Gotham's Discontent
Chapter Six: Arkham Night Fever
"What, are you suffering from rigor mortis? You're barely dancing at all."
Greenwood frowned at Deedee, whom delightfully cartwheeled off the dance floor; she jumped up onto the table with her bare feet, staring down at Greenwood whom hadn't moved a single muscle since the dance had begun. Sweat trickling down the nape of Deedee's neck, looking particularly invigorated from the fast-paced tango with Jerome.
"I told you, I ain't dancin'." Greenwood remarked, folding his arms across his chest grumpily.
"Look, you're being such a poor sport." Deedee said reasonably, "All you have to do is just move a little. If a man of Aaron's size can cut a rug, you surely to God can."
"I don't want to."
Deedee scowled and wrapped a hand in Greenwood's collar of his inmate's uniform and yanked his face within inches of hers, lifting him up off his heels—"Listen, Greenwood, if you don't fucking start dancing, the Warden is going to come down here and make you. Remember, he said it's mandatory. And he's got cameras everywhere." She released him as quickly as she had grabbed him, and Greenwood fell back onto the balls of his feet with a look of mild surprise—A lot stronger than what she looked.
"Don't you know how to?" asked Deedee, dropping to the floor with a simple hop off the steely surface. "It's actually one of better things Mother ever showed Jerome and me. Of course later," she made a scathing scoff, "she'd accuse me of using it to seduce her 'suitors of the evening', but—"
"I don't dance, Deedee," said Greenwood.
Deedee stared at him. She frowned. Well, isn't he just a stick in the mud? Not for good reason. It wasn't because Greenwood was a hard-ass; even Sionis, a dedicated mass murderer of twenty-five of his own employees, was strutting along the taped-off dance floor with one blushing Lucy Goosey, twirling her with a smirk on his face. Although Deedee has escorted herself off the floor, Jerome was still going—He and female inmate were dancing casually, a simple jiggy to the upbeat melody. Deedee cleared her throat, turned to Greenwood with a subtle glance at the camera overlooking the community room: The Warden would be watching.
"Do you know how?" Deedee repeated calmly, stepping toward Greenwood.
Greenwood took a step back, glancing at Jerome. The brat had stabbed him in the hand with a fork just for speaking to her at breakfast—
"A little bit more than just a casual conversation, Robert," said Deedee in response. "Let me teach you. The Warden, Greenwood…"
"I don't care about punishment—"
"It ain't gonna be some shock therapy, Greenwood; who knows what the Warden's got up his sleeve. Dr. Strange certainly will have something to do with it—and you know he is more than just a good doc." Deedee hissed the words quickly, stepping toward Greenwood, grabbing his hand to place his large fingers around her waist.
Greenwood stared at her. "I don't want to."
He pulled his hand away as if she had been sprayed with a flesh-eating repellant.
"You're being stubborn," said Deedee, posting her hands on her hips. "I know that you and I have this mutual animosity, but I really don't want to see Warden's orderlies run through here and drag your ass out of here because you won't—"
"I. Don't. Dance—" Greenwood said once more through vehemently gritted teeth; his savior entered the conversation, Sionis grabbing Deedee's arm from behind her with a sweaty face, and he turned to Greenwood quickly,
"Don't worry, Deedee; I know how to dance. Ought to let Greenwood pay the piper if he wants to."
Deedee shrugged, leaving Greenwood to metaphorically ground a hole where he stood; she followed Sionis's chiseled features to the dance floor. He had abandoned his make-shift cape, tossing it onto the back of one of the chairs, rolled up his sleeves to reveal his glistening muscles under the sheen of sweat. Richard Sionis wrapped a confident arm around Deedee's waist, leading her into a spicy ensemble of Arkham's night fever—
Jerome perched on one of the metal tables, sucking down a few tired breaths and a bit of Draft in a large drinking mug. He passed a pale hand across his sweat-slick hair, and his eyes watched Sionis dip Deedee on the dance floor: his hand pressed against the small of her exposed back, her arm latched easily around the strap of his back—
A pang of jealousy nipped at Jerome's ears, turning them red.
Deedee's smooth leg hiked up to wrap around Sionis's waist as he hoisted her into the air to the swooping melody; her long hair tossed around like a soft, violently red curtain. The dance floor had been liberated, except for the dancing duo: while Jerome more or less felt his stomach turn at the thought of Sionis's hands caressing the smoother parts of his sister's body, Jerome could admit to himself that he did enjoy watching a more intimate setting with Deedee as a willing participant—She was always an excellent dancer on stage, and as the center of attention, Jerome saw a wide smile permeate the corners of her mouth as if she were back in Haley's Circus under fire.
It might have been the most elated that Jerome had seen her in a very long time, and all it took was an Arkham Night Fever.
The Warden was right about one thing: a festivity like this did bring up the morale, if not just for this one night.