Christopher Horton has never had much stability in his life. His mother was emotionally absent up until her death, his friends never seem to stick around, and he never even knew who his father is. But, once he found employment with the infamous Joke...
A/N: So for some reason my Wattpad is acting up and accidentally published an unfinished revision of this chapter. I've *hopefully* fixed it and republished it. So so sorry if you read the first posting because it had a synopsis in the beginning (which I use to help me plan) and was severely unfinished and unedited. I'm hoping this version stays and it doesn't post the wrong version again. Again, SO sorry for the inconvenience!!!
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"You rescued me when I thought nobody would. When I thought I wasn't worth the effort. You gave me everything and asked for nothing." –Charles Martin
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THE JOKER JOLTED AWAKE, chocolate-tinted eyes wild as his right hand immediately cradled his left bandaged shoulder.
My back lay plastered against the sealed, back double doors of the van, constant shivers traveling up the length of my spine as a severely disoriented and somewhat sweaty Joker pried the side doors open.
A set of brows raised in curiosity at his abrupt actions, trembling, colorant-stained fingers curling around the circular handles of the doors as he thrust them apart. I watched, mouth agape as the man hoisted his upper body out of the vehicle and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the frozen concrete, followed by a series of cringeworthy hacks and gags.
Impulsively, my palms met the bare skin of his back, the firm muscles contracting beneath the warmth of his skin as another round of bile spewed from him, emerging in a fit of what seemed like subtle cries.
The violet, hexagon printed dress shirt clung in shards to his torso, slipping down the length of his arms and catching onto the prominent skin of his elbows. Drenched ringlets clung to the nape of his neck as he heaved, slender fingers curling around the beaten, plastic floorboards as he shuttered beneath my touch.
The bitter, Gotham breeze briskly pierced the once cozy cabin, prompting my glassy eyes to heavily water as insistent patches of prominent goosebumps arose on the clammy skin of Joker's back.
His contorted frame lay still beneath me, the vomiting eventually ceasing as he violently trembled beneath my awkward grasp, palms still pressed flatly against his flesh in a weakened attempt to calm him.
"Fuck," he deeply groaned, balancing his weight on his elbows as he pried the doors shut once more, blocking out the excessive cold air as the warmth of the cabin consumed us once more.
"It's fuck-ing freezing."
My hands slipped from his back as he rotated his weakened frame, positioning himself back onto the blood stained floorboards once more as a defeated sigh slipped through his lips.
Gaudy greasepaint lay severely smudged, several splotches of pale skin peeking through on his wrinkled forehead and above his scars as he ran the back of his palm along his face.
Words ultimately failed me as I lay stunned at his side, bottom lip tugged between rows of teeth as I anxiously chewed on the chapped skin. I wasn't necessarily looking for a "thank you", but anything would do...
"How are you feeling, boss?" I breathed, several words failing to emerge as they got caught in my throat.
"Alive." He throatily replied, catching me a bit off guard as a sneaky smile overtook my features. His left eye flickered open, squinting slightly as he met my gleeful gaze.
A fresh batch of butterflies erupted in my belly at the sight of his scars, which promptly ascended up the slopes of his cheeks, lips parting to reveal a handsome, toothy grin.
"Glad to hear that." I chuckled, delivering a hasty pat atop his palm, which rest over his bellybutton. He did not flinch nor retaliate away from my peculiar touch, which slightly warmed my heart.
"Merry Christmas, Joker." I whispered, before the man drifted off into a deep slumber once more.
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"I was beginning to think that you'd forgotten all about me." Emily chuckled, lanky digits tangled deeply in her jet black locks as she parted the hair into several sections.
"I've just been a little busy." I swiftly defended, shifting my weight against the beaten sofa as a half-drank glass of scotch lay in my weak grasp.
The woman merely rolled her eyes at my pitiful reply, pacing the petite corner as she overlapped the parted sections of her hair into a neat french braid. An elegant lace bra and panty set clung to her petite frame, a light plum hue as several guests glanced in her direction.
My eyes contorted into slits when a middle-aged man let his stare linger for a bit too long, his nearly nonexistant lips parting as he gawked at Emily.
