.

8

Hooded Henchman

Sweat poured, resist the urge to release an empty stomach onto this hard seat. The Joker's cold, wet hands held everything still. It may have seemed like he's helping but I wanted to shift around so horribly. The constant motion mixed with this kind of feeling would not be the brightest thing, but it just made it better.

"Will you shut up about it!" someone yelled, smacking his opponent.

"Keep it down back there morons!" he barked, jerking me forward as a result. Okay, we need to pull over. Just please make this van stop.

"Uh, Boss?" they sharply whispered, trying their best not to agitate him more. But they still needed him to respond.

I couldn't see what he was doing but felt a growl tremor in his chest. Skin pale as the moon, body shaking like a rattle. Please don't move, I need him to stay still, no more movement please! But they wouldn't shut up and obviously wanted him to deal with whatever it was. He placed his palms beneath my neck, scoot himself out, stood, lowered me against the seat and then jumped to the back where he abused the person who yelled. How did he do that? I didn't feel a thing. This craft was obviously radiating between him and the, Simon.

"You! Go up front and hold her while I deal with this."

A couple of moments passed before someone lifted, hopped over and lowered us both into the same position the Joker was in before.

Why would he do that? I was fine without being held.

An expensive scent hovered above before entering, filling senses with the intoxicating smell. What is this? They smoothed the array of my tangled and tragic locks as if it were a completely natural thing to do.

If only to glare at him for thinking he knew me well enough to perform such a nurturing gesture, I had to see. A hooded man, his face covered in shadows peered down just as I peered up. "You're not getting away from me that easily," he whispered.

The hood pulled back just enough to see the shadows of his face. "Bruce?" I worded. He nodded, smiled but hid it as the Joker returned over the seat. Landing between my ankles. There wasn't room to sit so he slid them around as if they were soccer balls. Getting them in the right position, he plopped and fixed his hair. Taken aback that I was staring.

He stretched long until he hovered. "Well look who's joined the living. How hot are you?" cold hand slapped onto the clammy forehead, his fingers spread across my hairline like spiders. Lips sucked into his mouth while the black makeup squinted in knowledge. "Mmmm, still hot! Alright let's get you back to bed shall we?"

He looked to Bruce.

He doesn't move.

We watched the material from Bruce's shirt twitch, he tightened around. And the venomous glare of iced fire only intimidated more. Anyone else would have pushed me right into him but Bruce didn't budge. "Don't make me say it again," his throat rumbled.

With much difficulty, I made the move before any could react. Crawled right over to him. Bruce almost didn't let me but he knew what its purpose was. This wasn't going to end badly. Not with me here, he can't be seen nor can he be noticed. The purple coat gorged over the purple dress, my being pressed deeper into his chest, his heart. Accidental yet purposeful. I just needed to find something of a stable rhythm to help sleep comfort this nausea. "Get in the back with the others."

Bruce stayed but moved all the same, gracefully where the other henchmen sat.

Simon put the parking break on and turned off the engine. We were back.

They were out long before they were told, pushing each other, laughing with delight. Simon waited a moment longer before walking across the front and opening the passenger side. The Joker climbed first, hastily reaching back in to grab my waist. Without any trouble still, he slid me right into his rather comforting style. Moved us through all the noise, ignoring everyone's shouts, yells and happy hoots.

Where is he? Bruce? Nothing, I was anything but capable of spotting him in the big blur of clown masks and black clothing.

Another door opened, we went inside, he shut it with his foot. And once again, I was back here. The bed, oh the bed, I didn't care whose it was, I wanted it now. He granted it, practically tore the sheets into shreds before bringing them down. Then looking around the room for something. He squinted in the dimness but doesn't turn on a light. He found it. Stepping on his shoe's heels, kicking them under the bed and walking to the bathroom door, he left.

Why are these sheets wet? The sound of water ran and a few mumblings echoed.

It was me. I was making the sheets wet.

Grinding teeth against my inner cheek, chewing off little pieces and swallowing them. I do this when I'm sick, mouth has a mind of its own. It either bites its cheek, grazes the tongue against the top or the bottom jaw slides around until the movement isolates itself. The bathroom door slammed into the plaster, he staggered in, carrying a black bag and dripping washcloth. "I'm all the doctor you'll ever need you know. You learn how to take care of yourself in my line of work." Iced washcloth met head on.

The sudden chill whimpered through the fever, body was shutting down, I felt it, and I accepted it. Took one last look to him circling the bed. It was hard to see; he was no longer glowing. There was no white paint nor red or black. It was just him, the hidden suitor beneath.

~ Ԓ~

Grim vulnerability crawled through his mind. A mixture he hated but yet he craved more. The annoying and ridiculous things this girl brought up. Most were such a burden but there was a tiny pothole which scared him enough to lose. The shower was one thing, but this, this was gnawing, rigging, breaking.

And there she was, soaking his sheets with a high fever.

He sunk further into the mattress. Going down to his side, supporting his head to watch her breathing.

He injected her with medicine, but she was too out of it to notice the sanitized needle puncturing through.

Her heat warmed her more than necessary. Even with the sickness, she always seemed to heat his own. Her gaze was shut tight, green trapped under moist lids. She never noticed, well, she never understood, but he would lean in close just so he could see the color intensify with the help of his vest.

His scars, beautiful? An incredible lie. All, including him, looked to his scars as violence, hate, self-infliction. But she saw them, wrong. It may have been the many treatments he's performed on her which would alter perception. But, in the shower, she wasn't on anything, only on him. And she touched them. She didn't have to, he merely threatened her, commanded her, but she did so with child-like view.

She rolled to her side, now facing him. The edge of the washcloth falling but he fixed it before she could flinch from its loss. Her lashed were practically marking the fragile skin below, closed so tight. He saw the torment.

How long was it that he craved her scream? To hear it from her mouth, watch its splendor over her and yet, now he didn't like this? It was only a brief illness, from the excitement, but he didn't like it.

He was changing, he knew it. He could feel it.

Yet he was the same and would stay the same. Wanted the world to crumble from the chaos he would help create. Push people to who they truly were. Beneath the skeletal surface.

The only thing that truly changed was his demeanor towards her.

He fell to the arm and winced, the scar was hidden beneath blankets. But the memory wasn't. He did that to her, of course he did, he needed to. But she didn't bend to its purpose. She didn't break. Lost hope maybe but she didn't change.

Shivers formed through her lips, quivering from the heat. She was fighting the virus. Faster with his help.

He leaned further into the pillow, gathered her arm, to create warmth.

She stopped trembling, even relaxed slightly but was still disturbed. Probably from knowing who was touching her. But he didn't care. The jacket came off first then the green vest, unbuttoning it with vigor. Lastly the tie and blue undershirt. Everything was off, except the pants which were staying on.

He didn't wait, he placed his hand between her breasts, to feel her breathe. If she were to stop then he would know. Other than this logical healthy precaution of course, he may have been a proud psychopathic, mass murdering, schizophrenic clown with zero empathy, but he was still a man.

-Quote from Heath Ledger (& me for the 'proud' add-in haha) in the New York Times 07.