An idea borne of a single flash of inspiration.
Writing style differs to suit this story's needs.
A series of one-shots, mini-stories and whatnot.
Requests will be reviewed, but not necessarily granted.
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Rendezvous
by bacon-fatality
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Click-clock.
Click.
Clock.
The sound of her steps echo down the hallway. Silent as death, sharp as teeth.
A brief glance at the senior psychiatrist.
Flats. Black boring ones, at that.
That would explain the stillness.
White, white everywhere. Sterilised walls, the smell of bleach and chemicals with the occasional splash of colour. A prison in Wonderland.
In the distance, the Jabberwocky calls.
Click.
"Dr Quinzel," lips smeared with pinkish muck form the words. Beady eyes - wrinkles caused by age and stress - flash.
The underlying contempt for Arkham Asylum's newest psychiatrist does not go unnoticed.
They make a sharp turn.
Clock.
Men dressed in blue and black wielding batons and revolvers appear at the end. Only one cell are they guarding so intently. Their heads lift. They greet with lifeless stares, but a gleam within shines. Only the unfeeling have the merit to guard those who seek to twist the matters of the heart. Of course - the cells are soundproof, but that has no consequence, does it?
"You are aware of the risks you are undertaking, yes? The man is a dangerous psychopath, sociopath, whatever he is. Many names and titles surround this one." Another contemptuous look, and she exhales. Her steps quicken, her breathing deepens. None are immune to what lies beyond.
"He will try to manipulate you, earn your sympathy," she continued on, straightening, being the expert and authoritative figure she claims to be. The well-trained persona she adopts and portrays herself to be. Lies, they are. False words, false banner she hails under. "We have arrived. Be wary, Doctor."
A small smile is given. Iciness swirls in the reflection of her gloss. A fraud to the very end.
Harleen Quinzel turns, and she flashes a bright, sincere smile.
"I will handle it. I am built for it, after all - the abuse."
The bitch stills, but only for a moment. A single nod, and off she goes, back down the rabbit hole.
Far away, the Army of Cards blow their trumpets. It has begun.
.
...
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"I live with these moments with you."
She gives a short, nervous laugh. Tucks a strand of golden wheat behind the crook of her ear. She pulls back in a brief lapse of consciousness, and places a hand beneath her white coat. It symbolises her occupation, her identity, her state of mind. A fabric of righteousness. She had nearly lost herself, there. Careful, now, she tells herself.
Her heart picks up the pace when they lock eyes. Emerald clashes with baby blue. Her breath hitches, though she is certain she is not heard. Does he even know of the effect he has on her? The thin thread of control he has over her? She does not admit it, not even to herself.
It would be so unprofessional.
He studies her akin to a predator scrutinising its prey. Intoxicating, she thinks, she feels. She basks in it all. In a sudden, insane moment of bravery, stupidity, she in turn looks at him - The Clown Prince, the Joker. Terror of Gotham, the background voices whisper. Everything about him intrigues her; an inexplicable pull.
Yet, to her, he is merely him. No word can and will ever describe what she feels. A sharp spear of pain and anger stabs through her - why does nobody see? They do not realise the true identity of the city's supposedly infamous criminal! Why, is he not harmless as a mice? So lovable he is! Her Mister. J...
She would know - she has even brought a stuffed kitten at his request!
She feels for him, she feels him - she is the only one that empathises.
No one else.
None.
He is alone.
They are alone.
In a single frame, she is now leaning across the single desk. The only obstacle separating their bodies and lips. For a split second, she is almost sure he had brought himself closer, as well.
"—an itty, itty, bitty favour," he breathes, creeping nearer, nearer to her. To the lock. He has the key. She knows that now. Sees that now.
For him.
In that junction, with her gazing at him, him gazing at her, nothing else mattered. She is lost in those irises indefinitely, for all of infinity. At the low growl upon their declining distance, she thinks of how she has always adored his voice and antics during previous sessions - the shivers are uncontrollable.
Love.
Mad, mad love.
Was it possible for a doctor to fall for her own patient?
I live with these moments with you.
Something snaps, and the edges of her lips lift by the teeniest bit.
His own orbs narrow, and as though aware and pleased, he trails one pale finger down, outlining her jaw. It almost seems to be her award for being a good, obedient girl. Was this what she would receive, should she do as he requested?
"A machine gun? I can do that."
.
...
.
"Would you die for me?"
She pauses, and stares up into him. He is cold, unblinking and calculative, but in his tone there is a maniacal note. Such a drastic change it is - his demeanour, countenance, all now reflect his true nature. Psycho, psycho, psycho. Baddie, baddie, baddie.
It was new, but oh, did it fit him. He is dressed in clothes fit for a king. The colour of royalty.
Gotham's true King.
What was the great Batman compared to such majesty? Nothing. A sliver of pride wriggles into her heart, before burrowing deep. As proposed, he had given a spectacular show. Fireworks, flames, the cheers of the crowd... such ecstasy she had felt. He had promised, and he had delivered.
The panda had been adorable, too. A fine touch, if she has to admit.
"Yes," she says, not missing a heartbeat.
She means it.
Every.
Single.
Word.
"No... that's too easy...
— would you live for me?"
I live with these moments with you.
"Hm?" he prompts, tilting his head to the side. A test.
For a very brief while, she gets angry. She has gone through heaven - gone through paradiso - for him. Has she not proven her worth and loyalty? Even now, she feels the straps weighing now. It had been electrifying, euphoric, beautiful. Many knew not what the Joker experienced - but she had been granted by such grace to be allowed to have a taste of it. Special, he had called her.
"Yes."
She wants to stay with him, to be with him. He has her hanging from the ceiling, drunk on the feeling.
Ah, how she loves!
If this is the price she has to pay, it pales in comparison to the prospects of a future with him.
What, ya gonna kill me, Mistah. J?
No. Consider this a token of appreciation, my dear.
He dances around in a dark waltz. It asphyxiates her. It leaves her breathless. He speaks, but she is focussed elsewhere. He had let her off, not left her for dead, to have metal embedded in her flesh, dripingdripdrip, to become something more by his side. He wants her, as bad as she wants - needs - him... and that is enough.
This is the final stage, the crescendo to the peak of the mountain - before the plunge.
As she falls through zero gravity, she reflects.
Was she insane? Has she always been insane?
No, just for him, only him, the voices say, and she agrees.
When her head hits the surface, and when the pain shoots through her, with fire nibbling at her heels, her ears, her neck... she has already made up her mind, and her mind has been made up for her. She leaves behind her restraints, the remnants of her earthly shackles.
Free.
Darkness surrounds - she loses herself to the abyss with hope, detemination - all things sweet with candy corn and sugar fluff.
When she awakens, cocooned in safety, she smiles.
She is reborn.
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