So I wrote this three years ago during my high school study hall and let me tell you I am ashamed. This is so bad compared to how I write (and feel about these characters and their relationships) now, I couldn't just leave this the way it was. So I rewrote it. Yey! Hopefully all seven of this story's followers appreciate this.
Disclaimer: I do not own batman or any of its characters
How dare they. How dare those peoplebreakwhat is mine. People need to learn not to touch what is mine. People need to learn not to fucking break what is mine. People need to learn what I am capable of and oh boy, will they fucking learn!
He ran a gloved hand over her grease painted face and felt the warmth of it. It amazed him how warm she was when he felt so cold. He, who was still alive.
He had sat there in the filthy alley for what felt like hours just staring at her stark white face. So beautiful, like a dark fucking angel. He so badly wished his angel would spring up like she always did after he fucked her up real good. Jump up shouting, "I'm so soooorry, Mistah J!" As if it was her fault he hit her. Wringing her hands and begging for forgiveness as if she had done something wrong, something so terribly wrong. It was always her fault. She had loved him, that's why he hurt her. He doesn't know why, and he always felt bad after he did it. Maybe it took a while for him to feel bad, maybe it took a while for the adrenaline to drain, for the ecstasy he felt when something gave way under his fists and feet and hammers and guns to pass out of his system. Maybe it took a while, but he always felt bad eventually when she was on the receiving end of things. He never showed it, never let the guilt come to the surface. Now he never could. She'll never see, never know how guilty he felt. How sorry he felt.
Her black lips will never smile, her pale blue eyes will never open, and her thin arms will never embrace him. Not ever again. She is dead. That bastard shot her. It had all been going so well, just a standard fucking robbery. When her lithe red and black form cartwheeled alongside of him, she had looked so happy.
"Lookie here pudding! Ya like my new necklace?" Her perfectly high pitched voice had asked as she skipped gleefully beside him. She was so close he could smell her. He liked the way she smelled, like grease paint and cotton candy. He liked the necklace she wore too. It wasn't some blingy showstopper necklace, just a white gold choker with a small assortment of red and black jewels. It wrapped around her neck more gracefully then his hands ever did.
"Indeed I do!" His laughter, that set so many people on edge, spilled out of him like blood from a battered body. He'll never forget her smile when he said that. It was rare for him to really praise anything after all. Especially her, and she simply glowed like the goddamn sun. She beamed with such pure love and happiness at him, at him of all people! She smiled like this at him! He always thought she was beautiful. He had thought she was beautiful when he first met her at the asylum, he had thought she was beautiful when she had her legs wrapped around his waist, and he admittedly thought she was beautiful with a freshly broken nose. But she was never more beautiful than she was then. And she never will be, for it was then that some fucking rent-a-cop decided to try to playing the hero. One second she was the happiest person alive, the next her face was blank with shock. Then it contorted in pain.
His girl fell. She never fell, not like this. Not curling in on herself like there was a black hole in her rib cage consuming her from the inside out. She had never collapsed into the piss soaked streets of Gotham. Never with a gasp of such pure pain that his stomach dropped out of him faster than he dropped out of high school. He did the first thing he could think of when he saw his girl, his angel, in pain because of someone other than himself. He pulled her close and then he ran. He never ran, not even from old Batsy, but damn he ran like hell.
"Puddin?" she gasped as he sprinted down dark alley after dark ally. "What's happenin? Did you do this Mistah J?" Did you know such quite words could rip someone open? He didn't. He stopped, looking at his chest where it hurt, wondering if he had been shot. There was no bullet hole and there was no blood, at least not his own. His black eyes shifted to her face and he saw the tiny tears in her eyes. "Are you okay Puddin?" Are you okay, are you okay, are you okay? It echoed in his head like a broken record. Isn't she in pain? Looking at her now he could see where the bullet had torn through her chest. She's hurt and she's asking if I'm okay?
"What the fuck do you think? Of course I'm o-fucking-k you idiot! I'm not the one who got fucking shot!" He couldn't help but scream at her. He wasn't mad. He was completely and utterly pissed. And hurt. And lost. And guilty. Guilty because he saw her face when he said this. Lost because he could see the life leaving her eyes. Hurt because... well... he didn't really know why he hurt. He didn't know why it hurt so fucking bad. What he did know was that he hurt because of her. He hurt because someone else made her hurt. And they will pay.
"Sorry, Puddin. You just don't look like you're okay and I don't like it when ya not okay." He high pitched voice rasped, a very strange sound indeed. She looked up at him from the cold and grimy ground. He doesn't remember putting her down, but he knows he didn't drop her. He sat next to his girl and wrapped his arms around her small frame.
"Stop apologizing. It's not your fault." It was probably the first time he had ever spoken to her in a way that could be considered soft. The double meaning of his words lost to her, he could tell from the way her head tilted as if she was a motherfucking bird.
"Okay…" She sounded hesitant. She never sounded hesitant. "I love ya, Mistah J. I really do." She whispered weakly into the front of his blood stained shirt. His chest hurt again, but it felt kinda good this time. At least until he looked back down. Her eyes were still open but they were glassy and empty. The eyes of the dead.
His rage returned tenfold. They killed her. That cop killed her and he doesn't even know it. That cop doesn't care that his girl is dead. Hell, if that asshole knew he killed her he'd probably celebrate, "look at me! I'm the cop that killed the Joker's bitch!" The cop won't celebrate though. The Jokerwould make sure of that. Everyone will know what that cop did to his Harley. Everyone will suffer for it too. They'll feel her pain, his pain, so much fucking pain. He'll make sure everyone knows that she died. He'll make sure she knows why he killed them. After the pain all those sniveling assholes will join her wherever the fuck she is now and they'll tell her what her did for her. She'll fucking know.