Author's note.

Well, I decided to post another part of this after all, after receiving so many reviews. I really was surprised. It seemed like you guys wanted the second installment, so here it is. Granted, this isn't as prettily written as the last chapter… but I think it will do for now. My final debut until the rest of the semester blows over. Only three weeks to go! Yay!

Hat tip to the reviewer "Taluliaka," who somehow was able to guess I'd be using Lewis Carroll quotes in the future. But the ones she suggested were actually better than the originals I was going to use. So thank you! 8D

Enjoy, and let me know if you guys actually want the third part (when I'm not working on Foundations, of course).

WARNING: I also just realized that there's gonna be some spoilers here for stuff that will possibly show up later in Foundations… this is an AU of it, after all. Hmmm. Not too much in this chapter, though, if any.

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JEREMIAH'S WELL: Part II

By heaven, he echoes me,

As if there were some monster in his thought

Too hideous to be shown.

- William Shakespeare

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There are monsters in the bowels and pits of Arkham Asylum, but not all of them are locked behind padded walls.

The sound of an opening door rang out like a gunshot, echoing down the hall with reverberating fury. Contained within their own private prisons—some of steel bars, some of the body, and some of the mind—all four inmates remained silent. They knew a momentous thing was about to occur, an event that they didn't want to be a part of… the three who were conscious recognized the thud of that calm, confident, assertive stride. All the other footfalls following it seemed to be drowned out by its resonant steps. It was the whisper being heard in a crowded room.

On his cot the Joker had been jolted wide-awake, his brown eyes trained on the entrance of his cell, waiting. The clown had only had a few nightmares in his life—he did not dream of things he feared, and he generally was such a terror to everyone else that he had no time for dread of his own. But this man was different. For, like the Bat Man, with Varnham he could always make an exception.

Before Varnham passed his cell, the Joker took a spare moment to peer over at Wayne. His neighbor was still senseless, pale face looking ghostly in the dim lighting, with the bruises appearing as horrific, gaping holes of midnight emptiness, marring that snow-colored skin. So very blissfully unaware, the clown thought. How kind of the guards to deprive him of his senses. It was the best day's work those idiotic twits had ever accomplished.

The next moment Varnham passed by the Joker's vision, and the jester's attention was diverted from the slumbering billionaire.

Varnham was not a tall man, not by any means. He did not look imposing—indeed, he had the appearance of a friendly fellow, the sort of man that even the most hesitant and private of individuals could confidently confide in. During his childhood he must have been the boy that everyone liked, the young man that every girl secretly wanted to marry some day, once they were through chasing after the tall, dark, and handsome "bad boys" that youth demanded they pursue.

By now middle age had tempered the psychologist's innocently naïve face—nonetheless it retained its honest appeal, its unassuming and calm hazel eyes resting behind relatively thin-rimmed glasses, below a fringe of receding sandy-blonde hair. By all means he was someone ordinary in appearance, but somehow able to convey that he was extraordinary in patience, kindness, and modesty.

Yet more proof that the world is cruel, the Joker believed.

Although the clown did not know how he knew, he still remembered that there was a certain type of wasp—a nasty little thing—that injected its eggs into the bodies of live spiders. When the eggs hatched they fed on their host, saving the vital organs for last. Gradually by degrees the spider was consumed alive, becoming sick and more decrepit, increasingly incapable of functioning on what scraps of bodily flesh and organs remained. Finally it died in agony, leaving the young wasp to gestate and burst forth from its corpse prison. Free to go and spread its own offspring throughout the world.

The funny thing was, most people were afraid of spiders. Oh, most men would say that they weren't, but the Joker knew that was a lie. After all, how many men would willingly let a spider walk across their skin? People only squish bugs they are afraid of. They kill them because in so doing they kill their fear. Yet, when told the story of the spider wasp, most people tended to shudder—perhaps, the Joker mused, this was because they realized even monsters have their own monsters.

And yes, there were monsters in Arkham. Some simply didn't look the part.

Varnham never carried keys on his person—at least, the Joker had never seen him use any. The clown had a sneaking suspicion that this was meant to be an act, that the psychologist really did have personal access to each and every area of the asylum, but that he didn't want his prisoners—or perhaps even his employees—to know this. Someone else always accompanied him to open the doors. Like royalty, he was ushered back and forth by Arkham guards. This made some sense to the Joker: after all, Arkham was practically Varnham's palace. No surprise, then, that the Prince of Arkham would now enter the cell of the Prince of Gotham.

Had he been physically able to stand, Wayne would have towered over the smaller man. As it was, however, he lay still on his cot. Helpless.

That's right, Brucie, the Joker thought, whether you're awake doesn't matter—play the rabbit to his hawk. Don't move.

Apparently Varnham knew enough to be cautious. Perhaps the story of the guard Wayne had kicked had reached his ears. The clown didn't doubt that the tale would, eventually, if it hadn't already. Varnham seemed to know everything in his domain.

Carefully, as if Wayne was an antique that threatened to disintegrate at the slightest touch, the psychologist reached out and placed a hand on his patient's shoulder, rotating Wayne from his side onto his back. The vigilante's head lolled, so fluidly that for a second the Joker believed it might pop off and go rolling across the floor. Had it concerned any other person, the clown would have laughed at that thought.

But, since it was about the Batman, it wasn't funny. In the dark the Joker's muddy eyes narrowed, just as if the sun had suddenly assaulted them. In his mind pictures of violence, blood, and gore were running wild, a gruesome slideshow destined to be turned into a live-action game plan. Soon enough it would be the heads of the Arkham guards rolling down the halls like bloodstained soccer balls.

Of all his body, Varnham's hands were the gentlest. Long fingers reached toward Wayne's chin, tilting his head to get a better view of the bruises. The wide inky blots littered the porcelain skin; he looked like a quilt, stitched together from patches of white, gray, and black rags.

There was complete silence, except for the rustle of cloth from a fidgeting guard nearby. Glancing at the fellow, the Joker's eyes widened slightly. It was the same man who kept sedating him. Quite against the clown's will, a smile bloomed on his torn face.

"Who did this?" Varnham's voice sounded cold. Its mere echo dropped the room's temperature by ten degrees.

The guard didn't answer.

Turning on the man, the psychologist rested his hazel eyes on his employee; who, seemingly shocked by the intensity of the scrutiny, unconsciously shuffled back a few steps. Varnham's thin lips pressed tight, so firmly that he ceased to have them altogether.

"Get out," he said, calmly. His voice was always so soothingly tranquil; so cold that the Joker could have sworn he saw the man's breath. "Turn in your keys. You're done."

NO! The Joker wanted to howl, his smile vanishing, and he very nearly flung himself up against the plexiglass in rage. You can't fire him! Not him! Fire one of the others! How could the clown have a proper revenge if that man no longer worked for Arkham? He'd have to track the fellow down, and that took work, damn it!

But the guard seemed relieved. He hurried backwards, and the sound of his feet scrambling away ricocheting off the halls. Varnham turned back to Wayne.

"Go get a nurse," he ordered, and without question one of his remaining subordinates followed in the dismissed man's wake.

Arkham's head doctor was quiet after that, his attention focused entirely upon his patient. Wayne didn't seem conscious: either he was an extremely good actor—which the Joker knew was not entirely unlikely, seeing as he had managed to masquerade as a worthless playboy for so long—or else he was not faking his senseless state. The clown didn't try to guess which option was likely the truth: he was fairly certain that it was the latter, seeing as the former was a bit presumptuous on the Batman's part, at least for the moment. Right now, the jester supposed, Wayne didn't know what to fear most in the asylum. He would probably regard most of Arkham's staff—minus the guards, of course—to be trustworthy individuals.

Ah, Brucie, the clown chided, sighing mentally. Varnham will cure your naïveté soon enough, don't worry. You're such a blockhead… but then again that's what makes you special, isn't it? I'll be the first to tell you, though: you've got to be careful down here in the well, Timmy, or it'll rain and you'll drown—and nobody will save you, will they?

Varnham was steadying Wayne's wobbly head, propping up the pillow around it, even using the corner of his sleeve to wipe smudges of blood from around the billionaire's split lips. Lifting a hand, the psychiatrist carefully tested the bruise over Wayne's left eye. It was so dark that it reminded the observing Joker of his war paint, the way he would smear the white on first—and oh, how pale Wayne's face was in this dim light—and then add on the charcoal black smudges around both his brown eyes. Had he stopped his look at that, the jester would have had the appearance of a green-haired and lumpy-cheeked panda bear, or possibly a pasty albino raccoon. But he always added one more color to his kaleidoscope, the crowning masterpiece of his face, his ideals, his whole life. His smile.

As he watched the edge of Varnham's sleeve tint an increasingly deep red from the cuts on Wayne's face, and as he saw the way that the psychologist delicately lifted the bruised eyelid to reveal a bloodshot and dilated eye, the Joker was consumed even more strongly with that color. Crimson. The same color his smile had been, when it first was applied to his own face. Ever since then he'd kept the same red on his cheeks, a reminder to himself and to the world. Smile. You're never fully dressed without it.

But he wasn't allowed to wear his war paint inside the asylum. Just one more thing on his list of personal comforts that was denied him. How he hated this place…

Thoughtfully, the clown tapped his fingers on his knees, his attention never wavering from Varnham and his neighbor, or that bloody sleeve. Such a wonderful, beautiful, entrancing color. Should he give the Batman a smile, one tinted just like it, after they were free? Once, he'd been close—so, so close—to doing that very thing…

He remembered that night very well. The Joker had been having a grand old time—chasing Dent, firing missiles at police cruisers, snagging hapless helicopters in mid-flight; even watching the Bat Man's big black tank slam into the garbage truck that he'd hired to harass Dent's transport. Yet it was only when the Batman had shot straight toward him, riding some contraption that he couldn't even guess the origins of, that the clown's delight had reached impressive levels.

Lesson number one, the jester's mind had crowed: when your enemy is standing in the middle of the street, firing at you with a semi-automatic, and you have a motorcycle, run him over. One thing you shouldn't do is zoom around him, slam into the wreckage of his former ride, and then roll unconscious out onto the asphalt.

Not surprisingly, the Batman had failed his first test. This was despite that the clown had tried his best at giving him clues—I want you to do it!—and even eventually settled for giving him the correct answer in its entirety—Hit me!—but oh well... It was unfair, the jester had decided, to expect the vigilante to overcome in one single night what was probably a lifetime of rules and regulations drilled into his head.

That was when one of his masked goons—"Auguste," he'd chosen to title the worthless bum—had managed to crawl up to the Batman's senseless form, and found himself badly shocked when he tried to remove the mask. In that one instant the clown's mind was changed from a sense of resignation, mild discontent, and more than a little frustration, into a heaven of exalted bliss. He couldn't stop himself from running the rest of the way, barking with laughter… the Batman wasn't an entire buffoon! How could he be? They were too much alike, the jester and the dark knight, rulers of the court. A little tweaking, and together they could raze that court to the ground.

Before turning to his masked doppelganger, the clown had made sure to give Auguste a few kicks, though the goon still did not end up being punished as much as he deserved. The Joker had been too intent on instructing his quarry. Lunging at the prone vigilante on the ground, his knife slashing through the air, the jester had found his mind occupied with thoughts that more "civilized" people would have found more than a little disturbing. How to best cut the Bat Man's frowning mouth into a permanent grin? Make it quick—a few sharp slitting motions, easy and swift as pulling an old Band-Aid from a whimpering child's knee? Or turn it into a ceremonial marathon, a long and drawn out rite of passage, where each bloody inch, each gory centimeter, was accompanied by a sage saying of advice? Starting with: when your opponent is asking for you to hit him, do it—or stuff like this will happen.

Nevertheless, the unconscious state of his pupil had brought the Joker a small second's pause. What would be the point of punishing him now, if he couldn't feel it? True, he'd still awake eventually, and be greeted in the mirror with his dashing new look, but what would be the fun of that if the jester couldn't witness his horror over his transformation? Still… moments like this shouldn't be wasted…

That brief pause had cost the clown dearly, though, for before he could even draw a breath he had felt the muzzle of a rifle pressed against the back of his head. Awwwgh… he complained, could you please just give me a minute… one little second to make up my mind? He wasn't allowed to finish his plea, however, as he was flung roughly to the ground. The policeman ripped off his mask to reveal… Gordon. Damn it, the Joker chided himself, how could he have let his guard down like that? He'd had the sneaking suspicion that ol' Jimmy wasn't dead and gone—what sort of friend to the Batman doesn't wear a bulletproof vest to Commissioner Loeb's funeral?—and the confirmation of his hunch distracted him from the question he'd been pondering moments earlier.

Now, in the pits of Arkham, watching Varnham and Wayne in the cell opposite his own, the Joker's mind returned to his initial query. Should the Batman wear a smile? He was still unsure of the answer. Perhaps, he decided, he should let Wayne choose for himself… after all, if he truly was going to fall from his pedestal, it was only right that he should be able to make important decisions like that.

The clown had just alit upon this decision when a dark-haired nurse hurriedly entered the room, gasping in surprise when she saw its occupant's state. Immediately the Joker's interest was piqued. He hadn't seen her before. She was new: her pretty face, contorted in pity and horror, communicated her novice status better than her unrecognized features ever could.

"What happened?" she asked, kneeling at Wayne's side. Varnham shifted to allow her room. The psychologist's hazel eyes were dark, moody.

"The guards must have their amusements," he murmured, and somehow the soothing quality of his voice seemed to calm the nurse's trepidations. She set about hurriedly looking Wayne over, making note of the worst of the damage. Special attention was paid to the vigilante's crushed left hand.

"I do hope you will prosecute whoever did this," she said as she worked.

Varnham managed a grim smile. "Oh, don't worry. I always see to it that anyone who harms a patient physically or emotionally will receive the full penalties of the law. Arkham Asylum will always be a safe refuge for those who need help."

The Joker had to hold back a howling laugh. He had to admit—sometimes the doctor's cruel sense of humor was actually much better than his own.

Of course, the nurse did not seem to appreciate the irony of her superior's statements. Instead, rather worriedly, she said, "I really think he needs to be brought to the asylum hospital... just looking at some of these bruises, I know his ribs aren't doing too well… there's really no other option."

They were going to take him away? The Joker wasn't sure whether he liked that idea. On the one hand, even the Batman was not immortal—and the one thing the clown wanted least of all was a dead or crippled rival. On the other, if they moved him, and started his treatments while the jester was not present to witness the beginning of his descent to madness… In the gloomy dark of his cell the Joker's brown eyes became opaque, glittery black diamonds, lit only by the soft glow of the tuned-down light and the vehemence from within.

He had to confess: he wanted, so very badly, to see Wayne suffer.

Not that he specifically desired to see the Batman broken—but in pain and under duress? The latter was perfectly acceptable, welcomed even… the former, however, made the Joker feel somewhat uneasy. In some ways the clown wanted Wayne to understand what he'd been forced to endure in this hellish pit, especially seeing as the vigilante was the man who had been most instrumental in locking the jester away. It was only fair that the Batman should know some of the Joker's torments.

But… broken? Defeated? Crushed? The clown's mind rebelled against those thoughts. Wishing those things on his other half was like wishing them on himself. Re-making the vigilante in his own image did not necessarily require snuffing out that vibrant spirit—indeed, in some ways, it would require keeping the Batman's fiery temperament lit and burning—but Varnham would obviously accept nothing less than total annihilation. This, the Joker knew, was only the latest reason to hate the good doctor, but it would also probably prove quite useful. If he could rush in, just before Wayne's spirit died, and re-adjust some of the vigilante's misconceptions… with the Bat Man's mental walls having been torn down by Arkham's head psychologist, this would not altogether be an impossible task. The trick would be doing it at the right time—and then also managing to find a way out of this hellhole before an actual collapse of Wayne's will occurred.

No doubt Varnham would also be harder on Wayne than he was on the Joker. The clown was a nameless man, possessing only a title, and as an amnesiac with a terrible memory he had little to offer. This did not mean that he was immune to the doctor's trials, of course—but it did mean that he received less increments over longer periods of time. Combined with Quinzel's insistent protection, the Joker had managed relatively well. Would Quinzel protect Wayne, too?

When he had a sudden vision of his harlequin standing up for the Batman, some inner element of the jester huffed angrily at that thought. All he knew was that he wanted to keep Wayne and Quinzel as far apart as possible; he was not sure why. Rather than dwell on his confusion, he forced his focus back to Arkham's head and the nurse in the other cell.

"You think so?" Varnham was saying.

"Oh, most certainly," she responded. "He'll need surgery soon. It's a safe bet he's bleeding internally."

"Hmm," murmured the doctor, "that means holding off on any medication, any medicine, any… everything."

Was there a hint of regret in the doctor's voice? And what was this? A slight bit of heat to Varnham's words… the doctor was angry. Inwardly, the clown chuckled darkly, and he shifted on his cot, though his eyes did not move away from Wayne and his two guests. Perhaps the billionaire would be lucky, and escape Varnham's notice while recovering in the infirmary. Perhaps this meant that the Joker would be able to see the aftermath of the Batman's first treatment, after all.

With reluctance the doctor motioned to some orderlies, who under the nurse's watchful eyes started carefully loading Wayne onto a stretcher. The nurse was insistent that they be gentle, even though the clown knew there was little chance of them being otherwise when Varnham was around. It was when the good doctor left that Wayne would need to start worrying.

This nurse was a "nice girl," the jester decided, as he focused upon her. She was someone who, no doubt, had gone through medical school in order to "help people." What a wonderful doll to play with… sudden visions crept into his head, and a wistful, deceptively peaceful expression appeared on his disfigured face.

"What're you doing?" Varnham asked abruptly, turning to the shadowy outline of the plexiglass; the clown realized that he'd just been caught staring.

"Me?" The Joker asked innocently, tilting his head like a demented owl, his brown eyes glowing like ocular twin moons, raising his ridged eyebrows. "Moi?"

Varnham's face remained passive at this egging inquiry, but the clown could nevertheless see the seething rage bubbling behind the man's glasses, even though it wasn't directed at him. Ah. Ol' Jamesy Varny-hammie was so mad at those mean guards! Though he knew he wouldn't be around to witness it, nevertheless the Joker was still looking forward to hearing about whatever menial task that the guards would be forced to endure as punishment. Arkham's head doctor could be quite inventive when he wanted to be. This quality—combined with others—managed to garner up some respect for Varnham in the Joker's mind, and so he decided to answer the shorter man. Any other person, aside from the Bat Man, he would have only mocked with his utter silence.

"You know me, Doc. I'm just… ah… hanging out. In the dark. Wanna see my… Bat Man impression?" The clown spread his arms wide, flapping them erratically. "Beware, evildoers! Big bad Batsy is out to get you! Nyah!"

The last part was a bit over-the-top, the jester could admit, for he'd stuck out his pink tongue in a perfect imitation of a child's raspberry. Loath as he was to admit it, in these dungeons he was getting a bit rusty with his comedic routines—not that they'd been anything to write home for in the first place, of course, even if one assumed that his witnesses could still hold a pen after such a demonstration. But despite this he was well rewarded, for Varnham turned away in disgust.

"Get a new light for him," the head doctor sighed to an orderly, shaking his head.

For just a moment the Joker thought that perhaps he'd fooled the man into thinking he was serious—that perhaps he'd struck up a case of Napoleon Syndrome—but then Varnham glanced at him, coldly, reprovingly, almost a look of parental long-suffering, and the jester knew that the doctor was not deceived. He cackled.

"All's fair in love and treatment, doc," the clown chortled. "After all, they're one and the same, right?"

Varnham said nothing, and avoided looking at the Joker while Wayne's stretcher was carefully carried down the hall. Though the jester attempted to tilt his head and follow the doctor's face, he did not succeed. This was an empty victory, then—but he decided to count it as a victory nonetheless. Such triumphant confrontations were growing rarer these days, since Quinzel had started taking over more of his weekly therapy sessions. Oh, doubtless Varnham counted their recent encounter in his own "win" column, but the Joker didn't care. After all, one day he was going to slit Varnham's throat, not the other way around—so what did it matter what the psychologist thought right now?

The hall door shut once again, the rumbling well-sound echoing through the dimly lighted hall. In their respective cells, Slink and Wendigo were silent. As was the Joker, though the sudden quiet had an almost unbearable quality to him. He liked silence, every so often—it was wonderful to think in—but this particular absence of noise had a mournful quality to it, one that he hated. An emotion he disliked immensely was welling up inside of him, and he was helpless to stop it. Loss. He'd lost something very special to him, just a few minutes ago; he'd watched none other than the Batman being carried away to the hospital wing. The room opposite looked forlorn without its occupant. When would Wayne be back?

All night long he couldn't sleep, restless with that question stirring up his mind. He paced from wall to wall, ten steps forward, ten steps back. Five, if he skipped. What little sleep he'd had before Varnham's arrival had refreshed him so well that he couldn't rest. Like the Batman, his body ran on a nocturnal schedule—and despite being holed up in Arkham, in some ways this fact continued to remain true.

In his session with Dr. Quinzel the next morning, questions about Wayne still plagued the Joker's mind. But he couldn't just come out and ask them directly—he couldn't afford to have suspicions raised. Fortunately Quinzel opened the conversation on the right vein of thought.

"What happened last night, Joker? Did you see what went on in your neighbor's cell?"

Immediately the clown knew that his quick cooperation would be seen as something dubious, and that if Varnham were watching through the room's one-way mirror—which very well could be the case—then the doctor would instantly pick up on anything out of place. If the jester wanted to learn something, therefore, he'd have to give her a hard time: that was fine with him. Leaning back in his chair and huffing like a toddler, the Joker drawled,

"I thought these lil' chats were s'posed to be about me, Harley babe, not whatever's goin' on next door."

He also managed to don a vaguely offended look. Sometimes he got caught up in a role so much, he surprised even himself.

This morning Quinzel was amazingly single-minded, though; she didn't even react to his careful teasing. Somehow the Joker thought he should give her a little credit for that. As brainless as Quinzel could be, she seemed to be adapting to his best methods. Perhaps he'd try a different approach to get a rise out of her.

"Joker," the therapist prodded again, "your neighbor was badly injured last night. Didn't you see or hear anything?"

"I saw and, ah, heard plenty," the clown laughed, "but then… then you, uh, came into my cell and performed a striptease, and I realized I was drrrr-eaaaa-ming."

Ah! The sweetness of success: she'd clenched her pen just a bit tighter. But that small reaction wasn't enough to satisfy him. Before she could open her mouth, therefore, he'd leaned forward, raised an eyebrow, and asked cheerfully, "And I was only dreaming… right, my luverly harlequin?"

Quinzel inhaled sharply, as if the Joker's double whammy of a suggestive hint and an utterance of her hated school-days nickname had combined to form a punch to her gut. He savored the way her ruby-red lips puckered unconsciously into a pouting grimace. Yet the very next moment she was professional again, with the exception of a few slight differences; little hints that the clown, over time, had come to recognize as signs of her discomfort. Her eyes had taken on a sharp, cold aspect, almost mimicking Dr. Varnham's, as she stared at him frostily. She was lying to herself, he knew, pretending that he couldn't see her uneasiness—but no matter how hard she tried, she could never truly fool him. The jester held back a tortured, whining giggle.

"Joker," she said, this time with her voice sounding all-too artificially lighthearted, "your new neighbor is in the asylum hospital. You mean to tell me you slept through whatever put him there?"

"And what if I did?" The clown mimicked her tone, moving his body into a position that mirrored hers exactly, even to the point of pretending to grip an invisible pen and strumming his free fingers through an imaginary stack of paper. Quinzel, seeming to realize what he was doing, stopped her nervous habits, setting the pen down carefully… but then, thinking better of this—she might have seen the way his eyes lit up at the sight of it, the jester supposed—she picked the implement up again and put it in her white jacket. The papers she was holding, however, she raised slightly to read.

"Let's see… compound fractures in his hand, three broken ribs, one pierced lung," she hesitated, her eyes running down the list, "…you didn't hear any of this?"

Ha. The Joker knew all too well that was not the full extent of Wayne's injuries. What had made Quinzel pause? He frowned, but covered the expression up just as quickly. It would do no good to ask her directly.

When in doubt, he mused, use the maxim of Medieval monks: better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

When she set the pad of paper down, he jerked his head, shrugged somewhat dismissively, and said, "Yep."

Quinzel sighed. "Does that mean that you did or you didn't, Joker?"

"Yep," was all he replied once more, rocking in his chair slightly, pretending to pay her no attention. This was enough to make Quinzel bring her hand up to massage her nose, right between her eyes. In that split second, while she was distracted, the Joker leaned forward, brown eyes skimming the papers before her—and a revealing curse slipped out of his mouth when he couldn't make heads or tails of the writing. He really didn't know why he bothered—he always had a hard enough time reading anyway, let alone reading upside down… ah, this damned place was getting to him, affecting his planning skills. Normally he could have prided himself on at least remembering how bad he was with letters, but it seemed that his memory was only getting worse with nothing of importance to daily occupy his mind.

Use it or lose it, a small voice chimed to him. If you don't give your mind practice, you'll forget your own name.

Shut up, he snarled back. I remember everything I need to. Go away!

Unfortunately Quinzel had heard his muttered curse, and she caught him looking. Flustered, as if she realized she'd been had, she gathered the papers up, clutched them close, and glared at him. With a soft groan of consternation, the clown settled back in his chair, and, grumpily, said, "If I tell you, can I go to common room today?"

Bargaining with his doctors was not something he did often. Quinzel frowned, and seemed to consider the option. He watched her, obsessively observing the gears in her head turning, and knew even before she nodded what her answer would be.

After two hours of describing the random faces of the Arkham guards, he was shoved into the common room by a couple of orderlies. Sulking, the clown headed toward his favorite lumpy chair, but was cheered when the other patients shrank out of his way. They knew their place, and he knew his. Even if nobody else did, Arkham's inhabitants understood one another. Together, one day the forgotten "loonies" would rule this town.

And now the Batman was one of them, the Joker reminded himself merrily. Soon he'd be back, and the fun could begin. The clown hummed to himself as he pawed absentmindedly through the stack of daily newspapers. Though they were all the same edition, he was waiting for one of them to somehow feel right. Ah—there it was. The perfect one. Snatching it up, he settled in the chair, keeping watch over the remnants of the scattered stack with half a hooded eye. Like wolves, the alpha male was allowed to preside over the kill first—and once he was gone, the rest of the pack could sift through the scraps left behind.

Before opening the newspaper, however, he purposefully flipped it upside-down. If he could train himself to recognize letters the right side up, he figured he could do the same when they were inverted. He was so focused on recognizing the symbols that he almost didn't see Dr. Crane approach.

The Scarecrow and the Jester had spoken a few times in the common room; it seemed that, due to his overwhelmingly good behavior, Crane saw the walls of his personal cell but rarely. As a former psychologist, he often functioned in his past occupation's capacity, speaking with the other inmates and helping along with their recoveries. Twice now he had overheard rumors of impending breakouts, and reported the offenders. All the currently employed doctors—some of whom were Crane's former associates and underlings—believed that he was taking a turn for the better.

As if. The Joker knew quite well that Jonathan Crane did everything for his own sake. He was a slimy little slug that was all too willing to rat on his compatriots in order to get good marks with the white-coated oppressors. Still, he supposed, Crane could be useful—few other men had such a knowledge of both the brain and a particular chemical toxin's workings upon it. Someday he planned on asking Arkham's former head about such things.

For now Crane said nothing, merely stood nearby. The ex-doctor was too smart to be fooled this easily—just because the clown ignored someone didn't mean he was unaware of his presence. It would have been more tolerable for the jester if Crane had spoken up immediately, but no… he had to be silent. Gradually the Joker's fingers curled around the edges of the paper that he was attempting to decipher, until more of the news was balled up in his fists than sending information to his eyes.

"What exactly are you doing?" Crane finally asked, obviously noticing the paper's misfortune.

"None of your, uh, business, Straw Man," the jester responded, his voice forcibly sing-song. "Go bother Dorothy for a while, OK?"

This was a double pun, and he knew it—the cafeteria lady was named "Dorothy."

"That paper's wrong side up," said Crane, quietly. The Joker rolled his eyes. The good doctor had a talent for pointing out the painfully obvious.

"What's the matter, Johnny?" he grumbled. "Even while an inmate in your own… ah, nuthouse… you can't stop playing the therapist? Look, I have… Quinzel for that. Ser-ree-us-ly, go bug the cafeteria gal."

Crane was silent. Then he said, "Good things come to those who wait."

That, for once, was something that threw even the Joker for a loop. Dropping the paper slightly, so his brown eyes could see over the frayed rim, the scarred man merely uttered, "Huh?"

"Bruce Wayne was your neighbor, right?" Crane articulated. "Doubtless you've got some master plan to convert him to darkness or something."

The clown raised an eyebrow, as if to silently ask a question; grimly, Crane smiled.

"Don't worry, that's something even I won't tell on. It wouldn't change anything, anyway. Varnham probably has some sort of strategy involving you two… he has to know of your obsession with the Batman. It goes against standard psychological procedures to place a patient in close proximity with his obsession, as that tends to retard the recovery process—and generally, Varnham follows the rules. Not this time, though. Something must be up."

It took the jester's mind a few seconds to process this information. He'd suspected that Varnham was plotting something—that man could be trusted to be devious—and hearing a second opinion only confirmed this suspicion further. But he didn't quite care what Crane currently had to say about the matter. Leaning forward, licking his lips unconsciously, the Joker asked, "Oh, Doctor Johnny, whatever shall I do?"

He managed to keep a straight face, even though he knew Crane's tilted lips were an expression of the smaller man's confusion. For a few moments he considered seriously asking the Scarecrow what sort of advice he might have, on Varnham, on Wayne, on pretty much everything… it would be nice to have another mastermind at the table, especially since his memory was so rotten from disuse. Then again—he really had no idea whose side Crane was on. Varnham's? His? Wayne's? The former doctor had a way of weaseling into things and then slinking back out. He was like water, flowing to the path of least resistance. And so, until he nailed the Scarecrow's loyalties, the clown was unwilling to enter into any partnerships with him.

"I assume you're joking," Crane said, after a moment's pause. At that, both the jester's eyebrows shot up.

"Uh… I'm the what, again? Ah, right. The Joke-r," he said, rolling his title around on his tongue, which also snaked out to wet his lips. For once, Crane seemed to react to his humor: a slight, wry turn of his lips occurred.

"Just remember: all good things, to those who wait," repeated the disgraced psychologist, who proceeded to walk off toward the cafeteria counter. Eyes narrow, the clown watched him go. Crane was definitely someone to keep an eye on—he'd figure the fellow out eventually. Right now, the man was just being cryptic, trying to draw the Joker's attention; sooner rather than later he'd have to say something substantial, and then the clown could nail him whether he was lying or not. Depending on the situation, he might be quite valuable—and if he wasn't, it would take nothing more than a pen or a needle to be rid of him.

At that moment, however, all the Joker did was snort. 'All good things'? He knew that very well, and he was prepared to wait.

He was not prepared to wait three months.

Twelve weeks of anguish. Of every day mocking him, the man in his mirror growing more and more moody and depressed, Quinzel making inane comments like, "Joker, you really look down today." Today? he'd scoff—and yesterday, and the day before that, and before that… when is Wayne coming back, again? And at this question, Quinzel always nodded her head, and said in what was a failed attempt at a sympathetic voice, "When he's recovered, Joker. Are you lonely?"

Lonely. Ha. He wasn't lonely. He was never lonely. Not when Slink had been there, not when Wayne had been there—for all the few hours he had been, anyway… so why should he be lonely now? The mirror-man wasn't much company, admittedly, but he was some…

As the weeks continued, the clown began to question everything. Maybe this had all been a tactic of Varnham's. Maybe Wayne really wasn't the Batman after all, but a plant that the doctor had sent to mess with his mind. Did that sound like something Varnham would do? The jester had no way of knowing, though he'd never admit it. They were scientists, the both of them; every "special" treatment session Varnham tried to figure out what made the Joker tick, and the Joker tried to get Varnham to tick, but so far neither of them had succeeded. By this point the clown was fairly willing to just kill the psychologist, without bothering to figure the man out; it was pointless. With the Batman there was a sense of possibility—the vigilante was simultaneously so very alike—and yet so very unlike—the jester, a perfect mix of the intelligible and the mysterious, enough to keep the clown fascinated for years upon years—a whole lifetime, even. But Varnham… there was something odder about that man, something that even the Joker could not place.

Perhaps it was because the doctor was too much like him—or, rather, like what he believed people truly were, deep inside. A strange mix of chaos and planning, of randomness and strategy, but combined in such a way that made the psychiatrist toxic to the clown. They were alike but not alike, in a way that made them not compatible—as was the case with the Joker and Batman—but rather completely foreign, distasteful to one another. Though the Joker would fight with the Batman and attempt to win, he would never kill him—yet with Varnham he would just as quickly kill and hopefully forget.

He thought about telling the man this, in their next session. This was only a standard "patient talks while doctor listens" meeting, thankfully, but this time he had no intention of talking. Yet Varnham knew how to get to him, as loath as the Joker was to admit it—the doctor remained silent, and so the quiet stretched on and on… it was torture of a different color. At last, Varnham broke the soundlessness,

"Are you ready to cooperate now? Or will you insist on pouting?"

Scrunched up in his chair, the Joker shook his head. He couldn't cross his arms, unfortunately, for there were restraints on his wrists; perhaps Varnham knew his intentions to kill without being told. The doctor did not respond to his refusal. The silence lingered.

Finally, the clown realized that he couldn't take it.

"I'll talk."

Nearly wincing at the sound of his voice, how foreign it seemed, the jester glared up at his tormentor. Varnham only observed him, stoically, and responded, "Then talk. What do you want to start with?"

Ha. I'm not breaking that easy, the thought came to the patient, unbidden. His glare deepened, until the creases in his face looked like shadowy tracks of old scars—which, incidentally, some of them were.

"I won't," he said, and with a sigh the doctor leaned back in the chair. But the clown was not finished.

"I won't," he spoke again, "un-less you first tell me when… my neighbor gets back."

The Joker wasn't quite sure what to expect from the doctor—but a wry smirk appearing on Varnham's face was not it. That expression seemed wrong, somehow, on the small man's visage; it was cold and cruel, and while Varnham's appearance was always cold it was only reserved and polite.

"When your neighbor gets back," the psychologist repeated; he stapled his fingers together in what looked like a thoughtful gesture. The clown's eyes were drawn to his hands.

This is the church, this is the steeple, open the doors, and see all the people.

At the voice's intonation, the Joker shook his head, and his mind cleared—though whether this came from his movement or from the end of the rhyme, he didn't know. Varnham continued to observe him, as if attempting to poke holes through his skull and witness the actions of the frenzied brain underneath. The clown only stared right back.

"Very well, then," the doctor said at last, and he moved to press a button on his desk. "You can go back to your room."

Not knowing what to think, the Joker was quiet as the orderlies entered and unlocked his wrists, dragging him forcefully though the door and down the halls. In the elevator his eyes roved over the smooth, unpainted metal doors, noting how the mirror-man before him was seemingly filled with confusion. Ha. The mirror-man thought he knew everything—but he really didn't, and proof of that was staring him in the face. Soon enough those doors would part, and they would enter Arkham's bowels. Then the Joker could sit in the bottom of the well, and perhaps he'd ask the mirror-man what made him look so glum.

Summarily he was shoved into his room, and the grate covering the hallway wall slammed shut with a clink. Leaping immediately to his feet like a mad rabbit, the clown made distorted faces at the orderlies as they passed, and was satisfied when they hurried even faster toward the hall. The new bulb in his room, once so bright and new, had faded to a more tolerable glow with three months' age, and so he knew that standing before the plastic mirror would not blind him. He stood, and was about to do just that, when movement from behind the plexiglass caught his attention.

His own bed was still beside the glass—with a second leap, he landed on it, and peered through the pane. Across from him was the neighboring bed, shoved up against the wall instead of by the plexiglass; and it had an occupant. Any desire for a victory dance was snuffed by the knowledge that Varnham must have known this discovery was here waiting for him. Doubtless, the psychologist was indeed plotting something, scheming up some plan… well, it was always nicer when his enemies had strategies. He was best when twisting other's ideas, and besides he needed some excitement. Not that this discovery, in and of itself, wasn't exciting enough…

Wayne was back.

It was obvious that he had been asleep just moments previous; he looked confused, disoriented, and bleary-eyed. The Batman's black hair was in ungainly clumps, a nearly fatal case of bed-head—cautiously he stretched, wincing, and a look of suppressed pain appeared on his face as he gathered strength and pushed himself into a seated position, taking the covers up with him. It was rather chilly today, the Joker supposed. He wouldn't put it past Varnham to turn the heat down simply out of spite.

Leaning closer to the glass, the clown took in his neighbor's appearance more closely. Most of the bruises had healed over, leaving slight, sickly-green blots that were barely distinguishable from the surrounding skin. The one exception to this was the patch over his eye; it still had a minor amount of brown, with some indications of broken blood vessels lacing the area, though the sapphire orb underneath was no longer bloodshot. It must have still hurt him, though—Wayne lifted a hand to carefully soothe the irritated injury, and froze in bewilderment when he discovered that said hand was covered by a cast. Three months, the clown knew, was not enough time for crushed bones to heal. Wayne didn't seem entirely self-aware—he must not be a morning person. Gradually, the vigilante seemed to remember that the cast was meant to be there, and he shook his head, as if to clear it.

Overall, though, he seemed much improved—especially considering his previous condition. This made it obvious that Varnham hadn't started on him yet. The clown felt a howl of triumph ready to work its way up his throat, but he clamped his lips shut. After all, this was Wayne's first day out of the hospital, and it wasn't very hospitable to startle the billionaire so soon after such a big move. Wayne was troubled enough: exhaustion was lingering on his face, coupled with disguised flinches and grimaces of pain. He also looked to be slightly thinner than before, oddly empty, emotionally and physically. Healing had taken a toll upon him.

Wayne let out a sigh, followed by a groan, covering his face with his hands. The lights seemed to be the source of his distress. Thinking of the asylum's artificial daylight, however, reminded the Joker that his own light had been replaced. There was nothing but a pane of clear plexiglass between him and the Batman now; no swath of darkness for the clown to hide in. Which was fine with him—he'd hidden long enough, he thought with a chuckle. And, hearing this sound, Wayne looked up.

For a moment they just stared at each other. Brown eyes on blue, mud and water, gritty paper bags and a clear noontide sky… inwardly, the Joker was waiting, willing for the surprise to show on his face, yearning to see the horror and fear wash over its pale visage. Waiting for the mask to slip, the realization that he had indeed fallen deep down into the pit, this time, and had seen where monsters lie.

But instead, all the Joker was greeted with was confusion. As if Wayne recognized him, yet still didn't… Ah. His war paint. Without his trademark, he probably seemed so ordinary—nevertheless, the Batman still knew him well enough to perceive something familiar even on his naked visage. How wonderful of Wayne not to forget him. They were too alike, the both of them, for the vigilante to forget his darker half, even if he didn't quite recognize the jester at the moment.

The very thought of their obvious similarity meant that a growing smile spread over the clown's cheeks. And with that, face paint or no face paint, there was a sudden flicker of understanding in the sea-blue eyes.

"Hello, Brucie."

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The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

- Carl Jung

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000 Author's Note 000

There you go. You can imagine Bruce's reaction for yourselves, can't you?

There's a line in here that's paraphrased from "You're never fully dressed without a smile" – a song from Annie, the movie about the redheaded orphan and "Daddy Warbucks." I like the 1980s version best. It's so cute… and available on youtube.

I'm in the habit of thanking my reviewers, and that hasn't changed: many thanks to mm, Ems, andaere, Vanafindiel, Angel Dumott Schunard, Taluliaka, CountryPixie, batfan, Thedarkknight17, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Kyuubikitsune9, Misericorde, Shmellington, vampassassin, Almost Funny (twice :D), & wolfbane17. I'm surprised you could read this all; it was so looooong. ;)