I Started A Joke (SevenxChantho)

[sevenpercentsolution]

Commissioner Jim Gordon sat with his head in his hands because sometimes things got so overwhelming that the only solution was to try and pretend - just for a moment - that the city wasn't there. After the Dent incident, Barbara had nearly begged him to leave Gotham, convinced that this would only be the first of many attempts on his life; she had told him they could borrow some money from her parents, use it to get out, to move somewhere - anywhere but Gotham.

It was a conversation that been repeated many times since, the most recent of which had been that very evening.

In retrospect, his response probably hadn't been the best one:

"Where do you suggest we go? Metropolis?"

"This isn't funny, Jim!"

"You're damn right it isn't funny. If I leave now -"

"- then they'll just find some other idealistic sap to take your place as Commissioner, someone else to - to slip poison to!"

It had ended with Barbara sobbing into the phone and Gordon feeling like an ass, just the way he did every other time - but he couldn't help himself. He couldn't just - leave - like so many others had done. There was too much to be done, too few who could be relied on, and beyond that - how many allies did Batman have left?

Gordon wasn't even sure he counted anymore, not since he had been forced to destroy the light on the GPD rooftop - one of the only moments in his career in which he had felt nothing but shame - and had severed his public ties with the Batman.

But god, he was still with him - but the darkness was closing in more each day, seeping into the city more and more, driven by some horrifying, unstoppable force. Every time they made advances, they were pushed back again, there was no quantifying it.

The phone rang and the sound of it caused Gordon to jerk violently, half-lunging for the receiver. At first, he listened.

Then he protested.

Then he fell into silence, set the phone carefully onto his desk and stood from his chair; he approached the enormous window that served as a background to his office and drew open the thick curtains. He stared out at Gotham and then picked up the phone again,

"Yeah. Yeah, I see it." he said, and the distant flames reflected in the lenses of his glasses.

---

Dr. Phillip Unger liked to think of himself as a philanthropist, an altruist who only wanted what was best for his patients - that was why he gave them all that big, bleached white smile and talked to the inmates like they were three year olds who just needed a good nap and a big, shiny needle to calm them down.

He had made the mistake, at first, of trying to analyze his newest patient - one he had been particularly excited to meet after seeing his face across the news and witnessing the extent of the damage he had wrought on the city.

A fascinating patient indeed.

Inmate 3747 had been brought into Arkham Asylum with his hands cuffed behind his back and his make-up badly smeared, but he had been bizarrely docile. Unger had moved around him, looked him up and down, asked him questions - but all he had received was silence as the patient's dark eyes regarded him with something like very mild interest.

Unger didn't like to classify his studies in terms of success rates - every patient varied, after all - but when it came to the Joker, the interviews - all of which were carefully taped - were consistently failures.

The first interview occurred on the same week the Joker arrived at Arkham, and it began with a calm, professional Dr. Unger asking 3747 for his name, a question he never received a direct answer to.

The fourth interview had the doctor reviewing the crimes that 3747 had committed; the man had alternated between peering around the completely white room, staring at Unger, and drumming out a rhythm on the table in front of him, very occasionally raising his eyebrows in mock surprise or acknowledgement.

The seventh interview had 3747 looking utterly bored while Unger uneasily asked why his cellmate had committed suicide. The response was a shrug.

Interview eleven had a tense Unger bringing up the subject of the Batman. For the first time, the inmate spoke on camera to point out that the doctor's tie was tacky and he should really stop smoking because it couldn't be good for his health - or his little three year old son's health, for that matter. Or his pregnant wife. Lydia. The interview ended suddenly when Unger walked out of the room while 3747 looked at the camera and rolled his eyes.

Interview twelve came months later and the first several minutes were filled with silence; 3747 shifted in his seat boredly before finally asking Unger how his wife was. The camera continued rolling as Unger leapt over the table and began to brutally beat the cuffed inmate, the sound of strikes punctuated by hysterical laughter.

Interview thirteen could hardly be called such; it consisted of Dr. Unger entering the room, sitting in the spot where the inmate would normally sit, dousing himself in lighter fluid, looking at the camera, and setting himself on fire.

That night, the east side of Arkham Asylum went up in flames and when the smoke cleared, the Joker was gone.

 

[Chantho]

Another hour went by without interruption and Batman was beginning to think it was time to give up for the night. It was four A.M. and his search hadn’t yielded so much as a hint of foul play. By now, the vigilante was halfway across the city, only about five miles from the Narrows. He calculated it would take perhaps fifteen minutes to get back to the manor.

As he rose to his full height from where he’d been crouched atop the Surh Complex he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Spinning round he saw a woman, middle aged and wearing a business suit step across the roof of the building opposite. Her eyes were shadowed and she seemed completely unaware of where she was. Drawing ever closer to the edge Batman realized her intent and jumped into action. He had to be careful not to alarm her, which was easier said than done since he’s specifically designed his image to be intimidating.

“Miss”, he called carefully, not wanting to startle her. It was awkward, he was unused to addressing people in this manner. Normally interactions consisted of him sneaking up on a criminal and beating the ever loving shit out of them. The woman turned her head slowly to look at him and he was struck by how empty her face was, how completely void of any sort of emotion. She paused, and he took a few steps closer. “Don’t be frightened. I’m just going to help you down.” This statement resulted in the first semblance of expression from the female. Her brows knit together and she backed away from him.

“I can’t take it anymore... Stay away from me.” She was only a few stories above him. He could swing across and grab her before she got any further. Batman reached for his utility belt and his fingers closed around the grappling gun.

“Stay calm, I’m coming down to get you.” Blank eyes stared through him as he upholstered the gun and raised it towards the roof, taking aim. Don’t move, just stay there. Don’t move…. She disappeared from his line of sight. Damn!

He fired, the cord shot up and hooked over the edge of the roof, pulling him up with it. Come on, come on… Batman hit the other side with a thump and hoisted himself the rest of the way up just in time to see the flash of skirt as the woman he’d been trying to save vanished over the precipice. “No!” He raced after her and dropped to his knees to catch anything he could reach. But it was too late. He body hurtled down forty stories and crashed into the pavement below before he’d even reached the ledge.

The whole thing had barely enough time to register when a block down at almost the same time a man stepped out from the curb and right into the path of an oncoming bus. All the masked crusader could do was gaze, shocked at what he’d failed to stop and wonder how in the hell two people had decided to commit suicide at the exact same time.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Gordon flipped up the collar of his suit jacket to protect the back his neck from the wind; the Gotham night was hot as hell but the air was so sticky that it felt like the city was licking his skin every time a breeze brushed by - it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

With his hands tucked in his pockets he stood at ground zero and stared down at the charred, blackened, and vaguely human-shaped remains in front of him; he barely resisted the bizarre urge to prod them with his shoe. To his right stood the newly appointed Detective Heaney - understandably, they'd had to let Ramirez go, there had been a sort of trust issue - Heaney wasn't new to policework, but he still managed to look surprised.

"Guy didn't even get out of the chair." Heaney said, vaguely appalled, "It's bad enough that he killed himself - but he sets himself on fire and he doesn't even get up? Christ, he should have been running around like a maniac, trying to put himself out."

Gordon's moustache bristled; he stared through the enormous hole that had been burnt through the side of Arkham - a doctor had just killed himself in what had to have been the most agonizing way possible.

"That's concrete and reinforced steel." Gordon said plainly, and Heaney could only continue to look at the dead doctor; with some effort, bits of Dr. Unger's face could still be made out, but mostly it was the stretched, gaping wide hole that indicated a mouth was present, rather than actual visual cues, "Fire ate it like it was cardboard - smells like a tanker in here, too. Must have used an accelerant."

His eyes continued to scan the room; the walls were devoid of anything significant save for a steel table, which was now warped and twisted by the heat. Eventually, the Commissioner's eyes stopped on the corner of the room where, high up, something charred hung from the pathetic strands of wire.

"There was a camera in here." Gordon said, "I'm going to see if we can get lucky - maybe some footage survived."

"What would cause a doctor, of all people, to do this?" Heaney asked.

"In a place like this?" Gordon replied, knocking a bit of rubble away from himself as he headed out the door, "What wouldn't?"

---

He'd say that things didn't work out quite the way he'd planned but the truth was that he never planned anything, not really - the world just happened around him and he went with it because - because -

- well, because people were so easy to predict. All it took was finding the right wound to open, everyone had them and some were deeper than others and he just liked to get one long, dirty finger in and pry a couple of them open to see what he could do to them. What he could do with them. See how far the hurt went.

Even the Bat had them but he had been dissappointed by the wounds, he had been so dissappointed that it had been something so - so - standard for the Batman.

A girl. A woman.

The lady of the Batman's dreams and the one who wouldn't have him - he hadn't needed to hear any details to know the truth, he'd just had to watch the Batman throw himself out a window to go after her, he'd just had to watch the hero leave a group of defenseless, innocent civilians standing around with nothing but shrimp cocktails to defend themselves against the guns that were still inside.

Leave them alone with him.

And it would've been so easy right then to just - just cut one of their throats. Make a real mess and leave it for the Bat to find but - but, but - there was no sport in that. There was no, uh, enjoyment in that. The moment was over once what's-her-name was saved, but the fun had just begun because Dent wanted her too - the girl was a hot commodity.

They - they had been like a chess game. Opposite sides of the board. Black knight and white knight. Except they both wanted to save the - save the queen.

Joker chortled to himself; his skull ached, ribs were cracked, fingers were broken, bits of him were bruised and bleeding and his nostrils were filled with the smell of burnt rubble; he could feel the ash coating his skin, coating his tongue and leaving his mouth filled with a thick, gritty paste from dehydration.

Mm. Tastes like Gotham.

He wasn't sure which way was up anymore, though, so it took several tries to get back on his feet and each fall caused a brief burst of laughter to escape the clown.

Yes. Yes. He could feel it, just like the doctor had said he would, he could feel it in his veins, coursing through him, something dark and nasty and oh, what a wonderful thing the doctor had created. Imagine the chaos it would cause.

Giggling uncontrollably, the Joker couldn't tell if he was having trouble walking because of the drugs or because of how funny it all was. How - how funny it was.

How funny it was that he could see the Batman right now. How funny it was that he seemed like a distant, dark dream that came on wings and fury and all dark eyes and anger and open wounds that had only taken a little C4 to turn them into scars.

How funny it was that he knew how the Bat had got his scars.

How funny it was that suddenly everything stopped working and he was collapsing, falling, tumbling down to the ground of the alleyway and collapsing amidst rubble and chortling even while a violent seizure took hold of him. How funny it all was.

 

[Chantho]

Glowing red digits on the side of Gotham City Bank told Batman that it was now four AM exactly. An hour since he’d planned to head back to the cave. During that time he found two more dead in addition to the original suicides he’d witnessed. Both deaths were self-inflicted. One, he didn’t see personally, but heard about through the wire: a doctor at Arkham had sat down in front of a security camera and set himself on fire. Four deaths and no one was responsible. No one was saved. The improbability of it all had driven him to investigate much longer than intended, but with no leads and no way to contact Gordon, the trail dried up before he’d even started.

Four o three. That made it over thirty-two hours since he’d last slept. He couldn’t push himself any farther tonight; it was time to go. Batman ducked into the shadow and began his descent from the skyline of Gotham into its core. At last he dropped safely into the dark alleyway where his night had commenced. There was a soft splash when he landed in the middle of a dirty puddle on the pavement. I had rained a few days earlier so the streets were still wet. The water stilled around his boots, glistening faintly in some imperceptible source of light. God he was tired. Everything felt so incredibly heavy as he moved forward in the direction of his vehicle, hidden somewhere nearby. So very exhausted was the vigilante that he almost failed to notice the twitching body lying prone behind him. The sound of frantic, uneven breathing was what grabbed his attention and he spun around sharply.

Someone, a man, was curled on the ground, almost hidden by an open dumpster. His legs jerked about, and drawing nearer Batman could see his entire body convulsing violently. Quickly he dropped down beside the man and turned him over, trying to steady the other as best he could. But when he saw the man’s face he froze. Dirty blonde hair tainted with green and scars stretching from each corner of the mouth in a permanently garish smile. The Joker. Batman’s blood ran cold with hatred as it always did when he encountered the criminal, but this time that knee jerk hostility was accompanied by something else. Alarm.

He’d never seen the Joker in this state before. Whenever they met the man was always confidant, and collected. Or as collected as it was possible for the Joker to be. Even when Batman was pounding the ever loving shit out of him he still maintained this air of control, continuing to laugh and mock the Dark Night as blood stained his teeth, This was different, wrong. The Joker was vulnerable. Batman stared down at his nemesis, for the first time unsure of what to do. His initial instinct every time was to inflict as much physical damage as he possibly could, in some subconscious and futile hope it would make up for the twisted scars the Joker left on his psyche. Right now was not one of those situations where he could do that. The easiest thing to do was take the convict straight back to Arkham and let them deal with it, but what good would that do? He’d just escape again and they’d be back where they started. Besides, it grew wearisome to find new ways to escape the police that turned on him the second the Joker was in custody.

Still at a loss of what course of action to take, Batman lifted his enemy’s upper half from the dirty blacktop and held him securely until the shaking stopped. One arm supported him while the other searched through his clothes for any concealed weapons. Experience had taught him never to underestimate the other. In the Joker’s hands, anything was a weapon. After the last time the two of them had fought, Alfred had to give him a tetanus shot for the rusty screwdriver the criminal had driven into Batman’s leg.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Gotham's black and grey palette had become a blur, a swirling mess in his vision that was dotted by the occasional strobing yellow of a passing car or an office window - what felt like a lightning strike passed through his entire body from head to toe as the Joker lost all motor functions to the violent grasp of a clonic seizure. The sensation of lifting from his body followed suit as the Joker suddenly found himself watching his own fallen form spasming on the wet pavement, and as fascinating as it was, he was more interested in the dark figure looming near.

Oh yes, he would recognize it anywhere, there was no mistaking that one, no, no.

He wanted to greet the Batman, wanted to say hello like they were old friends reconnecting at a high school reunion, old buddies getting together for a drink, maybe give the hero a genial slap on the shoulder - but, dissappointingly, he couldn't do anything except twitch.

But he could feel the Bat, looming so close, so near, so very within his reach that body heat was emanating, breezing over the skin of his face, seeping through the damp, filthy material of the suit he had taken back from Arkham Asylum. He could feel him.

What would he do? How would the masked man react when his nemesis was laid out in front of him on a silver platter, spasming and - even the Joker would admit to this - utterly helpless. He couldn't do a thing.

Anyone else might have panicked but the prospect only made the clown gleeful. Would the Bat give in to the temptation? Yes, he was looming over him, staring down at him, his cowled face registering a pensive expression, something conflicted and dark and oh, he knew the Batman was thinking about it. How could he not? It would be so easy, and no one would see, no one would see a thing and the clown would die oh so happy if the Batman would just do it.

Do it. Come on, Batsy. Do it. Just break, no, just bend those rules a little, just an eensy weensy bit.

He wanted to say it, he wanted to goad him, but he only managed to make a soft choking noise as his back arched up off the pavement, skinny frame jerking from rapid muscle contractions, sweat and filthy water running down his face and leaving streaks in the war paint he wore, mottling the side of his face.

But no. The Bat didn't do it; there wasn't a single strike, not an iron fist to the face or a steel-toe boot to the ribs, nothing except - except -

- was that an arm around him? Was the Bat holding him, lifting him, picking him up? No. No that couldn't be right.

He could feel the solid chest plate against his side as he was held up from the pavement, an effort that prevented his head from hitting the pavement any further during the spasms, and once they died away to stillness, the Joker was left feeling as though he was floating, dream-like, through the alleyway and back to his own body. His voice and motor functions did not return at the same time.

As Batman's hand's rummaged through various pockets - and would locate a sharp shard of glass, a fountain pen, a packaged syringe, and several marbles - the Joker felt himself fading away. As the masked man's hand dug into his pants pocket, the Joker wished he could get his voice back long enough to ask the Bat to buy him a drink first.

 

[Chantho]

Even through the violent shaking, Batman could see the Joker's smile and had to fight the urge to knock the bastard unconscious. It wouldn't have made much of a difference. The escaped convict was well on his way there, the way this was going. Tossing the contents of the man's pockets aside, he shifted the body in his arms so that there was a little more support on the head. Holding the Joker like this felt wrong and it took all his self control not to just drop him there and go on home. No, he already knew where that would lead. Besides.... Something was definitely off. When the spasms began to die down he knew it was time to make a decision.

He removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and clicked them around the Joker's thin wrists. No need to take more unnecessary risks than he was already about to. God, this was the worst idea he'd ever had. Batman got to his feet, hauling the other man up with him. Anyone else would have though he was being rough, but the Joker would notice the restraint in effect. the vigilante was being considerably gentler than he would have under other circumstances.

Batman returned to the pod, practically carrying his enemy along without a word of explanation. Sirens were wailing in the distance so there wasn't time for hesitation or questioning. At least not here. That would come later.

The top to the vehicle slid back when they drew near, a new adjustment he was grateful for. Lucius had made several fine modifications to the pod a few weeks earlier. It was roomier, for one, without making the vehicle bigger and the overall look was sleeker. It stood out less, looking more like a car than an experimental military tank. Of course, that hardly meant the bat pod was inconspicuous, but then it would never really be that anyway.

Once the Joker was secured in the passenger side of the pod, Batman slid in beside him and the roof closed again. For several seconds he sat there, hands resting on the control and know idea of what to do next. His eyes shot over to look at the soaked, filthy form of the man who made his life hell. Perhaps he should have invested in some way to shut him up before the Joker recovered the use of his voice. He really was not in the mood to listen to the cracked, gloating voice urge him towards something that wouldn't ever happen.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

The peripherals of his vision were fading away, leaving the entire world soft around the edges; light was becoming scarce and every part of the Joker's body was aching, muscles twitching and twinging from the after-effects of a full body seizure - it was urging him to let go, to fade into unconsciousness.

But no.

He wanted to stay awake just a little - just a little longer because the Bat was there.

Because, out of every creature and cretin and sad little citizen that lived in Gotham city, it was Batman who found him, Batman who was giving him that pensive look, Batman who was touching him and man-handling him.

It was a gleeful moment for the Joker, being so close to his nemesis, so close to the man he loathed and adored with everything he had. It was so nice, really it was, it was worth the agony, always worth the beatings and the falls and the broken bits of himself because those healed and went away, but the memories - oh they stayed with him. He couldn't remember much about his past, and sometimes the days were confused for the Joker, but he always remembered those times with the dark knight. How could he ever forget them?

And besides, for all he knew, he would wake up in a white room all over again. Or another jail cell. Or maybe the bottom of a well, if the Batman gave into his urges - it would just be a shame to miss the moment that the caped crusader broke his rules. He wanted to see that, it was almost perverse how badly he wanted to watch the man break, crumble, crumple, fall and completely lose himself. He wanted to see what would be unleashed if the Batman was unrestrained, oh he could be so much more.

Joker was aware enough that he could feel something cool and heavy click around his wrists - yes, yes. Cuffs. Arms beneath him, the feeling of the ridged armour again, and then the strange sensation of being lifted - carried. Unable to remember his childhood, the Joker had no memories of experiencing anything like this, but he rather wished he had the mental capacity to kick his legs a little and shout 'wee' just to make the hero uncomfortable. Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

He blinked once, slowly, and realized he was sitting in a vehicle - but not the seat of an armoured car or the rolling gurney of an Arkham ambulance, no, the LCD screens that flashed as a blur of blue in his vision told him he was sitting inside of the Tumbler, or what the Joker had mentally and lovingly labelled the 'batmobile'. Classy.

There were so many things he wanted to say, so many pretty buttons he could have pushed. The Joker managed to turn his head to the left a little, catching a glimpse of the dark knight as he climbed into the passenger seat. There was a long moment where the clown just stared at Batman, an unfocused look that was coupled with one of the clown's unnerving smiles, something giddy and almost child-like, before his eyes rolled back and he slumped in the seat.

He would have to push buttons later, then.

 

[Chantho]

For several seconds after settling into the driver's side, Batman just sat there, debating what to do next. There were two options he could choose, the first was obvious. Take the Joker back to Arkham where he'd be treated and escape within the next few days. Or.... What? He'd already taken a step in that unfocused direction, but where did it lead?

Dark eyes flicked over to the man slumped in the seat beside him. Oh he could see the gears turning. Even in this state he could tell that the other was thinking of all the things he'd be doing if his body wasn't in such a sorry state. The words he'd spew had he been able to speak were practically audible. Batman hated the way those eyes never seemed to blink or change focus, always watching him.

He grunted and looked away again. Too much more of this and the Joker would begin to suspect that he didn't actually have a plan and that all this was just him floundering for a course of action. The illusion of control needed to be maintained. Panels lit up as gloved fingers flashed over the buttons that brought the vehicle to life. The engine thrummed and a pale, electronic glow was cast over the cab.

Okay...Time to make a decision. Batman threw the car into gear and tore off with the kind of fervor he normally observed when leaving the cave, not returning to it. He wasn't going to give himself the chance to change his mind. The Joker had been allowed to get away with too much. Every time they met nothing ever veered from the set expectations, it was the same cycle over and over again and nothing was ever accomplished. Well not this time. This time he was going to make sure the Joker stayed someplace where he wouldn't have a chance to hurt anyone else. And he could only think of one place where the man would be under his almost constant watch. The bat cave.

They were both going to get what they wanted in a way. Batman would have his nemesis safely away from the citizens of Gotham and the Joker would have... well, him. Jesus. The dark knight clenched his jaw as the tumbler swung around a corner and onto another street. Alfred was going to think he'd gone crazy, and right now, he wasn't entirely sure that wasn't true. Because a sane person wouldn't even consider bringing a known terrorist into their home. The cave couldn't really be considered his home, but it was the only place where he felt truly secure. He'd almost rather have the Joker tearing up Bruce Wayne's penthouse. Almost.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Floral patterned fine-boned china teacups rattled on their saucers and shook the glass doors of the cabinets they had been lovingly laid out in; Alfred put a hand out to stop the violent shaking, glancing down at the floor and frowning disapprovingly - it had been a mistake to put anything delicate near the South-East wing, but leaving the area completely bare was more suspicious.

That, and he rather liked the look of malcontent on the young Master's face every time he saw the flowery things after just stepping in from a long night of crime fighting - it tickled some distant funny bone of his.

But Alfred was quite sure there would be nothing to laugh at that evening - not if the sound of the tumbler roaring home was any indication; it was relatively common for Bruce to leave the household in a hurry, tearing out of the cave so quickly that it would leave plumes of dust and smoke, but by the end of the night, he was normally too worn out, too exhausted to have the energy or enthusiasm for that sort of thing.

So the sound of the engine blasting back in was enough to set off alarm bells in the caretaker's head - he immediately went for a first aid kit before making the rattling trek down to the cave, expecting the worse. The last time this had happened, Master Wayne had brought Ms. Dawes back with him, scarcely alive.

Now, of course, he knew it wouldn't be her - he couldn't imagine who else the Master would ever bring into the dark little world he had built in the Wayne Manor foundations.

The elevator opened and Alfred stepped out onto the sleek rocks, immediately hit by the familiar, organic smell of the cave; he wasn't as fond of it as Bruce was, however, everyone had their eccentricities. For some it was collecting porcelain dolls, or having too many cats - for others, it was donning armour and flying out in the night.

For good cause, of course. Always. But from time to time the painfully paternal part of him wanted to always make sure Bruce was safe and out of danger - he had seen the scars that the Master had received during his self-appointed duties and he knew there would be many more of them. He just hoped none of them would leave anything more than a surface wound; Bruce had enough deep ones already.

Alfred picked his way across the rocks and towards the tumbler, first aid kit slung over his shoulder, calling out:

"Perhaps Lucius should have a look at that machine," he said, "Or maybe give it a bloody muffler."

 

[Chantho]

"I'll remember to to mention that my armored car needs to be a little quieter next time I see him."

The door was already opened and closed before Alfred had posed the suggestion. At the end of a long night it was always a comfort to hear the older man's voice greeting him. The butler was the one constant in his hectic life, the person he trusted more than anyone else. When everyone else had come and gone Alfred was still there, and some part of Bruce expected he always would be.

Right now, he was relying on his oldest friend not to throw in the towel when he revealed what was waiting in the tumbler.

"Listen Alfred...." He dropped his voice an octave, glancing back at the tinted windows as he spoke. It was the first time in while that he hadn't removed his cowl upon returning home. "Remember what you always say about bringing my work home with me? Well I might have pushed that a bit farther than you're used to."

Without trying to explain any further, he went around to the passenger's side and opened the door. In a few seconds he was carefully hauling the unconscious Joker out of the seat, his hands still cuffed, and slamming the door shut again.

There wasn't much he could say. The presence of the criminal did all the talking for him.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Having raised Bruce from a baby and taking on the parental role following the passing of his mother and father, Alfred had become accustomed to being able to read Bruce like an open book, despite his closed off personality.

However, the cowl made things more difficult, so Alfred found himself watching Master Wayne very carefully - the very presence of the mask was foreboding considering that he normally would have removed it by now, but it was the surreptitious glance towards the tumbler that made Alfred especially suspicious. There was something - someone? - in the vehicle.

Alfred said nothing, he simply waited in silence as Bruce went to the tumbler and removed a rumpled mess.

It took a moment of focusing to realize what was in his arms, partly because the sheer filthiness made it difficult to identify it as a human being, but the mess of make-up - he had seen it before, of course. Who in Gotham city hadn't? It was the face that had been broadcast on cameras, cackling gleefully and waving a knife.

It was the face of the man who had invited himself to the Dent fundraiser - the man who had taken hold of Rachel and dangled her out a window.

The man responsible for her death, and for the death of Harvey Dent.

Alfred remained admirably stoic, but a crease formed between his brows, eyes flicking from the Joker and back to Bruce; the Joker twitched, once, in the Master's arms.

"Should I put out the fine linens, then, sir?" he asked drily.

 

[Chantho]

Bruce smirked in response, mouth twisting in a semblance of good humor that didn't reach his eyes.

"No, I don't think that will be necessary. Thank you Alfred."

There was a room in the back of the cave he sometimes used on nights when he was either too hurt or too exhausted to make to the manor without collapsing. It would serve a different purpose now. Luckily no changes needed to be made to suit its new occupant. The furnishings were simple- a single twin bed in one corner and a sink with a cracked mirror in the other. An arch with a plastic curtain instead of a door led to a smaller room where there was an open sower and a toilet.

Bruce didn't spend much time in it, so he'd never bothered to fix it up. He supposed, in retrospect, it did rather resemble a prison, but he wasn't about to add any homey touches to make it more comfortable for a man he hated. What would the Joker even consider 'homey touches'? H decided he'd rather not know.

Carrying the unconscious clown to the room in question, Batman called back "I may need some medical supplies though. He's sick, maybe dehydrated. Oh, and some dry clothes." Without waiting for a response he ducked into the rest area and laid his enemy carefully on the bed. Now what? He had to be crazy as the Joker, bringing him back like his, and yet it still made some twisted kind of sense.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

There had been times in the past where Alfred had questioned Bruce's mental state - after all, who could blame him for occasionally being concerned - but all of those instances had been terribly brief before he would convince himself that Bruce had managed to keep his sanity intact despite an arduous history in his relatively short life.

However, at that particular moment, Alfred found himself miserably trying to fight off the thought that perhaps some fine wire inside of the young Master's brain had finally snapped under the weight of the city.

And now he was bringing clowns home. And putting them to bed.

Thankfully, Alfred had always been possessed of endless self-restraint; he followed Bruce into the stone-walled room and set down the medical kit he had brought with him before exiting again, dissappearing to retrieve dry clothes - which he dug up from the guest bedroom in the form of a pair of cotton pyjamas, the proper sort with buttons up the front, lapels, and a little breast pocket - and as an afterthought, taking a stack of towels.

He handed the clothes to Bruce,

"I'm sure the colour will do wonders for him." Alfred said, eyeing the unconscious criminal; though he wanted to deny it, he found he could follow Bruce's line of thinking. Chances were that Bruce had come across the Joker in his current state - morals and self-ordained rules had deemed that Bruce couldn't simply kill the Joker, but turning him in to Arkham asylum had proved a fruitless endeavor time and again.

He understood why Bruce had chosen this - he just wasn't sure it was the best option. Even though it was the most humane.

Alfred eyed the sorry state of the criminal, then reconsidered that; the Joker, as he understood, had referred to himself as a mad dog from time to time. It was a metaphor that had Alfred considering that Bruce Wayne was a much better man than he would ever be, because in the world that Alfred had come from, rabid animals got put down.

Maybe it was the make-up - the ghastly red and white and black that had been smeared from the elements and were running in rivulets of colour from sweat, sticking in cuts and matting hair. He was filthy. He hardly looked human.

Alfred reminded himself that the Joker was a human being; it was difficult to do.

"You've got your work cut out for you, then." Alfred said, crossing over to the sink for a moment; he approached the clown with the air of one approaching an atomic bomb that has only a few seconds left before detonation, armed with a damp cloth.

"If he bites, by the way, you're not stitching me up." he added, "I'll be going to a bloody doctor, is what."

He brushed the cloth against the Joker's temple, a single drag across skin that took a mess of grease make-up with it, leaving a small, bare patch of pink. How -

- human.

He moved the cloth down again, and the Joker stirred, as though protesting to the removal of the make-up even while unconscious.

 

[Chantho]

Bruce only grunted in response, eyes fixed on the slowly emerging human face beneath the Joker’s paint. It unnerved him somewhat to see his enemy like this, so vulnerable. Almost like he’d walked in on him naked. For a few seconds he stood transfixed, but then shook himself out of it and placed the clothes on an old wooden chair by the door.

“I wouldn’t worry about that too much right now. Doesn’t look like he’s going to wake up for a while. And when he does, I’ll be the one dealing with him, not you.”

There was no way. For starters, there was a good chance that seeing Alfred would lead the Joker to piece together clues about Batman’s identity, but more importantly, Bruce had lost enough friends to this man. The last thing he needed was for his oldest and closest confidant to get hurt trying to take care of him.

The dark suited man stepped out of the room, returning moments later sans cape and padding. He was tired and hot and right now the only part of himself he was really worried about protecting was his face. With the Joker in this state he hardly thought weapons and heavy padding necessary. By this time, the sleeping madman’s face was almost fully revealed and if it hadn’t been for the scars and greasy green tint to his hair, Bruce might not have recognized him.

There really was a person under all that after all. Not that it changed anything. But it did make him wonder what it was that caused to Joker to act out the way he did. Was it just insanity or had something provoked this, the same way the murder of Bruce’s parents had spurred him to become a vigilante? Nothing about the Joker was simple. Asking him would likely only result in mocking laughter or another useless story about his scars. And he’d heard so many.