AN: I really hope this chapter doesn't disappoint you guys, there was a lot, and I mean A LOT of build-up that went into this. I'd love to hear what you think, and things are just going to keep getting wilder, so... I guess look forward to that? 😅💖 Enjoy the madness that awaits...


The gentle touch of fingertips traces the length of my throat, feeling the jumping pulse and soothing it, never pressing hard enough to indent the skin. Goosebumps, light and sharp, rise in a wave, a shiver starting at the base of my neck, pooling down to my tailbone.

It feels… nice.

"We're the same, you and me."

That voice—so familiar yet distant, something from inside my heart but whispered quietly beside me, deep and raspy—moves the hair by my ear, tickling my skin.

"No, we're not."

It sounds like me but doesn't—like someone I used to know a long time ago.

I don't realize I'm lying in the dark until a light flicks on, illuminating a silhouette—a shape with long tendrils around its head, curls looping in on themselves endlessly, dripping grains of sand in a downward spiral.

The feeling from my neck travels to my chin, to my lips to trace their outline, skirting the opening and probing my features. It's like I'm touch-starved, arching my spine without being able to raise my body from the soft earth forming around my limbs, dragging me a little deeper with every inhale.

"How do you know? One bad day, Miri. That's all it takes," the first voice says, their breath sweet like vanilla to smell and just as bitter to taste as their mouth drops down to mine, their lips softer than the coarse skin of their hands. "One bad day and you'll see. We've always been the same."

I don't… want to believe the voice. Not because it's lying, but because it might be telling me the truth.

The warmth of their lips on mine disappears as I break through some unseen barrier, sinking down into thick water until it fills my lungs. I try to move my arms, to swim upward, and finally see who's above me. It's Jason—he's reaching through where I fell, hand outstretched and straining.

He looks afraid, panicked—and I don't know why.

His mouth moves, forming words I can't hear, his chest wrapped in chains that hold him back. Something like blood forms a halo around his head, burning and bright.

I have to help him.

He needs me.

When I finally have the power to kick my legs and swim, my lungs trying to pull in air and seizing around water instead as what's left of the light dims, something grabs my foot when I'm less than two feet away from the opening. It drags me down—but I don't get colder, don't feel afraid. It's… quiet down here as Jason fades away, warm as arms wrap around my waist, lulling me to sleep as my body rocks gently back and forth.

The voice is back, whispering but clear as their hands find my throat.

"You'll see."


Remnants of the dream make my legs shake as I stand under the searing shower water, letting it pelt my chest and neck, willing the sensations of handprints left behind on my skin to evaporate with the steam.

How am I supposed to do this?

Everything feels like it's going to complete hell, and I know that it's only going to get worse.

At least that's not totally on you this time.

Well, that's what I try to convince myself of, anyway.

Calling Strange and apologizing—if you wanna call it that, nothing about it was sincere, I'm fairly certain he could tell—about what happened during our first session was painful. Meeting him afterward for another short session, having to endure Arkham again, to sit there and stare at his face and share and see the fucking look of elation when I told him I was willing to sit down with him and not be openly hostile was enough to make me cave and go to a liquor store and stock up for a week. Then there was the business of Red Hood blowing up a bar, a warehouse, a boat, and a good chunk of one of Janus Cosmetics' factories down by Ace Chemicals last night. I woke up to Arianna Hill and Twitter losing their fucking minds—showing pictures of the burnt-out buildings with the new body count, angry sentiments resembling the fear from the Siege, and a city of millions baffled as to how this can keep happening.

If GCPD, HS, and DOD can't stop a city of terrorists, we need forces that CAN!

Gotta hand it to her, Hill knows how to create a media panic.

She's trying to get the city council to vote on emergency policies to hire private contractors and security to "bolster" the GCPD, citing incompetency and calling for more austere measures and leadership to "quash" the "gangs of scum" in Gotham if her Twitter feed is to be believed.

She knows how to pick some fancy words for "let's create a military state!", too.

I can't blame people for feeling afraid, for wanting better from the police and for something awful to happen anywhere else for once. It's largely gang members that have been targetted and shot dead, the civilian causalities are non-existent. It's not even the deaths that have the city concerned, it's the worry that it might turn on them, that the lives that matter will be affected, that the gang war will spill out of the East End. Batman's done a lot to clean up his and Dent's mess, but maybe Soo-ah's right: Gotham's a lost cause, a place where toxicity pools, poisoning the water and seeping down to the bedrock.

Maybe it was always there, so close to the air we breathe that we forgot to tell the difference.

The shower helps wake me up, but it doesn't take away the anxiety and pain twisting my stomach, winding me up until I'm ready to snap. There's a touch of a hangover there, too, but I ignore the headache pulsing behind my eyes, how the lights in the apartment have a piercing halo. I won't drink before I go, and I won't take three pills, but… how am I going to get through this without feeling numb? Everything's too sharp, a shard of glass dragging across my skin, circles of intense pressure around my arms and throat. It only gets worse whenever I look at my phone, glance at the digital clock on the microwave, see that in no time at all I'll be doing what I swore to myself I never would.

What else are you going to do? Cower with a bottle of vodka for the rest of your life? Don't let him have that.

But what I realized a long time ago plays on repeat: It doesn't matter what he does, the Joker always has a way to win, a way to twist everything around.

Only if you let him.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway?" I mutter to myself.

Rubbing my forehead before towelling off, I scrub my skin too hard and go at my hair until it's a mass of frizzy curls around my head that only gets more voluminous. I look like a wreck when I catch a glance of myself in the mirror, and everything becomes an odd divide of choices I don't know how to make. Do I put on makeup, or will that signal that I went through the effort of gussying up before going to Arkham for… whatever the fuck this is. A confrontation? Therapy session? A goddamn reunion? Another reason to drink myself to sleep? They don't have names for things like this, and I know if I do nothing, he'll see the bags under my eyes, how I look caged and tired, and think that he won after all.

You're in a loop of circular logic—none of this is helpful.

I know all that, and yet the decisions are paralyzing, every choice carrying weight and consequences and reactions that haven't happened yet, and it's maddening.

Spending more time with the few items of makeup that I own than I have in the last year, I go for something plain, inscrutable. No eyeshadow, only a little bit of eyeliner, concealer to hide the bags under my eyes and even out my skin, and a simple braid on one side of my head pinned back so it looks like I tried without putting in too much effort. I seem… younger, my cheekbones less sharp, the edges rounded out. It's… like I'm not staring at my own face, like it's a careful imitation that doesn't sit right, that peels at the edges, close to revealing what's underneath.

No, Miri—not today. Don't think about that today.

Sighing and rubbing my eyes like it'll make the stress disappear, the world becomes too hyper-focused, moving fast and my brain struggling to keep up, to remember how to do one task after the next. I'm thinking about all the ways today could go wrong, that this will end with something sharp cutting into me, him laughing while I cry, no one coming to help, having to lie on the floor and beg while he drinks it in like ambrosia.

Don't go there—it's not gonna happen. It can't happen.

Strange assured me that Joker would be restrained, that there'd be armed security right outside, that I'd be just fine. All he did was ramp up the anxiety, drive home every fear I have while I had to sit there and keep a straight face. He went over a litany of safety protocols just for the purpose—ensuring I wouldn't do anything stupid like attack him or make physical contact, that I had the mental strategies to keep him from getting under my skin.

The problem is, I don't think there's any amount of preparation that would stop that from happening.

'Is that not sign enough that he has too much power over you?'

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to be satisfied when I look closer to a disgruntled librarian than borderline alcoholic, but finding something to wear is another layer of complexity I'm probably putting too much thought into. Distracting myself with finding a top doesn't work as I rifle through my bags, pulling out blouses and sweaters and not feeling right about any of them, scars burning all the while. Everything has a coded message embedded in it, some detail he's going to throw in my face.

There's no winning in any of this.

This is so stupid… Bruce was right. What did you think is going to happen? What convinced you that this would somehow offer solutions?

I already hear his voice enough, see him in my dreams, drink to forget his face, the sound of his laughter. What will seeing him again do?

Stop, Miri. You know why you're doing this. Don't think about it as some sort of… moment of catharsis waiting to happen because it won't. You have a mission, focus on that. Don't think about what happened. Don't.

Breathing evenly doesn't do much as I keep pulling out clothes only to toss them aside, the window of time before I have to leave closing. Everything holds a tell he'll be able to read—the individual colours, patterns, and fabrics—there's too much I need to hide to keep me safe, to keep him from seeing anything I don't want him to. As if on cue, my scars start to ache, the tissue tightening like it does when it rains.

Stop overthinking this and fucking pick something.

An all-black ensemble of leggings, a large, oversized sweater, and my combat boots seem to be the safest combination. Give him nothing because there is nothing. No colour to apply arbitrary meaning, no way for him to see the scars he left, plenty of room to hide in, to create a barrier between me and him.

But why doesn't it feel like it's enough?

It's not too late. You could just stay here and he'd never know.

I need a drink, something to make my skin stop rippling, to keep my muscles from twisting in on themselves, to take away the feeling that everything from before is happening again.

I can't do this.

I can't.

"Don't be so weak," I groan, gripping the back of my neck as I sit on the bed, willing the world to stop spinning. The Vicodin sits on the dresser in front of me, its contents a siren call. Fingers trembling, I grab the bottle, looking at the little tablets, already yearning for the oblivion they promise. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. "Remember—remember why you're doing this. He can't… he can't hurt you anymore."

I focus on my anger. On the rage that made me willing to kill a man, and not just him. I'm not helpless anymore. He doesn't have control in this; I do. There was a time that I could spit in his face, when terror didn't completely break me.

Find that again.

It's not the same; it's twisted and marred, inextricably bound to the ugliest parts of me, but I need to brandish it like the knives he's so fucking fond of. What I told Zareen doesn't apply here, not with him—strength is about protecting yourself, yes, but it's also about making sure it doesn't happen again, not letting yourself be vulnerable. Even if that means being the first one to pull the trigger, to bury the knife deep.

And he won't be first this time.

I will be.


I managed to make it after all, resisting every urge to turn around, to drive back to Chicago, to call Bruce and have him go with me after all.

But, just like most of the choices I make, I'm dealing with the outcomes alone, following some small thread that will lead to my unravelling.

Don't think like that, Miri. Not today.

The main lobby of Arkham is just as disconcerting as the first time I came, the white somehow brighter and that distinct hospital smell of disinfectant and sterilization bringing back darker memories: faint sounds of someone screaming, holding her hand as the monitor flatlines.

Breathe.

But that isn't happening now, that was almost ten years ago. Surely a fear of hospitals is one I can outgrow—what can they hold that I haven't seen already?

Just… Breathe, Miri.

There are more TYGER guards stationed at the doors and wandering the grounds than I remember, the staff nervous as they stare at their monitors behind reinforced glass and type away, studiously avoiding the waiting area.

Or maybe it's your raving paranoia getting the better of you again.

I managed to not take anything before coming here, and I wish I had. My hands won't stop shaking, my back slick with cold sweat, my stomach in my throat and my eyes burning. It's like worms are under my skin, wriggling and burrowing deeper inside me, eating at what's left.

Breathe. Remember why you're here.

Bloody crime scene photos, autopsy reports of people dying after being driven out of their minds with agony and terror—it's brutal and brings back a different host of memories, ones with the taste of iron and smell of gasoline, but it's enough to make me feel beyond my own pain.

Seem to have that in common with Bruce, don't you?

"U-Um, hello, again, Miss Kane," says a quiet voice beside me. I don't jump this time, recognizing it from the hesitant stutter. His dark brown hair is dishevelled, the bags under his eyes almost as deep as mine.

"Eugene, right?" I know it's his name, hard to forget someone who's so perpetually nervous, and it comes with a small feeling of pride when I manage to smile and not have it feel entirely hollow.

"Oh, yes—yes, that's me," he says, returning my expression with a friendliness that makes him look almost ten years younger. His hands worry over his coat, almost going into the pockets before he changes his mind, repeating the nervous dance as he rolls back on his heels. "If—if you'd follow me, Dr. Strange is… is waiting for you."

With a calmness I don't really feel, I get up to follow, eyeing up the security badges pinned to the guards as we pass them, the handguns holstered to their hips with the batons and pepper spray. I already have a mental list, adding details to each point and comparing the corners we round to the floor plans I stared at for three hours the night before.

Instead of taking me to Wing A, where I've gone to meet with Strange, Eugene leads me down a long hallway flanked with doors and glass windows covered in thick wire between the panes, signs with a list of protocols and safety reminders. I don't have to try and recreate that map for long when the wing sign comes into view.

WING C. HIGH-RISK WARD. PROTOCOL SEVEN ENFORCED AT ALL TIMES.

"What do the protocols mean?" I ask Eugene quietly, taking in the thick steel doors painted blue.

"U-Um, you—your bag," he says, gesturing to my side, eyes fixed over my shoulder. Two TYGER guards stand behind me, making it four including the ones in the security room behind another thick door and a large window of barred glass with a small intercom in the middle. "C-Can't have… can't have anything that might—might be… you know…" Eugene trails off, swallowing before giving me a tentative and apologetic smile.

Is it so that no one has something to be used as a weapon later or because they don't want me to have anything?

It's the paranoia talking again. This is standard procedure; it's why I have the little mechanism Bruce gave me in my sock and a USB in my bra, not my bag. Nodding, I keep my hands from shaking when I hand it over, detaching myself from the process of them searching it, them having me raise my sweater high enough for them to check the waistband of my pants.

"Clear," one of them says, waving us through as a loud buzzer sounds and the doors open for us to be greeted by another three guards on the other side.

Dread sits in my stomach. Rage, too. There isn't any fear, not with the small knife resting next to my ankle in my other shoe.

You won't have to be afraid after today.

Not my best plan, but he'll be restrained, won't he? I have my more pressing, immediate plan in my head, and then there's the destructive desire to watch him choke on his own blood, stand over him and watch him die.

I won't act on it. I'm not like him.

I'm not.

But… knowing I could but won't makes this easier. The illusion of choice, of knowing that I could hurt him if I wanted but choose not to, is one that gives me a feeling of control, a rare thing in my life. He won't hurt me again. I won't let him, and now I have a guarantee.

Eugene leads the way, staying close and the TYGER guards not far behind. The hallway doesn't look so different from the others and one might not be able to tell the difference unless you were really looking at how the doors didn't have handles, controlled with electronic locks instead, how the guards on this side have bigger guns, some carrying rifles in addition to a pistol, and how nothing lines the walls—no medical carts, no empty gurneys. It's all bare, the small windows in the doors blocked with metal shutters. Even if I can't see them and the walls absorb the sound, I can feel the energy of people behind them, and something… something dark.

"Isolation rooms." Eugene faces straight ahead and his pace stays even like he didn't say anything. I take the cue, not turning to look at him either as we round a corner. "The—the protocols are just… just levels of pro—procedure for the asylum. Measures to—to implement," Eugene whispers, dropping his voice further and the stutter returning.

"Does Arkham really need this much security? Things seem pretty quiet here."

He nods, shrugging slightly. "Oh, you know—can't be too… too careful. Thi-Things are getting—getting a bit… scary, I guess," he says, chuckling under his breath. Before I can ask him what he means, he continues, "There was an… incident a—a year back, and those… the recent m-murders have every—everyone worried and then there—there's the men in costumes running around… it—it's a lot."

Barely catching the bubble of hysterical laughter threatening to spill out, I cough, hiding my grin behind my hand.

If only you knew, Eugene.

"You're not from here, are you?" I ask, dropping my hand as we take another corner. I'm getting lost, struggling to track how many turns we've taken and when. The further we go, the more it feels like we're entering a prison fashioned as a maze, any trace of the posh decor of the main lobby completely absent. Eugene shakes his head, turning to me for a moment to share a small smile. "There's… some things you get used to and others you learn to live with."

It feels like such an understatement, but Eugene's smile fades, his pace quickening.

"How do you guys run a facility like this anyway?" I try not to sound too eager, hoping he takes it as nervous chatter. "I did some work back in Chicago for the Psychiatric Institute to update their security systems, but Arkham looks way past what most hospitals have going on." The asylum looks older and more decrepit the further we go in, but it's outfitted with so much advanced tech almost everywhere in the form of high-end cameras, security panels, what looks like hand scanners on certain doors—it's a strange dichotomy, and I haven't seen any nurses since we entered the ward.

Eugene chokes, coughing for a moment before clearing his throat and shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. "Yeah—yes, well… we've been lucky—lucky to get so much gen—generous state funding."

Bullshit.

It's true that they're getting a lot of money, but they're not using it in the way the city advertises, with more going into "public security" initiatives in the form of mental health care that functions as a way to commit those deemed to exhibit signs of "deviant" behaviour—anyone can see that much by looking at the public sessions of the city council, and it wasn't hard to find the closed session minutes with minimal poking around. Nothing's ever explicit, hidden by benign words with ill-intent.

You know something's wrong here, so does he.

"So you must be on a closed network system, then? Keep out all outside access by not being connected to it in the first place?"

It's a riskier question, one I hope comes across as innocent, my face carefully blank and mind ignoring what it is we're getting closer to, what lies at the heart of this Zaqqum with its djinni.

"Tech support isn't my… my main field, but that—that sounds about right."

I'm about to ask another question when we come to the end of a hallway with two doors opposite one another. The words die in my mouth, and I'm brought back to Vincent's House of Fun in Amusement Mile, the rotting walls and mould, a place of decay and suffering. I can hear Noah crying, asking him to stop, Parker begging me to leave, the smell of gangrene and fear filling my nose and smothering the air. It's all I see, all I can breathe in, my heart beating so hard I'm sure it'll break my ribs, my throat closing as a scream forms in my stomach, strangling me.

It's not real, it's not real—

He's on the other side of one of those doors, waiting. Bruce or Alfred on the floor dying because I came too late. Some sick maze of horrors I'll never be able to escape. I don't have a gun—why didn't I get a gun? A knife isn't enough—it's not enough—

"Are you… are you alright?" Eugene asks, the sounds and smells disappearing in a vacuum that leaves me dazed, ears ringing.

Get yourself together, you can't do that with him, you can't be so fucking weak.

My blood's still racing, boiling hot as my sweater sticks to my back. Nodding, I ignore how the guards stand and stare, their faces impassive. They know who I am, know what happened, know why I'm here. They all know—they all know I'm nuts and—

"You—you don't have to—to do this if… if you don't thi-think you—you're ready," he murmurs, his hand lightly touching my shoulder and guiding me away from the guards, giving us the illusion of privacy by having our backs to them, a small bead of sweat trailing down his temple. "I could… I could walk to your car, get—get you some water—"

He looks so… so genuine and kind, like he means every word he says with an earnestness that leaves me feeling guilty for evoking his concern. I want to snap and tell him to back off, embrace the vicious anger that's there to protect me, that do or die impulse. But I think of Zareen. Bruce. Alfred.

What kind of person do you want to be, Miri?

I'm not high, thinking more clearly for the first time in months, but…

What is it you're looking for?

"No, no—thank you, but no." My smile is forced this time, strained and painful and utterly unconvincing. "I'll be alright," I say, my voice firm and back a little straighter.

I won't cower. I won't let him be the shadow waiting to drag me off in the night.

I won't.

Eugene sighs, another drop of sweat joining the other, his eyes darting back and forth between the guards and me. "It's—it's further in, past—past Wing D. Highest level… level of security—authorized personnel only," he rushes out, his voice almost inaudible as he swipes a key card on the door to the right, holding it open and giving me a smile-turned-grimace. "I—I'm sure I'll see… see you again."

I want to ask him more questions, find out why he went out of his way to tell me that, to say no you won't see me again, but that's not true. I'll need to keep coming back here—under the guise of seeing Strange if nothing else—because there are still people I can help, people that aren't me.

"Miss Kane, please, join me," someone says, their voice low and distracted. Waving goodbye to Eugene as the guards go around him and close the door, I brace myself to look at Strange, ignoring how the guards flank the exit and their hands stay close to their holsters. "I am pleased to see you followed through, after all."

Dr. Strange is smiling, but he still looks like a shark. A short one, sure, but carnivorous all the same. We're in some kind of observation room, two padded chairs facing a large mirror but otherwise bare.

No, that's two-way glass.

"Yeah," I say, crossing my arms and trying not to think about how he's probably going to sit up here and watch, taking notes all the while, and who's on the other side of the glass.

"You remember the protocols, yes?" Dr. Strange holds his clipboard and writes something down like the experiment's already begun for him. "Miriam?" he prods when I don't reply, his pen stopping.

Nodding isn't enough, he raises an eyebrow until I roll my eyes.

"Don't touch him for any reason. Keep the table between us, don't stand too close. Shout if I need the guards. I have up to an hour and can leave any time. Don't give out anyone's personal information," I repeat in monotone, remembering the rundown he gave before.

Strange nods his approval, setting the clipboard down as he stands in front of the opaque glass. "Very good. It is important you remember these things, Miriam."

The feeling of worms moving under my skin returns when I catch him staring at my reflection, a baleful smile and an unabashed and keen gleam in his eyes. I turn away, clenching my fists to keep from shuddering.

"He has regressed in your time apart, Miss Kane," he says, walking until he's standing too close to me, something like a cheap imitation of concern in his expression. I keep my feet planted and swallow my unease. "0801 is nothing more than his basic id instincts. He is not difficult to understand, and he has nothing to hurt you with besides the… ammunition you bring with you. Remaining calm is the most important task."

Condescending asshole.

"Yeah. Got it."

The look of concern disappears, replaced with that sense of clinical interest. Something tells me this—whatever this is—is more for him than it is for me.

It serves a purpose. Think about that.

"Very well," he tuts, looking up at me from under his thick eyebrows as he picks his clipboard up again and resumes with his notes. "Past the door to the left is a small set of stairs, the interview room is at the bottom. Whenever you are ready to enter, we will begin. There will be no intervention from me unless otherwise stated by you. Do not overexert yourself, this is for your healing and catharsis. Are we understanding one another?"

I'd like you to understand how it feels for me to punch you in the face.

"Yeah."

He's definitely not happy with the short answers, but he keeps his complaints to himself, pressing a button on the wall until a small buzzer sounds and a red light flashes over the door he pointed to.

Breathe.

I think he says something else, but I don't hear him. I don't feel the cold of the metal when I open it, feel how unsteady my legs are as I'm surrounded by the narrow brick walls, numb to everything other than how fast my heart is beating.

Breathe. Just breathe.

When I get to the door, I hesitate.

How did I think I could do this?

But it's too late, isn't it? Even if I pressed Bruce's little button, it wouldn't stop these feelings, the constant uncertainty, looking over my shoulder every waking minute of every day, feeling so far from the people I have left. There might not be anything that makes me feel better, but I have to try, right?

You're stronger than he is.

I've never felt like that was true before, but… maybe it is. Maybe it can be, just for today.

Breathe.

The knife's my only comfort when I open the door.

Heavy and coating my lungs, weighing down my shoulders like I'm walking through water, the energy in the room is overwhelming. A man sits in a chair with his back to me; he knows someone's in the room with him, but he never tries to turn around, doesn't cock his head. His torso's wrapped in thick canvas with large buckles holding it tight, his arms wrapped around himself and his shackled feet chained to the floor.

Just like Strange said he'd be.

I don't know why I'm surprised that he didn't lie, but it does give me relief: There's no way someone could get out of that, not before the guards burst in and tackled him to the floor. He can't do what he did before; he's been rotting for almost a year, and maybe this is also like Strange said—maybe he doesn't really remember, maybe he's just a shadow of what I'd conjured up in my head, a ghoul that turned out to be a rat.

Why haven't you moved, then?

But my legs get weak, muscles shaking as they struggle to support me, tremors starting in my hands and working their way up until it affects my breathing, making each inhale ache.

He can't hurt you—you know he can't.

And yet I don't believe that entirely.

Don't be so weak, Miri. Don't be that in front of him.

Raising my chin high and pulling my shoulders back, I walk around the table slowly, each step deliberate as I never take my eyes off of him, his attention never turning to me until I'm standing right in front of him across the table.

The Joker is the same but also entirely different. His hair, curly and dirty-blond and all the green dye gone, rests just below his ears. Makeup absent and skin pale, the scars bright pink under the blue light, his face looks almost gaunt, the bones sharp and cheeks nearly concave. His eyes are red-rimmed like he hasn't slept in a long time, unearthly and black with sinister mirth, and they land on me, arresting me in place and staring like I might not be entirely real, that this is part of a dream.

"Oh, well, hello there," he drawls eventually with a cocky grin, scars reaching toward his hooded eyes.

He's smiling like he'd knew I'd come. He might've not been able to guess when, but I've proved him right.

Why doesn't this feel real?

My own dreams felt more tangible than this, my nightmares more visceral. I don't know what to call this, what's coiling in my stomach and ready to lunge for his throat. Hands holding the back of the free chair tightly, I glare.

The bastard has the audacity to chuckle.

"What, come all this way just for a cat to, ah, catch your tongue?"

Joker's gaze wanders from mine down the curve of my neck, missing nothing and surely creating a cruel list of barbed observations, and lands on the centre of my chest, tongue flicking out and dragging across his bottom lip in a lazy swipe. It's like my scars glow for him, and they hurt badly enough that I almost wince. It's like I'm not wearing anything at all; I suppress a shiver, tightening my hands into fists and imagining what it'd be like to hit him until my knuckles broke. I should've known hiding in my clothes was pointless—he's seen every part of me already.

Stripped me down to nothing.

"Ha ha ha—cat. Mir-cat," he titters to himself, words dripping with ridicule.

When's the last time my hatred was so intense, like an inferno waiting to burst and take the world with it? When was the last time I wanted to kill someone so badly that I'd sell my soul to make it happen?

Easy. When his blood coated your hands.

"Shut up." The words act like a slap, loud and commanding and full of hate as black as his heart, and his smile vanishes. "Shut your fucking mouth, you bastard. You say nothing. You don't get to say anything to me," I growl, barely holding myself back and ready to snarl like I am a fucking feral cat.

I wonder if Strange is enjoying the show, whether he's having second thoughts about this, whether he thinks I might just lose it after all.

And I decide I don't care.

Joker raises his eyebrows, mouth popping closed and arms jerking like he wants to raise them in mock deference, growling himself when he realizes he can't, the metal buckles ringing with the effort. He recovers quickly, expression one of faux-innocence. My lips are sealed, he seems to say, like he would've mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

It's fucking infuriating.

We stare at each other, his eyes still wandering over my body, finding my curves and edges, and I take in the man who ruined my life. It's always his bare face I see in my dreams, sometimes with the scars and sometimes without. It's the human that haunts me.

That was my first real lesson. Beneath the smooth, familiar face of the people I know, of someone I might've loved in another life, of every stranger, is another that waits to tear the world in two, monsters waiting to be fed in all of us.

You could make this stop.

How many times have I relived what he did, how many times have I imagined with frightening clarity what it'd be like to peel his skin back, watch it separate from the muscle, how it'd feel to sink a knife into his chest over and over again, feel the warmth of his blood as it spilled onto the floor, straddling him only so I could watch it grow cold and sticky as I waited for him to die and feel everything I did?

I can see it happening now. Getting my knife out fast enough to stick him in the neck, hearing him choke and gurgle on his own blood, him straining for air and finding none, arms pinned to his sides as he tried to defend himself and unable to do anything.

If there was a final thing he taught me, it was to enjoy pain. His pain.

You could still do it.

It's another sort of dance with destruction, humouring the benefits of killing him here, not minding the idea of prison so much if it allowed me to finish what I couldn't before, shirk off my weakness for a kind of strength no one could take from me ever again.

I could do it. And I think I'd even be able to laugh.

But, all too suddenly, the images ebb away, the tide leaving the shore, sand smooth and unmarred in its absence. I'm left winded, shattered and hollow, the room spinning as nothing fills the dying inferno in my chest.

Sinking into the chair, I finally tear my eyes away from him even as his never leave me, his gaze only getting heavier with each passing second. "Why am I even here…" I murmur to myself, throat tight and not meaning to have said it aloud at all.

"How am I supposed to know?" he asks, rolling his eyes.

The glare I give would've been enough to make anyone else's toes curl, but the Joker sighs, blowing at a stray strand that's fallen close to his eye.

"Right, right. Shutting up," he says, closing his mouth into a tight line. Only now do I hear the croaky rasp in his voice, telltale signs of disuse, like it's been a long time since he's said much of anything. His arms twitch, desperate to move, and he growls again before trying to shift in his seat, torso slithering but unable to do much else as the restraints keep him in place.

And he does. Shut up, that is.

He was always a person made of too much jittery energy, muscles twitching and small tics in his face going off every once in a while. I would've thought he'd say something else by now, start the mind games, the taunting and sneering. But the Joker's patient, waiting for me to begin as his tongue prods the inside of his mangled cheeks. I wasn't expecting this—any of this.

What did you think was going to happen?

A more violent reaction, curses spit out and threats of death, gruesome details of my own impending demise spoken in a way meant to terrify me, more visible hatred on his part—something along those lines.

Why hasn't he done any of that?

"I thought of a lot of things I wanted to say," I half-whisper, clearing my throat and staring at the wall, "but mostly I'm just thinking about how much I wish I killed you."

He bursts out laughing, doubling over the table and resting his forehead there as his shoulders shake before shooting back up, a wide smirk stretching his lips as his eyes take on a nefarious gleam. "Oh, sweetheart," he coos, leaning close, "you thought about me? I'm touched."

The term of endearment lights my rage anew, my skin crawls, brings out the desire to slam his head against the table until something breaks. "Don't call me that."

He rolls his eyes, falling back into his chair like a petulant child. "So many rules."

Saying nothing, I stare at the wall again, weighing the worth of staying or leaving.

What do you have left to prove?

It's been an exercise in feeling alive, proving to myself that I can get past this, that he's nothing but a former ghost of himself, a hollowed-out and rotten shell, the grotesque monster I knew underneath all that's left as the illusion of humanity withered.

But he's not like that at all.

"You… cut your hair," he says quietly. He's looking at me. Really looking at me. Not at my chest or my clothes, just my face, the sharp edges of his cheekbones softening for a moment, grin fading.

Now it's my turn to feel like I've been slapped, hand going to my hair without thinking, gently pulling on a short, curly strand. It's like before when it was longer, when I'd remember what it was like when he ran his hands through it, gripped it so hard I thought he'd tear it from the roots, when I slashed at it in a drunken rage precisely so I couldn't feel it brush against my skin anymore.

But it's like I'm forgetting, too. Like I can't remember why I hated him so much in the first place.

"You look awful."

I say it with spite, and it's true—he looks terrible. His hair's been washed, teeth more or less fixed up from what I can tell, skin clean, but there's new scars on his face, along his neck and temples, something in his eye one might mistake for fragility.

The Joker looks like he's lost something.

"Wish I could, ah, say the same." He licks his lips lasciviously, dropping his gaze to my mouth. But it doesn't feel like it used to—this is more like a show than anything. One that fuels my fire. "You're a sight for sore eyes, though, hmm? My beautiful little sweet peach, finally seeing her boo in the Crazy House—"

I'm back in the bathtub, him stitching the wounds he gave me closed, feeling his fingers linger on my skin as he pushed the needle through. It feels further away for talking to him than it does when I'm alone. It's easier to dismiss as a distant memory, not as something that actively terrorizes me, almost like when I'm drunk.

And I'm still not afraid of him.

"Why do you say stuff like that?"

He stops mid-thought, caught in a temporary lurch, and cocks his head in confusion. "Uh, wha-t?"

"Say things you don't mean."

"How do you know I don't mean it?" He bites his bottom lip as he makes insistent eye contact. I don't break it this time.

"Maybe I don't know for sure. But it's not like you're the most… sincere person."

"Miri, I am wounded!" If he had the freedom to put his hand against his chest, I'm sure he would've. He raises an eyebrow, the picture of false innocence, and I almost laugh.

I used to think of his eyes as pools of black ink, alive and almost separate beings from the rest of his body. Now they're hard and sharp no matter how much the rest of him might soften, replacements for the knives that were taken away, cutting deep in large arcs, searching for my heart and finding the hidden parts I didn't know existed anymore.

"You lied."

For the first time, I feel close to crying. Because, no matter how much I tell myself I can't remember, that it stayed permanently fractured in my memory, I do remember what it was like on the ship. I remember being uncertain and in pain, confused and afraid when Zsasz tried to—

No, not now. Don't think about that now.

But Joker was there, wasn't he? Yes, he was the reason I was in that position, the reason I almost died; my rescuer and tormentor, pulling my secrets out, one by one, violating my mind in a way I didn't think was possible. He's a pathological liar, a terrorist and a sadist, I know that—always have—but there's…

There's what, Miri?

Why can't I name what's so heavy on my chest now, right above the mark he made? Why am I only feeling it now?

'You left.'

That's almost what comes out of my mouth, but I catch it in time, confusion filling its place. What does that even mean, why am I thinking it now?

"Said you wouldn't, and you did."

I'm still not making sense, and it comes out like an accusation, a call-out of a betrayal. Is that how I feel? Betrayed?

'You don't wanna be alone anymore, so you won't be. Ask me to never leave. Ask me to always be close.'

I can find anger and hate and rage and pain, but I can't find blame.

That's more terrifying than anything I can think of.

"Aww, Miri," he purrs, smacking his lips as his eyes wander, a chuckle forming under his breath. "Did I hurt your, ah… feelings?"

"No, I wouldn't say that's what you hurt," I snarl, burying the unwanted thoughts deep in the back of my head. Maybe if I drink enough tonight, I won't remember this happened at all, that my own mind is so eager to undermine me.

"Don't tell me you're still holding a grudge," he chides. It's almost like his arms aren't strapped down, like I can see shadow images of how he would move, all the grand gestures of a practiced performer.

I don't believe Strange when he says that there isn't a lot Joker remembers. His face tells me everything: He's savouring the memories, rolling them across his tongue, carefully choosing which one to pull out at the right moment.

It feels like he's playing with me.

"I want you to die for what you did." My voice is quiet, but I keep looking back at him even as his eyes beckon to me in a way I thought I might've finally forgotten.

"For, ah, what-t?" He laughs darkly, eyes hooded again as self-satisfaction pulls at the corners of his mouth, scars twitching. "You'll have to be… specific."

A single tear rolls down my cheek; it'll be the only one I let fall. The quiet stretches between us, neither moving as something unfurls in my heart. It's poisonous ichor that expands until it fills what he carved out, black pitch that's waiting for me to drop a match.

"For everything."

I've never felt so much… malevolence in myself before, so much animosity that I didn't even realize I somehow pulled my knife out of my boot, that it's clutched in my hand, partially hidden up my sleeve, the blade extended.

What are you waiting for?

But his eyes change, almost looking like shards of amber rather than obsidian glass, shoulders sagging as he looks… younger. Not in the same way he did at the Mayor's house when there was the open promise of agony and the guarantee of him deciding whether I lived or died; this is different. I haven't met this person. This man's face is still ruined and marred, but I don't see hate, the clever cruelty that plays in his gaze, there's… something sincere there, maybe even—

No, no. He's a fucking monster, a bastard who needs to die. What the fuck are you thinking, Miri?

The Joker doesn't—doesn't look vulnerable. He isn't fucking gentle.

And yet that's what my eyes are telling me, the pressure in the room easing when he takes his heavy gaze away.

It's… regret that I'm seeing. Something I've felt so often myself, something I recognized so easily in Jason. I want to say the Joker's faking, that it's another lie.

But I can't convince myself that it is.

Eventually, he lets out a long breath, his eyes resting back on mine. "What, you want an apology? Want me to say sorry?" He's trying to sound like he did before, jeering and mocking, but it's half-hearted, like he can't quite get himself there.

What did they do to him?

The Joker doesn't forgive, not really, and he certainly doesn't forget. He doesn't feel as controlled as before, not in the same way. It's like he's… rougher, more volatile, but different with me at the same time. Maybe it's because he's restrained, finally at the mercy of forces he can't outsmart or out-do in brutality.

What the hell would you know, anyway?

It's… like those first few days on the ship, when I first called him my friend, when he lay next to me and smoothed back my hair, whispering in my ear as I told him everything.

How many times did I suppress those thoughts, kill them with alcohol? Now it's all I can see, clouding what's true and what happened afterward.

There has to be a reason for this, something that he's doing, a trick or long con he's playing.

"No. You wouldn't mean it."

The Joker laughs in earnest for the first time, coming from somewhere deep in his chest and rumbling like he hasn't done it in years, his face splitting further as tears spring to his eyes. It brings back a stronger memory. When he set that money and that man on fire, when he sicced the Russian's own dogs on him, when Zsasz was at the bottom of that shaft, waiting to die.

'Y'see, people just need, uh… permission to get in touch with their savage side. An invitation for brutality. And I'm about to give it to 'em.'

There's that simple joy on his face again, like I'm finally in on the same joke. Is that what this is, him getting back in touch with that feeling?

"Looks like you, ah, learned something after all." He struggles to catch his breath as he descends into mad giggles, one corner of his mouth stretched high in self-deprecation.

I think of the people who've died, the chips in their necks and where they came from. My eyes narrow, searching for marks where they would've made the insertion. I couldn't watch all of his trial, but I remember reading what they said about his declining mental state, reduced everything he did as the violent acts of someone in a high-functioning state of constant psychosis.

"You're… different."

"Hmm?" The giggles stop as he looks at me thoughtfully, an eyebrow quirked in question.

"What have they been doing to you in here?" I say it quietly like it'll keep Strange from hearing it on the mics he probably has all over the room, remembering that the mirror is actually a window.

"You mean, besides the much-needed R&R I've been banking?" he sniggers, tongue working over the forked scar on his bottom lip as he rolls his eyes. "Well, wouldn't you like to know."

It's my turn to laugh, rueful and biting but also tinged with the smallest hint of genuine humour that I hope he doesn't pick up on.

What's wrong with me?

He's not giving me a straight answer—is that because something is happening or is he just… being himself?

"So," he begins, dragging out the word and wiggling closer to the table as best he can, voice dropping to a conspiratorial pitch. "Why are you here?" Shaking my head, I rub at my brow. I don't have an answer, and he doesn't give me time to form one. "Here to, ah… get some comeuppance? Throw your last two-cents in before you disappear—again, Miss Bonnie?"

My heart stops dead in my chest, air hitching in my lungs like I just got sucker-punched.

What… what did he just call me?

Dropping my hand, everything slows down, and I make the mistake of looking at him.

No—no, why did you do this, Miri?

"Maybe it's because, well…" He presses his lips tightly together, shying away as something like an uncomfortable thought passes over his face.

"Spit it out," I bite, expression hardening as my grip tightens around the knife. He might be having fun poking at the bear, but my teeth are sharp this time instead of blunted.

His eyes flick to the one-way mirror before moving back to me. A grin temporarily stretches his lips, gaze heavy with something I almost mistake as desire, before he turns serious. "Maybe… you missed me."

No. No, no, no—

I didn't miss him. I fucking didn't. He ruined my life—murdered my best friend, the man I loved, threatened to kill my family and almost succeeded, tore me down to hell and laughed while he did it. There was nothing to miss, nothing to want from him other than a slow, painful death.

And yet my dreams make me question everything, my every thought thrown into doubt.

"You don't know what you're talking about, you crazy son of a bitch," I say with venom, but I still can't make myself get out of the chair.

He rolls his neck, cracking it and pulling his shoulders back. I can see his hands moving in the air and urging me to stay, even though they're still strapped down in the straitjacket. "Now, hear me out, I've got a point in there."

My mouth opens before shutting so quickly I almost bite my tongue, and a part of me dies. This is just like when I was in the store when I got back, that night I met Jason, when I saw the news and their sick insinuations and labels coupled with the pictures of his remorseless face, tormenting me even though we were miles apart—

"How many people… understand?"

Why is his voice so soft while he rips open my scars, why does he succeed in finding those small remnants that I thought died a long time ago, just for me to feel the loss a second time?

"Let me put it this way," he continues, voice low and soothing while my body freezes, "how many people can you actually talk to—well… about us? Hmm?"

I want to refute the insinuation, throw his words back in his face and say that I've been able to ease the burden that's drowning me, had people in my life who understood, set myself on a path of healing, that I'm doing so much better than him, that he didn't—doesn't affect me.

But I can't say that because it isn't true.

This was a mistake—

The Joker smiles playfully, back to his old self, basking in the reward of getting me where he wanted. He knew I'd come eventually, he knew I'd be angry, and yet he's still under my skin, like we're back in the Mayor's bathroom when he took everything I had left.

"You say you hate me—strong, ah, sentiment—but for what, really? Y'know what I think…"

I need to stop this, I need to leave—

"Shut up."

Why aren't I getting up, why haven't I reached over and stabbed him? It'd be so fucking simple—

"I think—"

Helpless desperation chokes me like he did when Wayne Enterprises was falling down around us. I can't hear what he says, I can't, even if I already know what it'll be.

"Shut up—"

"That you won't find, well, anyone who understands you like I do." Like his words alone fused my spine together, I'm trapped in my body, staring at him as he succeeds in finding another of my fears, voicing it aloud so as to crush me with it. "Didn't we see into each other's souls, Miriam? See what's so ugly? And now… we're stuck with each other, aren't we?"

How does he do it? How does he manage to take everything I thought I built and make it vanish like a mirage, turn into a sign of my own gullibility?

The Joker's having fun with this—waited for me to drop my guard so he could slide the knife in. And I let him. I knew this would happen and I gave him all the fucking permission in the world.

Just like before.

No. Don't let him win. He can't have this.

He said it all so—so carefully, like he really did believe what he was saying, each word soft and a riptide dragging you under without even knowing you're drowning.

Something foreign bubbles in my chest, quiet at first before getting caught in an avalanche. I felt an echo of this when I saw Gordon, when he made that comment about Bruce, and I'm laughing. Cackling louder than the Joker had, I double over and hold my stomach as I come undone.

I don't even know why I'm laughing, what's so funny about all this.

"You want to know why I came here?" I force out, a parody of joy bringing tears to my eyes. "I came here to tell you I'm not afraid of you anymore. You failed. You're a failure. Everything you did, everything you wanted—it was for nothing."

I'm howling until I'm not, my own voice growing dark as I finally find my murderous intent, the grim knowledge that he's right but I'll never let him know it.

Not ever.

"Guess what, Clyde," I mock, imitating his tone and my smile turning sickly sweet, just like it'd been when I sang to him as we both waited to die, my side weeping blood. "That's because of me. You said I ruin people, but it's too bad you didn't take yourself into that equation. I'd say it's because you're an idiot, but that would only be half true, wouldn't it?"

Elbows on the table and knife still up my sleeve, I lean forward until my face is less than a foot away from his. If he wanted, he could snap his head forward and take a chunk out of my cheek before I could blink. Instead of drawing back, I drop my voice again, malice shaping every word, eye fixing on his lips like he'd done to mine as my mind wanders back to that bright spot of hell that killed almost everything good in me, how it felt when we kissed, that swirl of confusion and fear and revulsion and desire for someone—anyone to understand. And, for once, the Joker has nothing to say, just sitting there like he's seeing me for the first time.

"It's because you're arrogant. Vain. So caught up in how—how smart you are that you think no one can keep up with you." I laugh again, not really seeing him as I push my hair behind my ears, sounding more than a little mad. My voice is so quiet I almost can't hear it over the ringing in my ears. "How does it feel to be wrong? To know what suffering feels like? This… this is one thing I'm happy about. One person's misery I'm happy to have caused."

I am wrath and I am hate; my scars burn, but they don't burn for him.

"Because you deserve it, don't you?" I breathe, flicking my eyes upward and looking at him from under my lashes. "We both know that."

The Joker looks enthralled as I slowly move away from him to sit back in the chair, in a trance that's wiped the smile from his face as mine grows, a strange tingle forming in my fingertips.

'I'm fairly certain that, ah, you've bewitched me.'

Maybe he wasn't wrong about that, either.

After a moment, it's like he comes back to his senses, the weight of my words dawning on him, and he looks genuinely affronted, surprised. He never did see this side of me coming, no one ever did, really. But the flash of anger and vitriol passes as he works his jaw back and forth, eyes hooded as he considers me in a way he hasn't before.

I almost think that this is it, that I've finally shut him up and I can leave and down a bottle of wine. Out of the chair and almost at the door, a deep breath that doesn't feel as heavy filling my chest, his voice resonates behind me.

"I'm… almost sorry."

My hand freezes on the knob, blood pooling in my feet until they're too heavy to move.

"What?"

I sound stupid, sluggish as I turn around to gape at him, my bravado and sense of victory leaving me. He's not even smirking, face entirely serious and borderline apologetic. It's begrudging, but this is the closest I've seen him as—as fucking contrite.

"Not sorry for what I did," he continues like I'm not staring at him slack-jawed as he glances down, his knees bouncing. "I was helping you, but I am for…" He trails off, teeth grinding together like the words are glass in his throat, a glare of anger that I haven't seen since Wayne Enterprises when he was throttling me, but it's directed at himself. "Wasn't quite supposed to end like this."

Another mad laugh rips out of me, nearly keeling over as it grows hysterical.

Keep this up, and they'll lock you in here with him.

But I can't stop, not until tears pour from my eyes and I lean against the door for support, my chest racked with howls until they almost turn into sobs.

"Fuck you," I hiss, mania gone and enmity taking its place. "You murdered my best friend, you wanted to murder me."

The Joker looks at me with surprise and a mix of something close to shock and admiration. Mirth returning as he licks his lips, he chuckles under his breath. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I couldn't do it. Maybe it would've been, ah, for the best if I had," he says, equal parts bitter and amused.

"Yeah, the feeling's mutual."

It's quiet again as I rub my face, exhaustion dragging my brain down until I feel like I could sleep for weeks.

Why did you come, Miri?

I don't have an answer for that. I didn't do anything I wanted—yeah, I know where to look for the servers, I have an in with Eugene. But what else did I get other than more confusion and another reason to keep drinking so I can't see him anymore, can't hear him, can't think about him at all ever again?

That mean you think that you can finally leave him behind?

"Miriam…" he says, sounding so close to the voice in my dream that I nearly sink to the floor, my legs threatening to give out.

It's like just being around him is enough to sap everything from me, his voice enough to make me forget where I am, that he's restrained, that I've only been here for less than an hour. I can almost see him stretching his hands out on the table, asking me to take them, even though I know it's only some fucked up image my mind's made up.

"I, ah… I can't lie…" His voice is almost a caress, just like when I was on the floor, just before he cut me open. His head moves back and forth like a cobra, torso moving with him before he lets out a thoughtful hum. "I thought about you every day. Did you think about me?"

"Yes."

No, Miri—what have you done?

I said it without thinking, like an involuntary answer you'd give when you're half-asleep.

But I'm awake. I'm awake and I just said that to him.

What is wrong with me?

My hand slaps over my mouth, eyes wide, but I can't take the words back. I don't have a concussion to blame, no drugs—just something that's so wrong with me that I'd eviscerate myself after nearly two years of piecing what was left to me back together.

And the Joker looks absolutely elated.

"I knew you would."

You need to leave.

My breathing is too fast, the world spinning off its axis, and I'm not moving quick enough.

I can't look at him anymore, see the look of pleasure at my admission, how I'm still doing everything he wants me to.

"I didn't lie, Miri! I'm no-t leaving you, and you just, ah… can't get rid of me!"

Ripping the door open, I run up the stairs. I need to get out, see the sun and breathe in the fresh air and be anywhere other than here.

But his voice still follows me, my own permanent ghost as I remember everything.

There will be no forgetting.

"Never."


AN: Confronting the person who inflicted the amount of pain and hurt that Joker did is incredibly difficult. Wanting closure and being able to look your fear in the face and prove to yourself that you're not afraid is understandable but terrifying. Is Miri in a place where she's not making self-destructive decisions and where she can move on completely? No, definitely not. But healing isn't a linear line, neither is recovery. Making decisions that seem to be contrary to what someone who isn't struggling with substance abuse and trauma would do tends to be a self-defeating exercise, because all of us, at one point or another, make decions that work against what would otherwise be in someone's best interest. A major theme in this entire fic is working against one's one self-destructive impulses, even if that process can be frustrating at times. You've stuck with me so far, so I'm asking that y'all have a little faith about the ride I'm taking you on :').

A big thank you to my amazing, wonderful beta, Khaosprinz, for all of her hard work and advice when it comes to this story. And I wanna thank MrJsHaHaHarley & Jasminau for their advice, love, encouragement, and for being such wonderful friends! I appreciate all of my readers, and I can't do this without you. I hope you keep sticking with me to see how this all plays out! 💖