Oh, and which idiot supplied the Joker with fear gas?

He's grateful just to have made it home, in the state he's in. He's patched up his shoulder as best he can with the way he's shaking.

Still wounded and twitching, no longer covered in insects or their blood but still shaking, he curls up in the space on the wall next to the bed and whimpers.

I'm going off to kill the Joker. It's been a while since I consciously decided to kill someone.

Little Raven, if you ever need to talk, I'm willing.