AN: 'Alouette', if you haven't heard it, is one of those very happy-sounding children's songs with not so happy, kind of creepy lyrics. I believe the English translation is available online if you google Alouette lyrics. The line Joker sings referring to wings, I chose, because I felt it fit with Jonathan losing his desire to fight for his freedom.

Thanks for the reviews!

Jonathan awoke the next morning to find the Joker's arms around him, and rolling over to face his companion found that he was still asleep, and much to Jonathan's pleasure, hadn't yet reapplied the makeup. Immediately he retrieved his glasses from his pocket, careful not to wake the Joker while doing so, and slipped them on. Upon his vision clearing, his immediate thought was Dear God, am I a cradle robber?

All right, so he wasn't that young. But he was young; much younger than Jonathan would have suspected, and very likely younger than him. The makeup had made him seem older, somehow—possibly due to the corpse-like look it gave—but he couldn't be any older than early thirties, and even that seemed like stretching it. After he'd adjusted to this startling fact, several minutes later, he was able to look past it and taken aback at once by the freckles. Not that there were many of them, but Joker and freckles simply could not connect in his mind, no matter how hard he tried. There was something far too innocent-seeming about them to mesh with the Clown Prince of Crime. Well, it was true what they said about not judging books by the cover, then.

Still, unexpected though his appearance was, it didn't make him any less beautiful. And sleeping, with his expression relaxed for once, and face framed by dirty blond curls, he looked peaceful and beautiful and almost angelic. Which was a ridiculous thing to think, Jonathan reflected, given the person, but after all, Lucifer had been an angel once. Anyway, the angelic effect was somewhat ruined by the scars, standing out in dark contrast to his fair skin, but even they didn't seem so horrible. He'd never thought they were that bad to begin with. Disfiguring, yes, undoubtedly adversely affecting facial movement and complicating things like speaking and eating, but not ugly.

Carefully, he raised his hand to the Joker's face and caressed the scars, oddly comforted by the feel of the twisted yet smooth tissue under his fingers for a moment, before he pulled back. Of course there was no response, given that the nerves there were as dead as those in Jonathan's own scars, but it didn't keep him from stiffening for a moment, in fear of his lover waking. He doubted the Joker would take kindly to being seen without the makeup. If he'd been awake it may not have mattered, but sleeping, he was defenseless, and a violation of privacy Jonathan didn't want to carry any further. Slowly, he untwisted the Joker's arms from his body and left the bedroom, making his way to the makeshift laboratory he'd converted the living room into.

Several hours later the Joker came in while he was writing notes and announced his presence by grabbing Jonathan's left hand, which he'd been absentmindedly biting the nails on. "I take it the polish thing didn't work?"

"I think I chewed it off." The Joker had put the makeup back on, he noted, with a twinge of disappointment. Not that he'd expected him to walk around without it, but after seeing his real face, it was a bit of a letdown.

"Nice." He glanced at the pages spread out on the coffee table, releasing Jonathan's hand. "How goes the science?"

"Sciencey."

"You don't say." He sat on the floor beside Jonathan, fastening the cuffs of his shirt. "Mind if I watch?"

He shrugged. "It'll be boring."

"Okay."

Jonathan blinked, but went back to the task at hand.

Patient was not a word he thought he'd ever use in regards to the Joker, but as the minutes ticked by, he didn't leave Jonathan's side. That didn't mean he was quiet, of course; any time there was silence, it was quickly broken by singing, smacking Jonathan's hand away from his mouth, shuffling a deck of cards, or starting a mostly one-sided conversation. It was distracting, but not too greatly, and in a way he preferred it to sitting alone. This makes no sense, he told himself, in an attempt at a stern reprimand that had no effect whatsoever. You're a scientist, and this is getting in the way of progress. You shouldn't even be able to tolerate this, let alone enjoy it.

It seemed he had fallen, and fallen hard. And while that knowledge gave him a sense of unease, it was difficult to be actually upset by it. Sure, the man blew up hospitals for the fun of it, but anyone who could keep him from a panic attack in the middle of a rainstorm couldn't be all bad, right?

It was, however, curious to note that the despite getting almost no response when he spoke, the Joker didn't seem to be annoyed by the lack of attention as he had been the other day. Jonathan wasn't sure why, but his best guess was that this time he wasn't ignoring him with intent to provoke, and they both knew it. It was more than a little irritating, knowing this man had been systematically destroying any method he could use to get the upper hand, but there wasn't much point in getting mad over it. If the Joker wanted to be one step ahead, the best thing would be not to challenge him on it. Just sit back, watch, and wait for an opportunity. Dripping water didn't cut through a rock by force, but time and persistence. He, unlike the Joker, was not ruled by impulse and could therefore follow that method.

Plus, he didn't particularly want the upper hand at the moment. It was far more interesting to see how things were going now. Not that he was relinquishing control, just that he wanted to sit back and watch for a while. It wasn't as if he needed the clown's affections, not really. They were just nice to have.

They sat for at least another hour or so, Jonathan working and the Joker doing whatever idea popped into his head, until Jonathan realized he needed to eat and came out of the oblivious, concentration-induced fog he spent so much time in when dealing with toxins. The Joker's hand was on his back, he noted, somewhat marveled that he hadn't felt that before, fingers running across his shoulder blade, as the clown sang. In French.

"Je te plumerai les ailes, je te plumerai les ailes—"

He straightened, immediately, turning to regard his companion. "Are you singing Alouette?" he asked, stunned.

"What? It's French. That's the language of romance, Jonny."

"Not if it's Alouette, it's not." He supposed nothing the Joker did should really surprise him anymore, especially singing cheerfully depraved music, but it had still startled him. Possibly because he'd been listening to it without noticing for some time. Well, he supposed acting out the song would explain why the Joker kept poking him. Which made things all the more unsettling.

Joker looked confused for a moment, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he thought. "Why, what does it mean?"

"You speak French well enough to know."

"I don't speak French at all, kitten."

"You did the night that you killed Anna Ramirez. So either you've forgotten since then, or you only speak it when you're drunk. And that just makes no sense at all."

He shrugged. "I happen to be talented like that."

"Whatever." Jonathan stood, stretching. "I'm getting lunch. Want anything?"

"Sure."

The refrigerator was almost completely empty. He supposed they'd have to send the henchmen on a shopping trip soon. He wondered if they bothered to pay for things, or just robbed convenience stores. He'd never put the men he hired in charge of such menial tasks, though it didn't quite work as a comparison because his scars weren't massive and instantly recognizable, and thus he could walk into stores without people shrieking and dialing 911.

He returned to the living room, plates in hand. "I made you a sandwich."

"Thanks." He took the plate, and after pulling his gloves off, proceeded to tear the food into bite-sized pieces. So I was right about limited facial mobility, Jonathan thought, watching him eat. It shouldn't come a surprise that he couldn't bite well, given how massive and thick the scars were, but he spoke so fluently it was sometimes easy to forget the severity of the injury.

"You could at least use a knife," he chided.

"I don't waste my knives on mundane things like food, scaredy cat."

"There are knives in the kitchen."

"And walking in there would take effort." He chewed with his mouth open, and Jonathan couldn't tell if that was also due to the scars or just lack of care for etiquette.

"You're getting mayo all over your hands."

The Joker's response to this was to wipe his fingers across Jonathan's lips.

"Hey!"

"Well, that's what you get for nagging like a housewife." Joker caught him staring and smirked, running a hand across the right scar. "Wanna know how I got 'em?"

"That depends. Will the story end with you cutting my face open?"

"Hey, I've told Harley about 'em before, and her mouth is still intact."

"Fine," he said, ignoring the slight rush of adrenaline to his stomach. "So where'd they come from?"

"First you gotta tell me about yours." He placed a hand on the burn scars on Jonathan's face. "I'm really curious as to where they're from, seeing as how it wasn't the Batman."

Jonathan held in a sigh. It figured. "Promise you won't laugh?"

"Why would I laugh, kitten?"

"Just promise."

"Fine. Scout's honor."

Jonathan doubted he'd ever been a Boy Scout, but knew that was the best he'd get. "The night the League of Shadows unleashed my toxin on the city, I'd been poisoned by it myself and confined to the asylum."

"I know that much." He was leaning forward as he listened, attentive as a child hearing a bed time story. Too bad this story wasn't all that entertaining. "You got released with the other psychos, right?"

"Yes. I happened upon a mounted police officer and knocked him out, took the horse, and went riding through the Narrows—"

"Wait a sec." The Joker held up a hand to silence him. "Where'dya learn to ride a horse?"

"College. My roommate's girlfriend was rich and had a stable just outside Gotham. They'd go riding together, sometimes they invited their roommates. Anyway, I was riding through the Narrows, and I happened upon Rachel Dawes."

Joker smirked at the name, and Jonathan, remembering the assistant DA's fate, almost did as well. "She's the one who brought the Bat down on you in the first place, right?"

"Yes. Or at least he arrived very quickly after she did. And God knows she'd been a thorn in my side for far longer than that. So I came across her and decided it was time to repay her in kind for all she'd brought down on me, and…" He trailed off, assuming that would be self-explanatory.

"Well?" the Joker asked, sounding impatient.

Or not. "She had a tazer. I think you can figure out how it went from there."

There was a moment of silence, quickly broken by the clown's shrieks of amusement. "Always said she had a little fight in her," he muttered, gasping for breath, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Oh, shut up."

"C'mon, you got taken down by a little girl with a tazer. That's hilarious."

"She wasn't that little." His pride was wounded, mortally, from the feel of it. "She was taller than me."

"Christ, she was, wasn't she?" He went into another hysterical fit, loud enough to make Jonathan's head ache.

"What happened to your promise?"

"I'm not laughing, Jonny, I'm, uh, giggling. Totally different."

He considered refuting that and then gave up. There'd be no point. "All right, what about your scars?"

"Right." The Joker straightened up at once, immediately quiet. "See, it's like this. I used to be a control freak, like you. Always had to have things my way, couldn't function if anything was the least bit different than how it should be, you know? So I had this friend, my best friend, who'd tell me I need to lighten up. And one night, my friend's driving me home and the roads are icy, and the car flips."

Jonathan sat, transfixed. It wasn't even the story so much as the way he told it; he was unable to look away.

"So I get this piece of glass straight through my face, right here, see?" He indicated the scar on the right. "And down here," here he stroked the smaller scar at the bottom of his lip. "I was lucky, though. My friend got a piece right through the jugular. He, uh, didn't make it."

"So where'd the other scar come from?" It occurred to him that it was best not to interrupt, but he couldn't help himself.

"I'm getting to that. See, after he died, my little, uh, control problem? Got worse. A lot worse. I guess you could say he'd mellowed me out before. Anyway, it got to the point where I couldn't handle it if anything was the slightest bit off. At all. I'd just break down. And symmetry, you see, was one of my big things. I didn't like it when things were, you know," he gave a crooked smile. "Uneven."

Jonathan could see where this was going, and it turned his stomach.

"So one day, I just can't take it anymore, so I get out a box cutter. Only it hurt so badly, I couldn't quite get it even." He poked the left scar, a jagged mess. "And I'm standing there, bleeding, cursing at myself for being such a goddamn idiot, and I hear my friend right? I don't know if it was from beyond the grave or a, uh, blood loss-induced hallucination, but I can hear him, and he tells me to lighten up. So I did."

He smirked again, at the pale expression on his friend's face. "So now you know. And knowing is half the battle. Whaddya think?"

"Well." He swallowed. "It was an excellent story, even if it was absolutely untrue."

"Untrue? Hey, I resent that."

"What you described was obsessive compulsive disorder. And if you're neurotic, then I'm Santa Claus." All right, so that didn't work as an example as all. The point still came across. "Besides, OCD is a caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. It doesn't go away just because you've done something stupid. What's the real story?"

Joker giggled. "You know, I think you're the only one who's ever outright called me a liar before, kitten. Even the shrinks at Arkham just say 'Well, that's unlikely,' or 'That isn't what you said before.' I think they're afraid of getting killed. You got balls, kid."

"The real story?" he persisted. If he'd humiliated himself like that, he'd better be getting something out of it.

"The real story is, I don't know the real story."

"What?"

He seemed sincere. Of course, he always did. "I dunno. I've got about a hundred thousand different stories in my head, and they're all equally likely to me, okay? Even the one involving a fight at lunch in kindergarten using a spork shank."

Jonathan stared. Part of him was stunned, part of him felt pity, and part of him wanted to go back to being a psychiatrist and analyze the hell out of this. "You honestly don't—"

From somewhere in the apartment came a loud banging sound, quickly followed by the vents shutting off. Jonathan hadn't noticed they were running, but then, all air vents were that way. You never seemed to hear them until they'd shut off. "What was that?"

"If I had to guess," Joker said, standing, and waving his hand over the ceiling vent. "I'd say the heat broke."

"Oh. Fantastic." This either meant household repairs or finding a new lair, and both sounded about as appealing as anesthetic awareness.