Of Madmen, Misfits & Everything In Between
Pairing: Joker/OC
Rating: K+
Warnings: Mild swearing
Chapter Two- Games At Dawn
Come Monday, Joker found himself in Misha's kitchen waiting for Misha to serve him breakfast. Said lady was talking to someone on the phone in Urdu so apart from the occasional mention of words like 'university', 'course', 'please', he really did not know what she was talking about.
Or talking to who for the matter.
Nonetheless by her body language and the way she constantly swung the spatula as she made pancakes, he guessed it was an argument.
Oddly, unlike most of the 'normal' people who lived in Gotham, she did not raise her voice at all. But then again, by what he had seen of Misha all weekend, she was not exactly normal. She was…different. He did not know how he felt about it yet.
Finally, she hung up and served him his breakfast. He noticed how she did not bother preparing for herself. Instead, she grabbed a bag that sat in what should have been her seat. "I'll be back in a few hours," she told him. Joker nodded. "Where you going?" he asked her, eyeing her curiously. In the few days since he had been here, he had never once seen her dress up nor had she shown even the most remote interest towards her appearance so why was she, well, looking good?
It didn't make any sense.
Sure, her choice of torn (at the knees and ends) washed out jeans and shirt (baggy but still less baggy than the ones she'd been wearing around him) was kind of a few years old, but there was still no denying that she looked rather fetching in it. Her curly dark hair was pulled back from her face loosely by a hair pin and she wore no makeup at all with the exception of a gloss.
"Where do you think I'm going?" she retorted, taking a messenger bag of one of the hooks behind her door. "I'm going to GSU for classes. See you in a few." And with that, she walked out.
Joker sighed. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the couch this morning, he thought as he took a bite of the pancake only to realize that it tasted like burnt pancake. He choked and had to don a whole glass of milk to make the taste go away. At least she could have been easy on the food!
"What's got your panties in a twist Mish?" Iona asked her as they walked out of class.
Misha rolled her eyes turning to her companion. "Why must you use such a vulgar language? There are better ways of expressing curiosity."
The Hispanic snickered. "I'm not interested in an anthropology and linguistics lecture. What's going on? Who pissed ya off this time?"
"Nobody," she shrugged.
"Well somebody did," Carlisle, Iona's boyfriend, joined them. Misha stopped right then and there in the middle of the crowded hallway.
"Why do you guys automatically assume that I'm angry at someone?" she asked them.
"Well, you are," Iona stated, "that, or you're bitter."
"Then bitter I am," she sighed. Carlisle made it a point to laugh right then.
"So we set for the movies tonight?" Iona asked, ignoring her boyfriend.
"Actually, I have an extra shift tonight," Misha lied expertly.
"Really? Why?" her friend asked her.
"Dunno, ask Mr Cambrie," she said dryly.
"Misha you always do this!" Iona cried.
"Hey, I have tuition to pay," she stated as a matter of factly.
Iona sighed "Alright, but next time- I don't give a shit to what happens, you're coming, kay?"
Misha nodded warily and began to walk back home. It was not exactly a long way back but she never used public transport to save on some cash. Today, she made it a point to stop at the grocer's, buying the initials for a few basic meals. Even though she was okay with skipping meals, she highly doubted her 'guest' would appreciate that. She vaguely wondered what kind of food he liked, deducing that he was probably not a vegetarian and given her cooking, would obviously hate the kind of meals she'd cook up. She did know how to make a variety of dishes- just the basic survival stuff and so settled for a bunch of microwavable food. She was debating between a mac n' cheese and a casserole pack when the television overhead the isle flashed a news alert.
Apparently they were worried about the Joker not being around.
What strange people, she wondered, they've a problem when he's there. A problem when he's not. Can't they make up their minds?
She smirked at that, knowing the answer all too well. These were one of the many, many, many things that eluded her from the people of the world. Misha chose not to think. She didn't choose to speak either and resorted to stay in the sanctuary of her apartment. Not that it was really good or anything. It was pathetic; she did not like her apartment at all. It was not home, but then again, Misha did not have a home.
She briefly remembered a house with an iron gate- like a castle, and that was indeed what she had decided to call it. In her worst moments, she would think about it; her castle, the home she wanted the home she did not have. For some reason it left a mercurial taste in her mouth. And then came the flashbacks…
' The sky rumbles violently as thunder thrashes about eliciting a number of gasps- and shrieks from the younger ones- from the people who are standing together near an apple tree.
One more deafening sound of thunder, and it begins raining. Everyone immediately draws out their umbrellas, some making their way back to their respective vehicles.
The little girl stands in front of two graves lined side by side under the apple tree, unaware of the commotion around her.
Behind her, her late father's brothers and sisters and their families are already retreating.
"Come now Misha. It's getting late," her father's lawyer tells her but she is not listening. She can't hear, see or even think beyond what she is experiencing- her parents are dead.
Shot by a lunatic.
"Come Miss Alau' din," he repeats, this time much closer to her- to close for her own comfort. He holds her shoulder, his hand lingering at the thin straps of her dress.
"Stay away from me!" she shrieks, slapping his hand away.
The man ignores her, turning to her uncle who has only just arrived. "What do you know Mr Alau'din, the girl's lost it. She can't inherit after all. We'll have to provide her with psychiatric help."
"What? That's not true!" she shrieks, turning to her uncle. "You know that's not true, uncle. He's lying! He's crazy."
But no one hears her. Instead two men dressed in white step forward.
Suddenly, it all makes sense.'
Misha shook her head, realizing that she had managed crumble the box of mac n' cheese while thinking; she sighed and put it in her basket. A quick stop to the frozen food section and a longer one at the drink compartment later, she went over to the counter, paid and walked out.
Night fell by the time she reached the apartment. And with every step she took, she found herself dreading it. What was she thinking? She had just taken in Joker- the resident baddy of Gotham; sure the only reason why she did it was because he was hurt- and for some reason, despite everything that had happened to her, she found herself unable to turn down anyone who was injured or homeless or suffering from any sort of thing that rendered them homeless.
Misha groaned.
It was so frustrating. She should be avoiding this very situation. She had her studies and her job to cope with- why the fuck was she getting involved with this guy? It didn't make sense. It should not make sense- it did not make sense and yet here she was doing just the same.
And all too soon for her liking, she found herself staring at the door to her crappy apartment.
Misha was terribly unamused.
"I'm back," she announced as she entered and locked her apartment. To her utmost surprise, she found the Joker lounging on her sofa...and he looked pretty normal for the most wanted criminal in Gotham. Granted, he still wore his make up, but still- he looked normal, laying there watching telly.
Leaving him there for the time being, she made her way towards the kitchen. She really was not one for food- normally she would just order take away but she couldn't risk the Joker being seen or heard of by anyone. She groaned. What had she gotten herself into?
She didn't even know what he liked- not that that would be a problem right now. He was injured badly so he would have to take it easy. She wondered if he had a high tolerance towards spices and immediately stopped that train of thought- of course he didn't have a high tolerance, the spiciest thing he probably had ever had in his life must some spicy Mexican food or something- something not far from what the typical American would call spicy.
Misha sighed and turned the stove on. She'd be making something for herself- she didn't know what yet but it would probably be that stir fry her foster mother used to make, or as much as of it she could come close to cooking. Really, her inability to recreate meals never seized to amaze her, particularly because Pakistani girls were expected to literally be born with cooking prowess. Not for the first time in her sorry existence did she curse herself for being the exact opposite of what she should have been. Maybe that's why her parents died. She could never live up to any one's expectations. She couldn't even cook a simple meal properly. She couldn't even-
"I'm bored," the Joker's voice interrupted her chain of thoughts.
Misha turned around to look at where he was sitting. He was looking at her, almost expectantly. She couldn't help but be relieved that he spoke when he did- her thoughts had almost pulled her down the rabbit hole and that was not a place she'd like to be. Specially if Gotham's most wanted was under her custody which brought her back to phase one- why was she even helping him?
"So?" she asked him indifferently.
"Well, do something," he said.
Misha made a face at him, as if to say "seriously".
"I'm quite serious," Joker added.
"Okay," she complied, "What do you want to do?"
"Anything."
Sighing yet again, she walked over to the bookshelf near the television, picked up a book and held it out for him. The Joker took it and frowned at the title- The Prince by Machiavelli.
"I don't like reading. It's boring."
Misha looked highly amused.
"Well, I could take you out to the nearest park," she said, "but that's kind of impossible because, A. You're the Joker, and B. This is the Narrows and I don't want to get mugged, thank you very much."
He slumped back into his seat and that's when Misha noticed it: his make up was fresh. New, and not the smudged face paint it was yesterday.
"Did you use my make up?"
He looked rather sheepish as he said,"Duh."
"You can't use my stuff without my permission," she cried. If there was one thing Misha hated, it was people touching her things with, or without her permission- be it a simple pencil, she could not stand the idea of someone using her things. Her friend- for she really had no other word for Iona considering how the girl had managed to infiltrate Misha's life without her really wanting to, in fact, Misha did not even remember the exact moment when Iona Lewis decided that she would be friends with her. Sometime during economics? Misha did not know- said that she had an OCD or something but even Misha knew that she was not that damaged (or so, she hoped anyway) because unlike what people generally thought, OCD was a serious mental illness she did not have an OCD, she was just very... possessive about her things.
But that was the principle of things. Any normal human being would feel annoyed at someone using their things without permission which is exactly what the Joker had done and yet he had the audacity to look confused at why she was trying so hard to control her temper.
"It's not right," she told him, "to use things without people's permission. Why the fuck do you even need any make up?"
"It's part of the look," he stated and Misha groaned.
"What look?" she asked, eying the outfit that he was wearing- it wasn't the weird neon suit he wore yesterday, she had given him a pair of sweats and a t- shirt, one of the reminders of what one of her night stands forgot or chose not to take in the hope that she'd call them up or something (she never did). He would have looked normal, if it was not for the damned make up.
"Look, darling," he emphasized. "I'm the Joker."
Misha rolled her eyes. "I know that," she said. "But right now you're not the Joker. You're just some guy who's crashing at my place so could you please take it off and- God help me- be normal-ish for a while so I can call for take out without worrying about you being discovered." Because, yes, she had decided to forsake cooking for the day, he could live with take out.
"No can do," he said, "but if it makes you feel any better, I'll ask you the next time I use your stuff, okay?"
Misha said nothing to that, just took a deep breath and disappeared into her room with a loud slam. She did not come out until it was well past ten.
The Joker was halfway through the book the girl- Misha had given him when he heard the doorbell and even though he would never admit it to anyone alive or dead, that did startle him. He had been reading for quite a long time considering how two hours later from when Misha had decided to retreat into her room, he had finally realized that she was not going to be entertaining him whatsoever and so he had turned to the book to keep him company. Misha's flat was ridiculously quiet, he'd noted, and very, very peaceful. It was also very still- the very air in the apartment was stagnant. But it was a good kind of quiet, he had decided sometime ago before the new problem arose- the doorbell.
He briefly considered opening it and seeing if the visitor could be, well, disposed of but then remembered that even though the sprain was better, he still had a broken leg and a broken arm and he really could not do anything until either had been fully repaired.
The doorbell did not stop ringing and finally, Misha stumbled out of her room and quickly sprinted towards the door. She opened it partly and stepped out. The Joker couldn't help but notice that there was something wrong with her movement. Or maybe she was asleep and had just woken up. He didn't know.
She stepped back in and shut the door firmly and he saw that she was holding a large box of pizza and another parcel.
"Dinner," she replied to the questioning expression he had on his face. She walked over to the couch where he sat and sat beside him, placing the box on the little coffee table which he was using as a foot rest. She took out a couple of drinks from the parcel and a package which she opened to reveal a few garlic breads.
"I didn't know what you liked," she told him, "so I ordered Pepperoni because everyone seems to like it here." He chuckled at that. "And Coke- because I don't drink, is that okay?"
He frowned a little at that but muttered a tiny "Yeah". No one said anything as they ate, he eating his slice of pizza and she nibbling on the garlic bread. There was something different about her, he thought as he observed her. She looked a little...pale. Again that could have been due to sleep or the lack of it. He decided to let it be. It was her business anyway.
When they finished, she cleaned up and made her way towards the kitchen to store the reminder of the pizza in the fridge. He decided to join her there for the sake of it. It was close to three in the morning by now, or so, said the kitchen clock.
"Don't you have to go to GSU tomorrow?" he asked her.
"Yes," she said.
"Why aren't you, you know, sleeping then?"
"I was sleeping," she answered quickly.
He said nothing and watched her in silence as she went about the kitchen. When she was done, she looked at him for a long time before saying, "Wanna play chess?"