Note: Katherine, thanks a lot for your review! It means a lot to have feedback and, wow, I'm glad you liked the story so much! I hope you'll enjoy what follows as well.
Chapter 4 – Iron shoes into burning coals
Cons hit the bars with whatever they found: toothbrushes, their own heads, other cons. Madmen applauded and howled. Free time had been restricted, control of the different areas of the asylum had increased, doors were locked twice and double checked, to Harvey Dent's greatest pleasure.
The guards were tense, walking in pairs.
"Is it true?" they whispered.
"Yeah, it is."
They might be the only gothamites who weren't reassured by the most recent news.
The Joker was back in Arkham.
Of course, the doctors and guard knew – it was hard not to notice the younger, prettier face, the shorter frame, the limited self-assurance. It wasn't the same Joker as before, but it still was a Joker. Which was more than enough.
They had locked him in his usual place, in the most restricted area. One had to pass four checkpoints with the adequate face, keys and fingerprints, to only get there. Then, one had to walk down the most secure corridor in Gotham, on an electrified floor, passing the cells of the most dangerous men, to reach the door.
The cell itself was small, not giving enough room for one to pace, barely enough for one to stand. The Joker wasn't standing, anyway. He was sitting on the padded floor, his now dark-haired head laying against the padded wall, his blue eyes staring at nothing.
The face, they had found out, did wear makeup. Which didn't, however, hide a normal skin. Though not inhumanely porcelain-white in its entirety like it had been for the previous owner of the same name, the man's skin was mostly spotted white. Most of his face was so altered, and his neck, shoulders and arms. So was his back and major part of his chest. His legs only had a few stains.
Where it wasn't chalky, the skin was unhealthily ashen.
With his dye and red lipstick removed, his colorful clothes replaced with the standard immaculate pants and shirts, he looked like a black-and-white cartoon. Even his eyes were too unfocused for their color to stand out.
They had put him into a straightjacket. Just in case.
He didn't move. That didn't exactly reassure any of the staff members.
Contrarily to what some might pretend, though, their aim wasn't only to detain but also to help their inmates. Moreover, they knew who this one was. They had a name, a family, ground to start a conversation. They were willing to reach to him, despite the deaths this man had caused and the terrifying name he had acquired.
They were very willing to understand. They knew he had had close contact with the previous Joker. This might be the only occasion to learn more about the man.
"Timothy, do you hear me?"
Unfortunately, the patient wasn't very cooperative. Dr Ulrich suppressed a sigh and wrote down a few notes on her pad. She had been one of the few in which curiosity had won the fight over fear. But her first session wasn't going well so far.
"I am sure you do. You are a bright boy, Timothy." She wouldn't let herself forget how young her patient was, barely 18. "You know where you are, and you know why."
The guards fidgeted at her sides. She had tried to send them away, despite the risk, but the procedure required two of them to be with her in the cell while she interviewed the patient, at least until he agreed to consider her his therapist.
She found this contrary to deontology: even though she wasn't his doctor yet, she still considered him her patient. Then again, he wasn't talking.
The guard from the left moved a little too much. She tapped her pad with the point of her pen to call him to order. Thankfully, he stopped, even looked away in shame.
She never saw the child move. Suddenly, her pen wasn't in her hand anymore, then she saw his face, right next to hers. She noted how pretty he was, more so than hers, which was unfair. Then she realized he had her pen in his mouth. Then her throat started hurting.
The guards began to scream and to move around. Dr Ulrich fell to the ground. They called for help, then cursed. Blood was splashing everywhere; the artery had been torn open. More people arrived, the alarmed started howling. Medics were called.
Through the general confusion, ignoring the guards who tried to restrain him even more than the straightjacket did by itself, the Joker looked at the blood. And smiled.
He was, indeed, back.
sososo
Bruce knew the profile of Arkham Asylum's dark gray walls by heart. He had visited the place more often than he could count, had memorized its map and could get in undetected in a dozen different ways – which was worrying at best.
This time, however, the sun shone in the sky while Alfred drove his black Lamborghini through the gates. For the third time, Bruce Wayne visited the place officially. The first two times, it had been for some donations. Now, however…
The car parked in the courtyard. He folded his newspaper while Alfred got out and walked around the car. "THE WAYNE JOKER KILLS AGAIN!" screamed the headline. Considering the amount of journalist they had seen at the gate, the next news would probably be something about Bruce finally visiting.
It had taken weeks and all the Wayne's influence to get the necessary authorizations. And a lot of money. Bruce hated to use the very corruption he fought so much against, but this was different. This was Tim.
Alfred opened the door. He stepped out of the car, ignoring the noises coming from the gate. It was situated far enough from the main entrance for them to be mostly in the backgrounds. Good photographers might be able to take a shot, even at that distance, but Bruce didn't intend to hide his visit to his adoptive son. He wouldn't show shame.
The warden, Quincy Sharp, came in person to welcome him. He gave Bruce his hand to shake and started blabbing nonsense about how Arkham worked and could be improved, already fishing for a donation. Bruce pursed his lips.
"I am sure we can discuss this later", he said dismissively. "Pray bring me to him."
"There are several security protocols…"
"Which I'm sure the security guards will be happy to explain to me. Won't you, mister…?" Bruce asked, turning to one of the guards he knew to actually care about his job.
"North, sir. And yes, of course, we can explain this to you inside."
Bruce nodded.
"So who is the doctor in charge of Timothy?"
"That would be Dr Cassidy", Sharp tried to intervene. "She's waiting for you in the hall."
Bruce didn't wait to be invited inside. After one last glance to Alfred, he climbed the stairs, bracing himself for what was coming.
He kept cutting Sharp short, enough so for the man to take his leave after ten minutes only. Then, he started actually talking with Dr Cassidy, one of the most competent psychiatrists in Gotham. She tried not to be too discouraging, but didn't lie about Tim's state.
"He is hard to diagnose since he doesn't cooperate at all, but at the very least he has severe PTSD and a dissociative identity disorder. Not up to the point to have memory loss – those cases are actually very rare – but enough so for his body language to switch distinctively."
"But he doesn't qualify as psychopathic."
"I didn't reach a definitive conclusion on the matter", she said.
Which meant Tim did show psychopathic tendencies. He did kill people, apparently not caring about them at all. If he really had lost touch with himself enough not to consider people people anymore…
"Please let me know when you have set your opinion. Tim is… was a good, caring boy." Bruce didn't have to fake his voice breaking. "Whatever the Joker did to him… I hope there is something of that boy left in him."
The doctor's features barely softened.
"We will do our best considering the circumstances, Mr Wayne."
Bruce pursed his lips, but nodded. She hadn't given up though her colleague had been killed doing the exact job she had been given.
It was hard to be understanding.
"Be aware that the Jo… that Timothy is being restrained", she warned. "For your safety and his own. His movements have to be entirely impaired in order for this meeting to be possible. Do you understand?"
Bruce tensed. Bracing would only prepare him that much.
"Are you sure you are ready for this?" Dr Cassidy insisted.
"I am. I have to", he added.
She frowned, but didn't interrupt their advance which was all Bruce asked for. They reached the last checkpoint in silence. Then crossed the last corridor. Then the cell.
The door opened. Bruce breathed in.
Tim was sitting on a chair, feet bound to the ground, restricted in a straightjacket. Which was itself bound to the chair, making sure he wouldn't be able to even twitch.
He saw Bruce and grinned. It was the most terrifying thing Bruce had ever seen.
"Tim."
"Oooh, a visit!" the teenager said in a high-pitched voice which wasn't his own. "How charming of you! Did you bring flowers? I would propose you a cup of tea, but they wouldn't let me handle boiling water, you see?"
"Tim", Bruce insisted.
"Do I have to do the 'not currently available' joke? It would be quite distasteful, considering how common it is, but if you really insist…"
"You are aware this is your name."
Bruce didn't phrase it as a question. Tim grinned, his Joker's persona convincing but not perfect. His eyes were too tired, too alive – they still reflected emotion where the Joker's never did. Except while fighting with Batman; which was another matter.
"You wear a very nice tie", Tim commented instead than answering to this non-question. "It matches the color of your eyes perfectly."
"I heard you preferred red, lately."
Tim sighed with satisfaction.
"Red is perfect. I don't get many other colors around here, anyway, now, do I?"
"I will bring flowers next time", Bruce decided. "You're aware I'll have to take them away with me after the visit, though?"
"Aw, I'm flattered. Do you really think I'm able to kill someone with a flower?"
"You've always been very imaginative."
Tim actually blushed. Bruce wondered how he managed that one.
"You're right. Maybe pushing them into someone's throat. Or in the nose? Do you think I could get them to the brain? I would require some additional tools, of course, but…"
Bruce concentrated not to feel physically sick. Tim was trying to provoke him. That was all.
Did he kill all those people just to get attention?
"Of course, blades are the best", Tim kept going. "I mean, it's not as customized but it's still personal, you know? To feel its cold on your skin. It's almost sensual."
Bruce didn't interrupt him. Maybe the poison had to get out. Tim kept talking, his tone never getting even angry or aroused, as if they were having a very normal conversation. It took ten solid minutes of monologue for silence to come back.
"Are you done?" Bruce asked.
"I could go on forever, as I'm sure you know."
"Do you really want to waste our time like this? There are only twenty minutes left. Next visit isn't scheduled before next week, I didn't manage to be allowed in every day. They want to assess your reaction to me first."
Tim smirked, the Joker fading into mean anger.
"And I'm supposed to care, because?"
Bruce looked around. Then back at Tim. Who was staring at his tie, though his eyes quickly went back to his when he realized he was looking.
He wanted to tell him how much Alfred worried. How Dick couldn't even say his name. How Damian felt wronged by Tim's betrayal. How much they all wanted him to get better, to be himself again.
But he obviously couldn't.
He needed to find neutral ground before starting any kind of conversation. And maybe there was one thing, in the world, which was neutral enough.
"Pawn in E4."
Tim blinked.
"What did you say?"
"I took upon myself to choose the whites. Pawn in E4."
"What, without even a chessboard, Bruce?" Tim laughed.
"You don't need one. What is your move?"
Tim swallowed, showing insecurity for the first time, his eyes burning with need.
"You have no right to do this. No. Right!"
His voice reached Joker's shrill again, his words ones from a child pouting. Bruce looked at him in the eyes, not backing off. Tim bit his own lip. A small drop of blood appeared, slowly sliding on his chin. He didn't do anything to stop it.
Bruce fought not to show any emotion, not to reach for him, not to touch his cheek and hold him. He wasn't sure Tim wouldn't take the opportunity to bite his throat off. The journalists sure would enjoy that happening.
"Knight in C6", Tim whispered.
Bruce didn't exactly relax. But this was a first step, in the right direction.
sososo
It became a pattern quickly. Bruce would come in, Tim would attack, taunt, laugh, bite, lie, pretend to be the Joker. Then they would play chess. Those were the good days.
On the bad days, Tim wouldn't seem to notice him. He would just look empty, his eyes unfocused, barely blinking. Those times, Bruce tried to talk about his days, softly, just trying to get an answer out of him.
Both were draining. He always got back to the manor exhausted, with Dick waiting for him but never asking any question about how Tim was doing.
He never knew in advance how things would go. It was easy to dread the opening of this last door. Tim would wear the Joker's mad grin, or look bored, or just… nothing. Empty.
Bruce swallowed, then nodded at North for him to open the door. Tim looked so small in this straightjacket, even with the cell not exactly roomy. He was thin and getting thinner.
Tim looked up, saw him, recognized him – and brightened.
"Bruce!"
The warmth in his voice broke Bruce's heart. It was faked. He knew it was. Which was why it hurt so badly.
"How are you today?" Tim asked, putting on his lips the shy smile he used to have. Then he frowned, faking worry. "Bruce? You look like you've seen a ghost."
The words chosen were fitting, considering that was exactly how it felt. What hurt the most was the realization that he didn't expect Tim to ever get back to this. He had lost that boy forever.
"I'm fine", he forced out, not managing a smile. "How was your day?"
"Well, you know, the usual", Tim said. "What about yours? How are things at Wayne ent.?"
Their polite, normal conversation lasted the whole excruciating thirty minutes of Bruce's visit. Then Tim wished him well.
"See you next week!" he said in such a convincing tone Bruce felt like he wanted to… what? Die? Or maybe just stop feeling anything at all.
"Like every week", Bruce answered softly, before getting out of the cell as quickly as he could.
He could bear the unbearable. He had to.
However, others shouldn't. He had managed to get the permission for more members of the family to visit Tim. Barbara had already applied for a meeting the very next day.
Maybe she should cancel it.
sososo
Wheelchairs could actually go pretty quickly, Dick noted absently, hurrying after Babs. She certainly managed the stormy vibe in wheel as well as in heels. She was as terrifying as ever.
"I can't believe it!" she was snapping. "He tried to cancel my meeting! I don't care what he thinks is best, Tim is Tim. I can't just leave him rot in Arkham and do nothing!"
Dick winced. Noticing it, she stopped long enough to take his hand.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean you should go to. I just need to do something."
Dick smiled. It didn't feel like a smile, but he hoped it looked like one.
"It's okay. There are things to do, however. Your own therapy is far from finished. And I could use a hand with Damian. He got the physical training alright, it's the discipline he needs most. Besides", he added, and this time the warmth in his voice wasn't faked, "you're good at handling Robins."
Babs snorted.
"Thanks but no. I'll let you be the mother figure."
There was also the haunted look in Bruce's eyes to take care of, but Dick doubted his lover let anyone else see that. He wasn't even sure sharing it with him was intentional. They just knew each other too well for it not to be obvious.
And it was the Joker – the Joker did that to Bruce.
"I'll be waiting for you here", Dick said when they reached the hall, hoping without conviction not to see the exact same look on her when she'd get out.
"You really don't have to."
He smiled, again, and let her introduce herself to the reception. He watched her as they led her in then settled in a chair.
She hadn't managed to be allowed inside for more than fifteen minutes. They'd said it was necessary to assess the effects of this first visit on the patient before allowing her to stay longer. Dick knew they wanted to assess the effects of the visit on her.
He sighed. And waited.
He didn't have to wait for long. Ten minutes later, he heard the distinctive sound of her wheels.
He looked up. She was pale as a ghost. He hesitated to rise then decided against, letting her come to him, staying at her level. She did. He took her hands.
"He was there", she said, her voice just barely shaking. "He said the light was perfect. For the pictures. That they were beautiful. Everything, perfect." She gasped, breathing in. "He knew. He… Dick. He helped him."
She was pale and trembling, maybe frightened – or rather… disgusted? For a second, Dick thought she was going to add something then she shook her head, denying, as if this couldn't possibly be happening.
Dick squeezed her hands tighter. Then just pulled her into a hug. She let him, taking the opportunity to hide her face against his shoulder, so no one would see her tears. He ignored the wetness on his shirt, holding her, regretting all the while not to have tried harder to convince her not to come.
Yes, that was a coward's decision – but he'd never visited the first Joker, either. He remembered Damian's pale face, the blood everywhere when he'd found him on the manor's grounds. There was nothing left from Tim here.
After a minute, she straightened up.
"Let's go."
"Your place?"
"Please."
Dick nodded.
She never spoke of visiting the Joker ever again.
sososo
"I saw Barbara the other day" Tim announced proudly in the middle of their chess game.
Bruce didn't feel surprised. He had felt something was amiss since he first entered the cell. He was getting used to Tim's many moods. The hardest was still him faking sanity.
They still hadn't allowed the visits to last longer.
"So I heard."
"She seemed very upset when she left. I wonder why."
He wanted Bruce to ask for more information. They both knew he wouldn't. They both knew Tim would tell anyway.
"Bishop in F2", Bruce said.
Tim pouted. His imitations had more personality than he thought – that, or he didn't really try to mimic the Joker as much as to be his own version of the role. The idea was horrifying.
"Spoilsports. I know you want to know."
"I don't. Aren't we playing?"
"If you play last, I'll have seven whole days to plan my next move", Tim pointed out.
Then he smiled, and Bruce could see the red on his lips. He pointedly avoided showing any emotion whatsoever.
"There are still ten minutes left. We can have several moves before I go."
Tim sighed.
"Pawn from B4 to C5. And she was upset because I knew about the rape. I suspected she wouldn't have told anyone about it. I guess you know – you always do – but probably no one else."
Bruce had hacked into Gotham General records to get that information. That… incident had occurred after Halloween, so he had feared Tim had been part of it. Feared, without much hope.
"I was curious to know if she had felt it, actually. I mean, is it only her legs paralyzed, or also…?" He waved in the air with his chin, his hands being bound. "Even if it's just the legs, maybe the shock would have prevented her from feeling anything. Which would be disappointing. I mean, it took me some time to get there."
His voice was unnaturally high pitched, once again. It meant that, despise what Tim wanted Bruce to think, he hadn't been the one to rape Barbara. Only the Joker had been responsible. The whole joke had had too much of his MO all over to be even Tim's idea. Oh, that did taste like good old Mistah J.
"Bishop in C5."
Tim narrowed his piercingly blue eyes in thin lines. He was angry for not having unsettled Bruce. Thankfully, the time was almost up.
Bruce winced when he realized what he'd just thought. Coming here wasn't a duty. This was for Tim, for his son.
A nauseatingly sweet smile appeared on the young man's lips, as if he had read Bruce's mind.
"Oh, already?" Then, in a different, realistically serious voice. "I waited for you, you know." Then a quick smile. "It had been a week already! It felt more like a year."
His words felt physically like pikes stabbed in Bruce's chest. He couldn't breathe. Because he knew – he knew – when Tim was lying and this hadn't been a lie. And it hadn't been about Arkham, either. This was about Tim having been abducted and having hoped, against all odds, that Bruce would appear to save him. Because he was Robin and Bruce was Batman and that, that was what Batman was supposed to do. To be. To be for.
But Bruce hadn't found him. Tim had waited in vain. And now – now he was in Arkham because Bruce had put him there and he didn't want to see Bruce anymore. The only reason why he tolerated his visits was because he needed to talk to someone not to sink even deeper into madness.
And now that he didn't want him there anymore, now Bruce showed up every week like clockwork.
Bruce managed to breathe out. Maybe he was mistaken. He knew Tim well, but he wasn't that good with people. He was overthinking it.
Tim wasn't people, though. He was Robin.
Fuck.
A beep at the door warned Bruce that the time was up. Tim watched him intently while Bruce rose then exited the room silently. They both knew he had not found anything to answer to Tim's blows.
Bruce kept feeling his eyes on him all the way to the manor.
sososo
The next day, Bruce received a call from Arkham to announce him his visits would be suspended until further notice. Tim had struggled so hard in his bounds after he'd left that he had dislocated both his wrists.
sososo
Sometimes, one of the inmates screamed hard enough for the sound to cross the wall, but most of the time, there was only silence. The guards would patrol in the corridor fourteen times a day – six during actual day time, eight at night, probably because the statistics showed a higher trend to escaping at night.
Because Jack had loved fireworks. Or because he wanted Batman available for the party.
Tim closed his eyes. He felt so tired. Nothing smelled like Jack, here. There weren't even any colors. Everything was white. The walls. The grounds. The straightjacket. His skin. The doctor's clothes. Or brown; the new therapist had brown hair, brown eyes – dull, dull, dull. But still better than blue, blue he wanted to stab.
Or green. Robin-green. Huh!
They took about 17.6 steps that Tim could hear to cross the section of the corridor in front of his cell. He savored each of them.
He was so tired. Wanted to sleep. But no, no, no sleep for bad boys!
Jack…
No smell, no color, no sound, no blood, nothing, empty, empty, stupid boy. It had felt so good to kill the first one – warm fluid on his cheek, almost as good as a kiss, as a caress – but now they had bound him and he couldn't move.
They let him out of the chair at night and then, he could feel the padded floor against his face. For five whole minutes, every evening, he savored the sensation, knowing nothing else would touch his cheek that gently once morning would come back.
Yes – yes. Jack had had a point. Night was his favorite part of the day as well.
He would have cried, to feel the wetness roll from his eyes to his chin, deliciously unpredictable. He had done so a few times, pretending to pretend. But alas, that didn't suit the Joker so… No more cookies!
Tim blinked. Even the temperature barely changed at all. Every day was the same day all over again. Routine checks. Same food every week.
Sometimes, the rage made it all fade away. That felt spectacular. Other times, it was the lust. God. When he'd break out, he'd have someone fuck him into the stars. And lick him. Everywhere.
Then he'd rip open whoever it would be, to feel his warmth and cover himself in red.
