Thread: Joker & Harley

[madlove]

WHO: George, Ronnie, Lucy, and Sno-cone Tilyou
WHERE: the Tilyou beach house
WHEN: sometime during this event
WHAT: a family that burns dinner together stays together
WARNINGS: disgusting and disturbing domesticity

Harleen -- Ronnie -- took these family stay-at-home dinner nights very seriously. They usually had someone or another passing through, which meant company, which also meant that having her own little family all to herself was all too rare for her tastes. And sometimes those people were more sketchy than Ronnie was strictly comfortable with. Not because she was concerned for her own safety. And certainly not because she was concerned about George’s, since she knew the man was more than capable of protecting himself and even his family. But because it meant that Ronnie had to keep an extra close eye on Lucy. So if that put the mother of said boisterous and bouncy two-and-a-half year old a bit on edge, well, Ronnie thought that was her right. This evening, however, the cottage was occupied by only herself, George, Lucy, and (of course) Sno-cone, and Ronnie had taken the opportunity to dress up more than she usually would. Living on the beach, never mind having a two year old, tended to necessitate clothes she could move in. She’d long since discarded her prim and proper pencil skirts for linen pants and flowy skirts. But tonight was for looking a little more put together. For her a little more put together ended up being a more clingy (but still reasonably modest) cocktail dress, a carefully applied red lip, high heels that didn’t reduce her mobility too much, and a meticulously styled chignon (aside from the one piece of hair that always seemed to free itself). She’d sent Lucy off ahead of her once they were done getting ready — the girl’s pigtails adorned with sparkly bows — and by the time she reached the kitchen it was unfortunately clear that the duck she’d put in to cook an hour ago was now overdone. Or charcoal, depending on how technical she was going to get. Which was absurd. She’d followed the instructions, thinking roast duck would be elegant and something she could pull off. How hard could it possibly be? She was a doctor, albeit a mostly retired one, for goodness sake. Certainly she should be able to roast a duck. But, apparently, the answer to her question was: obviously harder than she’d anticipated. Because when she opened the oven, coughing from the smoke that wafted out and waving a hand at it to prevent it from setting off the alarms, Ronnie found a blackened husk. A shell of the bird she’d named Donald before sliding him in. “Stupid oven,” she muttered, turning the oven off and slamming the door shut. The fact that she’d had the temperature set to broil escaped her. Cleaning this up was a problem for future Ronnie. Present Ronnie was going to have to think of something else for dinner that wasn’t pizza. Although pizza was sounding pretty good right about then. There’s was always her favorite standby. The whole takeout plated on nice china schtick. But that would require loading Lucy, who was already playing tug-of-war with the dog, up in the car, getting back before George noticed she was gone, and managing to get everything set up and the takeout boxes thrown away without getting caught. Which, honestly, all sounded like a bit of a bitch when the initial plan had been to come downstairs, work on a couple of side dishes, and have everyone sit down to a nice dinner. “Lucy, honey, go get daddy from outside.” Dinner might very well be about to turn into pizza, just, instead, the kind of pizza that was a family project and ended with Lucy’s and Sno-cone’s flour hand(paw)prints all over the kitchen. So much for elegant and fancy. Which was punctuated by Lucy looking up from where she was sprawled out on the floor and screeching “Daddy!” at the top of her lungs. Which was, clearly, the equivalent of going to get him without getting up.

Comments

[criminallysane]

The man who had once been the Joker stood on the small weather-beaten dock behind the cottage, looking out at the sun set over the ocean and listening to the cawing of the seabirds. He was trying to put a name to one particular shade of orangey-pink in the sky. What was that color? Too pink to be mango, too soft to be blood orange. Lately, he’d been concentrating more on the blues and purples of twilight, and especially the subtle undertones of green that mingled with them after a storm, and he realized now that he’d been completely neglecting the warmer half of the palette. Yes, yes, the deep cool tones were majestic, but there was such vibrancy, such life, in that mango-pink! How could he ever have failed to appreciate it, even for a moment?

The ocean breeze ruffled his hair, and George Tilyou breathed the fresh air in gratefully, letting it puff up his lungs and purify him. Was there anything finer than life by the water? Here, he felt freer, happier, and more complete than he could recall ever being.

His daughter’s voice cut through his reverie. “A summons from the Queen,” he murmured to himself with a chuckle. “That might just top it. Well, Sunset! You heard Her Majesty. Ta-ta, now. You and me’ll dance later.”

He turned on his heel, tucked his hands in his pockets, and strolled up to the house, whistling as he went. He let himself in through the kitchen patio door, crossed the room in two broad strides, and plucked his pigtailed spawn up from the floor with a theatrical flourish. “You rang, Madame?” George tossed the girl in the air, a carefully controlled little toss that he nevertheless made appear completely reckless.

Lucy giggled and shrieked, and no sooner had he caught her before she began wriggling and insisting, “Again! Again!”

He obliged her, tossing her a bit higher this time, and then pretended that he might be about to drop her. “Oh, no! The wiggling! I—can’t hold on—I—no, stop, stop!”

She rewarded him with a squeal of delight, while their bichon frise narrowly avoided getting himself stepped on, and then father and daughter were giggling in unison, thoroughly tickled with the same stupid, silly game they played every day.

George nuzzled a kiss into the dip of his baby’s neck—“My little hellion”—then tucked her in the crook of one arm so that he could turn his attention to his wife.

“And look at you!” He wolf-whistled, feeling exactly like a Tex Avery cartoon, and gave dear Ronnie a nice, slow look-over. The woman got better looking every year; he would swear on his life that she did. And today, in those heels, with that chignon and that fabulously red-lipsticked smile? Wowza. “Watch out, Little Red, or I may just eat you for supper.” He waggled his brows at her, playing with her, lest she think that double entendre was accidental. “We going somewhere special?”

[madlove]

It never ceased to amaze Ronnie how easily George had seemed to adapt to fatherhood, especially considering his origins. Lucy’s screech, that might have had some parents clapping their hands over their ears, had him coming in with a jovial smile and easy swagger about him. And, truly, she could watch him and Lucy giggling together forever and not get even the slightest bit tired of it.

It reminded her of the relationship she’d had with her own father before that fateful day (and night) at Coney Island. With the way both their eyes seemed to light up when they saw each other and the pure delight she saw on both their faces when they interacted. She’d experienced the way such a father/daughter relationship could change, though, and she’d never thought she’d actually meet anyone who could live up to expectations of what a dad should be. And, certainly, five years earlier, the furthest thing from her mind while being strongarmed into helping George was that he’d make a great parent.

And, yet, here she was.

“Only if ‘somewhere special’ is Chez Tilyou.” Or the local Burger King. Though the attention to her appearance for the evening made it pretty clear that she did, in fact, think their family dinners were special.

Moving across the kitchen to stand up on her tiptoes and press a kiss to her husband’s jaw -- deliberately leaving a red lipstick stain -- she then twirled in a circle and added, “This old thing?” Though she was smiling, practically preening, in response to his comment. “At least you’ll be eating something because the oven’s on the fritz again.” It was said with a melodramatic sigh. Which was her typical response when something went wrong in the kitchen. The oven’s broken; the stove’s malfunctioning; that food I was making must have been expired; gremlins did it.

It was all nonsense, of course, but until someone decided to call her out on it, that was what she was going with.

“Looks like we’re going to starve.” That was accompanied by a roll of her eyes and the slight smirk that tugged on her lips made it pretty obvious that she was joking. And, in fact, the burnt duck was almost totally forgotten, save for the fact that they’d need to come up with a new plan.

[criminallysane]

“That damn oven.” George tsked, amused. Everybody knew that the smoky reek of burnt meat lingering in the kitchen wasn’t the oven’s fault, but the joke had been going for so long now that he found it endearing in its own right. And anyway, what sort of high-heel-wearing bombshell worth her salt actually knew how to cook? Ronnie’s ineptitude in the kitchen was part of her charm.

“Damn oven,” Lucy repeated, with a little too much glee.

George gave her a nod of approval: the girl had such a knack for words! “Yes, Mommy needs a new one, doesn’t she? And after our very next bank job, we’ll get her the shiniest one we can find.” There were no more bank jobs, of course. No more murders. No more schemes. But what harm was there in playing pretend?

He set Lucy gently down so that she could scamper back to Sno-Cone and have her fun while he figured out supper. “Go break something, why don’t you?”

Straightening back to his full height, with Ronnie’s kissprint still proudly displayed on his jawline, George crossed the small kitchen to examine the contents of the fridge. “So we’ll do something on the stovetop, what say? Since the, ah. Oven’s acting up, and all.” He did a quick scan of the inventory. “Ooh! How ‘bout a great big omelet? With… Let’s see.” He was pulling out ingredients and sticking them on the countertop as he spoke. “Lots of melty cheddar cheese, that sounds good. Green pepper, yes, yes. Couple of mushrooms. And…” He rocked back, peering around the fridge door at Lucy and Sno-Cone. “Dog lips, I think. For that savory flavor.”

Lucy inhaled quickly and squeezed Sno-Cone.

George looked at his wife and deadpanned, “You still like dog lips, don’t you, baby?”

[madlove]

A way with words. Right. Lucy was going to outpace all her peers when it came to having a smart mouth at the rate she was going. Though, deep down, Ronnie couldn’t say she minded terribly. Whip smart and razor sharp minds tended to make it — especially in this world — and part of that was knowing how to game the system and make it work for you instead of against you. Like, say, keeping a low profile and getting to live out a peaceful retirement on the shore.

At only 2 ½ Lucy seemed to have more smarts about her than a lot of the adults Ronnie knew.

Still, she said, mildly, “Language, especially around L-U-C-Y.”

And damned if Lucy’s head didn’t pop up in response to the spelling of her name from where she was sitting and scritching Sno-cone behind the ears.

Anyway, Ronnie’s smirk had widened back into a smile as she watched her daughter with those sparkly bows that caught the light, then lifted her eyes to watch her husband and admire the red lipstick she’d left behind. Any doubt about much she really meant any of that chiding could pretty much be wiped away.

If anything, she was laughing (internally, of course) about Lucy’s exclamation of damn oven!. Besides, it meant her ruse lived on another day.

Her gaze shifted between George and Lucy — and the subject of the night’s special ingredient, Sno-cone — waiting for any telltale signs that Lucy was going to take what they were saying as the Gospel truth. Until that happened, the joke was fair game. And it was hardly the first time Lucy had heard something somewhat like this and had to tell them to knock it off. “Oh, yes. I’ve never had a decent omelet without dog lips.”

She was rewarded with a yip from Sno-cone and a frown from Lucy who still had a death grip on the pup. And Ronnie did have to admit that, as much of a shit as the dog could be, he was also a good sport about these things.

“Although maybe we can do without them, George,” she said, pausing in moving around the kitchen to take out bowls for the eggs and cutting boards for the vegetables, before sliding in next to her husband and putting a hand on her his arm like this was a true negotiation. Like a lack of dog lips in their dinner was something she was going to have to truly coax out of him with the gentle tap of her fingers on his wrist and enormous, pleading blue eyes. C’mon, baby, do it for me. “Just this once.”

[criminallysane]

It was this quality that had convinced him, years earlier, to marry her: the girl could take a joke all the way to the finish line. His Ronnie could riff with the best of them. Could deadpan; could “yes, and”; could work the crowd. She was born for comedy, as he had been, and it didn’t matter one iota that at the moment, their only audience was one toddler and one spoiled rotten lapdog. A show was still a show, and his baby girl still played her part to perfection.

He looked down into those impossibly big eyes of hers. His own expression was as stern as hers was pleading, his mouth set in a thin straight line, but his eyes sparkled with obvious affection. “Hmm.” One hand rose to cup her cheek. “Well… I suppose, for you, I could skip them. Just this once.”

And then the facade of sternness melted away completely, and he was smiling and leaning down to kiss her. Once, twice, then a third time for luck, and he paid no mind to the mess her lipstick might be making of him. The tip of his nose brushed against hers as he pulled back just enough to murmur, “But you owe me, Missy.”

“Mommy owes you what?” Lucy chirped.

George’s eyes stayed on Ronnie’s. “Well. That’s a very good question.” His free hand moved to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. “What do you think, ‘Mommy’? What would be fair recompense for such a grave disappointment?”

[madlove]

Ronnie had put a great deal of thought into the hows and whys of the way someone who, at least back in Gotham, had been as notorious as the Joker could settle so thoroughly into domestic life. He’d been the poster child for psychotic mayhem, for sociopathy, for murder, and sometimes even sadism. And though Ronnie hadn’t actually met him one-on-one until she was well settled into this new world, she’d known of him. No psychiatrist worth their salt — from their world, anyway — could claim they hadn’t heard of him.

And there had certainly been a stretch of time in the early days, the days when she’d still bothered informing him that her name was Harleen and not Veronica, where survival was very touch-and-go.

So, of course, she’d also put a lot of thought into why he would possibly marry her. She’d had a handful of theories: it was a good cover, it was an easy way to keep her from squealing about his new identity, he’d gotten used to having company, hell, even that he simply liked the games she was more than willing to play in the bedroom. But it always ultimately, especially in moments like this when she could so clearly see the fondness in his expression, came down to the fact that she believed he actually loved her.

And, with her background, surely she’d be able to see through any deception if that wasn’t the case.

The last thing she was worried about was whether her lipstick was already a mess (it had to be considering how much of it was smeared on his mouth) and Ronnie had to bite down on her lower lip so she didn’t burst out laughing in response to Lucy’s question.

Leaning against him in response to his hand tugging on her waist, she lowered her forehead to rest against his chest, chuckling helplessly. “Oh, I think I’ll be able to come up with a way to repay you--” Granted, there wasn’t a single one of those things she could verbalize in front of the present company. And while the idea of Lucy blurting out Mommy and Daddy have handcuffs and play with costumes to a complete stranger was, well, hilarious, she didn’t want to be the one to explain what was so funny about it to Lucy. “--assuming someone doesn’t let the little monster stay up past her bedtime eating ice cream.”

[criminallysane]

As she leaned in against him, George began to idly massage her lower back, trying to ease some of the day’s tension out of her muscles. She felt so good in his arms. So trusting. So right. And her laughter, ah, that was divine! The sub-sub-sub-sub-basement of Arkham Asylum and all the lonely nights he’d spent there seemed to belong to another man, another life, another world altogether. With Ronnie tucked against his chest, it seemed impossible to believe that he had ever been that alone.

“Monsters do what they must,” he said, breezily, as if their daughter were a force of nature, uncontrollable as a hurricane. He was kidding—he had every intention of having his Little Queen tucked beneath her racecar comforter and listening to her bedtime story well before 8:00—but only barely. What point would there be, after all, in raising a child who didn’t understand the fine art of willful disobedience? He loved Lucy’s stubbornness, just as he loved her tempers and her language and her rages, even when they drove him half-mad and made him seriously contemplate taking a hammer to her lovely little skull. She was so spirited, the antithesis of all that society had ever told him he should be, and what sort of father would he be if he stifled that? “Though I think tonight is more of a chocolate pretzels sort of night.”

“Chocolate pretzels!” On the floor, Lucy was now in the process of attempting to tickle the pads on the bottoms of Sno-Cone’s paws. “I want the sprinkles ones.”

“A fine choice! The sprinkles have all the magic, after all.” George gave Ronnie’s back a loving little pat, then pulled away from her so that he could get back to the important business of omelet making. “Oh, by the way.” He began cracking eggs into a bowl. “I invited Jonathan to come out for a few days.” Whether he’d actually show was still up in the air, but George thought it best to say something now, rather than risk forgetting it entirely and winding up in hot water with the missus later. “Thought maybe we’d do some fireworks. He needs a little excitement, you know. Something to get the blood stirring.”

[madlove]

“I can’t imagine why she’s so spoiled,” Ronnie said with a soft snort. It was said with the sort of affection she saved for the current occupants of the kitchen (Sno-cone included, even). She was pleasant enough with their ‘houseguests’, but she also had a tendency to come off as a bit distant. A relic of her undergrad and med school days, paired with the fact that she now had something that would truly kill her to lose.

And, anyway, her mother had said the same thing plenty of times to her father when Ronnie had been a child. Now she understood it was said with a certain amount of genuine relief that her husband and daughter had such an easy, happy relationship.

She reached up to touch his lower lip with a tap even as he released her. “You’ve got something on your mouth.”

Lucy was giggling, prattling on about sprinkles and pretzels to the dog like chocolate pretzels for dessert were, by far, the most exciting thing to happen and would be the most exciting thing to ever happen in her whole, entire life. And Ronnie took the hint to start cutting up peppers.

Her cooking left a lot to be desired, but she seemed to be a pro with cutlery.

It was only when George mentioned Jonathan that she looked up with a frown, a very clear contrast to the expression she’d been wearing since her husband had come inside.

As much as she tried, Ronnie couldn’t quite shake the discomfort she felt whenever George brought up anyone who knew him from his old life. Especially in relation to them coming to visit. It wasn’t anything personal towards them, more a very specific fear of what could happen if he allowed himself to get drawn back into his old world. To be sure she held a double standard regarding these things, because most people would be concerned about the Joker being the one to manipulate anyone else into doing horrible things. But, to Ronnie, all she could think was that these people, whose counterparts had been supervillains in their own right back in her world, might be the thing to drive George back to a life of crime.

And then what? Because, with Lucy in the equation, that was simply unacceptable.

“If you want to get his blood stirring, find him a girlfriend. I’m sure that’ll do the trick just fine without any fireworks.”

Glancing back down, her mouth set into a thin straight line, she went back to chopping peppers. Not outright saying ‘no’, because the idea of telling him she didn’t want him inviting his buddies around (especially when Bruce never seemed to be able to make it out, and that was just a damn shame) was absurd. But obviously not thrilled with the idea.

This was how it started: just a regular visit that somehow stepped up to armed robbery that morphed into ‘why did I ever give this up’.

[criminallysane]

He wiped the lipstick smear away with a knuckle. The gesture was effortless, the kind of thing he didn't even have to think about, much less slow down for. He'd worn lipstick himself for years as the Joker, punching up his "natural" ruby red with an extra coat of loveliness, just to make that smile really pop. He could apply it, remove it, and fixed a smudge here or there with his eyes closed, and that muscle memory had never faded.

Nor did he bat much of an eye at the change in Ronnie's demeanor. She wasn't going to tell him no, and they both knew it. She just wanted to pettishly express her displeasure with his friends, or maybe with having his friends down to the house, or maybe even with the person he used to be in general. But he wasn't going to take that bait, even though she deserved for him to. She could play the snippy fishwife if she liked; he wouldn't let her ruin anything. In time, he knew, she'd come around.

And besides: Jonathan was harmless enough. It wasn't like this was Bane, or even Ivy. Jonathan was just... well, Scarecrow. The kind of man you could beat unconscious with a chair, lickety-split, if he pissed you off badly enough.

"He could use a woman," he said, as if that was the point of any of this. "Maybe we'll make this trip do double-duty. Could invite the lucky lady out for the display, even! Nothing screams romance like explosions."

He worked his way quickly through the eggs, his deft fingers flitting among them like he was doing a card trick. "Got anyone in particular in mind?"

[madlove]

"No, I don’t have anyone particular in mind."

If he was looking for said petty fishwife, he had it, evident from the short, jerky chopping motions she was making with the knife and the way she kept blowing that stubborn strand of hair out of her eyes like it was a nuisance.

"Somehow I doubt Lorelei from my yoga class is his type." Though to be perfectly honest, Ronnie didn’t really know what Jonathan’s type would be and that was on her. But recognizing that and not being concerned about the outcome of these sorts of visits were two very different things. And it was nearly impossible to shake her worry. Especially now that Lucy was old enough to potentially remember if George disappeared and got locked up in the slammer.

Ronnie herself remembered all too well what it was like to see her father beaten on a Brooklyn sidewalk, only to have the cops ignore that in favor of arresting him for other supposed bad things he'd done. And George didn't even have to commit any other crimes; slipping up and revealing his identity to the wrong person would be enough. Hell, for all she knew, Jonathan might be the one to slip up and spill that information.

Pursing her lips, she put the chopping knife down on the counter with a small bang. "Aren't you worried at all what will happen if you get mixed up with the wrong people?"

[criminallysane]

She really was angling for a fight tonight, wasn't she? George watched her from the corner of his eye as he tossed the egg carton and its shells into the trash and washed his hands. What had happened to the sweet woman who'd welcomed him home only minutes ago? To the funny girl who'd joked with him about dog lips in omelets?

Beneath the stream of warm water, his fingers tightened. At times like this, he couldn't help but imagine hurting her. She was trying to infantilize him, playing a nice brisk round of Ronnie Knows Best. What would she do if he grabbed her by the neck right now, he wondered? If he slammed her up against the refrigerator door and let her see what he really worried about?

He could picture it perfectly: her throat trembling beneath his hand, her eyes wide and frightened, her mouth open like a guppy's. Lucy would scream, and—

Lucy. Right.

He shoved the brief fantasy aside. Ronnie didn't mean it. She just wanted to be reassured, that was all. She wanted to be protected; she wasn't trying to protect him. He was the one in control. He would not let her derail this.

Slowly, his fingers relaxed.

"Oh," he said, softly, "the wrong people never worried me much."

He turned off the tap and, without so much as a twitch of warning, flicked the extra water on his hands directly at Ronnie's face. Was it a smart idea to flick water at an annoyed wifey who was already armed with a knife? Maybe not, but then again: it might make her smile.

His own expression lit up—teasing, playing—as he waggled his wet fingers at her. "It's the right ones you've got to watch out for."

[madlove]

Under different circumstances, during a different conversation, the flick of water might have started a food fight. Or instigated a dash for the sink sprayer for good-natured retaliation.

But, in this context, it just felt belittling and like he either wasn't hearing her or was purposefully ignoring her point. All of which made her pulse thump behind her eyes, her teeth clench, and heat rise up her throat into her cheeks. Forgetting about the eyeliner she'd so carefully applied earlier, Ronnie rubbed at the water under her eye, smearing a black streak across her skin.

In another life, that would have been her typical makeup.

"Lucy, baby, why don't you take Sno-cone out back with a Frisbee for a little bit."

Lucy looked up, her expression questioning, and Ronnie could swear that the pint-sized terror gets it the way she herself had gotten it as a kid. Go outside and play was typically parent-speak for I don't want you to hear this argument. Except their Brooklyn apartment hadn't exactly had a backyard (or back sandscape) and usually resulted in her sitting on the edge of the fire escape, swinging her legs back and forth, where she could hear her parents' argument perfectly.

Still, hell beast or not, Lucy got to her feet and dashed around Sno-cone in a circle screeching "chase me!" before tearing out of the kitchen with the dog in tow.

"This isn't a joke, George," she said with a heavy sigh, like that would somehow get across that she was being serious. "The Scarecrow I read about wasn't exactly the poster child for rehabilitation." Then again, the Scarecrow she'd read about had been from a completely different universe and Arkham wasn't exactly in the business of rehabilitation, regardless of what they said to the contrary. And never mind that the Joker was hardly the poster child for rehabilitation. Those two things were apples and oranges in her mind.

[criminallysane]

The second he saw her jaw tighten, George knew he was in for it. He loved Ronnie's tenacity, sure, but only when it related to good things. And there were clearly no good things coming now.

"Ah, Christ," he muttered. "Here we go."

He dried his hands off, his own humor withering. Why couldn't she have just taken the damn olive branch? Why did she have to ruin a perfectly lovely evening?

He shouldn't let her get to him. He was just forfeiting control if he did. His mother had liked to say, when he was in a fit of temper, Anyone who makes you angry defeats you. She'd been right, in her way. But goddamn, Ronnie dearest was really asking for it...

And sending his Lucy away! Because heaven forbid the Queen saw anybody's ugly, nasty temper, right? Ronnie would rather leave her alone, outside, then let her stay with him, and surely that alone merited a good hard slap to the face.

Mirroring her without realizing it, George gave a heavy sigh of his own and turned to face her. "Rehabilitation?" He pronounced it like the word itself turned his stomach, his upper lip curling slightly as he over-enunciated each syllable. "Ooh, yes, how terrible for you. Here I am, inviting a man to your home who maybe won't let you cut his balls off. What a nightmare!"

He advanced on her, looming and scowling. "What are you so afraid of, Veronica? Hm? When have I ever failed to keep you safe?"

[madlove]

"Oh, is that what you think I've done to you?" This was precisely why she'd sent Lucy outside. She was still a bit young to play outside unsupervised, by they were relatively secluded out here and Lucy knew not to go down to the water. Plus, pain in the ass or not, she trusted the dog to let them know if Lucy wandered too far.

And, besides, the kid didn't need to hear all about how her mother was apparently a ball buster.

"And then you wonder what I'm afraid of?" It was said short and crisp like she expected him to know exactly what the problem was and why she got so nervous about people like Jonathan Crane hanging around. At least if George was paying the barest bit of attention the scowl on her face should have made it obvious that he was pissing her off.

But the idea, even the insinuation, that she might have wrangled him into this lifestyle, even if he'd come to her for help to fit into this new life to begin with, rubbed her nerves raw. And was exactly the sort of thing she worried so much about. How could she not be concerned if he thought this was all more about her manipulation instead of his own choices? Surely, it would be easier to go back to his old ways if it was the former.

"This isn't about the past. It's about what happens if someone convinces you to do an actual bank job. Or if you draw the wrong attention by setting off fireworks in our backyard and someone realizes who you are. Or if your 'friend' decides to spill information to the wrong person."

[criminallysane]

He could see he was pissing her off, but the more she said, the less he could bring himself to care. This was all her fault, after all! He'd been set to have a fun, happy family evening, and she wanted to wreck it over... what? Him inviting an old friend out to the house? Never mind that they had all manner of riff-raff coming through here on a regular basis.

Worse, she was talking like she thought he truly couldn't be trusted to make his own decisions. As if he might have a root beer or two with Jonathan and decide, oh, gee, yes, let's come out of retirement! Or confide in the wrong person—never mind that he confided in no one, about anything—and tear down in one stroke everything that they'd built together. He'd been good to her, had loved her, for years, but part of her was apparently still waiting for him to snap and change his mind.

And it was this, this combination of condescension and lack of faith, coupled with the fact that she was clearly trying to provoke him and succeeding marvelously at it, that had his eyes flashing and his hands closing into fists at his side.

This was the thing no one ever told you about trying to change your life: no matter how much time passed, people would never truly let you forget who'd you been. Not even your wife. And, not for the first time, George wondered: did a part of her want him to return to what he'd been? In her most secret heart of hearts, did his Ronnie long for the thrills of the life he'd left behind? Or did she just need to know that he didn't?

Perhaps she was just projecting her own fears and insecurities onto Jonathan. Perhaps, if the chips were really down, she herself would talk. Claim he'd held her hostage all these years. People would believe it.

But would the Scarecrow ever rat him out? No. George was quite certain he would not.

"He wouldn't dare. He's no fool. Do you have any idea what I would do to him?" He closed the last of the distance between them. "What I would do to anyone who put you or Lucy at risk?" He shook his head, incredulous. "I have had a thousand chances to leave you. To betray you. To burn it all down like so much kindling! And every time, I've chosen you." His eyes were trained on hers. "I will always choose you."

[madlove]

The honest-to-God truth was that he was right: he’d never given her reason to believe that he wouldn’t protect and take care of them. He’d been an amazing father to Lucy, even when Lucy was at her most challenging. He’d been a loving and devoted husband to her, even if she didn’t know much about him before they’d met aside from what she’d read about him in Arkham. And, to be fair, she hadn’t exactly been an open book about her own past when it came to anything other than that she’d obviously gone to medical school and she still had a trace of a Brooklyn accent.

He’d sheltered and protected them, fed and clothed them, and had done it all with a smile. Even in a world where there often wasn't much to smile about. And somehow always made them laugh, regardless of how serious things were.

"George..." A thousand times seemed like a lot, but, with him, it wasn't necessarily hyperbole. "No. I don't know any of that. Because you only tell me the things you want to." Of course, the things she'd do to protect him were limitless, though she had to admit that he likely couldn't know how far she'd go when she didn't talk about it either. A lot like he couldn't possibly know how sensitive she was to the idea of him getting arrested and abandoning them (deliberately or not) when she hadn't explained her history with her father.

She didn't budge when he moved closer, looming over her, just looking up with eyes that were asking for him to understand. "You and Lucy mean everything to me. I'm always going to say something if I think I need to protect either one of you, even if it makes you angry. I would do anything to keep you both safe. And to make sure Lucy always has you in her life."

Ronnie hesitated for a moment before carefully placing a hand on his chest. "I lost my father my I was seven because he couldn't stay away from the wrong people and ended up in prison. I know you're not him. But I can't stand the thought of having to explain to Lucy why you're not here anymore. And I don't know what I would do without you."

[criminallysane]

He had to respect the way she held her ground. He towered over her, his indignant fury written all over his features. Once upon a time, he'd have had henchclowns scrambling for cover right about now, his whole crew well aware that when the Joker was angry, people tended to die. Now, however, he had only her, and the look in her eyes said she wasn't going anywhere.

Not that that abated his anger. She was, after all, essentially still saying that she believed he needed to be protected from himself. And who the hell was she to say that? Fate had made him the Joker, but he had transformed himself into George. Everything the two of them had—their home, their love, their daughter, their work—all of that existed only because he had willed it into being. Without him, she would still be running a cut-rate clinic in an alley somewhere! Or worse. She had no right to play Dr. Ronnie with him, to sit on her moral high horse and try to protect their family from him, when he was the one who'd looked out for them all from the start.

Worse: she seemed to think there was any force on this great fucked Earth that might actually manage to keep him away from his child. Had she forgotten who he was, he wondered? Had she forgotten what he was capable of?

He glared down at her, not mollified in the slightest by her confession or the hand she'd placed upon him. The story of her father made a few things make more sense, yes, but it also cheapened what they had a bit. If it was true that little girls typically grew up to marry men who reminded them of their daddies, what did it say about him if his wife's old man had been the kind of low-rent crook who allowed himself to remain imprisoned? Joker had known scores of those guys, all of them forgettable. They were, to the last, weak, stupid men who thought they were bigger fish than they were. Was that the mold her subconscious mind thought he fit into?

His voice turned quiet and low, his anger simmering in every word. "You think that because your old man was weak, I will be, too?" His hand closed around her wrist, keeping her palm flat against him. "You think that even though Batman couldn't keep me locked away, somehow these half-wits would manage it?" His fingers tightened around her, squeezing hard enough to turn her skin bloodless-white beneath his fingertips, and he tugged her closer to him. "Who do you think is going to keep me away from you, baby? Tell me. Please. Who do you think could possibly stop me from making my way back to you?"

[madlove]

“There are worse things here than men dressed up like giant bats.” It was said completely seriously, not realizing how it might be something to push him into losing his temper quickly and entirely. Her own experience with Batman had been cut short when she’d arrived in this world and, as a result, she still found Gotham’s reverence of the big bad bat to be more than a little silly.

But that wasn’t the point here. Not even close. And she was still staring up at George with fierce, determined eyes, refusing to look away even with his fingers digging into her wrist until her hand started getting tingly. Ronnie didn’t so much as budge, other than to allow him to pull her closer, which they both knew she didn’t have to do if she wanted to resist him or if she was going to cower. Instead, the way she was looking at him was all stubborn chin and unapologetic concern.

She’d meant what she’d said: she’d do anything she thought was necessary to protect them, even if he ended up furious with her for it.

Ronnie hadn’t forgotten who he’d been. She’d read a few crime scene reports, managed to dig into his Arkham file, given it all a critical once, then twice, over. Ronnie knew he was capable of far more than she’d ever caught him actually doing. Which was the problem, of course. She knew who he’d been. And she still clearly remembered the early days when he was far less predictable than Ronnie thought he was now. There were still moments when she thought she saw some of that homicidal clown rage lurking just below the surface. She could hear it in his voice right this second.

And she was still looking up at him like nothing he could say or do would make her back down.

“I think you know who I’m worried will keep you from coming back to me. To us.” Ronnie didn’t see things the same way as him at all; in her eyes they’d built all this together. Sure, he’d acquired the house and the money they had to live on. But their marriage, that was both of them. Making this house a home was hours of her own labor-intensive but loving work. And Lucy... well, Lucy had certainly been a joint effort.

But beneath all of it, she still had nightmares that he’d become the man he once was all over again. That the thrill of his old life would become irresistible at some point. That, eventually, life with his wife and daughter would start to pale in comparison to the adrenaline high of being the Joker.

“We both know He can always come back. And then what? Will Lucy and I be enough?” And, even as she looked up at him now, still resolute, there was an almost fixated look in her eyes as she imagined what it might have been like if he’d dragged her along on that thrill ride of crime instead of deciding to retire and settle down. It would have been terrifying, naturally, but also undeniably exciting. With that sort of feverish intensity in her expression it wouldn’t be too far off base to say that, just maybe, she was so worried because she could understand the desire to do something that breathtaking and exhilarating.

“Tell me. Tell me how you’d stop Him. Tell me that you love me too much to ever let it happen. Tell me what you’d do to anyone or anything that tried to keep us apart.” Or, boiled down and straight to the point: tell me enough so that I can feel the rush of that sort of danger without getting so close to the flame of it that it burns us all up. Tell me enough so I somehow paradoxically feel safe with you because you’re so innately dangerous.

[criminallysane]

The woman didn't know when to shut up. She just kept talking—Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me—until her words began to smear together in his mind. She sounded like the chanting of a crazed crowd, like the voices he'd imagined he could hear in the bowels of Arkham. She was his doctors, his mother, his Bat, his first wife, all of them so eager for him to do the same thing: Tell me.

With a snarl, he tossed her off of him by her forearm, just enough to get her away. He couldn't stand the heat of her palm against him. Couldn't stand the way she was looking at him. "Be quiet." His fingers remained splayed in mid-air for a moment, trembling slightly, as if he thought he might have to defend himself against her touch again... or, perhaps, strike her down.

"You and your demands. Your insecurities. Your ridiculous, stupid little fears." He glared at her and made himself lower his hand. He hated that he'd let her push him this far, but he was still too livid over what she'd said to make himself actually back down all the way. Who he was—who he'd been—was his business, not hers. He had chosen to retire the Joker, and he kept those impulses at bay. Not her. And the idea of her watching him every day, waiting for him to slip, even though in all these years, he never had, was so insulting, so smothering, that it made his lungs feel as if they were being physically squeezed. Living like this, he might as well still be in the Asylum.

The urge to just give in to it, to let her see the part of him she was apparently so afraid of, was nearly more than he could stand. Then, maybe, she'd understand how ridiculous it was for her to fear the influence of someone like Jonathan. The man she'd been afraid of didn't need an ally to summon him. He'd been right here waiting for her, all along.

George tried to call up memories of Ronnie that didn't make him see red: her cradling Lucy to her breast for the first time; her laughing as she danced on the dock; her on the beach at night, looking up at the stars. But none of those could quite erase the thought of her being on constant alert, certain in her belief that, at his core, he was as weak as her father.

She wasn't his goddamned caretaker, or protector, or savior. She was supposed to be his wife.

"You want to know the one person who could drive me away?" A wild look had begun to creep into his eyes; they were too bright by far, so angry they looked nearly manic. "It's not him, Ronnie. Oh, no! Not Jonathan, either." His upper lip curled in a faint display of disgust. "No, the only person who could ever come between you and me is you."

[madlove]

The way he suddenly flung her away was so unexpected that her reaction, wide-eyed and startled, might have been comical in another context. But Ronnie hadn’t won numerous gymnastics medals and trophies for nothing and, even in heels, it only backed her up a few furious steps before she took her balance back and steadied herself.

The most important part, though, was that she was looking at the man she was so afraid would destroy this sweet, idyllic life she and George had together. Or at least a glimmer of him. She’d never quite forgotten that face and could still see what he had looked like before all the work they’d done like a faint afterimage on the insides of her eyelids. All wild green hair and deadly white skin.

And it wasn’t too difficult to imagine his features morphing and returning to what she thought of as their ‘natural state.’

Still, there was something steely in her expression that didn’t fade, even in the face of his wrath. And she appeared to be willing to stare down even a homicidal clown. Because, in stark contrast to his thought process, Ronnie believed that as his wife she was also his caretaker and protector and savior. And his whatever else he needed her to be, even when he didn’t want her to be any of those things. He was there to protect and take care of her and Lucy, but it was a two-way street that he didn’t seem to be aware of.

There wasn’t any mistaking the flinch and hurt look in her eyes when he said she was the only thing that could come between them, though.

“Look in the mirror right now and tell me I’m being irrational.” Ronnie knew better than to poke an angry bear, but she’d always toed the line between knowing better and doing better. She reached out, clamping her own fingers around his hand, the one that had discarded her moments before, with an angry sound of her own in her throat. “You want me to just believe you’ll protect us but you can’t manage to reassure me when I ask you to tell me how? I’m to blame because I care too much about what happens to us? What kind of backward bullshit is that?”

Her other hand moved to dig her fingertips into the sides of his jaw, squeezing just enough to let him know that if he wanted to get rough she was willing to do the same.

“Wouldn’t you think I was a complete idiot if I didn’t make sure I remembered exactly the kind of man you were? If I wasn’t intelligent enough to know I should be afraid of him? If I acted like the new persona you’ve made for yourself is all you are?” The idea that he seemed angry at the idea that that man could still hold some power over their future, and that that scared her, seemed completely ludicrous. And was at odds with the idea he’d gotten that she thought of him as some weak hack of a criminal.

“I’m your wife. I want to know all of you. And I need to know all of you to know that I’m safe with you. Even the part of you that looks like you want to murder me.”

[criminallysane]

She grabbed his hand, and his stomach twisted. He didn't want her touching him. He didn't want her anywhere near him.

He began to turn his head, so that at least he could escape from the sight of her eyes locked onto him like that, but then her hand was on his jaw and there was nowhere left to go. His heartbeat quickened. Should he shove her away? Wrench himself free of her? The sour taste of fear rose in his throat, not for himself, but for what he might do to her.

And still she was talking, endlessly yapping. He'd hurt her feelings—anyone could see that—and she was going to punish him for it, ranting and rambling about what sounded to him like a whole lot of nothing. His mind tried to keep up with all the accusations she was making, none of which made any sense to him. Had he said she cared too much? Had he said she shouldn't remember who he'd been? He hadn't; he knew he hadn't. She was taking his words and twisting them around, and there was no room for him to shut her down and defend himself, or even explain. Doctor Ronnie was on a roll, and all he could do, short of physically shoving her away, was stand there and wait for her to pause for breath.

His own breaths were coming shallow and quick now, all those ancient lizard-brain instincts kicking in to prepare him for fight or flight or scream-at-the-wife. I want to know all of you, she was saying, and the Joker wanted, very badly, to show her how wrong she was about that.

He needed to calm her down. That was the only exit out of this mess. But to do so, he'd need to calm himself first. And how the hell was he supposed to manage that?

He looked down at his wife, forcing his gaze back to hers. His eyes looked completely unstable now, their green so vivid with rage that they seemed nearly neon. He loved Ronnie. He did. She was beautiful, brilliant, stubborn. She was a good mother to their daughter, and a good partner to him. But right now, with her ranting insecurities and neediness feeling like a physical entity wrapping itself around him, all he could think was: How have I put up with you for this long?

"You are safe with me." This came out as a snarl. "Because I keep him away from you." His hand turned against hers, so that his fingers could clamp shut around hers. "You want me to tell you it's easy? Not to break your fucking neck when you talk to me like this? It's not." He leaned in closer to her, his eyes locked on hers, and his voice regained some of its control, turning low and taut. "I don't ask you to forget that part of me. I don't ask you to be complacent about it. What I do ask—the only thing I ever ask—is that you trust me to manage it. Because I promise you, baby: I am the only one who can."

[madlove]

Even with his eyes being all wrong -- like flashing signs screaming Danger -- Ronnie's anger and frustration immediately guttered out in response to the words You are safe with me.

He'd already said as much in one form or another, but this time it was followed up by honest, no bullshit things like how difficult it was not to break her fucking neck and asking for her trust that only he could wrangle this side of him.

She loved George. He'd been her whole world until Lucy was born and then the two of them had made up everything that mattered the slightest bit to her. But she was also aware that George -- funny, boisterous, friendly, ye-old-family-man George -- wasn't just George. And this blatant honesty from him, this brief glimpse into what and who simmered beneath the facade of normalcy, did more to calm her nerves than was strictly rational.

The recognition of it, and seeing his restraint in action, made her fingers loosen on his jaw, even though her eyes never left his. Her hand on his wrist relaxed even as his squeezed hers. It was a gesture of surrender: I get it, baby, I understand..

"I'm sorry. You're right." It didn't feel like she was lying down and letting him steamroll her, simply that she wasn't going to continue to fight him when he was showing her more of himself than she'd seen in years. And because, strangely, she felt like she could understand what it was like to have inner demons and desires that didn't quite go away. She'd carried the burden of being abandoned by her father for years, angry and resentful. Ronnie knew she'd projected that onto George, expecting him to eventually do the same thing to her and Lucy. Not because he'd ever shown her any indication that he would, but because, well, history repeated itself, didn't it? It was unfair and wrong, especially now when she saw his past self trying to drown out everything that made him George and he still managed to restrain himself.

And, even more, she knew what it was like to feel a different, freer, more wild part of herself bubbling up right beneath her skin. Her boho skirts and granola-crunch lifestyle was beautiful, and she wouldn't have traded it for anything. But that didn't mean she didn't wonder what their life would have been like if they'd broken every rule that society imposed on them.

"I trust you. I do." How was she supposed to explain that all she wanted was for him to be happy? That she knew she got intense when she started feeling insecure without sounding overbearing all over again?

Running her thumb over his mouth, fingertip pressing against his lower lip, Ronnie murmured, "The last thing I ever want to do is push you away. Forgive me?"

[criminallysane]

There were two magic sentences in the world that, when uttered with sincerity, were capable of stopping his anger (and, more importantly, the Joker's) in its tracks. Ronnie had just offered him both of them in one fell swoop: You're right, and I trust you. And the effect was immediate.

George's entire expression shifted, his facial muscles and shoulders relaxing in unison as he exhaled. Her respect and her trust, that was all he needed. The fury in his eyes guttered out, and he was himself again, looking down at her with a combination of love and relief.

She'd made it easy for him, in the end. With her help, the storm had passed, and he once again hadn't hurt her. Thank Christ, he hadn't hurt her...

The pad of her thumb felt soft against his lips, and George kissed it gently, gratefully. He knew she must have been tempted to say more. She was, after all, a remarkably sharp little tack when she wanted to be; there must have been half a dozen things in what he'd said that she could have nitpicked if she'd chosen to. Instead, she was choosing to focus on the heart of what he was saying, and to be big enough to apologize first.

He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. "I love you." And from the bottom of his heart, he meant it. He loved her for stopping. He loved her for understanding. He loved her for daring to fight with him in the first place.

His other hand rose to catch hers, holding her in place for just a moment. "You're the only one who could put up with me. You know that." His head dipped, his lips moving to the inside of her wrist, right where the skin was thinnest. He pressed another, slower kiss against her, then smiled. "Let's get Little Britches fed and into bed. Then I'm going to remind you why you keep me around."

[madlove]

Ronnie feared his sharp tongue and the emotional damage he could cause more than any physical injury, even if, perhaps, that was misguided on her part. They’d fought, of course, over the years, and sometimes that meant that one or both of them said terrible things. But even when he’d had his hand clamped around her wrist, she hadn’t been worried that he’d take a swing or throw a punch at her.

Because she did, though her mind liked to play tricks on her sometimes, trust him. Even with that little voice that occasionally whispered in her ear that this was too good to last, she would have bet everything on George being a good husband to her and a good father to Lucy.

And any bruises or marks that might be left, well, those were the purely consensual kind that they both enjoyed.

Now, as his expression calmed and the rage that had seemed so broken-bottle sharp flickered out, Ronnie was smiling up at him like the past ten or fifteen minutes had been a simple detour. Even knowing that she’d tried to offer up a piece of herself that she didn’t talk about at all and had it shot down wasn’t about to keep her from calling a truce. It had been absurd to try to rationalize her reaction with something as cliche as Daddy Issues anyway. None of the people from that life even existed in this world.

There was the faintest catch to her breath when he kissed the inside of her wrist. “I love you, Mr. Tilyou.” And even as she said it, that beaming smile curved into something a little more wickedly playful as she pushed herself up to her tiptoes and caught his mouth with hers, lingering there before lowering herself back down with a wistful look.

She would, even with all her insecurities and worries, do absolutely anything for this man. Even if it meant Jonathan coming to visit. Even if it meant all his “past buddies” coming to stay for a long weekend. There were people who were worth any sacrifice; she’d just been unlucky enough not to know many of them before George.

“Lucy does turn into a hangry little monster when she’s not fed on time, doesn’t she?” Slipping her hand from her husband’s, and starting for the back door to call their daughter and Sno-cone inside, she added a not-quite stern, “She goes to bed on time tonight. No matter what bargains she tries to make with you.” Especially after the kind of promise he’d just made.

Then stopping in the doorway, she shot him a teasingly innocent look. “You should probably cook tonight if we want it to be edible.” Perfect: that was how he looked to her standing in their kitchen with the purples and pinks of the setting sun coming through the windows. And regardless of any clowns are scarecrows or bats this was how she always wanted to think of him.