‘   think  i’m   better   off   checking   women  who   got   dumped  .  . .   someplace   that’s   NOT   personal  ’    NO,    arthur’s   right   it   wasn’t    PENGUIN’S   speed   to   hurt   any  of   the   girls   in   club,   there   wasn’t   a   need,  and   HE   wasn’t   FALCONE.    though   there’s    a   certain  sort   of   SHAME     when   it  comes  to  the   PRONUNCIATION  of   name,   he   NEEDS   to   do   better.    then   again  ?   all   he  can  do  is   take   it  one  day   at   a  time,    LEARN   from   mistakes,   and   never    do   that   same   mistake   AGAIN.   the   LAUGH   had   been   the  hardest   to   hear,   THOUGH  ?   he  had  fucked   a   name   UP   and   arthur   wasn’t   one   to   MINCE   words.    at   least   he’s   LETTING   bruce   in   on   the   secret,   allowing   him  INSIGHT   to   a  world   that   bruce   couldn’t   POSSIBLY   understand.   ‘   hmm …   shit   i   should   be   more   careful  ’   HUMOR   gently   accompanies  words,   and   he’s   QUICK  to   allow   SHAME   roll   of    SHOULDERS.   there  is   more   to   worry  about   than   EGO.    ‘  this   is  why   i  came   to   you  ’    

                                      THE   GOTHIC   architecture   lends   to   current   environment,   there’s   PANIC,   WORRY,   and   FEAR [  a   constant  in   gotham   that   FILLS  up   each   space  ]  that   works   its  way   into   their   current   meeting.  it  isn’t   a  GAMBLE   coming   to   arthur,   though   bruce  knows  that   others   will   not   see   their   JOINT   EFFORTS   as   something   positive,    something   that   will   STRENGTHEN   gotham.   he’s   held   off  on   telling   GORDON,   hell               he  owes   arthur  some  loyalty.   ‘  can  you   ask   around  ?   see   if   she   has   family   ,   ANYONE  who   would   miss   her  ’  

                                DEATH,   it   spreads   over  gotham   like   some  disease,  and   his   body   BURNS   and  ACHES   with   the   fallout   of    a   city   so  SCORCHED   by   loss.   DESPERATION   it   makes  one  do  things   that   are  beyond   COMPREHENSION.   there’s   a  promise   bruce   has  made,   an   OATH   to   curb  CRIME,  and  to   bring                   SOMETHING  ,   that   SOMETHING   within   grasp.   he  can’t   see  it   now,   mind   too   clouded   by   GHOSTS.   by   the   PAST  that   he   was   trying  to   FIGHT.   ‘  feel   like   if   i   go   with   you   ,   that   i’ll   only   fuck   up   the   whole    thing  ’

“How else will you learn?” Joker speaks like he’s surprised himself. White-grazed eyelashes bat, training a briny film back. It stings. Bites at the corners and threatens to spill from anxiety alone. Werewolf holds his ground; shoulders slanted away from Bruce should he need to defend himself. His feet spread a little farther apart. Joker smokes more than he remembers to breathe. It blanches his complexion save for the red wreathing his waterlines. Trillions of cat eyes blink and wink from beyond the gothic castle in the sky’s panes. Inclining his chin shades Joker’s periphery with those emboldening lights. He sets his jaw like it’ll still his left hand extending to yank the cigarette back to his side. “Three years ago,” a cloud rushes between them when he laughs, “I couldn’t have talked my way out of a jaywalking ticket.” Not that he’s some diabolical mastermind now, but… 

Bruce’s pretentious bat suit casts a large shadow. Silent steps avoid its reach. He won’t return to the piano — Joker’s overstayed his ostensible welcome. Surreptitious glances about the penthouse seek out the aging butler or the clack of the codger’s cane as he walks. Thus far, nothing. Still fails to reassure him. “Sometimes,” he makes a face, peeks left and right like he’s sharing a secret, then speaks out one side of his mouth, “You’ve gotta fuck up.” When his eyebrows wag, the painted cartoonish set on his forehead vanish behind its creases. Joker lurches into a sharp, wheezy laugh that doesn’t abate even after the cigarette returns to his lips. Ashes nip both his fingers and the back of his hand. “Though I don’t know if I’ll get very far…”

    something shifts in the corner of his eyes.  the fucking cat, probably.  a smile quakes on the jagged edges of the joker’s chapped lips that he attempts to lick away;  one, two—  three times, uselessly.  the ghost of it tugging at the corners of his mouth into a would-be dog’s jaw, and the grin that the mere sight of joker’s painted face elicits is one little step from that mauled territory.  he gets up, sniffing the cold blue air that blows from the broken window sheet;  the armchair’s starting to feel constricting and he’s so excited !  the other’s comment is rather ungenerous, considering j is back to looking tentatively human again, and it spurs him into bending with howling fits of laughter.  startled, the cat runs off.   “the, uh, the news say three hours—”  that wild laugh soon quietens into a hollow trace of a broad, self-satisfied grin.  even with no paint, it looks too wide.   “time flies when you’re havin’ fun!”   the scars pull, stretching around his taunting words.  taunting who?  not joker, not yet, though he’s eligible for it .. j decides, as he strolls the living room like a caged dog. 

    he staggers past the threshold, leaving joker to pick up glass shards.  in the dark of the apartment his white madman-outfit  (kindly provided at arkham asylum, though they really gotta work on their fashion brand, uh!) appears innocuously stained, but as soon as he slides into the kitchen and turns on the light, the nature of those stains is darkly revealed.  the rusty brown of dried blood.  he pretends he doesn’t hear joker’s light-footed steps following him, and sticks his head under the kitchen faucet, letting cold water soak his dyeless hair.  then shakes his head dry.   “hahhh,”   he wheezes.  “me?  no … no, no.  i took a sabbatical.  went on, ha, on vacation.  room and board sucked shit, though, and … let’s not get started on entertainment, heheohhe.  but you … know that, hm?  you do.”   arthur’s kitchen is fascinating, apparently.  j pulls each drawer, picking forks, picking knives.  he slips one into his sleeve, too.   “oh, hey aaah-rt.  got any pizza leftovers or shit?”

“Drunken Noodles from last night,” though he’s pitching the broken shards and retrieving a dustpan to scrape any jagged granules off the hardwood, Joker thrusts his left arm towards the fridge. Cigarette smoke leads the way in pallid threads that dissipate right at the handle. Most of the unit is vacant. They’re moving. Joker coughs either from the stench radiating from the basin or being so close to the mural of dried blood and poor grime. A tub of bleach sits under the sink. That’ll soon be tossed in like Holy Water and left to soak. He’ll bleach the handle, too. Anticipating some sharp form of, ‘I don’t care,’ Joker preemptively tells J, “They were mine,” as opposed to Nix’s. “Use one of the forks in your sleeve.” Most of the refrigerator is loaded with her booze. The same catlike footfalls that followed J to the kitchen now tread toward the broken window, only Werewolf never truly turns his back. Eyes that collect every shred of light refract and throw the gleam across the apartment — almost like a warning. 

now it’s his turn to laugh: a singular bark of sound from back in his throat that contains little in the way of humor. ❛ oh, who said anything about logic? ❜ his smile returns, thin and sharp. incongruous in his otherwise soft face. ❛ if logic ruled the hearts and minds of people, then we’d have a bunch of poindexters for our priests and politicians, instead of, say, the dearly departed mayor mitchell. who was no great intellect, i can tell you that. ❜ and ever falcone’s creature. he’s not sorry to see the man into his grave, even if someone else put him there. ❛ besides, once someone begins to murder over what they believe, they’re a bit beyond convincing otherwise, wouldn’t you agree? ❜

the osprey has departed with its catch, likely to a nest built into the bridge arches above. briefly he follows it in his mind’s eye. oswald shifts his weight, leaning into his cane to take the pressure off his perpetually aching leg. a few yards away near the other side of the overpass, the black body of his town car crouches silently, its unlit headlamps catching faint glimmers of what daylight there is. its driver is a dark silhouette resting against its exterior, little more than a shape cut from shadows.

oswald sighs, the whole topography of his body sinking underneath it. his face tips up toward joker, catching the other man’s eyes, hanging somehow luminous like the lure of an angler fish. for a few seconds, oswald simply studies him, brows pinched and mouth drawn flat, the cigar smoldering in his hand. then: ❛ believe me or don’t, but i am not your enemy. if you asked it of me, i would help you. i still owe you, after all. but you must ask. ❜

“You’re not really gonna ask him, are you?” Murray guffaws. Joker suffers a pinch where his neck meets his shoulder. His head yanks into it. The same eyes that’d been refracting any glow they could collect now squeeze shut. Werewolf bares teeth. Uneven red paint hides any pain, stretching almost from ear to ear. Shaking his leg dispels the roil in his throat. The late talk show host further confuses his final guest by splashing as he walks through puddles. Underneath the trestle, his studio audience remains quiet. Waiting for a cue or another zinger aimed at Joker so they can laugh. “Suppose he knows who you are. I mean…” he halts just beyond Joker’s left shoulder so he can stage whisper at him in that pseudo-paternal tone, “—who you really are.”

“Unless you’ve got a GPS on that ugly son of a bitch,” Joker doesn’t need to see Hazmat Zodiac’s face to come to that conjecture, “I don’t see how.” He laughs at his own petty swipe. It’s neither involuntary nor forced; producing a softer, more melodic sound that he leans into. A noxious cloud dissipates between them. Murray is none too pleased. He throws his arms up as if to sigh, ‘Here we go…’ and backs off. Joker flashes his attention left and right to observe the silhouettes seated within the trestle’s cylindrical theater. Hundreds stare, judging, waiting for him to admit the wrong thing and nosedive even swifter into his own demise. 

Patinas of warmth from the immolated trashcan sweep his way. Joker squares his shoulders into each fleeting breath from behind and rolls them. Another hit fills his chest with fumes of a similar temperature. It hastens his shaking leg. 

                                      VULNERABILITY,   it’s   offered   and   PLATED   up   by   the    ELDEST   wayne.   it   confirms    what   bruce    NEEDED   to   hear,    what   he    WANTED   to   hear   from   his   older   brother.    for     WEEKS   he’s    had   this   FEELING   that   grows   within   gut,   a    sort   of   GUILT   and   HATRED   that    slowly    enters    BLOODLINE,   and   drives   him   MAD.   for   nights   he’s   tried    to    FORGIVE   himself.    to    make   himself   believe   that   the   SINS   OF    HIS    FATHER,   THE   SELFISHNESS   of    his    mother   were   not  of   his   own   making,   nor   did   they   define   him.  IN  A    SIGH    all   that    hatred   and    guilt   is    UNLEASHED    from   body   as    he    the   WEIGHT   slowly    lifts.   ‘   i’m   not   angry   about    why   you   did   what   you   did   …   BEFORE   i   tried   to   place   that             I   KNOW  i   don’t   have   to   apologize   for  OUR   father   but,   …  it   was    WRONG  ’   the   day    at   the  gates,    had   HAUNTED   the   youngest   wayne.   LOGIC   tried   to    make   sense   of   FRAGMENTED   pieces   but    now?   now   he   held   them   all.   PAIN   and   HATRED   are   TERRIBLE   things.    

                         THOUGH   before   he   continues   EYES   widen   at   the  sight  before   him,   had   the   CONFESSION   been   truly   too   much   for   arthur?   or  perhaps   he   was   ANTICIPATING   ridicule  ,   of    words   BEING   twisted   and   MISCONSTRUED.   bruce   goes   to  move,   as   he’s   QUICK   to  come   back   with  water   ,   ANYTHING   that   may   offer   TEMPORARY   reprieve.   AWKWARD   movements   heightened   as   he  offers  water,   and   BROW    furrows   with  CONCERN.   yes,   FAMILY  it   seemed   was   stronger    than   what   some   believe.   ‘   you    alright  ?  ’   THE   words  themself   sound   STRANGE,   in   truth  he   had   always   thought   arthur   as   some   IMPENETRABLE    force.      the   scene   within  itself   an   oddity.   TWO   BROTHERS   who   GOTHAM   would   LIKE   to   pin   against  one  another.   hand   goes   to   hover   upon   arthurs   back   right  shoulder   blade.   bruce’s   FiGURE   elongated   by   shadows   as   it   casts   his   shadow   SLIGHTLY   larger   than   arthurs.   before   then  falling   and  resting   there.  other  hand  AGGRESSIVELY   pushes   long  hair   back  from   face.    

                 ‘  fuck   think   we’ve   had   enough   HISTORY   talk   for   the   night  ’   before   then   going   to       clear       throat.   it’s   true   they’ve       NOW   talked   about   this        ENOUGH   ,   no   more   power   had   to  be   given  to   their   INTERTWINED   history.   for   bruce   he        HAS      to   place   it   as   a   memory   and   NOT  some   fresh   wound.    he   steps   away   to  give    the  other   some   space.   sits   on  the   edge  of   a   couch   arm,   and    HANDS   fall    upon  thighs.   LOOKS  up   at   arthur   as   CURIOSITY   sinks   in,   ‘   you   adjusting   to   those   alright  ?   with  the    original   prototype  it  felt  like   i  had   GLASS   in    my  eye   half   the   time   …   real   pain  in   the   ass  ’

Had he not been clambering to breathe, Joker would’ve thrust a hand out. Clutched the Gearhead’s Frankenstein forearm so tight that it’d break…or temporarily lose circulation. Whatever would keep Bruce in place. Instead Joker clutches a bottle of Poland Spring —

“Straight from the slavic nation of Maine!” Murray Franklin teases the studio audience. One of his pompous laughs cues everyone to join in. 

Joker rolls his eyes so far back, he can see his scrambled brain. Plastic crunches in his left hand, which continues to shake. The cap is precariously close to flying across the defunct Wayne Terminal like a champagne cork. A round of applause lures Joker’s eye to NCB Studios’ theater. Hundreds of silhouettes clap and cheer as their host — with two bullets in his bleeding body — holds his arms out and winks at Joker, “That one was for you, kid.” Joker certainly hopes not. It was terrible.

Instead of dignifying Murray with a response, Werewolf sneers and finishes hacking. He’s batted his eyelashes so many times, the white base of his foundation has completely vanished and one of the blue half-triangles has seeped into his mouth. At some point he attempted to take a sip. He used his palm to twist the cap off since the cigarette’s wedged between his fore and middle fingers. Joker takes a hit from that, too. It makes him cough. Smoker’s lungs push phlegm and a wad of inert ash into his throat. Joker coughs that up, too, but doesn’t try to drink again even though the strain has forced tears from his eyes and he continues gagging. That rigor mortis, wind tunnel of a laugh has finally subsided. Werewolf remains rigid; hunched and keeping his torso concealed as if Bruce or the shadows he exudes could disembowel him. 

He’d temporarily forgotten about the cameras currently stuck to his eyes. The earpiece rests somewhere by the keyboard. If only they’d conceal his trembling hands, how his Adam’s apple jumps as he forces out any lingering wheezy mirth, or how his chin inclines as if it’ll keep his burning eyes dry. He looks stung. Rabid. Disoriented and utterly glazed over. There’s camera contact lenses in his eyes. Joker can no longer feel them or maybe he’s flooded them out. One silent step carries the alpha clockwise, shoulders on an angle and long green hair spilling from behind his ears and over his shoulders. Murray waits for his cue even though a stupid card sits in his folded hands. 

That slim margin Bruce had placed between them may as well be a ravine. Joker keeps to his side of the gorge, ignoring even the faintest penumbra. Those that do attempt to caress him fail. Joker seems to physically repel darkness. He sniffs back a chunk of what’s probably Murray’s rotten flesh, turns it over on his tongue, then swallows something coppery. The bottle and cigarette remain in his unquiet hands. Then he shows teeth. Joker’s second, painted smile doesn’t help it appear any less caustic. Like he’s taken a scorpion sting to the chest. 

the  sunflowers.  —  shown  under  the  cut!

"i'd  like  to  paint  in  such  a  way  that...  everyone  who  has  eyes  could  understand  it."  there  was  a  series  of  these  paintings  of  sunflowers.  van  gogh  was  heavily  praised  for  them  by  those  he  knew.  to  him,  they  felt  like  they  were  his  mark.  like  they  were  truly  his  own.  

arthur  often  feels  the  same  need  to  stand  out  and  be  remembered  for  something.  he’s  an  individualist  through  and  through,  and   determined  to  make  his  own  mark.  he  has  so  much  courage,  so  much  passion,  and  so  much  determination.  but  let  me  tell  you  a  secret:  you  don't  have  to  fight  to  be  important.  you  already  are.  

some  of  his  traits  are:  ambitious,  one-minded,  and  passionate.

tagged by : @siennabook​ thank you so much lovely oxooxxo

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His creation is sat unceremoniously beneath the bright LED light fixtures in their ceiling.  Those are about the only thing left of Nix’s design features here — Evelyn’s room remains a shut sanctuary,  Arthur need not have bothered blotting the windows in there. White halos above their heads do nothing to replace the wanting daylight.  Faded papers housing headlines like ‘BATMAN: GOTHAM’S FRIEND OR FOE?'  and  'GHOULISH GANGS ON THE RISE'  — someone somewhere is probably proud of that last one — blot the city out.  Nix hates every inked letter,  however even now as she faces what once was the view to their modest garden.  The bug hotel in the far corner she’d once built with Evelyn will remain when they finally do vacate the empty shell they’re currently camped in.  Arthur’s idea of dodging attention at the duplex has,  so far,  served to he a smart one,  though leaves them nonetheless lacking.  In all things.

Nix’s working fingers have pressed that garish yellow dough until her prints mar its soft surface.  The two digits she knows this exercise is supposedly for,  remain unfurled.  They twitch about a centimetre before giving up the ghost.  Her brain can’t send the rest of the message,  it bounces right back.  She hasn’t the heart to tell him that this is all a little too late,  months even,  and so sits between his legs on the floor like its some ramshackle picnic they have to oven-bake before enjoying.  His heart skips against her shoulder,  even through her t-shirt it taps its beat.  There’s music in him.  In comparison,  Nix is as flat as a body on the floor.  She wrinkles her nose and tosses the lopsided yellow ball from one palm to the other.

“  Maybe,  ”   She says, speaking over her shoulder while her eyes watch her own work.  “  You shouldn’t rush perfection.  ”   It’s a ridiculous sight that none,  she thinks,  would ever put money on occurring.  Nix rocks back until her shoulders square against his chest and she lifts to present her 'grated cheese’.   “  See,  now this is professional fucking work.  ”   The gesticulation with her free hand,  finger and thumb pressed together,  is hardly required.   “  Yours is gonna be all under-cooked,  under-seasoned and shit.  Losing patrons by the table-load.  ”   There are none in the hollow apartment,  but she dives deep into the scene he builds.  Finally she pins her chin to her shoulder so she can look him in the eye.  Kiss-fluffed lips press for a smile too sweet.   “  I’ll run you out of business by spring.  ”   The joke being;  Gotham’s seemingly perpetual winter.

She thinks hers is pepperoni,  or something equally likely to be covered in uneven red splotches.  They’re meant to he round,  but her shaping skills leave a little to be desired.  Nix huffs a quiet laugh which he’ll catch against his skin since they’re so close they’re lashes could knot.  When she does glance down to her blindly completed monstrosity,  she’s still smiling faintly,  teasing.   “  We really need to get the girls back for you.  ”

Eyes like October moons almost blow wide enough to swallow hers. The recessed lights never fail to flatter Nix, but without the aid of heavy stage makeup Joker’s every crease is exaggerated. Shadows try to runnel between the grooves in his forehead and cheeks. Time hasn’t been kind. Flattering ring fixtures cannot save him. He ignores how hideous he must look — all that darkness can physically touch is the gap where his first molar on the right should be. Joker flashes those crooked rows to bolster his ‘appall.’ “O-oh, you mean,” the cigarette’s yanked from his mouth so he can gesture with smoke threads flying all around them, “—so one can eat the Play Doh and the other will feed it to the cats while you,” Joker’s head lolls as he over-enunciates, “Dear,” he’s forgotten to exhale, “—steal my customers.” 

Werewolf flicks his tongue over his teeth, scrunches his face, and brings the cigarette back to his mouth. Mid-puff, he says, “I don’t think so,” while shaking his head. The weight of his bicep nudges Nix’s shoulders from behind. “No one likes plain pizza. Unless you’re running one of those dollar slice joints in Manhattan. Now they…” again his cigarette bats for punctuation. “—have a god-level scam operation. I actually respect it.”

Joker’s left ring finger taps her lock screen to check on Andrew. Their Dasher appears to have been driving to them for some time, but isn’t taking Nix’s usual route home from Mercato. He squints. Touches Nix’s temple with his mouth and grazes her pallid skin as he waits for the little car icon to move again. “This thing,” the app, “—is addictive.” She may not be able to glean him smiling against her skin as the little orange car crawls toward their brownstone. Two fingers fan and zoom in to try and catch cross-streets. Nix always keeps her phone in dark mode to help him read better. “How do you not just stare at it the entire time?” his tone equates to that of someone who watches the microwave countdown directly in front of it. Her skin could freeze water, yet Joker enfolds tighter around her and lets the cigarette hang from his mouth. “I can’t stop looking. What if Andrew needs better directions?” 

This distraction’s losing Joker customers to the enemy...