Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.
AN: Thanks as always for the reviews. Since I've pretty much disproven the whole 'once a week' update thing, I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update throughout the week. I'll try and get new chapters up when I can.
Harley had gone back to bed by the time he'd finished clearing up the glass, but the first aid kit she'd used was still sitting out on the kitchen counter. Jonathan wasn't sure if it belonged to the apartment's previous owners or if she'd bought it herself—something he could easily imagine her doing, for the Joker's sake—but either way, it had enough bandages to wrap the bleeding wrecks his hands had become. He decided against taking aspirin, as the bottle was near empty and he figured Harley would be in need of painkillers as well. Besides, it didn't hurt that much, provided he didn't move.
That finished, he went into the living room, lay down on the couch, and fell asleep within a minute or so.
Around noon, or so he guessed from the light coming through the windows, he woke up to find the Joker on the arm of the couch, holding one of his hands, pushing at the bandages underneath to see the injury. It hurt. He suspected the clown's movements were reopening the cuts. "What are you doing?"
"Wondering when ya switched from fear to self-mutilation." He let go. "Can ya still move your hands?"
Jonathan tried it. It was unpleasant, but not impossible. "Yes. Why?"
"'Cuz I need ya to film something for me." He lifted a video camera from the coffee table and placed it in Jonathan's hands, holding it there until Jonathan could make himself grasp it.
Jonathan regarded him warily. "Film what?" If the Joker was into some form of voyeurism, he certainly didn't want to know.
"A message to the news networks. But not yet. I need to hunt down my, uh, costar first." He smacked his lips. He seemed to be in a good mood, which Jonathan took as a sign that he had something awful in mind. Then again, he always seemed to be in a good mood. Seeing him serious, like Jonathan glimpsed in the morning, that was the stuff of nightmares.
"Do I want to know?"
"All will be explained in time."
Jonathan sat up. "Are people going to die?"
He shrugged. "It's a possibility. Since when do ya care?"
I don't. Harley will. "When are we doing this?"
"Eh…about half an hour." He stood. "I gotta get some things, see ya then."
Jonathan watched him wander down the hall, then stood himself, and went to find Harley.
She was in the bathroom, in full harlequin costume, minus the mask and gloves, spreading white paint over her face. Jonathan noted that she took the effort to apply it evenly, as opposed to the Joker's make-up, thrown on as haphazardly as possible. "Do you have any idea what this is about?" he asked, setting the camera on the sink.
She glanced down at his hands, eyes widening. "What happened to you?"
"Er…picking up glass barehanded isn't the best idea, it seems."
She shook her head. "I don't know how you survived on your own, I really don't. You have no common sense."
This coming from her, of all people? Oh, the irony. "How's your head?"
"Fine. Are you going to be able to work the camera like that?"
"Yes. What does he want filmed, anyway?"
She shrugged, painting around her eyes. "He said something about revealing the truth to the people of Gotham. He usually ends up explaining these things on the car ride over."
"Lovely." If there was one thing he hated, it was not knowing what was going on. It figured the Joker would set things up so he was the only one in control. That, or he made things up as he went along. Either seemed likely.
"Oh, don't worry. Things will be fine."
"Relatively. If this plan's a success, the Batman's going to beat us twice as hard once he catches up."
"So he won't."
"He always does. Why do you bother putting that around your eyes?" he asked. "Doesn't your mask cover it?"
"The mask can slide. It would look ridiculous to have my normal skin sticking out under it."
He raised a brow. "More ridiculous than dressing up like a clown?"
"It's not ridiculous, it's theatrical. Speaking of which…" she turned to regard him. "You don't have your mask, do you?"
"Not unless you got it from the asylum."
"Oh." Harley frowned. "Well, I suppose I could paint your face, if you wanted—"
"No thank you." Running around with a burlap sack on his head already required a small loss of dignity. He still had enough pride not to go out in make-up, thankfully. "Besides, this is the Joker's crime. I don't think he'll want the Scarecrow stealing his thunder."
"You're probably right." She picked up her mask and put it on, using one hand to steady as she tapped it into place with the other. "Actually, I'd rather you didn't go in costume, now that I think of it. I am trying to discourage you from this sort of thing, after all."
"Yeah, because that's working so well." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What keeps the mask on, anyway?"
"Spirit gum. It's a stage make-up thing."
"Ah." If there was a sight more bizarre in the world than seeing his former psychiatrist getting ready to wreak havoc on the city in stage make-up and a clown costume, he didn't want to know about it.
She wiped her hands off on a towel and slid her gloves on, turning to face him. "How do I look?"
Jonathan wondered if she purposely made her voice high pitched when in costume, or if it was an unconscious thing. "Clinically insane?"
"Well thank you, Mr. Optimist." She—well, bounced was the only word for it—around him and out of the bathroom. "C'mon, get the camera. Mistah J's probably waitin'."
He was, by the door, toting what appeared to be a bag of…
"You're bringing golf clubs?" Jonathan asked apprehensively. This could lead nowhere good.
"Am I?" Joker turned to regard the bag as if he'd never seen it before. "Why, so I am!"
"Where'd you get those, puddin'?"
"In one of the closets. Got the camera, scaredy cat?"
He held it up, wordless. It seemed safest to avoid conversation until he knew what they were getting into.
"Fabulous." He flung open the door, waving them through in a manner reminiscent of game show host. "Onward then, can't keep the lads waiting!"
The lads turned out to be a group of henchman with a van. They, like Jonathan, were unmasked and unpainted, but all armed. He wondered what would possibly persuade someone to work for the Joker, and decidedly it likely came down to destitution or mental instability. Possibly both.
They gathered into the van, Harley and Jonathan on the floor with the majority of the henchman. The Joker had called shotgun, though he didn't actually sit, preferring to stand before them to reveal the plan.
"Comrades," he began.
"Do you want this on tape?" Jonathan asked, readying the camera.
"Not yet, no. And don't interrupt." He cleared his throat, began again. "Comrades—" And was promptly sent sailing into the side of the van by a sharp left turn. "The hell?" he demanded, pulling himself back up with the assistance of a terrified lackey.
"Sorry, boss." The driver sounded torn between terror and tears. Jonathan smirked. Beside him, Harley stiffened slightly.
"As ya should be! Where'dya learn to drive?"
"O-Ohio?" The answer was uncertain enough to be a question on its own.
The Joker clicked his tongue, disgusted. "Remind me to blow up Ohio one of these days, Harley-girl."
"Yes sir." Her voice was even higher than before, from tension he guessed. Damn. Jonathan would enjoy nothing more than the exquisite terror sure to precede the driver's intestines being fed to him, but that would probably send her into a heart attack.
He raised a bandaged hand. "Excuse me?"
The Joker whirled around, coat spinning out behind him. "What?"
"Why 'comrades'?"
"Because I said so. God. Do I question your villainous speeches?"
"I don't make villainous speeches."
"Well, good. Yours would suck. The point is," he went on, smoothing his hair back into place, "tonight we reveal the truth to Gotham. Tonight, we clear the Batman's name."
Everyone stared. When it became clear that no one else was going to speak up, and the Joker wasn't going to continue until someone did, Jonathan sighed, and raised his hand a second time.
"Yes, scaredy cat?"
"Clear the Batman's name regarding what? And why?"
"Glad ya asked. Bats, ya see, is wanted for five murders." He held up one hand to illustrate, as if they couldn't count to five on their own. Though, knowing what the average henchman was like, most of them probably couldn't. "Know how many of those he actually committed? None. Zero. Zilch." He paused, tongue running over his lips.
Harley's hand raised this time.
"Yes, pumpkin?"
"If he didn't do it, who did?"
"Excellent question." He paused again, for dramatic effect, Jonathan was sure, lacing his fingers and cracking them before going on. "Harvey Dent."
There was a second of stunned silence, before confused chatter broke out among everyone. The Joker let it continue for a minute or so, before slamming his hand against the van roof, with a loud bang that turned every head towards him. "Ya doubting my word?" he asked, eyes glittering.
Jonathan raised his hand again.
"Yes, Raggedy Ann?"
He clenched his teeth and ignored that. "First, Dent is one of the murders the Batman is accused of. And second, Dent was in the hospital, covered in severe burns. How could he have gotten up in that condition, let alone killed four people?"
"Determination. I, uh, had a talk with him, when he was in the hospital, and he started to see things from my point of view." He smirked, the pride on his face evident even through the make-up. "Trust me, he could have put a stop to the Second Coming, the mood he was in.
"And as for the whole Harvey murder thing, I've got a few theories on that. Either he killed himself, died by accident, or, my personal favorite, he's still out there somewhere. Batman took the fall for everything, because he didn't want the city to lose faith. Didn't want 'em to have that extra little push to make 'em blow each other to bits."
He stood silent for a moment, to let this sink in, then went on. "Which brings us to our mission," here he shot Jonathan a look, "comrades. See, Dent went after the people responsible for his woman's death. Maroni, the police who took him and his girl to the mob that night, Gordon. Though that last one wasn't successful. Gordon knows what really happened, and so does Batsy, but neither of 'em are gonna talk."
He looked around, as if expecting someone to ask what they were supposed to do, in that case.
Jonathan raised his hand. "So what are we doing, if everyone who knows is either dead or not talking?"
Joker grinned, his scars stretching with the movements of his face. "See, there's the thing. Dent didn't get quite everybody. The cop that took his lady love to her doom? Name of Anna Ramirez. Still alive." He paused again, as the van came to a halt, looked out the window, and smirked. "And we happened to be right outside her home sweet home. Today, she's gonna talk, and Jonny here's gonna get it all on tape."