That night Celine's dreams were vivid and absurd. Transitioning between them made her feel like the engineer of a train that ran on crack and caffeine. Nothing made sense, and yet, navigating between these worlds came with such a natural ease. The mushroom high had all but dispersed; and yet, it still found one last chance to send a little magic her way.
It was while in the midst of a dream involving a tour of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory that something seemed to shift. The atmosphere of silliness and lightheadedness faded a little.
Unbeknownst to her, Joker at this same moment unwound himself from her, sat up, and took to staring at her slumbering form. He had never fully drifted off, mind ricocheting between an unusual calm and an overabundance of rabid thoughts. His fingers curled into fists and the longer he stared, the whiter his knuckles became.
Inside the chocolate factory, Celine was watching a woman named Suzy climb a tree made of licorice. Her focus strayed to a young boy who suddenly peeked out at her from behind the tree. She tilted her head, sensing he was familiar but unable to put a name to him. The second she took a step forward, he darted off. Everything in her encouraged pursuit. So, she did.
He never ran fast enough to be out of view, which made her think he meant to lead her somewhere. They were now traversing through a maze of hallways. Where the wall colors were initially soothing shades of pastels, the further along they went, the darker in shade they became. The hallway too seemed to be narrowing in on them.
Eventually, she located him lingering at the entryway of a dramatically arced door. It was pale in color with a spherical bronze handle wrapped up in barbed wire. The boy was staring directly ahead. It wasn't until she reached his side that she realized blood was dripping from his clenched hands.
"I wasn't always like this," he said with a softness she didn't expect.
It registered then and there whom she was in the presence of.
"Do you want to see?"
When he looked up at her she nearly crumbled beneath his gaze. It wasn't a question; it was a plead. Please look. Please. No one else has ever bothered to.
"I'm not sure if I should."
Whatever part of her subconscious she had traveled to no longer felt dreamlike. And while it didn't quite feel like reality, there was a tangibility present that made her feel as if her actions would have consequences. Similarly, she vaguely recalled a threat issued against her about trespassing without consent. It wouldn't bode well for her if he ever found out.
"I want you too." His eyes fell to the handle. "He wants you too to. It's difficult for him to admit."
She reached out her arm. Like the gut feeling that led to chasing after him, it too now beckoned her to see what lie beyond. Her fingers closed around the wires; oddly feeling no pain despite her palm becoming instantly pierced. With a final exhale, she pushed the door open.
The room was colorful and exciting. Every which way he looked, a pattern or sticker or funny poster would snag his attention. So soothing was the room in fact that his body ended up shaking off the tension it'd previously knocked on the door with.
"Hi Jack, it's good to see you. Are you doing well?"
He tore his gaze away from an upside-down monkey whose tail was wrapped around a branch. In black, cartoonish lettering, the poster read: Hang In There!
As soon as his gaze landed on the school counselor, all his previous anxiety resurfaced with a vengeance.
The school counselor – Mrs. Rivard, a soft-spoken, mousey woman of thirty-five – smiled kindly.
"Have a seat. I'm glad you stopped by."
He followed her lead, sitting only when she sat. One small hand brushed a few brown curls from his face.
Jack was eight years old, and he hated the mop of curly hair he'd been cursed with. Showering in particular was miserable. His mother's shampoo was often the only hair product they could afford. Anytime he got done using it, it looked like he'd stepped out of a poodle exhibit. But if he didn't wash his hair, it'd make his face oily and give rise to a troublesome bout of acne.
He remained silent, studying the hole in his left sneaker. If he strained his toe enough, it could pop its head out.
"How do you like your classes? I've heard you're a delight to have in Science."
His cheeks blushed easily at this age, this instance being no different.
"Y-yeah," he answered. "I like…I like that we could leave here, maybe. To outer space."
Mrs. Rivard tilted her head.
"Is it really so bad here?"
Jack bit his bottom lip.
"It's too much," he admitted softly. "Too much noise. Too much…badness. I just…I want a house on the moon. Or…or on one of Saturn's rings. No one can visit me…not unless I let them."
Her smile was sad. She'd heard rumors of his living situation, but nothing that could be confirmed. Her gut advised her to tread carefully. Jack was a standout when it came to his classes. Brilliant and inquisitive beyond his years. But he had been slacking the latter half of the school year. And he'd been quieter than usual. It was his Science teacher that first brought this to her attention.
"It can get to be too much," she agreed. "Is Saturn your favorite planet?"
They launched into a half hour conversation, Jack doing most of the talking. He had a natural fascination with outer space for reasons unknown to him. But Mrs. Rivard encouraged his gesturing and the passionate treble in his voice and the way his dark eyes would light up anytime he recited a fact about the cosmos from a library book.
This routine continued for the last two months of the school year. Though Jack seemed at times like he was ready to get to the root of a more pressing issue, something seemed to discourage him at the last minute and he would redirect their conversations to tamer waters.
Unfortunately, summer vacation temporarily halted their meetings, and unbeknownst to Jack, Mrs. Rivard received a generous job offer in the northwest of the country, closer to her family. She sent him a farewell letter mid-July, supportive of his intellectual endeavors and hopeful that he could, in the academic year to come, safely relay his troubles to whomever took her place.
His mother opened their mailbox a week later, read through the letter, knelt, and shoved it down a storm drain.
When Jack returned to school that autumn and heard Mrs. Rivard had left for a better job, he vowed to never seek out anyone's help ever again. And he kept true to that vow.
/
The room was large, and yet too full. Every inch of wall space was dedicated to the man sitting behind the desk. A family portrait showing off his statuesque wife and two prim and proper looking children. Three framed certificates from the University of Princeton- one for a Bachelor's degree, one for a Master's, and one for his Doctoral. There were photos of his dogs, photos of his elderly parents, more photos of his children, and some black and white snapshots of city skyscrapers.
It all made Jack slightly dizzy. And immediately fostered a deep disdain for the man.
"Ah, I see. Mm…I see."
Jack rolled his eyes as Dr. Lawson read through the paperwork his parents had half-heartedly filled out. He was nearly fourteen now and easily bored. A bored Jack was a dangerous Jack. His schoolmates were just beginning to figure that out.
Puberty was on the horizon and gone were his curly locks; replaced instead with chin-length, wavy hair that he used to obscure his face whenever possible. An undertone of dark blonde was now noticeable within the locks. In fact, just a month prior he'd gotten a Valentine's Day card from a fellow 7th grader. She attempted to write him a sonnet about how handsome she found him.
When she gathered the courage to ask him after school if he liked it, Jack plucked out her card, brought his lighter to it and burned it in front of her. News spread of this. No one tried giving him a Valentine's card again.
"Well, it looks like we'll be acquainted for these next two weeks," Dr. Lawson stated. "Your school district requires it before they're willing to end your suspension."
Jack stared blankly at the psychologist, giving nothing away.
For the next two weeks, he endured. If someone were to ask him what he took away from the sessions, he'd tell them the ability to tune out his surroundings while simultaneously giving the impression he was paying attention. He agreed with whatever Dr. Lawson said, which was an easy feat considering the man loved to hear his theories confirmed, and to a further extent, the sound of his own voice.
At their last session, Dr. Lawson asked him if he was remorseful for what he'd done that landed him the school suspension in the first place.
"Of course," was Jack's composed response. "I'm not a crazy person."
Later that night, he pulled out a shoebox from beneath a loose floorboard in his room. When it came to making money, he was incredibly resourceful for someone his age. Be it selling library books, thieving a few painkillers from his parents supply and selling it to the addicts in the neighboring boroughs, or scouring through people's trash or dumpsters for items that could be repurposed, then pawning them off at the monthly flea market where the wealthy found it adorable he was his own businessman.
He'd amassed close to three hundred dollars.
The next day, he gave fifty of it to the homeless man who frequented their block, carrying on animated conversations with imaginary figures. He was a schizophrenic that'd been locked up and released from the hospital so many times the police simply stopped bothering with him. To the locals he was crazy but ultimately harmless.
Jack had no qualms utilizing the man's sickness for his benefit. Especially after he read up on everything to do with the mental disorder.
"You're sure?"
"I…yeah, I am."
The man shook his head and chewed at his thumbnail.
"Oh man, oh man… Petey warned me, so did Frank."
"Sometimes," Jack tacked on, offering his environment a nervous glance. "His eyes glow red when I bike past his house. No one else believes me…except you. And…and if we don't do something, if you don't do something, I'm afraid…well, I don't know what he's capable of. That's why I gave you all I have saved…I heard fire is the only thing that hurts him. Please help me."
The man's eyes shone at this. Hope. It disgusted Jack, but boy oh boy was it a reliable way to get others to do his bidding.
When news broke days later of a devastating house fire that killed both of Dr. Lawson's children and left his wife with fourth degree burns, he was ecstatic. The doctor was at work when the first of the flames broke out, as Jack intended him to be, and by the time he was alerted to the tragedy, only the foundation of his house remained.
The homeless man had been arrested after being spotted by a neighbor, fleeing the scene. When police interrogated him, he'd blubbered mindlessly about interdimensional monsters, red-eyed demons, and the smirk of the child who haunted his dreams.
Although satisfied with how events fell into place, what Jack really wanted was to have seen Dr. Lawson's face as he entered his office for the first time after the fire. He longed to see that know-it-all expression crumble beyond recognition as he gazed at his family pictures. That would be the true victory. The real confirmation he needed. Strategy and observation were just as powerful tools as affluence or popularity.
Instead, he got something better.
Dr. Lawson's wife succumbed to her injuries, and not a week later, after downing a glass of Scotch, the doctor put a bullet through his brain. It was beyond what Jack had hoped for but served its purpose all the same.
Dr. Lawson, he decided, had helped him after all.
/
The room was small, congested, and reeked faintly of mouse urine. The only source of light shone through a glass-stained window covered in a film of dust and grime. A massive wooden desk dominated the space, its surface home to a thick, red bible and a vase of wilting sunflowers. On the wall behind the desk was a sleek, black cross nailed in place of a clock.
Jack sat in a rocky chair near the entrance. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, though he wore an expression that aged him by at least half a decade. The healing bruise beneath his right eye and split lip he kept opening up whenever he got bored did little to aid in keeping his features youthful.
His arms were crossed rigidly, his posture slumped and reserved, his dark brown gaze narrowed and vacant at the same time. One knee bounced steadily and without pause. Greasy, dirty-blonde locks had been unevenly snipped by his own hand just a few days prior. The shoes he wore had been stolen out of a local gym locker while his tattered jeans and mustard-stained t-shirt, once Christmas donations from the local thrift shop, were now straining to hold the growing body within.
"It is a grave sin to desecrate the dead, boy," the priest stated from behind the desk. "Intentionally, I'm beginning to suspect you leave y'er heart open to deviancy and temptation."
He pretended not to have heard, knee increasing in speed. His eyes settled on a bookshelf, reading the titles to himself. None of them surprised him. What he wouldn't do for a nice, genuine surprise.
"Do you hear me, boy?" The voice rose in a vain attempt at establishing authority. "What ye did to y'er dear Ma, Lord rest her soul, is an act becoming of the Devil himself. Have ye no shame? No respect? No love in y'er heart?"
His knee abruptly stopped bouncing.
"You haven't heard? I am the Devil. In fact, I tried to step inside you last night, but you seemed…preoccupied with that altar boy."
Now, it was the priest's turn to stiffen. Jack's lips rose, though he'd now mastered the art of making his smirk look polite.
"You like altar boys, don't you Father?" he continued, eyes landing on the man. "Is that why I'm here? Should I beg for penance on my knees? Is that how I get the Devil out of me?"
The priest stumbled to his feet, nearly knocking over the chair he'd minutes ago been reclined in.
"I-you-."
"I-you," he mocked, voice reaching a nasally pitch. "You're a hypocrite. Trying to put my crime on level with yours…how funny! I know what I am…I don't hide from it, I don't pretend to be something more virtuous than I am. But you…you wear many masks. You lose yourself to disguises. And they trick you…yes…they trick you into believing you're something holy, good, worthy. There is no such thing. Not in you, not in anyone. There is no God, Father. There is no Devil either. We make the choice to help or harm. Everyone wants to believe they're choosing the former…until they're balls-deep inside a twelve-year-old kid."
The priest paled, mouth forming around half-formed words.
"You know-." He let loose an unnerving chuckle that lingered in the air long after it faded out. "-I at least waited until my mom was dead before popping a load in her urn. She deserved worse, but what can I say? I'm a gentleman like that. You…you like 'em crying and squirming. Is desecrating the dead worse than desecrating the living? Who do you consult on these matters, Father? Another priest? Another pedophile?"
By this point, the priest was flustered and sweating. He tugged at his collar like it contained the key to saving him.
"Maybe one day you'll get what's coming to you," he said, cocking his head. "Then again, men like you rarely do… maybe…maybe one day I'll come back…and I'll hold you down with the strength of a full-grown man and rape you until you bleed. Maybe I'll bash part of your brain in…not enough to kill…but enough to turn you into a stunted retard who needs his diapers changed by a hospice nurse. I guess I'd be punishing that nurse… but it's worth it if you're punished too."
Sensing he'd successfully castrated the priest's vocal cords, Jack stood and smiled.
"I'll tell my dad you set me straight," he promised. "And that I'll never ever, ever do something so heinous again. Thank you so much for taking the time to see me, Father."
/
Celine awoke slowly to an empty bed and a dull, full-bodied pain. Sunlight streamed through her window and the faint crashing of waves echoed in her ears. The scent of last night's bonfire still clung to her skin. She grinned lazily, burying her face into a pillow. A content sigh escaped her.
Physical aches aside, she felt pretty damn marvelous. Perhaps a little more exhausted than usual, but nothing some cold water and a hot meal wouldn't fix.
Her brows did furrow upon taking in what she was wearing.
Huh. How did I end up in Jack's shirt?
Panic attempted to run amok at the lag in memory, but she felt too tranquil to offer it any energy. Her fingertips skimmed the buttons of the shirt, doing her best to recollect all that'd occurred on her trip.
"Clutzy little girls ride in the back with daddy."
Her eyes widened. She had taken quite a few spills, hadn't she? Off of the treehouse steps. Smack dab in the middle of her mom's door. She patted her nose to confirm this latest injury, groaning softly. A sudden rush of heat made her giggle. Did Joker really patch her up?
She giggled again, gripping his shirt tighter.
My soulmate patched me-
Her heart plummeted.
"I…told him?" she sounded out. "I told him he and I are…that we're…"
A crazed laugh bubbled in her throat. She wasn't sure whether to release it or not.
I didn't just tell him, I showed him. I-.
The consequences of her actions were only just beginning to dawn on her. And the realization that without meaning to, she had permanently altered the state of their relationship.
"You'll forget saying all this in the morning."
She inhaled sharply. Her declaration regarding his importance was far from a light statement. Even now, she was stunned at both the ease and sincerity in which she told him that he was essentially a part of her now.
While a cowardly part chastised her for such unnecessary honesty; a larger, more matured and accepting part assured her better now than never. Perhaps she'd tipped her hand early, but when was the ideal time to tell someone how important they were? Better now than on his death bed. And knowing the sort of life Joker lived, that future could become reality at any moment.
She released a deep breath.
It's…okay. It really is. I think I'm more amazed that those sentiments existed in me when I've seemingly deflected him at every turn. Clearly, I'm not immune to his charms. Now, I've openly acknowledged it. And…I still appear to be in one piece having done so.
Her eyes located the empty space beside her.
That is the bright side, isn't it? I'm still around to experience the aftermath of last night.
She checked her pulse once just to confirm it. Yep, definitely alive.
What do I do now?
Her brain searched for a suitable answer but found none.
What do I do?
Again, her brain remained silent.
Therein, she realized, was the answer.
Simply put, the cat was out of the bag. No amount of effort on her part could coax the S word back into the privacy of her thoughts. It was her mom who had said time and time again nothing gets done by going backwards. So, onwards she must march, yes?
Yes.
She smiled a little, encouraged by this admission.
I tuned into him again. Not just glimpses this time, actual events from his life. Via...my dreams.
Her brows sank. The memories had been...troubling. With each growth spurt, Joker had become colder. More spiteful, less human. Missing too was his childlike sense of humor that, at times, characterized his present-day self. He'd been all sharp edges and cynicism. A budding psychopath discovering all the tools that were at his disposal. Oh, his confidence skyrocketed. How could it not when he committed himself to learning how to get under someone's skin. How to make someone tick.
She thought back to their exchange while he'd been handcuffed in her living room.
"How many people have you killed?"
"Lost count. Probably enough to populate a small town."
She'd assumed those deaths were all under his Joker persona. It didn't occur to her then that the bloodshed had begun far earlier. Granted, he hadn't physically killed Dr. Lawson, but he'd gleefully arranged the circumstances that led to his ruin.
Oh Jack.
Closing her eyes, she again witnessed eight-year-old him biting nervously at his lip, studying his worn-out shoes in Mrs. Rivard's office. Wanting so badly to articulate his hurt but lacking the courage, and perhaps, the vocabulary.
Then again, sixteen-year-old him. Impenetrable, vicious, teeming with barely suppressed mania. A bruised eye and split lip.
Something monstrous clawed at her lungs.
Whoever did that to you, I'll hurt them worse.
Her eyes shot open. A brief wave of vertigo hit.
Where'd that come from? And with such conviction too. Maybe…maybe I don't know myself as well as I think.
She shifted her focus to a more pressing question.
Why those memories specifically? The Jack that appeared in my dream…he had to have been trying to show me something crucial. And how the hell did he even get there? Did I conjure his likeness, or did he arrive via the cord connecting us? Can I even turn this thing off now that I've forged a connection to him?
She shut her eyes and tried to reach out the same way she'd done last night.
To her relief (and mild disappointment) nothing came of it. He was as closed off to her as he'd been in the tenure of their relationship.
Circumstances aligned…maybe a fluke…maybe physical contact…maybe the mushrooms…maybe we hallucinated the same moment of insanity…maybe this is what it means to be soulmates. But why those memories specifically?
Her temples throbbed in response to this question. She had a feeling if she kept asking why, she'd be in bed for the foreseeable future.
Let's start with the first memory. Mrs. Rivard. She…listened. Without judgment, without desire to diagnose or usher out prematurely. And Jack…he flourished, at least for a time, in that environment. He said something yesterday, what was it…that doctors at Arkham had him labelled…had him figured out before he was even assigned to them.
She couldn't help but marvel at such a display of vulnerability. How long had he been meaning to get that out?
That I created an environment for him to do so is important. The other two memories…Dr. Lawson and the priest…they saw him as the embodiment of his actions, offering no consideration as to what events molded him to carry out the actions to begin with.
As it was turning out, last night really wasn't an exaggeration. His pain was her own. How maddening it must have been to sit in front of people that were supposed to help lessen your pain but chose instead to treat you as if you were too far gone. You too would come to conclude that you were, wouldn't you?
She bit her lip, trying to piece it all together. A breakthrough lurked on the horizon.
When…personal biases and expectations are forced upon someone…someone who thrives from being viewed objectively, viewed as an autonomous self that carries the full spectrum of human emotions, no matter how buried…well, not much progress can be made, can it?
I've been guilty of it too. I've had my own preconceptions about him. But yesterday…yesterday I viewed him as a human being first, everything else second. And in doing so…I gave him permission to delve into a version of himself that was truer to his nature. Joker is Jack, but Jack is not Joker. What you are conditioned to be – either by internal or external forces – can't hold a flame to the authentic self. Beneath it all, Jack is the eight-year-old boy, curious about the world and passionate in engaging (at least with one other soul) the mysteries of existence.
She was surprised to find herself getting misty-eyed. Was this the epiphany those memories sought to gift her? That beneath sharp blades, kerosene and a mangled smile, there existed a beating heart.
Should I call Agatha? Catch her up on these past few days and ask her about what happened last night. And how it is I was able to actually watch portions of Joker's life in my sleep.
She went back and forth for a while; ultimately deducing this. Her and Joker's connection appeared to have a will of its own and it seemed reliant on them alone in elevating it to its full potential. She believed as she had on the night of her tarot reading that Agatha could do no more for her. From here on out, they were the authors of this story, equipped with the ability to rewrite, erase, create, or destroy.
Tapping into him had to be taken in stride. Like she'd been told, encountering your soulmate at the right time was rare. The downside was there wasn't a manual. On the same hand, the upside was…there wasn't a manual. Nothing was written in stone; no boundaries or limitations existed to confine or define them, other than the ones they themselves set. What was left then but to trust in that which could no longer be denied. They were soulmates. Any direction could be taken with this information. And she, for one (even if it frightened her), longed to explore this connection further.
Now whether this desire would be reciprocated, she hadn't a clue. It was tempting to say no, but she'd be relying on preconception again. Preconception might keep her alive in the long run, but it wouldn't truly grant her the ability to live. She'd promised her mom that, hadn't she? Live in the present moment. Proceed without certainty. Trust the natural flow of life.
There's no guarantee I come out of this alive.
The response from within was immediate.
So be it.
Her lips twitched.
"So be it," she whispered, doing her best to ignore the very tempting idea of getting into her car, driving to the airport, hopping on a plane en route to the Himalayas, and living out the rest of her life as a humble mountain goat herder.
She lounged in bed for a few more minutes, faintly monitoring the ascension of the sun. From the looks of it, it appeared to be late morning. While the last thing she wanted was to abandon the comfort of her bed, she remembered Uncle Lu's get together was happening later in the day. No doubt he'd already assailed the ears of his brother and sister regarding Joker. If she failed to show up, she didn't put it past her family to come to them.
Releasing a long-winded yawn, she sat up and stretched her arms.
There were still portions of the day prior that were shrouded in mystery. Psychedelics were funny like that, at least in her personal experiences. The hangover after a night of drinking forever left gaps in memory that couldn't be reclaimed no matter what someone did to fill them. The hangover after a trip, however, sometimes saw those memories return hours, days, or weeks later, like details of a fading dream.
Thinking back on yesterday she knew she'd had a stellar time. Self-induced injuries aside, there'd been plenty of giggling, lots of pleasant tingling, some instances of euphoria so incredible she nearly burst from her physical body, and…kissing. Yes…those memories weren't so shy about keeping to the shadows. In fact, upon realizing that she'd initiated the make out session on the beach just as the sun was setting made her entire body flush pink from head to toe.
I really didn't hold back, did I? Who knew I could be such a horny little nymph?
She wasn't able to keep back a wolfish grin. It was bolstered further upon taking in the state of her newly bandaged hand.
Did he do that too?
She wiggled her fingers. Everything certainly felt snugger than usual.
He did. And he kept me from stepping off the cliff! Even though I'm sure I'd have stopped…I think…maybe.
Suddenly, she was nervous to leave her room. What would she find beyond the door? A murderous Joker? An angry Joker? A disgusted Joker? It rattled her a little to realize any of those were preferable to a regretful one, even if, realistically, this would probably be the one she encountered first.
Only one way to find out.
Standing seemed to reawaken every bump and bruise on her body. And revealed beneath the covers a surprising amount of sand they each must have trekked in.
She groaned softly and stretched again. It didn't occur to her to change from her current attire. Something about wearing Joker's dress shirt made her loins simmer in the most delicious way. Could anyone else claim that privilege?
If they try, they're toast.
She winced.
Sheesh. And I thought he was the possessive one.
As a last-ditch attempt at modesty, she buttoned it nearly all the way up. For as sexy as she felt, it was still unusual to be half naked around someone else.
Is it sad that this is new territory to me at thirty-one?
She opened her door as quietly as possible and peeked out. Relieved to find it clown-free, she crept into the hallway.
Get a grip, woman! You're behaving like there's a serial killer in your house. Which…okay, there technically is. But you've handled his murderous moods before and lived to have a lengthy inner monologue about it. Stop being such a damn chicken.
Emboldened by this reality check, she decided to search the kitchen first. If memory served her right, he'd gone out of his way to ensure she ate. Yet again, he amazed her. Who knew such courtesy existed in the depths of a seemingly apathetic madman? What other surprises were in store?
As she tiptoed through the hallway, it took a good few second to recall why the floor was scattered with Nerf darts.
I…I owned his ass. Oh my god…Bruce is never going to believe this.
Her smile was bittersweet. What she wouldn't do for a nice long chat with her former friend at their favorite pizzeria. She wouldn't disclose everything, but enough details to humanize Joker at least a little bit. Whether Bruce was aware of this trait in himself or not, he longed to give people second chances. It wasn't in his nature to give up on someone, not even someone with a track record like Joker. That was the depth of his mercy, carefully masked and obvious only to those who bothered to look deeper.
Wherever you are Bruce, I hope you're safe.
Upon entering the kitchen, she let out a tiny sigh of relief. Joker was leaning over the sink, clad in black sweatpants and little else. With his back to her, she was able to properly appreciate just how toned he was. A few faint bruises and cuts heightened his attractiveness, though her smile slipped a little at being able to see hints of his spine poking through.
He's gotta have a crazy fast metabolism what with all the running around he does. Maybe that'll be my first task. Putting some meat on his bones. His lovely, lovely bones.
She didn't immediately pick up on the fact that he was muttering to himself, head jerking from side to side. Both hands were dug into the edge of the countertop.
"I should, I should, I should…" A frenzied laugh escaped him. "Bury her beneath the funny farm where life is beauti-ful all the time…and if I should ever miss her, put my ear to the ground and…just…listen…tsk tsk tsk, you forget to listen Jacky boy, you never listen!"
The noise he emitted sounded like a wounded dog.
Celine did her best not to succumb to self-preservation. This was not a side to him she'd seen before.
Energy-wise, he oozed instability. Like atoms that'd been compressed too tightly, on the verge of fracturing into a million different directions from the slightest bit of pressure. Similarly, he wasn't entirely in his right mind. One could argue he never was, but this headspace seemed even beyond his grasp.
The longer she listened to his half-coherent rambles, the worse her skin prickled. Briefly, she considered slipping out of the room, leaving him nonethewiser to her presence.
But she stayed put. If Joker was prone to these sorts of outbursts, she needed to learn as much as she could about them. Instinct told her this wasn't a new development, nor was it the last time she might encounter him in such a volatile state. Just as well, she wasn't a coward. Joker wouldn't respond well to her behaving like one.
Last night had to have been the cause. It's getting to him…has gotten to him…that he's behaved so contradictory to his identity. That there's a person alive who can affect him in such a way. I don't know what thoughts led to what I'm seeing, but choosing to break down in private rather on me is a good sign, right? Question is…do I let him ride it out? Or will riding it out sink him further into lunacy?
Her thoughts came to a sudden halt as Joker dove forward and smashed his skull into the countertop. The sound of something cracking reverberated through the kitchen. He pulled back, readying himself for a second go.
She'd never sprinted so quickly before. All impulse, no room for thought.
"Hey, hey, hey," she blurted, one hand slipping around the back of his neck, the other gripping onto his shoulder. "Hey, Jack…Jack…look at me."
She fought back the urge to recoil. Blood trickled from the crown of his head. The corner of his lips shot up into an empty sort of smile. A gazeless stare dominated his expression; like a re-animated cadaver lacking the awareness to recall it'd been human once.
"H-hey," she repeated, doing her best not to let her voice tremble. "I-come back to me, okay? Whatever's going on in there…that's not reality. This-." She took one of his hands and interwove it with hers. "-this is real."
He glanced down at their jointed hands, brows crunching together. Blood continued to pour out of his hairline.
"This is real," she repeated, softer. "Please…just…breathe. Breathe with me."
His fingers tightened around hers until her hand went pale. The desire to scream was overwhelming – especially when her bandaged hand was the one being crushed – but she clamped down on her bottom lip and bit in until the lower half of her face was partially numb.
Nearly a minute passed of complete rigidness on his end. He barely moved, barely breathed, and if she wasn't studying his throbbing pulse, she'd have thought he'd made the seamless transition into a statue.
She was caught off guard when he shoved her away, nearly causing her to tumble to the floor. Strands of hair shielded his expression. A few drops of blood splattered onto the hardwoods.
"Oh ho ho ho hooo," he cackled, palms covering his face. "Make it make sense!"
He bared his teeth and slid his fingers into his hair, tugging at the strands.
"Make it make sense, make it make sense."
He struck the side of his temple with a fist.
"Ahaha…hahahaha hahahaha…"
His opposite temple met the same fate, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Celine's heart thumped so hard it hurt. Tempted as she was to say or do something, she chose to remain silent and let him process the extremes of his emotions.
He'll find his way out. I know he will. I know it.
Until then, she worked on her breathing while massaging the interior of her palm. Calmness. Someone needed to embody it. If she was lucky, some would rub off on him.
Joker's laughter eventually died out, and with it, her shoulders eased just a little.
The energy now vibrating off of him felt more familiar. Hostility was unmistakable, but at least he had some semblance of restraint over it. He didn't look particularly pleased to see her, but his head was cocked slightly, as if he were working out the answer to a mystery.
She racked her brain for what to say, but nothing came to mind.
Instead, she found herself grabbing a nearby dish towel and pulling a chair from the counter to the sink.
He arched a bloodied brow.
"Sit."
Not waiting for a response, she scurried to the bathroom. There, she picked up a bottle of antiseptic and some gauze wipes.
Upon returning, Joker was still standing in the same spot. His eyes were glued to her, expression impossible to read. She walked up to him, carefully took a hold of his wrist, and led him to the sink. He followed without struggle, allowing her to push him down into the chair.
The bleeding had thankfully let up. She wetted the towel and began to wipe away the drying trails of maroon on his face, taking care to be gentler around his scars.
Joker watched her like a hawk, saying nothing. His legs were spread – she was reminded momentarily how dangerous it was to stand between them – and his hands clasped together as if engaged in a silent prayer.
When she determined his face to be spotless, she tossed the towel into the sink and with the insides of her thumbs brushed away the strands of hair matted to his wound. He must have liked the sensation for his body slumped into the back of the chair, a throaty sigh escaping through his teeth.
She took one of the gauze wipes and poured some peroxide onto it. Had she been tending to anyone but him, a warning might be issued. But this was Joker, and such an endeavor was the definition of counterproductive.
True to form, he didn't so much as flinch as she dabbed at the cut, most of it curving into his hairline. For as hard as he'd struck his head, the injury was relatively minor.
What the hell was that? was at the forefront of her mind to ask, but she refrained for several reasons, the primary one being it sounded far too accusatory. While it appeared Joker wasn't new to these sorts of mania-filled fits (in fact, she suspected his trademark scars might be the result of one) it was clear he himself didn't fully understand them. It was a state of mind beyond his control and all he could do in the moment is give himself fully over to it. Asking him to explain what he lacked the explanation to would, in all likelihood, aggravate him.
A temporary descent into madness. True madness. One that can't be chalked up to childhood traumas or societal grievances…no, this is more personal. Like…someone never learning that 2+2=4, even though the rest of the world was taught. The longer you stare at the equation, the more frustration builds at failing to understand it. And you lose your mind just a little trying to figure it out.
She grimaced. His emotions were that equation, weren't they? Not the ones typical of him- anger, bloodlust, manipulation. Rather, the ones atypical of him.
I'm responsible for this, aren't I?
She tried taking a step back, but Joker snatched her by the shirt before she could so much as gain a centimeter.
"Where're you going?"
He was squinting up at her, a series of tics laying claim to his jaw.
"I'm sorry." She lowered her arms to her side. "I didn't mean for you to…go to that place."
He rolled his eyes.
"Don't flatter yourself." He tugged her forward until she had to grab onto one of his shoulders to keep from collapsing onto him. "That place existed loooooong before I met ya." He offered her a smile that lifted his scars as high as they would go. "See? You think a man in his right mind would carve up this pretty face?"
She studied his mangled cheeks.
"We all go a little mad sometimes," Joker said, closing his eyes, shaking his head, and basking in an invisible sun. "And if you're lucky, you return with souvenirs."
"Are-." Her expression turned pensive. "-are you proud of them?"
"Mm…" He opened one eye to peer at her. "Can't deny they're a…conversation starter."
She closed her mouth and rethought her next set of words.
"Are you okay?"
His other eye popped open. He tilted his head.
"Never better."
The nonchalance in his tone bothered her more than she'd admit to. In the space allotted to her, she turned to the sink and threw in the soiled gauze; relieved to have something else to focus on.
She didn't think his intent was to mock her concern. What was befuddling was why she took such offense if it was.
I let him in…of course it's going to hurt when my compassion is brushed off.
This was something she didn't realize until now she'd have to get used to. Between the two, she was the one to voice her true emotions – concern for his wellbeing included. His instinct was to deflect. If this relationship had any chance of working out, a healthy response needed to be learned. Tripping on mushrooms made it so easy to take everything in stride. As sober reality reacquainted itself with her, the ability to let go became a little trickier.
This man is truly a revelation. A reminder you never stop growing.
She met his eyes.
At a glance, his gaze might be described as dead. But up close, an inner world churned. He just happened to hide it beneath very convincing armor.
"Next time what happened, happens," she said, "do you want me to get involved or keep my distance?"
He shrugged.
"Your call. Those who witness what you did don't ah exactly live long enough to prepare for the next one. More surprised you're still in one piece…" He leisurely scanned his environment, as if just viewing it for the first time. "…it's not ah…often that I come out without having destroyed something."
Her bandaged hand returned to his forehead. She stroked the healing wound with a thumb.
I don't like seeing you hurt yourself was on the tip of her tongue to reveal, but she suspected this would make him uncomfortable. Or embolden him to be more reckless. She had to be careful with her heartfelt confessions. Too much at once and he'd feel stifled. Love was freeing, not stifling.
She exhaled and redirected the topic.
"Um, do you by chance know what I did with my phone yesterday?"
The corners of his lips twitched. He glanced out the window before peering up at her.
"No-pe." He tilted his head and lapped at his scars. "Probably lost it in the woods."
She groaned, running a hand through her hair.
"Figures."
He released her shirt and gripped her waist. His calloused palm was a pleasant sear against her skin.
"I'll get you a new one."
"I-that's not necessary. You shouldn't have to foot the bill for my carelessness."
He peeked up at her through narrowed lids.
"Mm…you're under the funny impression you get a say in the matter."
"Don't I?"
"Can't have my bunny be disconnected from me, can I?"
Her cheeks heated up. Where once, his pet name was a source of great annoyance, now, it had her tummy twisting in delight.
"I'll search for it later," she decided on.
He shrugged.
"Suit yourself."
She attempted to take a step back, but Joker kept her rooted in place. His brows rose, as if to question her sudden desire for space.
If you keep holding on to me like this, I might hop on your lap and ride you like a mechanical bull.
How to exactly phrase that out loud was the conundrum.
Unfortunately, Joker misinterpreted her silence. His brows furrowed together. Suspicion clouded his expression.
"Is it the scars?"
Celine felt like she'd been smacked.
"What?"
Joker smiled at her, but it lacked any humor.
"Ya know, for a little while there last night you had even me convinced. Though, I was right in the end, wasn't I? I always am."
His tone may have sounded casual, but underlying it was resentment.
It was in that moment she realized she'd had it all wrong earlier. There wasn't a trace of regret existing in him regarding the night before. But he almost certainly expected her to be carrying a fair amount. Her trying to break free from his hold was proof in his eyes.
She'd have laughed but didn't want to be stabbed sixteen times. What she did know was she needed to set things straight and lighten the mood. The day was far too promising to start out so tense.
"You're an idiot."
Joker's glower vanished.
"A handsome idiot, granted." She tilted her head and brushed a thumb over his right scar. "But an idiot, nevertheless."
"I'm not," came his petulant mumble.
"Are so," she countered. "To think that now, after nearly two months of knowing each other, I'm suddenly repulsed by your scars?"
She stared at him hard. To his credit, he seemed receptive to the unlikelihood of his own accusation.
"I thought I made it pretty evident last night just how special you are to me," she continued. "Is it…could it be that my grizzly bear is…af-af-afwwwaid?"
His frown should have served as a warning, but she was having too much fun antagonizing him.
"You are!" She examined him with bright eyes. "Aww…grizzly bear's afraid of being soulmates with a harmless little bunny!"
He looked like he wanted to growl at her.
"Hey," she soothed, rubbing his shoulder. "It's okay, I know learning you have a soulmate can be super scary. I'm sure you want to run away or hide. Personally, I'm relieved it's finally out. And honestly…all I really wanna do is just…love up on you. Wrap you up in a bunch of blankets and nuzzle you until you're purring like a kitten."
The conflict on his face was so very entertaining to witness. She pressed on, never having seen him look so out of his depths before.
"Hey, it really is alright," she assured. "The last thing I need from you is reciprocation. Fear is a valid response. I don't fault you for it."
She tapped her chin thoughtfully.
"Man…I really didn't hold back, did I? Telling you my heart beats for you. Soulmate or not, that kind of honesty is enough to send any man running in the opposite direction."
"I don't run from anything," he snapped. "In fact, if you were smar-t, you'd be the one running. Once I sink my teeth into something, I ah don't let go."
The advice was deceptive for the second he voiced it; his grip tightened on her. It practically radiated off of him: Try and I'll tackle you to the floor.
She did her best to pretend he wasn't being so obvious.
"Well, if you insist-."
He shot to his feet and grabbed her by the hair. Stifling a groan, he tilted her head back until all she could see was the ceiling.
"Fucking tease."
She wasn't sure how he meant for it to sound. All she knew was the muscles in her groin were rejoicing.
This is so fucked. I am not a sane woman.
"You strut and strut and stru-t." He lowered his head until his nose was inches from her pulse. "Letting anyone and anything gawk at ya. Not very nice to do, especially when you're al-ready spoken for."
Any chance of a smart response died the moment he buried his face into the curve of her neck and inhaled. Her shiver was so violent it prompted a grin.
"Responsive," he noted. "Good, I like that."
She swallowed, secretly grateful for his hold on her. She couldn't be certain what was turning her on more - the skin-to-skin contact or the grit and gravel in his voice.
Do I take the plunge? There's no going back if I do.
She rubbed her thighs together, doing her best to ignore the growing dampness in her panties.
Apparently, she wasn't very discrete. Joker immediately noticed the gesture. He also seemed to finally realize what she had on.
"You're…still wearing it?"
He sounded startled and pleased at the same time; free hand dropping to the last button of his shirt.
"S-sorry," she gasped, pulse throbbing. "You're…um…more than welcome to take it off."
It was an unintentional invitation, but one she wasn't all that concerned with correcting.
"Mm…" He cocked his head and tilted her head back down to study her. "Aren't we just feeling generous today. What's the occasion?"
She fought down the urge to scream. Why was he being so obtuse? Did she have to spell it out for him?
"Jack…" Being the sole recipient of his focus made stringing words together difficult. "You said last night I was long overdue for a fucking, yes? Well…fuck me."
He blinked.
"Unless," she followed up, "you're all bark and no bite. Is that what you are, Jack? You talk the talk, but when push comes to sho-."
He swung her around and pinned her against the counter with his hips. Before she could process the change in positions or the pain her tailbone, his mouth was on hers.
I apologize for how long it's taken me to update, I intended to do so much sooner. This story was always in the back of my mind, even when life got to be very not good. Depression really seems to have it out for the creative folk. Pair that with financial instability and it creates the perfect storm. I'm not out of it yet, but I can at least feel the motivation to write returning. Everyone who has offered support and encouragement over the past few months of silence, I see you and I appreciate you more than you'll know. Thank you so much, truly.
No, it's not in your imagination, this chapter reads a little odd. I have not fully refound the vibe of the story. There have been many times I've sat down with this chapter and all the ones before it and felt like a different person wrote it all. It made me cry a few times because I thought I'd lost the ability to write. I'm rusty on characterizations and fluidity and plot, but hope to gradually gain all that back.
There is one last thing I want to address. When I first sat down and really focused on writing an outline for this story, I told myself...if you're going to take it in that direction, you're going to have to commit. No second guessing, no bowing to criticisms. And for 32 of the chapters, I held fast to that promise.
Re-reading some of the reactions to Chapter 32 (this applies more to AO3, but I'll talk about it here too) did fill me with uncertainty, doubt, and disappointment in how I chose to go about this story. This loss of faith was, thankfully, brief. I do trust in my vision.
But I would like to say this about my portrayal of soulmates. I've written the soulmate trope before in other works, but never delved deeper than the fact that...well, they're soulmates. This is the first time I really get to play around with what all that entails. It's not just a word that means two people are meant for one another. I get to ask myself...what does it mean spiritually? Emotionally? Physically? What does it mean in terms of extrasensory abilities? Seeing as a part of Celine and Joker's souls were birthed from the same star, what does it mean in terms of energy, memory, divinity?
If you find my interpretation of soulmates unrealistic or far-fetched, I respect that. You're within your right to feel that way. Nolan's trilogy is really successful at keeping the superhero world grounded in reality. That being said, Batman is a product of the DC Universe where the supernatural, fantastical, impossible can all happen. From my perspective anyway, leaning into the metaphysical isn't terribly controversial or improbable when you have Superman from another planet that shoots x-rays out of his eyes or The Green Lantern that can fly or Magneto who uses telekinesis.
I'm sorry, I felt the need to get that out because I feared maybe I'd betrayed or misled some of you. That was never my intention and in future works I'll try to be more transparent.
Celine's birthday is in less than an hour! Wish her a happy 7/22. Or don't. She's been very very stubborn to write as of late. Maybe she doesn't deserve any birthday wishes. No birthday wishes for you, Celine. None at all. Okay, maybe just this one. Happy birthday you weird, weird, weird creature.