Authors note: IM BACK KIDS! Sorry this chapter took so long, it was a bit of a doozy.
This one definitely isn't as exciting as the first, but then again Harley's whole life has been flipped upside down so some set up is required, I think (don't worry its still a lot of fun!) . I really want to examine how she makes her place in Joker's life so that starts here with a lil bit of house keeping!
On another note I wanted to let you know I may have some other shorter fics in the works- still Joker and Harley but set later in their relationship. So keep an eye out!
Its been so lovely to read your reviews for chapter one and I really can't express how much your support means to me 3 I hope I can keep making you proud!
Much love, Sewer Angel
Chapter 2: The new Suzy Homemaker
The Joker-infamous mass murderer, psychopathic clown and all around Adonis- looks adorable when he sleeps. All I want to do is crawl in behind him and snuggle up, and I actually take a few steps before I manage to turn myself around and go back into the bathroom. Making as little noise as possible, I close the door behind me and I flick on the lights.
When my eyes adjust, I see someone in the mirror that is me and not me.
At least she's not what I used to be- she wears a necklace of livid purple and blue with a strip of scarlet war paint on her cheek, and she looks like she's painfully alive, like she's on fire from the inside. I strip out of my bloodied, shredded leather dress, and I take in the battle map on her body, the wide swatches on her arms where he kneeled only hours ago, and I feel a new kind of pride.
I start trying to wrestle the elastics out of my matted hair, and I think about last night. I think about how angry he was, how he artfully worked me into hysterics before wrapping his hands around my neck for what we both thought was going to be the last time. It was perfect, he had me- there was no snapping rope, no one to interrupt and save me- I wasn't even going to save myself. He built a pyre for my immolation but then he turned me into a phoenix, he let me rise from my ashes- I can't let that go to waste.
I'm grinning as I turn on the cold water, trying not to hum and giggle as I scrub away dried blood and smeared makeup. I watch the murky water run down the sink as I dry myself off, and it's an effort to move quietly- I want to skip and dance and sing but I can't wake him up; who knows when he got to bed last night? He obviously didn't realize that I fell asleep because he would have woken me up, and something tells me it would not have been pleasant. I imagine him firing his gun next to my ear, the gleeful look on his face when I inevitably startle out of my slumber, and the thought stretches my smile so wide that my cheeks hurt as I pull my dress back on. Still aching and beaming I grab my backpack, switch the light off, and very carefully I open the door.
God, I don't think he could look any more enticing- he's flipped over onto his back, sprawling diagonally on the mattress with his legs hanging off the side and the blanket riding low on his hips. I swallow loudly, flinching at the sound. Miraculously he doesn't move, not a twitch apart from the steady rise and fall of his chest. I want to pull up a chair and watch him- I mean who knows, the blankets could slip a little lower and they might reveal some…. very important information. For example, I could find out if he sleeps in his birthday suit! A related finding would be whether the carpets match the drapes- or if he has carpets at all- he doesn't seem to have any hair other than the stuff that grows on his head. Maybe he gets it waxed? For a split second I picture some bitch messing around in his nether regions and a wave of fire rushes up my esophagus. I get an irrational urge to claim it somehow, but that's not cool, Harley, that doesn't belong to you. Yet-
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
His shout has me jumping out of my skin, and the panic washes away any trace of jealousy.
"I -"
"That's my Lego, Batman." This statement pulls me up short, and I squint to see that his eyes are still closed- oh my god, he's sleep talking! My heart melts and any residual tension leaves my body. I step a bit closer to see his twitching eyelids and the slack grin that curves his lips, and god, I just want to touch him. Just a little bit-
"Pshh- I can do that ten ways with my toes." With that stern dismissal he rolls over onto his stomach, the blanket slips a bit lower, and holy shit that's his ass. I force myself to turn away, practically sprinting for the door- I'm not worried about being quiet anymore, I just need to get out of here before I start hyperventilating.
"GET THE MAYO!" He shouts into the pillow and I lurch. "It's time to die, bitch." I slip out the door on that note, barely containing a deluge of nervous giggles as I close it behind me. On the other side of the door the air hits me like a bucket of ice water, but I still feel all warm and fuzzy so I don't even shiver as I skip back to the car.
Climbing into the drivers seat, I clean up as much of the mess as possible before attempting to hide the bruises with cover up. The effect is passable- if nothing else its less alarming, so I drag a brush through my hair before starting a hunt for clean clothes. I settle on a comfy pair of dark jeans and a loony toonz sweatshirt, but I can't bring myself to take off my special boots, so I leave them on even though they're still speckled with blood and dirt. I rummage around in the backseat for my makeup bag, and I put a little liquid bandage on my cheek before touching it up with concealer. I consider putting some on my neck bruises too, but that seems blasphemous so I grab a scarf to hide them instead.
The ache is sinking in now; it's a stiffness in my muscles and a throbbing in the places that swell with the leakage of burst blood vessels. I didn't feel it at all until I left him, and that's amazing, that's a miracle. I allow myself a moment of dreamy pining, and then I get to work on my plan.
On a good day in the asylum he sleeps for two to three hours, four if he's coming down from tranquilizers. I check the dashboard clock- it's a quarter past five but I don't know when he went to sleep so that doesn't tell me much. I debate the benefit of getting him breakfast against the risk of not being here when he wakes up, but I decide that it would be selfish to give the latter precedent, so I jam the key into the ignition and I hit the gas. I'm pretty sure I saw a 24-hour diner on the way here, so I head back in that direction and I find it 3 blocks down. A headache sets in when I open the door and the fluorescent light hits me, but I push through it, barely registering the odd look I get from the girl at the counter.
I order pancakes, French toast, and waffles. Eggs scrambled, sunny side up and over-easy with sides of bacon, sausage, hash browns, and toast. When it comes to the drinks I pause to catch my breath before continuing on to request apple juice, orange juice, regular milk, chocolate milk, and coffee, and it would be so nice if she could put packets of ketchup, butter, jam, marmalade and peanut butter in one of the bags as well. It might be a bit excessive but I don't know what he likes yet, so I want to cover all the bases.
I feel my anxiety build and hum as I sit at the counter and wait for my order. I start cataloguing everything that could go wrong- like maybe he won't want breakfast, or I won't have his favorite thing, or he'll sleep in and the food will be cold. Or he'll be gone when I get back and everything will be completely ruined. My pulse has set into a brisk jog by the time the girl comes out of the kitchen with an arm full of brown paper bags and two laden drink trays. When I get back to the car I load the bags into an emptied duffle and I take off at a pace that could be risky for someone who's got a warrant.
I spot the light from his room before I've pulled into the parking lot and there's a fresh spike of anxiety in my chest. I try to swallow it down with a sip of coffee but it come right back up with fun questions like: Do I knock on the door? What if he's not ready to come out? What if he thinks it's rude? But then what if he's waiting for me? My body moves without consulting my mind, and that's a good thing because I'm still shooting questions at myself- what if he's changed his mind? I get out of the car. What if he really doesn't want me anymore? I walk up to the door and I raise my fist. My knuckles haven't even made contact when it swings open, and I find myself staring down the double-barrels of a sawed off shotgun.
J blocks the entrance, dressed again in the ill-fitting suit I got him and wearing what I'm quite sure is my lipstick- it looks better on him to be honest. He doesn't lower the gun, but he doesn't pull the trigger either- he just squints at me like I'm the last thing he expected to find on his doorstep. I don't dare move and my breath is dizzyingly shallow until his face clears, falling into something that speaks of vague irritation.
"Right. That." He mutters. I'm not entirely sure what he's referring to, but I find myself putting on a big toothy smile. His eyes narrow again, and I'm starting to think he might actually shoot me in the head- then he sniffs, and his glare switches down to the drink trays in my hands. "Well it's about time."
He finally lowers the gun to grab the coffee tray and the duffle bag, nearly knocking the other tray out of my hands as he marches back into the room. I follow immediately but cautiously- come on, I did just have shotgun in my face. He heads for the small table in the corner of the room, unzipping the duffel with such ferocity that I think it might rip as he empties it, pulling the Styrofoam containers out and collecting all the paper bags under his arm. Once he's got them all, he rushes over to rummage through the nightstand drawer and pulls out a pen with a triumphant 'HA' before heading back to the table. He kicks the chair out, dropping into it without looking, and starts to rip the paper bags into ragged rectangles.
When he's got a nice little stack, he starts writing with his left hand, while the right reaches for one of the takeout boxes. He pops the lid and grabs a plastic knife, stabbing it into the top of a jam packet and lathering a few pieces of toast. His left hand is racing across the paper at light speed while his right searches through the other boxes, and then he grabs a handful of bacon, loading it onto a piece of jam coated toast and topping it with another to make a somewhat horrifying sandwich. He does all this without looking up from the paper he's been filling with near hieroglyphic shorthand and a series of dense calculations, and then he takes a great big bite of his sandwich. A glob of jam and grease drops onto the table but he doesn't notice that either, he just keeps scribbling until his pen rips a hole through several sheets of his paper.
It's not particularly surprising- I don't think I've seen anyone press that hard while writing and I'm honestly shocked that he hasn't broken the pen- but he lets out an aggravated roar, throwing his hands up and tossing the last third of the sandwich over his shoulder in the process. I dive for it instinctively, and I actually manage to catch it before hitting the floor. He doesn't look up at the sound of my crash or the subsequent skid, he just grumbles about how pointed writing implements are only good for stabbing people as he attempts to smooth out the rumpled bits of paper. I pick myself up still holding his goopy sandwich, and I'm not even sure if he wants it anymore.
He gets back to work as I lurk behind him trying not to get jam on my shirt, and to my great joy it only takes a few seconds for his free hand to start groping around the table. I hurry forward to put the sandwich next to his hand and he picks it up without any indication that he knows how it got there, going back to his automated munching. I watch him fill eight sheets of paper front to back as he ploughs through everything but the eggs, chasing it with coffee and chocolate milk. When he's done he leans back and looks over his work with an intense, laser like focus.
Then he tears the whole stack to shreds.
"What's wrong?" I blurt, jumping when he whips around and knocks his chair back in response to my query.
"What's right?" He snarls. "I had a good idea, you showed up, and it turned to shit- not entirely surprising given that you were breathing down my neck the whole time." He yanks me forward by the collar. "You're a human tumor, you know that? It's like you're sucking the life out of me just by being in the same room!"
My lip juts out because life is the last thing I want to suck out of him, and I obviously I don't want to be a nuisance but if it weren't for me, his unique breakfast creation would have ended up all over the floor! If it wasn't for me he wouldn't even have breakfast, and he probably wouldn't have been able to work because of low blood sugar or something. See? I am helpful.
His glare becomes all the more vitreous for my pout, but then there's a spark, a minute upward twitch of his eyebrow, and I can tell he's got an idea. He makes a calculated switch of expressions, his features moving into an irresistibly condescending patience. He lets out a long, dramatic sigh, and then he pulls the pen away.
"Aw, punkin', I'm sorry." He bends to my level, bracing one hand on his knee and using the other to push my lower lip back into place. As usual his touch makes my mind go blank. "Daddy's being too mean, isn't he?" I don't dare answer that, but I feel my eyebrows jump just the same. He seems to find that fairly entertaining, but he stays in character.
"After all, you put yourself in the line of fire- you could have been caught dead to rights cracking me out of the cooler. Could have been locked up and disgraced- and to be honest you probably should be-" He adds with some seriousness. "But you bit the bullet!" He shakes his head in faux disgrace. "And what did I do? I took a cheap shot." An edge of sarcasm tempers his buoyant tone but his palms are warm on my shoulders and they're big, and the weight of them is obscenely comforting. "Well that's hardly fair is it?" He's really on a roll now. "Tearing poor little you down for the simple act of breathing- I can't very well expect you to stop; you can't even keep your mouth shut!"
"That's ok, Mistah J, really-"
"Nonsense- I'm a grown man, Harleykins, I have to take responsibility for my actions, don't I? Gonna have to pull out the big guns if I want to make this one up- so what do you say, kiddo, Is it about time to take you home?"
The offer is way too good to be true, but he knows just how close to stand, how to pitch his voice and how to look at me with enough interest to make my heart pound.
"For real, Mistah J?" My voice cracks and my hands dart forward to clutch at his suit jacket. He chuckles at my enthusiasm and it seems genuine, which makes my heart soar because maybe we're moving along faster than I thought, and that's absolutely no problem, I can definitely get on board with that.
"Oh, it's the least can do." His grin stretches, his eyes narrow, and it's unmistakably sinister but he smells just as good as he did last night. God, I just want to lean forward and- he spins me around by the shoulders and pushes me to the door before I can finish the thought.
"You were the best doc I ever had! So attentive-" Ok so that was definitely sarcastic but he's not wrong, and it's nice to know he noticed. "Hey Mister Joker," His sudden falsetto has me giggling as he steers me into the parking lot. "Here, have a key card, on me!" He deposits me next to the driver's side, and I'm fairly confident that he wants me to unlock the door. I'm going for my pocket when he slaps my hand away to dig into it himself, and I'm pretty sure I've stopped breathing because wow that is just-
"How about some pudding cups, on the house?" He pulls the keys from the pocket of my jeans, tossing them up and catching them before jamming them into the lock and pulling the door open. "Oh and just in case you were feeling bored in the S.H.U, here's a gun- you play nice now, no running!" I've taken half a step toward the car when he grabs my arm and yanks me forward, stuffing me into the drivers seat and ignoring my startled yelp.
"You're full service- followed me right out of the bin!" He's starting to sound a bit manic now and I watch him open-mouthed as he marches around to the passenger side to wrench the door open. "All the other doctors had me thinking we needed boundaries for an appropriate therapeutic relationship," His hands fly up for bunny ears as he folds himself into the seat. "But you weren't afraid to go hands-on, really get in there-" Suddenly my keys are flying at my face and I just manage to snatch them before they smack me in the nose. "Freud would have loved you."
He's half laughing, half growling, and his eyes are very wide- it takes a few tries to push the key into the ignition because I'm a bit nervous about what he'll do if I look away. His eyebrow quirks and I peel my gaze off him, pinning it to the road as I pull out of the lot.
"Left!" He exclaims, and I take the directive with an automaticity that pleases me- it was a lot harder to keep up last night. "Did they screen you at all when you applied to Arkham? Take a right when you get to Granville. Seriously- anything? MMPI? IPI? MCMI?" He rattles off psychiatric assessments and I feel my brow pull down.
"Yeah-huh, an I passed em'! Obviously." I bite my lip the moment I've got the sentence out because it sounded way too sassy- he chuckles.
"Good lord-" He gasps with exuberant gravitas. "If that's the case we're all doomed. Oh that's beautiful," He claps his hands. "I thought Leland was at least semi-competent but sh- Ha! She was your mentor!" He snorts then bursts out laughing, and I can't help but join in.
"Y'know I freaked out out in front of her?" This is good- it's good that he's laughing at me and I need to draw it out. "I cried an everything that night you-" suddenly I find my throat tight at the memory of his body pulled open on the operating table. "The night the Bat brought ya back."
He snickers at my abrupt change of tone, but then he sighs.
"Yeah…that was a good night."
I really don't know what to say about that, but my throat constricts and I swallow hard. He doesn't seem to notice; still tittering happily as he leans forward to fiddle with the radio, singing five-second parody clips of each song before moving on.
"Shot through the heart," Bon Jovi's voice fills the car and J barks laughter, taking his finger off the scan button. "And you're too late- darling, you give looove a BAD NAME!"
He launches into a spirited air guitar rendition of the opening solo, and when the verse starts up he sings along, still cackling. I'm trying my best to keep my eyes on the road but he's a constant show, and I can't help stealing glances. He's turned towards me with his back against the passenger door- he's not wearing a seatbelt but I can't bring myself to say anything because he's singing to me. He's switched most of the pronouns so that he's the loaded gun and I'm the one in 'chains of love' but I still feel like the luckiest girl on earth-
Suddenly he darts forward and I startle, my hands flying off the wheel just as he grabs it to pull us away from a car I had inadvertently veered for.
"Not the best time for bumper cars, Harl." He grits his teeth and his grip on the wheel pops the tendons in his hand as he pulls us into a right turn, but he forces a smile. Oddly that reaction does more to set me on edge than his anger would. Anger is predictable- this is just weird.
"I'm real sorry, Mistah J!" There's a note of panic in my voice but he doesn't react to it- usually I'd get a little twitch-smile for something like that, but he keeps his grip on the wheel and his eyes on the road. "It's just you're such a good singer and-"
"Its fine!" He's an aggressive kind of chipper. "Don't worry about it. My fault; I forgot that children aren't supposed to drive."
"Heh, yeah..." I don't know why I said that. What am I doing?
He ignores my fidgeting, turning onto an abandoned lot without letting me touch the wheel at all. He parks and gets out with a strange, silent mechanicity that clenches around my lungs to make my breath shallow. I fucked up- I almost crashed us, we could have gotten arrested, he could have been injured, IfuckedupIfuckedup- his hand claps against my upper back and I find myself outside the car without any memory of having climbed out.
"C'mon, kiddo." He shoves me forward, following close behind. His tone has lost its tension, but when I peer over my shoulder to look at him I find him staring straight ahead, pupils unfocused and eyes too wide.
"Now, I know it doesn't look like much from the outside-" Actually it doesn't look like anything- there aren't even any other cars in the lot, and the only buildings around it are commercial. "But the inside's got more character than daddy could beat into you." He chuckles, dropping to his heels beside a sewer grate in the middle of the lot.
He hooks his fingers into the slats, wrenching it open and disappearing into the darkness faster than I can say 'croc snacks'. I crouch to peer inside but I'm really not feeling very good about this; I would follow him into a flaming trashcan if he decided to call it home but sewers are gross, and smelly, and creepy-
"Hiya Harley!" It's a growl that would put pennywise to shame, and I jump when his face pops back into the light. "Aren't ya gonna say hi?"
"Uh-"
He huffs, and his hand closes like a vice around my ankle before he yanks me into the darkness. I smack various limbs and soft spots on the way down, and I'm expecting to land in stinky poo-water, so I'm pretty surprised when something smacks against my stomach and halts my descent. It takes me a few seconds to realize that he's slung me over his shoulder, but then I don't feel so scared anymore. I think I could spend the rest of my life in this exact position- also its pitch black and I can't even see my fingers, never mind my surroundings. I have no idea how he knows where he's going, but his pace is brisk and his gait is bouncy, so apparently he's quite sure of himself.
He marches on with nothing more than a jaunty whistle, skipping along a tune I don't recognize, and I really have no sense how far we've gone or how long we've been down here. My head is starting to throb- being held upside down will do that to a girl- so I focus on the rhythm of his footfalls instead. There's a distinct lack of splash to his steps, so thankfully my fears about poo-water appear to be unfounded.
"Its good to be home." His voice echoes through the tunnel, sounding eerily disembodied. He takes a long inhale like he's trying to savour the smell down here, and its not as bad as I expected but its still not pleasant- "Oh sure, its nice to have a vacation every once and a while, but eventually you get tired of tranquilizers and straightjackets and you just want to get back so you can play with your new Lebenswecker." I'm not entirely sure, but I think that might be one of those yodeling outfits. "I think I'll try it out on an eyeball- I really don't know why bloodletting ever went out of fashion." Ok so he's not talking about dorky German shorts. "No, it doesn't actually help anything, but its fun! Shouldn't that be enough?" He sighs. "Medicine's lost all its spontaneity. Aha!"
He stops abruptly and there's a little click before we're flooded with a glaring light that makes my eyes squeeze shut. I'm still blinking it away when he hauls me back over his should and plops me down with little ceremony. My head is spinning from the rush of blood, but once I manage to steady myself I find us at an apparent dead-end.
"Welcome to the lair, kiddo-" He's grinning over his shoulder, strutting over to the wall on the left side. "you just wait right there, it'll be the perfect view." I'm just going to come out and say it- he's way too excited about this. As always though, his every emotion is explosively virulent, and I find myself unable to work up even a marginal worry. "-Great location, and talk about bang for your buck!"
He flips a hidden panel in the brick and drills a combo into the keypad set behind it. A grinding screech startles my gaze away from his hands and towards the wall in front of me, which is starting to split down the center. A glance at the base of the wall reveals a relatively cleaner line of stone where the wall slides laterally on its tracks. Then I notice the giant red X that I'm standing on, and the rusty stain that it swims in.
"Hey Mistah J, waz this for?" Not thinking further than my own curiosity, I sidestep for a better look, glancing up at him just in time to see the exasperated slap of his palm over his eyes.
A concussive stutter rips the space between us, and my backward scramble is utter reflex as bullets fly inches from my nose. My foot lands on something that isn't quite floor- in fact it's rolling out from under me, and so is my foot. My view switches abruptly from the wall of whipping metal in front of me to the rounded stone ceiling above me, and my spine jars against the ground. The staccato rattle cuts out, and when my back stops screaming, I realize that I must have slipped on a bullet- they're all over the floor. I sit up and make a half-assed attempt to smooth out my pigtails, but then I get a load of the still-smoking gun pointed at me from a the end of the now visible hall ahead. It's massive- there are maybe six barrels, and it looks like one of the ones that rotates- what are they called again?
"Gatling gun!" I didn't mean to say that out loud, but I still find myself looking expectantly at J. He stares back for a moment, looking oddly defeated. Then he blinks into a frown.
"Are you expecting an award for naming random objects? I can do that too!" he points to the wall next to him. "Bricks." He points at the ground. "Bullets." He points at me. "Idiot." He says this with a sense of finality, crossing his arms. "See? Not that hard." With all the drama he can muster, he whirls away and storms off down the hall towards the Gatling gun.
I'm careful to watch out for the bullets and the shell casings on the floor but I also keep an eye on that gun. It looks kind of old, plus its bleeding knotted wire and lime green duct tape into a crudely cut hole in the floor, so I don't trust it not to act up. If that thing goes off again I'm going to have to be a hero and tackle Mistah J out of the way, and I don't think he'd like that too much. Luckily, we make it past the gun without incident and I manage to breathe for the split second it takes him to move towards next door, which is the normal kind with a handle.
Then I realize I'm about to enter the inner sanctum, he's taking me home- or as close as he can get to it.
None of his other doctors have gotten this far and I know I probably shouldn't call myself that anymore, but I don't know what I am. I don't think I'm an employee, and he tried to make it very clear last night that he's not interested in anything more hands on- I have my doubts about that, but still. What am I? Harley Quinn, the Joker's…sort-of-pal? I feel a sting in my throat, so I swallow it down and I fix my eyes on his hands as he pushes open the door to reveal…a basement.
A very interesting basement, but a basement nonetheless. Its large and unfinished, filled to the brim with boxes of props and racks of costumes- they look old, and I wonder if they're his or if they happened to be here when he appropriated the space. He's already bounding up a set of rickety wooden stairs so I hasten to follow, blinking furiously against a flood of light when he reaches the top of the stairs and flicks on the lights. When I make it all the way up and out into the room above, I realize we're in an old theater and I start to grin. All the seats are still here- although some of them bear knives, blood, or bullet holes. The stage is a masterpiece of art deco filigree and frieze, replete with sumptuous red velvet curtains that hang closed- unsurprisingly, all of those are speckled with knives, blood and bullet holes too, but the curtains have been painted with a leering lavender smiley-face.
It's perfect.
I start to bounce with excitement because holyshitholyshit, I'm here! I hear a snort but by the time I turn I see J he's walking away again. I follow immediately- I'm starting to think he doesn't want me to, but I'm going to do it anyway- I'm curious! I have to test the boundaries to find out where they are, don't I? He leads me- however reluctantly- through a door at the side of the theater, and down a series of hallways that culminate at a large set of doors. They bear an orderly little label that says 'Rehearsal Space A', but there's also a much larger, messier label in red spray-paint that says 'JOKER'S OFFICE: DO NOT DISTURB'. He pushes through those doors, and they slam shut with a locking click before I even manage to peek inside.
"Uh… ok, see ya later, Boss!" I say to the closed door. "Love you!" I whisper. Then I blush.
After that, it all sets in.
I'm alone, I'm in the Joker's headquarters, and he's mad at me, and I don't know what he wants me to be doing. I let out a huff and I feel a lot like I'm deflating, like all of my injuries from yesterday have decide to weigh in now, so I plop down against the wall outside his office. For a moment I feel very small and scared in a way that I really don't like- this place seems to stretch out around me, nothing but the alien, the unknown, and I'm terrified. I'm not sure how long I sit there, but eventually my heart stops pounding and I get bored so I crawl over to the doors and I press my ear against them. I can't make anything out from the inside, so I get to my feet.
I take in the hall, the peeling green and gold geometric wallpaper, and the large sets of doors that cap the space to my left and to my right. The wall opposite J's office is also lined with doors- four of them to be exact, two on either side of the adjoining hall. These doors have labels that say 'Office' but the windows have been blacked out, and one of them says 'guest room' in a substance that looks suspiciously like blood. I giggle at that and I try the handle, but the moment the door creaks open I'm hit with a nauseating wall of stench that makes my eyes water. I slap a hand over my mouth and nose, forcing myself to hold the door open long enough to look inside. I immediately spot the source of the smell- its sort of all over the place. The corpse, that is.
I slam the door shut, trying to shake the smell from my skin and hair. Ok, so that is the kind of situation that can only get worse- as in it's extremely rotten and I can only assume that it will be completely liquid soon- but I'm going to deal with that later.
The other "offices" are significantly cleaner- although not overly so by any normal standard. They're unfurnished, blood stained rooms fitted with chains and manacles, each one equipped with a selection of tools- scalpels and hooks and hammers, oh my! Each one also boasts a record player, all completely mismatched- one of them looks like it's been around since the 70's, while another is pink and plastic. Unfortunately there aren't any records- obviously he's hiding a collection somewhere and the thought fills me with zealous excitement. I could spend hours listening to his music and I want to know it all, every song and every lyric. I want to know what he listens to while he's in here playing and what he listens to when he's had a bad day. I want to know what songs make him dance, and what he sings in the shower, I want a life filled with his music.
That thought swells up inside me like a balloon, and I end up dancing over to the large doors to the left, which, quite anti-climactically, turn out to be locked. The ones at right end of the hall however, open onto darkness. In the distance I spot my reflection in shadow, outlined by the light spilling in behind me, and it takes me a moment to realize that it must be a mirror. That suspicion is confirmed when I turn on the lights- true to the placard on the door, it's a rehearsal space, but it' s cluttered with trash and many of the mirrors are smashed.
I look around and the balloon in my chest swells again- this place has real possibility. I could clean this up in no time, and then...well who knows? That's the beauty of it. I'd have to ask of course, and isn't that a terrifying thought- but I'm sure he wouldn't object to a little light dusting, he probably wouldn't even notice it!
I turn away with a grin, and this time I'm skipping as I head back through the joining hall and into the next. On the far wall of this hallway, there are six unlocked doors that say 'Dressing room'. They're little cookie-cutter rooms, each with its own bathroom, and like the rest of this place they're a bit rough around the edges. But the second room has a futon, the third has a vanity, and the fifth has intact mirrors and a bathtub that looks cleanable, so I'm in business. I wrestle the futon and vanity into the fifth room, and I take a look around my new space. So it's a bit garbage-chic right now, but all it needs is a scrub and a pop of color!
Satisfied with the progress I've made, I turn to continue my exploration. Down the hall to the left of the dressing rooms is a small, slightly blackened kitchen, which appears to be void of any actual food- the fridge is empty except for a jug of bleach and some cinnamon.
I'm not even going to try to guess what that's about.
When I check the cupboards I find two cracked plates and a mug with a photo of a camera on it that says, "I shoot people, and I sometimes cut off their heads." I giggle at that. I also find a gigantic top-grade food processor that could probably retail at about five hundred dollars, and I'm confused about its presence until I realize that it could probably chop up a hand pretty good.
Connected to the kitchen is a lounge with a fat purple couch and a few mismatched chairs gathered around a low table. There's also collection of empty bottles in the corner, an empty pizza box with a dick drawn on it, and some discarded electronic device that's almost definitely broken, whatever it is. Somehow I think this area is primarily henchmen-domain. I forgot about henchmen.
A fresh spike of fear jabs into my chest because I have no idea when they'll show up and I have no idea what the fuck I'm supposed to expect! I've seen them before obviously, but I was under his protection at the time and I don't know if that still applies. What if they try to attack me- what if they ask why I'm here? I would have no idea what to say, and that's enough to pop my chest balloon. I deflate all over again only this time I do it violently, and suddenly I'm heaving sobs. My heart is pounding and I'm choking on my tears as bitter panic clogs my throat, and oh god what if he hears me?
I find myself racing from the lounge, muffling my cries into the crook of my arm until I burst through a black door across the hall and into the still darkness of the backstage area. I sit down hard the moment the door closes behind me, curling into a ball and pouring the rest of my tears onto the floor. As the sobs begin to subside I remember another time I lay on the floor crying. I remember huddling up in that fort I made in my old apartment, feeling alone and helplessly scared because I didn't know where he was or if he was even still alive. I was so far away from him, and all I wanted was proximity but I was reaching through bars and it felt hopeless. I never dreamed that I could actually pull off a breakout, that I could end up in his home worrying about how to act when I formally meet the henches. But I am- I'm here despite the fact that he tried to kill me last night, and I can only interpret that as divine intervention. I'm supposed to be here, I was made for this. I might not know exactly how yet, but he needs me. I just need to stop being a baby and make myself useful.
Why not start with food?
He might not want me around but he has to eat, and since there's next to nothing in the kitchen I doubt his office is particularly well stocked. If I start to take care of that for him, he'll associate me with something good- sustenance- and he'll warm up to me whether he intends to or not. It's just like socializing a feral cat! First you feed them and you let them get used to you being around, then you use the food to lure them closer until eventually they let you pet them. Sure, you might get a few scratches but the payoff is great, and you might find out that you really like getting scratched- ok so this isn't exactly like socializing feral cats, but you get the drift.
Armed with this battle plan, I hop down from the stage and I march to the basement stairs at the back of the theater. I dig out my phone when I reach the bottom, using its bluish glow to locate the switch for the single bulb that hangs from the ceiling. This second sweep of the subterranean trove, confirms that I was right about this stuff not being part of J's personal collection. For one there's not nearly enough blood, but these clothes aren't really his style either- the racks are stuffed with Shakespearian gowns and breeches, fringed flapper dresses and Gatsby-type suits in greys and neutrals. There's also a myriad of props and a whole box full of still packaged wigs. I know I didn't come down here to look around- I'm supposed to be on a mission. Then again, the G.C.P.D put out an A.P.B on a blonde girl my height. That isn't much to go on but Harleen Quinzel has probably been reported missing by now, so it wouldn't be great to get recognized- a wig might be just what the doctor ordered. I dig into the box, snatching anything that isn't yellow- most of them vary only in shades of brown, but then I pull an auburn bob and I know the search is over. I tear open the plastic and I comb my fingers through the silky red strands- I'll never pull it off like Ivy but I think I'd still make a real cute ginger.
I'm thinking about how badass she was with her giant plant monster when I remember how we left things. She attacked me, she attacked my J- that was really uncalled for. I mean honestly, what can she possibly have against him? She doesn't even know him. Sure, he doesn't get the best press but I'd think she of all people could be sympathetic to that. Gotham Gossip has been making jokes about her fondness for bushes since she first appeared- it isn't that there's anything wrong with liking bushes, it's just that they make it seem like there is. Same thing with Mistah J!
I un-ball my fists, releasing a clump of synthetic hair I'd been close to ripping out, and I take a deep breath. Ivy is just going to have to apologize, that's all. There's nothing more to it.
I braid my hair back to tuck it under the wig, and I tug it on before pulling out my phone for a check in the front facing camera. I was right- I do look cute, so I leave it on, and I head for the Gatling room. I side-step the turret with extreme caution, keeping close to the wall until I reach the thin stretch of brick that borders the sliding steel doors. I start searching for a security panel under the assumption that it matches the one on the other side, so I end up messing around with a few normal bricks before finding the one that flips up. Underneath is a numbered keypad, and for a moment I'm entirely stumped- I definitely did not manage to catch the combo when he punched it in. Its ok, its fine, I'll figure it out; there are lots of ways to get around this. I could look for another exit! Granted, the front doors were completely barricaded, and I didn't see anything else that looked exit-ish… I wrack my mind for another option, because this can't be the nail in my coffin, this can't stop me from making myself useful, but I've got absolutely nothing- zip, zilch, fucking nada! My knees wobble, and I let myself plop down to the floor with a pitifully high-pitched roar of utter frustration.
"FUCK YOU!" I yell, mostly at myself.
The sound bounces around the brick cell to slap me in the face and I slouch over to let myself dissolve in self- deprecation. The movement jostles the backpack I forgot I was wearing, and the clinking draws my attention. Invigorated by a sudden jolt of hope, I tear the straps from my shoulders and I dump it out onto the ground. Loose ammo and makeup flies everywhere, along with my ol' faithful MP9 and a handful of neon Band-Aids. I snatch up a tin of loose powder and I dump a mound of the stuff into my palm- I mean sure, they say not to believe the stuff you see in action movies but some of it's gotta be true, right?
Squeezing my eyes shut like I'm making a wish, I lift my hand and I blow the powder at the number pad... and it fucking sticks!
I screech, punching the air and showering myself with iridescent dust in the process. I sneeze, and then I giggle, doing a happy dance to shake it off, and then digging out a makeup brush to try and clear off the excess powder. In the end, I'm left with four numbers, so I key them in and I wait with bated breath- it's just occurred to me that he might have wired the correct code to activate the turret as well as the door. A metallic whir is all it takes to send me shooting though the doorway- I press myself against the wall, waiting for a rain of bullets that never comes, and it takes me a second to clue in that the vintage gun has run out of ammo.
I cough out a laugh as I jot down the code and clean off the keypad, then I switch on my phone light and I turn to the dark stone passage.
It's colder and mustier without him here, and the shadows seem a lot more menacing- this thin LED light really isn't enough for this level of not-cool. I keep imaging some horrible creature clawing its way toward me through the darkness so I'm giddy with relief when I finally reach the sewer grate entrance. I peek up through it, checking for witnesses before I pop up into the relatively clearer air in the lot above. The walk back to my car is strangely surreal because without him here it almost feels like none of it happened, like I'm going to get in and drive back to my apartment to wallow about how I'm not with him.
Reflexively, I press fingers to the bruise that collars my neck and I breathe into the grounding ache. Then, clear and full of purpose, I pop the trunk and I grab a change of clothes. I'm aiming for discrete, so I grab dark jeans and a high necked sweater to cover my throat. I pull them on in the back seat before readjusting my wig and checking the state of the cut on my cheek in the rearview mirror. After a few moments deliberation I add a bit more concealer and a pair of sunglasses, then I get back out to start carting my bags into the theater.
It takes five trips.
Five fucking trips back and forth through that surprisingly long and ever dingy tunnel. I'm both exhausted and starving by the time my trunk is empty, so it's a struggle not to speed when I finally start the engine. The first stop I make is at the nearest Wal-Mart, where I promptly buy 3 chocolate bars and devour them while perusing the cleaning supplies. With a cart half-full of industrial solvents and scrub brushes I head over to the home section where I impulsively purchase a full compliment of hello-kitty themed bathroom accessories. I top it off with the corresponding bedroom-décor items and then I go to the kitchen section, because you can't make grilled cheese with a food processor. The woman at the checkout asks if I'm starting university, which I find mildly hilarious. Naturally, I pretend that I am, and this prompts an earnest speech about how this is going to be the best time of my life, and I shouldn't feel nervous because I seem like a very bright young girl. In spite of my earlier mockery, my gratitude for the sentiment is sincere as I hand over a fat wad of cash.
Next stop: Grocery store.
This one is a real doozy. I end up standing frozen in the entrance with the realization that I'm not sure I even know what he likes to eat- well aside from junk food. That gives me some direction so I stop in the snack aisle and I stock up on candy and chips, looking anything I saw him eat from the vending machines haul last night. Suddenly inspired, I go for breakfast foods next because I saw him eat breakfast this morning, and I gave him a lot of options. I get pancake mix, bacon and every flavor of jam I can find because he likes to mix them together. I buy orange juice and chocolate milk, and regular milk for coffee, and fruit loops (those are for me). At this point I'm feeling good, I'm feeling intuitive so I embark on a food-gathering extravaganza that could put fat bastard to shame.
This time I have to make eight trips through the tunnel of lost souls, but I do it with a bounce in my step and some very bad renditions of lady gaga songs on my lips, so I'm feeling good. At least I am until I get everything inside and realize how much I have to do- by the time I've stocked and organized the kitchen it's 4 pm, so it's too late to bring J lunch and too early to pass something off as dinner... While I hate that he's missed a meal, I'm glad for the extra time- it's only just occurred to me that I'm going to have to bother him if I want to bring him food. I'm going to have to walk right up to the doors of his office and what- knock? I imagine doing just that, and my mind completes the image by sending a bullet through the doors and right between my eyes.
Yeah, my odds aren't great.
But he needs to eat, and even if he's angry with me for bugging him, he'll be glad I brought dinner- right? It's the best I can hope for, so I cling to that as I scrub my new bathroom raw with Clorox. By the time the tub and sink are mostly white my hands are an angry, abraded red, and I'm dizzy from the fumes I've been sucking in so I make my leave to start on the bedroom. I vacuum everything including the futon several times over, following up with a wipe-down for the floors and vanity. When everything looks passably clean I pull the futon into its flat position to find that it's about the size of a double, which means my new pink sheets will fit perfectly. All tucked in with a crisp hello-kitty comforter and a heap of beanie babies that I didn't strictly need to buy, my new bed looks absolutely mouth-watering. I throw myself onto it, and I'm struck with the realization that this really is my bed now. This is where I'm going to sleep every night- although hopefully not for too long.
Is this bed just about the cutest thing ever? Yes. But I know I'd be happier wherever J sleeps. Seriously- if I found out he saws logs on a bed of nails, I'd cuddle up right next to him. I used to watch him sleeping when he was still at Arkham, hours of footage playing on loop as I lay in bed, trying to pretend I was falling asleep with him. I might not be there yet, but at least I'm one step closer.
At some point I force myself up to stock the bathroom with toiletries and the vanity with makeup, and then I realize that I don't have anywhere to put my clothes. I stew about it for a moment before I remember the clothing racks in the basement so I head out into the theater area. I'm about halfway to the stairs when I spot a bronze plaque on the wall, and it occurs to me that I might want to know where I am- the tunnel is fairly long, so can't be entirely sure how close the exit point is to the actual theater, but I have a hunch. I know name immediately- Janus Theater.
This place is famous!
Actually, infamous might be a better description- this is Gotham's area 51, our Bermuda triangle, our very own mystery spot. Anyone you ask about it will tell you a different story: it's haunted, it's cursed, it hides a portal to another dimension and sometimes things slip through… I never really believed any of it- in Gotham the horrors show their faces, so it didn't seem possible that something real could be down there taking other names. That didn't stop me from obsessing though; people had died here- a lot of people, in fact. Far too many for strict coincidence.
It all started in 1898 with a young man named Albert Von Fitz, who erected the theater in the name of love- or at least with the hope that he might win it. The object of our lover boy's affection was Clara Sinclair, who, quite un-coincidentally had dreams of becoming an actress. Albert had a wealthy family, so he poured money into sets and costumes, he hired the best technicians he could find, and he even used his fathers connections to bring in a big name from oversea. The effort paid off, and the Von Fitz Theater was a success, opening its doors to rabid crowds night after night with Clara in the limelight as Ophelia or Juliet.
Only then did Albert realize his mistake- he was not an actor. He'd never pretended to be otherwise, but he'd thought that his nearness to Clara would be enough to woo her. He had never considered that Clara might feel nearer to one of her co-stars, and unfortunately the Oberon to Clara's Titania was none other than Jack Wilder- that big name from oversea. He watched from the sidelines as Jack and Clara grew closer through rehearsals and hours of one on one practice in the studio, and eventually, Albert decided to kill Jack. It was only natural, wasn't it? The competition had to be eliminated, so he waited for the opening night of Von Fitz Theater's Macbeth, and he rigged a sandbag. Everything went perfectly- the rope tethering the bag snapped in the middle of the third act, crushing the scoundrel where he stood obediently on his mark. Finally Jack was dead and Albert was free to be with Clara forever.
Clara had other plans.
Oh sure she was pretty girl but she was clever too- she knew Albert had his eyes on her since the day they'd met and she'd played along because it had got her far enough to ride someone else's coat tails. Jack wasn't just her lover, oh no- he was her ticket to stardom, and Albert had crushed that future with a single wayward sandbag. Clara was a pretty girl, but she was vicious too, and she'd never been one to go down alone.
So she waited until the police had left, and she went crying to Albert's office. He was so overjoyed that he didn't notice the letter opener in her hand until it was protruding from his throat.
Clara didn't make it far before the law caught up with her, and the press was close behind. They ate her up because she was a pretty girl, a sweet, scorned flower on death row. On the stand she sat in black, dewing dainty tears and vowing her love for Jack, meek and remorseful as she explained that grief had taken her will and her senses. Pleading god and the jury for mercy she found salvation in victimhood and she was a sensation.
Clara was acquitted in 1905, going on to a series of hit shows about the night she thought she lost everything while the Von Fitz Theater sat empty and falling into disrepair.
It wasn't until 1925 that the property was purchased by the Sabatino family, who had both hands in the bootlegging business, and were looking for legitimate businesses to sell from on the side. So they reopened the place under the same name, running half assed productions and getting their clientele loaded. It was a good racket, but the better the racket the bigger the fall, and this one was a doozy.
On December 13th 1928, Gotham emergency services recorded a call from a woman inside the Von Fitz Theater, screaming that every one was dead. As it turned out, she was wrong- exactly six people were alive, and none of them had been drinking that night. Upon searching the premises, the GCPD seized large quantities of illegal liquor- although they failed to discover the tunnel downstairs, which had to have been built to smuggle it in. Officially the event was declared mass poisoning and passed off as mob activity, but suspicion remained, and the theater's ominous reputation grew, because the police never stated what the poison had been.
Of course there are people who think the alcohol must have been improperly distilled or accidentally tainted, and others think that forensic science just wasn't advanced enough at the time to detect which ever toxic agent had been used. But some people think that nothing was detected because there was nothing to detect. That those deaths were a cleansing sweep by gods hand, a miniature rapture for the hedonists of the jazz age, or that they came at the wrath of Albert Von Fitz and Jack Wilder, who must surely be haunting the place, locked in anguish for the loss of a lady who had long since moved on. Still others think that the theater's bloody baptism imbued it with Aokigahara type magnetism that attracts death simply by existing, like a black hole right in the middle of the city.
No matter which hypothesis you clung to, the Von Fitz was bad juju.
Nobody wanted to touch the lot, not even to bulldoze it, so it just sat there vacant and dressed in aging 'for sale' signs until 1968, when it was sold for nearly less than nothing to a man who introduced himself as Donny Damage. Mr Damage was a cinephile with a taste for the kind of footage that wouldn't play at your local picture theater, and he was naturally attracted to the Von Fitz's dubious past. The next year, Donny re-opened as the Janus Theater, a projection house for giallo films and Hitchcock marathons. He did fairly well, drawing in cult crowds while remaining small enough to avoid public damnation for giving teenagers access to that kind of fetishized gore. He had a regular audience, and that kept him afloat- everyone said he seemed perfectly happy before they found him hanging from the lighting rafters.
That one was officially declared a suicide, but only after a long and very fruitless investigation that which served quite successfully to enhance the newly dubbed Janus Theater's hostile mythos. It's been 'abandoned' ever since, sealed up again and never touched because it was in the Narrows anyway- it could be forgotten if it weren't so completely alive in legend. It's a story told at sleepovers and summer camps, and sometimes, people get dared to go inside.
Sometimes they don't come back.
No, I'm not kidding, and that last bit makes a lot more sense knowing who's taken residence here. The best part is, no one ever believes the kids friends when they tell the cops that the Janus took their bro- Occam's razor, right? Why blame the mystery theater when there are human traffickers in one direction and Two-Face in the other? In Gotham most monsters like to show themselves off, so this is absolutely priceless.
I turn slowly from the plaque to stare up at the stage, suddenly seeing Donny Damage swaying from his noose, Jack Wilder in a pile of blood and bits below him. I feel a strange, chilled sort of awe that pricks Goosebumps up my arms as I walk between the seats. I see skinny girls in pearls and beaded dresses lying lifeless next to dapper men in suits and hats, and they're everywhere- I see teenagers in hoodies and jeans protruding knives and axes, dismembered and strewn-
I start to back away, but just because I got stuff to do- I ain't afraid of no ghosts. I don't even believe in ghosts! Sure, I hope they exist just for the hell of it, but I'm a Doctor, I'm a rational person. I'm fine, and I am not going to run to the basement. I feel a bit weird when I get down there and it it finally occurs to me that these costumes must have been from Von Fitz or the Sabatinos- but they've been gone for a long time! And theres no such thing as ghosts. Still, muscle clenches around my spine and it takes a mental shove to reach out and touch a garment.
You're being ridiculous- it becomes a mantra as I start to clear the rack. The only threat in this place is alive and extremely handsome. He's also probably hungry, and that thought kicks me into gear. I haul the clothing rack back to my room, and then I descend on the kitchen to tackle dinner. This moment feels terrifyingly momentous, like this meal is going to set the stage for the rest of our relationship and I need to pick the exact right thing or it will all be ruined. After a lot of useless opening and closing cupboard doors I decide the first meal needs to be poetic- obviously I'm going to make grilled cheese.
That was the first thing I ever made him and he devoured three of them with a side of hot sauce, not even pausing to reprimand me for burning the last one. I won't burn them this time though, they're going to be flawless, they're going to be the best godamn grilled cheeses he's ever tasted! But it can't just be grilled cheese, he's obviously very busy with whatever it is that he's got in there so he needs sustenance. I pop fries into the oven and then I start slicing cheddar. Once I've got the sandwich in the pan I turn to the fridge, debating the addition of veggies just to round things out. For some reason the idea seems dicey but I end up making a smiley face with a carrot smile and cherry tomato eyes anyways- he has to get vitamins somewhere, doesn't he? And it's not like I can force him to eat them. I add a bowl of chips and another of the sour gummy worms he seemed partial to, along with a slice of pie. I might be compensating for the vegetables.
Grilled cheese number two is nice and gooey-golden by the time the fries are done, so I load everything onto my new purple serving tray, and I walk with gripping caution to the big double doors at the back of the theater.