Okay, So, This chapter was originally longer, but I'm still playing with exactly how graphic I want the imagery to be. Because there does reach a point that it goes from horrific to grotesque and stomach-churning, and I don't want to ride too close to that line and the first draft... ahem.
Honey, I wanna race you to the table
If you hesitate, the getting is gone
I won't lie, if there's something to be gained
There's money to be made, whatever's still to come
Eat Your Young / Hozier
"You're bleeding." His voice was shocked, staring at a spot on my jaw. I cupped it, feeling it was slick with blood.
"Oh, sorry! Come in," I said, turning to walk to the kitchen to look into the mirror on my refrigerator. The cut was shallow and short, the blood made it look much worse than it was.
"What happened in here?" Bruce had followed me into the kitchen, and I turned to look at him, all at once realizing the state of the room. Spilled food across the floor, an ice pack on the counter, and smeared blood in various spots, including a rather large smear where I had laid. Fuck. This looks bad. This looks really bad. One thing that would save me regardless is that it's all my blood. Thank god I hadn't been able to bite him.
"I… fell." I groaned internally at the pathetic excuse. Awesome, try for a battered wife, I'm sure that will go well. His eyes told me exactly what he thought of that, his mouth falling into a frown.
"Harleen-" His eyes shifted back to the table. Clearly set for two. Fuck.
"Anyway, Bruce," I cleared my throat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He looked back at me, eyebrows coming together, but he cleared his throat before speaking.
"I wanted to come see you, check on you. I know these last few weeks have been terrible."
I shrugged, "Nothing I can't handle," I turned, opening the fridge and removing a soda, cracking it, and slugging back a bubbly swallow before continuing. "If I couldn't handle a media shit-storm, I wouldn't have taken the case. Not to say I suspected his escape of course," I reassured. "But I knew that handling a patient as… infamous, as The Joker meant I would be in a very public space professionally."
"I guess that's true," He smiled, glancing back at the table again. "Jack been by tonight?" His voice was light, but I rolled my eyes.
"No, Bruce." I shook my head. "I told you, I fell. It's no big deal. Besides. Brucie. I'm not a teenager anymore, I can take care of myself."
"Did you call me 'Brucie'?" He looked horrified, and I laughed.
"Yeah, sorry." I chuckled. "Seriously though, I'm okay. Tired. But okay." I finished pointedly, and he laughed at my mild rudeness.
"Ah, I apologize. I should have called, but I was in the area-"
"What the hell for?" I questioned, head cocking. Is he trying to let Crime Alley finish the Family off?
He grimaced, looking away.
"What did you do?" I narrowed my eyes.
"In my defense, I had been intending to do it for years." He answered. "My family has always had an invested interest in the mental health facilities in the city."
I groaned. "You bought Arkham?"
"No," He shook his head emphatically, before making a pained face, "I did, however, agree to make a substantial donation for a position on the Board of Directors," He shrugged, "I had assumed they were a government-owned facility, but it is still privately owned by the Arkham family, despite receiving most of their outside funding from the Government."
I stared for a long moment before chuckling. "You know what," I mimed washing my hands of the situation. "Your mess."
"What?" He looked concerned.
"Nothing to me," I sighed, taking another drink, and leaning on the counter. "Arkham is a goddamn mess, you'll see."
"Should you be saying that to me?" He laughed but looked concerned.
"Probably not, but you're my friend first Bruce. You deserve to know what kind of hole you're digging." I considered whether or not I should continue with J in the next room, and most definitely listening.
Bruce's mouth flattened and he covered his eyes, "Thank you, Harleen, for the warning. I will research this more thoroughly. I did have something else to talk to you about." He cleared his throat.
I raised an eyebrow, and he continued. "I have decided to revive the Black and White Ball, which had been hosted Annually by my family since Gotham was founded." I nodded, not enjoying where this was going, but smiling encouragingly regardless. "I would like to invite you personally, along with Jerimiah Arkham, to represent Arkham Asylum." Fuck. That sounds like hell. I tried to picture the event quickly. Long, heavy, probably itchy dress, no real food or alcohol except those dainty little glasses of champagne, and mostly olive and goose-liver-flavored hors d'oeuvres on tiny crackers. Why do rich people like liver and olives so much? What's wrong with taquitos? And of course, I'll be stuck there for a minimum of four hours, any less than that would be an insult to everyone there. Fucking weirdos. I had grown to love the Irish Exit as a teen and used it as often as I could, reasonably. The Socialist Psychiatrist would never do something so uncouth.
"I would be Honored," I grinned. "I've never been to any kind of Ball, let alone a Black and White one."
He chuckled, "Your invite will be in the mail, I hope you don't mind I didn't hand deliver, but-"
I rolled my eyes, "I mean, why even invite me if you aren't going to try?"
"I suppose you're right," he shrugged, laughing. "Well, I will get out of your hair. I do apologize, I didn't mean to intrude on your evening." and I tilted my head.
"Perhaps I can forgive you, eventually." I smiled, and I saw his head shake as he made his way out of my apartment. I held my breath when the door clicked behind his, padding silently over to lock it, standing for just a moment, listening to his footsteps continue down the hall.
"Why do you know fucking everyone?" J said suddenly from the edge of the hallway leading to my bedroom, causing me to jump, - causing him to cackle.
"Fucking asshole."
"Yeah," He shrugged. "But in my defense, I didn't mean to scare you."
"Please, you didn't scare me." I rolled my eyes, walking back to where my soda lay on the counter.
"You always got twitches like that, Doc? Might wanna get it checked out." He smirked, and I returned to the kitchen, opening the first aid kit to open an alcohol pad- God knows where those knives have been, - and pressing it to the stringing wound before lifting my secret weapon, a small bottle of liquid bandage, and applying it smoothly looking in the mirror.
"That stuff stinks," J complained loudly.
"Don't cut me and I won't have to use it. No way I would be able to apply Foundation in the morning without something to close the wound."
"Eh, stink your house up, see what I care." He shrugged. "By the way, why are you slumming it with Ryder if you know Bruce Wayne?"
I snorted, "For one, we are friends from college, who only just reconnected."
"Friends?" He shook his head. "Waylon Jones and Bruce Wayne, what a fucking list."
"And what about it?" I chuckled, and he stepped forward. "Don't, Please, J."
"What?" He said, stepping closer to me again, head tilting.
"Don't touch me," I closed my eyes, turning away from him.
"Don't tell me what to do." His voice came in a giggle, and it pissed me off that he was closer again, and when I opened my eyes he was directly in front of me, looking up at him, I shook my head, glaring.
"Can you just-" I held up my hand, pressing my flat palm into his chest, but he didn't budge. "Get out."
"Is that what you want?"
I couldn't look at him, "That is what I fucking said, isn't it?"'
"No,"
"Did you consider I don't want to be alone with a man who just cut my face?"
He rolled his eyes, "Are we gonna have that argument again?"
"Or you can leave my apartment," I answered, a mean smile crossing my lips. "That is a viable option."
"Maybe I don't want to."
"And what do you want, J?" I asked, placing my head into my hands. "What can I do to get you out of my apartment, right now."
"Hm," He hummed, and giggled, "How about… A kiss?"
I glared at him again, my smile dropping.
"Ugh, You're no fun at all, you know that?" He laughed, before shaking his head when I didn't. "Alright, I'm gone. I will be here Saturday at Seven to pick you up. Be ready." He turned around, finally leaving me to process the last Forty-eight hours. "Wear something comfortable. No heels." One more remark tossed over his shoulder before disappearing onto my balcony and into the night.
Inside his car, J smirked, lighting up a cigarette, and releasing a lungful of smoke before the giggles started.
He covered his mouth, attempting to limit them as he reached into his pocket with his other hand, extracting his phone. When he was finally able to breathe normally around the laugh, he dialed the first number that was saved, shaking with excitement.
"Boss," Frost answered the call on the first ring.
"Frostie, I need you to find out everything you can about that Wayne Charity thing from the paper this morning." The man said, working to keep his tone even. "I also need you to go meat shopping."
"Sure thing, Boss," Johnny said tiredly, wishing he could go back to this morning when J was almost the same man he shared his first beer with. "I know Schiff was looking for work again, after the breakout."
"Good, good," J nodded, Schiff wasn't good, but he was funny, and J appreciated that nearly as much in one of his guys. "Try to poach down at Cherries, if you can get in. I'd like some muscle if we can get it."
"Sure thing, Boss, do you want me to ask Waylon-"
"No." J was suddenly serious, "This is a need-to-know basis."
"Okay, Boss." Johnny was unsure of Joker's reasoning but knew better than to question him.
"Also, I have an errand for you," Joker said, giggling. "And Frostie, I hate to say it, but this one is… well it is gonna be messy." A deep sigh heaved on the other end of the line, and J could hear Johnny opening the film canister.
"What do I need to do?" Johnny listened as Joker described the herculean task, becoming nervous as he spoke.
"Boss, I don't know-"
"Oh, Frostie, don't be cynical." His tone was deceptively friendly.
` "Yes, Boss." He sighed, lowering his head into his hands.
"Oh! And Johnny? Can you make sure my things are ready for me? I'm feeling… Inspired."
At Arkham the next day I was eating my lunch at my desk, going through the updated notes for Mr. Lynns, as I was finally able to convince Arkham to allow me to begin treating him again, at least until Joker was caught. The reminder of the man made my stomach flip-flop, and I pushed the tuna salad away. I don't even like fish, really. Why do I buy it? I knew why of course. Just one more example of me trying to force myself to make rational and good decisions instead of taking Pam up on another literal three-martini lunch, or just skipping it entirely. I tossed the entire Tupperware into the garbage can in my office.
"Knock, Knock?" Jack asked, smiling as he slid into my office. I cannot do this right now. I smiled warmly.
"Jack!" I stood, stepping around the desk to give him a one-arm hug, "What are you doing here, I thought we were having dinner tonight?" He had insisted of course, but I stopped minding, knowing the eyes of Gotham were still on me, and I needed to act accordingly. The Socialite Psychiatrist wouldn't turn down a date from Jack Ryder, who had been so kind on air.
"Yes, but I knew you are still on paperwork duty here, Something I think should have the option to be remote, by the way-"
"That would be a massive security risk, Jack. I can only access certain files outside of Arkham." I interrupted and he waited until I was finished to kiss me. Ugh, I can taste his BLT. I almost gagged but kept neutral until he pulled back, smiling up at him, making my eyes soft.
"From now on when you interrupt me, I am going to kiss you. I am calling it the 'rude tax'." He joked, and I slapped his shoulder.
"I am not rude!"
"You are, but don't worry, you're pretty enough that no one else will ever actually admit it," His smile was winning, and I chuckled.
"Fine, now what's going on, Jack?"
"Well, since you probably aren't too busy," He answered, tilting his head, "I was wondering if I could tempt you to lunch? If you want to, of course." He shrugged, blushing again. Shit. I don't. Fuck you for not knowing that. I thought, unfairly.
"You read my mind!" I leaned in, kissing his cheek. "Where did you have in mind?"
The man woke, trembling, in a room he didn't recognize. His hands were tied behind his back, sitting upright in a folding metal chair. Head on a swivel, eyes sweeping every corner, he tried to understand what was happening, where he was.
The room had a thick, dusty smell in the air, and the room was dark and cold. Beige walls and a paneled ceiling gave the impression this used to be a professional setting, but the lack of electricity and the fact he was restrained very much called that into question. He attempted to stand, only to find his ankles secured to the chair, nearly tipping himself over in the process. Looking down, beneath his feet, a thick sheet of plastic lined the floor. He nearly panicked at the sight, having watched enough Dexter to know what that meant. The man took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself as he took stock of his situation. Attempting to retrace his steps, he tried to focus on the last memory he had. He could remember leaving the bar, walking across the parking lot, opening his car door… and then nothing. Part of him wanted to shout out, but the possible outcomes kept him silent, seated, trembling, and afraid of what was to come.
It could have been minutes, or hours before the door opened, the man wasn't sure, but his hopes of paying his way out of this were dashed as he stared into the face of a monster. He recognized it on sight, of course. Who in this Godforsaken city didn't know about the Joker?
"Good. You're awake." His face was empty, the black around his eyes emphasized in the shadows of the room to the point it was nearly skeletal. Without an ounce of reaction to his prey's expression, he walked to the corner of the room, reaching down to fiddle with a battery-powered light, flicking it on to reveal an out-of-place kitchen table in front of him, with a duffle bag, and a camera lying on it.
Joker remained silent, as the man watched him with giant and fearful eyes, lips quivering. He tilted his head, before taking another step back. He continued the odd dance for a moment, before lifting the camera and glancing through the viewfinder before grunting, and striding to the bound man quickly, jerking his chair two inches back- causing him to cry out in fear. But the clown simply walked back to the camera, lifting it to glance through the viewfinder again, this time nodding in approval, before turning to the duffle.
He removed a towel and a bottle of water first, then a plastic bag, which he wrapped both in before tossing it into the corner. Then he began unloading the rest. The restrained man could only cry softly, consumed by horror as he watched the man lift blade after blade, instrument after instrument, sorting them as he laid them across the table. When he was satisfied, he lifted the bag, tossing it into the same corner of the room as the other. He glanced around again, humming under his breath before leaving the room again. He came back with a cigarette, and a chair, lighting one, and setting the other in front of the table, facing his prey. Then he sat down, flipping open the camera again and this time the red light came on.
"Tell them your name." His tone was friendly, but his face behind the camera was anything but.
"T-Thomas" He was able to mouth, but his throat was so dry there was hardly a sound. Joker didn't seem to know or care.
"And you're an artist, is that right?" He asked, and the man was confused, only staring, tears falling freely. "Don't be humble, Tommy!" The clown giggled, "I asked if you're an artist."
"Y-yes.." Tommy said, also nodding in affirmation, wanting to tear his eyes from him, to look away, but he couldn't, frozen with fear.
"I went to your showing Tommy, and I gotta say. You aren't very good." He sounded remorseful. "I mean. Frankly, I don't think you're meeting your full potential as an artist." Joker nodded encouragingly. "I'd like to help." He smiled and Thomas shook his head, crying in earnest now.
"Please, I-"
"Quiet." His tone was carcinogenic and he glared, angry at the interruption. Thomas felt his trembling kick up but he lowered his eyes.
"You see, everyone, I'm an artist myself." His voice was friendly again, "And I've learned recently that inspiration comes in many forms. I mean, everyone knows the old classics: Star Wars and the Cold War, Eugenics and Darwin, Nuclear power and the A-bomb. Big fan of all six, personally. Well, Eugenics is kinda weird." He shook his head, focusing the camera again. "But Tommy, as I was saying. I want to inspire you. I want to help you." He leaned back. "And maybe we can inspire the city together."
Tommy just cried in silence, unable to raise his head to look into the grinning face he knew he would find.
"Now, I see you are eager to get started, and I know, anticipation is a killer." Joker giggled before continuing. "So I'm gonna tell you everything," he reassured. Then he began talking to someone else, but Tommy crumbled even further as he realized the clown had only turned the camera to face himself.
"Mr. Vienna will be buried somewhere within the city- well, most of him. He will be alive, and if you find him in time he can even remain that way! So kids. Get I'd say start counting, but the clock has already started." Tommy looked up, seeing the clown laughing hysterically, and he began fighting his restraints in a sudden burst of panic, only successful in knocking himself onto his side on the floor painfully.
"You see folks, by the time you receive this tape, the clock will have already started! You have around… Six hours from the time I leave this tape with the appropriate authorities." He stood, turning the camera back to Tommy, now sobbing and struggling on the floor.
"Oh! And Just in case Tommy here isn't a good enough motivator for you, there will be an extra motivator for the less artistically inclined. It's gonna be a blast!" He ended the video with a cackle- cutting off sharply when he stopped the video.
"Shut up," He sighed, but Tommy continued crying, as Joker rewatched the video - eyes serious, but a smirk playing on his lips. "Perfect." He patted his pocket before groaning. "Be right back." And he left the room, leaving the desperate man alone with his tears and anticipation.
In the next room, Joker lit a cigarette, turning to Johnny, "I think I'll let him sweat for a minute. Get his energy out. The way he's jerking the cuts will never be clean." He shrugged. Johnny wondered why he was going through this public recreation. Was it to one-up her? To threaten her? To piss her off? Did he somehow in his fucked up head think that this was… flirting? Johnny wasn't sure, but J's reasoning was often best left up to interpretation.
"I can knock him out?" Frost offered hopefully, but Joker looked as though this was distasteful to him.
"You sure know how to take the fun out of everything," He shook his head, but suddenly his smile was dangerous, "Anyway, how are things going on the other front?"
Johnny looked away, "I'm working it boss, but I'm not sure-" Suddenly on the floor, Frost's vision swirled, and his cheek ached.
"I'll repeat myself, Frostie. Just this once." His voice was suddenly friendly, but Johnny knew not to trust it, keeping his eyes lowered and not attempting to stand. It had occurred to him on more than one occasion that working for Joker was like living with a particularly aggressive feral dog. He would never say that out loud, for fear of his life, but between the constant mood swings and the blatant lack of basic hygiene it was an apt comparison.
"I'll get it done, Boss."
"Was that so fucking hard, you waste?" he sneered, disgusted again.
"No, Boss." He stood and Joker turned his back, unable to look at him, though Johnny knew better than to assume it was from any kind of guilt. Suddenly his back straightened only slightly.
"Clean him up… I- I need to go. Clean him up and watch him while I'm gone." He giggled, pulling his keys from his pocket, and striding through the door quickly, leaving Frost to make his way to his seat, raising one hand to his cheek, before silently pulling the film canister from his pocket with a sigh, and popping open the lid, so overused now that the hinge is broken.
Please comment, and if you have any opinions on the dilemma I am facing please do let me know.