He didn't snore but breathed heavily in great puffs that whistled quietly against the bed. Every so often, he'd stir and the mattress would squeak.
She sat on the floor through the night, listening to the ambiance of the Joker, until his foot nudged the purple jacket onto the hardwood. She stared at it, rose up a bit to make sure he was still asleep, then pulled it towards herself with an outstretched toe. Her fingers glided over the material, much of it threadbare. She searched the pockets. They were empty.
Defeatedly, she turned to look at a sky beginning to lighten through the window, and with no hope of anything good to come from a new day, she fell back onto the pillow, purple jacket tucked around her like a blanket. It smelled like gunpowder and smoke. Threatening spices that, for reasons beyond her, eased the horror and fear she felt.
She didn't know how long it would be until whatever usefulness she had gone dry, when the searching inevitably stopped and Bruce forgot about her. What then? Would the Joker kill her? Sell her off? Offer her to the men at his command?
She didn't belong in Gotham, hadn't earned deliverance from a decade of solitude.
Allowed herself to be taken, pushed around, verbally assaulted.
And she was hungry. At least two days since she'd last eaten. Maybe he intended to starve her.
"I have fruit...coming," a voice murmured tiredly above her. "Your stomach is rumbling."
India looked up at the bed, but could only see his messy green hair and curved back.
Fruit?
She chose not to reply, because it made her feel strange, and instead mulled over fruit until sleep came, purple jacket snug beneath her chin.
Never more than a few hours of rest. Even then, a constant circus traipsing about in his head that kept the rest of him from reaching deep unconsciousness.
And the girl on the floor, whimpering and fighting against her own nightmares.
It was well into morning. No plan for the day. No plan yesterday. Just sitting stupidly on a commodity with no schemes and no excitement.
The Joker sat up and rubbed at his curiously stiff neck. Why the fuck did it hurt so much?
Rolling closer to the edge, he looked at India, who slept curled in a strange little ball.
Something jumped in his chest and he tried to weigh it back down, into the black and cold pit of his proverbial soul. No, it was not endearing. She did not look particularly angelic, and he was not excited to wear the jacket that would smell like her henceforth.
"India." She sighed and rubbed her face against the pillow like a kitten. "India, get up." Louder.
"Class doesn't start…for another hour," she grumbled.
Okay.
He stood up and nudged her leg with his foot. "School is out, moron." Her brown eyes shot open, her body following suit and giving a jolt.
"I...I, uh-"
"You what?" She sat up and looked at him, heavy-lidded and dazed.
"I don't know."
"Tell me."
"I was dreaming, I think," she whispered solemnly, holding out the jacket. He quirked a brow. "I'm sorry, it was cold."
"Yeah, well," he took it and shrugged it on, "...don't do it again."
Have to get her a goddamn blanket now.
He turned to leave but she piped up. "Is it...information that you want?"
"I'm sorry, princess?"
"Why you took me. Information about my brother? His company? Because I-I don't know anything, I've been in-"
"New Hampshire, Our Lady of Fatima Catholic Girl's School." She kept silent, but he could easily see her floundering. "I know all about you, though there's uh, not much to know, and I know that you don't have jack shit to give me concerning your pompous ass of a brother." He leaned down, a violent shimmer crossing his dark eyes. "I took you because I wanted to. Because I could."
"Oh."
He pulled back and went for his shoes, feeling her stare as though it was a warm hand grabbing at his back.
"You have thirty-nine freckles."
"What?"
"Thirty-nine freckles, give or take."
Thank you thank you thank you."
"You're welcome, sir."
"No, this." The Joker held up the white plastic bag filled with bananas and kiwis and pointed to the blocky red letters bulging from the side. "Where do they get these bags?"
"I don't know, sir."
"More pertinent a question is why you purchased nothing but fucking bananas and kiwis. It's weird, and India is allergic to kiwis." Kurt grimaced, shaking his head.
"Allergic to kiwis?"
"I should shoot you. I should just finally shoot you and be done with it. Yeah, people are allergic to things."
"Should I go back out for more of um, a selection?"
"No, I'll send out someone else. Watch the door like a good boy." He spun on his heels and unlocked it, tossing the bag through without looking at his prisoner within.
She heard most of the conversation, though muffled, and watched the silhouettes of the clown and the man known as Kurt move behind the glass until the door opened and the thank you thank you thank you bag was tossed in. India scooped it up quickly and picked out the bananas, wasting no time and eating one that she'd peeled with trembling fingers, and another, while she stared at the fuzzy fruit she couldn't have.
With her appetite more or less taken care of, she went into the bathroom and drank water from the faucet, then went back to the bed. The sheets were rumpled from his tossing and turning. Still warm.
She doubted even Bruce knew of her silly allergy. How did the Joker know?
India shivered, running her hands through tangled hair and staring at the plastic bag. Most interesting thing in the room.
She didn't notice the door opening because it had been done so silently, or the large man walk in with the grin of a predator spread across his stony face. He made sure the door was locked behind him and the key in his pocket before he spoke.
"Hey." She yipped like a fox and sprung up from the bed. "Oh, shit! I didn't mean to scare you, I just wanted to make sure you ate. Did you eat?"
"I-I don't think...you should be in here." Her words stumbled pathetically, and her feet brought her closer to the wall on instinct.
"No, it's okay. I was told to check on you," he replied smoothly, garnishing it with a soft laugh. "I'm Kurt."
"Okay."
"You're India, right?" Kurt moved further into the room, stuffing his beefy hands into his pockets.
"Yes, but-"
"See, that wasn't so hard. Just...friendly introductions, right? You're prettier than your picture." He clicked his tongue. "Beautiful."
She wanted to scream but couldn't.
"I want you to do something for me." The saccharine mask of empathy he'd worn began to slide from his face like some tangible liquid. "Strip."
"Please stop," India whispered hoarsely, hands clutched against her thumping chest. She watched him produce a knife from the pocket of his camouflage pants.
"Take your fucking clothes off."
"I'll do anything-"
"No, you'll do this, unless you want me to cut something off." He tapped the blade against his thigh. "Start with the jeans."
It took a moment for her to realize that she was sobbing openly and pulling down the oversized pants. The disconnect, however, almost made what was happening even more real. The denim clung to her overheated skin, damp with nervous sweat. Kurt watched her try to shimmy them down with pleasure he didn't bother to hide, and once she finally stepped out of them, he pointed to the shirt. The strangled cry of something wounded spilled from her and his response was immediate; a slap across the face that nearly knocked her to the ground. As she went to touch her burning cheek, he grabbed the shirt and ripped it across. It fell to the floor in shreds and he tried for a handful of her but something pulled him back.
Things happened before India that she couldn't really see. Shapes struggling against each other and far away shouting that probably wasn't far away.
She stood, shaking, not watching or listening, until color and sound came back into focus and a voice was saying her name and purple spilled back into her spectrum.
"India?"
"Yes?" A hand on her arm. Iron grip.
"Did he hurt you?"
"Where d-did Kurt go? Where is...Kurt?"
"I threw him off the catwalk. Three stories."
His face pushed through the fog of shock, bare, without the ghastly paint. The face she'd seen above her in the hospital bed. He was close.
He?
"The Joker."
"What? I mean, yeah, but I didn't come with that bullshit name." He snapped his fingers. "India, you're almost completely naked. Did you...know that?"
Slowly, she wrapped her arms around her heavy chest and sniffled.
"He told me to take my clothes off."
"Why didn't you scream or something?" he said angrily, stomping over to the bed and tugging the top sheet off. "Cover yourself." He held it out to her but she did nothing.
"Didn't know you had them there, too. A great big splash of them."
"What?"
"Freckles. Allll across your chest." He huffed, did the snake-tongue thing. "I'm sure Kurt noticed. Doesn't matter now. I heard his head...burst? For lack of a better word." India's breath hitched. Fire licked at her throat.
"Shut up."
"Take the sheet and I will. Maybe."
"Fuck you, fuck you!" She screamed and lunged at him. They landed hard on the floor in a tangled mess, India screeching and crying as her fists beat against him. Her advantage didn't last long. He easily flipped her to the side, pinning her down with his own weight.
"Stop!"
"Calm the hell down!" He hissed. Her feverish body flailed and bucked against him until she had nothing left but tears and shallow hiccups. He stared down at her, more placid than she'd ever seen him. His eyes were deceiving. She'd believed them to be black, so dark.
But they weren't.
She went slack and turned away from him, suddenly very aware of her nakedness.
"Are you done?"
"Yes."
The Joker stood, dragging her up with him. He let her arm go but she quickly latched onto the front of his jacket.
"What is it?" He questioned, annoyed.
"I-I can't s-stand-"
"Here," he stopped her and pried the white-knuckled hand from him, holding it in his own while he led her to the bed. "Sit down." She did, hugging herself in hopes of erasing any memory of her exposure.
Impossible.
"I'll get some ice for your cheek." He tossed the sheet next to her and they looked at each other. Then he was gone and she was alone.
