#goregrin

“…I’m starting to think this is another Friday for you.” A mug of tea is held out towards him, not far away in the doorframe the familiar stature of Bouncer seeming to keep a close eye on them both.

Other than the being treated to the nauseating tar - colored syrup and discolored water that the bathroom’s rotting pipeage struggled to cough up, the only major exception from The Doctor’s usual routine was his company.

As he made his way about the room, looking for his tie and glasses, the back of his neck tickled the way it would to someone who felt they were being watched by an unseen presence. Only Crane fully anticipated that he would find Joker, sitting in bed and quietly observing him pull on his dusty black suit coat, should he turn around. Even as he stood just beside The Clown and fastened his watch around his wrist, he trusted his instinct that he was being studied.

It wasn’t until a pale hand found and gently tugged the knit material draping from his collar, that The Doctor looked down and attended Joker’s stare — expressionless in a way that disagreed with his amused scars. He allowed himself to be drawn into a few parting kisses that somehow had led the clown to travel towards the corner of his jaw. “ — okay. ” Crane broke away, pulling Joker’s hand from his tie before straightening up, “ I have to go. ”

Gotham Central Courthouse droned with the murmurs of clerks. Standing across the hall from where Crane waited by a set of brass elevator doors were a handful of officers. They stood apart from the passing flurry of suits and blouses, watching passively. One officer’s radio began to chirp and buzz. The Officer paid it no mind, standing in line with his comrades and striking up an easy conversation. “ Sir ? ”

The Doctor broke his focus on the police and looked back towards the elevator. A man in a blue tweed suit stood a few feet away. “ You uh … ” he smiled and gestured toward’s his own cheek, “ You’ve got something on your, ” Crane furrowed his brow at the gentleman and touched his face — “ There, yeah. ”

He dragged his fingertips down his cheek and jaw, smearing a blotch of red and white that colored half of his lips. Crane let out a slow puff through his nose at the marbled pink residue staining his fingertips, irritated that he’d neglected to check his reflection before leaving for work. “ It’s still — ”

“ yes. thank you. ” Crane smiled dryly as he cut off the man in the blue suit. He knew he had only smudged what he dread was an eye - catching mess of greasepaint. this gentleman had done his kind deed by pointing this out. Now, he wanted to be left alone so he could quickly find a restroom to quickly wash off the displaced makeup before anyone else noticed it. To his pleasure, a button above the lift chimed to life and it’s doors pulled open.

“ Whose is it ? ” The Man asked with a flippant grin. He stepped through the door and hit two different buttons. Crane gravitated towards the opposite side of the lift and selected his floor, looking forward at the illuminated panel as the brass doors closed. “ I’m not prying am I ? ”

The Doctor’s jaw tightened, he offered the man an inscrutable lour before quietly clearing his throat and returning his attention forward. A painful and apprehensive silence possessed that space. Crane could sense a maddening indecisiveness from the other, and clung forcibly to silence in hope that conversation wouldn’t be re - animated. The man’s eyes kept roving back toward’s the lower half of Crane’s face. At one point, The Doctor returned the man’s pitifully indiscreet gaze through the corner of his eye and caught the other’s eyes, just before they darted forward.

edward hits the snow with a graceless thud, icy flakes biting at his skin as coldness creeps beneath his collar. for a moment, he just lays there, stunned, breath clouding in the night air. his fingers twitch against the frost.

then he hears it- laughter. sharp. breathless. mocking.

he thought this damn clown had died!!

his jaw clenches before he’s pushing himself up, snow clinging to his coat, his hair, the edges of his gloves. his glasses had slipped down his nose, and he shoves them back up with a jerky motion, nostrils flaring. his face burned, not from the cold, but from the sheer audacity of it all.

"how lovely it is to see you again... alive and not severely injured like i'd hoped- feared."

❛ you are losing my interest, and that’s very dangerous. ❜

There’s the lightest concern revealed in how her gaze flickers between their patient to Bouncer close by, a hand shifting in some silent note when she notices a nearby plant seeming to grow ever so slightly. 

“-Should I be worried if you end up losing interest entirely?”

nights in gotham seemed to be very unforgiving at times like these. the way the cold wind felt like frostbite on its own... it only makes it more painful for oswald to make it down the street. but he said to himself he could treat himself for a walk. to be fair, he had gotten a little too upset and the cold didn't bite as awful as it did now.

he wears his large coat and jacket. the head of his cane tightly held on to every time he needs the support on his left foot. there's no hint at the pain he feels. he was used to it, not even a grimace despite the discomfort.

he also knew the streets a little too well, especially those near the lounge. the ones that were left empty, used mostly as if they were a parking lot. abandoned. perfect for sneaking in drug deals... or petty crimes to the unsuspecting ones.

oswald was a little too aware at the sounds... the steps coming from behind keeping him on edge. free hand reached to his pocket where he safely kept a loaded gun, turning around and pointing the firearm towards- "for fucks sakes. the fuck are you doin' around here!? gave me a fuckin' scare." but he's not moving his hand away. if anything, it was more reason to keep his gun firmly aimed at the joker.

the penguin sentence starters | still accepting.

Oh, fuck you, she wants to tell him, but instead she only bites the inside of her cheek hard enough that she feels the skin threaten to split. No mouthing off.

She shoves her hands in her coat pockets and follows in tense silence down the narrow metal staircase that clings skeletal to the side of the warehouse. Each step sends a creak out into the night air that prickles at the nape of her neck. It is not a quiet night, exactly — Gotham's nights rarely achieve that — but they're far enough off the main thoroughfare that every sound feels magnified, somehow, seems to trail off into the night instead of shuddering back to them in an echo.

"I told you I don't know anything about him," Mary says finally, at the bottom of the stairs. She lingers on the third step up, putting herself closer to eye level with the clown. The warehouse's side door is open; it blazes a perfect rectangle of buzzing light out onto the concrete. "You're wasting your time, calling me down here."

She can smell copper. Just beyond the doorframe, a man's bare foot, and the metal leg of a chair, barely manages to creep into view — Mary resists the instinctual urge to tilt her head sideways, to try and see better.

She has a feeling she doesn't want to see anything until she absolutely must.

orphan sentence starters | still accepting.

Mary's upper lip curls in distaste — between them, crumpled on the floorboards like a dead animal, is the bloodstained little coat, the doll, its metal eye ringed black where the bullet had seared the cloth face.

After a moment, Mary leans forward and takes a cigarette from the box on the corner of her desk. Lights it. Exhales a thin stream of smoke into the mid-morning light slanting in through the blinds.

"So?" she says finally, chin up. There's an air of forced dignity about her, a bold set to her jaw that seems to disregard the fact that she is alone in a room with a man who unsettles her, that he has brought with him proof of a crime she had hoped no one would ever find out about.

@goregrin sent:

❛ what has happened in your life that made you like this? ❜

𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑻𝒀 𝑹𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑶𝑴 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺.

🦇—-;; The question, were it asked by anyone else, might have received a genuine answer from Bruce, or some variation that his life had been turned on it's head without giving away too many details, in not so many words. It can be summed up as he had a bad day, that altered the entire course of his life, drove him to pick up the cape and cowl and protect Gotham at great cost to himself. But why on Earth would he tell Joker of all people that it came down to a little boy who made a promise on the souls of his parents that he'd stop crime in this dreary city he loved so much?

The Bat only narrows his eyes, white lenses copying the action. "It doesn't matter." It's the only answer he's willing to give other than 'none of your damn business.' He felt what he actually said was a bit more polite, though his tone his no less snippy.