Chapter Text
Next to a faded gray ribbon of highway, surrounded by snow-covered cornfields, sits a gas station with a tiny adjoining diner. The green neon sign on the diner’s window reads NIKO’S, OPEN 24 HOURS. Written on a sheet of cardboard beneath it: BREAKFAST ALL DAY AND NIGHT.
Snow falls softly and silently from the dark, starless sky. The bell over the door dings as two men enter.
One is older but seems somehow younger. He slouches in his rumpled brown jacket, longish hair unkempt and dusted with sparkles of snow, hands in his pockets, head down. His eyes are incongruously large and pretty—doe-like—in his haggard, deeply lined face. They dart up briefly before returning to his shoes.
The other man is wearing sunglasses, despite the late hour, and has military patches on his jacket. He moves with a slow, shark-like ease, head turning back and forth as though to scan the room for possible threats. His face is handsome in a neutral sort of way, a way that fades easily into a crowd.
“Two,” the second man says.
The hostess, a freckled young woman with purple-framed glasses, gestures toward the roomful of empty tables and booths. “You can sit anywhere.”
* * *
Arthur watches snow pile up on the windowsill next to their booth.
He is farther from home than he’s ever been in his life. Except Gotham isn’t really home anymore. By now, the apartment he shared with Penny for decades has probably been rented out to someone else. There is no going back.
He feels untethered. A loose scrap of paper floating on the wind.
It’s exhilarating. It’s terrifying. He keeps feeling the urge to reach for Travis’s hand just to anchor himself, somehow. They are voyagers on a vast and dark sea, the taxi a boat tossed about by waves. He thinks about those old maps with drawings of sea monsters lurking outside the edges of the known world. Here be serpents.
Tiny clumps of snow melt in his hair and drip down to the table. He rubs a finger over the droplets, spreading them, and draws a smiley face on the tabletop in water. On the radio, the Bee Gee’s “I Started a Joke” is playing.
A clown and a taxi driver walk into a diner in Nebraska at midnight, Arthur thinks. It sounds like the start of a joke. But he doesn’t know the punchline.
“They have pot pie,” Travis says. “I might get some of that. You?”
“Probably some chicken noodle soup. Or…maybe I’ll just ask for some crackers. Those are usually free, anyway.” And they don’t have a lot of money. It will take some time for them to get set up in a new city, and for Travis to start working there. What little they have needs to last.
“You need energy for these long road trips,” Travis says. “Get something. If you don’t finish we can always take it to go.”
Arthur scans the plastic-sleeved menu, frowning. “What should I get?”
“Whatever catches your eye.”
Arthur always has trouble figuring out what he wants. He doesn’t often go to restaurants, and when he does, the number of choices always overwhelms him.
The hostess—also the only waitress on duty, it seems—approaches. She fills their coffee cups, then pulls a notepad out of her pocket. “What can I get you guys?”
“A burger, rare,” Travis says. “And apple pie with melted cheese.”
“I don’t think we have that. The second thing, I mean.”
“You got apple pie?”
“Yes.”
“You got American cheese?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you take a slice of cheese, put it on the pie, and microwave it until it’s melted?”
A pause. “I could try.”
“Thanks.”
She turns to Arthur. “What about you?”
“May I have the Dead Elvis?”
“Sure. Anything else?”
“That’s all.”
She retreats back to the kitchen.
“I gotta ask,” Travis says, “what’s the Dead Elvis?”
“It’s…” Arthur glances at the menu. “Three banana waffles with a scoop of peanut butter flavored ice cream on top, with chocolate syrup, caramel, whipped cream, nuts, and candied bacon.”
Travis raises his eyebrows, then cracks a smile. He laughs a little, shaking his head.
“What? You think it’s too much? It’s probably not too late to change it—”
“Nah, it’s fine. That’s what you want, right? And you need the calories. Just surprised me, is all.” He takes a swig of his coffee. “Don’t think I’ve ever had peanut butter ice cream.”
Arthur rubs his finger over the water smiley-face on the table, smearing it. “I remember having it once as a kid. At this little ice cream shop. It probably closed down years ago, but…my mom was in a good mood that day, and she said she would take me wherever I wanted. We sat on a bench outside and ate ice cream. We were laughing together about something. I don’t remember what.” His eyes lose focus. “There were times when she was so nice to me. I remember wishing that it could always be that way.”
Travis reaches across the table and lightly touches the back of his hand. His fingers linger there for a few seconds, stroking Arthur’s knuckles, then withdraw.
Outside, the parking lot is covered in snow. The air is thick with it. A single streetlight glows through the white. It feels as though they’re on the moon, or in another world.
Arthur feels the panic building up in him. The overwhelming sense of freedom. He closes his eyes for a few seconds.
“California,” Travis says.
“Huh?”
“That’s where we should go. I hear they’re way ahead of things out there. In regards to people like us, I mean. Though…I’ve heard it’s expensive, too. Rent. I dunno. Probably depends on the city.”
“I do like the idea of living near the ocean.”
“You wrote about that in your journal. Wantin’ to play the ukulele on the beach. With a pretty Hawaiian girl.”
Warmth creeps up Arthur’s neck, into his ears. “Yeah.” Gotham was always so dim and gloomy. And he's never actually been to a beach. He always imagined the coast as bright and colorful, with big tropical flowers everywhere. Hawaii and California and other warm places sort of blur together in his head into a vague postcard-image of paradise. “I don’t know how to play the ukulele. But I’ve always wanted to learn. Maybe I’ll get one. I would like to play it by the ocean with you.”
“I’ll wear one of those, what do you call ‘em, hula skirts. And some of those flower-necklaces.”
Arthur giggles, muffling the sound with one hand.
Travis’s voice lowers. “Or you could wear one. I kinda like the thought of you in a skirt.”
Arthur's blush grows hotter. He thinks about the black stockings tucked away in a corner of his suitcase. He hasn’t worn them since that first time. “You don’t think I would look silly?” He knows the answer, but he still has trouble believing, sometimes.
Travis takes off his sunglasses and sets them on the table. “You would look gorgeous.” He reaches across the table again, touches the back of his wrist with a single finger. “You always do.”
Arthur’s breathing quickens. Just a little. "Do you think maybe...tonight...we could find a motel? I mean, if we have enough money."
For the few days they’ve been on the road, they’ve mostly been sleeping in the cab. Finding places to park where Travis can get a few hours’ rest, while Arthur keeps watch.
Arthur even took the wheel for a brief while, the other day. He said he wanted to try it, so Travis gave him an impromptu driving lesson in an empty parking lot, then napped in the front seat as Arthur drove. It went okay, but Arthur hopes not to make a habit of that. Even if it was a deserted country road bordered by open fields, he was constantly afraid he was going to crash. He crept along at twenty-five miles an hour (though the speed limit was fifty) as other cars zoomed past him in the left lane.
“A real bed does sound nice,” Travis says. "Solid eight hours of sleep would do us both a world of good, I think."
And of course, there are certain things they can’t do in the cab. At least, not without the risk of being seen.
He misses sharing a bed with Travis. The press of skin against skin. Breathing in his scent. Feeling Travis’s fingers in his hair.
And, well…both of them could use a shower, too. Arthur's been wearing the same clothes for far too long.
The waitress brings their food. She places the stack of waffles in front of Arthur. A melting lump of beige ice-cream sits on top, swimming in a sea of chocolate goo and decorated with fluffy tufts of whipped cream and rainbow-colored candy sprinkles. It is an apocalypse of a sugar, an amorphous mass of browns and whites. Garish sprays of cherry sauce zigzag across the top, like blood streaked across a crime scene.
“Wow,” Arthur says.
“Yup,” the waitress says. “We’re kinda famous for it. I mean, ‘famous’ isn’t the right word, but. If you finish one of those in one sitting you get your name on the wall.” She gestures toward a wall with dozens of notecards tacked onto it. “I wouldn’t recommend trying, though. We had a guy throw up, once. It was pretty gross.”
Arthur doubts he'll be able to finish even a third of this. Buying it was probably a dumb move. Travis told him to order something, but he couldn't decide, so he panicked and ordered the most indulgent thing on the menu. Oh well. He takes a small, delicate bite of the peanut butter ice cream and closes his eyes for a few seconds, letting it melt on his tongue. It's delicious.
She sets two plates in front of Travis. The cheeseburger glistens with grease. The apple pie is covered in a congealed, brownish-orange goo.
“I tried,” she says. “The cheese thing, I mean. I think I overcooked it though. I wasn’t sure how long to put it in for. I could bring you another one—”
“Nah, it’s fine.”
“It’s pretty burned.”
“That’ll make it taste French,” Travis says. “You know. They do stuff like pour whisky on their food and set it on fire. It’s very classy.”
“If you say so. Um—do you need anything else?”
“You know if there’s any motels around here?” Travis asks. “Just lookin’ for a place to crash for the night.”
“There’s one just like ten miles up the road, I think." She glances from Arthur to Travis, a hint of curiosity in her face. “Are you on a road trip?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I hope wherever you’re going, it’s better than here. This place is a shithole.” After a half-beat, she adds, “Sorry. I’m not supposed to swear in front of customers, but—”
“No problem.”
She disappears into the kitchen again. They eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the snow fall outside.
Arthur’s gaze strays to Travis’s left hand, resting on the table. And he wishes—not for the first time—that they could hold hands in public without fear. That they could kiss each other, indulge in those small, casual intimacies, without worrying about who might be watching.
Well, what’s stopping them? The only person here, aside from whoever’s in the kitchen, is their waitress. And she’s not even in the room.
Arthur bites his lower lip. He reaches across the table and lays a hand over Travis’s. Travis gives it a squeeze.
“This is nice,” Arthur says softly. “Just…being with you. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Me neither.” Travis’s thumb traces a small circle in his palm.
“Later, can we park and watch the sunrise together? I liked doing that, the other day.”
His voice softens. “Yeah. I liked it too.”
They look at each other. Arthur wonders if he’ll ever get used to the way Travis looks at him—as though he’s someone precious. Irreplaceable. Worthy of love and protection. He wonders if he’ll ever feel that way about himself.
On impulse, Arthur pulls Travis’s hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles. He rubs his cheek against the back of his hand, like a cat.
The bell over the door dings, and Arthur’s shoulders tense. Three men enter the diner, wearing snow-dusted jackets. The one in front—a pale, wiry guy with short, greasy blond hair and a pointed chin—glances at Arthur and Travis.
Arthur quickly withdraws his hand, but he’s too late. The man’s eyes narrow. There's a flash of cold contempt across his face. His upper lip curls slightly.
Arthur bows his head, heart pounding. His stomach twists.
The men walk slowly past them and take a seat in a booth on the opposite side of the room.
Arthur’s soft, shuddering breaths echo through the stillness. In his lap, his hands bunch into tight fists.
It doesn’t matter what they think. But, of course, it’s not just a matter of being judged. There’s something about men in groups of three that always seems to spell trouble. Arthur’s mind leaps to every time he’s ever been bullied or beaten, the memories flickering rapid-fire behind his eyes, like someone shuffling a deck of cards.
“Arthur.”
His gaze jerks back toward Travis.
“No one’s gonna hurt you,” he says, his voice low and soft. Too low for them to overhear.
Arthur gulps and nods. The knot in his stomach loosens. That's right, he thinks. He's not alone anymore.
Still. His gaze keeps drifting to the men in the booth. They don’t seem to be paying any attention to him anymore. They’re talking among themselves in low voices. But his heart won’t stop pounding.
He hates that the smallest mean look can affect him like this. He hates that other people can so easily and casually jab through his flimsy mental barriers, into his soul, without even saying a word. He doesn’t want to care. He shouldn’t care. He tells himself that he’s fine. He’s going to sit here and finish his meal like a normal person. He’s not going to hurry through it so that he and Travis can leave faster. He'll give himself indigestion if he eats too quickly.
He takes another bite of his waffle, which has already soaked through with melted ice cream and sauce. The first few bites were tasty, but already, the overpowering sweetness is starting to nauseate him. His throat constricts, resisting as he swallows.
“Maybe we should ask the waitress for the check,” Travis says. “Take the rest to go.”
“I’m fine.”
He wonders if Travis could actually fight off three men at once, if it came down to that. He fought off those teenagers who attacked Arthur and stole his sign, but those were just kids. And Arthur has no delusions about how useful he himself would be in a fight.
The largest man—a burly, bearded guy with a tattoo that looks like a playing card on his neck—raises a hand. Metal glints between his fingers. Brass knuckles?
No. A quarter. He plays with it, walking it across his knuckles, then makes it vanish between them. Makes it reappear in the other hand. It’s a magic trick; a simple one. Arthur learned a few similar coin tricks for kids’ birthday parties.
A warm rush of guilt floods his chest. And suddenly, he feels silly. Shouldn’t he, of all people, know better than to judge others based on so little information?
Arthur’s spent his entire life being judged by others. He always wished they would give him a chance. Maybe he should take his own advice and try to give other people the benefit of the doubt.
As he eats, he becomes conscious of a pressure in his bladder.
“I’ll be right back.” He stands.
“You want me to come with you?”
Arthur hesitates, then shakes his head. “I’m fine.” He's not a child. He made up his mind not to let fear control his actions. But a faint shadow of doubt remains.
He walks past the men in the booth, toward the bathroom door. His heart is beating a little too quickly. He hesitates. His gaze falls on a serrated steak knife on a nearby table. He wets his lips.
It would be paranoid to take a knife with him, wouldn’t it? Crazy, even.
Slowly, he curls his fingers around the handle, and—when no one is looking—slips the blade beneath his jacket. He tucks the hilt into the waist of his jeans before heading into the bathroom.
Just a precaution, he thinks. It won’t hurt anything to have it.
* * *
In the bathroom, someone’s drawn a huge, drooping dick on the wall in marker. There are a few FUCK YOUs scattered around. The sink is stained with rust, and the floor is suspiciously sticky, as though someone spilled a milkshake on it and no one ever cleaned it up. The tiles cling to the bottom of his shoes, and there’s a faintly gummy sound each time he pries one free to take a step.
Arthur’s accustomed to filth. There was plenty in Gotham. In a way, it’s reassuring; it feels like home.
He unzips his jeans. As he’s standing at the urinal, the door creaks open behind him. In the mirror, he sees the man with the greasy blond hair enter.
Arthur’s breathing quickens.
Relax. He’s just using the bathroom. Same as you.
The man stands behind him. Uncomfortably close. Arthur isn’t finished, but the stream of urine abruptly cuts off as the muscles around his bladder constrict. Quickly, he zips up. He glances at the dingy, cracked mirror and sees the man’s face reflected there, behind his.
The blond man gives him a smile. There's something silver on his teeth. Bits of metal glint in the fluorescent lights. “He’s a looker.”
“Who?” Arthur asks quietly.
“Your boyfriend.” He hovers there, close enough that Arthur can smell the coffee on his breath.
A laugh bubbles up in his throat. He swallows it. “H-he’s not…”
“No need to be shy.”
Arthur’s frozen, feet rooted to the spot. Fight or flight reflex is supposed to be a basic instinct, isn’t it? But whenever Arthur is scared, his body goes numb. Paralyzed. Maybe his self-protective instinct is broken. Maybe it was beaten out of him.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” the man says in a low, strange tone. “A little old, maybe. But now that I get up close—yeah. I see it. I see why he likes you.”
Arthur's brows knit. Is he…flirting?
No. The cold look hasn’t left his eyes. This is something else.
Move, he tells his body. Move, damn it.
“What?” the man says. “You’re too good to talk to me?”
Arthur’s hand slowly slides into his jacket, toward the right side of his waist, where the knife’s hilt is tucked into the hem of his pants. “I’m going to go now,” he says. He hates how small and wobbly his own voice sounds. Like a little boy’s.
“Didn’t your mama ever tell you it’s rude to ignore people?”
That’s not a normal way to talk to a stranger you just met in the bathroom, Arthur thinks. None of this is normal. He's not being rude by leaving. Just walk out. And still, his legs won’t move.
Arthur turns his head and meets the man’s gaze. His eyes are a very pale blue, almost transparent, the whites faintly yellow. Arthur wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. His heart beats faster, faster, the blood pounding against the thin wall of the artery in his throat. A smile stretches his lips, like invisible fingers pulling up the corners. He can feel the terror bleeding around the edges, transforming it into a pained grimace. Laughter presses against the back of his throat, a trapped thing, then finally bursts out of him. An animal leaping from his mouth. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-haa!”
The man jerks back. His expression hardens. “Something funny?”
Arthur shakes his head, still laughing. “N-no. I h-have—ha-ha-ha-haa!” The fluorescent lights flicker, disorienting him. He tries to push past, to the door.
The man grabs his shoulder, fingers digging in with bruising force, and yanks him back. He's not large or particularly muscular, but there's a startling, brutal strength in his movements. Arthur’s stomach lurches. Under his jacket, his hand curls around the steak knife. His breaths come in short, sharp pants.
The man's fingers bite into him like claws. Arthur's shoulder throbs in his grip. “What? You have what?"
Arthur whines and chokes out another laugh. He opens his mouth to shout for Travis, but all that comes out is more laughter. He clutches the knife-handle tighter. The world dims, the edges blurring. He’s spiraling down into himself.
Do it. Do it now. Stick it in him.
In his head, he sees himself shoving the point of the knife into the man’s eye, feeling it burst wetly open like a squashed grape. Pushing deeper, into the brain. He could do it. Just one quick jab.
No.
He and Travis are the only people in this diner, aside from the three men. If he kills this man, the waitress will know it was one of them. She’ll call the police. She’ll be able to give detailed descriptions of them. Maybe even a description of the cab.
“Ha-ha…ha-ha-ha!”
The man’s lip curls. “I’ll give you something to laugh about.”
Oh god, he thinks. No. Please no.
The door slams open.
“Get your filthy hand off him,” Travis says. His voice is calm. Flat. But his eyes are dark and cold with rage.
The man’s face goes blank. He and Travis stare at each other. Sizing each other up. For a few seconds, the very air seems to hold its breath. Arthur has the sense that there’s some invisible struggle going on between them. As though their wills are pushing against each other like a pair of antlers, warring for dominance.
The man lifts his hand off Arthur’s shoulder. "We had a little misunderstanding," he says.
"Have another 'misunderstanding' and I'll break your fuckin' wrist," Travis says.
Arthur is breathing rapidly. Shaking. He stumbles away from the man, toward Travis. Travis takes him by the arm, and they walk out of the bathroom, into the restaurant lobby. The other two men are still sitting in the booth, watching. The one with the playing card tattooed on his neck is still doing magic tricks, walking the quarter across his knuckles, making it move invisibly from one hand to the other. The waitress is nowhere to be seen.
“Just walk out," Travis says.
They hurry across the lobby, through the door. They cross the snow-covered parking lot and get into the cab. Travis pulls out of the lot with a screech of tires. They blast down the highway, the wipers swishing back and forth, cutting through the accumulated snow on the windshield.
“Keep an eye on the road behind us,” Travis says. “Make sure we’re not being followed.”
Arthur peers into the rearview mirror. He can’t see any headlights behind them.
Despite the cold, he’s sweating. He reaches into his jacket and clutches the handle of the steak knife. You’re safe now, he tells himself. But his body doesn’t believe it. His fingers remain tightly wrapped around the knife’s hilt.
“You hurt?” Travis asks quietly.
“No.” Arthur rubs his sore shoulder. It probably will bruise. He's always bruised easy.
A muscle in Travis’s jaw twitches. His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Shoulda gone in sooner. Had a bad feeling about that greasy little bastard from the moment I saw him. Wish I'd knocked his teeth out.”
“I’m just glad you came in when you did.”
Silence falls over them, broken only by the swish-swish of the wipers.
“We were minding our own business,” Arthur says, his voice cracking. “Why couldn’t he just leave us alone?”
“Some guys don’t need a reason to start shit.”
Arthur pulls the steak knife out of his jacket and stares at it. He turns it, glimpses his own eye reflected in the metal’s surface.
Would he have used it, if Travis hadn’t showed up?
There’s a whisper in his head: Might have been fun. He would have squealed like a stuck pig.
A visceral memory flashes through his head—the sharp tip of a pencil sinking into soft, yielding flesh.
Arthur shoves the thoughts away. He rolls down the window and flings the knife out. It lands by the side of the road and disappears behind them. He presses a hand to his stomach. His vision slides out of focus.
“Arthur,” Travis says. “Arthur.”
He blinks a few times. He realizes that Travis has been saying his name for a while, now. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“You okay?”
“I feel a little sick.”
“Maybe I should pull over.”
Arthur shakes his head. “Don’t stop.” He doesn’t think the men will try to follow them. But he doesn’t intend to take any chances. Better to put as much distance between themselves and the diner as possible.
The motel—the one the waitress mentioned—is up ahead. But they keep driving. They drive and drive, through an empty, white landscape. Arthur glances into the rearview mirror, and his stomach tightens. “There’s someone behind us.”
“Keep an eye on them.”
The points of light behind them grow larger, larger.
“What kinda vehicle?” Travis asks. “Can you see?”
Arthur can dimly make out the shape. “It’s a semi.”
“Not them, then. They were in a blue pickup truck.”
Still, Arthur keeps his guard up. His gaze remains fixed on the rearview mirror. The headlights grow. The semi bears down on them, then roars past and disappears into the snow-thick night. Arthur lets out a soft breath, sinking into his seat.
“I think we’re okay,” Travis says. “But I’ll take some of the backroads just in case.”
They turn off the highway, onto a meandering country road. The tires bump and scrape over gravel and rocks.
There aren’t many streetlights, out here. The snow keeps coming down, reducing visibility even further. The world has shrunk to the road in front of them, the space illuminated by the cab’s headlights.
“What if we get lost?” Arthur asks.
“We won’t. I got a good sense of direction.”
Arthur’s been clenching his stomach for so long, the muscles are starting to ache. He shuts his eyes and presses the heels of his hands against the lids. A laugh rips itself from his mouth, and he clutches his throat. His eyes water. “God.” Arthur touches his forehead. “Nothing even happened. Not really. But I can’t stop shaking.”
Travis pulls over to the side of the road.
“We—we should keep driving—”
Travis leans over and wraps his arms around Arthur, pulling him close. He rests one hand on his head. “I got you,” he murmurs into his ear. His other hand rubs up and down Arthur’s back, over the ridge of his spine. “It’s okay.”
Arthur closes his eyes and hugs him back. He tries to hold onto control, but after a moment, he dissolves into laugh-crying.
Travis holds him tighter. One hand slides up into his hair. “It’s over. We’re safe.” He rubs Arthur’s scalp in small circles until the bout of laughter trails off into hiccups. “Assholes like that—they’re all talk. They just wanna act like big shots. They can only feel strong by making someone else feel smaller.”
But it was more than that, Arthur thinks. The way those pale eyes stared at him…
Men like that always find him. As though he’s marked. What happened to him when he was a kid, the scars it left…it’s as though people can see the damage. Smell it, maybe. It draws them the way the smell of blood draws predators.
He tries to push away the thoughts. To focus on the pressure of Travis’s arms around him.
“I’ll always protect you,” Travis says. “No matter what.”
Arthur’s mind flashes to the sight of Travis wounded and bleeding after being shot in the shoulder. After robbing a pharmacy. For him.
They got lucky, Arthur thinks. They won’t get lucky every time. He pulls away.
“Hey,” Travis says.
Arthur turns his face toward the window. His chest aches. He rubs his arms, thinking about the man’s fingers digging into his shoulder. His face, looming in.
People see you as easy prey. They see you freeze up, they see that blankness come over your face, and they think you’re a helpless doll they can do what they want with. It’s fun catching them by surprise, isn’t it? You surprised a few people, back in Arkham.
He remembers—foggily, but still.
“Arthur…”
Arthur hunches over, curling in on himself. “I was a few seconds away from sticking a knife into his eye.”
A brief pause. “You think I’d blame you for protecting yourself?”
“We’re trying to have a normal life together. Remember?" He smiles without mirth. "Killing someone isn’t the best way to start.”
“Guess not.”
They lapse into silence. The wipers swish.
“We should keep driving,” Arthur murmurs.
Travis shifts the cab into drive and pulls back into the road.
A sign looms out of the darkness. Another motel, five miles ahead.
“Let’s stop there,” Travis says.
“Okay.”
Arthur wonders, not for the first time, if he's really capable of that. Of killing someone, even in self-defense.
There’s a switch in his head that flips if he’s pushed far enough. There’s no in-between for him. Over the years, his mind learned how to adapt to the pain, the fear. How to shut down all his inhibitions and allow his body to move freely so he could protect himself. But once he flips that switch…
He hasn’t gone under since they left their old apartment. But now he feels Joker close to the surface, bubbling and rippling there. Like an itch begging to be scratched. Not surprising, maybe. He neglected that side of himself for many years, forcing it down, keeping it small and contained in a tiny corner of his mind.
Now Joker’s had a taste of freedom. Of recognition. And he wants more.