Comic Relief

6.

6.

The house was quiet. Calm shadows loomed over the walls. Moonlight showed through the tall windows, bringing a cool light to the halls as he walked past. Glints of white shimmered on the pictures and their frames. He locked his eyes to the floor, watching the pattern of the carpet change and repeat, seeing the light disappear between each window. After coming up from the cave his mind was hazy with thoughts- most of which he ignored, especially the ones about the odd burning feeling he had in his chest. He brushed it off as just his hatred for Joker peeking through his cold exterior. While he almost always remained cold and brooding, there were times in his life of being the Dark Knight where he was driven past his breaking point. All of those times were when he was interacting with Joker. There was something about Joker that got under his skin, pulled at his mind. Like claws, everything Joker said broke through his skull and scratched at his brain. Everything felt personal. The clown liked to dance around questions, never giving a straight answer, always hiding things when he spoke. He never cooperated. That was what pushed at Bruce's disguise.

But what was it that made Joker special? Other foes did the same thing, and he was fine. With Joker, though, it was like he didn't think. Whatever it was the Bruce responded with it would be real, a true emotion that he didn't mean to show but couldn't help to. It was only with Joker, and he couldn't figure out why. It drove him mad. Why was Joker special?

His feet stopped in front of the door to the living room, thoughts dissipated as he looked down at the bottom of the door. A yellow light peered from underneath it. Clawing at the tips of his shoes, reaching out to gently touch the wooden floors. Voices muttered on the other side. He waited, listening in on them, but he couldn't tell what they were saying. However, the voices did sound familiar. Each one. It was the family.

Carefully, he took the doorknob and twisted slowly. The voices stopped. Pushing open the door, the yellow light engulfed him and the hallway he stood in. AS he thought, there sat every member of his family: Damian sitting in the chair near the fireplace with his hands on the edge of the arms of the chair, Tim on the sofa, Barbara and Dick standing next to the sofa sharing a disapproving look, and Jason leaning against a wall away from the others. Alfred stood to the side, looking at Bruce with a small frown. Bruce looked around.

Everyone was quiet for a bit, the air in the room getting heavier by the second.

Bruce cleared his throat, "What's going on?"

"I don't know, father," Damian spoke up, his tone harsh. "It seems like you've lost your mind."

"What?" Bruce asked, scrunching his face in confusion.

"Damian." Barbara shot a look at the boy, who grumbled and sat back in his chair. "Bruce, we know something is up. Tell us what's going on."

Dick nodded in agreement with Batgirl.

"Nothing is going on." Bruce defended. He was about to explain further, anger boiling up in his throat as he opened his mouth again to protest.

Alfred stopped him, "Master Bruce, they know. Just admit it."

They all fell silent; the family waiting for Bruce to give them the information they wanted, and Bruce not wanting to say anything. He didn't know what to say. They'd find out eventually, he knew that, but he didn't want to be the one to tell them.

Finally, he sighed, "Around a week ago the commissioner signaled me. He told me that after four years they found Joker. He was beaten and unconscious but still alive."

Bruce paused for a second to take a breath, and to let the others take in what he had just said. They all looked shocked. All of them except Jason, that is, who looked disappointed at the fact that Joker was alive. Bruce went on, "He said that they had Joker there at the station in one of the high security cells, but couldn't keep him there. He explained that Arkham was under construction, so they couldn't send him back there either. So he asked me what to do."