.

When he wakes up, he hears the typewriter again. He probes the sound with his fingertips, creeping, settling lightly against the wall to not scare the memory away. He gets out of bed and traces its path to the corner of the room, with every step, he shrinks, until he is only the size of a spider, crawling purposely with all of his eight legs towards the birds that are clicking their beaks against the sunny, grassy ground with the steady punching of keys. Beyond the birds he can see a young tousled boy. A blonde sniveling brat: one tiny grubby hand at his mouth, and the other reaching up to grasp a slender hand. He scurries faster, some strange compulsion demanding that he see more of the hand, pushing him towards the sunlit scene. But he has failed to remember the clicking, and before he can even reach the child's scent, he is plucked from the grass and swallowed, falling into the compressing darkness, legs flailing uselessly.

He does not want to lose that hand. He cannot lose that hand. "No!" he cries. "Nononono!" He swings his arms wildly, trying to break from the Darkness' hold. He tears one arm free and smashes his fist into its mouth, and in its momentary stun, he frees his other arm and jumps to attack. He knocks the Darkness to the floor and falls on top of it, beating the head with his fists and clawing at the lips with his bitten nails. "Bring it back!" he shouts, trying to pry his fingers underneath its cracks. "Bring it back! I want it back!" The tears, rage, and panic blind him, and he does not see the fist that swings round and connects with the side of his skull.

.

.

.

When he wakes up, he is once again strapped to the bed, but this time with cable instead of the easily escapable soft restraints the hospital uses. He smiles briefly, and then puts on his most pained face. "Oh…my head," he groans. "Why is it always the head with you?"

He feels a little put out when he gets no reply, but soldiers on regardless. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that, you know? Especially not here. These crazies, well, who knows what it'd do to their fragile psyches!"

"You were having a nightmare," comes the gruff voice.

"I was not!" he pouts, offended that anyone could think so little of him. As if he would play slave to his own mind like that piece of trash in the room next door.

"You attacked me."

"Yes, well, you're the Batman. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?" He giggles, and his whole body shakes against the bed frame. "I guess I need to read my training manual again. I'm still new you know, so cut me a little slack!"

The Batman steps into the feeble moonlight which slips through the tinted and barred window. "You were shouting, hysterical" he gravels, and then pauses, and tries but fails to hide the smugness in his next words. "You were crying."

The Joker tries to bring a hand up to feel his face, but can't raise his wrist any more than a few inches off the mattress. Frustrated, he bangs his fists a few times, and falls back to the thin sterile pillow. He waggles his tongue and his eyes, and rolls his head from ear to ear. "Weeellll," he drawls, "you know how I get when you interrupt my beauty rest, honey. Do you want me to have bags under my eyes at that charity event tomorrow? Think of what the paparazzi would say!"

The Batman says nothing, and for a few minutes, the only sound is the rustle of disposable cotton as the Joker writhes on his cot, and an occasional whinny of laughter.

"You're not a very good visitor, you know that? You should've brought flowers. Unless of course, this isn't a social visit?"

The Batman says nothing, makes no move.

The Joker clears his throat. "That was your cue," he whispers, "to ah, tell me what you're here for?"

Still, the Batman says nothing, and makes no move.

The Joker frowns. Sure, his Batman is supposed to be the straight man, but this is a little extreme. He will have to break some windows to make some eggs, as the saying goes. He wants to laugh.

"Maybe," he says slowly, "you're here to get revenge. For that whore I killed…"

And before he can put the period on his sentence, Batman is pinning his throat to the mattress with both of his hands, snarling into his face his face like a mad dog. The Joker gasps for breaths and laughs in between them. Yes. This is perfect. This is what he wants.

"Don't you dare," growls the cigarette voice. "Don't you dare speak of her!"

"Oh, touchy!" gasps the Joker. "I told you I was jealous, didn't I?" A wheezing breath, a laugh, and another breath. "How could you think I'd let anyone else have you?" He loses himself in hysterics for a while, and begins to feel lightheaded. The hands still haven't let up on his throat. "Choking a restrained man," he ekes out, eyes closing. "Oh how the mighty have fallen—I'm so proud!"

He takes deep breaths that reach the back of his throat, and shakes the whole bed with his laughter. Once he's calmed down, he looks around the room for the Bat, but cannot see him. He knows that he's still there though. He can feel his brooding.

"I don't think that's why you've come, though," he says, smiling. "Truth is, I don't think you know why you're here."

"Truly, I'm touched," he says earnestly, but he says it to an empty room.