A/N: Sorry about the long hiatus. Finals ended in April but I was jumping around everywhere for a while. On a side note, I'm also posting this on LJ, so if you'd much rather just read it here I'll leave a link on my LJ account and stop posting it chapter by chapter there.
Title: In the Eye of the Hurricane – Chapter six
Author: ladyofpride
Characters: Joker, Scarecrow/Crane and the Riddler. Batman will be mentioned (and make appearances) as the story progresses, though he isn't the focus of the story.
Rating: Pg-17 (if such a thing exists).
Timeframe: follows after the second movie
Warnings: violence, obvious insanity and the death of innocent (or not-so-innocent) bystanders...after all, this is about the Joker...
Disclaimer: I'm not making a profit off of this—nor do I have the desire to either. I'm just playing in someone else's sandbox.
Summary: It's true what they say. Sanity can only last so long...
They hit the ground running.
Sort of...
In reality,he lands in a messy summersault. Whatever the case, they make it across the alley in one flimsy jump, fortunate enough to land on a building that's roughly a storey shorter than the one before. There's dirt in his eyes and his right shoe is lying somewhere three feet behind him, but he's all in one piece and the Bat's still chasing them. That's all that matters—the chase, that is. Who better to have behind you than the Bat?
The Riddler, on the other hand, falls with an oomph! and an ominous snap!
He wonders if the kid broke something vital but a quick look reveals the boy kneeling a little off to his left, fiddling with his cane as he tries to twist the handle off.
"You broke it," he mutters.
"You're welcome," he replies—because, really, what toy isn't fun when it's broken? Or maybe the Riddler wanted to break it himself, take it apart piece by piece and devise a new purpose for its existence. It already shoots tranqs and explosives. A sword would be neat. Or just a knife in the handle. Or a potato peeler...
His mind wanders for a moment as his hand slips into his coat pocket, closing around said peeler as the Riddler curses violently under his breath. Glancing over his shoulder, he spots the dark silhouette of the Bat standing on the edge of the last building, haloed faintly by the dismal glow of Gotham City. Streetlamps and city lights aren't enough to illuminate the sky, but the oily light is enough to smoulder the stars, a dull backdrop for the Batman's opening scene.
Cue the music.
Laying his free hand flat against the surface of the apartment's roof, he licks his lips and makes a small psst-ing noise to get the Riddler's attention. The kid pauses mid-twist, still fighting with the handle, and narrows his eyes at the Joker in obvious irritation.
"Follow my lead..." the Joker murmurs gleefully—just as the Bat spreads his wings, taking a small leap off the building before gliding toward the fallen villains. The Riddler's eyes shift to the descending shadow just as the Joker's hand curls around a fistful of pebbles and dirt.
The Batman knows he should take the Joker out first.
He feels honoured.
The joker scrambles to his feet—and cries out, ankle buckling under him before he tumbles back to his knees. His shoe is still lying somewhere on the ground and the Batman has given him a bit of distance, landing behind him rather than on him now that he thinks he's injured. It's foolish, really. The instant the man lands, the Joker springs back to his feet and twirls around, tossing the filth at the Batman's eyes before the man can wind up a punch. Shoving his blind opponent back with a flimsy kick to the chest, the Joker dances forward and lashes out with his knife.
He wonders if the Bat bleeds like everybody else.
The hand on his arm comes as a surprise.
"Stop it!"
The Riddler's eyes aren't wide behind his domino mask but the Joker can see an awkward spark burning in the absence of his insanity. It's a moment of clarity.
God, what an awful thing...
The kid's bowler hat is missing and the wind ruffles his hair. It looks eerily red in Gotham's faint glow. Bloody, almost. The Joker supposes that that must be a sign—that it isn't too late to correct him just yet. All it'll take is a proverbial blow to the head, and the kid will be singing nursery rhymes with Crane before the week is through.
"Just run," the Riddler hisses, raising the cane menacingly above his hand before slamming it down squarely on the Batman's head. It makes a weird clanging noise as it connects with the protective metal but it's enough to disorientate Gotham's saviour long enough for the Joker to turn tail and run.
It feels a little funny with only one shoe.
He makes it to the fire escape and slips down the ladder. The other buildings are too tall for any more alley-jumping. He can see Cranes car idling in the dark below him, the driver side window rolled all the way down, and with a barking laugh the Joker draws the doctor's attention to the scene above.
The Joker keeps his eyes on the car as he races down the balconies and stairs. One tenant turns on her kitchen lights in pure curiosity and screams when he pauses to flash her a smile through the window.
"Don't stop," the Riddler mutters as nudges the Joker further. The fire escape rattles and groans, clanging against the brick wall as the Batman lands on the first balcony. "He's going to catch us."
"No, he won't."
"Just—"
There are two storeys left to go before they hit the final ladder—and the Joker can't help but make matters worse. Just as Crane pulls the car up the alleyway, situating himself below them, the Joker spins sharply on his heel and grabs the Riddler's cane.
"What comes down—" he begins, turning the base of the stick up as he plays with the handle "—usually dies when it hits rock bottom."
"It's broken!" the Riddler exclaims but his warning falls on deaf ears as a jet of smoke erupts from the bottom of his cane. Sure enough, it gives the Batman something to think about. It gives them all a hard time breathing but the Joker really doesn't care.
He grabs the kid's arm and yanks him over the railing before jumping after him. The Joker hits the car.
The kid hits the ground.
The Riddler tries to scream (he thinks) but it comes out as a choked cry instead. The smoke is thinner down here and that's just about the only reason he can make out Crane's figure in the darkness as he slips out of the car. The Joker hasn't broken anything (although the cane feels a little wobbly from where it's tucked under his right arm) but the pain's still there. He can feel it in his ribs.
"...You dented the roof."
The Joker laughs. "It's an improvement."
Crane makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat and wanders away for a moment, obscured by the mist. The fire escape groans as the Batman continues his descent, the sound overridden, briefly, by an agonizingly painful cry from the Riddler—which is followed shortly by an insistent 'let go of me!'
He supposes their evening excursion counts as kidnapping now.
The media is going to love it.
The Joker shoves himself up off the car, rolling to his feet as Crane returns with their injured ward. The kid struggles, faintly, but finds himself shoved into the back seat before he can wriggle out of his grip.
"Broken collarbone," Crane explains. And, yeah, that probably hurts like a— "Take the wheel, if you please."
The Joker runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tracing the scars as he yanks open the driver side door and ducks inside the car. The cane gets tossed onto the passenger seat as Crane settles down in the back—the doctor barely has the time to slam his door shut before the Joker floors the gas.
The Batman drops down into the alleyway far behind them, a ghostly image in the mist.
"Well, doctor..." he begins, adjusting the rear-view mirror to examine their patient. The Riddler is sitting upright, trying to put as much distance as he can between Crane and himself. He cradles his left arm close to his body, the shoulder sagging a little under the material of his coat. Blood dribbles down his temple. "...what's your diagnosis?"
"Six or seven weeks in a figure-of-8 brace," the doctor muses excitedly, pretending to be oblivious to the mixed expression of fear and hatred he's getting from the Riddler. The kid would've looked intimidating if not for the sudden drain of colour from in face, the pain in his shoulder and chest probably overruling all other sensations for the time being. "But a sling should do the trick for now. At least until we can pen a hospital visit into our schedule..."
Leaning over, the Joker hits the glove-compartment with the side of his fist and the door pops open. Swerving through traffic, he runs a red light as he reaches for one of the tranquilizers Dr. Crane shoved in there before they jumped in the car for their night out on the town.
In the rear view mirror the Joker watches the Riddler shiver, eyes fluttering shut before they snap open again. The kid took quite a beating from the fall.
Gravity does that.
Crane leans forward to take the tranquilizer. Sitting back, he doesn't give the kid much of a chance to react as he jabs the needle into his throat, pinning the Riddler awkwardly under his arm until the kid slackens against the door. His struggle is short-lived as he succumbs to both the weight of his injuries and the opiate effect of the weak sedative. The Joker focuses on the dark, narrow-eyed glare he receives as the kid checks him out in the reflection of the mirror, consciousness slipping as Crane tugs him into a better position.
He foresees permanent emotional damage in the near future.
The Joker watches him pass out and runs a hand through his hair, pulling the long greasy strands out of his eyes as he swerves to avoid hitting a motorcycle. The bike nearly topples over when he cuts in front of it, the driver slowing steadily when the wail of a police cruiser howls to life somewhere behind them.
They jump from 60mph to 110mph in a heartbeat, the car's frame rattling as he weaves in and out of traffic. The cruiser chases him until it hits a little red smart car fifteen blocks away from their makeshift head quarters.
Hallelujah for the Fuzz.
-1-Joker-1-
At three in the morning, no one really cares what happens outside their door. Every neighbourhood in Gotham is a tough one—it's why regular people don't usually report gunshots unless they hear a return fire. Leave the messy discoveries and gruesome reports to a poor, unsuspecting passerby or an on-duty cop. No one wants to get caught in the middle of someone else's fight.
Which makes dragging the Riddler up the fire escape easier than stealing candy from a baby.
The kid's in terrible shape but he soldiers on, glancing wildly around him in the few, brief moments of clarity that hit him at odd intervals during the trip home. Crane hefts him through the balcony door into the dead guy's apartment and waits for the Joker to follow before they haul him into the bedroom. When they lay him out across the bed, he looks ready to die.
"You can be the doctor," the Joker muses aloud, handing Crane one of his knives to use on the Riddler's jacket. He cuts the sleeve in a long clean swipe and removes the offending article. The kid's shirt follows shortly after. "I'll be the nurse."
Crane hums quietly in the back of his throat, his mind working on automatic as he goes about mending their guest. Gentle but cold; clinical and emotionless—like a man working with glass. He treats the Riddler as though he were a fragile artefact, well worth the care but not the compassion. The Joker can see it in the way he moves, fluid and precise, doing what's best for the young man's body despite the pain he's in.
"I need a moment," Crane says over his shoulder, just as his pale-faced patient shoots him a glare through the sedative's waning mist. "Find the linen closet and grab a few sheets. I'll need them for the slings."
The Joker leaves the doctor to his business, listening to the Riddler's muffled cries through the bedroom door as he tears a sheet to shreds. The doctor leaves briefly to grab his needles and drugs before disappearing into the room again. After knocking the kid up with his own special concoction of painkillers, Crane throws the door open and takes the Joker's handiwork to use for his slings.
"Concussed?" the Joker asks eagerly, later, after everything's been said a done. The kid is bandaged and quiet, his left arm wrapped tightly against the side of his body where he lies, propped up, against the pillows. He's still pale and dazed, looking hollow and shattered under the influence of Crane's remedy, eyes half-focused on the ceiling as he ventures dizzily through the world inside his head...
"Yes. You'll have to wake him every hour to make sure it's nothing permanent."
...And isn't that just like Christmas in July? How often do you get to be someone's own personal hell for 48 hours straight?
Crane makes a call and throws on a jacket over his borrowed clothes. The Joker busies himself in the bedroom, rummaging through the Riddler's things until he finds the kid's gloves—and by then Crane has mysteriously disappeared. No doubt to terrorize another unsuspecting pharmacy or raid one of Gotham's pristine hospitals...
Dr. John Wayne might've revolutionized healthcare in the few, short, sweet years of his life but there was really nothing Gotham's richest family could've done to halt its steady descent into oblivion. Hell is only a jump away.
His hands are a little bigger than the kid's but the gloves fit—and isn't that food for thought? Part of him wonders what will happen if the Riddler wakes to find a smile carved into his face but he knows the kid is already smiling somewhere on the inside. It's the part of him that's constantly tempted to goad Gotham's Knight into solving his riddles.
And exactly what kind of criminal wants to get caught?
"Therapy starts tonight," he says—right after slapping the kid on the knee. The Riddler jerks awake and studies him carefully through half-lidded eyes. "Don't worry, I know what all the professionals like to say. I've heard it all."
The Riddler doesn't say anything. His eyes drift lower before he closes them again.
Until the Joker gives him a second slap.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes up the Riddler's right hand and pats it affectionately as he tries to remember what Dr. what's-her-face usually says at the beginning of her rambles...
"Forty-eight hour watch," he explains when the kid tries (painfully) to squirm out of his hold. "No rest for the wicked—doctor's orders."
But the kid continues to struggle and it's a least a little admirable for the fly in the spider's web. The Riddler's playing ball in a whole new field now. All bets are locked.
The Joker's going to teach him how to burn his bridges.
"I think we'll start with the whole 'riddle' scheme..." Digging a finger into one of the kid's pressure points, the one between his index finger and his thumb, the Joker waits until the Riddler stops struggling before he eases off. "I think you have an odd fixation with telling the truth."
The Riddler gives him an honest look just then.
It's a clue.
The Joker laughs. "Don't tell me—I want to guess."
Because, really, he has months to figure it out.
The Riddler isn't going anywhere.
AN: Sorry, I know it's short but I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow and I'm going to be gone for two weeks.
BTW, if you think posting this only here is a good idea, just leave me a note.
;) Thanks for reading.
