AN: Last night of Humans vs. Zombies, and I managed to survive until this morning without zombie-fying. My sister's visiting this weekend and I have a test to study for tomorrow night, but then my schedule should be back to normal, at least until finals. Sorry about the delays!

Thanks for the reviews!

There were times when Crane hated being a genius, and this was one of them.

His head was pounding as if with the world's worst hangover. Well, he'd only had one hangover to compare it with, but this was just as bad if not worse than that experience. He wouldn't be at all surprised if he was concussed, but this was painful enough that he couldn't bring himself to care. There was nothing he wanted more than to fall asleep and hope that he wouldn't be in agony when he woke up. And his body was perfectly fine with that.

His mind, however, his brilliant, wonderful mind that he'd never hated more in his life, would not let him do that.

Oddly enough, Scarecrow had shut up completely. Jonathan would have expected him to be going on so loudly he wouldn't be able to hear his own thoughts, but he hadn't heard a sound from him since he opened the door to the Joker's cell. Knowing him, he'd probably "left" for the time being, in anticipation of the pain that usually accompanied his encounters with the Batman. Not that Jonathan could blame him. If Scarecrow ever made a habit of rushing into dangerous situations, he'd leave too.

Actually, maybe he wouldn't. It was his body, after all; he tended to feel concern over what happened to it. Scarecrow never seemed too worried about that bit, as long as he didn't feel it directly.

No, the racing in his mind was entirely from his own thoughts, and for once he appreciated Scarecrow's absence. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to function with his other half talking to him on top of all of this.

Bruce Wayne. The Batman is Bruce Wayne. The Batman. They're the same person. He almost wished that the Joker would slam his head into the wall again, so he wouldn't have to listen to this. Racing thoughts were one thing. Having his normally lucid mind start spouting the same sort of word vomit his meds had been forcing out of his mouth every time he tried speaking was quite another. To say that he couldn't stand it would be like saying that the surface of the sun was warm.

Yes. He's the Batman. And the Prince of Gotham. He found himself repeating it, as if thinking the words a few thousand times would make the information easier to swallow. It didn't, of course, because that was just the sort of life he led.

It shouldn't have been that hard to accept. It really shouldn't. In fact, looking back on things, he should have realized that long ago, and a sizeable bit of his incessant thoughts were devoted to telling him just what an idiot he was for not putting two and two together. After all, the Batman would have to be young, to run around the way he did, and rich, to have the devices he had, and the Batmobile. He'd said as much to the Caped Crusader before. Really, it made sense.

But despite all of that, he couldn't make his mind accept it. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle that formed an abstract work of art; the pieces all fit, but the finished product made no sense. Bruce Wayne? Bruce Wayne, the playboy idiot who'd always shown more concern for his social life than anyone in the city? The idiot who was always in the tabloids with some new bimbo hanging off his arm? The college dropout? How could he be the Batman?

Well, it's an act, obviously. Yes. And somewhere in the middle of his swirling torrent of thoughts, he knew that. Yet at the same time, he couldn't believe it at all. Of course the Batman would have to project an image that was the complete opposite of himself, something so different that no one would be able to make the connection. And now that he thought about it, the Wayne Foundation had poured thousands of dollars into Arkham's security, to no avail. But still. It just didn't work.

Bruce Wayne defeated me. Bruce Wayne poisoned me. I left my horse in the responsibility of some rich idiot who's had more women than James Bond. Not, given his night life, that he probably did anything with those women. Even so.

"Jonny? Jonny? Hey!" He became slowly aware that a hand was waving back and forth in front of his face. "Christ. How hard did I hit you?"

"What?"

The Joker's tongue ran over his lips, a gesture he was so accustomed to suddenly looking completely alien. He realized he'd never really adjusted to the sight of the Joker without his makeup. Not that the Joker had given him many opportunities to do so. "I've been trying to get your attention for, like, five minutes now."

"Oh." The Batman was still in the doorway. Crane wished that he would leave; his presence certainly wasn't helping him to process this information. Everything about the sight of him was adding to Crane's confliction, right down to his posture. How could this be Bruce Wayne? Granted he hadn't seen a lot of the man, beyond glimpses in The Gotham Times or on GCN, but Bruce Wayne didn't stand that way. He simply did not.

"Having an interesting conversation, I take it?"

"No."

"Ah. An annoying one?"

"I'm not having a conversation."

The Batman was staring at them as if they were crazy. All right, the Joker was completely mad, but he didn't appreciate the idea being applied to him, no matter how many times the Bat had said as much in the past. If anyone in this room—besides the Joker—was crazy, it was the man who had everything in the world he could possibly want—who'd never had to work for anything in his perfect little life—and still felt the urge to run around in Kevlar as if he was some sort of hero, instead of what he really was. A spoiled brat playing with his toys.

"Whatever. You didn't hear a word I just said, didya?"

"The part before or after you started waving your hand at me?" Come to think of it, he wouldn't mind if the Joker left either. He was far more comfortable around the clown than the Batman, head bashing aside, but he wasn't exactly helping with the mental dilemma Crane was having, trying to adjust to this information.

Not that he could tell him to get out. That would be asking to be injured again.

"The part before."

"No." He wondered, after he'd answered, if saying yes would have gotten the clown out of the room any sooner. Probably not.

"Ya really need to work on your listening skills, kitten." He smacked his lips, and Crane felt his patience break.

"If whatever you said before you got my attention is important enough to bear repeating, say it, and be quick about it. I tried to help you, I thought you were dying, I thought he'd finally snapped and was, by the sound of it, either breaking every bone in your body or ripping your skin off, and I risked my life to come over and help you, only to have you slam my head into a wall, twice, and then try to lie to me about what happened, so I am not in the mood to deal with you right now. Say it, or get out of t—"

The Joker's hand clamped over his mouth, smearing blood from his wrist wound across Crane's face. "You need to work on the shutting up problem, too. At least you seem to be using commas now."

He wondered if the satisfaction of biting the Joker's hand would be greater than the pain that would follow, and decided against it.

"Now, as I was trying to say before you had your little hissy fit, I don't think ya need me to tell you that this is a rather, uh, delicate situation?"

Well, there's the understatement of the year.

Crane sat up slightly straighter, the Joker moving his hand with him to keep him silent. Scarecrow?

His other half didn't answer, but Crane could still feel his presence. So he'd decided that whatever the Joker was going on about was worth hearing. And he could count on one hand the times those two had agreed on anything. Scarecrow was right; delicate didn't begin to cover their predicament.

The Joker tightened his fingers so that he was gripping Crane's face, and gently moved his head up and down in a nod. "Right. And I'm sure you know what Batsy's like when he loses his temper, if not from experience, then from, uh, example." He held up his opposite but equally bloody wrist.

Crane's stomach twisted. He had the fear toxin damage as a reminder of just how much damage the Batman—playboy billionaire or not—could do, and even if he didn't know from experience, the Joker's injuries were example enough. The fact that the Joker was more than likely enjoying the pain didn't help in the slightest bit. The clown moved him in a nod again, and he could feel the blood smearing onto his face.

From the doorway, the Batman began to say something, before the Joker raised his free hand to silence him. "Ah ah ah, Bats, I've got this. Trust me, he listens better to me."

Scarecrow made a scoffing sound inside his head, but offered no further comment.

"As I was saying, you don't want to make Batman mad, I'm sure. Now, this may be completely off base on my part, but if someone exposed my secret identity, I'd be pissed. And, ya know, hurt the one who ratted me out."

Once again, the Batman made a sound—the start of a protest, maybe—and once again, he was cut off.

"Shush, Bats. How's he gonna learn if you keep interrupting? Jonny, I'll betcha remember how bad it hurt when I broke your ribs and all, right?"

Is he going to beat me into a coma to keep me from telling? He felt that dropping sensation in his stomach, wished there was some place safe to run to.

Not unless you want to hide behind the Batman.

Oh, very funny. I suppose you're planning on running away again if he tries that?

Of course.

Bastard.

You're only insulting yourself. Think, Jonathan. You're the genius here. Sure, the clown makes drawn out speeches before beating the shit out of people, but what he says is just as important as the action following the threat. He keeps saying if someone tells. It's hypothetical.

He wasn't reassured. For now. You know how stable his moods are.

The Batman wouldn't let him.

No, he'd want to do that himself.

Scarecrow didn't contradict him there, and he was almost sick. Only the knowledge that the Joker would most certainly kill him, Batman or not, if he retched on his hand, kept him from vomiting. Beaten horribly by the Batman or the Joker, without a third option. This day just kept getting better and better, didn't it?

Shaken, he nodded before the Joker could make him do so again.

"Yeah, I thought you would. Now, let me make this clear, angel. If Batsy's found out, he's gonna get pissy and come after you." Batman said something at this, but the Joker spoke over him. "And if he's found out, he'll have to either quit and run or become even more of an outlaw, which means more time, uh, running from the cops and less with me. So that's two far stronger people who both wanna beat ya 'til you vomit out your lungs from the pain."

He waited a moment, to let that sink in. "So, you promise you'll be a good boy and keep your lips sealed?"

Crane expected the Joker to let go here, and let him respond. Instead, the Joker took Crane's hand in his, bent his fingers into the 'Scout's Honor' position, and held it up, making him nod with the free hand. "Good, 'cause I didn't wanna have to, uh, sew 'em shut. I'm not in the mood to hear him rant again," the Joker added to the Batman, "and I didn't think you'd wanna either."

Stupid bastard.

Ignore him, Jonathan. He's just pissed that you found out, he'll forget in five seconds. Batman's the one you've got to worry about.

Crane glanced at the man in the doorway and cringed. The Batman could definitely hit harder and fight better.

It's not just that. Think about it, you know his secret.

So? Who'd believe me?

Don't be an idiot. You thought it all made sense yourself after you found out, didn't you? People will dismiss the truth, they always do—and that was true, it was how his experiments had never been noticed by the rest of the Arkham staff—but all it takes is one person to believe it.

Yes, but what's your point? The beating wouldn't be worth it, we all know that.

No, Jonathan. Think.

He almost wanted to giggle at the irony there. The Scarecrow of all people, telling him to think. Scarecrow, who had just sat back acting bored while he did all the work making the toxin. Who'd gotten them caught and poisoned on their second rendezvous with the Batman by leaping out at him without planning. It was ridiculous.

And yet Scarecrow sounded so serious, he found himself going cold. What?

You know his secret. He might be willing to do anything to protect it. Anything.

His mind took a moment to process those words, and then immediately rejected them. No. He wouldn't. He doesn't kill—

Did the Joker seem at all surprised to see Bruce Wayne's face when you pulled of f the mask?

I don't know, my back was to him and then he—

I know what he did. But did you feel him suddenly straighten up? Or gasp?

No… He felt like an idiot, missing all these details that his other half had seen, even while absent. To be fair, he'd been a bit distracted by the revelation, but still. You think he already knew?

Yes. And the Batman was trying to kill him, wasn't he?

We don't know for— He thought back to the screams he'd heard coming from the other cell. Yes.

Right. And there's no guarantee that he won't do the same to us.

The only thing that kept Crane from being sick this time was the sudden shock that ran through him as the Batman began to cross the room toward them.