Chapter Sixteen
We could, we could crash, we could, we could, burn burn
We could take it, we could we could take it take it in turns
I'm getting down with your new vocation
Getting down with your cute cut wrists
I'm getting down with the kisses and cross-stitches on it
-The Kills, Getting Down
When I regained consciousness countless hours later, it wasn't to J slapping me awake. No, it was to the steady sound of running water.
My eyes flew open, and I experienced a moment of disorientation when I realized that I didn't know where I was. It was only a moment, though—everything flew back to me quickly enough, accompanied by a giant headache.
Directly across from the bed was the bathroom door, which had been thrown open. J was there, and he was standing in front of the sink sans coat and vest, sleeves rolled up, shaving.
I had never thought about it, but of course he would have to shave. Scarred tissue with damaged hair follicles notwithstanding, he still had plenty of healthy skin on his face. Anything much beyond a five o'clock shadow would make the paint look ridiculous in a bad way. I watched, immediately fascinated.
He was shaving with a straight razor, and his hand was flicking around so fast and with such apparent recklessness that I winced involuntarily several times, convinced that he was going to slit his own throat. I underestimated his skill with sharp edges, though—he trimmed the white froth from his face and throat neatly, leaving smooth, pale skin beneath. He steered around the scars so dexterously that I wondered privately how long he'd had them, how many years he'd had to perfect the routine.
All at once, he was finished. As he toweled his face off, he rolled his eyes to the side, looking at me. "Bout time you woke up," he said conversationally. "I was starting to get worried."
I smiled wryly, sitting up and dropping my feet off the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. "What time is it?" I mused aloud.
"Really late," he answered absent-mindedly, reaching out of my field of vision and then coming back with a small container. He dipped bare fingers into it and started smearing it on his face. White greasepaint. His hands stilled for a moment as a thought struck him. "Or really early," he added, and then shrugged and resumed his application of the makeup.
I blinked and rubbed the thin film of sleep out of my eyes, scratching at the corners to remove the black specks of eyeliner that had gathered overnight. I blinked again. I probably looked like shit. I certainly felt like it.
"This is your room," I stated, almost as though I was requesting confirmation, but not quite—really, who else would it belong to?
His fingers didn't pause. "For now," he muttered, almost as though he was answering a voice in his head.
"I'm sorry." He said nothing; his eyes flicked towards me briefly, curiously, before returning to the mirror. "I didn't mean to knock out, at least not in your room," I clarified. "I dunno, it feels like an invasion of privacy or something, and I didn't… I didn't mean to do that."
He set the white greasepaint container on the edge of the sink, finished with it, and searched for another tin. Not bothering to wipe the white off his hands, he dipped his fingertips in. They came out red, and he began smearing the new color on his lips, not paying too much attention to the lines of his mouth, swerving and sketching a red grin out over the scars.
He spoke after he was finished with the lips. "Ya gotta tear down those boundaries you've put up, Haaaarley. I mean, really… they're holding you back."
"What do you mean?"
He scraped the last bit of red paint off onto the edge of a scar and reached for the final pot of black. "Well, you're taught to put up walls, ya know? Now, the theory there being that these, uh, these walls? These barriers will protect you from the big bad wolf outside, at least till he huffs and puffs and blows 'em down." He was carefully applying black in an ellipse around his eyes, which he then filled in shadowing them, darkening them to complete the eerie mask.
"But you," he continued, "you're gonna find out what I already know." He turned his head towards me and pressed his bright red lips together, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated parody of the universal uh-oh expression. It made me giggle softly, despite the headache, and he snickered to himself before looking back at the mirror, returning his attention to the job at hand. "These walls of yours. They're not keeping the baddies out; they're just locking you in." He squinted at his reflection and shook his head as he set down the final tin of makeup, his mask perfected. "Break those walls down, baby," he said mockingly, "and you might find out that you like the wolf at your door."
I thought I understood—mostly, anyway—but I still didn't quite get what this had to do with what I'd just said. So, I asked. "Okay, but how does that relate to me apologizing for… invading your room, I guess?" I questioned as he switched off the bathroom light and came out into the bedroom. The only light now was a bluish tint that had struggled through the filthy window, presumably coming from a streetlamp outside, and it hugged him at his edges, a ghostly outline.
He crossed his arms over his middle, leaning a hip onto the edge of the desk and swinging one leg casually across the other to cross them at the ankles, resting the toe of his shoe on the floorboard. The corners of his mouth turned down in a mocking frown, though his amused eyes belied the move.
"One of these walls," he explained patiently, "is the assumption that other people—" He pulled a hand free to scatter it around, aimlessly indicating the room—"have a right to… pieces of land, of building, of territory. The truth… oh, the truth is that if you can take it from 'em, it's not theirs. Anything you want is yours, provided that you're strong enough… smart enough to take it. Legal possessions?" He paused and shook his head contemptuously, dismissively. "They don't exist."
"So you're saying that if I can take, for instance, this room from you, then it's not yours anymore, it's mine, no matter what the law or anyone else says," I said, testing the idea out.
He grinned, though it was more of a feral baring of the teeth, a challenge, than anything else. "Sure. I wouldn't recommend trying, though."
"No, of course not," I murmured.
The idea wasn't really novel to me, exactly. We've all been in a store, we've all seen something we coveted, and we've all wondered if anyone would really notice or care if we slipped it into a pocket. Possession is nine-tenths, after all. Usually, though, the law and the stigma of being called a shoplifter is enough to keep most of us from actually attempting it.
However, it was quickly dawning on me that the law had absolutely no effect on the Joker's patterns of thinking, and that he was getting away with it very effectively. He could do anything he wanted, as long as he didn't get caught—and by all accounts, he was a hard son of a bitch to catch.
Look at him now, for instance. He'd been caught, but other than a relatively brief stint in Arkham, he was none the worse for the experience.
Presumably, this immunity to the law would spill over to me. Don't get me wrong—I didn't think I would ever be able to become as dangerous or as clever as he was. However, if I could stick with him, there had to be some kind of umbrella effect—since he was safe from punishment for his actions, and since I would seemingly be under his protection, I would be safe as well.
It made sense. I would just need to be sure that I was, indeed, under his protection—something that I was by no means certain of at this point. I mean, I was sure that he would throw me under the bus if it was me or him, but if it didn't put him danger, would he keep an eye on me, or would he step back and watch me fall for the sake of his own amusement? It could easily go either way, and so, I concluded, I couldn't rip those walls he spoke of completely down. At least, not yet.
I realized that I had been lost in thought for a full minute now, and he was surveying with me with an amused, mocking smile. I smiled ruefully in return and stretched my arms out over my head, feeling a dull pain at my hip as I did so. I looked down and saw a smudge of purple on my skin, a mark left from his hand. The thought of being marked by him was oddly arousing. I figured that there were probably marks on my neck and face as well.
I shook off the feeling. "Coffee," I said simply, questioningly. From the mugs, I knew there must be a source nearby. He simply shrugged guilelessly, offering no help. I shook my head, got up, and left the room. There had to be coffee somewhere. I had to pee, but it could wait. My caffeine craving was more severe.
I nearly tripped over a body lying right outside the door. After the initial rush of panic, I realized that it was merely a henchman, sleeping across the threshold, like a dog. My forehead creased.
Okay… that's a little weird. Then again, I thought, shrugging it off, this is the Joker's place. It's probably going to get a lot weirder. There were three or four other sleeping forms, spread out all over the main room. There were no pillows, no sleeping bags—it looked like they'd just crashed on the floor.
Three guys were clustered around the table, conversing in low voices. Their conversation halted when I made an appearance, but slowly picked up again after they apparently unanimously decided to ignore my existence. I rolled my eyes and went to the kitchen area, which was really just a series of counters and cabinets pushed against the far wall, a stove and a sink on either end, almost afterthoughts.
Bingo. There was a coffee machine on the counter next to the stove. I opened it up and wrinkled my nose at the discovery of a wet filter filled with cold grounds, and I promptly fished it out and looked around for a garbage can. I found one on the opposite end of the counter, though judging by the looks of the place, the floor served just as well. There was no bag, just a bunch of smelly trash shoved into the plastic bin.
I shook my head, deciding to just let it go, and dumped the filter. I then began a search for coffee.
The first cabinet I tried yielded nothing but a huge cockroach, which literally hissed at me before scurrying into an impossibly small crack in the wall. I jumped and whispered, "Ew."
Tentatively, not wanting to face another hissing roach, I opened the next cabinet over. Inside was a gun, a can of Raid (sweet irony), a wad of loose cash (no bills under fifty, at a glance at least), and a well-thumbed harlequin romance novel. I snickered to myself, because even though I was pretty sure this last was leftover from whoever had lived here last, it provided me with a lovely image of J engrossed in the toe-curling trash. I kept this thought to myself and shut the cabinet door.
Third time's the charm—in the next one over, I found a huge can of coffee, fresh by the smell of it, and some filters. I popped a filter into the machine, and then, seeing as the scoop had gone missing, shook some grounds into it.
A thought struck me, and I turned to look at the men clustered around the table. "You guys want some coffee?"
They unanimously looked up and blinked at me. None of them responded; they just gawked. "O-kay," I muttered, turning back to the machine. I measured some extra out, just in case.
The pot looked as though it hadn't been washed since its acquisition. I looked around for some dish soap, found none, and settled for rinsing it thoroughly several times, getting rid of most of the coffee stains on the glass bottom. I filled it halfway, poured the water into the machine, and pressed "on".
Now to acquire some mugs. There were numerous cups scattered around the room, about as many as were in J's room, and I stepped over several sleeping bodies to collect several of them, pretending not to pick up on the several whispers regarding "her", "she", "what the hell", and several combinations thereof coming from the talking men.
They held out until I finished rinsing the mugs, and then, as soon as I cut off the water, one asked hoarsely, "So what's your story?"
I need to acquire some dish soap pronto, I thought before turning around, crossing my arms and leaning back against the counter. The men were all watching me silently, though their eyes would dart furtively to the Joker's den from time to time, belying their assumed confidence. They probably weren't supposed to be talking to me.
"My story?" I repeated, one eyebrow inching up as I played innocent.
"Yeah," he said, hushed, impatient. "Why the hell are you here? You're not exactly the usual type."
"Usual type?" I repeated, eyebrow arching higher.
"I heard you were his shrink," another one said. "That true?"
"Uh, no," I said smoothly, unfolding my arms and pressing my palms against the edge of the counter. I felt the urge to lie to these guys, and I didn't bother resisting. Maybe I was being too possessive too soon, but I didn't like the fact that they were sticking their noses in business that was, in my opinion, mine and the Joker's (and definitely none of theirs). "He actually seduced me."
All three of them got the exact same creases on their foreheads at that. It was actually kind of adorable, considering the fact that they were hardened henchmen. I anticipated their requests for clarification: "It was your normal bank robbery, typical hostage situation… you ever heard of Stockholm syndrome?"
One of them frowned. "Stockholm syndrome?" he asked sourly.
"Never mind."
The first one to speak shoved his cohort. "That's when you don't wanna leave your house, dumbass," he said, reeking with superiority.
I could feel my eyes lighting up at this little gem, but I managed to keep myself from flat-out grinning and tipping them off to the game. "Exactly. Anyway, when he grabbed me to use as a human shield, I kind of went head over heels."
More disbelieving looks. "For the Joker?" asked the shamed cohort incredulously.
I nodded vigorously. "Mm-hmm. Something about that makeup. It just… did it for me." I beamed at them. They were now giving me the kind of spooked looks that brand new interns gave Tiny Tony, a huge babbling schizophrenic killer at Arkham, and I was rather pleased with their reaction.
The Joker's door creaked, that sort of sound that you only get in really old buildings or haunted houses after lots of hard work—perfectly eerie, very menacing—and out he prowled. My three interrogators immediately seemed to find tabletop very very interesting, confirming my first suspicion—they definitely were not supposed to be talking to me.
He gave them a long, intent look and then skulked over to me. "What's going on here?" he asked, his voice a little too innocuous, too syrupy. He stopped directly in front of me, leaving less than an inch of space between us, and reached past me for one of the clean coffee mugs resting on the counter behind me.
"Nothing," I said, giving him a bright, innocent smile. "Just getting to know some of the guys."
His eyes flickered to mine momentarily, and though his face was still mostly inscrutable, I thought I spotted some amusement there. He shifted a little to the side and grabbed the coffee pot, paying no heed to the fact that it was only half-finished brewing. He filled his mug as more coffee spilled onto the burner, hissing and sizzling, and then returned the pot and twisted around, leaning against the counter next to me, our arms touching through the fabric of my jacket and his sleeve. He eyed his men as he lifted the mug to his mouth, drinking the stuff black.
"That so?" he asked after swallowing.
"Uh-huh," I said enthusiastically. "I was telling them about the day we met." He raised an eyebrow, a silent request for elaboration as he belted down half of the coffee. I suppressed a cringe—the drink was fresh and probably scalding, but he didn't even wince.
I gave him a slow smile for the benefit of our audience—the men were watching out of the corners of their eyes even as they pretended not to. "Magical," I announced. "Amidst all of the confusion in that bank, you were the only thing that seemed real. And then you grabbed me just so…"
That was when I faltered, because it was starting to sound crazy even to me. A quick side glance at the henchmen revealed that their mouths were slightly open, and I thought they cannot be buying this. The Joker's mouth twitched upwards, then down. Almost delicately, he set his cup on the counter, and then moved like lightning.
"Like this?" he questioned ingenuously as his arm shot up, his hand closing around my throat, fingers tightening as he lifted me to my tiptoes, and then, as my hands gripped his wrist out of sheer panic, completely off my feet.
Son of a bitch. I should have known he'd take advantage of my little falsehood, and my breathing was cut off entirely as my fingers tightened hard around his wrist. I tried to push myself up and out of his grip, but it wasn't working so well. My toes stretched; I tried to touch the floor but a quick glance down revealed that I was at least an inch away.
Stop. Fighting, I thought to myself.
And just like that, I relaxed. Panicking, scratching at him would do no good. I just fixed my eyes on his, fighting the urge to freak out. Seconds later, he lowered me to the ground, letting go of my throat and wiping his hand on the seat of his pants as though I'd offended him. I clutched my throat throughout the first painful breath but managed to avoid coughing, and then I looked defiantly up at him, feeling an impossible smile play at the edges of my mouth.
"Exactly," I said.
I couldn't read his expression at that. Maybe I had surprised him. Maybe I had just done exactly what he had expected me to do. Whatever was going through his mind, he pushed away from the counter and headed back to his room, shaking his hands out as though he'd just punched someone.
"Get ready to go, boys and girls," he chirped. "We've got a whole lotta work to do." Then, he vanished into his room, leaving me to wonder what work, exactly, one could do at four in the morning.
Soon enough, I found out.
I quickly fell into the background as the three henchmen ran around waking select sleepers. The noise they were making certainly roused everyone, but only the summoned arose from the floor—everyone else remained conspicuously still, as though they were dead.
The Joker emerged soon, in his greatcoat and gloves, wearing a lopsided black hat low over his face—as though the rest of his attire wasn't instantly recognizable; as though the hat would provide any sort of real disguise. He looked around at his men, about six in number altogether, and nodded shortly before heading for the door.
I hung back, unsure if I was supposed to accompany the party. Once he reached the door, the Joker apparently realized that I was missing and wheeled around, returning to me. He grabbed me by my elbow and pulled. "C'mon," he said impatiently. "We have work to do and you're holding everything up."
"All right, all right, I'm coming!" I said, nearly losing my footing as I tried to keep up. "Damn."
We paraded downstairs and crowded into the van. Once inside, the Joker seemed to lose all interest in me, bouncing around and talking to the men, both individually and as a whole. I only caught snatches of it, none of which made sense to me.
"…just a party full of old ladies, nothin' scary there but us…"
"…get the knives up…"
"C4, just in case—"
"…senator—"
We drove around for what felt like hours, and probably was. We would stop and half the men would leap from the van, sometimes accompanied by the Joker, sometimes flying solo. Each time, I would look curiously at J, only to be given a brief head-shake or another negative gesture. I started to wonder what the point of my coming along on this mission was, but I didn't let it bother me much. I was just going with the flow at this point.
During one of the stops, one of the guys yelled, "Bathroom break!"
I blinked. The Joker laughed. I realized that I really needed to pee, so I moved towards the back of the van. J's eyes followed me for a few brief seconds, but he made no move to stop me. I hopped out and nearly burst into laughter when I saw that we were standing in front of a McDonalds. It had been light out for a long time by then—it was probably seven, eight o'clock already. I wasn't sure that the corporation would be thrilled to know that they were providing utilities for an underground terrorist group. I slipped inside the restaurant and hurried to the bathroom.
I was rushing. I wouldn't put it past them to ditch me if I took too long. While in the stall, I couldn't help but overhear a pair of employees hissing at each other at the sinks.
"—told you, I don't know," one of them said. "Something exclusive that has to do with the senator."
"But he's your cousin. Why couldn't he get you in? You could have totally blown off work."
"Second cousin. Anyway, he's a big social climber, I'm not. He goes to fund-raising breakfasts at the country club for Senator Jordan, I work at Mickey D's. Trust me, I'd rather be here than there, anyway."
I could hear a pout in the second girl's voice as they headed out: "Seriously, I don't get you—it'd be—"
I emerged from the stall and washed my hands, thinking this over. Coincidence? I didn't think so. So, we were about to stage an attack on the senator's fundraising country club breakfast.
I'd never liked Senator Jordan's politics anyway.
I exited the place and climbed back into the van. We were still waiting for some of the guys to return and there was an empty seat next to J, as usual. I slid into it and waited for him to look at me. When he did, I softly asked, "Senator Jordan?"
He didn't seem surprised that I'd sussed it out. "Well," he said, jerking his head to the side noncommittally, "Senator Thompson's policies on gun control are a little more inconvenient, but she's not exactly Gotham-based, so…" He raised his eyebrows at me and sucked his lips into his mouth for a split second before releasing them with a pop. "Any problems?"
I gave him my most winning smile. "I didn't vote for him."
He chuckled at that. I should have been worried, since his laughter didn't necessarily reflect amusement at what was happening on the surface—I often got the feeling that he was laughing at some private, wicked observation of his own. Maybe he was laughing because I wasn't protesting an attack on a popular, renowned senator. Maybe he was laughing at how much he'd already screwed me up. But I wasn't worried. Instead, I was elated. I was making him happy. It was a good feeling.
The leftover henchmen crowded into the car, and I was amused to see that they carried bags of McDonalds, which they offered around. Neither the Joker nor I accepted any food—him because he was apparently too badass to eat, me because I had a scared, fluttery feeling in my stomach that was repulsed by the very thought of food.
I had no desire to lie to myself about the fact that I was scared. As fully as I had decided to forsake my former life and embark on a different path, the novelty of it all was a little stressful. I wasn't sure I would be able to do it… it meaning fulfilling whatever expectations he had that resulted in him bringing me along today. I strengthened my resolve as I sat next to him there in the van, taking surreal comfort in the contact with him. All it took was a look at him and a rush of feeling—I was growing more and more willing to do anything for him.
And then… we were there. As we pulled to a stop, he looked at me and produced something from inside his coat, tossing it into my lap. I looked down to find a clown mask, and then glanced up to meet his gaze.
"I don't think it's quite time to unveil ya in all your glory," he informed me, his tone edged with sarcasm. "Youuuu're… ah, not quite ready."
I didn't take it personally. I pushed my hair behind my ears, gathered it in a bunch at the back of my head, and put the mask on over it. It smelled like cigarettes and rubber on the inside, and I tried not to worry too much about who had worn it before me.
We climbed out of the van, but J wasn't done with me just yet. He reached a hand out to block me from moving forward, and I felt something solid pushing into my abdomen. I brought my hands down to grip the object and realized that he had passed me a gun. I lifted my head to stare at him through the tiny eyeholes—the view wasn't very good.
"Just in case," he purred, flashed me a quick grin, and then strode jerkily to the front of the group. We were outside of—bingo, the Beaumont Club. There was a curious lack of security. what we were doing, so I simply followed the crowd.
We rushed through the building, which looked just as a country club ought to—tasteful, ritzy, decked out with million-dollar art and stone fountains. We burst out onto the patio seconds later, where a gathering of Gotham's prettiest and wealthiest had gathered to get their pictures taken for the paper and show their support for Senator Jordan.
The Joker looked around at the new sea of horrified faces, by all accounts as surprised to see them as they were to see him. "Well, good morning, good morning," he greeted them cheerfully, circling around the wide open space they'd inadvertently made by taking two steps back, his voice a feral song. "So good to see you all out here."
He stopped then and took a good look around. Everyone was frozen in fear, silent but for a few soft whimpers. The henchmen, excluding me, had taken their cues and spread out around the crowd, keeping an eye on the terrified people, probably trying to make sure no one whipped out a cell phone and tried preemptively to alert the authorities.
I was left standing just outside the doors, a silent spectator to this show the Joker was putting on—and I was growing more and more certain that he had prepared this, at least in part, for me. The argument withered under too much thought—he hadn't known that I'd show up yesterday, after all, and this appeared to be something that he'd been planning in advance—but still. There was a certain dramatic showmanship in his erratic movements that I felt sure was meant for me and only me.
"Sorry I'm late," he continued then, stalking almost absently towards me. Now that he had launched this attack, or whatever it was, he seemed to be incapable of holding still. This was an entirely different creature than the one I'd always dealt with; he reminded me a great cat now, always moving, twitching, unable or unwilling to stop prowling even for a second. "My, uh, my invitation got lost in the mail. Luckily, an acquaintance filled me in on the details and, ah, I was able to make it. So. Where's the man of the hour? Where… is Senator Jordan?"
Nobody responded, and he sighed. "Ohh, come on, come on, come on," he cajoled. "I've already done this once before and it's getting a liiitle monotonous. I just want to know where the Senator is. We've got some business together." When he got no response, he swung around, his gaze sweeping the crowd, and then shook his head regretfully.
"All right," he said, and then dove into the shell-shocked crowd and dragged out a young woman. He wrestled her in front of him and produced a knife from out of nowhere, pressing it to her throat.
Watching, I felt a completely irrational pang. Not long ago, he'd held me like that. It was ridiculous and unreasonable, sure, and I was pretty sure he didn't make the connection between me and that girl, but it was still there.
"So, ya see now, if certain people don't start stepping forward, I'm just gonna have to… well, hack my way through the crowd. Starting with this pretty young lady here." Oh, yes, it was definitely jealousy. I beat it down and watched, feeling no desire to intervene. Even if I thought it was worth shooting myself in the foot this early on by undermining the Joker's authority and inviting his wrath, I found myself incapable of feeling sympathy for the girl. My jealousy had taken precedence in my mind, tamping down my humanity… or, given my recent change in ideology, perhaps simply enhancing it.
He lifted the knife from her throat and pressed it to her face, digging in and sketching a thin stripe of red on her cheek. Horrified, she screamed, breaking the almost eerie silence that had held over the crowd, and everything happened at once.
A middle-aged man broke away from the crowd and charged towards the Joker, silver glinting in his hand. Everything slowed down for one single second, my stomach knotted up, and I saw. I saw the man going for J. I saw danger, I saw that the Joker was going to be killed if I didn't intervene. I felt the gun in my hand and I knew what I had to do.
I lifted the gun—everything seemed like it was happening in slow motion. I lined up the muzzle with the man's torso, and squeezed the trigger.
Gunfire erupted. I, having had absolutely no prior experience with guns, had expected just one shot, but as I held down the trigger, a spray of bullets was let loose—if I had taken time to look, I would have seen that I had been given a semi-automatic instead of just a regular pistol. I looked up and saw that I had indeed hit the guy, as several moist red flowers appeared on his crisp shirt and he staggered back and fell as though he had been cut down.
There was a panic—screaming, more gunfire, and general mayhem. I moved my eyes towards J and kept them fixed there. Maintaining eye contact with me, he quite casually drew the knife across the girl's throat, opening her windpipe, and then dumped her on the ground. Then, he came for me.
He threw an arm over my shoulders and basically forced me back through the doors, leading his group of henchmen back through the club and into the waiting van. He muscled me into the back, shoving me into the corner and sitting close so close that I could smell the blood on his gloves as the others joined us.
I had no delusions—he was only doing this, pulling me out of there, because I was incapable of doing it and at the moment he wanted to keep me around. It wasn't out of some twisted sense of protectiveness and it wasn't out of love. It was because as of this moment, he wanted me alive. He knew what he was doing, and he had taken control.
I didn't make a sound on the trip back and neither did he.