Ow.
Pain thumps itself alive in its resting place at the base of my skull, ricocheting to the front of my face and back again, pounding, sharp and persistent in its attempts to free itself and break through my skin. Eager to let me know it's there. That it's been there, waiting for me to wake up like a child on Christmas day.
And pain lies in wait along the crevices of my spine up to the nape of my neck, a dull hum gradually buzzing up the length of my back, a protest at being strained.
I'm not fully lying down—my head is propped up against the cupboard below my sink, causing the crick in my neck.
How? How long have I been out? Why am I sat like th-
Oh.
My eyes shoot open, immediately squinting in the harsh light, and I throw myself forward with too much gusto, instantly regretting the action when shockwaves ripple down my aching neck and my brain jostles around my skull as if it's somehow come unstuck. My face goes almost numb in that tingly, vibrating way like it's fallen asleep.
The apartment is still and quiet. Silent, even, except for the monotonous buzz coming from the overhead light above.
And as I pull myself up onto my knees, adjusting my towel so that's it secure, and peek over the countertop to my living area, sure that I'm going to see Gotham's worst nightmare, I see—
Nothing.
He's not there.
Not on the couch. Not by the window. Not leaning against any of the walls.
Huh?
He was here. He was definitely here. I'm not making this up. I felt those gloved fingers ghost my cheeks. I saw that ghastly smile. I heard his knees crack, for god's sake.
Didn't I?
Surveying my surroundings again, I try to stand but find it too difficult. My limbs are anchors and my muscles are butterflies. Remaining on my knees it is.
No sound comes from elsewhere in the apartment. He's not in here, I can see that much, and if he was in my bedroom, surely I'd have heard something—the floor literally creaks with every breath taken.
I shuffle forward on my knees to check, poking my head around my bedroom doorframe, only to find the room empty of clowns. Light on, but no one home.
He was here, wasn't he?
Did he leave?
When I turn back to glance around my kitchen, I stop.
A glass of water sits on the countertop I'd been leaning against.
That wasn't there before. At least, I don't remember it being there. All I remember is the scratching, the bang, hitting my head off the counter, and him.
Did he pour that?
Did I?
What if I did?
What if he was never here?
What if I've hallucinated the entire scenario, the events of the last few days crescendoing into an irrepressible psychotic implosion?
I had been worried about what was coming next, so to speak, in terms of my mental health. I always knew something was coming but now that—that—has happened with Officer O'Doherty, I should've realized sooner. I've been tailspinning for a while now.
I need help.
I need to call Oz.
Or Gordon.
Or Oz then Gordon.
I need to admit to what I've done. I need to-
From behind me, my toilet flushes.
Then the lid falls shut.
And the tap runs.
And the bathroom door opens.
And I am on my hands and knees, crawling to my front door.
The cherry on top of my shit Sunday, I knew he was here!
Though, the satisfaction of being proven right is incredibly short-lived given that I was right about the Joker being in my apartment. Not a dream, not a hallucination. The Joker. In my apartment. He just flushed my toilet. What else has he done?
Not important—I need to leave. I need to get out that front door and run. To where—I'll figure that out once I get there. I just need to go.
It's hard crawling in a tight towel. As I scuff my knees against the hardwood floor in my race to freedom, I find time dragging much like my towel against the uneven floorboards, snagging and preventing an easier escape. I can feel little slivers of wood inject into my knees and if the pain in my face wasn't as severe, I'm sure the sting of these splinters would be causing some tears.
The floorboards of the bedroom awaken behind me, alighting his arrival, and the feeling of eyes on my back descends so quickly I can't stop the shudder rolling along my spine.
There's a loud, wet smack, same as the other night, and then he clears his throat.
"Y'know, most people dine their date before dashing."
The voice almost makes me halt in my tracks.
The unshaven hair on my legs bristles as memories of that god-awful video of the torment of Brian Douglas, the Batman impersonator, come flooding back; the nasal narration, which traveled through television speakers to fill Gothamite homes, is just as much on its own journey itself, a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows in pitch and cadence, and rings clearer than the actual words it breathes life to.
He's right here.
Behind me.
What has he planned for me? Two bullets in the back as his intention the other night? Or will I be the next Brian Douglas? Another scapegoat for the people of Gotham, my terrifying last moments captured for the world to see? A televised deterrent from turning him in? Has he got a video camera with him right now? How will he kill me? Will it be short? Quick as an afterthought? Or drawn-out and savored? Will I be found here or disposed of elsewhere? Would Mrs. Rano even intervene if she heard? Will Jim Gordon be able to recognize my corpse? What is going to happen to me?
I can't look at him. I don't want to look at him. I don't want to believe he's here, to see the proof that he's actually here even though I've just heard it. I can't bring myself to see what I've been dreading this whole time.
I keep moving.
Yet, he doesn't follow. Doesn't make any sudden movements to deter me.
Instead, he lets out a heaving sigh. Then, something's jingling.
The jingling continues, intensifying in volume, even as I come to a complete stop about a foot away from my front door.
The sound is familiar.
It's familiar because it's the sound of keys.
My keys.
Peering up at my door I see that the keyhole, the spot where they should be, is vacant.
The jingling stops.
I want to laugh because of course, he'd pre-empt an escape attempt, of course, he'd be one step ahead. I want to laugh, even as the realization that my life is coming to an end much sooner than I'd have liked overwhelms my senses. I want to laugh, even as I begin to cry.
Tears roll over the waterlines of my eyes as I turn my head to chance a look at him.
I regret it immediately.
I thought the voice was bad, no—everything about him is worse in person.
Well, maybe not worse—the videos on GCN have done a fairly decent job in showcasing his gnarled appearance—but more lurid.
Against my pale yellowing walls, he is the Blueberry Blizzard pancake stain on Oz's teeth. A bright splatter of purple and green and red, black, and white on the canvas of my kitchen. Stark green hair dye clings the best it can to sweaty, stringy curls which fall just below his chin, grazing his shoulders, while his thinning roots remain a light brown-almost-blond. The overhead light bounds off the white paint on his face as if repelled, shunned, and the red, overdrawn lips look almost orange, garishly unpleasant in unforgiving, warm-white light, an image I know will worsen the closer he gets when the scars come into focus and become more pronounced. His eyes are the most difficult to grasp. From my angle, I can barely see the whites of his eyes: it's like staring into two cavities burrowing deep into his skull, not dissimilar to how I imagine bullet holes will look in my back. Tunnels to nowhere.
If I find Oz hard to read at times, then I have absolutely no chance in hell in figuring out him.
He's also impossibly tall, with wide shoulders hunched and neck craned forward so he doesn't smack his head off the top of the doorframe. Somewhat bent at the waist from resting his hip against the wall, his legs are crossed at the ankle and reach God-knows-where, stretching up, up, up beneath his massive overcoat.
His right hand is in his coat pocket; his left is outstretched as one would proffer for a handshake, but rest assured this is no formality: off his hooked index finger, he dangles my keys, taunting me. Yellow teeth stretched in a sardonic smile, he chucks them up, catches, and pockets them. A reminder of my weakness. Of my own failure.
And it strikes me then how I must look to him—down on all fours in my towel, my arms and legs and neck exposed, mussed, damp hair clinging to my cheeks and back, watery, bruised eyes gazing up in evident fear and caution. Pathetic. Weak. An injured animal trying to flee the snare.
Prey.
I am prey. I have been since we saw one another on Thursday night. Something he hammers home when he moves suddenly, pushing off the doorframe to his full height, sending me reeling onto my ass, thrown against my front door, clutching my towel and my legs to my side, just so I can keep my eyes on him. The hunter. The predator.
He exhales a laugh, strained as if it's been beaten and stomped and squeezed to fit through the narrow gap between rows of putrid teeth, and smirks at me as he inches forward. His other hand finally appears from his pocket, rattling as it comes into sight. A flash of white against the purple of the palm of his hand and then he's turning to my sink, to the glass of water. Picking it up, he faces me again but doesn't look at me. He's focused on my coffee table. With a jerk of his head, he nods to the seating area and smacks his lips, the noise of my nightmares finally receiving a source.
He... Does he want to sit down with me?
I can only stare at him, confusion creeping in where the pain lies. I gently shake my head.
The Joker rolls his eyes and in two long strides is directly above me, his thighs level with my eyeline, sending my heart rate soaring and making me incredibly uncomfortable. I can't stop myself from looking up at him, more tears spilling, and jump when I find him staring back, blank, narrowed eyes looking down the length of his nose and body at me, his face an impenetrable mask. I inch back a tad further into the wall in an attempt to establish some distance between our bodies but the movement draws his attention back to the room and he follows my action and crowds my space even more.
His boots come into contact with my shins, one of his knees almost knocks my chin, and in order to maintain eye contact, I find I have to glare up past his crotch.
The realization has me blushing so furiously so quickly out of shame, and embarrassment and, yes, even fury, that I end up wrenching my eyes away to stare at his boots.
He snorts a chuckle and prods one of my shins with the toe of the boot I'm staring at. Jerking his head to the couch again, he utters a 'c'mon, c'mon, c'mon,' before marching away to set the glass down. He places the rattling object in his other hand down beside it and I'm gobsmacked to see it's a container of pills. My extra-strength Tylenol, to be exact.
He turns back to me, hands gesturing towards the offered items, and sighs again when I offer no response in return. I don't mean to dig my own grave deeper but I can't move. I don't understand this. Why hasn't he hurt me yet?
A dark shadow passes over his face then, eyes somehow glinting in the darkness of my living room, coming to life.
He bends over, tongue swiping his bottom lip, and then emphatically smacks his thighs with his gloved hands, whistling and clucking his tongue at me.
As you would to a dog.
I don't believe it.
He lifts a hand and beckons me forward, rubbing together his finger and thumb just as you'd signal to a pet you had a treat, cooing a high-pitched, saccharine "C'meeeere," as a ghost of a genuine smile graces his features.
It's obscene. Bizarre. Disgusting. Humiliating. Nasty. It stings to be debased so easily by him. And I don't know what frightens me more: the image of him doing this or the fact I have to stop myself from crawling to him, the glint in his eye bleeding into a full-blown twinkle when he notices.
Had Brian Douglas endured such degrading torment after the tape had stopped rolling? Or had this come before, the sick version of foreplay The Joker had alluded to the other night?
I guess I'll soon find out. It's not like I can escape.
As the remnants of my hope and tears flee my body, I avoid eye contact as I struggle to my feet, pushing forward and pulling myself up using the kitchen counter. My vision blurs and spins as I do so, the throbbing in my skull commencing once again.
"Nasty bruises ya got there," he says; I can't determine whether my nausea is caused by my spinning sight or him. "How'd ya get those?"
What—are we friends now? Is this part of his foreplay? I don't understand. He's giving me whiplash. The more he speaks, the more those painkillers seem appealing.
My knees take a moment to work but when they finally obey, I trudge forward to the coffee table.
He doesn't move as I approach, forcing me to squeeze through the narrow gap between him and the arm of the sofa in order to sit. Which is what he wanted, it seems, because once I'm sat down, he edges away, holding his hands behind his back as he begins a thorough inspection of the rest of my living room. As he scopes out my half-empty bookcase, perusing the shelves like they're a secret diary he's found under my bed, I pop open the bottle of pills, dry swallow two, and chase them down with half the glass of water.
"Bit counterintuitive to give pain meds to your next victim."
The words are out before I realize I'd ever thought them.
They surprise him too, his hunched upper body twisting on its axis so those black eyes can send me a bemused look. Brows furrowed and cheeks chewed, he blinks and allows one of his hands to come up to his hairline to scratch, chalk-white sweat coating the leather before being rubbed off on a pant leg. Eventually, he releases his cheeks with a sloppy pop and points the same finger at me.
"And, uh, why, exactly, would you be my next victim?"
He has to be playing a game. Has to be. He can't think I'm so dumb that I don't understand why he's here. I ratted him out, for God's sake. Does he really not realize I've been expecting him? Waiting for the moment for him to catch up to me and snuff me out? Dreading it all the same, but, still, expecting him.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
He fixes me with an inscrutable stare. Whatever he was expecting for this conversation, it wasn't this—which terrifies me because now I have the distinct feeling I'm wrong.
My heart begins to thud.
After another lip smack, he slinks forward and stops at his end of the coffee table. Without breaking eye contact he leans down and yanks it to him, sending the pill bottle rolling off and onto the floor somewhere beneath my couch. The glass of water jerks forward and I just manage to catch it before it spills and drops down onto my bare toes. He creeps closer to me, still staring, and when he steps in front of me, before me, as a priest would before gracing his blessing, my breath catches and I find my gaze darting between his eyes and his hands, anticipating them shooting up and clamping around my neck, the leather squelching as he wrings the life from me.
The Joker quirks a brow, the left corner of his lips tugging upwards, and-
Sits down on my coffee table.
The breath I was holding rushes out of me, cheeks and chest deflating like a weary balloon.
He cocks his head.
"For someone so sure they're about to be killed, you don't exactly strike me as ready for it," he comments as he adjusts himself.
The pockets of his overcoat clang against the rim of my coffee table as he hikes it up and splays it out around him, his knees falling open slightly as he replants his feet on either side of mine. He unbuttons his suit jacket underneath so he can sit forward, hands clasped and hanging between his legs, elbows resting atop his knees. He's still staring.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes fall to his scars.
I had been right in thinking they'd be the worst feature to look at up close.
They're a sore sight, all puffed up and jagged, asymmetric in their creation. One side an almost-perfect exaggeration of a smile, the other a mangled mess of sinew and muscle. His serpentine tongue snakes out to coat his lips and it's then I notice the tiny forked scar leading into his bottom lip from just under it, reminding me of an estuary where streams meet the tide. The tongue pokes out again, this time to wet the junctions of lip and scar tissue. And then he opens his mouth.
"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"
My eyes snap to his and hot embarrassment washes over me. I choose to ignore his question and answer his observation.
"Well, if you're not going to kill me for what I did, then why are you here?"
He hums in recognition.
"Ah, well, I'm sure that Gordon and his boys would've killed you for what you did, but me? I see this as a, uh, conversation opener. An opportunity, if you will."
Wait a minute, what was that about Gordon?
Why would Gordon kill me for the other night?
I helped Gordon.
What?
He scoffs when he catches my confusion, scratching his neck. "Oh, come on, you don't think Gordon would've refrained from lighting you up if he'd seen what you did to good ol' O'Doherty, do you?"
That name rolls off his tongue like a marble, and it becomes harder to breathe.
He knows about O'Doherty.
Which means only one thing.
I feel my eyes widen as I begin to gulp down air, heart thundering.
Oh, shit.
Oh, shit.
I was wrong.
I was wrong about everything.
Oz's friend, whom I'd mistakenly thought at first was O'Doherty and then later some faceless woman, is The Joker.
The Joker, is Oz's friend.
What the fuck?
I mean, from an unbiased point of view, it probably makes much more sense now that I properly think about it—but the Joker, Oz? The Joker is your friend? You call him a friend? Conduct business deals with him? Why don't you have him round for drinks too, Oz? Jeez. I thought Oz was a little shady, but I had no idea he was this deep in the underworld.
As shock and bitter betrayal settle into my bones, the events of the two evenings fall into place with less friction. The laughing and snorting and little sarcastic comments emanating from the chair in Oz's office. Rambo. The excited tones of voice escalating in volume with each minute as I snuck past. The secrecy of it all. Oz's burning fury at my reckless disregard for his rules.
Of all people, the very man I'd ratted out was sat in Oz's office both times.
Oh, my God.
The Joker was who Officer O'Doherty was referring to in his frenzied rant.
"Officer O'Doherty was with you?"
Those black eyes which have been lingering on me, drinking in every emotion to cross my face, light up at my question, and his scarred smile twists into something uglier.
"Bingo," he growls, his voice suddenly three octaves lower. The tonal pitch startles me. I can't decide if he's pleased I've connected the dots without him spelling it out or... Or if he's finally showing his anger with me for...doing that... to a member of his staff.
"So... S-So you're not here because I ratted you out?"
Why the fuck did I openly admit to that?
He grins.
"Oh, no, I am," he giggles, high and tight like a kid. "Y'see, one event only occurs because of the other." He nods fervently at me as if by the will of his head I'll agree with his logic. "You met O'Doherty trying to be the 'good little citizen' you are, and then you butchered him because..." He sighs and eyes me suspiciously, "well, that's what I'd like to know."
Butchered.
He said butchered.
Past participle.
"He's dead?"
Now, who's high-pitched? Can't help it, though: I'm currently trying not to have my fourteenth panic attack of the night.
The look he fixes me with makes me wish I'd never said anything. He contorts his features to mimic a look of pity, exaggerated enough to display his falsity: his lips firmly pulled down, eyes wide and bleeding commiseration, brows deeply furrowed. He leans forward and surprises me further by clamping a heavy hand on the exposed skin above my knee and pats twice with force.
"Oh, sugarcube, you didn't know?" His tongue pokes out again as if to check his scars are still there before slithering back into his mouth. I want to smack it. "Gosh, what a cold-hearted little killer you must be, if ya can't even stick around long enough to watch the life leave your victim's eyes, hmm?"
I want to smack his face.
I want him to stop talking.
I want to be sick.
Let's be honest: did I really think O'Doherty stood a chance with the injuries I'd inflicted upon him? ...Probably not. But I had hoped he would. I hadn't meant to kill him, let alone hurt him, but I was struggling. I was alone and injured, and he was going to kill me. Should I have let him? No. Everyone's first instinct is to survive. I was only acting on instinct. I had to defend myself, and I did. It was self-defense. I didn't mean for it to end like that.
Oh, I really do think I'm going to be sick.
A gentler pat to my thigh draws me half out of my panic.
"Drink up," he murmurs, using my thigh to push himself up and onto his feet.
That I can agree to. I chug back the remaining water as he steps over me and saunters to my window, the expanse of his crooked body shrouding the nightscape.
The sight of his broad hunching figure distracts me from this admission. It's alarming how big he is. That is one thing GCN didn't depict well. Rumour had it he was scrawny, a jumble of bones compared to the Batman's hulking mass, and, for some reason, his voice made me believe it, made me think that physically, he'd be easy to handle, his power lying solely within his brains, his smarts, his constant being a step ahead. Wrong. Utterly and ignorantly wrong. Power radiates off him because of that, yes, but also because his body is all muscle, not bone. His thighs splayed as he sat across from me, taut and bulging, and despite his hunch, muscle forms the mass of his back—that much I can see through the overcoat.
You don't need to be Batman's size to win a fight, even Oz proves that.
Oz.
Oh, Oz.
How on Earth did you get involved with the Joker?
What are you facilitating him with? What provisions are being made?
What's really going on at Sugar's?
Wait.
Hang on.
If the Joker knows about O'Doherty, then—
"Does Oz know?"
The Joker glances at me over his shoulder, face indifferent and unsurprised. As if he's been waiting on that question all night.
"Oh, he knows about O'Doherty being dead, alright," he answers easily, "yep, he knows."
He nods and turns around to face me head-on, leaning back against the window ledge. He lifts a hand to inspect his nails in spite of wearing gloves. "Tried to palm off some story of 'crazies' picking off customers because Arkham's so close, but I—" he pauses, looks up, and gestures between us with the hand he's just inspected. "Sorry—we—know something he doesn't, right?"
Right.
Oz hasn't a clue I dobbed in his best friend, the Joker, to the GCPD. He doesn't know Officer O'Doherty dropped me home the other night. He doesn't even know that it was me who saw the Joker amidst his escape.
However, I find his answer somewhat hard to swallow—primarily because I left my weapon at the scene, in the body, that massive pink eyesore Oz so keenly set his sights on earlier today. It's impossible that he wouldn't have seen it. He will know it was me. Which means-
Oh.
Oh.
He was protecting me.
Oh, Oz.
How futile.
"So, Oz doesn't know you're here?"
The Joker rolls his eyes, shaking his head.
"No," he says, "and I won't tell if you don't."
I never thought I'd see the Joker wink in my direction, but life is proving to be strange. An involuntary shudder ripples through me, which he willingly savors with wide, gleaming eyes and that damned tongue lingering over the forked scar.
All I can do is nod at him. If Oz was trying to protect me, I don't want to give anything away. If Oz wishes for the Joker to think that O'Doherty's demise was the result of some nearby loon, so be it. I can deal with Oz tomorrow. If I live until then, that is. To do that, then, The Joker in my living room? Needs dealing with now.
"So, how'd you find me then?"
Without blinking, he reaches into the inside of the suit jacket underneath the overcoat and pulls out a small black notebook and flaps it around. He breaks eye contact momentarily to flick through it before tapping a page excitedly, making a show of finding the page he'd been looking for. He looks up, waggles his eyebrows, then begins to read at speed:
"Ruby Carter, 73 Scott Boulevard, cornered with Jamaica. Witness to Joker's escape. Works at Sugar's. 24, blonde, pe-tite." He finishes with a lip smack and another wink, tonguing the inside of the mangled scar as he drags a finger across the page. I don't like how he said my name. Or any of that, to be honest. Another tap and he shoves the notebook back in his inside pocket. Eyebrows raised, he looks at me. "Just as well I forced O'Doherty to hand this over at the beginning of the night, huh?"
The way he said that gives me pause.
Had he known something would happen? Had he foreseen this trouble? Surely not. I mean, why would he have brought him along if he had? ...Wait, what did O'Doherty say again?
'I told him I couldn't come here 'cause of you, but he wouldn't listen!'
I glance up at him to find him already staring. One look into his eyes and I know.
He knew.
"You knew."
He smirks, raising his brows, and inches closer again. I shuffle further into the couch cushions.
"Well-uh, I knew you'd be there, yeah, but, uh, I had no idea what would actually happen," he says, arms raised in a mocking of innocence.
He perches himself on the edge of the coffee table again, though closer this time. His knees encase mine and if he wanted to, his arms could strike out and latch onto my head he's that close. "I was testing him, y'see? I wanted to see what he'd do." He's leaning in close enough that I can smell his greasepaint, and see that his eyes—unwavering in their pursuit of mine—are not pitch black but brown. "Can't just trust any cop nowadays, what with the Dent Act now bolstering all their strict 'moral' fibers," he explains with a roll of his eyes, "no. Gotta see what they're made of. If they're choosing to be, uh, 'bad', I wanna see if they actually can be."
He allows the apartment to go silent for his words to sink in.
All in the name of a test, he hadn't anticipated my killing of Officer O'Doherty because...
He'd intended for it to be the other way.
I was meant to be killed tonight.
"You wanted him to kill me." My voice is small, child-like, scared. I'm back on tenterhooks with this disclosure. If I was meant to be killed, why wouldn't he be here to finish the job?
He crowds my space further and grips my chin, tilting my head back so I can't look away. His other hand slides to the back of my head, fingers winding around my hair, cradling my skull. One sharp twist and it's lights out for me.
"Oh, honeybunch, no," he drawls, sweet, stale breath drifting across my lips and chin. His eyes begin to shift around. "Well, uh. Okay, yeah. Maybe. But I wanted to see what he was capable of more," he justifies. "Y'know, for someone so worried he was going to be seen by you, you'd think he'd manage to hold his bladder a little better, wouldn't you?" He shakes his head. "But that's cops. Always doing what they want, not what they're told."
Derision drips from his mouth as his eyes roll skyward, remembering something only he can see, and his grip suddenly tightens.
Oh, shit.
Instinctively one of my hands shoots up to cover his hand in my hair.
His eyes snap back to mine, and something unseen but not unfelt passes between us.
As my hand lingers atop his, he bares his teeth and pulls me closer to him. My stomach flips as my towel drifts further up my legs, as his face looms above mine, vacant black eyes blazing like coals, white nostrils flaring.
Could this be the stand-off I'd been fearing?
Has the time come for me to meet my maker?
I hear myself gulping as my other hand reaches up between us but before it lands on him, I stop. I fear that if I touch him, I'll spur him into doing that which I don't want. So, my hand hovers, trapped in limbo, in the space which separates us.
However, as sudden as it started, it ends: the eyes close, the nostrils shrink, the mouth falls shut.
The grip loosens.
And I'm pushed away.
He stands and rounds my table to my bookcase, returning to where he started. My heart's still thumping as I readjust myself on the couch, pulling my towel tight underneath the middle of my thighs and ensuring nothing can be seen up top either.
What the hell was that?
Seemingly trying to dispel any residue of whatever-the-fuck just happened, he shakes his head with vigor and clears his throat, commanding the room once more.
"Any-way," he starts, running two fingers over one of my bookshelves. "He failed his test. But you,"—he jabs a finger at me—"passed yours with flying colors."
He must sense my baffled interruption coming because, even with his eyes on the floor, he raises his hand to silence me as he strolls behind the coffee table, heading to my window again. "You weren't supposed to be here right now. But here we are. Here you are. Alive. The sole survivor," he sneers. "I mean, I'll admit I have considered killing you," he confides as he turns back to me. "You killed one of my men. Isn't it only fair I get an eye for an eye?"
He shoots me a wide-eyed look as if to say, 'Do I make myself clear, stupid?' before shaking his head. "But as I said earlier on, I now see this as a nice little icebreaker for us."
Us. Me and him. Us.
My heart pounds in anticipation of whatever bomb's coming next.
"You've shown what you're capable of tonight. Hell—you work for Oz, you already had one foot in the door," he says. "So, I'm going to throw you the rope—you can choose to make the jump, bring your other foot over the threshold, or you can choose to, uh, drown."
He pauses, before:
"In return for me not taking your life, I'll allow you to offer me something else instead."
The air in the room goes cold and everything stills. My mind clouds as I struggle to process what he means.
What?
He wants me to give him something?
What could I possibly have that he'd want?
What could he want from me that-
Oh.
A blush rolls up my neck as I realize where he's going with this.
"Oh, I, uh—I've, uh, never done anything like that before."
The way he freezes steals my breath.
Oh.
I don't think we're on the same page.
He stares at me, unreadable, for a long time. Finally, at length, he says:
"Anything like what before?"
He's going to make me say it. I should've kept my mouth shut, I really should have.
His eyes narrow, his gaze now something sharp and fierce, his mouth set in a hard line.
"Like what before?"
He steps forward.
"Like se—like selling my body!"
He halts.
I wish I could describe the look on his face, but words fail me.
Several seconds pass as I watch him and he watches me, our reciprocal recognition reminding me of the moment when all is still in the jungle the moment before the prey has its throat ripped out.
I wonder if he shares the same heightened senses as the predator.
Can he hear my heart? Does he know it beats to his drum?
Urban wildlife resumes when he blinks: the fridge stirs to life, the kitchen tap drips, a car alarm sounds off outside, my stomach groans, and then, the Joker—
Laughs.
He laughs.
And laughs.
And laughs.
His cackling is a tornado. Whooshing, and swooping, and looping around my apartment, it ties everything up in it, leaves nothing untouched. High-pitched and relentless. Its assault bites worse than his silence.
He smacks his thigh as the last howls drain out of those ripped, bleeding lips.
"Oh, oh, wow," he wheezes, finishing with one last smack. "Oh, I can see why Oz likes you." He licks his lips suggestively while he rubs his thigh. Leering. "As much as I am flattered by that, uh, insinuation, it's gonna have to be a no. If you're going to sell me something, it's not gonna be your body."
Soul, then.
Does he think himself a devil, the Devil? Can't say I'd argue with him on that.
Another giggle empties out of him like an aftershock and he turns his back to me, diverting his attention to the scenes of Gotham unfolding beyond my window. "No, you're gonna have to think of something much better than that. Already got one broad hangin' off a' me, I can't be bothered with two."
My eyes widen. Is he referring to his doctor? Shit. So, the rumors really were true.
Not important. Not now, anyway. I'm sure I'll get the chance to explore that path in the future.
Right now, I need to figure out what exactly he wants from me—and quickly, too.
What the hell can I even offer him?
What the hell does he think I can offer him?
I have no money—that much he should be able to see from my apartment. No car and I can't drive. No college degree. No contacts or connections—though, if he really wanted, I'm sure I could arrange a meeting with Commissioner Gordon.
I kid.
...I could though.
Focus.
In fact, the only contact he would have wanted would have been Oz. And he's already beat me there.
He shifts and something clatters in the corner. Glancing at me over his shoulder, he rolls his eyes.
"Oh, c'mon. I thought it was a generous suggestion, no? You've killed now, taken a life—and it only gets easier, mind you," he says, as though he's teaching me how to bake a pie or something as equally mundane and not discussing the topic of murder. "And here's me thinking you'd be able to hang with the big boys. But if you really want, I can slice you up real good right now and bid you farewe-"
"No!" I stop myself mid-lurch. He smiles something cruel. He knows he's won. "I'll-" I sigh, catching my breath. "I'm sure I'll think of something."
Defeat settles atop my shoulders.
"Atta' girl!"
His praise is a kick in the gut when I'm already down.
What have I got myself into?
"Ad-mit-ted-ly," he adds, cutting through my thoughts, "I do have some time on my hands, so I'm not in a complete rush for you to make up your mind on what you'll be giving me," he says, as if he's doing me a favor, as if it's any consolation.
"What happens if I can't think of anything?"
I had to ask. I need to know.
"Ah," he utters, and just from his tone I understand that not thinking of something isn't an available option. "I think you will."
A slapping noise comes from his direction and then he's creeping my way, still obscuring my view of the window. "Don't take too long, though. There'll be, uh, consequences the more time passes," he warns, reaching into his left coat pocket. "I'm not known for my patience."
As he drifts nearer to the right side of my couch, bright, yellow light catches the corner of my eye and when I look at my window, I almost scoff. My stomach drops instead.
And before I can even contemplate what he's just said, the earlier jingling returns, and then my thighs sting.
Looking down, I see my keys.
Oh, no.
You've got to be kidding me.
"You take care now," he intones as he passes behind my couch. "I'll, uh, see myself out."
No, no, no.
I look over my shoulder to see him at my front door.
With ease, he twists the doorknob open.
"See ya around." He delivers a massive shit-eating grin my way over his shoulder, an enthusiastic wave to match, and steps out and into the hall. I hear him skip down the rickety stairs. Then my door closes.
In the corner, the shadow of the bat reflects off my window.
And I'm left in the wake of a cruel joke.
A/N: Thank you to all who have reviewed so far, favourited, followed, etc!
I hope this shorter chapter was enough for now. I wanted Ruby's introduction to the Joker to be upheld as sacrosanct in a way, hence why it's the first chapter of a two-parter.
Please do let me know how this was, as I'm still rather unsure about it tbh. As always, any and all feedback is welcomed. To be frank, I find myself really struggling to write if I'm not hearing back from readers. In the last month, I've almost deleted this three times aha. Alas, we move on.
Hope you're all keeping well and safe during this rough time.
xo