Disclaimer: So here I am totally making the biggest sin in the history of DC Comics. Poison Ivy + The Joker the sex. I dont like Harley Quinn and here's why, she's weak. She was always just a weak character to me, and I thought the joker deserved someone more down to his level if you get what I'm saying. I know that Pamela Isley's history is a little mixed up, but this fic would just be considered like the third movie to the Batman Begin's series. So imagine hunky Heath Ledger playing an inexplicably hott psychopath mmk. So in conclusion, I own nothing.
"I...I would-I have been feeling slightly under the weather..." he informed the guard that joined him in his padded cell.
The bulky man ignored him, just as he had thought. That's what the guards were trained to do at Arkham Asylum, ignore the patients insane twittering. The Joker was nonplussed by his only companions lack of response. So he decided to take on a slightly different approach.
"Let me explain, friend. I have been having these, sort of random bouts of horrible, uhm, horrible vomit that just come out of no where." he continued, using his hands to portray the act itself.
The guard adjusted his belt under the overhang of his large stomach, but other then that gave no signs of interest except for a slight annoyance behind his expression. He was used to hearing patients scream and rattle of about things that didn't make sense, he was used to random crying and anger, people ripping out their hair. And he heard that this guy was supposed to be a real whack job. So why wasn't he acting like one? It was eerie. The only thing that seemed insane about him were the two scars etched across his face. Crooked lines from the sides of his mouth that curved upwards to make a perpetual smile on his face.
"Maybe its just the food, but uh, I have a real sensitive stomach," the Joker continued his small talk.
"Know what I mean there tubby?" he let out a wicked grin, showing his yellow teeth.
"If you have a problem with the food, you talk to your psychiatrist at four." the guard informed him rather irritably, most likely a bit sore from the 'tubby' remark.
The Joker let out a lamenting sigh, "Oh. That guy. No, nope. He doesn't like to talk to me. I think he just has issues."
"No, no see the real problem isn't the food. I, call me crazy, but I think I need my doctor."
"You'll see your psychiatrist when he comes in at four." the guard repeated.
"No, gosh what does it take to get it, I need to see my doctor. The one with the stethoscope. You know, 'turn your head and cough', 'the needle's not that big', 'time for your tetanus shot', that doctor." the Joker burst out getting a few inches away from the guards face.
The guard was taken aback at first by his sudden outburst, then he quickly remembered Arkham's policy of how to restrain patients when they got violent. He repeated the actions in his head over and over just in case the Joker got out of control.
"Talk to your psychiatrist and he'll get a doctor from one of the local hospitals to come and check you out." the guard repeated slowly, his grip tightening on the door handle just in case he had to haul ass out of there.
The Joker backed up giggling, the giggle eventually turned into a maniacle laughter.
"F-fine. I'll talk to the head doctor at four woohoo. Since you obviously don't get it." he managed to breathe out in between his fits.
"Another late night then, Master Wayne?" Alfred said, setting down a tray of breakfast on the nightstand by the bed where Bruce Wayne slept.
The digital clock blinked '12:30 p.m.' but to Bruce it felt as if he had only been asleep for a few minutes.
"You could say that Alfred." he rolled over to reveal a large burn that plagued his left forearm.
"Batman's been busy then I see." Alfred deducted before sitting down in a leather chair opposite Bruce's bed.
"Always." he replied sitting up so survey the breakfast Alfred had brought up for him.
He took the tray off the nightstand and began to eat. Alfred watched him for a few moments.
Bruce Wayne, even a year after the death of Rachel Dawes, was looking a little worse for wear. The scars from his nightly escapades as the masked vigilante were more prominent than ever, etched for eternity across his golden skin. His hair was starting to fade from its usual dark ebony to a dull grey. The suits he wore, usually impeccable, were starting to collect dust and tears. His face had the constant worn-out look.
Alfred Pennyworth wasn't the only one who was noticing Mr. Wayne's deteriorating appearance, he was just the only person brave enough to say anything about it. He cleared his throat to get Bruce's attention. Bruce looked up from his breakfast, his eyes slightly glazed.
"It's, uhm, its been more than a year, Master Wayne." he began, fiddling with his thumbs.
Bruce let out an audible sigh. Now the truth comes out. He knew that Alfred didn't just sit around and watch him eat breakfast. He wanted to teachhim something. Alfred always seemed to know when it was time for Bruce to come back down to earth and live life even when he didn't want to. And now the truth was out. Alfred wanted to talk women.
"And?" Bruce answered rather snappishly.
"Well, you haven't had a young lady around in a while," he continued.
"What's the point Alfred? What are you trying to tell me?" Bruce droned, already aware of the answer.
"You need to get on with your life and find someone else."
Bruce shook his head, physically rejecting the idea. He put the breakfast tray back on the nightstand, as he no longer had an appetite.
"She was going to wait for me." he breathed out, almost inaudibly.
Alfred said nothing, knowing that his master was still not quite ready for the truth. He picked up the tray and exited the room.
"Very well, Master Wayne."