#aaand mun has checked out. If crane gets shot he’s on his own …

[arkhampsych]

An impatient smile tugged at the corner of his impassive lips, “ of course you are. ” Crane murmured, closing and locking the metal drawer, before placing his keys back in his pocket. He turned towards Joker’s file. As he opened the blue cover revealing it’s sacred contents, his eyes briefly darted towards his guest’s firearm, slightly annoyed of it’s underlying presence.

He cleared his throat, “ 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘫𝘰𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘳 — ” he lilted as though preparing to articulate a story, “ suffers from episodes of uncontrollable laughter as associated with the pseudobulbar affect, due to physical and psychological trauma sustained during youth. ” his eyes lifted from the file and narrowed imperiously on Joker’s marbled and bleeding makeup, “ but you already know that … ” he sifted through a couple pages, inaudibly muttering miscellaneous information about his subject, “ 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 … 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 … 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 — ah. ” he stopped, shrugging his brow and flashing his former patient a snide grin,

“ patient frequently fluctuates between a calm and hyperactive state. much like his mother, mister kerr harbors many beliefs that conflict with the external reality, manifesting in delusions that constitute a victim mentality and a fixation on an external locus of control. ”

The cadence of his recitation died into a flattened tone. Crane’s implacably passionless eyes drifted up from the spidery characters that stretched from the end of one document to the next, fixating on the unsteady face of his subject. He continued, “ I’m inclined to say his grandiose thinking and need to vindicate the misfortune he feels society has inflicted upon him suggests a strongly narcissistic personality. this is only reinforced by disorganized behavior and the usual symptoms corresponding with his diagnosis, 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘻𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘢. ”

Without removing his steely eyes from his guest, Crane gently closed the file. “ this gentleman sounds very un - well ... but that’s not his fault is it. It’s this city. these people. the sickness that passes from mother to son. I think, it won’t be long before we catch a glimpse of the rot that seized penny fleck’s mind in mister kerr’s own children. ”

A pale shaft bounces off the gleam of Joker's wedding ring. It fires past The Good Doctor’s head and drags across the far wall with the momentum as Werewolf tucks his hand back into his waistband. The Chief’s Special has been nudging his hip with every step he took down those suspiciously abandoned halls. Piano fingers curve around the handle and unsheathe it from his trousers. It dangles muzzle-down at his side.

Joker's sibilant, “След,” command sends the giant black hybrid in a blue harness around the archive’s perimeter. Massive paws strike and scrape the tile as he scouts the room. As usual, the 'dog' misses a glowing pair of red eyes that stare unblinkingly at Joker from the shady corner. Then, upon Joker’s snap and sharp noise, Sokol parks in the doorway. The animal’s eyes are paler than the wing’s sallow, miserable walls. They fixate on his charge, who goes stiff as a board upon staring at the clever play on his name. 

He deigns to smile at first, green eyes expanding like the crest of a tidal wave and his crooked teeth on display. A cloudy ribbon lifts from the cigarette wedged between his fore and middle fingers. Standing on his tiptoes doesn’t improve clarity any, so Joker drops back down to the balls of his feet and leans into a pitchy, breathless laugh that takes his shoulders for a few swings.

He slackens his jaw, notes the positioning of Dr. Crane’s hands, then deigns to tease, “And where’s this newfound altruism coming from, Doc?” His chin nudges towards Crane’s hands. “Or are you gonna gas me while I’m trying to read?” Joker lifts the muzzle so it aims at a shin or the lowest part of a kneecap as he edges closer, head held at a delicate tilt so Melpomene’s weeping half of his face exaggerates. 

Some inexplicable will o’ the wisp lures him closer to the cabinet, to the file that may or may not truly be his. Her voice is soft, airy, not even perceptible to Sokol. The wolf-dog remains seated and on-guard, though he glances over his shoulder to observe the near-empty hall. His long, bushy tail lays across those antiquated tiles that likely have not been renovated since the forties. Joker swallows what tastes like inert ash, traps the cigarette between his lips, and inhales deep as he slinks closer. The muzzle points at the doctor's thigh, now. Heavy source of blood loss should his trigger finger slip. 

“Take the file,” he’s told, though not by those eyes lowering at him from the corner, "Take it, I say!"

Joker squeezes his eyes shut to further dilute the blue and white paint on either lid. Shifting his stance to a diagonal even though a wall’s to his left and there isn’t much room to escape on the right. Joker leaves the cigarette hanging from his teeth like a bone as his weak hand proffers for the file. Then he pauses, inclines his chin, and shies a step backward. 

“I’m illiterate,” white lie. A lavender overlay is stuffed inside Second Addition had he enough light and space. He bats his eyes until the brine stinging them sits between his lashes. “And I highly…" an involuntary laugh carves a grin he doesn't mean onto his face, "Doubt…” the gun’s limp in his wrist as he swings it, “—you’re gonna allow me to take it home. What’s in there that I don't already know?”