After the Inferno – Rewrite
Summary: "Mum probably hadn't anticipated her daughter being able to kill, either; would probably ask who this monster was and what had happened to her sweet little girl." ROD TV fic. Occurs during Episode 17, "Sweet Home". Faint Wendy/Joker as I've come to accept that it is in canon, in which she pines and he manipulates, she knows it and he knows that, and neither of them say a word, but simply get on with it.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I know that somewhere they're laughing hysterically at me for trying to take them seriously. :o)
They had warned her that there would be days like this.
When she was a little girl of five years old, her Mum had told her that there would be good days, but there would be bad days. And then there would be completely awful days best taken with a stiff drink. To be sure, Daddy had added that part, which she hadn't understood until years later.
Of course, neither Mum nor Dad had probably anticipated their daughter standing amid the chaos of a panicked crowd, before the stifling heat of a bonfire that she, who had been terrified in childhood to go near a pack of matches for fear that she might accidentally light them and burn down the house, had started in the interest of psychological warfare against someone who had once been a close friend.
Mum probably hadn't anticipated her daughter being able to kill, either; would probably declare tearfully that this wasn't her daughter if she could have seen it happen, seen her Wendy aim a weapon and actually do it, actually fire on those poor men who had lives and families of their own, you know. She would probably ask who this monster was, and what had happened to her sweet little girl.
Maybe Mum isn't the best thing to think about right now.
She crosses her arms and taps her fingers impatiently against her sleeve, with an expression of studied impatience and sternness, and watches their men sift through the paper clogging the sewers.
And tries doggedly to drown out those voices whispering to her that this is wrong, that all these people shouldn't be suffering because of Agent Paper's unwillingness to cooperate, and finally, why, if Yomiko was wrong and she is there of her own free will, it was so difficult to listen to her.
She has just began to mull over the idea of curling up into a little ball somewhere secluded and trying to get the smoke out of her eyes and the thoughts out of her head, when she hears a car pull up and the next moment, the door open.
What she hears next makes her perk up, turn, and scurry away like the obedient little puppy she is sure her college friends would be horrified and amused, but not particularly surprised to see her emulating.
After all, Wendy's always let herself be led by someone. A smart girl who could never make a decision for herself.
She has heard the slow, uneven shuffle of his walk enough that she could recognize it anywhere, pick it out of any amount of chaos and noise. Hears it each night in dreams that are sometimes wonderful and sometimes verge on nightmares.
"Mr. Joker!"
"Running a bit behind schedule, are we?" he asks lightly, watching the brown-suited men work away at the mass of paper, and eyes the crowd watching in horror and anger.
She looks down. She cannot tell if she feels more wretched for failing to detain Agent Paper and recover the stolen Book of the All-Seeing Eye, or for going to the lengths that she did to try.
Her eyes flicker to the pool of blood on the pavement, and as the dark-haired girl's cry of pain echoes in her head, along with the tearful and angry voice of her mother demanding what this monster is and what happened to her daughter, the second almost overtakes the first.
"I'm sorry, sir," she says, hating the way her voice trembles slightly, and although it is addressed as such, the apology is not entirely for him.
"It's nothing to apologize for," he tells her gently, resting one hand on her shoulder.
Isn't it? She doubts Yomiko would say the same right now. She clenches her hands, and the nails begin to dig painfully into her palms with the effort it is not to scream, or cry, or throw herself at him and bury her face in his shoulder and beg him to tell her why this has to be done and why everything will be okay and why her mother is wrong and she isn't a monster because she's doing this for him.
"You know you have been doing excellent work," he tells her, and already, fatally, she can feel herself relaxing into the gentle voice and gentle contact and gentle reassurance that she is doing something right. He wouldn't sound like that if she was a monster, would he? "I am deeply indebted to you, Wendy."
Through the warm comfort of all these things, she wonders if anything would seem impossible to her if he instructed it. She wonders if it maybe a bit sick that his approval is all the reason she needs to do anything and everything for him.
The pool of blood by their feet catches her eye again.
Aren't you embarrassed, ganging up on a poor, defenceless girl?
You're not the Wendy I knew.
Who is this monster in the form of my sweet little daughter?
Looking pointedly away from it and away from him, she can nearly feel her nails breaking the skin of her palms, can nearly feel herself becoming furious with him because it is for him and his goals and his dreams that she has just wounded one of the most genuinely good people on the planet.
Really, it was hard not to laugh half-hysterically earlier at Yomiko's desperate, earnest words. Wendy, he's been lying to you! He couldn't have ever told you what he did to us.
She wonders, baffled, how the girl can be so relentlessly trusting, so unable to believe the worst of anyone until she's had it shoved down her throat.
And then she tries very hard not to wonder if it's any more baffling than someone who continues to hide, believing exactly what they're told, and valiantly fights off the knowledge that there might be more to consider.
She hates her conscience some days. Perhaps that is why she is working so steadily to eradicate it.
Seconds later, she is thankful to find herself shaken from her thoughts when Joker calls to her quietly, a trace of concern and a trace of warning in his tone.
"Is there something wrong?"
"It's nothing," she says quickly, unable to look up, because she might half-hate him right now and might wholly hate herself for still loving him in spite of it, but she still cannot bring herself to disappoint him and her own pride by proving unable to keep her tears in check until a more suitable time.
Like never.
Never is quite suitable.
Mum told her once that 'never' wasn't a real time. But it is real enough for her, and exactly what she needs.
She steels herself and looks up, to find his eyes flickering between her and the pool of blood and the scraps of paper lying near it, and she knows that he's putting two together, because he really is awfully smart, you know, and he's probably figured out just from looking what has happened here and why she's about a breath away from behaving like the emotional, hysterical female that he began to hate when she stopped being it.
It still surprises her when his expression softens, and for a moment she can almost swear that there's real sympathy in it, instead of the kind inexorability that tends to show up when she's being scolded for some immaturity or weakness.
"I'll take over from here," he tells her briskly before she can begin to analyze his expression and decipher what it means. "Why don't you go rest up in the car?"
Just as well. He dislikes being deciphered.
"Right," she agrees wearily.
Moments later, as she climbs into the car, she shudders a little at the sound of his voice, calm and smooth as ever and always, explaining bits and pieces of the situation in guarded and meaningless, if well-sounding phrases that obviously aren't fooling the crowd, if the angry shout of one man is any indication.
His shouts turn from angry to pained, and the crowd makes a noise of alarm. She turns and peers out on the scene. Through the glare of the fire against the glass of the window, she can faintly see the man being shoved to the ground and a weapon aimed at his head.
She cannot tell if she is disturbed by the man's plight, by her own indifference to it, or by Joker's placid smile as he tells the man something that she cannot hear and does not want to.
Like takes to like, her mother seems to comment in her head with the cruel mockery of one deeply hurt. Only a monster can love a monster.
She wants to lean against the window, but she cannot risk that momentary weakness. So, she sits up straighter and closes her eyes.
Almost instantly, she feels better. She wonders dully what sort of person can only feel remorse when faced with what they've done, and can cope quite happily just as soon as they've looked carefully away from the pain they've helped to cause.
The answer is obvious: the same sort of person whose biggest concern amid the pain of others is her own capacity for evil.
No; not evil. Unpleasant – maybe even ugly – but necessary tasks that are all for the good of their goals. That is what Joker would call them to make them more tolerable to those with no choice but to do them. To her.
For it is usually she that is left with no choice.
Not that she wants one.
She knows that if she was given a choice, an easy way out, she would take it. Even though she would sooner die than disappoint him.
There are a lot of other things she would sooner die than do.
She never imagined that she would have done close to half of them by the age of thirty, because choosing the option of death would also have led to his disappointment and – she likes, hopelessly, to imagine – his unhappiness.
The irony does not escape her that, when she is not looking forward to it because it is exactly what they have been working for, and what the world needs, she anticipates Mr. Gentleman's return because he will let her forget what she has done to help facilitate that return.
Because it's necessary. For Mr. Joker's plan. She tries not to let herself consider the fact that he follows Mr. Gentleman as blindly and wholeheartedly as she follows him, and that a devoted follower is sometimes a dangerous person to follow. And she wonders, anyway, when it became a matter of following the follower.
It doesn't worry her – often – that the success of this plan means that she will give up all recollection of him and this love for him that came about so gradually and unobtrusively that it has startled her with its existence. When it does worry her, she tells herself that he will necessarily fit into any ideal past that could possibly be dreamt up for her. This was not always true; it is true now.
Just as she suspects he decided that it should be.
And sometimes, she can only long for the day when he will not exist within her memories, the recent and ugly staining backward through time and ruining the distant and beautiful.
But that only happens when she lets herself be weak enough to forget that it doesn't matter if she is happy, because she is part of an effort to save the world from itself, to save humanity from the damaging patterns it insists upon repeating again and again, and that is far more important that temporary happiness that ultimately accomplishes nothing.
They will accomplish something; she will accomplish something.
Even if she has become the monster. Even if she already has.
Just as this final thought has drawn a tiny, genuine smile to her lips before she can fight it back, the car door opens and she feels the slight motion as he climbs in.
She turns to him, very glad now that she did not allow herself the weakness of leaning against the window, and her smile grows, while growing no less genuine.
"Did I wake you?" he asks kindly
She shakes her head mutely.
"Good; I'll need you awake and alert a while longer. There are some things we'll need to go over," he says, propping his cane against the car seat in front of him.
"How was it?" she asks.
"Oh, it went quite well," he replies easily, motioning to the driver. "Some of the civilians did cause a bit of a commotion, but we were able to discuss the matter calmly."
Yes; she remembers that 'discussion'. That man will probably have bruises for weeks.
As he studies her carefully, she kicks herself internally at the knowledge that something of that thought must show in her expression.
"Wendy?"
His tone is still gentle. For now.
"It's nothing." She prays that he will believe her, or let the subject drop easily even if he does not.
He remains silent for a long moment, still watching her carefully. When he finally turns away, she thinks, gratefully, that he must either be as exhausted as she is, or willing this time to acknowledge hers and let it go.
When he continues, voice still gentle but wary, she jumps slightly.
"You do understand that this was necessary?"
Even if it was ultimately useless. But that was her own fault.
"Of course."
"If not, I would much rather find out from you while we can still deal with the problem."
She feels something fall into place, and tranquility returns as her eyes move over his expression, concerned and just a little bit puzzled.
"I understand what I need to."
"And what you don't need to?"
Wendy, he's been lying to you! He couldn't have ever told you what he did to us.
Only a monster can love a monster.
What are you, and where is my sweet little daughter?
"I trust you."
And despite the images that are burned into her memory, not particularly horrifying but enough to leave her with this sick feeling and the knowledge that she will shed as many tears as she can allow herself just as soon as she can get away from everyone – from him – and hide, she knows that this is true.
And really, isn't that just the point?
She trusts him with her life. Would trust him with more if she had more to offer. All she ever needs to reconcile her to what she has done for him and what else she will do before this is over and their goals are achieved is to listen to him talk about it, sounding utterly reasonable, logical, and as enthusiastic as she's ever heard him.
Not because his words convince her always; she has known him too long for that. But because the desire to see him happy convinces her that, as long as he believes in it, it must be the right thing to do.
And she thinks that she must have said the right thing, or not entirely the wrong thing anyway, because his frown eases into a smile that, in this light, almost seems genuine and happy instead of a pleasant mask, and he seems for a moment like he's going to say something, but then he turns back to a stack of documents.
And so she sinks back into the safety of her complete trust of him and wonders if it was only her imagination that made her think for a moment that that wasn't enough.
Still, as the car pulls away from the square, she cannot quite eliminate the sense of relief that her mother will never find out what has happened here, and that her little girl has willingly become the monster.
End Notes: This is a rather major rewrite of something I've been fiddling with for a while. I've changed it from first-person to third-person, because I just couldn't capture anything remotely close to how I imagine Wendy's character voice.
I think I like it far better now, even if I think it became a bit "rambly" at points. I've chalked that up to the slight hysteria I always think she must be feeling in this scene. I don't know; I think most people would be feeling a bit off after inhaling that many burning-book fumes. :o)
And since I can never get clear in my own mind exactly what is between these two, and how long Wendy has been fighting off some sort of distinctly "un-sisterly" feelings for Joker, I have rewritten, for probably the nine-zillionth time, to reflect how I see the two of them this week. :o)