Hey guys, long chapter for you here. Once again, huge thanks goes out to my beta TheMadCapLaughs for all her extraordinary help.
I just wanted to mention something real quick, because I've been noticing a few critiques lately regarding Jack's character, people not really liking how weak he appears, etc…
The thing with Jack is this. He's supposed to be extremely damaged, as in, not mentally well, even before becoming the Joker. I figure in order to give way to someone like the Joker, you'd have to start with an unstable base. So Jack's supposed to be screwed up, he's supposed to be damaged and addled by issues. Underneath all of his problems though, he's really an incredibly good person, which Jeannie was able to see and that's what made her essentially fall in love with him. And it was around Jeannie, before, Jack was able to more or less be alright.
But I just want the readers to remember, he isn't supposed to be okay, he isn't supposed to be healthy even. He's incredibly screwed up and I've written him that way on purpose. My intent isn't for the reader to hate him or to think him pathetic. Jack's a character who's suffered a great deal, a character who was emotionally and mentally abused to an extreme degree, and as a result of that, he's very unsure of himself, he has no real self-confidence. And the reason he's so frightened in the present scenarios is because, well, he's in Arkham Asylum, the worst mental hospital in the world probably, with some of the most dangerous patients and meanest orderlies and guard's, and he's in there without even knowing why. He's extremely confused and lost, and frankly, if someone didn't find that situation terrifying, I'd think there's something wrong with them, lol. But he isn't a wimp. Truthfully, my intention is to show, even though he's suffered through hell, the fact he remained a good person for so long, despite that, and the fact he retained an idealistic sense of the world for so long, proves him to be the opposite of a wimp, it makes him extremely strong.
But anyway, yeah, sorry for the long explanation, just thought I should address some of the critiques. I wasn't able to respond in private because the reviews were left without the person signing in. So, just know, Jack's SUPPOSED to be screwed up, haha. He isn't healthy, and that, eventually, gave way to what he would become.
Anyway, enough of that, here's the chapter and I hope you enjoy!
Don't forget to leave reviews!
Chapter 25:
Getting out had been easy. There was an endless array of passages and exit ways to choose from. Places he'd discovered over the years, many of which the staff there didn't even know about. It was often times, as a matter of pride, he would leave using the front exit, which made the task infinitely more difficult, but something he found all the more fun.
But not this time. This time, he'd just wanted to get out - needed to get out - and quickly. So he'd taken to the asylum's lowest levels, tracking through the underground sewer system and coming out up top on the street. By the time he'd reached it, the sun had just started to peak up over the horizon, casting the city in a haze of orange, illuminating the usually dark landscape in a surreal light.
But he'd had no interest in any of it. He'd known where he needed to be, and so had begun the walk to the Narrows cemetery, several miles out from where he'd started, using the city's back alleys to keep from view. Those who he came across didn't stick around long, scurrying off in a panic at the sight of him. Under normal circumstances, this would have given him a good laugh. But lately… lately, nothing really seemed very funny.
Late afternoon had come by the time he reached the cemetery.
And meticulously, he walked through the thousands of stones, his eyes scanning carefully but impatiently over each of the names, looking… looking.
He had to find it. He didn't know why. He just knew he had to. The exhaustion his body felt from walking so far and for so long didn't even seem to register and he moved with purpose through row after row. There was scarcely a soul here besides him, save for a woman he'd spotted at one point, several hundred yards away, but she'd remained oblivious to him, too consumed within her own grief to notice. And he'd kept moving.
He'd nearly moved past when he at last found it, more then two hours later, his eyes going to the next stone before it registered in his mind that he'd just seen the name, and they snapped abruptly back.
"Collin Napier," it said. "1950-2001"
He froze, staring hard, unblinking.
The stone was small, flat, made of granite. Unremarkable in every way.
Finally he blinked, and suddenly he recognized the name with as much familiarity as he did his own.
Collin.
It all came back in a rush. How the man had never allowed him to call him Dad, or even father. How he'd demanded he be addressed as Sir. His co-workers had called him Collin. He'd always had to say Sir.
The Joker's lip twisted in sudden disgust.
Sir? The term implied gentlemanly qualities; implied class. His father had been a pig. Uncultured, devoid of charm. How he could have been made to address him as such? The very notion affronted him.
His father pulled him along by the wrist, nearly dragging him as he refused to slow his pace for his son's eight year old legs, his grip tight and unforgiving, and Jack had to bite his lip to keep from crying out in pain.
Finally, after two and a half blocks, they arrived in front of a small, almost shake-like structure, the words "O'Reilly's Brick Laying Company" painted sloppily on to a sign above the door.
His father stopped, pulling Jack in front of him and looking down at him with mean eyes.
"Now don't you fuckin' embarrass me Jack." He said harshly. "You do anything to make me look bad and I'll mess your ass up. Got it?"
Jack nodded, his eyes cast downwards.
"Yes Sir." He answered softly.
"The only reason I'm brining you here is so you can see what the hell it is you're not. These here are real men Jack. Something you probably won't understand. And the way things are going, something you'll probably never be. Hey! Look at me!" He reached out, slapping Jack lightly across the cheek, and Jack's eyes lifted to him. His father's mouth twisted in to a frown. "You little faggot. Look at you! So God damned weak…"
In shame, Jack's eyes fell back to the ground.
"I want you to learn something here Jackie. Watch these boys, and maybe you'll stop acting like such a fuckin' pansy all the time. But you fuck up…" He knelt down, taking hard hold of Jack's thin arms and jerking him forward. "You say or do anything you're not supposed to…" He didn't bother with finishing his sentence, just glaring at his son with cold eyes.
Jack remained silent, too afraid to speak, and finally, after a moment, his father again stood, once more taking hold of Jack's wrist before opening the small buildings front entrance and pulling him through.
Jack's ears were accosted by the sound of uproarious laughter, loud and uncontained, and he glanced up briefly to see a group of men, gathered around a small table, all of them roughly equal in size to his father, and very quickly Jack's eyes cast down again, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly intimidated.
His father continued to pull him along.
"Mornin' boys." He said loudly enough to hear over the ruckus, and the other men's laughter cut, turning towards them.
"Yo Collin!" One of them greeted. "Bout time your lazy ass got here!" And they all laughed together.
Jack felt his father's grip tighten on his wrist and again he had to bite his own lip to keep from whimpering.
"What can I say boys? I've got a little thing called responsibility."
"Yeah, yeah." Another of the men waved a dismissive hand before fixing his eyes on Jack. "Seems like maybe you brought a little of that responsibility with you today, huh Collin?"
All the other men seemed to take notice then of their co-workers son, all eyes fixing on the boy who stood with his head down.
His father licked his lips, giving his son one last squeeze of warning before pulling him forward and pushing him gently in front of him.
"This is my boy." He said. "Jack. Thought I'd bring him in and show him a little of what his old man does. Say hello Jack."
Very quietly, without looking up, Jack muttered a hello.
"Heh, he's a cute kid Collin!" One of the men, Pete, exclaimed. "Hey there little man!" He continued, leaning over to get a better look at the boy. "How old are you?"
Jack remained silent, his shyness taking hold of him.
"Go on Jackie-boy. Answer him." His father said, his tone not as hard as usual.
Jack swallowed, his head bowing lower.
"E-eight." He said, his voice just barely above a whisper.
"Eight, huh?" Pete replied enthusiastically. "That's practically a man!"
Jack said nothing.
"Kind of quiet, isn't he?" The man said, looking up at Jack's father.
"He's just a little shy's all." His father answered, giving Jack's shoulders a squeeze. "He'll warm up to you eventually. Won't you Jack?"
Slowly Jack gave a nod, still not lifting his eyes from the floor.
"Kinda small for eight, ain't he?" Another of the men spoke up. "Looks more like about five to me."
"Well he'll grow!" Pete jumped in. "Won't ya little man?" He again addressed Jack. "I'll bet you turn out big and strong, just like your Daddy, huh?"
Still Jack said nothing, and his father stepped in.
"Well he better!" He laughed as though joking. "Listen fellas, I gotta go take a leak. You mind watching him for a sec.?"
"Naw man, go ahead." Matthew, another of the group said.
Jack's father gave a nod before crouching down and turning his son to face him, resting his giant hands on his shoulders.
"Now you stay here Jackie-boy. I'll be back in a minute. Don't go wandering off." And suddenly he gave Jack another painful squeeze, Jack's face twisting slightly with it. "Okay?" He asked, his voice friendly but his hands saying otherwise. And Jack nodded.
"That's a good boy." His father went on before standing. "Be back in a minute."
With that, he headed towards the back and through a door, leading to the places restroom, leaving Jack alone with the other men.
Jack had watched him go, and the moment he disappeared from view, he wrapped his arms around himself, once more fixing his stare to the ground.
The men watched him a long moment, puzzled by his seeming unwillingness to even look at them.
"Hey kid…" Matthew called. "Kid?"
"He's got a name Matt." Pete said, and Matthew shrugged, rolling his eyes.
Pete stared at him a moment.
"Well maybe if you tried using it…"
"Whatever man."
And Pete frowned slightly, looking over at Jack, who still stood as he was before.
"Jack?" Pete tried, choosing to ignore his tactless friend. "Hey, you alright Jack? Your Dad'll be back in just a minute, if that's what's buggin' you."
At this, Jack finally glanced up at the men, swallowing hard.
"You okay son?" Pete asked again.
And again Jack's eyes fell.
"… I'm alright." He answered softly.
"You sure? You seem like somethin's botherin' you. We ain't gonna hurt you little man. You don't have to worry. We're all friendly here, despite what we might look like." Pete laughed.
"Yeah son. You don't gotta be scared of us." Another man said.
Jack glanced up at them, his head still bowed low, remaining silent.
Matthew's eyes narrowed.
"You sure you're eight?" He asked.
For a moment, Jack hesitated, wondering briefly if this was some kind of test, if maybe his father was somehow involved.
His eyes only momentarily fell on the man before moving back down, and he gave a vague nod.
"I-I'm eight." He answered, nearly inaudibly.
Pete regarded him carefully, wondering why the kid was so shy.
"Why don't you come over here Jack?" He asked.
And Jack again glanced up at him.
"Come on over. We're not gonna bite ya."
Jack breathed out, his gaze sliding to the door which his father had disappeared through, wondering still if this was some sort of game, wondering if he did the wrong thing what might happen.
"I… I should wait for my father." He said finally.
"Well that's what you're doin' son." Matthew said. "Don't worry. You're not goin' anywhere."
Jack said nothing to that, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. He couldn't stop thinking about the million possibilities of why his father would leave him alone with these men at all. His father was reluctant to ever let him out of his sight, didn't even like sending him off to school, but of course, an education was state required and his father wasn't going to home school him. He didn't have a choice in the matter there.
Just standing there, Jack suddenly realized how tired he was.
He wanted to sit right now, wanted to go to sleep even, but he knew he couldn't.
"You ever see your father lay bricks Jack?" Pete asked suddenly, and Jack's eyes moved to him.
Slowly he shook his head.
"Heh. Well, you're in for a treat. Nobody here lay's em' as fast as your pops does. It's a serious skill, ya know. Most people don't know that."
And Jack nodded.
"I… I know." He replied. "M-my father's told me."
"Well of course he has!" Another man exclaimed. "Nobodies as proud of bein' a brick layer as Collin." He laughed.
Again Jack's eyes moved to the door.
God, he wanted to rest.
"Hey, if you're lucky little man, maybe your Dad'll let you lay a few bricks!" Pete said excitedly.
Jack stayed quiet, his gaze again resting on the floor.
There was definitely something strange about this kid, Pete thought, though he supposed it was just him being an eight year old, uncomfortable without his parents in the room, what with the way he kept looking at the bathroom door.
He thought about maybe trying to make him more comfortable.
"So, Jack… What grade are you in?"
Jack's eyes flitted up and for a long moment, he said nothing.
"… I… I'm g-going to Cherry Hights M-Middle School starting in… in August." He answered softly. "M-Mostly seventh and eighth grade c-courses."
The men looked at him with mild surprise.
"Wait a second…" Matthew started. "Didn't you say you were eight years old? Shouldn't you be in, like, second or third grade or somethin'?"
Jack's eyes moved to the man for only a few, short seconds before he looked down once more.
"… I'm adv-vanced placement." He said, with no hint of pride or braggadocios flaunting. He in fact seemed almost shameful of the fact.
"So you're some kind of little Einstein?" Matthew went on.
"I wouldn't say that." They all turned in the direction of Collin's voice, and saw him, standing within the doorframe, leaning in and staring at his son.
Almost instantly Jack stooped lower, his head bowing down completely as he held his arms stiffly to his side.
His father started in to the room.
"Kid got a scholarship to some fancy school up in the burbs. No way I could have afforded to send him there otherwise." He came towards Jack, reaching him within a few strides and placing an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. Jack didn't look up, didn't make a move. "I guess he's what you'd call… brainy. Huh Jack?" He looked down at him, and Jack gave a weak nod.
"Y-yes Sir." He stammered.
"But I wouldn't go callin' him a genius just yet." He laughed. "The teachers at his old school said he wasn't really fitting in, getting bullied. They gave me some line about him needing special attention or some crap like that. I say all the kid need's is to learn how to throw a right hook." Again he laughed. "But you know how it is. They said they couldn't handle him, that they weren't equipped, whatever the hell that means." He gave Jack a hard squeeze, hurting his shoulders, and Jack fought not to make a sound. "Just needs to learn to fight, not be such a pa… pushover, and he wouldn't need any fancy, smanshy school. I don't really believe in it, you know. It's almost like… rewarding him for getting beat up!"
"Well, he's small for his age Collin." Pete said. "It's probably hard for him. And anyway, that's great, I think. You should be proud of the little guy! He's obviously got a good head on his shoulders. Maybe, one day, he'll be able to make somethin' more of himself then just workin' construction…" His voice trailed off when he saw the look of anger in Collin's eyes.
Jack felt his father's grip tighten even more and fear suddenly shot through him like a razor blade.
"Yeah…" His Dad nearly hissed through gritted teeth. "Maybe…"
Pete licked his lips, looking from Jack to his father, and then back again, it not totally escaping his notice how stressed out Jack suddenly appeared.
"… Sooo, you takin' him out to the site with us?" He finally asked.
"Yeah." Jack's father answered. "Thought I'd let him get a look at some hard work. Let him see what it's like."
"Hey Jack! What do ya say? You excited?" Pete asked the boy. "You get to come out to the site with us!"
For a long moment, Jack said nothing, and he felt his father give him another squeeze.
"Answer the man, Jack, don't be rude." He said, his voice deceptively friendly.
Jack nodded weakly.
"Yes…" he said softly.
"Yes what Jack?" His father again squeezed his shoulders.
"… Y-yes I'm… I'm excited."
Though Jack's face told a different tale. He looked despondent, and immensely unsure.
But his father didn't give the other men time to really notice, taking and turning him, moving towards the exit.
"Let's go then boys." He called, pushing Jack along. And the other men stood from their seats, heading out behind them.
/
They'd all piled in to the company truck, three men in its bed, with Jack's father driving and Pete taking up the passenger's side. Jack himself had been put in between the two of them, and sat with his hands curled in his lap, his head down.
Pete continued to talk to him, his father glancing down at him every few minutes, his eyes shifting afterwards to his co-worker.
"So Jack... you got a favorite school subject?"
Jack felt himself go rigid, his eyes slowly lifting to his father. He couldn't answer without the man's permission, knowing what would happen should he do anything he wasn't allowed, or in any way step out of line. His father glanced down at him, his mouth set in a thin line, giving a single nod.
And Jack looked back down, muttering out an answer.
"No."
Pete looked at him in surprise.
"No?" He questioned, it striking him immediately as unusual. "You don't have a favorite subject?"
And Jack shook his head, still not looking up.
"… Well why not? Every kid's got a favorite subject!"
Jack said nothing to this, and suddenly his father interjected.
"They gave the kid some weird test, like an IQ test or something." He started. "He scored some number on it and that's what made em' say they couldn't handle him there, that he needed special attention. What was it you scored again Jackie?"
"… one… w-one ninety-five." Jack answered in nearly a whisper.
"Yeah, that was it. They said the score was exceptional or some such nonsense."
Pete stared at Collin wide eyed.
"I'll say it's exceptional." He said. "One ninety-five? Geeze! Do you know what the average IQ score is man?"
And Collin shrugged, shaking his head.
"It's something like a hundred, hundred and ten." Pete answered. He glanced down at Jack. "If he scored one ninety-five, that means he's a genius for sure! Like, a genius for real."
Jack's father glared at Pete, saying nothing for a long moment, and Jack continued to sit silent, his hands curling tighter in his lap.
"… Yeah, well…" He began finally, clear agitation in his voice. "The boy's not having any problem which can't be solved by his own two fists. He just needs to learn that's all. The way they coddle kids today… that's what's causing all the problems."
Pete stared at Collin, taken aback by the tone in his voice. He'd never heard his friend speak so grudgingly, or with such apparent strain, like he was having difficulty getting the words out.
He looked back down at Jack, who continued to sit as he was, not moving at all. Silent.
He thought maybe he should say something to Collin, that he should maybe try to understand how mean kids could be, and Jack being so small… it couldn't have been easy. Even if he did know how to fight, just to look at him one could tell he wouldn't have the advantage of strength on his side. He was incredibly thin, Pete noticed, almost emaciated looking, short for an eight year old, giving just a general, overall impression of fragility. He didn't think the boy would have much of a chance against anyone, really, not in a physical fight.
But then Pete thought better of it. Jack wasn't his kid, after all, and it really wasn't his place to tell Collin how he should and shouldn't raise him.
So he dropped it, and for the rest of the ride, the three of them were quiet.
At the site, Jack's father told him to stay put on the workers bench, not to move from there. Bending down in front of him, he'd taken hold of his son's arm, hissing lowly to him…
"Pay attention Jack. This is a man's work. Maybe seeing what it takes will help you stop being such a pansy."
And Jack had nodded, keeping his gaze down.
By noon, the July sun was blazing in the sky, beating down harshly and unforgivingly on them.
Jack had begun at that point to feel light headed, and slightly nauseas, the heat bothering him greatly, though he willed himself to keep his eyes on his father, watching him work, in contrast seemingly oblivious to the sun, not slowing his pace for a moment.
Jack hadn't eaten anything since the afternoon before, nor drank anything either. He'd asked the previous evening if he could have a bowl of cereal, but his father had said no, and he hadn't be allowed to go to bed until four in the morning. Jack had conked out by the time his father let him, but only two hours later had he woken him, dragging him with him to work.
Sweat formed in a thick layer across Jack's forehead, his dizziness growing, and he couldn't help it then as leaned forward, his head hanging down, trying to quell how shaky he suddenly felt.
He jumped then when someone sat suddenly beside him, and inadvertently, he pushed back, looking up to find Pete, staring down at him with a friendly smile.
"Hey there son." He said, and Jack just stared at him, his eyes slightly wide. "You look like you could maybe use a bite to eat."
Jack watched him pull a crumpled looking brown paper bag from beside him, holding it on his lap, along with a thermos.
"Here…" he said, reaching in to the bag and pulling out something wrapped in paper. "I'm not too hungry, so why don't you take my sandwich here."
He began to unwrap it, and Jack watched carefully, his eyes fixed on the action.
"It's ham." Pete said, holding the meal out to Jack. "You like ham?"
For a long, few seconds, Jack kept his gaze on the sandwich. He could smell it and suddenly he became very aware of how hungry he was, the pangs in his stomach running deep.
"Here." Pete said again. "Take it. It's yours."
And finally Jack's eyes moved up to the man's face, staring at him with uncertainty. Pete looked back, waiting.
Jack blinked, his eyes sliding to his father, who had his back to them, still working, and then back again to the sandwich.
Pete sighed.
"Okay, here." He placed the food down on the bench between them, turning his attention to his thermos, unscrewing the top and beginning to pour the liquid from it in to the cup.
Filling it to the brim, he turned again towards Jack, holding it out to him.
"There you are." He said, and still Jack only stared at him. "It's orange juice."
"Listen, Jack…" Pete began. "You look like you're going to pass out there son. Please, take this, and take the sandwich. You need it more then I do."
Jack wanted to, he wanted to take it, but his father…
Again his gaze went to him, and still he had his back turned.
"Son, if you don't take this sandwich and juice, I'm going to tell your Daddy you've been neglecting yourself!" Pete laughed jokingly, trying to encourage the boy.
Jack's eyes turned to saucers, the fear evident in them. And he thought suddenly that his father must have sent the man over, that this had been under his say so.
"I… I'll e-eat it! I'll eat it!" He said, sounding desperate, his voice almost pleading.
"Hey, hey! Calm down there little man." Pete said, putting his hands up. "No pressure. I just don't want to see you pass out is all."
And Jack looked back, his chest rising and falling in a kind of panic.
The man regarded him carefully, his mouth twisting in to a frown.
He didn't think he'd ever seen a child so on edge before, so nervous.
Something was up with him.
Collin had told him once that his son was a little strange, but really, Pete thought, it seemed deeper then that, like there was maybe something wrong with him.
He watched as Jack once more glanced over at his father before slowly taking up the sandwich, bringing it to his mouth and taking a tentative bite.
But once Jack had gotten a taste of it, he felt his stomach rumble harder, and he couldn't help suddenly wanting more. All he ever had at home was cereal and sometimes just plain bread. Bagels sometimes. His father never cooked for him, though he knew he could. He cooked for himself. Jack was made to prepare his own meals, and he didn't know at all how to really make anything. He could only ever eat what happened to be left over in the fridge, and that was really it.
He took another bite of the sandwich. He was sure he'd never really tasted anything so good before.
And Pete laughed good naturedly at the sight, seeing how much the boy liked it once he began eating it.
"See?" He said. "Not so bad, right?"
Jack stopped, glancing up at him.
"Here." Pete picked up the juice, handing it to him. "Wash it down with this."
Jack swallowed what was in his mouth, reaching out with a shaky hand and taking the cup.
He stared at the orange liquid, his eyes again glancing up at Pete a moment later, and Pete nodded, smiling.
"Go ahead. It's alright."
Several seconds past, Jack still looking at the man, when finally he brought the cup to his lips, his eyes moving down as he sipped the liquid slowly.
Gradually, his dizziness and nausea had begun to dissipate, and already he was feeling better.
Before he'd known it, he'd ended up eating the entire sandwich and finishing off the juice.
"Good job little man!" Pete said, taking the wrapper from him, crumpling it up and tossing it back in to the paper bag. "You want some more juice?"
Jack looked up at him, nodding.
And Pete smiled, pouring more of the liquid in to the thermos' cap, handing it back to the boy. Jack took it, now eagerly bringing it to his lips and drinking it down quickly.
And this repeated until all the juice had been drunk.
"Dang, you sure were thirsty, huh?" Pete chuckled, and Jack stared back, nodding.
"Well glad I could be of service then!" The man exclaimed.
Jack said nothing to that, his eyes again drifting to the ground.
Pete glanced around, noticing Collin staring over at them, his eyes on Jack. But then he turned away, resuming his work.
Pete looked down at his watch.
There was still fifteen minutes left on his break, and he looked back up at Jack then, noticing how the boy had again grown completely still and quiet, his arms wrapped around himself, his head turned away.
"Hey Jack…" He started, and Jack turned towards him, his eyes only lifting part way. "I've still got some time to kill, and I don't know, you look a little bored, sitting here by yourself. How about a piggyback ride?"
Jack blinked.
"… W… what's that?" He asked, his voice soft.
Pete looked back at him wide eyed, mildly shocked.
"You don't know what a piggyback ride is?" He asked, clear surprise in his voice.
And Jack just shook his head.
"Well then I'm just gonna have to show you!" Pete said, enthused, standing suddenly.
Without warning, he moved behind Jack and then reached out, taking him under the arms and picking him up.
Jack gasped audibly, and before he knew it, Pete had lifted him high in to the air, above his own head, and Jack's eyes squeezed tightly shut, a sickening rush dropping down through his stomach as he tried to brace himself for what he was sure was going to be an impact with the ground. He couldn't remember the number of times his father had lifted him up like this only to slam him down on the floor or send him hurdling across the room, in to a wall.
But the impact never came, and Jack felt himself slowly being lowered, his legs falling over the man's broad shoulders, his bottom against the top of the man's back as he bent slightly forward, Pete still holding him securely under his arms.
"Now just wrap your arms around my neck Jack, and hold on tight." He said, and hesitantly, Jack's eyes opened.
"I… I'm going to f-fall." He whispered, his voice shaking, and Pete laughed.
"No you're not son. Just hold on tight. I won't let anything happen to you. But you gotta hold on!"
Almost reactively, Jack's arms came around Pete's neck, clinging to him tight, pressing the side of his face down against the back of his head, and again the man laughed, his hands moving to Jack's legs.
"Now hang on!" He said, and without further warning, he began to jog forward.
Again Jack gasped, another rush dropping down through his stomach, his eyes squeezing shut once more as he clung even tighter.
And suddenly Pete changed direction, zigzagging from left to right.
As the moments past, and Jack hadn't yet fallen, he finally built up the courage to open his eyes, hesitantly at first, and finally all the way.
Pete was running with him, darting this way and that, and slowly, Jack began to lift his head, his arms still wrapped tight around the man's neck as he looked about.
He didn't think he'd ever been this high up before.
And now there was another kind of rush he felt, only this one didn't make him feel queasy, didn't… didn't frighten him.
The corners of his mouth began to pull upwards, his eyes growing wide in wonderment.
"Faster Jack?" Pete called up to him.
Jack nodded, not even really realizing it.
"Yeah?" Pete asked.
"Y… yeah." Jack answered, his lips pulling in to a more pronounced smile.
"You sure?" Pete asked again.
"Y-yeah!" Jack exclaimed, the excitement now evident in his voice. "YEAH!"
"Okay!" Pete said, smiling wide himself at hearing the happiness in the boy.
And he began to run more quickly.
And Jack began to laugh, without even understanding why, he began to laugh, loudly and joyously and freely, his voice rising up in to the air, uninhibited and happy… truly happy.
He'd never experienced anything like this before… never felt this way before. Like… like he was flying, like he could just jump in to the air and take off for the sky!
And his laughter grew, without thought, Pete beginning to laugh with him now, carrying the boy across the grass and over the sidewalk, this way and that, and all around.
Quickly they reached the end of the construction site and Pete turned, ready to run back the other way, only to come face to face with Collin, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression stoic, unreadable.
Pete came to a sudden and fast halt, and Jack's laughter immediately cut, his eyes growing wide, his arms instinctively wrapping tighter around the man's neck, abrupt and consuming fear slicing through his joy like a knife, stamping it out as quickly as it had come.
"Oh, huh… hey Collin." Pete said. But Collin wasn't even looking at him, his eyes fixing hard on his son. "We were just having a bit of fun. The kid looked bored so I thought I'd…"
"I need to take him home now." Collin interrupted, still staring at the boy, his voice flat.
"Really?" Pete questioned. "I mean, he's only been here a few hours…"
Collin's eyes finally shifted to the man.
"I need to take him home." He repeated without explanation as to why. "I'll only be about forty minutes. I'm sure you guys can carry on fine without me for the time being, seeing as I haven't taken by break yet."
"… Yeah, sure man…" Pete said, looking at him intently, wondering what was going on. "No problem."
He raised his hands up, taking hold of Jack underneath his arms and lifting him up and over his head, placing him gently back on the ground.
Looking down at the boy, Pete noticed how incredibly quiet he'd suddenly gone, and how his head bowed low, his eyes again fixed on the ground, his arms once more wrapping round himself. Any previous liveliness he'd had was now gone.
Collin stared at his co-worker only a moment more before again fixing his gaze on his son.
He reached out.
"Come on Jack." He said, holding his hand out for his son to take.
Jack glanced up with only his eyes, his head still held low, his arms slowly uncurling from around his torso, and he reached forward with clear hesitancy, his small, thin hand disappearing within his father's giant one.
"Be back in forty." Collin said, turning, pulling Jack behind him, beginning to walk quickly away, Jack struggling to keep pace, nearly losing his footing and tripping.
And Pete could only watch as Collin opened the drivers side door of the truck and lifted Jack up, dropping him down on to the seat, climbing in after him, barely giving his son enough time to crawl to the other end. He slammed the door shut once inside the vehicle, Jack disappearing from sight, too short for his head to be seen above the dashboard, and a moment later, the engine roared to life, the truck pulling out of the area, vanishing within seconds down the road.
/
The door to their apartment swung wide as his father pushed it open, kicking it the rest of the way as he took hold of Jack with both hands and heaved him back, swinging him violently forward and letting go, throwing him through the threshold.
A high pitched gasp escaped Jack's throat as he felt himself fly uncontrolled through the air, barely having time at all to brace for the pain he knew was to come before he went crashing to the floor, landing hard against his shoulder, a small cry tearing from his throat as he tumbled a few feet, coming then to an abrupt halt, splayed out on his stomach.
He had no time to move even before he heard the front door slam shut and his father's heavy footsteps crossing the floorboards towards him.
He tried turning, tried crawling backwards and away, but within seconds of it his father had reached him, bending down and burying his fingers in his son's hair, jerking him up and forward.
Jack choked out at the pain, a sad whimper pushing past his lips as his Dad pulled him closer, bending down so that he was right in his sons face.
And he reared his hand back…
"You stupid. Little. Bastard!" He spit, his voice harsh as gravel, punctuating each word with a hard slap across Jack's mouth, splitting his lower lip, the insides of his mouth cutting against his teeth, and soon the nauseating taste of blood spread across his tongue.
The boy's arms lifted in a vain attempt to block the blows, only to have his hands knocked easily aside or slammed back in to his own face, and he cried out, tears forming fast and thick in his eyes.
"What in the fuck was that back there boy?" His father continued, ignoring his son's agonized expression. "You have the God damned nerve to disobey me?"
Jack shook his head weakly, the tears now sliding quick down his cheeks.
"N-n-no, p-please Sir, I didn't… didn't m-mean…"
"SHUT UP!" His father raged, again backhanding him across the mouth, making wider the already painful split in his lip, and Jack's ears rung loudly with the blow.
He buried his fingers deeper in his son's hair, his fingers scraping against the boy's scalp as he jerked his head severely to the side.
"Don't you lie to me boy. I saw you with my own eyes, scarffing down that sandwich like some kind of disgusting pig! Did I say you could eat anything Jack? Huh? Did I say you could EAT anything?"
Tears continued to fall from his eyes, and in a voice barely audible, weak with fear and pain, Jack answered.
"N-nno." He whined.
He'd thought his father had sent that man over to give him the food… he'd thought… when that man had said he would tell his father if he didn't eat it… he hadn't meant to disobey… but he couldn't tell that to him now. He would never believe him, never accept it.
"That's right Jackie-boy. I didn't. And yet you still went ahead and stuffed your stupid fucking face anyway, didn't you?"
Jack's heart beat wildly in his chest, his neck beginning to hurt from the angle his father was forcing his head. How could he explain to him, how could he make him understand that he hadn't meant to do it.
"… S-sorry. I… I'm s-so… sorry…" He whimpered, it being the only thing he could think to say, to do.
His father's teeth bared in a snarl.
"Sorry isn't good enough Jackie!" He hissed. And suddenly his hand uncurled from Jack's hair and he reached out, taking his son's shirt in both hands and lifting him bodily from the floor, moving swiftly across the room and slamming him back against a wall.
"You pathetic little ingrate!" He seethed. "I take you to my place of work, risk my reputation by letting those men see what a pitiful fucking fag you are, all in the hope you may actually learn something, may actually learn not to be such a God damned pansy! And what do I get for it? You shoveling food down your throat! Made me sick, watching you eat, you disgusting piece of shit!"
His father's hands curled tighter in the material of Jack's shirt, pressing him harder against the wall, pushing against his chest, making it hard to breath.
And still tears continued to run from his eyes, his breath coming rapid and shallow as his fear grew.
"Ohhh, and you were just having yourself a good old time after that, weren't you Jackie?" His father continued, leaning closer. "Huh? Did you have fun, little boy? Riding around on Pete's shoulder's like that? The way you were laughin', it sure sounded like it. Laughin' just like a girl, you fucking sissy. Is that what you think of me bringing you to my work? That it's nothing more then a chance for you to fuck around and play?"
Jack shook his head, his voice straining in his throat as he tried to tell his father no.
But his father only tore him from the wall, slamming him back hard, his head snapping against it, making the room spin.
"You disrespectful maggot!" His said. "I break my back taking care of your useless ass, and you don't even fucking notice! You don't care! You just take and take and don't give shit back Jackie-boy!" He glared hard at his son. "You just think you're so fuckin' special, don't you? Ohhh, look at me everyone! I scored big on some stupid fucking test, I'm so special, I get to go to some fancy, piece of shit school now cause I'm too much of a faggot to stand up for myself in a fight! That's YOU Jackie!"
His father untangled one hand from Jack's shirt, reaching up and taking vicious hold of his son's jaw, squeezing down tight.
"You think you're special Jackie? You think you're fucking SPECIAL?"
And Jack shook his head, more tears falling from his eyes.
His father pushed his head back.
"That's right Jackie-boy. You ain't shit! You're not special! You're nothing. Less then nothing, you ungrateful bastard!" He pushed him harder against the wall, leaning in. "Oh, boo, hoo teacher…" he started in a whiny, high pitched voice, mocking his son. "Those big, mean bullies are beating me up and I don't know what to dooo… I need special attentiiion…" He let go Jack's face, smacking either of his cheeks. "Wha, wha, wha… you little pansy. You're nothing but a pathetic weakling boy. Disgusting how easy you are to kick the shit out of. You get beat up as much as you do and you damn well deserve it Jackie-boy."
Without warning, he pulled Jack from the wall, swinging him around and again throwing him across the floor.
Jack landed hard on his back this time, the impact knocking the wind from him, and he gasped loudly, followed by a harsh wheezing.
His father stepped quickly towards him, giving the boy no time to move before he'd reached down, grabbing hold of Jack by the shirt, lifting his head and shoulders from the floor.
"The only way to get the pansy out of you boy is to beat it out." His hissed lowly, his voice soft. And Jack stared back with wide, terrified eyes.
"I… I-I'm s-sorry." He stammered, his voice frail. "I'm s-sorry…"
And his father hissed.
"Like I said, Jackie-boy… sorry ain't good enough…"
The next thing Jack knew, his father's fist had collided hard against his face, and then again, his nose exploding in to blood, the copper taste filling his mouth as a loud buzzing assaulted his ears and dizziness took him.
He fell limp, knowing any other reaction would only make it worse.
And his father beat him, punching and slapping him repeatedly, viciously, until Jack's face was a swell of bruises, blackened eyes and abrasions along his cheeks, swollen and cut lips. And it wasn't long before Jack felt nauseous from swallowing his own blood, after a while the pain in the structure of his bones growing almost numb, each blow reverberating through his skull and shaking him to his core. Tears had continued to shed from his closing eyes, wetting his cheeks, mucus and blood dripping steady and fast from his nose, his father letting him know how repulsive he was for it, how disgusting.
After what seemed forever, his father stopped hitting his face, and removing his belt, he told Jack to get his pants and underwear down.
Further fear gripped Jack's heart in anticipation of what was to come, and he was barely able to comply, shaking near uncontrollably, his long, thin fingers hardly able to grasp the button and zipper of his trousers, finally undoing them after several tries and unsteadily pushing the two articles to his ankles.
"Now up against the coffee table Jack! Lean over it, on to your stomach!" His father snapped.
Fresh tears pushed from the corners of Jack's eyes, his arm coming up to wipe at his running nose. He could hardly stand, he felt so dizzy, was in so much pain, and it took every ounce of his effort just to begin towards the table, his ability to walk restricted by the pants and briefs around his ankles. But his father hadn't told him to take them off all the way, and he wouldn't dare step out of them without permission.
"Hurry up!" His father spit, growing impatient, and Jack tried hurrying, tripping in the process, falling hard to his knees.
"… Loser." He heard his Dad mutter, and panic caused him to push himself back to his feet, though he was slow getting there, another wave of dizziness taking him, almost putting him back down.
"Up against the table!" His father again hissed. "I don't got all day!"
Jack finally reached it, trying not to make a sound, to repress any vocalization of his fear as he leaned over the furniture, against his stomach, his hands gripping along the tables edges. His eyes closed, and he bit down hard on his lip, trying to prepare himself for what he knew was coming.
The sound of the belt whipping through the air reached his ears, and a moment later, when it lashed against his bottom, he couldn't stop the whimper from escaping his throat and pushing past his lips. It stung like fire, like a blade cutting in to his skin, and more tears came.
"Fucking pathetic, sissified weakling!" His father snorted, bringing the belt down again, and again, and again, Jack's cries growing louder and more agonized with each lash. His small hands gripped the tables edges to the point of his knuckles turning white as he prayed silently for it to end.
It hurt so much…
And at last it did end, after a dozen lashes, leaving Jack raw and bleeding.
He just stayed, splayed out on the table, tears still running from his eyes, a small, hiccupping sob escaping him every, few seconds, unable to control it as he listened to his father putting his belt back on.
Moments later, and Jack's Dad grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him up before he knelt down, taking hold of his son's pants and underwear, roughly pulling them back up and around his tiny waist before spinning him round and re-zipping and buttoning the trousers.
He then grabbed his son's arm, pulling him violently towards his bedroom.
"Get in there you little shit!" He spit, pushing Jack so hard through the door that he stumbled and fell to his hands and knees.
"Cause of that little stunt you pulled earlier Jack, you won't be eating for the next two days! I see you trying to eat anything and I'll tear your damned head off! Got it?"
Jack nodded weakly, his arms shaking.
"Y-y-yes S-Sir." He managed, his voice barely audible.
"Maybe that'll teach you a little respect boy." His father continued. "It's a privilege when I take you any place, and you just shit all over it by messin' around, like where I work's your own personal fucking playground! Maybe next time you'll have learned better, though you being as God damned stupid as you are, that's no guarantee."
Jack remained silent, his head bowed low, his arms shaking more violently. He felt like he was going to collapse any second, all the strength gone from him.
"Pff…" his father breathed after a long moment. "Pitiful."
And without further word, he slammed Jack's bedroom door closed. A moment later, there was the sound of the key in the door's lock, trapping him inside, and he could hear his father leave the apartment then, to go back to work.
As soon as he heard the front door close, Jack crumpled on to his stomach, new tears forming and falling from his eyes, more sobs rising quietly from his throat.
And for several minutes, he just stayed there, in too much pain to move.
But after a long while, the pain seeming to grow worse on the uncomfortable floor, Jack pushed himself up, first to his hands and knees, and then slowly he struggled to his feet, stumbling over to his frameless mattress, collapsing on to it, on to his knees again.
His hands came up, burying in his short hair, gripping it tight, his eyes squeezing tightly shut. He felt suddenly so horribly alone, the feeling almost suffocating. That man… he'd… he'd seemed so nice… so kind… but now Jack thought it had all been some elaborate trick on his father's part, and that man… that man must have been involved. He was a fool to have thought anyone would ever be kind to him… to have thought anyone could ever like him. He wasn't good enough to like, wasn't normal enough… the kids at school all called him a freak, and that's what he was. Nobody could like a freak, nobody would ever want to be friends with a freak like him.
And with the realization, his loneliness became crushing, consuming, his fingers curling harder in his hair, more tears pushing past his tightly shut lids, sliding down his face as a keening whine came up from his throat, dragging on for several seconds before the sound finally gave way to loud and tortured sobs, broken and wet.
He was so alone.
And always would be.
Because nobody was ever going to be his friend.
The memories were there, fresh as yesterday. And he knew deep down it wasn't a dream or hallucination. He felt it. And out of nowhere his face flushed hot. He felt humiliated, embarrassed. And the feeling only gave way to more of the same.
His hands curled to fists, tremors running through his frame.
No. No. That wasn't him. It wasn't. He wasn't that boy anymore. Wasn't someone to be controlled, to be handled like a limp doll or punching bag.
"I'm not…" he hissed angrily under his breath, glaring at the stone. "I'm not."
No reply came.
"I'm not, you bastard. I-I'll… I'll show you I'm not."
And without even really realizing it, he'd begun to sink down to his knees.
"Look at me," he spoke softly. "And look at you. You could never be me. You could never be what I am." He reached his hands out, hesitantly touching the tips of his fingers to the stone, running them over the engraving. "People know me. But nobody… nobody knows you. Nobody knows you ever even existed." There were no flowers on the headstone. Probably there hadn't been any since the funeral. He couldn't recall any living relatives, and his father's one-time workmates had in all likelihood forgotten about him by now.
For a moment he fell silent, tracing his father's name, and the years below.
"I would show you… if you hadn't died," he whispered. And now the frustration returned, more intense, suffocating him inside, his fingers curling inwards.
"You fucking coward," he spat. "You're lucky… lucky I didn't get my hands on you. You couldn't have faced me. Couldn't have…" His voice trailed off, more memories flooding his mind. Images of the man - huge and strong - coming at him with hands outreached, and himself shrinking back, terrified.
He felt rage.
"That isn't me!" he fumed, feeling the need to do something – anything - to relieve these emotions.
His eyes began to dart frantically about, looking for a hard object. He spotted a rock a few feet away, grasping it in his long fingers. Taking the sharpest edge, he began to etch methodically and with heavy pressure into the stone of his father's grave.
/
Batman watched closely from behind the trees, his eyes fixed intently on the crouched and tensed form of the Joker, bent over the grave of his father.
He'd spotted the madman traversing through the damp and malodorous back alleys of the Narrows. At first, he'd intended to take him down and drag him back to Arkham with immediate effect; but something had stopped him, something about the determination he saw in the Joker, how undistracted and purposeful he was in his movement. It was curious. People backed off in terror at the sight of him, yet he didn't seem to notice them. A bum bolted into a derelict house - nearly choking on his hand-rolled cigarette - as the Joker rounded a corner. He was ignored by the clown. A gang of youths – malevolent kids who'd gladly carve out a hapless passerby's eyes for stepping onto their turf - scattered at the Joker's approach, but he didn't acknowledge them either, his eyes fixed dead ahead.
And after about ten minutes of following him, Batman settled on allowing him to make the journey.
The fearlessness the Joker possessed never failed to impress Batman. He could easily have hot-wired a car and driven the way rather than exposing himself to the elements like this, where he could be captured and arrested, or perhaps shot at by some random thug who fancied his chances of taking him out. He limped and gripped his stomach; evidently he was recovering from a serious beating. In his weakened state he was - on paper at least - easier prey than usual. But the Joker was never one to think of practical solutions to things, really. Once he set his mind to something there was no deterring him, no second guesses.
It was the Joker's will power which so astonished the vigilante. He wasn't a physically top conditioned athlete, like Batman himself, and Batman knew, after following him over many a rooftop, that the madman must be physically exhausted; that his feet and joints and entire body must have been in terrible pain. But he didn't slow down.
Something was wrong, however. He'd suspected as much when he heard the Joker hadn't actually killed anyone in his escape from Arkham. And it seemed only to be confirmed when it appeared to the crusader that the Joker remained unaware of his presence in tailing him. The Joker was always aware of when he was around.
But not this time.
And now he watched him as he maneuvered past the iron gates of the Narrows Cemetery and made his way along the winding, overgrown path, past the tiny chapel and remembrance garden, looking intently at each headstone. Watched him sink to his knees over his father's grave, the man who'd made him the victim, who'd done to the Joker what the Joker was so used to doing to everyone else. He was working at the headstone, doing something to it with a rock he'd picked up, and Batman could see, from how stiffly the lunatic held himself that he was in some kind of distress.
Quietly, he moved forward, until he was standing only feet back from the Joker, saying nothing.
Silence enveloped the space around for the next, several moments, save for the sound of rock dragging against rock.
And then the Joker spoke, his voice barely audible.
"… I thought the masonry could use some improvement."
Batman shifted.
So he did know he was here. At least now he did.
The vigilante said nothing, and the Joker continued.
"I just figured, you know…" he murmured, calmly, steadily, belying his rigid stance. "Someone should say something … about him. A lasting memorial; some insight for those who might deign to glance downwards at this humble stone. Because it just doesn't seem… appropriate, him remaining so completely anonymous, nobody ever knowing what he was…"
Batman listened to him carefully, feeling himself growing tense.
The Joker's voice was soft, steady, but the crusader could detect the rage in it, just beneath the surface.
His eyes shifted to the stone.
Charlatan, it read. Coward. Fraud.
"What do you think Batman?" The Joker went on. "Isn't it right? You, who're so caught up on notions or right and wrong?"
For a moment, Batman said nothing, remaining still.
"… Joker, you…"
"It isn't fair, is it Batman?" The madman cut him short. "It isn't fair for me, denied the opportunity to show him. To make him see I'm not that boy anymore, not the sniveling weakling he could so easily… easily have his way with."
He continued to chip at the headstone. Batman watched, saying nothing. He was mildly surprised to find himself actually feeling a little sad for the Joker, watching him work so desperately to deface his father's grave marking. Then there was that disconcerting confusion in his voice, something he'd never really heard before.
He supposed it was that which so far had kept him from stopping the Joker.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled.
For a moment, there was no reply.
"… Sorry?" The Joker lifted his head, quizzical, suddenly alert.
Batman said nothing.
"Sorry?"
The vigilante could see the Joker's entire frame begin to tremble, his arms shaking noticeably.
"You? Sorry?" hissed the clown, incredulous. "Don't make me laugh!"
And abruptly he stood, tossing the rock violently aside, his eyes still fixed on the headstone.
"I hate you," he seethed. "I fucking HATE YOU!"
Batman watched in shock then as the Joker began furiously to kick at the grave marker, began to spit on it and curse at it. And he realized the Joker wasn't talking to him at all, but that he was talking to his father, and he well and truly now had lost control of himself, of his emotions, his usual eloquence giving way to his overwhelming anger and frustration.
"I hope you fucking suffered, you piece of shit scum bag! I hope you're suffering now! Begging and crying like the coward I know you are!"
For several minutes it continued, and Batman only stood silent, watching, taken aback by the unrestrained outburst, and the very clear agony in the Joker's voice, in his words. Never had the vigilante seen the madman resort to such base, such simplistic ways of insult. He would always pride himself on his sharp wit and grasp of language. Degrade and belittle in only the cleverest of ways. For all the clown's innumerable flaws, Batman had rarely, if ever, heard him cuss. The Joker was a carnival of contradictions. He'd slaughter indiscriminately, yet Batman couldn't recall the last time he'd heard him use the f word. Seeing him now, how desperate he was, he knew the Joker had lost all hold on himself. It was unsettling, bizarre. It felt wrong.
Batman knew to not interrupt. He understood from experience - from instinct - that he had to leave him be, allow him this moment of catharsis.
It didn't escape him, the surreal nature of having to allow the Joker this moment; to allow him to vent what was clearly real grief.
He never would have imagined the Joker even capable of such an emotion.
But that was before he'd found out who the Joker had been before everything had gone so terribly wrong for him.
That he'd been a man - a good man, a caring man – albeit one who'd suffered incredibly. A victim of his own trusting nature and unique mind; of people's inability to understand, and consequently, he was subjected to their cruelty and derision.
And the one person who was supposed to love and treat him well – his father - instead beat and belittled him, conditioned him to think of himself as worthless. Made him believe he deserved the abuse, and that he needed his father, conditioned him to be totally dependent and too unsure of himself to ever, properly operate on his own.
It made Batman sick to his stomach just to think of it. He knew - just from what he'd observed of Jack's behavior - that the abuse he'd suffered was far worse than his wife had ever been made aware of. And of course that was the case. Jack had never disclosed the full extent of his suffering to Jeannie, out of fear and humiliation.
If there was ever the slightest chance of the Joker recovering from his psychoses, he would need to remember – and crucially, acknowledge - everything that had happened to him.
His sudden and violent outburst was evidence that he was beginning to do just that. He was dealing with something alien to him.
He was in pain, and was only just now letting it show.
At last, after several minutes of intense kicking and screaming, the Joker grew silent, the only sound his ragged breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
And still Batman said nothing, watching him.
The Joker was unpredictable, and the vigilante had found it best to wait and see what it was he would do before doing anything himself. Trying to predict him was never the wisest choice.
Seconds stretched to minutes, and the lunatic remained still and quiet, Batman the same, when suddenly the receiver in his ear crackled to life, and he heard Nightwing's voice come over the com link.
"Batman!"
He pressed the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Have you located the Joker yet?"
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"…I've got some bad news." Dick's voice sounded grave, hesitant.
Batman said nothing, waiting for him to explain.
"Harley Quinn's just escaped Arkham. Robin and Batgirl are working on getting her back."
Bruce felt his brow furrow.
Harley was dangerous to be sure, but nothing any of them couldn't handle. He wasn't sure what the point in contacting him about it was, not when he had the Joker to concentrate on, something which required his full attention.
"Then what's the problem?" He asked shortly, his eyes remaining on the madman before him.
"Bruce…" Dick started slowly. "… Ms. Reinking's in the hospital. Gotham General. Intensive care."
"… What?" Batman asked, not entirely sure he'd heard right.
"Harley attacked her late last night. She got a shard of glass past security, slashed Ms Reinking's throat with the thing when she went to speak with her."
Batman grunted with frustration. "What the hell was she doing even talking to her?"
"Don't ask me. All we know is that she came to Arkham last night demanding to see Harley, and they allowed it. They talked, and then Harley attacked her. She's in critical condition, Bruce … they don't know… they don't know if she's going to make it."
At the words, Bruce felt his anxiety rise tenfold.
This was the worst possible scenario.
If she died, he thought, everything would be undone, shattering any hope of the Joker making a full recovery. And he'd have only himself to blame, for allowing her to go through with this whole, insane endeavor to begin with. More blood on his hands. He eyed the Joker, who remained unmoving from his position.
He had to tell him. It wouldn't be fair otherwise. They were technically still married. This made Joker, along with their son, her next of kin. Jeannie had meant everything to him once. And deep down, Batman was beginning to suspect that this was still the case. Before he'd become the Joker, when he was still just Jack, she had been his life, the only thing which had ever kept him going.
If he told the Joker now what had happened … Batman didn't know what the outcome would be. It could crush the last vestiges of humanity residing within him.
He exhaled slowly, his eyes casting down.
"Understood."
"Batman…" Nightwing interrupted, before his former mentor could cut the line. "Where are you? Where's the Joker?"
"Later," Bruce said curtly.
"But…"
"I said later."
He cut the line.
The Joker still hadn't moved, hadn't made any indication even that he'd overheard Batman's conversation.
Bruce could see the madman's breathing was still labored, that the rigidity to his body had dispersed, and he stood slack, as though exhausted.
The crusader fought with how best to break the news he'd just received, but as he thought of it, he realized there was no way easier then to just be blunt.
Whatever was going to happen was going to happen.
"… Joker…" he began.
At this the madman shifted, his posture slightly straightening.
"Joker, I've got some bad news." Batman breathed.
And a small chuckled escaped the Joker's lips.
"Is there any other kind?"
Batman frowned.
The Joker was depressed. Actually depressed. Bruce had never thought he would see the day where the lunatic was anything less then gleeful.
He braced himself for the worse.
"Joker, it's about your wife."
And immediately he started, looking back over his shoulder at the vigilante.
"My… wife?"
Batman breathed in, letting it go slowly.
"She's been attacked, Joker. She's in the hospital, in critical condition."
For a moment, the Joker didn't move, didn't speak; didn't react at all. He stared at Batman for a long moment, silent and unmoving; his brow furrowed deeply, his mouth pulled in to a severe frown.
And then he spoke, so softly the detective barely caught it.
"It wasn't me."