Hey guys! Merry Christmas! Here's a new chapter for you all! I hope you enjoy it. We're actually getting very close to the end here, though there's a surprise, so I won't give too much away.

Just a little update on my story "Limits", if you're reading along with that too. I'm almost done with the next chapter. Probably ¾ of the way through. So I'll have that up very soon as well. I've just been a bit busy lately. I'm also going to get back to all of you who left me a review last chapter! Believe, I appreciate you immensely. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and again, reviews are welcome!

Chapter 36:

"You came back?"

Her eyes moved over him, nodding slowly as she took in the fresh bruises along his face and arms, an anxious knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

"Why?" She heard him ask, and she brought her gaze back up.

"Why did you come back?"

She blinked.

"Why…? Why wouldn't I?"

He looked at her for only a moment longer before his eyes slid away, and he shrugged, saying nothing.

"Jack…" she began. "there was never any question as to whether I was going to or not. Don't you know that by now?"

Still he kept his gaze to his side, shaking his head.

"But I don't understand." He said. "I don't understand why you would come back. I didn't think you would. Not after…"

He had to stop, his brow furrowing deeply, a terrible feeling of constriction seizing his throat as the thought of what he'd almost done, what he'd wanted to do caused his skin to burn with frustration and anger, and suddenly emotion overtook him, and he leaned down, burying his face in his arms, curling his hands over his head.

When had this started? When had it begun, that his thoughts of violence, his desire to see pain, to inflict it now caused in him feelings of shame?

He couldn't take this. He couldn't anymore. It was all gone, all the fun of it, replaced by this sickening, dead weight of self-loathing.

Jeannie watched him carefully, shaking her head.

"You used to have such faith in people Jack." She spoke softly, her voice tinged with regret.

"Did I?" He asked, his voice muffled and weak. And then he laughed lightly, the sound bitter. "And look where that faiths now gotten me."

Her mouth pulled in to a severe frown, her hands tightening over her bag.

What was she supposed to say to that?

Tell him he was wrong? Because the truth was… he wasn't, ill as it made her to admit such.

It was Jack's faith in people, his belief that their words and actions would be as genuine as his own, that had led him to this place, led him to what he now was.

It was his trust in that horrible man that had brought him to Ace Chemicals that night, brought him up to that catwalk, above that vat of waste, because he hadn't realized until it was too late what kind of man Charlie Zucko was, and by the time he did, he didn't have the ability, didn't understand how to ask for help.

But it had also been that faith, his ability to hold on to his belief in good, despite all the horrors he'd suffered in his life, that had made him so absolutely amazing.

To see how that had been destroyed, it was nothing short of tragedy.

She exhaled slowly, deciding it best not to dwell on it, to simply stay focused on the two of them.

"Jack, I came back because I care about you still. I love you. Don't you see? Don't you understand? I want to help you."

The Joker only shook his head, his face still pressed against his arms.

He didn't understand, why this woman gave so much of a damn about him, why she continued to try for him. He would have been sure she was lying, that she had some ulterior motive if he couldn't see… couldn't see she didn't. There was the kind of honest belief in her eyes, the kind of conviction he saw in Batman's own. She wasn't lying. When she said she loved him she meant it.

And that, more then anything, was what was so confusing to him.

"Why would you love me?" He muttered, still not looking up.

"Because I know you Jack. Because I've known you since you were a little boy… Because you were the best person I've ever met."

Finally the Joker lifted his face, staring at her with tired eyes.

"I'm not that person anymore." He said warily, for the first time the fire seeming to be gone completely from his voice. "I'm not the good boy you married."

But Jeannie only shook her head.

"You are. Even if you don't realize it…" she said. "There's still so much left of you Jack. You can still find what was good in you."

"No…" the Joker shook his head, his expression twisting in pain. "No I… don't you see? I was…" And his face lined more heavily still. "I was going to kill you. I would have if… if Batman hadn't…" But again he was unable to finish, his eyes once more casting down, his hands curling to tight fists, fingers digging in to his palms.

"I wouldn't have been able to stop myself." He at last finished, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. And there was anguish in it; disgust.

Jeannie bit her lower lip. The admission should have frightened her, she knew. It should have sent her screaming from the room.

But it didn't. All she could think now was of the guilt in his voice. The regret.

She'd heard it before, that time he'd grabbed hold of her wrist.

Now it was ten times as apparent.

"You're mad at yourself." She said, and his eyes moved back to her. "You're mad at yourself for what you did… Do you see what that means? What it… what it says about…"

"You make assumptions!" He cut her off quickly, his voice rising slightly in anger.

He stared at her hard a moment, as though trying to emphasize his point, before he found himself unable to stand his own denial, and his eyes once more slid away.

She was right.

He didn't know when he'd become so uncomfortable with his own emotions that he couldn't admit to them. But he loathed himself for the weakness.

Though this particular emotion was new, something he'd never before experienced, discomfort with his own actions.

Jeannie's eyes again fell over the bruising on his face and arms, the same anxiety from before returning.

"You've been hurt." She said, and at this he again shrugged.

"Those boys I knocked out…" the Joker started. "I should have killed them. They were none too pleased, having their hides handed to them by a single man." He looked at her, smiling, but it didn't escape her notice how the effort was half-hearted, the corners of his mouth falling flat again a moment later. "Embarrassing and all, for men who spend a couple of hours a day lifting weights and think somehow that makes them special. So they came back with ten extra of their friends…" He held her eyes a moment, his expression un-amused. "And had their little fun."

She hated this. She hated how God damned helpless she was in this. With him being in here, locked away, there was nothing she, or anyone could do to stop the orderlies from abusing him, save for the hospital administration, and they weren't going to do shit.

"A… are you alright?" She asked, knowing either way he wasn't about to tell her if he wasn't.

Once more he shrugged.

"Compared to what I'm used to…" he looked away. "I barely felt anything at all."

She swallowed, doubting that was likely. The deep, black and blue bruises over both his eyes, and the abrasions across his pale face said otherwise.

The Joker chuckled suddenly, looking back at her.

"You know what's funny?" He asked, and she only looked at him.

"I threw up. One of the bastards kicked me so hard in the stomach that I actually vomited." Again he chuckled, though the laughter was mirthless. "Can you believe? I don't think that's ever happened before. Not to my recollection, in any event. Hmm. Yes indeed, they got a lot of mileage out of that one. They laughed and laughed…"

For several seconds more, he held her gaze, and then his eyes cast down, picking absently at his fingernails.

"But I didn't make a sound for them." He finished, his voice soft.

Jeannie felt her jaw tighten.

He would never admit to it, but she could see his humiliation. She thought about telling him that it was a normal reaction, to vomit when met with blunt force to the abdomen, but she didn't think that would help him any. It might only make him more upset.

She'd again asked Batman if there was any way they could take Jack out of this place, put him in to a different hospital, but Batman had told her it was impossible, that any such order would have to come from Arkham's board of directors, and that the chances of them releasing their "star patient" in to another mental institute was slim to none.

But this damned place… It was so dangerous, and every moment she felt herself fearing for her husbands safety.

She feared too what should happen when Jack again reemerged, and found himself back here, locked away without her. The last thing he'll have remembered was being with her at Gotham General. He'd have no clue as to what happened in between then.

She tried to push the thoughts from her mind, realizing there wasn't a thing she could do about it. She only hoped when that did happen, it would be during one of her visits, and at least then, she could try and console him.

"When did…" She had to pause, her emotions getting the better of her. "When did it happen?"

The Joker felt his hands tighten in anxiety.

There he went again, telling her things. And now here she was with her concern, as though it would make any difference to anything.

But his mind puzzled as he heard himself answering her question, and realizing in some sickening sort of way, it gave him comfort to tell her.

"They come at night." He said. "That's when they always come, after most of the staff has gone away. Less risk of being found out."

"Have you ever told anyone, besides me I mean?"

At this he laughed.

"And who would believe me?" He asked. "Even if I were believed, no one would do anything to stop it. Haven't you noticed my dear? They want to see me suffer. As exampled by your own attempts to intercede. Nothing was done. It doesn't matter anyway. I don't mind it."

That once was true.

He hadn't cared before. He'd always thought it amusing, the men's sorry attempts at intimidation. And how they never seemed to learn how very ineffective it all was.

But things had begun to change, when she had started coming regularly. It wasn't fear. He still was unfazed entirely by the threat of physical violence. It was something more complex, something deeper.

It was worry over her reaction, when she saw him hurt. He was thinking about how it would cause her pain.

"Jack, please…" Jeannie pleaded. "Don't do this to yourself. You can't keep acting like this. Like… like you don't care about yourself. Why do you…?"

"Because I don't." He spit back, angrily, cutting her off. "I don't give a damn what happens to me, and neither should you."

For a moment, Jeannie sat silently, saying nothing, never averting her gaze.

"I don't believe that Jack." She said quietly after a moment. "I don't believe you care so little about yourself. Maybe you once did, when you thought there was no one left out there for you. But Jack, there's people who love you still. I love you. That has to mean something, has to make you believe you deserve better then this life you've made for yourself. Don't you want that Jack? Don't you want better then this?"

Again he'd turned his face from her, his head shaking. Unconsciously he'd wrapped his arms around himself, looking so much like he used to, like the shy, beautiful boy she'd known and loved so long.

Jeannie felt her throat constrict at the sight.

"That's over for me." He said, his voice barely audible. "It was always over. People like me Jeannie… My ruin was designed. There was never any hope of escaping it. And there can be no going back. Not for me. Not for someone like me."

She wanted to tell him he was wrong. But she couldn't deny there being a certain truth to his words. Looking back, from the moment Jack had come in to this world, it had seemed there was a convergence of events, of everything that had ever happened to him working in some sick, streamlined order to destroy him.

It all seemed so incredibly unfair, how so much of what had happened to him had been beyond his control. He hadn't chosen to be born brilliant but then too so badly hampered by autism, he hadn't chosen a sadistic father who would every day derive his pleasure from torturing his defenseless son. Those things in themselves had set him up for so much of what had gone wrong; the fact his self-esteem had been completely crushed before he was even old enough to have a fully realized personality. His mind was superior, but then, that had made him different, and he'd been singled out for it, and his condition had rendered him incapable of navigating at all through social situations. So he'd been met with the blunt force of people's cruelty, without any real recourse, without knowing how to defend against it or even how to communicate when it was he needed help.

Being honest with herself, Jeannie had always known, always sensed Jack wasn't going to be okay, but she'd tried to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't so, because the thought had always been so unbearable.

Jack had been so trusting, and so desperate, never with the confidence to succeed, but with the deep desire to, for fear of disappointing her. And so he'd believed a bad man when he said he wanted to help.

And again his trust had been betrayed.

For the last time it had.

Because after that, Jack was gone.

And even that hadn't been his own choice.

Jeannie shifted in her seat, bringing her eyes down to her bag, playing absently with the latch.

Maybe he was right, maybe what had happened to him was inevitable. She wasn't able to save him, and nobody else had ever really bothered to even try. Her hands tightened. They'd tried for just the opposite.

But that didn't mean he couldn't be brought back.

He'd changed so much since the first time they'd spoken here.

He'd seemed to anyway.

And that gave her hope.

She decided it would be best to move away from this. At least for now.

She didn't want him to shut down on her again.

"I brought something…" she said, opening her bag and reaching in. Her fingers brushed against the small piece of hard plastic a moment before she took it in her grip, pulling it out.

"Do you remember?" She asked, holding it out for him to see.

The Joker didn't move, his eyes shifting to it from the side.

A Rubik's Cube.

The paint had been only a little faded with age, slightly muting it's once vibrant colors.

He didn't say anything.

Bright bursts of memory again filled his head, and his gaze slide away once more.

Jeannie could see the recognition in his eyes, and so she continued.

"It's the same one… the same one I bought for you on your 22nd birthday. Do you remember? You'd seen it in the window of that toy shop. What was it, Maurice's Toys? We were taking a walk downtown. And you'd gotten so excited. You told me you'd always wanted one as a kid but never had the money, and your father…"

His eyes moved back to her and she paused a moment.

"… Your father never bought you any toys." She finished more quietly. "… So I bought it for you, a few weeks later for your birthday."

She laughed lightly and the Joker again turned away, his eyes closing, a strange kind of warmth running down through his stomach at the sound.

"You solved the thing in about 10 seconds I remember. And I asked you if you were sure you'd never done it before. And you shook your head very seriously and said…"

"I'd seen people do it on TV, and I could always follow the patterns." He finished for her.

She blinked, a small smile spreading over her lips.

"Yeah." She nodded. "I never understood, because those kids on TV doing it, their hands always moved so fast and I could never see anything. But you tried to explain. You said it was just a matter of multiplying the number of sides with the number of colors and then, depending how many degrees of separation there were between each side and color, calculating how many turns it would take to line them all up." Again she laughed. "I still don't know what you were talking about."

He glanced at her, saying nothing, and then his eyes again fell to the toy.

"Here." She said, sliding the small window to her left open. "Do you still think you can do it?"

She held the cube through the opening, waiting, and he looked at it a long moment, silent, not moving.

His tongue darted out, running over his lips, and without really thinking about it, his hand reached out, his long fingers curling around the toys edges and taking it, and she slid the window back shut.

He brought it close, sitting it on the table before him, just staring down at it, his hands on either side.

Jeannie watched him carefully, wondering what he was thinking.

He recalled what she said, the feeling of excitement the toy had brought him.

Still brought him.

Toys still brought him excitement.

His lips curled up slightly at the irony.

Who would suspect a mass murdering lunatic of liking children's toys?

The smile quickly faded though as he thought of what else she'd said, about his father, about never being allowed toys…

His hands moved to the cube, picking it up, turning it over a few times.

The colors all merged together in his mind, already figuring which way each strip would have to turn to make the sides match.

And lazily his hands worked the toy, turning its sections slowly, deliberately, never once making a mistake.

Within seconds he was done, and he just stared at the completed puzzle in his hands, his expression blank.

Jeannie had watched him with a kind of sinking fondness, her mind wondering back to their days together, how the two of them would just sit quietly for hours, content in each others company. Jack, in all his complex brilliance, had always been so easily absorbed in seemingly simple things, toys and cartoons and slap-stick comedy.

She'd bought him all these VHS tapes of Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton, Donald O'Conner, Laurel and Hardy, Red Skeleton and The Three Stooges, and she remembered how he'd sit in front of the TV watching them, laughing, really laughing. He'd always seemed so happy during those times… one of the only times he'd ever, truly seemed that way. One of the only times he'd seemed able to let go of the demons which tortured him.

She wished so much… so much they could go back to that.

It seemed almost possible, when he was like this, quiet, introverted, when the resemblance to what he had been was so strong, the only thing disrupting it the stark white of his skin and horrible scarring across his once beautiful face.

It ended quickly though as suddenly his expression twisted in a scowl of disgust, his entire frame tensing.

"Take it." He said, his voice low. "Take it back. I don't want this. This stupid toy."

She looked at him in confusion, taken aback by the anger in his voice.

"I'm not… I'm not some child for you to protect!" He spit. "I'm not the boy you knew! Don't… don't treat me like I am, bringing me… making me play with your ridiculous toys!"

His voice was growing louder, more frantic.

He seemed almost… embarrassed; ashamed, his eyes refusing to lift to hers as he held the cube near the window, wanting her to take it, acting almost as if just holding the thing was causing his skin to burn.

"TAKE IT!" He yelled loudly, and she jumped slightly in her seat.

"… Okay Jack." She said after a moment. "Okay."

He continued to look away, his head turned to the side.

She reached forward, sliding the small window open again, and he began to push the toy back through, his head turning more severely away, as though he couldn't even bare to look at her.

And she didn't hesitate, seeing her chance, seeing how he wasn't watching her. Her hand shot forward, through the opening, her fingers wrapping tightly around his own.

He froze, his fingers stiffening, straightening from around the cube, and it fell with a soft smack against the outside counter.

And suddenly, a confusing sensation, an unfamiliar warmth began to rise up from the pit of his stomach, radiating outwards through his whole body, and at once he grew light-headed, dizzy, the room around him seeming to shift and sway.

The tension went from his form, from his face and his back, his shoulders and arms and legs. He felt abruptly weak, limp and languid, as if weighed down by a thousand tons of water.

Slack.

His head turned, slowly, eyes shifting down, focusing dazedly on the small hand wrapped with a seemingly impossible strength around his own.

Was he going to faint?

He felt like he was. He felt like he was going to pass out.

He blinked.

"… Jeannie." His voice came out a barely audible whisper.

Her hand closed tighter.

"I'm here Jack."

And his head shook.

"No." He breathed. "D-don't…"

"Jack, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere…"

He said nothing.

"I'm not letting you go…"

His eyes closed, and he could feel her other hand now, coming through, resting atop his, her thumb massaging gently over his disfigured skin.

"Please…" he whispered. "Don't do this… I can't…"

"Jack, look at me…"

"… I can't."

"You can." She said. "Look at me sweetheart. Look at me."

And he did. He looked at her, and for the first time… the first time since they'd somehow made their way through the dark to find each other again, she saw, without obstruction, without barriers, his pain; his complete and overwhelming and suffocating pain, and his eyes glistened with tears she knew he wouldn't let fall.

"I'm right here…" she again said. "And I'm not letting you go."

He was shaking now, uncontrollable tremors running through him, and once more he looked away, feeling his breath hitch and catch in his throat. He bit down on his lip, hard, trying desperately to smother the sob which now threatened to burst forth from inside him.

"Jeannie…" his voice strained. "Please… let me go."

But she only shook her head, her hands remaining.

"Please…" he again tried, his voice now wavering terribly. And he began to stumble over his own words. "Le… let me go. You can't… you don't under… understand, I can't…"

"Jack?"

"We can't… w-we can't be to… together. We can't be. I can't… can't be around you, aro… around Rory. I can't be t-trusted around either of you."

"No…" Jeannie persisted. "No, Jack, listen to yourself! Listen! You can be, you can! You just… just have to work. Just have to… to try, to let me help you!"

He shook his head, pulling weakly to get out of her grip.

"No. Please no, you don't… don't understand, don't… don't see what I am, what I… what I've become. I can't… can't recover from this! I can't be with you a… anymore. We can't be toge… together. I'll hurt you… I'll… I'll hurt Rory… I'll hurt our s-son. Please Jeannie, God you… you have to let me go. You have to f… for both of us."

"I… I can't Jack…" she was crying now. "I can't. I won't give up on you! I won't let… let you go again!"

And the Joker's face crumpled.

"Damn it! Can't you see… can't you see how much this hurts?" He cried, again pulling, trying to get away. "I can't h-have this Jeannie! I can't ever have it! Why won't you accept that? Why won't you l-let me accept that? Yo… you'll never be safe around me. No one will ever be safe around me. I'm a m-monster… I'm a God damned monster!"

"Jack, please, don't…" Jeannie pleaded desperately. "Don't say that, don't. You're not, you just…"

The Joker turned further away, his back now to her, his hand coming up and covering his face.

"Stop it. Oh God, stop it…" he begged. "Stop… stop promising me things I can't have. I can't ever have. Can't you see how it hurts? Can't you see? I don't want these things… don't… don't wish to desire them. You have to let me go Jeannie or… or it will be the end of us both. Don't you understand? You have to let me go… go away from me."

"What if I…" Jeannie's voice shook heavily. "What if I don't want to Jack…?"

"You have to." He answered, his voice so soft she almost didn't catch it. "You have to please…"

"Jack, I don't want to lose you… I don't want to lose you again…"

For a long moment, he said nothing, still turned from her, his hand still over his face.

This pain, oh God this pain…

Why couldn't she see what she was doing to him?

Her hand on his skin, the feel of it, her touching him so gently, with so much care… with love…

It was like drowning, like being crushed under by waves too heavy to fight, unable to keep his head above the water. He couldn't take it, couldn't take the promise that touch held, knowing it could never be, would never be…

He wished he'd never felt it at all.

"I'm gone already…" he whispered.

A long moment of silence past.

"… You aren't hurting me." She said suddenly.

He said nothing.

"You aren't hurting me now Jack. When you so easily could. You could crush my hand if you wanted… But you're not. Don't you see? You… you have to believe in yourself, believe you can do this…"

He only shook his head.

"You don't understand…" he answered softly. "I… I can't control it… I have these… these episodes. I don't… I don't always know what…" He had to pause. He'd never told anyone this before. Never admitted to anyone…

"I don't always know what's real." He finally finished. "I… I start to see things which… which aren't there… M-monstrous things. People… people become monsters, d-diseased… dirty… and I have to… I have to killthem. I have to kill them."

The doctors had always just put it down to compulsion, violent outbursts for no reason.

They had no idea of his hallucinations. He never told them.

And then his emotions… his emotions would shift so drastically, so suddenly all the time… and neither that had he any control over. His anger would flare, consuming rage, and anyone close to him was in danger then.

No. He couldn't be trusted. He couldn't even trust himself.

Suddenly he felt the hold on him tighten even more, and then begin to tug at him, pulling his hand forward, through the small window.

His head turned, uncovering his face.

He looked down.

"Jeannie, what are you…?"

"Shhh…" she cut him short. "Jack…"

She bent down, slowly, and he watched her, his breath seeming to come more rapidly, growing almost shallow.

And then, there it was, heat against his skin, something soft and wet as her lips pressed against his scabbed and dried knuckles, and then up, against the top of his hand, and then the knob of his wrist.

His stomach fluttered, his breath catching in his throat and his head spinning.

Oh God…

His eyes closed.

"Jeannie, please…" his voice came out frail, shaking.

But she said nothing, kissing him again before laying her cheek against his hand.

He felt weak, his legs feeling like they may give out beneath him, and he couldn't help it anymore as he began to sink down, on to his knees, his arm falling against the table, his face burying against it.

"It's alright Jack. It's alright." He heard her say, and his head shook.

"Oh God, Jeannie… no. I… I've killed people. I've killed so many people. Why don't you hate me? Why don't you hate me like everyone else?"

"Because I know you Jack. I know the real you…"

His head continued to shake.

Her hand on his felt so nice… it felt so nice.

And it was pure agony.

"Please stop…" he pleaded. "Please, God, stop this…"

But she wouldn't listen, continuing to kiss and caress his hand, running her soft fingers over his rough and calloused flesh.

"I love you." She said, her voice only just above a whisper. "No matter what… I'll always love you. And I'll always be right here for you. You have to understand that, I'll never abandon you."

And without even realizing it, his own fingers curled inwards, wrapping gently around her hand.

It felt so nice…

But it was gone… all gone.

"I want to help you."

"I'm beyond help." And his voice broke.

"You're not…" Jeannie persisted.

"I am." He hissed, finally looking up at her, anger suddenly in his voice. "I am, don't you see?"

And now he was pulling at her hold, stronger then before, still not strong enough to break it.

"We can't go back Jeannie. We can't… I… I'm ruined."

Why couldn't she see? Oh Jesus, why?

He couldn't be with her, he couldn't ever… and it hurt. It hurt so damn much, the realization suffocating, devastating. He felt destroyed inside, lost, and so alone…

So, so alone.

Her being there, her presence… it only reminded him how very alone he would always be.

"Please…" he begged one last time. "let me go. You have to let me go."

It would be the end of him if she didn't, if she didn't walk away from him, leave him… the end of her, of her son… their son… God damn it.

He was meant to be alone now.

That's all that was meant for him.

"Jack, please, you…"

"Goooooo!" He cried, wavered and broken.

Jeannie felt her breath catch in her throat at the absolute pain in his voice, unmitigated and unrestrained. It frightened her, how desperate he sounded.

Silence past between them, his face still buried against his arm. She could feel him shaking, trembling.

He refused to look up at her now. He couldn't. He couldn't let her go if he did.

"Jack, I…"

"Please…" he said, his voice barely audible. "Please just go. Go away and never come back."

A long moment more, her hand still held tight around his, he holding her back just barely.

He wanted this…

He really wanted this.

For her to go…

Her fingers unwound from around his wide palm, his fingers still loosely curled around hers, and she gave a weak pull, her hand coming easily free of his grip.

So alone…

His hand fell, his face still hidden.

He began to slump, sinking down further, his arms pulling back across the table as his entire body crumpled, sliding off the edge.

And he sat, sank on his knees, his head down and low, arms limp and useless as they hung by his side.

He couldn't look at her.

He couldn't.

He could never let her go then.

Could never let her go.

Seconds past in to minutes.

Minutes in to hours.

The lights went out above him.

He looked up.

And there was no one else there to be found.