Jack took the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. Not even the cool breeze that swept through the clear air of his former home could soothe him as he now stood in front of the man that made his childhood a living hell.
The old man wheezed as he bent back into the driver side of the car and retrieved an old brown duffle bag. He cautiously stepped toward Jack and smirked as he carelessly threw it at his feet.
"Some of, uh…" he stammered. "Some of your old things. Your ma had them with her other personal belongings at her sister's house." He paused to light a Lucky Strike. "Ha! Can you believe your Aunt Sophie's still kickin'? It's a wonder Ernie hasn't put her out yet—"
"Is that all?" Jack interrupted, growing tired of the casual façade behind which his father was hiding.
The old man tossed aside an extinguished match and limped a few steps closer to his son. "If you mean of your mother's shit…yeah, that is all. From here on out…"
"What is that supposed to mean, Charles?"
His father suddenly burst into a cackle. "Charles?!" he mocks. "Oh, I see. We're that far gone with the old man, aren't we?"
"We were far gone when you gave me these, you son-of-a-bitch!" Jack snarled as he motioned to his scars.
Charles smiled. "To remember me by, kiddo. I knew you were gonna high-tail it sooner or later, and you know what? I'm glad. Broke your mother's heart, but what did she know about raising little shits like you? She made you soft, boy."
He stepped back and took a long drag on his cigarette. "Just look at ya now!" He dramatically swept his hand toward Jack's pin-striped pants. "Looks like…you've made it big. So big that the papers around here claim the craziest things. Dante Azzarello, huh?"
Jack's eyes grew slightly wider as his father drew close once more.
"I'll bet he treats you," sneered Charles, yellow smoke coming through his crooked teeth. "Like the sun shines out your ass. And so do the higher-ups in Gotham, if you get my drift."
Jack held his breath so as not to breathe in the noxious fumes emitting from his father's foul, tar-ridden mouth. "Don't think about leaving here, boy." Charles threw his cigarette in the dirt and crushed it hard under foot. "Because if your boss wants his right-hand man back in one piece…he's gonna have to pay…handsomely."
Charles gave him a wide smile, thinking he had finally beaten him to the lowest point in his life.
But Jack only grinned back at him, knowing that his dull father was oblivious to the talents he had acquired in the recent years away from home. He, too, had a few tricks up his sleeve.
Jack bent down, keeping his eyes on his father. He casually unzipped the duffle bag and his eyes caught the bright white of an old Halloween mask. It was that of a simpering clown, with a red mouth creased in a frown and faded blue paint around the hollow eyes.
He reached in and his finger grazed the rubber to a second item.
His old baseball bat.
"Dad…" Jack grinned.
Charles raised an eyebrow as his son motioned to the house. "You left some gin in the kitchen cabinet…"
The old man stumbled in front of Jack, eyeing him cautiously. However, the dryness on his lips was heeding the call of supposed relief that was in the house.
Jack followed him closely behind.
The last thing that went through Charles Napier's head was a Louisville Slugger.
It had been another week since The Joker's attack on Harleen, and she sat nervously at her desk, rhythmically thumping her blue pen against her notebook. She gazed away from her computer, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes, as if trying to soothe away the contents of the docket she had received that morning.
She felt stupid. She put herself in that position, egging him on and making him do what he did.
But that was just it, wasn't it? Harleen thought to herself. He didn't really do anything.
Harleen leaned back in her chair, putting her glasses on her desk. She closed her eyes and remembered the heat of his body against her back, his lean chest prodding against her shoulders and his tight grip in her hair.
She bit her lip, ashamedly. First, he had grasped her thigh and second, he had put his full weight on her. She had felt him, all of him, and a flush came to her cheeks.
She had been aroused, again.
That was his intention, she concluded. For what purpose, she was still unsure.
She crossed her arms and shook her head. "Jesus, Harl," she sighed to herself. "Why can't you be more careful?"
Meanwhile, The Joker was in the recreation room sitting at the window and tapping his heel against the floor. He had been allowed to return, under his doctor's orders and Dr. Arkham's insistence on heavy supervision. However, most of the patients stayed far away from him since his outburst on Tetch.
He had been thinking of Harleen all week and their next session would take place later that afternoon. He knew the tension would make her cautious again, and he wasn't going to stand for that. Like his doctor, The Joker did not want to start over. She had been doing very well, asking the tough questions that she knew he wouldn't answer. Not concisely, anyway.
The Joker absentmindedly stroked the palm of his hand. Her long, thick hair had been soft in his hold and he longed to play with it again, especially after the way she had submitted so quickly when he grabbed it.
He grinned to himself as he thought of Harleen's shaking body underneath him, his hips pushing harder against hers. He felt his heart begin to pound as he recalled the image of her bent over in front of him, but he took a deep breath and shook her from his mind.
Arousal was becoming too easy for him.
She must know what she does to me, he mused. Why does she do it?
He whispered to himself, "Be careful, Harley. You can only tease a hungry animal for so long."
"Talking to oneself…" A throaty chuckle emitted beside him. "I doubt even the voices in your head would answer you, clown."
The Joker looked up and saw the knowing smirk of Jonathan Crane who was easing a chair to sit next to him, at a reasonable distance, of course.
"There are no voices in my head, Johnny," The Joker said. "The voices are out here…talking ceaselessly and not minding their own damn business."
Crane only smiled. "You should know better than to sit here muttering, Joker. Doesn't your good doctor let you talk enough?"
The Joker twisted his neck toward Crane so quickly that an audible pop echoed around them.
Crane put his hands up nonchalantly. "I beg your pardon. I forgot that she was a sensitive topic." He let a moment of silence pass between them until, "Has she told you yet?"
The Joker raised a brow and licked his bottom lip. "Told me…what?"
"You're being replaced."
The Joker straightened in his chair and glared at him. "Replaced?"
Crane nodded. "She's getting a new patient tomorrow, clown. One that's new on the scene. One that, I dare say…may be bigger than you. That's what she goes after, you know. The high-profilers."
"Why should I care?" The Joker gruffly asked. "Besides…how would you know about her business?"
"You forget, clown," Crane leaned in to him, lip curled in annoyance. "I used to work with her. We were both interns, mind you. I know her intentions."
The Joker was genuinely intrigued now, but hid it beneath an apprehensive grin. "Intentions?"
"She's writing a book, Joker." Crane smiled gleefully. "Didn't you ever wonder why she was assigned to you? She begged Dr. Arkham for your case."
The Joker's heart rate shot up once more. "You should really keep your mouth shut, Crane," he growled. "It always smells of bull shit when you open it."
"The book is about you, clown!" Crane snapped. "About you…and she's almost finished."
The Joker's brow was beginning to crease in anger as Crane continued, "And when she's finished, you'll be finished. Off to Blackgate with you."
"I'll be out of here before that happens," The Joker muttered.
"Before what happens?" Crane asked. "Before you're officially booked in one of the worst prisons in the world? Or before the good doctor gives you a chance to see what color panties she wears?"
The Joker bit his tongue so hard he could swear he could taste blood. He knew Crane was trying to get a rise out of him, and based on their past encounters, he was always successful.
"I'll let you in on a secret, clown." Crane leaned in closer and whispered delightedly, "She doesn't wear any."
The Joker's fingers were soon closed around Crane's neck and squeezing him, but before he could delight in Crane's wheezing for breath, Killer Croc's strong hand ripped him from his grip.
"I think you need to pick another game to play, Scarecrow," Croc snarled. "You should know by now Joker can't deal with your shit!"
"Stay out of this, Croc!" The Joker threw his chair aside.
"Hey, man! You wanna end up back in The Hole with more broke ribs?" He tossed Crane to the floor where he landed with a thud.
Crane frowned at the monstrous build before him and then looked past him at The Joker. "Edward Nigma," he said.
The Joker narrowed his eyes as Crane giggled. "That's his name, clown. Your doctor's new boy toy."
"Go sit your scrawny ass down and play some chess!" Croc yelled, irritated.
Crane slowly walked away to where Tetch had been watching, pausing in their game. As soon as he sat down, Crane angrily pushed the board to the floor, Tetch squealing as the chess pieces landed noisily.
Croc carefully eyed the doorway where three orderlies were also intensely watching, and he turned around and picked up The Joker's chair. "Take it easy, man," he said as he pulled one up for himself.
The Joker took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Who is this Nigma?"
Croc only shook his head. "Why do you let Crane get you? Ya'll are just like a couple of little kids fightin' over an empty swing."
The Joker couldn't help but breathe out an amused sigh at this strange metaphor. "Nigma…who is he, Croc?"
"He's nothin'," Croc waved his big hand as if swatting away a fly. "Claims he's a genius. Calls himself The Riddler."
"The Riddler?"
Croc chuckled. "It's all over the news, man."
"Croc," The Joker said. "I've been in The Hole and in the hospital the past few weeks…"
"You ain't got nothin' to worry about, Joker," Croc said. "Don't let what Crane said get you all flustered. I doubt Dr. Quinzel would just drop you like a hot potato."
"Your metaphors are really interesting, you know?" He heard Croc laugh loudly and grinned. "I don't think so either, Croc, but…is she would drop me, then why would I go to Blackgate?"
Croc shook his head. "You know why you didn't go? It was because of Dr. Quinzel. She knew you needed help."
The Joker looked away and gazed out the window, remembering the way the skin of her thigh felt as he grazed his fingers under her skirt.
He snickered. "She was right, Croc. You don't know how much."
