(no subject)
Rising from the chair and stretching, Joker decided that if he was being left to his own devices and Bruce wasn't going to be watching him, he might as well make good use of the time. First on the agenda was exploring the whole of the penthouse quarters and everything contained inside.
It was a large place, large enough for it to take a few minutes before Bruce reached a hidden door in one of the closets on the other side of the building. Inside he ran into Alfred, who carried a load of sheets in his arms and appeared to be heading for the exit. "You don't need to watch me when I'm in the next room, Alfred." Bruce slipped his hands into his pockets and tried to give the butler a pointed look.
"I predicted you would be needing clean sheets, so I came to get these." The butler gave a pointed look back.
Bruce sighed and stepped around him, finding a desk with a console atop it. Spinning it around for Alfred to see, security footage from four cameras in the penthouse played across its screen. "No you didn't."
Within the walls, Bruce watched as the Joker made his way through the flat. Alfred merely shrugged. "I'm removing access to the remote tracker in his neck tonight," Bruce began slowly. "I don't want you to do anything like that again."
"You'll have to forgive me if I'm a bit of a skeptic to your motives."
Bruce let the bag slip down his shoulder and hit the floor. He needed to sit down, so he wheeled the desk chair around from its station and flung himself into it, looking up at Alfred and running his hands through his hair. It had been a while since Bruce had shown physical strain or a noted lack of stamina in front of the old englishman, and it didn't go unnoticed. It took a few tries for Bruce to speak. "You know he had a base in Chicago. I found....a lot more there as well."
Wandering through room after room, Joker went through the contents in detail, picking up and examining everything, tracing his fingers around every edge. He was hoping to stumble upon a few of the hidden passageways, but was just as interested in what else might be strewn about the rooms. Being as the rich were often also eccentric and given to collect oddities, there were a number of things to fascinate in each room. People's belongings sometimes said a great deal about them, although with Bruce and his act, that might not hold so true.
Strolling into a side dining hall, Joker was delighted to find the place had been decked out in Baroque finery, complete with armaments on the walls and a set of armor on either side of the room. Looking at the blades hanging on the walls with a hungry gleam, ignoring the tapestries for the moment, he jumped and struggled until he got a sword down. His first goal achieved, he held it in the ready position, scowling at a suit of armor. "Think you've won, eh? You'll never defeat me!" Launching into a pretend battle with an inanimate object, Joker swung and darted and danced about the metal figure until the insane game of make-believe expanded, creating a whole room of imaginary enemies. Soon he was scurrying under the table only to jump up on it on the opposite side, crashing a medieval feast in swashbuckling glory with mad cackles and the whistle of a blade in the air.
For a moment, Alfred's eyes flickered to the screen and didn't move. When they fell back upon Bruce, they came with a very unsatisfactory expression. Bruce followed his gaze and stared at the imaginary game of knights and dragons taking place in his hall. The butler cleared his throat softly. "You were saying, sir?"
"He'll.....be staying with us for some time. I'm sorry."
"I believe I've made my thoughts on the matter clear already."
Bruce stared at the little console, but his mind was far away. "Alfred.......after my parents died..... what was I like?"
It was plain to see that the elder man was confused by the question. "I suspect you were fairly normal for a boy your age dealing with grief." He watched Bruce suspiciously, heavily lined eyes squinting ever so minutely as if to glimpse Bruce's thoughts. "You rarely talked about it. I only saw you cry a few times. But it wasn't difficult to tell."
Giving up the pretense of looking at the screen, Bruce stared out into space. Nothing too unusual. So how did he get.....like this? He had no idea. Much of his life could be explained by cause and effect. The need for justice, the endurance, the revenge..... But he was discovering more and more about himself lately that he had no explanation for.
All challengers vanquished, Joker ran down the table only to slide to a halt on his knees at the edge, kneeling before the seat at the head of the table like a knight errant. He made to bow for a moment and then, considering, drew the sword again and sliced it through empty air, turning with a whirl and depositing himself in the empty Lord's chair. Kicking his heels up on the table, he leaned the wooden throne back on two legs, satisfied with his victory.
Alfred watched the display with a look somewhere between fascination and revulsion. "Forgive me for saying so, but whatever you are trying to figure out for yourself might not be as difficult as you think it is," he told his former charge.
"I suppose you're right Alfred," Bruce said with a sigh, coming back to himself. He flopped back into the chair and met the butler's eyes, trying and failing to find a smile. "I have little excuse for the way I am." Following his line of thinking, the butler grew more serious. "So if you still believe in me, then I need you here."
"'Having no excuse' is no excuse to abandon your principles."
"I haven't. Just....found an understanding of the other side."
Sliding out of the chair and onto the floor, Joker sprang to his feet again, abandoning his purloined sword on the table and leaving to explore the other rooms. He found a vase balanced on a pedestal in one corner and didn't even pause to think - he couldn't resist the impulse to give it a little push with his fingertips and watch it fall over, shattering into pieces on the floor. Stepping over the mess, the madman moved into the next room... and stopped suddenly, taking in where he'd ended up. It was a study of some sort, filled with books.
It was easy to see that it was hard for Alfred to follow Bruce's logic. The sad thing was that Bruce couldn't blame him. "I still believe in you, Master Wayne. But I might just have to take that day off a little more frequently. And you can berate me all you want; I'm going to keep an eye on him whether you like it or not."
Bruce conceded. "Just no more stunts like Chicago." The butler nodded. "Now. I'm going to finish unpacking and file a few things. And...don't worry, I'll send for someone to clean the dining hall in the morning."
"You know you'll be sorry if he trashes the place by then," Alfred began muttering as he finally left the hidden room, presumably off for the master bedroom with a stack of new sheets for the closet.
Pacing through the small library, Joker scanned the books as quickly as he was able. He was always... quieted when around volumes of stored knowledge, mostly because printed word, pictures, and recordings had been the source of so much of his learning, his piecing together of the world outside. His father had taught him some things, but they weren't lessons any normal person would have ever learned or care to learn. The only way he'd been able to get himself up to the same speed as the rest of humanity was through experience, either directly or through the records of others. He had first broken into a small town library to have somewhere warm to sleep without the hassle of having to murder an entire household and run away the next morning. Slowly, it had occurred to him to practice his mediocre reading skills more and use the books there like he had in the tunnels he'd been kept in - something to pass the time and gain another edge.
A number of the books were nothing that held any interest for him; literature, poetry, a large collection held in high social regard but generally worthless. Joker had to look harder to find the stuff he favored, things that told you how to do things if you just read between the lines; history books were, after all, just the recorded results of huge social experiments, a guide on how to manipulate both individuals and groups. He was certain that if he wandered enough he'd find a few of the others, too - practical guides, bits of chemistry and mechanics and other things that taught you how to rig traps and build bombs.
When Alfred left, Bruce hiked up his bag again and headed straight for the underground lair. The lights came on in a cascade through the ceiling as he descended into the concrete hideout. As the space lit up, he had to take stock of the room again. The pod sat in a corner, the computer idled in standby mode, and everything was eerily still, which wasn't unusual but it was suddenly more noticeable. It felt like he hadn't seen the place in months.
Back up in the penthouse, Alfred began his rounds through the master bedroom, depositing the sheets and setting everything back in order for Bruce. Fresh gauze and a small kit of medical supplies was set under the side of the bed, just in case he came back injured. The butler hoped every time it would only be scratches and bruises. Once he was finished, he paused at the door considering his options. It was strange how out of place things felt just knowing that the Joker was in the house. When Alfred had left the room, he had watched the man heading down the hall. He knew Bruce had told each of them to leave the other alone, but he found his feet following the madman's path into the library.
Joker had settled into one of the leather armchairs in the study, perched upside down with his feet against the wall. He'd managed to find one "classic" among the collection that always intrigued him, one that always was good to review. He still hadn't absorbed it all, for all he'd been a quick study with other things. Despite being written hundreds of years ago, humans still behaved and thought in the same way, and the same ideas for how to manipulate them still proved true. Hearing footsteps entering the room, the insane man peered over the edges of Sun Tsu's Art of War, eying the elderly butler.
"Making impeccable use of the library, I see," Alfred commented upon reading the title in the Joker's lap. He stopped a good distance from the green haired man, well and away from his personal space, so far that half the room stood between them. "Might I suggest Frederich Nietzsche to go with that?"
"You might, or you might not. No guarantee I'll ever take your advice, much less your orders," Joker shot back, half wondering whether Bruce had sent the man into the library as a 'test' of sorts - something to see if he actually was going to stay away from the other man. ...can't very well do that if he comes begging for a beating, now can I? "What do you want, Freddy? Come to try to put a collar on and housebreak me, or seeing if you can't sneak the stray into the vet's for euthanization before your kiddie finds out what you've done?"
"I've simply come to see what you plan to do with your time here, now that you've attained it." The butler clasped his hands together and straightened his back, emphasizing the difference between himself and the Joker's hunched and curled form in the chair. "I won't be giving you orders. Not unless I find you taking advantage of Mr. Wayne. I want you to know that."
Arching an eyebrow, Joker smirked. "Right. Like I believe you for a minute. Freddie, I'm here because I want to be, because I'm wanted here, and because I've got even fewer places left to go now, thanks to you and Lucy. I don't owe you any favors, I'm not going put ribbons in my hair and daintily sip tea for you, and I certainly won't respect you if you continue to throw out that Stuffed Shirt attitude."
"Right, of course. Because all you've ever wanted was a nice home, a good meal, and someone who understands what it's like to have the world unfairly against you because you tried to destroy it." The butler shifted and narrowed his eyes. "You knew exactly what you were doing every step of the way. You play people like it's your own personal game. You've done so to Bruce when you first showed up in Gotham and you're still doing it. Don't tell me you've had a change of heart."
"Of course not. Bat still seems attached to people, for some reason I can't fathom. I just don't give a damn. Other people say they feel this and that - sorrow, remorse, pity. For other people. I don't get that," Joker murmured, undistressed by his apparent lack of emotions felt by other human beings. "Bat is different, somehow, because we're the same on so many levels, but society could die from a plague in a few days and all I'd miss is a few less toys."
"Do you feel these things for him? If he were gone, if he were to go out tonight and not return, would you feel it? And if those people were more like you, then they'd interest you like he does? You like him because he's so much like you. You like him because you see him as an extension of yourself." Alfred stared down at the man from across the room. "You're in love with yourself. You don't care for him."
Joker blinked at Alfred, uncomprehending. "I would feel it, yes. I've thought about it and felt... something different." His lip curled with scorn as his eyes drifted away for a moment, then returned to the elderly butler. "That last, you'd like to think, wouldn't you?" he asked with a hiss. "You're not supposed to like the things you hate, but that doesn't seem to make a difference. No matter how much I disagree and try to get him to see another perspective, Bat clings to his narrow view and refuses to stop working to support it. Not only can't I stop him, I won't stop him anymore, even as pointless as I think it is."
"That's why he wound up trying to save the world you know." Alfred started as a rebuttal, but halfway through the words he found himself listening to them for their own merit and not for the Joker's sake. "Not everyone can share his beliefs, nor his determination.......but that's why he does what he does." His eyes and posture fell slightly. It occurred to him that he had missed Bruce, been more worried that things between them had been broken, more than he'd let on.
"Then you know it'd be easier to stop a freight train than tell him 'no' and make him abide by it," Joker laughed. "Bat can do what he wants to, so long as he abides by his promises and doesn't try to force me to go along with him and buy his convictions. I don't care about saving the world. It's beyond saving anyways."
"And that's all you want? That's really it?" Alfred's tone was flat, but subdued. He could barely imagine it, the madman coming, going and staying in Bruce Wayne's home like it was the most natural thing in the world. How could a man like this be content with Bruce's wishes? How could Bruce be content with it?
Sharp eyes darting to the butler's face, Joker put down the book and righted himself, stalking over to bend close, seeing what effect his presence and posture might get at such close quarters. "You don't know anything about our deal. Very little, in fact, about a great many things. I want a great many things, and so far, Bats has provided. He does it because he wants to, and because he has to. In return, I'm the only one who really sees him. He finally gets a playmate on the same level." Smirking, his eyes glittering dangerously, the madman deposited himself on Alfred's lap, placing arms daintily around his neck, close enough for the man to take in every horrid detail. "What are you so worried about, Freddy? If I were you, I'd be less worried about me, and more worried about what it means that he decided to take and keep my daddy's little photo journal documenting his undying love."
Alfred recoiled, his face souring at the invasion of his space. The Joker's breath was awful. Granted, he was fairly cleaner than he usually was, but his hair was still greased with dried sweat and he smelled. His scars were garish up close and the wide, darting eyes above them furthered the disturbing effect. "Get off of me. What are you talking about?"
"Oh, Brucey didn't tell you? He figured out who I used to be and pulled me along on a trip down memory lane, before the iceberg hit and everything went cold, numb and drowned. He wasn't satisfied with just poking his nose around and forcing me to remember; he had to take a keepsake to remind him of good times. Nothing says 'nostalgic vacation' than a photo album of incestuous child torture and porn. Or did you give him a taste for that, Jeeves?" he asked seriously, his face twisting into an angry snarl.
Try as he may, and Alfred certainly did, it was impossible to keep the shock off of his face. The deep lines around the butler's eyes furrowed together, gazing hard at the Joker as though he could determine what he meant, if he was spinning accusations or lies, only by the look in his eyes. What had they done in Chicago? Bruce hadn't mentioned.....anything. Although he had just returned..... He had acted as if everything were back to normal. Alfred stopped trying to get the Joker away from him and sat still. "I did nothing of the sort. Bruce has never, never...." The old man didn't know where to start. The Joker, this criminal mastermind that his former ward had taken in out of nowhere, was suddenly accusing him of..... He didn't want to think about it. What was the Joker doing? Was he lying? To get Bruce's attention. To upset his mentor? Alfred's tone turned to acid, his eyes as distrustful as the madman's. "I don't know what happened to you, nor where you came from, and quite frankly, I don't give a damn. I do know that whatever Bruce has done, he has done so for a reason." He stared hard into the Joker's wretched face.
Joker smiled impassively at the elderly man. "Then go ask him. Better yet, check the suitcases to see if I'm lying, and then ask him." Slipping away from him and giving the man his space, Joker left the room, deciding to make a trip to the kitchen. Hopefully this time he wouldn't be accosted for trying to steal a snack.
Alfred sat, after the Joker left, in the library and tried to piece together what on earth he had just been told. Bruce had a book......in his suitcase. The suitcase he had been carrying all night. Why would the Joker tell him this? He wanted dissension between Bruce and Alfred. He knew it. The Joker was screwing with him. But that would only work if what he said were true.
The old butler found his footing, and headed for the secret passage where he had last seen Bruce. The man wasn't there, nor was the bag. He must have taken it with him. Though wary about leaving the Joker alone in the house, Alfred's anxiety got the better of him. He headed down for the lair, following the path Bruce had taken not fifteen minutes ago. If he were lucky, the nighttime vigilante would still be there.
He wasn't. The lift deposited Alfred into an empty cavern, lit up and artificially active, but with no one there to run it. The suit was gone. So was the Bat-pod. At the desk, boxes of archival files had been stacked together, but none opened. After burning most of their records months ago, there weren't many left. The bag lay on it's side underneath the chair, and slowly Alfred picked it up. He wanted to talk to Bruce. He was certain the Joker had told his story in a twisted light. But he still had to see for himself. Setting it on the chair, he unclasped it and dug inside. He found....nothing. Only a set of supplies, hooks, wire, and a set of gloves. He set the bag back on the floor with a sigh. Relief came easier than he had expected. He still didn't know what the Joker had been alluding to, but he hadn't found..... His eyes caught sight of a book, on the desk.....it was thick, and yellowed from age, and his hope withered.
Navigating the kitchen, Joker dug through the cupboards and fridge, trying to find something that caught his fancy. He'd never learned to cook, frequently becoming bored or frustrated when things didn't turn out like he'd planned them too. Instead, he mostly ate things exactly as they were when he found them; it was less of a bother, and he was used to raw foods and things that other people seemed to find disgusting. He hadn't survived for years on filet mignon and cherry tarts, after all.
Finding another small plastic crate of tomatoes, some pre-cooked shrimp, and pieces of raw chicken that appeared to have been left out to thaw, Joker confiscated them all.
Saving the crate of round, red orbs for last, Joker crunched his way through the shrimp, sometimes not even paying attention enough to pull off the tails. There was a view of the city through one of the kitchen doorways, and Joker stared through it to watch Gotham below. He wondered what Batman was doing, where he was going, whether he'd find any of his old associates or acquaintances while he patrolled the streets. That was one thing he probably wouldn't do, even if asked; he was ever pessimistic and with a strong drive for survival. If he was called upon to rat out everything he knew about the Gotham underworld, he wouldn't do it. It was always good to have a bolt-hole in a tight situation.
Picking up the book, Alfred felt that anxiety return with a fair amount of force. It was a normal enough looking photo album, with a hard back, a good weight to it, and filled to a sizable width. He held his breath as he opened it. What he found inside nearly made him sick. After the first few pages it was difficult to keep his stomach where it ought to remain. The Joker had summed it up, but his description hadn't given it justice. It hadn't quite prepared the butler for.....the shock of it. Many of the photographs were yellowing, just like the paper in which they were held against. They all featured a boy who was recognizable as the man he had just been speaking to. Alfred couldn't have imagined the Joker as a child. Even seeing it, he could barely believe his eyes. Not only that, but the things....the boy in the pictures did..... Some of them were in sequence, like frames from a horror film. Some were random. He found that the ones in sequence were harder to look at. Eventually he couldn't look at it at all anymore, and set it back down on the desk. In between the giant monitors of the lair's mainframe and the small stack of archives it sat. And Alfred could not believe his own eyes.
Across the city, out of the financial district, Batman had just finished a conversation with Commissioner Gordon. It had been far, far too short by the Commissioner's standards, but the tainted hero had told him a lot: he had the Joker; Bruce Wayne had been his latest target, a prime subject to take out before the eyes of the public; it was being taken care of; he hoped to not see him wrecking havoc on the streets of Gotham again. Gordon had been dumbstruck. He demanded the Joker be handed over to the police. The Batman refused, on the grounds that the GPD nor the Asylum could hold him. It had been a feeble demand to begin with, and they had both known it. If Gordon's trust in him was shaken, he wouldn't know it until later. He truly hoped it was not. He hoped that the admission would be taken as an act of trust, and confidence. With these thoughts in mind, he glided away from the Major Crimes tower ready to take on a city of criminals empowered by the Joker's rampages and Batman's disappearance.
Finishing the shrimp and tearing apart the pieces of raw chicken with his yellowed teeth, Joker pondered what his next move should be. He wasn't content to sit around being a kept pet all the time, after all. He refused to join Bat's little crusade - he didn't believe in the same notions that Bruce did, much less have the drive to want to enforce it. Given true freedom, he would have continued much as he had, but with his promise binding him against killing... The madman sighed, wondering what fun he might be able to cook up that didn't involve fatalities.
The city certainly hadn't been lacking in crime since the Joker had agreed to that promise, and Bruce didn't have to look very hard to see this. There were dealers around every street, what was left of the mafia walked out and about in conspicuous groups without a care, and Batman had already stopped two petty robberies. Things didn't look like they were about to slow down either. Usually nights like this would have been hell for him, but tonight he felt different. Tonight, he was having the time of his life because he was back in his element. He flew down streets, darting into alleys and weaving through traffic without tiring. He perched in watch, listening to the radio waves like a bundle of coiled energy. He hadn't expected the rush that came to his exhausted body and mind, but he was glad for it. It was good to be back. Good to be out again. Every fight, every confrontation, vaguely reminded him of the man back at the penthouse. He found himself comparing each of the street thugs to the Joker, finding their mistakes, their blunders, their anger and wondering how differently the Joker would have worked had he been in each of their situations. It started unconsciously at first, but as he became more aware of it, it was kind of exciting.
As the night waned on, things finally died down in Gotham. The police had been catching onto Batman's altercations and were now spreading themselves around the city searching solely for him. After running into them, and narrowly escaping once he did, he knew his work for the night had come to an end.
Moving back towards the kitchen counter, Joker dug around until he found writing supplies, sitting back at the kitchen table and jotting ideas down while he ate. As much as he'd told others that he wasn't one to plan, he did have to on occasion. While many things he did were impulse, spur-of-the-moment affairs, all of his more complicated masterpieces had been intricately planned out beforehand, done to stay one step ahead of those he was leading in the chase. If he wanted to still have fun and keep his promise at the same time, it would take work. Unfortunately.
Joker filled sheet after sheet with awkward, childish writing, putting down every thought that came to mind whether vague or detailed, impossible or not. If he did things right and planned accordingly, he'd be able to sneak out while Bruce was patrolling as Batman, pull a few pranks or heists, and be back before he got caught.