My Dad, the Joker (A Batman fanfic)

Chapter 4 (Harmony/ Joker's POV)

Joker’s POV

After thinking about it for a while, I decided Harmony was ready to know; I mean she’s old enough and she can handle it. She has helped me with a few problems of my own, even if I don’t ask her to and she had handled her own problems well too. 

I walked to her bedroom, knowing that was where she would be, and I was right. She was at her desk, on her laptop. I walked up behind, quietly so I didn’t disturb her, and began reading what she was doing. She was writing a poem, and for a girl of her age she was brilliant; I didn’t read it all as I wanted to get on with my question.

“Sweetheart, you asked last night why I killed. After I thought it through, I thought you should know as you know how to handle things. I would like to tell you what it is that’s making me do this, but I can’t really put it in to words for you. I can say it was because of my past, but that’s all I can put into words.” I said when she looked up at me.

“Daddy, you know you’re practically my best friend, and you can tell me anything. I won’t judge you; you’re my daddy.” Harmony hugged me, getting up off her chair; it was true, I was her only friend because the children at her school found out I was her dad (I’m quite surprised I haven’t had a teacher or social worker come knocking at my door because one of those little brats told on us) and judged us both. I can be caring and kind, if people didn’t piss me off. Harmony, well, she is the most caring person I know (and I know a lot of people).

I looked at the other side of the room, wondering if she really was ready to know. Her room was fairly big, and I had let her decorate it herself the way she wanted it, so there was a lot to look at, but my eyes always landed on the same thing: the little pink pony teddy on her bed; it was from Harley, her mother, and so was special to both me and Harmony. Harley had made it herself, and she was incredibly skilled with a needle and thread; the teddy looked so professionally done.

“Daddy,” Harmony gave me the biggest puppy-dog eyes I had ever seen; she knew I couldn’t resist them, “Please, you know I don’t like when we hide things from each other.”

I knew I could tell my daughter anything, and I usually did, but I just couldn’t tell her about my past or her mother. It hurt to even think about it. You see, even I have fears and mine was my past came back to life or it happened for Harmony (I wasn’t really an alcoholic, but anything could happen); I replied with a smile, although she could see the sadness in my eyes, “Okay then,”

“Daddy, would it be easier for you to type it up, instead of having to say it out loud?” Harmony suggested and I nodded in reply as she offered her laptop; I took that offer, she could tell I preferred the idea to speaking about it aloud. Harmony and I could always tell if something was wrong with one another and that was how she knew I liked the idea.

“Thanks sweetheart; that would be the best.” I smiled as I started typing, and once I had finished typing she read it through.

“Wow, daddy; it sounds like you had a hell of a childhood.” I had to leave the part where her mother was taken away, and hadn’t gone missing.

"So, what has had you cooped up in your room all day?” I asked as she brought up what she was doing.

“Oh, just writing poems and stories that sort of thing.” She smiled at me, offering for me to take a look; she hadn’t written it long ago because the time was 16:00 (4:00), and she had written it 15:30 (3:30).

“Wow, are your stories and other poems just as good as this one?” I asked

                                                                  Harmony’s POV

I was shocked that he sounded so enthusiastic about my poems and stories; he never had the time to look at this kind of thing. There was also because I didn’t show many people.

“I wouldn’t say they’re good, but are to the same or better ability, yeah.” I replied; my pale skin began to blush a bright pink. I wasn’t used to comments for my poems and stories; I wasn’t used to showing them off either.

I had shown him poems and short stories I had done at school, but not the ones I do at home, in my room. I didn’t think him as the type to like stories and poems, to be honest.

“These sound like they’d be really professional, if they are all to the same – or better- ability. Where did you get the inspiration from?” dad asked, and I was shocked at how interested he was; don’t get me wrong, he did take an interest in what I did, but because I haven’t showed him them until now, I didn’t think he would be; he wasn't much of a reader either.    

“Well, dreams and stuff like that; sometimes even you. My imagination just goes a bit wild.” I giggled just a bit; I was glad at how much he liked it. Over the moon, you could say.