[ @theclownprnc gets.... whatever this mess is ]
It's funny that this is what he thinks of. He'd read somewhere years ago that memories form at four years old. So there's a chance it's one of his first memories.
He's in someone's arms, Bundled up with snowflakes in his eyes, bounced up and down like a living stress ball. There's a rhythmic thump against his shoulderblade. "Mama's gonna be okay, Jackies gonna be okay. Mama's--"
"Careful. That's called the the soft spot, don't touch it. Sweetie, no, I said... Dear, can you come help with--"
Fontanels, he'd learned in anatomy lab. A hole in the skull, bones left unfused for a baby's growing brain. Could be used to determine the age of a skull in conjunction with other factors such as teeth and wrist bones.
Not important to being a mortician but, college was all about the strange side tidbits.
Ah, right. Focus, Janice. There was a gun prodded into his spine. Another day in Gotham. A door opens, Janice has no idea why he's been singled out. Immediately shredded his chance of survival. He'd heard of Joker, everyone in Gotham had heard of Joker. Ken had been rather cordial as he introduced himself.
This was going to be a more lengthy ordeal, wasn't it? Not David from the sandwich cart on main, who'd been freed in a few hours. More like Glori, the barista with a gap-tooth. She'd been stuck waiting for Batman a whole week, by her account.
The door turned, opened. And there was ringing in his ears and his stomach sank to his toes.
Oh sure, everyone knew Joker. Lived in fear. But Janice Napier was in the absolute singular position of knowing who he was beneath the garish makeup.
Gloria's torment. After, he'd laughed at his own joke to lighten her spirits. She'd inhaled and looked away. Played with the straws in her apron. He'd assumed it was the laugh. But it had been him. His existence, his features.
"Jack?" Quiet, though the attention whipped from Ken to the hapless hostage. Oh god, it wasn't makeup. Something-- something had happened.
This whole time, he'd been here? Right here. Joker. The mortuary had to hire a restorative artist to crack and massage the laughing gas smiles into something natural and soothing. Dozens of cases he'd helped families grieve. A mountain of bodies, he couldn't have-- wouldn't have thought Jack would possibly be enthroned on top. Janice hadn't been the bad seed they'd claimed.
He shouldn't say it, he shouldn't draw attention to himself. If the Bat couldn't do anything to stop him, why could his brother? Keep his head down. Stay alive. But those wild eyes studying him were sharp and familiar. Glassy eyed laser focused mania.
Don't say anything! Heat in his cheeks as tears welled up. He'd found him. Too late to do anything about. It was laughably, frustratingly, blooddrippingly moot.
He shook his head, face pinched and eyes red. It made no sense, would only get him in trouble, he knew How To Be A Hostage in Gotham. But it was all he could think of, a cartwheeling thought tumbling off trembling lips.
