I think I am going to tell most of this story from Jonathan's point of view, because allowing a glimpse into the Joker's mind seems to strip away much of his mystery.

Also, in the long run, I think it is easier to empathise with Jonathan than with the Joker.

Chapter One: In His Idleness


Yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.

Virginia Woolf

The asylum had never been so unbearably tedious when he was the administrator.

Well. It had been, Crane just hadn't noticed. Say what you like about the ethical implications of torturing your patients, but it was certainly more than enough to get a man out of bed in the morning.

But that was all gone now. Of course. That is what happens when you become Gotham's first ever supervillain, a truly dubious honour. All washed down the drain like his fear toxin in the water supply, not a slow drip, but a flash flood, terrifyingly sudden.

Dignity. Prestige. Money, (although he'd never had much use for it himself). Gone gone gone.

Nothing left but a mind like a blade and a voice in his head and shatteringly cold blue eyes.

They let him out of the straitjacket eventually. When he was stable enough not try to claw his arms down to the bone, screaming. Even as he stabilised, he considered doing it still. The fear on the faces of the orderlies each time they tried to drag his ragged fingernails from the haphazard, nauseatingly painful wounds was palpable. Not to mention delicious.

He resisted. The more he remembered what it was like to be sane, the more he missed it. Control, the word etched onto the very core of his being, was an unattainable dream for the bloody, scrawny heap of bones he had become.

Thus, slowly, the fog began to clear out of his mind. It took considerable effort. As he came to, he began to realise how boring it all was, the whitewashed walls, the other patients, even his doctors. Was this to be his life now? For the rest of his life?

But that was not all. As the Master of Fear began to take control of his mind again, he in turn began to feel afraid.

Reality was still a distant yet thrilling prospect, the night an orderly, while locking him in for the night, leant down and whispered in his ear, "You're a mess. But you're a hot mess."

Crane had never been one for slang of any kind. Language, having a greater vocabulary than others, was one of his most powerful tools, and he hated to hear it degraded.

So the orderly's words meant little to him, and anyway, the shaking wouldn't stop it wouldn't stop and when the lights went out it would be running down the walls again and what if he couldn't keep his eyes shut this time?

Weeks passed. Time was fluid here. Hushed innuendo continued. One night, the orderly pushed dark hair back from a sharp cheekbone. The next, large fingers stroked down his neck. The next, a hand closed around his wrist.

The next night, all three.

And even Crane, brilliant psychiatrist, mad scientist, who couldn't interact with the common man for all the tea in China, had worry niggling around the edges of his eyes.

He was usually disastrously bad at reading facial expressions, body language, all non verbal signals. He couldn't deny it was odd for a man who could break people down from the inside out with a few sentences and an icy smile, but there it was.

His razor-like wit and intelligence usually got him where he wanted to go. Who needed others?

But when Crane looked at the orderly, something coiled in the pit of his stomach which felt dangerously like unease. When the man looked at Crane, his pupils dilated. When he came nearer to Crane, his breathing became rough and heavy. And when he touched Crane, Crane closed his eyes and said very quietly to himself,


Yes, I am very sure that there is a deeply unpleasant physical reaction taking place in this man's regulation slacks right now. Avert your eyes and be very grateful he's not using it on you. Be calm, Jonathan. Breathe.

Years of bullying and abuse meant impassive condescension could easily be faked. But the plummeting feeling in his stomach every time the orderly came near him did not abate, and as much as he comforted himself, he suspected it was a fruitless endeavour.

After a month of one sided flirting, The Incident took place. Crane always capitalised it in his mind. How could he not? Life certainly wasn't boring after this.

Perhaps it was just his flair for the dramatic.

Now, who did that remind him of?

Hot mess is a particularly hilarious term, I have always found. Its definition can be found very quickly by searching Urban Dictionary.

The orderly meant it in the "in a horrible state but still physically attractive" way.