"Heard you're going to Princeton."
Bruce feels his blood run cold. His hand clenches on the phone receiver and he sinks heavily onto the bed. "Where'd you hear that?"
"Read it in Gotham Today," Jack says evenly.
And Bruce feels like utter shit. He'd given the interview weeks ago, answering the question about his college plans without thought. Of course it would be published, and of course Jack would see it.
"You shouldn't have found out like that. I'm s—"
"Don't," Jack snaps at him. "We both knew this was coming."
Bruce says nothing. He hadn't been sure that Jack knew it was coming, actually.
"And I've heard that Princeton is great," Jack continues. His voice is sugar-coated and over-bright. Bruce shifts uneasily but tries to banter back.
"I've heard there's a lot of rich pricks there."
"What, you afraid they can't take one more?"
"Ha ha, always a joker. Look, I'm having a graduation party on Saturday. Will you come?"
"Nuh-uh. Working."
"You?"
"Someone's gotta keep me in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed," Jack's sneering laugh sounds a bit more genuine to Bruce's ears. "I'll come over after I'm done. How about that?"
"Okay." There's a pause. "Jack?"
"Yeah, I'm still here."
"I really am…" He doesn't say it, because he knows Jack doesn't want him to. "I wish that I could…"
"I know," Jack says gently and hangs up.
Bruce spends the next few days mindlessly acting by rote. He removes his armor piece by piece, assembling it on its stand, not feeling the ache in his body from where the bullets impacted his armor. He grabs rags and cleaning supplies and returns to the Tumbler, begins to methodically clean the girl's blood out of the passenger side. Alfred calls him half-way through, but Bruce cannot hear the phone ringing past the ringing in his own ears. It doesn't matter. He doubts the old man has anything to say that Bruce wants to hear.
It takes hours before the last speck of blood is gone. Bruce gathers the bucket and cleaning supplies and returns them to their spot under the industrial sink. He grabs a metal garbage can and goes back for the rags. He scoops up the pile of crimson-soaked terrycloth and discards it. And suddenly, the horror sweeps over him anew—the smell of blood, the tacky feel of it on his hands and in his hair. The numbness abates a little and he can suddenly feel the ache in his chest. He retches into the garbage can, holding back tears.
When the dry-heaves finally subside, he is filled with renewed purpose. He dismantles the armor, stuffing it into the garbage can with the blood-soaked rags. His hands are shaking, but he doesn't stop, carefully disassembling each piece of Kevlar before tossing it into the trash. When he's finished, he strips the spare suit of weapons and places it in the trash with the other one.
He looks around his stark, white haven, eyes stinging. Right—the Tumbler is next. It takes hours to strip the vehicle of weapons, guidance system, anything that can be used against the GCPD. He tears out the computer's circuit boards with his bare hands, cutting himself on the metal and leaving smudges of blood on the electronics. The blood hardens as he works, flaking off of his hands and onto the cold metal floor. He ignores it. He pounds away at his toys, destroying everything that he can. He keeps his mind dulled out. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat. He ignores Alfred's calls. He methodically tears apart every link he has to Batman.
On the third day, his body gives in to exhaustion and he passes out.
When he wakes up, Joker is there.
"You know," Joker drawls, smoothing Bruce's hair back from his forehead. "You are not an easy man to find."
Bruce stares at him, mind peculiarly calm. He cannot find it in himself to be surprised or upset that Joker has discovered his hideaway. He feels nothing at all.
Joker's hands continue their petting as Bruce watches him, his brain cataloguing his actions automatically. Joker has traded in the threadbare drawstring pants and t-shirt of the average Arkham inmate for his trademark suit, along with waistcoat and tie. Brown leather shoes and soft suede gloves complete the outfit. There is a black wooden walking stick lying near his bent knee. His hair has overgrown the buzz cut he was periodically given as a prisoner, blond curls wisping around his bare, makeup-less face. He is more like the boy Bruce remembers than the madman that is his enemy, and it throws Bruce off, makes him unable to react the way he knows he should.
Joker presses a paper cup of water from the sink into his hands.
"Drink this," he says with an encouraging smile.
Bruce drinks it, still in a daze. The water feels wonderful in his dry throat, and he gulps it down, handing the empty cup back. Joker takes it and disappears for a moment, returns with another cup of water and a granola bar. Bruce eats, watching the other man, who has settled in front of him, that slight smile still on his face. It feels like a dream—Bruce's thoughts float through his head, barely ruffling the surface of his conscious mind. Instead, his head is steeped in a warm stupor. He finishes the food, setting the cup and the wrapper beside him and then turns to the clown.
Joker ruffles his hair fondly. "That's my boy."
He stands, leaning on his walking stick as he draws himself up. He puts his weight on his right leg and leans down to Bruce. Bruce takes his proffered hand and lets Joker draw him to his feet. His knee is stiff from so long in one position and he nearly collapses when it won't take his weight. He claws at the wall for purchase, Joker's hand under his elbow propping him up as he stretches the stiffness out. The pain breaks through some of his numbness, but it still feels far away and dream-like. Eventually, he is able to stand on his own and he follows Joker outside.
There is a car waiting, stolen no doubt, but Bruce doesn't question it. He climbs into the passenger seat and watches as Joker fumbles with the keys and turns the engine over. The reality of the situation has still not set in fully. He is sitting in a car with Joker; he had woken to find him in his hideaway; he is even now being driven to some unknown place. Yet nothing stirs in his mind, no hint of anger or fear. Perhaps he has a death wish. Or perhaps he just doesn't care anymore.
It takes a few minutes for Bruce to realize that they are heading for Wayne Manor, but Joker turns off before they get to the main entrance, taking the lower road towards the boathouse. Bruce hasn't been there since the manor was rebuilt—hasn't wanted to deal with the memories of his times there with Jack. Joker rolls the car to a stop and they both get out. Bruce's eyes fix on the dock, charred and ramshackle with decay. A surge of exhaustion sweeps over his body. He drags his eyes away and goes inside.
Joker is looking around the dim room, his tongue darting out to lick at his scars. "The old one was better," he observes.
Bruce approaches him, that strange lassitude still settling into his limbs. "The roof leaked."
"Eh, it had charm," Joker demurs. "Some people like that sort of thing." Bruce shuts his eyes, letting familiar laughter wash over him. He usually finds it irritating, but now it is soothing.
"And, some people look like they're about the fall over," Joker observes. Bruce slits his eyes back open and smiles faintly at him.
Joker's hands push Bruce towards the couch, urging him to lie down and then straddling Bruce's torso and fitting his chest against Bruce's. He cups Bruce's face in both of his hands, rubbing his knuckles on the stubble around Bruce's jawline. The warmth of his hands is sinking into Bruce's body, making it hard to focus.
"You don't think this is real," he says, gaze oddly affectionate.
Bruce shakes his head.
"Oh Brucie, Brucie, Brucie. You still have me, you know. You never didn't have me. Your having of me was and is a permanent affair."
Joker bends and places a tender kiss on Bruce's forehead. His arms tighten around Bruce. Bruce closes his eyes and turns his face into Joker's neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Joker hums and pulls Bruce closer, fitting their bodies together on the narrow couch. Bruce's mind finally resigns the last vestiges of awareness and he falls asleep in the madman's arms.