Just playing around with his past and exploring the idea of certain truths within one of his scar stories, and who he was before he became the Joker.
Also on AO3. Enjoy!
Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, the Joker remembered pieces of his past. They always came at seemingly random times—while he was tying his shoes, while he was wiping blood off his knife, when he took a leak—and they were always vivid.
The first time he noticed it, he was dyeing his hair again. As he rinsed out the excess green in the sink, it shot to the forefront of his brain.
"Stop it! Mmm...stop, J...stop it. That tickles."
She grinned at the feeling of his face against her neck. He peppered her skin with kisses. "But I want to ravish my beautiful wife."
Her laugher filled his ears. He commented on her appearance as often as he could, and he'd meant it every time. She briefly threaded her fingers in his deep blonde curls, gasping at the location of his hands.
"I wanna show you how much I love you..."
"J...please."
"Please, what, sweets?"
"Mm...I've gotta finish this." Her hands reluctantly settled on his shoulders. "Later, okay?"
He admired how a smile on her lips managed to bring the brightness out of her eyes. They shared a kiss. He grinned. "As you wish, bunny."
The Joker lifted his head so fast he nearly knocked it on the faucet. He eyed his reflection. Where'd that come from? Water dripped down his makeup and soaked his shoulders. For a brief moment, he didn't recognize himself. He shut his eyes . No, no, no, no. That couldn't have been what he thought it was. He lost it all. But what if it had been? Opening them, the Joker felt himself titter, then guffaw. That would be hilarious.
The second time it happened he'd been in Arkham. He'd taken his place at a bright white table, the stale and tasteless brick they passed off as food in front of him. The Joker took a bite.
"You're so funny!"
"Thanks, sweets," he said. He struggled to keep his fiancée steady on her feet. "Are you sure you're okay?"
She swayed with a giggle. "M'fine. It was just a few shots."
"Just a few, hmm?"
He laughed with her for a moment. It became increasingly apparent that the six shots she'd ingested were, in fact, just a few too many. Suddenly, her knees gave. He caught her under her arms before she hit the ground.
"Easy. Can't have you hurting yourself."
Her head lolled back. A plastic glitter tiara with the word Bride slipped out of her hair and hit the ground. He opted to leave it there. Keeping her from killing herself was more important. She'd never been one to handle her liquor.
"Oops!" She stared up at him with a laugh. "You're sexy. You're a sexy, sexy man."
"I know, that's why you're with me," he said with a wink and a smile. "My devilishly handsome looks."
"Nuh-uh."
"Oh, really?"
His fiancée stood up straight and stumbled down the sidewalk. "Don't get me wrong, you've got a face I love to—"
He said her name. Not only was she headed in the wrong direction, but she'd almost fallen again.
"What? It's true! But I fell 'cause you're funny. Always a joker. My jokery joker man. Whoa!"
The heel of her pump broke. She fell forward onto the pavement, scraping her hands and knees. She sat back on her bottom with a laugh. He muttered something about her being a wild one, and lifted her into his arms. Surprise washed over her.
"I'm floating! How'd you...how'd you do that?"
Their eyes met. For a brief moment, he wondered if she was high in addition to being drunk. "Let's get you home."
"How are we floating?"
Yes, definitely high and drunk. He shook his head and said, "A magician never tells his secrets."
"You're funny 'n sexy 'n you do magic?" An exaggerated sigh left her lips. "I should marry you."
He gave a shrug. "Well, you will. In a few days, actually."
"I will?"
"Yes. You, uh, just left your bachelorette party."
"Oh." She paused. Her eyes grew wide. "Ohhhh. I remember now. Becca called you, didn't she?"
"Mm-hm."
"Mother hen."
"She caaares," he drawled.
"True. Ugh. I'm sorry 'm drunk, sexy. But I love you." She reached up and ran her hand across his unmarred cheek. "I la-la-la-la-la-la-love you. D'you love me?"
The Joker laughed, but not at the memory. Several rogues faced him, others moved further away. The guards grew uneasy. He knew he'd found her particularly aesthetically pleasing, but he couldn't remember why. Aspects of her face eluded him, with the exception of her eyes. Back then, those kept him coming home at night. Well, that and her mouth. He could never remember her name either. Had it started with a J like his? No. No. It was an A. Wait, P. M? C? His laughter grew harder, more manic. He didn't stop until a needle found its way into his neck.
When it happened again several months later, it surprised him more than the first two times. He thought they'd stopped, that those little reminders of the past had been repressed. He was wrong. The memory had flashed into his mind while he drove furiously through the streets, the Bat not far behind him.
His wife was sprawled on the floor, her knees bent, her head in his lap. When she entered their shitty one-bedroom apartment, her legs gave out and she collapsed. Blood stained her blouse, his pants, the linoleum, her skin. He held up his hands, palms facing her. He needed her to calm down. He needed himself to calm down. She took a deep breath. He reached to his side and squeezed water from a rag. Another breath from her mangled mouth. He touched it to her face. There was too much blood. He couldn't see where he'd need to start and finish. Dropping the cloth back in the mixing bowl, he brushed his hair out of his eyes, smearing her plasma across his forehead. He handed her the rag, urging her to press it firmly to one of the sides of her face. They needed to stop the bleeding. She did as he asked.
"You're, uh, gonna be fine, okay?" The waver in his voice made him uncomfortable. His cleared his throat. "Stay with me."
The tremor in his hands was so great that he could barely thread the needle grasped between his thumb and forefinger. She nodded. He'd advised her not to open her mouth. Her cheeks had been carved open like a pumpkin. It wasn't because she owed a terrible debt. He could have accepted that. It would've made handling this easier. But no. Like a cliche, his wife had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She'd gone to work and got off early to see the doctor. It was a rainy day, the city was darker than usual. She was caught on her walk home. One of Maroni's men had done it for the hell of it.
"This is gonna hurt."
He poured more whiskey on her right cheek before pushing the needle through her skin. Unable to scream, she slapped the floor. He apologized repeatedly as he weaved the sharp metal in and out. The stitches were uneven. Her eyes pleaded with him to stop, to let her bleed out, to let her die. They both knew he couldn't—he wouldn't. They had no money for surgeries. Let alone a funeral. There was barely money for her appointment today. He started in on her left cheek. She rolled onto her other side and vomited a bubbly mixture of bile and crimson. Once she was done, he helped her return to his lap, and wiped her face. More whiskey splashed onto her cuts, and seeped into the seams he left behind. She kicked.
"Shh, shh, shh. I know. It hurts, I know."
Fighting back nausea from the smell, he finished sewing her left cheek and tossed the needle aside with a growl of frustration. Her pallor caught his attention. He hoped she hadn't lost too much blood.
His lips brushed against hers. He'd been too nervous to properly kiss his wife. "I love you, doll-face."
"Not..." A clot oozed past one of her stitches. Her lips barely moved. "Not...a...doll-face...anymore."
"You are to me."
"Baby."
"Yeah?"
Her brow knitted. He'd misunderstood. She grabbed his hand and placed it on her stomach. "Baby."
This rendered him speechless. She waited for her husband's response with baited breath. His eyes fixated on their hands. He calculated the time between the heated moment they'd had in the shower, and last week when she told him she was a half a month late.
"J?"
He picked up his jaw. "You're pregnant?"
She nodded and slipped out of consciousness.
The Joker got away from both Batman and his memories that day. He had long since rid himself of that day and his experiences before he changed. It wasn't hard. He was, after all, a different man now. But regardless of how many stories he crafted, his brain had a funny way of returning those unwanted stray memories. And, admittedly, those little fragments left him in stitches.