Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The television glowed in a large room, its light changing color as multiple images flitted across the screen. The room darkened momentarily as the commercial break ended, its light stabilizing to the muted warm glow of a news interview.

“—With me now is Dr. Rebecca Strayer, the one credited with the new therapy techniques behind the successful treatments of some of Arkham Asylum's most notorious patients,” announced Vicki Vale to her viewers across Gotham, before directing her attention to her guest. Seated in a chair next to Vale was a smaller woman wearing a lab coat with the signature emblem denoting Arkham Asylum.

“Dr. Strayer,” Vale continued, “under your direction this past year, Jonathan Crane, Jervis Tetch, and Arnold Wesker have all been deemed fit to reenter society, and are currently living out their lives in Gotham. If that weren’t amazing enough, it now appears the same will come true for the Joker,” Vale said, putting emphasis on the final name. “Now, I think all of us here in Gotham are wondering just how you managed to accomplish such a thing?”

Strayer nodded as Vale spoke, acknowledging Vale’s question with a polite smile. “Well, it would be an understatement to say that the Joker posed a challenge for us all at Arkham,” Strayer began. “Many, including myself, were doubtful at first if he could even be helped at all.”

She paused a moment before continuing. “I was confident with my previous successes, however, that there was hope for him with my new treatment. Though to call it my treatment would of course be giving myself too much credit—every breakthrough depends on the accomplishments of others, and I owe a lot to those who came before me,” she explained. “But even with their help, it has been a difficult journey, and there were times in the beginning when it seemed all my efforts with Arkham’s most infamous patient would be for naught. Today, however, I can say with full confidence that the Joker no longer poses a threat to society.”

Vale's slight frown was only noticeable on the screen by the subtle thinning of her mouth when she answered. “If you are correct—and I hope that you are—then that is a great accomplishment, indeed,” Vale replied. “But this is the Joker we're dealing with here, doctor. Is it possible he has somehow bypassed the effects of your treatment in order to be released from Arkham?”

Strayer nodded at that, as if she had been expecting a question like it. While at first glance Strayer fit the commonly depicted image of a scientist, with the calm, professional demeanor and borderline condescending tone, there was a hint of warmth in her eyes that suggested a less formal personality underneath when not in the public eye. Her smile seemed to acknowledge the fears every person living in Gotham had about the Joker at the same time as it attempted to assuage them.

“An understandable concern, Ms. Vale. None of us at Arkham take the issue of the Joker lightly. If he were indeed lying about this, you can be certain we would know about it. But even considering our high level of confidence, we have made sure to take additional measures to ensure the city's safety once he is released from Arkham. We have multiple safeguards in place on the small chance that he were to relapse again.” She spoke if she’d already answered the question a dozen times before. “I think it’s also important to note that the relapse rate in this treatment program is currently zero percent, and I do not see recidivism becoming a problem at any point in the future.”

Though Vale didn’t look completely satisfied with the answer, she nodded and moved on to a different question. “I think one thing many of us are wondering is just what kind of man lies beneath the homicidal clown. Just who is the Joker, if he really has changed?”

Strayer sat up a little in her seat, looking for the first time genuinely interested in answering Vale’s question.  

“First, I must say that it was highly rewarding to be able to see his progress over time. The best part of my job is seeing that progress, and knowing I’m making a difference—not just for the Joker, but for everyone connected to him. It might be hard to believe, but he has a great respect for human life now—all life, really—and I think you'll find he's not all that different from me or you. Of course, for his protection we can’t have him here to say the words himself, or even describe his appearance now, but know this at least: he feels great remorse for his past decisions, and hopes someday he can help undo some of the damage he has done.”

Vale made a thoughtful sound. “That's a lot to make up for, if he does.”

Strayer didn’t argue against it. “It certainly is. But he is no longer the Joker the city has become familiar with, and while we still don’t know his original identity as a result of past traumas, he will be given a proper name in the future to reflect his new life.”

Vale sat back in her seat. “Scarecrow, the Mad Hatter, the Ventriloquist, Joker—may I ask who's next on your list?”

This time, Strayer seemed hesitant to answer, and it took her a moment longer to respond than with Vale's previous questions.

“I am working with several patients right now, but my biggest challenge at the moment is Waylon Jones, or Killer Croc as the public knows him. So far he's been the most difficult of all—even more so than the Joker, if you can imagine that. No doubt due to the interfering biochemical effects of his disease. But I am making progress, however slow it is. I hope someday he will overcome his baser, violent instincts, if not eliminate them, so he can finally be free from the part of himself that has kept him caged for so long.”

While it was clear Strayer tried keep a positive tone, there was an uncertainty in her eyes, as if she doubted such a goal could be reached. If Vale noticed, though, she didn’t give any indication of it.

“Amazing work you're doing, doctor. With your efforts, perhaps Gotham can truly look forward to a safer tomorrow.” From Vale's tone, it was clear the interview had come to an end. “This is Vicki Vale, Gotham N—”

The screen went dark, leaving the room in silence.

Bruce slowly lowered the remote in his hand, seated on a couch while Alfred stood motionless nearby him. The remaining light of a lamp cast a warm glow around them both, leaving the rest of the room in cavernous shadow.

“I know the facts are there to support it,” Bruce said after a few moments, interrupting the settling silence of the manor. “But I still don't trust it, Alfred. It goes against everything I've known to be true until now.”

Alfred regarded Bruce with a thoughtful stare. “Forgive me for saying so, Master Bruce, but it sounds like you don't like the idea of the Joker and the others being rehabilitated.”

“I do like it. It's just hard to believe after all this time that what helped them was so simple. Drugs and a bit of therapy—why now, after all these years?”

“Novel therapy, they say, sir,” Alfred corrected him, picking up Bruce's empty tray of food. Alfred's dry sense of humor was never lost on Bruce, though Bruce was rarely in the mood to respond to it, and right now was not one of those exceptions.

Alfred watched him another moment, concern faintly etching into his features before he spoke again. “Not everything can be beaten by brute force alone, you know.”

“I know,” Bruce agreed solemnly. “But can you forgive me for not trusting the Joker?”

Alfred's eyes went back to the television, where Dr. Strayer had been optimistically discussing the Joker’s future only seconds before. Bruce noticed Alfred’s shoulders fall the very slightest, and after another moment, he let out a breath of air, looking back to him.

“For that, Master Bruce, I think you can be forgiven.”

Bruce’s mouth formed into a grim line. “Crane, Wesker, even Tetch I can understand. But the Joker? No one just cures the Joker, Alfred.”

2 weeks later.

It was late in the afternoon, and the bar was mostly empty. Two men chatted quietly over a meal at one of the tables, while a tired-looking woman sat alone watching a game on an old tube television that hung on the wall at the far end of the bar.

A gust of cold air burst in as the door opened, followed by a man. He scanned the bar and its patrons with an uncertain eye, clearly not a regular. After a minute of debate he sat a few stools away from the woman.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” A young bartender asked, without the casual confidence of experience. An older bartender boredly watched the interaction from the side while keeping their other eye on the television.

The man debated a minute before ordering a drink. He worked at unzipping his jacket and removing his hat, but left his gloves on, then sat quietly while his drink was slowly prepared for him.

A commercial break interrupted the game, and the woman’s eyes momentarily left the screen, sending a cursory glance over to the man sitting near her. Her eyes hovered with cool disinterest over his tall, lean frame before returning to the screen. Her mouth formed into a contemplative frown through the next few commercials, but disappeared when the game returned to take her interest.

Sometime after that the door opened again, and another man entered, dressed in a heavy coat and wearing a hat and scarf that covered most of his face. He ordered a drink before sitting alone at one of the corner booths.

For a while, not much happened. The woman followed the game while the man at the bar slowly worked at his drink. At the other side of the room, the chatting men grew louder and more boisterous as their drinks grew emptier, and bursts of laughter filled the room every now and then. The lone man in the corner received his own drink, and sat passively watching the television, though he didn’t seem very interested in what was on it. In the background the older bartender could be heard giving some pointers to the younger, less experienced one.

“Do I know you?” The woman suddenly asked the man near her during one of the commercials.

The man turned his gaze over to her, looking her briefly up and down. “No, I don't think so.”

“I'm usually good at placing faces. I feel like I've seen you before.”

“There’s a lot of people to be mistaken for in Gotham,” the man answered indifferently, then went back to his drink.

The woman was still watching him. “No, I don’t think that’s it. Come on, sit closer.” She patted the stool next to her with a few measured thuds.

Something in the woman’s voice made the man decide against it. “I’d rather not. Sorry.”

The woman went silent again, but sent a lingering stare at the man’s gloved hands before looking back to the television. Soon after, the two chatting men got up from their table, paid their tab and left. The door thudded shut loudly behind them, and the silence in the bar became readily apparent, losing a quality of the warmth it had before.

The man jolted a little at the sound, sending a glance at the door. When he looked back again he saw he was face to face with the woman. As she peered closely at him, he could detect the overpowering scent of alcohol on her breath. When he tried to lean away she grabbed tightly onto his arm to hold him in place.

“Those eyes…” she said as she carefully inspected him. “It’s you, isn't it? You're him.”

“Really,” he said, shrugging his arm away with an irritated frown, “You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“It has to be you.” Her eyes darkened then, and she wrinkled her nose. “They say you're cured.”

The man glanced around himself, but the older bartender was busy giving advice to the younger one, and the only other occupant in the bar pretended not to notice their conversation.

“I still don't know what you're talking about,” the man insisted, turning back to the woman.

Her hand went back to his arm, and when he tried shrugging his arm away again, her grip tightened, and it was strong, fingers digging painfully into his flesh while she ignored his protests.

“You’re him, I know it! You’re the Joker!”

“Please, lady, I'm not him!” he maintained, then ripped his arm away, sliding off his seat to take a step away.

It only made her more upset.

“You know what you did to my daughter? My only daughter!” She closed in on him, pushing him back to into the bar so he was trapped between her and one of the stools, the edge digging painfully into his spine.

“How dare you even show your face in this city!” she cried, face threatening closer, her anguish finally taking over. “Nothing those doctors did to you can fix what you’ve done!”

There was an ear-splitting crash and before the man could process the sound, a piece of broken glass that had once held his drink was now pressed up against his throat. He heard the older bartender shout something behind him, but couldn’t hear what it was. The glass pressed closer into his neck until he was sure he felt it draw blood.

“Fine!” the woman shouted, and he realized it must have been directed at the bartender, because suddenly the shard of glass was thrown against the wall and in the next moment she had pulled him back from the bar only to lay a strong blow to his face, knocking him to the floor. “The old-fashioned way, then!”

He felt another blow, and realized he couldn’t breathe. Before he could recover from having the wind knocked out of him, the woman had him pinned to the floor, hands wrapped around his throat. The grip tightened and he tried to breathe in but did nothing to stop her, and his surroundings began to morph into a dim blur.

“Bet you’ve done this a hundred times before.” The pressure increased on his neck. “About time it comes back round to you.”

In the next instant the pressure left his neck, and he could breathe again. The woman had been pulled off him, he realized, by the scarved stranger who had been sitting in the corner on his own.

A moment later, the older bartender joined the stranger in holding her back and together they directed the woman to a seat at the other end of the bar. 

He had just gotten off of the floor when a hand found his arm again, and a voice spoke close by his ear. “Let’s get you out of here while everyone’s still distracted.”

It was the same man who had first pulled the woman away from him. Behind him a little ways the bartender was speaking to the woman, arm on her shoulder as if consoling her. The younger one was still frozen behind the bar, sending the man an anxious, but curious look, as if trying to place him from somewhere else. Just like the woman’s eyes had done earlier.

He nodded in agreement, and with that, followed the stranger out of the bar.

—

“You don’t see something like that every day,” the stranger commented through his scarf once they were outside. He turned to regard the other man. “Are you alright?”

The man shivered against the wind, pulling his jacket closer around himself, then nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Guess emotions are just running a little high right now with the Joker’s release from Arkham,” the stranger mused. It was the third time in two weeks that someone had made the same claims as the woman had, resulting in similar events reported in the news. Thankfully, none of the encounters had been deadly for those unfortunate Joker look-alikes so far.  “She just got lucky this time.”

The man caught himself in a nod, mouth open as if to agree until he registered the final sentence. He snapped his mouth shut, then looked around, calculating a potential route of escape.

“She was right, wasn’t she?” the stranger persisted. He didn't have the same threatening tone that the woman had used earlier, though, and only sounded curious to know the truth. “You really are him, aren't you?” When the stranger saw the guarded look on the other man’s face, he added, “Don't worry, I won't hurt you if you are.”

The man looked away, going silent for a moment. Something in the stranger’s voice managed to convince him that it was safe to answer, or at least that he didn't have to run away just yet.

“I'm Jack. Just Jack, now,” he finally answered.

“Alright, then. Nice to meet you.” The stranger held out his hand. “Jack...?”

Jack eyed the hand with some suspicion. “Napier,” he said, without lifting his own hand.

“Jack Napier,” the man repeated the name, keeping his hand stubbornly in the air until Jack finally took it and gave it a cautious shake.

“Nice to meet you, Jack.” The stranger let go of his hand, then pulled down his scarf, revealing the rest of his face. “I'm Bruce.”

Jack’s eyes widened in almost comical realization.

“...Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce’s eyes shone in quiet amusement. “What gave it away?”

“But you’re—” Jack’s surprise faded, only to be replaced with what looked like suspicion again. “Wait a second, why were you here, hanging around a dive like that? Were you following me?”

Bruce shrugged. “I have friends in many places. It wasn’t hard to find out where you were, pay the right people off. I guess I just wanted to see for myself if the stories were true.”

Before Jack could answer, the billionaire spoke up again. “Hey, you're bleeding,” he said, pointing to Jack's neck.

“What?—oh.” Jack rubbed the front of his neck, and when he brought it away there was fresh blood on his gloves. He frowned a little, then shrugged, lowering his hand. “Could’ve been worse, I suppose.”

Bruce nodded across the street. “Come on. I've got a first aid kit in my car.”

Jack hesitated, still looking taken aback by the situation he had suddenly found himself in, then followed a few moments later.

“Here, catch,” Bruce said, tossing the first aid kit to him once they reached the car—an old beater he clearly only used when he wanted to blend in with Gotham’s masses. “Should be some bandages in there.”

Bruce went to the driver’s side and got in, then leaned over to look at Jack through the passenger window. “Well, are you getting in or not?”

Jack, who had been busy digging through the kit for a bandage, glanced up in surprise. “In?”

“You don’t have a car, right? I’d hate to make you walk in this weather.”

A strong gust of wind seemed to make Jack’s decision or him, and he got in, placing the first aid kit on his lap. It was immediately warmer in the car without the constant biting wind, and he relaxed in the seat, letting out a sigh.

“I take it you already know where I live?”

Bruce gave a small shrug, not denying it. “More or less.”

Jack went back to tending his wound as they drove through the city, batting the drying blood with gauze. He took out a clean bandage to finish dressing the wound. It took longer than it would have without his gloves, but he didn't remove them, despite the inconvenience.

Outside, a light sleet began to hit the windshield, melting as soon it made contact with the warmer surface.

“Thank you for doing this,” Jack said after a few minutes. “To be honest, I haven't really been going out in public much. I don't even drink. And the first time I do, this happens.”

The sleet turned heavier, forcing Bruce to turn the windshield wipers on. “Sounds like a case of wrong time, wrong place to me,” Bruce responded. “I don't know how she did it. I would have never guessed it was you if I’d passed you in the street.” He sent Jack a quick glance. “If I hadn't already known, I mean.”

Jack rubbed at his bandage, watching as the sleet melted into small rivulets down the window. “I don’t know. There’s only so much a new look can do for someone like me.”

“At any rate, it's a good thing I was at that place, or you might have been hurt a great deal more back there. What was that about, anyway? It didn’t look like you put up much of a fight.”

Jack shrugged. “Would have looked bad, I suppose, with her accusing me of being the Joker and all.”

The car fell into silence apart from the constant sliding of the wipers. As the sleet continued to coat the city, Jack seemed to become absorbed by its view, and it took longer than it normally might have for him to notice the unfamiliar scenery.

“Wait a second, this isn’t the way to my place,” he spoke up suddenly. “Where are we going?”

“Well,” Bruce began, “The way I figure it, if a man nearly gets his life taken from him, he deserves a drink.” He looked over at Jack, sporting one of his trademark Bruce Wayne grins. “A real drink, I mean.”

—

“I know you said you didn't usually drink this stuff, but...” Bruce held out a glass filled with amber liquid, holding one for himself in his other hand with extra ice. It was a single malt Scotch aged 20 years, something better served neat, but he was more concerned about keeping a clear mind right now than ruining a good Scotch with ice.

Jack shrugged. “Today's a good day as any to start,” he answered, taking the glass.

Bruce gestured to two leather chairs in front of the fireplace. Alfred had left them moments ago after adding fresh wood to the fireplace, appearing to go about his business as usual. As if it were completely normal for Jack to be there. Bruce might have smiled if Jack hadn't been watching. He could imagine the comments Alfred was making in his head.

Talking with Joker like this hadn’t been part of his original plan, but the incident at the bar had presented him with a unique opportunity. While it had its risks, Bruce had decided it was worth it to interact directly with Joker as Bruce Wayne instead of Batman to discuss his new identity as Jack under the guise of simple curiosity.

“When you said drink, I didn’t think you meant at your manor,” Jack commented once he had sat down.

“You’re disappointed?” Bruce asked, setting his own drink beside him.

“Oh no, not that,” Jack said quickly, shaking his head. “Just trying to pin down why, is all. It’s not safe for someone like me to be very trustful of strangers. Even high-class ones like yourself.”

Funny how easily Jack’s statement could be reversed in this situation, thought Bruce. Who could ever trust somebody who had once been the Joker?

“I’ll be honest with you, Jack,” Bruce said. “As someone who has regularly contributed funds to Arkham in the past, I wanted to see firsthand if Strayer’s work had really paid off, and wasn’t a trick of some sort.” Bruce studied Jack before he spoke again. “And by the looks of it, it certainly has.”

“Why not just ask Strayer to see me yourself?”

Before Bruce could answer, Jack stopped him with a hand in the air. “You know what? I’m not going to question it. Honestly, I’m just glad to get away from it all for a while, no matter what your motives are for bringing me here.” He relaxed back into his seat. “And anyway, your reason sounds believable enough.”

It took Bruce a moment to realize there might be more to Jack’s statement. “Get away? Do you mean you’re in danger where you’re at?”

“No, no—nothing like what happened tonight, anyway. But it’s not always the most pleasant atmosphere where I'm staying, let’s just put it at that.”

Then, perhaps at hearing the concern in Bruce’s voice, Jack straightened in his chair again, turning to watch Bruce with new interest. “I gotta say, you don't really seem like how they depict you in the newspapers.”

Bruce picked up his glass. “Are you how they depict you?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

“I should have known better than to ask that one,” Jack said, shaking his head and taking a drink himself before turning his attention to the fireplace. Bruce followed his gaze, and their conversation fell into an odd silence as they watched the steady dance of flames.

It was strange, being able to sit like this next to Joker—or at least, someone who had been him once. His hair and eyes and clothes were different, and his skin had been expertly hidden under layers of makeup, but it was still the same man underneath. Bruce could recognize him anywhere, despite what he had told Jack earlier. And here he was, drinking with someone who had murdered countless times. Someone who could still very well be capable of it.

“It's funny,” Jack said, breaking their silence. Jack’s eyes were still intent on the fire, his words strangely close to what Bruce’s own thoughts were. “I have all these memories. The things he did... and yet, they all feel so far away. I can look at them, and it doesn't affect me, because it wasn't me in those memories. But when that woman looked at me today… for the first time I truly felt like the worst person alive.”  

He, Jack said, as if the Joker and Jack really were two different people altogether. And it wasn't hard to see why, even with the unavoidable physical similarities. Jack's demeanor was entirely different from the Joker's. His voice, his mannerisms, the way he averted his gaze when Bruce stared at him for too long—no matter how Bruce tried to deny it, the man before him seemed almost a stranger.

“You aren't that person anymore, no matter what she thinks,” Bruce said, trying not to think too deeply on his own statement.

“I know—I, uh,” Jack stumbled over his words, though Bruce was sure it wasn't from his drink. “Thank you for understanding. And for helping me, when you could've easily been forgiven for not doing so.” He turned his glass absently in his hand while he spoke.

“Don't mention it,” Bruce answered, swirling his own drink a little so that the ice clinked against the side of the glass, before taking another sip. “So, you do remember it, then? Who you were, before, as...?”

When Bruce didn't clarify further, Jack looked away, his mouth forming a thin line.

“I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Alright, what about your past, then?” Bruce asked, trying to sound conversational. “What was your life like before you were him?”

Jack tightened his hold on his drink. “I don't remember.”

“Then you were always...?” Bruce thought he had gone too far for a moment, and Jack would retreat from the conversation, from himself, from the mansion, and all Bruce’s efforts would be in vain.

But if Jack suspected Bruce to have some ulterior motive, he must have ultimately dismissed it, and relaxed his hold on the glass, letting out a sigh.

“No, I wasn't always like that,” he answered. “Not exactly, anyway. But whenever I try to think of a time before I was him, a thousand memories pop up—you would think I’d lived a dozen other lives—yet none of them have any real feeling of truth to them.” He shook his head tiredly. “That's what he'd do, you know. He invented all sorts of miserable pasts because he didn't want to be limited to just one. And now I don't have any that can be relied on.”

“We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to.”

Jack shook his head. “No, it's alright. What else have I got to talk about? It's been my life, until now. Well, not mine,” he corrected himself. “But it's all I know.”

Bruce leaned over in his seat, resting a hand briefly on Jack's shoulder.

“Things like this take time, like anything else, but not as long as you think. You’ll adjust to your new life before you even realize it.”

“Heh, I sure hope so.” Even Jack’s laugh was different from the Joker's—aloof, and unalarming; a blanched and lifeless sound. Somehow, it made Bruce feel uncomfortable in its own way.

“Have you thought of what you might want to do now that you're a new man?” Bruce asked, shifting the subject.

Jack shook his head. “No, not yet. It's difficult for someone with my past to find a place that would accept me.” He paused. “But it's not just that.” He looked down at his glass, hesitating before he continued.

“I know I shouldn't be picky about things like this, but I don't want to take just any job that’ll have me. If I could, I'd like to prevent my criminal past from having any power over this city any longer,” he explained. “I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s been happening in the news lately.”

Bruce thought for a minute. “You mean the drug overdoses?”

Jack nodded in affirmation. “One in particular.”

In that case, there was only one drug Jack could mean.

“Ambrosia.”

There were always those in Gotham who had a morbid fascination with the recreational use of Joker's toxin. The unsettling smiles of its victims had made a certain few curious as to what a weaker version of its effects would be. Many poor imitations had appeared over the years. Laughing gas, Smilex, and Devil’s Grin were a few better known ones. More recently, a growing number were trying Ambrosia for the rumored god-like feeling of immortality it bestowed on its onset.

Most were cheap knockoffs—nothing like the original, but the latest concoction was different. And just like the original, Ambrosia was proving far more deadly than the others. After obtaining and analyzing a sample of the drug, Bruce had come to the conclusion that either someone had been unlucky enough to come upon a store of Joker Toxin, or worse, had learned how to manufacture it.

“I’ve heard a little about it,” Bruce continued. “Overdose rates for Ambrosia are triple that of other Joker Toxin knockoffs, and the problem is only getting worse with its increase in popularity.”

“That’s because it isn’t a knockoff,” Jack proclaimed, confirming Bruce's fears. At Bruce's questioning look, he went on. “It's the real deal. I should know that more than anyone. All the symptoms fit with lower dosages of the toxin. Meaning someone’s found out how to make it.”

“Do you have any idea who’s behind it?” Bruce asked. Jack’s confirmation meant that Joker probably hadn't left any secret stores of the toxin anywhere.

“No,” Jack replied, looking disappointed by that fact. “I know everyone's pointing fingers at Maxie Zeus, considering the name, but I just don't think he has the knowhow how to make it." Jack shrugged. "I'm not sure it matters at this point who is making it, though. The secret's out. I can’t stop people from using it, but I might be able to do something to help stop the deaths from occurring,” he continued, his eyes lighting with rare ambition as he spoke. “I could help create an antidote.”

Bruce recalled Dr. Strayer’s words from earlier about how Joker wanted to help undo some of the damage he had done. Now he had a better idea of what that meant. To date, an effective antidote for Joker Toxin did not exist. To have something like that on hand would save a lot of lives, even without the Joker at large in the city any longer.

“Looks like you’ve thought about what you want to do, after all.”

Jack shrugged, the ambition leaving his eyes as quickly as it had come. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. With my past, there's about as much a chance of that happening as Batman admitting himself into Arkham Asylum. You think any place would trust me in a lab?”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

Jack still looked unconvinced, and Bruce could tell he didn't want to pursue the topic further at the moment.

“So what do you think of him, anyway, now that you're a new person?”

“Who?” Jack gave him a curious look.

“Batman.”

“Oh.” Jack looked away again. “Well, real or not, I guess he's affected all of us in one way or another.”

It took Bruce a moment to fully register the words. “What do you mean, real or not? You don't think Batman is real?”

“It's not that I don't think he's real,” Jack began, taking a drink from his glass, almost empty now, then straightening up in his chair before continuing. “I know he isn't. I didn't use to think that way, of course, but that was before—you know.” He made a vague motion with his hands toward himself and let that finish his statement for him.

Hands, Bruce realized, that had gripped knives and pulled triggers, beaten and murdered innocents and criminals alike.

“But then who have you been fighting with all this time? Who's been stopping you—the Joker, I mean—if not him?” Bruce asked, forcing his attention away from Jack’s hands.

“Look at it this way. Fat bearded men dress up as Santa every year, and that doesn't make him any more real, does it?”

“No, but—”

“Look, just because someone dresses up as a bat, it doesn't make him Batman. There never was a Batman.”

“You really do believe that, don't you?” Bruce remarked, his surprise genuine.

“Don't you ?”

Bruce didn't answer.

Jack sighed and shook his head. “Deny it all you want, Batman is just a man with a misguided sense of justice who uses brute force and intimidation to get what he wants. It's pathetic, is what it is. He certainly isn't someone to fear, or look up to, or feel anything for. And if we're being really accurate, I'd say it's probably more than one guy working together. Although working together is probably giving them too much credit. Half of ‘em are probably just copycats.” He took another drink.

The more Jack spoke about Batman, the more bothered he seemed to become at the very idea of him. But that’s all it was. Irritation, nothing more. Not a trace of the obsession that had afflicted him as the Joker.

“Alright, alright, I believe you,” Bruce said, holding a hand up in defeat. “Just surprised me that you thought that, is all.” Bruce never actually thought he'd be hearing these kinds of statements from Joker, of all people. No, Jack. Jack was his name now. And the more Jack talked, the easier it was to think of him as Jack, and Jack alone—someone different in every way that mattered from the Joker.

“Well, it shouldn't. Any sane person should think that.”

Something was off about this. Not simply Jack’s dismissal of Batman, but his belief that the vigilante wasn’t even real in the first place. Bruce had of course kept an eye on the other patients released from Arkham, but there had been nothing in the reports about this type of thought pattern being exhibited by the others.

But what if it wasn’t just Jack? Bruce hadn’t noticed anything unusual in the others when he’d monitored them, but from the start, he had worried that there might be more to Strayer’s treatment than she was letting on. He would need to retrace his steps with the others to see if there was something he had missed. He had not yet had direct contact with them like he had with Jack. Perhaps it had been a mistake to keep an eye on them from a distance.

But would it be worth it to investigate this further? Why question it now if the Joker really was sane? Maybe it was better to leave things as they were.

And yet, Bruce knew he would never forgive himself if his inaction ended up resulting in something worse later on. He'd always found it worthwhile to listen to his instincts, and whether Joker was a changed man or not, he had a feeling Strayer's treatment warranted further investigation.

“I've been asking you a lot of questions, haven’t I?”

“I don't really mind,” Jack said, relaxing back into his seat. “It's nice to talk about these things without feeling like every word I speak is being psychoanalyzed.” He studied Bruce a moment. “Even if it isn't exactly normal conversation.”

The chiming of the grandfather clock in the room announced the late hour. Bruce glanced at the clock, then set his unfinished drink back on the end table.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the time.” He stood up from his seat. “I have to finish getting ready for a meeting tomorrow, but feel free to stay the night if you want to. I’ll have Alfred show you to one of the guest rooms.”

Bruce’s offer seemed to catch Jack off-guard.

“You're sure?” Jack asked. Even knowing who I was?  was the question underneath it.

If by some small chance Jack really was still the Joker, it would be better to have him here than in the city where he could harm thousands of civilians. But after their conversation tonight, Bruce was finding that idea harder and harder to believe. Considering the incident at the bar earlier, it was probably more accurate to say that he was protecting Jack from the people of the city than the other way around. Makeup and a new set of clothes could only go so far when everyone knew the face of the Joker. Especially right now when he was still a headline in the news.

He wondered if Jack suspected anything more about Bruce. A billionaire letting him stay at his mansion on little more than a whim seemed unbelievable enough. But even if Jack did feel like Bruce Wayne had some ulterior motive, it didn't seem like he cared much at the moment. Rather, he appeared to be in low spirits about things, and it seemed that depression had come hand in hand with sanity for the Joker.

But maybe that meant Bruce's show of kindness would actually do some good for Jack. Maybe his instincts were wrong about the treatment, and there was no need to worry about the Joker or any of the others who had been released from Arkham. All those times he had saved the Joker in the past when he could have let him die a justified death, and maybe now it could finally mean something in the end.

“It's fine, really. I've got plenty of room to spare,” Bruce replied amiably. “Make yourself at home.”

He hoped Alfred wouldn't mind too much.

Chapter Text

Outside a dingy apartment building, Gotham’s sky strained through hues of red and orange in one final attempt at color before nightfall took over. The day had been unseasonably warm compared to the winter of yesterday, erasing any traces of the snowy sleet that had fallen. Some of the tenants had even cracked open their windows, letting in a bit of fresh air before the evening chill set in.

Humming a light tune, one of these tenants stepped into their kitchen, only to let out a frightened yelp at the dark figure looming over them.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” The man’s voice squeaked at his unannounced visitor. “Please, I haven't done anything, I swear!”

“I'm just here to ask you some questions, Jervis,” answered the shadow.

Batman stepped forward, blocking the bright glare of sunset through the window. He gave his surroundings a quick assessing look. The kitchen only had room for a few basic appliances: a small gas stove, sink and refrigerator. In the center stood a small round dining table, and underneath was a lackluster orange tiled floor. It was the kind of place that might be called cozy by polite visitors, and claustrophobic by those who were being more honest.

“Questions?” Tetch repeated, backing up against the far wall of the kitchen, shoulders tensed next to the peeling wallpaper. “About what?”

“Your treatment.”

“What about it?” Tetch asked. A slight tremor was visible in his hands.

“Please, Jervis. I need you to relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m here because I trust your opinion,” Bruce said calmly, as if pacifying a frightened animal. He kept his arms relaxed non-combatively at his sides.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“—Oh.” Tetch sent him a nervous glance up and down. He slowly unfroze from his spot. “I—I see. Of course.” Then, as if his movements were guided by habit, he went over to the stove, igniting the burner where a kettle was already placed, then stood on his toes to remove a tin of tea leaves from the cupboard next to it. The routine seemed to relax him a little, and he turned back to Batman while he waited for the water to boil. “Alright then. What is it you’d like to know?”

“It’s about Strayer,” Bruce said, watching Tetch as he went about his routine. “Is there anything she hasn't publicly disclosed? Anything that seemed suspicious while you were receiving treatment at Arkham?”

“Suspicious?” Tetch furrowed his brow as he prepared the tea leaves in a strainer, setting them inside a large teacup. “No, not that I noticed. Everything she did was very helpful to me. That’s not to say it was easy to go through, but in the end I'm very grateful to Dr. Strayer for helping me overcome my… obsession.”

Bruce’s jaw tensed a little, but his tone maintained its composure. “I need you to be honest with me. Have you ever had any thoughts about returning to your former ways?”

Tetch frowned at that. He didn’t look nervous to answer, though. If anything, he appeared insulted by the question.

“Since I left Arkham, you mean? No, of course not.” His attention went back to the stove where the kettle was just starting to sing. As he turned off the heat, he glanced back to Batman. “Would you like some?”

At Batman’s silence, Tetch shrugged and continued his routine, pouring hot water over the dried leaves and watching the steam rise from the cup as the tea steeped. After a minute, he turned back to face Batman with the cup cradled in his hands. He sent an awkward glance over to him, as if he had only just now become aware of how his ritual looked.

“Some habits you never lose, I suppose,” he explained as he moved to sit at the table. “But I assure you, Batman, my criminal past is behind me. It must be difficult for you to accept something like this—it is for myself, sometimes. But the fact is I am no longer the person I was before.” Tetch looked down, frowning momentarily at the cup in his hands. “I wouldn't say that I'm happy now, but I don't think most people are, when it comes right down to it. And I'm not unhappy.”

“Anything else?”

Tetch considered for a moment. “No, I suppose not.”

He blew on his tea before taking a sip. His eyes closed, and for a moment he looked completely at peace.

“Jervis,” Bruce persisted. “Do you believe the Mad Hatter was ever real?”

Tetch opened his eyes. “Real?” he repeated, looking a bit taken aback by the question. His bewilderment soon faded, and his expression turned thoughtful instead. Another minute passed before he finally gave him an answer. “Well, I suppose he did become real for a while. I certainly thought of myself as him, anyway,” he admitted with a sad shake of his head. “I believed in him.”

Tetch took another sip of his tea, frowning in thought at his words before he went on. “But at the end of the day, no. He was just another dangerous delusion.”

“And me?” Bruce dared to ask further.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Am I just another one of your delusions?”

Tetch looked at him with disbelief. “What sort of question is that? You’re standing right in front of me, aren’t you?”

Bruce didn’t answer, going silent as he considered Tetch's response. After another minute, he finally nodded.

“Of course. Thank you for your time,” Bruce said, then turned to leave.

What was left of Tetch’s calmness dissipated. “W-wait!" he said, lifting a hand up, only to spill some tea on his hand in the process.  

Bruce turned his head back a fraction.

"Things might have worked out well for me,” Tetch explained, drying his hand absently on his clothes while he spoke. “But I've heard...”

“Heard what?”

“Well, I think Jonathan's been having some problems. Nothing to be concerned about,” Tetch added quickly, “but I don't think he's been able to fully adjust to his new life yet. I would try talking to him if you're going to talk with anyone else.”

Bruce gave a final nod, then turned back toward the window.

“Batman?” he heard Tetch speak up again behind him as he placed a hand on the windowsill. He stopped where he was.

“I’m glad we could have a pleasant conversation, for once,” Tetch continued softly. “Maybe you’ll stay for tea next time?”

Tetch sounded almost regretful, as if he had just realized he enjoyed having the company—Bat or not—and was sad to see him go.

“Take care, Jervis.” Bruce returned his attention to the window, testing a hand on the windowsill. The wood was starting to come loose on one side, but it still seemed stable enough.

Tetch’s hand waved Batman off in the window’s reflection, apparently happy enough to get any response from him. “Off you go then, like you do.”

Tetch began humming as Bruce slipped through the window, seeming to be a much better mood than when he had first arrived.

Just before he was outside of hearing range, Bruce heard Tetch speak quietly, as if to himself:

“See? I’m good. I can help, now. I’m good.”

—

Evening had just set in when Bruce found Crane in a small, isolated area of the park not far from his apartment. He sat on a bench, gloves laid at his side, with a book in his hands.

“You're out late. A bit dark for reading, isn’t it?”

Crane froze for a second, then looked up at Batman. “I wasn't aware I had a curfew.” His book was lit faintly by a nearby streetlamp. “What do you want?”

“I have some questions for you,” Bruce said, making note of how different Crane’s reaction was from Tetch’s earlier.

“Do you?” he said without apparent interest, then returned his attention to his book. “Well, ask away. I've got nothing to hide.”

“Not you," Bruce corrected. "The doctors at Arkham. Strayer.”

Crane kept his eyes on the book. “Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s nothing to investigate there.”

“I've known you long enough, Crane, to know when there's something you aren't telling me.”

Crane looked up at that, eyes dark with suspicion. “Why do you care anyway? Isn't it good enough that I'm ‘better’ now?”

“The truth is good enough.”

Crane watched him for another minute.

“You haven’t changed much,” he said at last, looking back at his book with a small sigh. He flipped a page, but Bruce knew he hadn’t read it. “Why don’t you go bother the clown? Or whoever he is now. He's the one you're interested in. Not me.” Crane smiled when Batman didn’t answer. “Oh, of course. You already have. No luck there, either, right? How disappointing.”

Bruce saw the book was an old hardcover, worn at the edges and covered in faded buckram. Although the title wasn’t visible, the header on the page indicated the chapter was titled: Case 1: A Psychical Invasion.

“I should have known you'd enjoy reading Algernon Blackwood.”

Silence. Pause. Flip. “Well, I used to.”

“Used to?”

When Crane didn’t answer, Bruce decided to wait. It wasn't long before Crane closed the book shut with a thud and flung it onto the bench beside him, shaking his head with a weary sigh.

“It's no use,” Crane exclaimed. “I’ve tried all my favorites, but even in the realm of fiction, the thrill just isn't there anymore.”

“And why is that?”

Crane glared at him for a moment, but there was a tiredness in his eyes that was hard to miss, and soon enough, he relented.

“Fine, have it your way. Not like I have anything to lose from it.” Crane glanced down at his book as he thought of his next words. There was no sound in the park aside from the faint rustle of dead leaves as the wind picked up. 

“I've tried talking to the others about Dr. Strayer's therapy,” Crane finally said. “But none of them seem to remember it like I do. Maybe it's different for everyone, I don't know.”

“What don't they remember?”

“It's hard to describe. It's more like a feeling than anything else,” Crane explained, then let out a faint laugh. “Sounds trivial even saying it out loud.”

“I'd like to hear it, anyway.”

Crane considered what to say for a moment, then began. “The sessions would always start out normal enough. She’d ask me questions, I’d answer. But every time, my memory would start to blur after a certain point. All the details would fade out. But sometimes I still remember...” Crane creased his brow in thought “...a sound. I can't remember where it originated from, only that she brought it with her, I think. Whatever it was. Removed it from her bag. She didn't keep it at Arkham.”

“What was it like?”

“I can't really say, except that it made me feel like the happiest I'd ever been and the saddest all at once... And then nothing.” Crane shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, it's probably nothing worth looking into. A dream, for all I know, with all the drugs we’re put on there.”

“Was that all?”

“Like I said, it’s not much.”

It was something to go on, at least.

“Thank you, Jonathan.”

Crane hesitated. He grabbed his book before standing up. “You know, while you’re here, Batman, I—well, I know I've done a lot of bad things in my past,” he said, tucking the book under his arm so he could put on his gloves. “Things I had no right to inflict on others, even you. But, well… Dr. Strayer really did help us. I really am different now, even if I'm not any nicer.” Crane busied himself a moment longer with his gloves, as if distracting himself. “What I'm trying to say is—”

Crane looked up again, but the park was empty. His hands lowered back to his side, and he shook his head with a sigh.

“—sorry for ever thinking I could apologize to you.”

—

When Bruce got back to the manor it was already late, and his food had long gone cold. Alfred had prepared his meal earlier than usual in order to keep up appearances with Jack around. Hopefully it wouldn't be long before Bruce could get to the bottom of this. Then Alfred wouldn’t have to worry about maintaining the image that Bruce Wayne was just your average, run-of-the mill billionaire who kept strange hours because of his business and philanthropic activities, and not because of a secret identity that required the majority of his focus.

“How was your day?” Bruce asked Jack as Alfred went to reheat his food for him. They were both sitting in the smaller dining room next to the kitchen. It was the place where Bruce had eaten with his parents when they had still been alive. The main dining room was reserved for larger social gatherings and rarely got much use otherwise.

“Mostly uneventful,” Jack answered, as if the question was a daily occurrence between them. “In other words, good. Alfred gave me a tour of the place, and after that I spent most of the day exploring the grounds, and later on dozed off in the library.” He sipped at a drink while he spoke—brandy, it looked like tonight. Apparently not so disagreeable with him after all. “I, uh, also learned that it’s impossible help Alfred with any of his daily tasks without being reprimanded for it.”

Bruce chuckled. “That sounds like Alfred. Best to not try to out-butler him. You’re a guest, like I said.”

“Right.” Jack sipped his drink again, seeming more comfortable around Bruce than he had been the night before.

Alfred brought Bruce's food soon after that, and was away again before Bruce knew it. He had to give Alfred some credit; he was doing a good job of acting like an average butler with Jack around. As Bruce began to eat his meal, seared salmon with lightly roasted vegetables, he realized he was more hungry than he thought.

Across from him Jack sat with his drink, and Bruce watched from the corner of his eye as Jack absently traced patterns over the table with his finger, resting his head on his other hand as he looked down at nothing in particular.

Then, out of nowhere: “You know, you have bats in your attic.”

Bruce deliberately remembered his food. He watched Jack surreptitiously for any warning signs of being Joker: a manic glow to his eyes, limbs tense with restless energy, an impossibly wide grin—but saw none of these signature traits.

"We found a dead bat on the upper floor when Alfred was giving me the tour earlier," Jack explained. "I'm assuming that's where it came from. Alfred didn't seem surprised by it."  

Bruce relaxed a little. He chewed on his bite of salmon for a minute before answering. “Well, with the bachelor life I lead, in a place as big as this, it’s hard to turn away the company when I get it,” he offered lightly as an explanation after finishing his bite. “Besides, they keep to themselves, mostly. And they keep the bugs down in summer, so that’s a bonus.”

Jack was watching Bruce with an amused quirk to his lips. “That’s some strange company you like to keep.” 

Bruce thought he’d have to come up with something else to say in response, but thankfully Jack saved him the trouble.

“You’re right, though, about this place. Seeing it in person—well, there’s a loneliness in these walls that’s hard to ignore. But I have to admit, I enjoyed that today. It was nice to have privacy—real privacy—for once. You’d think I’d have gotten that feeling often enough back at Arkham, being cooped up alone in a room and all, but the cameras sort of ruin the effect, you know?”

Bruce hid his relief that there was no more mention of bats, coming from the person who used to be obsessed with one of them in particular. “I can imagine they would.”

“I’m actually beginning to see the appeal in living in a place like this.”

Bruce quirked an eyebrow. “Only now?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to get too used to it. How would I ever integrate and become a useful member of society, way out here? It’d be like Arkham all over again.” Though he spoke in mock seriousness, there was a playful glint in his eye when he looked at Bruce.

Bruce shook his head in false offense, but was unable to keep himself from a small smile.

“Well, I’ve always thought that the best way to integrate into society is to be away from it,” Bruce responded, and made a mental note that for better or worse, at least some of Jack’s humor had survived intact through Strayer's treatment.

“I’m not surprised,” Jack answered, his smile warmer than the one from yesterday. “But somehow I think there’s more to you than that,” he said, eyeing Bruce in that thoughtful way again. “So, how about it? Care to tell me more about yourself now that you’ve learned a bit about little ol’ me?”

Bruce finished his bite and swallowed. “Now that's a can of worms you don't want to open.”

“Oh, come on. Can't possibly be worse than mine was.”

Bruce glanced at the clock on the wall. “Maybe another time,” he deflected. He set his fork down, then stood. He watched Jack for a moment, noticing his shoulders fall a little at Bruce's statement.

“You know,” Bruce said suddenly. “About that job you mentioned…” He saw Jack look up with a bit of interest. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I think I might be able to help you out. Wayne Enterprises might have some room for someone with your expertise."

Jack looked almost as if he didn't believe what Bruce was saying. “You're serious?”

"I can't make any promises, but I'll talk to some people, and do my best to make it work," Bruce explained. "In the meantime feel free to stick around for the time being. Joking aside, it might be good for you to take a break from the city for a while.”

“Wow, I—" Jack was momentarily speechless. "I truly don't know what to say." He stood up, stepped over to Bruce, and taking Bruce's hand into his gloved one, gave Bruce’s hand a vigorous shake. "Thank you, Bruce!" He beamed widely. "For everything.”

Bruce smiled politely back as Jack continued to shake his hand with renewed energy, his disappointment from earlier seeming to have vanished. "See you tomorrow, then?"

Jack gave an eager nod. "Tomorrow."

—

Bruce slipped away unnoticed to the Batcave after his meal, entering through the old Grandfather clock entrance set to the time of his parents’ death. As he reached the bottom of the passage the familiar cool scent of the cavern greeted him.

Alfred followed him down not long after, the soft clatter of footsteps announcing his arrival.  

"Do you feel safe having him stay here another night?" Bruce inquired without looking at Alfred, already in his suit. His cowl rested on a chair by the workbench as he methodically prepared for his departure.

"Funnily enough, my safety is the one thing I feel confident about right now," Alfred replied. Bruce could feel Alfred’s eyes on him as he collected the tools he might need that night. "Yours, on the other hand . . . I just worry that you might be taking things too far with this investigation. Why look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes?"

"You worry too much, Alfred," Bruce said dismissively. "From what Crane mentioned earlier, this might be something worth looking into.”

"Just be careful out there," Alfred cautioned.

Having finished inspecting his gear, Bruce placed each item in their respective place on his utility belt. Finally he turned to Alfred. "The same goes for you, Alfred. Don't let your guard down too much around Jack. Even if he seems harmless now, there's no telling how permanent that change really is."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Alfred answered, a barely perceptible smile crossing his face. Bruce knew that despite Alfred's innocuous appearance he was capable of handling himself in almost any situation. "I'll keep an eye on him. If I notice anything unusual, I'll be sure to let you know right away."

Bruce placed his cowl over his head in one smooth motion, locking it in place. He stepped away from Alfred, making his way to over the platform where the Batmobile was. He was just able to reach the platform when Alfred spoke up behind him.

"Bruce—” he began.

Bruce had come to a halt next to the door of the Batmobile. “Yes, Alfred?” he asked when Alfred didn’t continue.

Alfred hesitated. “What if nothing’s wrong with Strayer's treatment? What if the Joker really is cured?"

For a moment the only sounds in the cave were the slow drip of water and the distant woosh of the underground waterfall leading to one of the cave's hidden exits.

Bruce slowly let out a breath of air. He felt the muscles in his face relax a little, though Alfred could only see a portion of his expression with the mask on.

"If I don't find anything after tonight, then I'll admit I was wrong," he said at last.

Although Alfred didn’t answer him, Bruce thought he saw the faintest nod of understanding.

Bruce opened the Batmobile and got in, sending one last glance at Alfred. "Let's hope for both our sakes that I am.”

—

Strayer's apartment was empty when Bruce arrived.

He had been hoping to locate the item Crane had mentioned earlier if she was asleep, but it was unlikely to be at her apartment now. For a moment he felt another flicker of doubt, wondering if he really was right about pursuing Strayer. But he had already come this far, and it wouldn't hurt to see if there were any other clues around while he was here.

The apartment had few embellishments outside the standard furnishings, and while it didn't feel bare, Bruce got the feeling that Strayer didn't put much thought toward such things in a place she was rarely around. It seemed he wouldn’t find anything of interest here, and would have to find some other opportunity to get a hold of whatever item it was she kept with her.

As Bruce passed by a bookshelf, something caught his attention. He picked the item up for a closer look. It was a framed photograph, showing two girls smiling next to each other. One he recognized as Strayer. The other girl seemed vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place where he knew her from.

Where had he seen that face?

Just as the recognition hit him, he heard someone placing a key in the lock, and quickly set the frame back on the shelf.

For a second he debated leaving and coming back later to search for the item, but he was going to have to face Strayer at some point or another, and it might as well be now.

As soon as Strayer opened the door, she acted as if something was off. Bruce had left the door to the balcony cracked open in case he needed to make a quick departure, and the cold air leaking through had gradually dropped the temperature of the room.

Without turning on the lights, Strayer spoke, remaining in the entryway of her apartment.

“Whoever is in there, you better come out now or I'll have the neighbors call the police.”

When only silence answered her, Strayer waited a minute before cautiously flipping the lights on.

“Shit.” Bruce heard her curse under her breath when she saw who it was. Then she seemed to collect herself, putting on a face of composure.

“Batman? I was wondering when you'd come snooping around." She took a step inside her apartment, then shut the door behind her. Despite the cold air streaming through her apartment, she removed her jacket, setting her work bag from Arkham down beside her as she did so. "You think just because you control the cops in this city, you can go breaking into people's apartments on a whim?”

She stepped into the living room, then, walking boldly past where Bruce stood so she could slide the balcony door closed, then turned to face him.

“Why come to me now? I've already released three of Arkham’s patients before the Joker."

“I only want the truth, Strayer,” Bruce finally decided to answer. “No one just rehabilitates the Joker.”

Strayer smiled in mild amusement. “Until me, you mean.” She watched him for a moment, this time with a more critical eye. “I can’t help but think, Batman, that maybe your own methods are the ones in question here.”

“You're hiding something. And I will find out.”

“I'm always happy to talk about my work,” Stayer stated simply. A challenge. Bruce wasn't entirely convinced of her sincerity, but took it as an offer to ask her a few questions anyway.

“Why did you help Tetch first?”

He saw her eyes flicker to the photograph he had seen just before her arrival, and knew he had been right about his earlier assumption.

"Jervis Tetch,” Strayer repeated his name, as if that explained it. “Otherwise known as the Mad Hatter. If I could help a man with a name like that turn his life around, then I could help anyone, right?"

“This photo," Bruce said, lifting the picture frame from the bookshelf again. "That's your sister, isn't it?”

Strayer didn't speak, but her look confirmed it.

“I recognize her. One of Jervis Tetch’s first victims.”

"Third,” Strayer corrected him, with an unreadable look in her eye.  

"I'm sorry," Bruce said. There was sympathy in his voice, as well as apology, for not being able to save her sister.

Strayer took the photo back from him, eyeing it for a moment with a sad look, then gently placed the frame back where it belonged.

Bruce gave her a silent, knowing look.

“Look, this isn’t—” Strayer had to pause, taking a breath to calm herself. “This isn’t about Tetch. Not really. But if you really want to know so badly about how my treatment works, I can tell you all the details. You'll be sorry when you realize there's nothing to worry about, though. My methods are entirely legitimate." She hesitated. "Even if they are a little unconventional."

“I'll be the judge of that.”

“Come on then, if you want me to show it to you.”

“It?”

“Yes, it. I... keep it home with me when I'm not treating patients. Secrets of the trade, you know. At least until the time is right to share it with the public.”

Bruce followed behind Strayer as she went back to where she had set her bag earlier.

“Just a moment," she said as she dug through the bag's contents. "Here it is.” She held the item up for him to see.

Bruce kept his guard up, then relaxed when he realized what it was. 

“A music box?”

“By all appearances. But not just that. Amadeus himself used it to treat his own patients for a while. One patient, in particular."

"Amadeus? The original Arkham?" Bruce said, unable to hide his surprise. "This belonged to him?"

Strayer nodded. "It was his daughter's originally, but it's been modified since.”

“Where did you get this?”

“It was more of an accident.” She looked at the music box with admiration, fingers running over the faint arcane symbols that had been etched into the wooden exterior. “I’ve always been curious about the asylum's history, and often wander the premises in my spare time. One one of my walks, I noticed something strange about one of the walls. A curious marking that seemed out of place. This was what was behind it, along with one of his journals describing how he used it." She motioned to her bag where he assumed the journal was. "I often get the sense that the place has more secrets than it does patients. I'm sure many of Amadeus' secrets are still hidden in those walls. Only one less, now.”

“How does it work?”

“To be honest, I'm not really certain," Strayer admitted. "I know I said my methods were legitimate, but... this isn't very far from some other bizarre techniques out there—except that this one provides results. It works. It's just the how  part that remains unclear. Some combination of visual and auditory hypnotherapy, I believe.

"His journal doesn’t offer much of an explanation, either, other than that it required a rotation of certain drugs in correspondence with the hypnotherapy. I’ve been able to improve on the technique since then, and only require the patient to be medicated during the sessions, and not outside them."

"Can I see inside?"

Strayer gently opened the lid of the music box at Bruce's request. Unwound, it remained silent.

“There’s nothing there," Bruce remarked, expecting to see a spinning dancer or something of the like inside. "Was it always like that?”

“For as long as I've had it. But my patients always see something. My understanding is that the mind hates seeing empty spaces, and under the right conditions, makes things up to fill in the blanks."

"After you drug them, you mean."

Strayer ignored him. "I'm afraid I don't know its inner workings, but I do know that it works, and that's all that matters for my purposes. Amadeus stumbled across something truly remarkable,” she said, then closed the box with a sad shake of her head. “It’s too bad it was too late for himself by the time he realized it. After the tragic murder of his wife and daughter, he let the madness of grief overtake him. I suppose you see now why I kept this part of my treatment secret.”

She set the box aside, then offered Bruce a small leather-bound book. “Feel free to look through his journal, if you'd like. A part of me likes to think I'm helping to complete his work, as someone who has also lost a family member to violence.”

Bruce opened the journal while she spoke. The pages were in good condition for their age. The journal must have been kept in a sealed container during its time in the asylum walls.

He flipped through the pages, browsing quickly through the entries. “This is… but this means...”

“What an unfortunate life he had, Amadeus. Tried to do some good in the world, and where did it get him?"

There was a sudden pain in Bruce's neck, just underneath his cowl.

"Reminds me of someone else. I'm sorry, Batman," Strayer said, withdrawing an empty syringe.

“What have you—”

“I’ve learned from other staff that it’s a good idea to keep one or two of these on hand at Arkham. It’s the first time I’ve personally had to use one, though.”

Her words sounded far away when she next spoke.

“You wanted to know how it works, so I'm going to show you. And I'm afraid that Gotham's most famous bat needs help.”

Bruce watched distantly as the floor came up to meet him, and everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Bruce slowly opened his eyes.

“You're awake.”

He turned his head toward the voice, at first seeing only a dim blur of colors. Gradually Strayer came into focus.

“Don't worry, you seem to be uninjured from your fall. I apologize for not being able to get you to a chair in time,” Strayer explained nonchalantly, sitting down on a chair in front of Bruce as he slowly remembered his surroundings.

“Thankfully, while I specialize in psychotherapy, I am also a trained physician. I'm sure you're quite familiar with that line of work. It was your father’s profession, after all. Right, Bruce?”

“How... how long have I been out?” Bruce chose not to acknowledge her question. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction now that she knew his true identity.  He tried moving his arms, but they had been fastened to the chair he was in, along with his legs and torso. His cowl and utility belt had also been removed, but he did not see where Strayer had put them. He glanced around the room, looking for a clock to tell the time. Judging from the darkness outside the window, at least an hour must have passed since he had last been conscious. “What did you do with my things?”

Strayer shook her head at him. “This time, I'm the one asking questions.”

Bruce turned his focus away from his surroundings to analyze his internal state. He was aware enough to discern that he had been drugged with something other than the sedative after he had lost consciousness, but couldn’t identify what. His mind felt muddled, yet strangely attentive. He swallowed, noticing his lips felt dry.

“It makes sense now why Jack was at your mansion. It was just your way of keeping an eye on him.”

Bruce figured Strayer would know about Jack. He wouldn't be surprised if she kept some kind of tracker on all the patients she had released from Arkham. If she had questioned him about it, Bruce had been prepared to give her the same explanation he had given Jack earlier about ensuring his money was going to the right place at the mental institution. But that was irrelevant now that she knew his true identity.

"You have a real fixation on crime in this city, don't you?" At Bruce's continued silence, she smiled. “You know, there are a lot of people who say that many of the criminals around today—the really bad ones, I mean—wouldn't be here without you. Do you agree with them?”

Bruce didn't answer.

“Between us,” she went on, unbothered by his lack of response, “I think they're wrong. There’s a sickness in this city that’s older than you. The criminals would be here without you, one way or another. Your existence hasn’t had any effect other than changing their attire. Your actions aren't wrong, they are just ineffective. But I can’t blame you for trying."

Sitting on the end table beside Strayer was the music box. Bruce must have been affected more than he thought to have only noticed it now. The lid was closed, but Bruce had a feeling not for long.

"You have done some good, I’ll grant you that," Strayer continued. "But I think the time has come for Gotham to say goodbye to Batman as we know him and look for a more effective solution to crime."

Strayer caught Bruce eyeing the music box, sending a quick glance to it herself before fixing her attention back on him. She shifted in her seat, tapping her foot a little on the floor, as if anxious to begin.

”What are you going to do to me?" Bruce finally asked, hoping to buy some time with her response, though he had no plan of escape yet. He couldn’t try breaking out of his restraints with both his wrists bound to the arms of the chair where she could plainly see them.

As if on queue, Strayer cleared her throat, sliding the music box closer to her reach. “Normally, I take a more gradual approach with my patients," Strayer lightly informed him, "but in your case I think we’ll get right to the heart of the matter.”

Without further delay, she reached out to the box and carefully wound it. Trapped where he was, Bruce could only dread the words she would say next.

“Relax," she said, noticing Bruce's arms tense up. "There's no use struggling against it. Think of it this way. If it worked on the Joker, it's going to work on you. I know it seems hard right now, but I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t actually think it worked. You just have to trust me.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce. But it’s for your own good.”

With that, she opened the lid of the box. This time, it was no longer empty.

“How did you..." Bruce couldn't help voicing his surprise. "Is this some kind of trick?”

Strayer studied him with new interest. “What do you see?”

"You…” Bruce swallowed. “You can't see it?"

Strayer shook her head. "It would make my job a great deal easier if I could, but if we're going to make any progress together, you'll have to describe it to me."

Bruce hesitated. Gradually, almost beneath his awareness, the soft tune of the music box grew louder until he was completely enveloped in its sound. His arms relaxed, and he forgot everything else around him.

“I see…”

—

It was as if he had been transported to a place outside of time. There was a grand room filled with people in extravagant dress. Lights adorned the room around them in a dazzling array. It was a ball, Bruce realized, but no ordinary one. Bruce watched as everyone moved in dreamlike flow to the music. Everything seemed to glow in a vibrant light, brighter than all the gilded chandeliers and candelabras combined could make it. It felt like a memory from long ago, something safe and untouched by his future.

It was then that Bruce noticed a familiar pair emerge from the crowd of other dancers. They seemed to recognize him right away.

"Bruce, there you are," his mother greeted as she drew closer, every bit as elegant as Bruce remembered. She wore a simple full-length evening gown that somehow still managed not to look out of place among the other lavishly dressed guests.

Bruce blinked, as if he'd just woken up from a vivid dream and was still adjusting to the world around him. A bizarre, but wonderful world where his parents were still alive.

"Where have you been?" his father asked, standing next to his mother. "Bored with the ball?"

Bruce wanted to respond to his parents, but something held him back. He didn’t rush into this their arms, didn't tell them how much he missed them, didn't explain how Alfred had been the one to look after him all these years in their absence. He didn't do anything at all. 

Why would he? He had never lost them. They had been here all along.

"You'll be more interested in things like this when you’re older," his mother explained with a warm smile, one Bruce had somehow forgotten. The slight asymmetry was not apparent in any of their family portraits.

"I'm not sure about that," replied his father, winking at Bruce. "Come on, let's get you home."

Bruce would have given anything for a chance to go back with them. For the chance to start over again, now that he knew where the path in his old life had led.

And in another life, maybe he would have.

But something else was calling to him just beyond the boundary of that timeless room. It was a darker place, obscured in his mind right now by the light around him and the warmth of his parents’ gaze, but it was just as real and unchanging as this room was. It had been part of the dreams of his childhood—along with the nightmares he'd had, after—

After…

After what?

His parents sensed his inner conflict. Bruce felt their hands brush his shoulders, and knew their touch was real. He didn’t have to question it.

But even if it was real...

"I can't," Bruce told them. "I can't go back with you. There's something else I have to do."

“Bruce," his father said, mouth forming into a frown. "You don't have to go there. You can stay with us, now. ”

"Why leave this place?" his mother echoed, worry entering her eyes.

Despite his parents’ protests, he moved closer to the doorway that led to the other room. He had to. He couldn't ignore it anymore.

“We're going to lose him again, aren't we," his mother murmured behind him as the distance between them grew.

"It'll be alright, Martha," his father assured her, resting an arm around her shoulder. But an uneasiness was still apparent in his eyes.

His mother shook her head, breaking free from his father's grasp when she saw Bruce had reached the doorway. “Come back here this instant, Bruce Wayne! Don't you dare hurt us like that!” Her tone had sharpened, but Bruce knew she was only yelling because she was afraid. He saw tears in her eyes, and her voice shook.

Bruce hesitated just beyond the doorway.

What was he thinking? Why would he ever choose to leave?

As he wavered, the door began to close in front of him, blocking his parents from view.

"Wait!" Bruce's hand reached out to stop it, but he had already hesitated too long, and the door slammed shut with a heavy thud, leaving him alone in the empty hallway.

There was no handle to open the door. No way of going back now.

In this place there were no words. No sounds. No laughter. Only darkness. There was no way to protect himself from it. Instead, he let it surround him. He embraced it, feeling a familiar sensation wash over him. Slowly he became a part of it. He remembered everything again. There was no fear here. Only the thrill of the fight, and the will to keep going. A terrible force in him that never wavered as he pursued his objective. No matter how impossible that goal was to attain.

But something was different here. It was like entering a city by a familiar road in the middle of the night, when a route known so well by day became unrecognizable. He had thought he'd known this place by heart, but now all the angles were wrong, and nothing seemed the same.

To his horror, he realized he could not move correctly anymore.  No matter what he did, each action he took felt like a fatal mistake. One by one, all leading up to the final...

Through the darkness, he noticed a window. Only when he looked through it did he realize where he was.

His parents were standing above him. They were clothed in black, their eyes cast downward, but not quite at him. Although Bruce could not hear what they were saying, he could make a good guess who it was they were mourning. The sky was gray behind them, and if he strained his ears enough he could even hear the bitter howl of the wind that left his parent’s shivering in its grip.

Even buried in a grave, Bruce could hear a soft tune playing in the quiet earth around him.

After what felt like too brief a time, his parents left him alone in the cemetery. The wind died down, and the sky darkened, but Bruce did not know true loneliness until the music, too, had stopped.

—

It was the fear that woke him.

Bruce left his room, making his way down the long hallway—different from the one that had haunted him in his dreams, though it still had the same sense of foreboding. He entered his parents’ room, stepping softly to their bed, then gently nudged his mother's shoulder until she woke.

"What is it?" she asked, sitting up a little. Her voice was heavy with sleep.

Now that she was awake, Bruce felt ashamed to admit why he had come.

He swallowed. "I had a nightmare.”

"It's alright, Bruce," his mother said, reassuring him despite the tiredness in her voice.

"I know it's not real," he explained, sensing his mother's unsaid words. "But it keeps coming back whenever I try to sleep."

His mother nodded in understanding. "Dreams can still be scary, even if they aren't real."

Bruce knew she was right, no matter how embarrassing it was to admit it. He felt guilty disturbing his mother from her rest knowing both his parents led a busy life. He was getting too old to come running to them whenever he had a nightmare anymore, but he couldn't help it that night. The fear had seemed so strong that he was certain if he hadn't left his room he would have spent the entire night awake or caught in a recurring nightmare, unable to escape.

"Do you ever have bad dreams?" he asked her.

"Once in a while," his mother said. "But your father protects me from them so they never do any real harm. And I protect him from his."

"What's wrong?" his father asked, just now waking up. He saw Bruce standing next to the bed, then quickly pieced together what was going on. "Can't sleep?"

"He had a nightmare," his mother clarified.

"Ah. Come on then," said his father to Bruce, gently patting the center of the bed.

Wisely reading their son's behavior, they didn't ask him what his dream had been about, and Bruce didn't bring it up. He didn't want to have to think about it anymore, and now that he was with them, the dream was already beginning to fade to the back of his mind, small and insignificant in their presence.

"You can sleep now, Bruce,” his mother said, stroking his hair as he settled in close to her.

“Don't worry. We'll keep the bad dreams away."

—

“Bruce.”

A voice emerged from the silence, and it took Bruce a few seconds to register his own name. He couldn't be certain what time it was anymore. The room was too quiet, though he didn’t understand why it felt that way.

“Bruce.”

His eyes focused on the doctor in front of him. He noticed the music box in the corner of his vision, then slowly began to remember.

When Strayer saw that she had his attention, she continued. “Let’s start again from where we left off.” She sighed and adjusted her position on the seat. He realized it must have been a while since she had last slept.

“Bruce, why do you do what you do?” Strayer asked, articulating each word so she was sure he understood. “What keeps you returning to this”—she hesitated for a second—“job of yours, night after night?”

The room was still too quiet somehow, even with her words. Bruce didn't realize why until he heard the winding of the music box.

“Take your time in answering. Let it come to you,” Strayer said, then released her hand.

The music started, and Bruce’s vision went out of focus.

This time he tried to fight against it.

“You were right, Strayer," Bruce managed to say. "I could never help them like you did. But... whatever you think, I’m not against you for doing it." He swallowed, digging his hands into the arms of the chair to try to stay focused. "In fact, it’s what I’ve always wanted."

And it was true for the most part. He would never have been able to save the Joker. Before Strayer, he would have argued nobody could.

“I didn't want to admit it," Bruce confessed. "But I see that now. Your treatment works."

Strayer watched him in silence. It took every ounce of energy for Bruce to say his next words:

"You don’t need to do this anymore.”

“It’s alright, Bruce," a voice said. But it wasn’t the voice of Dr. Strayer.  

He turned his head to glimpse the owner of the voice, even though he already knew who it was.

"You don't need to fight her. Let her help you," his father said, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder. His words were gentle as he advised him.

In spite of his struggle to contain them, the visions had come back.

"I can't. I can't let her do this."

“Who do you see?” Strayer interrupted them.

Bruce realized his mistake, and swallowed, looking away from his father and from Strayer.

“They're still alive.”

“Who?” Strayer asked. When Bruce didn't clarify, she added, “Your parents?”

Bruce remained silent.

“Is this what they wanted for you? Is this what your life meant to them?”

“No.” Bruce gave in. “It's not what they wanted.”

“Then you do this for yourself?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then who?” she asked. “Bruce? Who is Batman for?”

Slowly the visions came back. The comfort of the timeless ballroom, the freedom of the darkness, and the final terror of the cold, suffocating ground.

Bruce? Who is Batman for? The question echoed in his mind.

“I...”

Bruce blinked the visions away, slowly returning to the room at present. They didn’t leave completely, though. He had the sensation of being between two worlds, the dissonance of it making his head spin unpleasantly.

He wanted to say that he chose this. That he did it for the city. For his parents. For himself. But he could see now how all of these had been lies. Lies he had told himself over and over to hide the truth. He wasn't the one in control. He was sick, and he had been for a long time now.

How had he not seen it before?

“I... I don't know.” His parents were still clear in his mind, and he longed to go back to them and forget the other forces pressing in. His vision suddenly went blurry, and he blinked a few times, but he couldn't move his hand to rub his eyes clear again.

Strayer nodded, and made a note. “Well, that's a start.” The music stopped, and she carefully rewound the box. Bruce didn't notice the interruption this time. “I think we'll be able to make a lot of progress with you before the night is over, Bruce. What do you think?”

Bruce went silent. He looked down at his arms, expecting the familiar black bracers and gloves, then realized he had worn his suit so often it had become more familiar than his own skin.

Slowly, Bruce nodded.

The Bat controlled him. It had controlled him for so long now.

Maybe now he could finally be free.

Chapter Text

From Amadeus Arkham’s Hidden Journal: Excerpt 1

January 17th, 1922

I almost can't believe it. 48 hours have passed since I’ve implemented the drug, and he shows no sign of regressing yet.

Before today, it was only within the time-span of the induced hypnotic state that my treatment was effective, and outside of it, the Dog remained mad. But when combined with small, regular doses of barbital, his new state of mind appears to have been extended indefinitely. 

A fascinating discovery. One that would not have been possible without your help, Mother. As always, I thank you for your guidance. With it, I can help keep the demons at bay. No more darkness left to ensnare anyone else. 

To think, my daughter was indirectly the one to help heal him after all this time. The music box she used to wind up again and again to hear its comforting notes...

[Indiscernible writing, scribbled out] ... If only I had made the discovery sooner for myself. I fear the demon has already come too close to my heart.

“It's been three days. Does he normally do this?”

“He's been known to every once in a while. I wouldn't worry,” Alfred answered with practiced ease, as if he’d said the phrase a dozen times before. But even after what must have been years of practice, Jack thought he caught a crease of concern in the butler’s eyes, and suspected the words were as much to reassure himself as the people he said them to. 

They stood before the fireplace in the large open parlor. Daylight streamed through the high windows, brightening even the dark wood paneling of the walls, making it feel warmer than it really was on that cold winter morning. 

Jack shifted where he stood, feeling once again uncomfortable in the vastness of a stranger’s home. The strangest thing about it all was that Bruce should have treated him as a stranger, too. A threat, even. Jack wouldn’t have blamed him for it. 

Instead there was a sense that Bruce was already familiar with Jack when they met. Of course, it could be that because of the Joker's notoriety, Bruce assumed he already knew Jack indirectly. From what had happened the other night at the bar, the billionaire had been keeping tabs on him, at the very least. 

It was something Jack had been puzzling over since their first meeting. He hadn’t been able to come up with a good explanation for it, but it felt like he also knew Bruce from someplace else. The best answer he could give was that, like Joker’s notoriety, Bruce’s celebrity status was what made the billionaire seem so familiar to Jack. There were a handful of times where Joker had even targeted events that Bruce Wayne had attended—though Jack didn't recall interacting directly with him. He had been more focused on attracting Batman's attention at the time than anything else, so maybe he had, and just didn't remember it. But Jack wasn't satisfied with this explanation, either. 

When Jack realized he had been silent for too long, he cleared his throat. “It's kind of him to do this for me, but I can't help but feel like I'm intruding here.”

“Nonsense,” Alfred repeated, as he had the last time Jack had said it. As if it was enough to make all his insecurities go away. But it wasn’t—maybe because Jack had never said all he’d wanted to on the matter.

It was a hard topic to bring up now that he wasn’t Joker anymore. But for the first time since he’d arrived at the mansion, he worked up the courage to address it.  

“I still remember what happened before, when I was… him,” Jack forced the words out, still struggling to use his old moniker. “All the times I put Gotham in danger.” He hesitated a second, looking at Alfred, and then added, “Put Bruce in danger. I know it doesn’t do a lot of good in the grand scheme of things, but I'm sorry.”

Silence filled the room, but it didn’t last as long as Jack feared it might.

“No need to be sorry, sir. You weren't yourself. If Bruce trusts you enough to stay here, so do I,” Alfred answered with poised calm. Jack tried searching for any insincerity in the butler’s words, any hint of past resentment, but couldn’t find anything that couldn’t simply be put off to his own anxieties getting the better of him. He relaxed his shoulders a little, looking away, gaze falling above the mantelpiece where the Wayne family portrait hung.

Bruce was just a boy in the painting. He didn’t look like an unhappy child, but he wasn’t smiling either. He exuded a pensive innocence under his parents, their hands resting on either side of his shoulder in a familial gesture. Though their smiles were not overt, there was a warmth in their eyes that made Jack consider them a minute longer, trying to pinpoint what it was. Jack didn’t have much experience with families, but Bruce’s parents seemed happy to have a son. After a moment of scrutiny, he decided the emotion they were showing was love.

“Those are his parents?” He motioned to the portrait with his eyes, realizing the slip in tense only after he spoke. Though Bruce’s parents hadn’t been alive for a long time, the painting made them feel present in a certain way. 

“Yes, Thomas and Martha Wayne. I was proud to serve them both.”

“They look like they were good people.”

“They were.” Alfred’s answer was short, but not dismissive. After a moment he ventured, his tone more cautious: “Have you any family, sir?”

Jack stared at the portrait a minute, before pulling his gaze away with a small shrug. “If I did, they're long gone now.” He glanced in silence back at the painting that, aside from Alfred’s periodic dusting and upkeep, had probably never left the walls since it had been placed there. “It's good he has pictures to remind him of them. Nice to have memories.”

Alfred nodded a little, his lips turning up in subconscious warmth as he looked at the portrait, though there was something in his eyes that seemed to refute his smile—a long-held sadness that was always being added to as the years went on, instead of lessening. “Sometimes. But sometimes it just makes it that much harder to let go.”

—

“Alright, here are your belongings,” Strayer said, handing Bruce a brown leather suitcase that had been sitting in a corner unnoticed on the floor. They were in the living room of her apartment, where Bruce had initially entered through the balcony when he first arrived as Batman. It was hard to think it had only been a few nights ago.

“Belongings?” Bruce asked curiously as he took the suitcase from her.

“Yes. From before. It is your choice what you do with them now.”

Bruce could hardly remember when he'd changed out of his Batsuit. The past few days had all been a blur. He vaguely recalled Strayer bringing him a new change of clothes the other day, now that he thought about it. Bruce sent an uncomfortable glance down at the suitcase, thinking about what rested inside. It gave him a queasy feeling in his stomach just thinking about it. 

It was his old life, now, he tried to reassure himself. He didn’t have to worry about it anymore.

“One last thing before you go,” Strayer began, seemingly unaware of Bruce’s discomfort. “Is there anyone else I need to discuss your change with? Anyone who knows your secret?”

Bruce's thumb ran over one of the metal latches, before letting the suitcase rest at his side. “No, no one. Except...” He released a slow breath of air, feeling worn out after everything that had happened the past few days. But his exhaustion did little to quell the apprehension as he realized what he had to do next. “Alfred.” 

Alfred knew Bruce too well to miss a change like this. The man was the only person Bruce wouldn't be able to talk his way out of with, the only one who might not understand his sudden shift in behavior, or the reasons underlying it.

Strayer looked keenly at him. “Your butler, right?” 

Bruce nodded, though when anyone referred to Alfred that way, he always felt the term inadequate to explain his relation, who had always been more of a father figure to him. 

Strayer nodded, then motioned her hand to Bruce as she guided him to the entrance of her apartment. “Alright, figure out a way to get him here and I'll have a chat with him,” she said. Her hand fell away as she turned to face him, looking up to meet his gaze with an optimistic smile. “It shouldn't take long.”

With a nervous feeling weighing in his stomach, Bruce set out to meet the new day.

—

Bruce didn't head back to the manor right away. He stopped at his penthouse first, where he called Alfred.

“Bruce! Are you alright?” Bruce could hear the relief in Alfred's voice. “Where are you?”

“I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you sooner. I’m at the penthouse now.” He had stopped there to get a better change of clothes and collect his thoughts before heading to the mansion, though he wasn’t sure if he was ready to face either Alfred or Jack in person yet. 

“You disappeared for almost three days without even an ‘I’m fine!’ I was worried you might’ve—”

“Don’t worry, Alfred, I’m alright,” Bruce interrupted, trying to sound reassuring. “Things didn’t go as I planned, but I’m fine. I just—” He stopped, uncertain how to continue. “You need to talk to her.”

“Who?”  Bruce imagined Alfred’s brow furrowing in confusion. “You mean Dr. Strayer? What did you find on her?”

He held back what he wanted to say, knowing he wouldn’t have the right words to explain it to Alfred right now. “I think it’s best if you talk to her in person.” 

There was a heavy pause on the other end. “Are you really alright, Bruce? You seem…”

“I’m okay, really. Just tired.” He didn’t have to pretend that for Alfred to hear it. Bruce added, as gently as he could: “Just go talk to her. It’ll all make more sense to you then.”

“Jack’s still here,” Alfred mentioned, almost as an afterthought. “Are you sure you want me to leave him alone?”

“That’s alright, Alfred. I'll be there soon.”

Bruce thought it would take more convincing, but thankfully Alfred agreed to meet her without further protest: “I... alright,” Alfred said, though with some uneasiness in his tone. “If you say so, Master Bruce.” 

—

Despite what he'd told Alfred, it was evening when Bruce finally returned to Wayne Manor. He had delayed at the penthouse as long as possible as he worked up the courage to head back where he knew Jack would be. 

The foyer was dark, meaning Alfred probably hadn’t returned yet. The door to the study was part-way open, where a warm light poured out. The door opened further as Jack appeared in the doorway at the sound of Bruce's arrival. 

“Bruce?” Jack asked curiously as he left the study, making his way toward him. “You’re back.” 

Bruce felt a small wave of guilt at the same time as he felt relief that Jack hadn’t left yet. He squeezed the suitcase Strayer had given him a little more tightly at his side, hands cold from the short amount of time it had taken him to get from his car into the mansion. 

“Sorry I’ve been away,” he said, trying to keep his voice normal, as if he hadn't just had his whole world shifted upside down in the span of a few days.

“Where’s Alfred? He mentioned something about meeting you earlier, but he still hasn't returned.”

“I talked with him this afternoon. He had some other business to take care of.” Bruce moved toward the study, trying not to focus too much on the suitcase at his side. The bone-deep chill of the Gotham winter was hard to keep out of a place as vast as the mansion, and he welcomed the noticeable spike in temperature as soon as he entered the room, gravitating toward the fire.

Jack followed beside him. He frowned, looking like he wanted to speak. “Where have you been? I mean—sorry, I know it's not my place to ask.”

Bruce stopped in front of the fire, watching it for a moment, then forced himself to turn his full attention to Jack. “No, you have every right to know. I guess you could say I've had a rough couple of days. And it wasn't intentional.”

Bruce noticed Jack’s gloved hand fidgeting at the cuff of his sleeve, exposing the pale skin underneath for a moment. Jack saw Bruce glance at it, then pulled the sleeve back down self-consciously, dropping his hand away.

"I didn't want to stay this long, you know—feels like I'm intruding here,” he said. “I just wanted to thank you again before I left. I know you lead a busy life, so I’m glad you could trust me enough to stay here at least a little while.” Jack attempted a smile, but it was half-hearted at best, and didn’t fully reach his eyes. The Jack who had seemed almost comfortable here the last time Bruce had seen him was nowhere to be found now. 

Bruce hesitated. He had thought earlier about letting the conversation end this way: pretending there was nothing more between them, and parting ways from there. But the faux warmth of billionaire Bruce could not be called upon tonight.

“You don't need to thank me. I'm... not as kind as you think.”

Jack shook his head, some of the uncertainty leaving his expression. “No, it's too late to argue that. Everything you’ve done for me says otherwise.” He locked his eyes with Bruce, a faint smile touching his lips, holding Bruce's gaze with something uncomfortably close to admiration. It made Bruce want to move in closer as much as it made him want to step back and get as far away as possible from the way it made him feel.

“No, Jack, listen. There's something you should know.”

Why was he telling him this? He should just let Jack leave, and never have to worry about him again. It would be so much easier than the alternative. And yet... 

He was tired of facades. He didn't want to hide anymore. Not from himself. Not from Jack. 

Bruce stepped away from the fire, motioning his hand to one of the chairs. “You might want to sit down for this.”

Jack’s eyes flickered back from the chair to Bruce, and he gave Bruce a strange look. “I was the Joker. There's not much left that can startle me anymore.”

Bruce shrugged. “Fair enough.” 

So, with Jack still standing where he was, and the suitcase uncomfortably heavy in his hand, Bruce began. 

“I...” Bruce started, resisting the urge to pace around the room.  He settled on moving closer to the fireplace, resting his free hand on the ledge of the mantelpiece. The flickering of the flames calmed him enough to say what he wanted. “What I was doing, helping you this past week… I wasn't just doing this out of the kindness of my heart, or some sense of greater morality. I was investigating you. But it wasn't just you—it was the others from Arkham. Everyone who had been treated by Strayer. I thought there might be something about her methods that she wasn't revealing to the public. Something that needed to be brought to light.”

Jack was watching him silently. To his credit, he seemed mostly untroubled by what Bruce had revealed so far. 

Bruce continued. “Strayer found out, and realized who I was. And then she...” he stopped.

“...and then she what?” Jack asked, when Bruce had been silent for too long.

“No,” Bruce shook his head, realizing how his sentence had sounded. “It wasn't me. I wasn't Bruce Wayne, I was someone else. Someone who thought he could help this city. But he was wrong.”

“What are you saying, Bruce?” Jack studied Bruce with renewed interest. 

“Strayer helped me defeat him. He struggled against it but in the end he lost.” Bruce’s hand tightened over the handle of his suitcase. He let out a weary sigh, frustrated that none of his words were coming out the way he wanted them to. “It was me all along. The person you fought against. It was me. I was—” Bruce tried to finish his sentence. “I was...” His hands curled in frustration. “Damn it!” He threw the suitcase in the air. 

It arced across the middle of the room, falling open on the floor with a loud thud on the antique rug beside one of the chairs. The unmistakable black suit and cowl fell out in the process, displayed as plain as day by the glow of the fire.

Jack went still. “You? ” Bruce thought he heard Jack say, but sounded like it was from somewhere far off. He had lost all sense of focus to properly register Jack’s words. A horrible feeling had risen in Bruce's stomach, and it was something he couldn't remember ever experiencing before. Like nausea, mixed with something worse.

Bruce couldn't breathe. He took a few steps back, while Jack stood frozen before him. He braced himself against the wall with his arm, trying to steady himself, but it didn't help much. He slowly fell onto his knees, trying to fight back the terrible feeling that was overtaking him. Somehow, in that moment, Bruce knew that it wasn't just from the implications of what he had revealed to Jack. It was the violence of his action. Something leftover from Strayer's treatment.

It was all too much. This past week, investigating Strayer, meeting the others, meeting Jack. He should never have tried to…

“Hey... are you alright?” Jack was suddenly beside him, his mouth creased into a concerned frown. Whatever it was that had taken over Jack earlier, it was gone now. 

Bruce took a slow, uncertain breath, feeling his nausea subside a little, and then stood, still distrustful of his balance as he did so. He still felt far from certain of himself, but didn’t want to appear any worse off in front of Jack, whatever was going on.

“You were right, before,” Bruce managed to say after a few more breaths. “Batman was never real. I made him up, and he controlled me.” He looked at Jack, seeing clearly for a moment the memory of the person before underneath the makeup. The one who had been Joker. “I remember it all. You were—we... why did I fight you? Why did I let myself...”

He'd been so violent, so ready to inflict harm, but he'd been especially so with the Joker. Of all Gotham's criminals, he'd been willing to hurt him most of all. He'd wanted—

Bruce felt another wave of nausea hit him, and nearly lost his balance again, but Jack was there to steady him this time.

“Hey. It's alright,” he said.

Bruce placed an arm on the wall, steadying himself further. He wanted to hate the comfort of Jack’s words, wanted to just be rid of the thing inside himself that caused whatever this feeling was in the first place.

“It's hard at first,” Jack went on. “You remember everything, but none of it makes sense anymore.”

There was something in Jack’s voice that called Bruce’s attention. He tried to stay focused on the words, taking his mind away from everything else—tried not to focus on the fact that the very person who had sought to break him in the past was now the one offering him help as he struggled to come to terms with the memories of his former self.

“You have to let go of them,” Jack continued. “Those memories aren't yours any longer. You—we,” he said, swallowing, finding the correct words as he spoke, “We can't get better if we don't let go of them.”

“I—I can't.”

“You can,” Jack countered, but seemed uncertain of the words himself. He tried again. “Please, Bruce, you have to try.” And once he'd said the words, it was as if Jack seemed to find a strength in them, too. As if he hadn't believed in them either until he'd said Bruce's name.

Bruce, now. Not Batman. Jack, not the Joker.

Jack tightened his grip. He was so close to Bruce now. “You have to try.”

Bruce wanted to listen to him, but nothing had had the time to settle properly in his mind yet, and it was hard to believe if it ever would, no matter what Strayer had told him. Three days had obviously not been long enough. He needed more time. 

He needed—

“How do you live with yourself?” Bruce suddenly asked. His tone wasn't accusatory, but desperate, like he needed more than anything to know the answer for himself.

Jack swallowed, looking down for a moment. “I don't know,” he admitted. “I can't a lot of the time. But I do.”

Bruce shook his head. “I hated you. I...” He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them.

“I know.” Jack's hand moved reassuringly over Bruce's shoulder, now a constant presence. Bruce became aware of the makeup covering Jack's face, noticed how some of it had rubbed off on his neck where the collar of his shirt met his skin, despite the expert care in which it had been applied. This close, any imperfections were made known. He wondered how much effort it took for Jack to hide the past in his reflection every day. How much effort it would take to hide his own self.

“It's always been...” Bruce failed to find the right sentence.

“It's alright,” Jack answered, as if he knew what Bruce meant anyway. “It can be different now. I know it.” There was an assuredness in his voice that made Bruce realize that even without the flamboyance or the terror of the Joker, Jack had a presence he could never fully ignore. “You just have to make that decision.”

“I want to. I just—” Right now, more than anything, Bruce wanted to believe that...

“Then try.”

And amid the comfort of Jack's presence and the confusion of his thoughts, Bruce found himself leaning in closer to Jack, and before he could form a coherent thought to tell him not to, he was pressing Jack to the wall and kissing him.

Bruce felt Jack tense a moment at the contact, only to relax a few seconds later, hands coming up to find Bruce's back and then Jack was not only returning Bruce’s kiss but demanding more, and without further thought Bruce pressed in closer, casting everything else aside that had been horrible about the last few days.

It finally hit him what they were doing several moments later. He broke away in a sudden motion, realizing only too late what he had done.

“I'm sorry. I don't really know what I’m doing right now,” Bruce apologized, avoiding looking directly at Jack. His body was warm from the feeling of their contact, his mind still reeling from just how much Jack had responded to him.

Jack appeared similarly discomposed, but after another moment he was able to recover enough to speak. “It's, uh... it's okay.” He laughed breathlessly, tearing Bruce’s attention away from any thoughts of regret. “I think I understand.”

“Understand?”

“We can both help each other, now. Maybe this is what we need.”

Bruce's mind was still a blur when Jack's hand returned to his side, questioning at first. In response, Bruce slid his own hand down Jack's waist, feeling the fabric between his fingers and the underlying skin, and then Jack pressed in closer, welcoming him, and it all felt too natural, like they had done this before some other time or place. It was different, but it wasn't new.

The rational part of himself tried to process it all, but it was a losing battle. He could try to sum up all their actions leading up to this, but in the end that would get him nowhere, and he knew somehow the answer was much simpler than that.

Bruce leaned in, closing what little space there remained between them, and it was only then that he understood. 

They could get rid of themselves, but they could never get rid of each other.

—

Bruce stood before the fireplace in his room. It was late, but he had one thing left to do before he could let himself rest in his own bed again.

“Are you sure about this?” Jack asked, coming over to stand beside him. He tugged the robe Bruce had given him closer around his body, crossing his arms to hide his hands under the long silk sleeves. He seemed uncomfortable showing any part of his body not hidden under creams and makeup, though his legs were exposed from the knee down, pale feet bare on the hardwood floor. 

Bruce inspected the black cowl and suit in his hands—what he had once believed he must wear to protect the city, striking fear in the hearts of criminals. Looking at it in his hands now, it seemed like a simple piece of fabric, nothing more. A costume, not an identity. It seemed foolish to think about it as anything else. 

“I’m sure.”

He passed his hand over the Batsuit one last time, brushing his fingers gently over the cowl. He barely registered his own movement until the suit had landed in the fire. Smoke curled around it as the cape choked some of the flames, but it wasn’t long before the fire recovered and slowly went to work on the suit. 

It did not burst into flames as Bruce initially hoped. 

After a few minutes staring trance-like at the fire with its new addition, Bruce turned away, heading back to his bed while the flames did the rest of the work for him.

Jack hesitated by the fire a minute longer, before finally breaking his gaze away and following Bruce.

They slept, letting the past burn away through the night.

—

In the morning, while Jack was still asleep, Bruce slipped away from the bed to inspect the remains of the fire and see what damage it had done. What he found in the fireplace disappointed him, though it shouldn’t have been a surprise.

The Batsuit rested in the fireplace, having resisted most of the flames—no doubt due to fireproofing measures Lucius had taken to protect it. It still looked very much like the suit that had been in Bruce’s hands the night before. The cowl was charred and warped in some places, but had otherwise withstood the heat. Even the cape remained mostly intact. Frowning, Bruce carefully lifted the suit out of the fireplace and shook the ashes away from it.

Last night, he had wanted to get rid of the biggest symbol of his old life and be done with it. But the turmoil of his emotions at that time had prevented him from seeing everything clearly. Now, in the quiet clarity of the morning, he realized that this was taking the easy way out.

Jack didn’t have the same luxury. He could never be rid of the reminders of his past. Pale skin and green roots reflected back at him every time he looked in the mirror. Those reminders would always be a part of him. He had to cover them daily with dye and cosmetics just so others could forget who he'd been. 

For Bruce, it would be so easy to throw all those reminders away. So easy to hide them from himself, instead of accepting them for what they were.

Bruce carried the suit from the fireplace, not caring that the fabric of the cape dragged on the ground and left a trail of darkened soot in its wake. 

Chapter Text

From Amadeus Arkham’s Hidden Journal: Excerpt 2

January 25th, 1922

I have been thinking, Mother. About redemption. The so-called atonement of our sins. If one does not do it of their own volition, can their actions ever truly be sincere? 

Even if it is by our choice, are we ever truly free of our sins?

Questions only the Maker can answer, I know. If only I could believe as you had. Perhaps by now I would have the answer. 

I admit, most times I’m afraid to listen to what He might say.

Alfred returned later that day looking tired but otherwise unchanged. He didn't mention anything about Strayer or what had happened to Bruce, and seemed his usual self.

It was only when they were alone that he placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. 

“I'm glad she could help you,” Alfred said, standing near Bruce, who was still seated at the kitchen table after finishing dinner. Jack had left to go to the study, perhaps sensing that Alfred and Bruce needed a moment alone.

Bruce relaxed at Alfred’s understanding tone. He didn't know if he could handle another confession like last night, though in Alfred's case it would have been to explain why he couldn't be Batman any longer, instead of revealing what his identity was in first place. “I am, too.”

Whatever Strayer had told Alfred, he seemed to have accepted it. Bruce felt a weight lift off him in response, and figured now was as good a time as any to bring up what else was on his mind. The other elephant in the room. 

“If it's alright with you, Alfred, I think Jack might be staying here a while.”

“Oh?” Alfred said, though it wasn’t with the dismay Bruce had half-expected him to have. “I was... going to suggest the same, actually.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. He had figured that at best, Alfred would respect his decision, even if he didn’t agree with it.  “You were?” 

Alfred’s tone was honest, though he seemed a bit embarrassed to admit his approval. “You both led very different lifestyles before this, and it's going to take some time to adjust. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone around who can relate to your experience. Perhaps Jack is just the right person for that.”

Bruce scratched his neck, feeling his skin heat a little, not expecting their conversation to go as well as it was. “Right, yeah. I agree.” He had feared how Alfred would react when he told him, but he was doing a good job of surprising him.

“Of course you do.” Alfred’s lips quirked upwards, proof that he was in good enough spirits about the subject to tease Bruce. “When have you ever disagreed with me?” 

Bruce smiled. “Too many times, I think. But I was wrong in every case.” 

In the past, they hadn’t always seen eye to eye on things when it concerned Bruce’s personal life. Or lack thereof of his personal relationships, romantic or otherwise. Most of the women he had dated in the past had been to placate the media’s abnormal interest in his sex life. In reality, Bruce never let anyone get too close, and if they ever tried to take things further, he was certain to end it one way or another. His first responsibility was Batman. Everything else came second, or not at all. And Alfred had been sure on occasion to remind him how unwise that was. One of the few things they never seemed to agree on. 

Or so it had been.

Which, considering things in that light, maybe it wasn’t a surprise that Alfred was being supportive if he thought it meant Bruce would lead a more normal life. As far as normal went with him.  

It had been ages since they had discussed anything this personal. Neither of them had ever been very good at it, but Bruce knew he was the main offender more often than not. And since they were being honest, he should probably let Alfred know that Jack knew about his secret identity.

Not that it mattered, anymore.

“When I came back here yesterday, Jack helped me get through something difficult—one of the aftereffects of Strayer's treatment that I hadn't been expecting. Not only that, he... he knows, now, Alfred. We're actually...” Bruce stopped, feeling his face heat at the thought of telling Alfred just exactly where their relationship was leading. Why was this so hard, even now, when he didn’t have Batman to take his decisions away from him anymore? 

“I’m happy for you both. Truly.” Alfred seemed to pick up on what he meant. And accepted it, too.

It extinguished all of his remaining anxieties, leaving Bruce with a strange, light feeling in his chest. A feeling he was very much unaccustomed to.

"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce hesitated. “I was afraid after Strayer let me go yesterday. Afraid of what to do with myself once the weight of Batman was lifted off of me. Of what you would think of me. Of Jack. I should have known after everything we’ve been through that you would accept this change, too.”

Alfred watched him, his gaze still soft, if more serious now. “I’m sorry if I did anything in the past to make you think I wouldn’t.” 

Bruce's eyes went distant as he looked down at the table. “It’s strange... But I can feel them, now. I never really could before Strayer’s treatment.” 

Alfred frowned. “Who?”

“My parents," Bruce clarified, still looking away. "I always felt their absence when I thought of them, before. It’s still hard knowing they’re gone, but it’s different now. Easier." He finally looked back to Alfred. "Logically, I know they’re still gone, but it still doesn't change that feeling.”

“I’m glad you’re starting to find peace, Bruce.”

Bruce swallowed, glancing away again. “Thank you for always supporting me, Alfred. Through everything. I couldn’t have come this far without you.”

Alfred placed his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. For a while they remained that way, their silence saying more than words could.

—

Bruce returned late from Wayne Enterprises the next day. He was eager to share with Jack what he had been planning, though he was still anxious about one aspect of it. 

Jack seemed to notice the lightness in his step right away as Bruce entered the study, his expression becoming one of curiosity. “Have a good day?”

Bruce found it hard to contain his smile. “Jack, I think I've found someone willing to work with you at Wayne Medical. Someone who can be trusted. You'll be set up in a smaller lab that’s being used mostly for storage now, but it should have plenty of space to do the work you need."

Jack brightened for a second, until he realized what Bruce’s statement entailed, and his face fell. “Someone else? As in, another person?” 

The way he talked, it sounded like he was talking about something that would give him an allergic reaction. “Of course. It will speed things up to have another set of hands around.”

Jack frowned. "Can't you work with me?"

“I’ll still be around every now and then to check in on things, but I have other things to tend to as CEO. Besides, the person you are working with has more expertise in this area than I do. I know you’re nervous about working with others. But we’ll be able to shorten the process this way. And you shouldn’t have to worry about running into too many other people in that area of the building.” 

“I...” Jack looked as if he were about to protest again, then seemed to change his mind. “Alright, Bruce. I’ll agree to meet them, I suppose."

Bruce’s lips turned up. "Good. I’ll need a list of any equipment you might need. The lab should be set up by the end of the week. You can start then if you’d like, once we clear everything with HR.” 

“You're sure this person will be okay working with me?”

Bruce understood Jack’s anxiety, he was nervous about this part himself, but he knew it would help Jack out in the long run to work with the person Bruce had found. Or who had found him, to be more exact. “You can trust her. Just don't act too shocked when you guys meet. She, uh, might not be what you're expecting.” 

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Alright, I’m trusting you on this.” 

“If you change your mind, or decide you don’t feel comfortable there, just let me know. We can always work something else out."

Jack nodded, relaxing a little more at Bruce’s promise. “Thanks. And sorry I don’t sound more excited. Just my nerves, is all.”

“I get it.” Bruce smiled, watching Jack for a moment. He placed a hand on Jack's shoulder, gently moving his hand over the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, just off to the side of his collarbone. The tension seemed to ease further out of Jack's shoulders at the reassuring motion. “It’ll be fine, I promise.” 

—

It was early in the evening, and the halls of Wayne Medical were empty aside from Bruce and Jack. They had almost reached the lab when a young man in a lab coat turned the corner from the hallway in front of them, heading their way. Bruce greeted the man as he got closer, recognizing him as one of the researchers in a nearby lab. 

“Sorry, don’t have time to say hello. Got to check on my tissue samples,” he explained quickly as he passed them, barely glancing at Bruce. Either the worker didn’t recognize who he had spoken to or was in too much of a rush to care at the moment. “They better not be contaminated again,” the man muttered under his breath, before turning down a separate hallway.

Bruce glanced at Jack, and shrugged. 

They made their way down the hall to the lab, stopping in front of the door. 

The door had a fogged window. They could see that the lights were on inside, but not who might be in it. Bruce thought Jack would appreciate the privacy.

“Ready for this?”

“You know, it makes me even more nervous when you ask it like that.”

“Sorry,” Bruce apologized, though he was unable to hide a small smile. Thankfully Jack didn’t seem to notice. 

Bruce watched Jack take in his surroundings as they went through the door. Various lab equipment lined the black resin countertops on each side of the oblong room, including the equipment Jack had requested. There was the standard safety shower, washing area and fume hood near the entrance. Aside from basic glassware, chemicals, and precision scales, there were a couple of expensive chromatography instruments, a mass spectrometer, and a large centrifuge. A computer was also set up on a desk near the end of the room. At the far end was a door leading to a smaller room with cell culture incubators and laminar flow hoods. Jack had not requested this particular room for his research, but Bruce would let Jack’s new lab mate explain that part when it came to it. 

Jack went over to one of the machines not far from the computer. Distracted for a moment as he inspected the running equipment, he didn’t seem to notice that the desk was occupied, nor did he see that person get up from their chair, and nearly jumped when he heard them clear their throat beside him.

“Oh—uh, hi,” Jack said, finally realizing they weren’t alone. “Didn’t notice you there.”

The young woman smiled, reaching out her hand to Jack. “Hello. I'm Barbara.” 

“Jack,” Bruce said helpfully, when Jack didn't immediately answer. “Meet your new lab partner.” 

Jack hesitated, something passing over his expression for a brief moment. Then it was gone, and he took Barbara’s hand in his gloved one and gave it a polite shake.

Barbara held onto his hand a moment longer than was normal, and for a second she scrutinized Jack’s face, as if searching for something. Whatever she found, or didn’t find, must have been what she was hoping for, because she brightened again, letting go of his hand.  

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, and seemed to genuinely mean it. Her honest personality was one reason Bruce had decided he could trust her working with Jack, and he hoped Jack would feel the same.

Jack spoke quickly, pointing at the machine he had been examining. “You’re running some samples already?”

Barbara nodded, seeming eager to explain. “I’ve been comparing the various Joker Toxin-themed drugs found in Gotham, courtesy of the GCPD. Just doing a second run to confirm the results.”

“Learn anything interesting?”

“Ambrosia matches Joker Toxin exactly, though at a weaker dilution. Smilex and the other drugs claiming to be Joker Toxin are missing key ingredients—namely strychnodide. Which makes sense, since it’s the most difficult ingredient to synthesize. Thankfully, it means those drugs are less harmful as a result. Unfortunately they aren’t as popular now that Ambrosia’s on the market.”

“I see,” Jack said, looking impressed. “Then I guess we know for certain what we’re dealing with.”

“Which is where your expertise will come in handy, I hope,” Barbara said.

Bruce knew Jack was self-conscious about his smile, but he allowed himself a small one in front of Barbara, keeping his mouth closed as he did so. “I have a few ideas in mind.” 

That was all Barbara needed to hear. She grinned brightly at Jack. “This is going to be great! Oh, I almost forgot! I set up the computer in the other lab to run some simulations. Wanna see?”

“Simulations?” Jack sent Bruce a bewildered look. Bruce feigned ignorance. 

“Yeah, of course,” Barbara said. “For my research project. Bruce didn’t tell you? Come on, let me show you.” She spoke quickly, motioning with her hand for him to follow. 

“Oh, okay,” Jack answered simply. “Sure.” He sent Bruce another puzzled glance, who only nodded in encouragement, his lips quirking up at their interaction.

Barbara led them through the door at the end of the room to the smaller lab. She put fresh gloves on, spraying her hands with ethanol before reaching into an incubator and taking out a petri dish. “I’ve been interested in expanding on a new technology. One that’s meant to replace the traditional role of animals in research.” She held the petri dish out for Jack and Bruce to see. “Meet the new lab rat.”

“What’s in there?” Jack asked curiously, eying the clear dish with red substrate.

“Mammalian cells with a special mix of enzymes. It’s meant to mimic how a body would respond to toxins, but without actually harming a live rat in the process. 

“You mean we can test if an antitoxin is working with just that?”

“Exactly! It’s not perfect, and we have to be careful not to contaminate the cells while we’re working with them, but the good thing is we’ll know right away if an antitoxin is working or not.” She ushered them over to the lab hood. “Here, you haven’t seen the coolest part yet.”

She took out a bottle from a fridge in the corner of the room, bringing it over to the hood. “Some of the toxin, diluted.” She pipetted a few drops from the bottle over the plate. “Add a few drops, and then…”

She brought the plate over to a microscope that sat on a table in the middle of the room, placed it under the lens, then started typing on the computer next to it.

“Here’s the program I’ve been working on. The computer will do the whole analysis in real time, so you can see how the toxin affects not just the cells, but,” she pressed a button emphatically, “also the rat.”

The screen showed a digital lab rat, at first moving around happily in its virtual cage. After a minute it froze, then began moving frantically around, chittering and squeaking until it seized up one final time.

“There you have it, a dead rat.” Barbara frowned. “Guess I didn’t dilute the toxin enough. Basically, we can run any tests, and the computer will run an animation showing how the rat would respond just by analyzing the visual data.”

“You made this program from scratch?” Jack asked, taken aback, still looking at the screen where the dead rat lay.

Barbara nodded, her eyes still intent on the screen. “It isn’t perfect yet, but I hope it will be a good alternative to using lab rats in the future.”

Bruce spoke up. “Barbara’s one of the smartest people I know. You’re lucky to work with her, Jack.”

Jack was only touring the lab right now, and couldn’t officially start until the next day, but it looked like he already wanted to jump in and start working. Bruce took that as a good sign. 

Jack seemed to remember himself, and took his eyes from the computer screen to Barbara, smiling again, his mouth still closed—but it was wider, more genuine this time. “Well, if that's the case, I’m looking forward to working with you.” 

Barbara met his gaze easily, matching his smile. “Likewise, Jack.”

—

Once they left the lab, Jack grew quiet, saying little as they headed to the parking lot. Bruce figured he probably had a lot on his mind, and wasn’t too bothered by it. 

“So, what do you think?” Bruce asked as they reached the car and got in. Though they had driven together this time, Jack would soon have his own car to drive, since it would look strange if Bruce was giving him a ride to and from Wayne Enterprises all the time. 

“Oh, the lab is great.” Jack smiled openly. “It'll be perfect for what I need.”

“And Barbara?”

“She’s brilliant,” he said. “I can see what you mean about her.”

Bruce sensed something in his tone, though he almost missed it. “But…?”

Jack went silent a moment, then let out a slow exhale, as if he had been holding something back. “Are you sure about this? Barbara? Barbara Gordon ? Does her father know?”

“Does he know what?” Bruce asked, though he knew exactly what Jack meant.

“Does he know that his daughter’s new lab partner was a former Arkham inmate and mass murderer?”

Bruce sighed, but he was ready for this kind of reaction. He’d even asked a similar version of that question to Barbara when they first talked. Bruce knew her father probably still harbored ill feelings toward Jack, even if Jack didn’t have a murderous bone in him anymore. 

He felt his hands tense on the wheel at Jack’s frank admission of his past. “Well. Not exactly…” Bruce admitted. And with it, he also felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t even talked to Gordon since Strayer’s treatment. The most he had done was send an anonymous letter saying he wouldn’t be around for the foreseeable future, and not to worry about him. Bruce knew that gesture wasn’t enough, but without Batman's disguise, talking to Gordon in person just wasn’t an option anymore.

“What if Gordon finds out? I mean, he's the Police Commissioner, for Christ's sake...”

"He won't."

“Why’d you even tell her about me in the first place?” 

“I didn't,” Bruce said, in earnest. “I had been discussing with some of the researchers about hiring someone else, seeing if they could be trusted enough for me to tell them who you were. She overheard somehow, and came to me afterward about it.” Bruce glanced over at Jack briefly, then returned his eyes to the road. “You know how smart she is. She already had figured everything out on her own. I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter.”

“And what did you say that could have possibly revealed who I was?”

“Nothing,” Bruce insisted. “I just asked if anyone was willing to take on a project researching an antidote for Joker Toxin, and if they were, that I knew someone who could help out. I checked all their backgrounds to see if they had any close family affected by the Joker, and was going to talk to them individually to get a sense of how comfortable they would be working with you, but I never even got that far. Barbara had of course heard about your rehabilitation, and I guess she just put two and two together.”

“Still.” Jack sighed. “This doesn't sit right with me.” 

“Don't worry, Jack. You can trust her,” Bruce said. He lifted his right hand from the wheel and reached over, placing it on Jack’s shoulder for a moment. “More importantly, she can trust you, right?”

At that last question, Jack finally relaxed a little, his expression softening after a moment. He nodded. “Right.”

“You both will make a great team.”

—

It was morning when Bruce heard Jack wake. Each day, he would get up earlier than Bruce and head straight to the bathroom to apply his makeup, touch up his hair if any green roots were showing, and put in contacts that darkened his unnaturally bright green eye color—contacts that he usually ended up tearing out by the early evening because of how dry they made his eyes feel after just a few hours. It had become a daily routine, but sometimes Bruce wished Jack wasn’t so careful about his appearance. He just wanted Jack to be comfortable around him.

Instead of letting Jack go about his routine as usual that morning, Bruce grabbed his wrist as he stood from the bed, interrupting him from his morning ritual. “You don't need to do that.”

Jack looked startled. “Do what?”

“Hide from me every morning,” Bruce explained. When Jack’s confusion did not lessen, he added, “I don’t care how you look.”

Jack’s eyes dropped away, with a pained expression. “It's better this way… Besides, I’m going to be working now. It wouldn’t be good to slip up with my appearance.”

“You don’t work until evening. There’s no rush, is there?” Bruce studied Jack’s expression. His frown had lessened, but he still didn’t seem certain about what Bruce said. 

“I… I guess not.” 

“You don’t have to feel uncomfortable about the way you look around me,” Bruce persisted. “We both have scars from our past. You don't have to keep yours hidden. Not from me.”

That didn’t seem to be what Jack wanted to hear, though. He took in a deep breath, but seemed to stop himself from sighing at the last second, instead shaking his head. “You know it’s different for me.” 

“It isn’t all that different,” Bruce argued. “Not really.” 

Jack raised his free hand, inspecting it a moment. It was as pale as Joker's hand had been. He dropped it once more. “You don’t have to try to be polite, Bruce. I know how I look. The only reason you’re even doing all this in the first place is—” Jack stopped himself.

Bruce frowned. “Is what?”

Jack breathed out. “Nothing. Just forget it.”

“You think that’s what all this is?” Bruce said, sensing Jack’s thoughts. “That I'm only doing this because I feel sorry for you?”

Jack hesitated.

“I’m not. You know that.”

“I know. I just...” Jack swallowed, looking down at his hand that was still in Bruce’s grip. “Just let me do this. I feel more like myself than when I look this way.”

Bruce loosened his hold, feeling a little guilty now about confronting Jack. “Of course. I just don’t want you to think you have to do it for me.”

Jack squeezed Bruce’s hand a second before letting it go. “I know.” With that, he stepped away, finally going back to his routine that Bruce had so thoughtlessly disrupted.

Bruce got up a short while later, going over to his closet to find a change of clothes. He froze for a moment at the sight of the Batsuit hanging in front of him. A distinct smoky scent still remained from the night spent in the fire. As usual, it was the first thing to greet him in the walk-in closet. His own daily reminder.

Each day, the sight bothered him less and less.

—

The next night, Bruce went to check on Jack in the lab. Barbara had school late that day so it was just Jack there. He appeared to be writing notes down in a notebook, closing it in a hurry when Bruce open the door, only to relax when he saw who it was.

“Is there something wrong?” 

Jack fiddled with the sleeve of his lab coat, hesitating. It was different seeing him in a white lab coat. Bruce decided that it suited him. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to bring up. About the antitoxin.” 

“Is there something else you need in the lab?”

“No, well—not exactly,” Jack said. “But there’s something I might need your help for.”

“What is it?”

Jack debated a moment. “You’ve researched Joker Toxin in the past, I know. What can you tell me about it?”

Bruce wondered what this was leading to. “Well, its most toxic components are hydrogen cyanide and strychnodide. There are two main forms—gaseous and liquid, of which the latter is most deadly.”

“Yes,” Jack nodded. “And…?”

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“How many times do you think I’ve been exposed to it myself?”

Bruce wasn’t sure, he realized. He knew Jack had to have been exposed to at least some of the vapors in the past. “Maybe second-hand exposure a few times?”

Jack shook his head. “No. Joker… he tried it often. Didn’t like measuring things, so he had to make sure it was giving the intended psychological effects by testing it on others, or taking it himself.”

Bruce froze. “Diluted, though, right? You wouldn’t have endangered yourself more than you had to.” 

“There’s a reason I haven’t died from it, you know. I’m immune. What better candidate to make an antitoxin from than me?” 

It took Bruce a moment to find his words. “You want us to use yourself to make the antidote?” 

Jack nodded. “But if we're going to do that, I’m going to need to expose myself to the toxin first.” 

Like they did with antiserum made from horses and rabbits, exposing them to some toxin or disease and waiting for them to produce antibodies against it. But Jack was human. That immediately made things more complicated.

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t see how that will help in the long run. You’re just one person. How could you possibly supply enough antitoxin for a whole city?”

“I was thinking about it today... it could work. Those mammalian cells, the one that Barbara’s using for her virtual rat project. Couldn’t cells like that be made to produce antitoxin instead, using my DNA?”

Bruce thought for a minute. It had been a while since he’d worked in his personal lab, which now sat collecting dust in the Batcave.

“Theoretically, you could isolate the RNA in your body after giving you the toxin, give it to the cells so they produce the same antitoxins your body makes, and then isolate it from there. In the real world though, that takes a lot of time, and might not yield enough to be worth it. It could be years before we see mass production of antitoxin for Ambrosia.”

“But with someone like Barbara on the team?” Jack asked. “We can do it. I know it. And in the meantime, I don’t mind using myself as the source for the antitoxin. I think it’s about time I helped out Gotham for a change.”

“But we don’t know what affect the toxin might have on you, Jack. You haven’t used it since Strayer’s treatment. What if it doesn’t work? What if...”

What if you go back to being the Joker?

Jack’s eyes met Bruce's, reading his thoughts. “That’s why I need you to be there when I do it. If anything goes wrong, you can get Dr. Strayer’s help. She won’t be happy, but… I have to try this.”

“Jack…”

“Please, Bruce. This might be the only way. It was nice of you to set up the lab for me and all, but realistically, you know it's unlikely we'll find another antitoxin for strychnodide. It’s simply too toxic. God knows how my body can handle it undiluted.”

“Have you told Barbara any of this?”

“No, of course not… I think it will be best if we tell her afterward.” 

Bruce took a deep breath as he thought about what Jack was asking him to do. “Give me the night to think about this.”

“Of course.” Jack agreed. “I understand it’s a lot to ask.”

Despite his misgivings, though, Bruce had already made his decision. He just needed some time to prepare.

He hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

—

Bruce had just gathered his things and was leaving his office for the evening when he saw Lucius heading his way.

“Bruce! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all week! Did you forget about our meeting?”

Bruce stopped in his tracks, feeling a jolt of guilt. “Sorry Lucius. I was busy overseeing some things in Wayne Medical. Must have slipped my mind.”

“Ah yes, I got your message about that.” Lucius stopped beside him. “Working on a cure for the Joker toxin?” 

“That’s the plan.”

“I hope we can make a breakthrough soon. The city needs it,” Lucius said. He looked down, lifting a folder slightly in his hand, signaling with his eyes toward Bruce’s office. “I didn’t think I would catch you here this late, but if you don’t mind me disturbing your evening schedule, I have a few schematics to go over with you that you might find of interest.”

Bruce felt his stomach sink. “Thank you, Lucius, but…” But what? What could he tell him that wasn’t an outright lie? He couldn’t say maybe another time. It was now or never that he had the conversation he had been avoiding since coming back to Wayne Enterprises. “There’s something I need to tell you.” 

Lucius frowned, concern touching his features. “What is it?”

Bruce’s eyes trailed away. “I’m taking a break from Batman for a while. Maybe permanently.” 

There was a long pause. When Lucius responded, he sounded genuinely curious, even if he looked saddened by Bruce’s words. “Can I ask why?” 

Bruce decided it would be unwise to tell him the whole truth right away, so he settled on something in between. “Don’t you see the signs? With everything happening around Gotham lately, the new therapy at Arkham… My job’s becoming obsolete. If even Joker can be cured, maybe I’m not needed the same way in Gotham anymore.” 

Lucius gaze focused on the skyline of the city through the office windows, before looking back at Bruce. “I’m amazed as anyone what Dr. Strayer has managed to do at Arkham. It’s a breath of fresh air for this city, that's certain. But even she doesn’t have the answers to every problem. Ambrosia is going to take a big toll on Gotham before long. Wouldn’t it be quicker to stop it at the source?” 

Of course, everything Lucius said was true. That made it all the harder for Bruce to answer. “Gordon’s got people on it. I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it soon enough. In the meantime, I hope finding an antitoxin can help prevent anything like this from getting out of hand again in the future.”

“But you could do it faster working with Gordon,” Lucius persisted. And Bruce knew he was right. 

“I’m sorry, Lucius… I just can’t.” Bruce felt ashamed to admit it to one of his closest friends. Somehow, it was even harder telling Lucius about this than it had been telling Alfred. Lucius was a good man. But Bruce couldn’t change who he was now. 

“Just tell me this one thing, Bruce,” Lucius’ voice was softer. He must have seen the conflict in Bruce. “Is this something you want for yourself? Or are you doing this because you think it’s what you should do?”

Bruce weighed the answer to his question. “I guess… I’ve spent most of my life as Batman. I could spend the rest of it that way, if I wanted, but Batman was never supposed to be a permanent solution for Gotham, anyway. Maybe it’s time for me to be someone else.” 

To his surprise, when he looked at Lucius his eyes were shining a little, his mouth turning into a half-smile. “You’re starting to sound like you’re my age, Bruce. Careful, I think I see a few gray hairs there.”

Bruce smiled, unconsciously running a hand through the side of his hair. He was glad Lucius seemed to be accepting his decision, even if he didn’t fully agree with it. Bruce knew how hard this must have been for Lucius to take Bruce’s change of heart out of the blue like that. “I’m not retiring yet. Just redirecting my focus elsewhere. You’ll be seeing me around here a lot more in the future, I’ll make sure of that. And… Sorry for avoiding you. This is a conversation I wished I would never have to have. I know how much Batman means to you. But I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want it for myself.” 

Lucius nodded, then lifted the briefcase at his side. “Well… since you aren’t going to be needing these anymore… I suppose we’ll have to close the lab.”

“I don’t see the use it will be now,” Bruce agreed.

Lucius hesitated. “You don’t want it all cleared out though, do you? We could keep some things around, just in case.”

“That's probably wise." Bruce would allow his friend the comfort of that small hope, even if he knew it would never happen.  

“Well, it’s getting late. I better head back to my office.”

It took Bruce a moment to register what Lucius had said. “Hold on. Aren’t you headed home?”

“Well, in light of what you just told me, I thought I would stay a little while longer. Think this all over a little. Get a start on some things.”

Lucius was the Business Manager at Wayne Enterprises for a reason. However, Bruce didn’t think his workaholic personality was a good enough excuse to always be putting his work above everything else. In the past, he had been the same way, of course. But Lucius had a family to go back to. It had to be hard on his wife and kids. And Bruce would have to be blind not to notice the tired bags forming under Lucius’ eyes. 

“I can’t allow that, Lucius. You aren’t around your family enough as it is,” Bruce said. “How about we both get out of here for tonight? I promise I’ll be here the first thing in the morning to help smooth over the new changes I mentioned.” Bruce smiled a little. “Can’t let you have all the fun here.” 

“Well, when you put it that way, I suppose that’s not a bad idea. ”

To Bruce, it felt like it had been ages since they had last spoken, though it couldn’t have been much longer than a week. Maybe it was because whenever they had talked before, it had always been about the latest gadget Lucius had been working on, or what he could improve on in his suit or gear, making any creative ideas Bruce had a reality. While he knew Lucius enjoyed inventing and improving on Batman’s tech, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d simply spoken with the man as a friend.  

“Come on,” Bruce said, motioning to the elevators. “I feel like it’s been ages since we last talked to each other.” Bruce reached his hand to press the elevator button. He glanced at Lucius, feeling like a final weight had been lifted off him now that Lucius knew about his decision, even if he couldn’t tell him every detail about what had happened. “How are Tiffany and Luke doing?”

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside.

Chapter Text

From Amadeus Arkham’s Hidden Journal: Excerpt 3

January 27th, 1922 

The Dog regrets his actions, every one of them. He kneeled before me today, crying in my lap as if tears could somehow help bring my family back. I was forced to comfort him, but the longer I consoled him the more it made me sick. What right did he have to grieve? His cathartic bawling served no purpose except as a selfish desire to help himself. I can’t allow it—I won't. I can’t let him heal if I can’t heal myself. 

Dear God, what am I thinking? I have devoted my life to helping those whom no one else would. To provide a sanctuary from their darkness, no matter how depraved their actions. Not let that darkness into me. 

I have made it this far without relapsing into the Demon’s hold. I must remain strong. I must.

They were in Thomas Wayne's old physician's office on the first floor of the mansion. Bruce still remembered it as his father’s workspace, and most of his father’s old equipment was still there. 

“Are you sure about this?” Bruce asked, for what must have been the hundredth time. Currently, Jack was restrained in a medical chair, for both his and Bruce’s safety in case anything went wrong with what they were about to do. 

“Don’t have much choice in the matter if we want to make any progress,” Jack said, with some reluctance in his voice. He took a breath, his eyes firming with resolve. “I’m ready.” 

“...Alright.” Bruce hesitated as he held a syringe over Jack’s bare arm. A sharp scent still hung in the air from the rubbing alcohol he had just used to disinfect it. “This is going to sting a little.”  

Holding his breath, Bruce injected the diluted Joker Toxin, then waited for the symptoms to take effect.

After almost half a minute, Jack still seemed unaffected by the dose he'd been given. Bruce frowned. Perhaps they had diluted the toxin too much for him to have the same response others had, especially with Jack’s natural immunity.

Jack blinked, looking over at Bruce. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words died in his throat, his face contorting. He managed to restrain it at first, clamping his mouth tightly shut, but his smile became wider and soon enough one of his laughs inevitably escaped into the air. One of the first symptoms of the toxin, of course. Perfectly normal. It shouldn’t have made the hair on Bruce’s arms raise like it did, but he figured he could be forgiven for it. 

“Jack?”

Jack managed to restrain his next laugh, then shook his head, some of his old self coming back. “No—it's okay, really. I remember this happening when I was the Joker, too. I just didn’t notice it as much, because I was already—heh!—you know.”

Bruce stared at him in disbelief. “You could tell the difference?”

“Ha! Could I? Yessir-ee. It always went away after a minute or so. But I, uh—hah—don't remember feeling this nauseated before. Guess my mind was on other things, like...” he drifted off, laughter subsiding. “Candles. Birthdays.” He smiled, but it seemed forced, looking more like a grimace. “Nightmares. Soirees. Merry-go-rounds.”

Bruce braced himself as Jack went through another fit of laughter, trying not to remember the memories that old sound brought back with it.

“Ha ha! S—s,” Jack stuttered. “Sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” Bruce said. “How are you feeling?”

Jack didn’t answer. He wasn’t laughing anymore, but something still didn't feel right. He swallowed, frowning at Bruce. “You look so different now. But you'll always be my flying, flying...” He drifted off.

“Jack?”

“I'm fine.” Jack said, his tone colder than usual. He tried to lift his arm as if to wave Bruce off, but was stopped by his restraints. “Just let me think together,” he said, looking down, as if preoccupied with some other thought. He glared in Bruce's direction when Bruce didn't move. “Alone, please.”

Bruce let out a concerned sigh. “We shouldn't have done this.”

His words were met with an artificial laugh that lacked all enthusiasm, but kept on going like a toy running on an almost dead battery. The laugh died out just as Bruce turned around and was reaching for the amyl nitrite—the best antidote for the Joker toxin so far. It would neutralize some of the toxin in his body, but was only weakly effective.

Bruce turned around with the syringe in his hand, observing Jack’s new silence. Jack’s head had sunk down a little, and he looked almost like he’d fallen asleep.

“Could you get me some water?” His voice was quieter now, and his eyes had lost their manic glint.

Bruce grabbed a bottle that was nearby, uncapping it so Jack could take a drink.

“Thanks," Jack said tiredly after Bruce drew the bottle back from his lips. "I think the worst of it has passed."

Bruce held back a sigh of relief. He would have to monitor Jack for a while, make sure he was really okay before undoing his restraints. With any luck, they would have a working antitoxin within a few months, though it would be a while longer before it could be given to the people in Gotham who needed it. 

Jack seemed almost back to normal, now. If it had been anyone else, they would have been laughing for a good hour at least. Bruce set the water aside, then placed his hand over Jack’s arm reassuringly.

Jack smiled weakly, lifting his head a little. “Thank you, Bruce." It seemed like he wanted to say more. "For...”

Bruce leaned in closer when Jack didn’t finish. Jack's head dropped further, breath evening out.

He had fallen asleep.

—

Bruce sat inside Strayer’s office. Weak eastern light streamed through a single large window, nestled between two heavy-looking bookcases that looked to be as old as Arkham itself. Bruce noticed the room was wisely kept free of any plants save for a small, feeble-looking spider plant sitting on one of the shelves beside Strayer’s desk. It was spacious enough for an Arkham office, though it had the appearance of being smaller due to the sheer amount of books and items lining the shelves. 

Across from the window, along the only other open section of wall, hung a large painting. Bruce’s attention was immediately drawn to it, though he couldn’t say whether it was to escape the crowded feeling of the rest of the room, or because of the painting itself.

The painting depicted a town on top of a large cliffside. Almost everything about it was exaggerated. The oil paint had been layered on so thickly that the rock seemed to escape out of the image. The location of the town itself seemed impossible upon second glance in such an extreme location, and had it been a city, Bruce suspected it would still look just as insignificant. A small blemish at the top of the vast expanse of rock, and little more. A road led away from it, at first gently, then swooping sharply downward until it was running parallel to the cliff at an impossible angle, only stopping to meet the ocean at the bottom.

The town might be eaten by the earth below at any moment, or its inhabitants swallowed by the sea if they strayed too far down the road. And yet there was a strange feeling of hopefulness to the scene. The town survived where it was, despite the threatening forces around it. 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Strayer pulled Bruce back from his thoughts. “Really puts things into perspective. Strange how an impersonal landscape can speak truths about ourselves we’d otherwise never dare to admit.” 

Bruce pulled his gaze away from the painting. “I can’t tell if it’s a sense of fear or wonder that that artist is trying to convey.”

“I suppose that depends on the viewer,” she smiled, without glancing at the painting. “Either way, its effects have been positive on my patients so far. I find it helps to have an image for them to focus on when they’re nervous.”

“Makes sense,” Bruce said, finding his eyes drawn back to it, studying the painting a moment longer. “But was it worth the price?”

“The price?” She looked puzzled for a second. “Ah, you recognize the artist. I should have known. Paid a pretty penny for it, that’s for sure. But it was worth every cent.”

“Didn’t take you for an art connoisseur,” Bruce said. 

“I’m not, really. I was at a gallery a friend had brought me to. When I saw it, it spoke to me so much that I just had to have it.” She shrugged, setting aside some papers in a loose pile on her desk. “But enough about me.” She fixed her gaze on him, back to her usual professional concern. “How is Alfred? Has he expressed any worries after your treatment?”

Bruce faltered, expecting a question about himself. “No, he seems to be doing well with it all,” Bruce answered honestly. “Actually, he’s been very supportive of everything so far.”

“And Jack?"

Of course she knew about Jack, but it still sent a wave of apprehension through Bruce, stronger than if it had been a question about himself. Strayer didn’t know how close they had become, after all. Considering their history, Bruce could forgive her if she didn’t approve of it. Not to mention that Jack had just been subjected to Joker Toxin the day before, and was still recovering from its effects. 

“He’s… good.” Bruce rubbed the arm of his chair absently with his index finger, noticing the worn fabric from all the patients who had used it before, scratched and picked at until the yellow foam was exposed underneath. He stopped the motion. “I’m sure you’ve talked to him about it already, but he’s decided to stay at my place for a while.”

“Yes, we have. He told me his living arrangements changed when I saw him earlier this week.” Strayer said. “I find it a bit of a surprise that you two are getting along so well with your history.” 

Bruce couldn’t tell if Strayer’s tone was disapproving, or just curious. “I’m still wrapping my head around it, myself,” he replied, deciding to play it safe and be honest. “But I’m happy to have him stay. He’s changed now. I’ve changed.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, Bruce.” She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, as if making a decision about something. “Well I suppose there's no harm in it. I'm not going to advise against it, anyway, as long as you both appear to be benefiting from it.” She jotted something down, then gave him her full attention again. “Jack’s told me you set him up in a lab at Wayne Enterprises. To help develop an antidote for Joker Toxin.”

Again, Bruce found her tone hard to read. He knew Jack wouldn’t have told her about his plan to use himself as a source of the antitoxin, but part of him feared she somehow knew anyway. Bruce swallowed, carefully meeting her gaze. “Yes. I did.”

Strayer smiled. “I think that’s wonderful. I’m grateful for all that you are doing for him. More than you know.”

Bruce didn't let his relief show when he answered, “It’s nothing, really.”

Strayer watched him for a moment, tapping her pen absently on her notebook. “I’m going to tell you something I probably shouldn’t—being technically a violation of patient privacy and all. But considering your past connection, I’ll make a special exception for you, Bruce.” 

Strayer sent a glance out the window, her pen stilling, then she abruptly stood and began pacing the area around her desk. “It’s funny. People always imagine Joker being my most difficult patient to treat. But that part was easy enough: the hardest part was what came after. For weeks he was nearly catatonic. Wouldn't say a word after the treatment started working. It was only when he learned to separate his current self from his past one that he started to improve." 

She stopped at her desk again, returning her gaze to Bruce. “Even after making real progress with him, I was worried he wouldn’t fare well out there in Gotham. Not that he would be a danger to it. The opposite, really. But when I learned about your—”

Strayer was interrupted by a knock on the door. Before she could say a word the door swung open and a guard rushed in, his eyes wide with alarm. Bruce sensed the man was barely holding in his panic.

“Doctor!—Croc’s acting up again. We could use your help.” 

Strayer looked irritated by the interruption. “How many times have I told you? It’s Waylon.” 

“Right. Sorry. Well, Waylon just knocked out one of the new assistants. Threw them halfway across the room during a routine check-up.” 

If anything, Strayer looked even more annoyed at the guard. “If you always send me, then he’ll just learn to act badly when he wants my attention.” 

The guard shifted awkwardly on his feet, still hovering at the entrance. “I don’t think he’s thought that far ahead. Just one of his moods, you know. Please, none of us can handle him like you can.”

Strayer sighed, standing up and moving out from behind her desk. “Sorry Bruce, I’ll be back as soon as I can so we talk more about that fundraiser.”

With that, she was gone. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway, becoming fainter until the door finally shut with a heavy click, muffling the sound.

—

On their way to see Waylon, Strayer and the guard passed the young assistant who'd been injured, now conscious and being led to the medical ward. They looked shaken, but other than a cut on their forehead, appeared alright.

“I—I’m fine doctor,” they said, looking almost apologetic. “It was my fault. I was too nervous. I didn’t think I’d be so afraid—”

“It’s alright,” Strayer reassured them. "I'll take care of this."

They nodded, before continuing down the hallway, holding a hand over their injury to try to stop the blood from dripping into their eyes.

Waylon was in the aquatic therapy room located in the basement of Arkham. While the other patients were technically allowed to use the room, Waylon was the primary reason it had been built. Every day he would soak in the pool for an hour or two.  If he did not have routine exposure to water, his skin condition would worsen, leading to intense discomfort if left for too long without it. 

The pool took up three quarters of the area, but Waylon was nowhere in sight when Dr. Strayer entered the room. She noticed the two other Arkham guards first, standing uneasily with taser sticks in their hand.

“He’s over in the showers," one of them explained, not meeting her gaze. 

Strayer passed by them, turning the corner to see Waylon sitting on the tiles where the shower heads stuck out from the wall. His head was down, arms around his legs, eyes lowered, looking sullen.

Strayer sent the guard who had fetched her an unhappy look.

“He—he wasn’t like that when I left! Must have just calmed down," the guard defended himself.

Strayer sighed. “Well, it doesn’t hurt to have a talk with him while I’m here.” She looked to the other guards, who had given Waylon a wide berth. “Please give us some space. I’d like to speak with him privately for a moment.”

One of the braver guards spoke up. “Are you sure?” she said. “He looks calm now, but you never know with someone like him."

“Now.”

The guards hesitated, but eventually left to wait outside the door. When they were gone, Strayer finally stepped over to Waylon, who hadn’t moved an inch since she’d entered. Even sitting on the floor, his head was almost level with hers.

She said nothing for a moment, simply looking down at him.

He spoke before she did. “I know it’s no excuse, but I didn’t mean it.” Waylon’s giant fists clenched on the ground. “It just happened.” 

“Couldn’t take it easy on the new person, huh?” 

Waylon snorted, but didn’t smile. “I was getting too confident. Thought my treatment was finally working and I let my guard down. When I saw the fear in that kid's eyes… I just couldn’t control it.”

“Waylon, you have made a lot of progress. Don’t let this make you think you’re back at the beginning again, because you’re not.” 

“The guards don’t seem to think so.” Waylon looked up a little, hesitant. “Does this mean I’m getting the collar again?”

Strayer sighed softly. “No. I’ve told you, not as long as I’m around. You’re not an animal, Waylon, and you’re not going to be treated like one.”

Waylon was quiet for a moment, then seemed to sense something, and sniffed the air. His eyes glinted under the dim fluorescent lights.

“Have you been meeting with the Bat? His stench is coming off you.”

Strayer nearly froze at those words, and looked around to make sure they were still alone. She calmed herself with the knowledge that Waylon still wouldn’t know Bruce’s identity from that information alone. “He’s not Batman anymore.”

A deep, dry rattling sound escaped him that was probably laughter. “Him, too?”

“I helped him, just like I’m going to help you.” She hoped the news would encourage him and not make him jealous as he sometimes became with her other patients.

Waylon went silent, eyes focusing on the green tiles of the wall as he considered this new information.

“Funny how even when people change, their smell stays the same.” His eyes still had a strange glint to them—a part of the hunger that rarely left him—but his tone was resigned. Grim, not angry. 

Waylon had no handcuffs on at the moment. He was allowed to swim freely in the pool, and only wore them when being transferred to his cell. Despite this leniency, he was considered one of Arkham’s highest security patients. Strayer should have exercised more caution being around such a notoriously violent individual. But she knew that wouldn’t help either of them in the long run, and instead she stepped closer, laying a gentle hand on Waylon’s shoulder as her eyes calmly met his sharp reptilian gaze.

After a moment, Waylon’s eyes closed. Then he seemed to let off a great weight as he relaxed his shoulders, letting out a harsh exhale that might have been a sigh. When he opened his eyes again there was only tiredness remaining. No trace of the agitation from before.

“Guess that means there’s still hope for me, too, huh?”

Strayer smiled, hoping the tiredness in her own eyes wasn’t noticeable in the dimly lit area. Bright lights tended to aggravate Waylon, and he always felt more comfortable in rooms with poor lighting conditions. 

“There’s always hope, Waylon,” she answered, wishing there was more she could do than say those words. 

In a minute she would have to get the guards, and he would be sent back to his room. But for the moment, Strayer allowed them both to stay like this.

She kept her hand steady on his shoulder, even as it chilled her skin. 

—

In her absence, Bruce fought the impulse to explore Strayer’s office. It was one of his old habits to investigate, and the itch was still there even when it was no longer warranted.

He stood, telling himself he was only going to casually look around. His eyes trailed over various books until he realized he was by her desk. The top edge of something caught his eye inside Strayer’s half-opened bag by her chair, and he found himself reaching for it, quelling the bit of nausea that rose up in him. The object seemed so familiar, but his memories of it were foggy and dim.

He realized it was an old handwritten journal. Without opening it, he knew it belonged to Amadeus Arkham. He held it in his hands a moment, then flipped it open, deciding to read through a few of the entries. It didn’t take long for him to remember just how troubled Amadeus' life had been. 

The information had been important to Bruce once. But even though he’d called up those memories once again, it just didn’t seem to have the same impact now that he wasn't Batman.

He placed the journal back where he'd found it, and went back to his chair just as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The door opened and Strayer entered.

“Sorry about that,” she said, sounding a little out of breath. Arkham was a large place, and she had probably returned as quickly as she could.

“It’s no problem.”

“Now where were we?” she asked, frowning in thought. The flow of their conversation had been interrupted, and their session was starting to run late. "You know, I don't think we've even had the chance to discuss how you're doing yet." She settled back behind her desk. “So, Bruce, is there anything on your mind you want to talk about?"

Bruce caught himself picking at the arm of the chair again, and stopped. "No, not really. Just..." He paused. "You mentioned Jack struggling with a sense of purpose. I guess sometimes I’m not sure what my own is anymore.”

Strayer sat back in her chair, giving him a tired, but understanding nod. “Well, with the drastic changes you’ve had to make in such a short amount of time, I’m afraid that’s only natural. But if you can focus on all the good you, as Bruce Wayne, can do, and find meaning in that, I don’t think you'll have to worry too much." She sent a glance to her bag where the journal was, but didn't seem to notice anything amiss. "If you do have any problems going forward, though, I’ll always be here to talk to.”

For a second Bruce thought about bringing up Arkham’s journal. But while it was interesting seeing it again, he didn’t see the reason to pursue the topic with her anymore.

Thank you, Doctor,” he said politely, then stood, knowing their conversation was at its end. 

“Anytime, Bruce.”

—

Jack was asleep in the main study when Bruce returned to the manor. As he moved closer, he noticed a glass of what smelled like gin sitting on a table beside him, with  a small book open in his lap. His eyes were drawn to the last page Jack had been reading before he fell asleep. 

He read a few lines, then reached his hand out, gently nudging Jack awake. He blinked his eyes open, staring groggily up at Bruce.

“Hey,” Bruce said, almost a whisper in the quiet of the study. “It’s late. How are you feeling?”

Jack sat up a little, setting the book aside. “Good. I’ll be ready to go back to work tomorrow, I think.”

“That’s some heavy stuff to be reading before bed.” Bruce motioned to the book. From the few lines he'd glimpsed, it had been written by someone who had become disillusioned with modern life, to say the least. 

Jack grimaced, then looked away. “I was just trying to distract myself.”

“From what?”

“I saw something in the paper today.” He motioned his hand to a newspaper which had fallen to the floor beside the overstuffed chair. Bruce lifted the paper, scanning through it for what might have disturbed Jack. “Look in the obituaries. That woman from the bar...”

Bruce looked at the next page, scanning the images. “What happened? Did she…” Then he saw it. “Oh.”

He saw the face of a girl who had the same eyes and face of the woman who had confronted Jack. Only seventeen. Her death was too recent for it to have been directly caused by the Joker, as he'd first assumed. When he read the cause of death was accidental overdose, he knew what the likely culprit was. 

Jack stood up, and began pacing around the front of the fireplace, unsettled again as Bruce read the contents of the paper. “It happened just a week before I saw her at that bar. She was just trying to drink some of her grief away. And then I showed up. Can’t blame her for reacting like she did. It was my fault, like she said.”

“This isn’t your fault, Jack. Someone else has been making Joker Toxin. Not you.”

“It wouldn’t exist without me.”

“Well, that’s why we’re doing what we’re doing, isn’t it? You took the risk of injecting yourself with the toxin in order to make a cure. Not many people would do that. You are trying to make things better. So stop putting yourself down.”

“It's just… sometimes I think that nothing I do now can change my past, so why even try? How can what I do now ever be enough?”

“You think there aren't things I wouldn’t go back and change, if I could?” There still wasn’t a day that went by, even after Dr. Strayer's treatment, where Bruce didn’t think about what he could have done differently in his past. If he had moved just a little bit faster, he could have saved his parents, could have prevented what happened that night at Ace Chemicals. Could have saved Jack, or whoever Jack had been, from becoming the Joker. “None of us have that luxury, Jack.”

Jack let out a breath of air, then nodded. “I know.” He stopped pacing, turning to face him. “Sorry, Bruce. I’m just feeling a little more out of sorts than usual right now. One of the side-effects of the toxin, I’m sure. Thanks for bearing with me.”

Bruce stepped closer, thinking he should comfort Jack somehow. He placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Anytime. Really, I don’t think of any of this as a burden.”

When Jack held his gaze a few moments longer than normal, Bruce moved in a little closer, then hesitated. He still had trouble showing affection sometimes. When neither of them had made a move for another moment, Jack broke their gaze with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. I’m not always the best at this kind of stuff.”

Bruce laughed a little, relieved by Jack’s words. “I guess that’s something we can both work on.”

Jack smiled, eyes returning to give Bruce an intrigued look. “I’m surprised it’s difficult for you. I imagine you have a lot more experience than I do in that arena.”

A second passed. “I guess it’s different when it’s the real thing.”

“All those girls hanging off your arms in the tabloids were just for show, you mean?” Jack asked, half-joking, but with a curious glint in his eye.

Bruce let his hands slide down Jack’s arms, then when they reached his wrists, he pulled him closer. “You don’t see any of them here with me right now, do you?”

Jack hummed, threading his hands through Bruce’s, not quite looking at him, though Bruce saw a hint of a smile. “I guess not.”

Bruce leaned in closer, wondering why it had seemed so hard to do so just a moment before, when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the hall. They both backed away from each other, pretending to be doing something else.

“Ah,” Alfred said when he entered. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I was just going to check on the fire. Thought you both went to bed already.” 

Alfred had been good about giving them space, knowing very well the nature of their relationship, but after years of it just being Bruce and Alfred at the mansion, Alfred wasn’t used to giving Bruce as much room as he had been lately. Some awkward moments were bound to happen at some point.  

“It’s alright, Alfred. We were just heading to bed.”

—

“I understand the secrecy, but it would have been nice if I had been aware of this part,” Barbara said with a frown. She held the blood sample up to her eye level, as if she could see the antitoxin just by looking at it, then set it back down on the counter, turning back to Jack and Bruce. “That was a dangerous thing to do, Jack. You could have been hurt.”

“It was under controlled conditions,” Jack said, sending a sidelong glance to Bruce, not revealing how big a part Bruce had played in helping him. “If anything had gone wrong, Dr. Strayer would have been able to help me get back to normal again.”

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” Barbara said.

“It’s done now, anyway,” Jack said. “The next step is to make the cells produce antitoxin, isolate it from there, and then test how effective it is on your, uh, virtual lab rats.”

Bruce smiled. “Sounds easy when you put it that way.” 

“If only,” Barbara said. Despite her words, her smile was optimistic. “At least it will be a good challenge.” 

Barbara left a short while later. Jack stayed to finish cleaning the lab, setting various vials and beakers to dry. Bruce admired Jack's insistence on taking over most of the menial tasks. Normally that work was left to the interns like Barbara, but Jack knew she had a busy schedule and had more important things to be focusing on in school. 

“I was thinking... why don’t we go somewhere tonight, Jack?” 

Jack paused midway between placing a flask down to dry, then finished the motion, glancing at Bruce. “You mean, like a date?"

“Yeah, a date. There’s a few places downtown I haven’t been to in a while—places we wont be disturbed. We could get a drink, hear some nice music, relax.”

Jack was silent for a moment, probably recalling that night at that bar with the woman who'd threatened his life. Bruce would have understood if Jack had wanted to decline the offer, but thankfully, the corner of Jack’s mouth turned up into a tentative smile. “Okay. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Half an hour later they were seated at a table in a dimly lit piano bar. They sat toward the back of the venue, cloaked thick, hazy shadows to avoid anyone recognizing them. 

Jervis Tetch's words rang true that some habits never changed, and for Bruce, he had never lost the feeling of security in the darkness. The night always had an appeal to him, bringing a comfort that the days could not provide. It was easier to hide their identities in the dark, to blend in and feel normal like the rest. There weren’t many people here tonight, and those who were seemed inclined to keep to themselves, intent on the music or maintaining their own private murmurs of conversation. 

Bruce relaxed for the first time that day, feeling the stress slip into the ether of night. He watched the strain ebb away from Jack’s body as well. Judging from the bags under his eyes, he needed the break, too. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t put up more resistance to Bruce’s suggestion.  

True to Bruce’s word, no one bothered them during their stay, and aside from the bartender handing them their drinks, they enjoyed the night in peace.

So began the first of many evenings.

Chapter Text

From Amadeus Arkham’s Hidden Journal: Excerpt 4

February 10th, 1922 

Some part of myself truly thought it might help me to go through with this. To save the murderer whom I couldn’t prevent from killing the ones I loved.  My wife, my daughter. My beautiful family. The very lives that gave my own life meaning.

I see now what I fool I was. The others feel sorry for me. They think I'm brave to do what I'm doing. My repulsion only grows every time I hear their foolish attempts at sympathy. I can’t escape the pity in their eyes. Worst of all though, is him—especially the times when he's not himself. When the treatment is working.

In those times all I see is his wretched, remorseful face, muttering repentant words which he can hardly speak between crying. He has found God now. An entity I've found no trace of evidence for in all these years. How could he be the one to find Him, but not I?

A few months later.

Bruce forwent his hat and scarf that sunny morning, but kept his coat. Though the days were getting longer, winter still had not completely lost its hold on the city as the wind swept between the cold hollows of the towering buildings. 

Despite the absence of his alter-ego for several months now, the city had appeared to manage well enough on its own. The initial spike in crime once Batman's disappearance became apparent had already stabilized to previous levels, more or less. It reassured Bruce that Batman had needed Gotham, not the other way around. 

There were rumors, of course. With the new treatment at Arkham being a success, some argued Batman didn't think his help was necessary anymore. Most of the major villains were either rehabilitated or in the process of being treated. Perhaps Batman had simply decided to retire now that the major criminals of Gotham were no longer a threat. 

Of course, some claimed that Batman had ultimately been killed by the criminals he fought so hard against. He had picked a dangerous line of work, and perhaps it was inevitable. Gordon was quick to put a stop to that rumor, however. Though the police commissioner didn’t have explicit details about Batman’s disappearance, he had done his best to reassure the public that Batman was not dead. Besides, if someone had finally managed to off Batman, they no doubt would have flaunted it somehow. This was Gotham, after all.

Most assumed that Batman had lessened his patrol of the city, standing watch from a distance in case he was ever needed again.

That was what the papers had settled on, anyway. Rumors abounded, but for the most part Gotham did not panic. The Dark Knight had always been a mysterious presence, and his apparent absence did not do much to lessen public belief in him.

Bruce let his thoughts of Batman fall to the background as he neared his destination. It was a small shop nestled in between an old bookstore and a vacant building that had a ‘FOR LEASE’ sign in a dusty display window. The shop was made all the more attractive next to its neighbor, though it wasn’t eye-catching on its own. He had often passed by it on his way to Wayne Enterprises, and thought he would finally go inside and take a look. 

It was a special day, after all.

Bruce grabbed the brass handle of the door, setting off a bell as he headed inside Lily’s Plant Shop. 

As soon as he stepped inside, he had the feeling it wasn’t the typical place people got their flowers. He saw a few standard houseplants, but most were kinds he’d never seen before. And while there were many flowering plants, there weren’t any roses or other common floral arrangements in sight. 

For a second, Bruce debated leaving, but since he’d already stepped inside, he figured it would be the polite thing to at least pretend to browse for a minute. 

An old woman appeared from the other end of the room at the sound of the bell, and politely greeted him. Like the shop, there was something equally strange about her appearance, though he could not put his finger on it. She had unkempt, medium-length white hair with reading spectacles hanging around her neck and a thick wool cardigan that made him itch just looking at it. 

“Hello, dear. Can I help you with anything?” The woman asked, still some distance away from him.

Bruce set down a small orchid plant he had been pretending to consider. “I’m just looking for some flowers for my mother. It’s her birthday today.”

“Oh, how sweet.” The woman smiled, stepping closer. “How about one of our orchids? We have a beautiful variety to select from, or some easier to care for options if she doesn’t have a green thumb.”

Bruce unwillingly took a step back from the woman. There was a pungent smell about her, one her perfume could not mask: a strange, overpowering scent of decay. Even with a few feet of space between them it was overbearing. He hoped she didn’t notice the extra distance he had made and take offense.

“I’m sure she would like that.” He smiled softly to make his next words easier to say, doing his best not to breathe in too deeply. “Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be able to take care of any. They’re actually for her grave. I thought I’d leave some flowers for her.”

“Oh, I see,” the woman said, taking his admission of his mother's death in stride. “Unfortunately, we only specialize in rare and exotic plants here, you see? Nothing cut. Anything you put on that grave wouldn’t last a day in this weather right now, anyway.” She hummed in thought. “I think I have an idea, though. Just a moment.”

Bruce was thankful to be able to breathe again when she left. He was the only one in the store, though it could have been because it was the middle of a workday. Still, he figured the scent probably didn’t draw many customers. He wondered how she was able to make her rent. Maybe he was wrong though, and there were many rare plant collectors in Gotham willing to pay for such plants no matter what kind of smell they had to put up with.

She returned a little while later with something root-like in her hands, with short stubs at one end. There were no flowers in sight.

“I think these will be perfect,” she said. “Iris albicans. White irises. It is customary to plant them on graves in some cultures. They represent peace and eternity, linking Heaven and Earth.” She looked up at him. “How about something more long-lasting for her than the usual flowers she gets? Something that won’t wither or die?”

She must have seen his frown, because she added: “I know they don’t look like much right now, but if you plant them in spring, they should bloom by next Mother’s day, and every one after that.”

Bruce considered the unimpressive-looking rhizomes in front of him. He supposed once the flowers bloomed they would look nice at his parents’ grave. His mother had always appreciated irises. “I think that’s a lovely idea,” he said, trying not to take a conspicuous step away from the old woman. 

She smiled. “Wonderful. Just make sure to keep them in a cool place until spring.” She walked slowly over to the till, in no hurry it seemed. Bruce followed a safe distance behind. 

Bruce paid for the plant then held his breath as he took the bundled rhizomes from the counter, hoping he would remember to plant them once the ground thawed, then thanked the old woman and left. While he hadn’t expected to leave with what he got, at least he hadn’t left empty-handed. He wasn’t sure he’d be back anytime soon to Lily’s Plant Shop, though. 

—

Jack called Bruce over to the lab the next day. There was an excited edge to his tone on the phone, and Bruce assumed he and Barbara had made progress on the antitoxin. 

When Bruce arrived, Jack ushered him over to the second room of the lab, where Barbara was at the computer. 

She gave Bruce a guilty smile. “We’ve actually had a stable cell culture line for over a week now, but it took a little longer to isolate enough of the antitoxin.  Sorry for keeping it secret until now—we just wanted to surprise you.” Barbara motioned to the three petri plates in front of her. “Now time to put it to the test.”

It didn’t take long. Barbara loaded two plates with Joker Toxin, adding the antitoxin a moment later to only one of them. She placed them each under a microscope, then waited for the program to do its work and show the results. 
 
Three virtual rats were on the computer screen, representing each of the three plates—the control rat without any toxin; the one with toxin, and the one with both Joker Toxin and antitoxin. The two given toxin immediately started to move frantically around their virtual cages, compared to the relaxed control rat. Soon enough the one without antitoxin seized up, and a minute later the program indicated it had gone into cardiac arrest. The last rat appeared to be going a similar route as the poisoned one without antitoxin. 

They watched it a for few moments, holding their breath as the rat froze for a few seconds, seeming to go unconscious. Then its body started twitching, like it was waking up. It lifted its head, then slowly started roaming its cage again, looking weaker, but alive. A minute later it was almost back to normal with the control rat.

“It worked!” Bruce breathed in awe, eyes fixed on the screen. 

Barbara smiled. “The best thing is the antidote should remain in the body for a few weeks after using it—so anyone trying to use Ambrosia again within that time period will find it just wouldn’t give them the same high. Hopefully it’ll help with anyone having problems with addiction.”

“There is another issue we’d have to overcome first, though,” Jack spoke up beside her. “The cell lines are only producing small amounts of antidote compared to what a human or animal could produce, but with a little more time, we should be able to upscale it enough to start sending some to hospitals across Gotham.” 

Barbara nodded. “Right. We still have to run more tests. See how effective the antitoxin is with delayed administration, and get ready for Phase I testing.” She sighed a little. “I get why the red tape is there, but part of me just wishes we could skip that step and give it to the people who need it now.”

Bruce understood her impatience. “Well, hopefully in the meantime, your dad can get a lead on whoever has been making the toxin.”

Barbara nodded. “Oh, he’s close. Dad won’t tell me the details, but he suspects it's just one supplier.” She looked at the rat who had been given the antidote, now indistinguishable from the control rat.

“I think this calls for a celebration,” Bruce said. “You two deserve a reward for the work you’ve done. I’ll treat you to any restaurant you want.” 

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer, Bruce,” Jack said. Bruce glanced at Barbara, who’s smile fell a little.

“Oh, I wish I could, but I’ll have to get a rain check. It's getting late, and I've got an Astrophysics exam to study for tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner, Barbara?” Jack asked. “We could have showed this to Bruce another night.”

“It’s alright. I couldn’t wait any longer, anyway. I was too excited to see the results." She minimized the program and went to another screen, quickly typing up some notes on the outcome of their experiment. "I'll just finish up here. You guys go ahead.” 

—

“Can you believe it?” Jack said over a sip of a celebratory cocktail. “An antidote for Joker Toxin. Who would've thought we'd get this far, already?”

Bruce was feeling a warm buzz from his whiskey, and couldn’t help but add: “Can you imagine the news headlines if they knew who was behind it?”

Jack laughed a little, shaking his head. He didn’t seem to be self-conscious about his smile at the moment. “No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough of being in the spotlight for one lifetime.” 

“Make that two of us.”

Jack eyed his drink, ice settling as he moved his glass slowly around in both hands. “I should be the one buying you a drink, you know. None of this would have been possible without your help.”

“You’re the one who did the work. I just gave you the place to do it.”

“That’s exactly my point. You trusted me to have a lab of my own.” 

Bruce shrugged, eyeing Jack's hands. He thought about reaching his hand out to clasp it over one of Jack's gloved ones, but both were currently wrapped around his drink. “It wasn’t a hard decision, really.”

Jack shook his head, smiling as he finally brought his glass to his mouth, taking another sip. “Speak for yourself. I'm sure even I wouldn’t have trusted myself in your place.”

The music soon drew their attention. There was a singer tonight, her voice a silky smooth contralto weaving throughout the bar. They watched her for a few minutes, entranced.

Jack turned back, appearing to grow pensive. "You know, it’s funny. Even after all this time… sometimes I feel like I’m waiting for another hiccup of madness to appear just when I think my past is truly behind me.” He hesitated, sending a glance toward Bruce. “Of course it never comes, but that never stops me from worrying. There’s always that small fear."

There was a short silence between them as applause took over. 

Bruce found himself thinking about his own doubts that he had left unsaid until now. Noticing that one of Jack's hands was free now, he reached over, placing a hand over the top of Jack's.

Jack sent a quick glance around the room, then turned his palm upward, taking Bruce's hand fully into his own, squeezing it back gently.

Even though no one was sitting near them, Bruce lowered his voice as he leaned forward. “You know, before, when I was Batman, part of me didn't want to believe that you were better, that you’d actually changed. I think it scared me more than if you'd just been rotten all the way through. I wanted everything to be simple." He laced his fingers between Jack's. "Good or bad, nothing in between.”

Jack turned his half-empty glass in his free hand, seeming to take in Bruce’s words. “It would be so much easier that way, wouldn't it? You'd always know who to help and who to punish. But here we are,” he said, smiling a little and gesturing his free hand to the bar around them. “In this gritty gray world.”

“I’m glad I was wrong,” Bruce said, leaning back in his chair, without removing his hand. “It’s still hard to comprehend sometimes, the way I thought before. How stubborn I really was. I hid behind my ideals, using that as a way to justify my actions.”

“You were just doing what you thought was right,” Jack said, shrugging. “Besides, Gotham has a way of making us all a little bit strange, sometimes.”

“Some of us more than others.”

Jack squeezed Bruce's hand one more time, then loosened his hold. He lifted his drink to Bruce in a mock toast, a warm glint in his eye. “Can’t argue there.”

Bruce lifted his own glass to his, and they both drank to something he wasn’t quite sure of, though he knew it was something they both shared. 

The music continued, and their drinks gradually emptied to their comfortable silence. 

—

When they left, the chill had returned with the night, and they pulled their jackets closer around them as they picked up their pace. They were only a block away from the parking garage when a voice stopped them.

“Spare some change?” the man asked, though he didn’t look like the typical homeless person simply down on their luck. 

Bruce studied the burly man for a second, having a bad feeling. He hesitated, then nodded. “Sure thing.” He pulled out his wallet and handed him a few bills.

“Nah, I think there’s more than that.” At that, Bruce noticed three other men appear behind them. The first man who had spoken to them smiled, pulling out a knife. “How about you and your friend here give us everything you got?”

Bruce thought about protesting for a second. Physically, he knew he was still capable of taking them on, but already the nausea was threatening to overwhelm him just thinking about what the men might do to them. “Sure, no problem,” he tried to say calmly. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Bruce carefully held out his wallet to the man who had first interrupted them. As he did so another went to Jack, waiting for Jack to give them his own wallet. Jack fumbled around a little, hands shaking as he searched his pockets.

“Come on, we haven’t got all day.”

“Sorry—here you go.” Jack said, trying to hide his face behind the collar of his coat as much as he could. 

The man must have thought the action strange, as he took a closer look at Jack.

“Hey, hold on a sec... Is that who I think it is?” He grabbed Jack by the collar, moving him so a streetlight was hitting his face. He studied him a second, then gasped, letting go of him and taking a step back. “Shit! It is!” He gasped. “It's Joker!” 

The man with the knife walked over to Jack, giving him a hard look, and Bruce realized just exactly who they had run into. Not just any criminals. Joker’s old goons.  

“Well if it isn't my lucky day.” The man sneered. “Been hoping I'd run into you after they let you out of Arkham.”

The man spit at Jack’s feet. “You paid us shit, you know, even when you weren't killing half of us off. Time for a little payback.”

“Please, gentlemen,” Bruce broke in. “You must be mistaken. He’s not who you think he is.”

“Shut up.”

“Wait-wait-wait,” the smallest man of the group said, who Bruce realized had a gun hidden on him. “No way. It's Bruce Wayne! What the hell is he doing with Joker?”

“Hell if I know,” the man with a knife said.

“This means jackpot for us, guys.”

“Yeah, I bet he's loaded.” They proceeded to rifle through Bruce’s wallet. “Huh? Only a few twenties? What the hell, man.”

“Ah well. At least we get to beat the shit out of Joker. Or whoever he says he is now.” The man next to him shrugged. Bruce couldn’t tell from his loose coat if he had a gun on him or not. “Anyway, we don't do it for the money. We do it for the lifestyle.”

“Well, I do it for the money...”

“Shut the hell up,” the burly man interrupted, clenching the knife in his hand. “This is my call. And I say, if life gives you the Joker, you go an' make a nice puree out of him. Here, gimme back his wallet." The man found his ID, studying it a second. “Hi, Mister—uh—Jack Napier, is it, now? Nice t’meet 'cha.”

Bruce felt his body tense, his jaw clenching tight as the man moved forward. Jack crumpled forward a second later as a fist met his abdomen. Despite the wave of dizziness that hit Bruce, he managed to grab the man’s other wrist, twisting it so he dropped the blade, then kicked it so it slid into a nearby gutter.

“Hey! Someone hold him down.”

Two of the men went over to grab Bruce, but at that point Bruce was too weak to put up much of a struggle. The shorter man finally pulled out his gun, aiming it at Bruce in case he tried anything else. 

He tried not to listen to the sounds of the man beating Jack. Each second felt longer than the last. He wished a car would pass by and scare the men off, but the road stayed eerily quiet. They must have picked this street for a reason.

A minute later, one of the men finally spoke up. “Hey, don’t you think he’s had enough?”  

“I’ll be done when I'm done,” the man huffed, spitting out his words between kicks. 

“Are you sure it’s really him? He's not even putting up a fight.”

“Course. it’s. him.”

“Hey, I think Mr. Wayne’s gonna be sick,” said the man who was watching Bruce. “Guess this guy really is a wimp. Can’t even stomach a little beating.”

After a few more excruciating moments, the man finally backed off of Jack.  He spat at the ground next to where Jack lay semi-conscious. “You deserve a hell of a lot more than that. Can't believe I ever looked up to you. You're pathetic.” A car's headlights shone in the distance, and he looked at the other men. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” 

Each of the men spit at Jack before hurrying away, turning into an alley. 

It was another minute before Bruce could finally stand. He walked over to Jack, kneeling next to him on the cold ground. 

“Are you alright?” Bruce placed a hand over his shoulder, wondering if Jack could even hear him. “Can you stand?”

Jack mumbled something, looking disoriented, then tried to stand on his own. Bruce helped him up, pulling Jack’s arm so it was wrapped around his shoulder. 

“M’fine,” Jack said distantly, but there was a noticeable limp as he took a few steps with Bruce's guidance. He seemed to be in shock. 

“We need to get you to a hospital,” Bruce said.

Jack stubbornly shook his head. “No. No hospitals. I'll be alright. Let's just go back home.”

Bruce didn’t protest further. Slowly, the reality of what had happened sunk in. 

“Damn it,” Bruce said, shaking his head as they slowly made their way back to his car. “Damn it.”

—

“What happened?” Alfred asked, his eyes wide as he realized what kind of state Jack was in. He frowned at Bruce. “He needs a doctor. Why did you bring him here?”

Bruce shook his head, giving Alfred a meaningful look. He led Jack to his father’s old office, Alfred hovering close behind them. “I checked his wounds already. I don’t think it’s anything too serious. Besides, how many times have you helped patch me up when I’ve been in a bad fight?”

“I'd hoped I’d seen the end of that.”

Bruce opened the door, then stepped into the room, unwrapping his arm from Jack’s shoulder as he guided him into a chair. “We were jumped by four men just before we got back to the car,” Bruce explained, going to the cupboards for some rubbing alcohol and bandages. “They wanted money, we didn’t have it.” 

“Why is Jack the only one hurt?” 

Bruce hesitated, sending a quick glance at Jack, who forced a smile, answering before Bruce could: “I just have one of those faces, I guess.”

Alfred shook his head. “How terrible. I’m sorry this had to happen to you.”

“Do you mind getting some ice for the swelling, Alfred?” Bruce asked, bringing the first aid supplies he’d found in the cupboards over to Jack.
 
Alfred nodded and swiftly left the room.

“How’s your leg?” Bruce asked, checking Jack over again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. No sign of major head injury or broken ribs. 

“It's fine,” Jack responded. “Just bruised, I think. Landed pretty hard on my side.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help back there,” Bruce said, still hating how he had acted. The guilt now was almost worse than the earlier nausea had been. 

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. I think there’s been enough of that for one night,” Jack said, giving him a crooked smile. His grin looked strange on his bruised face—bits of white were showing everywhere where the makeup had smeared away, and his face had swollen unevenly around his cheeks and the side of his jaw. 

Bruce grabbed the rubbing alcohol. “This might sting a little.” Jack grimaced a little as Bruce applied it to the various cuts on his face, staying silent as Bruce worked. Another wince from Jack as he touched a spot on his neck. “I wouldn’t have hesitated in the past. Now look at me. I couldn’t even look at what they were doing to you.”

“One of them had a gun,” Jack said. “It’s good you did what you did, or you could have been hurt a lot worse than I was.”

Bruce took a deep breath, then finished cleaning the wounds, stepping back. “I guess you’re right. Still hard not to feel some regret about it, though.”

Alfred entered a moment later with some ice and a large glass of water, and some painkillers in addition to that. Bruce thanked him, then finished dressing Jack’s wounds. 

By the time Bruce thought to check the time he realized it was already past midnight.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” He asked, after Jack dismissed Bruce's offer to help him walk up the stairs to the bedroom. 

Jack nodded. “The painkillers should help. I’m just tired now.”

Once they reached the bedroom, Bruce made sure Jack was as comfortable as possible, then collapsed beside him on the bed.

While Bruce hadn’t been hurt, witnessing Jack’s beating had taken a mental toll of its own. He thought the days events would keep him awake, fueling his anxious thoughts, but he must have been more tired than he realized. Within minutes of lying down, his worries slipped away, and he found the welcome quiet of sleep.

—

While Bruce slept, Jack lay awake.

It wasn’t simply from the ache of newly forming bruises all over his body. It was the itching in his left side. It had grown worse since he lied down. He rubbed the skin there, looking down at where the sign of another bruise was beginning to show. He pressed down on the skin again, feeling something strange.

On impulse, he made his way to the bathroom. Without thinking about what he was doing, he grabbed a straight razor, placing the sharp edge over the bruise, in the spot that itched most. Gently, he pressed the edge down, but not enough to draw blood. There was something underneath it. He swallowed, closing his eyes tightly for a moment before he made a cut over his already injured skin. He hissed in pain. With another breath, he pressed his fingers on his skin to push the object out of the small incision he had made. 

The razor clattered to the floor as a hand went to his mouth and he bent over the sink. He waited as the heavy wave of nausea passed, then relaxed a little, finding a towel and holding it over his fresh wound to stop the blood. With his other hand, he held up the object in his hands. It was something small and square, not much bigger than the size of a quarter. The object had bent slightly, looking like it had cracked.

Jack frowned. 

He would have to show this to Bruce in the morning. 

For now, he needed to rest. 

Thinking that was the end of his troubles, Jack bandaged the cut, and then made his way back to the bedroom. Now that the itching was gone, he realized just how tired he truly was. 

He was unconscious almost before he hit the bed. 

—

It woke him later in the night. 

A sound.

It took a moment before he realized what it was. A laugh? But it had sounded like his own, not Bruce’s or anyone else’s. He tried to place what had caused it—had it been a dream? Had something been so funny that he had laughed out in his sleep?

Before Jack realized it, another laugh had escaped his throat, as brief as the first had been, but this time he could tell that it was the beginning of something much more. The painkillers must have finally kicked in, because he didn’t feel sore at all, except for his side. Quickly, but quietly, he removed himself from bed and rushed out of the room, stifling as best as he could what was threatening to become a violent storm of laughter. Cold moonlight fell in through the high windows, guiding him to his destination.

It started slowly at first, when he was finally in an empty room and out of earshot. First came a small “heh,” then a “ha.” He thought maybe he had been wrong then, and that was all that there was going to be. The room was silent apart from the quiet ticking of a clock in a corner of the room. He breathed out a sigh of relief when no more sounds escaped. 

In his next breath, the room erupted in a terrible cacophony.

He laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed. He laughed until he could stand on his feet no longer, and collapsed onto the ground only to curl into himself and cry out some more, his stomach seizing as the unrelenting howls escaped him. He laughed and laughed, and kept on laughing after that. There was a relief in it all as it came out of him—making up for months and months spent as Jack.

Every time he thought he might regain control of it, it would start over again in a new cycle, his thoughts an endless supply of fuel for his laughter. 

He was going to die, he really was, die right here in this room—from laughter, of all things! The misfortune of it all! The tragedy! Hah!

Gradually, the silences between his laughter grew—second by second, laugh by laugh—until, to his own amazement, it had died down to mere spasms in his throat. The quiet of the room took over again, aside from the odd “hoo” or “ha” that escaped him. His grin evened out into a more or less neutral expression. He remembered the wound at his side, and lifted a hand to it, rubbing his finger over the bandage in thought.

He stood, noticing a mirror in the room, and then walked calmly towards it. Gently, he inspected his face with his fingers, drawing a hand over his face while he regarded the strange person looking back at him. His hand stopped at his cheek as he felt a particularly large bruise. The colors were all wrong, but where his face was swollen, bruised and cut, there were signs of something more promising hidden beneath. 

Slowly, he dug his fingers into his skin, moving downward from his cheek, smearing the makeup off as best as he could and exposing streaks of lighter flesh underneath it. As he did so his grin slowly returned, until his face was beaming widely at him. 

White, white, a beautiful pale moon white.

Another laugh escaped his throat, and then silence. His grin did not leave him this time. There was no more laughter in the room that night—no sound at all, aside from the quiet footfalls as the Joker slipped back into the hallway and left the room empty once more. 

But even if he had stopped voicing the sounds, inside he would never stop laughing. How could he, now?

Finally, everything was clear again.

—

When Bruce woke the next morning, his bed was empty aside from a small note folded in half on the pillow beside him. When he opened the paper all that was inside were a few short words, written in what looked like red lipstick:

I’ll save you yet, my poor lost bat.

xoxo

Chapter Text

From Amadeus Arkham’s Hidden Journal: Excerpt 5

March 13th, 1922

The effects of the barbital have diminished significantly over the past week, even at increased dosages. It appears his body has grown tolerant to the drug. I am trying other substitutes, but most have shown little promise so far. Nothing like the barbital. It seems his journey into sanity was only temporary, after all.

I admit with some degree of shame that a part of me feels relief knowing this—that the madman cannot be saved. A testament to how much my will has weakened over time. My dream has withered without the heart to give it purpose anymore.

Why, Mother, do I keep trying?

“I'm worried, Alfred,” Bruce said. Alfred had gone noticeably pale after looking at the note, and Bruce wondered what he himself looked like at the moment. “Should we notify the police?”

“That would appear to be the logical course of action,” Alfred answered. “However, considering Jack’s special situation…” 

Bruce nodded. “I’ll call Dr. Strayer first and see what she recommends.” 

It was still early in the morning. After several rings, Strayer answered in a tired voice, “Hello?”

“It’s Bruce,” he began. “I’m afraid something bad has happened to Jack. He was assaulted by a group of men last night. He seemed alright, but when I woke up this morning he was gone. He, uh, he left a note.” Bruce swallowed. “I’m worried he might not be himself anymore.”

Bruce read the note aloud, and Strayer was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was abnormally calm. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No,” Bruce replied. “Just Alfred.”

“Good. Thank you for notifying me first, Bruce. We don't know what we're dealing with yet, so I'd like it if you kept this information to yourself for the moment. No need to start a panic if this is all some misunderstanding.”

Bruce hesitated briefly before answering. “If you think that’s best.”

“It will have to be, for now. I’d rather not bring the police into the picture if we don’t have to. In the meantime, keep me updated if you learn anything else.”

“Of course,” Bruce said, then added uncertainly: “Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“When Jack’s release was first announced, you said there were safeguards in place in case he—in case anything went wrong.”

“That’s right. We should be able to locate him in no time. I’ll call you as soon as we do.” While Strayer had sounded calm up to this point, a note of concern entered her voice now. “Please, Bruce, try not to worry. I have full confidence that we’ll find him. He’ll be in safe hands soon.”

Bruce nodded, then realized Strayer couldn’t see him. “Thank you.” After she hung up, he released a heavy sigh, collapsing tiredly onto the chair nearby him. 

Strayer had told him not to worry. Of course, that was impossible. If she didn’t find Jack soon, what would he do? At what point should he notify the police? Even if Strayer did find Jack, would things ever be the same again after what happened last night? 

He thought about how close Jack and Barbara had been to having a working antidote. They were almost there, but now that seemed irrelevant in the face of Jack’s disappearance. Bruce would have to check over the lab, make sure nothing had been tampered with. God knows what Jack might do with the antitoxin if he was Joker again.

Bruce sighed, letting his head drop forward to rest in his hands. 

What was he supposed to tell Barbara?

—

Joker strolled up the grand staircase to the VIP area of Olympus. 

The club was empty at this early hour. The few guards awake that had welcomed him in their classic Greek armor were easy enough to take care of. They fell over themselves, stumbling down the staircase as they succumbed to fits of laughter from the laughing gas he'd tossed their way. He twirled a knife in his hand, just in case, stepping around a fallen guard on the stairway, taking care not to trip over the clumsy, laugh-stricken guards in his new pair of black and white dress shoes. Thankfully, it seemed his clothing and weapon caches around the city had remained untampered with during his leave of absence.

Potted olive trees, trellised grape vines, and other flowering plants that he didn’t know the name of decorated the pedestals along each wall.  As he walked along the marble floor, Joker felt like he had entered a secret paradise in the middle of a gloomy, colorless city. 

The sun was not yet high enough to reach the skylights at this early hour, but it was still plenty bright enough for his dark-adjusted eyes. He reached the end of a short hallway, entering the main room, only to discover an assortment of pillows on the floor showcasing the aftermath of the prior night’s revelry.

Olympus was not so empty, after all. Bodies lay half naked, dozing in a drug-addled sleep. And at the center of them all, the man Joker was looking for.

Joker cleared his throat.

Silence. Someone mumbled something unintelligible, then rolled over again. Another one snored.

Joker stepped closer, grabbing a long blue rod that lay forgotten on the floor. He prodded the body in the center with the sharp, stylized lightning bolt at the end.

The large, muscular man jolted awake. Apart from a gold laurel wreath around the sides of his head, he was just as unclothed as the rest of the group. 

Satisfied with the result, Joker tossed the lightning rod carelessly back to the floor with a clatter. “Some party you’ve had here, Maxie. It’s a shame you didn’t let me in on any of the fun.” 

As soon as he gathered his surroundings, Maximilian Zeus grabbed the lightning rod, seemingly unaware that Joker had just used it to wake him up. He waved it dramatically in Joker’s direction, who stood perfectly still, his smile unwavering. 

Joker was aware of how he looked right now. His fancy purple suit did nothing to hide what his old goons had done to him the previous night. But even in his injured state, Joker knew Maxie Zeus would not try anything serious if he knew what was good for him.

Zeus shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the remaining vestiges of a bad dream, then pointed the rod toward Joker. “Spawn of Hades—be gone!” The rod brightened to a blinding blue, humming as if it actually were teeming with godly power. Joker’s eyes widened in delight, and he clapped his hands as if he were about to watch an exciting show.

The light must have been too much for Zeus at this early hour: he squinted at the brightness of his own weapon, looking away. When the glow of the rod dimmed and he looked back, Joker stood in place, purple suit and all, unharmed by the apparent threat of Zeus’s power.

“Impossible—how are you still here?” 

“I am not some drug-addled dream, Maxie.” 

“Guards! Where are you, Achilles?” 

“Please,” Joker said. “Looks like half of them are in bed with you. The rest of them are off having a laugh somewhere, last I checked.”

Some of the others were starting to wake up—a woman who had been close to Zeus was now looking in terror at the sight of Joker. “He—he’s back. My nightmares have come true. I knew this would happen, Zeus!”

“It’ll be alright, Diana.”* He placed his hand on her arm, “What do you want from me, foul jester?”

“You wouldn’t insult the one who has given you all this wealth, would you, Maxie?” Joker warned. “It’s because of my toxin that you’re doing so well, after all.”

Joker trapped Zeus in his gaze as he awaited an answer. It didn’t take long for his stare to do it’s trick. Joker smiled when he finally saw it: the man underneath the god. 

It was the weakness he found in every person if he watched them long enough—every person save one. At least, until some two-bit doctor at Arkham had gotten their hands on him. Now he didn’t even have Batman to rely on.

But Joker would have his Bat back soon enough. He’d make sure of it.

“Your toxin was fair game, Joker.” His arms were tense, and his tone as Zeus was slipping. He sounded more human than god. “You were locked up in Arkham, and then when news came out that you had been rehabilitated, I didn’t think you’d care anymore.”

Joker took a step closer. “So you think that gave you permission?”

Zeus brandished his lightning rod. “What, you want a cut of it? You want me to stop? If that’s the case, you better seek the source. I have no knowledge of how it’s made. If I don’t buy it, someone else will.”

“Oh, please!” Joker waved his hands. “I don’t care about any of that.”

Zeus frowned. “Then what is it you want?” 

“I like what you’ve started, my dear Maxie.” Joker rubbed a hand on his chin. “It’s brilliant, really. I just don’t think you’ve gone far enough. This Ambrosia, or whatever you're marketing my toxin as—well, it’s simply not strong enough. I’d be happy if you sell it, as long as you keep it in its original form.”

“You mean undiluted?” he asked. Joker’s smile confirmed his answer. “But that’s—that’s suicide! How am I to make a profit if all my customers are dead!”

“Beats me, Zeus-y. But if you don’t do it, I think you’ll find you have a few more problems than my toxin’s worth. So, whaddaya say?” Joker extended his hand in an overly congenial way.

Diana rested a hand on Zeus, whispering something in his ear once she had his attention. He sighed grimly, then nodded, drawing away from her.

"Half," Zeus countered. "It can still be deadly at that dilution." Joker's eyes narrowed, but Zeus went on quickly before Joker could interrupt him. "At least until we can get more of the toxin. We're running low right now until the next batch comes in."

Joker rolled his eyes. "Oh, alright. You've caught me in a good mood. Half. For now." Joker waved his gloved fingers expectantly.

Zeus eyed his hand like it was a deadly spider. After a minute, he stiffly reached his arm out toward Joker’s. “I suppose they’ll have to learn to deal with a stronger dose. Some of them have been complaining it’s too weak, anyway. Fools.” As soon as his hand made contact with Joker’s, a jolt of electricity went through from Joker’s hidden buzzer. Zeus seemed to take it in stride though, barely tensing at the contact as he continued to shake his hand. “You have a deal.”

Joker pouted a little, dropping his arm to his side. “Darn. Thought I’d get you on that one. Guess you really are the one and only Zeus.” He waved his white-gloved hand, buzzer still inside, then turned to go. “Well, it’s been nice chatting, but I have other places to go. Have a lovely rest of your morning.”

No one else bothered him as he made his exit.

When he stepped outside, Joker absently reached his hand into his pocket, pulling out the small square object that Jack had discovered the other night. Joker eyed it a moment, then tossed it lightly in the air like a coin, before placing it back inside his jacket with a few pats. Outside, his hot-wired car was waiting for him. Nothing as fancy as Bru—as Batman had, but it would get the job done.

Now, onto his next matter of business. 

—

Bruce had just finished checking security footage at Wayne Enterprises, making certain no one had broken in and entered the labs. Fortunately, all had been quiet last night, and the security guards hadn’t noticed anything unusual. 

If Jack really was Joker again, Bruce was certain he would want to tamper with the antitoxin somehow. If Strayer didn’t find him soon, he knew he would have to tell Barbara everything. Gordon, too, despite Strayer’s wishes.

Thankfully he received a call from Strayer not much later.

“I found him, Bruce.”

Bruce felt a wave of relief at the same time as a hundred other questions welled up. He had to hold himself back from asking all of them at once. “You did? When—where was he? Is he alright?”

“We found him an hour ago wandering somewhere in the Narrows. Heading for one of his old hideouts, no doubt. No one was hurt that I'm aware of, but I can't disclose his location. He's in... an unstable mental condition, but he should be able to fully recover with some additional treatment.”

Bruce supposed that was to be expected. “Can I see him?”

“I don't think that would be very wise at the moment,” Strayer advised. Bruce sensed hesitation in her voice. 

“Are you sure? Maybe I can help, somehow,” Bruce persisted.

There was a short pause on the other end. “I think the best thing is for you to go about your life as usual. I’ll be sure to let you know when he’s back to normal. It might take a few days, but until then, just keep doing what you’re doing. You've been making great progress, Bruce. It wouldn't be good for you to see him like this. And please, just keep this between us for now.”

“I…” Bruce closed his eyes a moment, before opening them again. As much as Bruce wanted to argue with her, he knew he should let it go.  Jack would be safe, even if he couldn't see him yet. Relief won out over worry. “Alright. Please keep me updated on his progress.”

“Of course.” The line went silent on the other end, and Bruce slowly lowered the phone. 

Despite the good news, he couldn't shake the feeling that the Joker might be hiding around the corner somewhere: the ghost of Jack’s past returned to haunt him. It just seemed too easy, somehow. The Joker Bruce knew had never been so simple to catch in the past.

Before, he might have listened to his instincts. But now that instinct was just a small voice in the back of his mind, nothing more. Strayer knew what she was doing.

Better to ignore it. 

—

On the other end of the line, Strayer's hands shook, but held no phone. They couldn't: they had been bound tightly to a chair with rope and tape, while a cold knife traced her throat. Like so many before her, she had underestimated him. The tracker she had placed in Jack’s body had only served to lead her right into his trap.

Pleased with her act, Joker smiled, tossing the phone to the side. “Great job, doc. You did wonderfully.” 

Strayer closed her eyes for a moment, seeming to relax a little now that the knife wasn’t there. 

When she opened her eyes again, her head jerked back—or would have, if the chair hadn’t stopped her. 

Joker had leaned in close, false concern entering his eyes as he pretended to inspect her. He rested the back of his hand on her forehead, before leaning back. “Oh dear, you do seem a little under the weather, don’t you? I think you’ll have to take the day off.” He tapped a finger thoughtfully to his chin. “On second thought, better make it the week. I think it might be a while before you recover from this one. But don't you worry, I'll be here to help you through it. After all, you helped me!” 

Stayer watched as Joker went to her work bag, rifling through its contents. He proceeded to pull out Amadeus Arkham’s music box. “I have just the thing.”

He could see the trepidation in Strayer’s eyes, clear as day. 

Soon enough, he would turn that fear into something much more dazzling.

—

Bruce could not sleep, so he went into the city. He knew he should have been more careful about heading alone into the streets after what had just happened, but at the moment there was no space in his mind to worry about his own wellbeing. Out here, at least he was in his element again. 

He had no destination, and he didn't want one. The streets were wet from an earlier rain shower, the first of the year, reflecting the lights of the city in whites and blues and neon reds. Speech was only a collection of murmurs around him, the people vague caricatures: transient and forgettable as he moved through the nebulous streets. 

The red blinking of a crosswalk signal was the only thing to halt his movement. As he waited, he caught music coming from a bar somewhere behind him. Instead of heading onward, he turned back to follow the sound. 

He did not recognize the venue when he found it. The windowless door was cracked partway open, and a few people stood chatting and smoking near the entrance. He slid by them and down the stars into the dim, crowded area. There was not much space on a Friday night, and he settled on a spot in the back. It would have been a perfect place to visit with Jack, had things been normal.

A voice broke in the room to accompany the piano music, and he realized it was the same singer he had heard the previous night during dinner with Jack. She wore a simple, elegant black dress with dark gloves that reached her elbows. The tune was pensive and downturn, but her voice gave a strange power to the music. It gleamed like silver under moonlight, feeling somehow just as unreachable. 

Without thinking, he moved through the crowd to get closer, needing the distraction more than anything else at the moment. 

Bruce found himself drawn to the force the woman exuded rather than by any sort of physical attraction. In her voice he recognized her strength—it was a strength he, too, once had. 

He let himself get lost in the moment, until it was just the night and the piano tune, and the power of that silky voice.

“She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” 

Bruce turned to see a woman looking at him, standing by the crowded bar. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak at the moment. Thankfully she didn’t seem to recognize him or want to flirt with him, seeming more interested in discussing the singer.

“Enjoy it while it lasts. Tonight’s her last night in Gotham.”

“Why’s that?” Bruce couldn’t help but ask. 

“Miss Selina’s set her sights on bigger things than this city.” The woman smiled. “But who knows, if all goes well, this won’t be the last time you hear her.”

The song ended, and the singer’s eyes swept over the crowd. For a second, Bruce thought he saw her wink in his direction—or perhaps the woman next to him. Suddenly, he felt exposed in the bright lights. The strange uneasiness in his stomach reappeared, and he pulled himself away from the bar, no less anxious than when he had entered it. 

Outside again, Bruce sped up his pace, though his walk was just as aimless as before. He didn’t stop until he realized exactly what neighborhood he was in.

He was in the park where he’d found Crane all those months ago. His apartment was just a few blocks down the street.

Bruce was suddenly overcome with the urge to talk to the former psychologist. He remembered Jonathan had struggled with some aspects of his treatment, so maybe he could relate to Bruce somehow, have some sort of advice to give him. He wouldn't have to bring up Jack, or anything else. Just to speak with someone else who had been through a situation similar to his would be— 

Wait, what was he thinking? Crane didn't know Bruce. He had only ever interacted with him as Batman in the past. How would Bruce ever be able to explain himself to him?

Bruce's shoulders fell, and he turned to leave the park. The hour was late, and Alfred was probably starting to worry. Just as he was leaving, a sound made him freeze where he stood.

Laughter. But not just any laughter. 

A couple—man and woman—stumbled past him, both in a fit of giggles. It wasn’t hard to see they were under Ambrosia's—Joker Toxin's—trademark effects. Their wide grins, dilated eyes, abnormally pale skin.

The young woman suddenly faltered in front of him, then collapsed on the sidewalk in a choked gasp, rolling a bit from her laughter before going frighteningly still. The man, chuckling beside her, leaned down to get a closer look. When he looked up again, Bruce saw the terror in his eyes, even while he continued to laugh harder. The man grabbed Bruce’s arm, pointing to the woman, pleading to Bruce with his eyes though he could not speak.

Bruce kneeled next to the woman, who wore a frozen smile. Her pulse was still there, but it was weak. With a shake of his head, he looked up again, but knew the man was in no position to help, calling out to the crowd nearby them.

“Somebody call an ambulance! This woman needs help!”

When he was sure someone was following his request, he placed his hands on the woman's chest, ignoring the faint nausea in his stomach. Thankfully, Strayer’s treatment had not rid him of the ability to do CPR. 

The man whooped beside him in terrified glee.

Bruce checked her pulse after a minute, but it was still weak. A second later, the man collapsed behind her: just like the woman, his eyes were frozen in terror as a vicious smile gripped him.  

Bruce had no choice but to focus on the woman, whose pulse was weaker, until the ambulance arrived.

As the couple were carried away on gurneys, Bruce saw one of the technician's shake their head, and knew it did not bode well for their survival. Without an antitoxin, it would almost certainly be their last night.

It was the first time Bruce had encountered the recreational use of the Joker toxin in public. He hoped with all his heart that it would be his last.

—

The door opened easily as Crane shuffled into his apartment with a few bags in his arm, setting them on the counter of the small kitchen just inside the entrance. Since he was occupied with his groceries, it took him a second longer than it normally would to notice that his door hadn’t been locked. 

When he did realize, Crane peered into the darkness of his living room, sensing that he was not alone. 

“Is anyone there?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t just being paranoid. Still facing the living room, he slowly moved to the side wall, where he could flip on the light in the kitchen. Before he could do so, a voice spoke from the shadows, face materializing from the darkness as he stepped toward the light from the open doorway.

“Hello, Crane,” Joker said calmly.

“Sh—shit!” Crane jumped back, but was stopped by the counter behind him. Joker was quick. Crane wouldn’t have a chance to get by him to escape, unless he could distract him, which was unlikely. “It’s you. But, I thought—I thought you were...”

“What, dead?”

Crane shook his head. “I thought they changed you. Like me.”

“Please, as if there’s any difference.” Joker waved a hand at him. “I might as well have been dead, before. But now I’m free again. And you can be, too.”

Crane didn’t allow himself to hope yet. “How? I’ve tried everything, but nothing works. Nothing can undo what she did.”

Joker moved closer. “Look at me. Do I look like a sane man to you?”

Crane did as he was told—he gazed into the Joker’s eyes—and saw it. He saw the madman as alive as ever. Saw something he hadn’t seen in himself in a long, long time. Something beautiful and terrifying. He had to look away.

“Believe me, Crane. A day ago, I was nothing like the person you see before you now.”

Crane’s eyes drifted back to the Joker, studying him cautiously for a moment. His eyes slowly widened as a strange feeling of exhilaration ran through him. Almost like—yes, almost like hope. Joker watched him patiently all the while.

“I… I think I understand,” Crane said in sudden realization, almost as if he didn't quite believe his own words.  “I can see now why my fear toxin never worked on you.” He laughed a little, breathlessly. “It didn't work because you were always afraid.”

The Joker had slowly been easing his way in closer, but at Crane’s words, he halted his approach. Crane wanted to shudder from Joker’s stare. He wished he still could exhibit as basic a response as that. But he just felt an empty chill, like a shadow of fear, and nothing more. Not the satisfying fuel that pure terror brought. “She took it away, didn't she?” Crane continued, despite himself. “That fear. And now you've got it back again. But how...?”

Joker’s smile had left him. Crane was sure he had said the wrong thing, offended him in some way. Who knew silence could be so threatening.  Then, as if Joker’s deathly seriousness had only been a facade, his mouth split open in delight. “Ha! Good one, Crane. Everything is about fear to you, isn’t it?”

Then, as quickly as his laugher had started, Joker quieted, as if his laughter had also been a pretense. He leaned in, dropping his voice to barely above a whisper in Crane’s ear. “You really want to know how I got it back?”

Crane leaned away as much as he could, though he was soon stopped by the kitchen counter behind him. “Well, I—”

“Ah-ah,” the Joker interrupted, waving his finger. “That was rhetorical. Let me finish. Or better yet,” he said, his smile growing until he was fully baring his teeth. A blade appeared from seemingly nowhere in his hand. “Let me show you.”

Crane stiffened, but didn't dare make a move. He knew it would only be worse if he did.

Fear could make people do a lot of things. It could give them strength they never thought they'd had, or make them run faster than they'd ever ran before. But for Crane, it wasn't enough. There was no strength left in him anymore, no will to fight or try to escape. 

He was fear stripped of all its power.

The Joker grinned wider, and Crane held his breath.

—

“Here’s your meal, Waylon.” 

“Where’s the Doctor?”

“Still sick. She won’t be seeing you today.”

Waylon had a bad feeling about this. He could usually tell if someone was going to be coming down with a cold or flu. Something soured in their scent. Strayer hadn’t been sick the day before she disappeared. He was sure of it. The doctor poured her life into this place. She was only ever at Arkham, or home. 

“How would she get sick? The doctor never gets sick.” 

“Sorry, fella. That’s all I know.”

Waylon grunted. “Thanks, anyway.”

His food wasn’t as appetizing as normally was. He ate half of it, then went over to the side of his cell with the rest. The entirety of the room had been reinforced with steel to prevent him from clawing his way through. They figured it was enough to stop him. 

What they didn’t realize was that the walls of Arkham had always had a life of their own.

Waylon placed a bit of unused meat by a small hole in between the steel plates. Minutes later, a plump rat emerged, snatching its meal quickly before darting into the wall again. 

Sometimes he would use his leftovers to catch rats for extra snacks when he was bored. Today, however, he placed his finger in the small crack where the rat had come from. He glanced at the camera, but knew for the most part no one watched them on the weekends or the graveyard shifts. Using his other arm, he pried the metal from the wall. He paused, listening for the footsteps of the guard. 

Time to get to work.

It would be a long night.

—

Nearly a week had passed, but Bruce couldn’t shake the bad feeling he had about Jack. He hadn’t gone out since the night the couple had overdosed in the park. In the days since, hospitalizations from the drug were surging to new highs, coinciding with Jack’s own unfortunate relapse. 

Strayer had not yet called to update Bruce on Jack’s progress. He figured he had waited long enough.

Bruce dialed her office, but the phone kept ringing without any answer. It was evening, but he knew Strayer often worked late hours at Arkham. He called the main number for the building next, and the front desk answered.

“Hello, can I help you?” The voice sounded a little distracted.

“I was just wondering if Dr. Strayer is working tonight. I tried calling her office, but she didn’t answer.”

“Well, that’s not a surprise. She’s been sick all week.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah, God knows that’s the reason why Croc is on the loose now. She leaves for a week, and of course this happens.”

Hold on. “Croc is loose?”

“He escaped hours ago. You don’t pay much attention to the news, do you, mister? Can I take a message?”

“No, thank you.” Bruce’s mind was elsewhere, and the words were only a reflex. He hung up, letting this new information sink in. He figured it was probably a good idea to inform Alfred, and left his room. 

Bruce didn’t get far before he met Alfred in the hallway, clearly alarmed. “Bruce! You won’t believe what I just heard on the news. Waylon has—”

“Escaped. I just heard.” Bruce sighed, shaking his head in disbelief.  “Alfred, I don’t have a good feeling about this. Strayer hasn’t been in her office all week. Sick, apparently.”

Alfred’s brow creased in concern. “That’s odd. If she found Jack, you would think she would be treating him there. Unless she was doing it clandestinely to avoid the media's attention.”

“Maybe, but with Jack… I don’t think she’d be that careless. Arkham has the best facilities for him.” Bruce hesitated. “Something doesn’t add up. I’m going to try calling her personal number, see if I can get a hold of her.”

Bruce had just dialed it when the brazen sound of the doorbell rang throughout the interior of the mansion.

Alfred frowned in puzzlement. “Company, at this time?” 

The phone was still ringing on the other end as Alfred went to answer the door. A feeling of dread settled in Bruce’s stomach as he heard Strayer’s pre-recorded voice asking him to leave a message. He hung up before the voice-mail could start recording.

Bruce hesitated, his finger hovering over the phone as he thought of who he should dial next.  He knew Strayer had told him not to contact the police, but at the moment it seemed like the only logical thing to do. He had memorized Gordon’s number years ago, though he would probably be occupied with hunting down Waylon after his recent escape from Arkham.

As he was entering Gordon’s number, he heard a sound at the entrance. 

“Alfred?” He called out, but no one answered. Bruce dropped the phone and rushed from the room, forgetting to even grab something to protect himself—though he was useless with weapons nowadays. As he neared the entrance, the silence was only too apparent. Then: 

“Honey, I'm hoooome!” 

Bruce turned the corner and saw Alfred lying unconscious on the foyer rug. Standing just beyond him—purple suit, green hair, and all, was Joker. 

Joker smiled with easy familiarity at him only a few meters away. “Did you miss me, Brucie?”

Bruce didn’t answer. A cold feeling settled deep into his bones as all his worst fears were realized. He wanted to check on Alfred, but he feared to get any closer. “What did you do to Alfred?”

“Oh he’s alright. Just needed a nap, that's all. You really do overwork him, Bruce. At his age!”

“Don't do this.” 

Joker waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, alright then. Let's cut the small talk and get right to it.”

Bruce knew it was pointless to plead with him in this state, but the words still found their way out, anyway. “It doesn't have to be this way. You can still fight this, Jack.”

Joker’s eye twitched, almost imperceptibly. “I'm sorry, Jack isn't here right now. And I wouldn't bother leaving a message, because where he's gone, there's no coming back from.”

A shiny dress shoe moved forward, and then another followed. Bruce took a cautious step backward. Joker responded by stepping closer until Bruce was fully backed up against the wall. There was a small table nearby, but the lamp on it was out of his reach, and nothing else could be used as a weapon. His entire body tensed as he fought the peculiar nausea that was now so familiar.

“Please, Jack, you don't have to do this.”

This time, Joker visibly grimaced at the name. He leaned in close next to Bruce. “Hey! I have an idea! Why don't you join him?”

Bruce felt a sudden sharp point of pain between his neck and shoulder, and then only a heavy, numbing tiredness as Joker removed the syringe—one of Strayer’s. He braced himself against the wall, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before his legs gave out under him. 

The distant sight of the floor rising to meet him was the last thing he remembered.

That, and a wide, wide grin.

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