His Favourite
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Summary: She is a puppet of his own creation. And she is his favourite. Joker/Wendy. Faintly creepy.
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Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, and I know they're laughing at me for this one.
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He has heard himself compared, more than once, to a puppet master. This makes him smile, not because he likes the description, but at the sheer absurdity of it. He knows, after all, that his colleagues and friends are just that to him. It is nothing short of idiotic, to hold himself above the others who work for what he does, because they are all equal before the one that they seek to return to life and power for the good of a world too mired in apathy to care to better itself.
Of course he understands that someone needs to take control; they all understand that. He was simply the most logical choice. It was agreed upon long before the question could even be raised. He certainly has an expert's skill with the gentle and subtle control of others.
His skill, of course, is nothing to that of the one man that he has ever been able to claim with complete honesty to admire. The man who has become their common cause.
Nevertheless, his idol, his mentor, saw potential in him and encouraged him to develop it. Even if it meant that his relationship with his colleagues was, at times, more closely resembling that of a puppeteer with his faithful toys than an equal among several.
She is not, by any means, his only puppet, this young woman – still a child in his mind more often than not – who has been for years fiercely loyal to both him and to the ancient and infinitely wise man to whom he will always be a child. But she is his favourite.
A puppet of his own creation. The others were simply passed into his control when the man who held them all as equals was taken from them.
But she is entirely his own. He found her as a cheerful, laughing little creature with a mass of sunny blonde hair and wide, earnest eyes and sweet, expressive bunny-rabbit face; and saw massive potential for subtlety, competence, and ruthlessness that might someday match his own.
Found a pretty little doll, pleasant to look at and seeming at all times delicate and fragile enough to make those around her crave to protect and shelter her rather unnecessarily.
Very sweet. Pleasant to have around. Ultimately useless.
But it was not long before his time and meticulous effort with her began to show through beautifully, and in place of that pretty little ball of fluff, he found a clever, sturdily low-maintenance, efficient little puppet that jumped obediently to the slightest tug of her strings.
Sometimes, the thought occurs to him – amusing and rather apt, he thinks – that perhaps her gradually acquired grace and subtlety are a reflection of his gradually acquired skill at handling her. After all, it takes practice before the puppet will move smoothly to the urging of the puppet master, instead of stumbling about uncertainly and provoking more fond laughter than admiration.
And it has taken time, too. But somewhere along the way, those words of approval for her that sent a glow of pride through him became more and more frequent.
His time and effort with his favourite little puppet have definitely been well worth it.
Although, sometimes he prefers marionette when he thinks of her. It sounds far more feminine and rather lovely.
He can think of taking his marionette to bed and making her eyes darken and flutter closed, back arching with pleasure when his lips find warmly golden velvet-soft skin of the gentle curve of her waist; the gentle curve of small beautifully shaped breasts, dark rosy sweetly sensitive nipple tightening beneath his tongue; satin-smooth skin at the inside of her thigh where it presses to his hip as she climbs over him, warm and warmer as his fingers seek out the source of the liquid heat that is making her utter those soft, gasping cries against his shoulder.
The word has always had that sort of sound to him.
A puppet is so relentlessly practical. Even if a marionette is useless the rest of the time.
Perhaps it is because she can easily be both in his mind that she is his favourite.
And perhaps it is because she is his favourite that he has allowed her to get away with more than he ought to.
On occasion, he will slacken his hold on her strings; give her the brief illusion of freedom. Somehow, he knows that she isn't fooled anymore than she is fooled into truly believing that she could have her strings back any time she asked for them.
It is a shame that just as he has become adept at handling her, just as they have come to work flawlessly together, it seems that she has begun to develop an uncomfortable degree of awareness of his fallibility. That uncomfortable humanity thing.
Never to mention her growing awareness that he is someone's puppet just as much as she is his. Neither was something he would have chosen for her to understand completely, but really, it hardly matters. It isn't her way, to deal with these things by running away in a panic like a small hysterical animal; she will simply put off noticing what she doesn't want to for as long as she can.
And as long as she can is as long as he'll need.
He can't say yet whether or not this part of the story will have a happy ending, whether he will wake up in the new world to find his puppet, his marionette, more than simply a tool.
When he thinks of such things at all, which does not happen often, he rather hopes so. Even though she is his favourite already, he thinks she could be more if the situation were different. But even as he hopes – idly, fancifully, but never quite briefly enough – he is well aware of the possibility that this tiny part of both of them will not figure into their most ideal states of being, and he will lose her entirely.
In a way, it seems impossible from this angle to think that he will ever not remember her. It has been so long that he can barely remember what it felt like not to have her strings always at his fingertips, and her efforts at his disposal.
It seems so impossible that it hardly bears thinking about.
And so, as she stirs, hair soft gold fanning out over the pillow, and smiles up at him with eyes still dewy from sleep, he doesn't think, but pulls her to him closely and rests his cheek against the top of her head as her breathing grows warm and rhythmic against his shoulder.
After all, if he should lose her, it will be such a small sacrifice stacked up against all else that they have all given, that it seems absurd to worry, or even to wonder.
But there that is no reason that he can't enjoy what they are now while circumstances will let him.
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End Notes: Eheh…what can I say? I'm really, really, godawfully bad at writing a wacko nutjob villain.
I don't know if I'm the only one who saw this sort of creepily possessive vibe between them, but I swear, I did see it. I'm not just making things up. :)