And there it is, my second Christmas Batman story: just a mixture of fluff and raveling thoughts ( that are my favourite ones). Enjoy.
P.S.: The title is inspired by the heartbreaking song by Coldplay.
"Up above candles on air flicker
Oh they flicker and they float
But I'm up here holding on
To all those chandeliers of hope "
Christmas Lights
It has been years, since his last true Christmas.
Joker can't see it clearly, his memory quivers and joints like an errand heartbeat: just hazy memories of a Christmas tree in a too tiny but well furnished room, the smell of eggnot and microwaved pies, the snow falling down on a young woman's smile. For a lot of time, it wasn't important: he laughed at the dull candour of an hope made of red ribbons and buried guilts. He was too angry and too far from the world of men to remember also the desperate courage beyond that hope; an heart so scarred doesn't feel the blows anymore. But now all has changed: he has ridiscovered the shiver of a gentle touch, and someone has come to wait for him at the end of the road, back to the screaming disharmonies of mankind. All has changed, and the more he learns again to be a human and not a wicked legend, the more he gets scared to death.
Scared to believe another time in mortals, and be betrayed by their stupidity. Scared to jump in this greedy chaos of life, without calling it a joke.
So now he's standing under one of the tall windows in Wayne Manor, looking at the night behind the glass. It's simpler, to watch the stars: they're cold, selfish, they don't try to make you warm and vulnerable.
But they can't make you happy either.
Instead, in the swirl of black suits and sparkling gowns of the hall every detail bites, from the earness of a child gnawing a gingerbread biscuit to the stolen kiss of a couple behind a fir branch. And every detail makes him feel not like a monster, but like a thin man with a too strange face.
Will it always be like this?
Bruce untangles himself from venerable senator Joyce' s conversation, searching for a twinkle of green hair. There it is, the skinny figure, the crimson lips, the pale strong hands; framed by the dark and the candlelights, his face has the painful beauty of snow. He wears a simple emerald jacket, but Bruce can't mistake him, could never mistake him: his unpredictable, bleeding jester. The one who knows him far too well; the one who he's trying to build a life with, as crazy and clumsy as it will be.
The dark knight reaches him. Joker's gaze is the still, almost eerie one he has when he goes to other worlds, to other times where he's still churning flesh burnt by acids. Every time he's there, Bruce doesn't know if he can bring him back.
He touches gently the other's shoulder, feeling the stabbing looks from all the hall. When he has declared that not only he wanted rehabilitate Joker, but that he fell in love with him, he thought that half of Gotham good society and criminals would have an heart attack, and the other halves would like to istantly shut them in Arkham.
We knew it wouldn't be simple.
He leans toward Joker, and whispers a single word. -Jack.- It's their code, the name the jester murmured in their first night together and that talks about blood and old dreams.
He turns, his face cut by the atrocious smile he wears during every night of duel; but Bruce can see clearly the man hidden in all that white and red. -Ah, Batsy. Tonight I'm not such a gorgeous fellow, don't I?-
The dark knight lets his fingers slip up the bony arm, up to the cheekbone. There is such grace, in these features; such a difficull harmony. -What's happening?-
Joker sighs. -Nothing. Just a clown's little nostalgia. Thinking about all the years I forgot about this kind of things: the lights, the cheers, the presents under the tree. About all these fragile and naive rituals. -There's a softness in his gaze, like a shiver, or a forgotten tear. -It has been so simple to break them, Brucey. How can I believe in these things, after seeing how easy is tearing them out from the other people? Who assures me that there isn't out there some madman like me ready to rip it all up? That something- he swallows -something absurd and unexpected and foolish comes and devours everything?-
Bruce almost hears the words he doesn't pronounce.
As in a long-passed day, during a night of toxic waters and screams.
So he goes near, and not giving a damn about the outraged faces of the business men' wives, he lays his hand behind Jack's neck, pushing until their foreheads touch.
-I can't promise you that this won't happen, Jack. As smart as we are, neither you nor I have this power. But we can try, as every man do. Accepting the risk of losing everything, and enjoying every moment we can grasp.-
The thin man smiles, and this time it's an imperfect, real smile. -I'm not used to be frightened anymore.-
It's a relief being able to answer to one of his smiles. -But being scared together is easier.-
They stare at each other for a while, more joyful and more terrorised than ever by the strange thing they share.
-Oh, Brucey, you'll transform me in a puddin'.-
Bruce laughs, and Jack silently wraps himself in that laugh: it's strong and vaguely angry, like a challenge thrown against this sick city.
-So, what about a cup of hot chocolate?-
The jester grins, tilting his head. Maybe, the Christmas lights aren't so terrible. Maybe, he can also learn to enjoy them.
Until then, it's worth the risk.
-I can't resist sweeties, dear. Let's go.-
They return under the amber lamps of the Manor, and the stars are no more so appealing.