AN: It's twenty-six degrees out now. A miracle!

Thanks for the reviews!

The Batsignal was lit, casting light across the otherwise darkened, cloudy sky of Gotham. Despite all the light pollution from buildings, streetlamps, floodlights, and the like, the night sky always managed to be black as pitch, rarely if ever letting stars shine through, and the moon only occasionally visible. Almost as if it were the city's mirror image; reflecting its bleak, hopeless nature back at itself.

So what does that make the Batsignal? Bruce wondered, charging through the streets on the Batpod. The entire Tumbler hadn't seemed necessary for this; the Joker was at Arkham after all, when he was subdued, he wouldn't need to be transported. Besides, two Tumblers had been destroyed now, first by the Joker's bazooka when protecting Harvey Dent, and the second by Harley Quinn, with a similar weapon. It hardly seemed worth several million more repairing it, money that could be spent helping the city in other ways.

He shot another glance to the Batsignal, as he turned around a corner. Was it a reflection of the city's hope, of the citizens who still hadn't given up, even with the revelation of Harvey Dent's true nature? Or was it only a symbol of fear, something to strike terror into the hearts of criminals as he'd intended when he'd chosen to make himself a bat? In a way, maybe both. He'd like to think that Batman had given Gotham hope, inspired a change for the better, but he was never sure. The only proof he'd ever had of that, really, was the copycat Batmen, and that had never been the kind of inspiration he'd meant to create.

As for fear, there he knew he'd been successful. At least, in most cases. Then there were those like the Joker, who remained unfazed no matter what he tried.

The Joker. Just thinking the name made him accelerate, almost unconsciously.

He didn't need to respond to the signal to know what was going on. He'd already heard the situation at Arkham over the police scanner. Not to mention that the video clip of the Joker's latest threat had been all over the news, since GCN had gotten a hold of it, not more than an hour ago. And given that surely nothing occurring in the city tonight required more police attention than this, the Commissioner was surely at Arkham now. Whoever they had on the roof was just a precaution, either to let the Joker know the Batman had been informed of the situation or as an attempt to assure the citizens with family or friends in Arkham that something was being done.

The threats seemed straightforward enough; bring in the Batman, or everyone dies. Himself included, but the Joker had demonstrated time and time again that he seemingly couldn't care less what happened to himself. But the Joker was anything but straightforward. "Man of his word," maybe, but his word meant exactly whatever he chose to interpret it as at the time. Going in with his guard down would be signing his own death warrant. Still, he doubted the Joker would blow up Arkham with Batman inside. Mad as he was, he was consistent in his sick mockery of affection , and to kill Bruce without corrupting him would give him no entertainment.

But he was up to something. He had to be, to walk back into his place of imprisonment, explosives or not. He was insane, but he wasn't an idiot. Still, whatever he had planned, it didn't matter. What mattered was getting in there, taking him down, and making sure no one else got hurt. The police hadn't been able to get in and confirm any causalities, but he was sure there had been deaths. This was the Joker, after all. He had no regard for anyone's life, not even his own. That was part of what made him so dangerous.

His heart went out, briefly, to both those who were surely dead by now, and their loved ones who'd yet to receive the news. Batman couldn't save everyone, he knew that, but it didn't make the hurt any less each time he uncovered someone else he'd failed. It was like a mild reliving of the deaths of his parents, or Rachel, each time a body turned up. Like witnessing Harvey Dent's downfall again, each time he saw someone break under the weight of their suffering. But he couldn't afford to let such thoughts burden him, not for long. Brooding had to be pushed aside, to help those still in need. Like tonight.

True, Arkham was home to some of the worst in Gotham, the worst himself when the Joker was housed there. But there were good people there as well, and even the criminals deserved protection from this. It was as he'd told Crane not long ago; his horrific experiments—or tortures—on others aside, he still didn't deserve to be blown to pieces. He reflected on how he'd brought Crane back, despite his protests about this exact sort of thing occurring, and shook his head. It was almost funny, in a sick way. Arkham was where the man belonged, doubtless, where all the rogues belonged, but as long as the hospital could be breached in this way, it could hardly be conducive to mental health.

He braked as he came to the front of the asylum, tires screeching against the pavement. Gordon looked away from a group of reporters he'd almost certainly been trying to persuade away, the cameras swinging less than a second later to record the Batman's arrival. He ignored them, looking past the mass of police and journalists and onlookers to inside the asylum's door, where through the smudged glass some of the bombs were visible, wired to blow and contained within…

"Valentine's chocolate boxes?" Nigma said, mouth hanging open as he watched the images unfold onscreen. "You put your bombs in heart-shaped chocolate boxes?"

"Well, yeah," Joker said, as though it made perfect sense. "I'd originally bought all of 'em to, you know, give to Bats on Valentine's Day, but as he didn't show for my job then, I decided to reuse 'em." He began humming, something Nigma couldn't but thought he recognized as a love song.

Nigma fought back a shudder at the reminder of Joker's latest major crime, an attack on a restaurant that made the Saint Valentine's Day massacre look like a mild accident. That thing he'd done with the tea pots they'd described on the news…that was the stuff nightmares were made of.

"Come back to Arkham, he said," Jonathan muttered, rocking back and forth as much as the restraints would allow. He'd completely lost it, upon Nigma telling him his hallucination unfortunately wasn't. He regretted that, now. He'd have liked someone at least partly sane to converse with, and certainly he didn't like seeing his friend go through another panic attack. He hoped that's all it was, and not another breakdown. "It'll help, he said. You'll be fine. This isn't fine. This isn't fine at all. At all."

Joker paused, breaking off mid-hum as he turned. "You're talking about Batman?"

Jonathan's response was to moan, and pull away, twisting his body in manner that suggested he was trying to hide behind Harley as much he could while strapped down. She started stroking his hair again, to no visible effect.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes, then. See Jonathan? He lied to you. He doesn't care about you at all."

"Do you have to kick him while he's down?" Nigma asked, angered despite his knowledge that Joker may happily carve his face open for questioning him. It was bad enough that his friend had fallen for the maniac to begin with, but antagonizing him for no other reason besides the Batman bringing him back was just sadistic. As if he could help that. As if any of them asked to be caught.

Besides the Joker, anyway.

Nigma had figured it out, already, without much effort. Not that it had been too difficult of a riddle to begin with. Obviously, the Joker had been outraged to hear that his former lover had gotten treatment from the Batman he'd never received, and had set out to lure the vigilante to him, so he could be treated in the same way. Arkham as the location because Jonathan was there, and he wanted Jonathan to witness it, to show him that he hadn't taken Joker's place as Batman's arch nemesis, or whatever he considered himself, in his sick mind.

Joker shrugged, stroking Jonathan's bandages again and looking overjoyed at the panicked response. "It's his own fault for playing with my toy."

"Batman's not your toy."

"No." Joker sighed, smiling. "He's even better, because when I play he plays back. Not without encouragement, obviously, but still." He turned back to Jonathan, expression quickly shifting to contempt. "Better than the people who just lie there and let themselves believe what they want to, like stupid little dolls. So easy to break." He leaned forward, kissed Jonathan's forehead, stroking his face in an oddly affectionate way.

Jonathan didn't start muttering to himself again—hopefully, a sign that this hadn't pushed him over the edge once more—but he did go white, whiter than salt. He looked seconds away from fainting, and Nigma, consequences be damned, got off his own bed and onto Jonathan's, sitting beside Harley. Without hesitation, he put his arms around his friend and glared at the Joker, as if daring him to do something about it.

Joker only went back to humming.

"I missed you, Jonathan," Harley said, lacing her fingers through his. With her other hand she turned his head, gently, so he was facing her and not the Joker. A little of his color came back, but not much. "Did you miss me?"

He nodded, barely. "Are you mad still?"

"No. Not at all. Don't worry about that." Her voice was soft, the exaggerated accent she usually spoke in less noticeable, and the singsong quality entirely absent. Nigma imagined that was how she'd sounded as a psychiatrist. "You're all right, Jonathan. Breathe."

His eyes flicked in the Joker's direction. "I—he—"

"I know," she said, moving her head in a way that blocked the clown from his line of view. "It's okay. It's all right. Just breathe."

He nodded, closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out. Harley's hands moved to his shoulders, above Nigma's arms, massaging. Nigma watched, silent, respecting her compassion. How did someone so…what was the word, caring? Forgiving?...end up working for the Joker? Then again, how had Jonathan ended up falling in love with him?

The man was a poison. A cancer, that couldn't be helped. Only destroyed, to keep it from spreading. Pity Batman would never do that. Still, it seemed someone should have tried by now. Whoever ended up putting the Joker down was unlikely to be punished. Commended even.

"What happens," he asked, as the TV screen changed from a shot of the boxes to police officers, harassed by reporter's questions, "if they deactivate the bombs before the Batman gets here? For all you know, they're doing that off camera, right now." He could just pictured the GPD charging in, guns blazing. If he, Harley, and Jonathan wouldn't be slaughtered as well, he'd have been fine with that.

"Oh, they won't dare touch 'em. I told 'em every last box is under constant surveillance, and getting too close to one is grounds for me to set 'em off."

"But they're not," Jonathan said, opening his eyes. The fear was still there, but at least he wasn't hyperventilating anymore. Either he'd tired himself out panicking, or Harley was a miracle worker. "The only way you're watching is the TV."

"They don't know that."

"And if they find out?" Nigma asked, casting a nervous glance to the infirmary windows. All he saw was black, but that didn't mean a thing. Windows at night, when the lights were on inside, worked like two way mirrors; they might not be able to see out, but others could see in. A cop could be standing right in front of the window, taking note of their positions and actions at this very second, and they'd have no way of knowing.

We're dead.

True to form, the Joker only giggled. "It'll be an interesting night then, won't it?"

"I think you and I have different definitions of interesting."

Joker shrugged again, went back to humming, which after a second shifted into singing. "I'll make you happy, baby, just wait and see. For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three."

Wonderful. We're all going to die because he's got a depraved attempt at a crush. If the threat of death hadn't been looming over them all like the sword of Damocles, it might have been amusing.

"Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you. You know I will adore you 'til eternity."

Damn clown. Then again, Batman wasn't entirely blameless in this, either. Maybe if he didn't ignore the Joker for as long as humanly possible—Nigma wondered if he was ever troubled by the deaths his fail to act caused—they wouldn't be in this fine mess. Not that he'd ever be called on it, if they did all die. Not seriously, anyway. Now that he was back to being Gotham's hero, Batman could let the villains suffer all he wanted, and no one would bring it up. They didn't matter, not compared to the law-abiding citizens.

"So won't you please?"

Such was the view of the law-abiding citizens, anyway. Not that they'd ever say so out loud. But deep down, they didn't care what happened to the criminals. The Joker's stunt with the ferries; all that had proven was that deep down, no one wanted to get their hands dirty. Well, that might have been harsh, but it was essentially true. The "good people," the honestly selfless ones, were few and far in between.

"Be my little baby."

And the Batman was anything but a selfless person.

The idea of defending the city in secret, in theory, was a selfless act. Helping the helpless, showing the criminals that they didn't own the city, without asking for gratitude or help. The truth was far darker, far less pure. And far less selfless.

"Say you'll be my darling."

He didn't wear the mask to make the job thankless. He wore it for the same reason they all did, even when their identities had become common knowledge, as Nigma's was now. Partly for theatricality, and partly for protection. He wore the cowl for fear of retribution, either directed at himself or whatever loved ones a man as obsessed with the fight as himself could have. And he was clearly rich, all the gadgets proved that. Or provided for by rich people. Money like that brought power, and power with such resources could surely be used to help the city in better ways than dressing up like an animal and charging through the city in a tank. As for showing the criminals they weren't above the law, he seemed to forget that he wasn't himself. And Nigma got the feeling that whatever motivated him to fight crime, he was equally as satisfied by throwing his opponent through a window as he was with bringing anyone to justice.

"Be my baby now."

The doors opened and Nigma stiffened, Jonathan going cold in his arms. The Batman stood before them, and even from across the room, Nigma could tell that his eyes were burning, every bit of him anticipating and ready for a fight. He risked a glance down at Jonathan, wondering if he could undo the straps fast enough to hide with him under a bed before the Bat could come pouncing at them. Or he could take that as provocation. Damned either way. Great.

"Joker."

His voice was low, graveled, and barely able to contain the so-evident rage. Nigma shuddered in spite of himself; he felt Jonathan do the same, and Harley went rigid beside him, smile frozen, uncertain, on her face.

Joker only grinned wider than ever, hand that had disappeared into his coat at some point reemerging, clutching a detonator. "Whoa oh oh oh…oh."

AN: It's now thirty degrees. I'm not sure how that happened, as it seems to have gotten warmer now that the sun is down, but I'm not going to question it.

Nigma's thing about windows working as two way mirrors is why I absolutely must have all my shades drawn at night. The idea is just…augh.

What Joker's singing is "Be My Baby," by the Ronnettes.