Title: Maw

Chapter 2: Glowing Hearth

Summary: Batman stews and Joker giggles. Bruce Wayne is confuzzled. Arkham Asylum pulses darkly, looming like a nightmare, larger than life.

Pairing: Still Batman/Joker, yes, if you were wondering. Though not much slash yet. Pre-slash ;P

A/N: Thanks again to RavynneRune for letting me bug her about looking this over for me ;3 And thanks to everyone for the reviews. When I started this fic I had mainly just seen the Batman movies, a few of the episodes from the animated series, some random pages from comics/graphic novels that Ravynne had scanned in to share with me :3 And of course, Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth, by Grant Morrison and Dave McKean. That was very inspirational, I highly recommend that one. My version of Joker is a combination of all the Jokers I suppose. The makeup I was referring to in the first chapter was his lipstick, mascara, eye shadow, eyeliner, that fun stuff :D And he definitely wears makeup, can provide links to scans of Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns if ya don't believe me ;P . The white of his skin I do attribute to the chemical bath though, hopefully that's made a little clearer in this chapter. Also, his hair would technically be white if all of his pigment was bleached away by the acid, including hair follicles. So yeah, to get his hair that pretty green he would have to dye it. Also explains the many different shades of green hair he's had through the years. His pale skin makes him seem more otherworldly, and the contrast between his white and Batman's black is lovely. The difference between the two is Joker's color doesn't wash off, but Batman can remove his black, even if it's still there inside. Batman can hide his "true colors" more easily, which is one of the reasons why he has a cave all to himself and most of the time Joker's stuck in Arkham.

Anywho, that's enough rambling :P Thanks again for the reviews, always nice to get those :D On with the show...

A dull glow lit the Dark Knight's face, reflecting from the computer screen. The clicking of fingers tapping the keyboard echoed across the gaping expanse of the Batcave. Occasionally the terminal would whir or beep, signaling Batman of an unearthed shard of information or a search meeting a dead end. Most of his regular nocturnal companions were out on the hunt, soaring and diving together in a dance the intricacies of which only they could see as they ambushed unsuspecting insects, crushing and consuming. A few nesting creatures remained, squeaking occasionally, restlessly crawling up the walls. Batman punched the "enter" key then pushed angrily away from the console.

"Is something the matter, Master Bruce?" Alfred entered the dimly lit area, his voice echoing in the chamber. Batman hadn't heard him coming down the stairs.

"Do you always appear out of thin air, Alfred?" Bruce pushed the dark cowl back from his face and removed the heavy cape.

Alfred chuckled, taking the proffered clothing.

"No, sir, I thought my entry was rather clumsy. However, I will be sure to make more noise on the way in next time."

"Good, see that you do." Bruce rubbed the back of his neck.

"Long night, sir?" Alfred inspected the cape. Seeing that there was no mud or, thank heavens, spatters of blood, he folded it neatly and placed it in the closet.

"No, there was nothing."

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"No joke. Not a blip on the radar." Bruce kicked off his boots and slid out of the Kevlar uniform, throwing on a thick robe.

"That is excellent news, Master Bruce. You deserve a night off, I say." Alfred nodded and smiled slightly, picking up the boots and tucking them neatly into a corner. The Kevlar suit he put in with the cape and cowl.

Bruce's bare feet slapped on stone as he headed up the long staircase. He much preferred the air on his skin, rather than socks or slippers, not minding the cold and damp of the cave.

"Yes, I suppose."

Alfred shook his head as the troubled man ascended into the manor through the darkened stairwell, fading from sight as the shadows absorbed him. Alfred had learned his lesson long before, he would not pry into the Master's deeper issues unless asked.

Half-formed thoughts crept upon Bruce as he climbed the stairs. They whispered in his mind, tempting him, insisting that he take an immediate and permanent vacation from the Bat.

There are no more evils out there, Bruce. You've cleansed the city. It's over, done forever. Your time has been served and you are free to go.

Gotham cannot be cleansed. Bruce countered. With a city this large, it's impossible not to have crime. It can't be done. No matter how good I think I might be. Even Metropolis still has crime, and I'm no Man of Steel… Gotham breeds crime in the filth lining the alleys and the muck covering the sewer walls. No one is safe in Gotham City.

The living room swayed as Bruce walked past. The grandfather clock drooped, numbers falling from its face. The glass of the French doors swirled and oozed down to the floor, puddling in shining silver pools. Black figures stretched forward to meet Bruce, leaping from one patch of moonlight to another. The dark forms called to him without sound, fingers brushing across his arms, caressing his face. As he continued on to the master bedroom they fell back, some settling on the furniture while others drifted softly down to the carpet like shadowed leaves of the Netherworld. There was no light in Hell, no fire to set the gnarled trees aflame. No warmth, only an utterly bitter cold, and the shadows.

Bruce slipped out of his robe and tossed it onto a desk chair. He trudged into the adjoining bathroom, pupils contracting as he flipped on the light. Turning on scalding hot water he stepped under the spray. The chill of the night fog still clung to his bones, nestling deep in the marrow. Steam filled the room and turned the mirror opaque. Shutting the shower off, Bruce rubbed his hair with a towel and then wrapped the cloth around his waist. Catching sight of his reflection, a dark shadow hovering in the mist, they stared at each other. Bruce switched off the light.

Flinging the pale towel over to the desk, it fluttered for a moment in the air before landing beside the robe. Pulling back the silk sheets of the four-poster bed, which shone a rich burgundy in the sunlight but were now just another shade of black, Bruce struggled to clear his mind. Closing his eyes he pictured a white expanse of nothing, distractions left behind with the shadows. Snow danced across the imagined landscape, blanketing an otherwise harsh reality. A lone tree stood bare, frozen stiff, its dark lines blurred in the bright light reflecting off the snowfall. No creatures stirred, not even a bat. There was only the tree, and the snow, ever falling. If all else failed, this was the vision Bruce used to calm his thoughts. Time and again its tranquility offered him a place to meditate. Stepping onto the crunching white powder, millions of tiny snowflakes each a distinct and separate masterpiece, were ground together under his black boot. He moved to the tree and sat down at its base. Cold crystals of water perched on his face and kissed his cheeks. He leant his head back against the trunk feeling each flake touch his skin, seeing their patterns in the dark behind his eyelids. Bruce planted his hands in the snow beside him, but he did not feel the cold. His splayed fingers were blue. Scooping some of the frozen precipitation into a ball, he threw it away. It arched lazily, thudding softly back to the Earth.

"Daddy?"

Bruce sat up quickly, disturbing snow from the overhead branches.

"Daddy, I'm over here! Throw this way. I want to play!"

A giggle echoed across the expanse of white oblivion, riding the wind, circling him. Suddenly, he was Batman again, back out in the fog of Gotham, twirling with sharp precision. His eyes snapped open. Quickly turning on a lamp he scanned the room, eyes darting. There was no one.

"Bruce, you need to get a handle on this 'hearing things' business. Alfred's asleep, Dick's gone. There's no one but you and the bats in the basement."

The room remained silent.

He rubbed his face and sighed. "I'll call Dick tomorrow, might help…" he mumbled. Falling back against the pillows he shut off the light once more. Without white there was only black, and he succumbed to it.

oOoOo

"Rise and shine, Cupcake!"

A brute of an orderly slammed open the door, strolling into Joker's homey den. It also served as a dining room, living room, bedroom, recreation area, and storm cellar, though only on the good days. Occasionally, Joker was forced to… make nice with the other inmates. Yes, socializing with the psychopaths. What could have been a brilliant set up for a joke fell sadly short at the punch line. It lacked a certain something: style, finesse, a semblance of sanity. Joker hated being the butt of a joke, and currently that was exactly what was happening. A dribbling square-dance partner with, let's face it, two stumps for feet considering how well the appendages were being used, is a horrid excuse for a sparring mate. So if Joker was slightly desperate for a relatively sane conversation, he would have to be excused.

Joker groaned, the bright lights jabbing at his retinas like ice picks. He felt worse than he had last night. Oh the joys of captivity.

"What do you want?" barely unclenching his jaw to speak, Joker addressed the man with the rippling biceps and pectoral muscles of insurance policy. Once in a red moon, an inmate unearthed a cache of hope from somewhere deep inside their smothered soul and found the strength to frantically claw at the six feet of dirt above them. Just as they broke the surface, sucking in the air of freedom (which may have been smog-filled, but at least it didn't reek of sick) the sunlight filling their pores, the orderly would arrive and tuck them safely back into their little rectangles of space, the Hero. "Safely" with as many bumps, bruises, lacerations, and broken ribs as he could inflict along the way. Like an ax under glass with the words "break in case of emergency" written across the front; there were plenty of emergencies, and plenty of shattered glass. He was entirely fulfilled in his chosen profession.

"Brutus, 'Oaf Meat,' I asked you a question," Joker taunted from the bed, face still buried in the starched cotton sheets of the bed.

"My name is not Brutus," he latched a fist onto Joker's shoulder, roughly flipping him over and grabbing the front of his straightjacket collar. He lifted him up and shook, until the tangled bedding fell away. "Or 'Oaf Meat.'"

"Well, what is it then? Speak up Dearest, Auntie's a little hard of hearing in the moooorning," Joker sing-songed in his best imitation of a cerulean warbler, grinning cheerfully as it came out rather well.

"It's Chazz," Chazz punctuated this by slamming Joker roughly against the wall, whose skull once again connecting painfully with the boundaries of the cell. For some reason it always felt like a bigger bruise if someone else inflicted the punishment. But this was nothing like it was with Batman. With Batman it was fun. It was a game. In Arkham the rules weren't fair. It's not a game if one side sets the boundaries, keeps all the gold, and has the opposing team tied down to a cold slab of Justice. There is no control for the patient. For them it is a narration taking place at a drug-pumping rehabilitation center; because in Arkham, it's all in your head. All chemical imbalances, or 'self-inflicted' injuries, can be fixed by a little pill popping.

"Driving the point home, are we?" Joker moaned. His legs tensed as he prepared to lash out with his feet. It was that or use his teeth, and he wasn't sure where this Chuck character had been; he didn't smell very clean.

Chazz reacted quickly, pinning Joker's legs to the wall with his bulky frame, flashy a toothy grin and grunting nacho breath across his face.

Joker's nose wrinkled, 'Who eats nachos for breakfast? Big bad brutes named "Chazz," that's who.' Wriggling, he struggled to free his legs. While he might not have the windup left for a swift kick to the groin, Joker knew other methods of gaining a foothold. He flashed a grin. Using leverage off the wall and the ogre's hand bunched in the fabric near the front of Joker's windpipe, he swung his legs free and wrapped them quickly around the man's waist, his feet not even meeting at the middle. Shifting his hips against Chazz's he arched his back, exposing the lily white skin of his neck which shone radiantly under the glaring lights. Batting his eye lashes he lowered the tenor of his voice.

"Oh gee, Officer, whatever shall we do next?" Joker giggled and tossed his hair as well as he could with the back of his head pressed against the wall.

Chazz's face flushed and he dropped the flirtatious inmate like a hot stone, tossing him back over to the bed.

Joker bounced giddily. "Oh! The bed, is it? Well, that's certainly a good choice," he winked at the flustered man, whose face seemed to be turning a lovely shade of beet. "Come on over, there's room for two," using his foot he tapped the empty space next to him. "Don't be shy, big boy. Oh, and I'm cheap, I swear! See, my makeup's all smeared, I'm literally a two dollar whore," he cackled.

Chazz sneered.

"Okay, one dollar? Fifty cents? I can go lower, it's not like I have anything else to do…" had Joker's arms been free he would have twirled a lock of faded emerald hair around his whiter-than-anything finger, but they weren't so he didn't, and instead settled on peering innocently around the room as if searching for something better to do than proposition his guard for the day.

"Faggot," Chazz spat suddenly.

Joker blinked.

"…"

"Honey," Joker's voice had raised an octave and he adopted an accent, reminiscent of a Southern, cornbread-fed country bumpkin. "I never met a man who didn't turn 'fag' for me. No one's ever turned me down. Not that I would have let 'em!" Joker threw his head back and shrieked with delight. "Not my fault I have mad skills. Use what your mamma gave you, as they say!"

Chazz glared, but neglected to verbally respond to the babbling inmate's statements. "Get up Joker, you know the drill."

"Yes, yes I do," he sighed and rolled off the bed. He was sure to get out on the right side one of these days.

"You're no fun, you know that?"

"Keep moving," Chazz grunted. "Showers."

Joker sighed, not even touching that one; it would have been so easy too! But there was no sense in wasting good jokes on humorless souls. Nodding, Joker went along, marching out of the open cell door and down the hallway; his sterilized reflection stretched out before him on the tile. Such easy compliance usually gave the quacks running the place the heebie-jeebies, so used to erratic behavior as they were. Joker's face went blank.

Right on cue, Chazz gave him a sidelong look. Joker stared glassily ahead and continued in the sober state through designated shower time, methodically cleansing himself under the lukewarm spray. He sighed quietly, not loud enough for Brute Strength to hear, as the day old mascara ran down his pale cheeks and into the endless drain below. With his makeup washed away, the Joker was so unbelievably pale he tended to jump when catching sight of himself in the mirror. He looked wholly different without it accenting his gorgeous features; a clean slate. Joker only looked like someone else though, he really wasn't. It was simply a convenient illusion. What he wouldn't give for some red running down the holes in the floor…

Rows of bodiless heads mounted high on the walls dripped steadily around him. The showers were deserted, dank and lifeless. The somber was catching. Shower was generally the brightest time of the day. The straightjacket came off and stayed off for a few precious hours, through a nourishing first meal at the least. There wasn't enough staff to hand feed them all, and no one wanted to lose a finger.

Down in the mess area, the kitchen was serving a balanced breakfast of mushy apples and scrambled eggs so delicious and rubbery, one would imagine they came from the underside of a prison boot.

Chazz followed behind Joker through the assembly line of food distribution, steered him to a seat, then deeming the situation under control left to find another inmate to crush and burgeon his own self-esteem in the process.

Joker poked at the grey matter on his tray with a dull spork. The crushed ova may at one point been yellow, but had been cooked beyond having any semblance of color, the poor dears. He stuck his utensil in the pile of chick mush; it stood on its own, swaying like a drunken sailor. Staring at it jiggle for a moment, he then raised his hand, looking around politely. None of the remaining orderlies was making eye contact. Of course.

Breaking his somber mode of obedience, he called out to the nearest attendant, "Hey! Can we get some pepper over here? Some hot sauce, ketchup, something? These eggs taste like skunk tire." Joker sneered down at his plate. No one answered his pleas. "Yeah, figured," he shrugged then shoveled down what was left of his breakfast, trying not to taste it.

There was the chink of plasticware on plastic plates, but no murmur of conversation. The wards called it "quiet time." They called just about everything "quiet time." They really needed to get out more.

"Hey, Crane," Joker hissed, nudging the demur, former professor sitting next to him. "Wanna hear a good one?"

The doctor muttered something incoherent, not lifting his eyes.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" Joker removed the plate from his tray, setting it on the table. "What's black and blue and red all over?"

He blinked.

"Your face!" Joker shrieked, picking up the plastic tray and whacking the side of the man's head. The force of the blow sent him flying off the bench and onto the floor, a mouthful of fruit spraying on the back of the Mad Hatter. Joker leapt up and whooped. "Lookie, thar'! Knocked the stuffin' right outta ya!"

Immediate whistles blew and alarms began ringing. The hall erupted in activity, psychos and psycho keepers alike rushing into action. Two-Face stabbed his neighbor's hand with a discarded spork after flipping a scarred coin heads up. Magpie quickly shoveled as many shining items as she could down her pants. Junkyard dog ran to the trash bins, knocking them over and rolling in the waste. The March Hare bounded across the room, leaping onto the back of the Mad Hatter.

"Would you like some more tea?!" Mr. Hare screeched and closed a furry fist around a rolling cup. He slammed it into Mad Hatter's face, knocking out a tooth and crunching his nose. Blood flowed.

"This is what I call a party!" Joker continued to cackle even as the guards rushed in and subdued the scene.

Two-Face flipped his coin once more. "It's the feds, scram!" he shouted above the din. No one listened.

As Joker was roughly shoved back into the restrictive jacket and thrown into a solitary cell, the heavy door booming shut behind him, he grinned. Solitary was pitch-black. Maybe now he'd get some sleep.