Author's Note: Warnings for some implied suicidal ideation ongoing, folks. Take care of yourselves!


Bruce doesn't know what to expect. He's been told that the boy is fully awake and laughing again, but that's all he knows. He doesn't know the boy's history, how he came to be held captive by the Joker, or how he came to look and sound and act like the Joker. He doesn't know what he'll be able to do for the boy, since the antidote sounds like it didn't have the effect it was supposed to have. He doesn't even know the boy's name.

All he knows, coming through the door of the medical room, is that the boy needs help.

The boy is fully under the blankets on the medical bed. He can't be seen, but he can certainly be heard: the laughter cracks through the air, a horrifying sound. Equally horrifying, if not worse, is when the laughter stops for a moment and a barely-audible crying can be heard.

Bruce's heart aches for the boy. He closes the door to the medical room behind himself and steps forward to the bedside. Clearly and a little loudly, trying to be heard over the laughing that's started up again, Bruce says, "Hey there."

The laughter peaks in a shriek and then goes promptly silent.

Bruce winces. The silence is almost as eerie as the laughter and the crying. Still, he's Batman. He can't let uneasiness get in the way of helping someone. So he soldiers on. "This is Batman. How are you doing in there?"

The silence stretches on, moment after moment. Then the kid starts to cry in earnest, weeping and weeping to the point that the blanket shudders over him.

Logically, Bruce knows it might be the best idea to give the kid space and time when he has no idea what the boy has been through or how to handle that.

Emotionally and physically, however, he's already sitting in a chair waiting at the edge of the bed and reaching out to the boy.

With a slow, gentle carefulness, Bruce puts one hand on the blanket, near the top where the boy's head probably is, but off to the side. He pats the blanket repetitively, slowly moving his hand closer to the top of the bed with each pat.

The crying continues, but it quiets a little, hopefully out of curiosity or comfortability and not out of fear or discomfort, but Bruce can't be certain.

Once Bruce's hand is all the way up the bed, he grasps the edge of the blanket, right between where the two fisted lumps of blanket are being held in the boy's hands from underneath. He waits a moment.

"May I take a look at you?" Bruce asks after a pause.

The boy just sobs. He doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no, either.

Bruce takes the chance in the hope of making the kid feel a little better. Gently, he tugs the blanket down and away.

Two pale little hands are revealed, then two skinny arms. Tugging and tugging, the blanket continues to go down and away, and more is revealed: a head of green hair, a pair of eyes squeezed shut, a set of scars stretching up from a quivering and whimpering pair of lips.

Bruce sets down the blanket when he can see the boy's whole face, tucking the blanket slightly around the boy's thin shoulders. "There you are."

The boy lets out one more sob and goes silent.

"Hey," Bruce says. "It's all right. It's all going to be all right. It seems like everything's been really hard for you, hasn't it?"

The boy shivers, but after a moment, he does give a tiny nod.

Bruce hums sympathetically. "Yeah. I'm sorry it's been so hard."

Another sob wracks the boy's frame, and then a peal of laughter pops out.

"Hey, hey," Bruce says, trying to sound as comforting as possible. "It's all right, kiddo. I've got you."

That, apparently, is the wrong thing to say.

The boy's eyes fly open in clear panic. His jaw drops, and he wheezes out several bits of laughter. In between gagging on his own laughter, the boy whispers something.

"What was that?" Bruce says over the continued laughter.

The boy shakes his head frantically and clamps both hands over his own mouth. The laughter keeps going, muffled now, but keeping going.

"It's going to be all right," Bruce says, thinking hard. What had helped when he'd first found the kid? What had gone well, or at least decently?

Oh. Right.

Gingerly, Bruce puts both hands out toward the boy's face, intending to stroke his face soothingly.

As soon as Bruce moves forward, the kid flinches away, still trying to cover his mouth and his laughter.

Bruce pauses. He reconsiders. He reaches out again, but this time toward the boy's shoulders. He puts one hand on each side and rubs his fingers over the boy's shoulders.

The laughter slowly gives way to a long moan. The boy slumps into the touch and goes blissfully quiet.

Bruce keeps rubbing the boy's shoulders. He can feel every bone and bit of joint there clearly. It's not pleasant for Bruce, but the boy seems to be taking some comfort from it, so he keeps going.

They sit there for several minutes. Bruce slowly works his way from the boy's shoulders up the boy's neck, eventually stopping with the boy's face cradled in his hands.

The boy gives a little sigh when Bruce stops. The boy's eyes are closed again, and his lips slacken.

"Hey," Bruce dares to say after a few moments of silence and stillness. "How are you doing now?"

The kid pauses, then he cracks his mouth open enough to whisper, "Thank you."

"Thank you for letting me get close," Bruce says, taking a wild guess that not many people have thanked the boy recently, and that not many people have been close enough to touch in a way that helped or was good for the boy recently either.

By the little shiver and the way the boy presses slightly into Bruce's hands, Bruce is pretty sure his wild guess is accurate. How long has the Joker had this poor boy?

"I'd like to get to know you a little," Bruce says.

The boy tenses up again.

"Not like that," Bruce says, not knowing what the boy is thinking but trying to stop that line of thought before the laughter or the crying comes back.

The boy stays tense, but he doesn't make a sound.

"I'd like to learn about you so I can help you," Bruce says. "Do you know… Do you have any family left?"

The boy is quiet and tense for another long moment.

"If you know of any family, I could help you get back to them," Batman says, trying to figure out what to say next.

The boy gives a quiet whimper. "I can't."

"You can't?" Bruce asks. "You can't tell me, or you can't know?"

"I can't go back," the boy says.

Bruce rolls that sentence around in his head. Already somewhat sure of the answer and trying to avoid harsh words like "murder," he asks as gently as he can, "Was it the Joker? Did he take them away from you?"

The boy shakes his head.

Hmmm. Well, that's a bit of a surprise, but not unheard of. Bruce tries again. "Did the Joker threaten your family if you tried to get back to them? If he did, I can help find protection for you and for them."

"It's not like that," the boy says after a pause.

"What is it like, then?" Bruce asks.

"It's… Look at me," the boy says, opening his eyes but looking down toward his hands rather than up at Bruce. "Do you see me?"

"I do see you," Bruce says, thinking through his next words carefully. "I see a boy who's been through some very hard times. I see a boy who's been very hurt. And I see a boy who I'm sure his family desperately wants to have back."

The boy nods slowly. "My father would want me back."

"Good," Bruce says. "Can you tell me how I can get you back to him?"

"I can't," the kid says, then he covers his mouth with both hands, muffled laughter spilling out again.

"Hey, hey, it's all right," Bruce says, taking a few guesses. "You said he'd want you back. I know he'll still want you. Parents don't abandon their kids just because they've been hurt or they've done something 'wrong.'"

"But he did," the kid says quietly. "Father abandoned me. He put me in the crate, and he left me in the warehouse, and he said he wasn't coming back until I'd learned my lesson, and I, I don't want to learn my lesson, I didn't want to help kill Robin, and that's wrong, he says that's wrong, I know I'm wrong, and I don't want to be wrong, but not like that, not that kind of wrong, and, and-"

A pit settles in Bruce's stomach. If he's understanding this right… "Who is your father?"

"The Joker," the kid whispers. "And… And I know he's bad. I know he does bad things. I helped him do some of them. And I know it's wrong, it's really the real wrong, and I don't want to do bad things anymore, I don't, I don't want to. Please. Please don't let me. Please don't make me."

Bruce doesn't-

Bruce just wants to-

Bruce can't-

"Please kill me," the kid says with a surge of passion, finally looking up at Bruce. "Please kill me, or put me in Arkham Asylum, or, or, or something. I don't want to be bad. I'd rather be dead or in Arkham than back with Father. Please."