AN: The chapter title is a reference to Joker's metaphor about the rose from chapter fourteen.

So spazberry finished her lovely little fan art, which you should all go check out here: http: // atroxbasium. deviantart. com/ art/ Crane-Considers-a-Clown-Fini-108818495 (remove the spaces). Look at the drawings on the walls, they are awesome.

Thanks for the reviews!

You're having a breakdown, Scarecrow said, and for once, he was the one who sounded nervous. You know that, right?

Your point being? This hallway was even worse than the one he'd fought Batman in, littered so thickly with bodies that it slowed his pace by half, at least. He'd tried walking on top of the corpses, but as it turned out, some of them weren't fully dead and had that annoying habit of moving and shrieking beneath him. He supposed the higher body count here was due to the proximity toward the exit; people had flocked here, trying to get free, like lambs to the slaughter.

My point being that you can't go after the Joker like this. You can't beat him when you're in your right mind, what chance do you have like this?

You underestimate me. A crooked smile twisted his lips. He may be stronger and the better fighter, but I'm pissed beyond description right now. And he's going to suffer for his actions, even if it kills us both. It wouldn't kill him though, he knew that, without knowing how he knew. He'd always been a bit of a narcissist, he'd admit, but never to the level of believing himself safe from harm before. He liked the feeling; it was comforting, it gave him strength. He wondered, vaguely, if he was going into mania, then wondered why he cared. It felt good, it gave him confidence, that was all that mattered.

From down the hall he heard screaming. Intrigued, he quickened his pace, much to Scarecrow's protests. Whether his other half was worried that he'd sprain his ankle over the bodies or that he'd walk into a death trap, he wasn't sure and didn't care. It was soothing, the screaming, like a favorite song playing on the radio unexpectedly, and he wanted to be near it, take it in before he went to kill the Joker. Aural courage, as it was.

He stepped through another step of doors, into the main lobby of the asylum, and saw the source of the screaming at once. Joan Leland, that irritating doctor he'd always disliked. Of course, she'd be the one to survive the massacre. He almost laughed. Didn't look like she'd be living for long, though. Currently, she was being backed into a corner by an enormous inmate who may or may not have been affected by the laughing gas, hands soaked in blood and gore almost up to the elbows.

Jonathan did laugh, then, and both of them turned to face him.

"Jonathan?" Leland's eyes were wide, her expression lost. He figured she had no idea what he was doing here, which was pathetic, really. People being killed off with a strange chemical substance, his sudden appearance, and she couldn't put two and two together? Or maybe it was the drag throwing her off. Either way, it made him laugh harder than ever.

Jonathan! Scarecrow's voice was loud, terrifying, and he stopped laughing long enough to note that the psychotic was now advancing on him.

Is that all? Pull yourself together. He pointed the knife in the inmate's direction, waiting. "They roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws," he said, giggling, as Leland went the whitest he'd ever seen a black woman turn and Scarecrow screamed at him to run for his life. The inmate, still approaching, didn't looked fazed in the slightest, though he didn't look much of anything to Jonathan, apart from soon to be dead.

"Til Max said, 'BE STILL!'" he shouted, and that was when the man jumped. Leland shrieked louder than ever.

It was ridiculously simple, really, to evade. All he had to do was step ever so slightly out of the way at the right moment, make sure to stick the knife out, and the rest was done for him. The inmate slumped a second later, Jonathan's knife in his eye socket, likely pushed back to the brain.

"And tamed them all with the magic trick of staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once," he went on to the corpse, almost conversationally, as he pulled the knife out, holding the body up by the shirt. As best he could anyway, it was heavy. He looked at the eye dripping down the face, so different from the other, intact if glazed one, and recalling the Joker's story about symmetry, stuck his knife in the other eye. He twisted the blade, and something like egg white ran down the face. He pulled it out, wiped it on the body's shirt, and let him fall. "And they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all."

…Jonathan? Scarecrow asked, now frightened by his other half itself, as opposed to just the situation. Jonathan, I really think you ought to sit down and take a few deep breaths before you do anything else.

Fuck that noise, Jonathan responded, heading for the exit.

"Jonathan!" He turned, mildly annoyed. Leland was standing, still shaking. "Jonathan, what's going on? Why are you here?" She looked him over, eyes widening over what he assumed was the outfit until she spoke again. "Is that your blood?"

"Not all of it." He thought about killing her. Certainly she'd been a thorn in his side long enough to warrant it. But no, if he was going to kill Leland, he wanted to take make it last, make her suffer the way he'd suffered through her long, stupid therapy sessions, and he was running out of time. Chances were the Joker had left by now, and tracking him down would be hard enough without giving the trail time to fade. He turned to go.

"Jonathan, wait!"

He ignored her. She certainly wasn't going to try grabbing hold of him when he was armed, and if she'd had a weapon, she would have used it. He stepped through the doors and outside, feeling the cool night air on his skin.

Jonathan, stop. Seriously, think this through. If you fuck with him, he'll kill you without a second thought.

He can try, Jonathan thought, tightening his grip on the knife as he headed for the parking lot.

Wait! Don't you want to go back there and harass that nice doctor? Scarecrow pleaded, the mental equivalent of dragging his heels into the ground and refusing to move. You can do that thing you love so much where you give bitchy little sarcastic response to her questions. Or, you know, talk about emotional rape and why it's bad and all, if you want.

Shut up. Thinking about the way the Joker had treated him brought unhappy thoughts dangerously close to the surface. He didn't want to come off the cloud he was standing on, back down to Earth where he had feelings to be hurt and he wasn't invincible. He focused on how pretty the Joker's blood would look, all spilt across his throat and on the pavement, and grinned.

He'd gone halfway around the building before he spotted them, to his surprise, standing by some ridiculous flashy reds sports car. The Joker appeared to be smashing through the window with a crowbar, God only knew where he'd found that. Harley stood beside him, camera in hand. He advanced, ignoring Scarecrow's increasingly verbose protests—he hadn't realized Scarecrow knew that many big words—and approached them, knife in hand and fear toxin ready. He wondered why they were still hanging around. Perhaps the Joker had gotten into a fight or two on his way out.

Harley spotted him first, and waved. She looked far less depressed than she had when he'd last seen her. Doubtless the clown had already begun manipulating her back into her compliant, servant girl disposition, judging by her perkiness at noticing him. If he'd been in her position, he definitely wouldn't have been that happy.

How could I have let that happen to me? He wondered, unable to keep from hurting as he watched her smiling face. How could I have been so stupid? He was disgusted with himself, almost as ready to turn the blade on his own throat as he was to slash the Joker's. The Joker was a manipulator, yes, but he was supposed to be a genius. He was supposed to be above lies like love and primal, biological urges. The fact that he'd been played so easily made him sick. Well, maybe if he killed the Joker, the hurt would go away. Either way, the clown would be dead, and that was something.

Anyway, the hurt went out of his head went his former lover abandoned the crowbar for a moment, turning to face him. The king of all wild things. The Joker. The soon-to-be bleeding out. He felt himself smile. Joker was going to die, and he was going to enjoy every last second.

"Kitten! How did it go?" He took in Jonathan's appearance and whistled, then shook his head at the state of his friend's legs. "Aw, your tights—they're in ribbons."

Something about that statement—or perhaps just Joker's nonchalance—pushed him over the edge, and he made his move. The knife flashed out in his hand, slicing through the Joker's shirt. He'd overestimated his reach though; the skin below the fabric was barely cut, and Joker moved out of range before he could try again. Harley screamed.

Joker only stared, nauseatingly calm. "I take it you're not happy with me?"

"You broke your promise." He could feel the hurt coming back, at the worst possible moment, of course. Such was his luck. He tried to stay on that cloud, removed from it all, but the cloud was sinking to the ground, becoming fog, and he felt himself falling with it. Tears were forming in his eyes. "You lied."

"Did not," he said, almost gently. "I said, I wouldn't let Batman get you if I was around to stop it. And I wasn't in the room, scaredy cat."

Oh, you son of a bitch. How dare he try and justify himself? He lunged at the Joker, ignoring Harley and Scarecrow's protests, knife out. The Joker grabbed hold of his wrist, twisting it back, and the weapon fell to the pavement. Outraged, Jonathan shot out his other hand closing it as tightly as possible around the Joker's throat. "I'm going to kill you!"

Joker only laughed, pushing his hand away as if it was nothing. "I finally broke you, huh? Gotta say, Jonny, you're certainly more forceful this way. It's interesting."

"Guys?" Harley's voice was shaking, unsure. "Please don't fight—"

"You used me." His fists were flying out so fast he could barely keep track of them, colliding with the Joker over and over again and that damn clown just kept laughing. "You used me and you left me."

"Well, yeah. Why are you surprised about it?"

"Because it hurt, stupid!" he shouted, tears falling down his face now. He was humiliating himself and that hurt almost as much as the betrayal had. "You said that you loved me, and then you used me to run away. It hurt."

"You're going to kill me for that?" The Joker was giggling. He'd have given anything at that moment to grab onto his stupid green hair and slam his head against the car until he knocked every tooth in that smile right out. And he would too, as soon as he got a hold of him.

"Yes."

"Good luck with that."

"Guys—" Harley pleaded, but Jonathan had already jumped forward, arms wrapping around the Joker's middle as they went crashing to the ground. Joker was laughing harder than ever, despite all the punches colliding with his jaw, and that just made Jonathan hit harder.

He smiled, revealing bloodstained teeth. "Kitten, relax." His tone was infuriatingly reasonable. It made Jonathan want to kill things. Starting with him.

"Don't call me that!" He felt tears starting again and blinked furiously to clear his eyes.

"Jonathan, then. Please don't be sad. Look, what I did was wrong, all right? I know that. But don't ruin what we have over it."

"Shut up." He had no desire to hear anything the Joker had to say. That was how he got into this mess in the first place, letting himself be drawn in by the madman's words. Well, it wasn't going to happen again. "We never had anything, you son of a bitch, beyond your twisted little games. You used me from the start."

"How can you say that?" Joker asked, sounding wounded. His face fell into such an expression of sadness that Jonathan honestly couldn't tell if it was an act or not. "Everything we had…how can you write that off, because of one little—well, huge," he corrected, before he could be hit again. "Mistake?"

"Shut up!" He couldn't listen to this, couldn't let himself be drawn in again. Because if he let the Joker hurt him again, he wasn't sure he could go on afterwards. "I don't want to hear any more of your lies."

"The rose, Jonathan." His voice was soft, almost pleading. "The rose, and the kisses after that. How can you say that didn't mean anything? How can you call that a lie?"

The rose…he felt something inside himself give as he thought of the flower, and the spark of joy it had given him every time he looked at it in the days after that first fantastic night. It was enough to make him hesitate. "But…you hurt me."

"And it was wrong. I know that. And I know your feelings are all messed up." Joker's wide brown eyes stared up at him, for once looking sane, reasonable even. "But honey, don't let that ruin all the good times we've had. Don't confuse yourself into thinking that what we have is meaningless."

It would have worked. He was ready to give in right there, to let the Joker convince him that everything would be all right. Lean down and kiss him, let the clown hold him as they stared up at the stars, apologies exchanged without speaking. Certainly it was preferable to this pain. He felt his resolve weakening, Scarecrow relaxing, and was opening his mouth to make some apology for the violence, when Harley stepped into his line of view.

Doubtless she was still terrified; they'd been speaking too softly for her to hear. She likely had come closer to make sure neither of her friends was stabbing the other, that they were both still breathing. But seeing her was a reminder, a reminder that the Joker was nothing but a manipulative bastard. Nothing he said, no matter how convincing, no matter how much nicer it was than facing the real world, could be trusted, and Harley was living proof of that. If he gave in now, he'd end up just like her, pathetic, more broken than he was now, and always rushing straight back into the Joker's arms, no matter how badly he was abused.

And he would not let that happen. He couldn't. He'd seen his mother submit in that way to various men, then his best friend as well, but he would not let it happen to himself. Straightening up, he slapped the Joker across the face, as hard as he could, crying all over. "You used me. You…" There was only one word for it, really, though it had happened to his emotions and not his body. "You raped me, you sick bastard."

The Joker grabbed hold of his wrists, flipping over so that Jonathan was the one pinned, cold asphalt pressing into his back. "Raped you? Now that's just untrue, Jonny, and I don't. Like. It. When people lie about me." He slapped Jonathan, hard, starting the nosebleed the Batman had given him back up. "Be a good boy and stop acting like a dumbass, or I'll make that little lie come true."

He wouldn't, Jonathan thought, though it didn't stop him from shaking. That's not his style. He wouldn't do that. But the fact that he'd made the threat to begin with, that ignited Jonathan's rage all over again, and he latched on to the one thing he thought would hurt the Joker the most. "He touched me."

Joker stared at him, confused, probably the first true emotion he'd shown since Jonathan arrived. "What?"

"The Batman. He touched me." Jonathan forced himself not to shudder at the memory, forced a smile on his face. This, hopefully, would hurt the Joker to hear every bit as much as his betrayal had hurt, and then some. "After you left. He touched me all over."

There was a flash of something—hurt? Jealousy?—in the Joker's eyes, though it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. He shrugged. "So you got molested. So what?"

"All over," Jonathan repeated, feeling bile rise in his throat at the thought of it, forcing his expression to remain content. "Here," he took one of the Joker's hands, ran it over his chest. "And here," over his stomach. "And here," over his side. "And here," and came to rest with the Joker's hand on his crotch, smirking.

Was it his imagination, or had the Joker gone pale under his makeup? Not, it wasn't his imagination, the clown was trying to laugh it off, but he was affected, Jonathan could see the anger in his eyes. "That's a search, you idiot. Are you so deprived of human contact you think a search counts as sexual interaction?"

Harley muttered something Jonathan didn't take the effort to make out. "Who cares what it was? He touched me and he didn't touch you." The argument sounded idiotic to his own ears, like something a child on a playground would come up with, but the Joker was shaking with anger. Scarecrow warned him, begged him really, to be more careful, but he was past concern for his own safety. All he wanted was to hurt the Joker, and this was working beautifully, so what if it was suicide? "He touched me all over and he said he didn't want to hurt me. So there."

"Jonathan." He had never heard the Joker's voice go flat like that. "Be quiet."

"I tasted him," Jonathan went on, nearly laughing at the way Joker went stiff. "This blood? Some of it's his."

"Quiet, I said." There were hands on his arms, painfully tight, shoving him into the pavement. He giggled.

"I had my lips on him. On his bare skin."

"Shut up!" A hand slammed into his face, and he saw stars, but remained happy as ever. This was good. This was fantastic.

"I tasted his blood, Joker. I swallowed some of it. I've got the Batman—"

"Shut up!" There were hands on his throat, tightening.

"I've got the Batman inside me," he rasped, before his airway was shut off completely.

"Shut up shut up shut up!" He couldn't breathe, and his head was being slammed against the pavement, over and over again. Over the sudden ringing in his ears he could hear Joker shouting, Harley screaming, and the horrible pounding sound of his skull against the parking lot. He saw stars and not much else, beyond the occasional flash of the Joker's furious face when his vision cleared enough.

For about a minute, he just lay there enjoying it. Pain aside, he'd succeeded in hurting the Joker, and that was all that mattered. He could happily die right here and now, for all he cared. But after the first minute, his oxygen-starved lungs started screaming at his brain, and pleasure gave way to panic. He thrashed, uselessly trying to pull the Joker off him, to no avail whatsoever. He was too strong, and too angry.

The ringing in his ears intensified to the point where he couldn't hear anything else anymore, the stars he saw filling his vision. His body was heaving, struggling for air it couldn't get, and in his desperation he did the only thing his suffocating mind could think of: he raised his wrist and fired the fear toxin right into the Joker's face.

AN: The bits Jonathan says in italics while he's attack the inmate are from Maurice Sendak's book Where The Wild Things Are. I think my having Jonathan quote random things is inspired by Jeff Loeb's Scarecrow, who speaks almost exclusively in nursery rhymes. That, and it reflects how completely batshit he's become.

"My tights—they're in ribbons!" is a line from Breakfast on Pluto.

When Joker threatened rape, I don't think for a second he meant to go through with it. It was just a tactic to try and keep Jonathan in line.