a/n: In my head, the orderly is Scottish. If you can't do a Scottish accent in your head then he can be whatever accent you can do. Maybe it's just coz I'm a Brit and a northerner myself, but I wrote him in me heed as a Scot. It's a brilliant accent, after all. And c'mon, don'tcha all get bored of all the Americano?

Not sure if this is a oneshot yet. Depends if anything else comes to me. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. We'll see.

And sorry about the typos, I'm beta'ing it as I go along here but it was posted at around 3am last night so it's not gonna be mistake free.

Enjoy! {FS}

An orderly was showing Bruce Wayne around the asylum. Mr Wayne didn't look like he particularly wanted to be there, but he kept up appearances. The orderly imagined Mr Wayne's life to consist of simply keeping up appearances. It was almost sad, if you took out the parties, women, drink, money and over-privileged lifestyle. He was out of his depth in the dark, damp corridors of the asylum; visibly twitching and flinching when some poor fucker screamed out or banged against the cell doors. He played with his tie each time they passed a cell where someone was singing. And a lot of patients sang.

"Sorry about this, Mr Wayne. We generally keep the tours to the less dangerous prisoners but we're short staffed as it is and there was an… incident earlier in the cafeteria. I'm the only person left who can get down here to check on him."

Mr Wayne, to his justice, shrugged nonchalantly. "It's okay."

They kept walking, their footsteps echoing against the walls. The asylum halls were like a labyrinth, the only thing reminding you of a hospital was the clinical smell of the place. Disinfectant and drugs with an undertone of blood and despair. No wonder so many of the staff were on antidepressants.

The only windows were barred, and they were too far into the hospital for even those to be visible. The only light was artificial, stunted, yellow and flickering. Shadows jumped out from corridors leading off to other areas of the hospital. Ancient pipes dripped and leaked. They would pass cells where piss was leaking out from under the door, ammonia filling the air and yellow pooling where they walked.

Mr Wayne sidestepped the puddles, expensive shoes missing the piss and his nose wrinkling in the slightest hint of distaste. The orderly would sigh each time and press a button outside the cell. He glanced at Bruce, "Calls someone down here to come and clean up. It happens a lot. Poor fuckers don't know what day it is."

Bruce's eyebrows rose slightly, and the orderly could tell he was feeling awkward.

"I am sorry about this, Mr Wayne."
Bruce raised a hand in a gesture that it was okay. The orderly smiled and nodded.

"It's not far now."

He kept walking, and Bruce wondered how anyone found their way around. He supposed it was an effective way of preventing escapes. It was oppressive, though. Bruce was certain that if you didn't go in mad you'd have a hard time holding it back once you were in there. He was already starting to go fuzzy.

The orderly glanced at Mr Wayne out of the corner of his eye. The closer they got to the cell the more nervous he seemed to become. He supposed it was only natural. Even people who'd been working here years had their heart rate increase as they walked through the corridors towards the central solitary area. Even his mouth was dry. There was just an aura of hate, or evil, or madness. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. Mr Wayne must really be suffering.

Bruce wanted to see the Joker. He wanted to see the person behind the make-up. He wanted to see the human that was hiding such a monster. He was concerned that the Joker would recognise him…

The orderly knew that Bruce Wayne had been hit hard by the death of his childhood friend Rachel Dawes. He knew that the Joker had killed her. He supposed Bruce wanted to see the face that had destroyed his best friend; to prove he was actually real.

Bruce had been fighting this for a long time, he'd wanted to come down here since the Joker had been locked up because he didn't believe that he'd still be there. But he'd fought it. Spent some time on his own, left Batman in the cave, mourned Rachel. And then one day, he needed to see him. He didn't know why. But he did. It was like some kind of magnetic pulse drawing him in, pulling them together.

He hated to think about it.

"Alright, he's just down the hall. He'll probably be doing press-ups. We can't exactly stop him, he's not causing any trouble, but it unsettles the staff that he's keeping his fitness up. He'll look at the door when we move the cover, but he usually just keeps going."

The guard wetted his lips, nervously. It reminded Bruce of the Joker.

"There's a but here, right?"
"Yeah. I'm concerned that because you're not staff he might react differently. I mean, you're Bruce Wayne. He's not an idiot. He's quite the opposite. You're not trained to deal with him and he'll know what he's done to you. I don't know if he'll try something with you or not."
"Something?"

The orderly sighed, "He gets into your head. It's the way he works. I don't know how, he just does. We had to commit his psychiatrist because he got into her head. I don't want to know what they were doing in there but she started blowing things up in the city, causing havoc. The Batman brought her in. She screamed for him, cried, kicked the walls until her feet bled. She tried to cut her wrists with a plastic knife, Mr Wayne. How does he do that?" He shook his head, "The people working on him at the moment think there's something up with the way his brains wired. They don't think he has a personality. They think he just wakes up and decides what he wants to be. Some days he wants to play cards with you, almost pleads, will sit quietly in therapy and play board games and do magic tricks and he sits and writes letters to the Batman in crayon. Always immaculately drawn, hearts and flowers. Seriously, all the colours of the rainbow. He'll sit and tell you anything you want to know about him. Different story every time. We're all agreed that he doesn't remember who he is, well, who he was. But he's sweet as a nut, you know."

The orderly sighed again, "And then other days you have to fight to get him to the therapy room. After he killed a couple of guys we decided to leave him alone. I know, we should've done that in the first place, but the psychs, they don't fucking listen to us. He doesn't do much other than laugh. He occasionally threatens people, swears at them. Mainly he just stares. He can look right into your soul, man. The scars he's got just… add to it. You know for a fact if he could get out he'd kill every single person in this building for fun before he goes back out on the streets. You can see it in his eyes.

"He tells stories about the people he's killed; about all the ways he's sucked life out of all the people. I don't know if he remembers them or if he just makes them up but he can recollect every detail down to nothing. He recalls that, but not his past. I don't know what would be worse; the fact he can concoct these things in his imagination or that he actually did them. I think he did it Mr Wayne. He remembers each and every one of his victims that he killed by his own hand. What kind of a man can do that? We say he doesn't have a conscience, that he's crazy, and yet he can tell us all the details, the pattern of the blood spray, the emotion in their eyes. He tells us to freak us out, and it works. But why does he remember? Why does he store their faces in his memory?

"Some days he'll only say one thing, will only ask for one thing. Just "Batman" over and over. We don't know if his obsession is sexual or if he just sees Batman as a worthy opponent. He sometimes goes into long rants about how 'his Bat' completes him and how they'll fight forever. How he can't live without Batman and Batman can't live without him. He says that Batman knows this as well as he does, and he just won't admit it. I don't know whether he does it just to make us squirm, but the idea of it makes everyone uncomfortable. Imagine if they teamed up? I don't think Batman would but the way things are going who knows? What if he's as fucked up as the Joker is? What if the Joker gets so deep that Batman cracks?

"The drugs don't help. Nothing we put him on. He doesn't even sedate right and it's too difficult to stick the needle in. We've lost good men that way. He's like a child. A psychopathic, killer child in an adult's body with full intelligence and ridiculous strength. He's too quick for any of us, too brutal. We have to learn to read his moods but them upstairs, they don't listen. They pass him around like an unwanted Christmas present and no one ever learns because no one can cope. Mr Wayne, he's… I dunno. If I believed in aliens or the devil or something I'd say he's that. But the thought that he's just human, like the rest of us, that's the scariest thing of all."

The orderly stopped in front of an isolated door, bolted more than the rest, the door heavier, more solid. He smiled at Bruce.

"Well here goes. Just… ignore him as best you can, okay?"

Bruce nodded, but shifted nonetheless so he could get a better view inside of the room. The orderly lifted shaking fingers to the hatch and slid it aside.

The Joker's eyes flickered up from where he was on the floor, his biceps flexing as he moved his body up from the floor and let himself fall again. A faint sheen of sweat covered the parts exposed from the orange vest and grey tracksuit bottoms he wore. Bruce wondered why he wasn't wearing standard uniform, but he supposed that it was because he was the Joker. He was distinctive.

Green eyes flickered to the floor and then he frowned and stopped moving; his body in the air. He muttered "247" and then cocked his head to the side looking at the orderly again. His eyes flickered behind him to Bruce and his tongue flickered out to lick his scars.

Bruce was startled by the face staring at him. The Joker was probably a couple of years younger than himself. His skin was tanned, the scars pale pink monstrosities cutting into the flesh of his cheeks; the scars Bruce himself had inflicted on the side of his face stood fresh, small, deep, slightly more reddened than the old ones because of the more recent wounds. He had dark circles under his eyes to match the black he wore when he was out of the asylum; he looked like he hadn't slept in years. His hair was blond and curly, as greasy as ever, teeth still yellow when he opened his mouth to run his tongue over lips and scar tissue. His gaze never flickered, never wavered. Bruce was startled most by the fact that he had goddamned freckles across his nose.

The Joker leapt to his feet, making both of the men behind the glass jump. The Joker smirked, sauntering forwards like he owned the place. He stopped short of the doorway and folded his arms, leaning forwards so he could rest on them. He cocked his head, staring through the glass and straight at Bruce. He licked his lips again and snorted, holding back a giggle. He barely blinked. A lesser man would falter. Bruce made himself look away and back a few times, forced himself to gulp, added a tremble. The Joker laughed again, and the noise gained Bruce's attention, honing in on the noise like a dog on a scent trail. The orderly looked back to Bruce and the Joker noticed.

He rested his head on one arm, picked up the other and waved by clenching his hand. He mouthed "hey baby." And then he started to laugh, all of the time still staring at Bruce.

The orderly looked back and shook his head, slamming the screen back over the Joker's still laughing mouth, his yellow teeth shining behind his pink lips, the scars stretching and contorting his face. Once it was closed, the orderly shuddered.

"He's a mad bastard, sorry about that Mr Wayne. I was hoping he would ignore you. He must just be in one of those moods."

They walked back down the piss-soaked corridor with its leaky pipes and jumping shadows, their footsteps echoing, their breath clouding. The Joker's laughter followed them, getting louder and louder as they went along, creeping through their ears and into their heads. They both saw a white face with black eyes and red lips and green hair.

Bruce was haunted by the human within. He had been so desperate to see it, and now he wished he could take it back. It made everything seem more sick.

He almost felt as though a weight had lifted when he stepped out through the Arkham gates and back into Gotham. Even the polluted air of the city felt fresh and clean compared to the building full of lost souls he'd just exited.

…

The next rota call the same orderly made his way down the corridors. It had only been half an hour or so. He pressed the bells on the cell doors where piss was leaking out. His heart rate increased as he got closer, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

A slight noise from behind him made him jump and he spun round, clicking on a torch and shining it into the alcove. He didn't see anything and so cursed himself for letting the Joker's earlier performance get to him so badly. He chuckled slightly thinking of how Mr Wayne wouldn't sleep for weeks.

He turned the corner and instantly sensed something was wrong. He felt watched and glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. He slipped as his foot hit something wet and sticky. Now he thought about it, the air was metallic.

He looked down at his feet and they were in pooling blood. He rushed to the Joker's cell door and it was open. One of the many Arkham staff members was lying in a pool of blood, their throat slit. He rushed over and leant down; the body was still warm. He didn't know who the man was or what he did. He didn't know whether the Joker had killed him because he didn't like him, or whether he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

His eyes flickered to the wall. The white was stained with red. The message read:

MY BABY'S MISSED ME

He'd added a smiley face, the mouth was in the shape of a bat.

He hit the buzzer and the alarm instantly started to sound, piercing into the normal quiet hum of the asylum. Prisoners started to scream and bang their fists against the doors, adding to the noise until you couldn't hear yourself think. The orderly ran through the corridors until his lungs burnt and his legs hurt, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.

The Joker was running his hands over with alcohol gel at the end of the corridor and the orderly skidded to a halt upon seeing him. There was blood on his shirt, his hands, his arms, his pants – even in his hair. He was barefoot, his bloody shoes lying by his feet and the orderlies brain unhelpfully added that that was how he hadn't left a trail behind. The Joker smiled at the orderly and waved, some of the blood coming off in the foam of the gel and hitting the floor in a pink mess of bubbles, most just smearing up his arms.

"You might wanna clean up yourself; don't wanna go spreading any germsaround."

The orderly's mouth was dry; he tried to speak but couldn't. The Joker walked forwards, stalking, his face contorted into a frown.

"Whats the matter, hm? Gonna show me a smile? C'mon, man, why so serious?"

The orderly laughed; he was going to die anyway, why the hell not. The Joker smiled.

"Atta boy, that's more like it."

He turned around and started to walk away.

"Hey, where you going?"

The Joker stopped and looked over his shoulder, "Ah, didn't you get my message? I made it pretty big. See, I'm kinda bored of this place and I'm getting restless. Do you think Batsy will have missed me? I do. I can't keep him waiting any longer. I'm just sure he wants to get his fists against my skin and start punching!" The Joker laughed.

"And what about me?"

"What aboutcha, um, what was your name again, buddy. Never seemed to get a glimpse of your badge."
"Henry."
"Henry. Well, Henry. I kinda like you. You brought Bruce Wayne down into the pits of hell to see me. Did he get piss on his shoes? I really hope he did. I bet he burns them when he gets home." He laughed again. "And anyway, if I killed you, who would pass on the message? Once you get over your shock of course. Get you a bitta time off, outta this place, I mean, it's bad in here. Mental health goes right down the pan. Okay for a holiday but to work here? I pity you."

"Someones gotta do it."
"Right, right. I'm not gonna kill a man for doing his job. Not unless you get in my way. You're not going to get in my way, are you Henry?"

Henry shook his head.

"Good. Well. I'll be seeing ya then. Say I punched you or something. Knocked you out." The Joker turned around and narrowed his eyes. "Actually…"

Henry felt a weight collide with the side of his head and everything went black.

…

Henry woke up lying on a table with a pounding headache in a very light room surrounded by doctors. Everyone seemed pleased he was awake. He had to tell his story to at least 7 people before he was allowed home.

…

The Joker walked right out of the asylum and into the streets wearing a bright orange vest and covered in blood and no one noticed. He stopped when he got outside for a second to pull on his shoes. He was in no hurry. Not one damned person looked at him twice. He found this hilarious.

…

Bruce heard the news, heard how the Joker had escaped, saw the message he'd left on the wall smuggled out by an employee who'd filmed it on a camera phone. He remembered the look in the Joker's eyes. The face behind the mask. The living, breathing human being and he shuddered.

The doorbell rang. He shouted for Alfred not to answer it and went himself.

A young man stood on the doorstep leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe; orange vest, grey tracksuit pants, blood all over himself. He was smiling at Bruce, yellowed teeth showing, scars contorted. He pushed his hair back from his face, blood holding it in place like gel and licked his scars.

"Hey beautiful, ah, how're things?"