It didn't matter how many times Bruce went to see Rachel. He always felt a little foolish, plagued with the feeling that he looked the same as he always did when he had been young, gawky and trying too hard with the wrong things, even though he'd grown and wasn't that little boy who had run around the Manor's back garden looking for hidden treasure anymore.
And, it didn't matter how many times they arranged to meet, the same lump always stayed in his throat.
A bouquet of multicoloured alstroemeria and zephyranthes flowers he knew she liked in one hand, an awkward smile he couldn't alter fixed to his face, and words he didn't know how to speak trapped under his tongue, he did what he always did as Bruce Wayne, the reckless billionaire—he walked in like he owned the place.
"Is Rachel in?" he asked the young man, Paulo, read the man's nametag, at the front desk. Bruce knew the answer, but polite genteelism was what a Wayne would do, and so he did, smiling broadly and cranking up the charm. "We have a lunch meeting."
This was something new for them, a product of months of trying to repair what had no remedy. Even if everything else fell by the wayside, meeting with her was the one activity as Bruce Wayne that he attended to diligently. After leaving the DA's office, Rachel had taken the substantial payout she'd received and started her own outreach organization, helping Gotham's poor that had been directly affected by the weeks-long riots and police crackdowns and combating the measures taken by the city to target the mentally ill. Rachel had always been an idealist in a higher sense than Bruce had ever been able to achieve—he fought the city's worst to protect those who needed it, and Rachel worked diligently to find a way for the city to clean itself without violence, restore its soul from the inside out.
Bruce had begun to wonder whose method would win out over the other, if he could fulfil his mission before it broke his body or Rachel's spirit finally found disillusionment. Or if they were both doomed to fail.
"Mr. Wayne—yes, she's in her office, just past—"
He was hardly listening, walking past the front desk and through the doorway by the time Paulo finished saying Bruce's name.
The halls of the Saint Mary's Shelter, one of the many that Wayne Enterprises funded throughout the city, were old with the wallpaper peeling and wooden floorboards loose, but Rachel had done her best to imbue them with a kind of security that she hadn't known herself in the last two years. He tried to not think about what he'd done to make that worse, denying himself the little he'd done to compensate for how he had utterly failed.
That's not why you came, he thought, face tighter than the mask he wore at night as he passed the people in the hall.
If he let his mind wander to anything else, it wouldn't take long to linger on how he'd failed on more than one front. One catastrophic problem of many that he couldn't make himself talk about directly. Distracting himself with the itch to head to Arkham became so potent it made his eye twitch and mouth pull down into a grimace, but he ignored that, too.
Miri said to trust her, so… give that a try, for once.
A shiver of unease ran down his back when his hand hovered over Rachel's office door. It wasn't quite noon yet, the shelter was nearly empty apart from the daycare and volunteers. From what he knew, most of the available beds were taken, something he found heartening and worrisome in equal measure.
One problem at a time.
He knocked twice, the paper wrapping around the flowers growing slightly damp in his grip. After hearing something between who is it? and come in, Bruce braced himself and walked in, forcing a wide smile on his face.
"Working hard, I see," he said, eyeing up her brimming desk with its high stacks of paperwork, the large window and parted curtains allowing the rare view of the spring sun to filter through the dirty glass, his gaze landing on everything but Rachel.
"Hey," she said, her hands stopping on the keyboard in his peripheral vision. "Is our lunch today? I thought—"
"Alfred made sure to confirm with me. Twice," he said, chuckling through his nose and staring at his shining shoes. There was only so long he could go without looking at her. "And if he's wrong, then I really know I'm in trouble."
"Right, right." Her voice was gentle in his ears, soft as spring morning mist, and Bruce made himself stare into her blue eyes rather than rest on her face. He still didn't miss her smile, and he was glad that hadn't changed, either. "It's been busy for the last few weeks. More and more keep coming as things ramp up in the East End."
Even after months of reconstructive surgeries, skin grafts, and physical therapy, seeing Rachel hurt worse than a knife to the chest. He knew that kind of physical pain, risked that and worse every night he went out, but it was nothing in comparison to the agony guilt could level on a person.
"Working on it," he said, giving her a rueful grin and handing her the bouquet. Her hands were what the surgeons struggled the most to fix, her rotary functions limited and the skin not only burned but missing in chunks around her wrists, leaving only scar tissue and cartilage and bone behind. "For you. Thought it'd help brighten up the office a bit."
His smile felt easier then, looking past the burns to see the happiness on her face. She wore a wig, and while she didn't look the same as she had when they were children, the ache in Bruce's chest that he felt around her was just as intense as it had been then.
"How thoughtful of you." She smirked, taut skin drawing back as she stood with effort to replace the dying flowers in a vase in the corner of her office with the ones Bruce had brought. "Alfred remember these for you, too?"
The tension in his face eased as laughter built in his chest. "No, no—I remembered all on my own, thank you for your endless faith in me."
She shot him a look over her shoulder, as much as her back could allow, in good humour. Rachel was lucky that she wasn't paralyzed after being caught in the rubble of the burning warehouse and, like Miriam, Rachel wore long-sleeved shirts and loose-fitting clothing to hide most of the burns and damage to her hands, and Bruce sincerely wished he didn't know what either of their scars looked like.
You could've prevented it.
There was too much that he could've kept from happening if he'd just listened, had done what was necessary—
If I'd never left at all.
It was a dangerous line of thought to catch himself in, one that wouldn't help him or anyone else. He'd been down that road, and he had to make peace with himself. What that looked like, he still didn't know, but Bruce had to find a place where he could act and think without being dragged down by his mistakes.
He wasn't sure if he could ever find that.
"Are you listening to me?"
Bruce stepped back, caught off guard when he blinked and found Rachel standing right in front of him, bag and jacket in hand. She rolled her eyes in the same way she would when they were children: in a large arc, blowing a nonexistent strand of hair out of her face before cocking her head to the side to raise an eyebrow at him. Even with her face so changed, he was glad that some things remained the same.
"Of course."
"Yeah, right," she scoffed, breezing past him and out the office door, not waiting for him to catch up as she waved goodbye to the volunteers and employees in the offices he'd passed coming in.
Grin faltering before being rigidly stuck back in place, Bruce followed. Rachel's steps were always quick and full of purpose, while Bruce Wayne's were slow, seemingly aimless and casual.
He wished again that he knew how to say what he couldn't put a name to.
The Wayne name came with a persona that Bruce never felt comfortable in. He could train for a near-decade to push his body beyond the limits of any average person, but no matter how much time he tried being what he ought to have been—a rich golden boy with the world offered to him on a plate of silver—he always felt like a bad actor in a sub-par theatre troupe, so transparent and hollow, even when everything he did depended on that lie being true. At least, to the public eye.
Bruce wished some of that in-born charm could transfer to how he felt around Rachel, that it would dispel the way his tongue was tied and felt too thick in his mouth. The conversation between them as he drove to the restaurant didn't come as easy as it had when they were younger, but that had been true for years leading up to his disappearance and what had come afterward. It was like he was trapped in a mirror world: Miri was back in Gotham and frank with him in a way he hadn't experienced since she was a young teen, even if it was laced with anger—but she was meaner, scarred and traumatized, more volatile than he ever knew her to be; he and Rachel were making the best of what they had, searching in the dark for what could be but never finding anything beyond the odd balance they struck of great closeness and simultaneous vast distance between them that he didn't know how to reconcile; back in the childhood home that simultaneously was and wasn't his, he remained with his childhood guardian that he knew he'd one day lose. It was all the same but so irrevocably different, but he couldn't see for himself what had and hadn't changed in him.
After they'd arrived at the modestly low-key but no less expensive French restaurant, Gitanes, and had sat in one of the private booths and ordered their drinks, Rachel and his eyes met before he looked away to clear his throat.
Why does it feel like I'm a sophomore again?
"You've been busy," she said eventually, when the silence felt too loud. "How nice of you to make so much time for me when you're off dating, who was it this week, Silver St Cloud? And finding new business partners to hammer on every night. Are you sure you're not writing a book on the side, too?"
Bruce tried, and failed, to keep himself from wincing. He had seen Silver all but three times before it was blown into a media rage—something about socialites being seen together had the tabloids all but foaming at the mouth and he never understood that particular obsession in pop culture—and he didn't want to discuss who he was and wasn't dating with Rachel. Not when he could still remember that night, when he finally felt Rachel's hands on his bare skin, when things felt right before it all fell apart. She was smiling good-naturedly over her steaming cup of tea, watching him get lost in thought, but he didn't miss the criticism. Once again, his attention wasn't where it needed to be.
"Oh, you know, I like to stay active." He attempted to sound light despite the edge in her voice, breeze over the thinly veiled jab at his sham of a dating life, but it didn't take long for conversations to go this way since she'd learned about Batman. She'd developed her own codex of terms to refer to what he did at night without giving anything away, lacing every word with a subtext of meanings and sentiments of disapproval. It could be fun, if he didn't let his ego get in the way. "And keeping up with the competition is smart—gotta have that edge."
"That's what they call it? Having an edge. Interesting."
His grin faltered. "You know what I mean."
"Do I now?"
Breathing out a chuckle, he shrugged and closed his menu, trying to remember a time when this came easier.
At least she sounds more playful.
"Are you looking into this Red Hood character?"
Bruce almost didn't think he heard her right. Her voice low as she leaned across the table, she made insistent eye contact. She didn't usually like talking about anything to do with Batman. He narrowed his eyes and nodded. "Why?"
"May I interest you in our afternoon wine selection, Mr. Wayne? Or perhaps you'd like our soup de jour?" their waiter asked, stopping at the table precisely when Rachel had meant to speak. She leaned back, letting Bruce order and wave the man away, not noticing how the waiter's eyes lingered on her face and neck, the burns that marked so much of her now. He turned to scold the waiter with some cutting sarcasm, but a look from Rachel stopped him, her head gently shaking. How she managed to not care—at least outwardly—was something that confounded him, but he also couldn't help admiring her for it. Meanwhile, looking at her was a fresh reminder of his ever-present guilt and culpability.
He wondered if that's how she saw them, too.
"Had a group dropped off last week that mentioned a man who sounded like him. They wouldn't say much, just that he was the reason they were alive," she said after they were alone, voice still quiet as she took another sip of tea.
This is new.
"Hmm." Repressing the urge to ask why she hadn't told him sooner, he slowly digested the information, jaw clenching tight as his bruises along his ribs ached. "I'm guessing you didn't report it to the new city task force?" He cracked a smile at her bitter laugh.
"Unless it's Gordon directly, I don't tell them anything. It certainly doesn't help that Hill is advocating for all those emergency powers. It's like the city wants its own armed militia."
"I've noticed. Gordon's working on it." He sighed, wishing for once that they would talk about anything other than this—their weekend plans, her work, how her mother was doing, whether or not adopting a dog was a good idea.
But, she wasn't wrong and it worried him, too. He needed to stem the problem before it got to the point where that level of force was necessary. Run by the Mob and now by fear and close to being turned into a police state, Gotham's problems never disappeared; they evolved, twisting and moulding into something new and exhausting every day.
"How long until that happens? We shouldn't have to wait while drugs are flooding every corner and people are getting shot in the street. The shelter's been full for months, and it isn't the only one." Rachel worked to lower her voice, zeal getting the better of her. She reminded him of back when she had been an Assistant DA, when she'd argued her point for hours, so optimistic and determined to do what she thought was right. "At this rate, you and that Red guy could stand to learn something from one another."
Bruce stopped mid-motion, glass half-raised to his lips. He couldn't have heard her right. Rachel didn't know what he did, didn't see the bodies Red Hood had personally sent to the morgue, the devastation he was levelling on the city.
"What, how to maim and murder?" he asked, voice as icy as his gaze. He almost relented when the good side of her face winced, one corner of her mouth turning down.
"That's not what I meant and you know it."
There was so much he couldn't share with her, so much he wanted to say but never would: that things were complicated, that people's intentions meant nothing if not backed by their actions, that the man she thought was potentially helping with a problem caused a hundred more, that he was working diligently to kill him, and that Batman was struggling not to let anyone down. Even though they were speaking again and he loved her, there was only so far he'd let her back into his world. He'd never do anything to put her in danger again.
Never.
"I'm trying my best, Rach. These things take time, now more than ever."
It was the best answer he had, and Rachel's look of disappointment wasn't anything new, either. He thought she might reply with something bitter, but she bit her tongue, forcing a smile when their food arrived before the waiter disappeared once more. Debates used to be so common between them, but now she seemed to feel as he did—there wasn't much left worth fighting about.
"How's Miri?" she asked after a while, eyes trained on her plate.
Of course. Alfred must have told her.
Bruce swallowed his guilt before it could consume him, wishing he had something harder to chase it back down his throat than water. "She's… better than I thought she'd be."
Rachel gave him a look of understanding, eyes round and sad and mouth in a firm line. He tried not to think about how his throat tightened. "She knows she can always pop by, right? I'd really like to—"
A loud and insistent vibration in Bruce's pocket cut her off, his watch going ping not long afterward. At first, he thought it was Alfred, but then he saw the alert, the one he set up just for the device he gave Miriam.
EMERGENCY ACTIVATION.
She'd pressed the panic button. Miriam needed him.
Why didn't I go with her?
He shouldn't have listened, he knew she couldn't handle this by herself, that she needed someone there—she needed himand he'd let her down again.
I won't let anything happen, not this time.
Mind alight with a thousand terrible possibilities, each one worse than the last, Bruce shot out of his seat, barely remembering in time that Rachel still sat at the table.
"I need to go—I'll call you later."
"Go where?" she said, following after him and nearly knocking the heavy tray their waiter held out of his hands, dodging in time to grab Bruce's elbow before he pulled away.
"Arkham."
Rage that he hadn't felt in almost two years had Bruce racing down Gotham's streets, Lamborghini engine revving high as he weaved in and out of passing cars, ran through reds, and blew past any and all signs like they didn't exist.
He'd get there in time. He wouldn't fail—he wouldn't.
It had been a long time since Bruce had felt so—so desperate. He didn't like being in this position again—feeling so weak and useless. Perhaps anyone else would've blamed Miriam for this, for her recklessness and stubborn desire to suffer alone, but Bruce could never get himself there, even if he should have.
He needed a plan. It was the middle of the day and Miriam was in the centre of some of the tightest security in Gotham. Going in as Batman wasn't an option and even as a multibillionaire, his options weren't limitless. He couldn't think straight, so he called someone who could at that moment.
"Afternoon, Mr. Wayne. What can I do for you?"
"Lucius, I need access to Arkham. Now," Bruce spat out between gritted teeth, swerving into the oncoming lane and passing three more cars as he headed for the highway exit that would lead him to the asylum.
"Right now? I thought—"
"Security, cameras, everything—"
"Sorry, Mr. Wayne, no can do," he interrupted, sounding grim. Lucius was an astute man, he'd know something was wrong.
"Come again?"
"They're on a closed system, as far as my sources know, meaning that I can't access squat without being manually looped in."
Goddamnit.
"Wasn't that something Miss Kane was working on?" Lucius asked before Bruce could think of another solution. His jaw clenched.
"Getting there."
Think, think.
If he couldn't hack his way in, then maybe if he could get past the front gates first, get inside the asylum…
"What about building schematics?" he asked, taking a sharp left to take a backroad he knew would shorten his trip by five minutes.
Every second counts.
"I can send you those right away, sir." Through his car speakers, he could hear Lucius working in the background. His suit jacket felt too tight, too restrictive, but there was no taking it off now. "What's this about? Everything alright?"
There was no need for Lucius to know what was going on. It wasn't that Lucius disliked Miriam, but Bruce knew that what Miriam had done was not something to gloss over, that the trust there was broken. He didn't want to damage further what might be repaired later.
"Just a… blip, at the moment. Everything's fine."
From the way Lucius tsked, he knew that Bruce wasn't telling the truth.
Deal with him later.
"Well, alrighty then. Expect the plans coming your way any second."
Not waiting for anything else to further divide his attention, Bruce hung up and forced a calming breath to fill his lungs, to put that empty smile back on his face as he thought of a lie that would get him inside. Not relying on Bruce Wayne for much other than creating a convincing alibi, he preferred to put all his energy into Batman, but the time had come for him to use both.
Keep using your head. Remember your training. Breathe.
"What's your purpose here?" the TYGER guard asked after Bruce had pulled up to the security gate seconds after having a thorough glance of the plans Lucius dutifully sent.
Nothing like an eidetic memory.
"I have a meeting with Hugo Strange," he replied, drawing his lips back in a faux-smile. "Should be on his calendar. I'm running a bit behind. Or, wait—a lot behind." He made a show of checking his watch like it only just occurred to him, brows drawn up in superficial disconcertion. Everything about Bruce Wayne exemplified the word smarmy, and he leaned into that now more than ever. "He should've called ahead of me."
The guard looked at him skeptically, shooting a glance to his partner in the booth to his side. "What did you say your name was?" he asked, finger hovering over the trigger of his semi-automatic.
Who needs guns at an asylum?
This wasn't how you treated the mentally ill. Not by a long-shot. Arkham Asylum looked more like a supermax prison with its tall, electrified fences lined with barbed wire, guard towers, and the gray blocks that passed as a healthcare facility.
One problem at a time.
"Bruce Wayne."
His name was a key that could unlock almost any door in his city, and open up a new world of hurt, but, in this instance, it was enough to floor both of the guards. If there was one thing Carmine Falcone was right about, it was that you'd have to be a thousand miles away to not know his name.
Nothing like the power of celebrity, he thought.
"Oh, I… I should have recognized you, sir. Dr. Strange didn't call down to say he was expecting anyone—"
"Huh," Bruce interrupted, making another show of looking at his Rolex. "I guess he doesn't want to go with those new security enhancements. Can't win them all." He shrugged, acting like he was doing them a favour just by being there. It worked; the guard looked off-balance, uncertain. Just what he needed.
"Security enhancements?"
"Yeah. A whole new upgrade from the R&D department. I guess he decided the cost wasn't worth it." He shrugged again, the definition of blasé as he smirked. "Win some, lose some. Have a nice day, boys."
Revving the engine, he geared the car into reverse, hoping against everything that his bluff would pay off.
Whether Bruce Wayne was a talented liar or extraordinarily lucky might be impossible to differentiate, but he didn't care as long as it worked.
And worked it did.
"Just—hang on a second. Let me radio it in."
Nope, nope—wrong direction, redirect—
"Uh, yeah. Sure. It's your dime."
It was too late to convince the guard just to let him in; he was on the radio with someone, walking just out of hearing distance. Tapping his earpiece, he tried to listen in on the conversation, but he heard nothing but static. Another oddity in a new sea of uncertainty. He'd been trained to stay calm, to plan for every scenario.
But he didn't have a plan for this. For Miriam. He never did.
"You're cleared to go. Talk to Maude at the front desk and tell her you're expected, and show her this," the guard said, handing him a clearance badge and raising his hand in the air for the gate to open.
That was… easy.
Too easy. There was more to this.
Saying nothing and giving a two-finger salute, just like that, Bruce was on the grounds of Arkham Asylum.
"Have a nice day, Mr. Wayne," the guard called after him, waving hesitantly and looking closer to a juvenile than a grown man with an M-16.
"Way to sound like a suck-up, you kiss-ass."
"Oh, like you wouldn't have—it's Bruce goddamn Wayne!"
Yep… power of celebrity alright.
Imagining Miriam snickering and making a smart comment both made him feel lighter and the panic all the more real.
Move quickly—make up for lost time.
Parking at a bad angle and maintaining a steady pace as he walked into the lobby, he looked for whomever this Maude person was supposed to be. Thankfully, he didn't have to look for long.
"Hi, I'm here to see Hugo Strange," he said to the older woman with frizzy red hair at the front desk, imitating the same tone and expression that he had at the gate. Unlike the guards, he didn't need to say his name for her to know who he was.
"Mr. Wayne!" she all but squealed, hands slapping the desk and jumping in her chair with giddiness.
"That is my name." He leaned on the counter, acting like there wasn't three inches of plexiglass and an intercom between them as he dialled up the charm to an eleven. "Or, so they tell me."
Laughing louder than necessary, she waved a hand at him, her infectious energy transferring to the nurse beside her who looked on with awed shock. "Right, right—of course," she chuckled, smoothing her hair behind her ears as her cheeks went pink. "Don't mind me, I'm babbling. You said you're here for Dr. Strange? Let me check his calendar. Just a second."
Bruce's back became warm with sweat, and he resisted smoothing his hair back. People like Bruce Wayne didn't sweat unless they were at the gym, and image was everything until he knew Miriam was safe.
"Oh, it says here that Dr. Strange doesn't…" She paused, looking from the screen to Bruce, brow drawing up in confusion. "Maybe something got switched around."
"Huh, that is certainly odd. He was expecting me," he said, making it sound like it was true and that he wasn't distracted, thinking of a way to get past without someone shooting at him or the asylum going on lockdown.
As she typed, Bruce took in the lobby, clocking six TYGER guards with similar weapons as the ones at the front gate, all the access doors reinforced and shut. If he had to guess based on the plans, she was in the interview rooms somewhere close to a security hub in case something went wrong. That would put her in Wing C or D.
He didn't want to think about Miriam trapped in a room with that maniac any longer than necessary. Blind rage wouldn't help him here.
This is going to take a miracle.
And in came the fruits of labours (or, once again, a truer manifestation of that luck—something that was sure to let him down sooner rather than later).
"U-Um—Mr. Wayne?"
Turning from the counter, Bruce faced a young man with a slight build and brown hair clutching a clipboard nervously. He looked younger than Miriam, but the badge clipped to his whitecoat made his heart race.
EUGENE KLEIN. PSYCHIATRIC NURSE.
Bruce really was a lucky man.
"If—If you'd follow me, p-please," he stuttered, motioning to the door leading to Wing C. "It's al-alright, Maude. It was my… my mistake."
She chuckled in response and flapped a hand, and Bruce's mind was whirring. Things were going smoothly—too smoothly given the level of security and paranoia funnelled into the asylum like air. But what was he missing?
Keep improvising. Find out later.
"Thank you."
Giving Maude a more genuine smile and wave of farewell than he'd given the guard, he followed Eugene Klein. Despite the nervous warble, he walked with a confidence and purpose that was otherwise missing from his demeanour. This wasn't who he needed to be with—he needed to break away and start moving as fast as possible to the heart of the asylum. He had three locations where Miriam would most likely be. "If you could just point me in the right direction, I've got it from—"
"You—you're here for Miss… Miss Kane, correct?" Eugene interrupted in a hushed whisper as he swiped a keycard and the door swung open with a loud buzz to take them into Wing B.
There wasn't time for pretence. Either this was some kind of trap he couldn't see the purpose of or this man knew something was wrong and wanted to help.
Go for the middle ground—err on the side of caution.
"What do you think?"
Rounding a corner, Eugene scouted the way, head rotating like an owl, before stopping in an alcove and motioning Bruce closer.
"You—you need to get o-over there. Quickly."
The dread expanded in his chest until he felt like he might sink through the floor. His fingers twitched, aching to curl into a fist. There was something dangerous about being in the asylum. That only became more apparent upon realizing he'd seen security and nurses but had yet to see any sign of the many patients he knew were being housed here.
"Over where?"
Nervously jumping at Bruce's tone, he backed up until he was almost hugging the wall. "She… she's…" Eugene trailed off, jaw clenching as if he was deciding how much to say. "She shouldn't—shouldn't have been here… but Strange—"
Bruce waited for him to continue, but Eugene bit his tongue, eyes going wide like he wished he hadn't said anything at all.
"What about him?"
He opened his mouth to speak, giving several stuttering starts before sighing. His expression closed, and Bruce knew not to push. Not when time was running out. "Follow me. We—we're going to take a—a back route to… to Wing C. She should—should still be there."
Containing his nervous panic, he nodded, letting Eugene take the lead. The tech locking every room and powering the cameras was supplied by STAGG Enterprises, he could tell by the make and panelling, but the rest of the asylum looked not dissimilar to what the original had—old, derelict, and neglected.
Something was very wrong at Arkham.
How could I have let Miriam come alone?
He wouldn't make that mistake twice.
Eugene seemed to be keeping his word, routing them back toward Wing C and moving quickly. There weren't the same security checkpoints or scanners that there had been from the lobby, and even the amount of TYGER guards they'd passed had become fewer in number. But it didn't matter. The more time he lost, the more it felt like his throat would close, and he regretted that not every situation could be solved by Batman.
"In—in here," Eugene said eventually, swiping them through one last corridor and taking him to the end of a long hall. "Room on—on the right. You… you'll have to make it—it look like y-you forced your… forced your way past me, O-OK?"
Bruce still couldn't entirely tell what kind of play this was, if it was a trick at all or something entirely genuine. He sincerely hoped it was the latter.
Nodding, Bruce released the fury he'd contained up until this point, ripping open the door just for his jaw to nearly drop. Every room must've been soundproofed because he couldn't hear Miriam shouting obscenities until that moment, and time seemed to slow as he stood in frozen shock in the doorway.
Looking from a TYGER guard with a busted nose and blood dripping down his chin to another holding her in a bear hug from behind as she kicked at his legs, adrenaline flooded his body when he saw a needle on the ground, half-empty and an unknown liquid pooling beneath it. And watching it all from a distance in the corner of the room, a sinister, placative smile on his face, could only have been Hugo Strange.
It took everything Bruce had not to pummel the three men into the ground.
"Whatever happened to do no harm, Doctor?"
Everything stopped the moment he spoke, all attention zeroing in on him as the guards composed themselves and Strange straightened. It took Miriam longer to calm herself, struggling less but a wild gleam in her eye turning her into a paroxysm of wrath. She almost looked… mad. Borderline crazy.
What did they do to her?
He didn't care how vengeful he looked, how out of character he was being, he closed the distance between them and twisted the guard's arm around, forcing him to release Miriam and allow her to move back towards the door.
"We were attempting to… minimize the harm, Mr. Wayne." Strange stepped closer, waving the two guards back when they moved with him. Bruce stood his ground. "It is unfortunate that we should meet under such unfortunate circumstances. And I will have to have several words with the present staff."
Bruce could all but imagine how Eugene must be cringing in on himself in the hall, but he didn't have time to dwell on him. Strange spoke with a foreign lilt that didn't match what Bruce would've otherwise deduced from his short build and apparent Asian heritage—it sounded European, but not like any accent he knew. It was more like an amalgamation of many than a single one.
Which means it's fake. Unless there's a language out there I haven't heard.
That was the unlikely case, the most likely being that Strange was hiding something.
"By 'unfortunate' you mean catching you doing something illegal?" His face was carefully blank, but he had a harder time keeping the venom out of his voice. He could hear Miriam's laboured breathing behind him, and he saw her lean against the wall in his peripheral vision. "I would've thought the new head of Arkham would be eager to not follow in the practices of its predecessor. Maybe it's something that comes with the job description that I missed?"
Blanching for a moment, Strange smiled, bearing his teeth in false joviality. "This is nothing illegal, Mr. Wayne. Perhaps you have heard of it—civil commitment. It is within our purview if the resident caregiver deems it necessary."
The smile disappeared and Bruce knew what Miriam had meant about feeling like she was under a microscope.
"Miss Kane had a knife. My men were attempting to disarm her, and you can see for yourself the results."
Bruce's face went hot when Strange held up the offending knife, one that couldn't have been longer than four inches, and he couldn't help but look at her, see if she'd really done something so foolish. Miriam kept her eyes trained on the ground, her rage matched only with exhaustion.
"I had no choice but to assume that it was for the purpose of harming either herself or others." Strange turned serious, the corners of his mouth dragging down in a mock-frown. "Given her… fragile mental state, I have no choice but to—"
"Did she use it?" Bruce interrupted, catching Strange off guard.
This is where that law degree you never finished comes in.
He might've dropped out of Yale, but he'd bet all his money on his ability to rival any practising lawyer.
"Come again?"
"Did she use it and can you prove intent?" He didn't try to stop himself from being condescending, drawing up an eyebrow as he spoke slower like Strange was an idiot who couldn't understand. "Having a knife on one's person under five inches in the state of New Jersey is not illegal unless it's in the midst of a crime being committed. Yes, Miriam broke hospital policy, but that doesn't prove intent to harm."
Strange's mouth snapped shut, head cocking to the side as he considered Bruce with new scrutiny, eyes narrowed. "Surely you have seen Miss Kane's file, yes? It is not a wild claim that she has a propensity for violence—"
Miriam began stammering a defence, looking like she was closer to falling over with every passing second before Bruce put himself between her and Strange. He'd gotten himself in, and he'd sure as hell get them both out.
"If you read her file, you'd know that putting her up to meet with that psychotic lunatic after one session was borderline malpractice, which does nothing but prove that you're not competent and should remove yourself as her current psychiatrist." The two guards' eyes darted between Bruce and Strange as though they were watching a boxing match, the one absently pinching his still bleeding nose and the other standing gobsmacked. "Miriam is hardly 120 pounds, deeply traumatized—"
"Deeply traumatized? Bruce—"
But he kept going, it didn't matter how much he was exaggerating or stretching the truth. He thought he might burst if he turned to look at Miriam now.
"—and in need of a consistent support system. Is it not in Arkham's mandate to administer all means of help before compromising the agency of a patient? Because, as it appears to me, you've hardly done anything at all. This is grounds for a lawsuit that'll leave you bankrupt. I'll make sure of that. And I'm fairly certain my pockets are deeper than Arianna Hills' or yours."
Had Bruce been speaking to anyone else, they would've been cowed in the corner, blathering apologies and sending them on their way. No one picked a legal fight with a Wayne unless they had their shot lined up with more than false pretences.
But Strange wasn't just anyone.
He stared at Bruce like he was a prized dog who'd performed a game-winning trick. Something had gone wrong here, he just wasn't sure where.
"You are correct, Mr. Wayne, you would be able to out-spend us quickly." He walked forward, hands clasped behind his back, as the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. "Our patients' care is always our highest priority. If you can guarantee that Miriam does indeed prove not to intend harm in the future," he paused, looking at a two-way mirror that Bruce had just noticed briefly, "then you are both free to leave. No more fuss on my account."
Once again, this was… too easy. Bruce would almost say it was orchestrated.
Why? What does he mean to gain?
If this tied back to the murder victims and the chips like he and Miriam theorized it did, then it could mean a whole new avenue of trouble was beginning to build.
"How nice for you to frame it like it was a choice," he said, unable to keep out the bite even if his face was still impassive. Finally turning his attention to Miriam, he went to put an arm around her shoulders before she slapped it away, pushing off the wall to stand unsteadily.
Was she always this stubborn?
He was certain this came from the Kane side of the family. Suppressing a sigh, he stayed close to her, and they were barely out of the door when Strange spoke again.
"Oh, and please do remember that Miss Kane's government-mandated therapy is meant to take place here, at the asylum." The way Strange smiled when he said it made Bruce's skin tighten like it did before he was about to hit someone, adrenaline speeding up what had seemed so slow before. "Do take your time, but we will see you again soon," he said, no longer addressing Bruce and staring intently at Miriam instead.
Bruce could understand why she attacked them better now.
Leaving the asylum was a blur. All that had mattered was getting out, making sure this wasn't another part of whatever game Strange was playing and making it to the parking lot. He didn't like how close this felt to running away, dodging out before getting the information he needed.
Find answers later—Miri's more important.
Her legs finally faltered when they left the lobby, and Bruce was by her side, not bothering to half-drag her to the car while she was barely coherent, threading an arm under her knees and picking her up like she weighed nothing.
"Hey—put me down," she protested, squirming as her speech started to slur.
Bruce ignored her, too focused on getting to the Manor before he went back inside and did something stupid. It wasn't until he heard a rapid-fire click click click that he stopped to look around just as he got to the car. He knew that sound from his many years avoiding them.
Someone was taking pictures—the shutter speed high and loud and unique to DSLRs. That meant they weren't far if he could hear it.
"Oh, shit," he murmured, close to putting Miriam down to track down who exactly was taking the photos to smash the camera. The last thing they needed was a photo-op—
"What… what is it?" she asked, trying to raise her head. She could barely keep her eyes open, and Bruce started to worry about what they'd given her and how much was in her bloodstream before she knocked the needle away.
Need to do a tox screen in the cave.
Saying nothing, he lowered her in the car just as she started protesting again.
"I can… I can move on my own—"
"No, you can't. Just—just listen for once," he snapped, wincing at how he sounded.
You'll have to make it up to her later.
"Where are we going?" she slurred, head rolling to the side to stare out the window after he'd slammed the door closed and hopped into the driver's seat.
"Home."
He ripped out of the parking lot, his heart still racing with unused, pent-up energy. He needed to hit something, hard. A long training session would take up most of his night until he was calm enough to speak with her rationally.
And meditation. You can't talk to her when you're like this.
"That doesn't… doesn't answer the question, Bruce." She was barely awake and still eager to fight with him on everything.
He was beginning to think he should've forced her to stay at the Manor when she got back, after all.
What happened to all that talk of 'agency'? he thought, grimacing.
He shook his head. This was different.
Is it?
"The Manor. Alfred's preparing your room."
"No—no, take me back to—"
"You're not going back there." He didn't wince this time, his unspent anger rising to the surface at the look of Miriam's stubborn expression, unable to understand why she wanted to fight him on this when he wanted—when all he ever wanted—was to help her. "What? What do you need there that isn't alcohol?"
A beat passed between them before the stubbornness ebbed away and something broken took its place.
"Fuck you, Bruce."
Only with Miriam did he feel this kind of anger and frustration. He never saw himself as a parent, ever, but he'd begun to think that this was the closest he would come to it. He wondered what his own parents would've been like had they lived to see him in his teens—or even how Alfred managed to deal with him so well. Miriam wasn't a teen anymore, but Bruce felt—
Scared.
Bruce realized that he was afraid.
"Why did you bring a knife?" he asked after a long minute, voice considerably softer than it had been before.
"Mmm?" She wasn't listening to him anymore, her body turned and pressed against the door. Like she couldn't be far enough away from him.
"Why did you bring a knife there? He—he could've—"
As often as Batman checked on Arkham to make sure that infernal clown never left, that there was always a buffer of safety between him and Miriam, Bruce didn't like thinking about the Joker. Hadn't he already felt the effects of his work enough, seen how it had ripped apart the family he had left, had nearly destroyed the people he loved? But Batman spent all too much time dwelling on the madman, kept the memories fresh of why the Joker shouldn't be underestimated, and he again wondered why he'd let Miriam try to do this on her own.
"I just… I wanted to feel safe," she whispered, voice thick. "Strange… he set this up."
Bruce couldn't help but agree, but that was a problem to solve later.
"You could've asked me—"
"No. I couldn't have."
Any reply he would have formed died in his throat; her voice hit him harder than any punch Red Hood could ever land. What could Bruce say to that? It was four words, but they reverberated loudly in his heart.
Miriam didn't trust him. She didn't want him there, didn't feel like she could ask him for anything.
And he didn't know how to protect her from herself.
"Do you think that… that this gets better?" she asked unexpectedly, and Bruce almost wasn't sure he'd heard her right with her voice still slurred and muffled.
"That what does, Miri?"
"This. Life. Not feeling like…" she trailed off, sitting up to stare at him like she had when she was a kid. Like Bruce had all the answers in the world. "Do the feelings go away? Do you ever feel better?"
He was tempted to pull over on the side of the road. To look at her and figure out what her eyes were telling him. Find a way to make it so she wasn't so… sad, so disappointed.
But, just like with Rachel, all the words Bruce wanted to say were trapped under his tongue. So he didn't say anything, just took one hand from the wheel and lay it between them, palm-up, breathing easy for the first time in hours when she placed hers in his.
BREAKING: 23-year-old Miriam Kane was spotted leaving Arkham Asylum with Bruce Wayne Monday afternoon. Kane's return, a shock after avoiding criminal prosecution for her alleged role in the Siege that rocked Gotham in the fall of 2014, has residents and officials alike concerned. Commissioner Jim Gordon and Miriam Kane could not be reached in time for publication. Anonymous sources told the Gotham Times that Kane was at the asylum visiting the Joker, the man convicted of orchestrating the Siege after being deemed unfit to stand trial and sentenced to Arkham. Is this evidence of collusion, of the rumoured romantic nature which allegedly began in early October 2014? Is Bruce Wayne actively involved, or has he been wrapped into this death cult that surrounds the Joker under Kane's influence? Further investigation—
"Jesus Christ," Roman muttered, exiting the Gotham Times Online webpage as he laughed to himself.
This what they're passing for news nowadays? Fucking Christ almighty.
Journalism might've been thrown out the window, but at least it was entertaining. Roman couldn't lie, he enjoyed the drama of others, especially when he could watch from the sideline. That Miriam bitch visiting the Joker could prove fruitful for him, particularly if she was as much of a problem as David made her out to be. He could kill two birds with one stone just by doing nothing; she could get herself arrested and he wouldn't have to worry about lifting a finger.
But what if she and that crazy clown are actually planning something?
Now that wouldn't work with what he had planned. He shouldn't believe what they were writing, everyone knew it was a load of shit, but things took on an extra level of weird with that douche-fuck Wayne involved. What was his game?
Roman didn't realize how enraged he was at Wayne until he shattered the glass he was holding. Why did it have to be the fucking Waynes—always the goddamn Waynes that were the source of some of his worst headaches? It was they who were so close to running the Sionis' out of town, taking every corner of corporate business in Gotham and then some. But that dipshit's parents were dead. Hell, so were his. This was his town now.
His.
And information was power. Why rely on a couple of hacks to do everything for him? It wasn't expedient to do much as his alter ego in this situation. Wasn't much Dent could do for him, either. He meant to listen to Dent about keeping a low profile and all, but everyone expected parties from rich people, right? And accidents happened all the time in the most unexpected ways.
Maybe it was time for him to… flex a little.
What's the point of being rich if everybody doesn't know it?
"Hey, Brenda," he called. It took a minute, but she popped her head through his office door. She looked glum, pouty. Apparently, she hadn't gotten over their little incident a few days ago. He gave a half-hearted attempt to not sneer. "I haven't thrown a big shebang here yet, have I?"
Brenda looked ready to clock him but, like a good girl, she'd learned to manage that tongue of hers.
We'll see how long it lasts.
"No, you haven't." Her face was deadpan, and Roman couldn't help but chuckle, grinning widely as she struggled to stay neutral.
"Well, how 'bout we change that?"
Now she really couldn't hide her disdain. He all but cackled as he swept the broken glass onto the carpet. One of the cleaners would get it later.
"What did you have in mind, Roman?"
"Something… big. Fancy. Y'know, the works."
He snickered when she rolled her eyes. "Is there a purpose or are you just looking to spend money?"
Guess there's some things you can't half-ass when you're teaching women a lesson.
"I don't know, make something up. You were always good about that PR bullshit." He waved a hand, standing up just to crush the remnants of the glass under his shoe and dig it into the carpet.
Might as well make 'em work for their paycheck.
"Who do you even want at this party?" she asked, not even pretending to take notes anymore.
"I don't care about that either," he said, making sure to stand close to her, his chest brushing against hers as he walked past. "Just make sure the Waynes are there."
He left her standing in the doorway as the alcohol made the room spin pleasantly and he conjured the image of stepping on two more thorns in his side that kept him from greatness. It wouldn't be long, but the whole city would know Bruce fucking Wayne wasn't their prince, Roman was, and he was all for a coup, especially if he was the one spilling the blood.
It had been a long time since the Joker had felt like singing. But, oh boy, he felt positively light.
They'd let him back in the recreation room for the first time in over a year. He'd actually gotten to see the setting sun through the windows, finally have a few more faces to add to the kill list he'd been keeping a diligent tally of during his time in Arkham, because if there was one thing the Joker was known for, it was returning the favour for all the lovely little presents he'd been given during his time in isolation.
It was only a matter of when he wanted to deliver the punchline. And he'd make sure it was a good one. A real riot.
I got no strings to hold me down
To make me fret, or make me frown
The other patients gave him a wide berth as he hummed loudly, half-muttering a few words here and there under his breath to the tune, and he propped up his legs on one of the tables, throwing a hacky sack he stole from Helen, or whatever the hell her name was, and caught it again one-handed.
Oh, how he had missed being able to stretch and move, to be able to stand and walk and not even have to wear that goddamn straitjacket.
He didn't see most of the people he recognized before being placed in his special treatment plan anywhere, that took away some of his giddiness. Johnny boy probably had his own room somewhere, the mook, and, knowing Strange, the people like Big Chris that he'd previously tormented were either dead or one step closer to becoming a vegetable. Or they were cured. Weirder things had happened.
But hey, he still had Simon. It didn't particularly matter that he was already well on his way to being pickled, Joker liked having a real face to talk at for a change—all the better for him when this one wouldn't talk back.
And, even better than that, he didn't see her anymore. The fake Miriam. His personal familiar who'd stuck with him for so long. He didn't need her, not when he had access to the real thing now. And what a difference between the two of them. He didn't know how he survived with just an afterimage to subsist on.
He could still see her clearly from that morning, the all-black outfit like she was going to a funeral and the braid he wanted to use to tug her head back and expose her throat. Despite the makeup, she still looked exhausted. Wild. Caged. She was ready to burst out of whatever little box she'd been placed in just as much as him. She just needed more… encouragement.
And he was all too happy to lend a helping hand.
Seeing her hair so short had been a shock, something that hit differently than he'd anticipated, and her tongue was just as sharp as he remembered, but it was her eyes that struck him the hardest. He remembered in the beginning, before things got so messy, when her eyes had been guarded but so light, unknowing of just how bad life could be, when she'd used her anger like a whip only for it to transform into terror and uncertainty, then confusion and searching for comfort—in me, don't forget—and then all those… delicious times when he'd seen the walls she'd built begin to crumble, one brick at a time, until he saw what was really underneath.
He'd seen it again that afternoon, just a glimpse of it right at the end. She always was most beautiful when she was on the edge of losing it completely, and, boy, had she looked ravishing.
Miriam was fire, and her flame had grown to match his; encouraged it to fan back to life when he'd feared it might've been snuffed out for good.
I had strings, but now I'm free
There are no strings on me
It'd be a shame when Death came knocking on her door sooner rather than later. It just wouldn't be the way Strange wanted. Because what he'd told Miriam, back in that rust bucket where their relationship had sparked and again when he'd carved his claim to her soul on her chest, still held true all this time later.
She was his, and he'd decide when she'd be extinguished.
He snarled when he realized he still didn't know when he wanted that to happen.
"I've got no strings to hold me down," he sang under his breath.
His mood was good when he shoved the unpleasant side of his thoughts away. He'd seen his sweet peach and he hadn't realized just how much Arkham had effaced until he felt it return to him like a kick to the balls. It made him remember what being alive was like, when things were within his reach again, experience that almost forgotten rush of having a plan work out so well and all he had to do was talk.
It's what I do best, ain't it?
It might've been the perfect evening if Ahab hadn't decided to spoil all the fun. He'd seen enough of his mug to last more than a lifetime—and doesn't he know I have some reminiscing to do? How doggone inconsiderate of him—but it looked like the doctor couldn't take a hint.
"Good evening, 0801," he said as he approached the Joker's table, ignoring the rambling of the other patients as he pulled up a chair and sat gingerly, his legs crossed and hands folded together.
Joker decided to ignore him for a while longer, throwing the ball up in the air a little higher and waiting an extra second before catching it.
Get those kicks in while you can, buckaroo.
He growled in annoyance when a TYGER guard appeared out of nowhere and caught the ball and glared down as he hid it inside his belt. The Joker narrowed his eyes and resolved that he'd gut the man and give him some colourful replacements for his eyeballs at the first opportunity.
"Wowie, twice in one week. Ain't I lucky," the Joker said with sanguine mockery, not changing his position apart from dropping his head so he could better stare at Strange and leave him at a funny tilt that let him pretend that Strange was already in a noose.
"Do not sound so bitter. I came to give you some reading material."
Strange threw a new file on the table between them, leaning back in his chair with his eyes narrowed and face carefully blank. Joker clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to use his newfound mobility to throttle the man. He remembered what it was like to be electrocuted too well.
Priority numero uno: Get this fucking chip out of my neck.
"I would have thought you would be grateful after having nothing but your own twisted thoughts for company all this time, especially after such a productive afternoon," Strange continued, interrupting Joker's thoughts and prompting a quiet growl. He couldn't explain it, but him even alluding to Miriam made Joker want to tear out Strange's throat with his bare teeth. But, now wasn't the time for violence.
Not yet, kid.
Keeping up the tune, he looked at Miriam's updated file, his rage getting hotter when he imagined Strange reading it in his office, all the little thoughts going through his bald head as he spent so much time pondering the toy that wasn't his, and Joker's mind followed a rabbit trail of depravity regarding what else Strange might do in his office all alone, if something about all this managed to get him hard.
The Joker added relieving Strange of his hands to his long list of retribution he'd get before he'd finally put the bastard out of his misery.
Hi-ho the the mer-ri-o
That's the only way to go
I want the world to know
Nothing ever worries me
But that required patience. It would be soon enough when Joker would finally have the opportunity to unspool Strange's brains on the tile floor—show that cockwomble just what the Joker had been thinking about in all that time locked in that tiny cell. And he'd enjoy it, particularly since he had guessed where Strange was heading with this whole scheme of his.
And we know how I feel about schemers, don't we?
Reading Strange's observations on his sweet peach just… rubbed—haha—the Joker wrong. Strange didn't understand her at all. Calling her fragile, laying out the little labels with such gusto, employing all the psychoanalysis he'd paid too much money for without realizing it meant nothing.
Strange didn't know Miriam. Not like Joker did.
And Strange would regret pretending that he did. He'd see what came with trying to walk toe-to-toe with him, for not seeing his enemy for what he was: The Joker was the man who could see into the cracks of the world, he'd seen into Strange, and he'd hit them all where it hurt the most.
"Hmm, not exact-ly going according to, ah, plan, is it?" the Joker asked, referring to how Miriam had stormed out in a flurry of wrath and panic and how Strange had failed so miserably to get her committed after being shown up by Bruce Wayne of all people. That would've been fun to see firsthand. Even more so if Strange had succeeded and Miriam had joined him in here. All that would've been left would be to get Batsy his own room. "How'd you manage to screw that one up? Thought sticking people where they didn't wanna be was like a, uh—a speciality of yours, Ahab."
Strange frowned at the nickname, straightening his legs so that he could lean on them and glare at Joker. "It has only been one session, she will return," he sighed, adjusting his glasses, "she does not have a choice in that, but I do believe that she will ask to see you again. Will you be prepared? It would not do if you were rattled, 0801."
I got no strings so I have fun
I'm not tied up to anyone
'I thought about you every day. Did you think about me?'
The lack of hesitation nearly made him salivate. He had known it, deep in his bones, but hearing her say it out loud made it all the sweeter.
'Yes.'
It was almost as good as hearing her call him Clyde, letting out that ball of rage and reopening the wounds to let them fester. She was nearly perfect now.
I'll get her there. Then she'll die. Poetic, ain't it?
Now, Strange hadn't been the most explicit with him when they'd struck their deal. He was meant to drive Miriam 'to the edge'—whatever that's supposed to mean—(he knew what it meant) as Strange worked on her from his end.
A mutual problem, Strange had called her.
Too bad that Strange really knew nothing, that he'd so grossly misread the information in front of him.
Ah, my sweet peach never learned to stop sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.
Strange hadn't told him this either, but Joker had guessed that she'd done something—again; seems she has a talent for that—to put her on the radar of the wrong people. And she didn't have anyone looking out for her this time.
That would change if he had a say. And he always did.
"I will take your silence as an assurance that you are indeed prepared to fulfill your end of the bargain."
Oh, hell. He's got his monologuing voice on.
He began to drone on, talking about how the Joker needed to focus, to keep that goal in mind (he'd completely stopped listening at this point), all the while the Joker bit the inside of his cheeks, prodding his scars with his tongue while his fingers lingered over his ribs, feeling that bump of tissue as his expression darted like a school of fish in the water, now light, now dark.
They've got strings
But you can see
There are no strings on me
"Are you listening, 0801?"
A look flashed in Joker's eyes, like teeth in a wolf's mouth.
"Mmm." It took a couple of tries to control the volatile anger just underneath the surface waiting to burst, but Joker dragged his gaze back to Strange's, popping his lips after giving them an unnecessarily long swipe of his tongue.
"Please do tell me if you are bored, 0801. I would not want to waste your ample leisure time."
The Joker giggled, sounding close to a hyena, as he finally took his feet off the table and spread his legs wide, arms swinging as he rolled his shoulders back. "Oh, no, no—ignore me. I'm just the, ah, crazy person and you're the doctor."
Taking the file back, including the same photograph of Miriam Strange had shown him the first time, the good doctor rose to his feet and clicked his tongue. "Your privileges come with a zero-tolerance policy, 0801. Your previous behaviours will not be acceptable here. Is that understood?"
Spoilsport.
Part of the game for now was playing along. So Joker nodded in acquiescence, waving Strange away as the patients' nightly dessert came around, and grabbed a deck of cards from the games shelf before sitting back down, shuffling through them as he shifted his attention to the TV before they'd get their tranqs to keep them down for the night.
He ignored the bad taste in his mouth as he eyed up his chocolate pudding cup after they slapped it down in front of him, the nurses looking at him with fearful apprehension. They'd stopped giving out plastic cutlery—the new ones were softer, more flexible silicone and especially difficult to use for stabbing.
Never say never.
He went to take his first spoonful when he saw what the nurses deigned to let them watch tonight. Cackling loud enough to make half the room stop and stare, the Joker doubled over with laughter.
Just can't get away from you, can I?
They were playing the news, and just as Jack Ryder's face disappeared—knew I should've killed that idiot when I had the chance—a picture of Miriam and someone who looked like Bruce Wayne was slapped on screen. And the Joker was fairly certain he knew where it had been taken.
They were spooling that whole Bonnie and Clyde schtick along the banner, spouting a few new conspiracy theories that topped the previous ones for their level of crazy, and he couldn't help but keep laughing.
It was almost like the universe was trying to tell him something.
Taking a big spoonful of his chocolate pudding, he smiled, felt it grow as he watched her on the screen as the news flipped through their little slideshow, felt that pull in his stomach become more insistent and familiar in a way that almost made him squirm as he thought about all the fun he was going to have because, for once, fun was the one guarantee he had.
"What… what are you laughin' 'bout, J?" Simon asked, a small line of drool trailing out of the corner of his mouth when he perked up from his slumped position at the other end of the table.
"Just somethin' funny," he replied absently, gaze too focused on the screen. "You'll see, ah… soon. Patience is a virtue, y'know."
For a long time, he didn't think it would happen: him getting his control back, that sweet vindication of seeing a plan falling into place—that he'd wither away in this hole as he rotted from the inside out—but now—
Things are going my way.
Simon didn't look like he understood. "W-Why?"
Pulling out the joker card from the deck and holding it aloft, he grinned. "Didn't ya know, Simon? Good things come to those who wait."
They've got strings
But you can see
There are no strings on me
AN: Hello, lovely people! Thank you for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter and are staying safe with everything going on. Remembering some key details from There's No Hell Like Arkham are important here - mainly, that Eugene is no friend of Strange's and that he was the one who went to Brenda at the end of that story thinking she could help, and that's factoring in again here. My motivation has sort of taken a plunge as the stress of all this ramps up and I'm finishing up my term work, so, for now, I'm going to keep with my two-week posting schedule. I'll see you all again on April 11 💖.
And another big shout-out to jasminau, MrJsHaHaHarley, JohnJoestar, and clvn44 and all you beautiful people for reading and supporting this story and me. It means so much to me and you have my gratitude!
