Motley

Joker returns to base to find Motley curled up in the bathtub, Harley’s blanket wrapped around his shoulders. There are tear stains down his cheeks. Come to think of it, the kid hasn’t had a bath in a while. Joker figures brushing his teeth is more important.

Motley sniffs, whining in the back of his throat as he dreams. His fists clench and loosen on the hilt of his knife. Joker knows now that when Motley’s upset, he heads for a bathtub. Joker wonders why as he shakes the kid’s shoulder.

“Hey. Mot. Get, ah, get up.”

Motley stirs, blinking up at him before frowning and wiping the tears away.

“J! You’re back.”

Joker squeezes himself into the tub with Motley, letting his long legs hang over the edge.

“Mhm. Why’re you in here, Mot?”

The kid shrugs, looking to the side.

Motley has nightmares. He usually wakes up to find J, which is comforting enough that he can fall back to sleep, or he can force himself to get over it. But he dreamed about Leen, about her laughing when she hit him, locking him outside on bitterly cold winter days.

His best memories, his safest place, is of Leen giving him baths, humming brokenly as she washed his hair, fingers gentle for a little. Once she even hugged him, pressed a sticky kiss to his forehead as she dried him off. Bathtubs remind him of the first day he spent with J, when his newly discovered father washed his hair, let him eat for the first time in days, and didn’t hit him. He’s safe in a tub, wrapped up tight where nothing can get him, focusing on his favorite memories. Motley’s too young to say that, so he just shrugs.

“Safe here. Had nightmares.”

“About, ah, what, kid?” Motley peeks up at Joker through his eyelashes, looking startlingly like Harley. She used to give him the same look when she wanted his forgiveness. Sometimes it even worked. “C’mon, tell me.”

“Bout...uh...angry. She...”

He swats at the air, mimicking a hit, and Joker realizes he’s indirectly speaking about Harley. Motley bites his lip, poking at a scar on his knee.

“You got hit?”

Joker already figured, but he wants to hear it from the kid.

“Yeah.”

Joker’s pretty sure he should be angry about that, but he’s not. Can’t be. He’s not that kind of person. He hit Harley enough anyway, he murders on a daily basis. A little child abuse isn’t going to bother him. “Huh. Well, you’re fine, ha, now.”

Motley shrugs again. Joker stands, offering a hand to him. “Let’s go back to bed, Mot.” Motley takes his hand, holding on until Joker grimaces and shoves him away. There’s only so much affection he can give.

“Read me a story, J?”

“No. Read one, erm, yourself.”

“Can’t read, J.”

The kid’s hesitating in the bathroom doorway, one hand keeping the blanket around himself.

“Oh. Yeah. I, ha, forgot. Wanna learn?”

He figures Motley’s smart enough. He’s got his father’s brains, crazy as they are.

“Yeah.”

Motley’s pleased smile is unexpected.

“Tomorrow. I’ll, haha, start teaching you stuff. Not like, like you’re ever going to school.”

The Joker’s not sure if he ever went to school, actually. He can read, and write, and do math most people aren’t capable of. The news channels, when they’re not referring to him as a monster, begrudgingly call him a genius, even more intelligent than Riddler, but he must’ve learned it somewhere.

Maybe he’s forgotten. He has vague flashes of a voice droning on and on, the chatter of children, being smaller and looking down a long hall filled with people, but they might just be movies he’s seen, or dreams. Joker has a perfect memory, but his mind likes to trick him when it comes to his origins. He drops the thought as Motley brushes his teeth and shuffles from the bathroom, jumping on the bed beside Joker. He’s happier now, and sleepy.

“Night, J.”

“Night, kid.”