John had made himself at home on her couch by the time she arrived. He was deeply immersed in an episode of My Strange Addiction. A fifth of Jameson was resting between his legs; a fourth of the bottle already gone.
"Fascinating," he said to her as she set her bags down. "This woman…she cannot go a day without sniffing soiled diapers. She also enjoys chewing on them. What I wouldn't give to have these individuals as patients...not so much to cure them, just to observe."
She sat down next to him, eyeing his attire. Though no longer a practicing doctor (thus not needing to adhere to a formal dress code) John still liked to dress professionally. This, however, was not one of those times. He was clad in black, striped Adidas sweatpants and a dark maroon shirt carrying the emblem for the post-graduate psychology program at Gotham University. The stubble she'd seen on him last was shaven away and his glasses were tucked inside the collar of his shirt.
"Digging the casual look," she mentioned.
He looked down at himself, as if only just remembering what he threw on today.
"Yes…the benefits of having you as a friend. There is no need to dress to impress."
Her gaze dropped to the bottle between his legs.
"Indeed."
"Did you want a little?" he asked, grabbing the neck of the bottle. "I know your past struggles with drinking, but you look like you could use it."
She must not have been as crafty at hiding her exhaustion as she thought. And loathe as she was to admit it, Joker's revelation about nearly killing her still had her nerves a little rattled.
"I shouldn't," she stated. "It might interfere with the pain meds I'm on."
"One glass shouldn't hurt, and I'll cut you off after."
When she looked down at her hands, they were still shaking.
I've got years of sobriety under my belt. I have control over this. My life doesn't suck anymore. I don't need to drink like it does.
"What the hell," she said, standing back up. "You want a glass?"
"I'll drink from the bottle and save you an extra dish to clean."
"Have you eaten yet?" she called from the kitchen, sifting through her cupboard.
"Not since this morning."
"Do you want me to throw a pizza in the oven?"
"So long as there are no anchovies on it."
She returned to the living room a few minutes later, grabbing along the way the paper bags Harleen had procured for her.
"Should be all set for the next three months," she said, plopping down next to him.
He stared at the medications; cheeks flushed from the whiskey.
"Might I know how you came to acquire these?" He opened one of the bags. "Not that I'm ungrateful…when I received your text, I re-read it three times to make sure I was seeing it correctly. I am grateful…but I also do not want to put at risk your relationship with the hospital. I know how much you rely on their assistance for Oz."
"I was getting coffee in the cafeteria and one of the newer psychiatrists recognized me from the news back when I got kidnapped. She's assembling a psych profile on Joker. In exchange for all the information I knew, she got me your medicine."
He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Thank you, Celine. Truly." He picked up her empty glass and filled it halfway. "Seeing as liquor nulls these medication's effectiveness, I figured I would let loose one more time."
She accepted the glass, thumbing it carefully. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.
It took her a few attempts to get the first sip down. She would bring the glass up to her mouth, glance down at the liquor, take the glass away before bringing it back again. Three times she did this before she finally bit the bullet and took her first drink in seven years.
"Damn, that goes down smooth," she noted, swishing the liquid inside. "Did we attain this by legal means?"
He smirked.
"Legality is…subjective."
She giggled a little before reclining back into the cushions. They were silent for a moment as the program on TV went to commercial break.
"Are you in much pain?" he asked, glancing at her. "The bruises on your face appear to be healing well."
"The painkillers kicked in so nothing aches more than it should. The sensitivity in my hand is probably the worst part. If I swing my arms too quickly when I walk it stings something fierce. Even the AC in here activates it."
"My condolences on the loss of your pinky. I had heard from my inside person Gil has been dealt with. He is lucky I wasn't the one to do it." He was eyeing her bandaged hand thoughtfully. "I am surprised you did not spend today resting up."
Her grimace didn't go unnoticed.
"What's wrong?"
She shook her head, unable to form the needed words. Another sip from her glass was taken.
"You are not your usual balanced self. Tell me."
Shutting her eyes, she let her head slump back. Already she could feel the heat from the liquor course through her body. A buzz was fast approaching; consequence of having stayed sober so long.
"I'm getting sued," she relayed quietly. "I'm due in court tomorrow to dispute it."
When he turned his whole body to face her, she realized he would need specifics.
So, she launched into everything that had occurred since learning of the lawsuit, including the day's events and meeting Martha Graves.
When she finished, John was frowning.
"She cannot seriously think she stands a chance of winning. If every person who lost someone to suicide tried suing the psychiatrist treating them there would be no practicing clinicians left. I would not trouble yourself over it. She is blinded by grief and needs to place the blame on someone. No court will take her claim seriously."
"I think deep down I know that," she acknowledged. "But…I still feel responsible. A part of me almost wants the judge to take her side so I can feel…adequately punished."
He scoffed.
"You've always carried a need to atone for the actions of others. Actions outside of your control. The guilt you carried earlier in life after the deaths of your mother and friend…you are not fully purged of it all. Thus, it is only natural for you to find excuses to punish yourself. While it may momentarily feel just and right, in the long run it is detrimental."
It wasn't the first time he'd made this observation about her. As he'd gotten to know her better after their trial sessions for his serum had wrapped up, he'd diagnosed her with a case of "culpability complex". She took on guilt that wasn't hers to carry because for so long she was a passenger in her own life; watching on helplessly as those she loved suffered and passed on. Her inability to act in those moments, even if it was due to mental health circumstances, had traumatized her deeply. And even though she worked on being better at viewing situations objectively and not misconstruing them to the point of accepting undue blame, the need to take on that personal responsibility wasn't entirely extinguished.
"I guess I needed to hear that," she admitted. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"Without question," he said, taking another drink. "My goal this evening is to help snap you out of it. You and I specifically thrive when we are at our most objective. It is time to return you there, kicking and screaming if I must."
She grinned lazily; her face slightly numb, slightly tingly.
"I look forward to it." She shot up suddenly and snapped her fingers. "I nearly forgot…I have something for you!"
John watched her hustle over to a glass book cabinet, swaying slightly from her buzz. She grabbed something off of the highest shelf and turned to him, hiding whatever it was she had behind her back.
"A thank you gift," she explained, weaving toward him. "For risking your ass and helping me when you didn't have to."
Her smile was displayed from ear to ear. Shyly, she handed him a gift-wrapped book.
He opened it with a smile of his own, unable to combat the influence of her cheeriness.
"Ah," he said, tracing the title of the book with a fingernail. "Levi-Strauss's Myth & Meaning. A very welcome addition to my collection. Thank you."
"An original one too," she voiced excitedly. "Straight off the press from 1978. The last fourth of the book has some of his more personal, in-depth essays that were later omitted from future editions and submitted instead to anthropological journals. I uh…I hope you like it."
"You are undoubtedly the best gift giver I've ever known. My father…he desperately sought to have an athletic son. Birthdays and Christmases were filled with jerseys of football teams I could never muster the patience to watch, or baseball memorabilia I later sold to classmates. He never understood…true power does not reside in the physical form, but the mental. You do. And this makes your gifts all the more special."
His praise had her heart fluttering. She extended both arms. He stood, lumbered over, and enveloped her in a long, tight hug. The scent of whiskey and soap invaded her nostrils. She sunk further into his embrace.
"I'm so thankful for you," she mumbled against his chest. "I shouldn't be, but I am. That I'm such good friends with you despite our moral disagreements…it's baffling, but it feels right. I can't envision not having you in my life."
"Mmm…the feeling is mutual," he murmured into her hair. "If I did not have you to tether me to reality, I would not bother with medication. So long as I have your friendship, this state of mind is worth fighting for."
They detangled, both blushing from the tenderness of the moment.
"It ah-" He cleared his throat. "It appears you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. You are welcome to ask me to leave anytime."
"Stay," she insisted. "Having you here's woken me up a little and I uh…I'd really prefer not to be alone tonight. You're more than welcome to crash on the couch."
He nodded before backing up a step. The Jameson apparently had him in its clutches. He stumbled and crookedly dropped into the cushions, one leg flying up and nearly knocking his medication off the table.
She tried to hide her snort of laughter but wasn't all that successful.
"Yes…not in a fully functioning state…the couch will do."
Grabbing her nearly empty glass, she tossed back the remaining contents before retrieving the plastic bags she dropped.
"I'm gonna get things put away and apply a coating of this hair dye…the black against my skin tone makes me look like I belong in the cancer ward of a hospital."
John's eyes shone with amusement as he studied her through his bangs.
"You look in search of a fix," he noted, sucking in his lower lip. "Like you escaped rehab within twenty-four hours of being checked in and are willing to perform fellatio on the first dealer you encounter."
Her eyes widened.
"Wow, thanks. Thanks for that image."
"You're welcome!" he declared.
The application process didn't take longer than fifteen minutes, and by the time the dye was set in and ready to dry, the pizza was done. She sliced John and herself two pieces each before wandering back to the couch.
The Jameson was now tucked securely between his thighs; nearly half the contents drank. She offered him his plate and took the spot next to him.
John was content with continuing their marathon of My Strange Addiction and she had no complaints. It made sense he would be so enraptured by the stories. He'd always been too self-disciplined to ever fall to the mercy of any addictions. However, his fascination piqued when watching individuals engage in addictions that were of a more…taboo nature. He would comment throughout the episodes on where he thought the addictions stemmed from: repressed sexual urges, antisocialism, a lack of early-on parental bonding, etc.
She listened on, adding her two cents when needed.
After the credits of the latest episode rolled in, she went to the bathroom to wash out the dye and towel her hair dry. The color wasn't quite the silvery blonde she normally had (there was a bit of yellow undertones to it) but judging by her roots, it would return soon enough.
"Someone has been texting you non-stop while you were in there," he voiced upon her return.
Just then, her phone began to ring; drowning out the muffled voices on TV.
When she failed to move and answer it, he looked down at the device on the cushion beside him. Not thinking twice, he answered it.
"Greetings, Jonathan speaking. How may I be of service?"
His eyes widened. A strange sound got trapped in his throat.
"Well," he replied so quietly she had to strain to hear him, "she's enjoying her evening and would like to continue doing so. May I suggest reacquainting yourself with your right hand? You and I know it's the closest you will ever get to her."
Without waiting for a response, he hung up.
Her mouth dropped open.
"You didn't just say that to who I think it was."
John's shrug was nonchalant.
"The better question," he redirected, "is how he got your number."
His tone wasn't accusatory, but it was laced with undeniable curiosity. Maybe it was the liquor urging her to confide in someone, maybe John was just the right amount of relaxed not to scold her for her decisions, maybe she was tired of feeling so alone in this. Whatever the reasoning, she found herself sitting back down next to him and fiddling with her fingers.
"If I tell you why he has my number, I'll have to tell you everything that led up to it. And everything that's happened since."
"Does Wayne know any of this?"
"A heavily edited version. I might lose him as a friend if I told the truth."
He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"I'll admit…your relationship with him has me terribly intrigued. Partially because I did not think such a relationship was possible, particularly on his end. Tell me everything and perhaps we can make sense of the situation you're in."
She nodded and inhaled. This would be the first time she told anyone the full nature of her and Joker's unorthodox acquaintanceship. It was equal parts nerve-wracking as it was relieving. But if there was anyone who could understand relationships that weren't supposed to work, it was John.
Recalling everything – from the moment she awoke in the basement of the church to this most recent encounter on the bus – took just a little over a half hour. John had discarded the bottle of Jameson under the table to avoid the temptation of taking another drink. He was listening to her with the utmost seriousness, occasionally 'hmm-ing' under his breath or tapping at his chin.
"That's all of it," she finished, studying her feet. "I have a psychotic stalker on my hands who's convinced himself we were made for one another and won't allow me to say otherwise. But he could also kill me at any moment. Nearly did if not for a fluke. The worst part is…if he wasn't so committed to this…alias…this "agent of chaos" he considers himself to be…I could see myself…maybe…I…I don't know. I can't afford to think like that. Because the moment I do, that's when he'll strike. And the voice in my head will boast I told you so, I told you so. And I'll feel like such a fool for not listening to it."
John stared at the television screen, not really watching what was happening.
"There is a lot to examine," he finally said. "Behavior patterns to deconstruct…underlying meanings to decrypt…I will need to sit on this for some time and form my own opinion. I will say this…I did not think he wished to kill you the night he escaped from his handcuffs."
"He admitted to it!" she retorted. "It had been his first instinct after he escaped and if I wouldn't have woken up when I did-."
"Instinct," John repeated, raising an index finger. "That is a very…important word. What comes instinctively to someone like Joker? Self-preservation, nihilism, disorder…these are learned instincts, not organically acquired. For him to have fought them off when they are so deeply rooted…to have given you the chance, however small, to wake up…this is crucial. Yes, I don't doubt he would have killed you…but a question to consider is how long would he have given you to open your eyes? Because judging from his actions after you had…to strip himself of key components of his persona and share a moment of such…profoundly unusual intimacy…it stands to reason his learned instinct dictated you die, but something stronger willed you to open your eyes. He claimed he hadn't expected it…this does not mean he didn't want it to happen. He disobeyed his conditioned nature and you're alive because of it. That he shared this information with you may be more meaningful than you think."
She'd not even allowed herself to engage in that avenue of thought. It seemed so out of the realm of possibility. That she had come so close to dying in her own bed…that took priority first and foremost.
"Did I tell you he told me his real name?"
John's head swung to her.
"No, you neglected that detail. What is it?"
She hesitated.
"I don't even know if it's his real one, he could have made it up."
Truth be told, even if it was real, she felt strangely protective about it. Like she may be the only person still alive that knew it. And that it'd been one of the rare times he broke through his façade to hint at who he used to be long, long ago.
"I can't ever lower my guard around him," she confirmed, nodding as she did. "He is who he is and that's all he'll ever aspire to be."
"Perhaps," he remarked. "His intentions are notoriously difficult to anticipate. As I said, I'll need some time to reflect on what you've told me. Discern what is an act versus what is bred out of some form of genuineness that is less Joker and more…human. I should mention…he exhibited similar behavior to what you've told me after I used my serum on him. Once the laughter had subsided, I attempted to provoke him into anger…not one of my prouder moments, he…got under my skin. You ended up being a topic of discussion and he remained adamant you would end up with him one way or another. Though, he also had the…decency…to try and work on sharing you with others."
"How generous of him," she murmured with no shortage of sarcasm.
John shrugged.
"He has a tendency to conquer anything in his path…that you've evaded him this long has forced him to take more extreme measures, such as surveying you as diligently as he has. I do not think he grasps that morality and affection are entirely separate entities. You could hold all the affection for him in the world…and I suspect there is some stored within you, something you should never feel shame for as its led you to me…but if your morals are uncompromisable and thoroughly established, they will make the decision for you in the end. Joker is keeping a close eye on you not just for the sake of trying to "win" you, but because he had, plain and simple, underestimated you. He is extremely proficient in reading people and categorizing them accordingly. You however…I think you have him for a loss. He continues to read you, study and analyze your actions and emotions, but despite this accumulated knowledge, you subvert his expectations whenever he thinks he has you figured. Because of this, you are a very dangerous type of woman, especially for him."
She cocked her head.
"How do you mean?"
He examined his fingernails, considering how to phrase his suspicions.
"You know of the Madonna-Whore complex?"
"Men see women one of two ways," she recalled. "Either virginesque and unblemished…platonically lovable due to their alleged purity, or promiscuous and seductive…sexually desirable for their alleged lack of modesty. The two supposedly cannot co-exist with one another. I don't buy into it…men and women are far more complex than that…but I know plenty who see women that way."
"In my less…matured years I was guilty of compartmentalizing women like so," he admitted, looking rather bashful. "Only recently has the spectrum of how a woman is perceived, by armchair sociologists anyway, broadened from two categories to four: virgin, whore, mother, bitch. Purity, sexual attractiveness, wisdom, independence. As you said earlier, human beings are far too complex to be restrained to one category. But to truly grasp the depth of that complexity requires critical thought. And this, sadly, is something that is becoming less cultivated and encouraged in Western academia, and indirectly, society. If there is no desire for critical thinking, humans are then left to rely on the brain's rapid compartmentalization process. Now, the brain is not necessarily concerned with accuracy when classifying other humans. It comes from a place of needing to establish order so as to easier navigate our environment. It is a means of making the unknown known."
"Joker is a critical thinker," she pitched in. "The dangerous part is he disguises it as insanity."
"And you are equally dangerous because you are not only an array of all four categories but carry with you a very authentic sense of self that can only be reached through often painful, yet necessary self-reflection. You know who you are, you do not seek someone to tell you. This cocktail isn't for everyone, would you agree?"
She crossed her arms.
"Yes…very relevant to why I don't date."
"And I don't condemn you for that. Most would blame the cocktail for being too diverse and not themselves for lacking the taste buds to appreciate it."
Her lips quirked up at that. Gods she appreciated John as a friend so very much.
"You are dangerous," he repeated, "because you are complex. You are dangerous because you require critical thought. You are dangerous because you are adaptable and are willing to surprise yourself, but not compromise. You and Joker are so extremely similar…it's astounding…I've never quite seen it as apparently as I do now. Playmates come together from opposite ends of the moral playground…so busy analyzing each other you've neglected to notice how closely your feet have wandered forth. Mmm…yes…much to consider. For both of us."
She spent nearly five minutes soaking in everything John had said. Some of it was spot on, some of it spooked her, some of it made her uneasy, and some of it made her feel like butterflies were being launched into her tummy via a machine gun.
"Why do you think he killed Gil so grotesquely and made it a point to show me his dismembered parts?" she asked.
This one still puzzled her. She had been so sure Joker would have let Gil come after her and do his worst. He was his right-hand man. Possibly the most loyal one that'd ever worked for him. Why would he choose her over him?
"Torture is…personal," John tested out, twiddling his thumbs. "Who was it you said Joker quoted?"
"King Hammurabi of Babylonia, author of the Hammurabi Code."
Speaking of, that would be neat to see at the Louvre. I'm sure Wesley would be on board.
"Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth," he murmured. "Your knowledge of world civilizations exceeds mine, so correct me if I'm wrong. This saying…it was a means of retribution for those of the same social class?"
"Yes. Eye for an eye…the punishment inflicted has to fit the crime enacted. However, if someone of an inferior class committed a wrongdoing against someone from a superior class, it wasn't unusual for the retribution to be death. Such 'eye for an eye' guidelines didn't apply because it was considered so disrespectful."
John stared at her. Very carefully. He didn't speak.
"What?"
He hummed under his breath.
"Food for thought," is all he ended up saying.
"No need to play coy. Share with the class, s'il te plait."
"Non, je ne pense pas que je le ferai."
She scowled.
"Connard."
"Oui, j'en ai un," he agreed. "Je vous remercie de me le rappeler."
"Prudent. Ou je vais mettre un cactus en toi."
His expression was incredulous.
"Cactus?"
"Oui."
He rubbed his inner thigh back and forth.
"Perhaps I should rethink spending the night here."
She couldn't hold back her chuckle; him chiming in soon after.
"Ooh…you want to see something absolutely hilarious?"
"…depends on what it is," was his cautious response.
Shooting up, she sprinted to her bedroom and retrieved her laptop. When she returned, John was staring up at the ceiling with one eye closed. He then switched to the other, giggling a little at the rapid switch in depth perception.
"I was waiting for a time to upload this. What do you think?"
She set the laptop on his lap. John unfolded his glasses and slid them on.
It didn't take long for him to begin cackling; sounding more like Scarecrow and less of John. But she knew this was a result of what he was reading, not that his more villainous side was revving up to take control.
"Brilliant," he praised, a half grin stuck on his face. "I'm honored to be one of his dislikes. Do you think anybody will take this seriously?"
"Only one way to find out."
She clicked through a few disclaimers, agreeing to Moonbeam's terms and conditions before uploading Joker's dating profile.
"What will you do if he accumulates any matches?"
"Send nudes? Send bomb threats? Send in the clowns? I've not thought it through that far."
"You really are out to drive him crazier than he already is, aren't you?"
"I don't know that that's possible, but I'm certainly up for the challenge." She moved to stand, folding her laptop shut. "Did you want a blanket?"
His nod was done through sleepy eyelids. She left to grab him her thickest duvet. He was just as thin around the midsection as Joker, but half the muscle.
Upon returning to the living room, she turned off all non-essential lights save for a five-foot lava lamp in the corner of the room that casted their surroundings into a violet-magenta glow. She dropped John off her blanket and deposited their plates in the sink along with her glass.
"Watch one more episode with me," he yawned out, scooting over on his cushion to make room for her beneath the blanket.
"Sure thing, give me a second."
She made sure to shoot Wesley a text before she forgot.
Okay. Let's go. Send me your must-visit places. We'll figure it out from there.
Her thumb hovered over the send button before lightly tapping it.
When her alarm was set, she sank down next to John. He wrapped an arm around her waist and tucked her into his side, the side of his face resting atop her hair. They both relaxed back into the couch.
This most recent episode they were tuning into revolved around a woman addicted to her pillow. She took it grocery shopping with her, on car rides, to work…it was…absurdly charming, partly because it was such a harmless addiction. Odd, yes, but harmless. If you could become comfortable taking a pillow everywhere and brush off all the perplexed stares…surely, you could handle whatever life threw at you. So much fear resided in what society thought. What people thought. Strange that others could restrain your way of living when life was yours to live.
"Diagnosis doctor?" she mumbled as the episode was coming to an end.
"Possible miscarriage in her teenage years. The pillow supplements as the child she never got to bare."
That was a fair assessment. She'd go with it.
"I forgot to mention-"
She peeked up at him.
"-after my birthday I'm leaving the country for three months."
John's cheek slowly lifted off of her. He studied her through fluttering lashes.
"This is why you got me medication for such a lengthy period?"
"Mhm."
"On your own or-?"
"Strangely enough, one of the other hostages Joker had kidnapped. We kinda hit it off."
He attempted to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Three months is a long time."
She picked up on the carefully blanketed melancholy in his voice.
"I'll be back before you know it," she assured. "I wanted to give you the heads up but also…if there's any locales or regions or events you think I'd enjoy or you yourself have always wanted to visit, I'm all ears. We're hitting every continent."
"Antarctica included?"
"Yes."
"If I did not have a criminal history worthy of eternal solitary confinement, I would have loved to go with you."
"And I'd have loved you as a companion." Her smile fizzled out. "I'd have loved that very much."
They were silent for a long moment. She utilized this time to turn off the TV and cuddle up closer into John's side.
"Is Zdzislaw Beksinski still your favorite painter?" he finally voiced.
"Mhm."
"I should like to see some paintings from his gallery in Poland. There is also Angkor Wat in Cambodia…very architecturally pleasing temples."
"Yes," she agreed. "Beksinski's gallery was already a must for me. I'll add Angkor Wat to my list. I was watching this documentary on native species in Madagascar and they have these trees there…the baobab…with such unusually wide trunks you'd think you landed on an alien planet. I'll die happy if I can touch one."
"Send me photos I suppose…it is the closest I will ever get to experiencing it myself."
"I will."
She didn't expect how bittersweet telling John would make her feel. Yes, he'd dug his own grave with his past actions, but maybe getting away from Gotham was what he needed too. There would be so much to experience, so much to explore…perhaps his more unstable urges would subside for a little while at least.
"Maybe we could sneak you through baggage claim?"
When he didn't answer, she glanced at him. His eyes were closed, mouth lightly parted. A snore traveled out of him.
As quietly as she could, she slipped out of his hold and laid his slumbering body down on the couch. After tucking his blanket around him, she capped his bottle of Jameson and placed it in a brown bag. He would most likely be gone by the time she woke up, so she threw his medication and his book in as well.
"I wish we had met a lot earlier."
His brow twitched at the proclamation.
She returned to her bedroom and succumbed to a much-needed rest.
Anywhere y'all want Celine to hit up in her excursion 'round the world?