Joker had to play the part, but he'd been playing a long con for his entire adult life, and he knew how to be patient. Still, he cried as he broke all their mementos: Batman figurines and Joker dolls, pictures of his early arrests, strewn across the ground. Everyone had to believe he was over Batman, that ordinary "Jack Napier" was sane, standing only for the law, with no love lost for vigilantes like Batman. Batman was there, of course, outside the window: watching. Wondering. Trying to figure out where the key was, what the plan was, where the clues were that he was meant to follow. But his instincts would work against him, this time: his gut feeling—correct, of course—that Joker was playing the same game he'd always played would lead right into the trap.

"Hello, Joker. I'm Doctor Leslie Thompkins." She smiled tightly, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Jack, please," Joker said flatly. "Jack Napier. The Joker was a persona foisted upon me."

It threw her, he could see; though she must have been warned ahead by the other doctors. Batman had sent her, probably; or she'd come on her own, out of concern. Either way, it all came down to convincing her that Joker was cured.

They had a desultory conversation. Joker was firm that he did, indeed, intend to press charges. He could see her gaze roaming over his combed-down brown hair, the unchanging lack of expression in his usually lively eyes; he'd practiced that look of detachment in the mirror until it freaked even him out. He didn't move; blinked only as much as was necessary, sat back as though he hadn't a care in the world.

She was rattled. The files, he knew, must rattle her even more: IQ tests he'd scored far higher on than ever before, CAT scans showing "normal brain function"—whatever that was supposed to mean. (That he wasn't, and had never been brain damaged, anyhow; but then they'd proved that already). The truth was he knew all the tricks in the book. He'd never let the asylum know how smart he was until now: why should he? It would only have put them on their guard. An obsessed nutcase who only cares about Batman and telling jokes is one thing: a genius on the level of Lex Luthor is another.

"I hear," said the Hatter, "that you've become our White Knight."

Joker was sitting on his bed in his emptied-out cell, cleared for his impending move back into society. Without the memorabilia he'd collected over the years it was as drafty and uncomfortable a place as it had once seemed to him so long ago, when he had first been moved to Arkham. He was trying to avoid the other inmates, so that the doctors and judges would think he'd changed his ways; for sane people and crazy people never mix, you know.

He didn't know how the Hatter had found a key to his cell, unless the guards had left it unlocked after all; but in Arkham, such a thing was worthy of only idle speculation. There were always ways to get out and in, for the right price.

"I'm trading places with Batman," he answered. "Starting a new game."

"The White Knight is sliding down the poker. He balances very badly."

"How did I know you'd say that," Joker said. He crossed his arms behind his head. "You have to understand, Hatter, we're all sliding down the poker, whatever moves we make. There's no stopping entropy. But once, just once, I'd like for them to see…"

"If you hold a Looking-Glass book to a glass, the words will all go the right way again, but I'm afraid they won't see anything, for they're only looking for sense," Tetch said. He came over and patted Joker on the shoulder.

"Then you think I'll fail," Joker said.

Tetch shrugged. "Perhaps not with Batman. He's one of us, after all. But with the others…"

For a moment, Joker almost asked if Tetch knew; if he'd known all along, or figured it out somehow along the way. The whole scheme made by the gatekeepers to keep them in Arkham, to keep the machinery of Gotham running, to line the pockets of the rich. But the habit of years was too strong. He watched Tetch leave, and then curled up on his bed.

In a slit in the bare mattress, he'd hidden a pack of cards, and he pulled it out, practicing magic tricks to steady his hands and his mind. Soon he'd speak to all of Gotham on a stage; soon he'd be able to reach them in a way that he'd never been able to before; not by laughter, not by terror. Perhaps, if he couldn't make them feel, at least he'd make them understand pure, cold facts.

/

Reduce the Joker to a set of traits the media could rattle off, and suddenly it was easy to convince the public he was anyone but. No more green hair, no more makeup, no more laughter: he must not be the Joker anymore! It was a laughable bit of maneuvering.

"Without all that makeup he's actually… good looking!" the female news-anchor on the Gotham Insider declared. It made Joker feel ill. Nausea stirred in his stomach, and he had to bite his lip to keep from giggling nervously. He had a persistent headache from the noise of the crowds; the pills were making him sleep badly; and he'd broken up with Batman. Even though it would all come together eventually, right now it was torture. He was released into a world devoid of color: gray Gotham buildings, smog-filled sky. He had on a pair of brown pinstriped trousers held up by a plain black belt instead of suspenders, and it sat uncomfortably around his middle. His button-up was a plain ivory, no tie, his overcoat also brown. Boxy automobiles rushed by, and if he'd been inclined, he could have gotten a taxi; but the idea of interacting with strangers felt abhorrent to him. He walked till he got to the dead-end alley with the long-abandoned Zoinko's Joke Shoppe that had become his first hideout. Harley would probably ambush him there at some point, but he'd contacted New Harley first, told her it was urgent; they needed to plan. He reached out to the creaking doorknob, but she'd heard his step, was running toward him before he even stepped over the threshold. He couldn't help smiling as she threw herself into his arms.

"Daddy's home," he said softly. This was going to be hard—he knew she'd go along with any scheme of his, even if it meant she'd have to leave, but right now he just wanted to hold someone and not let go.

"I missed you so much," she said, the words coming out smushed into his arm. She leaned back, her eyes raking over his strange face; something she'd never seen before except in the news. "Blegh," she said. "I know you said it was freaky, but you didn't say it was ugly!"

"I prefer, 'artfully bland,'" Joker quipped. They stepped over to the couch, New Harley snuggling up next to him as he sat down.

"I'm working on a con," Joker said. "It's going to take a while, and you're going to pretend to hate me."

"What?" New Harley said, jumping up.

"Please, sit down," Joker said. New Harley crossed her arms, but at his stony expression finally capitulated.

"I don't like this plan," she grumbled.

"You're going to like it a lot less," Joker said. "But you don't have to like it, you just have to play your part."

"…sure, Boss," she said at last.

"Harleen Quinzel is on her way here," Joker said. He took in New Harley's shocked expression, the guilt filtering in right before the sense of utter loss.

"You… knew?"

"The whole time," Joker said. "But if anyone asks, I didn't. That's how we're going to play it. Harleen is a very perceptive psychiatrist, but there's one thing that blinds her, and that's her pathological need to control people. Right now, she wants to make up with the "cured" me, and she wants to believe that I was simply so insane that I didn't notice an impostor stepped into her place—rather than believing the truth, which is that I found you, and chose you. Harley…" Joker paused. "I know you're not Harleen. But from the moment you decided to be my Harley, you made that persona your own."

Harley's eyes filled with tears. "Thanks… mister J. I know I probably don't measure up…"

"Don't think that," Joker said, sighing. "Just because you're the second doesn't mean you're somehow lesser. I'm trusting you to carry out a very important plan because I believe you can pull it off. Am I right in doing that?"

Harley straightened up, eyes shining. "Yes," she said, fervently.

"So here's what you have to do…"

Half an hour later, Joker was wakened from his doze by Harley 's whisper. "Hey Boss. Proximity alarm off. She's in."

He opened his eyes and stood up in one motion, patting his pockets: then locked eyes with Harley. She nodded, and he took a deep breath.

"I owe you an apology," Joker said, pitching his voice to carry and steering Harley to sit on the edge of the couch.

"An apology?" Harley asked, a credible look of dumb confusion crossing her face.

"For the way I've treated you over the years," Joker said earnestly. "You were kind, supportive, and you tolerated a lot of crazy mood swings."

"But the mood swings were my favorite part!" Harley piped up. Joker gave her a warning look; he'd been just getting into his speech and she was making him lose his place.

"No," Joker said, dramatically. "It was a psychotic obsession with Batman, and you got caught in the middle."

"Yeah, I did!" Harley said, an unhinged gleam in her eye, still smiling like a maniac. "Keep talkin' cause you're turning me on!"

Joker bit his lip to keep from smiling, took a deep breath and growled with a credible imitation of dangerous anger, "I'm not joking around!"

In the distance, he could hear the pad of animal feet; Harley, of course, was noiseless.

"Can't you see how unhealthy it was?" Joker said. "I knew you loved me and I took advantage—I never said it back because it gave me power over you. But that's all over. I'm through with Batman." He reached to his inside pocket, kneeled down, and pulled out the ring he'd instructed Harley to buy and bring with her.

"I want to give you the version of me you always wanted," Joker said.

Harley's mouth trembled; her eyes brimmed with tears. It was exaggerated, but still, if he hadn't known she was faking he would have believed it himself. Then she leaned back, flopping against the couch and laughing her guts out. "Nice try!" she said, gasping. "You might've fooled the courts, but you can't fool me!"

He felt like he could feel Harleen's shadow at his back, hiding. He'd thought she'd come out before this; tried to think of what else to say that she might need reassurance of, before she showed herself.

"Puddin', I'm serious," he said.

Lightning-fast, Harley's fist slammed into his stomach, knocking him onto the floor. It was the kind of move they needed; something to escalate the situation, and he privately congratulated her.

"What did you just call me?" Harley shouted. As she harangued him for turning into a lovesick sucker, he sat up, careful to spill his bottle of pills across the floor as he did. It was only when Harley was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and screaming right in his ear, that Harleen finally chose to make an entrance—kicking Harley across the room and picking up the ring.

"Heya, Jack," she said. "Apology accepted."

She'd gotten into her costume, of course: probably afraid he wouldn't recognize her otherwise. He couldn't help but be amused that of the three of them, right now the only one who might credibly be pegged as a madwoman was the psychiatrist; wearing a full spandex suit and followed by two hyenas. She'd taken care of them, of course: Bud and Lou were as sleek and predatory as ever, prowling close to Harley with dangerous hunger.

"You?" Harley shrieked, cowering away from Bud and Lou. "You left!"

"And now I'm taking him back," Harleen said, with a self-satisfied smile.

"He needs—" Harley started, but Harleen interrupted her before she could say anything else.

"A violent cheerleader with a bigger rack?" Her tone fairly dripped with disdain. "I don't think so. And don't get me started on the clothes. Kind of a step back for feminism." It rang in his ears like Without all that makeup he's actually good looking! and Do you think they wouldn't tell me, if my son was acting like a— He closed his eyes, sagging against Harleen who lifted him against her shoulder, one hand possessively against his chest. Break anyone down to their component parts and you can find something to dehumanize them with. "Get it straight, sister," Harleen spat. "You love Joker. I love Jack. You loved his flaws, I love him despite his flaws. And now that he's cured, he's mine."

He felt like laughing. His stomach hurt; blood was pouring from his nose, and he had to bite his tongue until he could keep from laughing, because it was so tragic, so humorously tragic. She might as well have said it straight to his face: she never had loved him at all.

/

"Home sweet home!" Harleen announced, throwing her arms wide as she showed him into her apartment.

"Wow," Joker said, flatly. It was a small, open floor plan; not so different from some of the places he'd stayed over the years; but none of the glasses in the wine-rack were chipped or broken, and the refrigerator was humming. The bare bricks were unpainted, and there wasn't a spot of color in the whole place: not even a wilted cup of flowers. "It's very…" he paused, unable to think of anything to say. Behind him, he could hear Harleen pulling off her cowl and unzipping the top section of her suit to leave only the spaghetti strap part underneath. At last, he settled with, "…normal."

They got settled, Joker perching uncomfortably on the edge of one of the kitchen stools. "Tea?" Harleen asked. Instead of saying, You know I like coffee, the sweeter the better he asked, "you drink tea?" It played up his state of helpless amnesia. He felt like he was sitting in the house with a stranger. Joker had expected their reunion to make him feel something, but all he'd felt, ever since she'd dragged him out onto the street, was numb.

"I always drank tea," Harleen answered, without turning around. She spoke flatly, but the bitterness underneath it was clear. "One of the many things you never bothered to notice."

"So…" Joker said, into the awkward silence. "You left me. And an entirely new Harley took over? Why didn't I notice?"

Harleen, of course, had an answer ready at hand. "You're a narcissist who suffers from dysthymia and a schizoid personality disorder. Likely made worse by a chemical imbalance, which is why the medication is working. You're probably not cured, but with the right support, you could be." She looked down at the table, smiling, pushing her hand back through her dyed-blonde hair. It all fit so neatly, didn't it. Joker had been diagnosed with pretty much everything in the book, by one doctor or another. They all got that same smug look on their face: you see? I figured you out. You ought to thank me.

The kettle on the table whistled, and Harleen got up to pour him tea in his plain white mug.

"I'm a psychiatrist, remember?" she said, mistaking his silence for awe.

Truthfully, the diagnoses said more about Harleen than it did about Joker. Sure: Narcissist, perhaps, he could relate to. But to label him dysthymic scrolled right over every good stretch he'd ever had. His depression was always sporadic, and the one thing he could comfort himself with was that he'd soon find himself on the mend again, as happy as a clam; he always did. Perhaps memory, always apt to pick out the worst in a former partner, especially after a bad break-up (and it didn't get much worse than Robin) could string his lethargies into a continuous whole. Schizoid stung, though. He had a zest for life, he always enjoyed what he did, or he wouldn't do it. Harleen had felt he was emotionally unavailable; and comforted herself that it couldn't have had anything to do with the mess their relationship had become, in the end. The parts that did "fit" were all wrong: because he didn't want to have sex with her, she labeled it an aberration caused by a disorder. Because he loved Batman, she linked it with erotomania.

You're all wrong, he wanted to shout. We do have a relationship— …or did, anyway.

Why had he broken up with Batman, again? It had all seemed so simple, from the security of his planning desk.

I'm just switching it up, he reminded himself. Making him come to me for a change.

He didn't drink his tea. Asked, instead, what it was he'd done to make her leave. Not only to establish the limits of his new persona, but to hurt her; because he knew telling him about it would hurt.

She didn't tell him all at once. Lead in with her own story: he was easy to love, and loving him made her feel free. It was, of course, the adventure she'd always craved; what had driven her to take a job at Arkham, to study the criminally insane in the first place. He'd only lead her to admit what she'd felt all along: that she didn't want to be a voyeur; she wanted to be out there, with the action, rolling the dice, joining the game as an equal player.

"I don't know if you ever loved me," Harleen said, playing with the tag at the end of her teabag. She was lost in thought, not looking at him; and without the need to guard his expression he didn't have to hide the hurt he felt at those words. "…Wasn't sure if you were even capable of love."

The worst thing was, he still loved her, even now. He'd never figured out how to stop.

"I didn't care," Harleen continued, thickly. She took a sip of tea, holding the mug in her hands, staring down at the counter. "But your obsession with Batman kept growing. I felt as if I was sharing you." She took a deep, shaking breath; letting it out in a slow sigh. "I struggled to get your attention as you struggled to get Batman's. And that's when I realized you were in love… it just wasn't with me."

She told him Robin had never given up Batman's identity, till the end. Jason had, only she'd never known that. She said she'd tried to give the kid medical attention before she started shouting after him, but he remembered; she'd backed away up the stars without even trying to free him. It was what had broken Jason, in the end.

"The man I loved was no longer there—it was just the Joker. And I hated him for destroying you."

She looked up at last, and Joker took a sip of his tea, staring blankly back. Who did you think you fell in love with? he wondered. You never met "Jack" until after.

There was only one more piece to set in place, one more question he had to ask her. "Did Joker murder Robin?"

The answer, of course, was one only he knew.

It was enough. Harleen pitied him; more than that, she was convinced her serum had worked. They left the apartment, climbed out the fire escape and up onto the roof, till they could look out on the whole endless city, sleeping its poisoned dreams. When he spoke of rebelling, turning Gotham against Batman, villainizing him, she heard only his carefully crafted words of meting out justice and exposing corruption. All she needed him to say was that he couldn't do it without her.

"You ready to be good guys for a while?" Joker asked. Harleen reached up, hugging him, and he brought her close. He hadn't forgotten the way she smelled, the way she felt; that piece of him he hadn't noticed he was missing. I'm sorry, he thought. I'm sorry it can't last forever, even with you.

From somewhere across the layered rooftops, behind blinds casting barred shadows over their reflection, a song had begun to play. Slow and faint, but still distinct, it traveled with the soot from chimneys, wound its way around them, up on the edge of the roof, and faded into the dark abyss.

"You always hurt the one you love
The one you shouldn't hurt at all,
You always take the sweetest rose
And crush it till the petals fall…"

He kissed her, softly, on the mouth. "Let's go inside," he whispered; took her unresisting hand, and lead her down.

.

.

.