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This room of the palace was a small half-kitchen. Bruce had noted, once, that despite the vast grandness of the Joker’s landscapes, his rooms tended to be uniformly small: the size of an apartment in the Narrows, or a cell in Arkham. The windows, however, were floor-to-ceiling affairs, when he remembered to have them. This nook had a view over the whole of downtown Gotham, nightmarish and dim. Still, in what passed for natural light, Bruce sat at the counter and looked at an egg.
It was an ornament. A painted eggshell. The surface had been lacquered to a shine that Bruce knew would be smooth under his fingertips, should he dare to touch it. It was painted white and blue; delicate, cottage colors. He’d had one just like it before… Before. Yes. Bruce’s eyes took in the hairline fracture along the surface. The thin blue loop of ribbon was still secure; they’d hung it during the holidays, he and Jason, once he’d realized Jason wanted a tree; had seen the way the boy looked at the one in Gotham Square—the awe there, and something wistful. Maybe Jason never had wanted a tree at all; but Bruce had wanted to give him everything.
But none of the ornaments impressed. Not the big, gaudy baubles, or the blown-glass antiques, or even the tinsel—though, that, Jason would wear around his neck like a scarf, pretending to be a movie star. The eggshells, though. He was fascinated by. The precision, the recognizability of it, perhaps. They’d tried to make their own, of course; Jason with the same look of concentration as he put to taking care of his Robin gear. Needle in hand, and then a small paintbrush.
Bruce couldn’t remember which one of them had painted this, or if they had bought it. He remembered, though, having noticed the fracture; having said something like, “maybe we should retire this one before it breaks on us, chum.” But Jason had—had loved it. Convinced him otherwise. It hardly took much to do so, anyway. Then—
The truth was, he couldn’t recall. He couldn’t recall when they had last put it up, which must have been during the middle of that final, fraught period between them. He had a sinking feeling that maybe it had broken, but he couldn’t remember. There were so many things, behind the existence of the Joker’s world, that he could no longer remember; and Bruce knew he used to pride himself not only on his memory, but on his extensive database; so that if ever he forgot, he would never be cast adrift.
The Joker’s world was not absolute, nor infallible. The proof was here, in this painted egg, with its tiny, traceable fault. As real as it was now, or had been then.
It was a form of meditation, attention-paying. Noticing the reality of things. And the realness of this was indisputable. He looked at it, and he wondered if anyone else had realized how fragile were the bonds of this world.
He turned his head.
Joker was standing in the doorway. “Brooding, Batsy? Something in your pretty little head?”
“No,” Bruce said.
The ornament was gone, as if it had never been. The tabletop before him was pristine.
Joker rolled his eyes and swanned into the room, robes trailing behind him. He pulled up a chair and sat across from Bruce, and the kitchen table obligingly shifted until the space between them was close enough for Joker to trail one stockinged foot up Bruce’s leg.
Bruce didn’t react.
“Because,” Joker continued, “It seems to me you were worrying about scrambled eggs. How about it?” he said. “Am I on the money?”
“I can’t recall if it broke or not,” Bruce said, because dissimulation was impossible. The Joker’s canny gaze stripped the very thoughts from the back of his head, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.
“So?” Joker said. “Who cares? You’re forgetting, Bat-boob, that it doesn’t matter. We’re here now. The past is prologue, and I always skip those. Broken? Not broken? Pick one, I’ll make it true!” The Joker held out his fingers as though to snap them and looked at Bruce encouragingly.
“I know you can,” Bruce said. “But you can’t change the fact that it was fractured to begin with.”
The Joker sighed noisily. “Is this a metaphor? Fine—here’s a metaphor for you then, Brucey-boy—c’mere—” he reached forward. Had his finger up Bruce’s nose before Bruce could really parse what was going on, and he glared at the Joker’s smirk as he felt those fingers—longer than they should be—crawling up through his nasal cavity and poking around in his skull. “Ah,” Joker said. “Got it.” He tugged, and then pulled, and with a wet squelch, like a rag, he pulled out Bruce’s brain onto his own gloved hands. The brain bounced back into shape with a jaunty sort of elasticity, and then sat, grey and unassuming.
“You don’t have to worry, or think. And you know why? Because your brain is in good hands!” Joker paused, frowning. “Or, my hands at least.”
“I can see that,” Bruce said drily.
“Good,” Joker said with an exaggerated shudder, “because the damn thing is dripping on me. Here, have it back.” He pushed the brain against Bruce’s forehead and there was a pop—
and Bruce hadn’t realized how lightheaded he’d been until everything was back where it belonged.
“Now, come on,” Joker said. “We’ve places to go, people to kill.” He stood up, stepped forward.
It was impossible not to notice how the whole world brightened around him; neons and deep royals, colors so saturated they felt like sweet cream on Bruce’s tongue. Impossible, also, not to notice how exaggerated, how bold, the definitions; like Joker was the only real thing in all the world. Even the heat of his hand, tugging Bruce along, could not be called grounding. It was like being at the top of the roller coaster’s curve, looking down onto the dizzying slope and feeling that thrill in your stomach, knowing danger was ahead.
Did it matter that the ride had been planned in advance, and by someone other than yourself?—Or was that, too, part of the thrill?
They walked out together, leaving the empty room behind.
(Somewhere, in a universe that no longer existed, was a painted egg. Broken or not broken, it didn’t matter now.)