I’m very proud of you.”

Bruce chooses not to comment on that. There’s still too much prickliness inside him, too much protest, too much hot tension concentrated on too small a surface, and it’s still too early for him to be able to release it out into the night. He glances at the screens.

It’s probably a bad idea, but…

He gets to his feet, suddenly gripped with a need so strong he knows it’s useless to resist.

“And where might you be going?” Alfred wonders. “It’s still early for your nightly romps. The sun is hardly down.”

“I’m not going out,” Bruce tells Alfred, moving over to where his suits are stored and selecting one of the older ones, with only a layer of padding and an undersuit instead of full armor. “I’m going to Joker.”

Alfred considers him as Bruce gets dressed. He ventures, “Right now? In that costume?”

“Yes.” Bruce fits the cowl over his head, lifted somewhat by the old, familiar fit.

“Forgive me, Master Bruce, but why ever for?”

“I promised him sparring sessions,” Bruce tells him, emptying the utility belt. “I don’t see why we can’t have one right now.”

“Actually, there are enough reasons why you shouldn’t that if you just sit down and let me list all of them I’m sure that will be enough for you to cool your head,” Alfred parries. “Sir.”

And yeah, he’s probably right.

Bruce turns to walk up the stairs anyway.

“I’ll keep the cameras on,” he says as he does.

“Was that supposed to reassure me?”

“I need this, Alfred.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Alfred comments. “And this is precisely why it’s such a terrible idea.”

“Tell him to prepare,” Bruce says, ignoring him. “I’ll be with him in five minutes.”

If Alfred has any more objections, Bruce is too far gone to hear them. As he stalks up the stairs the electric buzzing coasts on his blood, restless, itchy, wanting out out out. It brings images on its current, flashing one by one: Jason slamming the door on him. Barbara in the wheelchair, turning away. Dick’s gentle reassurances about needing space, the pain and worry in Alfred’s eyes. The little plastic container of pills, Leslie’s words about weakness and his own humiliation.

They keep coming, over and over and over, piling one on top of the other until he’s filled with them. Until he’s overflowing. The dark sluicy thickness in his stomach keeps thickening, trickling into his blood, into his bones, bringing out the sharp edges in his mind, whispering about blame and anger and tempting with the promise to take it out on the one responsible.

He stands before Joker’s door and balls his hands into fists. He looks into the camera.

“I’m going to need you to leave,” he tells the guards.

“We don’t know anything about extra alone time,” a female voice parries.

Bruce sets his jaw. “I haven’t discussed it with the Commissioner or the doctor yet. But I need you to leave. You don’t want to be implicated.”

“If you’re going to hurt him —” the woman starts, but something interrupts her. There’s silence.

And then Bruce hears footsteps on the stairs, two pairs of feet reluctantly making their way down. The guards emerge, Winston and Ramirez, and Ramirez is shooting him apprehensive looks even as Winston guides her by her shoulder.

“Come on,” he’s telling her urgently, “this is way above our paygrade. Let the Bat do what he needs to do. We’ll get some coffee and a snack, right, Bats?” He turns to Bruce. “Don’t rough him up too much, ‘kay? I don’t want to have to explain myself to Jimbo.”

Ramirez still doesn’t look convinced but she lets Winston guide her along, even as she shoots Bruce glances over her shoulder. She seems way too young to be here, but right now, Bruce can’t help but see it as an advantage. He can’t imagine someone like Lakeisha allowing him to get his way again this easily.

He turns back to the door and punches in the security code.

“Joker?” he calls, stepping in.

“Yoo hoo!” comes a call from the gym. “In here!”

Bruce follows the sound of the voice to find that Joker has had the time to put on a pair of sweatpants and one of his light tank tops, and has been busy pushing the gym equipment to the sides of the room to clear a space for them on the mats padding the floor. He turns to Bruce and whistles, grinning at the sight of the suit.

“Well well well, cut me wide open and stuff me full of candy,” he exclaims with glittering eyes. “You look stunning, baby! I haven’t seen you wear that little old thing in years! Is this for me? Because if it is I gotta say I really appreciate it. Not that the new suit is bad, but I have such an appreciation for the way this one accentuates your posterior.”

“Glad to see you’re in a good mood,” Bruce tells him.

“So much better now that you’re here.” Joker winks. “So, are we fighting? Please say we are. I’ve been working out and everything!”

“If you don’t want to, now is the time to tell me,” Bruce informs him.

“Ooooh, I like where this is going.” Joker stands away from the spin bike with a sharp gleam in his eyes. “It’s your dark voice. Something’s ticked you off, hasn’t it? What’s the matter, darling, did Robin leave the toilet seat up again?”

There is no way he knows, Bruce tells himself. The fact that he brought up Robin is a complete accident. He can’t know.

Still, Bruce holds himself rigid when he tells Joker, “Robin is gone.”

“Is he now?” Joker is moving towards him, slow, deliberate steps. His grin is sharpening into a razor’s edge. “Tell me,” he teases, “could this be because of moi?”

Bruce holds his gaze as Joker comes to a stop in front of him. He whispers, “You know it is.”

“So you told them.”

“I did.”

“How interesting. I wondered if you would.” Joker traces the bat on Bruce’s chest with the tip of his fingernail. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Disappointing your kid like that. Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation! I’m sorry, kiddo, daddy decided he likes making out with clowns —”

Bruce makes himself take a fortifying breath. “Stop.”

Something dangerous flashes in Joker’s eyes as he challenges, “Ah, but do you really want me to? You’re angry. You’re all crackly-staticy with it. And you come in here, oh so thoughtfully wearing the kind of suit that doesn’t give you too much of an advantage, itching for a fight.” He gets closer, in Bruce’s personal space. His breath lingers over Bruce’s face like his finger does over his chest. “Well,” he whispers, “I’m giving you one.”

“Last chance,” Bruce warns him. “Tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“Our safeword is lilac,” Joker purrs into Bruce’s air.

And slaps him across the face.

Bruce doesn’t stagger back — he’s locked his legs since the moment Joker drew near — but the blow still rattles his head, throwing it back, and Joker pushes his advantage with a kick to Bruce’s groin. Bruce refuses to give him any more openings and pushes back, throwing a punch which Joker dodges by jumping out of the way, leading Bruce further into the room.

“Come on,” he entices, “give it to me.”

His eyes are blazing. His mouth is fixed into a grin Bruce remembers from lightning-lit rooftops. Bruce’s blood boils in response, catching on the electricity. The sluicy thing darkens, shooting off to twine over his limbs, and he lets it lead him after Joker, falling easily into step.

Immediately it becomes clear that Joker is not going to pull his punches — when he comes for Bruce it’s with everything he has, vicious, tooth and nail and knee and elbow and everything in-between. And that’s good. That’s exactly what Bruce needs. He doesn’t let himself go entirely but there’s an invitation in Joker’s eyes to hurt him right back and Bruce doesn’t hesitate to latch onto it as he delivers kicks and punches of his own. Joker leaps and twirls around the gym and he follows, letting Joker set the pace of this particular dance until he tastes copper in his mouth; until the pain, both his and Joker’s, bullies the tension away; until he can untangle the threads that have lead him here to isolate the anger underneath it all, and pull on it, pull and pull and pull.

“You blame me, don’t you,” Joker pants, raking his nails over the skin of Bruce’s chin, yanking his cowl down, twisting his hands in the fabric of the suit to pull him into the stationary bike. Bruce crashes against it into a heap and Joker kicks his back, laughing. “You think it’s my fault you lost your little bird boy!”

Bruce staggers up and lunges at him, catching him around the middle, throwing him onto the mats. He punches Joker’s face. Blood sprays from the white nose to taint Bruce’s hands and Joker laughs harder.

“Oh, that’s it,” he goads, bucking under Bruce, “more! Harder! Make me feel the next one!”

His hands seek to grab around Bruce’s crotch. Bruce knees them away, trying to pin Joker down, but Joker punches him with a hand twisted and aimed so that Bruce’s face collides with the solid metal of the shock bracelet, and he twists until he rolls out from under Bruce only to latch onto his back and lock himself in, pushing Bruce’s head face-down into the mats for all he’s worth.

“Poor Batsy,” he taunts, grabbing him by the cowl’s ear to pull his head back up. “Well let me tell you something,sweet thing.” He slams Bruce’s head back into the mat. “Love hurts.”

Bruce growls and grabs his hands, then throws him backwards across the room over his own body.

He doesn’t know if he does blame Joker. Maybe. No more than he blames himself. But he knows that he is furious with him: for worming under Bruce’s skin, for messing with his head, for doing such horrible things that all of this has to be so difficult in the first place. It’s easy to hold onto that anger when Joker himself invites it, when he wants to be the target for it, and when he absorbs it all into himself like a sponge with no maximum capacity, just taking and taking and taking even as he offers Bruce pain in return.

Give and take. Back and forth. One-two-three.

So Bruce doesn’t have any room left for remorse when Joker gets up again and he slams him into a wall. Doesn’t feel bad when he grabs a fistful of green hair and pulls until Joker moans with it. Doesn’t hold back when his fist collides with the hard bone of Joker’s jaw.

His blood sings, and he’s more alive than he has been in months.

No one dances with you like I do, indeed.

The fact that he still wants to kiss that mouth, even bloodied from Bruce’s punches, as much as he wants to add to the pain, only makes it all the more intense. More frustrating and rewarding at the same time. He lets his hands linger as he pins and holds and pulls close, and Joker is doing the same, both of them groping between punches, panting into each other’s mouths.

And then Joker changes the game by once again jamming his bracelet into Bruce’s mouth, then using the distraction to violently pull off Bruce’s glove. Before Bruce catches onto what’s happening Joker is dragging the sharp spines on it over Bruce’s chest, tearing the fabric of the suit — cutting the bat right in half — and the undersuit, right to the flesh underneath.

The pain flares sharp and hot; Bruce has to pull away to clutch at it with his now-bare hand, blood beginning to drip in-between his fingers. Joker laughs, following him, using his advantage to rend the skin of Bruce’s cheek the very same way. Bruce pushes him away before the point of the spine can reach his mouth. He kicks Joker’s stomach, and pushes back until Joker sprawls on the mats, the glove skidding away. He lands on top of Joker, hard, and Joker reaches to claw at his shoulders, pulling him down until the tips of their noses touch.

His hips jerk against Bruce’s thigh. Once, twice, again and again. He gasps, “Please,” his hands moving to clutch at the torn bat symbol.

Bruce growls and backhands him across the face so hard Joker’s blood sprays the mat. And again. And again. Joker’s grip on him tightens; he goes stiff all over, and cries out, grinding into Bruce; he closes his eyes and slumps, and coughs, and is still.

Bruce watches him, panting. He stays where he is, on top of the now-spent body. He watches the blood from his chest slip past the shreds of the bat symbol to drip down onto Joker’s white tank top. Watches where his now naked hand has left a red smear on the cotton. Feels the fierce sting in his cheek.

After a moment Joker struggles to turn his head and look at him. He smiles over the blood painting his mouth a deep red. He moves one hand, gently now, to collect a few bloody drops from Bruce’s cheek, then moves to the other, unmarked one one and sketches a heart there.

He mouths, I love you.

That’s when Bruce finally grunts and rolls off him, and sits up.

It’s the only thing that stops him from kissing the words right back into Joker’s mouth.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s initial plan is to slink off to his own bedroom and the secret first aid kit he’s got stashed in the bathroom under the tiles by the sink. The cuts Joker left him to remember him by aren’t particularly deep — hardly even bleeding anymore — and Bruce is more than capable of patching himself up on his own before changing suits and venturing out into the night. There’s no need to bother Alfred. No need to worry him, and to trigger a barrage of thin-mouthed commentary about —

Alfred is waiting for him by the door to his bedroom, arms crossed and expression cold.

Shit.

“In,” Alfred orders, stepping aside to let Bruce through. His tone lingers somewhere half a degree above permafrost. “Sit on the bed.”

He all but pushes Bruce to do as he’s told and then disappears into the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Bruce watches with a sinking heart as Alfred reemerges holding the first aid kit Bruce’d been so sure he’d kept well-hidden.

“How did you —”

“I know everything,” Alfred tells him. “Now hold still.”

Sighing, Bruce surrenders without further protest. He knows a lost fight when he sees one. He tugs off the cowl first, then the upper parts of the torn suit and undersuit so that the cuts sting in the chilled air. Alfred says nothing when he none too gently cleans the blood off Bruce’s face and chest and then dabs disinfectant along both cuts, the usual sting flaring up to follow. Bruce grits his teeth against it and, backed by years of practice, doesn’t let a single sound slip past; by now, this is all routine.

What isn’t routine is Alfred’s stormy silence, and the sharp, jerky twist to his hands as they tear strips of cotton and gauze to apply to the cuts. Neither is the way he avoids looking directly into Bruce’s eyes, even as he applies the dressing to the cut on Bruce’s face.

But he doesn’t need to meet Bruce’s eyes for Bruce to read the cold fury in his. Bruce doesn’t remember the last time he’d seen Alfred quite this angry.

The coward in him lets the silence thicken as Alfred turns to treat his bruises with the time-tested herbal liniment and salve, rubbing both into Bruce’s body with the steady, mechanical expertise of someone who’s been forced to do the exact same thing nearly every night for well over a decade. It should be soothing, and is, sometimes, but not today. Today Bruce is acutely aware of every little movement, and Alfred’s tight, contained fury lingers where his hands do, sticking to his skin under the salve, and it’s all Bruce can do to stop himself from squirming or outward yelling “What?!” like a sullen teenager.

He knows full well “what,” which only makes the whole thing worse.

Alfred only meets his eyes when he’s done. Then he asks, coldly, “And what of your paramour? Does he require medical assistance too?”

It’s the bite in his voice that helps Bruce keep his eyes on Alfred, igniting the first sparks of spite. “I don’t think so,” he says, his own tone hard. “No bones broken, no cuts.”

“How reassuring.”

“Alfred…”

“I shall send him the liniment and the salve then, and some ice. I trust he’ll know what to do with them. This is, after all, your bread and butter.”

“Alfred.”

“Am I to expect this to be a regular thing? You storming off to unleash your frustrations on the man you claim to love?”

Bruce presses hands to his face. They snag on the cut Joker left him, bandaged now but still stinging like the devil.

“Because if it is then I’d rather know in advance,” Alfred presses, “so I may vacate the premises when the urge strikes you. I do not wish to bear witness to this kind of… roughhousing… ever again.”

Bruce breathes out through his mouth, deeply. He rubs punishing circles into the skin of his temples. “Honestly,” he whispers. “Don’t you think I feel bad enough already?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred counters, “do you?”

“I…” Bruce sighs, and hesitates. On some level, yeah. Sure. He feels terrible about the whole thing, and has pretty much since the door to Joker’s rooms closed on him, trapping inside all the ugliness that drove him there in the first place. He knows it was wrong, now, with the benefit of distance and release, the earlier red-hot urges now smoked out into a memory etched in shame. Now that the rational part of his brain seems to have remembered it exists, it’s clear to Bruce that he shouldn’t have done any of it, the uncomfortable truth of it churning heavy and unwieldy in his gut like a badly digested meal angling for a way back out.

On the other hand…

“You don’t get it, Alfred,” he insists. “I don’t like it, but it’s… it’s just how we are.”

“How you used to be, perhaps,” Alfred corrects without mercy. “But I thought the point of having him here was that you wouldn’t have to be, anymore.”

“It’s not that easy,” Bruce whispers.

Alfred is silent for a moment. Then he says, “This. This is precisely why I’m worried. Bruce, it should not be difficult to decide you don’t want to hurt the person you love.”

Bruce chokes a little on the next words, but somehow they find their way out anyway: “But what if that person wants to be hurt?”

“That wasn’t quite what I saw,” Alfred counters.

“You… watched.”

“I did.”

“Then you know he asked me for it. He had no objections. He started —”

“Master Bruce, I’ll be blunt: what happened in that room was outrageous,” Alfred insists. “And not just because this is, as you put it, ‘how you are.’ I do realize that your relationship is… unusual, and that the Joker has an attitude to pain that is somewhat alien to me. But I hope you realize that what happened in there goes beyond even his disturbing masochism. From what I saw, he didn’t just want the pain. He performed it for you and made you believe he did to give you permission to abuse him.”

And instantly Bruce opens his mouth to protest, except nothing comes out. He works his throat under Alfred’s hard, unrelenting eyes, mind gears grinding furiously as he tries to find a place to begin, because no.

No. No, that’s not what that was. He saw Joker’s eyes, he saw the desperation there, the rage, the frustration, the need to let it out as dark and brimming as Bruce’s, he saw…

He saw —

And that’s when Bruce finally dares to take a closer look at the still-simmering memories. He remembers the look in Joker’s eyes and makes himself examine it anew as what he thought he saw flakes off to reveal the truth he willfully painted over; takes the time to disseminate the way Joker acted as though someone flicked a switch in him the moment he got a read on Bruce, the drop-of-a-hat jump from flirty playfulness to the kind of biting, confrontational aggression he hadn’t displayed since he came here. Remembers that Joker told him, he said, I’m giving you one, giving Bruce a fight, he said Bruce had been itching with it, and he baited Bruce, and then he lay there and let Bruce hit him time and time again, and he smiled, and he told Bruce he loved him, and —

Oh God.

Oh God, no.

He stares the realization in the face as the full extent of it finally settles in, and nearly forgets all about Alfred’s presence by his side.

I love you.

The heart of blood on Bruce’s cheek. The smile. The surrender at the end.

The torn bat symbol on Bruce’s chest.

He exhales and hides his face in his hands again, and sits there on the edge of the bed in silence, feeling dirty. Feeling stupid.

Feeling vile.

Which, in a way, is so familiar it terrifies him, because it seems like at a blink they’re right back where they started, and one thing becomes clear: Dick was right all those months ago when he first came to see Joker trapped in the house. In the ways that count, they’ve never stopped playing the game. It’s just the rules that have changed, over and over and over again, and Bruce may have switched the board, may have tried to redraw the battle lines, but when it really comes down to it the battle lines are still there. Even now, even with this new tender truce between them, Bruce’s first instinct is still that of one-upmanship, of challenge and conflict, and his default language regarding Joker is that of war. And what makes it harder to shake is that in a way, Joker is still trying to get under his skin, to bring out the monster inside him, exactly like he used to — it’s just that now he’s doing it for different reasons.

Because he thinks Bruce needs to let the monster out — on him. Because he thought he’d offer himself up in sacrifice to Bruce’s anger. Because he thought it was okay, and because he was doing it —

Out of love.

The thought makes Bruce sick, and he’s too afraid to open his mouth even to ask for water.

Jesus Christ.

That’s not the whole story, he knows — he’s pretty damn certain Joker still would have wanted the fight even if he hadn’t smelled the anger on Bruce, and it would have probably been brutal anyway because he can’t imagine how any fight between them wouldn’t be. He knows for a fact that Joker has a whole collection of bones to pick with him, and that he appreciated the chance to land some of his own punches. And that’s not even taking into account everything Dr. Mulligan told Bruce — and everything Bruce had already suspected — about Joker being a masochist, and that the whole confrontation had a decidedly… unwholesome undercurrent Bruce knows better by now than to deny, and well, Joker probably needed it on more levels than even Bruce did.

Bruce also knows that none of it makes it right, and that he must stop using Joker’s needs — as he understands them, anyway — as a shield for his own failed judgment.

“You need to stop enabling one another like that,” Alfred says, quietly, voice cutting into the swirl of black self-doubt that’s began to crystallize around Bruce’s heart. “You can’t let him facilitate his own abuse, no matter how much you think he may want it. If this arrangement of yours is to have any future at all one of you has to be better than that.”

And that’s another problem, right there. Smack in the middle. Bruce hangs his head as he considers the enormity of it, and whispers, “I don’t know if we can. It’s going to be… difficult.”

“I should think so. It’ll require work. The question is, do you even want to put in the effort, Master Bruce? Or are you too comfortable with things as they are?”

“Joker and I, we have… a language,” Bruce tries to explain. “I don’t know if we can learn another one at this point. I don’t know if he’d want to.”

“The language of violence.”

“Among other things,” Bruce agrees, “yes.”

“Do you want a different language, Master Bruce?”

Bruce just looks at him.

It goes on for a bit before Alfred sighs and says, “Put a shirt on. We’re going down to the library.”

Bruce looks out the window, into the tempting lure of night. “I should go —”

“No.” Alfred’s tone leaves no room for argument. “I am not going to let you go out there so you can get yourself cut open some more. I’m sure Gotham will be fine if you take the night off.”

And again, Bruce’s first impulse is to protest, but one look at the quiet warning in Alfred’s face freezes the words on his tongue right before they can tumble out. Instead, he brings himself to nod, takes a brief moment to change into a clean set of pajamas and a bathrobe, then quietly follows Alfred down to the library without any more protests. The “Alfred” slot in his heart still feels much too tender and uncertain after all the revelations of the past few weeks and he doesn’t want to put any more strain on their relationship than he already has…

… And besides, he doesn’t feel he’d be very effective as Batman tonight anyway. Not with the air all but kicked out of him, first by Joker and now by his own inconvenient mind.

He can only hope that Alfred will recognize his docile attitude for the peace offering it is.

Alfred leads him to the library and then abandons him by the doors, explaining that he’ll stop by the dumbwaiter first to send the ice and gauze and salves up to Joker’s rooms. The barb in his words hits the mark well and true, and as Bruce drags himself into the soft, warm lamplight of the library, he feels it bleed just like his chest and face did not half an hour ago.

Still, perhaps Alfred did accept his olive branch after all — the first thing he does when he reaches the library again is pour Bruce a generous glass of sherry. He pours one for himself as well, and when Bruce gives him a questioning look, Alfred shrugs and says, “You’re going to need it.”

So Bruce plays along and stays seated on the ancient worn sofa which dominates the center of the room. As Alfred busies himself with one of the cabinets, Bruce’s eyes snag on the luxurious green leather upholstery.

The color, even dark as it is, suddenly reminds him of Joker’s hair. That’s enough for the distracted part of his mind to start wondering how Joker would react to seeing it, and before he can stop himself, one image leads to another and all at once he is imagining Joker spread over it, all long pale limbs and an inviting smile stretched in clashing red. The picture is so vivid that Bruce almost misses it when Alfred makes his way over and takes a seat next to him, jolting him out of the fantasy.

He carries a book with him, which he deposits on his lap. The moment Bruce’s eyes catch on it, two things happen: one, the distracting fantasy of Joker on the couch scatters in a blink like a puff of air blown to nothing by the wind. Which is good. Bruce has a feeling he’s going to need all of his faculties about him for what’s coming.

And that’s because, two, suddenly his throat is full of dust and grit and the taste of lead, and his stomach lurches in the all-too-familiar throbs of old, old pain.

“Alfred,” Bruce forces out, roughly, “what —”

Alfred keeps leafing through the bulky Wayne family album, old photographs of young smiling faces flashing at Bruce like sketches about to be animated to life. He says, “I know this is difficult, Master Bruce. There is a point to it, I promise. Let me just find… Ah. There.” He finally seems to have arrived at the picture he was looking for, and angles the tome towards Bruce so he can see.

Not that Bruce needs to. He’s memorized every single one of his parents’ pictures that he owns down to the tiniest, photographic detail. If challenged, he could recite, with his eyes closed, the exact angle in which the sun streamed into the room that particular afternoon, the titles on the book spines behind his father’s chair, the way his mother’s dress folded and creased on the wind as she stood by the open window, laughing so hard her eyes crinkled.

He doesn’t remember this particular moment personally. He was much too young. A child of two-and-a-half, he sat there safely tucked in his father’s lap, distracted by a black teddy bear that sat on his own lap much like he himself sat on dad’s. In the photograph he’s frowning intensely into the teddy bear’s face, as though trying to listen to what it had to say, while his parents look into the camera and laugh — probably at him.

Bruce’s gaze studiously avoids that part of the photograph — he doesn’t like watching himself as a baby. It usually only reminds him how much time he’s wasted being around his parents and yet not appreciating them like he should, not even being aware of them and how important they were, and it always, always makes him angry. At himself, and all at the time he’s wasted.

He tries to bottle up the irrationality of that instinct now as he looks to Alfred and asks, “Well? I’m looking at it.”

“And what do you see?”

Bruce’s throat is trying to close up. “My parents,” he manages through it. “I don’t get what that has to do with —”

“Yes, your parents,” Alfred says quietly, “being happy. And very much in love.”

Bruce’s eyes pull down to look into the faces forever cast in stillness, caught in a warm, bright, sunlit moment that, if it could, would smell of flowers. His eyes sting as he murmurs, “Yeah.”

“Even in a photograph,” Alfred whispers, “you can still feel it. The love that they had for each other, and for you.”

Bruce nods. That’s all he can bring himself to do.

“Tell me…” Alfred is quiet for a moment; then, he reaches for his sherry and downs an impressive sip. He clears his throat and looks at Bruce. “Tell me,” he tries again. “Can you imagine either of them ever raising their hand against the other?”

Bruce closes his eyes.

“Alfred,” he pleads, “this is not fair.”

“They didn’t,” Alfred persists, and though his voice is quiet, there’s also steel underneath the softness that means he’ll say his piece no matter what. “Never. They argued, yes, even fought, but they never struck one another. They would be horrified at the mere idea.”

“This isn’t helping.”

“I’m well aware that I wasn’t able to model for you what a healthy relationship might look like,” Alfred tells him, with a touch of regret in his voice. “I’ve made… many mistakes in your early years, for which I apologize. We were both new to this, and in my doubt and incompetence, I have allowed you to isolate yourself far too much. But Bruce, I cannot stand by now and watch as the two of you continue your destructive behavior without saying anything. You claim you love this man. And yet…”

Bruce sits back, sinking into the creaky leather. His gaze strays towards the window, tempted away by the need to look at anything but Alfred’s face or the photograph.

“There’s more than one way to love someone,” he manages. “You just don’t…” he sighs, running a hand over one tired eye. He’d sell the entire house in a blink if it allowed him to be anywhere else right now. “I can’t explain it,” he tries. “We’re not like mom and dad used to be. We never will.”

“I know. I don’t expect that,” Alfred says. “Still, you could consider that maybe what you see in the photograph could be… a goal? Something to work towards?”

“A goal that’s impossible.”

“Tell me, my boy, when has that ever stopped you?”

Bruce risks a look at Alfred’s face. He repeats, “That is so unfair.”

“Maybe, but perhaps necessary. Even if you don’t agree, I felt I had to at least try. I hope you’ll it give some thought,” Alfred says, as though he doesn’t know perfectly well that Bruce won’t be able to get it out of his head now if he tries.

And now he just has to ask. It’s a futile thing to consider, a dead end, and he doesn’t want to hear the answer any more than he wants to stand in Crime Alley right now listening for gunshots. But he has to.

“You think,” Bruce starts, and then has to take a moment to find the strength to say the words that are trying to sink right back down his throat. “You think that if they were here now, they wouldn’t approve. Don’t you?”

Alfred sighs, and once again Bruce is struck by the sight of the age lines creasing his face, driving home just how old he is in a way that Bruce doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to.

“That’s not quite what I meant,” Alfred says softly, “and I think that it’s pointless to deliberate on that now. If they were here, you and the Joker would both be very different men, and we wouldn’t find ourselves in this situation to begin with.”

Bruce nods. There is no point denying that at this stage, and he accepts the truth, both about himself and about his own influence over Joker’s becoming who — what — he is today. He decides to take Alfred’s advice on this and not torture himself about this particular point, at least not as far as he can help it, which he realizes won’t be much.

That thought, however, brings on its tail something else, something he has never considered before and that has, up until now, paled in relation to the enormity of his feelings for everything that Joker is. The person himself has occupied Bruce so much that he never paused to contemplate anything else, and now the realization drops on him out of nowhere, and it feels so out of place, so jarring in its mundane commonplaceness when applied to Joker and himself, that when he turns to look at Alfred again his eyes get almost painfully wide.

He asks, “But what would they say about me loving another man? Do you think they would disapprove of that?”

At that, Alfred smiles. The reaction feels so incongruent with the tone of the entire conversation that Bruce can only keep staring, his pulse going haywire, his insides going cold.

“Hardly,” Alfred assures him, eyes twinkling. And then he says, “If they’d had a problem with men who love other men, they wouldn’t have hired me.”

At first, Bruce doesn’t quite understand. He hears the words just fine but the meaning behind them takes its time leaking into a coherent shape. The silence thickens. In its cloying heat, the ancient ticking of the grandfather clock that Bruce has learned to tune out years ago suddenly gains on a volume that hurts his ears with every heavy tick.

He opens his mouth, and closes it. He keeps staring at Alfred, whose smile only seems to grow with every passing minute, and turning sharper, too.

“Did you just —”

“Yes.”

“You mean —”

“Yes.”

“You’re —”

“Yes.” Alfred’s eyes shine far too bright, and as he drinks another sip of sherry, sitting back, there’s a tilt to his head which suggests he’s rather enjoying himself.

Bruce wants to get to his feet. He wants to pace around the library, or better yet, run down to the cave and scream. He wants to walk up to the grandfather clock and bash his own head against it, repeatedly, until he passes out. Any of these would be better than just sitting there with his jaw dropping all the way to the floor and feeling like an utterly blind, selfish, pathetic monster.

“You’re not joking,” he finds the voice to ask. “This isn’t some kind of prank?”

“My word, no,” Alfred replies breezily, swirling his sherry in the glass. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“But,” Bruce finally manages to find something to latch onto, “you never said anything! You never —”

Alfred shrugs. He downs the rest of his sherry. “I suppose it’s never come up.”

“Never come up,” Bruce echoes. “All these years, and it’s never — Jesus, Alfred.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, gently, “please imagine what would have happened if I’d been, as they say, out when you were a child. Do you think they’d have let me keep you as my ward? Those were very different times. I’d have been accused of trying to pervert you, or worse. For your sake as well as mine, it was best to keep some things behind closed doors.”

“Even from me?” Bruce asks, and hates how small and pathetic his voice sounds.

“Yes, even from you.” Alfred sighs, finally letting his shoulders droop an inch or two. “I loved you very much and I was not about to let someone else step in and take you away. You and your well-being were far more important than my personal comfort. I had to be very careful about what I did and said, even around you. There was no reason to trouble you with my own baggage when you struggled with so much of your own, and at such a young age, too, and I wasn’t involved with anyone at that time anyway so it wasn’t as though the matter was pressing. I told myself, all in good time. That maybe one day I might bring someone home and introduce him to you properly, and it’d happen more… naturally. But then…” he pauses, and looks into Bruce’s eyes. “Well, let’s just say you had other matters on your mind.”

Yeah. Other matters, like training to become Batman, and then being Batman, and trying to keep it hidden from the world, and working to get better and better and better and solving cases and saving the city and doing everything in his power to help the people in it, and all the while, relying on Alfred to always be there waiting for him and instructing him and cooking for him and cleaning for him and patching him up and having his back.

Bruce stares into space, and then reaches for his own sherry glass and downs it all in one gulp.

He’d never wondered that maybe Alfred might like a night off. That maybe he’d like to go away somewhere on holiday, take a break, meet someone, live his own life instead of just being a part of Bruce’s. All these years, and Bruce never, not even once noticed that Alfred never brought anyone home. That he never called any friends or family, and only seldom maintained correspondence with people he called his “army mates.” That state of affairs has always been so normal for Bruce that it never occurred to him to question any of it, because Alfred was just…

Alfred.

Just Alfred. Steady and sarcastic and dependable, a caretaker and friend, and Bruce has been taking him for granted so much that he never stopped to think that maybe Alfred might want something more out of life than just heeding Bruce’s every beck and call until retirement.

He wants to think that he’d assumed, since Alfred never asked for any of those things, that he must not want them…

But no. Not even that. Alfred never asked, but then, Bruce never even considered that he might. And as a result, he’d never even begun to suspect that there was a whole side to Alfred he had no idea about.

Jesus, he’s such an ass.

“Can I have some more of that?” he asks, raising his glass, and sits there all hunched and pathetic as Alfred patiently refills both their glasses.

“I must say I did wonder,” Alfred says with that sharp edge of amusement in his voice, “if you’d ever find that out on your own. I suppose over time it’s become a bit of a game. One that I almost regret forfeiting tonight.”

“Oh my God.” Bruce drinks the sherry, and wishes it was something stronger still, completely unable to look Alfred in the eye. “I was so blind.”

“Preoccupied is the word I’d use,” Alfred says gently.

“Selfish,” Bruce counters. “Self-absorbed and blind. I’m so sorry, Alfred.”

“Well,” Alfred says after a moment. “Like you said, I didn’t exactly give you any reasons to speculate about my personal life.”

“That doesn’t excuse me just taking you for granted all those years. I really am sorry. I’ll… I’ll do better from now on.”

There’s another moment of silence, which the grandfather clock slices into neat little pieces.

“We both made mistakes,” Alfred says at length. “And we both need to do better. I’d say we’ve made some steps towards that recently, including tonight. How about we toast to it?”

Bruce takes a deep breath, and nods. He lifts his head to Alfred and raises his glass.

“To doing better,” he says.

“To doing better,” Alfred echoes, and they clink their glasses together.

And as Bruce empties his, a jolting memory tickles the back of his mind until he’s able to pinpoint it, and then he looks at Alfred again, considering.

He says, “The other day, when I told you about Joker. You said… you said that love should never be a source of shame.” He swallows hard, and it sounds much too loud in the quiet library. “Did you mean…”

Alfred’s smile turns into something cryptic and all at once too private. “Did I mean anything personal by that?”

“Well… yes.”

“I should hardly think that my experiences would be of any interest to you,” Alfred says. “It’s ancient history.”

“No.” Bruce sets his glass down and angles himself so that he leans his back against the armrest and faces Alfred properly. “Please. I’m only now realizing how little I actually know about you and I… I want to fix it. I want to listen. Unless you don’t want to talk about it.”

Alfred contemplates him for a moment. As he does, his face changes subtly, some of the lines clearing, new ones breaking gently over his forehead as he gazes past Bruce into what Bruce imagines must be his own memories.

“Please excuse me,” he says as his smile turns just a touch bitter. “This calls for reinforcements.”

“Sure,” Bruce says as Alfred pours himself a third glass and settles in, taking his time to sort through his memories.

“Like I said,” he starts quietly after a moment, “it was a different time. Not that it’s all that easy nowadays, but back then… Let’s just say my family wasn’t overly thrilled when they caught me in flagrante delicto with a classmate.”

Once again the skin around Bruce’s eyes pulls tight as he stares, his mouth open. “Wow,” he breathes. “Really?”

“Really.” Alfred smiles into his glass. “His name was Derek. The biggest irony of it all is that we didn’t even manage to get anywhere because we got into an argument over who should top. That’s how my parents found us, with our pants down, sulking on the bed. Not one of my finest moments.”

It takes all the self-control Bruce has drilled in himself over the years not to snort at the mental image, especially since in his mind teenage Alfred looks exactly like present Alfred, complete with his spotless butler regalia and mustache and balding spot. He elects to keep it to himself and fights over the amusement to ask, “Was it very bad?”

“Well,” Alfred twirls the glass gently in his fingers, “you do know that I spent a considerable time in the army?”

“Yeah.”

“My parents’ reaction had more than a little to do with it.”

“Oh my God.” Bruce suddenly wishes for another refill himself. “Did they kick you out?”

“They… left me with little alternatives,” Alfred says quietly. “My father thought the army would, as he said, make a man out of me. And it did,” now there’s an ironic bite to Alfred’s smirk, “just not in the way he expected.”

Bruce shakes his head. “Wow.”

“Those were the days.” Alfred’s voice turns warm and fond as he reminisces. “I’ll have you know I was quite popular with the men in my regimen.”

“I can believe that,” Bruce says, finding himself returning the smile. “You must have been a star.”

“Indeed. And quite the heartbreaker, too, if I do say so myself. Little did my father know he was in fact doing me a huge favor by sending me away, even despite all the usual… army-related unpleasantness. It did help harden me, too. When I came back, there was never any question of sneaking around anymore. I was too proud for that.”

“And brave,” Bruce whispers, and Alfred’s quiet gratitude shows in the way his smile softens for a moment.

“My father, as you can imagine, wasn’t pleased,” he continues, “but your family was wonderfully accepting. They made me feel welcome, adopted me as one of their own. They even used to invite my army associates and whoever else I was involved with at the time over to dinner. I will be forever grateful for all the heart they showed me just when I needed it most.”

There’s that sting in Bruce’s eyes again. He tries to hide it, but must not be doing a very good job of it because after a moment Alfred wordlessly holds out the bottle of sherry towards him. Bruce accepts the refill gratefully and hides the tingle of coming tears in the drink until he’s sure he can keep them in, and clears his throat.

“That’s — that’s good to hear,” he manages.

“So you see,” Alfred reassures him, “that is not something you need to worry about.”

Bruce is just about to nod when another thought strikes him, one that drops cold and heavy into the place inside him that was just on the verge of warming up.

“But then you had to go right back into the closet,” he whispers. “Because of me.”

“For you,” Alfred corrects immediately. “It was my own choice. By that time I hadn’t really been with anyone for a long time, so it didn’t feel like that big of a sacrifice if it meant I got to keep you. Considering all that your family has done for me, it was the least I could do to pay back their kindness.”

“That still doesn’t make it right,” Bruce insists. “I’m sorry.”

“Dear boy, it’s not your fault. You can’t shoulder all the evil in this world. And like I said,” Alfred sighs, settling into the sofa, “it’s ancient history. I don’t regret my choices in that regard, not a single one.”

Bruce thinks about this for a moment, and then asks, “So have you had any… relationships… since then?”

It’s weird to imagine, but so is everything else Alfred told him up until this point. Bruce feels he has a responsibility to know as much as he can, now.

He needs to get to know the man who practically raised him properly.

“I did have a… dalliance or two when you went away on your epic quest of self-betterment,” Alfred tells him with a twinkle in his eye that could almost be called mischievous. “But since you came back for good? No.”

“Because I kept you from having a life,” Bruce says quietly, and takes another sip which tastes bitter going down.

“Because I wasn’t interested,” Alfred corrects. “I’d lost most of my appetite for romantic tribulations long before Batman came into the picture. I absolutely forbid you to make my celibacy into yet more kindling on your martyrdom pyre, Master Bruce, do we understand each other? It was a choice. I don’t regret it. That’s all there is to it.”

Bruce nods, forcing himself to accept it. It won’t stop him from feeling guilty, but he respects Alfred enough to at least… try.

He turns to the window again and then lets his gaze travel up, to where he knows Joker is, doing God knows what. Licking his wounds, maybe. Hopefully. Bruce swallows again, and turns back to Alfred.

“So, did you know?” he asks, feeling bolder now, the sherry warming the way for his words. “About me. That I could be interested in men too.”

“I had an inkling,” Alfred replies with a touch of smugness. “You did seem rather taken with mister Dent, for example, before tragedy struck.”

“Yeah,” Bruce nods. The old ache of that still lingers somewhere in the corner of his mind, no longer the first shy fascination with the man Harvey used to be but the guilt of a life he couldn’t stop from ruin, and he doubts he’ll ever be able to fully shake off the residue of those regrets as long as Two-Face exists, usurping Harvey’s place.

And the thing is, Bruce has known about that part of himself for a while. You don’t get to reach the other side of 35 without learning certain things about your own preferences. He’s caught himself many times in the past noticing other men, admiring them, feeling himself drawn to them as much as he’s been drawn to women. His interest, on the rare occasions when it was genuinely kindled, always seemed to spark because of the person themselves and their character, and their gender was never really a factor influencing him one way or another. It’s just that Bruce has always been so… bad at relationships in general that until Joker, he’d never let himself act on any initial attraction towards men, too sure he’d fuck it up right out of the gate. It’s always been easier with women. He’s already had social scripts to follow for that, rules embedded in the culture, clues everywhere. That doesn’t mean that he’d been any good with women — ha, no — but still, the fact that it’s more acceptable, the fact that there are rules and guidelines for him to fall back on, has always meant that he’s been more willing to let himself try with those handful of women he’d felt drawn to enough to risk it.

And he can count them on the fingers of just one hand.

With men, it’s always been too scary, too unknown, to even bother trying. Until Joker. Because, again, Joker hardly even registers as a man in Bruce’s perception — much like Alfred is Alfred, much like Selina is Selina and Vicky is Vicky and Harvey was Harvey, Joker is Joker, a massive, blinding, terrifying, alluring force of nature whose gender hardly matters against the monumental power of his entire being, of everything else that he is. Against it, his being a man feels almost like an accident, an afterthought…

Or has, up until now. Because now Bruce is starting to realize what it means.

He reaches for the sherry again.

Later, he tells himself firmly, making the executive decision to shut down any and all tingling memories of hidden tapes and long fingers caressing a slender white cock. Definitely later. That’s the last thing Bruce needs to worry about right now, and they’ve got time.

So much time.

Jesus.

He drinks some more.

“What is it?” Alfred asks, sounding amused. “You’re overthinking something again. Can I help?”

“No,” Bruce says decisively, putting that train of thought with all its heat and panic under lock and key for now. He clears his throat and looks up at Alfred. “I was just… thinking about stuff. Attraction,” he adds, noting the crease between Alfred’s eyebrows. “And how strange it is.”

“Indeed,” Alfred agrees easily. “Do you, perhaps, have any questions for me in that regard?”

“Not yet,” Bruce tells him, and from the twinkle in Alfred’s eyes he has a feeling Alfred knows exactly what he’d been thinking about. “Maybe later, but… not right now.”

“Of course. All in good time.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

They both nod, finding understanding in each other’s eyes, and the air in the library clears, leaving the silence lighter, much more comfortable. This time when they let it stretch the grandfather clock doesn’t sound oppressive anymore — instead, Bruce finds himself rather enjoying the sound, letting the steadfast familiarity comfort him along with Alfred’s presence, once again reassuring, by his side.

He will do better, he resolves as he takes another small sip of the sherry. He will. He won’t take the people around him for granted again, especially not Alfred.

Starting tonight.

“So,” he says quietly, tucking his legs under himself. “Will you tell me about the army?”

“I’m not sure you’re old enough,” Alfred teases.

Bruce snorts and lets his mouth settle into a smirk. “Come on. Tell me some stories. Since I’m not going out tonight anyway…”

“Oh, fine,” Alfred lets out a theatrically put-upon sigh and settles more comfortably against the cushions. “Stories, he says,” he murmurs to his glass. “The young master wants stories. Shall we indulge him? There was that time with the young sergeant…”

“Tell me about the young sergeant,” Bruce asks.

“How detailed do you want it?” Alfred parries with a smirk, and Bruce smiles right back.

He listens with rapt fascination as Alfred launches himself into the story, which turns out to be both hilarious and bittersweet by the end; and then another, much like the first one; and another, and another. Alfred seems to be warming up to it with every word — and every sip of sherry — and Bruce can’t help but be swept right along, and marvel at the man he’d thought he knew so well until he realized that actually he didn’t know him at all.

It ends up being one of the nicest, most pleasant nights Bruce has ever had, even despite the storm that started it; and by the time he notices Alfred’s eyes growing heavy and his voice going softer, the pauses between each sentence longer, he himself also feels pleasantly warm with sherry and love, and just the right kind of tired. He helps a more than a little tipsy Alfred up the stairs and into bed, and carefully tucks the blankets around him, and puts a glass of water along with aspirin on his bedside cabinet.

He decides, right then and there, that Alfred is getting a new watch. Bruce is going to go look for a nice one tomorrow after the meeting with Selina, and wonders if maybe Selina wouldn’t want to tag along for the hunt. She has a better eye for the finer things than Bruce does and might get excited at the prospect.

There’s just one thing he has to do first.

***

He steps into Joker’s room the next morning a good two hours before he has to leave for the office. Joker’s head snaps up to him immediately and he grins, hunched over the table with some papers strewn around it.

“Morning, beautiful,” he greets Bruce. “What’s it gonna be today?”

“Nothing,” Bruce says, coming up to take his usual spot across from Joker. “I only came to talk.”

He takes a closer look at Joker, and winces inwardly. The morning sun does nothing at all to hide the bruises purpling in stark, ugly color around Joker’s eyes and jaw. There’s one peeking at him from Joker’s neck, too, and he imagines there must be more that he can’t see under all the clothes. For some reason Joker’s decided that it’s suit day today and is wearing the entire ensemble, shirt, waistcoat and purple jacket and all, which, combined with the bruises, pulls Bruce into a disturbing sense of déjà vu that he doesn’t care for one bit, not least because it hammers home just what he’d let happen last night, and why.

He thinks maybe this is why Joker chose the outfit in the first place, and as soon as the thought pops into existence, it hardens into certainty.

Cunning bastard.

“Really?” Joker angles his head to the side, smirking. “Forgive me if I find that disappointing. Every time you came in here recently it was to do something exciting. I’m spoiled now, Batsy. You can’t let a girl down like that.”

“What’s this?” Bruce asks, pointing to the papers.

“Oh, just me being a good boy, doing my homework,” Joker says, waving his hand dismissively. “Mullie gets cranky if I don’t. She thinks Math and Logic problems will be enough to make a new man out of me.”

Bruce smiles. He can’t help it. “Are they?”

Joker’s smirk turns sharper. “What do you think?”

“All right.” Bruce sits back, and lets an afterimage of the smile linger on his mouth for a moment. Then he asks, “J., are you okay?”

“That rhymed!” Joker points out in delight, even as his grin stretches and a hint of color touches his cheeks. “J-J-J-J-J, are you okaaaaay…” he sings to the tune of Scooby-Doo.

“J.”

“Play on hay, flay a lay, say it and pay, gay for a day…”

“Please stop.”

“Sorry, that was just a synapse firing. But I do so love it when you call me that, darling,” Joker coos, letting his hand stretch over the table towards Bruce.

Bruce looks at it for a moment, his heart doing a nervous flip. After a few intense seconds of want trying to overpower his common sense, common sense surrenders and he reaches out with his own hand to gently touch the tips of his fingers to Joker’s.

He rather likes calling Joker that, too, and even more than that, he likes Joker’s reaction to it.

Focus.

“I’m serious,” he insists.

“You always are.”

“Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?” Bruce asks quietly, letting his hand move an inch so that his fingers cover Joker’s uneven, mangled fingernails.

“Not anymore than you do, sweetheart,” Joker parries, his other hand coming to stroke along his cheek in a clear jab at the bandage on Bruce’s face.

“Okay. But if you feel any worse —”

“D’awwwwwww, is this the morning-after blues?” Joker leans over the table, face schooled in mock concern. “Really, darling? Now? Are those nasty crickets at it again, eating away at your beautiful brain, telling you you can’t be a real boy?”

Bruce sighs. He takes his hand away. “I’m trying to apologize here,” he mutters.

“Apologize?” Now Joker sounds genuinely perplexed. “Whatever for?”

“Last night. I —”

“You did nothing I didn’t want you to,” Joker points out. “Come on, Bats, you know better than that.”

“I do.” Bruce takes a deep breath. “I do. Still…”

“Oh no.” Joker is standing up, eyebrows plunging, the amusement quickly giving way to something far more stormy. “Oh baby, no. Please don’t do this. You’re no fun when you do, not like this, not when I’m not in the mood for it. Please don’t try to pretend you’re one of them.”

Bruce makes himself look at him, just in time to catch Joker taking the first few steps towards him. And it’s terrifying just how tempted Bruce is to submit to the arms that are already opening up for him, inviting him in, offering the kind of comfort he still feels he shouldn’t want to accept.

“The deal,” he reminds Joker with difficulty. “Please, J.”

Joker looks like he’s about to argue, but eventually he lets out an impatient, frustrated huff and gets back to his own chair. He crosses his arms over his chest, prickly, closed-off, and glares at Bruce over the length of the table, so painfully distant that all at once all Bruce wants to do is kick his morals to the curb, go to Joker, fall to his knees in front of him, close his arms around Joker’s waist and bury his nose in the folds of his waistcoat.

“I don’t know if we can keep doing things like this,” he starts instead, forcing himself to stay in the chair. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yes you do,” Joker counters without mercy.

Bruce takes a moment, and then rephrases, “I don’t want to want to hurt you.”

“Well then, you’re in quite the pickle, aren’t you? Because I certainly won’t make it easier for you just to indulge your delusions of normalcy.”

“You were indulging me last night, weren’t you?” Bruce argues, making himself hold eye contact. “That’s what it was. You thought if I hurt you I’ll feel better.”

“Ah.” Joker’s posture relaxes by a fraction, as does his face, and he starts to drum slim fingers against his arm. “So I was right. It is the crickets.”

“You can’t let me treat you like this,” Bruce pleads. “Not anymore.”

“Batsy, Batsy, Batsy.” Joker shakes his head. “It never ceases to amaze me how much you love wallowing in all that sorrow. Have you tried poetry? I hear it does wonders for the tortured soul.” When Bruce says nothing, Joker sighs, his face cracking into something softer still. “I told you,” he says, “you didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to. For a start, I wouldn’t let you.”

“Promise me that.”

“Would you trust any promises I make?” Joker challenges. “You don’t need my word on something you already know, darling. There’s no need to complicate something we both know works for us. Now please stop being silly.”

Bruce studies his face. When he finds nothing but earnestness there, with more than a touch of irritation mixed with a strange kind of pity that makes him want to throw it right back in Joker’s face, his cheeks heat, and all of a sudden “silly” is an oddly appropriate word to describe how he feels. As horrifying as it sounds, maybe Joker’s right about this one thing. And maybe Bruce was right too, at the start. Alfred just… doesn’t understand, and maybe that’s fine. He was just trying to help, and naturally he’d be unnerved, but the thing is, Bruce and Joker…

They’re not what his parents used to be. They never will be, even if they ever reach a point where Joker can walk out of these rooms and into Bruce’s life in a whole new way, because they’re both warped beyond repair by things in their lives that can’t be undone. Trying to fit Joker into a domestic fantasy of what family life, or love itself, ought to be like, won’t work in the long run and could only ruin what progress they’ve managed to make together. All they can do, right now, is keep playing it by ear, and maybe learn from all the mistakes they will inevitably keep making along the way.

But that doesn’t mean they have to stay locked in the same old toxic sludge, either, or that Bruce shouldn’t at least try…

To do better.

“I won’t let it happen again,” Bruce decides, a welcome clarity settling in in a way he could have really used last night. He can see, now, what the real problem was, and it wasn’t just the violence. The violence is a part of something between them that it will be impossible to extricate altogether, and he has a feeling neither of them would even want to try. The problem was the why, the reason he felt compelled to violence last night in the first place. And that, at least, he can do something about.

“I don’t want to keep reverting to how we used to be before you came here, and that’s exactly what happened last night,” Bruce says. “I was…” Terrified. Of all the changes happening around him, all at once, of people leaving, of his life locking onto a new course, and of being alone, of humiliation, of weakness. He needed something familiar to remind him who he is and what he’s doing, and why. He needed something to ground and reassure, a constant to moor himself to before the current snatches him away for good.

“Angry,” he settles, “and I took it out on you. It was wrong, no matter how much we both may have needed it. Next time we fight, it won’t be like that.”

Joker sighs, and folds himself into a different position so that his elbows rest on the table and his chin sits cradled in one palm. “For both our sakes I hope you’re bluffing,” he says. “I certainly won’t be holding back. And sweetie, letting the ugly stuff out is healthy. It’s good for you. Just ask Mullie.”

“Maybe,” Bruce mutters. “But not like I did last night.”

Joker studies him for a moment, and then sighs and gets to his feet again. “Suit yourself,” he murmurs as he starts to hunt around the bookcase. “I guess we’ll see about that when push comes to shove, won’t we?”

“Joker —”

“Hush now. I’m bored and you’re making me angry again. I need a distraction. Where is it…”

He trails pale fingers over the spines, muttering some kind of rhyming nonsense to himself, before he lets out a triumphant noise and picks out a book from one of the shelves. Hugging it to his chest, he makes his way over to Bruce.

“How long until you go?” he demands.

“Half an hour,” Bruce tells him. “Maybe a bit more if you —”

“Excellent.”

He pushes the book into Bruce’s arms without ceremony, and when Bruce catches it, Joker sprawls himself in the patch of sunlight on the floor, closing his eyes and indulging in a luxurious stretch that travels all over his long limbs. Bruce is so distracted by the sight of him — thin arms and legs, so much of them, his hair fanned out over the carpet, the suit and waistcoat hugging tight over his slim body, the sun glinting off his skin, making it look almost ghost-like — that he almost misses what Joker says next:

“From the top, please, love, a-one, a-two, a-one-two-three.”

Bruce blinks. “What?”

“The book,” Joker explains, shooting him a one-eyed look from the floor, mouth curving into a self-satisfied smile that suggests he knows exactly what Bruce was just thinking about. “Read it to me please?”

“Out loud?” Bruce blurts, and Joker giggles.

“I wouldn’t get much out of it if you didn’t, silly.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Bruce grumbles, opening the book.

His eyes go round under the cowl when he spies the title page, and he looks at Joker, but the clown’s eyes are once again closed and he appears to be doing breathing exercises, his breath deliberately loud and steady, short on the inhale and long on the exhale.

Right.

Bruce turns the pages past the index — all scrawled over in doodles and notes he frankly doesn’t want to decipher — and the introduction until he arrives at the first verses — also vandalized in typical Joker fashion — and clears his throat, and starts to read.

“Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, For the straightforward pathway had been lost.”

He pauses and looks at Joker again.

“Keep going,” Joker prompts without opening his eyes.

Bruce’s eyes return to the page. Ignoring the unsettling crayon doodles, underlines, chicken-scratch comments and everything else adorning the pages is a challenge, but he tries to focus on the print and reads,

“Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say, What was this forest savage, rough, and stern, Which in the very thought renews the fear. So bitter is it, death is little more; But of the good to treat, which there I found, Speak will I of the other things I saw there.”

He gets through most of Dante’s opening Canto undisturbed right up until Virgil appears. That’s when Joker opens his mouth, if not his eyes, and snatches the lines from Bruce before Bruce can read them.

“Not man; man once I was..." he starts, and pauses, and takes a deep breath. "And both my parents were of Lombardy, And Mantuans by country both of them.” He keeps reciting the rest of Virgil’s lines, and when he’s done, the pause he leaves is expectant.

So Bruce clears his throat again and reads Dante’s reply, and his tongue stutters when he reaches “Thou art my master, and my author thou, Thou art alone the one from whom I took The beautiful style that has done honour to me. Behold the beast, for which I have turned back; Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage, For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble.”

Joker’s smile stretches as he replies, “Thee it behoves to take another road, If from this savage place thou wouldst escape; Because this beast, at which thou criest out, Suffers not any one to pass her way, But so doth harass him, that she destroys him.”

He takes a longer pause here, still smiling, never once opening his eyes. Time stills as the words weigh on the air between them, and Joker seems content to let them settle over him like dust, or like the sunlight he’s basking in. Bruce watches him and waits, reluctant to make a single noise.

And then Joker recites the rest of Virgil’s text, word-perfect, and leaves space for Bruce to read Dante’s narration and dialogue, and that’s how they make their way through the first and second Canto. Bruce’s voice breaks a little when he reads, “Thou hast my heart,” and then again at “Thou Leader, and thou Lord, and Master thou” — and Joker’s certainly noticed, judging by the curl to his mouth, but he never says anything and simply lets Bruce read on into the third Canto — only cutting in when it’s time for Virgil’s lines — before the shrill alarm slashes through the haze of the moment like an arrow.

It’s time for Joker’s meds.

“To be continued?” Joker asks as he stretches once again and starts the laborious process of getting to his feet.

He looks sleepy and content now, peaceful, with the sun bringing out the light in his eyes, and once again Bruce allows himself a moment to appreciate the sight — bruises and all — before Joker reaches out for the book and Bruce surrenders it.

“Okay,” he agrees. “If you want.”

“Very much so,” Joker assures him. “You have a lovely voice. Till we meet again,” he says, and lets Bruce pass him without any surprises. “Watch out for the beasts out there, darling.”

Bruce nods at him over his shoulder before he lets the door slide closed behind him.

***

He buys the watch for Alfred with Selina’s enthusiastic help. He leaves it in a gift box on the kitchen counter before he goes down to the cave, and smiles when he sees Alfred wearing it the next morning.

“Not a word,” Bruce says as Alfred opens his mouth. “It suits you.”

“It’s a lovely model,” Alfred agrees. “So much so that I suspect you had help picking it out.”

“Hey, I can buy nice things,” Bruce tells him, mildly offended. “I’ll have you know this one was my first choice.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, no.” Bruce rubs the back of his neck. “But I saw it first.”

“I’m very proud of your developing taste, Master Bruce. Maybe next time you’ll even be able to pick your own tie!”

“Ha, ha.” Bruce fills up the thermo cup with coffee. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into going to the board meeting for me?”

“We all have our crosses to carry, sir,” Alfred tells him philosophically. “And speaking of crosses, how is the clown?”

Bruce looks at him, and finds nothing but polite interest in Alfred’s face. He’s grateful for it, especially since he suspects how much it’s taking out of him to stay this neutral, and to ask at all.

“He’s… fine,” Bruce says. “We’re fine. For now.”

He hopes.

“That is… good to hear,” Alfred says carefully. “I did worry.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

“Not for him, mind you.”

Bruce holds his eyes. He whispers, “I know.”

They look at one another for a moment, understanding passing between them, and then Alfred clears his throat, and shoos him out of the kitchen, and Bruce steps out of the Manor into mild skies and clean air and nipping wind, and thinks, Right. Right. One step at a time.

They’re fine. Or they will be.

Somehow.

***

And so… it begins.

One step at a time.

Hour after hour, day after day. Step by step, word by word, night by night, it begins, and soon, a month passes, and then another, and another, and before Bruce realizes what’s going on his life has stretched yet again to accommodate a new kind of routine he doesn’t even recognize as routine at first.

By day, he wears the Wayne persona with a new spark of energy and purpose Selina’s project has given him. He helps her as much as he can — and as much as she and Leslie will allow — even as he watches their efforts with warm, warm pride that threatens to spill right out of him if he’s not careful. Selina is determined to help turn the East End around without destroying its unique culture, and her enthusiasm is infectious, reminding Bruce just how much he, too, can do even when he’s not wearing the cowl.

And it’s with shame that Bruce acknowledges it’s a reminder he sorely needed.

He uses that inspiration to, first of all, bully and buy his way onto the Arkham board of directors. Jeremiah Arkham has been surprisingly forthcoming and accommodating when the police and ethics overseers descended on the Asylum, probably to deflect any suspicion from himself and keep his place as head of the facility; but even with his new malleability, Bruce makes a point to keep himself involved in the day-to-day workings of the Asylum just to make sure that the changes he means to bring with him are lasting ones. Clearly Arkham needs someone apart from Batman breathing down his neck at all times just to help him stay on top of things — and that’s assuming he really is as ignorant and innocent as he claims.

In the midst of it all the trials themselves slug on, with far too many suspects getting off with only mild punishments — that’s the Gotham justice system for you — and by night, Bruce makes sure they understand beyond any shadow of doubt that they are to leave the city and never come back. By day, he invests more and more money into reforming the facility from the ground up, recruiting lawyers, social workers and doctors alike to draft new rules regarding employees, background checks, codes of conduct and everything else they can think of to make the patients’ lives easier and weed out as much corruption as they can while making sure they stifle any room for it to grow again. It will, there is just not stopping it in this city, but they can at least work to minimize its scope and reach, and if there’s anything to be done, then by God it will be done. Bruce is not going to stand by and retreat into willful ignorance anymore.

Reforming the Asylum itself is one thing. But Selina’s community center gives Bruce another idea, and eventually he drafts another project, one that the board isn’t exactly thrilled with but which also generates a lot of support from the city. With the Arkham scandals publicized, most people seem to agree that the inmates there need more immediate help and new solutions, and Gotham officials jump at Bruce’s plan of a temporary group home for outbound Arkham patients to give them a place to stay and offer support programs as they try to get back on their feet. It’s a political move for most of them, but Bruce is not going to turn up his nose at their motives when they’re basically thanking him on their knees for a chance to save face; and as soon as the red tape goes through he starts construction at a halfway point connecting Arkham to the city, close enough to Gotham that it’ll be accessible by public transportation and removed enough to give the patients a safe retreat.

Dr. Mulligan sits in the front row during the press conference where Bruce first presents the idea. Leslie sits next to her, and they both smile at Bruce throughout the whole thing.

“Not bad,” Selina tells him later at the fundraiser soiree, clinking his glass to his. “Are you by any chance trying to one-up me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bruce tells her, but in her answering smirk he sees the message loud and clear: It’s on.

As far as rivalries go, Bruce supposes there are far worse playing fields.

By night, he keeps working as Batman, keeping an eye out for Ivy and Quinzel whenever he doesn’t have any pressing cases. There’s not much to go on; Ivy herself is definitely not in Gotham, and Bruce supposes she’s in one of those phases where she recharges somewhere in the Amazon, telling herself she can make do without humans altogether. Those phases never last but Bruce is glad of any respite, and hopes that this time it will take her a while to decide to get back to her mission. With Quinzel the case is harder to crack, and Bruce has intercepted a few police scanner reports from New York about suspicious clown-themed gangs that could be a lead but could also mean another Joker fanclub decided to make themselves known, and that’s not enough for him to move away from Gotham for any extended periods of time.

For now, he waits.

And as he does, it only takes him a month or so to stop looking over his shoulder expecting to see a bright figure in yellow, red and green at his side. Another month to stop reaching for his comm to call, “Robin.” Slowly, he tries to get used to the silence of lonely patrols again, and sometimes even manages to take comfort in them, despite the hollow squeeze in his chest telling him he’s missing something no matter how hard he might pretend he doesn’t.

Barbara — Oracle — contacts him with intel sometimes. She’s always brief and to the point when she does and prefers texting to calling, and never says more than she absolutely has to. Bruce knows, through his own roundabout ways, that Alfred and Dick are helping her move out of Jim’s house to a new secret place where she could set up a proper command center, and he quietly bankrolls as much of it as he thinks he can get away with. After a while he starts hearing rumors that she’s trying to recruit a new team to operate in Gotham for her, but for the time being those seem to be nothing more than rumors so he tries not to let it bother him too much.

Barbara doesn’t trust him anymore — that’s fine. That’s understandable. He’ll respect it. But he hopes she understands that anyone looking to operate in Gotham will have to get through him first, and he’s not going to compromise on it for anyone, not even her.

Gotham is his. And he is Gotham’s. That’s not about to change anytime soon.

Jason never calls nor writes, and avoids using his debit card as much as he can so Bruce can’t trace him. Bruce still tries, and manages to remotely follow his trail as far as Quraq before Jason all but drops off the face of the Earth. After that all Bruce can do is monitor news outlets and electronic trails, and keep Jason’s bank account well-fed, and hope.

It’s only when he sees a withdrawal made from Jason’s account in Berlin a month after Qurag that he allows himself to stop imagining his kid’s dead body bleeding out somewhere in the desert and planning a frantic rescue mission.

And then there’s Dick, who got into Police Academy without any trouble — not that Bruce expected any less — and makes a point to call at least once a week and talk at Bruce about everything in his new life, from his roommate to classes to teachers to what he had for lunch. He also asks about Bruce’s cases and offers insights that more often than not prove really helpful, and every time he does, Bruce misses him — misses all of them, really — so much it feels his heart might just stop.

It’s on one of those occasions that he finally decides to risk it and takes one of Leslie’s pills for the first time. Half a Xanax, like she ordered. Then he sits in the library, waiting for any of the negative side effects he’s read about to kick in, but when the biggest result is the ache in his chest letting up just a bit so that he can think about both Dick and Jason without the impending chill of panic, he finally decides that maybe, just maybe, Leslie might have been right.

He goes to their appointments with a bit more faith after that.

Not that it ever gets any easier talking about himself, even to Leslie. It never does and probably never will. But she tries so hard to make it all as painless as possible, and Bruce can find it in him to appreciate that.

She suggests that he should start keeping a diary of his moods, or at least make a note whenever he feels particularly anxious, and try to puzzle out the reason, in writing — she says it might appeal to his deductive mind to, as she puts it, “start investigating” himself. As with the meds, Bruce is reluctant at first — even contrary — but the idea of having actual notes to fall back on during their next session eventually convinces him to try, and he soon realizes that difficult though it is, it does help him. Picking his feelings apart rather than pushing them away, turning them around to poke and prod at the whys until he writes himself raw, does grant him a few moments of clarity of the kind that makes him go, “Oh.” It’s the cause-and-effect kind of clarity, links of a chain clicking together into a thread he can follow, just like when he stands in the middle of a crime scene and suddenly all the clues seem to go together. Soon, when he’s too wound up and frustrated to write entire sentences, he discovers that just putting a name to the feeling, finding a word to translate it, helps too, especially when it feels that there is no word and he’s forced to get creative.

There aren’t a lot of entries in his notebook when he starts.

Three months in and he needs to go order two more, and gets a curious, tight kind of sensation in his chest as he flips through the pages and imagines some third party looking at them over his shoulder; all the “sadness,” “grief,” “anxiety,” “fear,” single words repeated over and over and over. There’s lot of “anger,” too. He imagines what said third party would think of him.

And then he thinks of Joker, and the walls he’s scribbled over with nonsense. The pages he seems to fill with words in angry red crayon that he hides from the cameras and keeps in the drawers of the desk.

The tight sensation gets tighter, and colder, and then warmer all at once.

He brings it up with Leslie next time she sees her, and she smiles.

“You’re not going mad,” she assures him right off the bat. “Don’t worry. It’s good that he has his own coping mechanisms.”

“I sound mad,” Bruce mutters, glancing down at the open notebook. “On the page, I sound a bit…”

“Like him?”

“Yeah.” He looks at the pages some more, and then finds it in himself to ask, “Leslie, what exactly is wrong with me? You never told me.”

She sighs, and folds her hands on her lap.

“I haven’t given you a conclusive diagnosis,” she starts slowly, “mostly because I don’t think there is one. If you want labels then yes, we can work on that. It might make it easier for you to cope, and I do have a few labels to start with. But the thing is, very often mental issues overlap with one another, and the symptoms will be similar across the board, and identifying with any degree of certainty the exact issue or disorder or anything else that might be happening becomes all but impossible, and worse, counterproductive. My job as a therapist is to give you tools to deal with the symptoms so that they stop holding you back. That’s what I’ve been trying to do so far and that’s all that can be done, at least in your case.” She sits back, offers him a smile. “Although of course you are welcome to prod deeper and seek a second opinion.”

Bruce takes a moment to think about it, and then whispers, “Joker isn’t diagnosed either. Not conclusively. That’s what Dr. Mulligan says they’re doing with him, too: managing the symptoms.”

Leslie nods. “Yes, that sounds about right. God help anyone who tries to diagnose that case… no offense.”

Bruce allows himself a smirk. “None taken. And you’re right. I was just thinking, what you said, that kind of makes the two us… similar.”

More similar than he’s ever allowed himself to admit, in any case.

Leslie is silent for a moment, and then tells him, gently, “Actually, that’s a pretty standard approach to therapy, but if you see it as something to connect the two of you even more, then that’s good. Certainly better than you thinking you’re superior to him, anyway.”

Her eyes twinkle, and Bruce looks away as his cheeks heat up. He doesn’t bring up any more similarities he sees between himself and Joker after that.

And it’s a raw process, keeping the diary, writing things down, forcing himself to tear up all the places he’s learned for so long to keep hidden; just as the sessions are raw, just as taking the meds is raw, and he always feels as exhausted coming out the other side as though he’d just gone ten rounds with each and every single Arkham inmate one on one. But the sense of accomplishment at the end is a similar one, too. In a way, it is like wrestling with a monster…

One that he suspects he should have tried to take on a long time ago.

And so when, after a few months, Leslie suggests that they should move to a biweekly schedule, Bruce doesn’t protest too hard.

In the meantime, he gives Alfred two weeks off and arranges for him and Dick to vacation together in Italy. Dick is ecstatic about the idea and uses his very own special superpowers of charm and persuasion to get a break from school; and Alfred, although he grumbles and keeps his usual reserved air, telling Bruce a week is “more than enough for you to burn the house down, sir,” eventually relents and even lets Bruce drive them both to the airport. Bruce then spends two achingly lonely weeks in which he has to fight the urge to hole himself up with Joker for the duration and ends up spending more time with the clown than is strictly advisable anyway; but then Dick and Alfred come back, all sun-kissed tans and dazzling smiles. And the photographs, souvenirs and stories they bring back with them are more than enough to feed into long, warm evenings by the fire for another week or so, even if Alfred staunchly refuses to entertain Bruce’s questions about whether or not he met any “nice Italian men” on the trip.

(Dick refuses to spill, too, and only warns Bruce to under no circumstances bring up someone called Paolo. Bruce is disproportionately amused by that even as he decides not to investigate any further.

For everyone’s good.)

Bruce makes the effort to talk to Alfred more, too, and tries to learn to make tea the way Alfred likes it, and stays up once or twice to make him breakfast. That always earns him a few pointed words of none-too-gentle criticism and raised eyebrows, but a smile as well, and a warm “Thank you, Master Bruce,” and sometimes they sit in the kitchen together in silence, or talk quietly about nothing in particular, the way Bruce has almost forgotten how to do.

It feels… good. Appropriate. And gives him some more brighter memories to cling to when he needs them, and he does need them. Because of course there’s also Joker, and he’s…

Well. Progress isn’t a straight line, is what everyone keeps telling him, and he knows it’s true, for Joker as well as for himself and anyone else. Just as Bruce gets better and worse days, so does Joker.

And the bad days…

Bad days are when he retreats into himself. Sitting across from Bruce, staring into space. Not saying a single word. When it happens, sometimes Bruce tries to pick up a book at random and read to him, and sometimes Joker will even allow it; but there are also days when he cuts Bruce off with a quiet “I’m tired” or “Please go” or “Lilac,” or just straight up disappears into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

And sometimes there is a sharp gleam in his eyes when he does it, cold like it was in the days before the fireworks, and Bruce watches him and wonders if the dissociating is even real or if Joker is trying to make it difficult on purpose. If he’s faking it to watch Bruce squirm.

He hates himself for those thoughts, and he hates the thick sludgy darkness that sticks to his mouth as their aftertaste, and leaves as soon as it trickles into his consciousness. He has a feeling Joker can read it all from his face.

Bad days are also when Joker seems to forget where he is, and starts talking not just to himself, but to people who aren’t there, with emotion and agitation he rarely displays at any other time. Sometimes he’ll be talking to Bruce, and Bruce will say something, and then Joker will get that glazed look in his eye like that one time in the shower, and he’ll trail off, and launch himself into a string of nonsense. Other times it won’t be nonsense at all, but scraps of old conversations, arguments, jokes, and that is almost worse because he’ll rattle off names Bruce has never heard before, and address people who for all he knows don’t exist, but the thing is, they might have existed at some point in the past. During those… episodes… Bruce is reminded of the fact that there used to be a time when the Joker wasn’t the Joker at all. And he finds that he doesn’t want to think about that time. It was a time when Joker didn’t belong to him, when Batman wasn’t the center of Joker’s world; and if that time existed once, Bruce’s thoughts inevitably point out, it might exist again.

Whenever that thought drops into his mind, he always reaches for his diary and writes down “fear.” He doesn’t need to add anything else. He knows precisely where it comes from.

Then there are also the kind of bad days when Joker’s stimming gets worse and worse and worse, and turns into self-harm, and when the manic episodes escalate into panic attacks. They don’t happen all that often anymore, but twice it gets really bad, and when at one point Joker calls for him — Batsy, Batsy, please — Bruce is able to barge into his room and sweep him into a forceful hug from behind, the two of them bent over, Bruce pressing Joker’s shivering body down towards the floor and murmuring “It’s all right, it’s all right, I got you” until the worst of it goes away. The other time though he’s away on patrol, and comes home to learn that Joker had to be sedated for his own good.

He tries not to sit at Joker’s bedside and wait for him to wake up this time, and only goes to him after he asks through the comm to make sure it’s okay. Joker takes his time answering, but eventually he nods, and they while away an hour sitting next to each other on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, backs to the wall.

“I hate this,” Joker whispers eventually, sounding like a man who’s been screaming for an hour.

“I know,” Bruce whispers back. “But you’re doing so well.”

Joker is quiet again after that, and soon tells Bruce to leave.

That is the worst of it. But then there are also the kind of bad days that are less apocalyptic, less severe, more like the kind of bad days normal people have; but at the same time, and maybe because of that, they are just as horrible in their own way. It’s the days when Joker is not unwell, as such, not in the way he sometimes gets, but he is prickly, obstinate, childish. Difficult. Irritable, and spiked up to the tips of his fingernails for conflict. And when he gets like that his mood is like a spark that kindles the same petty ugliness in Bruce, and they end up annoying one another on purpose until one of them — usually Bruce — storms out.

The resulting silent treatment never lasts very long, but Bruce is still sparking with storm residue for days afterward. Alfred usually avoids him when it happens. Bruce is quietly grateful.

He wouldn’t want any of it to rub off on Alfred, too.

There’s also… things, little things, that don’t even count as bad days. They’re just something that Bruce observes over time that, when he pays attention, makes him worry.

Like the fact that Joker seems to sleep more and more, which on the whole should be good news but which makes something deep and shameful in Bruce hurt anyway because he recognizes it as not normal. Or the face Joker makes just before he takes his meds (Bruce closes up on him each time to make sure the pills go where they’re supposed to go). Or that he seems to be eating even less. Or that he seems sluggish more often than not, some of his old energy gone, sapped away by the meds and the longest containment he's ever endured. Or that the skin around his fingernails gets noticeably more and more bloody, or that he can’t keep from touching himself, pinching or scratching or pressing in that same old rhythm Bruce introduced him to what feels like an eternity ago.

Little things like that.

And then there’s the… other bad days, when Bruce aches with the need to touch Joker, and knows he can’t, and the most he allows himself is when Joker asks for him — dull eyes and tight mouth and twitchy fingers and a tense, desperate “Please, darling” — and he holds Joker’s hand across the table, glove off so Joker can feel his pulse.

His own fingers snagging over the cold metal of the shock bracelet.

Although truth be told, he aches with the need to touch Joker on the good days, too. And that doesn’t get any easier.

Not when they hold a conversation that may border on an argument but never quite becomes one, and instead sparks with the thrill of mutual challenge, teasing and one-upmanship, and the gleam in Joker’s eyes shines as much as his wit and intelligence do, and it pulls Bruce in instead of scaring him off, and the edge to Joker’s smile is one of quiet longing Bruce knows he can’t keep off his own face, either.

Not when they play cards as much as they play words, and Bruce leaves electrified, giddy with a strange kind of energy that seems to tingle in his fingers as it buoys him through the rest of the day.

And not when Joker smiles at him just so, and murmurs words that will crawl right under Bruce’s skin to set it on fire from the inside out, and radiate promises that will keep Bruce awake at dawn, rolling around on the too-huge bed in sweet, agonizing frustration.

(Sometimes those pale hours of dawn end with him hanging outside the window to Joker’s bedroom. Joker smiles at him when Bruce does it, and touches his fingers, or his lips, to the glass. When Bruce reaches out from the other side he can almost, almost pretend it’s Joker’s skin he’s touching.)

Nor does it get any easier when Joker asks Bruce to read for him, and he’ll either lie on the floor with his eyes closed and listen or choose a character to recite, and sometimes it’s Dante and Virgil and sometimes it’s Plato and Socrates and sometimes it’s Othello and Yago and sometimes Achilles and Patroclus and, on one exceptional occasion, Romeo and Juliet; and there’ll always be meaning underneath his words that feels oddly personal, and pointed, and it will leave Bruce to puzzle it out when he’s out cloaked in the city’s night, doing his best to keep it safe.

And not when they watch movies together, and Joker will either stay on the sofa and press his feet to Bruce’s thighs, or sit on the floor by Bruce’s feet and smuggle him messy, dirty sketches, poems or short messages on torn scraps of paper he’ll stuff into Bruce’s shoes under the blanket so the guards won’t catch him.

And not when they both just sit there in silence reading or working in each other’s company. In fact, that’s when the longing seems to get even worse, because every single time Bruce’s eyes will catch on Joker and linger, and he’ll remember what it was like to hold and kiss him, and then there is no chance in hell he’ll even remember what he was supposed to be doing in the first place.

But then again, he catches Joker getting distracted in exactly the same way, so maybe that’s okay.

When they fight once a month it’s usually a good day, too. Joker keeps his word and doesn’t hold back, and doesn’t let Bruce hold back either, but it never quite descends into the darkness of that first proper fight, and not just because Bruce has learned his lesson and never brings his gloves into the gym with him anymore. They still let out the tension that’s built up in them each month, and use it as a substitute for the other kind of physicality they both want but can’t have just yet, and it’s agonizing, and Bruce supposes it’s still dark, but not… wrong. Not scary. Not the way it used to be. Instead, it’s a relief, the only one Bruce can hope for at this point, and it’s satisfying in a way that can tide them over until next time, so they can look into each other’s eyes sated and calmer and ready to start again.

They manage one more outing into the gardens late into Fall, just before winter breaks over Gotham for good. The wheelchair is still involved, as are the straitjacket and the cordon of guards; but Dr. Mulligan declines to accompany them this time around and the guards, at Bruce’s request, try to hold back, so that Bruce can push Joker’s chair to the fountain and leave them at such a distance that they can at least pretend they’re alone. There, by the fountain, Bruce gives Joker a fake plume of lilac to put in his collar, and the look Joker gives him in response feels like the kiss to the cheek did all those months ago.

Flustered and all of a sudden feeling like he’s fourteen years old and in a Disney Channel show, Bruce quickly takes out A Midsummer Night’s Dream from his jacket pocket and silently presents it to Joker, who keeps his smile on as he nods.

Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, Bruce undoes the shackles at Joker’s feet to free him of the wheelchair and helps him sit down on the bench next to himself. As he opens the book and starts to read, Joker rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder and closes his eyes; and though Bruce knows he’s not asleep his breath still evens out, and matches Bruce’s heartbeat, and Bruce finds himself counting at the back of his mind.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

But the biggest event by far happens when winter waltzes in for good, laying down a quilt of snow over the Manor grounds that sparkles and crackles in dazzling white. Bruce remembers how distressed Joker was at missing Christmas; and as the streets begin to boast thousand colorful glimmering lights, Bruce gets an idea.

It takes a good long while before he can talk the guards into it — as Wayne, which makes it extra difficult — and another until he gets Alfred’s go-ahead, but eventually they relent, and on Christmas Eve they all pile into Joker’s rooms with modest gifts and decorations and food, which they set up to the tune of classic jazzy Christmas songs floating gently from the speakers. Joker is so ecstatic he doesn’t even complain about the lack of an actual tree, and helps them decorate the parlor with plastic imitations of mistletoe and holly and wreaths, and sprinkles fake snow everywhere, singing along.

They allow him to stay uncuffed for the evening as they gather around the table and eat with plastic spoons off plastic plates. The guards still keep their charged prods on hand and never let their eyes stray, and the remote for Joker’s stun bracelet stays secured to Ramirez’s belt, but Joker stays on his best behavior and doesn’t give them any reason to use it. He remains polite if a touch too excitable throughout, and — Bruce can’t help but feel giddy at this — reserves special courtesy for Alfred, calling him “Mr. Pennyworth” in a quiet voice that borders on reverence and praising his food with enthusiasm that never once feels overdone. For his part, Alfred returns the address with a studied stiffness that can’t be lost on Joker, and doesn’t engage unless Joker speaks directly to him, but it’s clear he’s doing his best to keep the bite out of his words and their quiet, stilted interactions fill Bruce’s heart with stupid, premature hope.

He never even asked Joker to try his hardest with Alfred. Joker decided to do that all on his very own. Bruce shoots him grateful glances after every interaction, however small, like “Could you please pass me some of that wonderful gravy, Mr. Pennyworth, sir” — and Joker replies with a crooked tilt to his otherwise polite smile that shows Bruce he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Smart guy.

After they’re done it’s time for presents. Joker is over the moon to see all of Bruce’s gifts — new shampoos and cosmetics, new socks and underwear, a new purple bathrobe with an embroidered green J, new leather shoes with satin spats and a pair of satin gloves to match — but his absolute favorite seems to be the ugliest Christmas sweater Bruce could find with matching scarf, hat and mittens. At the sight of the set he lets out a squeal Bruce is pretty sure shouldn’t be possible for human vocal cords, then snatches up the lot, promptly sheds the pink dinner jacket he’d been wearing up until that point and wriggles himself into the sweater with so much delight you’d think the ghastly thing was hand-knitted just for him by Charlie Chaplin. He winds the scarf — which is almost as long as he is tall — around his neck too, and plops the hat on his head, and pulls the mittens on too, and presents himself without a touch of self-consciousness to the modest assembly in such a way that Bruce regrets not bringing a photo camera before he realizes that the entire thing is being recorded and he can just screencap it all later from the cave.

And all the while Joker keeps the charm turned up to eleven, so by the time they’re all lulled into a sense of semi-security by good food and Alfred’s virgin punch and surprisingly pleasant conversation, even Winston, who has always been the one most afraid of Joker, looks just a little dazed.

Bruce can’t blame him. He’s spent the entire evening staring at Joker like a character in a medieval romance doused in love potion; he can only imagine what effect Joker’s charisma has on others when he really puts effort into it.

And maybe this is why, in the inevitable lull in conversation that follows the gift-unwrapping, Bruce — still a little out of it, still reeling from the quiet ache in his heart, still throbbing with Oh my God I really do love him — finds the courage to get to his feet, hold out his hand to Joker and ask him to dance.

“Truly?” Joker asks, hand going to his chest like he’s a heroine in a costume drama. He looks to the guards. “Could we?”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Winston warns, and Ramirez nods.

“Oh, but I wouldn’t hurt Brucie,” Joker promises, putting on his best earnest face, and he looks so goddamn charming as he does that Bruce aches all over in the worst, sweetest way. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” Joker turns back to Bruce, who manages to stay in control of his own faculties long enough to nod. “I’d never hurt a friend, especially not one who treats me so well.”

Once again he deploys the full heat of his entreating gaze at the guards, and Bruce finds himself joining him, saying, “Please. I don’t think anything bad will happen, right, Joker?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be good.”

Ramirez still looks uncertain. “I don’t know about this. We wouldn’t be able to stop him harming you if he gets this close, Mr Wayne.”

“We’ll leave room for Jesus,” Joker promises with a twinkle in his eye.

“Joker hasn’t had a violent episode in months,” Bruce points out, and then amends, “As far as I know.”

“That’s right,” Joker nods. “You’ve read the reports from dear old Mullie, haven’t you? A patient on the road to recovery should be encouraged with positive reinforcement!”

“Technically, the clown’s right,” Winston mumbles. He sighs in defeat, rubbing his face. “Dammit.” He turns to Alfred. “You heard them, Mr. Pennyworth,” he says. “If anything happens here we’re not responsible.”

“You’re not actually suggesting —” Ramirez starts, but Winston only sighs again.

“If you try anything you’re going right to sleep,” he warns Joker, and Joker replies with a solemn nod. Then, he pulls the hat and mittens off and puts both hands in the air to show he’s got nothing in them.

“Clown’s honor,” he announces to the room.

“But —” Ramirez starts again. Winston tugs at her sleeve and bends to whisper something urgent in her ear.

Bruce can’t hear what he says to her and Ramirez’s hair gets in the way of lip-reading, but whatever it is, it’s effective. Eventually her frown deepens, and she ends up looking just as resigned as he does.

“Fine,” she murmurs. “As long as no one tells the Commish.”

“I won’t,” Bruce promises. “Thank you.”

He glances at Joker just in time to let the full force of his dazzling grin blind him, and then Joker is pulling the knitted monstrosity off and tossing it over the backrest of his chair.

And then he’s taking Bruce’s hand. The moment his cool fingers touch Bruce’s Bruce is swept away on a wave of need so overpowering it’s like a lash of wind during skyscraper-climbing, and when Bruce tries to swallow, just like on the rooftops, the air stings dry going down.

His hand shakes, just a little, as he gently guides Joker to stand. The worse the want gets the slower his body seems to move, as if it wants to go full slow motion and appreciate each and every second of skin-on-skin contact before he has to let go again for God knows how long. It doesn’t get any easier when Joker stands in front of him and — surprisingly gently — lays his arm down on Bruce’s shoulder, never once dropping his delicate hold on Bruce’s hand.

That’s when Alfred clears his throat, which is just about the only thing that could have torn Bruce’s attention away from Joker’s face.

“The punch bowl needs refilling,” Alfred decides. He gets to his feet. “Let me take care of that.”

He shoots Bruce an apologetic smile as he starts on his way out of the room, and as Bruce watches him go, he tries not to feel hurt. It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s still too early for Alfred to be entirely accepting, and Bruce can’t expect any more from him than Alfred’s already given. There’s time. It’ll be fine.

“Come on, baby,” Joker says, standing closer than Bruce remembers, the quiet warmth in his voice startling him. He turns back to him to find that the smile Joker is wearing matches his voice, and his heart tugs painfully, and all of a sudden he’s out of breath again in the best way imaginable.

“I’ll let you lead,” Joker promises quietly, almost in a purr, stepping closer still.

He slips a meaningful glance at Bruce’s other hand. Bruce gets the clue, and brings it up to let it rest at Joker’s lower back, against the soft, sliding velvet of Joker’s dark purple vest.

The heated awareness of the guards’ eyes on them is the only thing stopping him from pushing Joker closer and smothering the remaining space between them entirely.

I’ll be home for Christmas starts wafting from the speakers just as they finally begin to move, setting a slow, almost dreamy pace as their legs fit neatly against the other. I’ll let you lead, Joker’s said, but soon Bruce realizes that he doesn’t have to, and that in fact, neither of them is leading the other — they just sort of move together to the rhythm all on their own. He doesn’t have to guide Joker with gentle nudge and push and pull, not like he often has to do when he’s twirling one of the socialite ladies across the dance floor at fundraising functions, because Joker seems to be reading his intent perfectly just from his eyes, or from the lines of Bruce’s body. One thought ahead, one step ahead, anticipating exactly where Bruce wants him to be, which direction to turn, where to slide his feet. At the same time he leans into Bruce with the kind of ease that tells Bruce he trusts the strength of Bruce’s arms to hold him up, with affection — no, love — warm and sparkling in his eyes and softening his features into something that looks almost human, almost normal, and Bruce is lost, lost lost lost lost lost in this creature, this monster that, for him, is deigning to pretend he isn’t one.

They sway like that, gently, afloat a slow rhythm that drifts around them to settle on their hair and skin like a caress; until the music changes, and Carol of the Bells introduces a faster, more anxious beat that Bruce recognizes with his heart more than his mind.

One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three.

His body moves to it, and so does Joker’s, one mind in two bodies answering a call from the depth of their veins. Their hands, where they previously lay in one another gently, almost lax, now tighten. Joker’s fingers wrap around Bruce’s bicep, creasing the fabric of his suit jacket. Bruce presses his own to the small of Joker’s back.

They look into each other’s eyes, and Joker’s smile changes, turns darker even as the love in it never budges an inch.

This time, as they glide in a sweeping circle over the floor, they push and pull at each other in turn, and Bruce’s very blood seems to throb to the beat.

Their bodies never touch. It’s as chaste as it could ever get between them, with only their hands and their eyes locking, heat surging between one to the other and back, and Bruce is hyperaware of the guards watching their every move, and yet…

It doesn’t feel chaste. When it ends, when he finally lets his hand slip from Joker’s lower back — grudging, drawing a lingering circle against the velvet in goodbye — and when their hands unclasp from one another, imprints of long pale fingers bitten into Bruce’s skin, Bruce feels as dirty with it all as after each of their fights, and barely manages to make himself meet the guards’ eyes.

Joker’s smile, when they finally leave him, touches Bruce’s face like a kiss.

***

He arranges for the fireworks again for New Year’s Eve, and stands without the cowl underneath Joker’s balcony, in the snow, watching as the lights tear up the sky.

He doesn’t trust himself to stand next to Joker this time around, and his hand throbs well into the night.

***

On Valentine’s Day he comes to Joker as Wayne and brings with him, apart from a movie, a heart-shaped box of Belgian chocolates and a bouquet of real blood-red roses, the same shade as Joker’s acid-eaten, painted lips.

Joker puts the chocolates away with a charming “Thank you” and then takes one of the roses out of the arrangement to examine it.

“No thorns?” he asks, arching an amused eyebrow at Bruce.

Bruce swallows. “No. I had them removed.”

Joker’s smile slants into a pointed edge as he lets his fingers run over the petals.

“It’s cute,” Joker comments, “that you think this makes them any less dangerous.”

He brings the rose to his lips. He kisses it gently.

And then he crushes the flower in his hand, letting the petals bleed onto the carpet.

“Who says that I do?” Bruce asks, willing himself to stand still.

Joker laughs. He takes the bouquet from Bruce’s hands and carries it off to the bathroom, and soon reemerges with the flowers safely tucked into the styrofoam vase Bruce gave him the first time he gave Joker flowers.

He leaves the flowers on the desk where they can bask in plenty of stark winter sunlight, and then takes his usual seat on the couch, smiling that same, slanted smile up at Bruce.

They watch My Fair Lady together that evening, and when Joker laughs at it, Bruce pretends he doesn’t realize that the blade of that laugh is actually pointed at him.

***

“He seems to be getting better,” Dick observes with a sense of disbelief another few months later, after even more good days and bad days and bits of moments knitting tight together so that Bruce almost doesn’t feel them pass him by anymore.

On the screen, Joker sits on the windowsill with his feet bare. He’s writing something again and humming to himself, flexing his toes, tossing his head this way and that to the rhythm of his song.

Bruce watches him too. He nods.

“Yeah,” he agrees, even through the tension in his throat that forbids him to believe the hope that wants to burst in his chest. “I think so.”

Dick looks at him. He looks like he wants to say something more.

But then he just lets the corner of his mouth quirk up and shakes his head, and says, “I think I got a lead on that new drug ring in Bludhaven. Here, take a look at this.”

He pushes a thick case folder towards Bruce, who accepts it and starts leafing through the contents. He feels Dick’s eyes on him, bright and intense, but pretends he doesn’t, and Dick doesn’t say anything else about Joker for the rest of his stay.

And Bruce tries to take his cue from him and go about his routine like he can’t see the same thing Dick does — that recently there’s been more good days than bad days, that the good days keep getting better, that Joker looks like he keeps getting better — because it’s dangerous to hope.

Hope can deceive. Hope hurts when it’s shattered. Bruce doesn’t want to start to expect something he still fears, deep down, may never actually happen.

But days go on. And nights go on. And they keep getting good days, and the bad days aren’t as heart-wrenchingly terrible anymore, or not compared to what they used to be. And Bruce spends hours just sitting in the cave watching the screens, the current feed from Joker’s rooms as well as older recordings, and he doesn’t want to compare but he does anyway, and…

And he hopes.

God help him, he hopes.

And the more he hopes, the more he’s afraid.

***

The changes start happening not long after that.

It begins with Dr. Mulligan telling them that Joker is now to be allowed access to cable TV, only for a limited number of hours per week with a firm ban on news channels at first, and then whenever he asks for it.

Then she says that it’s okay to play Joker music when he asks for it, too, and that he can make requests.

Some time later she decides that it’s time to let Joker use proper utensils with his meals, and gives the green light on giving him actual cleaning detergents too. The first time Joker handles an actual knife Bruce watches him with his heart in his throat, but nothing happens, and the most significant thing about it is that Joker studies the knife in his hand for a lingering moment before cutting into the veal with a smile that is maybe a touch too pointed, but otherwise normal.

Next comes the suggestion to take Joker out into the gardens again, without the chair this time. He is to be allowed to walk on his own, which means no chains on his legs, either.

Dr. Mulligan joins them on that walk and keeps a hawk-sharp eye on Joker, and pretends she doesn’t notice Bruce’s questioning looks no matter how hard he stares at her. Strangely enough, when the walk concludes with no incidents and with Joker on exemplary behavior throughout, her mouth seems to thin even more, and instead of pleased she only looks more tense.

And Bruce still does his best to resist the hope that is now threatening to burst into full bloom, right up until Dr. Mulligan requests a visit with Joker — in person, face to face, and with the sound off on the surveillance.

She allows Batman to escort her all the way to the door. Then she turns.

“Don’t even try to eavesdrop,” she commands.

Bruce still hesitates. “He could hurt you,” he tells her quietly, “without me in the room.”

“The guards are putting him in a straitjacket as we speak. I’ll be fine.”

“Even so —”

“If he does hurt me,” Dr. Mulligan cuts him off decisively, “then we’ll know just how much there’s still to do.”

They face off in the hall, neither of them budging, until the doors to Joker’s rooms whoosh open and the guards exit, looking just as wary about the whole thing as Bruce feels.

“He’s all yours, Doc,” Carter says. “All nice and cuffed.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Dr. Mulligan says politely. “That’ll be all. Remember to keep the sound off. I’ll review the recording later.”

Carter and Winston exchange looks. Then Carter says, “Fine. It’s your funeral.”

They stay outside — all three of them — as the little old lady, her head held high and the set of her shoulders proud and confident, ventures straight into the belly of the beast.

Then the guards drag themselves up to their station, shooting Bruce uneasy glances on the way.

Bruce stays in the hall and waits for the doctor to come out.

It takes over two hours.

But eventually the doors slide open again, and Dr. Mulligan comes out looking rattled and tense but unharmed, and she sighs when she sees Bruce standing more or less exactly where she’d left him.

“And?” Bruce asks.

She watches him for a moment, expression unreadable.

And then she says, “He wants to see his lawyer.”

***

Bruce has met Milton Delgue, Joker’s attorney, several times before. The man, when Bruce leads him through the Manor, looks more like a tenured Harvard professor than a lawyer, with his small hunched posture and his balding patches and glasses and an old-fashioned mustache and the way he clutches his briefcase close, but Bruce knows better. He’s seen the man in court before.

For all the years Joker’s been active in Gotham, Delgue has successfully kept the city from having him executed. Anyone who can manage something like this deserves to be reckoned with.

Delgue has several alone sessions with Joker, as does Dr. Mulligan. Each new visit leaves Bruce unsettled to the point where not even Leslie’s pills can help him sleep, because he knows what it means even if he’s not allowed to listen in.

Change is blowing through the Manor, and what used to be a tentative breeze now threatens to break into a gale.

And then it really breaks — and even with all the signs, Bruce realizes he isn’t ready for it when it comes.

It sweeps into the Manor for good the morning Dr. Mulligan and Delgue both cross the threshold, looking grim but determined; and behind them, Assistant District Attorney Beaudreau steps inside, sweeping her short hair out of her eyes.

Closing the procession is Jim Gordon with a handful of police tailing him. When Bruce meets them all by Joker's door Jim raises his eyes to him only once, and the tension in his jaw clearly signals just how badly he wishes he didn’t have to be here. There’s deep shadows ringing his eyes, too, that tell Bruce he hasn’t slept for at least two nights in a row.

“All ready?”

Dr. Mulligan asks.

“He’s restrained,” Bruce tells them quietly. He doesn’t add that he was the done doing the restraining, and keeps Joker’s quiet, whispered See you on the other side, love to himself.

Jim nods. He doesn’t seem any more confident at that, and his hands are beginning to shake.

“God, I need a drink,” he murmurs, and next to him, Dr. Mulligan lets some of her outer armor soften.

“It’ll be over soon, Commissioner,” she promises, “and I will be glad to spare you an hour later to talk, if you need it.”

Jim shakes his head immediately. If possible, the tight hunch of his shoulders makes him look even more uncomfortable than he was before she opened her mouth.

“No offense, Doc, but I’m not exactly at home with shrinks.”

Dr. Mulligan doesn’t seem offended at all. She simply nods at says, “I understand.”

“Right.” Jim eyes the closed door to Joker’s room as though he’s staring at the gates of hell itself, and in that moment Bruce imagines it must be apparent to everyone in the hall that this is the first time Jim is about to come face to face with Joker after everything that happened at the funfair, over three years ago now.

“Jim,” Bruce says softly, before he can stop himself. “You don’t have to go inside.”

“Like hell I don’t,” Jim sighs, sticking his hands into the pocket of his greatcoat. “I’m the goddamn police Commissioner. Let’s just get this over with.”

He looks to Delgue and Beaudreau. The Assistant DA keeps her hand on her purse and murmurs, “The sooner we go in the sooner we get out of here,” and Delgue swallows loudly but nods.

Dr. Mulligan then turns to Bruce and says, “Batman, if you would be so kind.”

Bruce turns to the panel by the door and enters the security code.

Once again he is left to stand and wait by the door as the entire procession — the doctor, the assistant DA, the lawyer, Jim and his police escort — troop inside. As the doors close behind them with an air of finality, Alfred quietly steps from the shadows of the staircase and comes to stand by Bruce’s side.

Wordlessly, he presents Bruce with the Xanax and a water bottle. Bruce accepts them both and washes the pill down with half of the bottle’s contents, and then they lean against the wall side by side, letting the minutes tick by.

“It’ll be all right,” Alfred says into the silence.

“I don’t know that it will,” Bruce whispers. “Alfred, I… I have no idea what will happen.”

Alfred sighs. He lays his hand down on Bruce’s shoulder.

“I imagine it must be rather… scary,” he offers.

Bruce closes his eyes. He whispers, “Try terrifying.”

Alfred’s hand squeezes over the cape.

“Whatever the result,” he says, “you’ll come through. Think how much you’ve achieved already. Even if today turns out to be a disappointment, remember that it’s only a setback, and doesn’t mean —”

“That’s the point,” Bruce tells him, letting his head drop to fix his gaze into the floor. “It’s not the setbacks I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of what happens if…” He takes a deep breath, presses a hand against the cowl and feels the rough, rubbery texture of it dig into his scalp.

“If things do move ahead?” Alfred suggests when it becomes clear Bruce won’t be able to articulate it.

“Yeah.” Bruce nods, and finally lets himself slide down the wall to sit on the floor.

And God, isn’t that just horrible? He’s waited so long for this. He’s hoped, and dreamed, and wanted so badly not even Leslie’s pills could chase the want away, and Joker, God, Joker’s been stuck in those rooms for more than two years, just for Bruce. And on the one hand, the want now is getting so bad that Bruce is all but ready to burst out of his own skin.

But on the other, he’s fucking terrified. Now that the moment finally seems to be there, or close enough… Now that they’re both, possibly, on the verge of what they’ve worked and longed for all this time, he’s so terrified he almost hopes that when all those people come out that door again they’ll tell him “sorry, we need to start over.”

He’s never been very good at dealing with the new, or the unexpected. Without a map, he’s blind.

And there can be no map to where he’s headed.

“What if I told you,” Alfred says after another long moment, “that what you’re feeling is completely normal?”

Bruce snorts into his hand. His skin seems to be getting colder under the cowl, and he drinks some more water.

Alfred lets another moment float by before he sinks down to sit next to Bruce, right there on the floor. It’s the least dignified Bruce has ever seen him, and he has seen Alfred in his dressing down.

“I remember,” Alfred starts in a quiet voice, “the first time I kissed another boy.”

That is enough to finally force Bruce to look up. He turns his head to Alfred, who offers him a gentle smile.

“I had a most awful crush,” Alfred confesses. “I’m afraid I was rather pathetic about it, too. If anyone had ever taken a look at my notebooks at that time… Good grief, all the hearts on the margins.” He shudders. “If you ever tell anyone about this, Master Bruce, I’m afraid I shall have to kill you.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Bruce promises, and for the moment the incredulous amusement manages to push past the fear.

“Well,” Alfred continues, “I was lucky enough to discover that at least some of that attention was… reciprocated. Eventually I received a note from him asking to meet him after classes behind the old gym building.”

“And?” Bruce asks. “How did you feel?”

“Much as you do now, I imagine,” Alfred confesses, “Completely out of my mind with fear. You see, the crush had become such an integral part of my life by then, I almost couldn’t imagine living any other way. I got used to things being the way they were, to the point where I didn’t want them to change. It almost seemed right, after a fashion, and I was at the age when romanticizing pain comes naturally, and one revels in all the heartbreaks, deep and small, because they appear to make one’s life grander than it actually is.”

Bruce lets that sink in for a moment.

Then he murmurs, “You got comfortable with the heartache.”

“Yes,” Alfred admits, “in a way, yes. And I was so scared of losing that comfort, that familiarity, that I very nearly declined his offer.”

“But you didn’t,” Bruce guesses after a moment.

“No, I didn’t,” Alfred agrees. “And I’m glad for it. If I had, I would have missed out on a wonderfully sweet, naive, if predictably juvenile adventure that emboldened me to accept who I was and gave me memories I still cherish to this very day.”

Bruce considers his words, and eventually comments, “It’s not quite the same.”

Because it’s not just change he’s afraid of, or maybe not change in the sense that Alfred means. He’s also terrified at the thought that if everything goes well, soon now, Joker might… no longer be under his control. He’ll be free, and Bruce will no longer have the assurance of him being right there, in the same place, ready and waiting for Bruce when Bruce needs him. Of being his. They’ll move to a whole new uncertainty, and to make his own promises work, Bruce will have to…

Trust Joker.

And he can’t. God, he just can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And that is a terrible thing to be afraid of when you’re in love with the person you’re jailing, but there it is, and Bruce has no idea how to begin dislodging that feeling.

“No, I suppose not,” Alfred allows. “There is so much more at stake here. So much more responsibility. Which only makes it more natural for you to be afraid.”

Bruce swallows, and lets the armored back of his head hit the wall.

He whispers, “Thank you, Alfred.”

Not that he feels any less wretched about his own reactions, but…

Alfred is here with him, supporting him, offering help. Despite everything.

And that alone makes Bruce feel better about anything that may lie in store for them.

Whatever happens, he reminds himself, I’m not alone.

And Alfred doesn’t let him forget it for one moment, sitting there on the floor next to Bruce right up until Joker’s doors open again.

Jim is the first to get out, and does so by storming away at a pace that’s just short of an actual run. Delgue isn’t very far behind, although he looks exhausted, and drags himself rather than runs down the hallway, sparing Bruce a terse nod. Baeudreau follows, and she, in turn, looks angry, clutching the strap of her purse so hard her knuckles look white.

Dr. Mulligan is the last to come out, after the police file out and trail after the others. As she looks over her shoulder by the door, she’s saying “— don’t forget that.”

“Yes, Doc!” Joker’s voice calls out, and she nods, then turns and lets the door shut behind her.

She doesn’t seem surprised to see Batman still out there. She takes a moment to push the glasses up her nose and rearrange her ponytail, which had gone loose at some point while she was inside.

Then she looks into Bruce’s eyes again, and doesn’t smile when she says, “He’s ready.”

Chapter Text

Things move quickly after Dr. Mulligan’s announcement.

There’s paperwork. A lot of it. Negotiations, too, and tense debates between lawyers, doctors and the police, all with different stakes in the game, all representing different interests. Nobody says it out loud, but they all seem to be aware that the city’s future hangs in the balance, and that this, here, is a tipping point — and there’s not a single outcome that would satisfy everybody.

The thing is, Joker seems to have done the impossible. And by doing so, he’s created more chaos and uncertainty than he ever had in his entire criminal career, because now there’s simply no escaping the question: What’s next?

Nobody wants to let Joker out, or be the person making the call. Not even Dr. Mulligan. But in the end, she’s the one who comes up with a temporary solution that nobody likes but that they have to agree to anyway, because alternatives are running short, and sometimes, when confronted with the impossible, all you can do is follow the book.

Not that there’s any sort of precedent or procedure for what they’re dealing with now. But there’s something close enough to it, and apparently, in the face of the impossible, that’s good enough for a start.

Joker is privy to none of it. They only inform him once they have it all figured out and ready to go. Bruce is there in the room with him when they tell him what his nearest future will entail, and watches him carefully, and doesn’t know whether or not to worry when Joker’s smile keeps still, and his face never moves. Joker does look at Bruce though, with calm, knowing eyes. Too knowing. Bruce has to look away before his face betrays more than he’s ready to share.

And then, far too soon, it’s time for Joker to go.

The van arrives just in time to catch the last of the evening light. It’s the same nondescript black that drove Joker here two years ago, carrying guards whose expressions are just as tense and guarded as they were back then.

Bruce watches in silence as, with Dr. Mulligan in the lead, they guide Joker out of the rooms. He’s in handcuffs, but this time, there’s no straitjacket. No chair. No drugs. Joker walks outside on his own two feet, head held high, and his eyes are clear jade green as they find Bruce.

He’s smiling. The curve of his mouth echoes the words he’s whispered into Bruce’s cheek not minutes before.

Trust me.

They walk him into the van and close the door on him and the doctor. The engine starts. The van begins to move towards the gate, and then past it, rounding a corner that finally takes it out of sight.

Bruce stands there on the empty driveway, alone, and watches them go until there’s nothing but the sun dipping below the horizon, streaking the world in black.

***

That was yesterday. This is today. And it doesn’t hurt any less.

“So.” Dick clears his throat discreetly, standing just a little way behind Bruce. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” Bruce stares at the closed doors.

“Only you haven’t moved in like, two minutes. And you’re the one with the code.”

Bruce shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s just…”

He puts his hand over the cold keys, still not hard enough to press.

“You wanna do this another time?” Dick asks.

Yeah. Bruce really kind of does. But he knows that, as with all uncomfortable, personal things, if he starts putting it off now he’ll never get around to doing it. The worst is already behind him. All he has to do now is…

Get on with it.

One, two. Three.

On three, his finger presses on the first digit of the code, and then he types in the rest entirely by muscle memory. He stares at the door, which opens slowly.

Strange to think that, for the first time in two years, he doesn’t have to close behind him the moment he steps in.

He expects silence going in. The sound-proofed stillness of dust settling, of stale old air unmoved by breath, of emptiness where laughter and warm words should be.

Which is why he’s taken aback when a lash of wind comes at his face at full speed the moment he takes the first hesitant steps inside.

He’s left the balcony open, Bruce realizes, and absurdly, the thought brings a sting to his eyes.

Quickly, before Dick can see, he blinks it away. He forces himself to focus on the curtains that flap and billow on the fresh clean breeze tumbling in from the outside, curling with the distant smell of grass and rain. The breeze races past Bruce and out into the rest of the Manor, chasing whatever ghosts still linger in those rooms, and Bruce can almost, almost imagine it laughing as it flies by.

Well played, J., he thinks as he swallows the lungful of fresh garden air and tries not to expect a head full of green hair to poke out from the bedroom, greeting him with a sleepy “Surprise, darling.”

“Kinda weird, isn't it,” Dick says quietly, coming to stand beside Bruce and looking around. “Never expected I’d walk into a room and go, Gee, I wish the Joker was here. Just goes to show what people can get used to, huh? Even a killer clown living in your home can become normal if you give it long enough.”

Bruce glances to him, and tries not to smile at Dick’s wording. It was probably a slip. Even so, Bruce lets the hinted admission that Dick still considers the Manor his home warm him as he takes another long look at Joker’s abandoned living room.

Empty, he corrects himself. It’s empty, not abandoned. Abandoned would mean he’s never coming back.

“Yeah,” he agrees, struggling past the queasy lurch of that thought. “It is weird.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. But I will be.” Bruce squares his shoulders and braves another step into the space that, even with the animated movement of the wind and curtains, even with the soft murmur of sounds invited in from the gardens, even with the breeze on his skin, is still far too quiet.

He comes up to the sofa. He lets his hand linger, tracing the edge of the backrest, catching on soft upholstery.

A head leaning against his shoulder. Kissing it lightly.

“It’ll be all right, baby.”

“So you said they took him to a halfway home?” Dick ventures after a moment, almost apologetic, like he doesn’t want to intrude on Bruce’s memories but feels that he should anyway. “Could you tell me more about that? 'Cause it doesn't sound like such a good idea.”

“It’s not.” Bruce sighs, letting his hand drop, clearing the small, intimate moment from the forefront of his mind. “But we had no other choice. Dr. Mulligan insisted that he needs a gradual transition. He's been isolated for a long time. She can't clear him before we see what he’ll be like around other people, but still in a controlled environment. This was the only solution we could think of that wouldn’t put innocent people in danger.”

“Yeah.” Dick stays silent for a moment. “Obviously he couldn’t go back to Arkham.”

Bruce’s hand balls into a fist before he can stop it. “No.”

“And a regular prison? Was that out of the question, too?”

“It was.” Bruce forces as much of the brittle steel as he can out of his voice. “His doctor wanted a neutral place that wouldn’t remind him of Arkham. A prison isn't neutral. There'd be far too many risks.”

“Yeah, guess I can see that.” Step by reluctant step, Dick gets closer. “But the halfway home she found. It's for felons, isn't it?”

“Yes. It’s a reentry program. Somewhere they can stay until they get on their feet.”

“What did you think of it?”

“It’s…”

Bruce hesitates. He thinks of the trip he and Nisha took to the neighboring state, and the unremarkable, clean, practical building tucked behind an electric fence on the outskirts of a small town, the likes of which litter the country in droves. He thinks back to the cramped but well-furnished bedrooms that lock on the outside, modest leisure facilities, CCTV cameras, and windows running the length of walls to tempt sunlight inside.

No towers. No turrets, no stained-glass windows, no gargoyles. Only sharp glances of sharp men with sharp hearts who wouldn’t look at him except to assess him as a threat, and quiet aides, and a kind-eyed, dark-skinned Doctor Angelica Harris, director of the facility and Nisha Mulligan’s personal friend, smiling at him and Nisha in greeting even as she faced a decision that would put the entire place at risk.

“It’s nothing like Arkham,” he finishes.

“That’s… good. Isn't it?”

“Yeah.” He hopes. He doesn’t add that the place felt entirely too normal to ever be Joker’s home, no matter how temporary. He has a feeling it wouldn’t go over well.

“I just can’t help but wonder…” Dick hesitates. “Is it the right time?”

“I don’t think it is,” Bruce confesses, “but Dr. Mulligan made the call. She said that it was either now or never.” It’s harder than it should be relaying that to Dick, and remembering Dr. Mulligan’s worn face and anxious eyes, and the fear lurking in them as she tried to explain the reasoning behind her decision in the car on the way back from the halfway home. As though she felt she needed to justify herself — to Bruce, and maybe to the world as well.

He’s getting restless. Impatient. The isolation is actively damaging his progress. If we don’t make the call now, he’s certain to relapse. So either we try to keep him locked up and face that certainty, or we acknowledge the progress he’s made, risking only a potential relapse. There’s no good choices here, Bruce. I accept that the fallout is my responsibility, even though it could very well mean there’ll be blood on my hands.

Even now Bruce cringes at the inner storm those comments unleashed in him when he first heard them, the protests he had to bite back, But we had a deal, J. wouldn’t go back on it now. Those protests rose up in the voice of an 8-year-old child, and the man Bruce is now knows better. A deal is one thing, but prolonged confinement is another. The Joker is a proud creature, and nebulous promises of a happy ending would only keep him committed for so long. If his new, redoubled efforts went unrewarded for another year or so, he might just decide the reward isn't worth the price.

It’s a cold, cold thought. Bruce discards it now before it can chill him any further. What’s done is done, and all he can do now is trust that Nisha knows what she’s doing.

“It wasn’t an easy decision for anyone,” he whispers.

“Yeah, no kidding. If anything goes wrong…”

“Exactly.”

“No wonder she wanted to keep the shock bracelet. I’m just floored you let her.”

Bruce lets his head drop to the sofa again. “She’s the only one up there with the remote and the code to use it.”

“Still, the fact that you trusted her with it…”

Bruce is silent for just a beat too long.

“Bruce.” Dick pokes him in the shoulder. His tone is cautious now. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Bruce protests, but the skeptical tilt to Dick’s eyebrows tells him his son is having none of it. He lets his head drop. “I… may have gone back there at night and hacked into their cameras,” he confesses.

Dick groans and rubs his forehead. “Of course you did.”

“I couldn’t just leave him with a bunch of strangers without a way to see what’s happening to him,” Bruce insists, the bristly defensiveness rising up to his throat like bile.

“No,” Dick murmurs, examining him, “I guess not. Not after Arkham.”

“Not after Arkham,” Bruce agrees, darkly. He sighs. “The point’s moot now, anyway. I don’t have access to the feeds anymore. Barbara cut me off.”

“Barbara —” Dick’s jaw drops, and then he shakes his head. He murmurs, “Figures. I’ll talk to her if you want.”

“No, that’s — that’s all right,” Bruce manages. “I’ve thought about it, and she was probably right to do that. He… he’s out of here now. He has a right to work on himself without me watching his every move.”

There’s silence, tainted with disbelief and surprise in equal amounts.

And then Dick whistles. “Wow, I almost bought that one. Just how much did it cost you to say that? And what’s the catch?”

“A lot,” Bruce admits over a dry smirk, “and the catch is that I have failsafes in place to control the bracelet remotely. They won’t have a chance to abuse it.”

“Does he know?”

“He probably does.”

“Probably?”

“There was no need to tell him,” Bruce argues. “He knows me. He realizes I wouldn’t just give him up without a way to keep him safe.”

“You’re probably right,” Dick allows with obvious reluctance. “He really does know you.”

He sighs, and it punctuates another long moment of silence between them.

Until, “Did you guys get to say goodbye?”

Bruce is surprised enough to stare at him. Dick faces him with an expression he cannot read, and eventually, Bruce simply says, “Yes.”

Once again he looks to the sofa, and it comes alive for him with the memory of him and Joker sitting on it side by side watching the sunset draw near, counting the minutes away. Joker’s distant gaze as he looks out to the city beyond the woods. His quiet, “Strange to think I’m finally leaving.”

Bruce’s own discomfort, and his hesitant, “How do you feel about it?”

Joker’s crooked smile. “Elated. Can’t you tell?” A cold, nervous gleam beneath the grin. His fingers twitching. Bruce wishing he could soothe them with a kiss.

“I don’t like this.”

“I know you don’t, baby.”

“Promise me you won’t destroy everything we’ve worked on when you’re away. Promise me this.”

“Only if you promise to keep waiting for me.”

“Of course. I just…”

A head coming to rest against his shoulder. “Shhh. I know. Just… trust me, okay? You’re gonna have to, one day. Might as well start learning now.” A gentle kiss to his shoulder. “It’ll be all right, baby.”

The memory burns just under his eyelids. Bruce closes his eyes, trying keep it there just a little longer.

Trust him.

God, if only he could.

“When are you gonna see him again?” Dick asks with marked hesitation.

“Dr. Mulligan said to wait two weeks with a visit,” Bruce says, drawing himself back into the here and now, letting the stark sunlight of the afternoon pierce into the gloom of the memory. “That J. — that Joker should get settled in the new place first without any reminders of his confinement here.”

“Two weeks isn’t that long,” Dick points out. “It’ll fly by in no time. You’ll see.”

Bruce takes a deep, steadying, breath, and turns to him.

“I appreciate you being here today,” he tells Dick, “and I’m grateful for the effort, but you don’t need to try and comfort me. I know this must be hard for you.”

Dick shrugs. “Just trying to show sympathy,” he murmurs.

“I know.” Bruce hesitates, and then reaches out to squeeze Dick’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

This surprises a smile out of Dick, and he looks away, forcing a chuckle that doesn’t cross into awkward only because it’s Dick doing it. “Is that the first time you’ve said that to me? Because it feels like it is.”

Bruce frowns. “It can’t be. I’m pretty sure I’ve said it before.”

“I mean, maybe? Probably? But wow. It still feels weird. Good weird! But weird.”

Bruce’s heart twists as he lets his hand fall away. There’s words that should go here. Important words. It’s that kind of moment.

But the harder he tries to dig for the right ones, the more they escape, and the more time passes as they both stand there in silence that just keeps gaining layer upon layer with every passing second. He takes too long. He misses his cue.

Because when Dick finally looks up, it’s with a smirk that still looks just a shade awkward but mostly clear, and that communicates quite clearly to Bruce that the moment has passed.

Especially when Dick teases, “So. It's ‘J.’ now, huh?”

Oh hell no. Bruce is not getting dragged into that. “We should get started,” he says, loudly, turning away from Dick to fix his gaze on the vandalized walls.

“You actually got a pet name for him! I don’t think you’ve ever had a pet name for anybody before.”

“Dick.”

“I mean, you never even called Catwoman ‘kitten’ or anything like that, and the opportunity was right there. Come on. Or would you have preferred something like… ‘S.’?”

“We're not having this conversation.”

“So when you were calling him ‘clown,’ was that an endearment too? What about the Mountebank of Mirth? The Grinning Ghoul? Was that you flirting the entire time?”

“Please stop.”

“Are you making fun of Master Bruce, Master Richard?” Alfred asks to mark his entrance, pushing a cart loaded with mops, rags and cleaning supplies into the room.

“Alfred! Perfect timing,” Dick calls a bit too loudly, turning to the open door. “We were just about done with the obligatory awkward bonding. And yeah, I am making fun of him.”

“For shame,” Alfred admonishes. “Next time please wait until I’m there with a good glass of wine so I can enjoy it properly.”

“Noted. Here, let me take that,” Dick rushes to Alfred’s side and intercepts the cart. “So Alfred, did you know that Bruce is calling the Joker ‘J.’?”

“Good heavens.” Alfred’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “How romantic.”

“Wait until the Titans hear about this. Pet names!”

“No one is hearing about anything or I’m writing you out of my will,” Bruce threatens.

“Then Alfred will just put me in his, right, Alfred?”

“Quite. No need to be so dramatic, Master B.”

That’s when Dick gives up and laughs out freely, not even bothering to hide it anymore.

“You're both hilarious,” Bruce grumbles, and imagines his face is just about hot enough to give Victor Fries and his Freeze Ray a run for his money.

But he doesn't go any further to actually get them to stop. For one thing, the sound of Dick's bright, easy laughter does a lot to clear some of the citrus-scented cobwebs from the room, making it easier to breathe and finally bursting the spell of silence. And for another…

Well. After everything Bruce put them through, the least they deserve is a bit of a laugh at his expense.

“So, where do we start?” he asks, pushing the long sleeves of his henley shirt up his arms.

“We tidy up,” Alfred commands, taking pity on him. “Then we dust the place off, roll up the carpets and cover the furniture. We wash the windows, the walls, the floors. Then we put everything back in order.”

“Yessir.” Dick springs to attention, and from the amused tilt to Alfred’s smile Bruce wonders if he’ll start correcting Dick’s salute.

But instead, Alfred simply distributes the tasks between them, then gets them started on the long and arduous process of trying to get Joker’s living space back in presentable shape. Alfred floated the idea of hiring a crew to handle it, but Bruce resisted. He had a feeling that this was something that required a more... personal touch.

They begin with the living room, and work together to get the space ready. They arrange the books on the shelves and collect the ones that ended up carelessly abandoned on any available surface; they gather up clothes, crafts supplies, exercise sheets, torn pages scrawled over with nonsense.

It takes monumental effort not to peek into the pages Bruce gathers up into his hands, to try and decipher Joker’s messy handwriting or macabre doodles. Bruce doesn’t think Joker would appreciate him trying to snoop into whatever it was he’d been putting on paper during all that time he'd been here. Even so, the temptation to sneak a peek gets even stronger when Bruce opens the drawers of the desk and finds them groaning under stacks of notebooks Joker’s piled inside, all of them bulging with extra pages, dried flowers, candy wrappers, mementoes.

Insight.

It’s all here. Joker’s journals, therapy notes, personal diaries: the key to whatever he’d been thinking over those long two years, and Joker would never know…

Bruce stuffs his load inside and shuts the drawers before the impulse gets any more distracting. He locks it all away and, after a moment’s hesitation, offers the key to Alfred. Alfred takes it, then respectfully deposits it in the breast pocket of his shirt, nodding unspoken approval as though he knows exactly what went on in Bruce’s head just now.

“I’ll take good care of it, sir,” he promises. He hands Bruce a pair of gloves and a rag in a decisive gesture that communicates that this is all that’s going to be said about Bruce’s moment of weakness. “I’ll do the parlor,” he announces. “Master Richard: the gym, if you please. I’ll trust Master Bruce will handle the bedroom.”

“Oh, he’ll handle it all right,” Dicks snickers as he grabs the supplies and skips away into the gym.

Bruce shakes his head after him. “Unbelievable.”

Alfred offers him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Get used to it, sir,” he suggests. “There’s going to be far more where that came from.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bruce murmurs, choosing to sound far grumpier than he actually feels. It's only when he’s safely out of sight in the relative peace of Joker’s bedroom that he allows himself a smile.

If Dick’s ready to crack jokes about him and Joker, that’s — good. That’s progress. Even if the edge to Dick's smile is still noticeably frayed. Bruce will take what he can get, which is already more than he dared hope for.

With that, he pulls open the curtains — Joker had liked to keep them drawn in here during the day — and lets the sunshine in. The moment it floods the quiet, sleepy space, he gets on with the dusting, picking up Joker’s discarded clothes and other assorted mess as he goes. He does his best to stay focused on the task at hand and not let his mind drift, but it doesn't take any time at all for his eyes to stray to the bed with an inevitability that only grows stronger the harder he tries to stop himself.

It doesn’t help that while the parlor's been aired out, the bedroom door stayed closed until now, trapping all the familiar Joker smells inside. His shampoo. His hand cream. A drop of coconut-scented body butter, and underneath it all, the sweet-sour smell of old dried lilac and a distant whiff of acid, always clinging just to the surface of Joker’s skin no matter how much scents and perfumes he may put on himself to cover it up.

Bruce sighs. He gives in and comes up to the bed, and rests his hand against the elegant curve of one of the wooden posts. He takes in the rumpled sheets, the dented pillows. Breathes in what’s left of Joker in the musky air. He imagines Joker buried under the sheets, blinking, pulling himself up as he rubs sleep out of his face, his eyes clearing as they fall on Bruce, his mouth tugging into a smile, Hey there, Bats…

In the fantasy, Bruce would sit on the edge of the bed, in full costume, and smile back, and Joker would tug at his cape to get him to move closer. He would crouch beside Bruce, the sheets falling off him to reveal stretches of naked white skin, and then he’d reach for the cowl. He would pull it off Bruce’s head and place it on the bed, and he'd scoot closer, and kiss the corner of Bruce’s mouth, then the other, and Bruce would lean in and capture his mouth halfway there. That would make Joker laugh into him and call him impatient, and Bruce would gather him up and bear down on him, pressing him into the bed, Joker’s legs opening up for him to trap him in the middle, and he’d smile up at Bruce, purring, Come on in, baby, the water's warm…

It isn't the first time he's had this fantasy. There’s been others, too. Some of them warm with tenderness, some of them violent with pain. They all race through Bruce’s mind now as he stares at the cold, empty bed, and they stir his blood, chasing it down where it’s not supposed to go.

He looks to the cameras. They’re offline, the guard post standing empty now that there’s nothing to guard anymore. But Bruce imagines them recording him anyway.

In his fantasies, the cameras are always on, and the shock bracelet stays curled around Joker’s wrist. He doesn’t want to think about what that says about him.

He sits down on the bed. The mattress sags under his weight the same way it did back when he staggered into Joker’s rooms at dawn, raw with doubt, self-hate and a desperate need for something to hold onto. He gazes at the pillows where his and Joker’s heads lay together, a warm love song ghosting the skin around Bruce’s mouth, soothing the places in Bruce he’d worked so hard not to acknowledge only to have them ripped open when he was least prepared.

The temptation to lie down and seek out the remnants of that comfort grabs him hot and fierce in those same places now, and he has to breathe himself through it, fighting the sudden heat in his eyes.

Jesus, he hopes Joker's all right.

It’d be easier if he could believe that the halfway home is a good place for him, or that the time for it is right, or that he can trust the people there. That he can trust Joker with the people there. But as it is, he worries, God, he worries so much, and they only took Joker away yesterday but —

“Ewww,” Dick’s voice comes in from the gym, stabbing right through the moment. “Is this blood? Why the hell is there dried blood? You know what, Bruce, never mind, don’t answer that, I don’t think I want to know.”

“Sir, are you just about done?” Alfred prompts.

“Almost,” Bruce calls out through the tight fist holding his throat in a chokehold. “I’ll dust off the bathroom too.”

The extra few minutes of privacy help him get something that’s close enough to a grip, even if the sight of Joker’s shower immediately puts him in mind of other, equally distracting memories — and when he emerges, he can face the other two with the sting in his eyes mostly cleared.

He is then entrusted with the vacuum cleaner, and runs it noisily over the vast space of the rooms while Dick and Alfred work to get the curtains down. Alfred holds the ladder while Dick balances on it to first roll the heavy embroidered swathes of material — the same ones Joker used to climb and swing on his first days here — down the rod and then get started on the flimsier white net curtains dancing on the wind. Alfred collects them all into another bag, sends Bruce to get the bed sheets and the rest of the clothes Joker hasn’t taken with him, and then carries the lot downstairs to put in the wash. Meanwhile, Bruce and Dick roll up the carpets and carry them out into the hall just outside.

By unspoken understanding, they leave the mats in the gym where they are, along with all the heavy equipment. Dick doesn’t ask him about the blood stains and Bruce is grateful for small mercies. In the past he might have wondered why Joker decided not to clean them after their fight.

He doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

“Has he ever used this thing?” Dick asks, running his rag over the hug machine.

Bruce sighs. “Not once. Got angry whenever I so much as brought it up.”

“Huh. Wonder why.”

“I think…” Bruce glances to the machine. “I think he probably thought that if he let anyone see he needed it, he’d be confessing that he really was ill. And also that I was trying to use it as an excuse not to touch him anymore.”

“Given it a lot of thought, have you?” Dick shoots him a knowing smile.

“You could say that.”

The truth is, he still doesn’t understand Joker’s violent loathing of the thing. He can only guess. But he thinks he’s right at least to some degree, and if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t think he’d be any more positively predisposed towards the machine than Joker if their places were reversed. No one likes to lay their insecurities out in the open, and there's just no dignity in climbing in to lay between a set of heavy rolling pins. For all that Joker likes to call himself a comedian, he doesn’t take it very well when the joke’s on him.

“What are we gonna do about all the… art?” Dick asks once they get back into the parlor, pointing to the many, many doodles, poems, strings of nonsense and other graphic mementos Joker has left behind, etched into the walls and floors in marker, crayon or — Bruce winces — scratched into the hard surfaces with what could only be Joker’s own fingernails.

“If it were up to me,” Alfred comments, back from the laundry room, “I would wash it all off and repaint the walls for good measure. Twice. And then order an exorcism.”

“Let’s keep it,” Bruce decides.

The other two look at him as though he’s just suggested that they eat the walls instead of just cleaning them. Alfred in particular looks sad, of all things, and Bruce drops his gaze, too raw to deal with it now.

“Are you sure?” Dick prods uncertainly. “I mean, it’s not exactly Banksy. Just look at this.” He crouches and squints at the nearest stretch of wall, and reads out, “Batty batty bat. Bat bat batty. What good are mirrors anyway? Glass on the dance floor, exploding cigar, boom. Fiddlesticks. What’s up doc. Bats ate my homework. Five… no, six exclamation marks.”

They’re all quiet as Dick pushes himself to stand up again, and Bruce is sure they can all hear his heart speed up in the silence.

Dick clears his throat, and shrugs. “Never been much for avant-garde.”

“Work around it,” Bruce insists. “Just… try to ignore it. It doesn’t feel right to wash it off.”

“It’s your home, Bruce,” Alfred reminds him. “Wouldn’t you like to… reclaim it?”

“The house may be mine, but those rooms are his now. He has a right to decide what stays and what goes. Until he does, the rooms should stay as they are.”

“Except cleaner?” Dick comments. Bruce nods.

“Except cleaner.”

“Very well,” Alfred surrenders with a sigh. “Shall we move on then? I will attempt to contain my cringing.”

They begin by laying protective sheets over all the furniture to shield it from dust, and then once again Alfred divides them by room. Dick brings a speaker set and connects it to his phone, and plays light, upbeat music as they wash the windows, humming along like he’s determined to drive out as much of the unsettling silence as he can. Bruce appreciates it — it helps him focus on the work at hand, and on the fact that he’s not in it alone.

What was it Joker said about new beginnings and feeling fresh when they were moving furniture together? Bruce thinks he can understand it a little better now. Each swipe of the cloth across the window pane makes it clearer, admits more sunlight, coaxes out the colors which used to cower in dull shades when Joker insisted on keeping the curtains closed. It definitely looks like a new beginning, and smells like one too, sharp with detergent and just a hint of hope.

This in turn makes Bruce think about Joker’s own colors, and lilac and fireworks and red lipstick bats against white skin. He lets the memories, and his own thoughts about them, immerse him to the point where he almost doesn’t hear the music anymore, and his movements become mechanical, the repetitiveness of it soothing away as much of the rawness as it will. It carries him through cleaning the windows and the floor, and then the bathroom, and anything else Alfred puts him to, until he finally decides it’s time to spread the carpets back over the floor and declares the day’s cleaning done.

He shepherds Bruce and Dick out of the rooms before Bruce can decide to linger behind.

“Pining won’t do anyone any good,” he tells Bruce.

Bruce huffs. “I’m not pining.”

“You totally are,” Dick comments.

Mercifully, Alfred doesn’t join in the chorus. He announces, “But a nice cup of tea will. We’ve all earned it, you most of all.”

When Bruce can’t quite manage to return his smile, Alfred sighs and gently guides him past the threshold to close the heavy metal doors with a final, hollow bang.

“He’s in good hands, Master Bruce.”

Bruce sighs. “I wish I could believe that.”

“Now, now, no more of that. Tea. And then, I believe, you have work to do.”

Dick looks to them curiously. “What work? I thought you said we were done.”

“Different kind of work. There’s things I need to prepare,” Bruce tells him cryptically. “You’ll see.”

Everyone will, soon enough. And then, Bruce imagines, more than just heads will roll.

The least he can do is give the right people a word of warning before the storm well and truly hits.

***

“I’m sorry,” Lucius Fox says incredulously, “you want to what?”

Seated next to him, Selina is wearing a shocked expression that is almost identical to Lucius’s. She’s far quicker on the uptake though, and snaps her mouth shut into a thin line before Lucius can so much as blink.

Bruce looks at them both in turn. “You heard me.”

“Bruce, no.” Lucius clears his throat and crosses one leg over the other, touching two fingers to his forehead. There’s a vein beginning to pulse just over his left eye, and Bruce very nearly smiles when he spots it. After all these years, this vein feels almost like a friend.

“Just… no,” Lucius continues. “With all due respect, I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

“Yes, I have,” Bruce corrects him patiently. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have made the offer. I’m dead serious, Lucius. My only regret is that I haven’t done it sooner.”

“You want me to be CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” Lucius enunciates, with emphasis, as though if he just says the words together loud and slow Bruce will somehow see the folly of his ways.

Bruce smiles at him. “Yes.” He shrugs. “You’ve been CEO in all but name for ages now. It’s high time you got the title and the salary to go with the work.”

“And the office,” Selina adds, eyes twinkling. The initial surprise seems to have worn off her, and she now looks like she’s beginning to enjoy herself. “I bet Bruce’s is much nicer than whatever broom closet they stuck you in.”

“Very comfortable chair,” Bruce agrees. “Real leather. Mahogany desk. Liquor cabinet. You’ll probably make better use of it than I ever did.”

“Better coffee, too,” Selina adds.

“A view of the bay.”

“Reinforced glass, I bet?”

“Won’t budge for anything less than a bazooka.”

“This is madness,” Lucius breathes.

Bruce almost winces. You have no idea.

“I don’t think it’s all that mad to ask the man who’s been keeping the company afloat for years to run it officially,” he says out loud. “You’ve more than earned it. You understand the company, you know it inside and out, and you’ve got the clout and dedication that, frankly, I never bothered to develop. You’ve got all the qualifications, and you’re just about the only person I can trust to handle it.”

If anything, this only seems to fan Lucius’s skepticism. He runs Bruce through with a look so disbelieving, so brimming with doubt that Bruce is all at once reminded of the first time he came to Lucius to ask him for a customized armored car to catch criminals at night.

“All right,” Lucius says slowly, “what have you done?”

Bruce squirms in the chair. “Why does everyone always assume I’ve done something?”

“No, this is absolutely a fair question,” Selina intercepts. “Mind you, it’s the right decision, too, but why would you only do this now?”

And there it is. The billion dollar question. Bruce studies Lucius and then Selina, who’s all sharp edges now, waiting for the other shoe to drop just as much as Lucius is, curiosity naked in her narrowed green eyes.

“I can’t give you any details right now,” Bruce starts quietly, “but... All right, yes, you're right. I am, in fact, about to do something very, very stupid.”

Selina and Lucius look to one another. Selina’s eyebrow arches up, amused. “Now there's a shocker.”

“Not as Batman,” Bruce tells them, ignoring the jab. “This particular stupid thing, when it goes public, is going to drag my actual name through the mud. It’s better if that name isn't attached to the company anymore when it happens.”

“Well this sounds… ominous,” Selina observes. “What are you gonna do, hold a press conference and tell the world all about how you spend your nights?”

“No,” Bruce sighs, “but the effect might be much the same. Or worse. The company stocks are going to take a hard hit. I’m about to become persona non grata. It’s best I step down now so it doesn’t get any worse than it has to be. And I’ll need you at the helm for that, Lucius,” he insists. “Please. You’ve guided the company through difficult times in the past. I need your experience to protect all that we’ve built.”

Selina’s eyes go wide. She’s beginning to understand. “Shit," she groans. "Please tell me this isn’t about Tall, White and Giggly.”

Lucius’s eyes narrow. “Is it?”

Bruce sits back, letting his shoulders slump. “It… might be,” he admits, and stares hard at the fingers of his own hand. He sighs. “Okay, yes. It is.” He makes himself look up at Lucius. “Which is why I need you for damage control.”

“Are you actually gonna tell everyone you’ve been harboring him this whole time?” Selina demands.

She sounds angry. Her fingers twitch where they press into her purse, like she’s itching for the weight of the metal claws, tension pulling lines around her eyes that Bruce doesn’t quite understand.

“Eventually,” he confesses, taken aback by the ferocity of her reaction. “Or I’m going to let them find out. Like I said, I can’t give you any details right now. Just a warning. It’s going to be bad.”

“How soon?” Lucius wants to know.

“I don’t know. Three months. Maybe more. Depends on when they let him out.”

“When,” Selina catches, “not if. So it’s settled? You’ve actually managed to break him?”

Break him? Bruce wonders as a chill settles into his bones.

“It's not settled yet,” he says out loud. “But it's a real possibility now. Real enough that we should start planning.”

Something in Selina bristles at that, and Bruce swallows, heart aching. He’s always known she hated the idea of him keeping Joker, but this? Unlike most of Gotham’s underworld, she’s never had any particular vendetta against Joker. Why on Earth would she be so mad about the chance of him getting out?

Unless she suspects, flies through Bruce's mind, leaving him colder still.

“I’ll… think about it,” Lucius promises after a heavy moment, sounding like a man who’s just been told he has to navigate a cargo ship through an iceberg field.

“Please,” Bruce begs him quietly. “You’re the only one I can trust to protect my family’s legacy. And it’s going to need protecting very soon.”

Lucius sighs, loud and heavy, and shakes his head. “Low blow, Bruce. How the hell am I supposed to say no to this?”

“You’re not,” Bruce agrees. “I know I’m asking a lot, but it’s true. I need you, Lucius.” He makes himself look at Selina again. “I need you both.”

“Right,” Selina sits tight in her chair. There’s a spark in her eyes again, but it’s of the kind that usually ends with her claws hissing out. “I’m taking this as my cue. Why the hell am I here, Bruce? Because I’m guessing you weren’t going to make me CEO, too.”

Bruce maintains eye contact as he pleads, “I need you to take my place in the Wayne charity programs.”

For a moment, Selina just stares at him.

Then, she gets up. She looking down on him, tilting her chin up, and the spark in her eyes turns into a storm.

She says, “No.”

“Selina —”

“No. No way in hell are you saddling me up like some kind of beast of burden.”

Where the hell did that come from?, Bruce wonders, stunned, but there’s no time to pick it apart. Not when it looks like Selina might storm out any minute.

“I’m only asking because you’re the best person to handle it,” Bruce argues. “I need someone to direct the charity team and point them towards the right causes. You know this city. You know all its dark corners. And more importantly, you know where the money’s needed the most, far better than I do. If anyone can do it…”

She turns her back on him and starts to shrug into her fashionable black coat. “No.”

“Selina.”

“Forget it,” she snaps, and stalks out of the office.

Bruce looks helplessly to Lucius. Lucius raises his eyebrows at him.

“What are you waiting for? Go get her.”

So Bruce bolts out of the office to stalk after the retreating click of Selina’s heels against polished tiles, and catches her by the elbow just as she’s about to get in the elevator.

She tugs him inside, fierce enough to make him stumble. The door bings and closes on them. The elevator starts to move down. In the stark, artificial light, the glare Selina pins on Bruce burns even starker.

Shit, she’s furious. And Bruce still has absolutely no idea what he said to set it off.

“I don’t understand,” he confesses helplessly. “I thought you’d be happy. I thought —”

“I’m not one of you,” Selina tells him coldly.

“What?” Bruce reels. “I’m not saying you are! I just —”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to turn me. Trying to make me like you. You never learn, do you? Jesus, and I actually thought…”

She groans. She whips around to bang her frustration against the wall of the elevator. It shakes under the impact, and Bruce swallows, everything inside him seizing up against Selina’s fury.

“I’m only asking for help,” he insists.

“No.” Selina advances on him, her perfectly manicured nails gleaming like claws. “You’re trying to recruit me, same way you always have.”

“All I’m saying is I need you to man the ship for a bit as I step down,” Bruce struggles to explain. “You were the best person I could think of for the job. You wouldn’t even be in charge if you don’t want to, I can promote my assistant director and you’d only advise her. Would that be better?”

“To cover up for whatever it is you’re trying to do with him, is that right?”

She knows, is the first ice-cold impulse that jolts Bruce into something like a realization. Christ, she knows.

But no. She can’t. She has no reason to suspect, none, except…

Her quiet words on the rooftop, at the beginning of it all. About Joker’s obsession.

Bruce shakes his head against the memory, ordering himself to stop being a paranoid asshole.

“Not a cover-up,” he insists. “I told you. It’s damage control.”

“And if I say yes now, where does it end?” Selina demands. “Will you let me slip away after a while, and go back to doing my own thing once the dust settles?”

“Well,” Bruce hesitates. “… Yes?”

“You really don’t get it.” Selina sighs, stepping away from him. “You seriously think it’d be that easy. Well it won’t be. If I do this, if I let you make me director or manager or whatever, that comes with responsibilities. Commitment. Paperwork. And before I know it, I’ll be so bogged down in it all that I’ll miss my way out, and there’ll be no hopping off that train anymore. You’ll have me nice and trapped, dancing to your tune. Just another obedient little soldier fighting the good fight, like you’ve always wanted me to be. Except I won’t even be with you up on the rooftops anymore — no, I’ll be a goddamn pencil-pusher. Well, let me show you exactly where you can shove that pencil, Mr. Control Issues.”

“Selina, that’s not —”

The elevator comes to a halt. The door opens up onto the ground floor and Selina sweeps past Bruce in a rush of perfumed rage.

“Wait,” he strides to keep up with her. “Let me explain. That scenario, that’s not what I meant, it’d just be for a little while until —”

“That’s the thing.” She turns on him once they clear the revolving door and find themselves on the busy sidewalk. “It’s never just for a little while with you. That’s not how this works. You have this way of pulling people in, sucking them into your orbit and warping them in your own image before they even notice what’s happening. Why do you think I broke up with you and kept my distance all this time? You were doing that to me, too. You were changing me in so many ways I couldn’t look myself in the mirror anymore. And the scary thing is that I was okay with that, do you understand? Because at that point, I was so desperate to make you approve of me that I was ready to throw all that I am into the wind just to have you all to myself. If I say yes now, it’ll just start happening all over again, and I’m done jumping through hoops to earn your approval, Bruce. I’m done fighting you for the right to be myself.”

Bruce stares at her, his mouth open. His thoughts are a clash of noise. She’d — He’d —

“But the East End,” he tries. “The clinic. You —”

“I invited you to help with my project,” Selina reminds him. “A project I chose. Something I want to do my own way. I asked because I — because even after everything, I hoped we could stay friends. That enough time has passed and that I could maybe give an inch, ease back into your life without springing that same damn trap on myself. But clearly I was wrong. You still don’t get it, and you’re still trying to collect me.”

“Selina…”

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, they glisten, pooling with tears she’s too proud to allow herself to shed, and the sight knocks the breath right out of Bruce.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not the clown. He may be desperate enough to let you break him for whatever scraps of attention you’ll throw his way, but I’m not that person anymore. I won’t be that person ever again. You can’t put all of us in a cage.”

With that, she turns away and strides to the car, her driver already waiting to weave them into the traffic. She slams the door. Tinted windows instantly hide her from view, and a moment later she’s carried away, and Bruce still stands there on the pavement with his mouth open, speechless and cold and hurting.

***

He is still puzzling over Selina’s outburst when, a week later, his assistant Julie opens the door to announce, “A miss Holly Robinson here to see you, Bruce.”

He frowns. “I don’t think I —”

“She said she was sent by Selina Kyle.”

Bruce sits up, sharp and alert and, all of a sudden, ridiculously hopeful. “Please let her in.”

Julie steps aside to make way for a short, scrawny looking young woman with red hair cropped close to her face and big eyes that cast about the office in a skittish, fish-out-of-water way, as though she expects a security guard to storm in and throw her out any minute now.

“Hi,” she says, grinning at Bruce through her unease. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Selina’s roommate?”

Bruce does, vaguely, and puts on his big smile for her as he invites her to sit down. “What can I do for you?”

“Far as I know, it’s actually the other way around,” Holly tells him, making herself relax into the visitor’s chair. “Here.” She slides an envelope towards Bruce. “I don’t know how you managed that, but you pissed her off and made her feel guilty all at once. I half expected her to buy a dartboard just so she could pin your picture to it.”

“That doesn’t seem like her style,” Bruce observes.

“A lot of things don’t when you’re concerned.” Holly shrugs. “Go ahead and read the note, I don’t mind. It isn’t very long.”

Intrigued and not a little intimidated, Bruce reaches for the envelope.

Holly’s right. The note isn’t very long at all.

I’m going to apologize for the drama, but for nothing else. I needed to say all that stuff as much as I think you needed to hear it. I’m not taking anything back.

But I decided I still like you enough to not want to leave you alone in whatever shitstorm you’re brewing for yourself, so I’m sending Holly to interview for the job you wanted to give me. She needs a bit of direction in her life right now (don’t tell her I said that) and she’ll be perfect for it. All she needs is a bit of guidance to learn what’s what, and maybe some training in corpobabble, but she’s a fast learner, can wrangle suits with the best of them and has a lot of experience getting people to part with their money. I should know. I taught her everything she knows.

A touch of Selina’s perfume lingers over the note, just soft enough so Bruce can catch it. He skims over the note again, his jaw clenching, before he raises his eyes to Holly again.

She sits there all small trying to make herself big, studying him with eyes that are sharp and perceptive and far too knowing for someone so young. Bruce puts the note away and finds a smile for her.

“Do you know why she sent you?” he asks.

Holly shrugs again, rubbing her arm in an absent-minded way that suggests she doesn’t quite register doing it. “Yeah. Selina said you might have a job for me. Something to do with helping people. I guess I wouldn’t mind a proper job? And my girlfriend keeps saying I need to learn responsibility, so…”

The words are casual in a way that her voice tries and fails to be. When she looks to Bruce again it’s with a stubborn kind of defiance, like she’s challenging him, Yeah, I just said girlfriend, what are you gonna do about it? It makes something warm and soft in Bruce come loose, and he leans toward her over the table, admiring her bravery. Wishing he could borrow some of it.

He’ll need it in the months to come.

“You’re from the East End, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Holly’s gaze turns even harder. “Got a problem with that?”

Bruce finds his smile widening as he says, “Not at all. Got a resume?”

She looks surprised for a second or two before she deflates in the chair, some of the fight easing out of her by Bruce’s complete failure to act shocked or disapproving. “I mean… kinda?” she says. “Selina helped me with it. It won’t hold up if you hit the Google, but she said you won’t have a problem with that.”

“No,” Bruce agrees, “I won’t.” He buzzes his assistant. “Julie? Please ask Claire Howard over here, won’t you?”

“I think she’s in a meeting.”

“Correct,” Bruce says. “With me and Ms Robinson, in two. No excuses. Tell her to bring the onboarding folder. We’re having an interview.”

“Just like that?” Holly demands, her eyebrow raised in a way that’s all Selina.

“Just like that,” Bruce confirms. “No time like the present, right?”

“I’m not exactly dressed to impress,” Holly observes, giving a meaningful glance to her casual torn jeans and loose smiley face t-shirt. “I thought I was just supposed to give you the note and let you know I exist.”

“And you've certainly done that,” Bruce tells her, and then catches himself. “Unless you’d like some more time to prepare? We don’t have to do this right now if you don’t want to. I could schedule —”

She laughs at him, free and honest, and Bruce’s smile warms on his mouth. “You’re weird,” Holly decides, cocking her head at him. “I think I like that. It’s fine. You’re the boss, aren’t you? So if that lady doesn’t like my clothes you can just tell her to stuff it?”

“Correct, for now. Although the whole point of this interview is so I don’t have to be the boss anymore.”

Holly’s mouth opens in surprise, but if Bruce’s last remark gives her any misgivings, she doesn’t have the time to voice them. A moment later Claire Howard, Bruce’s soon-to-be chief charity administrator, marches into the office in a flurry of rushed practicality that always surrounds her, looking very much like she wants to be the one to be telling Bruce to, in Holly’s words, stuff it.

“You just pulled me out of a meeting with ACE Chemicals,” she accuses Bruce without preamble.

“I’m sure Tom can handle it in your stead.”

“Yes, but —”

“This is Holly Robinson,” Bruce cuts in, gesturing to Holly. “I very much wanted you to meet her. She’s a friend of Selina’s and I think she’ll be a great help to us.”

“Oh?” Claire’s formidable features clear to make way for curiosity as she turns to Holly and extends a hand. “Have you come to deliver us from Bruce's folly?”

“Hey,” Bruce protests vaguely.

“Folly,” Claire repeats, unrepentant, spearing him with a glare. “You’re abandoning us with no word of explanation. There’s being eccentric, Bruce, and then there’s being careless.”

“I’m doing this for your own good,” Bruce emphasizes.

Claire rolls her eyes. “So you’ve said.” She turns to Holly, who's shooting amused glances between them both. “He’s probably found himself a supermodel somewhere in India and wants to spend a month away with no calls from me,” she stage-whispers. “Don’t buy into the boy scout act. He’s tried to pull that one before.”

Holly looks at her, and then at Bruce’s own put-upon expression. Her mouth quirks up in a way that suggests she’s trying not to laugh.

“I think,” she decides, “that I’m gonna like it here.”

***

A week later Bruce holds the press conference to announce that he’ll be stepping down from the company and his charities, and introduces as his replacements both Lucius and the hand-picked team lead by Claire — which includes a spooked but determined Holly, doing her best to put up a brave front for all the journalists. The announcement is met with about as much uproar as he’s expected, and he has to field rapid fire questions even as he tries to disappear into his car.

Finally clear of the throng, he collapses into the backseat with a sigh that has Alfred sneaking concerned glances his way.

“Everything tickety-boo, sir?”

“Peachy,” Bruce murmurs. “How was it?”

“Appropriately dramatic,” Alfred judges. “I particularly enjoyed the pause you made just before the main announcement. One would think you host reality shows for a living.”

“I feel like there’s an insult in there somewhere but I’m too tired to care. Can we go home now?”

“Of course, sir.” There’s that concerned glance again, through the rear view mirror. “Are you sure about this, Master Bruce? I know you think it’s the right thing to do, but…”

“It is,” Bruce insists tiredly. “When people find out I’m involved with the Joker, it’ll be hell. Protests, boycotts, mass walkouts… I have to distance myself as much as I can now so they won’t be tainted by association anymore than they’re going to be anyway.”

“If you say so, sir. However, one does wonder… Do people have to find out? Wouldn’t it be prudent to try and keep the news under wraps for a while? It would, after all, collapse your entire public image…”

Bruce closes his eyes. He rests his head against the seat. “No,” he whispers. “I won’t do that to him. He’d never forgive me if I treated him like a dirty little secret.”

Alfred takes a while to give it some thought. Then he allows, “Yes, I dare say you may be right. You’re both far too proud for your own good. The hard road, then?”

“The hard road,” Bruce agrees. All the way.

His phone buzzes with texts, missed calls and notifications all the way home. Only one of those messages is enough to engage him, and he reads it with his heart in his mouth:

Thank you.

He stares at the text for a moment, and then writes Selina back with a Thank you. Holly’s amazing. We’ll miss you, though, hoping to hell he isn’t overstepping again.

It takes Selina a long time to answer, but when she does, the relief her words bring rushes bright and light through Bruce, soothing something that’s been making it hard to breathe ever since the day she stormed away from him:

You’re not rid of me yet.

“Good news, Master Bruce?” Alfred inquires politely.

Bruce flashes a weary grin at his reflection in the mirror. “I haven’t fucked up completely, Alfred.”

“That is great news indeed. I think I shall bake a cake for the occasion.”

Bruce doesn’t doubt that Alfred might actually do it, too.

He looks back to the text. He may not have fucked up completely…

But he still isn’t quite clear on what it was he’d done to fuck up in the first place. He wants to understand Selina’s rage, but it still feels like something out of the left field, which he imagines is part of the problem.

You can’t put all of us in a cage.

He rubs the bridge of his nose and puts the phone away, and gazes out the window just as his stomach seizes up with the same drop of chill he felt the afternoon Selina thrust the words in his face.

And just like back then, he finally decides push the vague, untethered guilt to the side and settle on defiance instead.

No. She wasn’t fair. That’s not what he’s doing, and he’s not breaking Joker.

… Is he?

***

He never quite manages to dislodge that stubborn little morsel of doubt. Not even the following morning when he grabs the packed breakfast Alfred’s prepared for him, waves him goodbye — ignoring Alfred’s tense expression as he does — then jumps into the car already parked for him by the main entrance to the Manor and drives out onto the interstate.

He hates it. Hates the fact that he can’t let go of Selina’s accusations even out here on the road, just when he needs his head to stay sharp and clear of any unease that would be too obvious in his face. He’s about to see Joker for the first time in two weeks. That alone distracts him enough that he’s breaking speed limits before he remembers he isn’t driving the Batmobile, and reluctantly takes it easy on the gas pedal. He really doesn’t need to be agonizing over the fact that Selina’s made Joker’s gradual recovery look like a bad thing.

He still crosses the state line much too soon for it to be legal. He doesn’t care. He’s promised Joker that he’ll come visit as soon as he’s allowed to, and he isn’t about to break any promises to this man. Not now, not ever, if only he can help it.

It still feels nowhere near fast enough when he speeds past the sleepy little town at the outskirts of which the Future’s Hope Halfway Home waits, and when he finally rolls to a halt to give his name to the guard at the gate. Bruce doesn’t miss the admiring look the man sweeps over his car, and feels ridiculously self-conscious. It’s the least flashy vehicle he could find in his garage, but on these streets, it still turns heads, and he imagines the inhabitants of the facility won’t take kindly to Bruce parading it around.

Ah, hell. He doesn’t have the time to worry about that. He’s here to see a woman about a clown.

He’s in the lobby depositing his phone and keys and all things metal — except for his sunglasses, which they let him keep perched over his forehead — waiting for the quiet, college-age receptionist to issue him a visitor’s pass, when Dr. Angelica Harris intercepts him. She comes at him with a halo of black curls bouncing around her head, extending her hand to him.

“Bruce,” she greets him, smiling her kind but tired smile as he takes her hand and shakes it. “How lovely to see you again. We weren’t sure you’d make it.”

Bruce frowns. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well.” Dr. Harris tucks some of the curls behind her ear. “We’ve all seen the press conference. You must be very busy, what with the transition and all…”

“Not too busy to drop by,” Bruce tells her, and punctuates it with a grin. “How is he?”

“He’s… adjusting.” Dr. Harris hesitates before inviting him to follow her out of the quiet lobby, past the electronically locked security door and down the subdued but clean corridor leading into the facility proper. “As Nisha suggested, we’re taking it slow. He spent most of the first week in his room. We only got him out for check-ups and daily therapy. This week, he’s been taking his meals in the cafeteria and making use of the rec room. He had his first meeting with his social worker yesterday.”

Bruce hums along, pretending that he didn’t know any of that and that he hasn’t already done a thorough background check on the social worker in question. Michael Connor, age 32, single, divorced, white, born in Chicago, an ex-con who has devoted himself to reentry programs like this one since his own release seven years ago. Worked with some of Gotham’s felons in the past. Clean record. Good reputation.

Safe.

“Have there been any… incidents?” Bruce asks, although he’s pretty sure there haven’t been. If there were, Barbara would have notified him.

Or so he hopes.

“None, I’m very relieved to say,” Dr. Harris confirms, and Bruce finds himself breathing a little more easily. “Naturally we were all worried, but he’s settling in quite well. In fact, he already has a bit of a following.”

“Oh?” Bruce works to keep his jaw from clenching. With Joker’s charisma, he doesn’t doubt it, but Joker’s had followers — and more than that, if Dmitri is to be believed — in Arkham, too. And in Gotham.

He just hopes Joker building himself a cult among the ex-inmates doesn’t mean what he’s afraid it might.

But then the doctor leads him into a wider, sunlit corridor, tall windows lining the walls on both sides. One side looks out into a small green courtyard with benches and flower beds and shadowed spots to sit in out on the grass. The other connects to a spacious room that’s just as bright, and as soon as they get close, Bruce’s heart does a leap straight into his throat.