- - мy aяcнιvεs

[- - la nuit blanche]

Post Archives
for my reference.

'Cause sometimes I forget what I've written.

Do not post. Do not steal.
In fact, I'd prefer you didn't even read these.

So.
Shoo.

That means you too, Mint.
Creep.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Nestled closely against the breadth of the man’s chest, Camille was about an inch away from dozing off right then and there. Both arms huddled about his middle, purposefully squeezing her close against him, and her temple rested cozily beneath his chin. She still felt utterly dreadful and she’d probably never been quite so vulnerable or needy in front of the arrogant killer before, but at least for tonight, her pride took a backseat to her own fatigue and, admittedly, the notion that she’d feel better if she had someone to cuddle with.

And since she had that cozy source of comfort, it was very tempting to just let herself drift back to sleep. After all, if James hadn’t intervened with that evening snack, she’d probably still be quite pleasantly unconscious. But though she cooed a small yawn and let her eyes drift shut, she decided she wasn’t ready to fully abandon Bond for some more rest, not just yet. Something about him had changed, and Camille was catching on. She could hear something different in his voice now, something warm and meaningful. Even through her fever she was perceptive enough to notice that much. So after allowing one soft giggle at his quip concerning her childhood teddy bear – who still remained, quite conveniently, missing in action – the drowsy brunette tilted her chin to peer up into those handsome blues, and listened patiently to that risky admission of his mortality.

It’d have been an absolutely perfect time to tease the man. She suddenly had the higher ground, could humiliate him to pieces if she wanted. He was never so sentimental with her and now that his guard was down, Camille had the singular opportunity to sting him with all she had. But, she didn’t. The small smile his words received was not mocking, not sly, nor even the faintest bit insincere. And when he inched in to kiss her, a hand lifted to his jaw to hold him nearer just a second longer. She wanted that kiss to linger, wanted it to say the words she wasn’t brave enough to speak aloud on her own.

With the roughened tips of the man’s fingers rounding her cheek, the ailing woman tilted her head back to his shoulder and allowed a small whine of protest when Bond suggested she keep away from alcohol for a while. “It’s not that bad…” she argued softly. It wasn’t so much the prospect of not drinking that bothered her, but rather the idea that James was going to get too used to this ridiculous fussing. But even so, she had to hide a tiny grin against his collarbone; she did sort of like all the attention…

The only thing she clearly didn’t like about all this attentive supervision was that obnoxious knock at the door. Clinging to James as she was, she was anything but eager to let him out of her arms, even to go retrieve some much needed medication. With a tiny groan, she nestled stubbornly closer, turning her face into the crook of his neck until he finally persuaded her off of him. Trying to right the towel still tied about her, Camille reluctantly crawled from his lap and hid herself beneath the covers as James’ delivery boy entered. The damp, tattered towel was at last discarded, now that she was comfortably shielded by the blankets of the bed, to lay in a heap upon the floor and Camille snuggled in against the pillows.

When James returned – suddenly rather more formally clad than she was apparently allowed to be – the sleepy eyed girl sat up a little and scooped the pills from the man’s hand without any trouble. Somehow she was inclined to trust him, or at least to not throw any tantrums considering how awful she felt. So she guzzled down some water, murmured a small “thank you” and settled back down with the blankets up to her chin. Suddenly she was beginning to feel that cool clamminess set in from the fever and she trembled and shivered, despite the fact that she was burning all over. Fortunately that first pill quickly did away with all the weary aches and pains that came with her fever, and the second lulled her into a deep sleep.

She woke up of her own accord a few hours before dawn, just as the fever was finally beginning to break, to find James keeping watch dutifully by her side, dabbing a cool cloth over her brow and neck. He couldn’t have slept all night and Camille suddenly felt guilty for keeping him up, especially now that she was feeling a little better. With a sleepy groan, she lifted herself up onto her elbows and reached for James’ hand. “I don’t think I need this anymore,” she murmured, gingerly taking the cloth and setting it aside. His hand, however, was not given up so easily. She tugged his arm around herself, scooting over beneath the covers and turning until James was coaxed into settling upon the mattress at her back. With his hand still firmly taken captive, tied into her own and cuddled just beneath her chin, she waited until he was comfortably spooned around her then breathed a contented sigh. “I need this much more,” she confessed, smiling a little to herself as her eyes drooped closed again.

“You’ll always be here, won’t you?” she asked after a small pause. Her voice was still laden with fatigue and the drowsiness that came with that sedative was still a long way from wearing off, but her childish question sounded completely viable in her mind. Her fingers combed idly through his, if only to occupy herself so she didn’t fall back asleep right away. “To take care of me?” she added, suppressing a yawn as she nestled her cheek back against the pillow. “I don’t want to be taken away from you again…” By now her voice was no more than a sleepy murmur, the juvenile rambling of someone who was either half asleep or slightly intoxicated, but there was meaning behind those words yet. Even in her tired mind, she still recalled the day she and James had been parted, when the director had locked her away to be taken home to the city, while his dogs descended on Bond without mercy or jurisdiction. It was an awful thing to be dragged away from something she needed so much.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Gemma was still shuffling irritably through the dirt, eyes downcast, hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans, when she saw, only out of the corner of her eye, that her mother had stopped walking. Mrs. Doyle was standing quite still, peering into the mass of merchants, traders, and photo-snapping tourists, looking directly towards an unfamiliar Indian man. For an instant, Gemma’s breath caught in her chest. The young man had the same dark eyes, the same exquisite, long lashes of the boy that appeared to her in her dreams, the boy she expected to be nothing more than a made-up infatuation. But this man, he wasn’t the one she was looking for – he was too tall, a few years too old, and his lips, though full and attractive, were not the same ones she sometimes dreamt of kissing. Gemma’s heart fell and her gaze wandered dejectedly back to her mother…

Who was still staring straight into the eyes of that same dark-featured male… Gemma’s eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened when she saw the Indian man headed towards her, swiftly closing the distance between himself and her mother with powerful, athletic strides. There was recognition of Mrs. Doyle’s eyes, and she seemed attentive, not disturbed, when the unfamiliar man leaned in to whisper a furious warning in her ear. Then the dark-skinned Indian pulled away, revealing a handsome youth that was dragged along by his side. Gemma recognized that boy immediately. It was him. For the briefest moment, her eyes found his and she swore her heart stopped. Beautiful russet spheres, fringed in gorgeous black, stared straight back into her face, with the same desperate familiarity and frantic excitement that glinted in Gemma’s own eerie emeralds. It was him, and he knew her. Precisely as she knew him.

In furious exhilaration, Gemma bolted to go after the boy and his elder brother, gasping an impulsive “Wait!” But she didn’t make it more than two paces into the mass of people before her mother reached for her, catching her by the cloth of her ivory half-sari.

“Gemma, we must go now. We’re going home, we’ll visit Mrs. Croft at another time…”

Gemma turned, lips set in full-pout as Mrs. Doyle held her firmly back. “You go find a taxi and get yourself home…” her mother firmly instructed. The severity of the helpless demand was somewhat lessened by the obvious fear in the woman’s voice. When Gemma looked up into the jade eyes that mirrored her own, she noticed her mother’s lovely face to be absolutely pale, her gaze frightened, glancing erratically this way and that, as if in search of something terrible. “I’ll follow in a little while.”

But despite the emphatic worry in Mrs. Doyle’s voice, her daughter stubbornly shook her head and wrenched out of her arms. She glanced back to where the Indian boy had been, but he was long gone now. “No, I want to come with you,” she asserted, looking towards her mother once more. “Who was that man? What did he tell you? Mother, what’s wrong?” There was something she knew her mother was keeping from her, and Gemma wasn’t pleased by it one bit. “You’re hiding something from me…” Her voice was hurt, pathetic, and still notably whiny, but Mrs. Doyle frantically shook her head, still absently looking about.

“Enough, Gemma!” she barked, her tone so hysterically severe that the girl jumped a little. But Virginia paused a moment then, exhaling a quaking sigh and drawing her hands up to the pendant about her neck. The piece of jewelry was unfastened then lowered over Gemma’s head. “Look, sweetheart, you can wear my necklace. I know you’ve always admired it. Now for once, Gemma… For once, do as I say. I’m not hiding anything… Just go home, like I told you.” She was trying hard to steady her voice, to keep the sheer terror out of her expression, but Gemma wasn’t fooled for an instant. She knew her mother was lying to her, trying to placate her, like she was some stupid infant, with a shiny trinket. So she’d get out of the way, leave her alone, and scurry home in obedience, as if she was totally unaware of her own mother’s deceit.

As her betrayed fury began to mount, Gemma spat out the most searing, hateful words she could think of: “I hate you…”

Before the hurt could register upon her mother’s face, the spiteful adolescent turned away and ran. And then it began to rain. Large tears from the sky stained her jeans a darker blue and began leaving splotches of her light-hued sari near transparent. And then her own tears began to come. Almost at once Gemma regretted her nasty behavior, but when she turned back in the direction of where she thought her mother ought to be, there was no sight of those long golden-red curls. In fact, nothing immediately surrounding her looked at all familiar. She’d run off in such haste that she didn’t care where she ended up, and now she’d gotten herself lost. And it was beginning to rain harder.

“Great job, Gem,” she thought to herself bitterly. “Now you're lost, Mom’s most definitely going to ground you, and there’s no way you’ll ever be allowed on that trip to London with Grandma. Happy birthday.”

Whirling around, those green eyes searched for something she might vaguely recognize, some landmark that would lead her to safety. Or at least somewhere dry. All the marketplace was in a fury now as people dashed for cover from the rain, protecting their goods from the bad weather with hastily smoothed tarps and blankets. Gemma slipped and staggered through the mud, finally spying an alleyway that should lead her back towards home or else – hopefully – towards a main street where she might find a taxi. But as soon as she started through the narrow path, Gemma was jerked to a halt. Something had grabbed her, something that made her fingertips tingle and her stomach churn. Suddenly weakened, she stumbled to lean heavily against one of the surrounding walls. Her vision was starting to blur. It was getting hard to breath. Pressure, a horrible, foreign, painful pressure, seized her, shoved the last shreds of air from her lungs, and she fell to her knees.

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Evey felt her adrenaline surge and her heart race as the masked man spoke once more. She hung upon his every word and realized, as she had a number of times before, how much she’d missed the sound of his voice. Her fingers, almost childlike, continued restlessly to knead around his and she looked dotingly up into his half-masked face, suppressing the ecstatic, overwrought tears that threatened in her eyes. Joy, relief, and the warmest contentment washed over her like a tidal wave as she stood again within his grasp. It was true that they’d once been parted for much longer a time – and that separation was all her own doing – but these two brief months past might as well have been a lifetime, and left Evey infinitely traumatized because the whole world presumed, knew, that V was dead and gone. Evey could still remember what it was like to lose her brother, her parents, and yet one never grew accustomed to that kind of injury, the loss of one so beloved. For days after that fateful November the 4th, she huddled in depressed seclusion within the Shadow Gallery, scarcely able even to eat. And how she’d wept. Her sobs ought to have been heard throughout all of sprawling London above, but she remained bitterly alone in her grief.

“I fell in love with you, Evey,” her masked champion had told her upon that final night. She could still remember the precise intonations of his voice, and how quietly astonished she’d been to hear those words. And then, despite her plea for him not to leave her, the heaving of his chest slowed, the puffs of ragged breath through his mask paused, and he was gone. And she’d never had the chance, or perhaps even the courage, to confess that she loved him too, so dearly, and so deeply. She’d begged him to go away with her earlier that night, before he disappeared into those bleak underground tunnels – that was perhaps when she first realized the significance of her feelings for him – but she never spoke the word “love,” not once, not even as he drew his last breath. And he’d deserved to hear it. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of times, until the man who had been so brutally mistreated and isolated from the rest of the world was quite aware that there was a young woman who adored him, and that she could never be more grateful for all that he’d given her.

Living even just those two months with the knowledge that her dearest friend had died without ever hearing her say that she loved him… God, it was worse than everything else, all of it. Worse than the torture he’d inflicted to make her find truth, worse than the chaos that followed in the world around her, worse than the loneliness she felt as she struggled to make a positive change, to do as he might’ve wanted. But it seemed that second chances were indeed sometimes granted, and as V gently apologized for hiding from her, explained that he only did so because he couldn’t hurt her again, Evey made a quiet vow to that she wouldn’t let herself lose him again, and never, never before he knew how dearly she cared for him.

But for now, it was time for business. With the warm, consoling touch of his hand along her waist, Evey listened to his proposal – that she help him bring into office “the only one suitable for the job.” “Mr. Finch,” she murmured with a pensive nod, eyes lowering from his if only in thought. It was certainly a worthy endeavor. While Evey tried, and with some success, to right a good many of the wrongs left in the wake of the Norsefire regime, all would be for naught if another corrupt politician came to follow in Suttler’s footsteps. All of her work, then, would be undone, and infinitely more difficult to reconstruct. No, V was right. Mr. Finch was the only hope for a proper administration, and all other efforts would be wasted if he wasn’t elected.

As V politely withdrew his hands from her, Evey nibbled at her lip in thought, as though she was already plotting. “Of course, I’ll help,” she acknowledged quietly, finding that the statement tasted a little redundant. It was a given that she’d submit her all for him, especially now that he’d returned. She was still so blissfully elated by his presence; she wondered if he could even offer a request to which she would not acquiesce.

And then he said he was proud of her, and the young woman felt a rushing tingle of gratification flow through her. She gave a tentative grin and stepped back up to his side, surveying the towers of books along with him, trying to determine which title in particular caught is gaze. “I’m glad you approve,” she admitted, trying to suppress the tiny amount of conceit that veiled her smile. Yes, she was a little proud of herself too. A little more than a year ago, she’d been so afraid of everything, so apathetic to the faults of the world and with no interest in forcing any sort of change. And just look at her now… Not that she could take more than a fraction of the credit, of course. It was V’s influence that led her to these good deeds, and it was his pride in her that mattered most.

Evey’s eyes, the same golden brown they’d always been, looked steadily through the dim light, sweeping around the room until they settled upon a new stack of books. This pillar was much more diminutive than the others that hung about the walls, some scraping the ceiling, but the particular pile in question held a special significance for Evey. It consisted of the most prized books she’d retrieved from the censors, stored here, where it was safe, until they found their rightful home in the museums of the world above. Many were first editions, fragile and aged – it was a miracle they’d survived Suttler’s mistreatment at all. There were a few copies of Shakespeare’s plays – Twelfth Night still retained a special place in her heart – an antique volume of the poetry of William Blake, three volumes of Emerson’s essays, all with gold-leafed pages, and countless others. Evey smiled approvingly at this addition to V’s library – other newly retrieved masterpieces were integrated into his personal collections about the Gallery, from paintings and tapestries to small statuettes. But little else about the place had been altered. Evey always wanted it to remain precisely as V would’ve wanted it.

“You know, I almost didn’t recognize you without your old mask,” she murmured at last, glancing up into V’s face with an inquisitive smile. “But I like this…” Tentatively lifting her hands, she trailed each set of careful fingertips down the bared, appropriate “v” of his uncovered jawline, skin that had always been dutifully hidden beneath this half-mask’s predecessor. Routinely applied make up maintained a sort of second skin, locking away old burn scars and the real flesh of the man she loved, but Evey seemed undeterred. Finally she could see a pair of lips that could smile – without the help of Fawkes’ ever-present grin – lips that would be warm and responsive the next time she risked a kiss…

But, not just yet. With a shy, breathy laugh, Evey lowered her hands back down and clasped them behind her back. The desire to nestle a little closer to him, to seek out the embrace she’d only ever felt once or twice, continued with mounting frustration, but Evey had become a girl of patience and will-power, and she wouldn’t risk embarrassing her hero with what may be interpreted as ill-timed affection. So, she searched for a distraction, stepping back a fraction and lowering her eyes aside. “It must be quite late…” she mused softly. “Are you tired? Is there anything I can get you?” It seemed sort of silly, to be treating V as a guest in his own home, but Evey wanted to be sure he found a warm welcome here and knew how he’d been missed. Evey herself was feeling a bit fatigued, having been roused mid-sleep, but she’d have no rest until she was certain her host was content. “I’ve kept your room as it’s always been, if you’d like to rest,” she offered. Indeed, she hadn’t moved a thing within that room, and she consistently refrained from snooping about, affording V some privacy even if he was never expected to come back. She entered only to keep things clean and dust-free, and to freshen the vase of roses she’d began placing at his bedside table, every morning since the day he was taken from her.

[- - la nuit blanche]

At eight ‘o clock, bright and early, Vivienne Champney woke to the abrupt buzzing of her cell phone, vibrating it’s morning alarm on her bedside table. With a soft grunt of protest, she reached over to turn it off, then sat up in bed. Immediately she hissed in pain and drew a hand to her forehead as a familiar throbbing seared through her temples. Her vision was hazy, she felt completely disoriented in general, and her body ached all over. They were the all too recognizable symptoms of a bad hangover. Sighing heavily, the brunette therapist rubbed at her eyes then gingerly shifted herself to sit at the edge of the mattress. She felt quite chilly as she pushed away the covers, and upon glancing down, she noticed why. Without a scrap of clothing upon her, she presumed the happenings of the evening before -- events she couldn’t very well remember due to the amount of alcohol she’d evidently consumed that night. Warily peering over her shoulder, her suspicions were verified. Beneath the pristine sheets of her bed was the form of another. A man. One whose face she sort of recognized, and whose name she was sure she knew the night before. It was lost on her now.

Instantly tearing the top sheet from the bed, Vivienne wrapped herself up in it then leaned over to nudge the man’s shoulder. He gave a quiet groan then lifted his disheveled head from the pillow and squinted up at her. He mumbled something that sounded like a vague “good morning” but Vivienne had already turned away, starting towards the door to the master bathroom. “I’m going to work. You should leave.” Without even glancing back at him, she walked into the spacious bathroom and closed the door behind her, locking it after brief consideration. She didn’t want him to follow her, and yet she guessed he wouldn’t. The poor man would gather his clothes and dress, trying to remember the night that had passed and the less than hospitable woman he’d spent it with, then he’d escort himself out of the apartment like all the others. It was always the same. A different, faceless man, a different drink maybe, but the awkward morning-after routine never changed.

Vivienne knew it wasn’t well, good. She shouldn’t drink so much. And it was even worse when she went out to get drunk. She fell in love with the first man to buy her next cocktail, and what seemed like a good idea at the time became a mist of strange memories and silent regrets in the morning. She knew what her problem was. She was upset, vulnerable, depressed, even angry. At herself, at the world. But none of it mattered when she drank. She was able to forget, to relax. And if she could get a night of decent sex out of it, maybe once every month or so, well, that was something of a perk. But everything was always the same when the sun came back up.

After a searing hot shower and a strong cup of coffee, Vivienne tugged on a pair of jeans, black boots, and a black blouse. Rubbing the remaining sleep out of her eyes, she started down the hall of her luxurious and well-equipped apartment to make her journey to work. On her way though, she paused abruptly at a door that was pushed slightly ajar. This was strange because this particular door was always closed. More than likely, she thought, her forgotten visitor had accidentally opened it on his way out. Stupid b*****d. Through the half-open door, Vivienne was forced to lay eyes upon a lovely, perfect nursery. The walls were painted white and blue to resemble the sky, accented by puffy clouds, and a pastel pink crib was placed opposite the door. The little bed was filled with the softest teddy bears and cozy, quilted baby blankets. Above the crib upon the wall hung six letters: R-O-S-L-Y-N. Roslyn. That would’ve been the baby’s name. Had she lived long enough to merit one.

Before her heart could begin breaking all over again, Vivienne slammed the door shut and strode out of the apartment, fumbling for a cigarette from her handbag as she went.

By ten ‘o clock that morning, Vivienne was walking through the heavy doors of Arkham Asylum. Every time she passed that threshold, she remembered her first day there as an inexperienced, enthusiastic intern. Her superior at the time, a Doctor Joan Leland, had greeted her there at that door. She asked Vivienne of her motives, why she cared to work at the infamous asylum, to which Vivienne had explained quite sincerely, “I want to help people." God, how trite. "These people can’t be happy… I want to help them. I want to understand them, to know who they really are.” Dr. Leland had smiled a little grimly and cautioned her, “You shouldn’t get too close though, you know. Some say insanity is contagious.”

“Insanity is contagious.” Maybe she was finally catching the disease.

At twenty-nine years old, she’d been working there a few good, rigorous years. And she felt like maybe it was beginning to take it’s toll on her. Or maybe that was just how her life had gone. Her brother being killed, her fiancé up and leaving, the miscarriage… Either way, she wondered how long it would be before she was crossed into Arkham as a patient, not a doctor. She could already feel herself beginning to lose it. The motives she’d valued so highly at the beginning of her career were beginning to ebb away. She didn’t care about making anyone else happy now. She didn’t care who these people were, how they felt, what they thought. It was all just a job now. Even further, she’d grown increasingly cruel since she lost the baby -- a severely traumatic event that had become well-known by doctors and patients alike around the asylum. She no longer socialized with her fellow therapists and she was downright malicious when it came to her patients. And if they dared to mock her current misery, well, Vivienne wasn’t one to hold back. And if one of the psychos turned up with a black eye or a bruise or two, no one bothered to question it. No one seemed to question anything Dr. Champney did. At this point, they all preferred to keep their distance.

Today, especially, was one of the days when the other doctors knew better than to hassle Vivienne about even the most trivial sort of issue. Her eyes were dark, rimmed in red, and she walked down the halls with a clear “don’t ******** with me” look about her. The intern who scurried up to her on her way to her office surely feared for his life. “Uh, Miss Champney? You have a… a new assignment. The Batman returned the, uh, the Joker to Arkham last night. Dr. Leland thinks you should be able to, er, to handle him.” After passing the brunette a clipboard of forms and records, the young man flushed beneath a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and hastily scuttled off again.

Without a word, Vivienne turned away with the clipboard and flipped through the notes Leland had left her. She’d never worked with the Joker before. Truth be told, she’d never been allowed to. After her policeman brother had been killed during the endeavors of one of the maniac’s former schemes, Vivienne had been told to keep her distance from the Joker. Things weren’t allowed to be so personal. But competent doctors were getting hard to come by these days, and it was even more difficult to find one who could manage a high profile criminal like the Joker. Vivienne supposed that Leland had simply run out of options, so the chore was forced onto her. No matter. He’d be just like all the rest. A few good drugs and a bit of electroshock therapy would straighten him out, if he proved to make a nuisance of himself.

Apparently the Joker was already settled into his cell, cozying up to a nice straight jacket no doubt. Maybe even strapped to his bed. When Vivienne entered however, the two armed guards standing just within the door came as a surprise. She supposed they were just keeping an eye on him until she arrived, but as she settled down in a nearby chair and the two men still refused to budge, Vivienne started to get a little annoyed. She’d never be able to proceed her work… freely, if she was being watched. Glancing back at the pair, she narrowed her eyes a little. “You can go now,” she informed them quietly, though there was a definite edge to her voice. One of them protested but before he could explain himself further, Vivienne’s eyes flared. “I said, leave!” After exchanging nervous glances, the two shuffled quietly out of the room and closed the door behind them. Feeling far more at ease now, Vivienne shifted to sit herself backwards on the chair, straddling it and resting her arms atop the wooden backing. She peered across the room at her new patient quietly, an almost sadistic smile creasing her ruby-tinted lips.

“So. Jack. Isn’t it?” she inquired. Yes, the infamous Joker had a name. It said right there in her notes. She wondered what sort of past he’d invent to go along with it.

иeuяosıs ıs øиɭy
a ѕuвsτıτuτe
{ғ o я} legıτıмaτe
suғғeяїng.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Vivienne was almost… delighted, perhaps, by how comfortable she felt once those stocky guards had shuffled away, lending her a bit of privacy and a chance for some quality time with the notorious man before her. One would suppose that a pretty young woman might feel significantly less at ease once locked in a room with a psychopathic killer, but Vivienne… Well, somehow she felt almost at home like this. Without the eyes of all those other doctors on her, with the pressures of the real world locked away outside... She found a kind of safety there, and as she peered inquisitively into the painted face of her newest patient, her demeanor relaxed a little. A coy sort of interest came into her stormy eyes and she proceeded to attentively evaluate the nutjob across from her, really looking at him for the first time.

The make up was something of a surprise. She thought the other doctors would’ve made sure he was deprived of it, if only to flex a bit of muscle. He must’ve smuggled it in somehow, hid it somewhere within his cell. Not that Vivienne had any intention of finding it. Let the boy keep his fingerpaints, she thought. Besides, that painted smile sort of amused her. With all the tiresome agony of her wretched little life, she could use a clown to laugh at.

And laugh she did. When the man she called Jack crooned a bold, romantic little advance in her direction, the icy doctor allowed herself a breathy snicker. The sound was melodic and pointedly amused, but sharply mocking in its subtle disdain. She wasn’t just laughing at his words; she was laughing at him. “Are you flirting with me…” She paused there a moment, tasting his supposed name on her tongue before letting it spill out once again. Just to tick him off. “…Jack?” Leaning her weight forward, she tilted the chair onto its two back legs and balanced it there as she perched her chin in one manicured hand. Those intelligent, searching eyes didn’t leave his face for a second and she seemed somewhat less than intimidated as the leaning tilt of her chair brought her within a mere breath of him. If he lifted his cuffed hands quick enough, he could probably snatch at her throat, break her neck in an instant. But then, where would that get him? Those bulky morons would trot back in, give him what for, and he’d be stuck with a new doctor by the next morning -- probably some unattractive, doddering old fool, or some airhead bimbo who would never challenge him. No, Vivienne doubted he’d attempt anything so boorish. She was his shiny new toy, and she wasn’t scared of him.

With another graceful alteration of her weight, she brought the chair back onto all four legs then tugged a cigarette and lighter from the pocket of her pasty white doctor’s coat. Once it was set smoldering, she passed the cigarette between her rouged lips and exhaled a wisp of smoke, straight into Mr. Napier’s painted face. “Sorry,” she added with an indulgent smirk. “I’d rather not date the man who killed my little brother. A girl should have her principles, you know.” The cigarette was flicked between two slim fingers as the young woman tossed her clipboard of notes and annotations to the floor. It landed with a sharp clatter, a noise that might’ve made one of them jump, if either were a bit more prone to shock. Though somehow Vivienne guessed neither she nor her dear little patient could be quite so easily startled. What a pair they would make.

“He was a policeman, or was training to become one,” the doctor elaborated casually. “Had the misfortune to be driving one of those cop cars you saw fit to blow up. But don’t worry. I don’t like to hold grudges.” With a wry smile, the slim brunette nibbled her lower lip and gave a little shrug. “Besides, that was ages ago… So much has happened since then...” More recent tragedies dulled the pain of her brother’s death and by now, Vivienne felt almost numb to it all. Thank God. How would she have any fun if she remained so openly miserable all the time?

“So…” she purred after a time, taking another long drag from that sobering cigarette. “You know all about me now… Why don’t you tell me something about you? That’s usually how these little playdates are supposed to go…”

иeuяosıs ıs øиɭy
a ѕuвsτıτuτe
{ғ o я} legıτıмaτe
suғғeяїng.

[- - la nuit blanche]

The soft movement of the madman’s hands did not go unnoticed by the seemingly frigid therapist. Neither did the peculiar warmth that smoldered in his dark eyes, nor the way he’d instantly addressed her by name despite her lack of personal introduction. There was little that slipped past Vivienne’s notice. While she may have only remained in this business for the ample paycheck and a number of other questionable reasons, she was still a diligent doctor and a notably intelligent woman. She took in everything. And while that clipboard, with all its useless documents and tiresome scrolls of medical formalities, had been abandoned aside, the shrewd young woman was hard at work scribbling all over the notepad in her mind. Because the Joker, Jack, whatever he wanted to be called, was interesting to her. He intrigued her, distracted her, and it was exciting. For the first time in a long while, she actually found herself caring – well, no, not caring, really – but found herself interested in the man, the persona, the mind she was employed to inspect. The way he looked at her… There was a sort of lusty tenderness there, and it almost made her blush. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t allow herself such honesty. Not with this one. Not yet.

In fact, despite her surprising concern for this new case, she seemed quite bent on feigning utter disinterest. She sighed quiet streams of smoke from her cigarette and lazily propped her cheek in one hand, appearing not the least bit vexed when the man plainly refused her request that he start talking about himself now. As if she really expected it’d be that easy… Her superiors would want some report of the man’s history. Probably some tragic tale of how he was beaten as a child, how some long-lost lover left him shattered and heartbroken, how he once witnessed a kitten getting crushed by a car and promptly went insane – anything to explain away his obvious lunacy. But Vivienne didn’t think for a minute that she’d actually get such a story. The man wasn’t stupid, nor was he easy, and intriguing as he might be, she knew that the idea of “curing” him, as if he were any other commonplace loon, was an entirely ridiculous notion, and a waste of her time.

How long was this session supposed to last again?

With a weary sigh, the doctor glanced down towards her watch, but her eyes flicked away before they could even register the position of those two silver hands. As the Joker went on, past his affirmation that he’d not be revealing the juicy details of his personal history just yet, Vivienne’s gaze was brought back to him, and the ruse that she was uninterested in what he had to say was promptly shattered with the sharp, delighted attention of her eyes. She even smiled. A surprised, curious little grin that was followed by another sweet laugh and a pause of astonished silence. Sex. How was she to respond to that? A proper doctor, when conducting an interview with a clearly deranged patient, would politely object to any such suggestion, would hastily attempt to change to subject and rebuild some wall of propriety. But Vivienne was… disinclined, to act so tamely.

“You’re not a very… subtle man, are you, Mr. Napier?” she questioned pensively. That inquisitive smile still lingered as she brought her cigarette back to her lips for one more lengthy drag, but this time when she drew it away, she daringly reached it towards her client, offering it considerately up towards his painted mouth. She wondered briefly if he’d try to snap at her, gnaw off her hand like one of the other loons might. But she suspected not. This fellow wasn’t like the others and she felt an instant understanding between them. Not that she was about to become complacent, or even a little too comfortable. Jack wouldn’t be let an inch off his leash with her.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t find the patients’ cots very comfortable here at Arkham, so I won’t be leaping into bed with you anytime soon.” With a coy smirk, she stood from her seat and meandered idly about the room, as if to stretch her legs only because poor Jack had to remain sequestered in that uncomfortable chair. And then she quietly added, beneath her breath but perfectly loud enough to be heard, “As if you could tempt me.” The bitter, stinging snub was murmured just as the woman wandered in a languid circle to the Joker’s back and she smiled quietly to herself as she considered how he’d respond. Not that she was finished, not just yet.

“So…” The word came as a bored sigh and as she rounded about the man’s shoulder, she crossed her arms over her chest and contemplatively eyed the stark walls, as if they were far more interesting than this tedious clown could ever be. “How’d you get those awful scars?”

иeuяosıs ıs øиɭy
a ѕuвsτıτuτe
{ғ o я} legıτıмaτe
suғғeяїng.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Vivienne was sorely tempted to scold the man for his continuing advances – she never really liked being hit on, and especially not by Arkham’s psychos – but something stopped her, even as her hand itched to slap the lingering grin off the Joker’s scarred face. She was too surprised, maybe, to react as she might’ve liked to. Too surprised by how… normal, he sounded just then. His voice was even, his demeanor relaxed; he smoked the gifted cigarette and flirted as any other confident man might. In fact, ever since she’d entered the room he’d been acting relatively sane, and charmingly good-natured. She could only hope that things would get more interesting now that she’d provoked a new story about his scars.

Standing near by the man’s shoulder, the doctor listened as he wove his tale, eyes glinting with patient interest. And then she huffed a small, disappointed sigh and pouted like a little girl who’d just been denied a promised piece of candy. “That’s not a very interesting story, Jay…” Champney chided quietly. Stepping back to her empty chair, she twirled it to face the man then sat down properly, crossing one slender leg over the other. The toe of her boot rested only inches from the madman’s knee; there was little distance left between them now, but Vivienne didn’t seem to mind. However, as that childish pout lingered, it was clear that she was not especially pleased with the direction of their conversation, and whatever playful banter she’d been enjoying with him before was promptly shoved to the back of her mind, and momentarily forgotten. He was lying to her, and while of course she knew that he would, his uncreative tale came as a frustrating disappointment. “You could’ve told me that story about your awful father. Or the one with the girlfriend who left you – that’s my favorite.” Perplexed and still a little thwarted, Vivienne crossed her arms over her stomach and slouched back in her chair.

“I knew you wouldn’t give me the truth…” she clarified, her voice softening to an almost uncharacteristic tone of sincerity. Her eyes lowered from his, slipping away to rest upon the discarded cigarette near the man’s foot, and she appeared genuinely let down, as if she were really, truly interested in the events that left him so disfigured. Mostly she just wanted to know what he suffered, wanted to hear how he’d managed to endure it. Because her own pain was becoming so damn hard to cope with. And if there was anyone who might be able to mentor her in the art of suffering, perhaps it could be him.

Her eyes swiftly rose back to his and she straightened a little in her chair. That moment of honesty was gone now, and the doctor returned back to herself. “I don’t care what you do around the other therapists, and I won’t bother having anyone search your room, but with me – no make-up.” The command was given with a poised smirk and the woman tilted her head slightly as she peered into the Joker’s face. Her gaze searched his reddened mouth, the paled cheeks, trying hard to see what was messily hidden beneath all that paint. “I just can’t take you seriously,” – she vaguely flourished one hand to indicate the smears of red, white, and black – “like this…” Her voice was kept even and calm, as if her order was only a gentle request, but the way her eyes glittered… It was clear that she was enjoying this, demonstrating her power over him. She wasn’t really distracted by the clown’s make-up. There wasn’t any psychological reason she wanted him to take it off. She just wanted to get under his skin. Make him squirm.

Dipping a manicured hand into the pocket of her coat, she withdrew a white handkerchief and scooted her chair forward, towards his. As the piece of cloth was dangled before his face, Vivienne wet her lips and offered an eager sort of smile. “Now, either you can be a good boy and take care of this yourself…” she purred. “Or you can make do it for you. Your choice.”

иeuяosıs ıs øиɭy
a ѕuвsτıτuτe
{ғ o я} legıτıмaτe
suғғeяїng.

[- - la nuit blanche]

When Isabelle’s father departed for a dinner party that evening, he offered his daughter at least a dozen suggestions concerning the manner in which she might spend her night. Monsieur Beaumont thoughtfully proposed that she might practice her hand at the piano forte, or perhaps tidy up things in the cottage’s cluttered kitchen. Then the man, an older though not bad looking fellow, tentatively rubbed his scruffy chin and cleared his throat, “Or you could go pay a visit to Monsieur Paradis…” Isabelle’s father concluded gently. This was obviously the most risky of his proposals so far and Beaumont eyed his daughter warily as she looked up. “He’s a nice young man, isn’t he?” Monsieur Beaumont added hastily, buttoning up his coat and setting an appreciably worn top hat upon his head. “All the other girls seem to like him… Though everyone knows he only has eyes for you, Isa.” With a soft chuckle, he looked back to the young girl. She watched him quietly as he spoke, listened very attentively, but when their eyes met and Monsieur Beaumont awaited her answer, she simply smiled and gave a small shrug of her shoulders.

“Maybe,” she answered simply. This, as her father knew quiet well, meant that she would, politely, not be going off to visit the debonair Monsieur Paradis, no matter how many eyes he might set on her. Isabelle had no interest in such men. Besides, she already had plans for her evening. “But I’m going to be quite busy tonight, Papa,” the petite brunette explained with an impish smile. “The library had a new shipment of books delivered today. Monsieur Laurent told me I could borrow as many as I like.” From beside the armchair where she sat by the fire, Isabelle pulled a stack of secondhand novels into her lap and her grin broadened excitedly. Her father returned her smile, seeming only somewhat less enthusiastic about the girl’s voracious appetite for advanced literature, and at last relented with a sigh. As much as he’d like her to go pursue a successful man like Monsieur Paradis – Beaumont knew he couldn’t support her forever, and he was desperate to see her protected and provided for – Isabelle was a headstrong girl, gentle though she was, and her father knew better than to argue. After pressing a kiss to her dark hair, he left her to her books and exited the cozy cottage to journey off to his dinner engagement.

As soon as she had one of her new stories set open upon her lap, all notions of time fled Isabelle’s mind. She was transported to the mythical lands of her books, to wield a sword on the front lines of some desperate battle, to raid an enemy ship alongside a swarm of salty buccaneers, or to be carried off by a handsome prince who’d just saved her from some monstrous villain. Her imagination ran quite rampant and it was only as an old grandfather clock struck midnight, and rather noisily at that, that Isabelle realized how long she’d been reading, and therefore completely deaf to all the other happenings of the world.

Peering inquisitively into the face of the clock, the young girl wondered, if it was so late, why her father had not yet returned. Usually he didn’t enjoy the pretentious pomp of those evening parties. He hated them so much that Isabelle was never allowed to attend with him; he cherished Isabelle above all else and feared that the sly aristocrats of society would corrupt his daughter. Generally he was more than eager to get away from them himself as soon as he could.

Almost instantly, Isabelle began to worry. Her father’s health was not at its best this time of year, and he’d never been the most talented horseman. What if he’d fallen on his ride home? But then again, Isabelle knew that more than likely, her papa had simply allowed himself a drop too much cognac and misplaced himself after leaving the party. It wouldn’t be the first time he wandered off, but he was never too difficult to find.

Draping a velvet cloak about her slight frame, Isabelle laced up her boots and stepped out of the cottage. The night was dark and frigid and the foggy road would’ve appeared foreboding to anyone who didn’t know it so well as the young Mademoiselle Beaumont. She’d played in the wilderness outside her family’s cottage since she was a child and as she gracefully pulled herself up onto the back of her ash gray pony, she knew there’d be nothing to fear. She’d call for her father’s horse and he’d come trotting out of the forest without a scratch on him, and all her worrying would seem quite silly.

But as time passed and the night grew darker, heavy clouds threatening rain, Isabelle’s pulse began to race. She’d ridden quite far into the woods now, and while she was sure she was headed in the right direction, there was no trace of her father. And then she saw it – her papa’s black top hat, overturned on the ground near the gates of an ominous manor. Isabelle felt a jolt of hope and quickly slid off her mount, fastening the horse’s reins near the gates as she scrambled to step through the rusty bars. As she gathered her cloak more securely about her neck, she began treading anxiously up the walkway, urged to speed her pace to a bit of a run when icy droplets of rain began to fall. Though soon enough she stood at the door of the elegant house and tentatively lifted a hand to knock. Considering the state of the place, she couldn’t imagine anyone actually lived there. Surely her father had simply ducked inside to wait out the rainfall, or perhaps to gather his nerves after his last drink, and Isabelle pushed and shoved at the door, expecting it to fall open. “Father?” she called softly. “It’s Isabelle, I came looking for you.” The rain was pattering down harder now, stifling the sound of the girl’s voice. “Father, are you there?”

[- - la nuit blanche]

“As of this moment, you will introduce yourself only as Mrs. Valerie Arlington. Tomorrow evening you will check into the Hotel Omega in Amsterdam under this name. Bond -- your Mr. Arlington -- will meet you there later in the week, but while you are alone, you must find out all you can about your target, Brandt Rotterdam. You’ll go better unnoticed on your own for now; we don’t need Bond provoking the man. You will follow Rotterdam everywhere, scrutinize his schedule, his habits. 007 must be thoroughly prepared when he arrives. Any questions?”

Intelligent, sea blue eyes flickered up to the austere head of MI6 -- the famous “M,” who sat across from the slim brunette, behind her mahogany desk. The wintry matriarch's arms were folded upon the surface of the table and she peered sedately towards the younger girl, eyes unblinking, thin lips set. The new Mrs. Valerie Arlington paused a moment to glance back down to the open manila folder that lay across her lap. Behind the informational documents concerning Brandt Rotterdam were a few pages elucidating her partner, James Bond. She had read each and every sentence very thoroughly already, but her eyes lingered pensively upon an attached photograph of the man before at last lifting back to M’s purposeful expression.

“Just one,” the young woman murmured at last. The folder in her lap was gingerly closed and she laid her hands delicately over her knees. “This is an important mission, she continued slowly, "and I’m little more than an amateur. I’ve only worked with your organization for a few short months, and I'm not usually put out in the field... I suppose I can’t help but wonder... why you're offering me this assignment.” Her pretty head tilted inquisitively to one side and she tentatively wet her lips.

M paused for a brief moment then sat back in her chair with a slightly harassed sigh. “I think you take too little credit for your qualifications,” she began, rifling through a packet of papers before her -- likely Vienna’s credentials. “First in your class at the University of London, extremely successful in your previous endeavors here at MI6... You’ve consistently followed instructions without fault… And you’ve been able to keep business and pleasure quite separate throughout all of your professional career -- despite numerous advances from your male colleagues...” M raised a brow then stashed the papers away in one of her desk drawers. Vienna allowed a somewhat bemused smirk at that last statement, but hid it well as M finally looked up at her once again. “It is our hope that you will help to... balance your partner, so to speak. Bond is a loose cannon. His mistakes, when he makes them, are colossal. And we can’t afford any more of them. For a mission such as this, he needs supervision. It is imperative that we get Brandt Rotterdam alive, and Bond’s been known to jump the gun. You will do all you can to keep him in line.”

M’s final statement held a note of finality to it and Vienna knew better than to ask any further questions. With a curt nod, she stood from her chair and turned. “Supervision?” It sounded like she was supposed to babysit the man! What a waste of time. No matter. This mission would keep her in close contact with Bond, and that’s what was really important. MI6 was not the only organization that had 007’s mistakes to see to, neither was it the only organization Vienna was currently working for. A rival agency -- one that was essentially beneficial in most cases, though still suffered greatly beneath Bond’s exponentially increasing body count -- had employed Miss Vienna Rhys to tail 007, gain his trust during their mission together (if she possibly could), and terminate him as soon as their assignment was concluded. Her employers shared MI6’s desire to get rid of Brandt Rotterdam and so they would allow Bond to live long enough to take him into custody. But in their eyes, after that, he would be only another disconcerting risk, and if MI6 would not retire him, or at least manage to restrain him in some way, there was no other choice but to take matters into their own hands. And in this case, these were the fragile, manicured hands of the lovely, level-headed protégé, Vienna Rhys.

Now some veterans would call Vienna grossly inexperienced. And it was true, the assignments she’d taken before were fairly minor. To this day, she’d still never needed to kill a man. She’d aided in the capture of drug lords, terrorists, even enemy agents, but taking a life had not yet been necessary. Of course, her training was thorough and vigorous, and she constantly rose above her peers. Some called her a natural, a true prodigy and above all this, she possessed a keen drive towards her goals, a fierce determination that was surely the basis of her talent and success. Still, she occasionally wondered if she was truly ready for a mission like this one, if, in the end, she would be able to go through with it. It was a daunting idea, at the least, facing off against an agent like James Bond. But it was her fortitude and grit that reassured her. She would do whatever was necessary to complete this assignment. And if Mr. Bond thought that she would simply swoon and go weak at the knees, he had another thing coming.

One week later, Vienna had arrived in Amsterdam and was strolling into the exquisite lobby of Hotel Omega. A few heads turned, mainly those containing male eyes, and Vienna paused to tug a cigarette and lighter from her handbag. Smoking was what she considered her one and only vice, but she’d never attempted to kick the habit. One hand lifted the now lit cigarette to her rouged lips and she headed forward to the concierge desk, heels clicking sharply upon the marble flooring.

“Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?” the young man at the desk offered, wearing a slightly too hopeful smile as he waited for Vienna’s answer. She returned his grin nonetheless, with a slightly less enthusiastic one of her own, and gave a brief nod of her head. “Yes, I’m here to check in. The room will be under Arlington. Mrs. Valerie Arlington.” When he heard the ‘Mrs.’ portion of the name, the eager-to-please young man smiled a little less. He roughly cleared his throat and nodded slowly, lowering his eyes to the computer screen before him. His fingers tapped along the keyboard and finally he glanced back up to the new guest. “Ah yes, you have one of our finest suites. It says here that we are also expecting a Mr. Arlington…” the man continued a little unsurely. It was quite clear that this young lady was alone, despite her checking into a suite amply equipped for two. But, with an easy, charming smile, Vienna nodded to affirm this expectation. “Yes, that’s right. My husband will be joining me in a couple of days... And do please give our regards to this wonderful hotel’s proprietor, Mr. Rotterdam. I’m sure his resort will be... to die for.” The fellow behind the desk smiled and nodded then slid the brunette the key card to her room, murmured something along the lines of “enjoy your stay,” then turned to help the next guest.

Vienna pocketed the key then hastily took the elevator to one of the upper floors, where only the most exclusive rooms were situated. And “exclusive” was an understatement. When she opened the door to the suite MI6 had booked for her stay, Vienna’s lips parted in amazement of the ornate elegance she was met with. Every room was spacious, containing every luxury possible. The only flaw, Vienna considered, was the master bedroom’s single, king-size bed. That could certainly be an inconvenience. With a quiet sigh, the young woman turned and headed back into the living room, tossing her things down on the sizeable couch instead.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Vivienne silently congratulated herself on a sort of preliminary victory as the Joker took the handkerchief and began to remove the paint from his face, as she’d asked. She was almost disappointed that he hadn’t put up more of a fight. Then again, the doctor’s minor triumph apparently came at a certain price; the Joker knew better than to give into her without asking for something in return. What he meant by that – “I’ll show you mine… if you show me yours,” – Vivienne wasn’t entirely sure, but she didn’t dwell on it. Leaning comfortably back in her chair, and with a rather smug smile upon her lips, she quietly watched the man swipe away at his makeup.

As the handkerchief was systematically stained with smudges of pasty off-white, red, and finally black, the doctor’s eyes didn’t leave him for a second. And when he was done, she was quiet, patient, and well… almost humbled. Maybe. Just a little. There was no doubt about it, those scars were dreadful. Even beneath the ever-present stains of lingering paint, the jagged lines that forced a constant grin glared angry pink, and as she surveyed the damage, something in the hostile doctor went a bit… soft. Perhaps if he were threatening her, forcing a blade into her own mouth maybe, she’d have been a little less inclined towards sympathy. But for now, she was surprised by her own urge to pity the man. Her haughty smirk slowly diminished and it was in a kind of modesty, not repulsion, that her eyes finally lowered away, releasing him from that hard, scrutinizing stare.

“I like you better this way,” she confessed after a moment, allowing a vague half smile as she looked up again, meeting his eyes. A daring hand reached forward and she traced the soft pad of her thumb along one of the rigid scars, allowing the other four fingers to cup beneath his jaw. She felt a thrill of excitement in letting herself touch him, fully aware that there were at least a dozen reasons why she should keep her hands to herself. And then there was always a bit of egotistical pride; considering the way he’d been hitting on her throughout their entire interview, Vivienne smugly surmised that her unexpected touch would have quite the effect on him as well. Nonetheless, her demeanor remained serene, unruffled, and endlessly veiled with the self-established impression that she’d always be, in one way or another, unattainable. Even for him.

When her thumb dragged down to reach the corner of his mouth, she turned his chin a bit, tilting his face to inspect the old injuries a little better. Then, when she’d had her second look, she released him and coiled her hand in, crossing both arms over her front. Perhaps when he was without his makeup, she could convince herself that he wasn’t the terrifying clown who so frequently terrorized the city and had inadvertently killed her brother. Or perhaps he simply seemed more real, more genuine to her when he wasn’t hiding behind all that paint. Either way, she preferred him like this – to an extent. “But I’m not your girl.”

This stinging rejection may have seemed a bit weak, considering the fact that she’d just gone out of her way to touch him, were it not for the glare he received after reminding the doctor of their bargain. Her composure instantly prickled and any chance the Joker had with her reduced itself promptly to zero. She was either going to hit him or simply wait for her irritated gaze turn him to stone; she was not happy. However, the misplaced confidence of the Joker’s suggestion really had nothing to do with it. He’d got her thinking, about certain things she’d have preferred to forget. And she was about ready to kill him for it. “I don't have to show you anything,"she snapped bitterly.

She knew right then that she’d given herself away. Even if she didn’t have to show him anything, the Joker would now know that she had something to hide, and Vivienne doubted he’d let her forget it. So, after staring at the man in rigid silence for what seemed a rather uncomfortable eternity, she relented with a sigh. “But I suppose we had a deal, didn’t we…” Uncrossing her legs, she extended her left arm towards him and slid up the sleeve of her black sweater. All along the inside of the fair-skinned forearm were a dozen ragged cuts, slicing erratically this way and that all the way down to her wrist. They were fairly old scars now but more than plain to see if one bothered to look, and severe enough to provoke a cringe.

“Satisfied?” she challenged quietly, lifting her gaze from her arm up to his dark eyes.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Since the moment she pulled up her sleeve and revealed those nasty scars, Vivienne was tense, rigid, and noticeably irritated. The Joker was pushing all her buttons now and while she certainly didn’t like it, having her own tactics turned against her, she was intrigued, eager to see how he’d respond. In a way, he was telling her just as much about himself as she dared to tell him when it came to her own history. She watched him eye the scars and smile coyly, watched his cuffed hands raise just a fraction, as though he ached to touch her but somehow knew better than to try. He’d been restraining himself like that all day, the doctor realized. She could see it in his expression somehow, whenever he was holding himself back, suppressing some abrupt urge or impulse. It was in his eyes too. She saw a kind of apprehension and strain in those dark, intelligent eyes. She could pick it out as if they were old friends. Would all his little habits and tics seem so familiar?

While a few notes were absently catalogued in the back of her mind – phrases all in “doctor talk,” things she’d have to record later in her office – Vivienne pulled the sleeve of her sweater back down over her arm and straightened a little. As soon as the Joker murmured that he was indeed satisfied, the ruffled therapist considered that maybe now she could relax. But it seemed her patient was not finished with her just yet.

Each successive statement concerning those scars pried at a new nerve and while Dr. Champney kept her expression carefully stoic, a storm was raging behind her eyes and she sat rigid as a board. She stared at the man intently, subtly infuriated and at the same time, morbidly interested in what he had to say. Nonetheless, it was more than a little difficult for her to allow him to finish. Each word about those scars – marks that had, until now, been kept very much private, and were therefore not spoken of all too frequently – was like an irksome splinter, a repeating sting that inched the aggravated doctor towards the edge of her restraint.

Her control broke just before the Joker managed to pronounce the last syllable of his last word. He got about as far as “Doc--” before Vivienne’s hand – the same hand which had so gingerly inspected him just moments ago – drew back quite suddenly and came down across the man’s cheek in a sharp, unrepressed slap. “You ask too many questions,” she breathed bitterly, pushing herself to her feet. She looked down at him for a moment, one hand pensively rubbing at her sliced up arm, and simply eyed him for a time. It was clear she was thinking, frantically thinking about something that apparently began to amuse her, because an almost shy smile slowly came to replace her frustrated scowl, and suddenly she gave a soft giggle.

“I think I like you,” she decided, bending a little to look him in the eye. Then, since she’d let herself slap him and was evidently giving into all rash impulses now, she inched forward and pressed a brief but perfectly unmistakable kiss to the madman’s brow. And yet she did not linger as soon as her lips left his skin; she gracefully straightened and danced off to approach the door of the tiny room. Now that she’d left him smacked and kissed all in a matter of minutes, and perhaps considerably confused, she thought it was best to be done with him; their playdate was over.

“You’ll be escorted back to your room now, Mr. Napier,” she spoke casually over her shoulder, still wearing that same coy, exhilarated little smile. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.” With a knock at the metal door, Vivienne exited and was replaced by the two guards from earlier, but not before she’d had the chance to pass one of them a slip of prescriptions for her patient to receive. If the drugs were strong enough, and she was fairly certain they would be, he’d be left in a sedated stupor for most of his free time. Vivienne wanted to be sure he wasn’t able to act up around any of the other doctors, or mention anything about the scars she’d showed him earlier. Though mainly she simply wanted to annoy him. Thrice daily injections from bulky orderlies in white coats surely wouldn’t sit too well with him, but she supposed that each one would serve to remind him of who was really in charge. Strangely enough, though, she ordered that he was to be off all drugs the next time she came to see him. He’d be drowsy and drooling around everyone else, and Vivienne deliberately made herself the only one who was allowed to see him as he truly was. He would be all hers now.

[- - la nuit blanche]

▇▇▇▇xxthe doctor is

»» tired of bullshit

In the two weeks that Vivienne left the Joker to be… conditioned, so to speak, she was forced to devote the bulk of her time at Arkham to a tiresome assortment of other patients. There was the mob boss who was obviously just faking it, a jittery, paranoid young man whose constant stuttering Vivienne could hardly endure, and dear Pamela Isley who frequently berated the doctor about the sorry state of Arkham’s gardens – as if Vivienne cared. And it was all so… boring. She didn’t feel even the least bit challenged, the least bit intrigued. She sat with her patients, checking her watch every two minutes, and they all behaved precisely as she’d expect. Where was the fun in that?

She felt like a silly young girl parted from her schoolday sweetheart with the Joker locked up and drugged into oblivion. Sometimes she’d pause outside his cell on her way through the halls, shyly peer inside to find him virtually comatose, pathetically strapped to his bed, but cackling inanely, just loud enough to unsettle anyone within earshot. Anyone but Dr. Champney, that is. Vivienne would look in on him with softened, almost affectionate eyes, and she smiled to see the he’d retained some amount of vitality even despite the battalion of sedatives marching through his veins. She even stepped in to check on him, just once, during the course of those two weeks. He was deeply unconscious at the time of course, but Vivienne had let herself into his cell before returning home one night, and sat quietly by his bedside. She looked him over, made sure the orderlies had kept him cleaned up precisely as she’d asked, checked the IV at his arm, then idly traced a fingertip over one scarred cheek and slipped away.

She was not to see him again until their next interview, and by the time that day had come, Vivienne was positively itching to get back to the Joker’s cell. Apparently prone to favoritism, she craved the excitement of his erratic charisma and as she stepped up to the bars of his padded room, she was practically tingling in her anticipation.

The Joker seemed notably less delighted with their meeting, however. He was livid, which made Vivienne all the more pleased with herself. She waited outside the bars until the guards caught up with her, then ordered them to let her inside. The two men hesitated but obeyed, and once Vivienne stood within the cell, the steel door was moved back into place, closing the madman and his doctor away from any prying eyes. Only then did Vivienne feel comfortable responding to her irritated patient.

“Sorry about all that…” she apologized coyly, gazing up at him from beneath her dark lashes. She peered at him in a way that might’ve shown her to be guilty, if she’d felt any honest remorse at all. “I just didn’t want to share you,” she explained, quite in earnest now. She gave a bashful sort of smile and shrugged her shoulders before moving warily past the man. She settled down on his cot, leaning her back against the wall it was pushed up against, then looked back up towards him. “I thought I’d try to provoke you too, I suppose,” she admitted. She fumbled in her pocket for a cigarette, finally found what she was looking for, and passed the stick of nicotine between her lips. “You haven’t been too honest with me, have you Jay? I know you haven’t…” A match was struck, then, once the cigarette was lit, tossed carelessly to the floor. Reveling in her most obvious vice, the doctor sighed away a slow stream of smoke and peered back up at the Joker with a sober, pensive eye. “It’s more than just that bullshit story about your scars. You haven’t been yourself with me. I can tell. You’ve just been playing me like one of those other pompous PhDs…” Her gaze flicked bitterly towards the door to indicate the stuffy doctors milling about outside, “but I’m not like them,” she asserted quietly. “You know I’m not.”

After wetting her lips, she took another long drag and lowered her eyes a moment. Gracefully shifting, she crossed her legs “Indian style” beneath her then absently twisted a lock of dark hair about one finger. “I figured if I made you angry, you’d stop holding yourself back... So hurt me if you want, try to touch me, just for Christ’s sake, stop lying to me.” In a tiny spell of frustration, she stubbed out the barely exhausted cigarette against the wall at her back, scraping the smoldering end with irritated zeal before flicking it away. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand,” she murmured with a sharp sigh, “...it’s a liar.”

❝ neurosis is only a substitute for legitimate suffering ❞
[ neurosis neurosis neurosis ]

people are strange when you're a stranger
faces look ugly when you're alone
women seem wicked when you're unwanted
streets are uneven when you're down.

[- - la nuit blanche]

▇▇▇▇xxthe doctor is

»» a bit of a tease

Vivienne Champney watched, in slightly astounded silence, as the Joker went through his furious, surprisingly eloquent admonishment. The way his voice lowered to a menacing snarl – it’d have had anyone else shaking in their boots, anyone who had any regard for their own personal well-being. Vivienne was startled, taken somewhat aback by the man’s outrage, but she still hadn’t enough sense to actually fear him. Or perhaps it was that she simply wouldn’t have cared too much if he had in fact decided to strangle her. But absurdly unafraid as she still remained, she was momentarily intimidated enough to keep quiet while her patient spoke. And she continued to keep her mouth shut for a good time after he’d finished. Her eyes searched his, scarcely able to look elsewhere, and her lips wavered between a defiant pout, a sheepish, guilty smile, and a sly, almost victorious smirk.

“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted at last. Her voice was quiet, a little fragile, but sure and certain nonetheless. “I did this to you mainly out of spite. But with all due respect, it could’ve been much worse.” While any little punishment she could give would most likely never amount to the atrocities already inflicted upon the man, she was not an inch above the likes of Jonathan Crane. She could’ve slipped a dose of some dreadful toxin into his sedatives; she was smart enough to do such a thing without getting caught. Instead of leaving him merely drowsy and vomiting, she could’ve had him writhing in pain, hallucinating, absolutely petrified into compliance. Maybe on a mind such as his, such poisons wouldn’t have worked completely as they should, but Champney could only guess that the effects would’ve been a great deal more upsetting than those of a strong tranquilizer or sleeping medication. In some ways perhaps, the Joker had got off easy. But Vivienne retained enough of a conscience not to allow herself too much credit simply for what she didn’t do.

“I don’t usually like to be cruel…” she continued carefully. She paused to stare at him a moment then, the way she so often did. Her eyes carefully examined his expression, pursuing something in him with a very genuine, even tender sort of interest. “But look at what these two weeks have done to you.” It was made clear by her inquisitive smile that this was offered as a compliment. “Listen to the way your mind works… Anyone who could’ve heard you just now, they wouldn’t have thought you crazy, unprincipled, a freak… What I did, it was worth it just to build up that reaction.” She was not suggesting, however, that his candid response made him seem more human. That would’ve been a stretch. But she was still impressed by his candor.

After scooting herself a little nearer to his side, the woman gave a small laugh and shook her head slightly. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill me just now… And a little relieved too, I guess.” But not because she suddenly felt there was something to value in her life. Her lingering smile grew into a flighty sort of grin and she nibbled her lower lip excitedly between her teeth. “Think of all the fun we’ll have now.” What a hurdle they'd just overcome, what progress they'd just made! Her Jay was furious with her, so hot and bothered that he sounded almost normal. That was something she'd never have expected. She wasn't even sure her naughty little tricks would've gotten even the slightest rise out of him, and look what he'd given her now. Certainly more than just something to report to the other doctors. Sharp, unrestrained honesty, a verbal slap in the face, and a fleeting glance at the remnants of a man, the one infamously concealed by the phony persona of a clown. Vivienne's heart raced, there was an exhilarated heave to her chest as she tried to even out each excited breath, and never before had she wanted to kiss the man so much. It was incredibly arousing in some way, stimulating, to have viewed that raw reaction, to have seen a somewhat new side to a man everybody thought they knew. Gradually the satisfaction ebbed away and she grew calm again.

“What I said before, though,” she added a little more soberly after a short time. “It wasn’t all a lie… I don’t want to share you. The other doctors, they don’t usually interfere, not with me. But I didn’t want anyone else to see you the way I can see you. I didn’t want you to hurt or threaten or even speak to anyone, unless it was me. You see,” she explained with a wary smile. “I’m more selfish, more possessive… than I am cruel or sadistic. And that’s the truth.”

❝ neurosis is only a substitute for legitimate suffering ❞
[ neurosis neurosis neurosis ]

people are strange when you're a stranger
faces look ugly when you're alone
women seem wicked when you're unwanted
streets are uneven when you're down.

[- - la nuit blanche]

It had been a bitter, stormy morning, not much unlike this one, when Vianne Auclair had trudged into the village of Venere with her little daughter Cecile in tow. The two dragged themselves along the cobblestone roads with the same exhaustion in their eyes, leaning against the rain and through the fog, clutching onto their coats for dear life, and ever tighter with each sharp gale of wind. Vianne meant to continue on through the village, despite the miserable weather, and further towards the next large city, but when five year old Cecile rooted her feet defiantly in the ground and desperately whined that she was too tired and cold to go any further, her mother sighed and relented; they would stay one day at the local inn and set out again the following morning.

But when the storm quieted and Vianne went out to explore the quaint little town, something happened, something that urged her to settle her business there in Venere, rather than establishing herself in a more… welcoming location. She looked about the place and sensed a sort of melancholy gloom. The village was charming, to be sure, but every household seemed so terribly frigid, so secretive, subtly hostile even. It was in the eyes of the inhabitants as well, this unfriendly despondency. And with a sigh, Vianne decided – something had to be done. What better way to lift such a gloom than with a sweet shop? So, within the week she’d set herself up in an old bakery and rented the apartment above for herself and her daughter. The landlady was notably suspicious of her new tenant, and she had no patience for precocious little Cecile. Had she been able to find a suitable excuse to expel the pair from her lodgings, the old bat surely would’ve done so. As it was, Vianne and Cecile were tolerated, but only just, and they received no further hospitality from anyone else in the village.

To the locals, the unanticipated appearance of these new residents was a singularly unsettling occurrence. Despite her consistent warmth towards them all, the villagers regarded Vianne as an unwelcome eccentric. It was queer enough for a young woman – young indeed, for she could not have been older than twenty-four – to be traveling the countryside alone, and the fact that she was dragging along that rambunctious daughter with her only scandalized the fact that she remained starkly without husband or provider. Furthermore, she was an American, but with the French name Auclair. Everything about the woman seemed a puzzle to the townsfolk, and she frightened them all the more for it.

In reality, Vianne’s situation was a simple one, a story she would’ve related openly to anyone if they mustered the courage to ask. Her father had been a wealthy Frenchman – hence the surname Auclair – who had met her mother, an American, while traveling on a business venture in New York. The pair fell madly in love and settled down overseas, never to return to Monsieur Auclair’s home in France. It was only after both her parents’ deaths that Vianne grew curious and considered traveling there herself, but not before a rather ill-fated affair back in America. She was married quite young and Cecile came along soon after. The husband, however, fell out of love with her at the prospect of fatherhood, promptly abandoned the pair for a new wife, but left them with enough money to live off of for a time. When this allowance ran dry, Vianne decided it was time to go abroad, to France. Ever since she arrived, she’d been traveling the countryside with Cecile, opening little boutiques at first, then candy shops. The art of sweet-making had been perfected by Vianne’s dear mother, and it was a talent that had been passed along to her long ago. No matter where she opened shop, it always served her, and her patrons, extremely well.

Venere, however, would be a challenge. Never before had Vianne felt so immediately unwelcome, but she was hardly deterred. Once her shop was all set up, cleaned and decorated with tasteful cheer, her neighbors began to grow curious. One by one they peeked inside, and when Vianne offered a free sample and her kind greeting, few were able to turn away, and each one of them seemed much happier when they left with a purchase. By now Vianne had at least a few regular customers. There was a spinster whose joints frequently ached with arthritis, but the soreness vanished with one of Auclair’s eucalyptus chews. Another was a nervous young man who was desperately in love with the inn-keeper’s daughter; after leaving Vianne’s candy shop with a package of dark chocolate truffles, he found himself with enough courage to ask the girl to dinner. It was nothing less than magical the way Vianne was able to match each customer with their would-be favorite candy – all the more reason for her opposition to denounce her further.

And yet even the outright antagonism of her adversaries could not stifle the young woman’s spirit. While little Cecile remained sleeping upstairs, Vianne woke early to clean the shop below and rearrange the front window display, as she did dutifully every morning. Cookies and cakes were set out in glass cases, boxes of chocolates sat open to tantalize each passerby, and the aroma of cinnamon-laced hot chocolate filled the whole of the shop. She was just fixing a white apron about her waist, ready to start her work in the kitchen, when she spied a young man outside the shop. She’d never seen him before and inquisitively she paced up to the glass-paned door to have a closer look. He didn’t have the demeanor of a forbidding local and intuitively Vianne presumed that he was a foreigner – like herself. With a warm smile, she opened the front door just enough to peek out and her eyes followed him as he continued passed the shop. “Bonjour, monsieur!” she called to him, heaving her voice over the sound of pouring rain. Her dark hair was already growing damp as she leaned out of the shop and with one hand raised to shade her eyes, she glanced up towards the sky. It was practically black with ominous rainclouds – a sight that brought a disapproving pout to the young woman’s lips. “This storm is dreadful, isn’t it?” she continued, looking again towards the unfamiliar man. “Would you care to come in for a moment? I've just made some hot chocolate; I'm certain a cup will keep you warm for the rest of your route.”