It was as quiet as it could possibly be in the Joker's penthouse. The wind sounded hollow outside, the sky dim, the room dim, even, as only one lamp was turned on in the entire bedroom. It appeared to be much darker in the large room, however, mainly since someone had left the curtains drawn. If you hadn't just come in from the outside, you'd have thought it was nighttime. But, upon turning the lights on, you'd instantly wish it to be dark again once you saw the state of the room.
To put it shortly, it was a mess. Well, to be fair, Harley's side of the room still looked entirely intact, save for a few strewn articles of clothing on the floor. The Joker's side was an entirely different story, on the other hand; broken, empty bottles of alcohol were on the floor, alongside several empty pill bottles. Torn clothes and surprisingly, several sharp weapons littered the carpet, making it a dangerous trek to the bed.
The bed was no exception to this mess; the covers were filthy, and wrinkled. The pillows looked like they'd be ripped open with a knife, and said-knife had also seemed to pay a visit to the headboard, what with the scribbled in HAHAs and little childish doodles that were hard to make out. In the faint lamplight, the knife's blade could be seen still embedded in the board, as the Joker lay underneath it, mindlessly twisting the blade back and forth to carve yet another stick figure into the wood. His face seemed vacant of anything depictable, save for the glazed over look in his eyes.
His entire appearance was rather disheveled to say the least; he wore nothing but a pair of purple sweatpants, his feet and chest entirely bare and freezing, no thanks to the air vent overhead. His hair looked like it hadn't been combed or brushed in a very long time, and the dark circles under his eyes had developed into a pair of heavy bags. This had been his routine appearance since the night he came back from his talk with Harley, none of the men had dared speak up in concern about their boss, though Frost had looked like he wanted to say something. Every time, he'd give the man a warning look, and proceed to lock himself in the bedroom for almost the entire day.
He only made tiny humming noises as he continued carving away at the wood, these noises discernible enough to made out as some kind of nursery rhyme. Some words escaped every now and then, but not enough to determine what nursery rhyme it was, exactly.
Scratch…scratch…
The blade dug deeper into the wood, being dragged in a downwards spiral. An insane zigzag pattern blossomed across the headboard, all but overtaking any of the other previous illustrations and words.
Clunk.
He brought the blade to a stop. It'd gotten caught on something.
Grunting, he pulled it out, bringing the knife to rest on his chest, all while still in his hand. One finger began to stroke the blade, as his mind wandered. It had been wandering; all day, all week, every single month since Harley had left. Some odd months later and he still wondered why he thought that whole ordeal would've turned out okay. To say these months had been fun for him would be a complete and utter lie. It was common sense and clear enough to know that he had been, and still was, falling apart.
It was not something he would admit, say, or even allow himself to consider the idea of; he didn't like the idea of being so dependent, so despondent…he was above other men, he couldn't allow himself to be weakened just because the one thing that kept any solidarity intact was gone from his life. Yet he was weakened anyways, as if someone had stolen a vital organ from his body, like that was the very thing that was draining him.
He thought it would get better after they had met. After they had a chance to talk, to sort things out…he had fully intended on not driving home alone that night. Yet, he did anyways. He was the only one to enter the lambo, the only one to get out, the only one to sleep in the same room that night, and the next night, and the night after that…
Not that he'd done any actual sleeping.
Some nights he was lucky to even get three hours of sleep, but in each day, in each month, that had passed, he found himself more reliant on caffeine and pills, more than anything, to keep himself going. The nightmares…the…the memories, maybe…if they even were, had only gotten worse as each month had passed. Every night he'd close his eyes, and some foreign event would replay in his mind; some nights he'd see the little boy again, the teenager, the young man…the young woman, the stabbed woman, the nice older couple…some doctors…
So many puzzle pieces and yet none of them fit. It was troubling.
This was precisely why he couldn't sleep. It felt like an overload of data in his mind, an overload that he just didn't want to deal with right now. He ignored it like they had gone away, but they hadn't. They persisted, came back every night, and progressively just got more and more confusing. It was around the seventh month that he began his schedule of only sleeping for about an hour, before getting up and pacing around the room for two hours, and then wandering off to another room to do God knows what for another four hours until the sun came up.
Obviously, this was not a healthy cycle, but since when had he ever been the exact picture of health? Physical health maybe, but mental health? Never, not ever. This shouldn't be any different from any behavior he'd exhibited before, thought it bothered some of the henchmen to see their boss like this. It also bothered them how hectic things had been around the club lately; and in Gotham, in general.
None of them had gotten a single break for the entire nine months; the Joker had been running them ragged with several heists, bombings, attacks on the street…it was starting to get old. Ordinarily, he'd just set these attacks apart…careful planning would be involved. It wasn't like him to just up and randomly causing chaos without a master plan. The henchmen had reached the point where they almost debated drawing straws to see who would dare to knock on the door and try talking to him.
But every time they even came close to the door, they'd hear his off-tune singing and humming, his insane ramblings, and they'd back off. You'd think after so many years of working for the clown prince of crime, they'd be used to this shit…but the last time he'd acted this bad off was when Harley had been locked away in prison. This situation was proving to be more far complex, and far more taxing on the man's mind.
The truth was, the rigorous sleep schedule, the random attacks, the alcohol, the pills…it was all just a distraction. He'd tried, oh god, had he tried to convince himself he didn't need her…but as time ticked on…the universe just continued to tell him otherwise. Nightmares…the memories…would go on and on, and on the rare nights he actually slept on…if, if the other memories didn't bother him, anything and everything pertaining to Harley would play on.
It was…confusing. The supposed memories had started out as hallucinations, but had transitioned over to nightmares; anything Harley related had developed into both hallucinations and nightmares at the very time. By god, he didn't know how that worked and he wasn't about to figure that out, nor did he have the current mental strength to do so, it was already tiring enough trying to fight off any of the nightmares, any of the usual voices that enjoyed taunting him.
He'd learned to live with those voices a long time ago. He taught this to Harley when she'd first started hearing voices, had been the one to ask, when he was still her patient, if she ever heard any voices. She hadn't admitted it then, but not a day after her chemical plunge, he'd walked into the bedroom to find her seemingly arguing with herself. She'd even stood up and tossed a lamp across the room, screaming at someone—he didn't know who, to be quiet.
He hadn't said a word, just watching on in silence, as her tantrum continued. When she'd finally calmed down enough, she'd turned to look at him, a little stunned, a little surprised that he was there…and then, she'd just broken-down crying.
"I just wanted them to stop…I di—didn't mean to break anything, puddin', please…"
She'd been more upset over the lamp, of course she was.
It was a fond memory the more he thought about it; after finally getting her to stop apologizing because goodness knows he couldn't stand a repetitive apologizer, he'd sat her down on the couch, holding both of her hands in his, and just…talked to her. For the first time in his life, he had been genuine with her; asking what the voices had been saying, who they sounded like, who they could be…
It was almost, for a moment, as if they were a normal couple.
She'd told him; it was her own voice taunting her, not just her own voice…but a voice of reason, a more sensible voice, from a version of her far more cautious and sensible.
Harleen…of course it had been Harleen.
"Harls…do you know what I did? When I first started hearing the voices?"
She'd shaken her head.
"I screamed. I broke things, I got angry…" His fingers traced over hers, as he spoke. "I still do. I always will; that's just something you can't change, a…a part of you that you can't rid yourself of."
"But I want them gone."
"Oh…no, no, baby…" He'd grinned, moving his hands to her tear-stained face, cupping it gently. "I'm sorry, there's nothing you can do about it. You just have to accept that they're always gonna be there..."
She'd hiccupped, sucking back a snot bubble that was trying to leak from her nostril.
"…but, but…they're so mean, puddin'…" she'd sobbed, quietly, pathetically, and he pressed his hands even tighter against her face, his thumbs brushing aside any tears and smeared makeup.
"I know, pumpkin…but you're just gonna have to live with them." At this, he opened his arms up entirely, allowing Harley to fall against his chest as she started to cry again, all but staining his shirt. But they'd stayed here, him holding her, stroking her hair…repeating the same words.
"Just live with them, Harley, you don't have to like them."
And boy, did he not like his own voices. Especially now, especially since they'd gotten so pesky as of late. This would be a grand time to listen to his own advice, but his mind did not see fit to reason right now. No real reason, no real logic, anyways.
Without thinking, he'd pressed the blade into the palm of his hand. Not enough to draw blood, but just enough to cause slight pain. His upper and lower jaw grinded tediously against one another, his mind swimming, flooding. It had even started to hurt, just by thinking…the pills had not just been for sleep related issues, it'd been for these headaches that he didn't even think to register as faux…
A little prick from the knife brought his focus to surface and he yelped, pulling it back from his mind to find a tiny trickle of blood running down his palm. Cursing under his breath, he sat up and rubbed the blood off onto the sheets.
"Really, Mistah J? Band-aids were existed for a reason, ya know."
His fist gathered the sheet, crumpling the portion he held into a tight wad. Red stained the white, an ugly blotch forming the longer he held on to it. His head stayed lowered, his gaze away from where he swore the voice was coming from.
"Aw geez. Okay, so you get to do that but I can't eat a hot dog there? Not cool."
He shut his eyes, releasing the sheet as he slowly laid back down.
"You…shut up, you're not here…"
"You're right, I'm not. You made damn sure I wouldn't be."
Rolling to his side, he gripped the knife in his hand, keeping both eyes squeezed shut.
"Look at me, puddin'."
"I can't."
"And why not?" The voice persisted, starting to sound as if it were getting closer. "You miss me, don't you? You know I can make the nightmares stop…"
A cold hand touched his shoulder, and his eyes opened. The knife was now pointed towards Harley, her hair loose from their pigtails and rippling down her back in soft waves of blue and pink. She wore the same sundress that the woman in the nightmares was wearing, and a visible baby bump protruded from underneath it.
His found his own hands shaking as he bolted up, pressing the blade to her throat. No pressure, no sight of blood. It passed through her like she was made of air, which to be fair, she probably was. As if she had read his mind, the Harley-hallucination smiled and sat down on the bed, flicking the knife from his hand.
"Silly, puddin'. Can't hurt what ain't real…" she mused, as the knife hit the mattress. He swallowed hard, staring, and quickly shook himself, spinning himself around to face the headboard in the same mannerism that a small child would avoid facing their parent when they were in trouble.
"Go away." he muttered. "Why are you even here?"
"Because you let yourself think again." He shuddered at feeling her fingers brush through his hair, though in reality it was the air vent blowing it around. Out of impulse, he ducked his head out of the way, resting it against his knees as he brought them to his chest, curling up in a sad lump, right there on the bed. But the Harley-hallucination only moved closer, now wrapping her cold arms around him. He resisted, attempting to break free.
"For the love of…go away, will you please go the fuck away…" His voice cracked, almost out of desperation. It was pathetic that someone like him would even sound or act desperate, but this was just terribly unfair. He couldn't say he'd rather have the faux memories over the Harley-hallucinations, as those were every bit as torturous, but at least with those he never saw her. Never had to hear her voice taunting him.
"I did, nine months ago, Mistah J…remember?"
"You know what I mean. Get out of my head." His face was all but concealed within the confines of his knees now, trying so hard to block out the Harley behind him. Her arms fell loose from his rigid body and he heard her sigh.
"Why can't you just accept it, sweetie…you're going to be a daddy. What's so bad about that?"
He shifted, his hand starting to bleed again.
"I don't know…"
"I think you do."
His form uncrumpled at this, his hands slamming hard against the soft mattress. Another blood stain pooled underneath his injured hand.
"I don't—I don't fucking know! What more do you want from me? What else do you want me to say?" He spun himself around, facing the fake Harley as she stared blankly at him. "I can't place it—and I've told you why! It just wouldn't work!"
That was a crap excuse. Batman had brats of his own, why should this be any different?
Not to say this thought hadn't plagued his mind, but he couldn't think of any other reason as to why he couldn't possibly accept having a child. Unless he was afraid….which he was certain he wasn't.
The fake Harley cracked a weak smile at his words.
"Oh…honey…don't lie to yourself. You and I both know that's bullshit."
She reached over, taking his bleeding hand, and pressed it against her stomach. He didn't resist, though he didn't know why. Somehow this act felt familiar to him, like…like he'd done this before.
A steady, rhythmic kick thudded against his palm. More blood trickled from his cut.
His eyes slightly widened.
Another kick.
Fake-Harley giggled, taking his hand away and squeezing it tightly.
"Just think...she'll be here anytime now. It won't be much longer…"
It won't be much longer…
Suddenly, right before his eyes, Harley's facial features began to shift and twist. Her hair became shorter, and tied into a ponytail that trailed down her shoulder, the blue and pink gone, the blonde gone…in its place, brown. Her pale skin darkened slightly, and freckles appeared on her face, a soft, gentle face, that stared right back at his shocked, confused expression. She didn't smile, she didn't frown…but her eyes…there was something so familiar about the quiet gleam in them.
Slowly, she opened her lips, but nothing came out. That's when the smile appeared, a sad one albeit, and she let go of his hand, quickly bringing her own hand to touch his face. It wasn't as cold a touch as Harley's, instead it felt oddly warmer. As if she'd been holding it in, a tiny gasp escaped and she brought both hands to his face, holding it carefully and looking at it, intently. The Joker could've protested, in fact he very much wanted to; he wanted to pull away and hide in that same sad crumple again, yet…again, this was feeling very familiar to him.
"Jack…" Her voice, sweet and pretty, and almost identical to a songbird's, caused his dazed glance to shift back towards her.
Jack…Ja…
Who was that?
"I don't…that's not…" He faltered, being cut off as the woman began shushing him. His entire body felt as though it would collapse at any second, like he was suddenly made of clay and would fall apart without someone's support. His arms, his legs, everything felt weak the longer he allowed himself to be held in this woman's embrace. Why hadn't he shoved her off, yet…why…
"My Jack…my husband…the man I love, you know me. You know me, Jack. Don't deny it."
He did, he did know her. She'd been the woman in his nightmares, but he was never able to place her! What the hell was going on?!
"I…I don't…I don't know...you…"
More like he didn't want to remember her.
The more he stared at her face, the more the dreams he'd pushed to the back of his mind came surging back. So many of them were happy ones, with her and the young man so very much in love, following them as they set up their nursery, as they went shopping. Though, as he went through all these nightmares, an ache began forming in his chest. Like, the further he went…the worse they seemed to get.
He saw fights. Loud, ugly fights.
He saw the young man in the hospital, pleading with the doctors.
He cut his own thoughts off, looking straight back up at the lovely woman.
"No…no, I can't. I can't remember you, I don't…. I don't want to know what happens."
A rather…sad smile overtook the woman's gentle face, and she folded her hands into her lap, leaving the Joker to scramble in an attempt to keep himself from falling over.
"Jack…foolish Jack. Always so stubborn." She shook her head, her tone growing much darker than before. "Stop fighting the memories, Jack. Let them come back."
"What!? No-no, no, I can't! I won't! They aren't who I am anymore, they don't mean anything to me!"
"If they didn't, you wouldn't be fighting them, Jack…"
"Stop that! Stop calling me that!" He all but screamed, turning himself away from the woman, and childishly threw a torn pillow over his head. Yeah, like that was going to make her go away. Fuck that, he'd rather have Harley back over this bitch, whoever she was.
"Stop fighting them, Jack…everything will become so clear if you stop…"
Mumbling something incoherent, he ignored her, fumbling one hand around beneath the mattress.
"You have to remember, Jack. It's the only way you'll get her back."
His fingers met with the cold metal of his gun and he pulled it free from the mattress, tightening his hold on the trigger as he sat back up, yelling out as he fired off several rounds of bullets straight through the woman, which in turn riddled the wall with bullet holes. His hearing was filled with the sounds of gunshots but it was enough; enough to deafen everything else that was in the room with him.
One stray bullet bounced off the wall, smacking straight into the lock of the door. The lock fell loose, causing the door to creak open. The Joker released another round of bullets into the door, narrowly missing Frost as the other man attempted to enter. He dodged the last round and tried to shut the door behind him, but after several failed attempts, gave up and let the damaged door hang open while he padded over to the Joker, who by now, had dropped the gun and was sitting on the edge of the bed in a dead stupor.
"Boss, what the hell is happening in here? I heard the gunshots…" He stopped, noticing the blood on the sheets, followed by the scribbles on the headboard of the bed. This was the first time he'd stepped foot in Joker's room in almost an entire month, to put it short, he wasn't entirely shocked at the state of the place, nor the state of his boss, but it was still awfully depressing to look at. At least he'd seemed somewhat put together during the days Harley was in Belle Reve, but this? It was just a sorry sight, a downright upsetting one.
The Joker hadn't even seemed to notice Frost, still lost in the same dead stupor as his eyes drifted around the room. It wasn't until they made their way made over to the entrance did he see the other man, but even then, he made no visible or audible reaction. He just squinted, looking almost drunk.
"Huh?"
"The…gunshots?" Frost spoke slowly, taking careful steps over the knives and guns placed on the ground. "I could hear 'em all the way from downstairs. Are you okay or…"
His boss blinked again, several times. His form swayed slightly on the bed, as he grabbed aimlessly at the nightstand to help himself up.
"I'm…fine…" He trailed off, surprisingly stumbling over his own feet instead of one of the various weapons or broken bottles on the ground, as he made his way across the room to his dresser. "Just…need to…"
His hand missed the handle of the dresser drawer several times before actually grabbing it, and he pulled it open, throwing out any items still lucky enough to be inside it. Frost stayed back, only moving a little ways closer to the bed. He watched as the Joker pulled out yet another pill bottle and twisted off the cap, shaking the half-empty container until several white pills fell out. Unfortunately, his hand was trembling so much the pills fell out, onto the dirty floor.
Grunting, he dropped the container back into the dresser and scanned the floor, dropping to his knees as his hands started grabbing at each object there, as if somehow that would help him find the pills he'd dropped. Unable to watch his ill mannerisms any longer, Frost sighed, moving from his spot at the bed. He stooped next to his boss and picked up where the pills had dropped onto a broken switchblade.
The Joker stopped his fumbling and gasped, grabbing at the pills desperately like a greedy child, and stuffed them into his mouth, not giving Frost a chance to say anything. He jumped back to his feet, like somehow having been reinvigorated by the capsules, and picked up the bottle of whiskey he'd been nursing earlier that morning. Popping the cap off, he didn't even bother pouring the remainder into the shot glass and instead went right at the beverage like his life depended on it.
Of course, the bitter taste was cut off abruptly as Frost came up and tried to pry the bottle from his hands.
"Boss, you shouldn't—" he attempted saying, but was shoved back by Joker, only receiving a middle finger from his boss as he went right back to consuming the rest of his drink. He lost his balance, all but falling onto the bed as the man finished off the bottle, slowly looking back at him. He gave him a curt stare, silently, proceeding to smash the glass bottle against the night dresser, all but startling Frost.
"The hell, Mister J— "
"Shut up, Johnny, I've had quite enough shit for one day." Christ, his voice sounded hoarse. The Joker brushed aside the broken glass pieces and looked at the bullet-ridden door, realization coming over him. Huh, maybe the alcohol really had brought him back to his senses.
"Fuck's sake, don't tell me I did that."
"You did, boss. That's the whole reason I came in here…" Frost almost wanted to facepalm, would have if he hadn't worked for the Joker for almost ten years now. "I heard the gunshots…just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"How sweet of you." Just being a bit teensy bit sarcastic, aren't you? "Well as you can see, I'm doing fantastically splendid. Does that satisfy you?"
"Not really, not when I'm seeing the exact opposite." Frost stood up, as the Joker stumbled around the room, narrowly missing cutting his open on one of the knives. "Don't think I didn't hear you shoutin', either, Mister J. I heard everything. Just what the hell—or, who the hell, were you even talking to?"
"Who do you think?" The Joker grabbed onto a chair at feeling his legs give way. "Either way, it's none of your damn business, I said I'm fine. Isn't that the answer you wanted?"
"Not exactly…"
"Well then what answer do you want? Because I did good enough giving you the sugarcoated one." He snapped, spinning around and still leaning against the chair. "Do you really want the brutally honest one? The one where I admit I'm completely miserable, that—that my brain's rotting or some crap? Do tell me, Johnny, I'm just dying to find out!"
At this, he spread his hands out and cackled, not before almost hitting the ground. Frost ran over just in time to grab onto him, Joker apparently still cackling. How he was finding this funny, and how Frost still had strength to deal with this, was beyond him, but he managed to seat the man's shaking body into the chair just as his cackling finally ceased. Almost miserable did Joker look, the small cackles that remained sounded wretched, as he fell back in the chair, running his hands over his face.
"Oh…. god…" His hands slipped, falling to his sides almost ragdoll-like. "No…no, I'm fucked, Johnny. I'm all fucked. I can't think anymore—can't focus on a damn thing—and you know what the worst part is?"
Frost only shook his head.
"The worst part…is that I know why I'm like this. But there ain't a damn thing I can do to make any of it go away. I've tried everything…but look at me."
He vaguely gestured to all of himself, remaining in the same slumped position.
"I doubt I could even tie my shoe laces…." His hands moved up to his head, gathering up handfuls of his green hair. "Christ this is just…I don't like this. Tell me Johnny, why does it hurt so much?"
So, we were asking the deep questions today, huh? This was why Frost was a man of so little words; he never had the right answers to these kind of questions, was never one for small talk. He did good enough with the conversations he had with his boss, the ones he had with his own wife. How was he supposed to respond to a question like this, it would require so much thinking, so much effort. Neither of which he could manage right now.
"I…wish I had the answer, J."
"Don't we all…" He let go of his hair, flattening his lips together in thought. The dullness on his face softened and he sat up. "You know what? I think I need to get out, I've been cooped in this darn room too long. Bring the car around, will ya?"
"Of course, sir." Frost moved to leave, Joker pushing himself out of the chair. He moved to grabbing a shirt that was hanging on bed railing, throwing it on, but not without struggle.
"Oh yeah, and uh—" He slipped his arms through the sleeves, his right-hand man stopping as he neared the door. "Tell the boys to get ready. I need to get my mind off…whatever shit went on in here."
Having successfully gotten his arms through the sleeves, the Joker proceeded to buttoning up the lower half of his shirt, but stopped halfway at seeing Frost still in the room. He'd turned around, and was just standing there, not seeming like he was going to move anytime soon. Scowling, Joker stopped buttoning his shirt and eyed him, moving to retrieve a cleaner pair of pants from his dresser.
"Did I stutter? Go get the rest of the boys."
"I…I can't, J…"
"And why ever not? I don't care if it's poker night; we're going out, I said so." Without a care, Joker slipped off the sweatpants and changed into a wrinkled pair of black slacks. "I am not, and will not, repeat myself again."
"That ain't it, J. I can't get the boys because they aren't here."
Joker stopped, mid-throwing a belt on. He all but glared towards Frost.
"Aren't…here?" The other man nodded, solemnly. "And…just who gave them permission to leave? I sincerely doubt it was me since…I was in here all day…"
Frost swallowed hard, clearing his throat.
"I let them leave, boss. They're all at home, I figured they could use a day off." The Joker was coming over now, a death glare overcoming his face. "You've been running 'em so ragged lately, I just…I don't know."
"That's awful nice of you, Johnny, but you're forgetting one little thing." He'd come too close now, uncomfortably close, and was all but seething. He jabbed his finger into Frost's should, twisting it with spite. "You…are not in charge in here…"
He made a motion back to himself.
"…I am. I…I am the one in charge, and you know what I say? I say you call all of the men, so they can get their sorry asses back over here."
"Can't do that, J. It wouldn't be fair." Goodness was he stepping over the line, but he was already too far in to back out. Too many strikes did he have with the Joker by now, but he wasn't about to call any of the other henchmen back here, not when they were no doubt spending time with their families.
"And why? Why wouldn't it be fair?"
"Because none of those men have had a moment's peace since Harley left." Frost chose to be direct with his words, not too shocked that his voice had overtaken an angry tone. Even Joker seemed to back up a bit, as Frost frowned at him. "You've had 'em over here at every waking second just 'cause you felt like causing issues. They've had to work overtime at the club, keeping the other rogues at bay all because you can't be bothered to leave your room half the time, and when you do, it's just to stir up trouble!"
"That's never been an issue before, Johnny, I don't get why you're complaining now." Joker waved him off, walking off to grab a suit jacket from the closet. "Batman's expecting a run for his money, I can't go soft on him, can't I?"
"That is not the issue here, boss! Half the boys—they have family! They haven't had any time to spend with them!" Frost trailed after Joker while he shrugged on the jacket, him barely paying Frost any mind. "I mean, Christ, you know I ain't a strong family man, but Sam's wife just had their baby! I think he was entitled to a bit of time off."
"None of you idiots are entitled to anything, you should just be lucky I haven't killed any of you yet." The Joker pointed out, slamming the closet door shut. "It doesn't matter; they can have their fun, it can just be me and you today."
He moved to finding his gun, but was stopped as Frost stepped in front of him. A little astounded, Joker gave a half-chuckle, moved to step forward again, only to be stopped a second time. Another chuckle; though, it sounded far more like a warning.
"Aha…Johnny, I believe you're in my way…"
"I am, J." Frost looked back at him, silently. "Don't count on me moving though, because if you want to go out tonight, you're going alone. I'm not doing this anymore."
Joker's eyes twitched. He shook both his hands, shifting his position. Cracking a little mean grin, he cocked his head at Frost.
"I'm sorry I—I don't think I heard you there. What, exactly are you not doing anymore?"
His henchman sullenly straightened his stance. The frown on his face transitioned into a scowl.
"None of this shit, whatever it is. I've stood by idly enough for the past nine months, Mister J, but I've had enough of that." What are you doing, you're going to get yourself killed talking like this! "I've been watchin' you run yourself into the ground, even worse than when Ms. Quinn was in prison; this is, without a doubt, the worst I've ever seen you, and I can't keep pretending anymore. You're sick, and you ain't getting any better!"
"Not the first time I've had that said to me…" Joker reminded him in a sing-song voice as he backed up, noting that one of his favorite guns was on the ground. He knelt to scoop it up while Frost curled his fists.
"No, this is worse than you usually act. You never drink this much, you never take meds that much. You aren't sleeping, you aren't eating—and you haven't showered in over a week now!" Joker held the gun in his hands, all while Frost continued ranting. "The boys are getting downright afraid to even come near you—like, the last time? When Harry asked you something about our next attack, you almost shot him in the fuckin' head! What's going on, J?!"
"You know what's going on, I shouldn't have to explain myself." Ignoring him, Joker loaded his gun with some spare bullets he'd forgotten he'd even left in his jacket. "What happened, happened. I'm—I guess you can say, I'm living with it."
"Nah-uh, no you aren't. Not like this." Frost gestured to the entire room, then back to Joker. "This place is a pigsty; and you? You need sleep, you can't keep going on like this!"
The Joker harshly laughed, clicking his gun.
"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm not tired."
"Bullshit! You haven't slept for three nights in a row; don't think I haven't noticed." Frost moved quickly as his boss started to walk away, grabbing him by the shoulder. Hissing, Joker shrugged him off and started moving towards the door again.
"J, I'm tellin' you—this isn't good for you! Admit it, you need Harley back."
Joker's heavy footsteps stopped. Only his left eye twitched this time, his shoulders, entire form hardening. It was only a second before he'd turned his gun over on Frost, a furious rage overtaking him. He'd never taken the other man for a man of many words, and while it'd been entertaining for a while just listening to him rant; this was just going too far.
"Don't you fucking dare say her name again, don't you fucking breathe it!" he fumed, shaking the weapon all while his hands began trembling. "I don't need her, I never needed her! She was just a—just a nuisance in my life! A pest! It's her fault I feel this way, she—she infected me—I would've never been like this before— "
He kept shaking the gun, violently, until it fell from his hands. His voice cracking up, he let out a pained laugh, slowly sinking to his knees. He sounded so much in pain, in fact, that it was almost unnatural, even for him. Frost could only recall one other time he'd sounded so ill, and yes, it had been during the Belle Reve days. It didn't make his heart ache, as he wasn't an easily moved man, but it made him ill to see the Joker so…low.
"…oh…fuck…fuck, I can't, Johnny. I can't do this. You're right. What was I thinking?" He all but sounded like a strangled cat, choking out his laughs, as he hit the floor. "She's been out there, a nice open target for those bitches at Arkham—God forbid, Belle Reve, to find. And I let her! All because…all because of what? Because she wanted to have the kid?"
Frost said nothing, only silently standing near Joker as the green haired man stopped laughing. The pain transitioned to his eyes, and he groaned, falling onto his back.
"For Christ's sake, that's more drama than an episode of Jerry Springer could contain." he huffed. "But…I understand. That kid's a piece of me, why would she want to get rid of it? I realize that now…"
"Why not just let her come back, then? It has been nine months, Mister J, maybe…"
"It isn't that simple, Johnny." Joker let out a puff of air, tapping his fingers against the wooden floor. "There's a part of me that has kept wanting to, hell if I didn't try to get her back already…but ever since then, I just can't bring myself to seek her out. I can't bring her back, not to lie to her again, not when I don't even know why I don't want our kid."
He moved his hands from the floor, resting them against his stomach.
"I thought it was because it wouldn't fit with our lifestyle…but you know something that just hit me? Batman has brats of his own, and they sure as hell don't fit his lifestyle. So that can't be it…"
"Then what is it?" Frost walked over, almost sitting in a nearby chair, but stopping. His boss was already laying on the ground, he didn't want this to feel like a damn therapy session.
"I…I can't place it…" Joker sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. He squinted slightly, in thought. "You want to know why I haven't slept, Johnny? Those nightmares. Those damn nightmares, that's why. They're getting worse…yet, the more they happen, I feel like they're becoming more familiar, like they actually happened…"
"You think they could have the answer, then? You know, as to why— "
"You don't think I haven't thought of that? Again, Johnny, that isn't exactly easy, either." The Joker pulled himself to his feet, grunting. It was silly to state such a thing, when sleeping sounded like a terribly appealing thing to him right now, that wouldn't be too hard. It was staying asleep that was the problem.
"Every time I try…I can't. There's a part of me that wants to find out, but then…"
"…but then you're hesitant?"
"I wouldn't say that, exactly…" The Joker picked up a pair of shoes on his way to his bed, where he plopped down and slipped one of the shoes onto his foot, only to be delayed slightly by a knot in some of the laces. He yanked at it several times to free the laces, and continued tying them. "More like…uncertain, I guess. I've always liked my past being a mystery, you know? It's made me more of a…threatening figure, I suppose."
Both shoes now on his feet, he sighed. His hands rested on his knees, him leaning forward as his brow creased.
"…would it make me any lesser of a man to know where I came from?"
"You'll never know unless you find out, I guess."
The Joker eyed Frost, seeming to contemplate this for a moment. Sighing, he shook his head and lightly slapped both knees, jumping back up. Glancing one more time around the room, he retrieved his gun holster from its place on the end of the bed, strapping it to his belt. Muttering under his breath, he moved to retrieve the gun but found Frost handing it to him. There was a serious look on his face now, any signs that he had been angry were gone, as that was how his emotions usually worked. Another reason Joker liked him so much; he knew how to placate his emotions when he needed to.
Today had turned to be an outright therapy session. Never in a million years did he ever think he'd open up to his right-hand man of all people, but then he supposed Frost was one of the few people in the world he really trusted. He had to give him some points for talking him down though, the only other person ever brave enough to attempt that had been Harley or Batman, hell even some cops were too afraid to be direct with him.
It did take the Joker a good second, but he slowly took the gun from the other hand, slipping it into his holster.
"Between you and me, Johnny, this conversation never took place. I don't need any of the others finding out we got all schmucky, understand?" he stated. "No hard feelings; but you can imagine how that'd look."
Frost nodded.
"Yeah, I got it. Never happened."
Like magic, the Joker's smile came back and he slapped the other man on the back, whilst heading out the bullet ridden door. He, like Frost, made several attempts to shut it on his way out, only for it to fall loose and hit the floor. Stiffening, he shuddered, but continued out of the room, stepping out for perhaps the first time that whole week.
He couldn't say if it felt good, or if it felt weird, but there was one thing in his mind he did know. Whether he liked it or not, he had to try sleeping tonight. Frost had a point; he'd never know what he'd find out, what he'd even see, if he didn't give himself the chance. If it meant finding out a non-bullshit reason as to why he couldn't accept his own child, and especially-especially, if it meant having his queen back within arm's reach, he was just going to have to grit his teeth with this one and suffer the consequences.
Those hallucinations, the voices…they could kiss his ass for all he cared.
In the Batcave, Bruce sat at his desk, a cup of tea that Alfred had brought down earlier sat unfinished and cold from his neglect, but his attention was anywhere but that cup of tea. It instead didn't seem to be on anything in particular; instead, both elbows rested on the armrests of his chair, hands folded and propped near his face. Too much was on his mind, if enough hadn't been already.
In his mind, he was still mulling over his encounter with that dark-haired woman earlier that day. Dick had suggested she might just be a fan, it wouldn't be the craziest thing considering serial killers in the past had had fanclubs long after their arrest—something Bruce found absurd. But, he'd still counted it as a possibility; hoping that Dick was right—and that Harley Quinn was as good as long gone. For all he knew, Amanda Waller could've her hands on her herself; lord knows that woman didn't need his help.
It still ate away at him though, right when he thought he was past thinking about it. Especially after seeing the state the young woman was in. The fact that she was pregnant…he couldn't shake it. If it really was Harley…that would explain why she wasn't with the Joker. No doubt he'd not been too fond of the news of being a father, not that Bruce would've ever expected him to be. The man was not that great with kids, contrary to what he'd constantly proclaimed to him after…
No, no—he wasn't going to relate that to what had happened. He couldn't—that would be selfish, wouldn't it?
His phone went off suddenly, alerting him out of his immersed state. He reached over, pressing the button to receive the call.
"Dick, tell me what's going on."
"You were right—that girl you talked to? It's her."
Bruce felt his blood go cold, clutching both the armrests tightly. He knew it, he knew…he was right. Maybe that "world's greatest detective" bullcrap that the press had put on him wasn't such a corny thing after all.
"How do you know?" he asked, right as Alfred entered into the Batcave. "I mean—you didn't get too close, did you?"
"Of course not! I watched her…she was wearing a wig. I saw her take it off and—well, common sense, Bruce. That was just the icing on the cake; her paranoid behavior, the tattoos were all red herrings. Plus, she looked like she was talking to herself."
"See, what did I tell you?"
"Hey, that disguise could've fooled anybody. Sue me."
"Don't feel like right now. Can you tell me what she's doing right now?"
"That's why I called you, Bruce…" Oh no. With the way Dick's tone lowered, there was no way this was anything good. "I lost sight of her after she went into her apartment…thirty minutes later, an ambulance was pulling up to the place."
"Jesus Christ. Was anyone hurt?"
"Nah, nobody except her, apparently. I dunno if it was something related to her being pregnant, but…" If he had to guess, Bruce would've thought Dick had shrugged as he said this. "But, I followed the ambulance, she's at Gotham General now. You got any plan of action?"
That was a good question. Did he? Given that he'd been sticking with the idea of that woman being Harley, he should've had some idea of what to do by now, but that was the thing; he didn't. In any other circumstance, he'd gladly haul her back to prison, and then deal with Joker's wrath, but as it was, she was pregnant…god, he knew she was a criminal, but he didn't like the idea of her child having to pay for this very fact.
Careful measures would no doubt, have to be taken.
"Just come back to the Batcave for now." He ended the call, sliding his phone to the other end of the desk. Picking up his cup, he made a face at tasting the tea and sat it on the tray that he just now realized Alfred was holding.
"I did spend an hour on that tea, you know…" The older man chided, at noticing how full the cup still was.
"Sorry Alfred, guess I wasn't that thirsty."
"Well I can see why. Is there any news on Ms. Quinn, sir?" Alfred asked, setting the tray aside. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but catch the last of that conversation. What is exactly going on, over there?"
"Far as I know, she's in the hospital. Most likely because of some pregnancy complication, but I'm not sure." Bruce fell back in his seat, huffing. His hands went back to running over the armrests, and he crossed his legs, in thought. "I'll admit it, Al, I don't know what to do. I wasn't counting on something like this being the issue."
"None of us were, Master Wayne. It's not surprising that that's the reason though, is it?"
"Not at all. I wouldn't expect the Joker to welcome a kid with open arms, let alone his own." Turning his chair to face Alfred, Bruce couldn't help but let his gaze wander to where the tainted Robin suit sat it's display case. Alfred seemed to read his mind at this, giving him a warning look.
"I know what you're thinking, sir, but whatever you do; don't make this a personal thing. It's been two years now, and—"
"Two years isn't long enough, Alfred. I'm always going to remember what he did, what he took from me." Pushing his seat back, Bruce got up, walking towards the suit, only to stop halfway. Closing his eyes, he fought back the gruesome images that threatened to display themselves…yet they came anyways.
That hospital room…the damn, bloody hospital room, his…his corpse, with the mutilated smile, in the bed…
Clenching his fists, his eyes opened back up.
"…I know what he would do to a child. What both of them would do." he said, without turning his back. "Why would their own be the exception?"
"There's no guarantee it would be, sir. I just want to make sure you aren't doing this for selfish reasons." Alfred stated, as he sighed. Bruce turned as the old man began to leave the room, and then looked at his cellphone. What way could he go about this…that wouldn't seem selfish?
This was something he wrestled with for a good minute. Almost unwittingly, he walked back to his desk, and picked up his phone, scrolling through the list of contacts. At finding the one he was looking for, he selected it, and proceeded to press the call button. It took five minutes of listening to faint ringing, but finally, another voice answered on the other end.
"Batman." A woman's voice, firm, stoic. Amanda Waller's voice. "I hope you're calling with good news for me."
"I am, Amanda. It's about one of your prisoners."
"Well, you're going to have be more specific. Is it about an escaped prisoner or one that I already have, because if it's the latter then this conversation is over."
"Trust me," Something nagged Bruce in the back of his mind, but he promptly ignored it. "This conversation is far from over. I've found Harley Quinn."
Author's Note: Damnit Bruce, you had one job! Oh well, I doubt this is going to end well for anyone. On another note, I'm actually really proud of how this chapter turned out; had a little more angst than I originally intended but it was some good angst, wasn't it? I know you guys are probably more concerned about Harley's well-being now though, especially now that Waller knows about her. I do wonder...how is that going to turn out? Guess we're going to just have to wait and see...