Chapter Text
The last of the tapes is labeled two days ago, and it goes like this:
The interview room is rendered in black and white and shades of gray. A blurry gray shape blocks the right edge of the frame as if something has been placed too close to the camera, or as if the camera is hidden behind something. The rest of the frame shows a patient sitting in a chair, straightjacket wrapped tight. He keeps his feet up on the chair, toes curled around the edge of the seat. His hair hangs in his face.
The doctor is just out of frame, one white-clad elbow visible on the edge of the table. A corner of a notepad sticks into the frame but the quality of the footage is far too grainy to make out any writing.
“How are you today?” the doctor asks, his voice carefully neutral.
The patient doesn’t move on the chair or acknowledge the question in any way. His face is turned vaguely towards the far wall. The camera picks out the shadows that gather under the scars on his cheeks. His eyes are glassy as if he’s been heavily sedated.
“Is it a quiet day again?” the doctor asks with a touch of indulgence. He pauses briefly as if waiting for a response, then adds, “It was unfortunate what happened but you assaulted a guard. You know what the consequences are for that. You tell me that you hate sedation but you keep provoking them.”
A few seconds tick by on the digital display burned into the bottom edge of the footage. The doctor pushes back his chair and gets up. He comes around the table and stops in front of the patient, his back to the camera. He does something to the patient that can’t be seen.
“I’ll have the nurses cut it again,” the doctor says, then turns away, revealing that the patient’s hair has been tied back. The patient’s eyes track the doctor back to his desk.
“Can we talk about what happened with the guard?” the doctor suggests, settling back down in his seat. The patient’s gaze has drifted away again.
“The report that I read said that you stabbed Officer Jacobs in the neck with a fork that you stole from the dining room. You’re lucky that he wasn’t killed. Why do you think you attacked him?”
The patient licks the corner of his mouth. It’s the only part of him that moves. The doctor waits a moment.
“This says that you also refused to tell the guards on the scene what your reasons were.”
More silence. The doctor leans forward on his desk, part of his shoulder and the back of his head becoming visible.
“Was it because you’re angry with me?” he asks quietly.
No answer.
“Good,” the doctor says, leaning back again.
##
The wailing siren is almost unbearably loud in the air ducts of Arkham Asylum, echoing in the tiny space. Batman drags himself along on his stomach, his jaw set. When he gets out of here, he is going to need to take a lot of aspirin.
Welcome back to active duty, he tells himself sardonically. This is his first real mission since Rachel’s death last year. He never intended to take this much time off, but right now taking another year off sounds like a great idea.
The duct ends in a grate in a hallway. Running shapes pass by underneath, flashes of Arkham red. Someone is shouting far down the hall and black smoke trickles up through the grate. Far off, something crashes and then someone screams.
The prison riot started forty-five minutes ago, when two inmates overpowered three guards and then managed to open up a cell block. There is absolutely no way of telling how many of the guards, nurses and doctors are still alive, but at least fifty-seven have been taken hostage. The inmates have established communication with the police outside by way of the telephone, but the paranoid schizophrenic who is doing negotiations is refusing to give any pertinent details.
Batman unscrews the grate carefully, setting the screws aside, then holds the grate with one hand as he tossed a smoke bomb through the opening. The handful of the inmates in the hall shout and Batman hears fleeing footsteps. The hall fills with billowing gray smoke and he slips through, securing the grate back in place before easing into the hallway.
This is the first time Batman has ever been exposed to a prison riot, and the noise is incredible. Along with the excruciatingly loud alarm, there is distant shouting and screams and banging. The guards are not allowed to carry guns in Arkham just in case something like this happens, but these are some of the worst criminals Gotham has seen who were too crazy for Blackgate Penitentiary, so they’re all considered dangerous even without guns.
Batman moves quickly down the hall, scanning the open doors. Someone is curled up against the wall in the fetal position. Batman bends down and touches the man’s shoulder and the man shrieks. He doesn’t look injured, just terrified, so Batman leaves him be and moves on.
At the end of the hall, there is nearby shouting. Batman slows and then peers around the corner. Two men struggle against each other, one of them armed with a piece of broken glass. Batman steps around the corner and grabs the unarmed man, throwing him into the wall, then clamps his hand on the wrist of the armed man, wrenching his hand behind his back. He takes the glass away and forces the man to the floor, twisting his hands behind his back and cuffing him with a zip tie. The other man is still struggling to get back to his feet. Batman subdues him as well, leaving the two of them bound on the floor. The SWAT team will be able to take care of them later.
The dining hall is up ahead to the right, through a set of double doors. Batman slows and looks through the meshed glass windows. Two inmates are standing outside of the doors to the dining hall, looking up and down the hallway. The hostages are most likely inside, as that was where the telephone was that the inmates were using. They’ll be on the lookout for any police. If they see Batman, the hostages will be as good as dead.
But he’s not here for the hostages.
He turns in the other direction, continuing down the hall. The hallway here is dim, the lights turned off somewhere. Down at the end of the hall, a fluorescent light flickers, its plastic case shattered. There’s a red hand print on the wall.
Two days ago, Gordon gave him information about potential trouble at Arkham Asylum. Official policy is that if there are enough threats on an inmate’s life in the prison, that inmate is removed until his safety can be secured. Mostly this policy is used in the case of prison fighting or gang violence. It’s often handled by the prison guards or the police, but not this time. Someone had put a bounty on the Joker’s head.
Gordon had given Batman the unfortunate task of making sure no one came to collect. Gordon felt certain that there were policemen and doctors and nurses who would be more than willing to collect on the bounty, so there was no one else to trust with taking care of this matter but him.
The fact that the target is the Joker shouldn’t have any influence on this rescue mission, but the whole idea of this mission leaves a sour taste in Batman’s throat. He will absolutely do the job required of him, but the thought of saving the Joker seems like getting involved in the middle of a pointless fight. He has never hoped for someone’s death before but he can’t help but think that if everyone were just a little quicker on their feet, he might not have to do this mission at all. And if this prison riot hadn’t forced his hand, maybe he would have had a little more advance notice on this mission and he wouldn’t have to climb through the goddamn ventilation ducts.
The last that Batman heard of the Joker’s whereabouts, he was in solitary confinement. That makes him a sitting duck at the moment. Batman keeps moving.
##
“Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”
This tape was recorded four months before the last tape. The patient is far more alert this time. He sits upright in the chair with his feet planted on the ground. His gaze fixes steadily on the doctor.
“This medication makes me jittery.”
“How are the hallucinations?”
“I don’t hallucinate.”
“No.” The doctor laughs quietly. “No, of course. I heard a report from a nurse that you were recalcitrant at lights out last night.”
The Joker’s mouth settles in a line and he doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t want to take your medication?”
“I told you. It makes me jittery. Makes it hard to sleep.”
“You had trouble sleeping?”
The Joker is silent again. His eyes are fixed intently on the doctor.
“You mentioned previously that you had been having dreams.”
The tiniest hint of a smile curls the corner of the Joker’s mouth. “I’ve been having dreams, doc.”
“Can you tell me about them?”
The Joker settles a little farther into his chair. “I dream that I get a visitor in my cell at night.”
“What kind of a visitor?” The doctor’s voice is bland.
“Well, she’s dressed in the tiniest little nurse’s outfit.”
“I see.” At the edge of the frame, the doctor makes a note on his notepad. “What happens in these dreams?”
“Do you really have that little imagination, doc?”
“I try not to make assumptions.”
“She’s a demon in the sack. It’s like she was born for it. You ever get dreams like that, doc?”
“I’d be surprised to find someone who didn’t,” the doctor says neutrally. “We haven’t discussed your sex life in these sessions too much. Would you be interested in starting?”
“You mean you want the gory details?”
“Is there gore?”
“No.” The Joker is still watching the doctor, unblinking. “No gore. She just can’t get enough of me. She keeps saying ‘Please, daddy—’” He pauses. “She likes to call me daddy.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“I haven’t asked her.”
“Do you like it that she calls you that?”
“Well, it’s a little creepy, really.”
“So the dream makes you uncomfortable.”
“Not at all. I’m completely comfortable. Whatever floats her boat.”
“So the dream is a good dream, you would say?”
“Except for the end, when she has to leave.”
“Where does she go?”
“School.”
There is a pause. The doctor taps his pen on his notebook. “How old is she?”
“She looks about six.”
There is a longer pause. After a moment, the doctor reaches out to a picture frame on the end of his desk and turns it down onto its face. In the moment that it's visible, it’s apparent that the picture is of a man and his young daughter trick-or-treating. The daughter is dressed as a nurse.
“I think she said her name was Becca,” the Joker offers helpfully, before bursting into laughter. “Do you wanna know where she lives?”
“I’m disappointed,” the doctor says, his voice very cold. “I thought we might actually be getting somewhere.” He hesitates, obviously trying to keep his anger under control. “Our professional relationship is based on trust, and when you break that trust, it destroys everything we’ve been working towards.”
The Joker manages to get control of his laughter. The doctor waits until he does.
“I find this interesting, actually,” the doctor says. “You refuse to talk about sexuality except to use it as a weapon against me. Why do you think that is?”
The Joker says nothing.
“No, no, I think the question is fair,” the doctor insists, now completely back in control. “You brought up sexuality, so I think we should confront this issue. Can you tell me anything about your sex life?”
The Joker stares at him. He almost looks incredulous, as if the doctor is asking a very obvious question.
“Do you think you can answer me?” the doctor asks him calmly.
“No,” the Joker says.
##
The solitary confinement cell door hangs open, the cell inside empty. There is a spray of blood on the wall and an inmate dead in the corner, but the inmate is not the Joker. Batman slips out of the cell, listening. If the Joker managed to survive the attempt on his life, he could be anywhere in the entire asylum right now.
There is no choice but to keep looking. Batman keeps on down the hall and then pauses. There’s a bloody footprint on the floor, just the ball of the foot and five toes smeared, as if someone was running. He follows the footprints, which grow bloodier. At the end of the hall is another body, viciously stabbed to death. The throat is cut so deeply that the head is nearly completely separated from the neck. It’s a prison guard, and this one is wearing shoes. Not the source of the footprints, then. The footprints continue down the hall.
Batman moves warily, his ears straining for any sound. Something crashes inside the room at the end of the hall. The door there is shut and a plaque next to it labels the room as a nurse break room. The mesh window in the door is cracked. Batman peers in the window, his hand on the knob.
The room inside is dark but Batman can make out a few chairs lying on their sides. A man stumbles into view, his hands covering his face. Blood is dripping out from between his fingers. He falls to his knees and then onto his face. There is another crash farther into the room. Batman opens the door and hits the light.
A guard’s body drops to the ground, still gurgling through the open wound in his throat. The Joker stands over him, so covered in blood that he seems to be in a full body suit of it, the blood soaking into the red Arkham uniform. He’s holding a homemade knife in his hand. His eyes, the only part of him clear from blood, are fixed on Batman.
“Did everyone come to say hi?” the Joker asks, his voice a little ragged. There seems to be something wrong with his mouth, as if it’s wider than it should be. Under the blood, Batman can see fresh cuts in the corners of his mouth.
“I’m getting you out of here,” Batman growls. “You’re being evacuated to a secure facility.”
The Joker lets out a laugh, looking incredulous. Footsteps thud in the hallway outside the door. Batman moves further into the room, taking the zip cuffs out of his belt.
“Turn around,” he says.
The Joker doesn’t move, his eyes following Batman as he comes closer. The shiv is still held tightly in his hand. The footsteps go past the doorway without stopping.
“I’m here to help you,” Batman says, the words sour in his mouth. He gauges the distance between them. The Joker's shiv won’t be able to do much damage against his armor.
“Fuck you,” the Joker spits.
Batman launches himself forward, feinting left and then darting right and slamming the Joker back into the wall, his hand driving the Joker’s wrist into the cinderblock until the shiv clatters away. The Joker goes for a head-butt but Batman absorbs the blow with his mask. The Joker twists violently in his grip but Batman uses his full weight to pin him down.
Batman twists the Joker’s arms behind his back and cuffs him with the zip cuffs. The Joker’s wrists are raw and torn from some previous restraint, but Batman doesn’t have time to be gentle with this. The SWAT team will be coming in soon and they can’t be here when that happens.
The auto-injector is in his belt, waiting. Batman yanks it out. The Joker slams his weight back against Batman again, trying to force him away, and Batman slams the auto-injector into the Joker’s bicep. He feels a grim satisfaction when the needle jabs into the muscle, injecting the sedative.
The Joker slowly goes limp, his knees buckling. Batman binds his feet as well and then hoists him onto his shoulder. Getting him out of here is going to be so much fun.
##
The tape starts as the guards are bringing the Joker in for his session. The doctor is sitting at his desk, but this time there is a young girl standing in the corner of the room, saying nothing.
“How are you this morning?” the doctor asks.
The Joker sends a wary glance towards the girl, then at the doctor. He says nothing.
“I was wondering if we could continue where we left off yesterday,” the doctor says smoothly. “We were discussing sexuality.”
The Joker’s eyes briefly flick towards the girl, then back at the doctor. He continues to remain silent.
“Is there some reason that you feel we can’t talk about it?”
“Is it necessary?”
“Necessary?” The doctor pauses. “Well, I would say that sexuality has a large influence on what we do. It’s the reason we exist, to be blunt.
“Then let’s talk about yours,” the Joker drawls.
“Certainly. I am a happily married man with two children. My wife and I have a healthy sex life.”
The Joker glances at the doctor’s desk. “You got rid of the picture of your daughter.”
“It seemed to distract you. Now I’ve answered your question, so I would like it if you answered mine. Could you tell me about your first sexual experience?”
The Joker blinks and then says “I was sixteen, she was thirty-two. She wanted to teach me about the world.”
“We’re working on a relationship of trust here, remember. I’m going to try my best to believe what you tell me, but you’re going to have to work hard to tell the truth,” the doctor says patiently.
“Who says that wasn’t the truth?”
“Were you ever sexually abused as a child?”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Please don’t joke about that. Of course I wouldn’t like that. You seem to be using confrontational language as a defense mechanism so you don’t have to answer uncomfortable questions.”
“You don’t believe the answers I give you anyway.”
“Okay. Let’s try something. I will try to believe everything you say if you try to tell me the truth. Do you think we can work on that?”
The Joker shrugs carelessly. “Fine.”
“How long have you been hallucinating?”
The Joker looks startled. “I’m not hallucinating.”
The doctor gestures towards the little girl. “You haven’t even asked me why my daughter is standing here. I find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t bring it up in the session, unless you weren’t sure whether she was really there or not.”
The Joker stares at the doctor without saying anything.
“I never acknowledged her, and so you didn’t think that I could see her. Am I correct?” The doctor waits for a moment until it becomes apparent that the Joker is not going to answer. “That makes me think that you have been hallucinating recently, if you would so readily believe that she’s not here.”
“How can I trust you if you’re going to trick me?” the Joker asks him quietly.
“I see that we understand each other,” the doctor replies.
##
The bunker at the docks has been set up for long-term occupation, although preparations aren’t quite complete yet. The rescue attempt on the Joker wasn’t supposed to be for a few more days, but the prison riot forced Batman’s hand.
The bunker has few amenities but it did have a few rooms that were available to use for this purpose. In the past, Batman spent long nights here when he was too tired to return to the penthouse, so there was a small room in which he had set up a cot. The corner of the room holds a shower and a toilet. The floor and walls are all cement. Apart from a fluorescent light fixture overhead, there is nothing else in the room. It is depressingly bare, but that will do for his purposes. Batman had the door replaced with a solid metal one with a small window in it so he can check on the Joker before opening the door. The window has sliding metal cover to keep the Joker from looking out.
He deposits the Joker onto the floor by the shower and cuts the plastic cuffs. The Joker’s arms drop limply to the floor, unresponsive. His eyes are open to slits but he seems to be completely out of it at the moment, which will make it a lot easier to wash the blood off him. Batman reaches out and turns on the shower.
Water bursts out of the shower head, raining down on the both of them. Water beads on the surface of his costume. Where it hits the Joker, blood pours off of him, swirling down to a drain in the floor. Batman grabs the Joker’s arm and drags him up to his feet, then pins him against the wall.
“Can you stand up?” he asks. The Joker makes no response, his head tipping forward a little. Batman lets go of him slightly and the Joker starts to slip sideways. Batman grabs him again with an annoyed snort and adjusts the shower head to spray down on the both of them. He fists his hand in the Joker’s hair and tips his face up to the spray.
The water pours over the Joker’s face, washing the blood off and running over the scars. The cuts that Batman saw earlier are more apparent here. They dig deep into his cheeks, not quite as wide as the old scars but still extensive. Water runs over the cuts and the Joker grimaces, his mouth twisting. The wound gaps to show far too many teeth. For some reason the sight fills Batman with a sick horror and he closes his eyes for a second before opening them again. He lets go of the Joker’s hair, letting his face drop away from the water again. The Joker spits watery blood onto the floor.
The Arkham prison uniform is soaked through with water and has plastered itself to the Joker’s skin. Batman unbuttons the front of it and pulls it off the Joker’s shoulders. Underneath, he’s wearing what used to be a white undershirt and gray prison-issue boxers. Everything is stained with blood. The Joker doesn’t resist as Batman drags the uniform down to his waist and then grabs the bottom of his undershirt. He pulls the undershirt up over the Joker’s head and tosses it to the floor.
Taped to his flank is a metal strip filed down to a sharp edge. His earlier search for weapons had been thorough, but not that thorough. Batman peels the tape off and pockets the blade. The Joker’s side is bruised dark purple from armpit to hip. Batman takes the Joker’s shoulder and pulls him away from the wall, getting a good look at his back. There are no more weapons there, just a few more bruises and a scrape. Nothing serious.
Pushing him back against the wall, Batman peels the uniform down to the Joker’s ankles, keeping one hand on the Joker’s arm to keep him from sliding down again. The Joker seems to be able to keep himself upright, although he sways a little.
No point in putting it off. Batman takes the waistband of the boxers and yanks those down too, then runs his gloved hand up the inside of the Joker’s thighs quickly and methodically. There is another blade taped to the inside of his thigh, which at least means he wasn’t doing this for nothing. He takes that knife as well. The Joker’s head is tipped down, watching him, his hair dripping. Batman stands up again.
“Do you have any other weapons?” Batman asks him. The Joker says nothing. Batman reaches up and turns off the shower.
The last of the blood is swirling down the drain. Batman helps the Joker step out of the clothes around his ankles and then grabs a towel from the end of the cot, quickly and roughly rubbing the Joker dry. There is a set of clothes on the cot as well. Batman lets the Joker sink down to sit on the edge of the cot, then helps him into the clothes. The sedative seems to be wearing off a little because the Joker is able to dress himself.
As soon as he’s dressed, Batman secures him with the soft restraints that are attached to the cot. The restraints are strong enough to handle quite a bit of a struggle, but are soft enough not to irritate the scrapes on the Joker’s wrists. Batman secures him at the wrist and ankle, then grabs the wet Arkham uniform from the floor and wrings it out over the drain. When it’s passably dry, he takes it out of the room, locking the door behind him as he goes.
Alfred is waiting for him at the computer array, taking off his coat. “It went well?” he asks quietly, looking hopeful.
Batman grimaces. “He’s here,” he says, tossing the clothes in a pile on the table.
Alfred had encouraged him to take this mission when Gordon asked. Bruce would never have expected it off him, but apparently even Alfred thought that his retirement was unhealthy. Perhaps if Bruce had had someone to retire with—like Rachel—then his time away from Batman would have been easier, but with Rachel dead, his life had been empty. The billionaire playboy façade was fine when it was an alter ego, but not when it was his life.
“How long will he be here?” Alfred puts a bag of groceries on the table next to the clothes and starts unpacking the bag.
“I honestly have no idea,” Batman says glumly, peeling off his gloves. He takes off the mask and cowl, rubbing at his sweaty hair. “We weren’t talking about end dates when we planned this. Gordon just wanted him out of Arkham until he tracked down whoever put the price on Joker’s head.”
“The hostages were all recovered safely,” Alfred reports, opening the small fridge against the wall and beginning to pack it.
Batman sighs in relief. He would have been devastated if the hostages had been killed while he was on this ridiculous mission. “I’m glad.”
“They’re saying fourteen dead inmates, and they’re counting the Joker among that number,” Alfred says.
“Without a body?”
“They found one inmate dismembered in the laundry chute, so I imagine they think the Joker’s body is somewhere equally, ah, creative.”
Batman opens a drawer full of medical supplies and takes out a sterilized package of needles and thread. “I’m going to tend his wounds. You don’t have to stay.”
“Have you eaten?”
Batman gives him a wry smile. “You know the answer.” He takes a local anesthetic from the drawer as well, then pulls his cowl and mask back on, leaving his gloves off.
“Very well,” Alfred says. Batman heads back to the room, taking a chair with him.
The Joker’s eyes move to him as soon as he comes into the room. Batman lets the door shut and then moves over to the cot, setting the chair down and sitting in it. With the door shut, he can’t hear the sounds of Alfred moving around, which is good. He didn’t want the Joker to be able to know Alfred was there.
“I’m going to stitch up those cuts,” Batman says, taking the cap off the syringe and holding the Joker’s chin in one hand. The Joker tries to twist his face away but Batman holds him tightly and injects the local anesthetic into one cheek, then the other. He puts the syringe on the floor next to the chair, out of reach of the Joker, and grabs for a bottle of antiseptic. He pours some onto a cotton ball and swabs the wound with it and then rips open the package of needles. He threads one.
“You took me from Arkham,” the Joker says a little fuzzily. Batman leans in and studies the cut on the left side of his mouth.
“You were in danger,” Batman says. He’s done stitches on himself before, and this looks like it’ll be simple. He begins to stitch the wound shut carefully. It will scar, but there’s nothing he can do about that. He’s not a plastic surgeon. Perhaps Alfred would be better for this job but Batman is not going to risk bringing Alfred into this room.
The Joker snorts. Batman catches his gaze. The Joker is taking advantage of their proximity to study his face. Batman ignores it and continues making neat stitches. He can feel knots of scar tissue on the inside of the Joker’s cheeks from the old wound. This wound seems clean enough, although he’s probably going to have to get some antibiotics because there’s no telling what sort of dirty weapon the attacker used.
He reaches the corner of the Joker’s lips, then ties of the thread and starts on the other side. The Joker’s breath comes slow and shallow. His teeth are pressing against Batman’s hand. If he bites down, Batman has no qualms about stabbing him with the needle in a place that isn’t anesthetized. In fact, he looks forward to it.
He finishes the other cheek and knots the thread, then tapes sterile gauze over the wounds. The Joker flexes his mouth a little.
“You’ll be staying here for a while,” Batman says, gathering up the needles and thread and syringe and getting up.
“In your…loving care?” the Joker slurs, tilting his head to watch Batman go. Batman’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t answer. He locks the door shut when he leaves.