overlithe (overlithe) wrote in batmanjoker, @ 2009-05-07 18:32:00 |
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Current location: | My Head |
Current mood: | paranoid |
Current music: | Know Your Enemy - Green Day |
Entry tags: | author: 1bad_joke, fanfic, knight vs anarchy round 8, one-shot fic, rating: pg15, team anarchy |
Team Anarchy -Round 8- Honeys, I'm Home! [fanfic]
Original poster: 1bad_joke
Title: Honeys, I'm Home!
Author: 1bad_joke
Disclaimer: This is only for fun.In no way am I profiting from this. I own only my imagination.
Prompt: All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.
--As You Like It (Act II, Scene VII)
Rating: PG-14
Warnings: Perhaps some OOCness, colorful language, and conversations with corpses
Summary: "He said No, and I laughed."
Word count: 3159
Feedback: Yes, please! Nothing would make me happier!
Author's Note: Yeah, I don't know where this came from. There's so many subtleties I wonder if it makes sense. It's really up to your interpretation.
“This isn’t some movie. This is life!”
“… no. No, I don’t think that’s true…” His voice small and weak from a long night of shouting and singing and cackling. He shuffles inside the $1200 a month loft in the Westside, nudging the front door shut with his heel. Not bothering to lock it but once the soft click sounds, he can feel like he can breathe easy again: Stale copper and the eye-watering stench of something most foul comfortably filling his lungs. The fact that it’s not leather and traces of expensive cologne -smelling of sweet exotic flowers- hidden under Kevlar layers forces the carbon dioxide out in one repulsed huff.
He looks up from his spot in the entry hall, coated in darkness, squinting to distinguish between mess and furniture, and gauging whether he can make it to the bed without turning on any lights. Pinpricks paint his vision, and he decides with a shrug. I am no Bat with Bat vision. And three switches flip up in succession, washing black into detail and cappuccino foam-colored walls. Plum skin is plucked from each fingertip and peeled from his pale hands. He glances up half-heartedly from his work and calls out to the silence of the space, “Honeys, I’m ho-oooommme-muh!”
His devil’s trill goes unheeded; the air still and ripe. Purple and green clash horrendously with the apartment’s earthy tones. Dirt and blood trails the path to the kitchen; his purple overcoat is shed and dropped in a heap along the way. Raccoon eyes care to focus on one thing: The stainless steel refrigerator. Its clean surface reflects his blurred, haggard trademark appearance: Black smudged to his white-caked forehead and perfect red now dribbling down his chin; lanky green strands a wild, knotted mess. The cool breeze from the newly gaping fridge sends a satisfied shiver throughout his wiry muscles as the arctic atmosphere teases the drying sweat clinging to his hairline.
Er… not many choices, despite everything being so well arranged and not smelling putrid or growing mold. Damn leaf-eater crap---and still no cherry tomatoes.
Stretching his arms above his head -his spine cracking and melting under the stretch- he shoots a glance over his shoulder, eyes locking on the two silhouettes standing out in the dim living room. “Huh? --- How was my day?” He shrugs with an indifferent frown, turning back to the selection. He pretends to deliberate over the answer: Stained front canines kneading a red-fading bottom lip, as he scans the All Natural items. He doesn’t want to blurt out the most exciting events, because the illusion of normal conversation would come to an end sooner than that little chunk of sanity in his warped brain would like. Besides, he wants to torture them with the anticipation. It’s all about pacing in a performance.
“It was… s'arlight.” He pushes a carton of soy milk to the side and mutters, “Got shit to eat….. Ya know, same ole, same ole…”
“Gotham isn’t your stage to get my attention. It’s just-… what is wrong with you?”
A squeal of discovery. There, hidden in the back, is a small tub of cookie dough. “Now we’re talkin’!” It’s a rock hard ice cube under his touch, but that doesn’t deter his delight. Just something to stab repeatedly with a spoon, since he finished off the Wheat Thins this morning. So he slams the door shut and retrieves a spoon -quickly learning where stuff is kept- then saunters to the living room, wrenching off the lid. “What are you two doing just sitting in the dark--- hands where I can, uh, see them, and you bet-ter be decent.”
The stench is strongest in here -wrinkling his nose- and when the track lighting is flipped on it’s obvious why: From the couch, two pairs of dull yellow eyes seem to shine brighter for him as he plops down on the mocha-tones armchair in the corner, swinging his purple-wrapped legs over an arm. He grins in response to their carmine smiles.
“Here-”
He presents the plastic lid.
“Catch.”
It slices through the putrid air like a Frisbee and clips the most hated of the pair in the shoulder.
He had first laid eyes on the blond days ago not far from here on the street. Sunday, maybe. The weather dreary and filled with bipolar rain. Loathe to admit, the clown’s mood was affected by the dark skys along with the rest of Gotham’s long-faced citizens. Lingering on the street corner -in a pair of ripped jeans, a red zip-up, a black scarf hiding his scars, and his dying grass hair stuffed under a baseball cap- it was all he could do from lashing out and cutting smiles on every passerby’s drawn expression. Then maybe something genuine would emerge on his covered face. But no, this is to be a, uh ha, normal day.
Though blending in so easily and not at the center of pandemonium makes him itch and sweat, he had nothing planned for the day so he’d go “House Huntin’.” Staying with his men in squalid quarters slowly ebbed to be beneath him since some dared to question or even go so far as to interrupt the grunts and moans pulsing behind his closed door most nights.
So standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change (along with all the other good, law-abiding citizens), and hating his personal space being invaded and shoved within, a swell of relief sparked in his dark eyes when the little man across the way illuminated. Aaaand we’re off. His long legs and lithe frame carrying him swiftly through the crowd. It’d be accurate to say he wasn’t entirely paying attention, a young boy’s backpack with the outline of a bat sewn on the pouch having caught his eye. Someone still has fans. Wouldn’t he just love to know-
Then BAM. No one other than the Batman could claim they knocked the Clown Prince of Chaos on his ass, but this lucky son a bitch nobody managed it. Even right in the middle of the crosswalk, no one paid any mind to him still except-
“Oh my, are you okay? I am sooo sorry.” A black and red striped hand shot in his face and hovering above him was the brightest smile ever aimed his way. “Here, let me help you up.”
Narrowed eyes snapped from the smile, the proffered hand, and those sincere brown eyes not much different than his own. After several beats and disdainful grumbles from those detoured, he climbed to his feet on his own; not bothering to brush himself off nor breaking contact with that happy gaze. What makes you so cheery, hmm? I’m the fuckin’ clown here.
Ignoring the small sting of rejection, the man’s hand -left hanging- recoiled and nervously combed through his damp, straw locks. He sensed something was off about this stranger. “Well, er, once again I really am sorry. You see I’m in such a hurry to get home…” The upturned corners of his mouth suggested there was no emergency driving his eager steps. Then the red hand started to flash. “Yes, um, I better go, but you’re alright?” Genuine concern glinted in his eyes.
The Joker was literally thrown for a loop but mustered a slow nod regardless. Then with another smile and “Have a good day,” the blond continued on his way. The scarred man didn’t care how obvious or how odd it was to do it on a whim: He followed that young, chipper man all the way home. He had to see what made this guy so happy when he, the cackling heretic, could be feeling so low.
Drugs. It must be drugs.
The actual answer didn’t help his mood.
He’d trailed him all the way to this building, slipped past the doorman, and made it as far as standing outside 23 D, gnawing his lip till it looked of raw hamburger. Faint music and laughter brushing through the barrier and piquing his interest. There go the body next door: That sweet, little old lady didn’t know what she had coming, returning home from her Sunday grocery shopping. She didn’t matter though; most of his victims rarely if ever did. The men and women are merely players: They have their exits and their entrances. They added the fat to the body of his creation.
Keeping to the shadows -a lesson his humble Bat didn’t have to teach him- and spying from a cold balcony would count as a Deleted Scene. Life’s a movie, and his wouldn’t involve him seething and twitching with jealousy in the dark over some nobody. This nobody that knocked him over in his haste to get home. Home that consisted of this very nice, very boringly decorated apartment, but he suspected that it wouldn’t be somewhere to rush to if not for the smooching and giggling, the adoring glances and sneaky intimate touches stolen in passing.
Two men flirting like lovesick teenagers.
He couldn’t be sure how long he stood there watching. Ears straining for the ripple of wings. But when they finished eating dinner -having an actual conversation outside from taunts and growls and overall moral mindfucks- and started to clean up, it was becoming quite clear the dishes were going to wait. Tangling tongues and wandering hands gave a good enough indication of what was to come.
Then he just… acted.
Putting it to an end before he saw anymore by slipping through the French doors and slitting their throats; their screams of pain and shock sung into each other’s eager mouths. If they had gotten any farther, than he would haven been subjected to the similarity that has been nagging at him, explaining why he found himself with burning green eyes. They danced differently than he and the Bat though it ended the same. It could be done like that?
“You’re in-sane! Whatever delusions you have about me and you and this thing we have aren’t ever going to happen.”
He sighs, idly carving sharp designs into the dough’s surface with his spoon. Jaw throbbing from Batsy’s exceptional right hook and his head swimming with the man’s brutal words. “… all I did was ask him stay… ya know for shits and giggles…” He sulks, a sugary chunk making it past his lips. The taste of bloody spit and chocolate chip pulling a sad chuckle from him.
“Did he ever, uh, fuck you in a dirty alley--- hmmm?” He addresses the blond and points his sticky spoon at the muscular brunette propped up against him, shoulder-to-shoulder, head nuzzling head. He’s always pictured the Batman having dark hair; dark hair for dark eyes and an even darker nature. See if the, ah, drapes match the rug. Throaty chuckles surrounded another shaving of dessert, but die quickly when he realizes he’s the only one laughing. The rotting eyes of the two lovers looking upon him with pity. “… bet he’s never fucked ya and left ya… as if it matters now.”
Their shredded smiles go on without faltering. Rigormortis revealing slivers of pearly teeth. Their youth shown in the close proximity of each other. Graying skins hanging off their bones like stretched putty. Congealed blood clogging their extended grins and lining their necks. Leaked strawberry jam curling around their jaws and drip-dropping down their fronts. A flaking crimson vein leading to their clasped hands.
Once they crumpled under his wet blade, he dragged each body to the couch just to get them out of the way but not stuffed in a closet somewhere he couldn’t see them either. The masochist in him wanted to be reminded of the thing he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted or would want. So when he had them propped side by side with fresh smiles to diminish their wide, bleeding terror eyes, a long ago buried sense of endearment spurred him to manually interlock their lifeless fingers together. A silent, albeit too late, apology to the star-crossed corpses for their fate. Beside it looked right then, still does now, and he nods in quiet triumph again when his eyes linger there just a bit too long to be count as a mere glance.
He pauses from his scooping, appointing an interest in the brunette. Seconds pass till his facial expression weakens and he shrugs. “Nothing’s wrong ------ per se… clowns are allowed down time too ya know… yes, that’s it.” His tongue flashes along his lip. The distinct after taste of his Bat absorbed into the wearing wax. He chokes slightly at the memory and forces down another spoonful. “Stubborn tightass… I mean so what if I blew up his second car? He got another one, didn’t he? He can do it again. The scene called for an explosion anyway-don’t look at me like that- I will not sacrifice my- my art just cause he doesn’t have a ride home --I offered-- and besides… he wasn’t that mad.”
Just mad enough to fuck him into a quivering mess, stumbling home on jelly legs.
But that’s what went wrong, wasn’t it? He asked for something more than wincing in the face of brick walls amongst the trash and faraway sirens. And it was their fault too: The rotting lovers sitting across from him and stinking to high heaven.
It should have worked. He was supposed to say Yes-
Yes? Yes to fucking what? A disillusioned freak writhing in his own fantasy world?
Well… yeah.
Within chaos, one eventually learns, is that underneath all the fire and destruction an eerier extent of order rules; as if scripted, a theatricality tethering him to the ground more so than gravity. Treating his life as a light-hearted dramatic piece, reality simply ceases to be. Death loses it frightfulness and finality and becomes a mere theatrical gesture; a statement yet to be made. The entropy and his audience wouldn’t hear of letting their star die. What a- what a jip that would be!
No, nana nana, no. No. Before the ending credits snagged his heels, Bats must understand that every move, every word -no matter how radical and their tangents miles away from the actual point- always comes together just so in the eventual end. And that was the point. “The Grand Scheme” of things all flowing into one fly by the seat of your pants stretch of make-believe. All the more reason the man should have taken a chance. Let’s expand genres here, Bat boy.
“Yet here I am---with you,” he says with such disdain he can almost see the decomposing couple flinching and holding onto each other more. “… fags.”
It’s a bitter and childish remark, a name to sooth the burning in his chest. He wants nothing more than to kill them all over again. Perhaps instead kill the blond and see how his dark-haired lover would fair without him. “Yeeeaaah… things wouldn’t be so hunky dory now would they? Bet you’d ball your sparkly eyes out. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. Just- just wouldn’t know what to do with yourself, huh? Boo hooin’ cuz you lost apart-- of----- yourself…”
The smug gratification of the taunt dwindled to a jab at his own insecurities. Yuck, he isn’t supposed to have those. Weakness was Jack’s M. O. and Jack was dead. Died just in time for the story to get interesting and Joker to claim the scene, to move the plot along or why else would he have gotten his scars?
Even after recognizing the slip of character, he can’t simply vanquish the wretched emotions boiling in the pit of his stomach, just shrug and cap ‘em off with a bad joke. Up till now he was positive he meant everything to Batsy, not in the sentimental sense but everything else that actually mattered. He made up that flying rodent’s fucking -did he not?- and he called all the shots, because after all he was the star of the show and Bats was just supporting. Nothing happened unless he wanted it to. But tonight when the punches were thrown and his ass on fire, he wanted something else to happen but nothing did. He said No. Batman probably wouldn’t care if the Joker never turned up again. Yeah, he’d be curious for awhile -as is his nature- but the guy wouldn’t lose sleep (if he sleeps at all) if the clown ended up in a body bag. And that thought alone pumped a sick swell in his gut. The tub of cookie dough tumbling to the crème carpeting and rolling slowly towards his cold company. Unaware of twirling the spoon between his fingers, he sucks on half his smile and tries to think of something funny: 1000 volt electric hand buzzers, cyanide pies in the face, pushing grannies down the stairs, Gordon in a polka dot dress, a sterile Bruce Wayne, the Holocaust, and any variation of why the chicken did cross that road; but none of it worked-- not so much as a quirk of his lips. He can’t get the rejection off his mind and that the worst possible outcome was happening: There’d be no change for them in the future outside of the beatings and sex, and the game was on a crash course to Boresville.
His concentration latches onto the dead lovers watching him wallow in misery. Their rotting flesh choking him with nausea and forcing him to turn away in shame. For once in his slap happy life, everything feels just a little too real, and his mood can only be described as Serious. He’d kill himself if the act wasn’t so below him.
Either quit it or stand it.
He’s a man of his world after all and he’s made his city -his vigilante- a promise: That the Ace of Knaves would perform live in Gotham until the curtain drops or the act gets old. It’s the Bat’s job to make sure that doesn’t happen and he was doing so well, but then again one shouldn’t wager on cheek-ripping smiles or lung spasm laughs.
“The play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell
A moment yet the actor stops
And looks around to say farewell.
It is an irksome word and task:
And when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.”
--William Makepeace Thackeray
He said No,
and I laughed.
When all is said and done, the Joker deserves a fucking Oscar.