(A/N: Hi! I'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter, but I thought I would get it out there and see what you all think. I hope you like it! Thank you to PrettyUnteal, Yami Mizuna, vanessaserrato, Anna10473, mel123, and WickedlyMinx for your kind reviews. It means so much to me.)
*This chapter contains content that may be triggering to victims of sexual assault.
I spun around, my back flat against the cool windowpane as I gawked at the intruder. My head pounded harshly at my sudden movement and I let out a soft cry.
As unmistakable as ever, the Joker briskly moved into the room, unceremoniously slamming the door behind him. My breath caught in my throat when my eyes met his. He stood menacingly, suited in purple but adorning a well-worn face of paint, hints of peachy skin peeked through the white veneer. I wanted so desperately to scream, at him, at the universe, but I couldn't even open my mouth to speak. He looked wild, his chest was heaving like he had been running and even from across the room I could see that his eyes were black. We only stood for a moment like that before he started to slink forward, in my direction. I pressed myself even tighter against the glass at my back. My wide eyes stayed on his, and his on me. He paused as he reached the corner of the bed, mere feet away from me and said nothing as he raised his hands from his sides and flexed his fingers toward his tie. I scrunched my brow in confusion for a moment, watching his spindly fingers loosen the knot, before I realized what he was doing.
"W-What are you doing?" I asked, nevertheless.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" He countered, pulling his tie over his head and throwing it onto the bed, without breaking eye contact.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing as I watched him shrug off his heavy purple jacket and then make quick work of the buttons on his vest.
What the fuck do I do? What do I do?
I broke our eye contact and glanced nervously around the room, looking everywhere but at him.
Although I had become familiar with the Joker's penchant for manipulation, and even violence, I still hadn't pegged him as a rapist. Still, with my eyes plastered on the ceiling, I listened to the sounds of his belt clattering to the floor and in that moment any other scenario seemed inconceivable. I felt myself begin to tremble.
Slowly, I leaned to my left, trying to see around him toward the door, but he moved in tandem with me and leaned over as he worked at his fly, obstructing my view and forcing me to once again meet his gaze. I felt powerless and the look in his eyes told me he how much pleasure he was taking in making me squirm.
"You don't have to do this—"
"Yeah. I really do." He retorted, cutting off my plea and continuing to undress, not skipping a beat.
And then we stopped speaking, and when I could no longer stand to look at him, I turned instead to the window and the outside world. My chest felt tight and my throat burned as I watched a woman walking on the streets below, her long coat billowing in the wind behind her. I tried to imagine I was her and I watched her for as long as I could, until the tears in my eyes blurred my vision.
I could hear him moving around behind me, walking around the room and opening what sounded like a drawer of the crusty dresser. I closed my eyes and listened harder to the sound of shuffling fabric.
What's he doing?
A few minutes passed in relative silence until he once again begin to approach me, his carpet-dulled footsteps growing closer and closer. He was nearer now than ever. I could feel his manic energy at my back.
Turn around, turn around and fight him. You can do it.
Mustering all of my courage, I spun around with open eyes, my body buzzing with adrenaline.
What I saw, however, was not quite what I had been expecting. The Joker stood before me… in a white dress —his fingers fiddling with white elastic belt that cinched his surprisingly trim waist. My mouth fell open in shock. If it weren't for the situation, I would've laughed.
His eyes flickered up and I could see them moving across my face, examining my reaction. A small smile tugged at his scars. He knew exactly what he had made me think he was going to do and I shook violently from the lingering effects.
"Whaddya think? Ya into this sorta thing?" He held his arms out, fully showing me the outfit.
Despite an undeniable sense of relief that he was "dressed," the shock had yet to wear off and words still failed me. I could only stand there, dumbfounded.
When I didn't say anything, he rolled his eyes and dropped his arms to his side dramatically in mock disappointment. Finally turning his attention away from me and toward the bed, he reached for three small round containers settled on the bare, stained mattress.
"C'mere." He held out his hand in my direction. I just stared at it.
He licked his lips.
"Come. Here."
His tone jolted me back into the reality of the situation. I was, after all, still in the presence of the Joker, even if he was dressed somewhat unconventionally.
Not really having another option, I put my hand in his and he roughly pulled me closer. To my dismay, we were now only inches apart. I could smell him, a scent that reminded me of that first meeting in my apartment. Looking up toward his face, I could see at this range that much more of the face paint had worn off than I originally thought. Through the patchiness I could see the warmth of his natural skin tone and the deep texture of his scars. I wondered morbidly what they would feel like to touch.
He took my shaking hand and uncurled my fingers, placing the three circular containers in my sweaty palm.
"Open them." His hot breath fell over my face and assaulted my senses.
Unsteadily I grabbed onto one of the three containers with both hands and gently unscrewed the top, revealing well-loved white face paint. I looked up at him, confused.
"Put it on me."
My stomach flip-flopped uneasily and I shook my head.
"I don't want to." I protested, meekly.
Ignoring my objection, he reached for my right wrist and taking my hand in his, dipped my index and middle finger in the white paint and brought it up to his face. Guiding my hand, he smeared the thick, cool white paint around his right cheek and over his nose. I could feel his unwavering stare studying my face as our hands worked together, but I wouldn't meet his gaze.
My eyes were instead glued to our hands, intertwined as my fingers pressed against his warm skin. I hadn't touched anyone this intimately in a long time and putting my morals aside for the moment, the sensation was not entirely…unpleasant. As I followed the slope of his nose, he released his grip on my hand and dropped it to his side. I hesitated without his guidance.
"Keep going." His voice was dark and his tone serious.
I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat. From my peripherals, I noticed as his eyes dropped to a gaze on my neck and tried my best to ignore it.
Realizing I needed more paint to continue, I removed my hand from his face and dipped my fingers back into the white, smearing it over his left cheek. He had several inches on me, so my position was awkward and I strained to comfortably reach the rest of his face. To give myself leverage, I crawled my left hand up his arm and held onto his right shoulder. As my other hand slithered over the left side of his jaw, I saw his scars ripple into a smirk.
We continued like that in silence, my shaky fingers slipping over the contours of his face, carefully avoiding the raised flesh of his scars. I switched to the black grease paint after a moment, wiping the leftover white on my left arm. Using the faded black of the day's previous makeup as an outline, I delicately re-traced the hollows; his dark eyes following me like a hawk as I went.
I saved the red for last; something that I'm sure didn't go unnoticed. Gingerly, I sunk my fingertips into the creamy crimson paint and took a deep breath as I reached toward his face. My left hand gripped roughly onto his shoulder for support and I felt his hand snake up my left side in response, resting it on my waist. I let out a shuddering breath.
My fingers made hesitant contact with the ragged scars on the right side. At first contact my eyes flickered up to his, focused on me intensely, silently urging me to continue, carefully. Taking his cue, I softly traced along the groves of the marred skin, the sensation completely foreign; both repellant and captivating. I could feel his fingers pushing softly against my waist as I went along. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I was finished and I'd dropped my hand, stained red, to my side.
"I'm done," I stated quietly, nearly breathless.
He suddenly pushed me away, releasing his hold on my side. I felt a peculiar pang in my stomach at his abrupt aloofness.
"Thanks for the quickie," he grinned, smoothing back his greasy hair.
I scoffed and rubbed my paint covered hands together nervously.
Andy, what's wrong with you?
What was wrong with me? Although coerced into painting his face, I wasn't forced into the pleasure I had felt from doing it.
"Why am I here?" I suddenly demanded, gesturing my paint-covered hands around the sparsely decorated room in frustration. "To paint your face for you every day?"
He tilted his head at me, entertained by my sudden outburst.
He once again strode toward me, and I instinctively backed up—an oh-so familiar dynamic between us. I stopped as he lurched into my personal space and I felt the smooth coldness of the windowpane on my back.
"Andy. Andrea…" He cooed. "Do you really think I need you? You? An intern." He uttered, flatly.
My stomach churned and my face burned in a mix of embarrassment and anger. I knew he was trying to cut me down, manipulate me, and it was working.
I put my hands up, pushing against his chest to maintain space between us.
"I saw you by chance that day at GCN." He shoved my arms down and crept even closer.
"I saw a sweet innocent girl and I wondered what she would do if I applied a little"—he pressed his right hand up against my throat—"pressure."
"You made me a murderer." I choked, tears welling in my eyes.
"I didn't make you anything." He snapped.
"Besides, no one's dead yet." He stated matter-of-factly as he dropped his hand from around my neck and turned around, stalking away from me.
"What do you mean?" I asked skeptically, bringing a hand to my throat, feeling the burning skin where his hand had just been. "Nothing's been blown up?"
He turned to face me, "Where do you think I'm off to now?" He shifted side to side comically, his skirt catching the breeze and flitting around him, a bizarre and jarring sight. I said nothing, caught off guard by his constant mood swings.
Unperturbed, he moved again to the dresser, pulled out what looked like green doctor's scrubs and threw them in my direction. They fell in a crumpled pile at my feet.
"And you're coming."
I opened my mouth to protest and he looked at me pointedly.
"Get dressed."
I moved to reluctantly pluck the clothes from the dingy carpet and felt my head throb violently as I knelt down. Dropping one hand to the carpet for support, I brought my other hand to the side of my head and, again, softly prodded the tender, uneven stitches.
"How did I even get here?" I asked as I stood back up, feeling a little woozy.
He looked back at me, an expression of impatience plastered on his face.
"I thought you might do something a little…dramatic after my chat with Mikey." He took a few steps forward, "So, I had someone follow you."
"Oh…" I sighed and bit my lip. I didn't realize I was so predictable. "Should've known."
He sneered at my response.
"Good thing too." He took several more intimidating steps forward. "He told me you were just about to call your friend…Commissioner Gordon."
I suddenly remembered holding my phone in my hands, my finger hovering over the call button on Gordon's contact as everything went black. I took a deep breath in.
"Just let me leave." I said, changing the subject away from my duplicitous actions. "If I'm so useless, why bother keeping me around?" I tried to negotiate with a steady voice, barely holding back a scream. "Everyone will be looking for me. Wondering where I am."
He just started at me with a look that told me he knew I was full of shit.
"My dad will be worried sick." I continued anyway, the knowledge that I hadn't spoken to my father in at least half a year weighing heavily on me.
"Listen," he lunged forward and tucked me under his arm like I was his pupil, "we're a little tight on time, so I'm gonna make this quick and try not to get too upset." My eyes narrowed in on a dark stain on the carpet as he spoke, his arm crushing me against him, making it hard to breathe.
"I know everything about you. I know you're an only child. I know your mommy is dead and your daddy doesn't care about you."
My heart sank, already anticipating what he would say next.
"Because of what you did," he whispered lowly into my ear.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and strained my neck to look up at him. "How?" I whispered, my voice wavering heavily.
He simply cast me a look in response, and he was right, I already knew how. No secret was off-limits. Not for him.
The truth was, that before all of this, and with years of therapy, I had only just begun to reconcile with my mothers death. However, by reconcile, what I really meant was I continuously buried the memory of her passing as deep as possible so that I could finally function like a human; finish school, make friends, maybe even get myself a boyfriend. But no matter how many hours I spent in a psychiatrists office, I couldn't cure myself of the venomous notion that poisoned my brain, instilled therein by my father: that my mother's death was my fault. It was a part of me that I wanted to hide from everyone, including myself, yet here he was, forcing it to the surface.
"Where were you?!" I could still hear my father's screams, and picture the tears streaming down his fiery red cheeks. That and the stillness of my mother's lifeless body would be forever seared into my brain.
Weeks after her death, I would lay awake at night, listening to my father sobbing himself to sleep. For months we barely spoke, and he could hardly look at me, telling me when he did that I was her spitting image, that "when I look at you, all I see is her." My mother's death, and in his eyes, my guilt, turned my father into a monster, incapable of loving me and showing me the affection I so desperately needed.
At the same time that my father's love waned, so too did my ability to maintain friendships and a social life. I curled into myself and found comfort in my loneliness. When I struggled in the past, I would draw guidance and strength from my mother, but when I reached for her now, I only felt pain in return. And so I buried her, and any hope I had for my father I buried with her.
The feeling of the Joker's rough hand, petting the top of my head in a sardonic performance of comfort, broke me out of my catatonic state.
"Imagine my surprise when I found out you've got scars too…I just can't see 'em."
Some of us are just better at hiding them, I thought.
But I said nothing, instead staring straight ahead, thoroughly re-traumatized as I replayed my resurfaced memories over and over again in my mind, a dangerous habit I hadn't indulged in in years.
"Don't we having fun together, you and I?" He inquired, his tone deceptively playful.
I swallowed hard, his hand smoothing my blood encrusted hair behind my ear. I cringed at the feeling.
"You have a sick idea of fun," I stated, rather lethargically.
He snorted in reply and finally pushed me aside, grabbing a soft-sided bag off of the ground and stuffing in a few things.
"Andy, baby, I'm running out of time. So, you can either come with me. Orrrr," he pulled a small blade out of what seemed like thin air and twirled it between his paint covered fingers, "you can stay here and wait for me to get back." He looked at me from the corner of his eyes, expectantly.
I glanced back at the nailed down windowpane and again to the grimy door that I already knew locked from the outside, and the decision was nearly made for me. Moving as quickly as I could, I began pulling on the scrubs.
"Mmhmnn…" He growled. "That's more like it."