“Yet they let your diabolical ass wear a wedding ring.” Somehow, someway, crushing a marshmallow pot of gold between his teeth is immaculate comedic timing in Joker’s mind. Unfortunately, his teeth are a few shades whiter than the stale Lucky Charm. No one’s allowed actual forks in this unit. Even Lackey has a spork in front of the sad yellow blob that the staff tries to pass off as scrambled eggs with ‘home fries’…whatever those are. Joker doesn’t make a face at his circumstantial companion’s plate, but mantles his forearms at the edge of the table and crosses his legs. Plimsolls aren’t comfortable. It hurts to flex his toes. At least there’s a window in the common room. Barred, of course, so the sunlight he can’t actually reach ghosts its fingers through his hair. Joker angles his head away from that phantom contact, suffers a pinch between his neck and shoulder, and forces a giggle to crawl out from behind clenched teeth. He lurches; grins in spite of the brine staining his sclera pink. Thick red branches fan towards his irises, painting a macabre lattice in the absence of his signature greasepaint.
Nurses chatter about their weekend — or evening plans, he doesn’t care to listen. The same sitcom plays over and over again. Joker’s about to campaign that they change the channel when the playground police traipses over to patronize Arkham’s famous patient. Her dark hair has been folded into a bun. Smart. Were he a disgruntled soul with a predilection for unprovoked violence, a ponytail would be his first grab. Joker tosses Lackey a sidelong glance, then grins from ear to ear when that nurse stops at their table. She has a clipboard clutched to her chest. Maybe she’ll beat him over the head with it. End it here.
“Good morning, Arthur!” her mousy greeting is just so practiced that he serves that superficial simper right back at her.
Joker dips his head all the way back so Arkham’s flood lights will drain what’s left of the life in him.
“Mornnnning…!” he mimics her tone, how broadly she holds her shoulders…though his teeth don’t align as nicely as hers. Someone’s got dental insurance and it isn’t him. Even Lackey’s got crooked bottom teeth.
She shouldn’t giggle at him so coquettishly, like she’s reconsidering her eHarmony profile with him around. Joker mirrors her smile. He even peppers her awkward silence with a chortle of his own.
“Wow…!” Is she blushing? Really? Was she raised in a McMansion in Scotch Hills? Probably. He’d make a face if it wasn’t rude. “Good energy today. I like it. How’s your first morning back in Level One?”
He shrugs, honeying his tone to appear no less babyish and blind as she, “It’s fine…” Then his attention trails towards the juice box. “Feels a little like a Gatorade commercial…” He lifts the cardboard carton to shake it from side to side, mumbling out the side of his mouth, “–if y’know what I’m sayin.” She thinks he’s joking…or brushing him off. Likely brushing him off. Joker mouths, “Need a straw.”
Single White Female isn’t even looking at him when she replies, “We’ll see how Dr. Kane feels about that, alright? Keep it up, Arthur.” Nurse touches the back of his shoulder. Joker clutches his spork so tight that his fist blanches.
“We sure will…!” he retorts three octaves too high, knowing exactly what that means. She hadn’t asked Lackey about his morning before trotting away. Joker twists, waits until she’s out of earshot, then turns back around to stage whisper, “Don’t worry, Lackey.” He lays a hand over his chest. “I care about the consistency of your hash browns.”
“ What hash browns? ” His palms are laid flat where his plate once was --- or was it? Fingers splay, as if to demonstrate; there is nothing left of the supposed full English in front of him. They must think it canny for him, somehow fitting; he isn’t of their ilk so he must be of one other. They don’t know how right they are, or might be, could be, were he of any actual physical presence. Who knows - perhaps he is. The allegory of his existence here is akin to that of a phantom, some cool breeze on the back Joker’s neck, a speck of dust upon his shoulder, or a shadow at the corner of his eye. Were he to ever look in the mirror again, he might find some duplicate reflection, Loki there like some of ghost in his haunt, gaunt and pallid and sternly staring this once-man back in the eye.
Reticent words passed betwixt figurative bars hold little charm, but perhaps something like a balm, comfort, vindication for a man so close to becoming utterly unhinged. The solace of another alike, with bloodstained knuckles and skin beneath his fingers, the death of guilt clung to his canines when he smiles. Joker is out of friends, and luck. But he has a game of checkers, and a juice box with no straw, and the unstable foundation of unlikely company. And it comes down to this - was the breakfast ever even there?
“ You know, ” Pondersome facade, one that ostensibly softer about its edges, but his eyes have lost none of their brittle steel. “ For a deranged maniac, you’ve apparently lost none of your charm. ” Pity over anything, thinks he, the false bravado that which comes with ostensible care for those who cannot care for themselves. Its a universal falsehood, Loki’s come to realise; where are the hurts? Peel back the skin to reveal the open wound and gaze, wide-eyed, soft lips, toxic commiseration that’s barely there, if indeed it is at all. The nurses with their bright faces, heels that crack upon the floor in the same way bones do under heel - Loki knows them all. Likely now that Joker does too, or will upon realisation if he hasn’t faced it yet. Loki’s fingers interlock, he hunkers over their abandoned game like a crow over his latest steal, a robber in his new-found hold - there’s something more valuable to vanish than a plate of hash browns. The lasting remnants of a human mind, however scattered it is already.
“ You’ll have to teach me your manners, ” His sigh is apparently self-pitying, or teased at the edges by mockery. “ No one sees me. ”