Colors (Joker x Reader)

Ch. 1: Storm

(Author's Note:

I attached the song up above because it's the inspiration for this series.  The Joker in this book is based on the Heath Ledger Joker, but it can be any of them really because this is not set during any of the movies.  It's totally stand-alone.  I hope you all enjoy!)  

"Fired?"  The word was like a gunshot.  It sent a ringing through your ears that seemed to pierce your very mind.  Everything was hazy in that moment.  The smoke wafting from Mr. Anderson's cigar seemed to swallow the entire office.  It smelled disgustingly sweet; every time you visited his office the stench stuck to your skin like tar.  On a normal day, it made you curl your nose.  Today, it made you physically nauseous.

You couldn't tell if the sting in your eyes was due to the smoke or the shock of losing your job, but you refused to tear up in front of someone whose very existence repulsed you.

"Yes.  Fired," he enunciated slowly. "You have an hour to clean your desk and get the hell out of my building."

"But--"

"Did I stutter, Ms. (y/n)?"  The balding man leaned forwards, his hands clasped loosely over a crumpled newspaper.  You vaguely noticed the shimmer of his golden insignia ring, the one he smashed into blotches of wax in an old-fashioned attempt to look dignified on paper.

Right now he just looked like a hog, properly fattened and ready to skewer.

"I don't understand."  You exhaled deeply, your fingers twisting around each other in a feeble attempt to wring out the nerves that were tingling in the pit of your stomach.  Mr. Anderson didn't spare you a second glance as he leaned back in his chair and tapped  the end of his cigar with his meaty index finger.  A spray of ashes dirtied the heap of papers he kept sprawled across the oak surface of his desk.  Some were singed from stray embers, others had coffee rings and hamburger grease smeared over them.  Occasionally you'd glance at one of the headlines, only to be met with the familiar title of "BATMAN" in bold letters that hurt your eyes.

You'd think the vigilante would get tired of the spotlight.

"No one's interested in your articles, (y/n).  They're boring."

"Boring?"  There was a dull ache forming at the base of your skull.  Whether it was due to exhaustion or agitation you weren't sure.

Either way it felt like a hammer was smashing against your brain.

"Just because I don't write about Batman you think my articles are boring?"

"Not me.  I don't give a flying frick what that nocturnal weirdo does.  Our audience, however, can't get enough.  Your little articles about homeless shelters and pollution aren't of interest anymore."

"Aren't of interest?"  You stood suddenly, causing your chair to scrape against the polished hardwood with an ugly squeal.  "The Wayne factories are polluting our city!  And he's too damn rich to care!"

"No one cares, Ms. (y/n)."  Mr. Anderson stood, his hulking form casting a dark shadow over your own.  He was a mountain of a man with two fat tree trunks for arms.  The entire desk quaked as he snuffed out his cigar.  "Now get the hell out of my office."

     The haze dulling your sense didn't clear until you were back in your apartment, and even then it still lingered.  You barely remembered cleaning out your desk, packing up the multitude of personal items that you'd left there, mostly because you were too lazy to lug them back home again.  There were mugs and thermoses, pens with phone numbers scribbled across them and notepads half-filled with ideas for articles you'd never get the chance to write now that you were "unemployed".  Former coworkers watched in silence as you and your sad little box exited the building, none of them even bothering to offer you an umbrella as the cardboard box began to crumple in your arms.

You dropped the box in a wet heap on your apartment floor as soon as the door swung open.

The sound of ceramic shattering did little to phase you as you were too busy peeling off your socks in an attempt to avoid pneumonia or whatever else might kill you.

Death by wet socks didn't sound particularly impressive.

Most of Gotham's deceased were either gunned down, knifed, or blown up in one way or another.  Compared to that, maybe pneumonia due to saturated footwear actually was an interesting way to go.  After all murder seems to lose some of its menace when it's committed in bulk every.  Single.  Day.  That's why you stopped reporting it.  Wherever the Bat went, some kind of tragedy followed, and there are plenty of tragedies worse than death.

Being alive is much more painful.

"Nibbles, I'm home."  You called out monotonously.  

Nothing greeted you back.  Not a meow, not a familiar pattering of paws rushing towards you.  Nibbles wasn't the most social animal, but she normally begged you for food as soon as you arrived home from work.  It was unusual for her to be absent, especially since you were home early.

"Nibbles?"

You ran your fingers through your hair, carelessly ripping through each knot in an attempt to tame your wet mane.  The apartment was dark, but everything was still perfectly visible.  Still, you traced the edge of the kitchen counter with your fingers and slowly edged your way towards the couch, being careful not to misstep.

You gasped sharply.  Your heart heaved into your throat as a sheet of lightning whitewashed everything in the apartment.  Stumbling forwards, you felt something rubbery beneath your toes and a loud squealing sound caused you to stumble.

"Oh my gosh..."  Your knees took most of the impact.  It was unpleasant, but thankfully in doing so you had avoided hitting the coffee table with your head.  Feeling around on the floor with sparks still dancing before your eyes, you finally gripped the item that had protested your weight so rudely.  "A squeaky toy," you sighed.  "Dammit, Nibbles!"

"Mew!"  The sound was small and delicate.

You squeezed your eyes shut in an attempt at clearing the sparks, but the only multiplied.  Another soft "mew" indicated that your lost feline had wandered her way towards the balcony.

"Nibbles!"  You felt your heart flutter in the base of your throat again.  If she escaped onto the balcony there was no telling where she might run off to if startled.  Nibbles had been an indoor cat from day one; there was no way she could survive the streets of Gotham.

You shivered as you stepped into a puddle of water.  Every muscle in your leg seemed to clench simultaneously, causing you to stop and evaluate the situation.  The screen doors were cracked, the curtains were fluttering gently, and there was a good chance that your asshole pet was going to need to go to the vet to get checked for an infection after being out in the rain.

Could this day get any better?

A gust of wind sent the curtains billowing towards you.  As you batted them away a dark silhouette came into view.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the balcony.

You didn't register his features immediately, but an impression was left on your mind.  

A face, pale as snow.  

A painted smile.  

And a cigarette lounging in the corner of his scarred mouth.

The air in your lungs was stolen away, but you weren't sure if it was from the wind or the storm in his eyes.

They shimmered with amusement as they met with yours.

"Who the hell are you?"