Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks again to my friend Colton, this time for providing the French in this chapter. I wish him the best of luck in his NaNo endeavors. Also thanks to my Latin professor, for providing me the knowledge of the language that I used in this chapter. (Which I'm sure is horribly mangled and would pain him to read.)

And, as always, thanks for the reviews!

The Joker switched the camera off and handed it back to Jonathan, who stood frozen with shock. Harley, kneeling on the carpet, was equally still except for some persistent facial twitches that seemed to indicate she was battling the urge to be sick again. The Joker himself turned to regard Ramirez's corpse again. For a moment his shoulders tensed, and Jonathan stiffened, wondering if he'd attack the body again, but then he seemed to decide against and merely walked off with a mutter of "stupid bitch."

Jonathan extended the hand without the camera to Harley, who took it. He could feel her trembling as he pulled her up. Damn. It'd been easy to overlook her during the madness that had just occurred, but now that he noticed, she wasn't in good shape. He supposed the transition from mild-mannered psychiatrist to serial killer's assistant wasn't one that happened overnight. His own start of darkness had occurred long before he was employed at Arkham, so he didn't know from experience, but it seemed it would be hard.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, her hand still in his.

She nodded, wiping a hand carefully across the back of her mouth, to avoid smearing the paint, he guessed. She did not look all right.

"C'mon guys."

At the sound of the Joker's voice they both jumped, Harley breaking the contact between them and running to his side. "Okay, Mistah J!"

So her response to finding she disagrees with his actions is to throw herself back into catering his every whim, Jonathan noted, holding in a sigh as he followed. That's healthy. He stepped over Ramirez, casting an almost involuntary glance to what remained of her and fighting back a shudder. The self-proclaimed master of fear shouldn't be made to tremble at the sight of a corpse…but it wasn't so much the disfigurement that bothered him as the reminder of the sheer lack of control he'd just seen.

No one said a word on the way back out, and they encountered no one in the halls. Jonathan didn't want to think about what would have become of anyone they did see. The moment the van doors closed behind them, the Joker took off, tires screeching against the pavement as they left.

"What about your men?" Harley ventured timidly, casting a glance to the lone lackey in the back seat. If he had any opinions about leaving the others behind, he didn't show it. Smart man, Jonathan thought. Lack of attachments added at least a year to the lifespan of the average henchman, by his estimate.

"What about 'em?" Joker answered, taking a turn so sharp the life wheels left the ground for a moment. Harley gripped the sides of her seat; the golf iron, though bent out of shape from its unconventional use, managed to roll around the floor, leaving specks of flesh and blood on the carpet.

"W-where are we going?" Jonathan asked, flinching as soon as the words left his mouth, though he doubted the clown could reach him from the driver's seat. Not that such petty things as the laws of physics would stop an enraged Joker. He clutched the camera in front of him, hoping that would offer some protection. The tape inside was important, after all.

"Beer," Joker said, jerking the wheel just in time to keep from running off the road. Harley whimpered.

"Beer?" Jonathan repeated, incredulous.

"Beer."

Absolutely lost, he caught Harley's eyes in the rear view mirror, raising his eyebrows as if to ask, 'What the hell is going on?' She shrugged, looking every bit as confused as he did. Wherever they were going, the Joker and alcoholic beverages couldn't possibly be a good combination.

It turned out to be a bar, in the Narrows, which should have been a bad sign, but the building they pulled up to looked decent. More than decent. Nothing spectacular, but given the location, it was high class.

"We're just going to walk in?" Jonathan asked, staring, as the Joker helped Harley out of the car.

"That's generally how ya get inside a place, scaredy cat."

He rubbed his temples, managing to get the bandages caught in his hair for a few seconds. "We're going to get shot."

"Ah, ya worry too much," the Joker responded, already heading inside, one arm around Harley's shoulders. The lackey followed not far behind.

"Goddamn it," Jonathan muttered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. There was no way this could end well, and he was tempted to stay out here until his companions were chased out by gunfire, or an angry mob. But then, there was no way being in the Narrows alone, unarmed, and at night could end well either, so with a sigh and a half-hearted attempt to make peace with any deities that may exist, he followed them in.

It was even nicer on the inside, surprisingly, as nice as any bar in the civilized parts of the city. Jonathan would have stopped to admire it, had his focus not been on the Joker, who with no regard to his safety or life, or that of his girlfriend, had marched straight in and announced his presence by shouting "My children! Your savior has returned!"

Oh, fuck. Jonathan's eyes darted about the room, searching frantically for a place to hide from gunfire, and finding nothing promising. We're going to die, we're going to die, we're going to—

He stopped panicking abruptly, when another look around the place showed that they were not, in fact, being shot at. Or attacked in any way. In fact, aside from looking decidedly more nervous, the patrons and staff were going about their business as usual.

The hell? He could see people in the better parts of the city not trying to attack the clown prince of crime, maybe, though there'd be a lot more crying and praying in those places. But this was the Narrows. Many people were insane,—some, he thought with pride, as a result of his own toxin—others desperate, and still more just not giving a damn if they lived or died. Joker's reputation or not, he'd have expected at least one attempted murder.

Ahead of him, Harley, looking just as lost as he felt, was tugging on the Joker's sleeve. He couldn't hear them over the jukebox in the corner blaring something obnoxious, but it looked as if the Joker might be explaining why they weren't all dead. He'd have to ask her later.

Like an episode of The Twilight Zone, they were all able to order drinks—Jonathan excluded, he didn't want anything and didn't ask—and even sit down without any protests or gunshots. Bewildered, he turned to Harley. "What kind of a place is this?"

"What?" she asked, frowning, her own voice barely audible over the music.

"Why aren't we dead?" he tried, louder this time.

"It's a mob bar," she explained, half-shouting, between sips of her Cosmo. He wondered how she managed to do that without smearing her face paint, or lipstick at least, then realized he was thinking about women's cosmetics and stopped. "And you know how Mistah J tore the mob apart last time he worked with them, right?"

Ah. Well, that explained a lot. "So they don't dare touch him?"

"They don't even make him pay," she said, admiration glowing on her features. "He's brilliant, isn't he?"

In the name of all that is pure and good in this world. Which, going by his views, wasn't much, but it was the thought that counted. "I take it you're over the face-beating-in thing, then?"

She shuddered. "God, don't bring that up."

"How can you stand to work for him, if everything he does disgusts you so much?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he stiffened, casting a glance to the Joker to see if he'd offended him. For once in his life, though, it appeared fate was on his side, as the clown was currently seated before several beers and various mixed drinks, including, Jonathan noted with wonder, a Backdraft, and seemed to be working on making them all come out even.

"He's not a bad person!" Harley insisted. She seemed to have given up sipping and downed the rest of her drink in one swallow. "He's just…very goal-oriented." Jonathan fought the urge to make a smart remark. It wasn't worth getting into. "I'm going to get another drink."

She stood, and he noted that her gait was already a bit disjointed. Lovely. He supposed he'd be functioning as the designated driver of the night.

He sat, watching as she started a conversation with the bartender that didn't look like it was going to end anytime soon. She'd begun drinking heavily. He supposed it was her way of coping with the madness that had become part of her life. Whatever it was, it wasn't healthy. I suppose it's a good thing she's not pregnant.

Nice as their surrounding were, it was still serving as a reminder of why Jonathan hated bars to begin with. It was full of smoke, which was to be expected, but no less annoying, and loud, drunken people, also to be expected, and also irritating. And damn whoever had invented the jukebox. Damn him, and damn his entire family to hell. If he heard one more blaring rock song, he'd start taking some of the Joker's flaming cocktails and throwing them in people's faces.

He stood, hoping to find a bathroom and few minutes peace and quiet, and got about a foot from the table before a hand clamped around his wrist. A hand which, from what he could feel through his sleeve, seemed to be wearing a leather glove. Oh, for the love of Christ.

"Hey, Jonny." The words were slurred, not surprising, given that the Joker was so drunk, he was having trouble focusing his eyes. "Why aren' ya drinkin'?"

"I don't drink." He considered pulling his hand free, but thought better of it. Just because the Joker appeared to be a happy drunk didn't mean it was time to start tempting fate.

"Whaddya mean ya don' drink?"

He noticed, amid the slurring, a speech impediment he'd never noticed before. The words weren't enunciated fully, something he supposed was caused by the scars restricting facial movement. The clown must usually put effort into speaking that he wasn't in a state to do now. "I'm on antipsychotics. You can't drink with those."

"Sure ya can. Have somethin'."

"I don't—"

With a tug of his arm, he found himself sitting on the Joker's lap. Dear God. Thank heavens Harley was still preoccupied, if she saw this, she'd probably steal someone's cell phone to snap pictures, and then he'd never live it down. "Have somethin'."

"But I—"

"C'moooon," he whined, sounding so much like a five year old it was hard to believe he'd brutally murdered not long ago.

"Fine."

"Yay!" The hand not clutching his wrist reached out, picking up one of the many glasses from the table and handed it to him. "This 'un's called a Joker." He actually made an effort to say the name correctly, making sure the R was pronounced. Even wasted beyond reason, his ego remained.

What have I done to deserve this? He had no choice but to drink. It wasn't bad actually, tasting like a mix between orange juice and Kool-Aid, and if not for the warmth in his throat when he swallowed, he wouldn't have known it was alcoholic at all.

"Sooo, how da I taste?" the Joker asked, grinning, and Jonathan had to fight the overwhelming urge to be sick.

"It wasn't bad," he muttered, face feeling as if it were on fire.

"Puddin'!" Harley's voice, shriller than ever, rang out from across the room. Jonathan wished his other hand was free, so he could cover his ears. She bounded over to them, nearly falling too many times to count. "Puddin', ya can' let Jonathan drink!"

Ah, she was a loud drunk. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse.

"It's no' my fault," the clown slurred. "He begged me fo' it."

"I did not!" Unsurprisingly, his protests were completely ignored, as Harley leaned over and pulled the glass from his hand.

"Bad Jonathan!" she scolded. "Ya gotta take better care of yaself."

"You're one to talk. You can't drink this much, this fast. Especially when you're not eating." He shot a glance to the Joker. "Or mixing drinks."

"Ah, I can handle myself. Ya gotta live a li'l, scaredy cat. Gawd, ya're almos' as repressed as the Bat…" He trailed off, drinking out of one of the many beer bottles seated before them. He was barely coordinated enough to get the bottle to his mouth, Jonathan noticed. Most of the make-up around his mouth was gone, probably washed off by drink spills.

His mention of the Batman sent the wheels in Jonathan's head spinning, back to the events at Ramirez's apartment. "Why do you want to prove the Batman's innocence, anyway? Don't you hate him?"

"Because I made Harvey a killer, an' I wan' my genius recognized. 'Sides, Bats's the yin to my yang, an' I don' wan' the police interruptin' our eternal struggle." He seemed to focus a little more when he spoke of his foe. "If anyone's gonna stop Batsy, it'll be me. See, scaredy cat, le mal gagnera toujours, parce que le bien est stupide."

What. The. Fuck. The Joker was bilingual when he was drunk? He wasn't even slurring. How in the hell? "You speak French?"

"Oui, mon amour."

"Mon amour?" Just when he thought life couldn't make any less sense.

"Oui, mon amour." His smile looked strangely sincere, which just made things all the worse. "Je t'aime, parce que même si tu est ennuyeux et ridicule, tu me fais sourire."

For God's sake. "Sī," he began, struggling to remember what he'd learned in college. "Sī amās mē—"

"Quoi?" Good, so he didn't speak Latin. Maybe Jonathan could confuse him into letting go.

"Sī amās mē," He didn't know how to translate Joker into Latin, and wasn't sure if he could anyway. "O stulte," Close enough. "No tenēs mē nunc."

"Quoi?"

"Amābō tē."

"The hell?" As he'd hoped, the Joker let go, and he all but leapt up. "Ya speakin' in tongues or somethin'?"

"In a manner of speaking," Jonathan said, straightening the sleeve the Joker had been holding. "And I think you two have had enough to drink."

"I'm jus' gettin' started," the Joker protested, and was suddenly, violently sick over Jonathan's shoes.

Once he'd cleaned the vomit off, he'd demanded they get back in the van. It seemed impossible, telling the Joker what to do, but by that point he'd all but entered a black out, and the hardest part about it was dragging him into the van. He did it alone, apart from Harley's help, which was more of a hindrance, as the remaining henchman had long since disappeared. He was grateful, as he had a hard enough time remembering the way back to their own apartment, and didn't think he could handle driving somewhere else as well. Especially not with the Joker riding shotgun.

Despite being too drunk to know his own name, the Joker was somehow still coordinated enough to open his window and lean out it like a dog, which he insisted on doing, despite Jonathan's protests. At least he'd gotten the seatbelt over the clown with only minor struggle. Well, a split lip, but in dealings with the Joker, that was mild.

With only two wrong turns, amazingly, they arrived at the apartment with no trouble, and no police or bats in pursuit. Getting the pair up the stairs was straining, and he probably pulled several muscles doing it, but the process took less than an hour, and they managed to stay conscious until he got them through their apartment's door.

Deciding against pulling them into the bedroom—he did not want to clean vomit out of the carpets in the morning—he ended up covering the bathroom tile in blankets and dumping them there, careful to turn them away from each other so the Joker wouldn't slap Harley for being sick in his hair, or something. Then he went through the cabinets, pulling out all the coffee and tea and caffeinated that he could find, as well as all the painkillers. They'd need it.

That done, he collapsed on the couch and fell asleep almost instantly. He stayed that way for two blessed hours, until the Joker's first bout of vomiting woke him up.

AN: The conversation between Joker and Jonathan, in case you were wondering:

Joker: See, scaredy cat, (French) evil will always win, because good is dumb.

Jonathan: You speak French?

Joker: Yes, my love.

Jonathan: My love?

Joker: Yes, my love. I love you, because though you're boring and ridiculous, you make me smile.

Jonathan: (Latin) If…if you love me—

Joker: What?

Jonathan: If you love me, fool, you will not hold me now.

Joker: What?

Jonathan: Please. (Literally I will love you, but it's an idiom.)

Yeah. I'm confident in my friend's French but not sure on my Latin. If I did mess up in there somewhere, and you speak it, and it's driving you mad, let's just pretend Jonathan screwed up because he hasn't spoken it in years.