THE BEST MEDICINE
Chapter Seven: Headlights Running Blind
***
DISCLAIMER:
Credit to Bob Kane, Warner Brothers, Meatloaf, history… fairytales…
A/N:
Symbolism… animals… ^_^
Ya, I know it's vague, guys, but that's intentional. Just try and figure it out as you go… and wait until all is revealed. Ya know? It's just my crazy style… Thanks for reading, please review too. ^_^
***
And when the sun descended and the night arose
I heard my father cursing everyone he knows
He was dangerous and drunk and defeated And corroded by failure and envy and hate There were endless winters and the dreams would freeze
No where to hide and no leaves on the trees,
And my father's eyes were blank as he hit me again and again and again I know I still believe he never let me leave, I had to run away alone
So many threats and fears, so many wasted years,
Before my life became my own And though the nightmare should be over,
Some of the terrors are still intact
I hear that ugly, coarse, and violent voice,
And then he grabs me from behind, and then he pulls me back… But it was long ago, and it was far away
Oh God, it seems so very far,
And if life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car… And objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are
- Meatloaf
"Master Bruce?"
***
Wayne sat in bed, his eyes hard, thinking. Alfred watched, concerned, as the billionaire sipped his coffee - an invisible shadow over his face again, shading his eyes. His dark hair disheveled, his eyes lined with almost angry fatigue, he was lost in something deep and dark.
"Master Bruce?" One last try and then leave him alone.
That hard, dark stare. The sort that saw souls.
As Pennyworth took the tray and turned to go, Bruce spoke, "I had a dream, Alfred. A strange dream. Unexpected." A fellow in Wayne's circumstances rarely slept well. Nightmares were frequent. He casually analyzed them, noting the symbolism, patterns and such. A subconscious attempt to understand himself better, perhaps. However, this dream had slammed from nowhere, destroying all convention - enough to blow a pirate from the water.
"About your parents?"
"No, no… nothing of the sort…" The handsome vigilante hesitated, not sure if he should explain, expression eternally dark and thinking. "…Do you remember Arthur Reeves?"
Alfred was surprised. "…Why yes… of course."
"I dreamed he was running from something, terrified… Blind in his flight, he ran into the street and was struck down by a bus. Killed instantly."
***
Jack Napier tapped the arms of his chair patiently as he waited for John Remington to actually say something. Hm… he'd been called John growing up. Jack came from John, just as Dick came from Richard and Jimmy from James.
Eyes downcast, John was thinking. How did one deal with this character? Joker sat silent and smiling on the other side of the glass, watching him, waiting for his next move. Everything was so unspokenly strategic. That clownish mind seemed so simple, so silly - yet… it was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Remington couldn't deal. No one could deal.
Perhaps Batman- The odd, un-Johnish image of the Dark Knight taking his place, glancing over a clipboard and speaking casually with Napier struck him suddenly and he almost smiled. Catching himself out of character he concentrated hard on his typical expression. He always looked like he wanted to j-
"You always look like you wanna jump of a bridge."
John glanced up, a few strands of steel gray hair casually coming down.
Napier was smiling.
John's hard gray eyes studied his patient - perhaps THAT was it. Silence without eye contact, as though Jack preferred to take little shots unexpectedly. Fine, he'd play. Eyes back down, casual again. "So I'm told…"
Silence for a very long time. Too long. Hm, his mistake. Again. There was just no pattern with Joker. No way to figure the guy out. Invisibly defeated, John glanced up again casually - idiot still smiling. Right. Glancing back down at his scribbles, pretending purpose, John wondered how they'd ever - Capital Punishment. In his youth he'd strongly opposed it, but… it seemed the only way to deal with these incurable, terrifyingly monstrous cases.
Unexpectedly again, "You must be very unhappy."
Glancing back up, there was Joker still smiling. The doctor couldn't explain the vibe, yet somehow he sensed this was some sort of very deep psychological game. This was something. Yet, it seemed entirely, absolutely… nothing. Just a bored criminal madman passing time…
Down John's eyes went again, returning to his initial theory - his patient wouldn't speak eyes up. What was this? Pretending to write, he waited for another comment. Nothing. Then, the instant he decided nothing more would-
"You married?"
Wet gray hair met matching eyes, "Divorced." A lie.
"There's a lot of old bachelors in this town…" Joker replied directly, casually.
How did he do it? Jack Napier seemed to read minds…
***
Leaves rustled across the paved street, icy wind fluttering them along quickly and carelessly. It was too cold. Trudging along, ankles sore from hours of walking, Harvey was a pumpkin. A five year old pumpkin with aching feet. He was especially cute this year. Pumpkins were always cute. Humming as he waddled along, the little jack-o-lantern knew plenty of pumpkin songs. Pumpkins, pumpkins-
AH! - It was cold. He was sore. He wanted candy now.
Ouch. It had just sliced through him. The dark thoughts.
A good boy, Harvey didn't want to disobey his mother, who was leading him along by the hand, speaking to him, though he wasn't listening. He didn't want to eat potentially dangerous treats. He knew he was to wait until they were checked and that they were to be rationed out to him. He knew this, he wanted to respect this… yet… a shadow seemed to fall over him. Part of him wanted to disobey.
Walking along, the part was too strong. He couldn't think. He wasn't even in control. He just wanted to hum his pumpkins songs… he… OW! It hurt, it hurt… It was like he was shut out from his thoughts - almost. He wasn't in control, he felt dazed, in a dream.
They reached the door. He was home.
Relieved, they entered. The phone rang. She hurried to it, sounding tired as she answered. "Martha!" she was instantly revived. They began to chatter like birds.
Now was his chance… she was oblivious to him now…
Upstairs would be suspicious. Caught instantly. She expected that. She'd hear him on the stairs, know exactly what - living room. Silently slipping into the living room, he hide behind the couch and began devouring chocolate after chocolate.
Eventually off the phone, she panicked and looked absolutely everywhere. When she found him, he'd devoured half the bag - chocolate everywhere.
Thirty minutes later he was hospitalized - poisoned.
***
Harvey Dent finished the story feeling old, tired…
"One of your neighbors wasn't so neighborly…" Jerome Chesler's voice.
"Ya, a town of assholes."
***
"I was a clown every Hallowe'en!" Jack Napier beamed, flipping through a magazine. It was late October again already. Whether he was sincere, no one knew. No one ever knew. He sat with Eddie Nygma now, casually flipping. Together they sat on the recreation room couch, Ed quietly watching television.
"Charming, Jack."
HM… when Remington humored him he lost his temper… when Nygma humored him… it was amusing. It was fun. NO - it was odd. Out of all his fellow villains… Joker liked Riddler best. Not Riddler, no - Riddler was annoying. He liked Edward Nygma. Nygma was the perfect straight man. Witty, sarcastic - able to humor his antics brilliantly. Yes, Edward was his straight man. A foil for his personality.
"What were you, Ed?"
"Sorry, Jack - I don't recall much this time of year. Must be the cold." That tone. That amusing, sarcastic tone. This was Edward's way of avoiding personal. He didn't do personal well. At least… not with fellow criminals…
Somehow Nygma could call him Jack. That was alright. That was allowed. They called one another by their real names. Everyone else - never. Everyone else was intimidated; they stayed professional… but Jack and Eddie were Jack and Eddie.
"OOOOOO…" Joker was impressed with something in his magazine.
"Why the melodrama? Another oil spill?" That tone, Jack loved it.
"No, no - earthquake."
"You're all heart, Jack."
***
Tiny Arthur waddled along through the snow. The cold was as bitter as his spinster teacher. Goat stayed in the barn these days. No bailer twine walks. No time outside at all. It was winter again. His new friend rarely played in the winter. Not Goat, the boy next door - his thoughts jumped about carelessly. Small child, careless, quick thoughts. A boy, a little older, lived with the Cowboy. He couldn't remember the boy's name. Regardless, his new playmate was much like Goat; they both preferred the golden summers. The boy, hair an incredible dark gray with matching eyes, loved breaking horses, riding wild and bareback through endless fields, playing rodeo, playing cattle rustler, rope, Wild West… target practice… He was a real cowboy… just like his boss… Ya, that's what he called the Cowboy… 'Boss'…
Ya, the kid rarely played in winter. He'd never wanna play Peter and the Wolf, that was certain. Goat would sometimes play, though - when he wasn't being stubborn; temp… temper… temperamental. Yes, that was the word the Cowboy used. Temperamental. The goat could be very bad sometimes. Very bad. However, when Goat was good they played together. Sometimes they walked through the forest, the boy whistling the famous melody, goat following with the wonderful, overwhelmingly special presence only a goat could give.
Arthur had learned the tune at school. It was beautiful winter days like today he wished that the Cowboy's boy would come out and play. He was a real cowboy. They played Wild West. They had real Wild West names too, only he couldn't remember them today - he only remembered them sometimes. They were always sheriffs. Admittedly, both knew the games would be better if one would be a baddie, only… neither could sink. Neither could manage that outlaw- He supposed he could slam the little window with snowballs again - tell the boy they'd visit the ol' Miller again. At six… snowballs, goats, play guns, crazy millers… it was all there was to life.
It was treacherous to visit The Miller in winter, though. The Vet called him a hermit. Arthur couldn't remember the definition of said word, though it had been given countless times. Yes, the Miller was a crazy hermit. He lived too deep, too treacherous for winter. Besides, he was especially wild in winter. It was best to just steer clear. He could always aim the play gun. Practice. The Cowboy had made it for Christmas. Yes, another Christmas come and gone. His first Christmas away from- A sharp pang. Remembrance. He rarely thought of them now. They were gone. Nearly forgotten altogether. He couldn't even picture their faces. They were lost to him now. He couldn't explain how or why - he wouldn't understand for years. His entire knowledge of the subject came down to one simple statement: They were gone and never coming back.
Still and silent, he shook himself back to carefree fun. No more dark thoughts. Yes, the Vet called them 'dark thoughts'… that definition was lost too. Dark thoughts. Stumbling onward, he forced himself to take up his humming and whistling again, imagining the lovely flute. It echoed through the snowy forest, bouncing off the sparkling snow. The day was cold, but bright and sunny all the same. He was dressed warmly, wanting only for a hat. Peter had a hat. Peter was a wonderful name. He'd named a kitten Peter, but the man found that litter… and well…
He tripped. Landing face first in snow, he was stunned, then confused. Flipping onto his knees, the boy began to dig… revealing an old stone fire pit. A fire pit in the forest… Rumplestiltskin! He could play Rumplestiltskin. Maybe the boy would play. The boy worked on the ranch. He was a cowboy. Yes, maybe he would play. He liked the boy. His presence was enough to make Arthur talk. Well, just give short answers when asked, but it was-
Snarling. Startled, he turned…
***
A little Russian boy dressed warmly with a little cap skipped along with a toy gun, whistling merrily. A little bird crisscrossed above his fair head, providing a pleasant counter melody.
Bloody and unconscious in the snow, Arthur dreamed of Peter.
***
Waking up very, very sharply Arthur cried out in pain, grasping his scar. Lying in the darkness, hand over his firm abs, Reeves felt the screeching slashes of childhood. Multiple slashes, yet only one scar remained. A permanent reminder of his childhood days in the woods. His forest lifestyle.
Lord, it hurt. A dream had brought it back hard.
Running his fingers along the scar, he remembered…
A wolverine.
His presence had unknowingly provoked a wolverine, the most temperamental of all God's creatures. Goats were a laugh compared to these half wolf, half bear - well, whatever the hell they were. They were horrible. He'd been mauled and left for dead. Wolverines were like fishers in that sense - they often attacked without provocation.
Yet, the attack didn't stop his forest ways. Not at all. He had to stay out there. He had to avoid that place. The man, the school, the town - he had to avoid it all. Plus, where else would he find food and water? Winter was rough. Fortunately, he had a few kind neighbors to pull him through when it was particularly bad.
Ya, Jake's father found him that day, took him to the hospital.
The image of that bristling brown and black beast… the icy air coming from it… It looked part wolf, part bear, part hyena… It was all shades of middle to dark brown with some black… Visible fangs… The sound it made before it sprang - OH GRACIOUS - he shuddered at the memory. Such a horrible, horrible experience.
Sadly, he would dream of it three more times that night.
***
"Do you think they'll let us have a Hallowe'en party?" Harley Quinn far too energetic for so early in the morning. She made Tech physically ill sometimes. Ill. Yes, that reminded him - where was Poison Ivy?
"Do you think Scarecrow will bust out for Hallowe'en?"
If he heard the word Hallowe'en one m-
Out of the blue, unexpected - "Ivy's sick."
Thought so. Her talk was flippant, like a child.
"I'm worried about the poor gal…" the little blonde did sound on some level sincerely concerned, yet her facial expression - her tone - it always tainted everything she said with carelessly, childish… "It came on real sudden. They don't know what to think."
"I'm sure she'll be alright, my dear."
A long, thoughtful pause.
Suddenly, "Do you think I'd make a good Alice?"
Hatter smiled warmly, "Yes, my dear… you certainly would…"
***
The kittens were crying. Arthur had covered his ears, sliding down the wall. He didn't cry, though. He never cried these days. Hardened. He determined to be- They kittens were just screeching now. It was terrible. Splashing, screeching… They were dying.
The barn was cold, smelly. Though he was crouching - cowering - in the next room, the man's silhouette cast large along the wall before him. Through shadow he could see everything… it was just so TERRIBLE…
***
"I'll be Happy Jack and you be Fast Freddy…"
***
Watching the magnificent paints canter about the paddock… he felt… alive. They were so gorgeous. Splattered with wild splashes of natural colour… associated with cowboys and Indians… these red-brown and white creatures were-
He wanted one. Arthur wanted one more than anything else in the world.
The farthest mare was pregnant… maybe… just maybe… his birthday was coming quick… maybe…
***
One Saturday a month… several who'd earned the privilege were allowed to play poker. Not co-ed, there was an hour girls and an hour guys. Tonight, several gentlemen were enjoying themselves greatly at Jericho Vespucci's expense.
Jerry glanced up from his hand, his poker face comical. With all his sweet heart the young man was sincere… yet… he was unknowingly campy to the point Hatter could scarcely hold it in. He wanted to slam his hand down, laugh loudly and leave.
Jericho had lost every hand of the night horribly, his bets too high and his strategy pathetic. Known to his peers as The Jerricky, Jericho had a faceless reputation at Arkham. Now, seeing the character in person - he was just a joke!
Edward Nygma, always cautious, noted a sudden, but barely visible, change in the youth's eyes. Yes, something wasn't right suddenly… The last hand of the night… everyone was betting everything and - OH NO…
"Full house." Temple Fugate smiled, cocky. Winner takes all, he began to reel everything in…
With a careless flick of the wrist, Jericho's hand - "Royal flush."
Everyone froze. The reputation was real. He'd played them like violins.
A poker shark.
Everyone groaned as Vespucci took it all - two candies and an eraser.
***
Birthday, birthday, birthday…
Old enough to know the Cowboy as the Rancher now, as everyone else did, Arthur raced through the fields, practically flying. Presents were foreign to him and they knew this, Jake and the Rancher knew this. Rancher had promised something extra special in compensation for all his unhappiness, well - he'd implied such. Jake had also hinted at something major. Something big. Something beyond birthday.
He actually let his excitement shine through. The child actually let the expression form on his typically expressionless face. His cold, hard, childhoodless face.
Skimming quickly across the green grass, he met the Rancher at one of the many white fences near the homestead. They Rancher tipped his hat, "Happy Birthday, Artie. I've got something for ya…"
Arthur followed him towards the paddock, heart thundering in his-
"Now, Arthur, an animal is enormous responsibility…" the Rancher was speaking, but he wasn't listening.
A paint! A paint! A paint!
It was a goat. A baby billy goat.
His heart bottomed out, his shock and disappointment shattering.
***
Arthur Reeves stared expressionlessly out his room window, an adult in a wheel chair, thinking deeply about his past… but saying nothing aloud. Everything was coming back to him here. All he had was reflection now. The dreams weren't helping… His mind wandered from subject to subject and back again, silently miserable and reflecting - frozen expression. Cold, hard. He'd always loved the leaves. Especially the orange and red. He was thinking of Goat… whatever happened to that stupid thing?
A childhood dream flashed back to him. A reoccurring dream he had regularly in fall, for fall was when Goat broke out and wandered the lane. Yes, he repeatedly dreamed the Billy found his way down the lane to the long, large highway - county road one - and nibbled the ditch grass with goatish indifference. That is, until an enormous red combine rolled along and startled the silly thing. He was there. He was trying to reach the goat, knowing from experience the combine would frighten it. Goat was never to wait for the bus with him, the end of the land was where the cars raced and Goat was afraid of cars… and school buses… transports… but above ALL… that red combine…
He would race to reach the goat's bailer twine collar, a collar practically hidden within its coat. The combine would come and the idiot would panic. It would race down the deep ditch blindly, running stupidly into telephone poles and fence posts again and again. He would fly to meet it, to save it… he would signal desperately for the driver to stop.
Stop. Don't kill my goat. Stupid dream, really.
Yet, it was a panic dream all the same. He was panicked, the goat panicked… and when he met the goat and startled it further, to the edge of the highway, the combine driver panicked - panicked into collision. Goat ran blindly, killed instantly. Blood everywhere. A very familiar animal shriek.
He didn't really remember Cuddles, so he failed to make the obvious connection.
Instead, his mind turned to another dream. Another reoccurring dream of the fall - the fox dream. He saw the red fox on the lane rarely, but with it came dreams. Dreams of chilly, dark nights in frosty fields. Dreams of fox hunting… and not hunts with hounds and horses, no. Hunts with large spotlights resting over parked trucks… He was a fox, walking along casually. A light pierced the darkness and he froze, confused and curious. No fear. Foxes had no fear. He stared blankly, an animal caught in headlights. That's all it was - confusion, caution. Animals paused and shared gazes, they didn't run immediately… and this was their undoing.
For staring at the light, there was no way to tell when the sound would hit him and put out the all lights forever, waking him up…
"Arthur?" Caledon Smyth approached unexpectedly, tone gentle.
Reeves acknowledged him, but said nothing, eyes down now.
"City hall phoned."
Arthur's dark eyes glanced up instantly, taking on a new edge. They seemed to shine with something new, something attractively fresh. Worry? Pain? Both. He was desperate, miserable, anxious - LORD.
"They've asked for your resignation."
A fox in headlights. This time, he couldn't wake up.
***
Chapter Seven: Headlights Running Blind
***
DISCLAIMER:
Credit to Bob Kane, Warner Brothers, Meatloaf, history… fairytales…
A/N:
Symbolism… animals… ^_^
Ya, I know it's vague, guys, but that's intentional. Just try and figure it out as you go… and wait until all is revealed. Ya know? It's just my crazy style… Thanks for reading, please review too. ^_^
***
And when the sun descended and the night arose
I heard my father cursing everyone he knows
He was dangerous and drunk and defeated And corroded by failure and envy and hate There were endless winters and the dreams would freeze
No where to hide and no leaves on the trees,
And my father's eyes were blank as he hit me again and again and again I know I still believe he never let me leave, I had to run away alone
So many threats and fears, so many wasted years,
Before my life became my own And though the nightmare should be over,
Some of the terrors are still intact
I hear that ugly, coarse, and violent voice,
And then he grabs me from behind, and then he pulls me back… But it was long ago, and it was far away
Oh God, it seems so very far,
And if life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car… And objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are
- Meatloaf
"Master Bruce?"
***
Wayne sat in bed, his eyes hard, thinking. Alfred watched, concerned, as the billionaire sipped his coffee - an invisible shadow over his face again, shading his eyes. His dark hair disheveled, his eyes lined with almost angry fatigue, he was lost in something deep and dark.
"Master Bruce?" One last try and then leave him alone.
That hard, dark stare. The sort that saw souls.
As Pennyworth took the tray and turned to go, Bruce spoke, "I had a dream, Alfred. A strange dream. Unexpected." A fellow in Wayne's circumstances rarely slept well. Nightmares were frequent. He casually analyzed them, noting the symbolism, patterns and such. A subconscious attempt to understand himself better, perhaps. However, this dream had slammed from nowhere, destroying all convention - enough to blow a pirate from the water.
"About your parents?"
"No, no… nothing of the sort…" The handsome vigilante hesitated, not sure if he should explain, expression eternally dark and thinking. "…Do you remember Arthur Reeves?"
Alfred was surprised. "…Why yes… of course."
"I dreamed he was running from something, terrified… Blind in his flight, he ran into the street and was struck down by a bus. Killed instantly."
***
Jack Napier tapped the arms of his chair patiently as he waited for John Remington to actually say something. Hm… he'd been called John growing up. Jack came from John, just as Dick came from Richard and Jimmy from James.
Eyes downcast, John was thinking. How did one deal with this character? Joker sat silent and smiling on the other side of the glass, watching him, waiting for his next move. Everything was so unspokenly strategic. That clownish mind seemed so simple, so silly - yet… it was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Remington couldn't deal. No one could deal.
Perhaps Batman- The odd, un-Johnish image of the Dark Knight taking his place, glancing over a clipboard and speaking casually with Napier struck him suddenly and he almost smiled. Catching himself out of character he concentrated hard on his typical expression. He always looked like he wanted to j-
"You always look like you wanna jump of a bridge."
John glanced up, a few strands of steel gray hair casually coming down.
Napier was smiling.
John's hard gray eyes studied his patient - perhaps THAT was it. Silence without eye contact, as though Jack preferred to take little shots unexpectedly. Fine, he'd play. Eyes back down, casual again. "So I'm told…"
Silence for a very long time. Too long. Hm, his mistake. Again. There was just no pattern with Joker. No way to figure the guy out. Invisibly defeated, John glanced up again casually - idiot still smiling. Right. Glancing back down at his scribbles, pretending purpose, John wondered how they'd ever - Capital Punishment. In his youth he'd strongly opposed it, but… it seemed the only way to deal with these incurable, terrifyingly monstrous cases.
Unexpectedly again, "You must be very unhappy."
Glancing back up, there was Joker still smiling. The doctor couldn't explain the vibe, yet somehow he sensed this was some sort of very deep psychological game. This was something. Yet, it seemed entirely, absolutely… nothing. Just a bored criminal madman passing time…
Down John's eyes went again, returning to his initial theory - his patient wouldn't speak eyes up. What was this? Pretending to write, he waited for another comment. Nothing. Then, the instant he decided nothing more would-
"You married?"
Wet gray hair met matching eyes, "Divorced." A lie.
"There's a lot of old bachelors in this town…" Joker replied directly, casually.
How did he do it? Jack Napier seemed to read minds…
***
Leaves rustled across the paved street, icy wind fluttering them along quickly and carelessly. It was too cold. Trudging along, ankles sore from hours of walking, Harvey was a pumpkin. A five year old pumpkin with aching feet. He was especially cute this year. Pumpkins were always cute. Humming as he waddled along, the little jack-o-lantern knew plenty of pumpkin songs. Pumpkins, pumpkins-
AH! - It was cold. He was sore. He wanted candy now.
Ouch. It had just sliced through him. The dark thoughts.
A good boy, Harvey didn't want to disobey his mother, who was leading him along by the hand, speaking to him, though he wasn't listening. He didn't want to eat potentially dangerous treats. He knew he was to wait until they were checked and that they were to be rationed out to him. He knew this, he wanted to respect this… yet… a shadow seemed to fall over him. Part of him wanted to disobey.
Walking along, the part was too strong. He couldn't think. He wasn't even in control. He just wanted to hum his pumpkins songs… he… OW! It hurt, it hurt… It was like he was shut out from his thoughts - almost. He wasn't in control, he felt dazed, in a dream.
They reached the door. He was home.
Relieved, they entered. The phone rang. She hurried to it, sounding tired as she answered. "Martha!" she was instantly revived. They began to chatter like birds.
Now was his chance… she was oblivious to him now…
Upstairs would be suspicious. Caught instantly. She expected that. She'd hear him on the stairs, know exactly what - living room. Silently slipping into the living room, he hide behind the couch and began devouring chocolate after chocolate.
Eventually off the phone, she panicked and looked absolutely everywhere. When she found him, he'd devoured half the bag - chocolate everywhere.
Thirty minutes later he was hospitalized - poisoned.
***
Harvey Dent finished the story feeling old, tired…
"One of your neighbors wasn't so neighborly…" Jerome Chesler's voice.
"Ya, a town of assholes."
***
"I was a clown every Hallowe'en!" Jack Napier beamed, flipping through a magazine. It was late October again already. Whether he was sincere, no one knew. No one ever knew. He sat with Eddie Nygma now, casually flipping. Together they sat on the recreation room couch, Ed quietly watching television.
"Charming, Jack."
HM… when Remington humored him he lost his temper… when Nygma humored him… it was amusing. It was fun. NO - it was odd. Out of all his fellow villains… Joker liked Riddler best. Not Riddler, no - Riddler was annoying. He liked Edward Nygma. Nygma was the perfect straight man. Witty, sarcastic - able to humor his antics brilliantly. Yes, Edward was his straight man. A foil for his personality.
"What were you, Ed?"
"Sorry, Jack - I don't recall much this time of year. Must be the cold." That tone. That amusing, sarcastic tone. This was Edward's way of avoiding personal. He didn't do personal well. At least… not with fellow criminals…
Somehow Nygma could call him Jack. That was alright. That was allowed. They called one another by their real names. Everyone else - never. Everyone else was intimidated; they stayed professional… but Jack and Eddie were Jack and Eddie.
"OOOOOO…" Joker was impressed with something in his magazine.
"Why the melodrama? Another oil spill?" That tone, Jack loved it.
"No, no - earthquake."
"You're all heart, Jack."
***
Tiny Arthur waddled along through the snow. The cold was as bitter as his spinster teacher. Goat stayed in the barn these days. No bailer twine walks. No time outside at all. It was winter again. His new friend rarely played in the winter. Not Goat, the boy next door - his thoughts jumped about carelessly. Small child, careless, quick thoughts. A boy, a little older, lived with the Cowboy. He couldn't remember the boy's name. Regardless, his new playmate was much like Goat; they both preferred the golden summers. The boy, hair an incredible dark gray with matching eyes, loved breaking horses, riding wild and bareback through endless fields, playing rodeo, playing cattle rustler, rope, Wild West… target practice… He was a real cowboy… just like his boss… Ya, that's what he called the Cowboy… 'Boss'…
Ya, the kid rarely played in winter. He'd never wanna play Peter and the Wolf, that was certain. Goat would sometimes play, though - when he wasn't being stubborn; temp… temper… temperamental. Yes, that was the word the Cowboy used. Temperamental. The goat could be very bad sometimes. Very bad. However, when Goat was good they played together. Sometimes they walked through the forest, the boy whistling the famous melody, goat following with the wonderful, overwhelmingly special presence only a goat could give.
Arthur had learned the tune at school. It was beautiful winter days like today he wished that the Cowboy's boy would come out and play. He was a real cowboy. They played Wild West. They had real Wild West names too, only he couldn't remember them today - he only remembered them sometimes. They were always sheriffs. Admittedly, both knew the games would be better if one would be a baddie, only… neither could sink. Neither could manage that outlaw- He supposed he could slam the little window with snowballs again - tell the boy they'd visit the ol' Miller again. At six… snowballs, goats, play guns, crazy millers… it was all there was to life.
It was treacherous to visit The Miller in winter, though. The Vet called him a hermit. Arthur couldn't remember the definition of said word, though it had been given countless times. Yes, the Miller was a crazy hermit. He lived too deep, too treacherous for winter. Besides, he was especially wild in winter. It was best to just steer clear. He could always aim the play gun. Practice. The Cowboy had made it for Christmas. Yes, another Christmas come and gone. His first Christmas away from- A sharp pang. Remembrance. He rarely thought of them now. They were gone. Nearly forgotten altogether. He couldn't even picture their faces. They were lost to him now. He couldn't explain how or why - he wouldn't understand for years. His entire knowledge of the subject came down to one simple statement: They were gone and never coming back.
Still and silent, he shook himself back to carefree fun. No more dark thoughts. Yes, the Vet called them 'dark thoughts'… that definition was lost too. Dark thoughts. Stumbling onward, he forced himself to take up his humming and whistling again, imagining the lovely flute. It echoed through the snowy forest, bouncing off the sparkling snow. The day was cold, but bright and sunny all the same. He was dressed warmly, wanting only for a hat. Peter had a hat. Peter was a wonderful name. He'd named a kitten Peter, but the man found that litter… and well…
He tripped. Landing face first in snow, he was stunned, then confused. Flipping onto his knees, the boy began to dig… revealing an old stone fire pit. A fire pit in the forest… Rumplestiltskin! He could play Rumplestiltskin. Maybe the boy would play. The boy worked on the ranch. He was a cowboy. Yes, maybe he would play. He liked the boy. His presence was enough to make Arthur talk. Well, just give short answers when asked, but it was-
Snarling. Startled, he turned…
***
A little Russian boy dressed warmly with a little cap skipped along with a toy gun, whistling merrily. A little bird crisscrossed above his fair head, providing a pleasant counter melody.
Bloody and unconscious in the snow, Arthur dreamed of Peter.
***
Waking up very, very sharply Arthur cried out in pain, grasping his scar. Lying in the darkness, hand over his firm abs, Reeves felt the screeching slashes of childhood. Multiple slashes, yet only one scar remained. A permanent reminder of his childhood days in the woods. His forest lifestyle.
Lord, it hurt. A dream had brought it back hard.
Running his fingers along the scar, he remembered…
A wolverine.
His presence had unknowingly provoked a wolverine, the most temperamental of all God's creatures. Goats were a laugh compared to these half wolf, half bear - well, whatever the hell they were. They were horrible. He'd been mauled and left for dead. Wolverines were like fishers in that sense - they often attacked without provocation.
Yet, the attack didn't stop his forest ways. Not at all. He had to stay out there. He had to avoid that place. The man, the school, the town - he had to avoid it all. Plus, where else would he find food and water? Winter was rough. Fortunately, he had a few kind neighbors to pull him through when it was particularly bad.
Ya, Jake's father found him that day, took him to the hospital.
The image of that bristling brown and black beast… the icy air coming from it… It looked part wolf, part bear, part hyena… It was all shades of middle to dark brown with some black… Visible fangs… The sound it made before it sprang - OH GRACIOUS - he shuddered at the memory. Such a horrible, horrible experience.
Sadly, he would dream of it three more times that night.
***
"Do you think they'll let us have a Hallowe'en party?" Harley Quinn far too energetic for so early in the morning. She made Tech physically ill sometimes. Ill. Yes, that reminded him - where was Poison Ivy?
"Do you think Scarecrow will bust out for Hallowe'en?"
If he heard the word Hallowe'en one m-
Out of the blue, unexpected - "Ivy's sick."
Thought so. Her talk was flippant, like a child.
"I'm worried about the poor gal…" the little blonde did sound on some level sincerely concerned, yet her facial expression - her tone - it always tainted everything she said with carelessly, childish… "It came on real sudden. They don't know what to think."
"I'm sure she'll be alright, my dear."
A long, thoughtful pause.
Suddenly, "Do you think I'd make a good Alice?"
Hatter smiled warmly, "Yes, my dear… you certainly would…"
***
The kittens were crying. Arthur had covered his ears, sliding down the wall. He didn't cry, though. He never cried these days. Hardened. He determined to be- They kittens were just screeching now. It was terrible. Splashing, screeching… They were dying.
The barn was cold, smelly. Though he was crouching - cowering - in the next room, the man's silhouette cast large along the wall before him. Through shadow he could see everything… it was just so TERRIBLE…
***
"I'll be Happy Jack and you be Fast Freddy…"
***
Watching the magnificent paints canter about the paddock… he felt… alive. They were so gorgeous. Splattered with wild splashes of natural colour… associated with cowboys and Indians… these red-brown and white creatures were-
He wanted one. Arthur wanted one more than anything else in the world.
The farthest mare was pregnant… maybe… just maybe… his birthday was coming quick… maybe…
***
One Saturday a month… several who'd earned the privilege were allowed to play poker. Not co-ed, there was an hour girls and an hour guys. Tonight, several gentlemen were enjoying themselves greatly at Jericho Vespucci's expense.
Jerry glanced up from his hand, his poker face comical. With all his sweet heart the young man was sincere… yet… he was unknowingly campy to the point Hatter could scarcely hold it in. He wanted to slam his hand down, laugh loudly and leave.
Jericho had lost every hand of the night horribly, his bets too high and his strategy pathetic. Known to his peers as The Jerricky, Jericho had a faceless reputation at Arkham. Now, seeing the character in person - he was just a joke!
Edward Nygma, always cautious, noted a sudden, but barely visible, change in the youth's eyes. Yes, something wasn't right suddenly… The last hand of the night… everyone was betting everything and - OH NO…
"Full house." Temple Fugate smiled, cocky. Winner takes all, he began to reel everything in…
With a careless flick of the wrist, Jericho's hand - "Royal flush."
Everyone froze. The reputation was real. He'd played them like violins.
A poker shark.
Everyone groaned as Vespucci took it all - two candies and an eraser.
***
Birthday, birthday, birthday…
Old enough to know the Cowboy as the Rancher now, as everyone else did, Arthur raced through the fields, practically flying. Presents were foreign to him and they knew this, Jake and the Rancher knew this. Rancher had promised something extra special in compensation for all his unhappiness, well - he'd implied such. Jake had also hinted at something major. Something big. Something beyond birthday.
He actually let his excitement shine through. The child actually let the expression form on his typically expressionless face. His cold, hard, childhoodless face.
Skimming quickly across the green grass, he met the Rancher at one of the many white fences near the homestead. They Rancher tipped his hat, "Happy Birthday, Artie. I've got something for ya…"
Arthur followed him towards the paddock, heart thundering in his-
"Now, Arthur, an animal is enormous responsibility…" the Rancher was speaking, but he wasn't listening.
A paint! A paint! A paint!
It was a goat. A baby billy goat.
His heart bottomed out, his shock and disappointment shattering.
***
Arthur Reeves stared expressionlessly out his room window, an adult in a wheel chair, thinking deeply about his past… but saying nothing aloud. Everything was coming back to him here. All he had was reflection now. The dreams weren't helping… His mind wandered from subject to subject and back again, silently miserable and reflecting - frozen expression. Cold, hard. He'd always loved the leaves. Especially the orange and red. He was thinking of Goat… whatever happened to that stupid thing?
A childhood dream flashed back to him. A reoccurring dream he had regularly in fall, for fall was when Goat broke out and wandered the lane. Yes, he repeatedly dreamed the Billy found his way down the lane to the long, large highway - county road one - and nibbled the ditch grass with goatish indifference. That is, until an enormous red combine rolled along and startled the silly thing. He was there. He was trying to reach the goat, knowing from experience the combine would frighten it. Goat was never to wait for the bus with him, the end of the land was where the cars raced and Goat was afraid of cars… and school buses… transports… but above ALL… that red combine…
He would race to reach the goat's bailer twine collar, a collar practically hidden within its coat. The combine would come and the idiot would panic. It would race down the deep ditch blindly, running stupidly into telephone poles and fence posts again and again. He would fly to meet it, to save it… he would signal desperately for the driver to stop.
Stop. Don't kill my goat. Stupid dream, really.
Yet, it was a panic dream all the same. He was panicked, the goat panicked… and when he met the goat and startled it further, to the edge of the highway, the combine driver panicked - panicked into collision. Goat ran blindly, killed instantly. Blood everywhere. A very familiar animal shriek.
He didn't really remember Cuddles, so he failed to make the obvious connection.
Instead, his mind turned to another dream. Another reoccurring dream of the fall - the fox dream. He saw the red fox on the lane rarely, but with it came dreams. Dreams of chilly, dark nights in frosty fields. Dreams of fox hunting… and not hunts with hounds and horses, no. Hunts with large spotlights resting over parked trucks… He was a fox, walking along casually. A light pierced the darkness and he froze, confused and curious. No fear. Foxes had no fear. He stared blankly, an animal caught in headlights. That's all it was - confusion, caution. Animals paused and shared gazes, they didn't run immediately… and this was their undoing.
For staring at the light, there was no way to tell when the sound would hit him and put out the all lights forever, waking him up…
"Arthur?" Caledon Smyth approached unexpectedly, tone gentle.
Reeves acknowledged him, but said nothing, eyes down now.
"City hall phoned."
Arthur's dark eyes glanced up instantly, taking on a new edge. They seemed to shine with something new, something attractively fresh. Worry? Pain? Both. He was desperate, miserable, anxious - LORD.
"They've asked for your resignation."
A fox in headlights. This time, he couldn't wake up.
***