*J* (the continuation)

Part Twenty-Nine: Chapter 213: Desperation

Jason's fists slowly start to tighten on top of the desk. His mind began playing through the wreck. Over and over again. It had been a week. He had to be missing a clue or a lead. He remembered bracing himself for the impact. He remembered Harley going through the front window. He remembered his decision to save himself. So he left her there, unconscious, throw through a window. Bruce. Bruce was there. He had to have seen her. Right? He wouldn't leave her there to die. Right? He had to know what became of her. Right?

Jason's fists slam down on the desk. Hard. Once. Twice. His teeth gnash together. He had to see Bruce. He had to know what he knew about Harley. Bruce had to know where she was. He had to make him tell him what he knew. But then Jason thought about it. At what cost? What would Bruce make him do for the answer? Would he expect a physical thank you?? Or would he make Jason turn himself in? Would he help the D.A. get his competency hearing started?

Jason's chest heaves. His fists clench so tightly that they shake. He. Had. To. Know. He couldn't sleep. Frost and Ace had to force him to even eat. Nothing mattered to Jason. Not while Harley was missing. And not if she were dead. He had to know. Good or bad, he needed to know. Bruce knew something and he had to know what. He had to make him tell him. He doesn't even give a shit if Bruce takes him to Arkham. Or jail. He doesn't fucking care about the D.A. Or the stupid competency hearing looming over him. He doesn't care if they find out he's not the real Joker. Good luck finding the real one.

Jason opens the top drawer of the desk. His hand goes to the purple Glock that he always wore, tucked under his left arm. He feels the coolness of it on his hand. It felt so different when it fires. It heats up. Like rage. Like anger. It smolders. It flames. It explodes. Jason slides it into the shoulder harness. His hands go to the drawer to close it, his eyes with them. That's when he sees it. In the back, in the corner. Just laying there amongst the scattered stuff. A two inch baggie. Full. White. Pure cocaine.

He immediately wanted it. He didn't think about it, he just wanted it. Something in his gut tightened, his heart beat faster. He wanted it so he could differently. This felt awful and all he wanted to do was make it stop. He wanted it so he could numb some of what he felt. He wanted to not care. He wanted to feel nothing. None of the nervousness. Not this regret. This pain. All the fear. The doubt. He wanted to find some oblivion to fill the time until he found Harley...

...Harley...

He had told her he was done with cocaine. He promised her. Didn't he? He had to put her first. That's what Ace said. Right? Put her before everyone and everything. Right? Be for her what J couldn't be. Had J not put her before everyone or everything? Jason wanted to be something better for her. He had to be. It was his only means of maybe...maybe making her care for him. Wanting him. Not J. Him. He couldn't break his promise to her. He couldn't just get high. It would make his word mean nothing. No. No he couldn't.

But Harley wasn't there. The only thing with him was flaming anger. There was far too much pain. It hurt and he just wanted it to stop. He could suspend it from this reality. He could just put it on pause and come back later. When it's appropriate. When he gets Harley back. She would never know. Wouldn't have a clue about what he was doing while she wasn't here. It simply wouldn't matter. Right? Just one line? Maybe two? No, no, no, just one. Dammit.

Jason's fingers twitch as he reaches for the bag. He brings it out and lays it on top of the desk. He slides the drawer shut, his eyes never leaving the bag. He picks it up and opens it. He turns it sideways and starts to pour it out in a line. But let's not forget, there's lines, then there's lines. Jason shares his dead brothers affliction of substances being weakened by the chemicals in his blood. Therefore, a normal line for them will most likely kill you. Would kill most normal people without the chemicals. And a friend probably. Possibly the writer too...