Tonight, You're Gonna Break Your One Rule

Its been almost a month since the Joker had beaten me and I'd fainted into his arms. My injuries had healed, mostly, and I'd grown used to the hideout, and to wearing a strangers clothes.

I hadn't talked to him since that day, apart from the odd command. We'd been out too, robbed some shops, heisted some banks, and had the odd small time run in with the Batman. It'd been nothing, and the Joker had laughed it off.

My wrist still throbbed from the last outing, where he'd put the handcuff on too tight, and I hadn’t got the voice to complain anymore.

I'd grown to resent him over the month, even though I stared at him at every opportunity, and often, he'd glance back, but our relationship was nothing more, captor and hostage.

I was still scared of him, though I'd grown a little used to him and his beatings. None had been as severe as the first. They often happened after our outings, and I had a small suspicious I reminded him of Harley, even though I still had no idea who she was.

I didn’t talk to any of the other clowns, I was nothing to them either. The only person I talked to was Adam, and he'd become my lifeline. I head back towards the Joker's room from Adams, since I needed to use the bathroom, and I preferred that one to the one the clowns had a habit of spying on. I rub my wrist as I walk the hall, and open the metal door, ignoring the weapons like I usually do.

I open the door, and it creaks, the joints in need of oiling. The Joker spins, and it takes me a second to realise what's wrong.

He hangs his head and hides his clean face, and a droplet of water drips from the green tip, signalling he'd just got out the shower. We both freeze, unbelieving we'd seen the other, "Get out!" He roars, his voice shaking the walls, and I close the door quickly, my fingers quivering in shock.

I'd seen him without his makeup.

His scars were far more twisted and lumpy than I'd thought, the scar tissue a little whiter than his oddly tan face. His eyes were bright and shining when not surrounded with black, and his lips were a pale pink sheen.

He was almost human.

He was almost beautiful.

I slump onto the wall, the guns above my head, and I close my eyes slowly. I lift a hand to pinch the bridge of my nose and I release a breath I didn’t realise I'd been holding as a soft hiss.

It scared me how humane he looked underneath all that paint, and it suddenly strikes me, he's a person, he's real, he had a life once, he was a normal once.

I rest my tired head in aching hands and tears slip down my cheeks. I haven’t cried since the first time his fist had hit my flesh, slowly building up a wall around myself, but a rush of emotions flooded through every cell and I was so, so tired.

The door swings open and shadows fall across me. I look up, eyes bleary and makeup smudged. He looks down at me, unemotional and uncaring, his makeup back on, and I heave myself to my feet.

My whole body aches under me and I walk straight to the bathroom, locking the door and dragging the hamper in front of it like I always did. I use the bathroom, then stare myself out in the mirror, as I do at least twice a day.

I try to get into my own mind, since it seems I'm a stranger now, and no matter how long I stare, I cant seem to find myself again. I sigh deeply and move the hamper back to its place, before exiting again.

My feet drag on plush carpet as I can barely lift them when I walk. I reach my sofa, and find it covered in things, clothes and boxes of things, I didn’t know, nor care what they were.

I stand there dithering, feeling as if I would drop any second. My eyes are barely open and my body feels like death. The Joker turns in his seat and looks at me for a split second. I look back for even less.

"You can sleep on my bed for a while." He says softly, and he turns back to his desk without a second look. I drag my legs towards the bed and fall face first onto it, immediately smelling his smell of smoke, oil, and that unnamed aftershave. I breathe it in, feeling it invade every cell and every inch of my lungs.

I fall into a comfortable dreamless sleep.

I wake up of my own accord, for once, and my eyes drift open to the same sight they closed to.

The Joker is hunched at his desk, his tongue flickering across his lips every five or so seconds. His left hand pushes across the page, writing his scribbled notes. His eyes follow his hand, and every so often he'd drop the pen and flex his fingers. I watch him for about half an hour, my perception of time much better now.

My breath is slow and soft and I can't tear my eyes away, the tears dripping down my cheeks from not blinking for so long.

His places his pen down and brings a book from the second drawer down in his desk. His fingers hesitate when they go to open it, and his blackened eyes close for a second. He chews his bottom lip and flicks through pages to one. I cant see what it holds from my position, and I know that if I move he'll know I'm awake. His fingers smooth down the page, and then he suddenly turns to another page. He stares at it, fiery eyed, drags his fingers down the page in a much more harsh way, before he slams the book shut and throws it back in the drawer. He doesn't lock it though.

He picks himself up from the chair and slips into his mystery room, spending more and more time in there. I catch another glimpse of pictured walls before he closes the door, and I rise from the bed in a swift silence.

I stare at the door he's disappeared into, and realise how fascinated I was by him. I still hated him for what he'd done, to me, but he intrigued me more than anything ever had before, I wanted to find out everything about him, hungrily drinking in everything I found out.

I sit in his chair, and the cushion was warm from his body. His scent washed through the air around me and I breathe it in again as I open the second drawer down and carefully lift the top book out and study the cover.

'Gotham High Yearbook'

The year is scribbled out, adding to its anonymity, and not knowing what I'm looking for, I scan carefully through every page.

The sixth page holds what I'm looking for, a piece of graffiti over one of the pictures. I look under the writing and a face jumps out of me. I'd seen the face only hours before, tanned and shining eyes. My heart stops in my chest as I see the name.

'Jack Napier'

Someone had written, neatly under the name, 'Class Freak' and the Joker, I presumed, in his messy scrawl, had written straight over the picture, 'No, I'm not. I'm not'.

I let out a long breath and stare at his makeup-less face, and notice another thing. His scars were missing; his smile was normal, pink and slightly curved. I smile at that myself and stare, captivated.

I remember there was another page the Joker was looking at, and carry on scanning the pages, hunched over the desk like him. I find the next graffiti covered page, and it immediately strikes me as much more angry graffiti. The picture once residing under the scribble was ruined, and was now covered with a black scribble. He'd scribbled about the picture and the name, and the pen had ripped through some of the picture.

I lift it upto the light, trying to see through the pen, but I sigh in vain as I set the book back onto the desk, and just stare.

Suddenly, the door is opened, and a second later the Joker has stepped forward. His knuckles catch across my cheek, and I fall backwards from the chair and onto the floor.

I lie there, dazed, as the Joker looks at the book. He realises what I was looking at, and after throwing it back into the drawer, he storms over to me.

"How dare you?" He roars, kicking me in the stomach. He pulls me up by my shirt and drags me over to my sofa. With one hand he holds me, and the other he throws the things from the sofa and onto the floor. He throws me down onto the sofa, and I lie there looking up at him, wondering what he's going to do next.

He looks at me, lip twitching, then turns away and sits back at his desk, this time letting his head rest in his hands.

"Y'know, Precious, you... intrigue me... confuse me, if you will..." He turns round, picking his teeth with the point of his knife for a while before speaking again. I stare at a point just right of his legs, "You annoy me, and I know you..." He thinks carefully over his words, picking his teeth again. He draws a spot of blood that spreads on his lips and over his teeth. His tongue runs quickly over the enamel and he breathes in, "Resent me, as much as I do you, yet, I can't seem to get rid of you." He turns back away from me, and I stare at the grease in his green hair.

"I've tried... I watch you while you sleep, sometimes. I put a knife to your throat and I can feel you breathe." His shoulders slump just a little, and I think I'm starting to see the tiniest bit of emotion in him, "But I can't do it." His tone suddenly takes on a darker, more serious tone.

"I've killed, obviously, and I love the way my knife slides through flesh. That's why I use knives... you can savour all the little... emotions."

All through his careful speech, I've slowly risen to my feet, and taken a defiant stance to the side of my sofa, on hand on it's arm, "I'm not scared of you anymore, Jack."

In a second his hands are slammed on the desk and he's used them to push himself into a stance. His shoulders are hunched and every muscle seems to shake as I stare at the back of his head, "What. Did. You. Say?"

I gulp, knowing I'd hit a nerve, a big one at that.

Suddenly, he's turned round, and his face is contorted in anger, and some other hidden emotion. His voice is low and loud, so much it makes the floor beneath us shake, "What did you say?!"

"I said," I take a deep breath to stop my voice shaking. Wow I'd done it now, and yes, I was scared now, "I said I'm not afraid of you, Jack Napier,"

In three uneven strides he's against me, and my back is pressed harsh against the wall. His forearm is over my shoulders and collarbone, his fingers digging in my shoulder. I whimper a little as he licks his lips.

"You shouldn't be scared of Jack, Precious." He chuckles just a little, and his other hand smoothes his hair, the knife skimming his skull, before placing the rusty switchblade against my neck, "Jack is dead, and he was a little maggot, a pathetic excuse for a human being."

He takes a deep breath and moves the tip of the knife to the corner of my mouth, slipping the point between my lips a millimetre or two, "But you should be scared of me, Precious, scared of the Joker. And do you know why? Hm?" He presses the blade a little harder to my mouth and I whimper.

"No."

"Because, Precious," He throws his head back and laughs for a second, and when his eyes meet mine, his smile is bloodthirsty and he licks them hungrily, "I can put a smile on that face!"

I suddenly realise what he's about to do, and start screaming a second before he does. The point of his switchblade digs a furrow of blood up from the corner of my mouth, slowly and carefully, his eyes shining as the blade wavers from side to side a little. I scream and scream, not breathing in. My knees give way from the pain, but his arm holds me up, and he starts laughing as a torrent of tears mixes with the blood and the pain. I keep screaming, and screaming, the pain coming in floods as he moves the blade to my other cheek, skimming my bloody lips. He starts on the other side, digging a trench, soon filled with blood, into my cheek.

I start seeing blue and purple blotches in my sight, my lack of oxygen from screaming slowly taking effect, and my head starts pounding. I feel the blood pour off my chin and stain mine, and probably his, clothes.

His laughter slowly grows faint, and my body is limp under his arm, before he lets me go, his bloodied hands running through his hair.

Consciousness slips from me and my body falls into a pool of my own blood, my Chelsea smile bleeding torrents, "Why so serious, Precious?"