And now from Harley's POV~

Harley hums as she arranges fresh-cut flowers in a vase, propping petals into place. Adjusting according to perfection. The splash of life and color goes against the grain of gray, brightening the interior of asylum turned makeshift abode.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig

Roses remind her of Ivy – of perfume and stolen money and kisses. ("Life? More like murder victims," Red would say, wincing as stems squeeze – wheeze – through the bottle's choked neck.) She shakes her head. No room for reminiscing; she only has eyes for her hubby, who had gone out and left her home with the babies. (She'd begged him to take them out for a walk while he was at it, but he kicked her aside and claimed he was busy. He's always busy.)

Two of them snap and growl playfully at her heels as she floats about her domain, occupying with domestic duties. Preparing a well balanced meal of pancakes and eggs and bacon (occasionally tossing a few strips to the lil' nippers, who yip and descend on each other like a pair of wild animals, scrabbling for each scrap). …And pie. Can't forget the pie.

Eyes slant, sliding off to the side; exit stage right. Where her other "child" sleeps behind the curtain. With a chipper smile, she throws back the blind and announces:

"Mornin', pumpkin! Rise and shine, it's time for breakfast!"

Robin jerks awake, blearily blinking from the excruciating abundance of light. Pain pounds against his skull, drumming, drilling agony. It takes a minute for him to attune, mind grappling groggily through a disorienting fog of drugs and delirium – slowly coming to the sinking realization that he's still stuck in the same nightmare he's been having for days. (Was it days? He can't tell anymore, with the absence of sun to regulate circadian rhythm.)

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey! I made your favorite: You like pancakes, don't you?"

Pancakes. Think. Process. He remembers pancakes. Remembers sitting at the table with Bruce and Dick and Alfred and Barbara (no she wasn't there or was she oh god he can't remember where was she where was Batgirl Nightwing Batman anybody). The smell of sweetness and meat combined with his own nervous sweat makes him dizzy and homesick – sick to his stomach.

"Jus' wait a minute while I add the 'special ingredient'! This will perk you up right away!"

Harley giggles as she twirls the turkey baster in her hand, spurting nauseating green liquid. (Again, the thought of poison sends a pang to her hippocampus, but she pushes it aside.)

Robin blanches, curdling in his abdomen. As soon as her back is turned, he attempts another in a long list of fruitless getaway plans. Despite however many times he's tried before – to no avail – he strains against the binds strapping him to the table. Writhing desperately, wriggling his wrists, testing futilely in every direction. They hold fast though. …No, wait. Success. One of them starts to slip loose. Please, just a little more-

The hounds' senses pique, and they jolt up from their bones, barking loudly to alert Master – Mother – of their new "brother's" delinquency. Tattletales.

They pounce in unison, pinning his arm. Panting and fur and fangs hot against his ear. Harley rushes over to quickly tighten the belt, clucking her tongue like a hen.

"Ah-ah-ah! You're still in time-out, mister," she tuts. "I'm afraid this earns you another punishment. Jus' wait 'till Daddy gets home and sees what a naughty boy you've been. He's gonna ground you good, birdboy."

Robin's brain spins, seizing the revelation.

"Where's Joker?"

He cranes his neck, searching frantically through the narrow space for signs of olive hair and a purple pinsuit.

"Mr. J left to run some errands, but he left me in charge. It's just you and me, Boy Blunder." She taps his nose with a gloved pointer, peering into frightened pupils behind the domino mask through her own. "We get to play together today. …Or so I'd say, but Mr. J said to leave raising you to him." Tracing along the edge of the façade, lips twitch in amusement as she observes panic lines tremble and tense. She threatens further by daring to lift a nail underneath, gently prying. "He told me 'no peeking' either. Spoilsport, he gets to hog all the fun."

She pouts, but while the temptation is strong, her loyalty is stronger. She leaves curiosity alone, and he exhales in relief.

Still, he thinks. This is his chance. He doesn't know when or if another opportunity like this will present itself again; how long he will last before he breaks.

"Harley," he croaks. "Please. Let me go, and I promise I won't let Batman do anything to you. We can pretend this never happened, that you weren't involved."

She cocks her head. "B Man? Puh-lease, do I look like a fool?" (Nevermind the fact she's dressed as one.) "As if he'd actually believe that."

"He told me, your real name is Harleen Quinzel. You were a psychiatrist once. Joker gave you some sob story about his dad abusing him, right? You should know better than anyone, victims of abuse tend to carry on the cycle when they grow older." (Doesn't matter whether it's true or not, he just needs to convince her by playing along. …Not to mention maybe he's speaking a little from experience, but he won't admit to that.) "Don't let him do this. It's not too late. You can put a stop to it right now. You've tried to reform before. We can help you."

Keep talking. Bargain. Plead. Rely on the power of persuasion, appeal to whatever shred of sanity – humanity – decency she has left. …Because it's all he has left.

Harley bites her bottom lip, and for a second, there seems to be a flicker of stability – sympathy. Semblance of a soul. …A sense that maybe this is all wrong somehow. But then she sneers, in a way that makes his spine shiver more than Joker's manic expression ever did.

"I don't think you understand. Because…" She stoops, leaning in close enough for Robin to distinguish pores beneath the thick layer of pancake makeup. He flinches as she cups his cheek, red velvet fabric and ruffled cuff rubbing against his throat. It itches and chafes, but he can't scratch. (At her, that is.)

"I really, really hate you. Mr. J… He's everything to me. Even though he has me, he still chose you. One of Bat's kids." The way she whispers his name, it's with half-reverence, half-resentment. "Hell, he's been paying more attention to you than he ever has towards me. He did the same thing with Ace too. And even that was just to get under Batsy's skin. I mean seriously, what's a girl gotta do to get some lovin' around here?"

He doesn't know who Ace is. But he knows – unfortunately all too well – what she's talking about. For a brief moment, he thinks of long nights spent down in the Cave, Batman hovering by the computer, completely focused on whatever case he was working on. Meanwhile, he flips and balances, dodging lasers, tossing Batarangs, running the obstacle course a million times, waiting to be noticed, to be praised – how much his skills have polished, time and aim have equally improved.

Batman raises his head – but it's only to greet Batgirl, who brings him coffee. They think he doesn't detect the awkward fumble and fondness as fingers brush, passing the beverage between them. But he does. And it makes him queasy and uncomfortable, wondering whether to tell Dick when he calls from Blüdhaven just to check how his lil bro's doing (teasingly asking if he's keeping up with studies as well as keeping the peace in Gotham during his absence) or grit his teeth and lie by saying everything's fine and leave it at that but either way it drives him up the walls.

…So one evening, when Bruce and Barbara are both curled up on the sofa watching a movie (after she finally convinced him to take some time off from being Batman for once) and they believe he's already fast asleep upstairs since it's a school night, he sneaks past them into the basement, grabs the suit and flees from the suffocation (feeling overcrowded despite the hugeness of the house), flies free on the rooftops where he can breathe, beating frustration and jealous envy into street thugs until two of them turn out to be fakes and he's seeing stars and diamonds and an oversized mallet before it all goes scarlet and black-

"Harley…" He gulps. "Don't you get it? Joker's never loved you. All he cares about is himself. He's just using you. How many times has he hurt you on purpose? Abandoned you, left you for dead? Listen, you don't have to follow his rules. Let's show him; we can escape together."

The corners of her mouth constrict, forming a disappointed frown. She removes her palm – before sharply bringing it back down in swift retribution for his defiance.

"Don't you dare talk about my puddin' that way. You and Batman, you're both the same. You're just trying to confuse me. Well it won't work this time. No sir."

Crimson spreads across his skin, still stinging from shock. Rage tempers as she tenderly touches the mark, wiping dry tears he's clearly fighting with every last ounce of strength to hold back.

"You want my advice, kid? Give in. Quit fighting so much. You're only making it harder on yourself. Why struggle when you can just let go? Trust me, it's better, easier to smile all the time. You don't feel pain or sadness that way. They say laughter is the best medicine, after all."

She cackles, bending over her belly, and her precious pups throw back their heads and howl with her.

"…You really are insane."

She stops, and grins at him.

"No kidding?"

"Joker may be a monster, but you're just as mad if you think you can remain in denial forever."

As if to spite him, she places her hands over her ears.

"Lalala, I'm not listening~ …See? That's how it's done. Now it's your turn."

She skips back to the station where she left the warm spread, snatching a slice of pie.

"Come now, open wide~"

"…I'm not eating that."

A beat. Harley stares silently before pinching his nostrils ("Got your conk!"), forcibly inclining his head back until he has to inhale through another route, and she shovels the tart pastry down his gullet until he gags.

"Eat. The damn. Pie."

She beams with pride when he finally swallows a piece, releasing her vicegrip hold.

"There's a good boy."

He continues to cough and spit on the rest, turning pale as he tries his hardest to resist the raucous laughter bubbling, burning in his gut. She asks, with all sincerity:

"Aw, what's the matter, sweetheart? You don't like Mommy's cooking?"

"It's – hehe – disgusting. And you're – ha – not my mother."

Harley pats his hair.

"Maybe not, but I'll make it right. Tell ya what: If you behave, then I promise we'll all go ice skating. …Or was it to the circus?" There's a chilling glaze in her eyes, dazed and glassy. Hazy. "Either way, it doesn't matter. We'll be one big happy family, you'll see." She plants a token of affection on his forehead. "Now then, it's back to beddy-bye for you."

She starts to leave, and Robin pines after her one last time.

"Ha – haha – Harley, wait. Please don't go." He begs. "Don't leave me here – heeheehee – in the dark."

She swivels on her heel and smirks.

"Don't worry, dear, I wouldn't leave you alone. …Not after that little stunt you tried to pull." She blows another kiss to her babies. "Boys, keep an eye on him. You all play nice together now."

The canines snarl and circle around their prey, snickering at his predicament. Their mirth echoes each other, a musical of merriment. Bye bye birdie. She shuts the screen on the symphony, listening for hours until the laughter fades. (For as much as she yearns to mess with the pyrotechnics backstage – just to teach the star "actor" a lesson – this was a private puppet show not meant for her.)

"Nighty-night."

–

He dreams of the circus.

His dad took him once, to see the Flying Graysons. Even though they hadn't much extra cash to spare on pleasures (and the old man was hardly around to begin with – let alone sober), it was their first time out together after Mom died.

…That day also ended with a boy losing not one, but both his parents.

He remembers pandemonium and later on police sirens, and a man in a suit pushing past the mob to get to the front. He starts to pursue, but then a flash of red and yellow catches his eye in the crowd, a familiar flutter of black hair.

"Hey, wait!"

He chases after, dodging and weaving, wedging between waves in a sea of bodies. Finally catching up outside the tent, he reaches out to grab the figure's arm-

"Annie…? You're alive?"

The girl turns around, and he recoils at the sight of half her face melted like clay.

"Why couldn't you save me, Robin?"

The limb he's holding onto fluxes, clamoring, climbing over his. Reaching towards his throat, pulling him in close to confront the doll-like iris, bloomed wide with anger and accusation.

"I tried. I swear I did everything I could. Even after you were absorbed, I researched any possible way to get you back. But nothing worked. Annie, I- I'm sorry." He gasps as the tentacles tauten into a noose, coagulating to crush his windpipes.

"Sorry's not good enough. Some hero you are."

The hissing deepens, hoarsening to a rasping gravel. Bringing down the gavel. Warped flesh congeals, morphing into an even more grotesque shape. Blue blisters bulge like bile on one side as they stiffen and solidify, still split straight down the center. His horror intensifies as he immediately recognizes the streak of stark white hair and bared gums, a frayed brow arching over a single monstrous moon boring into his own.

"Face it, kid. You're no better than your old man. Nothing but a worthless failure."

He tries to deny.

"This isn't real. You're not real."

A derisive laugh.

"Just goes to show, you're as half-crazy as me now. Batman can't save you at this point, any more than he could save me. Not when you're the one going batty. Can't tell heads from tails anymore, am I right?"

Again he averts, attempting to twist away.

"You're wrong. Let go of me!"

"There's no escape. You can't run from yourself, who you are."

"Shut up shut up shut up!"

He punches as hard as he can. His captor relents, releasing. As he takes off, he hears the mocking echo:

"One face, Two-Face, Clayface… I wonder what's your real face?"

He darts back into the big top, stumbling, crashing, tripping – ripping through the flaps. A spotlight suddenly exposes him, causing him to freeze.

"Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Robin, the Boy Wonder!"

He looks down to see he's wearing the costume somehow, and standing high above on one of the platforms. The audience rouses an applause. They're all wearing blank masks, faceless shadows. Their cheering makes him want to vomit, strip off his own. Claw and shred at the skintight covering, keep it from stifling. Becoming.

"Watch closely, folks, as he performs the gravity-defying feat of the century!"

A gleam of ruby, emerald and gold moves past him, leaping gracefully without hesitation. Spreading wings, the flowing cape blurs into blue and black, majestic and sleek.

"Nightwing…?"

The acrobat alights elegantly on the other side, and turns to cue towards him.

Your turn.

There's an expectant hush over the spectators, as every slim slit peers up at him in unison. He shakes his head, backing away from the drop.

"I can't make that jump."

You're asking the wrong person.

I'll seriously die if I fall.

I'm scared.

He discerns two silhouettes looming behind the other, dark outlines blending seamlessly as one. Their disapproving gazes all say the same:

If you can't keep up, then you've no business being on this team.

The three turn their backs and start to walk away, vanishing into the gloom. He stretches out, crying after:

"Batman, Batgirl, Nightwing, wait! Don't go!"

You're not part of this family.

"You don't belong with them, kid. You're one of us now."

He swerves to see Arkham's gallery encroaching on him, like a mad merry-go-round, a crazed carnival. A pack of rabid dogs come to claim a stray mutt off the streets.

"No… Stay away."

He sinks to his knees, clutching his head. Trying to drown out the jeering whispers in every direction.

If I can't be Robin then…

Who am I?

Just then, another voice beckons to him. Soft and soothing, far-off but familiar.

"Tim."

Slowly, he rotates back to see an angelic image replaced the absent trio, exuding a glow so vivid it hurts. It takes a while to register, but then memory clicks.

"Mom…?"

The smiling woman nods and holds out her arms. Even from this distance, he can perceive compulsive scuff marks on royal flushed skin, scraped paper-thin. In addition to the revealing rash, he notes further the depressed respiration, wary pinpoint pupils and weary droop of lids... But it doesn't matter. All he can think is that she's here.

"Mom… I missed you."

"I missed you too. My son, my darling Timmy… You've grown so big. Come here, take off that mask and let me look at you."

A part of him warns that this too is false – a fantasy – but he casts conscience aside. The siren song is too intoxicating. Right now he doesn't want to be a hero – or a villain. To be anything but… What was it? "Mommy's little helper," she used to call him, when he brought her the pills for the pain she always seemed to be in. (He hated seeing her in pain.) He just wants to run to her like when he was younger, smaller – to be coddled and consoled and told he was special, loved. …That everything would be all right. Right now, all he craves is safety, security. Someone to ease his pain.

Wobbling, he rises. And falls.

As he slips, so does his disguise – and he plummets into the madhouse. Resembling a balloon about to burst, one of the dancing clown heads swells, enlarging to eagerly engulf. Before he's consumed by blackness, the last thing he hears is mania ringing in his ears, like it's all one big joke…

–

He wakes, screaming.

Concerned, genuinely, by the outburst, Harley hurries to his side.

"What's wrong, sweetie, did you have a nightmare?"

She cradles, caresses. Holding his head close as he sobs into her chest. Mothering. Smothering.

"Shh. It's okay, JJ. It's okay."

It's okay, Tim. It's okay.

"Mommy's here now."

She coos and dotes. Crooning cuckoo.

Promise you won't go anywhere.

"I promise."

Stroking his hair, she sings to him a lullaby until he quiets down.

Hush little baby, don't say a word

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird

…

So hush little birdie, don't you cry,

Daddy loves you and so do I

–

"Honey, I'm home!"

Harley emerges from behind the drape to greet an exuberant Joker.

"Welcome home, puddin'!"

He carries on with high spirits, clearly in a good mood. Sauntering forth, he proudly shoves his prize for the day in her face, practically beside himself with glee.

"Lookie what I got! Now we'll be a matching set!"

She surveys the tiny tux he dangles in front of her, suppressing a slight twinge of disgust. Dutifully, she claps her hands as she admires the tweed.

"Why… It's lovely, Mr. J. He'll look just like his father."

"Took me a while to find one in a smaller size. Had to go to a tailor to get it just right, and even then he kept complaining. Only way to shut him up was with a bullet between the eyes."

With his other hand, he tosses a hefty sack to the hyenas.

"Here you go, boys. A little present for you."

Even though they're still bloated from earlier, they graciously accept the offering, dragging and tearing their feast off to greedily stuff themselves more.

"And don't think I forgot about you, sugarbun."

To Harley's astonishment, he produces a bouquet of sunny blossoms from behind his back, like a magic trick.

"Oh, Mr. J! You shouldn't have."

He inflates his chest, pulling his lapel straightforward.

"I feel quite… badly about the way I treated you this morning, so I figured a nice surprise would make up for it. Can you ever forgive me, Harleykins?"

"Aw, puddin', you know I could never stay mad at you…"

He smiles and tilts her chin, drinking in docile doe eyes, basking in lovestruck worship. Like an adoring puppy seeking its Master's approval. Soon, he would have another Pavlovian partner; more keen and powerful than the first but just as well-trained. Tamed. Then he would have no more use for this rag doll anymore. (Can't teach an old dog new tricks after all.) But until then, he knows how to satisfy, manipulate a marionette's strings.

He gives her a peck, sending her into giddy hysterics. However, he merely follows with a bored yawn, vision lazily drifting towards the armchair on the second floor.

"Phew, I'm exhausted after listening to all that bloke's inane chatter. Incessant, it was. He did such a shoddy job too. I mean, look at these trousers. He turned them into shorts. Who wears shorts in this day and age? Honestly, after all the time I spent getting the proper measurements too." He heaves a prolonged sigh. "I might just wait to break the good news to Junior tomorrow."

Harley sets the bunch on the table and moves to massage her mate's tired shoulders.

"Before you take a rest, I thought you should know… He tried to run away from home again."

Joker pauses, a stern look crossing his face.

"Well, we can't have that now, can we? No child living under this roof will be caught sneaking out on my watch. Looks like I'll have to teach our belligerent son some manners... If it's a whoopin' he's a wantin', well he's gonna get it."

He rolls up his sleeves and steps into the small chamber. Through the crack, Harley catches glimpse of him picking up a crowbar from the operating table as he approaches, whistling while he swings. Batter up. She turns away from the sound of whimpers and wailing between heavy whips (no more clever counter-quips), and begins carefully adding florets to her previous display. Counting the number of leaves and lashes. Emotions waver, but her resolve doesn't wilt. Burying her face in the buds, she lets the fragrance mixed with overwhelming acid cologne win her over.

"Serves you right."

–

Days later, she watches the children play together from the kitchen.

Like a toddler, JJ sits with legs splayed on the floor, mechanically rolling a ball back and forth between his brothers. While mostly mute, occasionally he makes minute gurgles and moans of delight (or distress, she's not sure). He's dressed in that miniature version of Daddy's outfit, and she has to admit it's a perfect fit. …The bowtie's a bit crooked though – like his smile.

Joker snaps his fingers, summons his pet to bring the newspaper to the table. Robotically, the puppet whirs to action. Waddling over to fetch the weeks-old publication, he trots back obediently, shy tail between his legs like some poor housebroken creature. The lad ducks for an instant as his head is congratulated, before tentatively wagging with glee.

"Good boy."

He realigns the ribbon, and they all sit down to eat. Harley happily feeds JJ spoonfuls of pudding, dabbing the dribble while Joker leans back and puffs on his pipe. Truly, a picturesque scene of family bliss. So flawless she could frame it on a postcard and send it to Red. (She needn't worry about B Man. Mr. J would no doubt make sure he received one as well.)

This is what she always wanted…

Isn't it?

There's a light tug on her sleeve, as JJ timidly beseeches her for more. She smiles, and obliges.

"It seems that the advantage mockingbirds gain from leaving these alien eggs in their nests is that they attract some of the destructive behaviour in later cowbird visits, and this benefit outweighs the cost of later having to rear the cowbird nestlings. This is likely to be because, unlike other parasitic birds such as the cuckoo, mockingbird chicks do well in competition with their parasitic nest-mates - fledging at rates similar to those of unparasitized broods."

-Professor Alex Kacelnik, Oxford University's Department of Zoology