Chapter Text
At first, he did not understand it.
No matter how many times he looked at the round clock hanging above his head, then back to the printed schedule that was supposed to tell him the arrival and departure schedule on trains from the station, his brain refused to connect the two. He could read the numbers just fine, but by the time he looked up again he could not recall them, almost as if they were slippery frogs refusing to sit still. And worst of it, the same nauseating swamp in his head had pulled a heavy fog over his brain that prevented his thoughts from reaching him and instead tortured him with a dizziness each time he moved.
Taking a deep breath from the cool, stuffy air he tried to focus. The midnight rain instead of clearing up the summer heat just trapped the air just made everything humid and uncomfortable, making him feel the layer of sweat on his skin.
What was the time again?
Clock. The clock has the number. Two.
Two in the morning. He had been here for an hour now trying to decipher the schedule. Not a single soul.
Squinting in the dim light as he fought down his nausea, he looked at the time table again, focusing more than before while wishing he had some water on him to drink. The numbers eventually stopped dancing in his mind and settled down, allowing him to connect what he sees with the image above his head.
Not only did he miss the last train going back home, but the next one was still four hours away.
“Great… just great! Of course something like this would happen!” He almost kicked the wall in front of him but he stopped himself mid-movement when he remembered the leg missing from the knee and below. He did not need a broken prosthesis even though that would be a fitting way to end, or rather start this day.
In the end, he just dragged himself to the nearest bench and plopped down, burying his head into his hands as he hunched forward letting out a long suffering groan. On the side of his blue shirt the purple smudge left by the wine thrown at him still stuck to his skin, and his shoe were covered in mud from the walk he made from the rural manor, being chased by a ram when he accidentally tried to pass through an open pasture, the prosthetic collected wet grass and mud like it was nothing more than mere decoration.
Staring at the green blades in the light of the station’s lamp he cursed himself once again.
Not many could tell about themselves that sobriety caught up with them before a good night’s sleep, and he did not necessarily want to be a living example, yet there he was, massaging his throbbing temple as he recalled the events of the night.
The invitation. The argument that followed. Why was Morton so angry about going to a party to begin with? Joker faintly remembered a jab made towards him for never inviting Mike, but their argument took a loud and nasty turn when he mentioned the actress that would attend. He no longer remembered the word he had thrown at the racer’s head, but he did remember it might have been something terrible, because the uncomfortable silence that stretched between them was one he had never experienced before.
Mike Morton never shut up. That was a skill he had mastered through the course of the years, so hearing him say nothing after a comment that left his mouth in the heat of the moment etched into Joker’s mind like a stubborn inkblot he could not wash off no matter how hard, how painfully he kept scrubbing at the same spot.
His silence was more devastating than any curse he could throw at Joker’s head.
But of course, at the time Joker did not care. He was angry, burning up with rage because Morton once again tried to pretend that he knows what’s best for him by refusing a simple request Joker posed him after a decade old friendship. Because there was nothing more imposing than arriving with a car. He was sure it would’ve made him give a good first impression and might’ve gotten the attention of an actress for long enough that after several failed attempts to start a conversation, they might’ve reached past a simple hello.
But of course, Morton had to ruin everything! Just like he always did whenever Joker asked him a simple friendly favour! Giving him the same look, as if he was disappointed in something but he could not really say his reasons. In turn, it never failed to leave Joker with a cold and empty feeling that only got worse the more Ms. Zelle’s name appeared in their conversations.
Deep down he knew why, but he refused to admit to himself loudly and chose to focus his attention on others, chasing after them instead of ruining the one friendship he successfully built over the years. Because if there was anything he was truly good at, it was ruining everything he touched. From set pieces to relationships, his expertise to completely destroy anything that came into his possession was a skill he had excelled at. It was already a miracle that Morton was still around!
Better not risk it.
Not now. Not ever.
Groaning, he massaged his temple again, letting his forehead reach his knees as a pitiful attempt to lessen the pressure on his brain, but all it did was to make bile rise in his throat. The sound of rain and the cool evening air brought some relief, but everything was too humid to be truly comfortable.
He felt sorry. Sorry for everything he did, but of course it was too late to admit that. It would be just as insincere as the monsters apologising at the end of the movie for gleefully demolishing an entire town as if nothing happened.
However, unlike the monsters, now that he had completely destroyed everything around him, all he wanted was to get home and hide in his bedroom for the rest of his life to avoid the shame that would follow him around for not only ruining his chances with the actress, but also ruining a friendship that he supposedly treasured.
Turning his head, he glanced up at the clock, but the small hand barely crawled forward. Almost as if even time waited patiently while he seemed to dance himself to the edge of self-destruction. He was always the type who was almost keen to jump onto the worst possible conclusions and now with some alcohol in his system, the opportunity to wallow in self-pity was more than perfect.
With a weary sigh, he pushed himself up from the bench and started walking around the station. He knocked on the window of the ticket office hoping that someone would answer, but when the silence stretched even further, he shrugged and continued walking until he arrived at a phone booth that was set up against the other side of the building.
He could make a call.
Then he did not have to spend five hours in the rain, waiting for the first train to arrive.
As he reached into his pocket, he found a few pence and laid them out on his palm, frowning as he flipped them so the numbers faced him. It was not much, but perhaps enough for a short call. But then the true problem arose… who should he call?
For a second, he played along with the idea of calling the manor, asking them to pick him up, but he knew it would have been not only unprofessional, but perhaps the end of his attendance at movie events.
The other person in question just made his frown deepen and he sucked in a deep breath until his lungs started to burn.
Mike Morton was the perfect candidate. He had a car, he would not judge him too much, but at the same time he couldn’t help but feel that if he used his money to call him in the middle of the night, the racer would just slam the phone down and go back to sleep. And the worst of it was, Joker wouldn’t even blame him if he did that.
But… he really had nobody else to call. Everyone he knew was back at the manor, drinking, talking and enjoying their time now that he was no longer threatening them with his awkward conversations.
“Damn it,” he growled as his headache returned to torture him. “I don’t have anything to lose anyway. What is the worst thing that can happen? He refuses to answer the phone. At two am, I would be surprised if he actually woke up to it… At least I can say that I did try to talk things out and ask for help...”
Before he knew it, the coins landed inside the machine with an empty clang one 2 pence coin repeatedly falling out from the machine, until he had to hit it against the metallic surface with a frustrated animalistic groan to make it stay within the machine.
His fingers were already pushing the buttons, the same way he often did when shooting a scene took too long or when the weather turned terrible. Mike was always happy to provide a ride, given he was not abroad on one of his championships.
The phone rang, breaking the sound of rain.
Joker was about to give up when the low buzzer suddenly stopped, replaced by silence. He wanted to say something, but once he opened his mouth he could not decide what would be the most appropriate way to start their conversation.
He should greet him, but why would he act so casually? It felt wrong after their argument.
He wanted to start with an apology, but it did not feel right when he was, more-or-less, in trouble.
On the other side he heard a stifled noise that was akin to a hippo opening its mouth for an elongated, low roar.
“Did you just yawn into the phone?” he blurted out.
“Joker, it’s two in the morning and I had to leave my warm bed without slippers. Of course, I yawn you w’d be like this too, if you did not go to all those… f’ncy e’nings,” Mike rambled, but his words would occasionally mangle together into something unintelligible.
“I am sorry,” he mumbled.
“Keep that apology when we are face to face…” He sounded tired, almost as if he already figured out why Joker was calling him, but contained his disappointment. “Were are you right now?”
“C-Cresthill station. I think.”
Mike did not answer at first.
“Isn’t it strange that they always organise these things in the middle of nowhere? Why not in a place where it’s easy to go home from? Are actors that elusive…?” he mused to himself, before he decided to go for the coup de grace. This time his voice was clean, as if he had shaken off every bit of sleep in a mere minute, “...I am surprised you did not ask Ms. Zelle for a ride considering you did not miss a second to make it known that you would rather spend time in her rather indifferent company. So where is she now? I am pretty sure her car is scented like the newest perfume, nice and clean, unlike some other cars.”
“Can you shut up about Margaretha for once? Why do you think I called you in the middle of the night? Do you think I even planned on calling you if I did not need you?!” His head was about to split in two from pain, and he felt a nausea hit him again when Mike’s words finally made it through.
“But why is it that whenever you need me, it’s to clean up your messy love life… You don’t even need me, you just find it convenient that I have a car!”
“I’d rather not discuss that right now.”
“Sure, sure, the Morton Taxi Service is ready to haul your arse from the middle of nowhere straight to home. After all that’s all I am good for!”
And then the line was suddenly cut and the remaining coins dropped into the small tray beneath the machine after the shortest phone call he had made in his life.
For a while he still held onto the receiver keeping alive the small hope that Mike Morton’s voice would suddenly appear again, allowing him to talk things out but it seemed his unfortunate choice of words and Mike’s harsh honesty and lack of filter caused even more problems than what he had faced.
The world around him started to spin. The nausea was back and no matter how much he held his breath or how much he walked it refused to quell.
Perhaps it was due to stress, perhaps it was the entire evening, the combo of gin, wine and Martini that he poured down his throat without really thinking about the possible consequences.
In the end, he just stumbled outside into the field and after a bit of walking, he finally did the most reasonable action that day; he threw up.