Gravity, a batman fanfic

Title: Gravity (1/?)
Characters/Pairing: Batman/Joker, Selina Kyle (Catwoman), Jonathon Crane (Scarecrow), OMC
Rating: PG-13, at least for now. May go to R later for violence.
Word count: 3,000
Warnings: Eventual slash, drugs (prescription), violence (especially in later chapters), and spoilers for the new Batman movies. Which reminds me…
Universe: Nolanverse
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Summary: "How does it not infuriate you to know that I was—that I AM RIGHT?!"
Feedback: Is loved.
A/N: This is my first Batman fic. It was inspired by vibishan's "Option 4" on livejournal and spun wildly out of control.

"Murder in the first degree, arson in the first degree, extortion, conspiracy to commit mass murder—"

That's not true, Joker wants to point out. I don't conspire with anyone, ever. No one understands what I do. There's no one to conspire with.

"Kidnapping in the first degree…"

Joker rolls his eyes, letting himself zone out until he hears the final words.

"How does the defendant plead?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor," the defense attorney answers, "by reason of mental disease or defect."

Joker glares at the man. He really should protest at that. He isn't defective, oh no, far from it. But no one ever seems to realize that he's sane. And since he's already been admitted to Arkham and shot up with half a dozen sedatives, it's hard to voice his objections.

His tongue flicks out to the corner of his mouth, and again, tasting the paint, feeling the scars. Making sure he's still him. Making sure he hasn't gone… away.

"Your Honor, the defendant was admitted to Arkham Asylum without DA approval," the new ADA says. Another girl, smaller and with lighter hair than the one before—he can tell that much. "He displays no remorse for his actions and seems quite prepared to repeat any of his so-called 'social experiments'. The people request that he be moved to prison on remand."

"I'm an agent of chaos," Joker thinks. It's not quite a defense of his actions, and he isn't sure if he's said it out loud. It seems impossible that he could have spoken it, since his tongue is occupied running obsessively along the scars inside his mouth. With so many drugs messing with his head, it's so very hard to tell if he's here or not.

"Your Honor, my client is already under maximum security at Arkham, under heavy drug therapy to keep him sedated. It's a better arena than prison to test a defense of psychosis."

"Stop bickering." The judge looks at him the way she'd look at a spider she was about to step on. He tries to look right back at her, but he's getting tired. He hasn't been awake so long since he was first put on these drugs. "Defendant is to stay at Arkham, under maximum security, until psychological condition is confirmed. The defense will allow the DA's psychiatrist to examine him, and the DA will allow the Arkham doctors, and any other doctors the defense might employ, the same."

His eyelids are getting so heavy. It's hard to stay awake, but he doesn't want to dream. He only dimly knows that he's staying where he is, at least for now.

Bruce sat in the back row of the courtroom seats. He didn't want to be here; he knew they weren't going to let the Joker go, and he was pretty sure they weren't going to put him in prison; but he had to be here. It made no sense. Nothing would change from his being here. He hadn't gone to Crane's trial, or those of the mob members he'd locked up. He hadn't been planning to go to Lao's. But here he was, watching the guards drag the Joker away in handcuffs and only able to think one thing.

Good.

The new ADA was gathering up her things. She was a mousey little thing, with blonde hair tied back in a tight bun that made her look too strict and large glasses that made her look too small to wear them. Bruce considered stepping up to intercept her as she picked up her briefcase and headed for the door, carefully not looking anyone in the eye; but decided against it. There was something else he wanted to see before he came back this afternoon.

Selina Kyle headed down the hallway, trying very hard not to run. No one would catch her running from this case. It was her first case. She was expected to lose. At least she hadn't frozen up. And anyway, it wasn't like she'd even asked for this. Who in their right mind would sign up to replace a dead girl in the case against her murderer?

Tears were threatening now. She blinked hard against them and focused all her attention on what she was doing. Quick steps, but small steps; no reason to twist an ankle because you forgot you were wearing heels; hand out to push open the door; kick it to get it open like you've always done; out the door; to the car; open the door; briefcase on the passenger seat; get in; close the door; turn the key…

The sound of the car engine was soothing. Her eyes cleared of tears; her worries vanished. The road was a place where Selina had full control. She wasn't Selina here; no one would hold her to being Selina. She was a sleek black convertible with a door and hood that had come from a different car and many places where the paint had been scraped off when she ducked between cars she really shouldn't. She was on a par with every other car out there. They were all the same—nameless, faceless machines.

She set off, headed for her new boss' office. She knew what he would say, or roughly what he would say—"We expected that. It's disappointing, yes, but expected. We still have another shot at him, though—if our psychiatrist agrees in his evaluation, which he will. Now we need to focus on Crane. We've got him, and Arkham wants him. We've got the results of both evaluations. Talk to me. How are you going to keep him in prison?"

She didn't realize she was speaking out loud.

"I'll ask our shrink—psychiatrist," she corrected herself, "if he believes that Dr. Crane is a threat to himself. He'll say no; Dr. Crane holds his life in the highest regard and would never throw it away."

"And then?" She even spoke this part, imitating the DA's voice and intonation as best she could.

"They'll get their shrink, the new Arkham head doctor, on the stand to say that Dr. Crane is more of a threat in prison than he is in Arkham."

"Why will he say that?"

"He'll cite the same diagnoses our doctor came up with—sadism, narcissism, and sociopathic tendencies."

"How will that help them?"

This was the hardest one. "He'll… probably say that if he isn't monitored by people who specialize in dealing with those kinds of people, he'll be a greater threat."

"Go on."

"He'll say that without drugs to keep him under control, Dr. Crane's psychological illnesses would… would…" What was the term she was looking for? Dammit, she thought. She felt like she'd failed in the courtroom, like the judge had ruled against her because she couldn't think of what she wanted to say.

She returned to the road, momentarily defeated. She slid neatly around another car so close she nearly scraped its fender so she could turn at the next street. Then, there it was, the right words.

"Drugs would keep his violent tendencies under control. In prison, without drugs, his narcissism and disregard for life would drive him to be the best, to kill anyone who stood in his way."

"How will you refute that?"

"I'll point out—and get him to agree—that most people in prison display most of those same symptoms. And I'll ask, 'Would a narcissist work for someone else?' Crane, or Scarecrow, or whatever he's calling himself these days, did."

"How would they refute that?"

"It doesn't matter if they do. The other thing I'll ask is, 'Is there any way to cure any of those disorders?' There isn't. There isn't a way to effectively treat them. There isn't a way for him to refute that."

She barely recognized the road; automatically, her hands turned the wheel and moved the gear shift (she always drove stick; it made her feel more in control, more than equal to the machines around her), her feet pressed the pedals, and she found herself parked and headed into her boss' office.

Bruce had known from the moment they led the Joker in that, despite the fact that he waswearing his customary makeup and purple suit, he hadn't been able to put it on himself. The eye makeup was too clean, for one; it formed two perfect circles, and it didn't quite cover his eyelids. The lipstick, or red paint, or whatever they'd used, was all wrong, too; it didn't completely color the scars. The white paint was too thick; it didn't show the changes in his expressions, and the other colors didn't bleed into it at all. Add to that the absence of gloves, and it was pretty clear that the Joker wasn't quite in control of the situation.

But when he snuck into the holding cell that the Joker would be in until they put him into the secure transport, he hadn't expected to see any of what he did.

First, the Joker was sleeping. The rest ofGotham never slept, so as a general rule, neither did the two enemies. Something was…

Bruce pushed up the sleeve of the Joker's suit. He was somehow still surprised to see a total of twelve healing needle marks, and four more bandages that had to indicate even more shots.

Bruce took a step back, heading for the door of the holding cell before the (generously bribed) guards decided that fifteen minutes were up. He wasn't sure he wanted to look at the other arm and see if the Joker had any more marks.

He slipped out of the holding cell, only to stop when he heard the Joker's voice behind him.

"Told you…" Bruce whirled, every muscle taut. The Joker's eyes were still closed, but he kept talking, surprisingly articulate for being asleep. "These… civilized people… they'll eat each other. The chips are down, Batsy, and you're not their hero anymore…"

His eyes shuttled under the lids and seemed to focus forward. "Can't you see?" he murmured. "I WAS RIGHT!" His eyes flew open, apparently startled awake by the sound of his own voice, but he continued in the same vein. "How can you not see—how does it not infuriate you to know that I was—that I AM RIGHT?!"

As though it had never happened, the Joker slumped back onto the bench, silent and asleep. Barely able to breathe, Bruce made sure the cell door was closed and locked before leaving.

The hearing went exactly as Selina had expected—until she heard Dr. Keane's answer to her question about narcissism.

"Would a narcissist willingly—proudly, even—work for someone else?" she asked, just as she'd practiced with the DA.

"Probably not," Dr. Keane admitted.

"Then why," she asked, "would Dr. Crane? If he really is as narcissistic as you say, wouldn't that defy his whole outlook on himself? Why would he not only work for someone, but advertise that fact?"

"The same reason an arrogant, supposedly self-sufficient son works his millionaire father into the conversation," Dr. Keane answered without hesitating. "Because the name is impressive. Even if it isn't his name, it's one that gives him power. It's the same reason he became 'Scarecrow'—the same reason Dr. Crane became the submissive persona between the two."

"I see." Selina had a bad feeling about this. Dr. Keane was much more intelligent than she'd given him credit for, much more determined to get Crane into his care. "Doctor, is there a way to cure, or effectively treat, any of Dr. Crane's disorders?"

"No." The answer was automatic. He'd been expecting the question.

She should take the win. But she had to keep going, not leave an opening for the defense to redirect. "Then doesn't it follow that Dr. Crane would not be any less of a threat in Arkham than he would in prison?"

The briefest hint of a smile darted across Dr. Keane's face. Dammit. She'd asked the question he'd been waiting for.

"I worked with Dr. Crane for more than ten years," he told her. She could have sworn he'd started to raise a hand to take off his glasses, but he caught himself and folded his hands in his lap. "He is a classic narcissist—he thinks he's better than everyone else. And anyone who can best him, in any area, is a threat to that belief. He's open to the possibility of his vulnerability, but he is determined to maintain his position at the top. So when he sees a vulnerability, he eliminates the problem. You think his only experiments were on his patients? They were practice. Over the past year, he's made himself invulnerable—to his own fear toxin, to his most-used drugs, to most poisons, to every sedative in Arkham. It would be nearly impossible to give him any effective drug, even if he was only being hospitalized for depression. Now, imagine that a doctor, with full knowledge of the human anatomy, was placed in an arena where nearly everyone could best him at something, mostly at physical things. How long do you think it would take for one of them to die? He would go in a human immune to many drugs and come out, assuming he ever did, a monster."

"And it would be so much better for him to be in Arkham?" she challenged. "Keeping in mind that most people in Arkham were institutionalized for the same reasons those prison inmates were incarcerated?"

Her hands were shaking. She locked them together behind her back, trying not to blink too much as she met Dr. Keane's eyes.

"People don't go into criminal psychology for the same reasons they go into law or teaching," Dr. Keane told her in a tone that was clearly trying not to be patronizing. "Dr. Crane went into the field because the most interesting minds in the world, to him, are the ones that are so twisted and broken they aren't recognized as human. In Arkham, the people he's around are too drugged to be a threat to him, and besides, they're interesting to him. He doesn't feel threatened by them, so why would he stop to work to be better them?"

Selina wanted to curse and tear her hair out. She knew what the judge would say. The doctor had won again. She just wasn't good enough.

Bruce again sat in the back row, unsurprised. What had they expected? Arkham doctors were insane. It was no trick at all for one of them to become a patient where he'd once been a doctor.

Bruce met Dr. Keane's eyes for half a second. The doctor smiled and nodded as though in greeting, as though they'd met. As though the doctor knew who he was.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat, but he didn't have time to worry as the doctor stood and approached the ADA. He hadn't been looking at Bruce. Bruce was just being paranoid.

"Excuse me," Dr. Keane said, approaching the lawyer. "Ms. Kyle. Might I speak to you?"

"I—um—uh—" Selina Kyle had been in the middle of putting her papers away; now, far from being the composed Assistant District Attorney, she looked like a little girl who'd been caught standing beside her mother's broken vase. "Sure," she said finally.

Dr. Keane smiled and walked her out into the hallway. "You disagree with my decision," he observed blandly.

"Well, I—uh—well, yes," Selina answered.

"Would you like to discuss it? Say, over dinner tomorrow?" He stopped to turn and smile at her, carefully wiping any hint of manipulation from his features.

"What?" She stopped too, wide-eyed and apparently paralyzed by his suggestion.

"I know a wonderful restaurant," he explained, taking her arm to get them moving again. "And it's a much better place to have a long discussion than this place is. What do you think?"

Selina didn't seem to be able to answer. "Wonderful," he said, taking her silence as a yes. "I'll pick you up at seven?"

Finally finding her voice, she asked, "Do you know where I live?"

He shrugged. "I know your name. I figured I'd look it up in the phone book." He waved, walking away. "See you tomorrow!"

I WAS RIGHT!

He was trying very hard not to think of what the clown had said, but it was impossible to ignore. Batman was being hunted. The Joker had been right.

These civilized people? They'll eat each other.

They'd kill Batman, at least.

It was very hard to ignore the Joker's words when he'd made the mistake of turning on the news. Some kid, charged with murder, claimed that Batman had killed the victim and left the boy holding the gun; the local church was calling for the confession of Batman and his former copybats to save their immortal souls; a copybat had been admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with PTSD and something resembling Battered Child Syndrome…

These civilized people?…

Then there was a boy who had been admitted to the hospital's psych wing and barely managed to be released before he would have been transferred to Arkham Asylum. He claimed that Batman was innocent, that Harvey Dent had killed those people; he said that he'd seen it. He left the hospital under police protection; an angry mob had formed protesting his release and the police feared for his life if he wasn't protected.

They'll eat each other.

Then there were three stories about possible Batman suspects. Each of them was a thirty-something, fit white man who continued to proclaim that Batman was a hero and the city needed to realize that. None of them would be prosecuted; each of them created reasonable doubt for the other two.

I WAS RIGHT!

Finally unable to take any more, Bruce turned off the television and headed upstairs. He wouldn't go out on the streets tonight. Not any night until he had a clear head.