A/N: So i'll be making some stylistic changes throughout the whole story because i can't leave well enough alone. And this fic as a whole really lacked style, i think…and yes, the diction is supposed to be all messed up. With no quotations. i know that. As always, thank you to those of you who read/favorite/review. Thank you.

Hello, Operator: The White Stripes

When he woke up, it was snowing again. Falling full and thick and deep. He didn't mind the snow much because it muffled the constant roar that rose up from the city the constant roar that rose up. The Percocet was still running strong but he could only count on two more hours before the pain crept up on him again. It was hard to sit up like someone was holding him back against the cushions like there was a weight on his chest. Dragging him down. When he flipped the switch the light rocked off the walls and he had to sit with his eyes closed until he adjusted.

Wayne found a sweatshirt on the floor and pulled it over his head and stood at his bedroom door, opening the locks. There were five of them in all. He opened the locks and walked across his bedroom floor across the shag carpet into the bathroom when he walked in he was just himself without the mask or anything to hide behind and he couldn't hide. He didn't even care anymore he was so tired of keeping up the whole secret identity charade because at the end of the day he was still a man and only a man.

The Joker was sprawled out on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He rolled his head to the side and glanced at Wayne and rolled back smiling.

Bruce fucking Wayne, he murmured. That explains the car, don't it? His wrists were rubbed raw and bleeding. Wayne crossed the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He was out of rubbing alcohol. The Joker was watching him with narrowed eyes and he couldn't hide.

Driving that beautiful thing around in the fucking snow…

i know, i'm a terrible person, Wayne said, taking a bottle of hydrogen peroxide down from the shelf. That bullet hole in your arm is going to need stitches. The Joker was lying there cold and damp and dirty and still looking at him. Through him.

And why do you suddenly give a damn. the Joker asked. Wayne shrugged.

i don't know, he said. The Joker chuckled.

Went to all this trouble and you don't even know...

Maybe i didn't have a plan, Wayne said. Surely you can relate to that. The Joker's eyes narrowed again. Cold and damp and dirty staring him down and he could not hide.

At least i've got reasons. What've you got, Bruce Wayne? i mean, besides a fuckin' God complex… Wayne ran his hands through his hair.

Look, let's discuss this later. It's four in the morning.

Is it. Shit. Time flies.

It sure does, Wayne said. Now i'm going back to sleep before i pass out. There's a couch in the other room, if you want…i don't care. i have to go to sleep. The Joker smiled.

Nope, i'm good here.

Really.

Sure. There's heated floors.

i got those installed in the fall. When i started passing out in here on a weekly basis. Wayne pulled a box of gauze out of the cabinet and hit the dimmer switch until the light bulb cast out a glow that didn't reach down to the floor.

i'm locking the door.

Okay.

Christ, you're cooperative tonight. Wayne studied the dim outline that separated the Joker from the wall and the floor. i thought you would've at least taken a swing at me by now.

It's the morphine, the Joker mumbled.

Right. i forgot.

You should have left me there, the Joker called after him.

Wayne didn't answer, he just shut the door and locked it and stood on the other side looking at the space under the door. The space was black like the bathroom light was off but he knew that it wasn't quite. Almost, but not quite.