AN: Why does the congressman I voted for always show up in town to make speeches when I'm either working or out of town?
Thanks for the reviews! I definitely never thought I'd get to seven hundred, thank you all so much!
How could the love of his life be such a complete and total bastard?
It was a question he'd asked himself about a million times before heading back to the bedroom—not retreating, because Jokers never retreated, just going to collect his thoughts—and he still had no answer. Why did Bats have to be such a jerk? He was supposed to sit there and fail at countering the Joker's observations on life, the universe, and everything, either becoming all the more beautifully hardheaded and in denial or eventually breaking down, realizing the Joker had been right about everything ever, and ravishing him right there on the spot.
He could never decide if that second option would be fantastic or disturbing and a letdown, as it'd be the end of the battles. Either way, it would be hot.
But no, Bats just had to talk back, and act as if he understood anything about the Joker's motivations. Which he didn't. The idea that the Joker felt guilt, or remorse, or any of that crap was so stupid he couldn't even laugh about it. Batman actually believed everything he'd said, it seemed, and that was so far off base that it made the Joker sick. How dare Batsy think the Joker was the pathetic one, that he was the one in denial? It wasn't as if he put on the makeup each night because he couldn't cope with his mommy and daddy getting shot.
He should have gone to the Wayne's graves and defiled them after all. It didn't have quite the same touch as invading Batman's home, but at least it would have provoked the man into such a rage that he'd have been unable to do anything but beat the Joker comatose, or maybe even to death. Certainly, he wouldn't have had the rational thought to make all those irrational arguments.
And then he'd had the nerve to call him crazy.
The Joker was never sure why having his sanity brought into question made him see red, but it did. It was one thing when Jonny or Harley or whoever said it without really meaning it, as a reaction to a statement. Which they did often. They were very lucky that being called mad didn't piss him off in those circumstances. Otherwise, every announcement of 'Hey, let's go dump piranhas in the park's lake' or something that was met with 'Are you out of your mind?' would result in serious injury or death, depending on his mood. It was okay when it wasn't meant seriously.
But when it was, that was a whole new kettle of fish.
Not remembering things didn't make him crazy. Dressing up in his fantastic suit and painting his face did not make him crazy. The fact that he had a different origin in his head for the scars at every other second and knew that all of them were true—at least at the moment—didn't make him crazy. But no one else got that.
He wasn't sure why he even cared if anyone else understood. Other people didn't matter, both because they were uninteresting and because he was light years ahead of them, and they'd never catch up. It was like reading The Art of War while the rest of the class was struggling through Pat the Bunny. There was no way humanity would ever be able to bridge that gap. Yet it still stung when they called him crazy, when they had the gall to imply that they could ever have the intelligence necessary to understand one iota of what went on inside his mind.
And when Bats did that, it took his love, the one who was supposed to be above the rest of the world with the Joker, and made him just like them. Unacceptable. Batsy had to be more than just a man, because if he wasn't, the Joker would be truly alone. And the thought that he was the only one in the world who mattered, that no one else could ever reach his level, not matter how close they seemed on the surface, would be enough to push him over the edge, if it turned out to be true. Enough to make him, ironically, every bit as mad as they thought he was.
He got the feeling that if he ever went mad, he'd end up tearing the world apart. It sounded fun, but he'd rather keep his sanity.
And then, just to add insult to injury, Batsy had implied that he still had humanity. Some weak little security blanket the ignorant masses clung to, to hide the fact that deep down, they were all monsters who'd rather kick a person in the face than lend a helping hand. He had no humanity. He didn't want it. He embraced his lack of it. And this stupid twisted sick feeling was not guilt. He'd believe it was swine flu sooner than he'd buy the idea that he was feeling remorse.
Besides, he hadn't done anything wrong. If Bats wanted someone to blame, he had nowhere to point the finger but at himself, for not keeping a closer watch, and at Jonny, for agreeing to all this to begin with. Except that he couldn't pin the blame on Jonny, because Batman was too stupid to have realized that Jonny had agreed to throw away his pills. World's greatest detective? Hardly.
He glared at Jonathan, sleeping on the bed and still wearing the Joker's coat. He was overcome with the urge to kick him, for agreeing to all of this and making the Bat make such stupid arguments. But that would just wake the scarecrow up and he'd probably cry or something, so there was no point. Instead, he dialed the phone and made the noon call.
After that, he took a shower. He stood until the hot water was gone, and for what seemed like hours past that, staring at the tile of the opposite wall without seeing it, and trying to figure out just why being told he was human or insane pissed him off so greatly. He ought to be above it, but ought to didn't change the fact that the Bat's digging little remarks had honestly hurt.
Sometime later—the Joker didn't get the cell phone to check, but it light that came in through the bars and the shades was barely there anymore—he stood in front of the mirror, putting the makeup back on for what seemed like the first time in weeks. Sure, Jonny was liable to freak if he woke up and saw it, but given that the man already thought he was beating eating alive by crows, it couldn't possible make his mental state that much worse. Besides, the Joker didn't really care if Jonny panicked or not. He was more interesting than most human beings, but he was still human. And that made him worthless, deep down.
He ignored the twisted feeling as he painted his face. Once he was chaotic enough while still recognizable as a clown, he went back into the bedroom to reclaim his coat from Jonny. Upon entering, he noticed two things, one before the other.
The first was the fact that the tray of lunch that no one had eaten, that Bats had left sitting on the nightstand, and that the Joker had seen when he'd come out to get his clothes and makeup, was gone, replaced by a quickly cooling dinner that no one was eating. He must have been in the shower for quite a while, then. Come to think of it, the water had been icy and his skin had looked almost bluish when he finally got out, but he hadn't paid much attention to the world outside.
The second thing he noticed, upon sitting down and reaching over to undo the buttons on the coat Jonny was wearing, was that his unconscious friend appeared to be holding a stuffed animal.
A teddy bear, to be precise.
The Joker broke into a much-needed laughing fit that lasted somewhere between half an hour and forty five minutes, to be precise. The good laughter, the kind so deep it hurt the ribs and the stomach to keep up for more than a minute. His body was burning in wonderful agony by the time he did quit, and he only stopped then to keep from crying and having to redo his makeup.
Damn. How beautifully, typically Batman. Because giving Jonny a bear was going to do so much to help his mental state, or do anything at all besides supremely piss the scarecrow off once he was lucid enough to realize what he was snuggling. And to think that the Joker had believed Bats could have any real insight into his state of mind. He felt better about the world now. If Batsy couldn't even figure out what made Jonny tick, there was no way he understood the Joker. He could just imagine Batman sending his butler out to the nearest Toys R Us.
…Or not. Upon further examination, the bear didn't look new. It had all the signs of having been loved by some kid who didn't fully grasp the concept of playing nice, and the Joker could see stitch marks here and there where someone had repaired it. It didn't look as though it had been used in a long time, though. It couldn't be Batsy's, could it? The idea of Bats having a teddy bear broke the Joker's mind, just the slightest bit. Well, unless Bats was in the habit of stealing other people's cherished childhood toys, that was the simplest explanation. God in heaven. He didn't know whether to laugh again or to cry.
Wait, how did he even still have the bear to begin with? Hadn't this mansion gone up in smoke only a few years ago? What did he do, keep all his old toys in a fireproof safe? It made no sense. Thing again, few things in Gotham did. 'Logic' and 'Gotham City' got along about as well as Germany and France had after World War I.
So Jonny got to lie there and cuddle with Batman's childhood playthings. Well, that was unfair. Some people had all the luck.
The Joker shrugged it off. Giving him the bear was obviously either an attempt at placation or an act of pity, and the Clown Prince of Crime was above wanting either of those things. He went back to undoing the buttons, and pulled the coat off of Jonny with only a bit of struggle. He was sliding it back on when Jonny's beautiful if hazy eyes opened.
And immediately blinked and widened the moment they focused on the Joker.
The Joker's hand was over his mouth before he could scream. "Hey. Hey, calm down. I know I'm scary, but I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise." His words had no effect, so he kept his hand there until Jonathan's eyes finally got that hazy drugged look again. Then he let go, met with only the tiniest of whimpers.
"Joker?" He sounded equal parts confused and frightened.
"Yes, kitten. I'm not gonna hurt ya. Relax."
The look on his face was anything but relaxed, though he was making some effort to focus, through the sedatives and terror. "Joker."
"Yes."
"We…we're still…here."
"I know." Great, the twisting feeling was back. Just what he needed. "Bruce Wayne fucked up the plan."
Jonathan stared at him, then turned his head to look at the bandaged arm wrapped around the bear. It seemed to take tremendous effort, and for a moment he lay there with his eyes closed. Just when the Joker thought he'd fallen asleep, they opened again. "This…wasn't supposed…to happen."
"I know."
Jonathan blinked, eyes going the clearest they had in days, and gave a short laugh without a hint of humor. It made the hair on the back of the Joker's neck stand on end. "Why did I expect any different?" There was no anger in his tone, only what sounded like self-disgust.
"Uh…" And then Jonathan was lost again, fully conscious but more in touch with his imagined torments then the world around him. It was at times like these when the Joker wished he was mad, so he could imagine and fully believe that this gut wrenching sensation wasn't caused by emotion, but by some hallucinatory evil, like having his intestines pulled out by some rotisserie-style torture device that doubled as a music box, or something. Jonathan really had all the luck.
This couldn't be guilt. It couldn't. He couldn't feel guilt, because that would make him just like everybody else, and being something so mind numbingly normal as a human being would kill him. But whatever it was, it seemed close to guilt, and he didn't like it. He wanted it gone. How did people get rid of guilt? He had no idea. Unless…was that what apologizing was for? To make guilt go away? He seemed to recall watching some kids' show with muppets once upon a time when he was bored that had shoved some moral like that down the viewers' throats.
Well, fuck that. There was no way he was apologizing. He hadn't done anything wrong. He was incapable of doing anything wrong. Even his failed plans were the fault of someone else, like an incompetent henchman or the GPD. He wasn't about to apologize, especially when there was no need to.
Jonathan moaned and clutched the bear tighter, turning away from some imagined horror. The sedatives must be wearing off. Wonderful. And this sick feeling was only getting worse.
For Christ's sake. Fine. It was just two words. I'm. Sorry. He didn't even have to mean them. And it would make the pseudo-guilt or whatever it was go away, if he said it. He leaned over and pushed Jonathan into a sitting position, hugging him and ignoring the weak protests to get away. "Jonathan."
"Don't—"
"It's okay, I won't hurt you. Listen to me, all right? This is important." He waited until his friend was mostly focused on him before he continued. "Look, I wish what happened hadn't happened. I'm sorry." God, did those words feel alien on his tongue. He'd said them before, yes, but always either sarcastically or to manipulate. He'd never just out and said it before, and the fact that he didn't mean make it any less strange.
Jonathan stared, eyebrows as furrowed as he could get them to go, under the sedatives. "Why?"
Ouch. That really, really hurt, and the Joker had no idea why it even affected him. All he knew was that the apology had done nothing to relieve the feeling. What the hell? This wasn't how it was supposed to work. Apologizing meant everything was fixed on either end. Jonathan should have accepted it without question and he shouldn't still feel sick. Well, fuck apologizing, and remorse in general, if this is what it brought.
It occurred to the Joker, as he stared at his friend with this windstorm of confusion and pathetic emotions running through him, that he was losing himself. Coming into the Batman's home wasn't supposed to be like this. Home field advantage aside, the Joker was never supposed to lose the upper hand. He was the one with the ace on his sleeve when everyone else had their cards on the table. He was supposed to break the Bat and then have fun mending the pieces into an exciting new form.
He was not supposed to reveal his trump card out of spite, or get sick and lose face—literally—in front of Bats. He wasn't supposed to have crying fits that he couldn't remember and lose sense of himself for days, or accidentally cut himself and have to paint with the blood to calm down. And he definitely wasn't supposed to be stuck in a room with his hallucinating ex and actually feel bad about causing the craziness. This was wrong. It wasn't just that he wanted to leave anymore. He needed to.
The Joker couldn't think of a way to answer that 'Why?' beyond, 'You're making me feel bad and I don't like feeling bad, so I want you to be okay with it so the bad feeling will go away.' It was just as well, because Bats chose that moment to come in to drug Jonathan again.
"You've got the paint back on."
The Joker bit back the urge to make a comment about Batsy's observational skills. He didn't want an argument while he was still so bizarrely shaken up over the last one. "Least I could do to balance out your boring clothes."
Bats shot a glance to the scarecrow in the clown's arms. "Crane—"
"Is fine with it. Do you hear any screaming?"
Batman gave him a suspicious glance, then uncapped the syringe. It was the usual method, the lay the Jonathan down on the bed, keep him still so he couldn't break the needle off by thrashing, shove the pills and water into his mouth before he could get too hazy to fall asleep, and good job, Jonathan, feel better, Jonathan, take the pills and needle and Bats goes out the door routine.
The Joker watched his retreating back, waiting until the instant the door closed behind him to turn to Jonathan. Bats was almost surely going out in costume tonight, and the Joker needed to speak with him before he did. Not to mentioned needed to sort out just what the hell was going on in his own mind.
But first there was Jonathan. And for whatever reason, he couldn't just walk out the door and leave him. Not that he could take his friend with him, either. So he settled for leaning down and kissing Jonathan on the forehead. "Bye-bye, angel."
Jonathan only gave his standard confused look in response. "Bye…" It could have been either an echo or a question, the way he said it.
The Joker brushed Jonathan's hair out of his eyes, stroked a hand down his cheek before he got off of the bed. Then he was turning away and heading out the door, quickly, before he could completely lose track of where Bats had gone.
The twisted feeling was strong as ever, and he had no idea what he was going to do or say when he did caught up with Bats, let alone what he was going to do in the long run, but he didn't care. The important thing was to find Batman, and deal with this mess before he could lose himself completely. He'd never been a schemer in the first place, anyway.
AN: "Angel of the Morning" is a song originally performed by Merrilee Rush and the Turnabouts in the sixties, but covered about a hundred times since then. It's one of my favorite songs, about one-night stands and realizing a lover won't stay, but that's alright as long as the lover will call the singer 'angel' or show some other affection before leaving. My favorite lyrics to the song are the ones used when it's performed by The Pretenders, but I'm a fan of basically every version I've heard. If you've heard Shaggy's song "Angel," (Girl, you're my angel, you're my darling angel, girl, you're my friend when I'm in need) you've heard the tune, though his lyrics are different.
Yes, I know I just turned this total fluff with the bear. I don't even care, Jonathan Crane with a teddy bear is too cute to pass up. Pat the Bunny is my favorite book every for very young children. It's interactive, in which the characters do something and the reader mimics it. "Jane pats the bunny. Now you pat the bunny." And then they have an actual furry rabbit you can pet, and such.
The movie The Cell has an odd dream-esque sequence in which the male lead has his intestines pulled out by this weird music box-rotisserie machine thing that plays "Mairzy Doats" when the handle is turned. That's the torture instrument I had in mind when the Joker mentioned it.
