Motley
Boom
Motley has been having nightmares. Mostly about Leen, her damp skin cold against his fingers. He dreams of Batman, too, a dark figure standing over J. He wakes up in the middle of the night shivering, blankets thrown off, whimpering. He’s holding his knife so close that his hand hurts. J is still asleep, used to Motley’s tossing.
Motley slides off the bed, wrapping Harley’s blanket around his shoulders, and heads for the bathroom. He closes the door, turning all the lights on, and sits in the tub. It calms him. One of his happiest memories from being with Leen is of him sitting in a tub, listening to her hum as she washed his hair. He sniffs, curling his knees close. He misses Leen.
A sense of wrongness brushes against Joker’s sleeping mind. He rolls over, reaching for his knife, and gets up. Motley’s gone. His side of the bed is still warm, so Joker goes to search for him. It doesn’t take him long to notice the light shining under the bathroom door. He sighs, leaning against it. “Motley? You in there?”
“Yeah,” comes his small voice.
“Why’re you, ha, awake, kid?”
“Bad dream.” Joker doesn’t need to ask about what. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t have nightmares. He’s not sure if he ever did. Joker dreams of blood and screaming and death. He likes those dreams.
He picks the lock instead, opens the door to see Motley looking pathetic in the tub. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi.” Motley stares straight ahead, eyes hard. He can’t control the shivering, though. Joker sits close to him, back against the side of the tub. Motley can see where J’s green hair is thinner on his neck, the scarred skin exposed where his shirt ends.
“You gotta, ha, toughen up, Mot. Gotham is a shithole and you’re, ah, here to stay,” Joker tells him, spinning a knife between his fingers.
“I know.” The kid’s voice is resigned, which almost makes Joker a little sad. He’s too young to sound so world-weary.
“What am I gonna do with you, Mot? I don’t even want to, haha, kill you most of the time,” Joker says, eying his reflection in the blade.
“Huh?” Joker chuckles softly and slouches, pressing his forehead to the cool porcelain. “Nothing, kid. I’m, aha, just talkin’ to myself. Try to sleep.” Motley reaches out and wraps his fingers in Joker’s sleeve, letting his eyes close. A few seconds later his breathing slows as he falls asleep. Joker grumbles to himself about “needy brats” but he shifts around until he’s comfortable enough to get his own rest.
++
“J. J. J. Get up.” Joker growls and opens his eyes to see Motley crouched in front of him. “Wha’?” “I'm hungry. Want food.” The odd, new, parental voice in the back of Joker’s head wonders if he should be expanding Motley’s grammar and vocabulary or something. Probably. He ignores the thought and peers at Motley.
“I was fuckin’ sleeping, Motley.” “I'm fuckin’ hungry, J.” Joker starts cackling, realizing that he has, in a way, expanded the kid’s vocabulary. It amuses him to hear awful words come from an innocent face. He gets to his feet and picks Motley up, feeling generous. “What, er, do you want for breakfast, kid?” “Ice cream.”
“You’re not having, ha, ice cream for breakfast. Pick cereal or something.” Most five year olds would scream and cry at being denied, but Motley just narrows his eyes. “Cereal. Bunny cereal.” “Alrighty, kid.” Joker heads for the kitchen, grabbing the Trix. When they’re done eating they brush their teeth and dress. It’s all very normal, which feels odd to Joker.
He straightens his tie and coughs to get Motley’s attention. “You wanna, ha, go out on another job, Mot?” Motley nods eagerly. “C’mon, then. I’ll teach you how to blow stuff up.”
+
Joker, Motley, and a group of henchmen are gathered in the catacombs of Gotham’s Natural History Museum. Joker is crouched over a large box stuffed to the brim with wires. “See, Mot? This is, ah, a BOMB,” he says excitedly, gripping the kid’s wrist to pull him closer. “Bomb?”
“It, haha, it goes BOOM!” Joker throws his hands open to suggest an explosion and Motley’s eyes light up. “I like boom, J! Boom boom boom!” He reaches for the boxes, but Joker snatches his hand back. “No. Don’t, ha!, don’t TOUCH things like that unless you can, aha, fix them, or you, hah, you want to blow UP!”
“Sorry. Won’t touch.” Joker brushes two wires together, grinning when they spark and begin to burn. “Now we get, ha!, out of here, Mot, and watch the, ah, place go boom.” The kid beams up at him, taking his hand as they run out.
Motley slides off the bed, wrapping Harley’s blanket around his shoulders, and heads for the bathroom. He closes the door, turning all the lights on, and sits in the tub. It calms him. One of his happiest memories from being with Leen is of him sitting in a tub, listening to her hum as she washed his hair. He sniffs, curling his knees close. He misses Leen.
A sense of wrongness brushes against Joker’s sleeping mind. He rolls over, reaching for his knife, and gets up. Motley’s gone. His side of the bed is still warm, so Joker goes to search for him. It doesn’t take him long to notice the light shining under the bathroom door. He sighs, leaning against it. “Motley? You in there?”
“Yeah,” comes his small voice.
“Why’re you, ha, awake, kid?”
“Bad dream.” Joker doesn’t need to ask about what. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t have nightmares. He’s not sure if he ever did. Joker dreams of blood and screaming and death. He likes those dreams.
He picks the lock instead, opens the door to see Motley looking pathetic in the tub. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi.” Motley stares straight ahead, eyes hard. He can’t control the shivering, though. Joker sits close to him, back against the side of the tub. Motley can see where J’s green hair is thinner on his neck, the scarred skin exposed where his shirt ends.
“You gotta, ha, toughen up, Mot. Gotham is a shithole and you’re, ah, here to stay,” Joker tells him, spinning a knife between his fingers.
“I know.” The kid’s voice is resigned, which almost makes Joker a little sad. He’s too young to sound so world-weary.
“What am I gonna do with you, Mot? I don’t even want to, haha, kill you most of the time,” Joker says, eying his reflection in the blade.
“Huh?” Joker chuckles softly and slouches, pressing his forehead to the cool porcelain. “Nothing, kid. I’m, aha, just talkin’ to myself. Try to sleep.” Motley reaches out and wraps his fingers in Joker’s sleeve, letting his eyes close. A few seconds later his breathing slows as he falls asleep. Joker grumbles to himself about “needy brats” but he shifts around until he’s comfortable enough to get his own rest.
++
“J. J. J. Get up.” Joker growls and opens his eyes to see Motley crouched in front of him. “Wha’?” “I'm hungry. Want food.” The odd, new, parental voice in the back of Joker’s head wonders if he should be expanding Motley’s grammar and vocabulary or something. Probably. He ignores the thought and peers at Motley.
“I was fuckin’ sleeping, Motley.” “I'm fuckin’ hungry, J.” Joker starts cackling, realizing that he has, in a way, expanded the kid’s vocabulary. It amuses him to hear awful words come from an innocent face. He gets to his feet and picks Motley up, feeling generous. “What, er, do you want for breakfast, kid?” “Ice cream.”
“You’re not having, ha, ice cream for breakfast. Pick cereal or something.” Most five year olds would scream and cry at being denied, but Motley just narrows his eyes. “Cereal. Bunny cereal.” “Alrighty, kid.” Joker heads for the kitchen, grabbing the Trix. When they’re done eating they brush their teeth and dress. It’s all very normal, which feels odd to Joker.
He straightens his tie and coughs to get Motley’s attention. “You wanna, ha, go out on another job, Mot?” Motley nods eagerly. “C’mon, then. I’ll teach you how to blow stuff up.”
+
Joker, Motley, and a group of henchmen are gathered in the catacombs of Gotham’s Natural History Museum. Joker is crouched over a large box stuffed to the brim with wires. “See, Mot? This is, ah, a BOMB,” he says excitedly, gripping the kid’s wrist to pull him closer. “Bomb?”
“It, haha, it goes BOOM!” Joker throws his hands open to suggest an explosion and Motley’s eyes light up. “I like boom, J! Boom boom boom!” He reaches for the boxes, but Joker snatches his hand back. “No. Don’t, ha!, don’t TOUCH things like that unless you can, aha, fix them, or you, hah, you want to blow UP!”
“Sorry. Won’t touch.” Joker brushes two wires together, grinning when they spark and begin to burn. “Now we get, ha!, out of here, Mot, and watch the, ah, place go boom.” The kid beams up at him, taking his hand as they run out.