I need a gingerbread man. One who's always crazy, never calls me baby, that's the one that I need...
Chapter Four.
That Girl Is A Problem.
Ring, ring, Daddy's home. The Joker lounged in his gold throne, one leg hooked over the arm, narrowed eyes sweeping the perimeter of the club. Every person a potential target. Each body the possibility for fun. The glittering room sung with sex. Not that such things interested the Joker. Now the King had returned, danger hung in the air like a pendulum. Which way would it swing? The crowd thrived on it, lived for it, you could feel it in the air you breathed. You didn't visit Grin to relax. There's a thin line between a laugh and a scream, and the Joker mastered the edge of hysteria. God help anyone who disrespected the King. He scanned the room like a cobra, knuckles flexing on his cane.
But still, there was… something. Somethingsomethingsomething. Something…not.
His teeth, perhaps. After their little melee the other night Batman had gotten the jump on him, although to be fair to the Joker he'd left a good couple of canines embedded in Batman's fist. Doctor Thorne had fixed his bloody mess of a face—no charge for The Joker, of course, with my compliments, Sir—and silver metal caps fixed his smile. He looked like a nightmare. Just another way for his face to match his mind. The 'Damaged' tattoo now scribed across his forehead was a love letter to the destruction.
A candystriped waitress giggled as she passed, crooking her finger in Frost's direction. Frost raised his glass in a universal salute of, I'm good, thanks, maintaining his vigil from the gold embossed couch on the other side of the Joker's private booth.
"How 'bout you, Mister J?" She twirled her hair around her finger, popping her bubblegum.
A thrill of irritation ran up the Joker's spine. Lazily he rolled his head in her direction, watching as her face paled, pulse jumping in her neck. He bared his teeth, running his tongue over the metal. She almost tripped over herself in her rush to get away.
Frost was watching him, expressionless. So serious. This guy's seen too many Men In Black reruns.
"Why so serious?" The Joker drawled from behind his tattoo, his eyes fixed on Frost. "Sexual frustration is bad for the soul...so I hear." His trademark laugh swelled the booth.
Frost waited for him to finish. "I wouldn't know about that." His face was impassive as he nursed his scotch.
The Joker leered. "Oh? Found yourself a lady, Frost? A Snow Queen?"
"You know me, boss." He took a swallow of scotch. "I don't do long term." His gaze was constantly on the move, taking stock of their surroundings the way he was paid to. Still, it wouldn't hurt for him to lighten up.
The Joker narrowed his eyes, fingers tapping his cane. Sensing his boss's impatience, Frost acquiesced. "There was this one chick the other night. Really great ra—"
"Please, Jonny." The Joker interrupted before he could finish, rolling his jaw. "Anyone would think this was a den of...iniquity." He grinned, cold metal smile throwing sparks along the wall.
Frost shrugged, used to his boss's mercurial moods. "Sorry." A guy and a girl moved a little too close to the booth, curiosity getting the better of them. At a look from Frost they hurried on, heads down.
The Joker gestured vaguely in the direction of the scotch bottle. Frost poured him a glass, neat. The Joker's hand shot out as Frost handed it over, white fingers gripping his wrist, the famous smile emblazoned against Jonny's skin.
"You know who had a really great rack?"
"Who?" Frost hovered in place as the Joker squeezed his wrist to the edge of pain. Whatever mood the Joker was in, you went along for the ride, and prayed you didn't get caught in the crossfire.
"That new therapist at Arkham. Jerry had two reasons for hiring her, and they weren't her brain and her smile." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Frost cracked a rare smile. "Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah. Not that it reflects badly on her." His face darkened, pupils flaring. "Jerry's just too stupid to notice anything else."
"She got a brain, this one?"
"She's got a something. " The Joker toyed with his glass before knocking back the contents. Licking his lips, he muttered. "Pretty sure she's just as crazy as the cooks she coddles."
"You like her?" Frost asked offhand.
The Joker threw back his head and howled. His head snapped back down, teeth bared, his eyes boring into Frost's. Palming his knife, he stabbed it deep into the table, right between his employee's thumb and forefinger. Frost's eyes widened a fraction.
"Like her? Oh no, Frost, you've got it all wrong. She's..." he twirled a hand in the air, looking for the right flavour of word.
"Unfinished business?" Frost supplied, carefully removing his fingers from around the blade still quivering in the table. "You did leave her alive." He refilled the Joker's glass, setting it on the table. The golden-brown liquid trembled with the beat of the music, the singer complaining loudly about how that girl is god damn problem.
"Right after she took a little swan dive." The Joker smirked. "Who knew shrinks bounced...?" He drew a second knife from his belt, twirling it between his fingers.
"Shrinks might not, but gymnasts do." Frost pulled a file from under his jacket. "I took the liberty of looking her up. To satisfy my own curiosity, of course." He clarified when the Joker's jaw tightened. He wasn't watching Frost; his eyes were on the spinning disco ball, the clubbers beneath, but Frost still felt the chill.
"Taking liberties now, Frost?" The Joker's voice was honeyed as he tested the point of the knife against his skin. A bead of blood welled, red against white.
"Sorry, boss. But, you have to admit, a girl must be pretty sp—interesting for you to think she's worth mentioning." Frost was always careful to maintain calm around the Joker, but he forgot the Joker was the living radar for fear. He could smell the scares Frost kept hidden in the secret spaces behind his eyes.
The Joker pointed the knife at him. "I admit nothing." His neurons popped and buzzed at the sound of Frost's heart speeding up. All the little television sets in the Joker's brain were set to Channel FREAKOUT FROST. Time to have a little fun? HmMmMm. He'd missed out on the therapist. She'd messed with his mind somehow—which was no mean feat, his mind was already M.E.S.S.E.D. Although, watching her fly had been pretty interesting. And when she'd pulled those moves out of nowhere, wow! There was a grand finale. Not like this...boredom. Where was a good heist when he needed one? He could skewer Frost in a second. One shish kebab, comin' right up! The Joker's head rolled as he contemplated.
After a moment, he sheathed the knife. "Well?" He gritted his teeth, metal on metal. "Sharing is caring."
Frost obliged, handing the folder over. The Joker flipped through. Doctor Harleen Quinzel's life flickered before his eyes. Boring, boring, oooh, suspended from school when she was 16 for trying one measly cigarette, Daddy made her write an apology letter, how sweet... Daddy looks like the military type, bet his little Pumpkin couldn't put a toe out of line... Gymnastic medals, awards, graduation photo, a scholarship, a smorgasbord of normal, so vanilla, so quaint, so...
"What's this?" He muttered, pulling a page from the file. The rest of the pages fluttered to the ground like ghostly butterflies.
His grin flashed like a lighter igniting. The flame grew bigger as he read.
This. Now this was interesting.
~ oOoOo ~
"Ow."
My head throbbed as the bright light hit my pupils, no doubt shrinking them into teeny pupil-dots. Pretty soon, I was gonna get sick of waking up in different places. Yesterday, the roof. Today, what looked an awful lot like the hospital. Next thing I knew I'd be waking up in a cell in Arkham.
"I'm not in Arkham, am I?" I wondered, more to myself than anyone else. You can imagine my surprise when someone other than one of my alter-egos answered.
"No, you're not in Arkham."
I tilted my head to the side. A familiar redhead was perched in the chair beside my bed, sewing. Her fingers were deft as she pulled thread through hemp. It was then that I noticed the flowers. Lots of flowers. Wayyy too many flowers.
I sneezed. "Sale at the market, Pammy?" I asked innocently.
She gave me a look. "Ha, ha, ha." She deadpanned. "If I have to sit in this sterile, chemical-filled room, I'm going to do what I can to improve it."
"You say improve, I say overdo..."
"You don't get to say anything. Letting yourself get held hostage by the Joker on your first day." Her lip curled at the sound of his name. "Honestly." She jabbed the needle a little too forcefully into the fabric.
"Well, gee, Pammy, I didn't exactly invite him to take me up to the roof and drop me out of a helicopter."
She arched a brow, still sewing. How did she do that without looking? I'd have turned myself into a human voodoo doll by now.
"At least he didn't kill you." She sighed, resigning herself to my perceived idiocy.
"Yes, there is that." I mimicked her serious tone, grinning when a tiny smile tugged the corners of her lips.
I pulled myself into a sitting position. My gaze slid pointedly to the cup on my side table. Rolling her eyes, Pam offered me the straw.
"You're not incapable."
I ignored her, sucking noisily. She grimaced.
"Thanks ever so." I gave her a big smile as she moved the cup away once I was finished, setting it back on the table. "You have such a nurturing instinct, Pammy, I don't know why you didn't become a nurse."
She flicked a petal at me. "I preferred it when you were asleep."
"Asleep, unconscious, potato, potahto..."
"Although," she interrupted, "the sleep-talking was getting annoying."
Sleep talking? Psychologist Harleen raised an eyebrow.
Secret Harleen rolled her eyes.
"Sleep talking?" Why did I get the feeling my subconscious was about to bite me in the ass?
Pammy pointed her needle at me. "You're curious about the Joker."
I flushed. "Professionally."
"Potato, potahto," she quoted, giving up on her sewing with an exasperated huff. Her green eyes were accusatory. "You shouldn't be anything about the Joker. He's not your patient."
Yet, Secret Harleen muttered.
"Pardon?" Pam's eyes flashed.
Oops. "Nothing."
Textbook attention jealousy. Some might call this a toxic friendship. Psychologist Harleen folded her arms.
Yeah, but she's so much FUN! Secret Harleen popped her bubblegum.
For a second it looked like Pam might lose her temper, but then she breathed deep. The flowers seemed to lean in her direction. When she opened her eyes, they were the calm green of summer grass—instead of the angry green of poison ivy that wanted to kill you.
"Look." She exhaled through her nose. "I just don't think curiosity about the Joker—professionally or otherwise," she clarified when I opened my mouth to interject. "Is a good and or healthy idea. I prefer you when you're breathing."
"I thought you preferred it when I was asleep?"
"You breathe when you're asleep, don't you?" she snapped.
"I don't know, Pammy, I've never actually seen myself sleep—" She put her hand over my mouth.
"I'm not playing, Harls. This is serious."
I don't know how she expected me to respond given she'd muzzled me. I raised an eyebrow pointedly. She dropped her hand. I grinned.
"It's so cute that you're worried about me."
She gritted her teeth.
I sighed dramatically, putting a hand to my forehead. "I think you're right though, Pammy. I'm obsessed. I need...clownselling."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I fucking give up."
"Aw, don't give up on me now." I gave her a playful punch on the shoulder, turning serious when she didn't crack a smile. I dropped the act, tilting my head until she met my gaze. "Seriously, Pam, I'm fine. Don't worry about me." I let Psychologist Harleen take the reins. "I'm still a little delirious from whatever mind tricks the Joker was pulling, that's all. He's out of Arkham, now, anyway. Gone. Poof. And even if he came back, I'd never be assigned. Too much personal contact with a patient is bad for a therapeutic relationship. Besides," I reassured her, "I'd turn it down, anyway."
She looked doubtful. "Would you, though? He'd make a hell of a case study. PhD material."
I shrugged. "The guy dropped me out of a helicopter. Never seeing him again would be too soon."
You're lying. Psychologist Harleen's eyes were wide.
Would you look at that, for once I agree with McBoring.
A case like this could make our career, I hissed at them both. Not that it matters, because a) never in a million would Doctor A assign me; b) hello, the jack is out of the box for the foreseeable future and c) I will do the responsible thing and ignore the urge. Okay?
"Good." Pam picked up her sewing again, satisfied. "By the way," she wrinkled her nose, "Can you let your boss know that chemically enhanced flowers are bad for natural plant life? I won't throw them away or anything, it's not their fault, but still. Gross."
"They sent flowers?" If they sent flowers, that meant I wasn't fired. Something I'd been trying not to think about since I opened my eyes.
"I assume so. Your parents don't know you're here." I said a silent hallelujah at that one. "And the rest are mine. Who else is there?"
I shook my head. "Beats me."
It was then that I noticed the big, unnaturally purple roses Pam had tucked away behind her vases, hiding the offensive blooms behind more natural flora. They looked innocent enough, except for their hue. An impossible colour. A crazy colour.
A feeling like cold water trickled down my spine.
"Yeah," I swallowed, eyeing the bright purple flowers. "It must be work."
AN: I've got a running playlist going for this fic, hit me up in the reviews if any of y'all are interested. Seriously, guys, thank you to anyone who has taken the time to review. It really means the world that you'd even think it was worth commenting, so thank you. PFS, you're a doll. Also, thought I'd mention I have a degree in psychology, in case you guys are wondering where the psychobabble comes from. So, it should be at least *semi* accurate, haha. Thanks for reading, hopefully I'll get chance to update again this weekend! As always, constructive criticism is more than welcome. Serious love for you all, both reviewers and silent readers. You rock. If you're looking for another fic, I'd recommend Therapy by PuddinFreakyStyle or You Don't Own Me by ElleQuinzel—both kickass writers with original tone that stay true. Until next time...