Morning Comes Early
Summary: "It's just as well you don't want to leave, because I don't believe I would let you if you did." Post-ROD TV. Joker/Wendy. Horridly awkward. Written while under the influence of fudge.
Disclaimer: I own...well, pretty much nothing to do with this story, in any way, shape, or form, but that's okay, 'cause it's just for fun and I'm not getting paid for it.
Evening has come, as it always must, regardless of the day, its hours dragging along endlessly until you'd like to scream.
It has been that sort of a day.
For both of them, she suspects.
But they have finally seen an end to this day, long and excruciatingly slow not because of any catastrophic event, but many tiny annoyances and reminders that until the authorities of those countries whose pride was bruised the most by his manipulation and their own willingness to be manipulated should let their guard down, the two of them are essentially trapped here.
The sun has set long ago, and they are on the front porch. The cool, damp smell of night carries to them on a slight breeze that stirs the hedges near the porch railing. He is in his rocking chair, and she is seated on the varnished wood floor, leaning against him, head resting on his knee. An easy familiarity that has taken time to build up.
Time is something they have far too much of.
Both are gazing absently out over the darkened garden.
The sky, she notices, has a strange look to it. The clouds are threaded through with red, and the sky looks uncommonly bright.
Like sunrise.
Something about this stirs a sensation akin to alarm in her. Today was awful. If the night sky looks like sunrise, maybe the worst has not yet happened.
Sunrise as the start of the worst. The sharp contrast with the universal morning-as-hope-and-renewal image nearly makes her laugh aloud.
"You shouldn't stay here, you realize."
She looks up abruptly, startled out of her thoughts by this sudden statement in a voice flat and cold as she knew his eyes would be if he would just look at her instead of intently out over the garden.
"Why?" she asks quietly, expression already hardening into a stubbornness that few things can stir in her.
She has wondered often since they had come here, how she would react if the two things that she would have died before doing were to come into conflict.
It seems very obvious now that, if it came down to unquestioningly obeying him or staying with him, she would have to politely decline to do as he said and endure his astonished annoyance.
He will learn, she reflects with an internal grin, that she can be as damn immovable as anyone else when she wants to be. Even to him.
His kind inexorability doesn't stand a chance.
"Because honestly, there is no good reason for you to imprison yourself here. If you left, you would be able to avoid the notice of the authorities with a little care," he finally replies, carefully and tentatively winding his fingers through the short fall of pale gold hair spilling over his knee. "Even if you should be detected, they would be lenient toward you."
"But why would they be any more lenient with me than with anyone else?"
He laughs softly, and it has a sardonic, slightly bitter sound to it.
"As I recall, most of the people we dealt with spent a good bit of time muttering to one another about that poor, silly girl, led on by the charismatic madman to work tirelessly for something she didn't understand in the least. Hardly someone they would worry overly much about, don't you agree?"
"Damn good thing I never heard anyone say it," she says darkly, tensing with helpless anger.
"I believe you," he says emphatically. He likes the mental image of the tiny blonde on the ground, rarely anything but calm and composed anymore, effectively handing several stoutish middle-aged men their heads.
"But I'm not leaving," she continues quietly.
"I didn't ask you to."
She disentangles his hand from her hair and stares up at him.
"You just said—"
"You just misunderstood," he informs her in a tone that is quiet, but with a hint of steel. "I said you should leave. It would be the best thing for you. But it's just as well that you don't want to leave, because I don't believe I would let you if you did."
"Can't let me walk away alive, now that I know too much?" she asks lightly, hoping fervently that the sudden hammering sensation at her throat isn't apparent in her voice.
"Not exactly," he replies, clearly not amused. "You know why, I think."
She shakes her head slowly. A possibility is dancing crazily around her mind, but she is unwilling or unable to put it into words and risk the disappointment of being wrong.
"Really," he says flatly, quirking one eyebrow at her.
She nods mutely, and he sighs.
"Because honestly, I can't stand the thought. I know that you must hate this situation as much as I do, but I can't stand the idea of your leaving. Even though you would be much happier. Horribly selfish, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't be happier. I can't stand the thought of leaving, either," she murmurs, burying her face against his knee.
"A lucky chance, but it doesn't change the fact that I am a horrendously selfish man. Far more than I imagined."
"It means you want me with you," she says softly. "While we're here, at least."
"Not only while we're here," he corrects, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Heated almost feverishly, he notes absently. "I'm no fonder of the idea of each leaving and going separate ways, to be honest."
"I'm glad," she admits, stealing a shy glance up at him.
They both digest what has been said, mulling over the words and incorporating them into what they are to each other.
"It doesn't bother you that I wouldn't let you leave if you wanted to?"
"Why should it? I don't want to leave, so why would I even think about it?"
"Is it any better to be a willing captive than an unwilling one?"
"No one is really free in this world. The closest thing we can have to real freedom is the freedom to choose our own prisons. I don't remmeber who said that," she admits a little sheepishly.
"And you would choose this prison?" he asks, watching her intently.
Her eyes meet his, and she smiles, a realer smile than she's managed in she can't remember how long.
"Some prisons are better than freedom could ever hope to be."
He laughs softly.
"I think we need to leave immediately. You're beginning to spout bad poetry."
She cuddles slightly against his lap, and stares back up at the sky. It really does look just like morning.
Maybe there's a reason the image of morning as renewal and hope is universally accepted.
End Notes: Yeesh. That's all. Just yeesh. Simple, sappy, 'shippy fluff. But it's something I've been trying to write for a while. I meant to give it a bleak ending, but somehow, these two ganged up on me and decided, sensibly, to be happy. :o)
That said, I'm not entirely sure what I think of this. I think there might be a lot of problems, but in an effort to let the story stand on its own, I'm not going to list them. Go me! :o)