Entry for batficcontest theme 'mismatched' which tied for first! :D I was so excited, it was my first-evar. The whole "wearing different pairs of socks" bit came from deadskie13 on lovedatjoker, from a thread a loooong while back. I'd almost completely forgotten about it until PrincessBee reminded me, so thanks to the both of you!


They were like some silly little secret that he kept from the rest of the world.

Sometimes in the middle of a long day, dry of inspiration or giggles, he would tug up his slacks and look down at his socks. He'd laugh without fail. It wasn't hilarious, no, not at all, but it was entertaining to him, and always just when he needed it.

Plaid and polka dots.

Christmas and black.

Green and stripe.

Halloween and Easter.

Barefoot and magenta.

Once, he'd let Harley pick out his socks. She didn't get it, no surprise, and had ended up with one black eye. Teach her something about mismatching, he thought. Look in the mirror and see how silly it is.

Bloodshot-purple-black and plain ol' blue.

Hilarious.

She didn't pick his socks for him, after that. His suits, his ties, his shoes, she had good taste. But never his socks. Those were his own, private little joke.

That was what he didn't like about Arkham. Everything was so plain. No options. Grey pajamas, grey socks, grey walls, grey food, grey people, grey words.

Sometimes he escaped just for his socks. Maybe if Harley was there he'd grab her, too. But only sometimes.

They'd pop up on the late night news bulletins. Newspapers, screaming, Ace of Knaves and Harlequin Henchwoman Loose Again; Six Dead, Three Wounded. And then would come the speculation, the fear, where they would strike next, when nobody expected them to be holed up in suburban hell, happy nuclear corpses rotting in the basement, Harley playing 'house' while he sat at an unfamiliar kitchen table with a pen in his hand and mismatched socks over his wiggling toes.

Harley would put a sandwich next to him, ham and peanut butter with a side of sugar-covered fries. Sometimes he'd eat it, other times he'd just feel like throwing a plate at something and the closest and most fun something to throw a plate at happened to be her. A little pinch on the tush afterwards and she didn't bear a grudge. Sometimes she'd even curl up under the table and rub his feet while he worked.

What a doofy dame, he always thought. Gotta love a gal that can take a joke.

Sometimes he'd tuck her into bed for that. Sometimes he'd kick her in the head for that.

Just because she plucked at some dusty string in his fast-beating heart.

And then one day he'd move on from the house once the smell got too bad, or neighbors dropped by because they'd made too much food, or he just got sick and tired of suburbanites living a cute little prepackaged lie, and Harley would wake up a few hours later and get the gist of it. She'd always find him eventually, that or end up in Arkham, but she usually found him.

A week later, no calls, cops would go to investigate the house. More headlines, his striking visage on the front of the paper.

Clown Prince of Crime Kills Family of Five.

Subtitle: Belongings mostly untouched save for Dad's socks.

And he would giggle and stare down at his feet and then toss the paper to the side and wait for Harley to make his breakfast.

French toast and gravy.

The kid showed promise. Maybe he'd give her another chance, after all.

Red and purple.

Good girl.