Harley Quinn pelted up the moonlit street of Gotham city, feet splashing in puddles. 

She turned a corner and darted down a dark side-alley, but abruptly stopped and turned.

No one was chasing after her.  This didn’t make sense.

Harley was puzzled.  She’d just attempted murder, so why wasn’t Batman hot on her heels?

Pressing herself to the brick wall, the jester peeked round it and up the road she’d just run down.

In the near distance by the disused chemical factory, the pitch-black form of the Batmobile waited like an obedient guard dog.

Then, the unmistakable outline of Batman separated himself from the others shadows.

But he was not moving as though he were about to give chase or hunt anyone at all.  In fact, he was rushing like a panicked man, for he was carrying Alfred in his in arms, who he lowered into the Batmobile.

The Joker had shot the old man moments earlier at the exact same moment Harley Quinn had shot The Joker.

Harley watched now as Batman shifted Alfred into a comfortable position, but then he did something happened which made her jaw drop.

Far from leaving The Joker to bleed to death, Batman returned to his docile body and dragged the psychopath to the Batmobile as well. 

Before stowing him inside however, Batman handcuffed Joker’s wrists behind his back.

This may seem harsh for a man that was near-dying, but Harley had known The Joker longer than most, and she reasoned this was wise.

People who thought The Joker died after mere trifles such as shots to the chest were naïve … and often ended up dead at Joker’s own smoking gun-hand.

Harley slowly closed her mouth, her eyes flitting from The Joker to Alfred, then to Batman as he got into his car.

She felt a lump in her throat, and realised that she feeling touched by his compassion.

She watched, shoulders heaving now, as the Batmobile sped off into the night, aiming for Gotham City hospital.

He was saving them.  Both of them!

Harley was blinking rapidly, and was surprised at herself.

“I need therapy.” she moaned, miserably.

At that moment, the pitch-black street was filled with light and she turned to face it, raising her arm to shield her eyes.

A cab had swept into the street, and in split-second Harley seized this as an advantage.

The supervillain darted in front of the cab, planting her feet squarely apart, and pointed her gun at the driver.

He screeched to a halt in alarm, trying to keep his hands on the wheel whilst surrendering at the same time.

The result caused the car to swerve until it halted, diagonally, across the road.

Harley strode over, ripped the door open, and pointed her gun at the driver’s face.

“Please don’t kill me!” The wretched man cried, ringing his hands.

She glared at him.  Then her eye flitted to a photo on the dashboard.

A family photo … He had three children.  Three!

She froze for a few moments, and felt her will dissolve away into nothing.  She looked from the photo to the cab-driver, and couldn’t help comparing her own life-style to this single piece of information.

She couldn’t have felt more jealous if she tried.

She had wanted to have a family with her Puddin’, and had expressed love to him on countless occasions.

He’d done nothing for her in return, and now she was threatening to destroy a life that she could have had.

Harleen wilted, gun hand sinking to her side.

Without a single word, she left the cabdriver alone to his very confused, and frightened, thoughts.

As she shuffled down the street in a sleep-walker-like state, it dimly dawned on Harleen that she didn’t want to do this anymore.

It all meant nothing without him.

It was just a desperate fight for survival, full of pain and suffering, living on luck and wits.

That was the life of a wild animal, not an intelligent woman.

Harleen realised that she had only one option left to her if she were going to make it in Gotham City and not in Gotham prison.

 

 

A week later …

 

Dr. Jonathan Crane was a thin man with shadows under his eyes and greasy hair, but even he looked trustworthy compared to the figure sat opposite him.

He had entered the room moments earlier on this most miserable of nights, at a very late hour, too.  But then it was to have a very “socially unfriendly” kind of conversation.

“I am surprised that a man of your, er - position - would want to be involved with someone like that.” Crane replied, mildly.

“Who said I wanted to be involved?” the other answered, darkly.

“Chance over choice again?” Crane smirked.

Unfazed, the man opposite composedly brushed some non-existent dust off his sleeve.

“Haven’t you worked out the reason why I’m telling you this at all?” he asked.

Crane went quiet for a while, and as he worked out the answer his goggle-eyes bulged even further.

“That’s right.” The other said, silkily.  “We’re not the only person whose minds he requires.  This could spell out seriously big things for us.”

“By ‘us’, you’re addressing yourself.  You don’t mean ‘you and I’.” Crane answered, coldly, snapping his brief-case shut.  “And in any case, will there be the reward as promised?  He’s not exactly a business-man.”

“You know how much he wants to kill Batman.”

“In financial terms: Nothing.” Crane answered, carefully.

“Or rather: As much as it takes.  I have a hunch that the bribe of Batman’s life will be enough.”

“Then you’d better add that hunch to your list of other ugly mistakes, because you’re clearly not listening.”

“Neither are you.  Very poor for a doctor, wouldn’t you say?  If the worst comes to the worst you can just ‘cure’ him with your magic medicine.”

For the first time since the start of this discussion, Crane smiled.  That was an excellent point he couldn’t deny.

Damn it felt good to be powerful!

*

Harleen had mixed feelings about being back here.

Entering this building as a patient was one thing, yet returning as a psychologist was dream-like.

It was like she’d imagined life before being a supervillain.

Arkham Asylum was where she’d previously worked, and as it made good money, it made sense to return.  There was something about the fact it made clean money that felt odd.

She didn’t have to dodge the cops and whack them over the head with a giant mallet anymore – Oh that had made Puddin’ laugh! –  Stop!  You don’t do that anymore, Harleen …

She was Harleen Quinzel again.

As she sat in her clean, white office, she caught sight of her reflection in the window.

What she saw made her smile for the first time in weeks.

She looked like a good citizen again.

Her blond hair was pulled back into a neat bun.  Her outfit gave her a smart but approachable impression.  She looked like someone who deserved respect and admiration.

Then the bubble of happiness popped.

That was all a big fat lie, and she wilted with sadness.

She wasn’t someone whom anyone could respect or admire.

She was a criminal on the run.  A trouble-maker who had attempted murder.

Harleen felt guilt churn in her stomach, and the feeling was not helped by the talk she overheard in the corridor.

A couple of people were passing her door, discussing that the Riddler’s dead body had been found, and that the killer had got away.

She almost ducked out of instinct as they passed, before re-remembering who she was again.

Oh god, they even acknowledged her with a gentle smile of greeting as they passed, and it was all she could do to smile back.

Harleen had greatly disliked and distrusted Riddler during her and Joker’s brief stay with him, but she hadn’t exactly jumped for joy witnessing his death.

It had been a brief but grimly ironic death. He had been killed by the same man he had wanted to kill himself:  The Joker.

BANG

Harleen gave a start and rushed to the window – That had sounded like a gun-shot! – But then she saw it had only been a car-backfiring and breathed out in relief.

She returned to her desk and idly shuffled some papers.  She really should get on with some work …

But the bang had forced her to dwell on the crime scene again, and she saw Alfred and Joker being shot. 

She gripped the papers in her hands, blinking back tears for the second time in so many hours.

What had she been doing with herself all these years?! 

Playing Russian Roulette, that’s what she’d been doing!  Constantly in danger for the thrill of it, and she’d forgotten what had been so thrilling.

She’d been injured so many times … and how many times had been by the man meant to protect her?

She frowned jealously as she thought of Batman saving others.

Where had her hero been when she was being beaten?  Slapped?  Knives thrown at her?  That wasn’t love! 

She’d been kidding herself for all these years …

Harleen stopped and looked down, aware for the first time of what she’d been holding:

They were The Joker’s history files!  Oh my god he was everywhere-

There was a knock on her door and a colleague walked in.

She jumped (Stop it girl, you’re not her anymore).

She stuffed the papers away in her drawer and locked it.

The colleague must be new because she hadn’t seen him before.

He was dark, had a shaved head, and was carrying a clip-board.

“You must be Dr. Harleen Quinzel.” 

He offered her his hand.  “I’m Dr. Mock.  The other guys told me you were back and sent me down here to give you some work – I hope that’s ok with you?”

He smiled charmingly at her.

“You mean you hope it’s ok they sent you, or, you hope it’s ok that I have to actually work at work?” Harley joked.

“Both!” he chuckled, good-naturedly, “because Dr. Crane’s delivered the Asylum a new patient.  I hope you’re feeling up to a challenge.”

Harleen was on the alert now:  Dr. Crane?

She was handed sheets from his clip-board, and was staggered by what she read:

Harvey Dent a.k.a Harvey “Two-Face”.

“Oh my God.” Harleen responded, softly.  “How on Earth did they catch him in the first place?”

Her colleague shrugged. “A giant mirror?” he suggested, smiling.

Harleen read on.

“Patient has an extreme case of split-personality.  I know this already!  I mean, everyone in Gotham knows.” She added, cautiously, for Dr. Mock had raised an eyebrow.

She sighed inwardly and shook her head.

“Why is Harvey Two-Face in Arkham rather than prison?  Just when I thought things were getting better.”

Her voice petered out, and she took her glasses off and put her face in her hand.

“Are you alright?” Mock asked, gently.

She removed her hand, nodding and smiling bravely.

It was all so typical!  Just when she thought she’d gotten away from two-faced scum …

“Thank you for sending me these.” she answered, composedly.

Dr. Mock nodded and left.

                       

*

Alfred was recovering in hospital, slowly but surely.

Bruce paid him regular visits, and had promised himself Alfred would be the only one he’d check up on.

The Joker’s condition was no longer on his list of priorities; Alfred’s life was more important to him than anything else.

At Wayne Manor, Bruce had shouted at his own reflection, and cried at strange moments.  Here and now, he felt nothing but affection for the old man, and the guilt melted into insignificance.

“’House feels weird without you.” Bruce murmured.  “I keep expecting to hear the clink of a tea-tray, or the hiss of an iron … I don’t like not hearing them.”

Bruce hung his head, looking at Alfred’s hand rested on the blanket.  He was on the verge of reaching out, when -

“Maybe you should do your own bloomin’ housework, then.”

He looked up in time to see Alfred crack open an eye and grin at him.

Bruce laughed, but felt more pleased than embarrassed by what he’d said.

Now, he took Alfred’s hands as he was offered them both, and helped the old man lever himself into a sitting position.

“How do you feel?” Bruce asked him.

“Like I could knock a clown out with my bare hands.” Alfred answered, energetically.

Bruce laughed again, but briefly this time.

He didn’t want to think about The Joker just now.

“The doctors say you’ll be able to leave pretty soon.  They didn’t say you’ll be capable of martial arts, but, you’ll be back home, and that’s the important thing.”

“I trust you haven’t been having too many wild parties while I’ve been away?”

“No, just the right amount, as promised.”

“As always, you mean.”

“’Same thing.”

They grinned at each other, and for a moment Bruce could fool himself that things would always be this fine.  Then he reminded himself how close things had gotten to the worse.  It was that instant the image of his parents’ death snuck, cruelly, into his mind’s eye.  A tear leaked from his eye.

History had very nearly repeated itself the night Alfred was shot, and Bruce was on the brink of telling the old man that he loved him, in case he never got another chance.

Alfred sensed Bruce’s thoughts, and saw the look in his eyes.

He put his hands on Bruce’s arms and held them there.

Neither said anything, but they didn’t need to.

 

 

Late that night

Harleen Quinzel’s House

 

TV was especially dull tonight.  Where there wasn’t garbage there was commercials. 

Finally, as a last resort, Harleen flicked over to a repeat of the late-night news.  She was startled to see a recording had been made at her own Asylum.

When had the Hell had this happened?

The scene was of a simple, grey room with three people in it.

One, a cubby cop, was stood to the side of the grey, oblong table the other two men were seated at.

One of them was Commissioner James Gordon, and opposite him - Harley nearly fell out of the chair - twiddling his grubby thumbs, sat The Joker.

The chubby cop to Gordon’s right was nervously comfort-eating eating sweets from his paper bag.

Gordon drew in a deep breath, apparently preparing himself for a long night.

“Why did you kill The Riddler?” he began, bluntly.

The Joker was quite hysterical at the question.

He clapped Gordon a few times and blinked back tears of mirth.

“I know you get a kick out of murder,” Gordon continued, speaking over the howls of laughter, “But, typically for you, that’s out of killing innocent people.  Why him?”

The Joker coughed and slapped his chest, catching his breath.

“It’s understandable why you’ve made that assumption, Commissioner,” he drawled, “but just because a genocidal gentleman, like myself,” –he smoothed his tie- “is involved in a crime scene, it doesn’t make him the first clown you should throw in jail.”

Harleen gave a start at the use of the word ‘clown’, for Harley Quinn was a clown too.

Gordon raised his bushy eyebrows.  “Innocence?  That has to your worst act.”

“You know, they – Why, thank you – You know, they didn’t give me a lollipop when I was in hospital?” Joker muttered.

His gaze slid to the now-sweating chubby cop and smiled hopefully at the bag of goodies.

The man trembled, grabbing the lollipop sticking out his paper-bag, and throwing it to The Joker in sheer terror.

“You’re too kind.” Joker smiled as he caught it.

“So why did you kill The Riddler?” Gordon repeated.

“Ah cmm understmm wha yur say-mm.” The clown mumbled round the shape of the large sweet.

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes.

“Do I have to get Batman in here to beat the answer out of you?”

“No, he’d die of old age before that would happen,” Joker answered, casually, “and I haven’t the heart to let him die like that!  Riddler had to die because he knew who Batman was.  And I felt the duty to make him forget, because, between you and me … and Gotham,” he added, nodding at the camera, “that guy was a little unstable.”

He sucked the lollipop for a bit, then leant across the table.

“Ok, here’s the real deal.  I don’t trust people with secrets dark as Batman’s.  Dark secrets equals dark knights.”

Goosebumps rose on the back of Gordon’s neck at these words.

“You know who he is.” he murmured, barely moving his lips.

The Joker bit the head off the lollipop stick and spat it out on the table-top.

“Tell me, Commissioner,” he said, softly, subtly twiddling the stick so that he held it in a fist. “How does it feel to get the fuzzy end of the lollipop?”

He lunged at Gordon, aiming for the man’s eye, but the Commissioner had dodged a split-second earlier, and punched Joker in the face.

The chubby cop jumped a foot, scattering sweets everywhere.

The Joker had fallen backwards over his own chair, and landed on the floor where he wheezed with laughter.

Harleen clapped her hands to her mouth.

“Who else knows?” Gordon barked.

Joker only giggled as rainbow-coloured jawbreakers rolled all around him.

He virtually sprung back into his chair again, and stared straight into the camera - or was that at Harley, because he spoke next with an air of gathering storm-clouds.

“There is someone beside me who knows who Batman is.”

Oh my God, this message is for me.

“Who?” Gordon barked, but Joker ignored him.

“They will be keeping quiet as an eaten mouse.  Shhhh …”

The Joker put a finger to his lips.

Harley froze where she sat, barely daring to breathe. 

The psychopath cupped a hand, theatrically, to his ear.

“Listen to that!” he smiled, charmingly.  “That’s the sound of no one saying anything at all.”

He mimed a zipper all the way across his Joker grin, reclined in his chair, and didn’t say another word.

The newsflash ended, and as far as Joker was concerned, so had the conversation.

He remained uncharacteristically silent for the entire hour Gordon demanded to know who else knew Batman’s identity.

 

After she had switched the TV off, and long after turning out the light, Harleen tossed and turned.

Confusing and unanswered questions circulated her head:

Joker had been on air, so why hadn’t he told everyone Wayne was Batman and caused more chaos?  Why hadn’t he told Gordon that she, Harleen, also knew who Batman was?  And why hadn’t he so much as mentioned her being at the crime scene?

That’s most unlike him, she thought, suspiciously.

She needed a second opinion, someone who knew almost as much about Joker as she did.  The question of ‘who’ was answered at once.

I must be mad even considering him, she thought, but what do I have to lose? … No, seriously, what do I?

                                                 

 

There had been a storm, but now the last of the rain was trickling down the window-panes of Wayne Manor.

Alfred was home, having been diagnosed as fully-recovered, but now, he entered the room with a solemn expression.

“Master Wayne, there’s someone at the door for you.”

Bruce made to pass, but then Alfred caught his arm.

“I’ve got to warn you, she’s not a friend of Bruce Wayne’s.”

She?

Alfred pointedly handed Bruce a gadget from the Bat-cave.

Bruce took it, nodded to show he understood, and went to the door.

He froze upon sight of their visitor.

Harleen Quinzel stood there.  Huddled, and freezing.

She shrank upon meeting Bruce’s eyes.

Her blond hair was loose and plastered, soaking, to her head.  She looked pale and exhausted.

Bruce was shocked by her appearance, but that was nothing compared to how he felt seeing her on his doorstep.

He gave the criminal a steely, unsympathetic look.

“Are you alone?” he asked firmly, eyes darting warily about the Manor gardens.

She nodded urgently and began to reach into her coat.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” Bruce ordered.

Harleen showed him her empty palms.

Bruce was half-in, half-out of the doorway, holding Batman’s device close.

Alfred was next to the phone.  Just in case.

“Why are you here?”

“I need your help,” Harleen replied, softly.  “I don’t know if you saw the News last night, but-”

“I saw it.”

“I … I’m afraid that if I go back to Joker he’ll … punish me.”

“The Joker tried to kill my butler.” Bruce answered, bluntly, and as Harleen gibbered, trying to find a reply, he abruptly made his decision right there: “I don’t protect criminals.”

He began to close the door -

“Wait!”

Bruce halted and looked at her through the crack in the door. One of Harleen’s blue eyes peeped back.

“I have The Joker’s history files.”

Bruce glimpsed some sheets that she held up for him to see, but he frowned heavily.

“What do you take me for?  You’ve been in league The Joker’s for years, and both of you have tried to kill Batman, myself, and everyone I hold dear on numerous occasions.  I don’t accept emotional blackmail, and I don’t protect criminals.”

Before he shut the door, Bruce glimpsed the look on her face.

He returned to his luxurious living room. 

The polish was on the table but Alfred wasn’t cleaning.  He was seated on the sofa, watching television.

“It sounds like you’ve stopped doing compassion as well.” he commented without looking up.  Clearly he’d overheard the conversation.

Bruce moved over and stood to one side of the sofa.

“If we’d kept Harley Quinn at Wayne Manor we’d be leading The Joker straight to us.” he answered, crossly.

“What happened to hope, Master Wayne?” Alfred asked.

His tone softer but he still didn’t look at Bruce.  “Neither of us believes there’s hope for The Joker, sir, but it wasn’t him who was on that doorstep just now.”

“I know that.” Bruce said, irritably.  “And what exactly makes you think she deserves better than him?”

“I’ve already told you: Hope.” Alfred repeated.

“And that’s it?” Bruce asked.  “Well call me crazy, Alfred, but as someone speaking from experience in dealing with criminals, it takes more than hope to keep them from hurting people!  It takes a pair of handcuffs.” he added, grimly.

“It takes Batman.” Alfred answered, sternly, rising to his feet.

“Batman can’t stop bullets, Alfred!” Bruce shouted.

Alfred went silent and pale as he realised what Bruce was saying.  As if to confirm his thoughts, Bruce gently put his hand to the area on Alfred’s chest.

“I can’t stop bullets.” Bruce murmured, unblinking.

He was certain that if Harley had stayed here, then he’d only have to leave her and Alfred alone in the room together, and that could be it.

He would never risk Alfred’s life for any reason.

No matter how compassionate it may sound.

 

 

12:10pm –

Dr. Crane’s Office

 

“She what?”

“You heard me correctly, Dr, and don’t try to convince me that you doubt she’d do such a thing.  She’s a very fine lady.”

“I must admit I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Good, then that should make you a good listener.”

Crane’s eyes narrowed a little.

“To business.  As the two of you – Sorry, three of you - are aware,” he added, addressing the whole of the group.  “My interests still lie in showing Gotham its true ego.  Gotham has a head like a pickle jar, and it’s up to us four to pry open the crown of its skull.  In gratitude to you both, I will reward you with Bruce Wayne’s billions.”

When he next spoke, his voice was very low.

“We will show Gotham what it most fears, and what it most hates: Itself.”

Crane smiled like a hungry vampire.  Fear.  Now the man was speaking his language.

“I understand now why you requested me.” he murmured.  “My only question is how it could be done on such a grand scale.”

His new boss crossed the room and turned the tap on.

“Just add water.” he replied, pleasantly.  “I’d love to join you, Dr, when it’s all being done, but my work involves me being elsewhere.”

Crane was perfectly still now.  He wasn’t entirely comfortable about this, er - person’s - mysteriousness, but knew better than to ask.

“And what’s our role in this?”  The last of the group asked, impatiently.

“To do what you do best,” the boss replied, charmingly. “Be honest.  Be honest in the way Gotham will be when the Dr.’s medicine is going down … in the most delightful way, of course.” he added with an unusually broad smile.

 

 

Harleen Quinzel’s psychologist’s room

Next morning

 

“Harvey Dent.” Harleen began.

“Please address the both of us,” Two-Face replied, inclining the left side of his face, “I don’t like being ignored.”

“Harvey Two-Face.” Harleen continued, shifting slightly in her chair.  “How would you describe your lifestyle?”

Two-Face snorted and looked the other way so that the handsome side of his face showed.

Harleen waited patiently, but didn’t get an answer.

She removed her glasses.  “Do you miss being just Harvey Dent?” she asked, gently. 

Silence except for one corner of Two-Face’s mouth curling upwards.  Unfortunately for Harleen, it curled on the other side where she couldn’t see.

“Would you like to be him again?”

“If you’re suggesting I live a double-life then I’d say that’s very hypocritical of you.”

Her empathy was instantly replaced by tension.  “Excuse me?”

He slowly turned his head towards her, glaring with both eyes, and he spoke in a slow, dangerous voice.

“Don’t play innocent with me.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds then sprang to their feet.  Harleen dived for the door, but he grabbed her wrist and whipped her round, slamming her against the wall.

She lashed out with her free hand but he grabbed that too.

“Help!” she shouted.

To her astonishment, someone heard her, and not just anyone.

Harleen gaped at the sight of her rescuer.

He lunged at Two-Face, driving him across the room with all his force, knocking him out with a single punch.

He towered over the schizophrenic’s limp form, shaking slightly, and then turned to Harleen with a look of … concern?

“Are you alright?” The Joker breathed, and, astonishingly, he fainted.

The door burst open for the second time.

Doctor Mock was standing there, panting as though he’d been running.  He stared, confused by the scene before him.

“What happened?”

Harleen could only shake her head and puzzle over the answer.

*

“The Joker has changed.”

Bruce and Alfred did a double-take at the TV.

“He has undergone a most curious transformation, details unknown, but one which has resulted in the psychopath being cured during his stay in Gotham’s District Hospital.” 

“Turn that up.”

Alfred increased the volume on the TV.

“Napier will be leaving the building this afternoon, and this needs to be seen to be believed, Gothamites.  No one knows exactly how but The Joker has mysteriously, and miraculously, recovered in hospital.  His true name is Jack Napier and we will finding out what he has to say.”

Bruce stared, dumbfounded, at the television, feeling shock at the possibility of an enlightening future for Gotham.

“But that’s impossible.” Alfred whispered. 

“Is it?” Bruce murmured, uncertainly.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

 

That afternoon, Alfred parked the Rolls Royce as close as they could get to the hospital.  That is, they were practically on the doorstep.

Crowds of people had gathered to witness the historical moment.

“Hmm.  It didn’t take much to convince them.” Alfred commented, dryly as he held the car-door open for Bruce. 

It wasn’t hard to see who Alfred was talking about.

Some Gothamites were holding placards saying “JACK NAPIER BRINGS A SMILE TO GOTHAM’S FACE” and “WELCOME BACK JACK!”, but others were clearly angry to judge by their gestures.

Bruce was in no doubt that these were friends and families of The Joker’s victims.

Suddenly, the main doors parted … and Jack Napier appeared.

A roar of noise greeted him, a strange clash of welcoming cheers and angry shouts.

The make-up and frightening grin had been cleaned away, and in place of the trade-mark, purple suit was a white one with a sky-blue shirt.

Bruce gave a start at the transformation, for if he didn’t know any better, he would never have guessed this gentleman had been a criminal, let alone Gotham’s Most Wanted.

Alfred made a slight movement by Bruce’s side, but said nothing.

The crowds were stood at a distance from the hospital, but Jack Napier was surrounded by paparazzi and news reporters as he approached at a passive walk.

“Mr. Napier,” A reporter jostled, pushing her microphone towards him, “how does it feel recovering from being The Joker?”

“Oh God, er … It feels like …”

Jack hesitated, and, in the silence, he stopped walking and became very still.  His eyes were downcast.

The reporter waited for his answer, but Jack could only shake his head, unable to answer the question.  From where he stood, Bruce shifted his shoulder uncomfortably as he imagined how Jack may be feeling.

“He certainly looks shocked.” Alfred whispered.

The crowd had quietened now, surprised at Jack’s response.

The reporter changed her question.

“Mr. Napier, can you tell us what was it like while you were The Joker?”

Jack thought a moment and a shadow crossed his face.  “Have you ever been in a car that someone else is joy-riding?” he asked. 

The reporter blinked a few times and licked her lips.

“For me it was like being in the back seat of that car while The Joker is driving.”

Bruce cringed as he imagined what that would be like.

“There were countless times when I thought he would crash, and numerous times that he killed people.  I felt powerless to stop him.”

“W-well, you’re back now,” the reporter stammered, reassuring herself as much as him, “and what do you plan to do with your new life?”

Murmurs of interest rippled through the crowd.

Napier straightened his tie and held his head a little higher.

“I hope to work with Batman.” He answered in a clear voice.  Bruce blinked, and there was a general clamour of discussion.  “I hope to help him catch those who work and associate with The Joker.” Napier went on, having to raise his voice now.  “It’s the best I can do to make up for his … our damage.”

And on that last note, Bruce saw something in Jack’s eyes no one ever saw in The Joker’s, and that was guilt.

The billionaire half-smiled in appreciation as Napier’s audience applauded.

“Maybe he should apply for District Attorney.” he suggested pleasantly to Alfred.

“Not if he’s going to be anything like the last one.” Alfred muttered to himself; and Bruce, who had been getting back into the Rolls Royce, didn’t hear him.

 

Alfred looked in the rear-view mirror as he drove them through Gotham town.  He saw Bruce resting his chin in his hand.

“I think Batman should keep an eye on him, sir.  Just in case.” Alfred said, guessing his thoughts.

“I agree.  There was a happy gathering back there, but there are a lot of people who want revenge on The Joker.  Batman must remind them that The Joker’s not Jack Napier.”

That’s not quite what I meant.  Alfred thought, frowning slightly.

“You want to give him that level of protection?” he asked aloud.

“I want to give him a chance.” Bruce replied, reasonably.

“I’d call that very risky, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

“I call it ‘hopeful.’” Bruce countered, then - “Hang on, what are you doing?”

Alfred had just pulled them over.

He turned right round in the black leather seat so that he could face Bruce.

“I take back what I said about Harleen.” Alfred said, looking both concerned and apologetic.  “You made the right choice.”

“I made a selfish choice, Alfred.”

“What do you mean?” Alfred asked, his tone not unkind.

“I mean that I didn’t care her life was in threat by The Joker.”

“Was or is?” Alfred asked, steadily, pointing back up the road towards Jack Napier.  “And is that you speaking, sir, or Batman?”