The Joke's On Batman

Bruce was taken home from the hospital. Nightwing took over Batman's patrols. Alfred arranged an appointment with a trusted psychotherapist.

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He trembled. His fingers dug into the arm rests of the upholstered chair. “He did things to me.”

“What kinds of things? Tell me about them.”

“He put a gun to my head and forced me to touch myself.”

“Was there anyone else around?”

He clenched his teeth. “No.”

“What did he want you to do to yourself?”

“Masturbate.”

The psychotherapist tapped the clipboard with her pen. “Do you usually masturbate? Was this an activity you would do sometimes for your own benefit, when you were alone – in a safe place?”

“No!”

“It sounds like the act itself was traumatizing, even without the pressure of life or death depending on it.”

“Y…Yes.”

“Then, there was also a dangerous man with a gun watching you.”

“Yes.”

“How did you feel?”

His upper lip trembled. “Helpless. Ashamed of myself for succumbing to such – being less than my father wanted me to be. Letting him down! Losing! Being weak!” Bruce punched the wall. “I was so weak! I should have done something to help him! But no! Just like the night my parents died. Helpless. A witness.”

“Help who?”

Bruce stilled, turned to her with a look in his eyes both calm and filled with turmoil. “Batman.”

“You feel as though Batman and you are separate entities.”

“We are.”

“He protects you.”

Bruce nodded.

“Protects the weak. The helpless.”

Bruce nodded.

“You suffered the unique dilemma of being fully aware at the same time as Batman was being tortured by the Joker. Watching Batman get hurt.”

Bruce bowed his head, looked at his hands. “I should have saved him. I should have thrown him out of the way.” There was a bitter light in his eyes. “But I was too scared.”

“How did it go, sir?” Alfred asked, holding out Bruce’s coat to help him into it.

“How do you think it went? It was awful.”

Alfred put a hand on his arm and gave him a kindly smile. “But you are going, sir. You are improving. I can see it in your eyes. A few more sessions with Dr. Milhouse and you’ll be right as rain.” He patted Bruce’s shoulder.

“I hope so, Alfred,” he muttered. He got in the car. Alfred followed suit, climbing in behind the wheel. “I hope so.” He looked back at the private practitioner’s old, two-story house as they drove away towards Wayne Manor.