Another prompt! Will there be one tomorrow? No idea; can I finish a story while I work two full days and have my boyfriend around? Hah. We shall see I suppose. Anyway, this is a request from Ilovelocust, for prompt 12, Insanity, and JayDick. It turned out more Gen than I expected, but I also fully expect to write more stories expanding on this world, and then there could be an actual relationship.

This is based on a little nudge in my head that occurred. So, there's a stretch of comics time where Jason is briefly locked up in Arkham. Which just seems like an awful idea, doesn't it? Apparently nobody thought about the practicalities of that. So this is, fair warning, implies a very much not happy ending. So far, anyway. Enjoy?

Warnings for: Implied torture past the end.

He knows it's going to be terrible as soon as he sees the building come into view. He's drugged, locked into a straightjacket and other restraints on top of that, but he still recognizes that spiked, gothic architecture and the gate they're passing through.

"You're fucking kidding me," he mutters, and gets a sharp jab of an electrified rod to his side in punishment for apparently even opening his mouth. He snarls instead, but he's tired, in pain, and his thoughts are a little hazy thanks to however much of that sedative they thought was necessary to transfer him out of their temporary jail.

To Arkham, apparently, which is not gelling in his head. He's not insane. A killer, sure, but he's always known exactly what he was doing. Anger and some lingering issues from being, oh, dead, are not the same as being insane. But then it's goddamn Grayson under the cowl, and Dick was always too optimistic for his own good when it came to friends.

He'd bet a good portion of whatever money he's still got hidden away in various accounts that Dick really wants to believe he's insane, because that would mean that he can be 'fixed.' Not that Arkham is the place anyone should try to actually get anything fixed. It's just a holding cell for Gotham's nastiest freaks, and fuck, this is going to be bad.

Maybe he'll get lucky, maybe no one puts together that he used to be Robin, but he's still made a name for himself as Red Hood. A name that does not include being friends with Gotham's villains, especially a few that he's sure will remember their encounters. Black Mask. Joker.

Shit, is Joker currently in Arkham? He can't remember, but if the lunatic is in there then he's just all around fucked. Joker knows who he is, who he used to be, and if that gets out to the rest of the criminal population in there… Even he can't take on a whole prison at once, and everyone knows that most of Arkham's guards are corrupt pieces of shit. He'll get ripped apart.

He almost laughs as the truck pulls to a stop, and he's roughly unbound just enough that he can shuffle forward as he's dragged, the chain between his ankles drawing tight with every stumbling step.

Wouldn't that just be a kick in the teeth to the perfect Dick Grayson? Get him killed by locking him up in Arkham, and apparently not considering that the population of Arkham is primarily people he at one point or another probably helped put away; or nearly killed, in a case or two. Will Batman get told the moment he's attacked — which will happen — or will all of this get swept under the rug?

He'd bet on that second option too.

He gets dragged into the building, head hanging low just as much in an effort to hide his face as because it's easier than trying to fight the drugs and exhaustion and raise it. It must be intake they take him to, where he gets roughly strapped down into an examination chair that feels more like it's the prelude to torture. He gets measured in a dozen different ways he thinks are probably useless, poked by a couple needles that come away with thick samples of his blood, and gets his face turned back and forth as the nurses manhandle him into being able to see whatever it is that they're checking.

Weirdly enough, they don't strip him down and check all his scars and everything else, but he tries not to think too hard about it. For all he knows, getting put into the Arkham database takes a few days, and he's honestly got no idea what kind of data they collect from him. He never paid all that much attention to the intake process Arkham; once the villains were handed off to Gordon it stopped being his problem.

It's coming back to bite him in the ass now, as they drag him back up off the table and drag him off again. He does know the layout of Arkham though, and he starts to drag his feet and realistically consider his fighting options when they pull him the direction of the common areas and not the cells. Because he really doesn't want his first time in this place to be when he's drugged and chained up.

The options aren't great. His ankles are chained together, connected to a chain that runs all the way up to a leather buckle around his throat. It's hooked around his waist too, where his hands are cuffed in front of him. He could probably get loose from the two guards with some work, but escaping, or putting up enough of a fight to get the keys from one of the guards — assuming they even have them — is kind of beyond his capabilities right now. He's still bruised and sore from his last fight with Dick too, which isn't helping that whole 'escape' option any.

Before he can come up with any alternative plan he gets buzzed through a pair of security doors and then into the main common area, which is littered with tables and couches, all of it bolted to the floor. He keeps his head low, pretends he's one hell of a lot more drugged than he actually is. The guards shift to unlock his chains, and he almost reacts violently before he remembers the two security doors and the mass of villains probably in the room. He doesn't have enough hair to hide behind, not really, but he peers underneath the white fringe that nearly falls into his eye and studies who's in the room as the chains come off.

He catches sight of Poison Ivy, Harley, Mr. Freeze, and the Riddler before a sickeningly familiar voice rings out.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite little bird!"

He freezes, remembers red numbers and dark metal and a grin, and raises his head to find that exact same grin staring at him. He swallows, curses his own complete lack of luck, as he meets the viciously pleased eyes of the Joker, leaning over the back of one of the couches.

The chains around his ankles come off, and one guard jerks at the leather buckled around his throat and hisses, "Behave," before taking that last bit off too.

He hears the beep of the door behind him, stares at the Joker and slowly checks in with his body, trying to think of any way that this doesn't end with him broken and in a pool of his own blood on the floor. The chances aren't good, and the immediate villains he can see aren't the most fantastic fighters but like this? He can't take them on when he's drugged and there's this many of them. One or two, sure, but not all of them. He just can't.

God he's going to fucking murder Dick next time he sees him. If there's a next time.

Harley cocks her head, looking puzzled but still largely cheerful as she skips over to him. "Hi!" she says, holding her hand out like she actually expects him to shake it. At least that means that Joker hasn't mentioned the whole thing about him being Robin yet, though that's definitely not going to last long.

Joker is standing, and he tenses up and ignores Harley as he watches his own nightmares come to life. The prison-orange doesn't diminish the Joker's effect any, though it probably means that he's not in danger of any hidden weapons. A shiv at most; probably. Not that it's going to matter considering how many people are in this room. Roughly twenty-five is too many for him to deal with, and there are probably other named villains in the room but god Joker has all his attention. How could he not?

"You know," the Joker comments, voice rising into ear-grating pitches and then falling into low, threatening ones, "I haven't forgiven you for ruining my punchline, little bird."

Now the rest of the room is paying attention, and he tries to memorize the exits, the layout of the furniture, anything that might help him get out of this more or less in one piece.

"Mistah J?" Harley asks, all wide-eyed innocence, and Joker's grin sharpens into something that lights fear in his very core.

"Oh, you remember my little bird, don't you, Harl?" Joker is leaning against the arm of the couch, arms crossed, and he recognizes that same vicious intelligence from last time he faced off with the Joker. When he payed back the whole 'beaten with a crowbar' thing. "We had lots of fun together, didn't we…?" There's a deliberate pause, playing to the crowd and he knows it, before Joker hisses, "Robin."

The shift in atmosphere is immediate and dangerous.

Harley is closest, and suddenly there's no part of her that even looks innocent. Her eyes are narrowed, mouth curling in something like a smirk as she says, "Oh. That little bird. We'll you've grown up all tall and strong, haven't you, darlin'?"

He takes half a step back, and then tries one last ditch effort. "It's Red Hood," he snarls, as dark and violent as he can manage to try and make the difference clear. "You're fucking insane, Joker; guards or not, you come after me because of your stupid delusions and I'll rip you limb from fucking limb."

Harley gasps, one hand clasping over her mouth, and then she's bending and leaping and his reflexes are too slow thanks to the stupid drug. She does a handspring right in front of him and then both her heels are cracking into the underside of his jaw, snapping his head back so suddenly it feels like his neck might break. He topples backwards, vision going dark, and then he's on the ground on his back and she's standing over him, one hand on her hip and the other shaking a finger at him.

"Nobody calls my puddin' a liar!"

He snarls, and then his whole body freezes up when Joker is suddenly standing next to her, a casual arm thrown over Harley's shoulders. It's too familiar to have Joker standing over him, too familiar to be snarling up at the psychotic clown and knowing he's probably going to die. He can't hide it, can't stop the shudder that sweeps down his spine at the thought of being subjected to Joker's cruelty, again.

"Easy, Harl! Wouldn't want to break the poor boy just yet." Joker's grin is too-wide, too many teeth, too-red lips and too-white skin and a nightmare even before the crowbar and the explosion. "We've got tons of time, and birdie-boy here just needs a good spankin' to put him back in line!"

It's not quite the same sentence, but it's close. Terror sinks into his chest, curls claws in and won't go away, and all he can manage is to push himself a half a foot backwards and choke out, "Fuck you."

Joker laughs, high-pitched, completely insane, and dangerous in ways he knows too well. Then the Joker flaps his free hand, pulls Harley in against his side and gives an exaggerated wink. "Nah, not really my type there, kiddo. But hey! I'm sure somebody in here thinks different. You should get acquainted, little bird, prison can be real lonely sometimes." Another wink, and then Joker's turning with Harley still under his arm, commenting, "So what about dinner, sweetcheeks? Are you thinking the green mush or the brown?"

"Oh, green, definitely!"

He trembles a little bit, trying to swallow down the fear, but it's definitely lingering. And when other people start to get out of their seats, start to trade glances and move towards him, it brightens.

God, he's screwed.

He doesn't know exactly what time it is that the guards drag him to his new cell, but at least it's still dark.

He hits the ground hard, bites back on a cry of pain, and hears the door shut and lock behind him. The buzz and heavy clunk of something electrical and sturdy, not just an actual lock, which is bad news for any attempt at escape. Not that he's even really considering escape at the moment.

He'd settle for goddamn solitary, honestly, though he's not really sure that would stop the prisoners with more clout. At least it would take him out of gen pop, though, which might minimize who can take a swing at him. But the likelihood of that happening is pretty much zilch, and he has no idea how bad he'd have to lash out to get put in solitary. He's not willing to hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it, and it's hard to pinpoint the corrupt staff from the not-so-corrupt ones.

At least Joker didn't come back to him; not this time anyway. He's got a lot of bruises, but beyond the kick to his jaw neither Joker or Harley participated. He's not stupid enough to think that will last, but it at least helped this night. Somewhat. It's a little bit of a wake up call to see just how many of these people hate him for being Robin, and what few are angrier because of what he did as Red Hood.

He swallows down the faint taste of blood from a split lip, pushing himself to his feet and then almost swaying over to the thin, uncomfortable looking cot. He doesn't bother with any sort of undressing, and considers the temperature for just a second before reluctantly crawling beneath the sheets and single blanket. He doesn't like putting anything over him that might hinder his movement, but he'd rather struggle a bit with a blanket than freeze during the night.

He's been off the streets for a long time, but instinct and habit stuck with him. He values being warm sometimes even more than being safe.

Not that it really matters. He dozes for maybe two hours, in and out of consciousness because he's half convinced that someone's going to come through his door and try to murder him, before trained senses tell him that someone else is in the room.

He slits his eyes first, catches a glimpse of familiar shadow, and debates just keeping his eyes closed and seeing how long dear Dick will wait. Practicality wins out though, and he reluctantly opens his eyes and looks up, finding that exposed jaw that's not as clear-cut white as Bruce's was.

"What the fuck do you want?" he almost snarls, as he sits up. He's aching from a whole lot more than just his last fight with the Bat across the room, but tries not to show any of that. He is not showing weakness to the fucking golden boy; no way.

There's a moment of hesitation, and then Dick steps forward, getting a little bit more in the way of the dim lighting coming in through the window in his door. Reinforced plastic or something, not bars. Arkham's getting smarter, bit by bit. No other window either, it's just that door, blank walls, and a toilet built into one wall that he'll take some time examining when he gets a chance and he's a little less exhausted.

"You're hurt," Dick points out, the modulator gone from his voice to leave it lighter, not as painfully fake to his ears.

He grunts something like confirmation, shifting to set on the edge of the cot, carefully clenching his hands against the metal so that he doesn't do anything too drastic. "No shit. You forget about our fight, Goldie?"

"Jason, don't—" Dick's tone is disapproving, and he's had just about enough of that for a goddamn lifetime.

"I'm not calling you 'B,' you dick. Jesus, anyone fucking listening in is gonna hear the difference in your voices anyway, what does it matter what I call you?" He breathes in slowly, shuts his eyes for a second to breathe through the ache in his ribs. "I'm not in the fucking mood, Goldie. Tell me what you want or get out."

But Dick can be like a dog with a bone, and that not-right jaw only clenches down for a moment before loosening again. "I didn't do that to you." It comes with a gesture towards his throat, though he's not totally sure if Dick's talking about the imprint of hands around his neck or the bruise to the bottom of his jaw from Harley's kick. "What happened, Jason?"

He debates telling Dick to go fuck himself, but satisfying as it would be it won't get him anywhere. Instead he takes in another slow breath, and slowly, holding Dick's cowl-obscured gaze, spits, "You stuck me in an insane asylum turned prison full of people that I helped put here, what the fuck did you think was going to happen?"

Dick is very still for a second, and then that mouth draws into a thin line and almost too quiet to be heard he says, "No one knows who you were."

Maybe it's that Dick's not the Batman that Bruce was, or maybe he just doesn't know the details of his little showdown with Bruce and the Joker, but he should. There's no way that Dick doesn't know the Joker's in Arkham. No way he can't have at least considered what that means to him, even if he's just in here as Red Hood and not an ex-Robin.

He pushes himself to standing, looks down at Dick where he never could have at Bruce. "You locked me in here with the Joker," he hisses. "With the fucking Joker. Where the hell does that fit in your self righteous bullshit, Goldie?"

At least Dick has the decency to look a little bit ashamed. "You didn't leave me with a lot of options, Jason. I offered to get you help, I wanted to. I still do. Say the word and I'll get you out of here and to real professionals, Little Wing. You can be in League custody instead, we can get you a therapist and—"

"Fuck you!" he shouts, not caring if the noise brings guards. Dick obviously cares, if the twitch of his shoulder and glance at the door means anything.

"Jason, please. Let me help you."

And there's a small part of him that burns to say yes, to just let Dick get him the hell out of this nightmare and maybe he can have a real family again. Maybe he can have a place again. But the rest of him grinds that tiny hope out before it has time to spend. The rest of him knows with bitter, painful certainty that what he is now, Dick would never accept. What this world has turned him into is past saving, and he's sure as hell not going to bare what's left of his soul to some shrink and let them try and pick apart all the ways that he's been cracked and beaten down over the years. How could anyone ever understand the hell he's been through, let alone what he had to do to himself to survive it?

He bites down on the urge to tell Dick that leaving him here will get him killed, or that being face to face with his nightmare when he's not in complete control of the situation is terrifying. He can't stomach admitting his fear over the fact that the whole asylum now knows who he used to be, and that he's locked in here and all but helpless against them and that shakes him in ways that nothing else has in years. He's been furious, in so much pain he didn't know how he could get through another day, but fear like this? He made it a point to never be in a situation where he was this terrified.

So he just bares his teeth, clenches his hands to fists and hides all of that fear away behind anger. "You can't keep me here," he spits, and god it fucking scares him when Dick's jaw tightens and he heads for the door. "I'm not insane." He says it at Dick's back, knows what's behind his words isn't getting through. "Can't you fucking hear me?! I'm not insane!"

The door opens with that same electronic click, and his breath comes a little short as Dick just walks through without even looking back. He jerks forward, slams his fist against the door as it closes again, as Dick finally looks back at him and even behind that cowl he can read the pity.

"Don't you leave me here!" he shouts at the window. "Damn it, you can't just leave me here!"

But Dick does. Walks right down the corridor and any more words freeze in his throat, his fist curled uselessly against the door as he breathes fast and sharp and tries not to let any more of his responses slip out of his control.

He can't afford that. Not now, not ever. Not if he's going to survive this.

Deep in his gut, he knows that he won't.

It's breakfast the next morning when that feeling becomes fact.

He's in a corner of the room, as secluded and protected as he can manage, but across the room there's a table full of all the big names in here and Joker is one of them, lounging at the head of the table. The chair is tipped back far enough that it's a miracle it's not falling over, Harley at his right hand with almost the same angle to her chair.

And the Joker, in a perfect stage-whisper that he knows everyone in the room hears, says, "I've been thinking about a little deal, fellas. First one to break the little bird gets to keep him. Who's in?!"

He forces himself to breathe evenly, not to shudder or back right up against the wall or try and make a break for it. The utensil is just a stupid plastic spoon, but he grips it a little tighter anyways. Might work as a half-decent weapon if he snaps the handle; could be sharp. It's not going to be enough, not with the level of criminals sitting over there, but it's at least a tiny step up from completely defenseless.

His paranoia doesn't do him any favors, justified as it is. The guards are at least competent enough to find and take the spoon from him in a post-meal sweep through the room, and he's just thinking that this might be the hour he dies before suddenly he's being dragged off. He's never been more grateful to hear terrible news, which is that he's got an appointment with one of Arkham's in-house psychiatrists.

A last part of intake maybe? Or it might just be that they're getting him right into that whole 'reform' part of Arkham that never seems to work.

He's pulled off to a distant part of the asylum, shoved into a carpeted office and then into a chair that they immediately strap him into. The shrink's chair is turned away from him, with a back high enough that he can't see who it is, but he's really more concerned with the fact that the leather being pulled around him is tight enough that he's pretty sure he can't get loose. Not when he's got no tools stashed anywhere, or anything within the inch or so he can jerk.

"This isn't necessary," he tries. "I'll cooperate."

They ignore him, and he tests each different restraint for any give, any weakness. There isn't one, not as far as he can find. After a few moments of silence he stops, looking around at the office for anything that might be a good weapon when this shrink's done with him.

"Look," he starts, tugging at the restraints on his wrists more just to ground himself than anything else, "I don't know what the fuck is in your files about me, or what you've been told, but I'm not insane." Silence. The chair doesn't move. If he couldn't see the edge of one crossed leg around the corner of it — female, bare skin — he'd probably think there was no one there. "I— I knew exactly what I was doing. Every second of it. I'm a killer, and I have done some really shitty things, and I am not arguing that. Yeah, I'm fucking guilty, but I'm not crazy. I don't belong here."

The chair spins around, sharp and sudden, and he flinches even before he recognizes the woman in it.

Harley grins, pushing out of the chair and sliding over the desk until she's right in front of him, legs dangling to either side of his. "Maybe not, darlin', but you will when I'm done with you." He sucks in a sharp breath, taking in the white coat and heels she's wearing. With her hair back in a ponytail instead of the pigtails, she almost looks like a regular woman again. If it weren't for that imitation Joker grin and the glee in her eyes.

He takes stock of the situation, decides it's bad at about the same time that one of her stilettos lifts up and presses very purposefully into his crotch. Not quite painful, not yet, but she's clearly watching him to see how he'll react. It's with a sick, twisting jolt that he remembers that Harleen Quinzel actually is a psychiatrist. He is not alright with being analyzed by a supervillain. Especially not one reporting to Joker.

So he bares his teeth, flexes his hands and refuses to back down from her threat. "You think a little pain is going to phase me?" he snarls. There can't be that much that she can get out of knowing that he can take a little pain.

"Nah," she answers easily, heel pulling away from him. "I just wanted to give you a heads up, birdy. The guards bribe easy, when you've got the right goods to pay 'em. Your cell, solitary, in here… Nowhere's safe for you, little bird! We're gonna get you."

He tugs at the restraints, keeps his muscles strained tight as he pushes as far forward as he can and growls, "There is nothing you can do to me that will equal what I've been through."

She studies him, and then laughs. Suddenly she's slipping forward, in his lap with knees pressing into his hips, hands unerringly finding the zipper to his new uniform and pulling it down his chest. "You believe that, don't you? Oh, honey, you haven't got a clue the kind of imagination in this place. I'm just softening you up a bit for the main course."

Her nails dig into his stomach, and he grits his teeth and hisses through them when she rakes bloody lines into his skin. Moves her hand higher, does it again. Again. Again.

As she does it she talks, watching his every tiny reaction and that's even worse than the words.

"Here's what I got so far. PTSD, which was probably mostly Mistah J's little gift to ya; anger management issues, which you have definitely had for pretty much ever; and from what my baby told me, you have got some serious Daddy issues in there too, birdy. And then your files were just so interesting."

That drives him into gasping, partly from the pain of the scratches up and down his chest and partially because Harley's read his file. Shit, what did Dick put in there? Or is it left over from Bruce? How much is truth, how much is bullshit, what's she going to be able to do with any of that information?

He jerks against the restraints, tries to push the idea of his file away because there's nothing he can do about that. "I'm not scared of you," he hisses instead, and her grin is just as vicious as the Joker's in that moment.

"Lemme tell you a secret." She leans in, and the strap they put around his fucking forehead keeps him still enough that she's out of range to bite when she brushes her lips across his ear and whispers, "That's okay. We're gonna let the rest of 'em soften you up first, sweetie."

He can't help the shiver that slices down his spine as she leans back and giggles, now-bloody fingers starting to trace lines across his chest that he's pretty sure are words and little smiley faces. He pulls harder against the restraints, feels the leather bite into his skin a bit and doesn't even care. Not if it means the chance of getting free. But Harley laughs, smiling wide like she's gotten some kind of gift.

"That's it, sweetie! Fight!" Her hands abandon his chest, grabbing both sides of his prison uniform and pulling at it. "Mistah J told me you were a raging little spitfire back when he killed you the first time! Show me! I wanna see!"

He spits in her face. The slap is totally worth it, even though it leaves him some long scratches across his cheek.

"Rude!" she gasps, and then grins and giggles. "You're so cute, birdy! You don't really think you're getting out of this, do you?"

He bares his teeth again, ignores the trickle of blood that he can feel sliding down his jaw. "I'll drag as many of you down to hell with me as I can," he promises, in a low, rough voice that he hopes comes across as threatening as he means to be.

He's serious about that.

There's not much chance of escape, no chance of victory, and Dick… He's on his own. So if he can't get out, and he's going to die anyway, damn right he's going to take as many of these sick, psychopath freaks with him as he can. At least his death will mean something.

Even if he's abandoned, at least it means something.