AN: I hate heights! You think I'd be stupid enough to stand by the edge? You should all be ashamed. If I were suicidal, I'd be taking people with me.
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-I feel sorry for Bats. I think I gave him too much. Oops.
Christineoftheopera-I always have a plan. Except when I don't. But this time I do.
Johanna Crane-Bambi's mother, Uncle Ben, Littlefoot's mum, everyone in a horror film...
He hurtled towards the ledge, knowing he couldn't grab her but unwilling to believe it.
She wasn't there.
She wasn't anywhere-not on the fire escape a few stories below, where she would have landed. She was just…just gone, like she'd never been there at all.
SWING!
He had time to duck as a scythe swept over his head, kicking out behind him and feeling his foot hit wood. There was a splintering sound and the sound of something light but hard bouncing on the cement.
"What did you see, darling?"
He turned, caught the now-broken scythe and ripped it from her hands. Hallucination. Of course.
"You look happy to see me! Did I die?"
He tossed the scythe away and lunged at her. His body did not want to do what he was telling it and he stumbled, barely managing to right himself. She backed away, eyes darting between him and the scythe. She couldn't reach it from where she was, he could tell. Good.
If she dies, it will be your fault. I'll blame you anyway, but it'll be nothing compared to your guilt. He shook his head, trying to shut it up. Richardson was still backing off, but there were two of her.
There was only one thing to do.
He fired his grappler at her and felt no small amount of pride when it trussed her up and sent her toppling over, shrieking all the way.
"You son of a bitch! Is this how you treat women? I don't let just anyone tie me up! Untie me right now or so help me…"
He knocked her out.
He was just dropping her at Arkham when his phone rang.
"Is this…erm…Batman?" a woman's voice asked. He did not know this person. Or this number, for that matter.
He grunted in response.
"I'm calling on behalf of James Gordon. He's awake and would like to see you."
Richardson could wait. She was here, she was unconscious, he could come back to question her. Jim, on the other hand, needed something. Or knew something. Either way, he had places to go.
The hospital was cold and silent at this time of night, but he could hear a child crying somewhere.
"Jim."
Jim was lying in bed, an IV in his arm and his glasses on the table. The lamp was on low-Barbara was sleeping in the bed over.
"We got her, Jim."
"You got her?"
He nodded and stepped a little further into the room.
"She's back at Arkham."
"Did she say what it was?"
"She wasn't…conscious."
Jim nodded, and when he spoke again his voice was tired but thankful.
"Thank you." He nodded and stood still, waiting, wondering. "I don't need anything, then."
But there was something, he knew there was something. He wouldn't push-Jim would bring it up when he was ready, if it wasn't important-but there was something.
There was always something.
He knew, even before he pulled up to Arkham, that something was wrong. It was too busy for this time of night.
Somebody was out.
"Who is it."
But he knew, he knew already.
Dammit! She couldn't have stayed for twenty-four hours? Or even ten?
He could hear the Joker cackling away in the bowels of the asylum, his horrible echoing laughter setting the doctors on edge.
"How."
A video was pressed into his hand and he commandeered the head's office to watch it. It was grainy, and mostly uninteresting, but somebody he didn't know-scrawny redhead, a henchman of hers, no doubt-let her out of the holding cell.
Life was unfair.
She'd left him a note on the cot, which only made it worse.
You chipped my nails, bastard. Hugs and punches, Kitty
He scrunched the note and stormed out to the car.
THE END