Disclaimer: The unnamed woman in this story is not mine. Her son, however, is my own character. I make no profit off this story in any way.

A/N: The setting is the DC animated universe, after a specific point in Return of the Joker. It probably qualifies as AU, because it very deliberately goes against some things in the canon. Some possibilities are just too interesting too pass up.

Dedicated to my dad, who put up with plenty of weird, rambling stories from my wee little self as I was growing up, and even now puts up with things like this.

Off of a certain exit and not too far from the highway itself, neither deep within the city nor out in the sprawling countryside, tucked on the outskirts of the suburbs, there was a small house. The paint was peeling in a few places, and there were assorted places on the screen door that had been patched with duct tape for the time being, and it was doubtful that a single piece of furniture in the house had passed through less than three owners before arriving at its current state.

In the kitchen, a little boy sat at the big, rough wooden table with three sheets of paper spread out in front of him. A small pile of crayons at the ready beside his right hand, he scratched and scribbled with all the intensity of one disarming a bomb.

A woman stood at the off-white tile countertop, her light brown hair tied back, wrist bobbing up and down as she chopped carrots into a miniature mountain range of thin slices. She had long ago grown tired of both cooking and eating carrots, but they were the only vegetable her son would touch, and then only raw or steamed. Despite her countless attempts to coax him into stomaching something else and half-teasing warnings that he would someday turn orange, the normally easy-going boy was resolute. At the end of the day, she was left to simply toss up her shoulders, roll her eyes, and be grateful that he was at least getting some type of vegetable in him, and they ate carrots.

"Ya know," she told him without turning around. "I've got a bag of frozen spinach in the fridge. It's really good if you chop it up; wrap it in a piece of flat bread with some chicken."

Like a mirror image of his busy mother, he didn't take his eyes off what he was doing. "Yuck."

She sighed.

The two of them ticked by a handful of minutes in silence, save for the sound of the knife on the wooden board, the sweep of chopped carrots into the metal pan, the crinkle as he shifted his papers on the table.

"Whatcha' working on, there?" The Mother asked presently.

"Connecting dots. I messed up once and had to start over. Now the dog's leg looks funny."

She peeked over her shoulder at it, chuckling while saying it looked just fine. Zigzagging blue crayon line through the chest area notwithstanding, it really did.

More silence. The pan of carrots was set on the stove as she started on the pieces of chicken. The boy worked his way to forming the dog's tail without further problems.

"Hey, Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened to dad?"

Her hands slowed, but did not stop completely the way they used to when he would ask things like this—and he had, too, many times while he was growing up. She wasn't foolish enough to imagine this ever changing, the day he stopped asking. In all honesty, she dreaded the possibility of that ever happening. "Just like I told you. He got in an accident before you were born, and he was hurt so bad that they couldn't help him."

The truth is, she doesn't know exactly what happened that day, but had always assumed this was close enough. She was always tempted to add on that he hadn't hurt for very long, that he'd died quickly, but didn't want to lie to him any more than she already had to.

The boy put down his crayon, looked up at her levelly through the large blue eyes he'd inherited from her, framed by the loose falling black hair which he had not. "I know. I mean, how did he really die? What kind of accident was it?" When met with no response as his mother began washing her hands…"Please tell me?"

"I will, hun." She was thorough in lathering, scrubbing, soaping, drying, as much to buy herself some time as to remove all traces of the harmful chicken juice. She always knew he would bring out the tougher questions, eventually. He was growing every day, and having started school, coupled with the afterschool program that had always taken him in while she worked… the day was bound to come when he was no longer on par with swimming pools and their own cups of coffee in the morning, something other kids got to have and he simply didn't, simple as that. "Don't worry."

The boy watched as she pulled one of the kitchen chairs closer to him and took a seat. Sitting up straight, small hands grabbing the edge of the tabletop, he was definitely becoming aware of the seriousness surrounding these talks, and yet always curious. "Well?"

The Mother sighed. "I can't say for sure. I wasn't there when he went, but Auntie Red—do you remember her?...No? That's ok, you were little then. But I was staying with her, and she heard the news first. "

The boy fiddled with a ripped seam on the plaid tablecloth, causing it to tear a bit further, something he ordinarily would be given a gentle reprimand for, but just seemed like an insignificance today. A thoughtful look came into his eyes, not unusual for him; he was such a thoughtful child for his age, renewing her pride in him with each day. "Do you think he'd have wanted me?"

"Oh, sweetie…" And she was gathering him up, unresisting, in her arms, burying her nose in his hair and breathing in his scent of chalk and sunshine, graham crackers and tearless shampoo. "Of course he would have." Holding onto twin handfuls of the fabric of her shirt, head tucked beneath chin, the boy gave no reply. "…What made you ask that?"

"The kids at school. Some of them were making father's day cards."

The Mother frowned. "You can still make them, y'know. Just because your dad isn't here doesn't make him any less your father."

He pulled back and looked up at her with the sort of indignant yet strangely patient expression only a kindergartener can muster together. "I know that, mommy. There's other kids…Polly and Hannah's dad doesn't live with them, and the same with Jacob's mom, and Caleb lives with his grandparents. I just wanted to ask."

She brushed the bangs from her son's eyes. They always got so long, but she privately thought they looked charming; that and his adamant dislike for haircuts always had them postponing it together. "And is there anything else you wanted to know?"

He nodded. "Who do I look like more, you or him?"

She smiled, because that was anything but a difficult question. It was his favorite, the one he asked more for the fun of it than the sake of being answered. Just like always, she began by lacing her fingers with his much smaller ones.

"Well…you definitely have his hands. You've got looong fingers, so one day you can be a great piano player, make us lots of money, and buy your mom a Ferrari." He giggled, even though he didn't know what a Ferrari was. She went on. "Aaand…you've got this little thing with your hair that he had, the way it always curls up at the ends when it gets wet. But your face is shaped more like mine is. Oh, and don't forget."

The boy shifted eagerly on her knee, knowing what came next. "What?"

She pressed her forehead right against his, so that they were nose to nose and staring right into one another's eyes, so close that the details of their faces blurred and filled with crystal blue. "You've got my eyes."

The boy squealed with laughter, shut his eyes tight and turned his face away, only to have her nuzzle his neck and growl viciously. He tried to push her face away until both of them were laughing; two people alone in the world save for each other, banishing all traces of loneliness as outside, the summer sun slowly dipped low into a rich shade of orange.

"Oh, Sylvester…"said The Mother who had left her own name behind long ago. She said it with the "r" dropped off the end. Sylvestah. "I think you're always gonna be able to make me smile, no matter what."

"Really?" he asked, beaming. She kissed him lightly on the forehead. Really.

"Now, I need to get that chicken on before it goes all bad in the heat. Want to set the table for me?"

He nodded vigorously, proud to be put in charge of such an important job (even one he had been tasked with many times before, and even though his mother had to take the plates down and set them on the counter first.)Re-rolling up her sleeves, the Mother turned back to cutting the chicken into cutlets, not without one more lingering look at the little boy making repeated trips between the counter and table, carrying one thing at a time. It was a small kitchen, so only a matter of seconds until he realized she was watching him.

Spoon in hand, he looked at her and smiled. It was a real showman's smile, full of all the named colors there were and a few he'd made up, reassuring her that he knew what he was doing. Like he knew that she couldn't help but love him, and lump grew in her throat, because she knew that smile so well.

'Oh, puddin'…'

Shaking her head to keep her eyes from misting, she set to work on her cooking. Someday. Not now, she was happy to just let him be the sweet little guy who trotted at her heels, who still hugged her before he went off to school, and every so often doted on the mysteries of the father he'd never known.

As for herself, she would never let surface the thoughts of what might have happened had things been different…had he lived to know. That would be her luxury.

The sun would not fully set until around nine. The day and the season stretched out like something hopeful in that little house not too far off the highway, where the paint peeled and the dust motes swam, and the sounds of the city were only audible when everything else was silent.

END