Hello to all my faithful readers and soon to be faithful readers! Thank you in advance for the follows, the reviews, etc.
So, this will be a Heath Ledger Joker/OFC fic. M RATED, Don't like, don't read. I got the idea while wondering who The Joker's Tailor was while watching The Dark Knight one day and getting caught up by Commissioner Gordon stating that even his (the Joker's) clothing had no labels, tailor-made, etc. I know, my brain is so nuts! Who the Hell else would have made an entire fanfic off of that one stupid line? Any who, DISCLAIMER; NO I DO NOT OWN THE JOKER, (HE OWNS ME:D) I DON'T OWN THE DARK KNIGHT OR ANYTHING ELSE DC RELATED! I ONLY OWN MY OFC, WHO IS AWESOME! ENJOY!
If Genevieve Alighieri had to pin-point exactly when her whole life had changed, she would have said that it was the day her Father had had his stroke. First off; the whole day had just started wrong. She had woken up late, which is something that hadn't happened since she was nine and had tonsillitis, the water had been shut off for their whole block due to a burst water main pipe; meaning she was shit out of luck for a shower or coffee, and the cherry on top of the shit-cake was their Mastiff Anubis chewing up her favorite pair of black leather boots.
"You just wait Anubis! No fucking treats for a month! Hope my goddamned shoes were tasty!" Genevieve spat, snatching her car keys off the coffee table and shoving her feet into a pair of black sketchers that she normally only wore when she went jogging. She slammed the door behind her, yanked open the faded red door of her Mustang and unceremoniously tossed the briefcase containing her Father's books for the past month into the back seat. Normally, this would have been her one Friday off per month; but her Father had been out of town for the past week now and she was handling the family Tailoring business on her own. Normally, Genevieve only made expensive suits and evening gowns for her Fathers clientele; relegating herself to the work room at the back of the shop with lists of measurements and piles of fabric swatches, reveling in the peace and solitude of her work. She had been sewing practically before she could walk and talk, losing herself to her craft until she was making all of her own clothing with her own two hands; smirking at the envy of her high school classmates as they ogled her one of a kind creations. Genevieve had had dreams of going to college and becoming a fashion designer; until her Mother had disappeared during her senior year and was never heard from again. Her Mother used to be the one toiling away in the back of the shop helping her Father clothe Gotham's elite, and after her disappearance Genevieve just couldn't leave her Father to run the shop on his own. Hence the reason that Genevieve was eighteen years old, fresh out of high school and already fully immersed in her Family business; no time for friends, a social life, nada. Her Father hadn't wanted her to stay with him, he had wanted her to go to college and follow her dreams, but she had known she had made the right choice in the end. Genevieve parked her mustang in her Dad's vacant spot and climbed out of the car, hoisting the briefcase over her shoulder and jiggling the keys as she unlocked the door. She made her way to her Father's office at the back of the shop just as her cell phone began ringing. Genevieve sighed, dropping the briefcase on the polished mahogany desk as she dug her cell from her pocket.
"Alighieri Tailors, this is Genevieve, how can I help you?" She asked on autopilot as she grabbed a pen and notepad.
"Is this Genevieve Alighieri?" an official sounding voice asked.
"Yes, can I help you?" She repeated, powering on her Dad's laptop in preparation for the days data entry and bookkeeping.
"This is Dr. David Sanchez from San Francisco General. Ma'am, I'm afraid there's been an accident. Your Father Victor had a stroke in his hotel room last night; the hotel maid found him this morning. I'm sorry ma'am, but he passed away from the hemorrhaging."
Genevieve frowned, sinking into her Fathers leather office chair, the light in the room was very bright and she could suddenly hear the buzzing of the neon lights above her; she became aware of a tightening in her chest that reached up, up, up, and all the way to her throat. She gasped for air, her hands clammy and cold on the cell phone she was holding.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, are you alright? Do you need emergency services?" The Doctor asked her, his voice seemingly far away from her. Genevieve cleared her throat and swallowed, taking in a deep breath before answering;
"I'm fine. I….uh, I'll call the funeral home and have them pick up the..pick up my Dad. He has a plot and stuff….here in Gotham."
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way ma'am. Are you sure that you'll be okay?" Dr. Sanchez asked again, concerned.
"I'm fine. I'm sorry, I have to go. I'm at my Dad's shop and I have a lot of work to do. Thank you for calling." She hung up and squeezed her eyes shut, allowing a single tear to make its way down her cheek. The silence of her Fathers office…..now, her office pressed in on her from all sides until she shot up from the chair and ran out blindly through her cavernous sewing room in the back; dodging naked and half-clothed mannequins, skeins of fabric, tables laden with piles of swatches until she reached the back door and kicked it open, drawing in lungful's of air. Genevieve dug her cigarette holder from her back pocket and dug one out, flicking her zippo open with shaking hands and inhaling the poisonous smoke deeply into her lungs. She held the smoke in until her lungs were burning and then she slowly exhaled, trying not to scream even though she wanted to desperately. She was alone now…..just her, the mannequins, and lots of snobby, rich customers who couldn't give a rats ass that Victor Alighieri; Tailor and Father, had ceased to exist at some point during the night. All that their, no, her customers cared about was their suits, their dresses, and the accessories that went with them. Genevieve flicked her cigarette butt away from her and watched tiny sparks fly from it as it bounced on the crumbling asphalt in the alley behind HER shop. She had work to do. Genevieve re-entered the shop, locking the door behind her. She typed the password into HER computer, in HER office, sat in HER chair behind HER desk and pulled up the list of orders for that week. Genevieve ticked off the orders one by one, a size 7 burgundy satin and lace dress for Sarah H. Mortenson, a three-piece Navy suit for a Mr. Howard Lenter, and a size 12 Ivory business suit with a pencil skirt for a Ms. Lisa Dunn; the list went on and on and she recalled each of the items in her head with precise clarity because she had created them with her own hands. Those orders were all ready and waiting for their owners; or more likely, their owner's assistants to pick up. She scrolled further down and frowned at a list of garments for one account in particular, her eyes bulging at the dollar amount paid, and checked off the items one by one. Genevieve had been making this guy's clothes ever since she was twelve, she knew that because he was the only Male customer who ordered three-piece suits, trench coats, dress shirts, and ties all with the best fabrics and all in varying shades of dark purple and dark green with dark grey, black, and pale blue accessories. He was tall; 6'4", size 13 shoe, 175 pounds. It had taken her two weeks to complete the newest deep plum trench coat he had ordered with crimson silk lining due to the number of inside pockets he had specified be sewn into the coat. The job had been a bitch because he had been very specific about the number of pockets, their width and their depth. Genevieve picked up her cell phone once again and dialed the number on the account, frowning at the "name" listed on the line above the phone number she dialed. A bolded and underlined letter J was the only semblance to a name on the account.
"What?" a male voice, heavy New York, answered the phone. Undaunted by his rude greeting, Genevieve kept her professionalism intact.
"Hello, this is Genevieve Alighieri with Alighieri Tailors. Can I speak to Mr. J please?" She asked, rising from her seat and walking out of the office towards the mannequin that wore her masterpiece of a trench coat.
"Just a sec. Boss? It's the Tailors. Want me to handle it?" Heavy New York asked.
"Victor?" A smooth voice asked, the sound of which sent a not entirely unpleasant shiver down her spine. Mr. Purple Trench sounded sexy……
"No, some broad from his shop." Heavy New York replied, making Genevieve flex her jaw in annoyance.
"Hello?" Ah. Mr. Purple Trench had taken her call after all.
"Good Morning Mr. J, this is Genevieve Alighieri from Alighieri Tailors. I was calling to let you know that your order is ready. Is your assistant picking it up or would you prefer that I deliver it?" She asked, hoping that Heavy New York was not going to be the assistant picking up.
"Where's Victor? He's aware of the normal procedure for my orders." Mr. J asked her.
"My Father passed away unexpectedly last night. I'm taking over the shop now; I apologize, he didn't leave any instructions." She replied anxiously.
"Passed away? Well, that's too bad. I liked your Father; and he was a widower, so now you're all alone?" He asked.
"Yes." She said, wanting to get the call over with now, sexy voice or not.
"My assistant will text you an address. I'd like the order delivered."