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The cell was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic thud of Joker’s skull tapping against the cold concrete wall.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Not hard enough to split skin. Just enough to feel it. That dull reverberation behind his eyes gave him something to focus on. Something steady.
He sat hunched in the corner, knees drawn up, the fabric of his Arkham jumpsuit bunching at the elbows and knees, clinging to him. He hated orange. His hair had hung limp in front of his eyes. His hands rested uselessly on his thighs, twitching only now and then.
His head hit the wall again. A little harder this time.
Thud.
He wasn’t laughing. He hadn’t in while now. He wasn’t sure how long. Time melted in here. Quiet. Listless. Too still.
But his mind wasn’t quiet.
Thud.
It was buzzing.
Thud.
No, it was screaming at him. Or maybe with him.
The Bat. Always the Bat.
Thud.
He thought about the sound of the cape catching air, the wet crunch of a glove against his jaw, the warm sting of his own blood filling his mouth. He thought about how close they'd been—closer than anyone else could ever get to him. About how, for a few seconds, he’d been held—not by affection, but by necessity. Violence as intimacy. Contact as confession. Suppose he could just go back to that moment. If he could just be held by him again.
Thud.
Joker let his head rest against the wall now, pressing his temple to the cool concrete. Eyes half-lidded. Breathing shallow. He wasn’t sure if he missed the fight or the man.
Maybe both.
Maybe neither.
Maybe he just missed being seen.
The Bat saw him.
Really saw him.
The Bat was the only one that saw him for what he was; the one who saw him the way he wanted to be seen.
Arkham was too quiet. The walls didn’t scream back at him. Just the drip of a leaky pipe, the buzz of flickering lights overhead, and his thoughts turning inward, like a knife folding in on itself.
He started tapping his head again, this time slower.
Thud.
Thud.
The rhythm matched the pulse in his throat, matched the echo of the last time they stood face to face. He remembered the weight of the Bat’s stare. The way he didn’t look away. The way he couldn’t.
Joker smiled. Barely.
He’d see him again. He always did.
Until then, he'd sit. And tap. And wait for his next idea.
He'd think of the perfect game for his bat eventually.