A/N: Slight references are made to And Lifts the Latch and In The Offing, but neither need to be read. Unless you want to.

Bird In Hand

The clock echoed midnight around the corridors with ghostly determination. It was in fact half past, but this being Arkham, the clock at least had the comfort that it wasn't the only thing that was off.

The hour was late in both senses, but despite the deceptive calm and quiet of the cells, the inmates were far from inactive. One of them had appropriated a spoon, hiding it in some unknown and unknowable place on his person, and he was attempting gamely to dig out through the walls. The walls being cement, it was slow going, but at the same time made entertainment from the fellow captives around him, who were taking bets on whether he'd get out before he died of old age. The odds were surprisingly good, though it had to be taken into account that the gamblers were not exactly rational thinkers. There was nothing quite so frightening, to the asylum inmates, as someone in their right mind.

Which was why the newest arrival was giving some of them trouble. Not only was he not drooling and raving and talking to the walls like everyone else, he'd been allowed to keep his mask, a fact which was causing no little complaint. Why should this man be showed favoritism, the nutjobs and freaks and wackos wanted to know, when the rest of them were forced to face the world without their own personal crutches to lean on and hide behind? It wasn't fair. It was downright un-American. They considered staging a revolt but were distracted by the next round of meds.

The nurse, who's name badge announced him as Rydell, came through the Joker's corridor, stepping swiftly past the neighboring cell with barely a glance and slipping a paper cup with— count 'em, the Joker reiterated mentally, three, five, seven, eight, eight different pills, and a whole lotta good they were doing— his meds through the slot on the door. The Joker spared the cup a quick flicker of his eyes, but was more intrigued with what hadn't been done.

"So," he started conversationally, "the new guy gets to keep his mask and he doesn't get doped up? Are you trying to encourage him, here? Start a trend, or what?" He fluttered his fingers on either side of his face, rolled his eyes dramatically. "What the world really needs is more freaks in batsuits."

"As opposed to freaks in clown makeup," said Rydell, without changing his expression. The Joker had gone through a series of four increasingly nervous nurses before hitting on this one and Rydell— ah, Rydell— now, here was a worthy representative of an insane asylum. The Joker had even told him what he would do to his wife and dog when he got out, and Rydell had barely batted an eyelash, had just informed him that he, Rydell, wasn't married and if he, the Joker, had that much of a fur fetish then he, Rydell again, could direct him to a pound just down the street. Oh, Rydell. The fun they'd had.

The Joker hitched one side of his torn mouth higher than the other, in wry acknowledgment of the nurse's witty repartee, and crossed over to the side of his cell that fronted on his neighbor's. There was a good four feet in between the bars, each cell fully contained on it's own, no one sharing— not that sharing was bad, the Joker chided himself, oh no, sharing was great, but the amount of incidents that had occurred over the years was astounding, really, when you got right down to it. You wouldn't think that so many people's heads and various other body parts could even fit between the bars. Until, that is, you gave it a try.

He put his wrists on one of the crossbars, leaned comfortably into it, letting one hip sag, picking up his left foot and rotating the ankle. Standing on cement all the time was bad for your posture.

"Don't pretend you don't wanna talk to me," he called across. "I know why you're here."

The dark figure lying on the bunk didn't move. The Joker clucked his tongue.

"Now he's playing hard to get," he muttered. Raising his voice he called across again, "You're gonna have to say something to me eventually. Think we can just give each other the cold shoulder till we're cured and they let us out of here? No, no." He shook his head and sniffed. "Rude."

"They're not going to let you out of here," said the figure, still not moving. "They'd have to be crazy to set you free."

The Joker blinked in affronted surprise. "Well— they are! Imagine locking up a fine mind like mine. They think they can break me, well, they've got another think coming." He nodded deeply. "They can take my freedom, but they can never take my brain." He considered this for a minute. "Well, they could. But what would they do with it?" He stopped and squinted into the other cell. "Not boring you or anything, am I?"

The Bat stood up.

He moved with agility and an almost supernatural turn of speed, and was at the bars before the Joker could say anything further; instead, he twisted his face into an elongated grin and let out a laugh, eyes squinted shut and teeth glinting yellow in the half-light of the asylum's artificial night.

"I knew you came to see me," he said gleefully. "You just couldn't leave well enough alone. Had to make sure the bars were sturdy, huh? Had to cinch the straightjacket?"

"You're not wearing a straightjacket," pointed out Batman, who was completely failing to see the humor in any of this. The Joker darted his tongue out and across his lower lip, then pointed at his erstwhile adversary.

"What you don't get," he said deliberately, "is that it's just so much fun to see you here. With the rest of us." He grinned at the Bat. "Where you belong."

The Bat did nothing, which to the Joker signified that he wasn't pressing hard enough.

"See, when I called you a freak, I was doing you an injustice. I was— playing with stereotypes. What I should have done was acknowledged you for what you are— a lonely man with no social life who finds his only kicks by dressing up as a winged mammal and fightin' bad guys." The Joker clasped his hands together on the outside of the bars, lacing his fingers. "Have you considered going to a psychiatrist? I'd recommend you some but I sort of, uh, broke all of mine."

"I'm not crazy."

"Just misunderstood, right?" said the Joker, nodding facetiously.

Batman pressed his body against the bars. His customized suit had been taken from him, replaced with a black t-shirt and loose black pants, caught by a drawstring. He wasn't happy at the imprisonment but he was coping; the Joker watched his actions against the bars and calculated.

"How long were you in for? What were you in for? Answer the second question first."

"What makes you think I was in for anything?" Batman grunted, testing his weight against the bars. The mask, pointy ears alert, looked ludicrous without the rest of his accouterments.

The Joker clicked his tongue. "I can always tell a fellow traveler. It's a knack."

It was one o'clock, though no chime announced it. A terrified janitor, blonde and haggard and female, came through their corridor as quickly as possible, not bothering to sweep but dragging her mop behind her like a wet, bedraggled dog on a leash. Batman stared hard at his adversary on the other side of the bars, and the Joker turned his head to watch the woman go by.

"Hiya, toots."

"Bite me," she muttered through clenched teeth.

He knocked on a bar with his knuckles. "Let me out of this cell and I'll do more than that."

"Come on, Joker," said Batman, the very slightest bit of humor asserting itself, "harassing the help? Don't you have more class than that?"

"I get really bored in here," snapped the Joker, turning to face him again. "Get a little— starved for entertainment. Let's not talk about me. Let's talk about you. What are you in for?"

"Masked vigilante," said Batman, gesturing to himself sweepingly. "I'm bad for business."

"Not for the tourist trade, you're not. They should sell tickets." The clown wrinkled his nose, to which traces of white greasepaint still clung, no matter how hard the orderlies sprayed him down in the showers. "Why are you here really? It can't just be an insanity rap. They let you keep your mask."

The Batman considered various answers to this.

"For protection."

"Thought that's what the individual cells are for." He pronounced "individual" like syllables were going out of style.

"I put most of the inmates in here. I'm responsible for their capture. I'd rather they fixated on myself as Batman, instead of myself as— who I really am."

"Fixated." The Joker whistled. "You've got a pretty high opinion of yourself. Don't you. So you're telling me there's a man behind the bat? You weren't born with a cape? You don't really talk like that, do you?"

"You know all about hiding who you really are." The Bat's voice was, in defense, even more gravelly at this point. "Telling all those stories about how you got your scars. Covering your features up in paint. No one can figure you out—"

"—and most die trying," the Joker finished for him, nodding and cackling so hard he wheezed. "There was this one dame, dumb as a stump. She was on that bus? Thought she had me, she was so convinced she knew what I was doing and why I was doing it she forgot to watch out for herself." He snapped his fingers. "That's what happens. When people get too close. See, what all you sane people don't figure into the equation is that my motives are completely transparent. I never do anything if it isn't any fun."

"And killing people is fun."

The Joker sniffed. "Don't knock it till you've tried it. I know about you. Won't use guns, put on this noble facade. Well, never underestimate the value of superior firepower, Batsy. There's nothing can beat a bullet for sheer sex appeal." He eyed Batman. "Which is what you're aiming for, right? With all the black leather and the cape?"

"I wouldn't start that argument," warned Batman. "It'll only end in a contest and you've got the sex appeal of a road accident."

"Hey," said the Joker, adopting a hurt look, "some of my best friends are road accidents."

They lapsed into silence, sizing each other up across the great divide. The Joker tapped his fingertips together compulsively; he never seemed to be able to stay quite still. The Bat, on the other hand was a still-life study, calmer than a painting; the only thing that moved was his eyes, as they shifted over the clown bit by bit, taking measure and plumbing depth. Better than face-recognition software, the Joker told himself pragmatically, and heaved a sigh.

He leaned his face as close to the bars as he could get without being touched by their coldness.

"I know who you are," he informed Batman secretively.

The Bat blinked. The Joker resisted the urge to cackle.

"See, I'm something of a student of human nature, as you could probably tell by the little experiment on the ferries."

"Which you were wrong about," pointed out Batman.

"Well, yeah," admitted the clown, "but, see, the thing about students is they're always learning. Everything I do, practically, is an experiment. Life is a—" he considered what life was, exactly, for a moment, licking his lips reflectively. "Life is a series of first steps in all different directions. Never know what's gonna happen, so you hafta be willing to change. Adapt. Alter." He half-closed his eyes, nodded. "I'm good at altering things."

"Is that what you did to your face?" prompted the Bat, quietly.

"Don't you ever stop asking questions?" snapped the Joker, a bit irritably. His fingers twisted together. "Performing alterations is a called-for skill. Takes a lot of practice. Expertise. That's beside the point. The point— the point is, I know." He pointed a finger at himself, the tip hovering over his heart, as he gave his best version of a "this is serious business" look to the Bat. "I know— who you are."

Batman clasped the bars in his hands, appeared to be thinking for a moment. The Joker scrutinized him and when he realized that no reply was forthcoming, went on anyway.

"It's a matter of looking at the facts. Fact one. There was no way you could be, or could ever have been, Harvey Dent. Now, Harvey had a lotta good qualities. Stellar. Loved his girl, loved his city. But all you really had to do to know he wasn't a crime-fighter by night was look at his face. And I don't mean that whole eyes-as-the-windows-to-the-soul crap. Did you ever see his chin?"

The dark figure on the other side of the bars sighed deeply and went to sit down on his bunk. The Joker, caught up in the grip of his explanation of what exonerated the former district attorney from being Batman, went on, oblivious.

"He had a cleft you could grow corn in. I mean. Say what you like, even on a dark night, a feature like that— it's gonna stand out. So you never were Harvey, no matter what he said. And then, y'know." He flipped his hand dismissively. "He died. So there's your second clue. Point two. Batman— you, that is— he's got a lot of toys. And we're not talking cheap. My toys, my toys are cheap. I'm a simple guy. I don't need much. You, on the other hand, have to set an example." Air quotes danced wildly. "Everything straight off the superhero runway. There's some serious money going into your little arsenal. Which, to me, means you've got someone's ear." The Joker pressed his face to the bars, straining to see what effect his conclusions were having on his neighbor. "Do ya— Bats. Hey. Bats! Do ya have someone's ear?"

From behind the mask, shadowed eyes looked at him deadpan, granting him nothing.

The Joker shook his head.

"Look, if you don't want to talk, that's tough. I mean, where are ya gonna go? You're like a bird in a cage here, Batsy, a rat in a trap. I'm telling you what I've figured about your need to dress up like a flying rodent, and you're just ignoring me."

"I'm not blackmailing anyone," said Batman, a bit wearily.

The Joker pointed one finger at him.

"Liar," he said. "You've been blackmailing this whole town. You've got a need, and they're filling it, all the freaks on the streets. You need to be a savior. You need to be needed. You need to be their knight. And the price all the little people pay is a string of kooks and crazies, all coming here to see if they can beat the big bad bat. When's it gonna stop? Never. Gotham's doomed, and you're damning it harder every time you flutter out of the darkness and start playing your little games." He threw back his head and laughed wildly. "It'll be interesting to see what happens while you're here. If things calm down a little. Get a little saner out there in the world—"

"The world isn't sane," gritted out Batman, because this much was true: he desperately needed it to not just be him, not just be his fault.

"Then why do you keep trying to save it?" said the Joker.

"What do you expect me to do? Drag it down faster and further, like you?" He stood and advanced towards the bars. "Push people towards the edges, make them discover how quickly they stop being human?"

"I never made people do anything that it wasn't in their nature to do," the Joker contended. "I'm just the mirror, held up to the people, showing them for what they truly are."

"A funhouse mirror," objected the Bat. "Twisted and warped. You make people see the worst sides of themselves."

"If I'm a funhouse mirror," said the clown pragmatically, "then why aren't you having fun? This is what I'm trying to tell ya, Bats. All our little— encounters? Not exactly in the name of science, at least not entirely. I find you at least as intriguing as you find me. It's like," he went on rapturously, "when you come across something dead and gross on a beach somewhere and you just can't— stop— poking it. Because in our own small ways, we're the same."

"We are not," said Batman, heavily.

"What's the difference between a man and his reflection?" The Joker untwined his arms from the bars and spread them wide. "What price truth? What price vanity? How can you save Gotham if nobody's threatening it?"

The clock answered; Batman couldn't. It was now approximately half past one.

The Joker rested his wrists on the bars again, dangling his fingers, shuffling his stooped shoulders forward and popping his neck.

"If you're not blackmailing some rich idiot, that leaves only one thing to be assumed. You are the rich idiot."

"Well," said Batman, who had suddenly been overcome with a thriving sense of purpose, "you're never going to know, are you?"

The Joker watched him as he went about his business, tapping on bars and beginning to extricate some tool from an inner pocket cleverly sewn into his shirt.

"That's probably true," he allowed. "But then, you're never gonna know about me, either. I mean, am I a rich idiot?" He shrugged wildly. "Who can say? But that's what you came here for, isn't it? That's why you let them lock you up. It's not just that they're following you, or that they think you're nuts. You were trying to figure me out."

The Batman paused in the act of lasering through the bars, and looked over at him inquisitively.

"And what if I was?"

The Joker yawned widely, and shuffled over to his bunk, flopping down on it and folding his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, good luck with that one, Batsy."

He closed his eyes.

There were a few clanking sounds, and a strange sort of whisper, and then in the asylum night, all was silence.

Gordon arrived at eight the next morning.

"Visiting hours already?" questioned the Joker from the other side of the Plexiglass. He'd been brought in lieu of the winged vigilante who had been, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found. Gordon glared at him, mustache quivering. "You ought to give that squirrel a trim, Commish."

"What'd you do with him?"

"Me?" He played surprised and affronted very well; he'd done it before. Many, many times before. "Haven't we already had this conversation? Why is it always my fault when people inexplicably go missing?"

Gordon fumed.

"Apparently there was quite a conversation between the two of you, sometime in the early morning."

"And now talking's illegal," said the Joker, throwing his hands in the air. "Well, I'm fed up. Look, all that happened was I helped him come to his sense about— one or two things. Come on, Commissioner, you can't tell me you think it's healthy for a guy to dress up as a flying rodent."

"I hardly see where you're qualified to judge—"

"It takes one to know one. Isn't that what they always say? Anyway, he didn't get what he came for." The Joker crouched, almost ferally, watching Gordon keenly. "Go ahead. Give me another psychiatrist. I welcome the distraction."

Gordon just shook his head. "We're moving you to another cell. A room of your own. Nice view— of the brick wall across the way. Can't have you psychoanalyzing any of the other patients."

"You're just sore 'cause your prize exhibit got away," jeered the clown. "Can't say I blame ya, Commissioner. A bat in hand is worth two in the belfry, huh?"

Gordon stood and left, without a goodbye, without another word. Not worth it, the Joker told himself, and had to be content with making a face at the Commissioner's back as he walked away. Now what? Stuck in Arkham with the droolers and the ravers: his favorite raw material.

A grin spread slowly across his face, like continental drift.

Change. Adapt. Alter.

While he was here, he might as well have a little fun.