Christmas with the Joker

A/N: Just can't shake this guy! He keeps creeping into my consciousness (and not my conscience, obviously). Inspired by a few things, including Christmas chez moi 2008, and obviously the Animated Series episode of the same name. Many, many thanks to Lunachick35 for her beta-ing and advice. And to all a good night!

Marie-Cécile idly chewed a stuffed date as her hand hovered over the box of festive fruits. There were fragrant pears, succulent dried figs, and tangerines. She'd been picking at them ever since she'd sat down by the window to watch the snow come down. There wasn't a mug of mulled wine beside her on the windowsill; that was a bit too cloying. She had a silvery white wine in fine crystal instead. She'd turned the TV on in her duplex, listened to the Acadian fiddling for as long as she could stand, and then flipped it off with a sigh, tossing the remote to rest beneath the artificial Christmas tree in the corner.

The tree was in the corner for a reason. Cécile had some good Christmas memories of years gone by, of the midnight mass and subsequent Révillion feast, but as an adult—and especially in keeping with the events of the last year—she'd shied away from holidays in general. She'd gone to mass with her father for many years, and had been expected to produce some variant of the Christmas Eve night traditional feast. But her father, driven to sentimentality by thoughts—she assumed—of his dead wife and Cécile's long-estranged brother, would be quick to bed, leaving empty bottles of wine in his wake. He normally did not rise at all from bed on Christmas Day. So she had gotten used to celebrating alone.

And this year, with her father gone, she'd been unsure how to carry on the traditions, such as they were. That was until, of course, she'd received the letter from her brother, Sylvain. It had been misdirected to their old address in Trois-Rivières at the tailor shop, next door to Duplessis' bakery. This was a common mistake, as Cécile had spent a few months studying for a degree she never received down south in Gotham. She had not seen Sylvain in seven years, and she had had no great curiosity about his existence until after her father's death. Feeling somewhat responsible for the Blandine name, she had still not felt that responsibility keenly enough to try to get in contact with Sylvain.

There were ways to find people, of course, and through the Internet and with Luc's help she could have . . . but Luc was dead, too. Perhaps at heart, Cécile's fatalism had noticed the pattern with the men in her life: if they touched her, they tended to wither like a rose, sooner or later. But the letter had arrived, she had read it, and she had not thrown it away. More than that, she had given a response a great deal of thought. She had been lonely at the tailor shop in Trois-Rivières and being on her own had made her no less so. Sylvain had heard about their father's death, and he wanted to see her. The implied notion was that Blandine, while alive, had kept Sylvain away.

So it was Christmas Eve, just after 10:00 p.m., and Cécile was waiting to see her brother for the first time in years. He lived in Toronto with a wife and no children. This much he had produced in letters and over the phone, through the crackling reception as brother and sister spoke with tremors and disbelief. She had given way to curiosity only in her own head when he'd suggesting spending Christmas with her; surely he would want to spend it with his family? She suspected tragedy, but then she always did. It was difficult not to, with what she knew and with what she'd done. So the tree was for his benefit; so was the Révillion meal she'd half cooked, half bought. He was much older than her and strangely still very tied to his Catholic upbringing, so she'd assumed that he'd want Christmas just the way her father had. She had no idea whether this was a miscalculation on her part—for as much as Sylvain despised his father, Cécile had to admit—at least from what she'd remembered as a child—they were more alike than different.

When the doorbell rang, she frowned. She wasn't expecting her brother until at least 1:00 a.m. on Christmas Day, after mass. In other circumstances she might have ignored the insistent and annoying buzzing sound that set her nerves on edge. But the vague sense of unease, that something may have befallen her only living relative, caused her to go cautiously to the door and slide it open on the chain. She had just a few seconds of shock to jump back from the threshold as the door came crashing off one set of hinges and the figure she had barely glimpsed leapt into the room roaring, "Ho ho HO!"

Père Noël had come early. Cécile's door had been busted in by a tall figure in a cheap red robe trimmed with fur, shrouded in a hood and face hidden behind a papier-mâché mask of a painted, smiling face. She felt her spine grow cold with increasing dread. The figure dropped a heavy sack next to her Christmas tree and leaned heavily, maniacally, back against the door, just about heaving it back into place. Cécile was rooted to the spot. Somehow she knew she should be running, or screaming, or fleeing into the kitchen to grab a broom. Though her heart was beating wildly, she couldn't have said, at that moment, that she was exactly afraid. Rather, a strange sense of symmetry struck her, and she felt alarmingly calm.

The mask came away. "Surprise!" shouted the Joker.

Cécile said nothing. There was much to be said for the irreverent, even sacrilegious combination of the Joker's leering face and the red, fur-trimmed robe he was wearing. The white makeup was especially vivid against the red, and the green of his gloves and faintly dyed hair looked almost . . . seasonal. He was grinning the yellow, faded grin, and his eyes were glinting with a malice unmatched even in their previous encounters. She wondered idly if had a knife hidden in his polyester sleeve, if he was really going to kill her this time. Her stomach tightened for the first time when she considered what an awful sight would greet her brother after midnight mass.

She quivered, making for the glass of wine, wondering if she really had the strength and resolve to break it and use its sharp edge against his throat. He saw her hesitation, and the grin disappeared. His arms, which had been outstretched in almost an embrace, fell to his sides flatly. He threw himself forward, and she had only a few seconds to get out of the way. The wine fell to the floor and left amber-colored stains on the carpet. She twisted toward the phone in its cradle on the wall. He reached it before she did, producing the knife she had known was there, cutting the cord with a savagery that made her wince. She spun, overbalanced, and half grabbed, half fell on her purse. Laughing delightedly, he was at her side in one stride, raising a heavy foot to smash down on her hand. She drew her hand back, but heard the woeful crunch of her cell phone, smashed to pieces.

She didn't look up. He was whooping and dancing around the room. Defeated, she glanced toward him. Still wearing the loose-fitting robe, the hood falling over his shoulders, he had replaced the mask with a jaunty Santa Claus hat. His gloved hands were scrabbling over the box of fruits as he stuffed them in his mouth and chewed on them loudly, obscenely. He tossed the box away, scattering nuts and dried fruit all over the floor. He went next for the platter of Québecquois cheeses. "Please . . . stop," said Cécile weakly.

He turned abruptly and stared at her. "Please? You never said that before. You weren't like the rest of them, afraid of chaos." He patted his chin philosophically with one index finger, then knelt down on one knee next to her. He held out his other hand, impatiently motioning for her to take it and get up. When she hesitated, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her painfully to her feet. "What's happened to you?" he sneered into her face, his breath fragrant with candy canes. "Do you, like, care now?" He let go of her hand, pushing her face away roughly with a disinterested blow. He gestured at the Christmas tree, the mock-fireplace, the mantle with a watercolor of the Château Frontenac. "Who's this domestic nest for, hmm?"

Cécile didn't know what to say. To match his wit with sarcastic comments was to acknowledge her own lowness, how very alike they were. But to rise to the bait, to act self-righteous, was even more damning. She didn't mind if she looked like a glassy-eyed fish, open-mouthed and silent, if it bought her a bit more time to figure out what to do. In his boredom with her lack of response, the Joker had left the cheeses and dove under the Christmas tree. "I think . . . I know . . ." he grunted, rooting around the artificial branches, "how to make you react . . ."

Cécile looked around, her heart beating frantically, for a weapon while the Joker's back was turned. From this direction, she could probably leap onto him, but she had no weapon—nothing but her house key, a long skeleton key with sharp edges. She fingered it, cursing her hesitancy. Luc, Luc, think of Luc, you idiot! But the Joker was on his feet again, smiling at her with sickening intimacy. He had a broken glass ornament in one hand. Merde, thought Cécile. Why didn't I think of that?

The Joker was whistling "Jingle Bells" as he drew back the polyester Santa robe from his left arm. He began using the sharp edge of the glass to cut long, red wounds on the back of his arm. "W-what are you doing?" gasped Cécile.

The Joker seemed to ignore her as he cut away. His tongue gathered at the corner of his scarred mouth as he furrowed his brow in concentration. "Stop it!" Cécile shouted in French as a glob of blood trickled down his arm onto the floor.

"Worried about your carpet, O Blind One?" he mocked. Cécile looked around in despair. She could just let him lose enough blood to black out, but somehow she was sinisterly aware that anything she did was bound to play into his hand. He could predict her nearly as well as he could predict everyone else. She strode forward with the calmest face she could manage and reached up for the makeshift blade. Like a greedy child he pulled it away from her. "Mine!" he snapped. He looked at her, as if really seeing her for the first time. "Remember all the fun we used to have with green hair dye and playing cards?"

He took a wobbly step backward and collapsed into the Christmas tree with a groan. Cécile winced as the whole tree was crushed under his weight, and man and object went down in a tremendous display of sparking lights and destroyed baubles. "Eurrk," he said from the floor. "You're supposed to say sit down before you fall down."

"Why won't you leave me alone?!" Cécile snapped, bounding forward to pick up the knife he'd dropped as well as the bloody ornament.

He got halfway off the floor and seized her wrist with a vise-like grip until she cried out in pain. She saw the muscles flexing in his bare forearm, the blood seeping out of the wounds and pooling onto the Santa costume. She quickly transferred the cutting instruments to the other hand and flung them across the room. He released her hand, then grabbed the collar of her dress and shook her. She stared, sheet-white. Then he erupted into a laugh, his head lolling back into the forest of broken branches and red ribbons, though his arm never slackened its grip. "Hee hee, ha, ho. Ho. Ho." He dragged her on her knees toward him and patted the top of her head. "Doncha see? You have something I want."

He licked his lips lasciviously as he said it, his eyebrows arching upwards into the white of his made-up forehead, despite the growing sheen of perspiration. She remembered the blind-folded car ride in Gotham, the night on the top of the skyscraper as he'd licked and sucked on her fingers. She tensed. "I'll scream."

"If you scream," he said in the tone of an adult to a four-year-old, "someone might think it's just a bit of . . . festive overindulgence." He chewed his lower lip in a wicked grin, drawing her closer into his arms.

It was the first time Cécile had fought back. She punched him in the stomach as hard as she could. "Maybe not."

The momentary surprise was enough for her to scramble away. She picked up a chair and held it at arm's length. To her surprise, he stayed where he was. "I thought you were . . . "

He cracked his neck from the floor. "Dead? Incarcerated? I was, but . . . stony limits cannot keep love out."

Cécile stared at him. Had she heard right?

He sprung forward and grabbed the chair, wrenching it away with ease. She wanted to cringe and hide in the corner, but she was motionless. "The suit, Cécile. You have the last one. I want it."

She felt for the hard surface of the wall behind her. "I don't have it anymore. I burnt it."

She expected rage. He looked at her quizzically, the bloodied hand running back through his hair nonchalantly to clear it of the fragments of broken bulbs and ornaments. "Then make me a new one."

She gasped. "I can't." Surely he knew she wasn't a tailor like her father had been. She watched him carefully, tensing for the sudden movement that would bring him and all his array of knives toward her jugular. Instead, he gave her a pettish, mawkish look and unzipped the front of the robe. "I just have to have that suit, Cécile."

"Look, you can't be here. Someone—"

"Your brother, maybe?" She knew he would enjoy her look of shock too much, but she couldn't help giving him the reaction he craved. She froze, and the glint of malice in his eyes must have matched the terror in hers. There was a slapping sound as he adjusted the suspenders of the costume. "See, Cécile, I know a lot about you. And I've had time to be patient. Oh, yes," he said, with a mock-serious expression, "I've had a lot of time to stew in Arkham Asylum. Do you have any idea what that place is like?" Cécile shook her head vaguely. "DO YOU?!" he shouted.

Cécile swallowed. She knew she should be studying the room, looking for escape or at least some way of ending her life if worst came to worst. But she was strangely transfixed. Of course, the news that the Joker might have harm in mind for her brother held her attention. But she was also rather surprised to see that he seemed to be stripping to bare skin in the middle of her living room on Christmas Eve. He seemed wholly unaware of the fact that there didn't seem to be anything underneath the red robe other than the suspenders holding up the red, fur-trimmed trousers—but she acknowledged it with a faint furrow in her forehead. She tried to focus on what he was saying. "I, uh . . . it was a club."

"What?"

"Arkham. It was a club in downtown Gotham."

He giggled a little. "You're right. But I'm talking about the real place. The loony bin." He held up his gloved hands to the sides of his face. "Where they put the reeeeeeeealllllly crazy ones."

"Enjoyed it, then, did you?" she asked softly.

He ignored her and turned, looking at the Christmas tree as if he couldn't understand how it had gotten smashed and destroyed on the floor. "That's not the point. The point is I'm out, and I don't intend to be going back. But they don't know I'm gone yet. And they certainly couldn't have predicted that I'd go to Québec City, of all places!" he chortled. "I mean, what could possibly be there?"

"Batman would know," said Cécile, not relishing reliving her contact with that person, though she did probably owe him her life. "I'm sure he traced the suit to my father. Probably to me."

The Joker narrowed his eyes. "Don't think so. I really don't." Cécile couldn't maintain his gaze; she knew that when the Joker had had the chance to sell her out, he'd been curiously reluctant to do so. "Whatever," he said shortly. "So I'm out, and people who thought they were safe are going to wake up to find something else. A little gift, from Sandy Claws." He grinned.

Cécile shivered. "You haven't hurt him, have you?"

"Your brother?" he mouthed. Having apparently forgotten about the half-zipped robe, he was now rummaging around in a cabinet by the TV and soon found the bottle of Calvados that he, apparently, knew was there. He raised it in mock-celebration to her and pulled out the cork with his teeth. "Now I find it strange that you start feeling all worried about someone you haven't seen in—how many years?" Cécile looked away. She was surprised to see how serious his look became. "Though I guess that's how it is with family . . ." He clapped his gloved hands together. "Tell you what, you get me the suit and your brother comes home to Christmas dinner and everyone is happy."

Cécile worked her jaw. Her sense of intuition, after so many encounters with this seriously unhinged man, told her that this was her last chance to do something voluntarily—before he compelled her with physical violence or . . . something even worse. "I almost burnt it," she confessed at last. "I burnt the shirt and the vest. That's as far as I got. I've only got the—"

"Just get it," he said in a low growl.

Reluctant to turn her back on him even for a moment, Cécile meekly left the room and opened the door to her bedroom. She kept the door wide open so he wouldn't sneak up on her, though if the noises in the kitchen were any indication, he was wreaking havoc with her Réveillon feast instead. She found the cardboard box in her closet quickly and lifted out the immaculately folded suit, the purple gloves and pinstripe trousers, with the queen of hearts playing card on top. She had asked herself a million times what possible purpose saving these things could have. He had killed her lover. He was evil, beyond redemption. Yet he had sent them to her for a reason. She hadn't even been able to convince herself that she was keeping it for evidence if the police ever followed up on their threats for further questioning. Maybe she hoped if put in a situation like the one she was currently in, she still had some kind of bargaining chip.

When she returned to the living room, holding the suit out as far away from her body as possible, he had found the tourtière pie and was munching on it. It occurred to her for the first time that, instead of just doing it to annoy her, perhaps he was eating in such an animalistic fashion because he hadn't actually had anything for days. "Ah, see, I knew you'd keep it for me," he said, taking it from her. "I know things you don't even know."

"Like what?" she whispered, alarmed. To her surprise, he gave a "shove off" gesture. He had slipped the suspenders over his shoulders and was taking off the robe, so she moved with all possible speed as far away as she could. This was into the kitchen, where she tried to focus on the utter mess the Joker had made, instead of all the scars, tiny and large, she'd just seen, each with a story as tangled as the ones on his face. She looked in despair and mild anger at the emptied pot of ragout de pâte de cochon and the venison meatballs strewn all over the floor. "Espèce de . . ." she muttered, when tears suddenly hit. She wouldn't cry over something so insignificant as a ruined Christmas dinner, but she positively trembled with fear her brother might . . . She looked down at the bûche de noel, singularly untouched, and slid her hand slowly around for the cake server. It was just sharp enough to . . .

The Joker's hand, now gloved in its customary purple, slid over hers until she put the cake server down. Somehow he had managed to come up behind her completely silently. She tried desperately to hide her tears. She had never, never let him see her emotions before . . . "Mmm, Mère Blandine," he said, practically nuzzling her cheek. "That looks good."

She gave up on the cake server, but risked an elbow in his chest. He dodged easily enough, but it gave her the time to move across the room and face him. He was still wearing the outrageous Santa hat, but the rest of the seasonal costume had been replaced by the purple suit, trousers, gloves, and tie. There was definitely something missing, she thought, with her costumier's eye, without the hexagonal-patterned blue shirt and the green vest. He noticed her staring and made a steeple of his fingers. When would this torture end? she wondered. "I guess you're still upset about Luuuuuuc."

"Of course I am," she shouted, taken aback. "You killed him!"

He scratched his head. "I killed a lot of people that summer."

"Exactly!"

He picked up the cake server and cut a slice of the bûche de noël, the fingers of his gloves slick with the sugary butter crème filling. "You loved him, did you?" Cécile stiffened, refusing to speak. "As you loved your ffffather, I suppose." He cut another piece and offered it to her. When she didn't react, he threw it on the floor and brandished the cake server. "You see, I hate my father. And I hate yours even more!"

Cécile stared at him, utterly nonplussed. "Why? What did he ever do to you?"

"Luc told me." By the expression on his face, she realized he had expected to shock her, to goad her into some kind of conspiratorial rage and righteousness. What had Luc told him? How dare he even talk about Luc when . . . Still holding the cake server, he crossed the kitchen and leaned down. And whispered something filthy in her ear.

She shoved him away with a strength that seemed to surprise him. "Non, non, non!" She shuddered from the full weight of the revelation. It had been terrible enough that the last thing she'd learned about Luc was that he intended to spread a viral of the Scarecrow's design by sleeping with her, and now, that he'd thought this—said it, to the Joker!-- "He was lying," said Cécile breathlessly. "I don't know why, but h-he guessed wrongly. My father hurt me, yes, but it was purely physical. It was never like—"

"I see," said the Joker slowly. "I've been duped!" And he broke into merry, triumphant laughter.

"I can hardly see how it matters to you!" replied Cécile, stung.

"Cécile, what's your Christmas wish?" he asked with sudden seriousness. "Is it for big bad Joker to leave you alone and never to come back?"

She had to gauge whether telling the truth was going to get her killed. "Y-yes."

"Okay, then. That's all you had to say. I was never here." And with that, he held up his hands, walked through the kitchen, and was ten steps from the front door when the buzzer rang.

Cécile moved swiftly. She blocked the front door and told the Joker in her most commanding voice, "Out the back window. Out. Now."

She expected him to kick up a fuss. She expected anything other than what he did, which was to turn around without a word and disappear. She waited as long as she dared at the threshold of the door, listening to the sound of the buzzer and then the angry knocking on the door in a voice that she supposed could be her brother's . . . then she turned and straightened her dress as best she could, trying to disguise the stains of butter crème and blood. She opened the door.

Cécile held her breath for the next two hours. She had recognized Sylvain instantly, though he had stared and frowned at her for a few seconds. "Ma petite," he murmured, while looking at the broken hinges on the door. "Are you okay?"

Cécile wanted to tell him the truth. She desperately wanted to explain what had happened in the last hour, but she held herself back every time the ring of truth crept into her explanations. Why? Why was she still protecting the Joker? Ah, but this time, she was only protecting Sylvain. If she told him, what had proved to be a bluff might swiftly come to pass—the Joker might decide to get rid of Sylvain simply for what he knew. For Sylvain, Cécile could see in the tense moments that followed his entry into her duplex, was the type to phone up the police and move heaven and earth to get results.

Which is why it took more than her normal reserves of strength to convince him that the break-in had been reported and that the Québec City police force was on the case. "Pigs," said Sylvain. "What were they after?" Unable to prove that anything of value had been stolen—despite the completely destroyed Christmas tree and kitchen—Cécile shakily convinced her brother that it had been pranksters. She realized several hours later that it had been just after midnight when Sylvain had walked in. He had not attended mass after all, exhausted from the flight from Toronto and in need, he insisted, of a good night's sleep. She apologized profusely for the mess, though together they salvaged what was left of the sucre à la crème and the honey-glazed ham. They had gifts to exchange, but in the end they both decided, after their second glasses of wine, that they would resume their reunion in the morning. Cécile noted that Sylvain said nothing about his wife, and that he asked her very little about her life. It was a game of reminiscing, though somehow this rebellious brother, who had always managed to see the worst in their brief years spent together, dredged up happy memories again and again. Cécile almost forgot that the Joker had been at all. She joked inwardly that maybe he'd simply been the Ghost of Christmas Past.

She showed Sylvain to the spare room and waited until he had visited the adjoining poky bathroom and extinguished his light before she turned to the wreck of the Christmas That Wasn't. She sighed and decided to leave off cleaning up until the next morning. She walked to the closed door of her own bedroom, opened it, and switched on the light, shoulders aching with the strain of having stayed so artificially unconcerned for so long.

"That took way too long," said a voice from under the covers of her bed. She was appalled to see the Joker emerge from the cocoon of her quilt and say in a low voice, "I've been waiting for hours for you to come back so we can sing Christmas carols and watch It's a Wonderful Life." Cécile clapped her hands over her mouth and shuddered, trying desperately not to scream. The Joker was in her bed, still wearing the ridiculous Santa Claus hat. She blinked a couple times and pinched herself.

"I thought you left!" she cried, hoping to keep the rising hysteria out of her voice. "Though the open window! Dammit, dammit—what are you doing?"

"Surprise," he said darkly. He pulled a paperback from under the covers and flung it at her. She recognized it as the cheap mystery she had been reading before bedtime every night. "Crappy book, Cécile, I'm disappointed in you." Her eyes then took in the full extent of the room: her underwear drawer had been ransacked, leaving piles of filmy garments scattered all over the floor. Cécile's cheeks burned as she nearly collapsed on the floor. "Look," he said. "Take some comfort, Mademoiselle Blandine, in the fact that while I'm in your bedroom, I'm not outside blowing up banks or stalking children or . . ." She shuddered.

"If Sylvain finds out, he'll—"

"Either call the cops and they'll get me," said the Joker with childish enthusiasm, "or I'll get him first. So for his sake, I think you'd—"

"You got what you came for!" she whispered harshly.

He shook his head slowly. "Unfinished business." He patted the mattress. "Come to bed." He said it in that peculiar voice he employed for whining that made him sound seven years old.

"I'd rather . . . " She was about to say "die," but a warning look in his eyes told her he would be only so happy to oblige that last request. " . . . not," she finished lamely, and sank down on the floor, facing him.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Being raped by a psychopath would be at the top of the list, I believe."

"It doesn't have to be like that," he said in a low, velvety voice. He was staring down at her, the vivid makeup swirling phantasmagorically behind her tired gaze.

"What's it to be like, then?"

"Give me your hand," he said.

"No," she spat back. "Does the name Rachel Dawes mean anything to you?"

"Ohh, but like I told Harvey, that was nothing personal."

Cécile narrowed her eyes. "Evidently not." Then she looked down, confused. "But I . . . am?"

He was drumming suddenly un-gloved fingers on the top of the covers in impatience. "Like, duh."

"I-if I do this," she said in a shaky voice, "will you promise to leave, and never come back? Ever? And not hurt me, or my family, or—"

"You won't see me again. That I can promise you. And, as you know, I'm a man of my word."

"A-and my brother. You won't—"

"Yes, yes, he'll be safe, yaddah, yaddah, blah, blah, blah. Look, are you coming to bed or what?"

"In that case . . . no."

"No," he grunted.

"Why give you the advantage?" she asked, with growing confidence. "You could use force, but I guess if that's what you wanted, you would have done it a long time ago."

He grinned suddenly. "You do want to see me again. Oh, Cécile, you really are sweeter than maple syrup."

Cécile pointed to the door. "Merry Christmas to you, too, darling."

To her infinite surprise, he crawled out of her bed and sat cross-legged on the floor, dragging one of her blankets with him. "I'm staying here 'til first light," he said carefully. "Then I'm taking all your makeup remover." He grinned. "And I'll be back. You owe me. You won't know when or where—"

Cécile's eyes glinted. "Unless Batman catches you first."

"There is that," he agreed. "The bed's safe, by the way. I kept it all nice and toasty for you."

And that was the Christmas Cécile kept one eye open all night, until, at dawn, she was woken by very soft movements at the foot of her bed, followed by the window opening. She didn't wake again until much later, when the pristine snow showed no signs that the Joker had ever been. Except for the fact the queen of hearts card had vanished from her dresser.

THE END