"I don't have anything to say." He huffs out, crossing his arms and glaring out the window of your office. Stupid Bruce for making him have these stupid therapy sessions. He was fine.

He looked back at you, his piercing blue-green eyes boring into yours. "I don't need to talk about my 'problems'. Whatever B told you, I'm fine." He snapped out. He wasn't, not really. He was still angry, still resentful. He still had nightmares.

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the silence. You were just staring at him, waiting for him to talk. "Look, I'm not gonna talk about my bullshit. You can give up now."

A small part of him wanted to tell you. To tell anyone, really. The anger and resentment was always there, simmering just below the surface. Most days he could patrol and not think about where he died, or the joker, or the Pit. It was always there, though. No matter what he did or where he went, it never left him alone. He didn't sleep anymore, just so he wouldn't have to relive his death or dream of the Pit.

"Honestly, this whole thing is stupid. I'm not gonna kill anyone else." He shifted again, glaring at you. He was close to you, but trying to get him to open up was like pulling teeth. "He doesn't have to worry about me shooting people. I use rubber bullets now. And I swore I wouldn't kill the fucking clown." He spat out the name like it was venom on his tongue.

"So can I leave?" He shifted again, studying your face.