AN: Jives with no timelines or canons whatsoever, but I do not care, so here you go.

Between Arkham and Gotham University, Karen's quest to piece together what made her son…this…isn't going half-bad. Granted, she got some funny looks, but she came out of it with pictures and a grainy video courtesy of Harleen Quinzel (nice girl, batshit insane, but nice). Harleen won't say who took the video, just that it's 'an old one from the Doc and Kitty were all young and precious and ya know, he looks like ya, are ya related?'

Karen had stammered some lies about that one, but she doubts the girl bought them.

She's afraid of the video, a little, worried it could be a snuff tape or something equally horrible, and she starts with the photographs. Most of them are serious-yearbook, staff photo-and there's one that's half-casual that has to be from college because god, he looks so young. He looks tired, though, and a little ill. Too thin. He's not wearing his glasses, either, and he's sprawled out on a too-small couch with one arm hanging off onto the floor. Whoever took the picture must have been a friend, once, because he's looking at the camera with an expression of exasperated fondness.

She finally braves the video after several glasses of whiskey, stuffing it into the VCR in her cheap hotel room and hitting play before she can back out. She's braced for the worst, but what comes up instead is a grainy video that picks up mid-sentence.

"-god, Eddie, why?"

"I made it! Sort of."

She doesn't know that voice but she doesn't care, that's her son, looking younger and more relaxed than he had in most of those photographs. More casual, too-he's wearing jeans and a navy sweater and his hair's got strands out of place. The girl on his lap is familiar, but it takes Karen a minute to recognize her as the woman that had been there that night. She's got a glass in her hand and her red skirt's draped over his knees. She's grinning and her other hand is thrown loosely around Jonathan's neck in the age-old step off, this one's mine. Karen doubts it matters-Jonathan's not looking at the camera, he's looking at her and running his finger over the hem of her sweater.

The camera moves towards an older boy, more man than the others. Better dressed, too, in slacks and a button-up that's undone at the throat. She wants to say she's seen him somewhere before-he's too birdy (god, that came out bitchy, but it's true) to mistake.

"Say hi, Oswald." The voice is cheerful and the camera wobbles a bit before steadying. "Wave to the birdy."

"Edward, why do you have that…that…monstrosity? And does it even work?"

"The green light says it's working! Now come on, it's Christmas, be merry."

The older boy-Oswald-snorts and raises a glass.

"Fuck off, dear friend."

There's silence and then the girl bursts into giggles.

"My god, you said a swear. Bless that camera, we've got proof."

The camera tilts back. The girl is still giggling, one hand still clutching her glass and the other now gripping Jonathan's shirt. Jonathan's smirking a bit, but he's still looking up at her rather than Oswald.

"Kitty, how drunk are you?"

"Shut up, I am perfectly…perfectly sober."

The smirk widens into a grin.

"You're the worst liar I know, and being drunk is not helping."

Oswald snickers and the boy behind the camera laughs.

"Jon's got a point, Kitty."

"Fuck off, Eddie." she says at the same time Jonathan says, "Don't call me Jon."

"M'too drunk for more syllables."

"Get a shot of the decorations, then, if you can do it without falling down."

The camera turns, wobbly, to point at a single red candle next to a PEZ Santa.

"This is the tragic excuse for decorations. Look at this and weep."

"We're moving out in another week, be grateful the couch is still available."

The camera goes back. Oswald is now seated on the other end of the sofa. Jonathan's moved so he's slouched a bit more, his free hand curled loosely around Kitty's lower back.

This hurts. This hurts because it's so normal; there's hardly any trace of the stranger who had showed up at her door that night. It's Christmas and there's people over and he's looking at that girl like he's found God.

"Tell me you two aren't going to turn this into some sort of terrible romance film." Oswald says primly. "There are other people in this room, thank you very much."

"How would you know what those are like, if they're so terrible?" Kitty says, leaning backwards to look at him. Karen's pretty sure she doesn't topple off only because Jonathan's got his hand there. "And you can't use your mother as an excuse, we all know she wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot-pole."

"Well, actually, they're his guilty pleasure-"

"Edward, I will murder you if you speak further."

Jonathan laughs at that one, the shaky laugh of someone who's had more to drink than they'll admit.

"I'll help you hide the body, Oswald. Or transport it to the river, at least."

"You're terrible at friendships." Edward sounds reproachful. "Did you know that?"

Karen shudders and wonders if Edward is now dead.

Kitty sways a bit and Jonathan moves his hand to steady her.

"I told you you were drunk."

"I am not, and I'll prove it." She sets her glass down, cracks her knuckles and grips his shirt.

"Kitty, I could still be contag-"

She kisses him. The camera swings over to Oswald, who is staring resolutely somewhere off-screen.

"Wonderful weather."

"Indeed."

"Sober people can't do that." Kitty says from off-camera. "So there."

"Kitty." He sounds a little out of breath. "I don't know if it's practice or something else, but you can do that drunk."

"Oh, come on!"

"I'm not complaining-"

The film cuts off. Karen blinks. That's how things should have been. Like that, maybe she'd call halfway through and there'd be the joking panic of 'everybody be quiet, it's my mother!'

But instead he tried to kill her and her daughter, did kill everyone else. And so many others, dear god.

She stirs and knocks a pile of photos off the bed by accident. They fall together-yearbook, staff, and hey what's that?

It's old, another one dating from college, but it has to be early-he's thin, still, like he is in his high school pictures, and she's willing to bet he's hiding scars under that lose sweater. But he's laughing, he's picked up the girl and she's pushing on his arms and she can imagine him saying, now, take it now!

She turns the picture over, curious. The handwriting is unfamiliar but precise: Jonathan Crane and Kitty Richardson, 1993. Photo credit: Edward Nygma.

She flips the picture back over and brushes her fingertip over his head.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.

She cries herself to sleep.

THE END