TWENTY-FOUR
Week Forty-Five: Session 90 - The Joker
"I don't really understand why someone as brilliant and intelligent and creative as you would take an interest in someone like me." Doctor Quinzel had confessed to him at some point. Exactly when was all a bit foggy at that particular moment.
Truth be known, he didn't quite understand it himself.
But one had to take their fun where they could find it. And Doctor Quinzel was certainly a great deal of fun.
But that day he didn't feel particularly well.
This was unusual. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the contrasting series of unpleasant sensations. They seemed incomprehensible, so alien were they to him. He didn't really ever get sick.
But they'd changed some of his medication. Increased the dosage of some others. He generally needed higher dosages because he had such high resistance - or outright immunity, in some cases. But they kept on trying and experimenting. He rather though it might be one of Doctor Arkham's little ways of punishing him for all his naughtiness.
But one had to take their fun where they could find it.
His head spun. His stomach heaved. He was moving a bit slower than usual.
It was an effort to disguise it, to behave as though everything was as it always was. He couldn't - wouldn't - let onto the guards that anything was amiss. That the great Joker could be felled by an unpleasant combination of particularly strong anti-psychotics and sedatives. Just another step in the game and he was always a play ahead.
He focused on rage, but it wasn't enough. He focused on survival instead, imagined this as the difference between life and death, and it helped - he felt the comforting pump of adrenalin begin. It perked him up. But even that reacted against the medications and while it enabled him to soldier on, now there were strange flashing bursts of colour and shape behind his eyes, streaking across his brain like lightning.
It was making him furious.
"Doing a bang-up job, chums," He praised Ethan and Ross as they chained him to his couch. White-hot rage simmered deep within him, but his voice bubbled coolly. "Keep this up and you'll be promoted to monitor watch, soon enough!"
Doctor Harley screwed her little nose up in the effort not to laugh and the sight made him chuckle a little. Such a cutie. She made him laugh at least.
Nearly everyone made him laugh, but she did it intentionally sometimes. That was speshul. Special.
No sooner had the door clicked shut behind the guards then he reeled, sank back against the couch, felt his muscles unclench, heard Doctor Harley gasp.
"Are you all right?" she exclaimed, flying off her chair and kneeling on the floor beside the couch where he was, infuriatingly, trembling. "Have they been hurting you again?"
The room spun and he realised he was shaking his head. "No chance… Doc. Couldn't get… near me. Not even on a sunny Tueshday."
A very blurry Doctor Harley's face was in front of his own, squinting at him anxiously. She'd noticed him slur. "Doctor Arkham's changed your medication again, hasn't he?" She sounded furiosh. Furious. "He's supposed to consult with me! I'm your Doctor - how can I protect you if he does that!"
He heard himself giggle, grin dopily at her. "Take it eashy, Doc." He managed. "Let Doctor Arkham have hish little fun. You watch. In two daysh I'll be on top of it." He puffed his chest out proudly. Then rolled his eyes upwards, watched the ceiling careen out of control. Like being on a rollercoaster. Whee.
"It's not right." Doc Harley was saying. "They shouldn't force your body to adjust to this. No wonder you can't make a full rehabilitation. Not only is your system bamboozled by these drugs - but it must feel like such a violation!" For once she did not sound on the verge of tears. She was too angry, on his behalf.
He opened his mouth to say something sleazy and vaguely funny, something like "I'll show you how a violation feels!", but what came out instead was: "Rebecca, put TheCocaonuts on will you please, I could do with a laugh."
Before his blurred gaze, Doc Harley's face was suddenly still, her eyes wide and bright as she gaped at him. "What did you say?"
He chuckled, raised an arm above his head. It felt odd and heavy. He waved it around. "I shaid I'd violate you sho you could know how I feel."
She seemed oblivious to the innuendo. "No," She said earnestly, lifting a hand to press gently against his forearm, pushing it back down by his side. "You called me Rebecca."
Her face flickered and he narrowed his eyes at her. The lines of her cheeks and jaw blurred and softened, her oval face became rounder. Her silly blue eyes grew smaller, close together. They looked brown now. Her lips were pink. Her hair was still blonde but was short, an old-fashioned crimped style, down around her ears. The sight of that face stirred something inside him. Something foreign and discomfiting.
Nausea overwhelmed him, bile burbled up in his throat and he sat abruptly up, twitching.
"You're delushional." He giggled at Doc Harley. It was Doc Harley again. That was better.
Doc Harley was looking at him very carefully, her brows knitted anxiously together, a deeply concerned light in her eyes.
"Who's Rebecca?" She probed him gently.
He wanted to hit her. Very, very hard. But his arm felt too heavy. He giggled instead.
"A girl. An angel. A dream. Who knows for shure?" He heard himself say flippantly. "She had a nice fella, I think. Or maybe he wasn't sho nice. I can't quite recall."
Doc Harley was still kneeling on the floor, her worried face fixed on his.
"Was she -" She began tentatively, "Was she someone you - you cared about?"
He laughed, a long cackle that lightened the nausea for a moment. The very thought - him caring about someone! She was such a pip. As soon as he stopped, the nausea began again though. He grimaced, placed a hand on his stomach.
Her hand crept onto his. He stared down at it curiously. It felt so - incredibly soft. And fragile. He could crush it. Finger bones broke easily. He could break each finger, each knuckle, one by one. She would scream. He would enjoy that.
He lifted his hand and placed it over hers. It felt too heavy to lift again, especially with the weight of hers too. So he left it there.
"You never thanked me for paying your student debtsh." He mumbled and she blinked, shifted forward.
"What was that?" She probed him gently.
"I don't mind." His head was swaying slowly from side to side. A wave of noise roared up in his ears, the din of music and the chatter of people. The clank of a glass set on a wooden surface before him and the sweet, bubbling laughter of a pretty girl. He shook his head slowly, and the roar subsided. He did not look at Doc Harley, staring carefully down at the floor between his shoes.
"I did it because you reminded me of what wash important. But it would've been nice, Leeny. Polite." He turned his head to her, leered drunkenly. "I forgive you."
She was looking very puzzled now, but was slowly getting to her feet, gently wrapping her hands in his. "I want you to lie back for me now," She was saying softly, "I'm going to get your medication changed back to what it was, but for now I just want you to lie back."
How sweet she sounded. How concerned.
He went along with it, chuckling to himself. He kept his eyes riveted open, gazing up at the ceiling. Every time he shut them something bright and furious flashed behind his eyes.
That blonde woman. Soft kisses. Rain on his eyelids. Tender kisses on a round belly.
A bowl of shrimp. A small apartment. A bar. A woman's laugh.
Hot lights and a microphone. People throwing things. Drinking.
A blonde waitress. Smiles. Soft, encouraging words and an invitation lurking in sparkling blue eyes.
He was going to need to blink soon.
Doc Harley was sitting on the couch next to him, her rear pressed against his thigh, her hands on his, gazing down worriedly into his face. He kept a grin fixed onto it.
"I want you to take a deep breath, Mistah J, Joker." She was saying. "And try and relax."
He tittered at her. "I'm trying, Jeannie. I'm trying. I'm always trying. Don't you know how hard I try? I'll take care of you. I schwear."
Was that voice his? That voice with that plaintive, desperate timbre? It couldn't be. Someone had swapped out his voice box. They would probably sell it on eBay. Not fair. If anyone should profit from that, it should be him.
"Shhhhh," how tender her silly face was. He could just imagine the way it would crumple beneath his fists, how bright her blood would be on those creamy, pale cheeks. "Just relax, darling. I'm so sorry."
Her eyes were bright. She was crying again. And she'd been doing so well. If he could get his hands around her throat, he could shut her up permanently.
"You've never talked about - your - relationships." She was saying softly, perhaps even a little wistfully. "About the people who've loved you."
He heard himself laugh again, a strangled and gasping sound. "They loved another man."
Her face was so sorrowful. Why couldn't she smile? "He's still in there. I've seen him. I know him." She was saying. What? That didn't make any sense. In where? Who?
He rolled his eyes onto her and leered again. It seemed the best course of action. "I don't feel quite like myshelf," He confessed. "Am I smiling?"
She nodded, leaned forward. "Don't worry, my angel. Your smile is beautiful. Despite everything." Her cheeks were wet. He wanted to lick them, bite them out. "You're still smiling."
He didn't need to blink anymore. His eyeballs felt slick, moist. He was relieved. Those little flashes had been very unpleasant.
"How much pain you must be in." She said softly, sorrowfully, her hands gripping his tight. He turned his head to look at her and something wet and warm smeared down his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. His jaw felt tight. "How alone you must feel. Not anymore. You'll never be alone again."
He wanted to scream, but a laugh got stuck in his throat. Why could she never get it? He was trying so hard to rub off on her and yet still…
He liked his solitude. He wasn't in any pain. He loved his life. He loved what he was. He liked his medication sometimes, when it didn't interact so horribly with his overactive imagination.
His limbs tingled. He shook his head vigorously. The nausea fled away and he blinked his eyes rapidly. His eyelashes were damp. Naughty Doctor Arkham, making him leak fluids! If he suffered dehydration, he was going to write a very stiff letter of complaint. Yes, a very stiff letter… on cardboard.
He giggled at that. "That was fun!" He declared. "Goodness me, Old Jeremiah is a mischievous monkey!" His voice sounded bright, strong. The words came easily. He was feeling far more himself again and he revelled in the sensation, as all the glorious little threads of ideas and memories and dreams he had pooled together once more and he basked in the wonderful knowledge of his last six, magnificent years. He was The Joker.
What more could be said?
He peered at Doctor Quinzel.
She was fumbling in her pockets and withdrew a pink handkerchief covered in red hearts and he idly admired her dedication to constructed femininity. Then she was leaning over and pressing it against his cheeks. What the hell? Her hanky smelt like strawberries. How cliché.
"It's unacceptable," she was saying with righteous indignation. "I'm going to go straight to Arkham after this. He should be ashamed of himself." She folded the hanky in half and wiped tenderly at his face again, her expression alive with compassion and fervour. He found it odd that he simply lay there and allowed her to do it. Why? What was the angle?
He began to feel jittery.
His mind was whirring frantically. What had he done? What had he said?
He suddenly felt in remarkable danger.
But not from Doc Harley, surely - a little thing like that - what could she do to him?
Why the hell had he let go once the guards left? It didn't make any sense. He'd managed to hold on around them. Why couldn't he have kept up the show until he was back in his cell, when he could've just gone to bed and blanked it off?
She'd done something to him.
The little tramp. She'd done something. Infected him somehow, in some way. Manipulating him into revealing his lapse. Now she knew. And he was infected. Infected with her.
He clenched his fists. Kill her. Kill her now. Before she could tell anyone.
He sat up abruptly, and she started back a little. He coughed, smoothed back his hair and straightened his pyjamas. Presentation was always important when it came to things like this. No excuse for slacking.
She had no idea what was coming. She was still just sitting there, gazing up at him tenderly, her face absolutely riveted with compassion.
"You poor thing." She said, and her eyes were still shining. "What the world has done to you. I'll make it right. I swear it."
He eyeballed her curiously. Could he use this? She didn't seem to know they'd gone off-script - seemed to think it was all still a part of the show. Waste to kill her now, really. When he'd put so much work into her. He never had to tell her it had been an unscripted moment. And if anything - it seemed to have her put even further into his thrall.
So maybe he'd done it all on purpose. Yes. Of course he had. Just another brilliant orchestration on his part. He was so very, very clever!
"Harley!" He said tenderly. "You're the first person who's ever really cared about me."
He rather thought that might be true. And for a moment that nausea returned and he swallowed hard against it.
But then daffy Doctor Quinzel was beaming, gazing up at him with adoring, tear-dampened eyes. His own were dry again and when he blinked there was nothing but the random burst of inspiration and the delightful flash of a bloodied smile that he so knew and loved.
One had to take his fun where he could find it.
--
Joker's scattered recollections are from Legends of the Dark Knight: Going Sanec, The Killing Joke, Batman Confidential: Of Lovers and Madmen and Shadow of the Bat: The King of Comedy.
I'm personally not a supporter of any background story as being the 'one true' Joker origin. But I like the idea his imagination creates these various stories for him, betraying the last skerrick of humanity he possesses.
I've always liked the idea it exists deep within him, flickering dully away. But I'm very particular about how it's depicted. He still has to be himself - and he does love what he is - can't detach from his nature and personality. And yet, now and then this little human vulnerability flares up. And I don't think it affects him the way it does ordinary people. The emotions are so foreign to his nature that they confuse and bewilder him. He cannot understand or process them, rather than it gets him down and mopey.
Of course, this chapter was taken from Arleen Sorkin's immortal words: "Everyone else sees The Joker laugh. Only Harley has seen him cry."
This story will be rated M with Chapter 26 - so in two chapters time. Add this story to your alerts now! After the next chapter the rating goes up!
Keen to hear your thoughts and thank you for all your words on the last chapter.