A/N: There should be a little of something for everyone in this chapter! Its been a little longer between posts than I anticipated, so to make up for it, I made a longer post. Big thank you's to my reviewers - you make my day!
(Interior - Arkham Asylum)
"Crane!"
Jonathan Crane stepped back from his lab table and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a calming breath. He absolutely detested being interrupted, something he'd explained numerous times, and yet the man had absolutely no sense of personal danger. Every little interruption pushed open the mental cell door holding his alter ego in check, and each time, closing the door took a little longer than the last.
You could use him as a test subject you know.
Not until he fulfills his obligations.
Spineless coward, letting a man like THAT dictate your life. Kill him and leave this place, we don't need him.
We have full run of the laboratory, the clown provides the chemicals we need, and Arkham is keeping his end of the bargain. We have access to all the test subjects we could desire, and for now, and Arkham is taking the spotlight for himself, which keeps us out of it.
He is a greedy bastard and is using us to keep himself in the spotlight.
If the public wants to believe Dr. Arkham is curing us, so much the better.
They are fools if they believe that.
On that point, we agree.
Crane turned his head casually towards the public face of Arkham Asylum. "Yes, Dr. Arkham?"
Jeremiah Arkham halted inches from Crane, frowned heavily, and crossed his arms. "There are two new guards today, and I have no doubt the clown is to blame. You need to get a handle on him before we loose all our staff."
Crane smirked, "That would be a tragedy..." then became serious, "...however, if you have an issue with Joker, I suggest you take it up with him yourself. I'm sure he'd be... happy... to accommodate your wishes."
Arkham shuddered, then pointed at Crane. "You're the reason he's here, you take care of it. Don't forget that GPD is following your 'recovery' very closely, and all it would take is one word from..."
Crane twitched and spoke darkly, making Arkham involuntarily step backwards. "Watch your threats, Doctor, unless you want to be scrutinized by GPD yourself. You don't want them asking too many questions about your therapy 'techniques' do you?"
Rapidly deflated, Arkham hunched forward, sulking. "The staff notice these things, Dr. Crane. I cannot keep explaining the sudden replacement of guards and expect no one to raise any alarms... something neither of us wants. I don't know what Joker does here, nor do I wish to know, so long as he leaves the rest of the asylum alone. You have everything you need to continue your... research... and that arrangement works well for both of us. All I ask is that you keep an eye on that psychopath so he doesn't ruin it for all of us."
Crane flashed a condescending smile. "I would think, for a man of your intelligence, explaining high staff turnover at an institution for the criminally insane would be no challenge. The pay is low, the risk is high, and since most of the inmates are unlikely to ever... recover... job satisfaction must be extremely poor. I would imagine it's a very disheartening environment and it's no wonder very few wish to stay on. Now, if you'll excuse me, I was working on something... unless you'd like to stay and help me test it?"
Yes, do stay.
Arkham back away quickly, turned, then headed for the stairwell door. "Fine, but I can only keep the police at bay so long, Crane." He disappeared through the doorway.
Crane turned back to his lab table and muttered under his breath, "... just a little longer, Dr. Arkham, just a little longer."
(Arkham - darkened hallway)
Whistling over the slowly fading screams, Scarecrow walked briskly down the hallway. He considered removing his mask and letting Jonathan back out, but he was having too good an evening to spoil it just yet. He slid quietly into a dark stairwell, descended several flights to the bottom, and then opened a windowless, steel door that appeared locked to anyone who didn't know better. The door opened quietly, despite its aged and rusty appearance, and scarecrow slipped inside the large room and surveyed the rows of barrels and boxes lining the floor. He watched carefully for signs of movement and quickly spied a man-shaped shadow dancing on the far wall; as his footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, the shadow slowly rotated.
"Did you bring the chemicals I asked for?"
High pitched giggles erupted from the shadow's corner, and the figure stepped into view, easily recognizable by the glint of white face-paint and the purple suit. "Ah, well, I guess I don't have to ask who you are tonight. The mask, it's... ah... not very subtle." He giggled again and waved a gloved hand in Crane's general direction, then shook his head and stepped forward, all traces of amusement gone. "Did you bring the files I asked for?"
Scarecrow frowned; if the clown wanted to be all business, he might as well let Jonathan take the lead. Jonathan slid the mask off and slipped it into his coat pocket, then ran a hand through his hair and put his glasses back on. "Of course." He pulled the neatly folded papers from the interior pocket of his jacket and set them on top of the nearest barrel, preferring to keep his distance from the clown.
You know, one of these days, I'd like to see what makes the clown cower in fear.
Do you really expect results? Have you bothered to look at him?
Everyone is afraid of something, Jonathan.
"I hate to interrupt the silent chat you're having with yourself there, Crane, but I'm a busy man... places to be, things to burn." He squinted at Crane, thoughtfully, then stepped closer and casually pointed his knife. "You shouldn't hold yourself back like that; you should let the real you shine through." He closed the gap quickly, grabbing Crane's collar, and grinned. "I'd be happy to help!"
Crane stifled a shudder and clenched his teeth shut to keep Scarecrow from taking the clown up on his challenge. In a hands-down fight, regardless of what Scarecrow thought, Crane knew he was no match for the clown. After a few moments of silence from Scarecrow, he spoke. "If you brought me what I need," he glanced around the room, "and I can see that you've been busy doing just that, I'm sure you'll get your wish very soon." The clown stepped back, and Crane relaxed.
The clown sauntered towards the doorway, grabbing the folded papers along the way and cramming them into his coat pocket, then stopped and turned back. "Oh, uh, nice selection of patients you got here for your, uh, 'work-release' program." He patted his coat pocket. "I have high hopes for your newest batch." He turned and slammed happily through the doorway, then disappeared up the stairs.
Crane examined the newest barrels and crates, smiling with pleasure at how well thing were coming together. I think with this latest delivery, we're almost done with the clown.
Good! I'm getting bored with the lowbrow criminals in this place. There's no challenge here!
I agree, and now that we've perfected the toxin again, its time to test it out on the rest of Gotham.
Crane and Scarecrow smiled.
(Wayne Manor - Carriage House)
She only thought of him at night, which is to say, she only thought of him for all the hours she was awake and alone. Kaleidoscopes of joker cards, on canvas, painted the walls of the carriage house in bright, explosive hues, as ever demanding of her attention as he was. Music from within her whispered through the otherwise empty air, invisibly swirling around the canvassed cards and making them sway to her song. If she looked hard enough, she could see the tiny jester bells bobbing to the rhythm, adding faint chimes in cadence with her notes, perfectly in tune to her. The invisible dance, she called it; that was why she'd worked so hard brushing paint to paper to plastic: to dance eternally in darkness.
If he could, he would laugh at her seriousness, deface his own images in effigy to the IDEA of him, and suck the song from her solely into him. She knew the images she'd built were only reflections, and sometimes, when the loneliness overtook her, she thought maybe she'd created them so that someday they would burn. Releasing the ideas on the world was never her role though, and so the images piled up along her walls, waiting for their moment to be shared, to burn. Only he could free what she could catch, and for now, capturing ideas of him was all she could do; but she wanted so badly to be freed. On these nights, she missed him most of all.
Towards dawn, while staring at the ceiling above her bed, she floated in a sea of guilt... Bruce... who had done everything he could for her and who was most hurt by the images she'd captured. She could reflect a seemingly endless myriad of controversy and chaos, but she had yet to create a symbol of his value; he was too overwhelmingly stable, and good, and she couldn't wrap her head around what he meant to her. She wanted so much to create something just for him, to speak only to him, but time after time she tried and failed to capture the idea of Bruce. There was always something just out of reach, something intangible yet so important, and to her frustration, the canvas could not pull it from within her. The only remote success she'd experienced was her dual-sided thank you to Batman for literally pulling her from the rubble that had been her life. It, currently, was the only idea that was as clear to her as the many she'd had of him, but still, none for Bruce. She hoped that, for now, Bruce would be happy to see she'd created something from her life as it was now, rather than her past.
(Carriage House – The next night)
"Bruce!"
She jumped forward and hugged him, knocking him slightly off balance; he wrapped one arm around her and used the other to steady himself against the sudden assault. Being greeted so enthusiastically was still disconcerting to him, he wasn't used to being missed, but he had to admit her smile warmed him inside. He leaned down and kissed her; the warmth spreading even further when she gladly returned it. He muttered "I missed you," before realizing he really meant it.
She pulled her head back and smiled. "I missed you too." She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door behind them.
He surveyed the apartment and noted the small changes. She'd obviously been busy; all the artwork from the Penthouse lined every available wall space, even the 'creepy' eyes she hated so much. He smirked; he was proud of those eyes, even if they did scare her. They were his first successful foray into 'art therapy' after a few failed attempts at making simple things, and the first time he'd learned a little about why she believed in it so much. She'd originally pushed him into painting, but that hadn't worked out, so instead he'd tried simple white chalk on black construction paper and the idea came to him immediately. Her ability to see through many of his layers made him feel vulnerable, and that played a large part in creating the giant white outlines of eyes. He hadn't intended the eyes to follow you wherever you went, he'd had no idea how to do that even if he'd wanted to, and yet they did. That pleased him too because, as Batman, he had to be constantly vigilant; he had to see everything. He could relate to those eyes on a visceral level, and he spoke through that piece more than he'd ever speak about such things in real life. She must have sensed something, because she'd never asked him to explain his inspiration despite the many times he'd asked her about her pieces, and she was more than willing to keep them on display even though it was obvious they bothered her.
She watched him survey the artwork and frowned when he tensed; he always had the same reaction to the pieces she'd made with Joker in mind, even though he swore he understood. She relaxed when he finally did, and was pleased to see he'd noticed her latest piece; the thing that had kept her busy the last three days he'd been gone. He took several steps closer to study it, inspecting both sides for a long time, tracing his finger around parts of the image, and occasionally standing back to take it all in as a whole. She was almost ready to sit down and wait for him when he turned to her, startling her just a little.
He pointed to the most visible side. "This is the symbol we see in the clouds, right?" She nodded. "Only here it looks more like a wall, and you used a lot of business logos to create the Gotham skyline in the background, like a castle." She nodded again, more pleased. "So, the symbol, it's like a crest on a medieval knight's armor, also a protector, like a wall, so… Batman the protector of Gotham?" That's a lot of work for a simple statement, isn't it?"
She smiled and nodded at him, glad that he could see it with a critical eye. "You've almost got it; you're just missing one more piece. It might be easier if you took a few steps back," which he did. He cocked his head to the side, and she had a brief image tear through her mind of a time when he'd looked at some of her artwork the same way; she wondered if it made things more understandable. She shook off the hurt from that parallel image, and re-focused on Bruce.
He put his hands in his pockets, then turned back to her more slowly, grinning. "The whole piece is dark, even the city skyline. The crest is the darkest part, like dark armor on a knight… a Dark Knight, right? A Dark Knight, from a literally dark night."
She grinned back at him, immensely pleased; she'd never watched someone work through it like that before. He'd always gotten it immediately and moved past it, impatient to leave his own mark and response. It was very satisfying to see someone work through all the pieces, spending the same time she had on the details. He stepped around to study the flip side of the piece, and she watched him frown almost immediately; she could guess why, but waited to hear his own assessment.
Finally, he half turned towards her, but didn't take his eye off the side that clearly disturbed him. "This side doesn't seem so positive…"
She nodded, noting he focused only on the darker side of the message.
"The waves are crashing onto the rocks, slowly tearing them apart, and the peaceful town behind the rocks has no idea. It looks pretty hopeless; eventually the rocks are going to wear away."
She cocked her head at him and eyed him curiously. "You could choose to see it that way, if you wanted to."
"But that's not what you intended?"
"No. You're missing the lightness and darkness again, I think."
Surprised, he turned back to the piece, muttering out loud. "The waves are dark, colorful actually, but all dark; the rocks are almost white, well shades of light gray actually, and the area behind the rocks is red?"
"Rose." she corrected.
Realization dawned in his eyes. "The area that could be crushed by the ocean is rose colored, as in rose colored glasses. The shades of gray, or white, are keeping the dark forces at bay. Ok, that wasn't so hard."
"One more piece. You alluded to it with your first interpretation."
"... the rocks are slowly eroding, and inevitably, that rose colored town will be destroyed when those rocks are gone. But, for now, they are the only thing keeping the destruction at bay." He looked up at her, face full of meaning. "… a sacrifice they make that no one sees."
She nodded and watched his face go through a range of expressions, finally settling on acceptance. He took several steps back and then returned to the first side he'd studied, clearly showing a preference for the less emotional side.
"You put a lot of thought into your pieces."
"I try." she responded, softly.
"These seem very...personal."
This time she said nothing.
He continued on, slowly. "This was how you spoke to Joker… and it didn't upset him." He didn't speak for a few more minutes, and when she stayed silent, he turned back to her expectantly.
She glanced away from the intense stair, not sure what he wanted from her. "He seemed to understand it, and I think on some level it pleased him, or at least amused him. And, it's not confrontational... it wasn't emotional, for him."
"But it's emotional for you, isn't it?"
"It is now, yes. At first, it was just my attempt to distract him, to get him thinking about himself and not me. Honestly, in hindsight, I'm surprised it worked."
"Well, it does make an impact, what you do, but I'm having a hard time envisioning Joker being affected by your artwork." He frowned.
A light went off in her mind. "It bothers you that you might have just shared something with him."
He nodded. "It's a disturbing possibility, yes."
"He took a lot from you, I know, and I could say a lot of cliché things right now, none of which would make either of us feel better. I wish I could say that someday it will all make sense. Sometimes I think of his chaos as just a force of nature, like a flames burning out of control, or waves, destroying everything they touch."
He stared through her, his face unreadable. "I can't hold a fire responsible, but I can damn well hold him responsible."
She sighed, and walked to the painted ocean, lightly tracing the rolling waves as they crashed over the rocks. Joker had been a force of his own, as much of a force as Batman, and she'd intentionally created their images on flip sides of the same piece. Arguing with Bruce over responsibility missed the point entirely, but then again, she'd made this piece for herself, how she saw both of them. She'd hoped that by putting his image to canvas, specifically on canvas next to Batman, she could exorcise the last hold Joker had on her mind. It hadn't worked, and instead she found herself thinking of him more and more. Bruce's timing couldn't have been better; she desperately needed someone to help her escape her own state of mind. Vanity demanded she leave the piece out for viewing, but now that it'd sucked Bruce in as well, she wished she'd locked it in a closet.
Bruce was sucked into the piece, but not like she thought. As much as he hated that she'd created another piece with Joker present, he was still stunned by the thought she'd put into the parts dedicated to Batman. He been thanked by those he'd saved, and hunted by the same, never fully accepted; he'd chosen a dark symbol of hope and had expected no differently, but inside, he'd always seen himself as Gotham's defender. He knew which side of good and evil he fell on, and he knew he'd stand between Gotham and all that tried to destroy her for as long as he was able. If his reaction to his own artwork of eyes was visceral, his reaction now was emotional, so deeply personal he suddenly wished he hadn't seen it. He wanted to tell Harley how much her work meant to him: what it felt like to be seen by even just one other person the way he saw himself, and the way he wished he could be seen by everyone. Instead, it was another moment where she saw him so clearly and didn't even realize it, and it took several motionless minutes before he could face her calmly, without giving everything away.
When he did, he simply took her hand and led her to the bedroom. There was another way he could tell her how much her work meant, how much she meant, without speaking.