AN: In which Jon attempts to figure out just what the hell is going on.
'Trekkie in a Star Wars convention' is an homage to a friend, who once wrote a brilliant monologue about…being a Trekkie in a Star Wars convention. As for the song…it's been in my head all day, it worked its way into the chapter as such. I really don't know why.
Crane remained sitting on the couch, motionless, feeling about as lost as a Trekkie in a Star Wars convention. From down the hall, he could hear the shower running, as well as the Joker's voice, in a song audible even over the protest of the battered, barely holding together pipes. What the hell?
He used to have a good command over the English language. Upon living with the Joker, it seemed about half of his thoughts were now comprised of obscenities. This place really is shorting out my brain, he thought, realizing he was biting his nails again but not caring enough to stop. Figuring out what on Earth the clown was planning struck him as the most pressing issue at the moment.
"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…"
His voice was nice, though deeper than Crane would have expected, given the nasal tone he so often had when he talked. Not that it mattered. What mattered was making sense of the absolute madness his life had become.
What is he playing at? The most obvious answer was, of course, the simplest: He's doing it to fuck with you. That was almost certainly it, and really, he shouldn't even be trying to come up with alternatives. It would just lead him into thinking there was a deeper meaning when there wasn't, and make him waste his time. Still, it didn't fit, somehow. It was too slow, too restrained.
Joker, in his own words, was an active force. Crane couldn't picture him content to sit back for days, weeks even, pushing a little at a time and then following through on the results. He'd broken people, as he was so fond of telling anyone who would listen, ruined lives and sanities, but always quickly. Very quickly. That was one of the things that made him so dangerous, how fast he could change things from sound and upright to shattered, chaotic messes. If it's just to fuck with me, why is he taking it this slowly?
"'Tis here I'll be, in sunshine or in shadow…"
Some said that hell was other people. He'd used to feel that way, but as of late it was his opinion that hell was uncertainty. He couldn't conceive of any situation more unpleasant than this; at least, none that didn't involve grievous bodily injury. Damn the Joker and his ability to make things so unsettling. Control was one of the most important things Crane needed in life, something he could not be happy without, and his companion had a knack for making life about as controlled as a horse running in a blind panic.
Which, Crane reflected, the Joker no doubt knew, and was doing on purpose to fuck with him. So why the feeling there was something more?
He couldn't really have feelings for him; that was ridiculous. No, ridiculous didn't begin to cover it. If there was a term to describe the Joker beyond 'insane,' it would have been narcissistic. He didn't care about anyone but himself or the Batman. Not even Harley, not really. Just because he was acting like a fifth-grader with a violent crush, that didn't mean he felt it. With the Joker, there was no correlation between feeling and action, at least none Crane had seen.
"You'll come and find the place where I am lying…"
It couldn't be out of emotion. Lust, maybe, but no real feeling. There was no way. Just no way. So why couldn't he shake the idea that there was? It was absurd, even self-centered to think the man could feel anything for him, but then, taking his time to destroy Crane's sanity did not fit. Even breaking Harley had taken little more than a month. A month of daily sessions, true, but not an extensive period of time.
The water stopped, abruptly. There was a sudden, unnerving silence before the singing returned. "And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me…"
Well, whatever the reason, he couldn't stand being kept in the dark like this. The confusion was so acute it was almost painful. Well, what am I supposed to do? he asked himself, annoyed. Ask him? Oh, that'll work. Then again…
"And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be…"
No. It was ludicrous. The Joker may be insane, but he wasn't about to let Crane know whatever it was he was planning just because he asked. Still…it wasn't as if it could make things any more horrible. He had nothing to lose, really.
"If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me…"
This is a mistake, the rational part of his mind protested, but he found himself standing anyway, heading down the hall toward the bathroom door. This is going to be an exercise in futility, you know. He's either going to laugh in your face for asking or do something unspeakably horrible.
"I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me…"
He stood in front of the door, hands tightly in his pockets to keep from making them bleed anymore than he already had. All right, so I won't get anything out of this. At least I'll have tried. And it's going to drive me mad if I don't try something.
"I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me!" The door flung open on the ending note to reveal the Joker, hair dripping, makeup newly applied, and wearing nothing but a towel.
Bloody hell. He could not avert his eyes quickly enough. Well, this was without a doubt the worst idea he'd ever had. Ever. Possibly the worst idea in the history of humanity. Or since the universe was made. "Er—sorry—I was—it—I'll be going now—"
"Can I help you, kitten?" he asked, smile so wide it was frightening.
"No, never mind, it's not important—" He turned to leave, only to find the Joker's hand around his wrist. The clown's other hand, mercifully, was still holding up the towel. Oh hell.
"C'mon, Jonny, don't be like that. I know you wanted to say something and I'm not letting go until you say what." He tightened his grip to emphasize the point. Crane winced. "So what is it?"
"Nothing important, really."
"Jonny, just tell me what's up. I'm not gonna be mad, I promise. On the other hand, if you don't talk," he squeezed his hand again, making his captive gasp from pain.
"All right, I will. Let go."
He did. "Well?"
"I…that is…what's going on between us?"
The Joker looked mildly surprised, followed by more than mild amusement. "How do you mean?"
"You know how I mean." It felt as if his face was quickly shifting through every shade of red in existence. More than likely, it was. "You, with the…kissing, and the flirting, and everything else. What does it signify? Why are you doing it?"
If there was one thing worse than asking a psychopath his intentions toward you, it was having said psychopath laugh in your face as a result. For three minutes.
"I fail to see the humor in this situation," he said, considering walking off.
"I don't." He was still giggling. "Christ, you're clueless. I mean, can you hear yourself, scaredy cat? What does flirting with you signify, honestly."
"Well?" He crossed his arms.
"What does flirting usually signify? And here you're supposed to be a genius."
He sighed inwardly. I knew this would be useless. "We both know you don't have feelings with me. So I'd be correct in guess you just want to screw with me, right?"
There was a moment of silence, in which he realized, to his distinct displeasure, that the clown had stopped laughing. That couldn't be good.
"Just want to screw with you?" His tone that brought to mind death. Slow, painful death. "Where the hell didya get that idea?"
"Because that's what you do," he retorted, trying to keep his voice steady. "You break people."
"Well, yeah, but if I wanted to break you, kitten, I'd have done it in about five minutes. You're not that much of a challenge, sorry."
"You expect me to believe you're doing this out of genuine attraction? That's hardly believable."
The Joker's expression was unreadable. He wasn't even smiling anymore. That was either a sign of absolute honesty or a message that Crane had seconds to live, he couldn't tell which. "You're one to talk. At least I'm upfront about how I feel."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Why was it that every time he tried to confront the Joker, he ended up on the defensive?
"I'm talking about the way you pretend you don't feel a damn thing for me, when it couldn't be clearer that you're madly in love."
"I am not!"
"Really?" The black makeup moved in way that indicated he was raising his eyebrows. "So what was that on the tape?"
"Liking how a kiss feels is different from love, idiot." Insulting the Joker was likely the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but he seemed to have lost his sense of self-preservation, for the moment.
"Don't give me that, kitten. If I'd let you get any further, you'd have been professing your undying devotion faster than you can say 'Someday My Prince Will Come.'"
"You're insa—"
"Are you honestly gonna try and say you don't have feelings for me?" the Joker asked, smirking once again.
His instinctive response, was of course, 'hell no,' and he was fully prepare to say it, shout it if necessary. But for reasons even he wasn't sure of, he found himself hesitating, just long enough for the Joker's eyes to get a triumphant glimmer.
"Knew it."
"I didn't say that I did!" he protested, face even redder now, if that was physically possible. If it wasn't, his body had apparently found a way to break the laws of nature.
"You didn't say no, either. Seriously, Jonny, just admit it. You'd be a lot more well adjusted if you'd quit lying to yourself."
"Well, what about you?" He was fully aware and properly ashamed that he was resorting to the 'turn the question' around arguing technique so popular among schoolchildren. And the Joker. "You never answered my question about your feelings."
"My feelings," he said, the smile shrinking but not quite disappearing from his face, "are that whatever happens between us is your decision. If you want me to back off, fine. If you don't, well, things are gonna get interesting, aren't they?"
Crane stared. "You're serious?"
"Hey, I don't take advantage of mental patients. At least, not romantically. Well, not usually, I guess, now that Harley-girl's a mental patient. But besides her. Anyway, the question here, scaredy cat, is what you want. I'm not gonna go on until you give me your okay."
Well, that was the one answer he had not been expected. He actually preferred the clown laughing at him to this; at least mocking made sense. "You're serious?" he repeated, both mentally and emotionally unable to process any other thoughts.
The Joker's response was to close the space between them, ignoring the way Jonathan shuddered when he did so, and kiss him, softly, on the cheek. "It's your decision," he said again, or whispered, really, into his companion's ear. "Let me know what you want."
And with that, he stepped back, the towel around him dropping to the ground without warning. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said over Crane's shocked gasp, a Chesire-wide grin across his features, "I'm going to get dressed." And he walked off, leaving his mentally scarred, hyperventilating friend to puzzle out this latest development.