Chapter Text
Bruce glanced down at his watch, noting that about two minutes had passed since his last time check. He exhaled, loud enough that Alfred, standing next to him glanced at him, adjusted his own jacket. The late spring heat was far more intense then anticipated, and Alfred’s insistence on wearing his jacket was only a testament to his resolve.
“Nerves, Master Bruce?”
“Just a little.” Bruce pushed his hands into his pockets, attempting to look casual, confident- laid back. It was something he usually achieved fairly easily, after so many years of practice- but now, he was thinking the image was falling apart. The heat wasn’t helping- he’d wanted to appear in a suit, but had given up entirely and gone for a white button down and jeans. Suits made him feel powerful-
But that was no shock to anyone.
In the distance, he could hear the sounds of engines. Wayne Manor was set out far enough that traffic was light, and often Bruce could hear his visitors well before they arrived. They were right on schedule- which was impressive, considering the cargo they were delivering to him.
The Joker, after all, had a way of completely throwing off plans entirely.
Bruce knew that Alfred was only there to help him save face- that and he would never leave Bruce alone to his own mistakes. The man blatantly, and loudly, disagreed with Bruce’s idea though, an open invitation for the Clown Prince of Crime to come stay at Wayne Manor, under house arrest, with a new style of therapy.
Bruce disagreed with himself over it half the time still.
But he had thrown the clown into Arkham so many times now he had lost count- and the man had broken out just as many times. It was obviously wasn’t working, and he needed a new tactic. While many people would argue that Batman should simply throw the lunatic off a roof and be done with him, Bruce couldn’t bring himself to break his one rule. He would never kill the clown- he was sure of that.
So he had needed a new plan.
Rehabilitation had been deemed entirely impossible for the Joker long ago, and his stays in Arkham consisted of solitary confinement and a plethora of drug cocktails. While this had proven just as pointless, the Asylum seemed out of options. And Bruce had seized upon that. He had enough pull at the Asylum from his funding that, even there had been major disagreement, he could have gotten his way. But the heads were so eager to get the clown off their hands that they had agreed- under strict conditions, of course.
Bruce had drowned in paperwork over it- waivers that he was risking his own health by his own will, that the asylum was not responsible for anything that happened under this new therapy. That the doctors were still given access to the clown and allowed to publish any work on him without needing Bruce’s permission- basically that the Joker was their property, and simply on loan to Bruce. The playboy was fine with that.
He felt safer with the Joker locked up within his own home then at the asylum at this point.
“Here they are now, sir,” Alfred said, as a GCPD car drove up, followed by an van clearly labeled Arkham Asylum, and behind that another two GCPD cars. Once they were parked the officers began to leave their cars, circling around the van carefully.
From the back car, Jim Gordon stepped out. He loosened his tie as he made his way towards Bruce, glasses inching down his nose. “Mr. Wayne,” he said, extending his hand, which Bruce took and firmly shook. He knew Gordon thought this plan was asinine, a suicide for Bruce and half of Gotham. He had fought it until the end- but there had never been a chance that Bruce wouldn’t get what he wanted. But he had heard all about Gordon’s dismay as Batman, had been forced to try and placate him, assure him he would be checking up on Wayne, would look into this himself.
“Before we release the prisoner, we need to have one final walk through.” Gordon had, along with officers and Asylum staff, done a thorough walk through of the manor- or what they thought of as thorough. Bruce had been pleased and horrified that they had found nothing at all to be deemed suspicious- pleased that he was good enough at hiding his identity at Batman that they completely missed it, but also horrified that they couldn’t see it at all.
Every day he became less and less shocked that the Joker got away with as much as he did.
“Of course,” Bruce said, waving Alfred away as the man moved to follow. He led Gordon, along with another officer and an Asylum staff member who had been in the van inside, walking through the Manor’s security procedures and systems.
Up to the third floor, Bruce gestured towards the large, heavy door that led to the Joker’s room. “For security purposes, his rooms are adjacent to my own.” Bruce pointed to a door nearly half way down the hall. “Should there be any commotion, I will be very aware of it.”
He entered a code onto a small pad on the wall, and the door unlocked, opened easily. It was heavy, so he was sure the Joker couldn’t find a way to break through it. He didn’t doubt the man’s resources.
“We’ve set up security cameras, two in each room,” Bruce offered, pointing to the corner near the large windows. “Here, the bathroom, and his actually bed room. No move will go unrecorded- and as requested, Arkham staff will have full access, they simply need ask.” They walked through the large open room, set with a plush lounge chair that appeared more like a couch, book shelves, even a television. The rooms were set as a second master bedroom, and Bruce had never had a use for them. It was as if fate had willed the space left for the clown.
“The windows are bullet proof, extra thick- he cannot break them. They only open with a code, unless I disable the security.” Within the bedroom, the officer and Arkham staff member began to poke around- opening the large closet, the dresser, a smaller closet. They were mostly empty, except for a few articles of clothing Bruce had purchased already. He didn’t think leaving the man in that godawful orange suit would do any good to help adjust him to a more normal life.
And the goal was to immerse the Joker as totally as possible.
“I’ve taken every precaution to ensure everyone’s safety,” Bruce said as they left the room, heading back towards the front of the manor. Jim didn’t look convinced, but he said nothing- he was too aware that he held no sway over Bruce Wayne.
Back outside, Gordon gave the go-ahead, and the Arkham staff moved to the back of the van, finally opening it. One climbed inside, and Bruce could hear movement, waited on bated breath for the man to appear.
As he was guided out of the back of the van, he appeared blinding against the sun. While his pants were standard grade orange, his straight jacket was white, and with the sun behind him it seemed two shades too bright, too stark. He rattled with each step, the extra enclosures on his suit sure to add enough extra weight to slow him down, but Bruce didn’t doubt the clown could find a way out, if left to his own devices.
The staff members, flanked by officers, led him up the wide path to the manor. Bruce felt the man’s eyes before he saw them, too green, with pupils so small they were nothing but pin pricks. His face was smeared with old grease paint- flecks gone around his forehead, the slight creases around his eyes that appeared when he grinned. Around his eyes the pitch had faded to worn grey. Bruce wondered when he found the paint in Arkham, but was sure the clown had simply had someone smuggle some in.
It wasn’t as nice as the Joker typically liked to wear, but Bruce knew so long as it gave that face its hideous starkness, that nightmare quality, that the clown wouldn’t be too picky.
As they loomed closer, Bruce could take in more- committed it all to memory. He needed every detail he could get. The man’s curls, days unwashed, the blonde roots, the green that had begun to fade. He wondered when they had last dared to allow the man to shower.
He knew there had been incidents of the fatal kind when the man was allowed so much as a shower.
The lower half of his face was obscured by a mask, molded around his shin, jaw, and up over his nose, to prevent biting. It was tight enough to muffle speech, and Bruce was sure part of its use was to obscure the man’s unnerving laughter. It was so tight that upon closer inspection, Bruce could see the condensation from his breath, obscuring the view of his red lips, his scars.
The man was stopped directly in front of Bruce, who looked him over. The Joker stood still, allowed it, and Bruce could only wonder what was going on inside that head of his. After a moment he turned, was flanked by Alfred, then the staff and his escorted guest, as they made their way inside.
They walked up to the man’s room, and Bruce opened the door, gesturing for everyone to enter. He was handed a clip board by one staff member, a set of final forms for him to sign off on, as the other began to unlock the closings of the man’s straight jacket.
Bruce looked up as the jacket was removed, and the staff member went finally for the mask. The Joker’s pale arms stayed at his sides, his mouth set in a firm line as his mask was pulled away.
And he was standing there, in all his hinged glory, free for a moment.
Bruce stared, aware that everyone was tense, feeling it in the air. They were waiting to see what the man would do. By the door, an officer had her hand on the butt of her gun.
Finally, the Joker turned from them, without a word, an expression, and walked towards the large windows, staring out. He faded then, as if into the background, and Bruce decided it best to leave him be, to get everyone out of the room and off the manor as quickly as possible.
Once the door was relocked, the group made their way back outside. At the door, Alfred had been handed the straight jacket and the mask.
“Should the patient need to be restrained,” one staff member said, “these should suffice. A doctor will be stopping by tomorrow morning to evaluate the situation and the patient.”
“We will be waiting,” Bruce said, shaking every hand that was offered to him. “Thank you for your help, I know this was not a routine move for anyone.”
Bruce waited until his company had all left, then, with Alfred at his side, made his way back into his home. He had his companion leave the Joker’s extra dressings downstairs, out of the clown’s sight, and then the two returned to the Joker’s room. Bruce entered the code, and braced himself as he opened the door for the man to be there, to jump on him.
Instead all he saw was the man’s back. He still stood by the window, hadn’t moved from that spot even an inch. Bruce entered, with Alfred behind him, the door clicking shut and locking behind them.
“I’m hoping the staff at Arkham explained to you what is going on,” Bruce said, shoving his hands in his pockets casually. “But let me welcome you to your new home.”
The Joker glanced back, turning his head only slightly. Bruce held his ground.
“These rooms are yours entirely. I hope to have everything you need very quickly- as it stands, I apologize if they seem rather bare. The security is impeccable, however I have tried to keep it discrete. The goal is for you to feel as if this is normal life.” Still nothing, not a smile, not a laugh- not a single reaction. “What you do in here is entirely up to you, so long as it fits the protocols that Arkham has helped to outline for you. I felt it only fair you were given a copy, you can find it in the top drawer of that small desk.” Bruce gestured with a nod of his head. “I’m sure it will take some time to adjust to all this. I’m not asking for a miracle- just that you give this a fighting chance.”
There was a moment of silence, before Bruce heard it, the rattle of the Joker’s giggle, starting low in his chest and building up, up, until it seemed to echo around the room. The man wrapped his arms around himself, spinning on his heels so quickly Bruce barely caught the motion. As he hugged himself, his mouth split into a grin, sharp white teeth set against the red smudges on his lips.
“A fighting chance? Oh pretty boy, you do have a way with words!” He let another round of giggles rise up, lift out of him like hot steam, before he settled into that cocky smirk Bruce had punched off his face countless times.
*
Bruce had taken dinner up to the Joker after the sun set, with Alfred waiting directly outside the door. The man had settled on the large sill of the window, staring out at the now dark lands behind the manor. It didn’t appear as if he had moved otherwise.
He spoke not a word to Bruce, and Bruce decided not to offer any. He left the tray on the desk, and the room rather quickly. Alfred said nothing, until later that night Bruce went back- found still a silent Joker, and untouched food.
“I assume he has not moved?” Alfred asked as Bruce emerged. He took the tray from the man, before Bruce could argue.
“No. He didn’t touch a single thing.” He swept a hand back through his dark hair. “I know this is a big change. I just hope he’s not planning to starve himself. He pulled that in Arkham, more then once. Damn near a week without food, collapsed, and when the nurses rushed in he blinded one and damn near bled out another.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Alfred shook his head.
“Surely, Master Bruce, you did not anticipate that this would be easy.” They walked from the door, heading back downstairs, towards the kitchen. Once on the main floor, feeling secure enough away from the man, Alfred ventured, “You know him better then all others, Sir. I frankly cannot believe that you imagine any of this will work on him.”
“I have to try. I’m out of options, Alfred. I throw him in Arkham and he just climbs back out. Every time. And it seems every time he escapes, he wreaks even more havoc on Gotham. I’m desperate.”
Bruce hated to admit it, but to Alfred it was almost safe. As safe as it would ever get. “Besides, at least I can keep track of him here. I feel better doing it myself.”
“Next thing, sir, you’ll be relocating all of Arkham to the manor.” Alfred set the tray down. “And frankly, I will need some assistance if you do. I cannot help babysit so many of Gotham’s most depraved. I can only imagine the cost of such a thing.”
Bruce laughed, leaning against the counter and smiling at Alfred. At least the man could offer some humor, even if he completely disagreed with Bruce’s decision.
*
He didn’t move from his spot, as the minutes seeped into hours. The Joker sat, staring out the large window, at the black nothing that had become of the grounds around Wayne Manor. Watching the light seep over them, dye everything gold, orange, red, then finally an inky black- it had been soothing. His cell in Arkham had always been underground, where the maximum security wards were located. He had never had a window. Or a view.
Only when he was running atop Gotham rooftops could he ever enjoy a skyline, a sunset or rise. Or the simple blackness of night. Not the damp, closet blackness of a cell when the power was out, no- that was different, utterly fake and offensive to the senses. A forced blindness.
This was something natural, the kind of blackness that was a soft blanket, that calmed the constant buzzing of a brain, the never ending static under skin and in veins. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The room smelt unlived in, stained with the scent of lemon over what had been the slightest layer of dust. The Joker didn’t doubt that the other man shadowing this self-thought prince charming kept the place spotless- but there was always dust when a room was unlived in. He knew, knew the way it felt like ash. His every home had been unlived in- those deserted buildings in the Narrows, the smallest of hiding closests where he had etched in his existence.
Yes, the Joker knew the dust of unuse, and these rooms were speckled with it.
Still, it was welcomed compared to the dampness of Arkham. Underground, nothing seemed dry. There was a sourness to the air there, one that ingrained within his nose, even when he’d been gone a week. Everything about Arkham was offensive to his hyper active senses- every bit of it seemed woven into his skin, through pores.
He leaned his head back, opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. Eventually, he would sweep through each of these rooms. He would learn curves and corners, textures- everything would be committed to memory, and quickly. The Joker was an expert at learning his small spaces, the ones he chose and those assigned. He had learned ever cell he’d ever been given at Arkham, ever small space he had chosen for himself in the Narrows and underbelly of his city. He had learned Gotham, inside and out, it’s spaces and dust and the people who kicked it up.
This space, it would be no different. These rooms, this Manor, the grounds around it. All something new to learn, to mold, to burn.
He clicked his tongue, smiling to himself. Oh, if his Bat could see him now- he wondered what the big man himself would say. Did he approve of the Joker being whisked away from his tower, to a place where there was no dragon? He must know, the clown mused, he had to- the Bat knew everything, or liked to think he did. Everything except what sprouted roots inside the Joker’s head.
“Do come for a visit, Batsy,” the Joker whispered, pressing his finger tips to the window, as if trying to touch the cool night just beyond it. “I do so want to dance.”
He smiled to himself, allowing a round of soft giggles to slip past red lips and sharp teeth, to fill the room around him with the sort of comfort he had grown used to giving himself.