#atbom

Epilogue

Sacrifices have to be made, he told himself, You knew this had to happen one day. You knew this couldn’t last forever.

But he wanted it to. It was such a selfish thing, trying so hard to force the universe into his submission, just so he could have his way.

Parents always seemed immortal, and ever-present, until the rug was thrown from under your feet. Bruce knew that all too well.

He had to do this. Had to, had to, had to – or else turn his back on himself, on his city, on reality itself.

The ringing dials in his ear sounded like alarm bells. He pushed away the thought of just hanging up.

“Hello?”

Bruce felt his heart shake. He tried to take another deep breath, like the twenty he’d done before he managed to call.

“Bruce? Are you there?”

“Hey, Alfred...” (Oh God, that didn’t come out confident at all. He sounded like a sullen teenager.) “What are you up to?”

“Are you alright? You sound shaken.”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m okay, just… A lot’s happened since we talked.” Bruce shut his eyes and breathed deep, letting the familiar damp air of the Batcave fill his lungs. He heard the rush of the waterfall behind him and concentrated on that.

“And here I’ve been, actively avoiding the Gotham news,” Alfred commented dryly, “It’s…not anything major, I hope? Tiffany and John are alright? Wayne Enterprises is still standing?”

“No, no everything is…fine, at home. Tiffany and John seem a little better than normal, actually.”

“Well, that’s…good to hear.” There was a beat of silence, and Bruce found himself chewing his tongue. “What’s wrong, then?”

Bruce felt like he’d rather take another hit of Fear Toxin than go through what he had to say next. He’d do anything to keep Alfred in the dark, play a third life, and just lie and pretend it was all fine.

“A few days ago,” he started, trying hard to round up the bruising sensation in his chest, “A few days ago, John called me. From Arkham. He… He needed my help. There was a doctor there who’d been abusing patients. Using them as test subjects. So I thought… I thought I could be discreet.” His next breath was steadier. Perhaps it was just because he was relaying facts. “I tried to gather evidence, and got caught, and… I inadvertently broke John out of Arkham, when he was drugged with the doctor’s experiment. I had to take him here, find an antidote, and… I…”

It was quiet on the other end; Bruce could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

“The doctor went on the run, and I couldn’t just be Bruce Wayne anymore, after that.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t have any evidence. I had to find it, and him, and I thought I could just…point him at the GCPD, and then he attacked the city! I couldn’t… I couldn’t be myself to take him down after that! I had to…!”

Bruce realized too late that he was crying. He hadn’t cried for so long. He’d held them in after the incident at Ace Chemicals. He’d held them in when Alfred threatened to leave. He’d held them in when John hurt him and soothed him upstairs in the parlor.

He hadn’t cried since he’d discovered the mess his parents left behind.

He thought of the gravestone he’d visited not an hour ago. It felt cold to the touch, as always, and he’d looked at it and told them he was going to pick up where he’d left off, cleaning the city from the inside-out, no longer choosing the hand to hold the sponge, but using both, one after another. He’d told them he wasn’t working alone anymore, too, with more pride than he deserved to have.

“Maybe… Maybe I did make some of my own enemies. I know I caused some of my own problems, and made others’ worse. But…if it… If it wasn’t for me – for Batman – the city would be suffering right now. I can’t… I can’t leave Gotham to fend for itself, Alfred. Please understand, I’m… I’m not alone anymore. It’s different. It’s not a crusade, it’s… It’s a choice.”

There was a slow breath of air over the phone. “I can’t say I didn’t see this coming,” Alfred resigned, “but I’d… Hoped foolishly, I suppose.” There was a pause, making Bruce feel the hot tear streaming down his cheek. There was no one there but himself to wipe it away, as always. “Bruce, you’ve always been a hero to Gotham, no matter what name you wear. Perhaps I was a little…presumptuous in saying you made your own enemies. Looking back, the likes of Oswald Cobblepot, Harvey Dent, Vicki Vale, the majority of The Pact – they would have always turned out rotten to some degree, even without the likes of Batman. Even with your attempts to help them; and I know you tried. You can’t seem to turn away from rushing into a burning building on the off-chance someone is still inside. But… That’s also why I’m so proud of you.” (Bruce felt his ribs shudder slightly, and he let his breath out slowly through his nostrils rather than risk the rattling breath of a sob.) “You’re the only Wayne to ever put their life into the city and not ask for anything in return.”

Bruce didn’t want to hope. He didn’t want to ask if Alfred was leading towards a good end. If he had learned anything at all over the span of his life, it was that Bruce did not get a happy ending. Not a real one.

“But you know I can’t come back. I can’t watch you hurt yourself night after night and wait around for the inevitable.” A beat. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Bruce. You’ll always be my ward. I hope you know that.”

“I love you too, Alfred.” Bruce felt like he was drowning, even though his voice was scratchy and rough from strain. (He would not openly sob over the phone. He was not a child.)

“Then let’s catch up properly on Saturday, shall we?” Alfred said in his dry, gentle tone, “I have a feeling the Gotham Gazette is only going to tell the last quarter of what sounds like a very long story, and I trust even an insomniac like you will need some sleep if someone as excitable as John was hanging about the manor for a couple of days.”

Bruce felt his head reel at the brief thought that Alfred somehow knew, but the feeling swept away almost as quickly when he realized his former-butler was merely addressing John’s energetic nature. “Okay,” he said in a short breath, sniffing.

“Good night, then, Bruce. Sleep well.”

Bruce let his father figure’s voice wash over him, even though he’d long since memorized the exact pitch and phrasing Alfred used when bidding him goodnight. “’Night, Alfred.”

Alfred hung up, and Bruce was suddenly faced with the looming reality of a very empty house above him and the uncomfortable thought that he could, under no circumstance, admit to his father figure that he was in love with the man who had been responsible for several deaths and the deep scar sitting on Bruce’s left side.

…at least not for a while.

*~*~*~*~*

As Commissioner Gordon had predicted, Arkham Asylum had been a complete mess on all of Wednesday. Even without Dr. Crane’s bomb threats, there was a constant parade of media outlets trying to get the story on “the insane doctor” and “the Batman/Joker team up”. John Doe’s lawyer was practically fending off the reporters with a stick as he consulted his client about the new charges brought to his name and advised him not to take interviews until everything was sorted. John apparently had enough reason to agree, since there were no new information on what had transpired at the train station, though Bruce felt it was probably reluctantly; John had mentioned in a conversation before that he always wanted to be on T.V. (Bruce remembered that talk very well, since John had mentioned an interview of him so old that Bruce didn’t recall properly until halfway through the discussion.)

Bruce had played the concerned, angry friend on Wednesday – both of the police officers that had been staking out his house hadn’t even left him a message before leaving, and of course he didn’t get the official word on what happened until he’d called up the GCPD himself as a concerned citizen. Then the Arkham staff told him over the phone to try again Thursday, as they were too busy to allow visitors to anyone amongst the chaos of officers and media outlets interfering with their schedules. He later apologized to those at Wayne Enterprises he inconvenienced by his absence and explained it away by oversleeping. No one batted an eyelash; they were used to that sort of behavior. It was at times like that when Bruce was rather thankful of his old reputation.

On Thursday, he had driven to Arkham early in the morning. The asylum in any hour looked gloomy, but somehow the rolling thunderclouds behind it that morning put Bruce back in mind of sharp spires and gargoyles and ancient, squealing locks long since discarded, and he felt almost like the place had been waiting for him to return. He was promptly told John wasn’t allowed visitors at the moment, despite Bruce’s display of growing concern over what had happened outside the asylum and his genuinely distressed demeanor. The swarm of reporters trying to get in stopped him from causing too much of a fuss; he was spotted anyway, and hustled back into his Gran Turismo without so much as a word. Even without the inevitable call to Alfred the night before, he felt miserable enough not to want to say anything to anyone he didn’t have to.

Finally, on Friday afternoon, he called into question the security measures surrounding the night of John’s escape, asking about how anyone could have supposedly snuck in or out of Arkham when the camera system should have had been still functional during the long upgrade process, even if it didn’t record anything. The receptionist told him she couldn’t possibly know the answer to that, and told the nearest orderly to escort Bruce to John’s room, muttering under her breath about how she wasn’t being paid enough.

Tom Welker, the guard responsible for checking him over, looked completely drained. When asked, he’d said he’d had a long shift, what with the slew of reporters coming in and out to interview staff, and the sudden loss of two staff members making everyone rush around and constantly need to be checked over. Bruce didn’t inquire as to who else was gone; his escort, Mark Sylvester, just scoffed at Tom. “Are you kidding me? We had one guy go all Hannibal on us and your little crush just call up and tell us to take her job and shove it up our asses. That’s not ‘losing staff’, that’s more like taking anvils to the damn chest!”

The journey up to the fifth floor was slow. Mark, thinking Bruce had no clue about what happened the night John escaped, told him in no uncertain terms that the security team in charge of Sunday night’s camera system upgrade had been getting an earful from everyone for allowing a complete blackout period rather than upgrading in slow steps. (Dr. Thomas had apparently kept quiet the fact that he signed off on the idea. Bruce didn’t exactly blame him, since he was already facing rumors that he hadn’t checked Dr. Crane’s background properly and skated over the psychological evaluation. Besides, Bruce was partially to blame for not asking about the blackout window in more depth, so why would he ever bring it up?)

Bruce feigned surprise and intrigue through the whole story, and once they landed on the fifth floor, he asked if anyone had known how John escaped.

“No idea,” Mark shrugged, leading the way to John’s room. “Dr. Leland asked him, and all he said was that the Batman helped him out. No one knows how – the guy’s been missing for six months, and we monitor Doe’s mail. It’s not like he can make any calls, either. Jerry says he swore he saw Batman on one of the towers last night, but I think the Bat has this place bugged. Wouldn’t put it past him, with that Lady Arkham stunt two years ago.”

Bruce felt the corner of his lip twitch. He had visited the asylum the past two nights in his gear, hoping someone would spot him. His idea had worked; and he’d seen John sound asleep both times, which he was sixty-percent sure was a good thing. He’d taken extra measures to modify the phone records the day John had called him, just in case.

They’d stopped at John’s door, and Mark knocked on the hard metal. “Visitor for John Doe,” he called in a bored tone before just opening the door.

John was carefully tearing a section of soft newspaper apart on his bed, not even bothering to look up.

“Hey, John,” Bruce said, doing his best to look concerned. It was difficult; seeing him made him feel lighter, like time was nothing, like there was something decent in the place that felt like permanent dusk had settled over it.

John perked up like a prairie dog, his face glowing like a one-hundred-watt bulb. “Bruce!” He exclaimed, tossing the paper aside. “Come in, come in!”

Mark frowned. “You know the rules, John, he can’t visit you in here – come on, hands behind your back.”

“Oh, come on, Mark, it’s just Bruce Wayne. It’s not like he’s going to bust me out,” he teased with a charming smile. “It’d be bad for his delicate image… Besides, I didn’t think I was allowed to see anyone but good ol’ Reginald for a week.”

Mark crossed his arms, patches of red blossoming on his cheeks. “Listen, you – you’re still in trouble for escaping, Bat’ or no Bat’. It ain’t punishment if I don’t do procedure.”

“But Maaark, I haven’t seen him in over a week, and I couldn’t tell him about Dr. Crane,” John pouted. “Some of that stuff is private… Besides, the power’s been going in and out all day – he’ll be safer in here with me than outside with everyone else prowling around,” John said in his sincerest voice.

(The power kept going out? It was the first Bruce heard of it…)

Mark narrowed his eyes, and seemed to be chewing on his tongue. “When I get back from my round,” he said slowly, staring at John with hard eyes, “I better see you sitting right where I left you. I don’t want to find a hair out of place on Wayne.” He shot his glare to Bruce, who tried his best to look innocently confused. “That goes for him, too, Moneybags, or I’ll be singing like a fucking canary.” He prodded his finger into his chest. “Not. One. Hair.”

“You don’t need to worry,” Bruce said with an honest, genuine smile. “I’m just here to visit my friend.”

“Yeah, well the last guy I trusted alone with our patients is being charged with criminal abuse,” Mark scoffed, “I’m only taking a chance because you’ve coming for so long.” He turned to leave, pausing to point between them threateningly. “Not one hair,” he reminded them.

“Not a one!” John said with a thumbs up and the most innocent, bright-eyed expression he could manage.

Then, of course, the orderly shut the door behind them, and Bruce heard the audible click of the lock, and there were barely two footsteps before John practically leaped up to wrap his arms around him.

It was actually a relief. Bruce didn’t care about the camera pointed at them – it wasn’t unusual to hug someone who had effectively been missing for almost three days. He refrained from being too affectionate, despite his instinct wanting to do nothing else but hold him there and kiss anything within reach.

He didn’t like admitting that his house felt empty, nor that he had been far lonelier than he had expected, nor that the feel of John pressed against him in any context made him want to hear him make noise. He didn’t know if he wanted comforting words or laughs or appreciative groans and sighs. Maybe all of it, in a rush of a sentence or two and brush of hands against sensitive areas.

Hell, he’d even take a terrible joke.

But for now, Bruce just enjoyed the warmth that seemed to spread in his veins, and hoped he would be able to remember that feeling for as long as he needed it.

“I missed you,” John mumbled against his shirt.

“I missed you, too,” Bruce whispered back, careful to keep his lip movements to a minimum in case they were being watched.

John snickered a little and pulled away, letting his hands slide over Bruce’s back and under his arms, heating his ribs. Bruce almost shuddered at the intimate touch, knowing full well what those warm hands on his bare back felt like. “They can’t hear us, you know,” he said, a teasing grin growing on his lips. “You can say some things aloud.”

“I can’t take chances.”

“Gosh, you’re paranoid… Fine. Have a seat, then, Brucie – what’s mine is yours!” John beamed, resuming his position on the squealing spring mattress. (Bruce was never going to be used to the sound of it. He was hoping to replace the whole facilities’ – it hadn’t been done in years.) “I’d tell you all about my little, ah, escapade, but I know you’re not here for that.”

Bruce dragged the wooden chair out of the corner to sit across from him. He didn’t like the implication that sitting on the bed brought – nor the temptation it sprung to mind.

(God, it’d only been two days and Bruce was already thinking about how loud that mattress could be under the right conditions. Maybe it was his brain’s desperate way to try and cope with reality.)

“What happened when you got back?” Bruce asked, thinking of the stolen Honda and the security guard’s I.D. he’d left behind for someone else to find.

“Well, Jerry and Honey don’t know I borrowed their stuff, so they still feel secure around me,” John said with a knowing smile, counting off on his fingers, “and one of the orderlies escorting me to Dr. Leland’s office asked me about the graveyard – he wanted to know what the Court thing was in the mausoleum – but that’s about it. I managed to convince them to let me have the newspapers from the staff room.”

Bruce cast a look at the section of newspaper John had been trying to tear, spying an old picture of himself. “Batman Returns? Hmm, not the most imaginative title…”

“At least the news finally got interesting again,” John said fondly, pulling several other pieces from under the pillow, “Here, have a look! I’d be crazy not to keep them! Or, uh, crazier…”

Bruce scanned the folded articles. John had been careful to make them as minimally torn as possible.

Train Bombing Derailed by Batman!

Batman Returns – Battles Psycho-Terrorist at Sky Rail

Diner Terrorist Brought Down by Dark Knight

Mad Doctor Thwarted by Batman…& Co’?!

Who is “Oracle”? – the Anonymous Third Party of the Terrorist’s Take-Down

Joker Returned to Arkham by Batman

Crane Captured – GCPD Thanks Batman and Associates

“Doctor of Fear” Deemed Insane Post-Batman Battle

Batman and Joker – the Team-Up that Saved Gotham?!

“You’re keeping all of these?” Bruce asked, smirking playfully. He wasn’t surprised the ‘Batman and Joker’ article had been the most carefully done out of the pile, being the entire front page of a tabloid. He was surprised at the picture on the front – someone had managed to get a photo of the two of them with the ambulance when they had been talking to Gordon, conveniently cropping out the Commissioner and placing text blocks over where he would have been. It was quite a good picture of John; Bruce made a mental note to find the picture online to keep, and another note to himself about looking into who had the telescopic camera lens. There was no way the police would have let a reporter beyond the tape on a crime scene like that, and even a paper like Gotham Moonrise wasn’t about to get that close to Batman. He would have been impressed if he hadn’t been deeply concerned about what else they might have seen.

(He reminded himself that the Batmobile’s windows were tinted for the very purpose of keeping out prying eyes and cameras. There was no way anyone could have known what had happened in there.)

Thankfully the only other ‘new’ pictures were all of a partially obscured Oracle and Joker, sitting and standing around the open end of the ambulance, talking to Commissioner Gordon and who Bruce guessed to be Officer Montoya. Bruce had seen these same sort of shots several times already for the past few days, along with John’s Arkham photo, the old picture of Joker with a Jokerrang, and what was now an infamous shot of a very distressed looking Jonathan Crane being carried away into an ambulance, his ‘Scarecrow’ hood just snatched off by an officer.

“What are the talking heads saying about us, anyway?” John asked, propping his elbows on his spread knees. “I don’t have television privileges yet.”

Bruce raised a brow at that, but answered anyway. “The usual, mostly. No one knows where you went for three days, everyone’s surprised to see Batman again, Dr. Crane’s gang are trying to make plea deals…”

“Are they calling Crane crazy yet?” John asked, the light in his acidic eyes probing and dangerous.

“Yes,” Bruce answered with a heavy sigh. “It seems his overdose of Fear Toxin has caused some permanent damage; the doctors at Gotham Central are saying he hasn’t stopped hallucinating, even with antipsychotics on top of the antitoxin. So until the evidence that he planned the attack on the diner and sky rail are made public, everyone’s saying he’s a psychopath.”

John was smiling, and Bruce tried not to find himself drawn to it. “Permanent damage, huh?” He perched his chin in his palms, eyes glinting like precious polished stones. “Can you say that again, but in a lower voice? I want to experience this wonderful schadenfreude with your dulcet tones.”

“No.”

“Can you say no lower, then? I love that intimidating voice you do,” he purred, not losing the spark in his gaze as he shifted to resting his head in only one hand.

“John, don’t start.”

“Why? Afraid you can’t stop if we do?” His free hand drummed his knee, one finger after another, all bony whites that Bruce knew the feel of. (It was not the place or time to think about that. Bruce pushed the thought aside.) “You shouldn’t feel guilty, Bruce. It’s not evil to enjoy a monster getting what he deserved. Besides, he did it to himself! His hubris is nothing to feel bad about!”

Bruce swallowed. He couldn’t allow that feeling.

“Then again, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t brood over it a little,” John added.

The lights flickered. Bruce cast a look up at the ceiling light. It hadn’t blown, and it wasn’t making any odd, concerning noises.

“They’ve been going in and out all day,” John said, not bothering to look up. “I think they plan them. They’ll flicker like that every fifteen seconds, and then after four flickers, the power will go out for seven minutes.” The light flickered again. “I think they’re trying to blame the electrical system for the camera debacle.”

“They’d have a hard time doing that. I looked at the inspection reports myself.”

John tittered. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he muttered, “We can play the hardcore version of ‘seven minutes in heaven.’”

“John,” Bruce grunted, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “no. Absolutely not.”

John cackled to himself, sounding far more genuinely amused than anything. “I was kidding, Bruce! Gosh, give a guy some credit – I know you’re not into public exposure!”

Bruce felt his face heat uncomfortably, and then the lights flickered twice and went off. He shot a look at the camera posed above the door – the power was definitely out.

“Oh, while I have the chance…” As quick as a whip, John sprung off the bed and rummaged around in the middle drawer of his dresser. Bruce watched unabashedly, even as his conscience reminded him that this was not the time or place to be eying him up.

And just like that, John whirled around with his arm outstretched, a postcard in his hand. “I found this by the door Thursday morning!” Bruce took the card; it was a vintage design of a black cat with a suitcase and the phrase ‘I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way’. “I think it’d be safer if you kept it, though,” John explained, resuming his seat but with his legs bouncing slightly over the edge of the bed. “I only have so many hiding places in here.”

Bruce flipped it over and read:

John -

Thanks for the wake-up call. I don’t think anyone else will benefit from having a gun pointed at their face in the same way I have.

Please tell Bruce I’m sorry, and that I appreciated his attempt to help.

J.L.

P.S. I’ll drop you a line when you get out. Hopefully by then I can net you free tickets to whatever I’m doing. Just don’t expect Shakespeare.

The address section had John’s name and room number above a jack-o-lantern drawn in pen.

“I heard one of the doctors saying she’d called on Thursday to resign,” John said. “Apparently she didn’t even show up on Wednesday! I bet she snuck in late.”

Bruce tucked the card into his pocket, knowing he was going to put it right above the jack-o-lantern mask in the new case he’d brought down to the cave; it was next to Crane’s, where the little plastic scarecrow from his office sat below an empty spot waiting for his burlap mask. “Still have your ear to the ground, huh?” Bruce smiled.

“You need every advantage you can get in this place,” John answered with a shrug and shrunken smile. “I had to tell Dr. Leland your other half broke me out, and now all the security guards think you’re some kind of ninja.”

“I did take some pointers from them,” Bruce smirked.

John cast a look down at the bandage on the back of Bruce’s hand. “Not enough, apparently. You don’t hear of many ninjas who cut themselves.”

“You left one of your throwing cards in the car. It was the Two of Hearts, ironically enough,” Bruce explained, wondering if the twisted metaphor of being cut by that card’s literal razor edge was worth considering.

John reached out to caress the back of his hand, all playful and affectionate. “Sorry, Brucie. How can I make it up to you?”

Bruce pushed aside the desire to kiss him, or hold him, or do anything at all that would comfort them both in their old, dark homes.  

Instead, he asked what had been laying at the back of his mind for two days. “Have you heard anything about Crane coming here?”

“I have, as a matter of fact,” John said with a grin that widened and sharpened by the moment. “It’s just a rumor, but they say he’ll be isolated in Art’s room until he gets moved to a ‘safer’ institution. Now isn’t that just a co-inky-dink? Our dastardly doctor being locked up with his test subjects, in the room of a man he’d murdered…?”

Bruce was terribly reminded of when he had stayed at Arkham. He could see strings of a path laid out already, if that rumor was true, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Crane was found dead within a day of his admittance. He trusted John – he loved him – but John was clever enough not to get himself caught with the knife in his hand. Like the incident with Zsaz, he’d get someone else to make the mess, and knowing the extent to what Jonathan Crane had done to his patients, Bruce almost wouldn’t blame him for watching from the sidelines.

“Don’t look so paranoid, Bruce,” John said with a lesser grin, taking Bruce’s hand in both of his, “It’s just a rumor. We’re safe in here, all nice and bolted in. Besides, Art’s old room has been occupied for two weeks. And even if Crane was here, didn’t I tell you before that I respect you?” His fingers smoothed over skin, the light in his eyes softening. “That I love you?”

Bruce only stared back at the little imperfections in the slivers of John’s acid greens, anger and familiarity and warmth all mingling together in his stomach. He’d tricked him, testing to see if he could put Bruce on edge and make him wonder at what-ifs, reminding him just what John was capable of. ‘Joker’ seemed so appropriate a name for him just then that Bruce felt it on his tongue.

“We’re two threads in the same stitch, Bruce,” John muttered adoringly, leaning in close, “I’m not about to break that when I still want to see what shape it makes.”

It was like a chemical reaction, with the bubbling heat in him combusting, and Bruce gave in and kissed him, the nerves in his mouth lighting up on contact. He reminded himself that they had mere moments before the power returned and that this might be the last time he got to touch John for months.

It was eerily quiet in Arkham, and Bruce felt like he could hear every minute noise outside in-between memorizing the sound of John’s breaths and the way their lips sounded as they moved together. Footsteps, murmurs, a cart wheeling down the hall – all there, all ordinary background noise that drove home the reality of where they were.

He reminded himself that they were not back at square one, that the cycle of ins and outs of the asylum was not shaped like Ouroboros, that they had started a new line for their paths to go off to, and that they were not alone and soon they never would be.

And just as quickly as it had begun, it ended, just like the time they had together always seemed to. Bruce pulled away, his internal timer almost at zero, and John sat back with the same glassy-eyed look from Bruce’s bedroom, when he told Bruce he loved him.

“Get out soon,” Bruce muttered to him, every part of his body aching to just sign the papers to release him into his custody. “Please, get out soon.”

John just laughed like it was a joke. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

*~*~*~*~*

Notes: This is the first multi-chapter story I’ve ever finished in my life. I feel so satisfied and yet…a little empty, too. I’ve spent so much time working on this story – (I literally marathoned all of Gotham while writing the first six chapters, starting in March of this year) – that there’s a now a “well what do I do now” lingering around, even with other projects staring at me in the face. I know that feeling will go. Inspiration has thankfully struck me for those other projects, and new ideas will no doubt shake my shoulder and go “dude have you seen this shit your imagining, you gotta make this.” I already have some I know you guys will like, even though the question of when I’ll write them, let alone post them, is one I can’t answer.

To all those thinking that they’ll never finish their own work:  Yes you can. Ask yourself what’s stopping you from writing that section that you struggle with, and change it. Don’t erase a scene if you’re unhappy with it; start fresh and keep it separated from its predecessor until you work out the kinks. Remind yourself that your audience, be they loud or quiet, are waiting for you. And most importantly, let your spite fuel you in small doses and your love and intrigue fuel you in large ones.

Chapter 15:  At the Brink of Midnight

“Are you kidding me?! It’s practically five to midnight on the doomsday clock, and you’re going off over my flying skills?!”

Bruce would have covered his face with his hand if he hadn’t been gripping the steering wheel so tight while talking to Gordon through the microphone in his cowl. He knew having John and Tiffany work together would be difficult, considering both of them held onto grudges and had tempers, but he didn’t imagine it would be like this. This was more like having two bickering kids, rather than two adults baring teeth at one another.

He supposed he should be grateful, but he was finding it hard to concentrate on talking when he heard three other voices in his ear. If he wasn’t so annoyed, he’d wonder if this was what John felt like while he was off his medicine, constantly hearing voices chatting at him in the background.

Tiffany huffed over the ear-piece. “Those are my drones! You have no idea how long it takes me to repair them! And I’m driving, how the hell am I supposed to watch you fly them?! If you break one-”

Joker was practically steaming at the ears in the passenger seat, a laptop perched on his knees, flying a drone through the cityscape of Old Gotham, heading towards the Green Line’s train depot. Bruce knew it was smaller than the Gold Line, where they were heading now, but it was still important that they scout it out first. Tiffany had made a good point before they left, advising they look into it first as it was closest to Crane’s hideout and more likely to have unmanned gas bombs. “I’m not going to break one! Just because I learned to fly them in a day-”

Bruce was very close to just reaching over and slapping his hand over Joker’s mouth to shut him up. Iman Avesta thankfully came to the rescue, sounding appropriately tired:  “Both of you, please, stop arguing – it’s way too early in the morning for this. And Tiffany, concentrate on the road. Our drones are doing fine.”

Bruce saw Joker stick his tongue out, like either of the women on the communicator could see it, but continued to pilot the drone like he was supposed to.

Commissioner Gordon’s voice crackled slightly over the line. “Batman, I’ve got cars already heading out to the Blue Line’s holding station and the last station at East End, just in case anything’s there. You said the Green Line’s station might have some?”

“We’re checking that out now,” Bruce answered, his voice distorted into a growl by his cowl’s modifier, “I’m on my way to the Gold Line’s depot now.”

Joker tilted his shoulders like he was flying along with the drone. “You know, the more I think about it, the more familiar this sounds,” he commented, his piercing green eyes never leaving the screen nestled in his lap, “Wasn’t there something about a train being tampered with a couple of years ago?”

Bruce couldn’t answer, still being on the phone. “Gordon, we’ll tell you the second we’ve got confirmation on the Green Line’s bomb placements.”

“Thanks, Batman. I just hope they’re easier to take dispose of than last time.”

Click. Bruce’s phone disconnected, and he was instantly transferred back onto the cave’s communication line.

Joker continued. “Something like, ‘blah blah blah, train dismantled, heavy commute traffic, blah blah Children of Arkham’?”

“Yes,” Bruce answered, “Vicki Vale and the Children of Arkham had tampered with one of the train cars so it would disperse her drugs through the sprinkler system at the busiest station. I stopped them.”

Joker giggled, his voice coming out cold and mocking. “Ohh, old Scarecrow’s not going to like hearing that. He always prized his originality.”

Now that he thought of it, the Fear Toxin Crane made was a little similar to the drugs Vicki Vale had created as Lady Arkham. It made him wonder if Crane hadn’t been somewhat inspired by her, despite the vastly different ingredients to their formulas.

Iman Avesta’s voice phased in from the ear-piece. “If you guys are right about what he’s planning, it sounds like Crane decided to take the idea further.”

“I’m kinda surprised Lady Arkham didn’t think of using all the cars,” Tiffany chimed in; Bruce heard tires squealing in the background and wondered if she didn’t take a very sharp turn at a red light.

“Ehh, that was just a terrorist gig,” Joker replied, tilting himself as he flew into the Green Line’s train depot, “Scare the bourgeoisie and all that jazz.”

Bruce practically heard Tiffany’s eyebrow raise in mild derision. “I didn’t think they took public transport.”

Joker didn’t seem to notice dry tone, and continued as if it was a casual conversation. “No, no – middle class are included in that crowd, too; you need to brush up on your French! Hey, Iman, you manage to open the pod bay doors here?”

“Almost… Are the lights inside on?”

“Yup!”

“Good – I’m looking around the Gold Line, I saw a van parked below… Okay, the train doors at Green should be wide open. Batman, how far away are you?”

Bruce calculated his speed and time as quickly as possible. They had sped away from the cemetery while Tiffany was still bundling herself into her car – they had needed all the headway they were going to get. Bruce didn’t like the idea of Tiffany finding Crane first; he was too dangerous, and she still needed some serious combat training. Jackie had watched them leave, leaning against the door of her battered sedan, looking almost dreamily at the nitrous burners. “Two minutes. Three at the most.”

“Right. I’ll start scouting for Crane’s whereabouts. Joker, you find anything yet?”

“Patience is its own reward,” Joker replied with a haughty sort of air to his lower tone. “Though this heat-seeking feature really isn’t helping…”

Bruce took a sharp turn, causing Joker to clutch the laptop as he forcibly leaned in his seat. “The bombs at the diner weren’t professional grade – he had a timer on the one made from the fire extinguisher. He’s either using more basic timers, or clocks; neither will put out much heat.”

“Would’ve been nice to know before I wasted power,” Joker grumbled. “Ooh, wait, I found one!”

Just like that, his tone had shifted from annoyed to genuinely excited. Bruce wondered if that was just how he was, and Bruce had just kind of been ignoring it, or if the fact John hadn’t had a mood stabilizer in his system for nearly three days was enough to make his emotions fluctuate more than normal. It was a part of him that Bruce always liked – the unpredictability, the fascinating range of emotion John could put in a single sentence – but he knew it wasn’t an entirely healthy thing to have. Six months of being back on his medication had made him seem a little more balanced, making it more obvious where he was going to go next… Of course, John had just been around him for a couple of days. The past few hours he’d managed to talk to more people than usual, and two of them were still wary of how he was going to pan out. Maybe Bruce just noticed the fluctuations more because he knew John was being scrutinized, or maybe it was just because of the very stressful situation they were running towards.

“…now what?” Joker asked, a little bit of the thrill leaving his voice. “This thing doesn’t come with any lasers or anything to cut the cables with, does it?”

Tiffany swore under her breath, and Bruce heard a car horn in the distance. “All the drones come with an EMP pulse generator. It should be enough to shut it off.”

“For someone who calls themselves ‘Oracle’, you don’t seem to have God’s all-knowing eye firmly connected to yours,” Joker panned, the corners of his reddened mouth pulling up in Bruce’s peripheral vision, “I’m preeetty sure that an analog alarm clock isn’t going to be hurt by an EMP.”

Tiffany swore again, sounding more frustrated than before, and Bruce took another sharp turn down an alleyway acting as a shortcut. “Iman,” Tiffany grumbled over the microphone, “which drone are you flying?”

There was a clicking noise – Iman was probably looking at the Batcomputer’s remote drone map. “…Fox-2.”

“Does Joker have Fox-3?”

“Yes.”

“Joker, yours has a laser installed on the front, you can control it by pressing Alt.-Function-L and moving the W-A-S-D keys. It’s only good for short bursts. Don’t you dare break it.”

“Really?!” Joker squealed, “Oh, that’s so cool! But…wait, does the other one not have one?”

“No,” Tiffany growled out, suddenly honking as a pair of tires on the other end of the line squealed, “Hey, watch it, asshole! Ugh, if the rest of the bombs are like that, I’m going to have to cut them by hand.”

“You can borrow my knife,” Joker added helpfully, “I’ve always got some aces up my sleeve… Say, Bats, is it always the red wire, or the blue wire your supposed to cut?”

Before Bruce could even open his mouth to correct him, Iman’s voice cut in with a sense of complete control. “Joker, let’s switch drones – I’ll defuse it.”

“…oh, alright,” John muttered with a dissatisfied pout, “Take away my fun… Then again, I guess you’re the expert in this kind of situation! But it is the blue wire first, right? One of my newer neighbors in Arkham told me he always switched up the colors so no one could guess what the negative one was.”

“Generally speaking, yes,” Iman replied coolly, “keep your drone on the floor, and we’ll switch at the count of three.”

Bruce tried his best to tune everything out. He had to think, had to go over the memories of the last time he encountered someone in the train station… There were six trains held there at once, four of them he was sure were for the long Golden Line alone. The other two were likely for the Red and Blue tracks, despite the Blue Line having its own holding station at its tail-end. More than likely, Crane would move numerically, which meant he was likely somewhere between stations four and six, depending on how much work they had gotten done in a night.

He tried very, very hard to pay attention to his mental map of the facility, planning for the inevitable and the potential, while Joker insensitively asked Tiffany why she was so concerned over flying machines, and got the firm reply of ‘they were my father’s,’ which sent him fumbling for an attempt at an apology he didn’t know he had needed to give until now.

He knew that having three other people working around him at once would take some getting used to. He knew it was just technically noise.

But he used to have just one person to worry about, outside of the slim worries regarding his own mortality. Now there were three, two of which were about to be put in mortal danger.

He wasn’t even counting the fourth person he fretted over, currently sleeping on the other side of the world, who was going to wake up to some grim news, regardless of what happened tonight.

“Batman,” Joker called, his voice shaking Bruce from his thoughts, “I’ve found a bomb in the first train car. It looks like it’s glued under the back seat.”

“Then there’s going to be one in the second. Pull out and look in the third docking station. If Crane or his goons aren’t there, look in the fifth. I have a feeling he’s farther along than we want.”

“On it.”

Tiffany’s voice crackled slightly, and Bruce wondered if there was something interfering with the line. (Iman’s hearing aid, perhaps? But no, that should only be on her end…) “What’s the plan here, exactly?”

Bruce took a steady breath. He felt Joker’s eyes on him. “Joker and I are dealing with Crane. You’re going to dismantle the bombs in the rail-cars he’s already tampered with.”

“…okay.”

He heard the disappointment in her voice. Slight, but there, mixed with worry. Over him, or his choice of combat partner, he wasn’t sure. “Iman, have you found any more bombs?”

“Yes. There was another in the front, by the operating cabin. I can dismantle these in about a minute, provided they’re all made the same.”

“Good. Keep disarming them and send a message to Gordon when you’re sure you’ve found them all. His men should be on the way there.”

Joker stopped moving for a moment. “I found them.”

“Where?”

“Train five. Looks like they’re wrapping up… They’ve got a cart with them.”

He was transporting them all at once. “Oracle, how far away are you?”

“Less than a minute!”

“Good – we’re here.”

Bruce jolted the Batmobile to a stop in the Sky Train Depot’s parking lot.

The exterior of the station was as gloomy and utilitarian as before, the vaguely art-deco shapes of the roofs blending in well with the rest of the surrounding city. The orange lights perched near the giant doors did nothing to soothe him. They were candles in the gloom, mere glowsticks in the mouth of the path leading towards destiny.

Beckoning him forward, even as the wind pushed at him, swirling his cape the second he opened the car door.

Even through the layers of tight Kevlar and metal, Bruce could feel it was going to rain again.

Tiffany’s tires screeched to a stop beside the Batmobile, and Bruce heard the laptop John had been carrying click shut.

Bruce saw two unmarked vans in the distance. Crane was still there.

His stomach clenched along with his fist.

“Tiffany,” he said firmly as her car door opened, “Head to dock one and start dismantling the bombs.”

“What do I do if they go off?”

Bruce opened a hatch in the side of the Batmobile. There, amongst the empty spots for his gear, laid the gas mask for his cowl. He had several shots of antitoxin on his person, and several more stored in the car, kept stable.

Joker knew what to expect when hit with the toxin; Bruce had a fairly good idea of it, seeing the effects first-hand.

Tiffany had no idea.

He pushed the gas mask and one of the antitoxin shots into her hands. “These should help. Are the goggles you were wearing earlier real?”

“They’re older than you,” she answered, cocking a smirk, “but they’re waterproof. I don’t cheap out on my costumes.”

“Then wear them. If you start to hallucinate, get out of the area and take the antitoxin. I’ve got more in case we need it.”

Tiffany stuck the orange-hued injector into her own belt and let the black gas mask hang around her neck. “What about you two?”

“Oh, we’ll be just fine,” Joker answered for him, throwing his hat behind the car seat. “I’ve got more experience with Crane’s little formula than either of you two – I’ll make sure to take the hits in your places.”

The red smile and dark gleam in his green eyes spoke of yards more confidence than Bruce had thought he had. If the situation had been any different, Bruce might have likened it to when John had laid back on the Wayne’s king-size bed, ready and willing to take all of him on.

“Let me know if you need help. The drone can still send out enough sound to distract or deafen them…at least temporarily.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Bruce replied as Tiffany geared up her tablet. “Get going.”

The Batmobile locked itself down, and Bruce whirled away with John keeping right behind him, his grappling gun in hand.

With the trains being held below, it meant Bruce couldn’t waltz in through the lower door. He’d have to take the elevated one. They had a good chance of being heard, but it was the best way.

He turned to Joker as they carefully made their way in, stepping softly over the metal plates.

He looked determined. Poised. Fiery.

For once, he didn’t meet Bruce’s gaze. He was entirely focused on the group of people below them, working in low light.

Bruce peeked over the railing.

Several people were below.

One of them – Kip, he realized – was lifting one of the gas canister bombs off a small hand cart with the help of a very burly-looking woman with a buzz-cut. The train car next to them was empty, it’s lights on, and another woman with a dark purple ponytail was fixing a smaller-looking canister to the front cabin, where the operator sat. Bruce wasn’t sure what she was using to keep them in place, but she kept reaching for something on the floor. At least he was sure they weren’t being held in place by duct tape.  

“Oracle,” Bruce whispered into the comm-link, “there’s a second bomb placed in the driver’s cabin. One of you send a warning to Gordon.”

“Got it,” Tiffany replied; Iman cursed in Farsi, but Bruce felt that was an agreement.

A fourth person was speaking, but Bruce couldn’t see them. It must have been Ivan, guarding the doorway below.

“You don’t have to hover over shoulders,” Ivan grunted, his Ukrainian accent just as thick as ever, “We have experience with delicate weaponry such as this.”

“I don’t care how many years your old boss made you cart dynamite around,” Dr. Crane’s voice replied, just as calm and stinging as ever, “You’re handling delicate gas canisters that are rigged to release its entire contents in half a minute. One slip-up will cost me more than just what I’m paying you.”

Joker was frowning in disgust, his teeth bared as he gripped the railing, acting like he wanted to leap over it.

Bruce squeezed his shoulder. “”Don’t,” he instructed in the quietest voice he could muster, “Wait for my signal.” He ignored the frustrated look he got in return.

Bruce made to softly walk around the catwalk, to get a better vantage point. It would be easy to glide down and start punching, but he’d have to wait until the bombs were placed. He didn’t want to risk the chance of the gas leaking into the air.

For a fraction of a second, it looked like a scarecrow had walked off its pole and wandered into the station.

Dr. Crane stood underneath the doorway railing, clad in a wrinkled flannel shirt, dark jeans, and oddly crisp work-boots, with what looked like a very dirty old square flour sack pulled over his head. There were two holes for his dull eyes – Bruce could see the gleam of glass underneath them reflecting the red light nearby – and a shoddily-stitched frown for a mouth. It was as if he had cut a hole there and decided to fix it back up with wide x-shaped stitches, not knowing how to sew. Dark stains were littered around the mouth and the frayed edges of the base, almost looking as if liquid had seeped out of the mouth like blackened drool or excess drink.

“This is my life’s work on the line,” Crane continued, flat and threatening, his voice lightly muffled by the rag-like mask, “If any of you ruin it in any way, I will ruin you… And it will be far worse than what your pathetic excuse for an imagination tells you… Now do what I tell you and keep a look out for me. You have only yourself to blame for Kip taking your place.”

Ivan crossed his arms and stood still with a ‘hmph’, surveying the place and the main doorway for any sign of movement that wasn’t of their little crew.

Dr. Crane moved back to the train car, where the woman at the front had just finished mounting the bomb, and seemed to be inspecting her work, truly hovering over her shoulder as the other two thugs worked on applying some kind of putty to the space underneath the back corner seat, away from the eyes of the doors. The canisters were long and painted beige, matching the interior paint of the train car, and once mounted Bruce could see how no one would notice them.

He thought quickly. The bomb was on the floor – it was still volatile, but if he yanked the woman out of the car with his grappling hook and threw a Batarang at the other, they shouldn’t be able to touch it… He might just have to wait until those two left the car, or else make a distraction to get their attention. The woman at the front was more of a liability, but with such a small amount of gas, it wouldn’t be as dangerous, and Bruce could easily apply the antitoxin. He should be able to hit Crane easily in the confusion -

There was the telltale whirr of a grappling cable, and Bruce knew his plan was practically moot as he turned to see Joker use his own colorful gun as a rope swing, descending with his back at Bruce as he swung out wide, stopping the cable just enough to stretch his legs out and plant his boots into the back of Ivan’s head.

Bruce took a glided leap down onto the floor.

Ivan shouted as Joker landed on his feet, grinning wide and brandishing what looked like several playing cards between his fingers.

Bruce threw a Batarang at Kip, aiming for his exposed shoulder as Tiffany’s voice rang in his ear, telling them she’d finished cutting the wires in the second train car; the woman beside Kip noticed the movement and pulled him out of the way.

“BATMAN!”

The thick-set woman stood, and Bruce saw her reach for the small of her back.

Dr. Crane finally looked up, the light in the train glinting off the glasses behind the holes in his hood.

Ivan cried out, and Bruce stole a glance - several playing cards were stuck into his shoulders and chest. Joker was already sliding out his riot baton, readying himself to swing.

Bruce threw several more Batarangs as he dodged a shot, managing to hit the collar of Ivy’s thug, and made for the head of the car, where Crane had whirled around, scrambling for his pistol.

Bruce dodged another shot from the woman, readying one of his electric bombs – he could easily throw one through the open doorway.

Except he heard the thundering footsteps of Kip.

Kip was roughly the size of a retired quarterback, and he was making his way to slam into Bruce with full force, a knife in hand.

Bruce held up his left arm defensively, the dull spines on his gauntlets jabbing into Kip’s outstretched arm. His heart pounded in his ears as the weight still barreling forward attempted to throw him off balance.

He saw Joker in the distance, jabbing the baton into Ivan’s stomach and sweeping his leg under the grunt’s feet, and felt a surge stem from his gut.

Bruce turned, letting Kip fall forward, and felt the flesh of his throat give into his fist.

Several loud bangs echoed in the station, and Bruce felt something push hard at his side and arm as little metal dings sounded at his feet.

Bruce met the woman’s steely eyes for only a second before they squeezed shut with a loud shout as several playing cards hit her forearm.

The handgun clattered to the floor, and Bruce felt something slice into the back of his calf.

One quick electric bomb to the floor took care of Kip, but Bruce felt the familiar hot ache of something being jabbed into raw muscle – the knife was buried in his calf.

At least he hadn’t needed to waste another Batarang – a barrage of playing cards hit the Ivy goon, and she fell to her knees.

“That’s quite enough,” Dr. Crane called out, his voice ringing from inside the train car.

The other woman tried to reach out for her partner from the front of the train, but she was being restrained in a choke-hold with the muzzle of Crane’s pistol pointed at her temple. “Mary…!”

“Hush, child,” Crane hissed, pressing the gun firmly into her head, “or I squeeze the trigger. I see you managed to escape just fine, Mr. Doe,” he said, seeming to shoot a glare over at Joker, who was advancing towards the car, “And you brought a new patient for me… How thoughtful.”

Bruce clenched his fists. “Let her go, Dr. Crane!”

“Oh, it’s not Crane any more. All of your foes have titles, don’t they, Batman? You can call me Scarecrow.”

Joker snorted, his grappling gun clenched in his hand, aiming at Crane’s head. “Ooh, very original. Decided to steal that off a movie poster, too?”

“Better that than a playing card,” Crane shot back coolly, “and I am quite original, thank you. At least I made my own look, rather than deliberately molding myself into someone else’s image. We all know how well that turned out, didn’t we?”

“Let her go,” Bruce growled, feeling his blood simmering dangerously.

“No. You see, I’m very annoyed right now. I’m going to have to dispose of three more bodies later, plus yours if I’m lucky, on top of having an experiment to oversee.”

Joker blinked, casting a look at the fallen goons on the floor. The woman dotted with sharp cards was still bleeding on the floor, but she was semi-conscious, watching everything unfold, her eyes trained on the woman in Crane’s choke-hold. “But they’re not…”

“I don’t like paying for services not fulfilled; those three obviously weren’t up to snuff. So I’ll tell you what, Batman – you step in here, let me probe that bat-brain for a little bit, and I’ll let her go. I’ll even tell you where the rest of my bombs are.”

“I know where the rest of your bombs are. I’ve seen your plans, Crane.”

“Scarecrow, please, let’s be formal. And I doubt you know about the ones I left behind in Arkham. All those so-called innocent lives… I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see any of them hurt.”

His blood might have run cold, if it hadn’t been on the edge of boiling.

The woman on the floor spoke up, her voice heavy. “Boss… Please, don’t hurt Dotty…”

Crane didn’t even spare her a glance. “That’s not up to me, my dear. That’s up to Batman.”

Bruce couldn’t risk the lives of Arkham, even if he could find it in himself to risk the life of the gang-banger in Crane’s arm.

Stepping into that train might as well be a death sentence. There was little room to run from a bullet, and with a life on the line, Bruce couldn’t risk much.

He stepped forward, forcing himself to breathe steady. “Fine.” He heard Tiffany and Iman’s voices on the earpieces, but he tuned them out.

“Wait!” Joker cried out.

“Not another step, Mr. Doe. I’m sure Dr. Leland would be very disappointed to find that you were responsible for a hostage’s death.”

Joker looked furious, and his shoulders and fists were as stiff as boards. He was clearly forcing himself not to just run at him. “Just… Leave Bats out of this! I’ll take his place; I’ll tell you anything you want to know!”

“No. I’ve already exhausted what I can from your pathetically clingy brain. I want to have a personal insight into Gotham’s dark knight.”

“Joker,” Bruce breathed steadily, meeting his eyes – beautiful, brilliant green, full of anger and desperation – and hoped it wasn’t the last time he’d see them. “It’ll be alright. Move those two out of the way.”

“Helping the people you just beat up? How noble of you,” Dr. Crane jeered.

Acid greens bore through white lenses for a moment. “You know I’ve got your back.”

Bruce nodded.

“Batman, I’m running out of patience. Please enter through the end door there.”

Bruce did as he was told, hating every moment, feeling heavy even without the additional sting of the knife in his leg.

“Very good. Now I’ll just close these so we can have some privacy – my dear, can you reach over and hit that yellow button for me? I’m afraid I can’t move my hands.” Dr. Crane moved backwards, tugging the nervous young woman with him to the control panel, keeping the gun muzzle pressed against her head. The doors closed with a weighty swish and a thunk that made Bruce’s heart feel like it was sinking. He heard John’s voice call out along with the wounded Ivy gang member. Bruce couldn’t hear anything over the comm-link; the thick metal of the train must have been blocking the signal. “That’s better; thank you.”

“Dotty,” Bruce said, trying to meet the gangster’s eyes, “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Dr. Crane lowered his head, and Bruce got the impression he was frowning. “No talking to the hostage, Batman. I know our arrangement isn’t ideal, but just pretend she can’t hear you.”

“What do you want, Scarecrow?”

“Just a few answers. I’m a man of science first and foremost. You see, I was studying you for some time, before your mysterious disappearance, and I was quite intrigued by you. A man who tries to stop crime by dressing up as a flying rodent – you either belong in a room next to John Doe, or at the head of the Agency. I’ll decide which.”

Bruce tried to concentrate on his breathing. The smell of old metal and dust lingered in his nostrils. He stared firmly ahead, at the burlap sack of a mask, rather than at the anxious face of the woman with the gun pointed at her face. He would not linger on the sight of the gun, and would not think back to that alleyway.

“I take it you decided on this…crusade because of a personal loss, due to a crime? What was it that drove you to do this?”

He was not thinking of that alleyway, and the smell of gunpowder. He was not thinking of pearls clattering to the concrete.

“And no lying,” the doctor instructed, “or Dotty here dies.”

He could lie, at the risk of the woman’s death. He could speak outright and risk exposure.

He knew Dr. Crane had suffered loss, too. His parents had also died by accident. Perhaps he could reason through that.

“You also lost something, Doctor. Your parents died almost thirty-three years ago, at a haunted house that caught fire. Was your survival what triggered your fascination with fear?”

“I’m the one asking questions, Batman,” Dr. Crane pressed, “Though I’m guessing by such a vague reply that you and I suffered a similar tragedy in our formative years. I’m sure it had a factor in both our lives’ paths, but it wasn’t the ultimate driving force behind it, was it? Mine was watching the birds on my aunt’s farm learn to scatter at the sight of me, or else risk an untimely demise. I’m guessing yours had something to do with watching a bat fly over the city…or perhaps flap by your face at just the right moment of reflection.” He was quite wrong; Batman was born in Crime Alley, he just hadn’t chosen his unique look until he rediscovered the cave underneath the house a couple of years later. “Let’s try a different approach – if there are a group of strangers strapped to one track, and a close personal friend one strapped to another, with a train on a split track careening towards them at high speed, who would you divert the train to save?”

Bruce frowned. He always hated that question. “I’m not working alone, Scarecrow. I can easily find a way to save them all.”

“Of course you would,” Crane groaned. “Such a heroic idealism you have… You know, I’m surprised you’re working with Mr. Doe. Did you know what his answer was? He’d save the single person. I can understand saving someone like Dr. Leland, given that she has almost a maternal role in his life, but I found he’d risk the lives of innocent strangers to save the likes of someone like Bruce Wayne. Can you imagine, choosing to save the greedy son of a notorious mobster who only visits him out of guilt? He’s really not cut out to be a hero, is he?”

Bruce grit his teeth. He knew Crane was just trying to rile him up. “I’m not here to talk about him. You said you wanted to talk about me.”

“Oh, but I can do both,” the doctor emphasized, squinting across the train car at the vigilante. “He’s fixated on two things, you see, and you’re the lesser of them. I want to understand what he sees in you – especially given that he almost killed you. Do you still think of it, sometimes? Sitting in that control room, watching him struggle to get your ridiculously-shaped tool out of his hand? How does it feel, watching someone who looked up to you fall so far from the proverbial tree?”

Bruce didn’t want to answer; he scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t let Crane know he was getting to him. The doctor actually let out a little laugh in response to his brief moment of silence – it was disturbing, to say the least, to hear a man with almost no expression let out an actual chortle.

“Oh, your expression says a thousand words… I’ve heard a great deal about you – from both my patients and my little colleagues, like Dotty here. They tell me you’re quite the rough customer; intriguingly enough, though, you’ve never reportedly killed anyone. How curious.” He tilted his head, like an animal trying to puzzle out an unusual toy. “Are you afraid of death, Batman? Does the idea of having blood on your gloves keep you awake at night?”

He seemed to be asking, more than taunting. Bruce willed himself not to move. It would take nothing to rush him, but it would cost the young woman her life.

He wasn’t about to prove Crane right by example. He thought back to the doctor’s published papers.

“It’s human nature to fear the inevitability of oblivion. It’s what ultimately drives us as a species,” he quoted, keeping a level tone, “but I strive to save lives, Scarecrow, not destroy them.”

“…you’ve read my work, I see. Plagiarizing me to append your own run-of-the-mill heroism isn’t getting any points from me, Batman. You must know you can’t possibly save everyone… I suppose I should have set the bar lower for you. Still, I’ll keep my bargain – Dotty, child, I need you not to struggle when I pull my hand away, or I’m going to have to shoot you. Nod if you understand.”

Dotty nodded, her frightened eyes flicking to the gun, and then back to Batman. Pleading.

Bruce wasn’t going to move a muscle until she was out of the car. He wouldn’t put it past Crane to shoot her the second she got free.

Bruce cast a look out the train’s side window. Empty. Joker had clearly moved the two thugs out of the way, likely near the door.

Dr. Crane released his hold on the young woman’s upper arm, and reached behind him into the control panel. “On the count of three. One. Two.” He threw the smaller gas canister into the middle of the car, the nozzle spewing green smoke, and suddenly every nerve Bruce had was on edge as he gave a helpless gasp, reaching for his belt automatically. He could get his grappling hook, fire at Crane-

“Don’t even think about it, Batman. I’ve still got a hostage.”

Dotty was clawing at Crane’s arm, struggling to kick away from the fumes filling the car, but Crane’s grip was clearly firm, just as the gun replanted against her head was.

“I did tell you not to struggle, Dotty.”

“You said you’d let her go!” Bruce shouted, his voice sounding more distorted than usual.

“And I am. I just want to see how my little drug affects you. It doesn’t really do anything to me, you see – I don’t fear anything.”

Bruce’s mind was whirling. He was becoming very aware of the lights, the sounds, the weight of the armor on his body…

“Three.”

The train doors opened, and Dotty was all but tossed out. Bruce stumbled forward, his blood pumping as he clutched a Batarang.

He had to hit Crane.

Had to get out of the train - the gas was filling the whole place.

Had to cut him, drive a blade into his chest, hurt him for everything he’d done…

Bruce lurched forward with an electronic whirr.

They were moving.

The train was…moving.

He heard distant shouts…screams…

He looked out of the window, only to see the bone-white paint peel away like rapidly decaying skin, revealing rust and black metal. There was no reflection in the glass there; only black, and two glowing white lights.

He could hear something new whispering in his ear. Groans. Gasping breaths. A strangled, rattling noise that sent his nerves on edge.

Familiar sounds of injury. Death.

He turned to look at Dr. Crane, and the length of train car between them seemed to expand like a long tunnel. White lights winked at him beneath dark holes of the Scarecrow’s eyes, and something dark and coppery dribbled down its mouth.

“Normally people grow quite aggressive, due to the adrenaline rush they get, but it doesn’t usually work instantly. It takes a bit of seeing their worst fears come out. What are you seeing, Batman?”

Bruce was hardly listening to the eerie voice coming from the scarecrow’s mouth. His eyes darted over the rusting car. The walls were warping, bubbling with something pressing at them like thin membranes.

Figures.

Faces.

A crowd of people pressing towards him from the walls of the train, groaning in pain. He recognized them.

The Children of Arkham. Oswald. Harvey. Alfred. Iman. Edward Nigma. Selina. Frieze. Bane. Harley. John. Tiffany. Jackie.

And scattered among them, those he knew were dead. Vicki Vale. Hill. Falcone. Countless citizens he’d witnessed the death of over the years, the bodies he’d seen.

Lucius Fox reached for him; his burnt face was gaunt and mangled, his glasses askew on his disfigured nose.

Thomas and Martha Wayne, pale and judging, watched from the ceiling, in the middle of the throng.

The windows were dark, but the outside showed a ruined city. Decayed. Corrupted.

He couldn’t save them.

He could never save them.

“Most people would have throttled me by now. Stabbed me, perhaps. I saw a man come out of the Main Street Diner brandishing a steak knife – he stabbed the first person he saw, thinking they were something from his hallucinations. You truly don’t want to kill anyone, do you?” Scarecrow taunted, tilting his head slightly. “That’s why you and Mr. Doe fell apart, isn’t it? You couldn’t stand the sight of him after that little bloodbath he made in the chemical plant.”

Bruce looked at his own hands. They were sharp and stained red. Dripping.

His fault.

“He couldn’t either, of course. He’s still attempting to put himself back together. I’m not sure he actually thinks what he did was wrong – I believe it’s more like he’s afraid of disappointing you. Does the thought of him killing again frighten you? Can you still see him there, blood on his mouth and hands, laughing at you, making a mockery of your pathetic beliefs?”

He could see John, reaching for him, black and crimson smeared on his face.

He could feel his blood surge. He was finding it hard to breathe.

The floor was rusting, red, and shining like liquid.

“They are pathetic, you know. There’s nothing wrong with doing everything to get your way. It certainly helped me – I finally fulfilled my goal of getting to work in Arkham. All it took was the lives of two doctors. It wasn’t a big loss for the asylum, anyway – they wrote such drivel. They didn’t understand what I wanted to do – what I’m doing now. I’m sure you can understand, now, can’t you? How I want to save people?”

Bruce blinked, stepping forward, his muscles tense. Something dull ached in his leg. He heard a sick splash, like he’d stepped in a puddle of something thicker than water.

He had to do something.

He couldn’t save the people around him.

But couldn’t he save just one?

Just one person, outside, in those ruins?

“The only way people can truly live is to be set free – and the only way to set them free is by having them overcome their fear. The undercurrent of your worst nightmare is always death… Facing death changes you. You said it yourself:  my parents died when I was young, and it changed me.”

Scarecrow faced the window, looking out into the decaying, rusting ruins of the city, not seeing the corpses that made up the wall.

He couldn’t save him, could he?

He couldn’t stop him, could he?

He was a man. Just that.

Just one person.

He’d tried. Tried to save them all.

But how could he do anything – save them, save the city, clear away the corruption, the disease, the past – when he was just one person?

“I lost them from a simple accident. I blamed myself, as children do – but I realized I didn’t have anything to fear again.”

Gun. Alley. Pearls. Death.

Darkness shrouded them.

Bodies squirmed and moaned, pressing against the flesh of the train.

“I already saw my worst fear come alive, after all. But this formula – my work – it brings you that fear without the true cost. There are bumps, of course. People kill other people in fright. Kill themselves, too. They’re unpredictable like that. It’s quite fascinating, really… But sacrifices must be made for the future. The deaths of some will rebirth more.”

Terror.

No more death.

Guilt.

He’d survived. They had not.

Resolve.

He could try. He could be something. For them. All of them. For Gotham.

Renewal.

B a t m a n.

He lunged. His fist connected with Scarecrow’s chest.

A snap and a scream.

Scarecrow stumbled back.

Bruce hit the window where the mask had been. The armored knuckles made a spider web.

The control panel door slammed.

Bruce tore it open, the sliding metal screeching against the slotted floor, mixing with the yowls of the walls.

He felt a kick to the stomach.

Pathetic.

Bruce yanked Scarecrow into the air and threw him into the train car.

The train was slowing, the brakes squealing, the lights flickering back on and off, casting shadows.

“You think you can intimidate me?” Scarecrow coughed, scrambling to stand, reaching for the small canister. Bruce advanced on him, ignoring the blood splashing and sticking to his boots. “I’m not scared of you.”

Bruce heard his voice come out low and guttural. “You will be.”

He swung for his jaw – Scarecrow ducked and slammed the canister into his chest. Bruce stumbled a little, feeling a new dull throb under the black bat symbol. A Batarang found its way in-between his fingers.

The train doors opened, and Scarecrow ran.

Bruce’s feet splashed through blood momentarily before pounding on decaying asphalt. He threw hard, aiming for his back, missing by inches.

“Is that all you’ve-?”

There was the grotesque sound of meat being stabbed, followed by a gurgle.

A Batarang was sticking out of Scarecrow’s shoulder.

“You scum.”

Joker stood there, at the top of the station’s cracked concrete steps, his red lips stretched in a wide grimace.

Scarecrow backed away into the space between them, reaching for his wounded shoulder. (It looked familiar.)

“You think you can just run?” Joker continued, the dark green hairs of his head flickering like smoke in the wind as he skulked forward. “From me – from us?”

Bruce stomped towards the masked man, his fists clenched, blood pounding like a jackhammer.

(Adrenaline. Fear. Determination. Excitement. How it always was.)

Scarecrow aimed the pistol at Bruce. “Take one more step and I’ll-” Playing cards sliced into his hand, and he fired with a shout.

The bullet hit a crevice between Bruce’s chest and shoulder. He recoiled, hearing pearls clatter to the pavement.

He still stood, ignoring the pain, trying to tune-out his mother’s voice behind him.

More playing cards. Bruce’s fist smashed into Scarecrow’s jaw.

The gun smashed against Bruce’s head, tossing him aside. His ears were ringing.

There were fast footsteps, and Bruce blinked, his vision blurring for a moment as he refocused.

A knife jabbed into a spindly arm, and brown leather fists curled into flannel. Holding him still.

Bruce threw another punch, landing into Scarecrow’s stomach. A loud cackle reached his ears, high and familiar – so he did it again. And again.

Blood seeped from the burlap mouth. Disgusting.

Bruce shoved the thin figure to the ground.

Joker’s eyes were wild, the acid green pools practically boiling.

“Batman…are you alright?”

His leg and shoulder hurt, but he wasn’t alone in the decaying mess of Gotham. Not anymore. Maybe he never really was. Maybe the city watched him back. Like the gargoyles on the buildings. “I will be.”

Scarecrow coughed at their feet. “You’ll…be having nightmares…for weeks…” Dark holes stared up at him from the pavement. “Knowing…that I’m out there…”

Joker’s lip curled, his eyes blazing with what looked almost like real fire, and pressed a hand to Bruce’s back to guide him towards a rotting, wooden bench that surprisingly held his weight.

“You’ll have…to kill me to sleep! But you won’t!” Scarecrow taunted, wheezing a laugh. Then he was out of sight, blending in with the bloody concrete like he had melted away.

He didn’t care that Joker’s red mouth was too wide and dark, and that the dark tresses of his hair curled and whipped in the air, dissipating at the ends constantly. He couldn’t feel anything but a rapid heartrate, the aches in his body, and the weight of everything on his shoulders – he wanted to feel him, taste the blood and flesh to make sure he was as real, that he wasn’t the body in the pile of people he’d failed, that he wasn’t going to crumble and bleed in front of him.

“Wait here for me,” Joker whispered, pressing leather fingers against his cheeks for a moment.

Bruce watched him go, reaching out for him. His body told him to move. To run to him. He couldn’t let him be hurt. Not by Scarecrow. Not by anyone.

Bruce’s will held. He was told to wait. Joker would be back.

Joker was stepping towards the train, his low heels clicking on the pavement. Stopping at the red lump on the ground.

“You want to know the difference between you and me, doc’?” Joker taunted, anger and humor bending together, “People will say you’re crazy, after all this. They’ll say you’re a psychopath, or a sociopath, or something like that. But I’ve known since I met you – you’re not crazy. I’m legitimately ill. You’re just a monster.”

A cough.

“You liked watching us all writhe in front of you, didn’t you. Watching us suffer.”

The lump cried out – Joker’s heel was grinding into something on the ground.

Joker laughed. (Bruce blinked – he was not at Ace.) “Aww, what’s wrong? Can’t take a little pain?” A grunt. “This isn’t even the worst of it, you cheap pencil! You know this whole scheme you’ve got? It’s not original. Lady Arkham tried this kind of thing two years ago! Batman stopped her at the Sky Rails, too!” A crunching noise, like joints popping, following by another grunt. “Terrorizing the city? Planting chemical bombs on trains? All the same!” A crack, like breaking bone, near the front of the red thing. “Ha ha ha ha ha! Thomas Wayne had been using patients as lab rats before we ever arrived! You’re nothing but a knock-off!”

A wheeze from the ground. “You…don’t scare me…”

Joker frowned, amusement slipping from his face like it had been washed away. Thunder rumbled from above. “Oh, yeah? I know what might.”

Joker moved, dragging the lump into the empty train car.

Bruce strained to stand. He couldn’t… He wouldn’t…

“Revenge, huh… How selfish…”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Scary. This isn’t personal. This is for Arkham – for Gotham – for all those people you’ve hurt with your little experiment,” Joker spat, tugging the large gas canister forward, “See, I know you. You’re a monster - you’re going to heal, and then you’re going to talk, and that will cause a lot of trouble for Brucie and little Jackie – she says hi, by the way.”

Scarecrow’s body was in the doorway. The canister was in the middle of the car. He was straining to move as Joker backed away, a playing card in his hand.

Bruce strained forward. No…

“People will say you’re crazy anyway – so why not just make that the honest truth?”

In the blink of an eye, the proverbial clock was one to midnight, and Bruce was standing on the precipice of a choice all too clear to him as he stood in one of Gotham’s corroding Sky Rail stations:  Bruce Wayne’s potential life or death.

A potential leap into darkness.

Someone’s sanity, in exchange for his normal life, the man behind the bat.

…he couldn’t.

It was too cruel. It was something his father would have – had – done.

Bruce couldn’t bring himself to become that. He couldn’t let Joker become that, either.

(There should never be another Thomas Wayne roaming the streets.)

“Joker,” he gasped, “no…”

Green eyes met his, fiery and dangerous, wild and manic. “You…! Don’t you understand?” His hands clutched at Bruce’s cape, desperate and pleading for mercy. “I can’t let him ruin Bruce’s life! Not again!”

“Please,” Bruce begged, his hands finding Joker’s arms and clutching. (He’d held them before.) “Please…” He pulled him forward, not feeling the aches or pains, just a weight pressing against his. Just his arms around him, like they were the only two humans left in their broken city. “Don’t go backward.”

He felt a breath release against him. The hands on his cape relaxed. It was like something washed away from the rust and decay surrounding them.

Scarecrow laughed weakly, crawling towards the center of the car. “You’re afraid. You think…dirtying your hands will ruin you…” His hand clutched the nozzle of the tank, and dark eyes glinting white leered at them both beneath the burlap hood. “And you’re afraid…of letting him down…! You have to…confront your fears…to be reborn…!”

Bruce reached out, desperate to save what he had tried so hard to stop. “NO!”

Joker pushed Bruce away with all his might, rolling to the ground as pressurized gas sprung into the air with a hiss.

Bruce’s vision swirled as dark laughs floated into the air, disturbing and gasping, like nothing he had ever heard before.

A rattled breath came.

Not his…not Joker’s…

“Wait…what is…”

Bruce winced, looking at the green smoke billowing out of the train car, and the lying figure looking at him, with wide, brown eyes glinting behind glass, all hidden beneath the Scarecrow mask.

“What… No…! NO!”

A shriek the likes of which Bruce had only heard on film screeched at him. Scarecrow writhed, flinching backwards, trying to curl in on himself as he hit the back wall of the train.

“I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO…!”

Bruce took shallow breaths. He was far away enough from the train car, but the gas might still have an effect. He sat up, feeling his leg scream at him as he jostled the handle of the knife still buried in him, and tried to stand.

Scarecrow flinched further away. “KEEP AWAY FROM ME!”

Joker blinked from the ground, rubbing his head. “Did he…?”

Bruce shook his head. “He inhaled it.”

“…I think I missed the set-up,” Joker mumbled. “Why did he go and gas himself?”

“He wanted us to confront our fears - to be reborn, like he thinks he was, thirty-three years ago.”

“Yikes,” Joker grunted, standing and straightening his back with a wince, “and I thought I had image problems…”

Scarecrow retreated further into the car, kicking and trying to get away as if Bruce and Joker were advancing on him.

Joker put something in his ear from his pocket and wriggled his finger. “Oracle?” He winced, and Bruce heard someone shouting. Oracle…Tiffany. “Look, just – WILL YOU SHUT UP FOR A MINUTE? Geez… Look, Bats and I are fine, Crane is…uh, rounded up, so to speak…”

Silence, for a moment, and Bruce decided to go back and sit on the bench. He’d gotten fear gas into his system, hadn’t he? That was why everything was looking…wrong. Gotham wasn’t like this, normally, was it?

“No, he’s just gone off the deep end… What? Ha! No, no, he got a face-full of his fear toxin…”

Bruce looked on his belt. He had something for these situations. He usually always did.

“Oh..? Oh, good, I was going to ask, I just… Yeah. Um…thank you. We’ll be waiting.”

Bruce found a syringe. Was that it?

Joker parked a seat next to him. “Clean up crew is on the way.” Green eyes darted down to his belt. “You got hit by the gas earlier, didn’t you? I saw the smoke as the train was barreling away. Oracle had to use her shot on that hostage girl – she was screaming like a banshee in heat!”

Bruce blinked, and his vision wobbled. “Joker… I can’t…”

“Oh! Yeah, no worries, let me.”

Bruce felt the frigid air hit the skin of his stiff arm, and a moment later felt a pinch there.

“Don’t worry, Batman,” Joker grinned at him, his eyes soft despite the sharp edges of his face, “I’ll take good care of you…”

With a red grin blurring in his vision, Bruce fell into darkness’ waiting arms.

Notes:  Ahhh, wasn’t that fun? I hope it was. I can write emotion and horror and romance, but fight scenes are always hard. >:T Tell me if it turned out okay.

As always, thanks to all of you for supporting this story by any means. I’m truly honored and flattered that so many of you enjoy my work!!!! You guys make me feel like I can take on the world!!! >:D (And a super special thanks this time to @i-bet-you-wish-i for this sweet fanart!!! Remember, if you have fanart, I WANT TO SEE IT! @ me or tag me so I can find it easily on here, please!!!)

Chapter 11:  A Laughing Matter

The ride to Jackie Lant’s apartment was fast and quiet. Bruce wasn’t sure why, as John had a tendency to talk a lot when they were riding around before, and would talk about almost anything.

John was mulling over something, and when asked, John had shrugged and said “just some things”.

Like Bruce couldn’t worry over a response like that. He figured it had to have been what happened at the Main Street Diner. John’s street make-up was back on, and done just as impeccably this time, but with the addition of heavy black eyeliner, so it wasn’t as if he’d left in a rush.

Jackie’s apartment was high up in a building that had definitely seen better days. The neighborhood wasn’t one of the best, either – Bruce had visited it many times, always late at night, and he was sure he’d been on the other side of the apartment building on a case long, long ago.

They entered through the rooftop door, which it seemed no one had bothered to lock. (Not that Bruce was surprised – he was the only one in the city who made a habit of flying roof-to-roof, and anyone who walked up to any building’s roof at night was up to nothing good ninety-five percent of the time. Raids by blimp or helicopter were few and far between, thankfully.)

“Kind of reminds me of Arkham,” John (no, Joker, they were outside together) commented in a hushed voice as he shook the rainwater off his borrowed fedora. The stairwell was vaguely reminiscent of the asylum’s, but rather than white-washed brick, it was bare and aged, and it didn’t have the large glowing florescent lights hanging on the walls. There was just a small light in the middle of the staircase leading down.

“Her place is just on the fourth floor,” Bruce said, leading the way with light steps. He was always careful about stairs; he never knew if someone was sitting below a set.

The metal door leading into the hallway was lighter than it looked. Peeling red wallpaper greeted them, and the dark wooden floor had seen better days, but it wasn’t the worst apartment building Bruce had ever set foot in. It’d be a four out of ten, if he was feeling generous… The water stains on the ceiling certainly detracted from that generosity.

“If I hadn’t been spoiled by your place, I’d say this was pretty nice,” John muttered, grinning over at Bruce.

Bruce bit back the comment that it was only because John had no decent standard of living, and gave a very small smile in return. He remembered the little place John had made for himself back at the Old Five Points – the Ha-Hacienda, as he had called it. He’d taken what was a run-down little shack and thrown his heart into it, putting up pictures and lights like it was a real home.

He’d tried going back there the day after John had fallen off the bridge, but John had somehow managed to smuggle most of his things out of there to one of his friend’s places, and now they were impossible to find. It hurt to think about.

Jackie Lant had the corner apartment, overlooking the back. Working the lock-picks in the door took so little time Bruce found himself thinking he should find a way to pressure someone into making a policy that apartment managers had to upgrade their client’s locks every few years.

The beam of light stretching in from the hallway cast his shadow over the place, but he could already see it was much homier than Dr. Crane’s, despite it being smaller than Bruce’s master bedroom.

He stepped inside, John (Joker) following him and immediately making a line for the dresser. Bruce decided to look elsewhere.

Posters were plastered and pinned all over the walls, most of which were for movies or famous plays. There were also over a dozen flyers mixed in, like those handed out for amateur gigs, and they all seemed to be for copyright-infringing shows at Gotham University or South End High School; the dates were in line with Jackie’s educational attendance.

There was a cheap wire shelving unit holding all matter of things – books, DVDs, and bits of décor that almost all looked like they came right out of the Halloween section of a D.I.Y. store. Casting a look over at the bed (it didn’t have a frame, it was just two mattresses piled on top of one another, but was a bed) told him it wasn’t just a seasonal thing, either; there were two different pumpkin-shaped cushions and the blanket on top was patterned with smiling jack-o-lantern faces.

At least she had a variety of different tastes:  romance, fantasy, popular YA literature, used psychology textbooks… There were some horror novels in the mix, but it looked more…pulpy than anything. Her little movie collection had a few of the same titles as Crane’s, too, but they looked to be either from the more popular franchises or cheesy b-movies.

Bruce cast a look at the kitchen unit – nothing spectacular, but he should go through the cupboards, just in case she’d hidden anything in there…

“Bats,” Joker called, frowning at the strung-up photos in front of the desk on the back wall, “can your gadgets scan faces?”

“Something like that,” Bruce answered, stepping towards him. Some photographs were placed directly above the desk, adjacent to the window surrounded by string lights with jack-o-lantern faces. They were hung up by laundry clips on wire wrapped around a combination of nails and tiny peel-and-stick hooks. Looking at them made Bruce think of John’s photos, all arranged in a smiley-face wherever he went.

The pictures were all group photos, varying in age, and it didn’t take a genius to notice that the last several pictures all held the same people, but dwindling in number. Bruce clicked a button on his visor, and waited as the Batcomputer scanned the faces he honed in on and ran through its database of connections to news and GCPD files. Jackie Lant was easily recognizable, due to her curly red hair, but in a few pictures she was very young. The oldest photo was just of her and another little girl, looking up into the camera with the sort of wide-eyed innocence that only children could really have.

He checked his gauntlet, and decided to go from the bottom to the top.

Richard Seed, deceased.

Zoe Smith, deceased.

Angela Maynard, deceased.

Deceased, deceased, deceased. It was just one after another, two of which happened one month apart, and half of the death records were pulled from the GCPD – car accidents, crossfire shootings, muggings gone wrong... The earliest death was almost fifteen years ago, when a missing girl was found wrapped in a rug by a dumpster.

Bruce cast a look back at the photo of the seven-or-eight-year-old Jackie Lant, and remembered her mention of how the formative years played a lot into one’s psyche.

The only people left alive came from the middle bunch of photos:  Dean Norton, who still lived in Gotham, and Veronica O’Reilly, who hadn’t lived there for a little over a decade. Dean showed up in only one photo near the end of the bunch, too, where he was with three other people who had passed away within the last four years.

Bruce thought back to the list of contacts she had on her FriendBook. He didn’t remember seeing any R.I.P. posts or anything like it in her timeline, but he’d checked out the people she contacted most on there, and none of them were dead… “Have you seen any other photos?”

“Just two on her dresser – pretty sure it’s her parents and… I dunno, an older guy, so maybe an uncle?”

“I’m beginning to think you were right,” Bruce grumbled, clicking off the scanning feature in his cowl, “Jackie Lant’s current friends might not really be friends. Almost all the people shown here are dead.”

“Yikes,” Joker winced, “and I thought I had it bad, with most of mine in jail…”

“Did you find anything in the dresser?”

“A few spare bullets and a box of condoms. You know, the essentials,” he joked.

Bruce cast a look down at the desk. A laptop and a tray of loose papers. “Check the closet. If she hid Crane’s stuff here, the only spot left is there or the kitchen.”

“On it,” Joker said confidently, swinging open the flimsy panel doors behind them. “Though I would think I’d scatter them all over the place… You know, put the drive in a bag and tape it inside the toilet tank. That kind of thing.”

Bruce flicked through the pile of paper – mostly the bills for rent, insurance, and student loans, at least two of the latter bearing ‘OVERDUE’ stamps. “Then check there, too. Follow your instinct.”

“Ha ha, okaaayyyy,” John drew out quietly, shifting through a pile of clothes. Jackie seemed to prefer yellows and reds; Bruce remembered her work clothes looking rather nice, and wondered if she hadn’t spent more money on them than anything else.

Bruce opened the laptop on her desk, mindful of the speakers she had plugged into it knocking over the well-loved stuffed cat sitting there. The lock-screen was password-protected and the hint was “check the handbook”.

Handbook…? Hadn’t he seen something with that?

Bruce returned to the shelf – The Handbook for the Recently Deceased sat next to an empty candlestick holder molded in the shape of a raven.

Sure enough, it was a blank journal with a list of contact information (birthdays and death dates were listed, too, much to Bruce’s surprise) and passwords to different sites – banks, her social media, and even a bloggr account – with the laptop’s password written on a sticky note in the front:  Pumpk1nPr1nc355.

“Hey, Batman, I found somethiiing,” Joker called, tugging out a heavy-looking lock-box. “Hidden right under the loose floorboard, how cliché… Ooh, you looking into her laptop?”

“I figured it might give an insight into her, if she didn’t have Crane’s work copied onto it.”

“Right. You look at that, I’m going to poke around her bathroom for a key to this thing.”

Bruce wanted to question that, but Joker left without another word, a confident smile on his lips.

Jackie Lant’s laptop hummed to life. It seemed it had been in hibernation mode – her browser was still open to her email.

Bruce read through the headers:

New post from Batman Watch

New post from Gotham-Sucks

[!] Application for job #P283451

[!] Application for job #E7990S2

We’re sorry to inform you that your…

New post from Gotham-Sucks

RE:  St. Mary’s Mental Ward Position...

RE:  Hopkins Mental Clinic application

BatmanChick96 replied to your post

[!] Application for job #8714E03

Bruce could deduce without even opening any of them that the application notifications were rejections. Judging by the bloggr notifications, she was likely trying to leave the city. Scrolling down further and seeing the list of rejected applications amidst the odd bank statement and old blog notifications told him she’d been trying to do leave Gotham for months.

That explained why she wanted to steal Crane’s work – she must have figured that she could take it and run out of the city, publish it with her name attached, and make something out of it. In her mind, he supposed, she had bills to pay and not much to lose.

He opened her file browser; thankfully it looked like she was the type to keep all her files fairly organized. There was what looked like a folder for her old school documents, a folder for her Arkham internship-employment, tax folders… A quick search said the only thing with Crane’s name in it was a term paper on Working Through Grief and some copies of his work, though they weren’t opened in over a year.

Looking under her recent files, she had a video labeled with a date from several days ago, and she did have a webcam… Maybe she was the type to vlog.

“Whelp, nothing in there… What’d you find?” Joker asked, coming to stand behind Bruce and lean on the back of the rolling office chair.

“Hopefully, a video log.”

“Well press play, then! Maybe she’ll just tell us where she stashed Crane’s stuff. I’m going to be mad if it’s not in that safe…”

Bruce double-clicked the video dated several days ago.

Jackie Lant sat in front of the desk, pushing back the laptop screen until she was entirely in view. She threaded her fingers together under her chin, on level with her hair, and and gazed right at the camera with an intense focus as she breathed deep.

“Normally, I try not to talk too openly in these sessions, in case I have one of those Agents monitoring me like everyone seems to think we do, but just in case I fail miserably, or Professor Crane decides to bury me in his backyard, I want to say something. I’m probably going to regret this video later… Then again, if everything works out, I’m going to delete this and pretend it never happened anyway.”

Jackie shrugged, folding her arms on top of her desk.

“There’s…no going back for me, now. I had to keep telling myself that if I did… If I did, then I might as well just throw myself off of the bridge tomorrow. I’m in too deep. I know too much. I’ve…seen too much.”

The young woman scowled slightly down at her hands.

“I can’t pretend that I’m not going to regret anything. I already regret a lot. I don’t think I’d be at this point if I’d chosen a theater major,” she said with a slight hint at a smile. “But in case something happens, I just really want to say – I’m the one who tried to kill Dr. Jonathan Crane, and stole all of the research that would’ve given evidence pertaining to his unethical experiments at Arkham Asylum. I’m hoping someone will find his bloated corpse floating around the docks or face-down in a pool of his own blood in the street,” she continued with a nasty curl of her lip that lasted all but a couple of seconds. “If not, then I failed, and I’m probably dead already, either by Dr. Crane himself, or Bruce Wayne, for taking advantage of him like I am tonight. I wouldn’t blame him for it, honestly…” She looked down, regret flashing in her eyes. “He and I both have mobster blood in us, I’d be surprised if he didn’t want to kill me for letting his friend get hurt and not doing anything to stop it… It’s what Great-Uncle Finger would do.”

Jackie looked back up at the camera, sincerity peeking through a steely gaze.

“But I am sorry to whoever might get caught in the middle. I hope there’s none, but… If I could see the future, then I would’ve swallowed that bottle of ibuprophen years ago.”

The video cut out after a moment, and Joker immediately leaned over Bruce to click through the video folder, his eyes shining in the light of the bright screen. “She’s got to have more. Something,” he muttered, and promptly played a video dated nearly six weeks ago in a folder marked “personal vlogs”.

The first thing Bruce noticed was that Jackie still had her long ponytail, giving credit to the date on the filename. The second detail was that she looked rather conflicted, even as she just sat there hugging herself in her jack-o-lantern blanket.

“I had…an epiphany, last night. I normally would’ve done this when I got home, but… I couldn’t. I was too… I’m not sure. Not scared… Bewildered, I guess is the right word. Dr. Crane invited me over to his house again, yesterday. I thought, ‘yeah, last time was nice, despite the talk about death in the middle, why not’? It was okay, at first. You know, home-made pumpkin spice lattes, catch-up about how I’m doing, gossiping about patients’ sessions I have to sit in on… And then we got onto the topic of Gotham, somehow. I think I asked him why he stayed here, since he had the means to leave, and he just…”

She was half looking into the camera with general disbelief.

“He said he liked it. He thinks all the general misery is fun to study. I didn’t know what else to say to that, so I tried to change the subject, and asked what he thought of Batman, because…I mean, what normal person doesn’t like him, right? And he thinks he’s fascinating. Or…really, he thinks the effect Batman has on the city is fascinating. He thinks the way criminals fear him is interesting. So… I just said, ‘yeah, that makes sense, you like studying human behavior around fear, don’t you?’”

She got quiet, but stared dead at the camera.

“He lit up at that. Like, the happiest I think I’ve ever seen him. He actually smiled a little,” she pressed, leaning forward to emphasize her point before sitting there with her arms on the table. “So, I figured that had to be good. We talked about his work for a really long time - I still remember going through bits of it at school, and I did genuinely like his stuff, so he walked me through his last one, and I guess I said something right, because… He said he was testing something special for his current research, and he asked what my worst fear was.”

She paused and sat up straight, crossing her arms again.

“I mean, I’m not stupid enough to ask why. I can guess why. So I told him my old one so it’d be believable. And he just looks at me and says ‘So imagine I can manifest those roaches before your eyes. What would you do?’” She phrased in a fairly good imitation of Crane’s pitch, “I said I didn’t know; probably squish as many as possible while screaming my head off, and he…he just said, ‘Yes, that’d be interesting, wouldn’t it?’”

She stared down at the surface of the desk, almost in awe.

“And I just… I just realized, right there, that he was making something to do that to patients. I never asked him about what he did in sessions, but… I’m allowed to peek at almost everyone’s notes to look at the progress of certain patients, and it just…hit me. He’s why some of them are regressing.”

She was quiet for a minute, only shifting to get comfortable again, and staring out the window by the desk.

“And I couldn’t help but think, ‘that IS interesting’. I thought that, and I meant it, and I hate that I thought it at all. And… I know that secret, now. I have to carry it around with everything else.”

Jackie stared a little longer, first out the window, then at her desk, and then she swiveled the chair and moved to click the mouse with an irritated scowl.

“Fuck it.”

That was certainly enlightening… Bruce had wondered how Jackie had developed the idea to steal his research – she’d apparently known for weeks already, before she’d reached out to him days ago and asked for his help. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it was her who had prevented him from seeing John, solely to drum up his suspicion and get him invested in her idea of helping her steal Crane’s files.

(Though he couldn’t see her knowing everything else in-between. There was no way she knew he stole Crane’s fake drugs from the lab, or that they would walk right by John that day, or that John would break out of his cell at all.)

John was already clicking to another video, a determined frown on his long face.

“Joker, that’s enough,” Bruce said, moving to stop him, but Joker was just fast enough to start a new one, dated almost four weeks ago, and it caught his attention enough that he let John’s hand go.

Jackie Lant faced the webcam with her head in her hand, taking deep breaths, and on the third, she turned her gaze to the window to her side.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I really, really, don’t.”

The look in her eyes was furious, despite her relatively flat expression.

“I hate it when people say it’s ‘the little things in life’ – they always mean ‘oh, life’s not so bad, just look at this fucking rainbow’, like that will make everything better for you,” she grumbled, turning to look at the camera. “It’s like, ‘hey, you ever see a guy get stabbed in the middle of the road? Just fucking stabbed? And you’re in your car, you have to keep driving, because you’ll be penalized for being late to work, and if you go out there and try to do something about it, you’ll be stabbed, too. And you have to just…pretend like you didn’t see anything. That everything is perfectly fine. It’s just…a little thing,’” Jackie finishes, a lopsided smile tugging on the corner of her mouth for a moment, and then it faded into a flat line. “I tried texting Dean about it, since he was there when Michelle got killed, and he just… He said ‘that’s how life is around here, you gotta be tough’.”

Jackie stared at the table, her eyes glistening slightly, the anger never leaving them.

“Four years… Four years, and that’s what seeing her die in the fucking street has reduced that to. Just another part of life in Gotham.”

She blinked away the tears threatening to fall, taking the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe at her face properly for a moment.

“I tried telling Ver’ about it, too – not directly, just, ‘hey I’m feeling super awful and I hate my life.’ And all she said was, ‘Look on the bright side! It’s the little things that make life worth living!’” she paraphrased in a falsetto sort of voice, her brows furrowing. “Fuck her. Just…fuck her. She can come live in Gotham for a day, see if she can look on the fucking bright side…”

Jackie grunted to herself, rubbing her face into her hands for a moment, and when she reappeared, she had a steady gaze.

“I just have to shove all this down, I guess. Like I don’t already do that all the time.” She stared right at the screen, as if watching herself, and her face grew soft and contemplative. “I’ll just put it next to the thoughts of how I threw my dreams down the gutter, or how much I’d rather risk taking the train to East End than having to work at Arkham one more day,” she added spitefully, despite the glint of humor that crossed over her expression. “I guess I just have to…” She smiled a little wistfully at the camera, even as her eyes dulled. “Smile, though your heart is breaking,” she half-sang.

Bruce heard John snort heavily, as if trying to stifle a laugh, and turned to look just as a loud cackle burst out of him.

John doubled over, clearly trying to stifle his own raucous laugh as he held his stomach like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

Bruce almost wanted to punch him, but held himself steady, clenching his fists as John turned away from him, giggling uncontrollably.

Half a year in Arkham wasn’t going to change him. He was always going to find this sort of thing entertaining. Bruce never quite forgot the conversation they had during Harvey Dent’s speech about hunting down the Children of Arkham; John had grinned wide and joked about it all like it wasn’t actually happening, even though they both knew it was. That same man was right there, throwing open the window and laughing like a damn hyena.

John stuck his head out into the pouring rain, letting the water drown out some of the noise as brown hair dye and make-up started to wash away.

“What are you doing?!” Batman’s voice growled out as Bruce shot up and yanked him back out by the collar, angry at him for laughing at all, for doing something so stupid as showing his face, for further washing away the only thing really keeping him safe-

“I-I’m sorry,” John managed, still chuckling to himself as he tried to steady himself upright using Bruce’s shoulder. “It-it’s funny, but I just… I just can’t – hee hee – be-believe… I’m…” He tried to breathe, a grin still plastered on his face, make-up running terribly in what almost looked like tear-tracks on his cheeks as his laughter slowed. The sound of the video continuing on low volume as rain hit the brick and pavement outside was almost loud enough to prevent Bruce from properly hearing him. “I’m sympathizing with her!” He finished, letting out another little burst of laughter.

That was sympathy…?

“I just – oh, geez, that hurts,” John breathed, a slight giggle coming out as he clutched part of the cape draped over Bruce’s shoulder. “When she was threatening you, back at Arkham, I just thought she was like Crane; a weird, more emotional version of him, but… I hated her for it! And it turns out we - we not only having something in common, but she’s like you,” he emphasized, looking up at the white lenses with a bright-eyed look. It made Bruce feel like he was stuck to the floor. “You both just shove your real feelings down so far even I can’t see them! You both just put on your public faces and pretend!”

Bruce was tempted to wipe some of the run make-up away, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the knowing glint in the green eyes that stared up at him, or if was because he just wanted to distract the man from continuing to hit Bruce right in a sore spot.

“I still don’t like her,” he said, “but I don’t hate her anymore. And that’s so ridiculous, because I loathe anyone who even thinks about hurting you, Bruce,” he finished with a laugh, caressing Bruce’s arm through the batsuit.

He didn’t know what to say. What could he even do, in a place like this? In a situation like this? He felt guilt and warmth pile up on one another, and he wanted to tell him he was sorry, and he wanted to reach out and cup his face and get rid of all the color until there was nothing but John left, and he knew what John said wasn’t exactly healthy but it still sent a rush through him and he just wanted to…

It wasn’t the time or place for anything like that. He was Batman. John was Joker. They were supposed to be investigating Jackie Lant so they could get a lead on Crane.

Batman was sturdy. Bruce was sturdy.

“Joker,” he started, forcing himself to maintain eye contact even as John’s pupils dilated slightly in response, “Go wash the rest of that stuff off. I’ll copy over the rest of Jackie’s vlog files.”

“My face looks that bad, huh?”

“A little.”

Joker tore himself away, letting his fingers slide over the armored bicep as he passed by. He couldn’t feel the touch at all, but the gesture was more than enough to give him a pleasant little jolt.

Bruce copied a compressed version of her vlog files to the USB stick he carried in his belt. They might be useful, or they might not. A quick scroll through of the rest of her documents showed nothing nefarious, no hidden files, no detailed plans - not so much as a crude map of the asylum. Her browsing history was pretty normal, though he did see some bookmarks to particular blogs she followed, such as Batman Watch, Gotham’s-Dark-Knight, and Gotham Gazette Official.

Bruce was sure he could reason with her. Jackie Lant was stubborn, but she seemed desperate for someone to talk to, and relied only on herself for everything; she either had a backup plan memorized for if things went south, or she was making it up as she went along. She clearly internalized a lot of pain, and not having an outlet for it besides talking to herself seemed to be the final straw in what drove her to desperate measures of escape.

She would probably be thrown in a jail cell for assault and conspiracy to murder, but Bruce was fairly positive she needed some mental help. If he managed to talk her down, he could likely fix it so she wasn’t thrown with the rest of the wolves in Black Gate. Perhaps he could even transfer her out of Gotham entirely.

The files had almost finished downloading when Bruce heard a metallic clink ringing against tile followed by a muttered curse.

He rushed to the small, dimly-lit bathroom, and was greeted with John standing on the rim of the built-in tub, rubbing his head with one hand and holding what looked like part of the shower-head in the other.

“No need to worry, Bats,” Joker said without even turning around. “Just hit myself a bit on this,” he explained, holding up the outer piece to the shower attachment. “Good news though, I found the key to the safe!”

Joker hopped down, stooped, and picked up a key from the base of the tub, turning to face Bruce with a proud grin. “I knew it must have been in here!”

His face was mostly clear, now. His eyelids were still fairly dark, but it was a lot of make-up to wash away, and it couldn’t have been easy for such a fast job. His eyebrows were back to being green, and there were even chunks of color showing under the temporary hair dye.

Bruce forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “How did you think to look in the showerhead?”

“Jackie’s a super-secretive girl, and I would put a key to a safe holding what I was working my life towards in a place no one would think to loo… And the toilet tank was empty.” He dangled the key in front of their faces. “You want to do the honors, Batman?”

Bruce took the invitation. He dropped the lock-box onto the desk, minding the laptop, and turned the key, pushing away the tiny concerned thought about a potential bomb.

He pushed aside the academic papers Crane had written on top of the pile, and found a stack of Arkham patient notes that Bruce knew he’d comb through later, despite it likely not holding much more information than he already knew. And then, under all that, was Crane’s hard drive.

“See if you can find some plastic bags,” Bruce suggested, leafing through the papers to make sure everything was accounted for.

“No need to look, Batsy,” Joker grinned, and yanked an orange bag from the trench coat’s ticket pocket as if he were pulling out a line of scarves. “Ta-dah!”

“That’ll do,” Bruce answered, unable to stop the minute smile from spreading on his face.

He’d all but tied the handles together and passed it to Joker for safe-keeping when the head-set in his cowl rang obnoxiously in his ear.

“Hello?” He asked in his normal voice.

“It’s just me, Batman,” Tiffany answered, sounding somewhat drained; John mouthed ‘who is it’ as he stepped a little closer. “I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier. I’m just having trouble wrapping my head around…everything.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Yeah, well… I also wanted to tell you I got a signal from one of Maroni’s thug’s phones. I’ll send you the coordinates. Is he with you?”

“…yes.”

“Figures… I’ll…discuss that with you another time. Just…be careful out there.”

“Always am.”

“No you’re not,” Tiffany countered with a light-hearted scoff before hanging up.

Notes:  Blargggh, my brain failed me at a critical time, and then today my stomach acted up for about 2 hours, which impeded me further!! Something must have really wanted me to just wrap up this chapter here… That, or they wanted you guys to wait this long. I certainly didn’t!! (T^T)

Chapter 8:  Fresh Old Wounds

Bruce felt like he had plummeted straight down into one of Gotham’s streets from a tall building, preparing to open his cape to glide on the rushing breeze that often whirled through the city.

He studied John carefully, taking in his contemplative expression. Bruce had little doubt that Crane enjoyed learning what his patient’s fear-induced hallucinations were under his drug’s effects, and considering Crane’s obsession with horror, it was clear that the doctor was seeing if he could influence the hallucinations further by making himself appear as a monster.

“I…can’t really remember all of it, though,” John lamented. “My memory of his sessions started getting pretty bad a few weeks ago…”

A side-effect of the drug, Bruce thought to himself. John had said he “thought it was just the drugs they were putting him on” at first; and of course, Crane had decided to keep John hidden away so Bruce as an extra measure, so he wouldn’t suspect anything…

“I remember sitting in the chair… He said something…” John’s eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. “Oh! I broke the chair cuff – he hadn’t strapped it properly! That’s how I lunged at him…” He trailed off, eying the empty display peg. “I wonder if he knows about his nickname…”

“There’s a good chance, but I don’t think that’s the exact reason he took that mask with him. He’s got several versions of The Walking Scarecrow on his shelves, and that poster looks like it was taken directly from a movie theater. He clearly favored it.” Bruce glared at the wall of masks. “I’m not sure he’d be upset about the name enough to go after people from Arkham, but he’s definitely planning to be a costumed criminal.”

“Those sure seem to be a running theme in Gotham, huh? Maybe those Owl guys were onto something with the whole ‘evil looms over the city’ thing,” he said half-jokingly, deepening his voice for further effect.

“He doesn’t happen to have a diary over here or anything, does he?” Bruce asked, kneeling down by the desk’s bookshelf. There were a lot of psychology magazines, including the issues Bruce knew had Crane’s own essays or replies in them – those were flagged with little yellow or blue pieces of tape on the binding – and several issues of Fangore and duplicates of the textbooks Bruce had seen in the doctor’s office at Arkham, but there were a few different binders, all white with simple labels. Financials (nothing but tax work and ordinary receipts), Letters (a quick flip just showed printed or scanned copies of commentary for Crane’s work, with the less friendly letters having short jabbing retorts written underneath in pen), Old Research (completely empty), Arkham…

The biggest folder, with a little printed photo of the asylum on the front, was also empty. But unlike the Old Research binder, this one had a folded note stuck in the thin flap at the front:

If you’re reading this, it’s too late - time’s up!

Bruce wasn’t sure what disturbed him more:  the foreboding message of things to come, or the neat little smiley face drawn underneath.

He put it back, disgusted. Anything useful that might point to Crane’s misdoings was gone.

“Bad news, Bruce,” John said, his hand on the open lid of the old laptop sitting on the desk’s workstation, “The drive on this thing is missing.”

Sure enough, there was a large rectangular hole in the side of the outdated laptop where the hard drive should have been.

“There’s nothing in the drawers, either, except some statements and junk.”

“Any password journals?”

“Not even a sticky note,” John grumbled with a pout, crossing his arms and leaning against the small desk. “Guy sure was careful about cleaning up after himself… That, or he uses one password for everything.”

Bruce stood, thinking carefully. They’d been inside every room, and only the office and bedroom had anything unusual that broke up Crane’s usual methodical nature. “I don’t think we’ll be able to find anything else here. Let’s go back to the Manor. We’ll see if we can get a triangulation on the growing area of those flowers.”

“You think he’ll be getting more?” John asked with a raised brow, moving to follow Bruce out.

“He mentioned in his notes that he had to salvage what he could from the flowers as they died to finish making his ‘Fear Toxin’; that was just the other day. If he needs to make more, he’ll head where they were kept first. They might have been stored locally, so if there’s any pollen or unusual soil, I can use that to get an idea of where they might have been raised initially.”

John looked impressed; there was a sort of dreamy quality to the sharp stare. “Man, Bruce, just when I thought you couldn’t live up to that ‘detective’ title more, you pull out the C.S.I. creds…”

Bruce knew he really had to give Lucius the credit, but he didn’t have time to delve into all that – and he had sort of explained that to John before, during one of his visits. He was pretty sure John remembered it.

The former vigilante double-checked everything was back in its place, including placing the vague note back where John had found it, and then Bruce checked the drone’s position outside. He could barely see the gleam of the camera lens in the corner of the small yard. He couldn’t leave it there forever, but the solar-powered battery would give him a couple more hours at least. He had a gut-feeling that Crane wasn’t coming back…but it didn’t mean he shouldn’t keep an eye on the place to make sure.

He almost felt like he was leaving his own home, second-guessing on whether or not a light had been left on. He swiveled his head as he heard the security system give a confirmation beep – John shut the plastic panel with a satisfied smile.

“You can be pretty predictable, sometimes, Bruce,” the thin man said with a knowing look, already answering Bruce’s question of how before it even formed properly in his head. “I don’t blame you for it, though.”

Bruce just gave him a somewhat stern look, receiving one of John’s short trademark laughs in return. It was strange to hear it in the near-darkness like that; the billionaire had gotten used to its unusual pitch and waver, even finding himself liking it more often than not, but at times like these, when John proved how well he really knew him, it made something in him quiver.

Then again, he didn’t really let anyone else into his private life. Maybe he would have the same reaction to other people who knew him that well.

The orange light from the streetlamp was a welcome sight as Bruce let John get out first, who seemed to just watch Bruce as he closed the front door behind them.

He heard the lock click in place, and John grabbed his wrist.

“You know, the, uh, the night doesn’t have to end here,” John said in an attempt at a teasing sort of tone. There was a slight jingling sound from a distance, and Bruce realized someone was coming towards them. “You could come back to my place…”

Bruce turned to face him, working his usual playboy-smirk onto his face, despite his own nerves starting to rattle; if someone got a look at him, there was a good chance he’d be recognized. “Really? What’ll we do there?” He teased back in a deeper voice, not entirely unlike his old vigilante persona.

John’s eyes lit up, and Bruce could tell some of his nerves were melting away. “We’d start by getting you a better car,” He moved forward, a light laugh on his lips, slipping right into the role he was playing with a definite sensuality in his acid-green gaze. “One with a better backseat…”

Bruce felt his heart pounding in his ears as John slipped a hand around the back of his neck. He could hear footsteps on the pavement…

“And then we start round three,” John purred, tilting his head and leaning in until his lips were brushing the corner of Bruce’s mouth. They were partially obscured from view now. “Sorry,” he whispered, the not-at-all-apologetic word sending a flutter in Bruce’s chest, “just kind of pretend…”

The person on the sidewalk was coming closer. Bruce felt like he was standing stock-still, and he knew he shouldn’t be, and it was going to be hard to ‘pretend’ anything when John’s low voice was nearly oozing with desire. He almost felt like showing John the consequences of trying to one-up the notorious play-boy bachelor act he adopted by kissing him so hard he’d forget about even trying to be the ‘top’ part of their imaginary relationship.

He roped that feeling in. Allowing himself any more than the bare minimum of indulgence with John was dangerous. He reminded himself quickly that this was an act and that it meant nothing at all.

Bruce leaned in and kissed him gently, one arm curling around the smaller man’s middle almost out of reflex. He felt like his heart was going to stop when John let out a delighted hum. Despite being a little chapped, John’s mouth was warm and inviting, and Bruce felt like kicking himself for even paying the slightest bit attention to it. Heat was rising to his face and squirming in his stomach as his lips almost burned with the warmth of the kiss, and he was unable to not notice the way John leaned into him and how nice it was to have someone press against him so familiarly.

It really had been too long since Bruce went out on a date. He hadn’t helped himself by turning down the couple of offers that he’d gotten over the months, but with his murky reputation making his business-life difficult for both Wayne Enterprises and Arkham Asylum, and with his weekly visits to John on top of caring for himself, he just hadn’t had the energy to drum up interest…

The pedestrian sounded like they passed them by, and Bruce pulled way just enough to check; neither the woman nor the tiny Pomeranian in front of her gave them a backwards glance as they carried onward, past the next condo’s stairwell and beyond…

The glow on John’s face lasted only a moment, until he side-eyed the sidewalk and then looked back to Bruce. “Is she gone?”

“Yeah.”

He slumped and gave a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I was sure she’d notice you,” he muttered.

John was clearly covering for himself. Bruce didn’t blame him for a minute, feeling his heartrate still going a little faster than normal; his own method of coping was to change the subject. “Let’s get out of here,” he said in his somewhat-deeper voice, telling himself to forget the whole thing ever happened.

“I couldn’t agree more, handsome,” John replied aloud with an exaggerated wink. They walked back to the car, John keeping one hand in his coat pocket. “Nice work back there, Bruce,” he whispered, flashing a thumb’s up and a genuine smile, “We completely avoided suspicion! And as a bonus, now I know how all your dates feel at the end of the night,” he added with a joking sort of laugh.

Bruce decided to just ignore that comment, and focused instead driving them back to the Manor as fast as possible, keeping his eyes peeled for any peeping neighbors and hoping that the cops patrolling his house hadn’t tried to get his attention while they were gone.

Arriving back in the Batcave felt more like coming home than walking into the Manor ever did. Bruce just wished he could be parking his usual car rather than the stolen Honda.

John was almost beside himself with excitement as Bruce carefully put the dead flower they had procured on the Batcomputer’s scanner. John, having cast aside his coat the second they arrived back, was happy to lean on the back of the chair in front of the machine, alternating between tapping one foot in a rhythm and drumming his fingers against his wrist.

“I can’t believe I get to see this puppy in action!” He giggled as Bruce pulled up the analysis software. “How long did it take to even make this thing?”

“About a year,” Bruce answered, watching the software speed through lists of plants it had on file. “I was already establishing myself as Batman before Lucius finished it.”

“Oh, right, that handsome friend of yours… This must be some piece, then, eh?”

“You’re only seeing part of what it can do.”

The Batcomputer beeped, the light under the scanner switching off as the analysis completed itself.

The plant was a derivative of the foxglove flower, called Moon’s Foxglove; a quick look-up told Bruce it could cause confusion and paranoia, and wasn’t native to their side of the globe.

“Let’s see about what was on it…”

“Geez, this thing must have more RAM than the whole city put together,” John commented from his side, choosing to lean his elbow against the headrest instead. “Arkham’s machines always get so boggled down, they have to restart them every night…”

“Well when the server investment goes through, that won’t be a problem.”

“Aw, don’t spoil the fun, Bruce,” John pouted, “What if I need to sneak into Thompson’s office again?”

Bruce’s eyebrows rose. “You did that?” He remembered Jackie Lant making the claim previously, and the brief mention of the camera being turned away from Dr. Thompson’s office when they just gotten a new guard. Did she cover for John, or did they both go at different times…?

John seemed to pose straighter as he gave a smug grin back at him. “You bet I did! I left no stone unturned – and then flipped them back over! Didn’t find much, though. A lot of fabricated garbage on Crane’s part. Did you know he’s not a Gothamite? He apparently grew up on a farm.”

“…that kind of explains the weird country music,” Bruce offered, wondering if perhaps Crane wasn’t heading back to his old home. (No, his last three addresses had all been in Gotham, and he had never tried to transfer out in all the years he’d been teaching. The majority of people with his income range who migrated into the city tried to transfer out somewhere else at least once within their first couple of years here…)

Bruce returned back to the pollen analysis. Aside from some of the mushroom spores, there were traces of wild ginger and waterlily tulips. Both did very well in high levels of water, so that likely pointed to somewhere lining the river.

Bruce scrolled through the information on the plants. The ginger flourished in acidic soil… He hit the switch for the hologram map, hearing the arm near him start to whir as it stretched over the table popping out of the floor.

“Oh, that is so cool!” John gushed, whirling around to watch as the hologram of the city popped into display. Bruce couldn’t help but smile a little at the unrestrained enthusiasm.

“The wild ginger grows in acidic soil, and both it and the tulips should be growing near water,” he explained aloud as he typed in the commands to highlight any areas that matched. “The red areas should be potential locations.”

The chair spun itself around, and Bruce joined John in leaning over the hologram.

“Well, cross the docks off,” John pointed out, his sparkling green eyes roaming the map. “Can’t quite put a greenhouse there...”

“No, but I know where you could put one and no one would be any the wiser,” he grumbled, honing in on the spot nearest the edge of the city. “Toxic Acres. I’ve found more than my share of drug dealers settling in there before. They tend turn the abandoned houses into laboratories.”

“I knew I heard that name before! One of your first team-ups with Gordon was busting that drug-ring there, right? The one run by the Maroni family!”

Bruce knew he shouldn’t be surprised at John remembering even the oldest Batman-related case, but it still flustered him. “Yes, actually, that’s…right. We shouldn’t drive down there until we can confirm that’s where he’ll be. I’ll get a drone to check. I should still have one stationed close to there from when I was searching last night.”

“If it’s not stolen and hocked for parts by now,” John muttered with a sly little grin.

“It’s well-camouflaged.” Though…he wouldn’t put it past fate to give him more trouble.

Pulling up the drone network took moments. Thankfully, the small drone he had hidden in one of the few trees in Toxic Acres’ main street was completely intact, but the battery was getting low due to the cloud cover and long-term use. He maybe had fifteen minutes left on it at the most, and that wasn’t nearly enough time to even fly it back. He’d have to either send another drone to rescue it or go out there himself later.

John was watching him with razor-sharp attention. “I’m surprised you don’t have to use a joystick for those things,” he commented, not tearing his eyes away from Bruce’s hands on the table’s controls. “Do you even have a pilot’s license?”

“Actually, I do have one for a helicopter. I’m afraid my plane expertise was taught by Mini Flight Emulator.”

“Ha! A true Renaissance Man, huh? Any other skills you’re keeping quiet…?”

Bruce tried to really shove down the little jolt that came with John’s almost sultry grin, but the fact that it happened at all was worrisome, and that made him more nervous. It didn’t help that John was leaning against the table in that perfectly-fitted suit… “I don’t think so.”

The drone’s camera flickered, casting uneven light from the Batcomputer’s monitor over them and drawing the former-vigilante’s attention.

A person in a plaid button-down and jeans was walking past a borderline-dilapidated house, seeming to be having a phone conversation. Bruce turned up the microphone as he guided the drone to follow.

It was Jonathan Crane, in the flesh.

“Yes, Pam’,” he said, his high voice crackling slightly, “I am counting the houses. I don’t know why you don’t just stand outside… I know I’m interrupting, but-”

Bruce watched carefully, barely registering that John had stepped closer to the monitor to look, his arms folded across his chest.

A sudden gunshot rang out, and Crane fell forward, dropping his phone to clutch his rapidly-reddening arm as he kneeled in the street.

John gave a cruel laugh; Bruce’s forced himself to focus on the screen and not at the memory of standing in Crime Alley, clutching his mother for dear life.

A figure in a dark blue hoodie strolled into the street’s view.

“I finally caught up with you… You’re a hard man to find, Professor.”

Jackie Lant.

Bruce zoomed in to maximum, even flying as close as he dared to watch from above.

“Miss Lant,” Dr. Crane said as if he wasn’t bleeding from his shoulder, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“It won’t be pleasant for long,” the young woman said coldly, aiming the barrel of her revolver at the doctor’s head. It looked like the .45 Alfred threw away after Bruce’s parent’s had died; Bruce never regretted getting rid of his father’s gun, even if it had been an heirloom. “Would you like some final words?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” The doctor seemed to stare her down through his glasses, cold criticism the only thing readable there as he made to stand. “I would like to know why you want to kill me. And in such a crude fashion… You were one of my best students, Miss Lant, surely you can think up something better than this.”

Jackie’s face twisted into an annoyed frown. “Don’t feed me that bullshit. You didn’t even remember what I looked like when Arkham hired me.”

“No, I didn’t,” the doctor confessed, “and I don’t mind you hating me for that. I’m rather terrible with remembering people’s faces without constant exposure.”

Crane took his hand off his bleeding arm.

He was liable to bleed out if he kept pressure off it for long… There was no way for Bruce to get down there in time to do anything. The best he could do was keep the drone’s recorded footage and pick up the pieces, and the thought of leaving anyone to die made him feel like ice water had been dumped into his veins.

“But surely you know you were the only student I have ever invited into my home,” he pressed, his flat high voice attempting something soothing. “You’re the only one I thought would really understand my research.”

“Oh, but I do.” Jackie flashed a shark-like smile at him, a manic look in her eyes. “It’s why I stole it, Professor! Every little scrap you ever wrote! I was hoping you’d find that out yourself when you went back home,” she added with a little shrug. “But I can deal with gloating to your face.”

Crane stared. “I see… So I presume you’ll dump my body in the river and run, now?”

Crane’s hand whipped up from his hip, a small concealable pistol in his hand, and he fired before anyone could blink.

Jackie stumbled backward, a patch of red blooming over her stomach as she fell back onto the grass, completely still, the .45 still clutched loosely in her hand.

“How very disappointing.”

Crane picked up the phone from the pavement.

“Pam’? Sorry about that. I’ll be there shortly. I was dealing with…a student. No, it’s fine, I’ll just move the body later.”

The doctor returned to clutching his arm as he continued on his way, giving Jackie’s body a quick final glance.

The camera feed was starting to die. The low-battery warning in the corner was flashing red. Bruce kept his focus on Crane as he swiftly flew the drone back into its hiding spot, hoping he could at least see the house the doctor was heading to before it was too late.

He only caught the glimpse of Jackie Lant rolling to sit up on the overgrown patch of grass before the battery completely died.

“Wow, guess I won that bet,” John grinned, his face shining with a dark glee. “I knew she was trying to steal his work! And that determination!” He hissed, “She’s got to have some major issues to go that far! You could practically see it on her face…”

Bruce was finding it hard to think clearly.

He should have never given up Batman. He could’ve stopped this. He could’ve stopped the shoot-out, he could’ve done something – anything – to stop Crane before any of this happened.

“Bruce?” John turned, the expression softening. “Oh… Bruce, don’t pull that guilty face,” he chided gently.

He rounded on him, frustration and guilt overflowing. “I could have stopped this!”

“Bruce, buddy,” John soothed, putting a hand on his shoulder, “something like this was always going to happen. It’s not your fault those two are messed up.”

“It’s my fault it got to this point,” he growled. “If I hadn’t stopped being Batman, none of that would have happened!”

“Oh, Bruce, we both know that’s a lie,” John muttered, the deep, knowing look penetrating him as he grasped both of his shoulders. “You never really stopped in the first place. You just took a little break and tried to shove the battier parts of you down where you didn’t have to look at them every day. Saying you’re not Batman is like saying you’re not Bruce Wayne; you can’t separate the two when they’re really the same person.”

Bruce wanted to argue that they weren’t the same person, that they were complete opposites, that John was wrong, wrong, wrong.

But he knew that was just a defensive front.  

John was right. He’d called Bruce out back at the rec room, when he was leaning against the bars, and he’d seen the broiling instincts that kept nagging at Bruce under his skin since the day Bruce had told subtlety him he’d quit. He knew, like Bruce did, that the Batman was never really going to stay buried.

It didn’t change the fact that Bruce had to get back into the suit when he promised he wouldn’t.

He thought of Tiffany, Alfred, and John, who would undoubtedly be put back into stressful, dangerous situations.

He thought of the potential damage the Fear Toxin could do if it was unleashed on even one member of the public.

It wasn’t the first time he’d put the lives of many over one he cared about. Like Selina Kyle, he knew Alfred wasn’t going to come back from this kind of betrayal.

John’s hands slid down his arms, burning trails through Bruce’s hooded jacket as he grinned at him, the searching look never leaving his face. “You know I’m right…”

Bruce hated the fact that he knew he was never going to forget that look.

“I have some Enterprise work to do,” he said firmly as John pulled his hands away, “but I’m heading out to Toxic Acres as soon as I can. I need you to keep an eye on Jackie and Crane’s places in the meantime. And I might need a distraction to get the Batmobile out of storage later.”

John’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights. “You can count on me, Bruce! I’ll be watching like a hawk!”

He knew he would.

Notes:  If you’re wondering what would’ve happened with the other two Kissing Scene “route options” – because I know John would normally love roughhousing and we’re all desperate to see them make out super-hard – these are their outcomes. :)

“Sorry, just kind of pretend…”

>[…]

>> “I’m really sorry, Bruce. I knew you’d be uncomfortable with it, but… I just hope she didn’t notice you…”

>>{John is disappointed in you for not playing along, and is worried that you might have blown your cover as a consequence.}

>[be rough]

>> “Remember what I said about consent, Bruce? It’s important! Don’t take advantage of me like that!”

>>{John is angry at you for taking things too far and is concerned about the level of respect in your relationship.}

Also, I completely made up a variety of plant, because what else could you do? I’m no botanist, but I wanted a plant that had some nasty side effects, so a foxglove variety that shouldn’t exist is born! If there’s actually a botanist out there that can give me a flower that’s closer to something that can induce confusion, tell me! I didn’t want to delve too far into the topic because I don’t wanna be shoved on some watch list for just trying to research a plant for fanfic use. :T

Chapter 9:  Grapevines

Bruce Wayne couldn’t remember the last time he’d conducted a meeting from his home office. It wasn’t as if he didn’t use it – the desk surface had hardly any dust settled on it and two empty coffee mugs he’d forgotten about on two different occasions just happened to be stacked behind the monitor – but it felt strange, like a lot of things did lately.

He knew part of the reason for that was watching houses down in the Batcave right now. Knowing he wasn’t alone in the house was comforting, but knowing there were two cops outside the Manor’s front door just waiting for a chance to grab his best friend-cum-houseguest was not, and knowing that they were both close to being thrown in hot water was even less so.

He figured the other reason he felt strange was because he was slipping back into his old habit as if it had never been shelved in the first place. He had time to kill before the video meeting started, so he’d been scouring for information on “Pam”, Jonathan Crane’s ‘old friend’.

There were a few Pamela’s in Gotham, but only one fit within Crane’s age-range and attended Gotham University at about the same time:  Pamela Isley, a forty-four-year-old former botanist with a record that ran the length of his arm. Theft, assault, threats, and attempted poisonings all done in the name of extreme environmentalism and social activism were sprinkled in her history before and after her days as a researcher, and according to GCPD records, she was now suspected of running her own drug-ring under the moniker of ‘Poison Ivy’. (Bruce found several recorded instances of people claiming to be Poison Ivy, most of whom were already arrested.)

Bruce would’ve wondered why on Earth she hadn’t been thrown in prison when she made a bomb-threat at a wealthy businessman several states away nearly a decade ago if he hadn’t seen her mug-shot from back then. At thirty-five, she looked every bit as beautiful as a top-billed Hollywood star, with natural orange-red curls cascading over her pale shoulders and ample bust in chemically-tamed waves, flashing the camera a come-hither stare that made it look like she was trying for a part in a high-budget porn flick rather than standing in front of a height chart for her criminal record. Pamela’s charges were mysteriously swept under the rug.

The latest photo he found of her reminded him a bit of those ‘cougar’ dating ads he’d seen – the older Pamela was blowing a kiss to the camera with a mocking look in her dark green eyes. Bruce glared at it. There was little doubt she was using people to cover for her constantly, and when she was in trouble, she managed to wriggle out of it with her looks.

Not this time. She was friends with Dr. Jonathan Crane, and that meant she wasn’t going to get out of this unharmed. The second his virtual meeting was over, Bruce was heading towards Toxic Acres, and hopefully the wounded Crane would still be there to see Batman’s fist hit his –

Bruce snapped out of his thoughts at the buzz of his phone. A message from the BatComputer…?

I’m bored :/

Bruce blinked down at the screen. John had found the emergency messaging system. Of course he had. He was just grateful that the encryption software on his phone was still up to date. Just what else did John poke his nose into down there…? (There was the chance that John would see files he shouldn’t, but Bruce kept those under a thumbprint encryption. He shouldn’t even entertain the thought.)

Stake-outs are usually pretty boring.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you were down here tho! :)

Bruce hovered his thumb over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. The feeling was kind of mutual, if he was being honest; having another person around on a stakeout would at least keep his mind wandering into the worsts of what-ifs and double-checking every last security issue…

No movement on either houses btw. Been reading Crane’s docs in the meantime but it’s DREADFUL!!! I feel like I’m reading a sleeping pill… =_=

You finish your WE stuff yet?

Meeting’s not for another 20 minutes. Been looking up stuff on Crane’s “friend”.

Oh??? :o Do tell!!!!

Bruce couldn’t help but smile at the enthusiasm.

Pamela Isley, former botanist w/ criminal rec., mostly extreme protest kind of stuff. Good chance she’s the head of a drug-ring that moved here a couple months ago; their leader goes by “Poison Ivy”.

They went to college together, but Pamela moved back here recently.

hMmMmm…. That means no burning the place down if we’re stuck! Bad fumes everywhere xP

Bruce focused on the word “we’re”. He hadn’t been planning on bringing John along. He wanted him safe, at home, where no one had a chance of seeing him and he wasn’t put in harm’s way…

Oh!!! You’ve got a bunch of sticky electro-shockers around - do you mind if I tinker with them? :3c pleeeeaaasssee?

What are you thinking of doing with them?

Making one BIIIIIG shock-bomb, of course! ;D I can wire them together so the shock spreads evenly in the space while it’s discharging.

Bruce reconsidered bringing John. He was still learning to curb his impulses, so being outside in a fighting environment would be a serious gamble, but... Maybe that could be their advantage, too. Bruce made a mental note to go dig out the spare bullet-proof vest from his closet’s secret panel.

You can do that?

I played around with making something like it before, but……well, you know.

Time + supplies for that project were low att. I figured I could always go back to it later anyway.

Bruce felt like his heart had deflated and swelled in such a short time that it hurt.

I mean I’m fine with throwing knives around too but I figured that would be less discrete ¯\_(ツ )_/¯

He’d been thinking of different methods of entering the “house”. Most of them featured a silent slip-in and as little combat as possible, but he knew that there would likely be some muscle around to stop any would-be intruders, and getting a quieter jump on them would certainly be helpful. He would certainly be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed that John had thought that far ahead even back then.

If you think you can get it done within 1.5 hours, then yes.

Ha ha ha with these supplies I can get it done in like 40 mins! >:3 just you watch!!!

Btw have you seen the news?

Not yet. Why?

I was on the morning edition! At least they used a good pic ;D

But also saw a guy getting fished out of the harbor. Your handy-dandy invasion software said he’s a registered Ryde driver.

I told you not to fiddle with that.

Sorry, but I only used it the once! Promise!!!

Bruce sighed through his nostrils.

Besides I thought you’d want to know. Think Crane stole his ride and dumped him by the docks? :v

Probably. I can get the plate from up here to verify. DO NOT TOUCH THAT PROGRAM AGAIN.

Yes sir ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Bruce wasn’t sure if that message was supposed to be flirtatious or mocking.

The incoming call from Iman Avesta stopped him from responding. He figured it had to do with John’s escape and the extra security added at Wayne Tower this morning, but why was she calling him now, rather than several hours ago?

“Iman?”

“Hey, Bruce. Hold on a sec – there we go, now we can both -”

“Bruce, what the fuck?” Tiffany asked over the line. “Are you at home right now?”

Bruce almost sighed at the attitude. “Yes, Tiffany, I’m at home, in my office.”

“Uh-huh. I keep getting alerts that your basement’s messaging system is being used. Care to explain that?”

Oh. Of course. He’d forgotten Tiffany had linked her phone to that, too. It’d just…been too long, he supposed. (She couldn’t read them, though, could she? He was fairly sure it didn’t give out mass-texts unless prompted.) “…where are you right now?”

Iman responded instead. “We’re in your second office.”

“…the line’s secure?”

“Of course.” Iman paused, and Bruce knew his new CSO was choosing her words carefully. “I’m guessing you have John Doe in the Batcave?”

“Yes.”

“Bruce, did you fucking break him out?” Tiffany asked with no shortness of impatience.

“I rescued him,” Bruce said firmly. “I know what you’re thinking, and I have a pretty good idea of what you’re going to say, but listen:  I had no choice but to take him with me. One of the doctors working at Arkham has gone rogue – he’d been doing experiments on patients, and I have a feeling he’s going to continue them on civilians. I need to find him before then, and John has been helping me.”

“Helping…? You’re not bringing him in the field with you?” Tiffany said disbelievingly. “After that psychopath almost killed us?”

Bruce could still see Joker running at Tiffany, knife in hand, his psychotic breakdown in full force. He could still see him being smacked against the railing, sheer madness played over his long, bloody face as he desperately fought to stab what was his hero.

But John and Joker were as much the same as Bruce and Batman were, and they were constantly changing.

The Joker in the Batcave wasn’t the same one from Ace Chemicals.  

“I know what John did,” he answered, trying to breathe even as something wanted to hitch in his throat, “and I know how far he’s come since then. I know you both regret-”

“No, I’m not listening to this right now,” Tiffany scowled, her voice fading in the middle her sentence like she was leaving the room. “Talk some sense into him.”

Bruce heard Iman’s voice call after her, and then nothing for a beat.

Iman sighed. “I’ll talk to her. But Bruce,” she started seriously, “Tiffany isn’t the only one worrying about you. Six months can’t possibly cure everything wrong with a man whose spent his life in an asylum.” He could practically hear her chew over her phrasing. “I need to know… If John goes too far – if he shows signs of regressing…or just becoming more volatile – I need to know you’re going to put your foot down.”

“I’m more than capable of handling him, Iman.”

“Please, Bruce, I’d rather not have to pull you off another broken pipe lodged in your kidney.” She paused, and Bruce let her continue, feeling the scar in his side twinge at the painful memory. “I know you care a lot about him,” she resumed in a softer tone, “and I know you trust him. But if you doubt him at any time, you need you to step back and re-evaluate your choices. I don’t want him to regress back into the Joker.”

That was a different Joker, Bruce wanted to say. He knew that wouldn’t sound the way it should. “I promise I won’t let that happen.”

“Good to know,” Iman replied, sounding somewhat relieved. “This doctor you’re hunting – is there anything we can do to help?”

Bruce shot a look at the clock in the corner of his monitor. He didn’t have as much time left as he would’ve liked before his virtual meeting started. “Tiffany can fill you in a bit, I had her help searching Arkham’s records before. Can you run a plate for me? I think Dr. Crane is running with a stolen car; I’ll send you the details in a bit.”

“Sure. We can check traffic cams for it, too, if you’d like.”

“If you would. And the second I have anything concrete on Dr. Crane, I’m sending Tiffany the details – I need her pull as Oracle to get the word out to the GCPD before anything happens. They’ll listen to their number-one informant more than a vigilante coming out of retirement.”

“…you’re…?”

He could almost see the shock in her face. They’d had a short discussion about his alter-ego when he decided to quit the first time; she’d been incredibly understanding about the whole thing. It was almost as if she’d seen it coming.

“Are you sure?”

He was as sure. She didn’t know about the instincts broiling underneath his surface every day. She didn’t know he never really stopped being half of himself. She wouldn’t know or really understand that he just shoved it all down and aside like he did so much else just to get through things. “I don’t have any other options at this point.”

“…you know you can count on us if you need the help.”

“Of course I do.”

“Right. Well, in the meantime we’ll keep the fort over here running as smoothly as possible.”

“Thank you. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good luck.”

The line went silent, and Bruce pulled his phone away, catching a glimpse of three unread messages.

Sorry, buddy, I was just kidding around, you know? Ha ha

Bruce???

Hello???????

Sorry, had a phone call and couldn’t reply. It’s fine.

Seconds ticked by, and Bruce began changing out of his black t-shirt and into his button-down. It wouldn’t do to appear as a CEO in anything less than a proper suit. He could leave the jeans on, at least.

“Oh! Uh…sorry, Bruce…”

He felt his heart stop for a second. That was definitely John’s voice, even though it crackled slightly from the speakers. The monitor didn’t show anything out of the ordinary. John must have been using the spy-camera feature on the Batcomputer; it was linked to most the devices in the house, and Bruce’s webcam was no exception. He’d almost forgotten it had a loudspeaker function, too.

“I didn’t realize you were…um, changing.”

Bruce glared at the webcam’s lens. “John, what did I tell you about fiddling with the Batcomputer?”

“…sorry. I was worried when you didn’t answer me.”

He sounded genuine, at least. Bruce could easily picture him running upstairs to find him, if there wasn’t a chance he would’ve been seen. “I answered you a minute ago. I was on a call with Iman,” he stated plainly, fixing the buttons on his sleeves.

“…oh, ha ha, there it is! Uh, I guess I’ll just…go, then…”

Bruce almost questioned why John was sounding nervous and distracted, but it wasn’t until he saw the webcam light wink off again that he realized his shirt was wide open, the scars littering his torso half on display from the waist up.

Thankfully, no one was around to see Bruce bury his face in the palm of his hand for a moment, feeling like his face was on fire from first and second-hand embarrassment.

It didn’t last long. Bruce took a few deep breaths as he fixed himself up, and dialed into the meeting with a fixed expression of calm, firmly ignoring the heat that had settled in his stomach that threatened to go lower at the thought that John was bound not to forget any of that.

Driving the Batmobile in full gear again was certainly something else. Bruce felt the weight of the Kevlar body armor press against his limbs as he sped down Gotham’s twisting alley streets, no one any the wiser that the Wayne’s red sports car was hiding Batman behind it. The city’s CCTV signal was scrambled with the flick of a switch as he came into driving distance of the alley’s camera, making him almost untraceable.

He’d given the Honda Accord a head-start; it couldn’t go nearly as fast as the Batmobile, and Bruce had to find a spot to safely change before going to go pick John up from his drop-off point, and the post-working-hours traffic had already gotten its usual early start. It was a slower drive than he’d like it to be, even with Bruce’s shortcuts.

The setting sun was completely obscured by a dark overcast. It made the orange streetlamps glowing over the decorations sitting here and there in windows and doors even more energetic, like every corner of Gotham was slowly growing with the energy of Halloween.

Bruce clicked the communicator in his cowl. “John, are you there yet?”

Silence for a few seconds, and then a rustling noise. “Sorry, I had to take this off for a bit. What?”

“Are you there yet?”

John giggled slightly. “Oh, yeah, I’m here. Just waiting on you, pal.”

He was already at the meeting point? How did he get there so fast? “You put everything back where it was supposed to be?”

“No, I stripped the seats and threw everything into the garbage,” John grumbled with dripping sarcasm. “Of course I did, it’d be rude not to put Jerry’s stuff back. What do you take me for?”

“…I’m just making sure you didn’t forget anything.”

“I didn’t.” There was a loud slurping noise, like the last of a liquid being sucked from a straw.

“John, where are you right now?”

“In the alley, waiting for you.”

“Did you make a stop?”

John giggled, a little louder, but not at all nervous. He was enjoying himself. “What can I say? Going out on the town with you like this makes me thirsty,” he said with a strange purr. “Besides, no one bats an eye at me when I look like this anyway.” He paused. “Well, no, I’ve gotten some eyes on me, but, uh, I think they’re more the appreciative type. I guess ZZ Top was kinda right about the sharp-dresser thing.”

Bruce felt his brows knit together. “You’ve always looked sharp,” he said truthfully, turning down a narrow alley.

“Yeah, but not thousand-dollar-suit sharp. There’s a difference! Plus I think this bullet-proof vest makes me look a little bulkier than I actually am.”

Bruce spotted him leaning against the graffiti-covered wall, a Burger Lord cup in one hand and a plastic orange bag in another. Just how much time did Bruce lose while he was changing?

John tossed the drink in the dumpster and practically jumped into the car, shoving the orange bag behind the driver seat and slamming the door shut as Bruce switched off the communicator. He took one look at Bruce’s questioning glower and gave a nervous sort of grin. “Hey, don’t look at me like that, there’s something in there for you, too.”

Bruce almost asked what, but decided that a lecture on keeping a low profile and not taking money from his house’s various hiding spots would have to wait. (Though he supposed whatever John got wasn’t expensive. He was quite frugal, and it wasn’t as if Bruce couldn’t afford to buy John whatever he wanted anyway.) He concentrated instead on heading down the twisting path towards Toxic Acres. At least the traffic over there was a hell of a lot lighter.

“Hey, when you drove me to the Batcave, did you go in fourth gear, or third?”

He wasn’t sure why he asked, but he honestly couldn’t remember. He just recalled putting his foot to the floor and keeping his eyes on the road, occasionally reaching over to check John’s pulse. “I wasn’t really paying attention to that; I concentrating more on driving as fast as possible.”

“Oh – so you didn’t know you could punch the shift down into third whenever you wanted? It was so fun! I can say I literally punched it out of the Batcave!” He laughed. “I’m guessing you can’t do that in this car?”

“…I’ve got paddle shifters.” They were starting to travel into the more deserted road leading into Toxic Acres. Bruce took a sharp turn onto the hill with the broken Do Not Enter sign, and checking that no one was behind him, flipped the switch to shift the car into armored plates and pressed the wheel-paddle for a lower gear.

They flew down the road with a whirring whine of the engine, John’s notorious excited laugh mixing with it, and Bruce allowed himself to smile a little at it, knowing his own little joyful thrill wouldn’t last very long.

John was soon tapping his fingers together in some kind of rhythm as they passed by more empty houses, Bruce moving a little slower to keep his eyes out for trouble. Sitting close to the river on the outskirts of the city, they were originally meant to be a long neighborhood for the middle and upper class to build their lives, but as the unemployment and crime rates rose, the place became abandoned. It didn’t help that the piping structure to carry water there had been faulty, making either lead poisoning or unfiltered dirty water a prominent problem and giving the section of Gotham its nickname.

“How do we know which place is the botanist’s?” John asked, his green eyes scouring the houses in front of them.

“I sent out another drone earlier for some aerial shots. There’s a place with camouflaged green-houses in the back on Aster Place.”

“Wow, you did that before I left? That was fast…”

“It was a quick job. I’m not picking up the other drone until later.”

They turned the corner onto Aster Place; the road would dead-end in a while, but Bruce knew the house wouldn’t be situated at the end.

“Oh, there’s the spot Jackie got shot at!” John pointed ahead. “I wonder if there’s a bloodstain left…!”

Bruce tightened his grip on the wheel. “We’re close.”

It was oddly quiet out there. There was no other sign of life in what was a hot-spot of criminal hide-outs. Bruce turned on the thermal vision in his cowl; a lot of the houses were actually empty for once.

Except for one. 1801 Aster Place. There were a group of people scattered around on the bottom floor and what appeared to be a lot of heat-lamps running on the top floor. If one of the people in the group wasn’t Pamela Isley, then she might have been holding up in the basement…

They left the Batmobile out of sight down the road, and Bruce and John moved swiftly behind the backs of the houses in the chilly night air, the taser bomb safely in John’s coat pocket; John was surprisingly quiet, only humming a familiar tune here and there. (Wasn’t it the theme from that old spy-thriller…?) Bruce managed to quiet him with a look, and John mimed locking his mouth shut and throwing the key away.

Two unknown people were standing in what used to be a kitchen; three more people were up in the front room of the house. There were no security cameras to be seen.  

“Stick close to me,” Bruce whispered, the modifier in his cowl deepening his voice. “We go in through the back window, take out the two in the kitchen quietly and throw the bomb up front so we can cuff the lot. If none of them are Ms. Isley, we find the basement.”

John gave him a thumbs up, pulling out the riot baton he had hidden away. (Bruce had still not remembered when he or Alfred bought that, but vaguely remembered stashing it in the towel cupboard with some other emergency gear. He wasn’t surprised John found it.)

The bathroom window’s locks weren’t difficult to break. They looked like they had been broken several times already. Bruce slid the insect screen up and slipped in through the thin opening feet-first, twisting his limbs just right to softly land on the floor. He had to help pull John through the rest of the way after he smacked his head on the bottom of the window; thankfully he hadn’t made any noise, but he did give Bruce a strange look as brushed himself off where Bruce had gripped his sides.

Bruce didn’t have time to think about it.

The two people in the kitchen stood in semi-darkness, watching through the patio windows with rifles leaning against the wall. There wasn’t so much a bare bulb to give off light. Bruce figured their eyes might have adjusted to the dark, and signaled John to follow as he crept up behind the two goons.

“I dunno, with all the hype surrounding episode four, you just know those guys are going to mess up somewhere. Remember when they decided to let Celestyne drop to his death back in season one?” The one with dreadlocks asked.

“Oh, come on, that was just to test the game’s limits. Besides, Celestyne couldn’t die; I don’t think Jane can, either,” the second person responded in a higher voice with a casual shrug.

“Dude, you know the game’s gonna make her a villain in the end, though, right? She might die…”

Bruce was ready. John was gripping the baton with a widening grin…

“Are you kidding me? They have her affection meter up so high I’m surprised the game doesn’t have a dating opt-”

Bruce slammed dreadlocked goon’s head into the wall just as the baton crashed down on the other goon’s skull, little smears of blood marking the plaster and paint with a satisfying crack.

John clutched the collar of the goon he’d struck, gripping the slightly bloody baton a little harder in his other hand. He seemed to be thinking.

Bruce took a zip-tie out and cuffed the goon’s hands behind their back, and wondered just what John was staring at until he’d turned the person around and caught a glimpse of them in the light of the window.

They were both women with little tattoos of vines creeping along the back of their necks.

If Bruce guessed right, those were ivy leaves on the vine. Poison Ivy had a loyal gang.

John zip-tied the wrists of the woman he’d struck and patted the part of her head that wasn’t wounded. “Sorry,” he whispered as if she would hear it. “Lauren’s ex,” John mumbled, gesturing to the woman on the floor as if he knew Bruce had raised his eyebrow at him.

Bruce simply swept onward, spying the door for the basement. There was a light on in the front room, and three women who looked like they could be professional boxers of different weight categories were sitting in different areas. One was sharpening a knife at the table, and another was cleaning a semi-automatic rifle as the third kept watch over a monitor showing security camera footage; three looked to be by the greenhouses (Bruce recognized the Foxglove variety growing in one under an opening in the glass, sitting next to something that looked primeval), and two were watching over the plants upstairs (marijuana, by the looks of it) and in the basement.

There was a figure in the last screen, working over a row of potted plants with low lamps. A zoom-in with Bruce’s lenses showed long red hair.

Bruce felt a hand on his shoulder, and John crept ahead him, the taser-bomb in hand: it looked like a mass of the sticky-bombs grouped together, colorful wiring connecting them all like some kind of net, and before Bruce could do or say anything, John threw it into the living room, where it tumbled into the middle of the floor.

The group began to shoot out of their seats in a second, and in the next the ball seemed to expand like a geometric toy, the wired tasers being thrown in the air with a flash before smacking people and surfaces alike as they discharged. All three people fell to the floor in trembling heaps, and John dashed out and started to cuff them, Bruce close behind.

The electric bombs were safe to touch now that they had fully discharged, so Bruce had no qualm about stomping on the lightly-burning sections of carpet underneath some of them to prevent any spread of fire as he pushed them aside. The bulkiest goon wasn’t quite down for the count; she was still conscious.

She yanked John off her fallen comrade by his shoulder and threw him into the table’s edge. Bruce threw a Batarang at her arm just as she was about to punch, and John gave a swift knee to her stomach as she flinched.

She fell to the floor with a louder crash and a grunt, pulling the Batarang out from her arm and letting it drop to the floor. “You fucker…” She said, glaring up at John before looking over at Bruce, her eyes widening as he approached with more Batarangs at the ready. “B-Batman…?”

“Yup! He’s real,” John said playfully before smacking the side of her head with the baton. “And so am I,” he added with a growl. He decided to tie her wrists behind the nearest table leg. “I hate not being able to call myself Joker like this… Really sells it better.”

Bruce felt his heart twitch at the name. “You can call yourself that, if it helps,” Bruce said gently, tying the monitoring-station woman’s wrists together, “Just not to people’s faces.”

“Kinda defeats the point,” John grumbled.

Bruce shot a look at the security monitor – Pamela Isley didn’t seem to have heard anything. Still, precaution should be used. “Let’s go,” he said plainly, sweeping out of the room with a swish of his cape.

John tucked a hand into his pocket and followed.

The basement stairs were carpeted and quiet, but Bruce was careful to walk on the outsides rather than the middle. Spiders had clearly made themselves right at home in the damp corners of the walls, and he had to duck to avoid getting the tips of his cowl’s ears stuck in one of their webs. A soft sort of click was heard behind his back, and Bruce figured John had gotten out his grappling gun.

Pamela Isley was bent over a row of exotic-looking orchids posed under heat lamps, dabbing something into the center of a blue orchid’s petals. Bruce saw several troughs full of hallucinogenic mushrooms sitting on the other side of the wall.

“There you go, my darling,” she cooed in a honeyed voice, acting like she was carefully painting the center of the flower, “You’ll soon be the belle of the ball…”

Bruce eyed the electrical box on the other side of the room. It wouldn’t do to drown the place in darkness; he’d be able to see, but John wouldn’t. The best bet was to tackle and restrain her.

Or…

Bruce took out his own grappling gun, and aimed it at Isley’s collar. One click, and it snagged her shirt with practiced ease.

“What the-?!”

Pamela Isley was suddenly dragged yelping through the air at an angle, smacking hard into one of the tables and spilling several unusual potted flowers to the floor.

Bruce grabbed her and threw her to the concrete floor, standing over her with several Batarangs in his hand as John cackled beside him.

“Jonathan Crane,” Bruce growled out, “Where is he?”

Pamela Isley sat up, shock written all over her face as she processed exactly what happened – it quickly morphed to a steely stare. “Batman,” she said slowly in a sweet voice, “I thought you were an urban legend,” she continued, wiping the corner of her mouth where a dribble of blood leaked out. “Do you always treat a lady this way?”

Bruce dragged her up by her collar and threw her against the wall, keeping her at arm’s length. “I know he bought plants from you today. Tell me where he is.”

“Or what?” She taunted, smirking widely at him. “You think I haven’t been knocked around by men before? I’ve been in whole worlds of hurt, honey.”

There was the distinct sound of the grappling wire rushing through the air, and then an enormous crash – John had taken out one of the mushroom tables, the fungi now breaking and bouncing against the floor it the scattered in the dirt.

“Whoopsie,” John hummed, a wide unnerving grin on his face, “butter-fingers.”

Isley looked rather taken aback, but the expression quickly warped into a mocking glare. “You think destroying my inventory is going to intimidate me?”

John shrugged, leaning back against a table and knocking over a several small tropical plants with a slide of his hand, shattering the clay pots and sending the plants scattering to the hard floor.

That definitely got her attention; her face paled slightly and there was tremble in her. “Stop that!”

Bruce glared at her, mentally thanking John for his quick thinking. “Tell me where Crane is and I’ll consider stopping him from tearing this place apart.”

Her dark green eyes glared at him with a slow-boiling dislike. “Let me go first.”

Bruce did a very quick once-over; she didn’t seem to have a gun holster on her, and she was definitely a lighter build than the rest of her gang. Knives were still a possibility. He decided to let go, keeping a Batarang between his fingers just in case as he stepped just out of her reach.

Pamela dusted off her green turtleneck. “I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care. He bought a few of my flowers and left,” she said, crossing her arms.

John laughed, fingering the leaves of the blue orchid she’d been attending. “With a hole in his shoulder? You didn’t even offer a band-aid for that?”

Pamela was closely eyeing the plant in John’s hand. “What if I did?”

“I know he’s a friend of yours, Isley,” Bruce growled. “You’re the only one who could know what he’s planning.”

“I told you, I don’t know,” she stated, “and I don’t care. I’m not his mother.”

“I can see why you were paying such close attention to this one,” John hummed, fingering the petals with a gloved hand. “It’s so pretty. You put a lot of effort into keeping all these, huh?” He grinned at her, almost looking like his usual self. “It’s not just some financial scheme for you, is it?”

“Of course it is,” Pamela stared at him, trying to keep her voice level; Bruce noticed her eyes kept flicking slightly downward, like she was watching the plant. “I breed and sell rare plants to collectors on the side.”

“Oh good! So this won’t bother you!”

In a swift move, John cut the blossom off the stem with the bowie knife one of the group upstairs had been sharpening.

The blossom fell to the table, and Pamela Isley looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

John picked up the blossom. “Let’s see – she’s honest,” he said playfully, plucking a petal from the stem, “she’s not!” He pulled another.

“STOP IT!” Pamela shrieked, making to rush at him – Bruce pulled her back and pointed the tip of the Batarang at her face. She glanced at it fearfully, but then looked back at the flower being torn apart in John’s hand, and it looked like she was watching a child die before her eyes.

“Stop that,” Bruce instructed; John hummed and held it still. “Talk, or my partner and I crush every plant in this place.”

Isley stared at the flower in John’s hand. “I… I don’t know what he’s planning,” she said quietly, her voice cracking slightly. John only touched the tip of a petal before she spoke again – “But-! But I know… He’s building something. He didn’t say what, but he asked for some muscle - I hooked him up with some of Maroni’s old boys.” She shut her eyes and took a breath before glaring at John like he was a complete monster. “I hope the lot of them tears you limb from limb.”

Bruce forced Isley’s hands behind her back and zip-tied them. “Down on the ground,” he growled, pushing down on the top of her head. John pointed the grappling gun in her face with a smirk; a good insurance if she decided to try and elbow Bruce in the face.

Pamela shot them both a hateful glare as she knelt down, and it didn’t waver as her ankles were tied, too. “I won’t forget this,” she spat.

Bruce sent off a message to Tiffany regarding the coordinates of “Poison Ivy”’s headquarters from his gauntlet. He knew she’d get the word out before he could even get back in the car. “Tell it to the judge,” he taunted, leading the way out of the basement, not missing the sparkle in John’s eyes as he followed, the severed, torn orchid blossom having been carelessly thrown at Pamela Isley’s feet.

John gathered up the sticky bomb device before they hustled back to the Batmobile, and it wasn’t until the doors closed that he spoke, and when he did it was in a tone Bruce would almost call revered.

“So, what do we do now, partner?” He asked, a definite glow on his face.

“We go look at some of the Maroni gang’s old haunts and see if we can find anyone recently hired,” Bruce said, the voice modifier in his cowl now disabled. He glanced at his recent text messages:  one from Tiffany giving the ok on Poison Ivy, and another from Iman with the last known location of the stolen Ryde car. “After we look into the motels in the red-light district. Crane might’ve stayed there.”

John laughed to himself, but for once he didn’t share the joke; instead, he pulled out a packet of jerky from the plastic bag he’d brought along. “I knew this would be a long night,” he said cheerfully, as if he was really looking forward to the whole thing.

It was well past one in the morning when Bruce arrived back home through the front gate, the Batsuit stowed away and the plates flipped back to red. The two patrol officers were only somewhat surprised to see him arrive back. Naturally, they reported nothing new, since John had been dropped off in the Batcave first.

Sore muscles were nothing new to Bruce. The old strained climb back up to his bed was just as annoying as ever. He honestly didn’t feel like he wanted to sleep, but after following several empty leads over the city and bruising a few heads alongside John, he did admit that he was physically exhausted. He knew lying down was better than nothing, and he still had to go to work in several hours like he didn’t have a double life. At least he wasn't starving, thanks to John thinking ahead and buying him protein-and-carb-filled snacks.

He forced himself to go through his usual nightly routine, despite the temptation to just flop into bed and lay there. He looked at the bruises on his back and ribs from where John had struggled against him under the influence of Crane’s drug, and decided not to bother putting the bruise-away cream on them, nor on the new ones forming on his shoulder from where one of the former mobsters had hit him.

When he did finally collapse onto the master bed in nothing but his boxer-briefs, his brain still decided to chat away at him.

There were no leads as to who exactly Isley had hired for Crane. Bruce cursed himself for not trying to work the specifics out of her. At least he knew she was arrested for drug possession and manufacturing, as well as smuggling illegal fauna.

There was no word on the whereabouts of Jackie Lant. Her car was missing, and she’d called into work sick. Her apartment hadn’t been visited in the entire time Bruce had his drone’s eye on it, and neither Tiffany nor Iman had seen anything when they looked into Jackie’s friends’ places, either. All Bruce knew was that she hadn’t called an ambulance to fetch her from Toxic Acres, that she hadn’t been admitted to a hospital, and that there was no sign of her body either in the Acres or in the Gotham River.

She was alive, somewhere, and Bruce didn’t know what she was going to do next. He hoped she was just going to lie low until he caught Crane.

Jonathan Crane was nowhere to be found. His house was still empty. He didn’t seem to be staying at any of the motels – or hotels – around the red-light district or its surrounding streets, and nothing had come of a quick credit-card check. The Ryde driver the GCPD fished out of the River that morning had been shot in the head, and his car was so common that if Crane could’ve switched the license plate with anything and been completely invisible. They’d done a quick search of the warehouse district and found no sign of him there, either.

Bruce had the nagging feeling that he wasn’t going to find Crane until the doctor reared his head.

The billionaire rolled onto his stomach, shoving the anxious thought away as he pressed his cheek further into the plush black jersey pillowcase. There were a couple more places he could check tomorrow…

The bedroom door creaked, and Bruce’s eyes shot open, a second away from grabbing the billy-club under his pillow – he could see John’s messy hair in his dark silhouette.

“Bruce? You awake?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“…can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Bruce noticed he closed the door behind him. Like he was planning to stay there.

That definitely put a new light onto the situation. A tense thrill was building in his shoulders as John deigned to sit on the edge of the mattress, his back to Bruce.

John was only wearing his Arkham-regulated pants, and the pale white of his bare skin almost shone in the light streaming in from the window. Bruce saw several bruises forming, one of which was from where he’d gotten grabbed by the shoulder by a Poison Ivy goon, and several more where he’d gotten knocked into.

“…I don’t think I can sleep in that guest room,” John sighed. “I mean, I tried my usual methods of sleep induction, but… It’s too big…and empty. I’m really not used to that.” His voice came out quieter and more contemplative. “I know it’s weird, but do you mind if I sleep in here?” He asked, turning halfway to look right at Bruce.

He felt trapped. If he said no, at the worst John would sulk, and at the best John wouldn’t get any sleep, and that was definitely worse for his mental health. John had mentioned before about how regular sleep cycles were supposed to help with that.

If he said yes, though, he’d know he was sleeping next to John, and there was the tiny worry in the back of his head that John might…try something. Or at least roll over too much.

“I promise I’ll stay over on my side,” John muttered, not tearing his eyes away.

“Alright.”

A sweet smile stretched on his face. “Thanks, Bruce. You won’t regret this.”

“If you keep talking, I might.”

John giggled as he slid beneath the covers on the far side of the bed, flopping one of the extra pillows down between them. “There – a no-roll barrier,” he said as if he had to explain the concept to Bruce.

It did not escape Bruce’s attention that John had decided to lie facing him and rest his arm on top of the pillow. John had pulled the covers up to just underneath his armpits; Bruce could see John's sharp collarbone and the lean wiry muscle of his chest. (Bruce made sure not to look for more than a moment's curiosity would allow.)

God, John’s face was actually his for the first time that whole night. Bruce had gotten used to seeing it in the natural makeup, but it was almost a relief to see it in its normal borderline-luminescent white. He looked like the man Bruce knew.

Acid-green eyes stared at him, flicking slightly and growing soft. “I…did want to talk to you about something, though. If it’s okay.”

“I suppose I’m still awake,” Bruce said in an attempt to lighten the tension in his arms. “Sure.”

“Do you ever…look back on something, and think about the worst thing that could’ve happened in that situation?”

He didn’t like to admit it, but he had. Usually in his worst moods, he’d think about how everything could’ve gone wrong. He’d usually think about everything he could’ve done better, too. “I try not to, but…sometimes, yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking about our fight a lot, lately,” John confessed, “At Ace. I used to think about it a lot when I got recommitted, but… You started visiting me,” he said softly, a light smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You remember when I told you I thought I’d messed things up for us?”

“Yeah.” It was Bruce’s first visit to John. He never forgot the sheer hopeful joy on John’s face upon seeing him. It was practically engraved in his memory.

“Ever since I started sessions with Crane, I kept going back to that night. He always tried to weasel my worst secrets out of me,” he said with a low scowl, “but when he started using that…toxin on me… I kept…thinking about what could have happened back there. I… I know I almost killed you.”

The sheer pain reading in John’s eyes was enough to make Bruce want to wrap his arms around him. It was beautiful and raw and honest, and Bruce found himself holding stock still, almost captivated by the expression.

“I kept seeing it. Over and over – it was like I could see myself throwing you over the railing or-or stabbing you, or...” Bruce saw tears welling up as John clenched the pillow between them. “I don’t want to come close to that again, Bruce,” he managed to say, his voice starting to hitch. “I don’t… I don’t want to kill you.”

Bruce threw his pride away and grabbed John’s hand in his. “You won’t.”

“You…you don’t know that,” John said with a light sob. “If…if I…go back to how I was… If I mess up...”

Bruce squeezed his hand, feeling the soft skin twitch under his fingertips. “I won’t pretend you’re perfect,” he said, honesty seeping through every word, “but I know you, John. I know you’re not going after Crane out of revenge, like you did with Waller. You reached out to me for help – but you were already trying to find a way to stop him without resorting to just stabbing him with the nearest shiv.”

John sniffed, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth like he was almost smiling. “Yeah…”

“So you’re not the same person you were then, are you?” He soothed with a supportive smile. “Even if you feel you are going backward, I know it won’t be to that same point.”

“Maybe…” he said with another sniff, looking more serious. “But Bruce, you know there are things I can’t ever really stop, right? The auditory psychosis is pretty much going to stay with me the rest of my life,” he started, clutching Bruce’s hand back, “and I’m not going to lie here and pretend my pulse wasn’t pounding a mile a minute when we were fighting those mobsters out there.” He sported a small knowing grin at him. “You know what that’s like, though, don’t you…”

(Yes, he did.)

“…you know what’s funny? I used to think one bad day could turn a person completely upside down.” John managed to stroke his thumb against Bruce’s knuckle, sending a little shiver over the skin, and Bruce wondered if John knew how incredibly intimate that gesture felt as he stared softly at him from the pillow. “Especially after Waller came to town… But…I never really thought things could go back up after it. I guess it just…takes a while.”

Bruce knew there was something right in John’s line of thinking. It only took one day to turn his life on its head, and he felt he knew, despite John having no memory of his life before Arkham, that something similar had happened to him. “Well…they say time heals all wounds.”

“How much passed before yours started to heal?”

He almost didn’t want to answer. The truth was that he wasn’t sure at all if he was ever going to fully heal, despite knowing what his parent’s really were. Maybe it was because he knew the terrible truth about them that they wouldn’t ever heal right. Maybe he’d always have that miserable note in the background of his life.

“…I’m still healing.”

“I didn’t say you stopped, buddy,” John chuckled with a knowing look. “Still…got good days and bad days, huh?”

“Feels like it, yeah.” Today…was definitely more of a mixed day. Looking at John across from him, though, all honest and open, and thinking back to how it felt to fight alongside him again, and investigate with him, with that warmth and instant familiar comfort between that never faded away, he almost felt like he wanted to call it a good day. “Today might have tilted things right-side up.”

John laughed, a genuine, humored one that was almost infectious. “Now I know I’m rubbing off on you; that sounds like something I’d say!”

John slipped his hand away and turned to lie on his back, still chuckling to himself. The warmth still burned in Bruce’s palm, and he found himself reluctant to pull his hand away at all.

John turned to him once more, an all-too-familiar affection shimmering brightly in the green depths. It pulled Bruce in and made him feel like he should inch close enough to feel the warmth and security it promised. “’Night, Bruce.”

“Goodnight, John.”

John turned over, leaving Bruce to stare at the bruises forming on his shoulders. There was the terrible temptation in his hands to shove the pillow between them aside and wrap his arm around the man’s middle so he could lean into that pale, battered back and bury his face in a head of soft, green hair.

There was a worse urge, one so vivid it almost made Bruce’s head spin – he could just reach out and touch the bruises, feather-light, and trail his fingertips down the curve of spine until it arched with a pleased shudder, and Bruce could follow that trail with his mouth as far as John would let him.

Bruce turned his head away, the memory of John’s lips on his coming to the front of his mind, and he shut out the mental image of repeating that kiss right then and there, telling himself that he really shouldn’t feel that way towards someone who desperately needed support, nor to his best friend who he’d left scarred in more ways than one, and certainly not someone who was both.

It had been a long time since Bruce shared a bed with someone, and far, far longer when he shared one with someone he didn’t have sex with.

He hoped that was all it was. Just the bed’s memory getting to him, and nothing else…

Notes:  Super-sexy-plant-person-in-her-late-twenties Ivy is OUT. Cougar-aged-mobster-botanist Ivy is IN! >:) 

I really wanted a different Ivy. I’m tired of the young, uber-sexy walking plant-human-hybrid that’s immune to all toxins and diseases; plants get diseases, too, and she’s so plant-like she should have some kind of physical humanizing weakness! It’s much more interesting to have a human who’s just built up an immunity and uses her babies for weapons and business; I kept her serious environmentalist trait, though, because while I dislike the anti-hero thing she’s got going on lately and would love to see her as a straight-up villain again, we do have to relate to her somehow, and her love of nature is always going to be a good part of her. Since Harley’s older, too, I figured it would be alright if they had a ten-year gap between them, so when Pam eventually goes to Black Gate one day, they’ll be pals. ;)

And Bruce you complete fool!!!! You should’ve kissed him!!!  Why do you do this to yourseellllfff? D:

I'm sorry it took so long, but as you can tell, I had a lot to work on, and I’m doing my best to write the next chapter as quickly as I can while this nutty energy in my brain is still fresh. I’m trying to keep with my weekly schedule, but I hope you guys are okay with having a gap day, as appears to be the habit now. ( ._. ) I mean, no one yells at me or anything for being late, but I aim to please with my work, and part of that is being consistent.