Shy Violet

Sweet Little Mary Sue

Synopsis: A new girl has been brought into Arkham and catches the eye of a certain clown. It's maddening to him, his attraction to this little mouse of a girl, but for some odd reason he just can't seem to keep himself from becoming completely obsessed with her.

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Batman universe, but I have invited some of the characters over for a play date. I have always had a soft spot for the Joker, and after watching the amazing performance of Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight, I fell head over heels for the Clown Prince of Crime.

Author's Note: My story idea is about as far from being original as you can get, but I hope that you will give it a read anyway. Everyone who has read my stories should be familiar with my "take a baddie and make him nicer" tendencies, so it goes without saying that the Joker will be toned down just a tad from his usual sadistic brutality. It will be a challenge for me to attempt to capture his wonderfully psychotic sense of humor, but please remember that I'm an amateur here.

Warning: This story will have gratuitous amounts of cursing, violence, sexual suggestions and/or innuendos and smuttiness, but no raping or beating of the female character (I have a difficult time writing that type of storyline).

Chapter One

I Want You to Want Me

Joker POV

I was so bored I could have cried...and I never cry. Every day it's the same monotonous garbage, spewed forth by the headshrinkers with their schemes to rehabilitate me. I can't figure out why everyone seems to think that I need to change. I, for one, think that I'm one of the few sane people left in this town.

The worst part of this entire stint at the loony bin had to be my seemingly endless cohabitation with Wilmer Haines, a momma's boy who murdered and decapitated his overbearing mother, following up his evening of slaughter with a passionate bout of lovemaking with the poor woman's headless corpse...yeech. Don't get me wrong, I love a good piece of tail as much as the next man, but your own mother? After you cut off her head...killing her dead as a doornail...then you want to put yourself inside her corpse? That's just too vile to contemplate, and believe you me; I have a very vivid imagination.

Every night Wilmer relived that last night spent in his mother's company, out loud for my listening pleasure. The liver and onions she had forced him to choke down, even though she knew it made him sick. The same damn lecture he heard every night about her witnessing him lusting after the next-door neighbor lady, who was a disease-ridden whore. On and on until Wilmer reached his bursting point, at which time he fled to the kitchen, fetched a butcher knife, and dispatched his cantankerous mother from the face of the Earth.

I won't assault your senses with the graphic descriptive of the...ahem...mating that followed the murder, just bear in mind that you should pity me because I had to hear about it numerous times. I thought that our constitution protected us against cruel and unusual punishment, yet I was made to suffer unjustly on a daily basis.

Oh God...how did I get started on that unpleasantness again? I suppose my ramblings were connected to the fact that I finally reached the limit on my ability to stifle my, shall we say, violent tendencies where irritating people were concerned. After listening to Wilmer ramble on night after night, making me seriously contemplate popping open a vein to alleviate my misery, I had finally just cut the annoying bastard's tongue out of his head. Let me tell you that shut him up right quick, save the gurgling screaming that spouted from a spot deep down in his throat.

I'm babbling like these loons that share my space, making a disgusting spectacle of myself while boring you with the inane details of my pitiful excuse for a life. When did everyone get so crabby in this town? Nobody knew how to take a joke anymore, especially that self-righteous scourge of criminals all throughout Gotham: Batty Bat Bat. I had expected him to provide me with countless hours of fun, and it saddened me to discover that he had some sort of honorable stick stuck up his hiney, which proved to have killed any trace of humor that may have rested within him.

Oh, what have we here? The guards were cleaning out the room next to mine, scrubbing it down, disinfecting every surface, taking enough care with the condition of the room to hint that someone of importance was joining our ranks, and wonder of wonders, they were going to be housed next to me. Maybe this place would prove to not be a complete waste after all.

I wondered if they'd even care if they knew that the smell of bleach made my head ache something awful. More than likely that knowledge would only inspire them to clean with pure bleach, straight from the bottle. I know their potential for cruelty; I recognized that right away, being a somewhat cruel person myself.

It took the doctors for-ev-er to arrive with their newest mental case, but the first sight of her proved that she was well worth the wait. She wasn't the type that would normally turn my head. I would have loved to play with her a bit on the outside, torment her a little, but the idea of an amorous liaison with her would have been out of the question.

I liked the bawdy and brazen girls for any type of sexual intimacy, the ones with the figure that would put a showgirl to shame, long legs and generous titties, and this little mouse didn't fall under any of that criteria. It was difficult to ascertain any detail of her figure with the hospital issue gown and pants hanging loosely about her, and she was walking along slowly, her face hidden by the folds of her long brown locks as she stared at the floor.

I wanted her to look at me, to show me her face, and I could feel resentment flooding me as she walked towards me, an incredible urge building as I fought back the desire to demand that she look at me. I didn't know why it was so important for me to look at her face, but I wanted to very badly. I pressed my hands against the metal of the door, my fingers curling helplessly, my face pushed up against the glass.

That got the attention of King, the biggest phlegm wad that lorded over the grounds of Arkham, head guard or some such nonsense. He was a big bruiser of a man and frequently used his size to intimidate some of the weaker inmates. His name was appropriate, due to his delusions of being the monarch of this hellhole, and his overly lacquered pompadour; which I had heard him state on more than one occasion made him a dead ringer for Elvis. Geez, it's dizzying to absorb the knowledge that nut jobs like him watch over the people who have been incarcerated in this dump due to their "insanity".

There I go, rambling on like a simpleton again. Now what was I talking about before I traveled along that train of thought...Oh yeah, Mr. King, the Arkham guard who has mistaken himself for being the sovereign of Arkham in addition to a deceased rock and roll legend. He took note of my more than likely gruesome face pressed against the window of my cell, and told me to back off. What did he think I was going to do? It's not as if I had the ability to just magically pass through walls, although with my record of escapes I could see where this would be a suspicion in their minds.

In the end, I was happy that I captured his attention, because when he yelled at me to back off, she looked at me, and that's when it happened. I felt the impact of her eyes on me, just like if someone had punched me in the stomach, and then the oddest warmth filled me from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet.

Her eyes were big and brown, and she stared at me in a way that said that she knew me, even though this was the first time that we had laid eyes on one another. I waited for her reaction of revulsion to my scarred visage, but no look of disgust ever traveled across her beautiful face. To be honest...I know that's got to be a shock...there was no expression whatsoever on her countenance. Her eyes were the only bit of life on her face, and they seemed to be staring into my heart, into the depths of my soul (yes, I still have one).

I wanted to ask her who she was and what she had done to warrant a visit to the whack shack, but the conversation would have taken place with King and Dr. Leonard as witnesses, and the last thing I needed was to have my words mocked and psychoanalyzed in turn. Dr. Leonard turned to look at me, and smiled in greeting, but I ignored her friendliness. I'm sure she truly believed in her quest to monitor and heal the crime ravaged minds of this institution, but I, for one, knew that her endeavor was fruitless, and the day would come, should she survive long enough, when she would grow just as jaded and soulless as everyone else in this hellhole.

They settled the little bit of loveliness into her room, and I overheard Dr. Leonard refer to her first as Miss Dean and later as Violet. How perfect that she was called Violet. First of all, she's obviously withdrawn, a true shy violet, and then there was the perfection of being named for a flower that was purple-blue in color…why it was almost as if she had been sent specifically for me.

King and Dr. Leonard didn't linger long after Violet was settled, thank God, which gave me the opportunity to chat with her a bit before bedtime. It was odd that she had arrived at this time of night, but you could never make any sense of what the people in charge did or said. If you want to know my opinion I'd say that they were all completely off their rockers, but who was I to make that sort of diagnoses?

I waited patiently...well, patiently for me anyhow...to hear her moving around her cell, making herself feel at home, but I couldn't hear anything. No footsteps or running water, not even the groan of the bedsprings, which meant that she was just standing there. I wondered why it was that she wouldn't move, I mean didn't she realize that while she was in her cell she didn't have to follow anyone's orders?

It wasn't long before curiosity got the best of me, and I resorted to peeping at her through the opening that ran through both of our walls, on the ground, near the sink. If you're wondering how many times I have employed this hole to spy on the neighbors to my left, bear this thought in mind, most of my previous neighbors would make Ernest Borgnine look irresistibly sexy...yeech. So to answer your question, no, I usually don't peep at the person(s) housed next to me through this hole, but considering the sexiness of this neighbor, and my relentless curiosity as to what she was doing, or not doing so quietly in there, I dropped to the floor to have a look.

This hole provided a limited view into the shy one's new home, and all I could make out of her were her bare feet as she stood in the center of the cell. It would appear that she wasn't doing anything as she stood there, outside of staring at the door, and a part of me has to wonder if she's maybe a tad more unhinged than I would have liked her to be.

"Hey there girlie," I whispered softly, not wanting to alarm her. "They're not going to mind if you have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

Perhaps I spoke too softly, because she made no response whatsoever, and from what I could see, it looked as though she didn't even move when I spoke. "I said 'hey there girlie'," I repeated, making my voice a little louder this time. "You could sit down and get comfortable, you know, no one is going to stop you."

I watched eagerly as she finally reacted to my voice, keeping my eyes on her feet as she turned and walked over to where our common opening peeked into her cell. I realized belatedly that she might not respond well to the knowledge that I was watching her, and I waited for her to start screaming for the guards, or at the very least, to start cursing me, but no hysterics were forthcoming from her, and that was a definite relief for me.

I didn't know exactly what it was that I expected her to do at this moment, I suppose that my main desire was to have her return my greeting, but whatever it was that I was waiting for, I'm fairly certain that having her drop to the floor and stare at me through the hole was not on my list of possibilities.

Her eyes were even more penetrating up close than they were when I saw them from a distance, which made sense, but now her gaze seemed to be connecting in a way that made me feel a little weak in my knees.

I waited anxiously for her to speak, wanting to hear her voice more than anything, wondering if it would be a light and airy type of voice, or would it be more husky and sensual in tone? It seemed as though I wasn't meant to find out at that moment, because instead of responding verbally, she stood quickly, moving over to the bed, and grabbing something off of it. The something proved to be the large plastic containers given to all inmates, a box that we used to hold our possessions, and I watched as the box was lowered and placed against the wall, blocking both her and the cell from my sight.

There was no mistaking that message for anything other than what it was...a definite "piss off and leave me alone". I suppose it could only be summed up as her being very tired from the ordeal of being incarcerated in a loony bin, and nothing more, because surely I hadn't done anything to offend her this early in our acquaintance...had I?

Violet's POV

I didn't think that I was going to be able to sleep in this place. Hell, I figured that I'd be doing really well if I could manage to settle down long enough just to sit down in this place. It's almost as though the walls were breathing, maliciously waiting for you to drop your guard and trust them before they pounced on you.

Well, it's a good thing that no one could read my mind, or they would be gunning to have me treated as a person who was insane 24/7 as opposed to just finding me in that state temporarily. As if that weren't enough to keep me awake at night, I also had the additional freaky factor added in of having the Joker as my new next-door neighbor. That was just the dandy cherry atop the ironical sundae that I was being forced to dine upon. How could a person be expected to relax and become accustomed to their new surroundings with the knowledge that a crazy mass murderer was right next door?

He was so different up-close, nothing like I would have imagined he'd be. He was taller than he appeared to be on television, and as much as I hated to admit it, underneath that greasepaint, he looked to be very handsome as well. There was a lot of life in his dark eyes, a lot of manic energy as well, and his gawking had unnerved me more than I liked to admit. From the intensity of his gaze I would have sworn that he knew what color panties I was wearing, and as much as he'd unsettled me with his staring, there had been a zing of attraction as well.

As I had approached my cell, flanked by Mr. King and Dr. Leonard, I hadn't paid any attention to the surrounding cells, not looking up until Mr. King had shouted for someone to get back, and that was when I saw that he was watching me, was seemingly fixated on me, and I wondered what it was about me that captured his attention so thoroughly.

After the door of the cell had closed behind the doctor and the guard I stood in the center of my cell, frozen by the reality of what my life had become, and the knowledge that I would remain this way, locked inside this den of insanity for seven long years of my life. I suppose that this was a life lesson, meant to teach me that doing what you perceive to be the right thing can often retaliate by take a stinging bite out of your behind.

I couldn't say for certain how long I stood there, just staring at the door of my cell, before the clown next door decided to attempt communication with me. I ignored him to begin with, but it soon became apparent that he would persist with his 'hey there, girlies' until I responded, so I finally turned my attention toward him, feeling a jolt of shock as I noticed the hole in the wall, a peephole that allowed him to peer into my room.

I must say that he had a hell of a lot of nerve to be watching me like some sort of common pervert, which encouraged me to turn the tables on him. I lowered myself to the floor, taking great pleasure in the look of shock on his face that greeted me. It was then that I saw that he hadn't really seen much, looking in at me, considering that I couldn't see much of his cell from this point of view. More than anything, what upset me was that he would resort to spying on me, as if he had some sort of right to do so.

He didn't speak to me while we lay there, eyes locked on one another, and I realized that he was waiting for me to speak to him, to acknowledge the fact that he had greeted me and offered me a bit of advice. I found the advice to be optimistically ludicrous; I mean honestly, how could I ever be comfortable in these surroundings?

We continued to stare at each other, and the longer I connected with him, the more it seemed that an air of enchantment was forming around us, a sensation that I knew was both unwise and dangerous. I had experienced crushes on men in my life that weren't feasible, but this topped them all. It would be asinine of me to allow an attachment to form with this man, this murderer, this arsonist, this man that I knew, that everyone knew, was a complete and total psychopath.

I finally found the strength to tear my gaze away from him, rising to grab the storage box off of my bunk and I placed it in front of the hole, effectively sending a message that I had no desire to know him, although that was an out and out lie. I heard him muttering something, words that I couldn't make out, and it seemed like an eternity passed before he rose and moved away from the wall with a rather forlorn farewell of "Goodnight then, Shy Violet".

I felt like a complete jerk for just a moment, but then I remembered who it was that I had been rude to, and wondered why in the world I should feel guilty about hurting his feelings, after all, it wasn't as though he was some sort of innocent lamb, not with his record. I told myself that there was nothing for me to be ashamed of, but in the end I tiptoed over to the wall and removed my box, lowering myself to the floor to peer into his cell.

I couldn't see him anywhere, and suddenly the lights in our cells were doused, and I couldn't see anything then. My heart started to beat faster, and I cursed my damnable fear of the dark, a panic that had haunted me all of my life. I couldn't stand it much longer, lying on the floor, feeling the shadows pressing in on me. I felt the panic choking me and knew I couldn't wait for him to acknowledge me, so I made do with a quick "Goodnight Mr. Joker" before hurrying back to the safety of my bunk.

I waited to see if he would answer, and was just a little disappointed when he didn't speak to me. I turned on my side, my face to the wall, and that's when I heard the humming coming from his cell. I cuddled my pillow closer, trying in vain to find a comfortable space on the bunk, smiling as I recognized the tune of Send in the Clowns. I felt myself being lulled into sleep by his voice, "Just when I'd stopped opening doors, finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours..." The last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was his voice, traveling from the hole that connected our rooms.

"I don't want you to call me Joker," he whispered. "That name isn't meant for your lips. Call me Jack instead."

Disclaimer: Send in the Clowns is a song written by Stephen Sondheim from the 1973 musical, A Little Night Music.