A/N: This story is killing me. Literally, I'm sure. This chapter was a pain in the wazoo to get out, and I'm hoping that the next chapter is easier. If it seems forced toward the end, well . . . it's 'cause Mama was pushing really hard and thinks she broke something. O_o
***
The twenty-third. Ava was sixteen days old. Not nearly as bad as sixteen years old, but bad enough in its own way. Jack finished carefully gluing the last picture into place and then got up, taping his makeshift poster to the wall. Morgenson was watching him work, not saying anything. It had taken Jack five days to finally put all the pictures Rachel had sent on the wall, and every few days he would tear them down, determined to forget all about his family. A day later, though, the pictures would go right back up again --- so, in order to make it easier to constantly redecorate the wall, Jack had made what was essentially a huge scrapbook page. Having them on one poster shortened the time it took to take them down and put them back up, which meant that Jack didn't get as frantic when he decided he couldn't live with, or without, a physical reminder of what he'd lost.
"Are you still hiding pictures?"
Jack grunted as he put his hands on his lower back and stretched; he could feel himself getting older, and it disgusted him. "If I were hiding them, and told you, that would defeat the purpose of hiding them."
"Mm. Hiding pictures means there's less for the guards to take away if you misbehave."
Turning to his psychiatrist, Jack raised his eyebrows and leaned against the wall. "You know, Doc, you're the only person who says 'if' to me. Everyone else says," and he lowered his voice to do a stilted imitation of the guards and Doctor Arkham, "'When you finally misbehave, these are the consequences.' What makes you different?"
"I suppose it's because I know that your family means more to you than bucking authority," Morgenson said cheerfully. Then he looked at Jack from over his glasses. "Am I correct?"
Staring hard at the woman he'd conned into marrying him and the child they'd unwittingly produced, Jack pursed his lips and shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Oh? And when don't they mean more?"
"When I take their pictures down. When . . . I don't know. Sometimes. Everything I say in here, they're going to use against me."
Morgenson nodded. "We can also use it to help you, Jack. Are you a danger to your family?"
"Not physically." Jack sighed and rubbed his fingers along his curled scar. He was uncomfortable talking about this. He hadn't even figured it out yet, and tapped a picture of Ava smiling --- were babies supposed to smile that young? "That kid's gonna grow up with a psychopath for a father. What's she gonna tell her friends, Doc? What if she wants to get a government job, something that needs a security clearance? They'll get as far as her parents before they deny the clearance."
Morgenson was watching him with a furrowed brow and slightly squinted eyes, thinking. "You could always tell them your real name," he said after a few moments.
"What makes you think I remember it?"
"I think you remember a lot of things that would inconvenience you if others knew that you remembered them," was the response he got.
"They'd throw me away for life if I remembered and told people who I used to be," Jack said shortly as he glared. "No way. Not gonna happen." He looked longingly at the door. "They'd be better off without me. Rachel thinks I can handle a crying baby. I can't. You can't always shut babies up. I can barely stand it when Susie cries for more than a minute. How can I handle something that can't even tell me why it's crying? I can't do it. She's wrong. You're not telling me something."
Morgenson rubbed the side of his nose briefly before sighing. "Once you're released, Jack, the courts aren't going to allow you to live with minors. You've got too much of a history of violence ---"
"You know, every single person that I've ever killed has had a purpose," Jack snapped. He was shaking with a mixture of glee and rage. On the one hand, how dare they take what was his? But on the other, he was getting out of a situation he didn't want to be in. "I'm not murdering people just for the hell of it; every death had a reason, had a goal. Didn't I just do this fucking city a damn bit of good? Where's the credit for that, huh? I fucking knew it. These people --- They can't stand it when someone steps out of the line they draw! They'll use you until you do their dirty work for them, then they'll eat you up! Fuck."
As Jack started pacing, Morgenson flipped through his notes and echoed his patient's sigh. After a few minutes Jack sat at the desk they'd bolted to the floor and took up the art supplies he was only allowed under supervision. He bent over the drawing paper on it and started sketching furiously, twitching once in a while as he grumbled to himself.
"Don't divorced parents get joint custody or something?" Jack asked a while later. His strokes had slowed, become more fluid., and he was calm again. "I mean, single fathers get, what, weekend visitation rights?"
"Sometimes, yes," Morgenson replied. Jack scooted his chair an inch or so to one side and straightened up, which meant he wasn't going to object if Morgenson watched his progress. He brought his chair over and watched Jack create Rachel on paper from memory alone. Her neck was arched, her eyes half-closed and rolled back, her mouth open slightly and her lips puckered just a little. If not for the slight smile on them and the light sweat that Jack was currently shading in, she would have almost looked like she was in pain. Morgenson kept his smile to himself. "I'm taking this one back with me?"
Jack grunted. "Man in here can't draw his wife mid-orgasm without the guards taking it," he mumbled. "I hate them."
"You're going to be able to eat with the other inmates tomorrow."
"What if I got an apartment in town?"
Morgenson frowned a bit. "What do you mean?"
"An apartment," Jack repeated as he started fine-tuning Rachel's hair. As he erased frantic lines a man's hand took shape, tangled in the hair and pulling back. In the light shading on her body, there was the suggestion of another hand cupping one of her breasts. Jack always put himself in his pictures of Rachel in some way. "In Loleta. When I'm out of here. They won't let me go home, but if I had my own place in town, Rachel and the girls could come visit, right? On weekends. Holidays. Maybe I could pick 'em up after school; Janet could drive." He started another picture, this one of Rachel nursing Ava. "There are a couple apartments open above Shotz. I still do work for Charles, so I've got a steady pay check, and I haven't touched my bank account, really, since we moved." He swallowed and cleared his throat. "But I guess that's a stupid idea, isn't it? I doubt I'll get out of here, and they'll probably slap a restraining order on me. Wonder if Charles needs a roommate."
"No, I think it's a wonderful idea. If you're proactive on this, Jack, it will look good to the judge. You're not going to be on trial, Jack. The courts will intervene on behalf of the girls, but they have to do that." Morgenson watched Jack concentrate on his drawing, concerned, but glad that he'd brought his future living arrangements up of his own accord. "Look, if you set this up now, then you have it ready for not only the family court, but for the mob trial. They're going to try their hardest to invalidate you as a witness --- they'll use your previous actions, your current incarceration, anything they can to discredit you."
"Won't be that hard to do. I don't have a good track record. Folsom po-po don't like me." Jack set his pencil down and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "Come to think of it, most people don't like me. Tom says every woman in Loleta wants me, but I don't think that counts."
"Why don't you tell me about Veronica," Morgenson suggested.
He got slightly puckered lips and a sidelong glance. "I've got nothing to say."
"Come now, Jack," Morgenson said as he leaned back, as well, and crossed his arms, "I'm not a complete fool. When Rachel was in California, you complained about Veronica every time we spoke --- which was far more often than you usually call me. She's been after you for quite some time, and you've hated it. Then you suddenly stopped mentioning her at all ---"
"Can I just say," Jack interrupted as he stared down at the orange jumpsuit he was wearing, "that your quasi-British accent is really irritating at times? It makes you sound snotty and stuck up."
"--- and then Rachel calls me, in tears, about the video that caused her abduction." Jack pushed himself out of his chair and started pacing, rubbing his shoulder as his right hand pawed at his scars. His eyes darted over the cell, clearly looking for an easy way out, and he was snarling silently. "Why was she crying, Jack?"
"I don't know," he snapped, "maybe because she was kidnapped? Had a premature baby? Postpartum depression? She's a whiney, clingy idiot? Take your pick --- how the hell should I know why she cries over most of the things she cries over? I don't understand emotions. I'm the wrong guy to ask."
"I think you're not," Morgenson said calmly as Jack pressed his back into the corner farthest away from his doctor, gripping his hair in his hands as he slid down and huddled on the floor. His breathing was fast and shallow, panicked. "All I got out of her was something about you and Veronica. What did you do that made her cry so much, Jack?"
"I didn't do anything!" he exclaimed. "It wasn't me! Don't look at me like that, damn it!" Jack started rocking back and forth, pulling at his hair and baring his teeth in a snarl. "I didn't --- I couldn't hurt Rachel. I never hurt Rachel. I never touched her. I didn't let her get hurt. I didn't hurt her. I didn't want to hurt her. It wasn't --- it wasn't anything. I didn't mean it. I couldn't hurt Rachel or the baby. I had to hurt someone. I couldn't hurt Rachel. I didn't want to. I didn't mean to."
"Jack ---"
"She knew where they were!" Jack shouted as he leapt up, pacing to the other side of the room and slamming his fist against the wall. "She could find out where they were, so I could deal with them on my own! I had to do something to keep her willing to do what I needed her to do. Something. Had to do something. Had to stop them. Couldn't tell anyone but Tom. Arrest them and the mob would send someone else. Had to make a statement. Had to make it big." He was pressing his face against the cool grey brick, his eyes partially closed and rolled back in his head. He wouldn't let them shave him, but they'd trimmed his nails so he couldn't cut himself with them --- and he'd tried. His voice was dropping steadily lower. "I didn't want to. Couldn't hurt Rachel. Couldn't hurt Janet. She was there, she wanted me, she didn't care if I hit her. I hated her for it. I hated her. Rachel couldn't handle it. She was pregnant. There was a baby. My baby. I didn't ask for an abortion this time. I didn't want a baby but I didn't want to get rid of it. I needed to hurt someone and she was there. It wasn't my fault." Jack was whispering at that point, kneeling on the floor with his hands clutching at his temples.
Morgenson got up and went to him, kneeling by his side and speaking in a low voice. "Who did you ask for an abortion, Jack?"
Jack refused to look at him, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. "I don't know. Maria. I don't know. I didn't want it and neither did she. She didn't want it because it was mine. She didn't want me because I was me. Rachel wants me. Rachel wants the baby. She wants the baby because it's mine. It's mine. I want the baby. I didn't before, but now I do." He groaned as his migraine pounded inside his skull, and then the burgeoning memories suddenly went blank. It was the most beautiful feeling Jack had ever experienced, everything just wiping away like it had never been. He sighed in relief and slumped until his forehead touching the ground as he panted.
"Who is Maria, Jack?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know anymore. I don't want to know." Jack turned and crawled to his bed, dragging himself into it and pulling the pillow over his head. "Go away, Doc. I don't wanna talk any more."
Morgenson got up and started gathering his notes and Jack's art supplies. "Get some sleep, Jack. You'll dine with the other inmates tomorrow, and if that goes well, you can call Rachel Christmas morning. We'll talk about today later."
Jack didn't answer and the psychiatrist left. He wasn't sleeping, but he wasn't exactly awake, either. He stared blankly out of the small opening between the pillow and the mattress, not moving, feeling curiously empty, yet full at the same time. Doc would probably say he was feeling like he was near a breakthrough --- or on the verge of hallucinating. Jack never hallucinated. Convinced people he did, sometimes, but he'd never actually hallucinated without being on drugs. And that brought him to Janet. She was on daily doses of methadone, administered by Helna. If she was lucky --- for a given definition of 'lucky' --- she'd associate the heroin high with being raped and want nothing to do with it. She hadn't even wanted to take the drug, and had been given it four times at most. He hadn't bothered to ask the thugs how many times they'd come into the suite, but it had to have been no more than once a day. She couldn't be too screwed up by it. She'd killed one guy and then shot Jack himself; highly therapeutic behaviour, he felt.
The lights turning on at five sharp woke him up, and Jack closed his eyes with a groan. They were dry and his vision was blurry from keeping them open all night. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, Jack had the feeling that something had happened the previous day that he'd gotten upset over. His feet hit the floor and he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees as he stared at his shoes and thought. Doc had asked him about Veronica, and then . . . and then . . .
Jack shoved himself up and went to his desk, searching through the drawers and papers. The pictures he'd drawn weren't there, but there was a note from Doc, reassuring him that the pictures were safe. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the bullet-proof glass wall and door as two guards rapped on it. Jack rolled his eyes at them.
"You know the drill, Dawes." They had shackles in their hands; Jack bristled at the thought of being bound, but kept his lips tightly pursed, went to the door and stuck his hands through the waist-level window they'd opened. His hands were cuffed, then one guard held them while the other knelt, opening a similar window at the bottom of the door and cuffing his ankles. The first guard wove a sturdy chain through Jack's wrist cuffs, around his waist, and dropped it for the second guard to secure to his ankle cuffs. He wanted to kick the man as soon as the door opened. He wanted to pull the standing guard toward him, bite his nose off, then drop onto the kneeling guard and crush his windpipe.
Jack looked up at the ceiling when fine tremors started coursing through his muscles. This was his tenth day here. He had twenty more to get through before he could see Rachel. He stepped back when instructed and concentrated as hard as he could on not lashing out a he was led, shuffling, down the hall. The guards had learned since his last stint in Arkham. They were keeping their rifles trained on him and well out of reach; if he lunged for one, the other would have time to shoot him down.
Think about Rachel. Think about Ava. Susie would cry if she couldn't see him when they'd said she could. Think about dealing with this for twenty more days straight, rather than thirty-four. Twenty more days, then he could have visitors. Did he want visitors? He wanted to get out and visit, not have people come to this place; he wanted to go to them. Maybe, if he was good, he could be transferred to a different asylum. Didn't Metropolis have one? Jack squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them wide, yawning when the guards looked at him.
"--- weren't supposed to get him until I was here."
"I'm sorry, Doctor, but we weren't told that ---"
"You are never to take Mr. Dawes out of his cell unless myself or Dr. Arkham are present. Is that clear, you man?" The orderly was shaking, fearing for his job as Jack and the guards rounded the corner to the nurse's station. Morgenson waited until he'd stammered an affirmative, then turned to Jack and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly.
"You use your breathing exercises," Jack said dully. He sat when the guards pushed him into the chair, settling his arm into the groove and waiting as they strapped him in.
"I wouldn't recommend them if they didn't work." Morgenson smiled and sat across from Jack while the nurse prepared his daily shot. "Did you sleep well?"
"With my eyes open." Jack sighed. "Do I have to eat with the others?"
"For once, Jack, you need to think of the impression you give others, and strive for a favourable one. The courts will judge your progress based partially on the reports of Doctor Arkham and I, and partially on how well you deal with the day-to-day of life in Arkham. You're lucky to not be in Blackgate."
The needle slid into his skin and Jack didn't even twitch. "Do I have to eat with them every day? All three meals?"
"No, we're going to work up to all three meals. We'll start with just breakfast for a few days, then add in lunch, then dinner. You're not getting out of this." They were untying Jack and Morgenson stood up. "Do you want to be able to call Rachel tomorrow?"
"No," Jack said simply. He got an interested look. "I don't want to talk to any of them until I'm out of here. I can handle it better if they're not around. But I'll talk to them tomorrow," he muttered. "Rachel will probably need it."
"She tells me that new author in town has taken a liking to her," Morgenson said as he walked with them to the cafeteria. Jack looked at him sharply. "It will make her feel better, knowing you miss her. That man hanging around just makes her miss you all the more."
"You coming in?" Jack asked when they got to the cafeteria doors.
"Only if you want me to. Otherwise, I need to speak with Doctor Arkham."
Jack shook his head and cracked his neck. "I'm fine. I don't need people to think I need my shrink holding my hand." He didn't listen to Morgenson's goodbye as the guards opened the doors. His chains and jumpsuit were par for the course in the room, which meant he stood out less, but soon enough the whispers would spread and people would turn and stare at the returning Joker, finally out of his makeup and, some would think, harmless. Jack was still considering how to make people afraid of him without resorting to physical violence when he sat down with his food and started eating, ignoring the inmates around him. The two across from him were flicking their glances up and down, from their plates to his face. It was irritating, but he endured it. No one he knew was eating; these all seemed to be the general wackos.
The staring got to be too much after a while, though, and Jack pushed his tray away. Two guards peeled themselves away from the security station and walked him to the door. Jack was just thinking that he'd done well when the doors opened to the startlingly vivid blue eyes of Jonathan Crane. Well, shit.
***
A/N: Let's ward off confusion (though not everybody reads author's notes, so I'll probably have to explain this anyway): one, the Joker doesn't kill indiscriminately in The Dark Knight. Every death has a purpose. He's also not the mad dog he claims to be; think of all the planning he'd have to put into doing what he did. Someone who will knife someone whilst walking across the street, or who is as out-of-control crazy as he makes Dent believe, is not going to be able to pull off what the Joker did. I'm sick of all the fics out there who don't take his obvious tactical skill, and intelligence, into account, so I put that bit in.
Two, the Joker may not have been telling Rachel the truth about his scars in the movie, but he probably wasn't that far off. The best lying, and the best acting, comes from displacing emotions: take the feelings of one situation and put them in a current one. Yes, I believe the Joker had an abusive father, and yes, I believe he was in love with a woman who left him when it became obvious that he was firmly on the path to becoming a psychopath.
If you want a great series of articles on the Joker and his sex appeal, that talk about these very things, Google "Rhonda Leigh Jones Joker sex symbol"; she's got a Blogspot account and an awesome insight into the Joker's massive sex appeal.
