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He shouldn't. He really really shouldn't.
The phone rung once. Then twice. He should hang up already, there's no way she would answer him. She hates him, they all hate him, but his apartment feels so cold and suffocating right now he couldn't help it. He doesn't want to be alone.
This is so stupid.
She picks up. "Hello?"
He didn't mean to call her.
"... Akechi?"
"Ann," he rasp out. "I'm so sorry." He screws his eyes shut and almost rams his head backwards. "For everything. I- I-" He can't breathe. The words lodges itself in his throat like sharp bones and metal scraps. He loses his fotting and slides down onto the floor, his back against the solid wall behind him.
Stop stop stop stop shut up shut up shut up–
"H-hey, calm down now," he hears her say from the other side, her alarm evident in her voice.
"I don't know what to do," he whimpers like a lost child, fingernails digging into every inch of skin they can find until they settle for trying to pull his hair out. Tears spill over despite his eyes being closed, dampen his cheeks and shirt with salt and pain and sorrow. Invisible hands squeezes his bonefilled throat, and he almost chokes and vomits on the tatami mats. "I didn't, I didn't..."
Joker's haunted gaze still linger. He had never killed a real person before. Not like that.
He had never cared for a real person either. Not like that.
His teeth draw blood on his bottom lip to ensure his own silence.
"Hey, it's okay. Everything will be alright. Breathe with me, can you do that?" She talks as if she's trying to soothe a toddler. Maybe she is. Somehow, it works.
Breathe in.
Out.
In.
Out.
His whole body shudders as the tension pours out of him with every breath. He doesn't know how long he sat there breathing, just listening to her sweet soothing voice and breathing just like her. The invisible hands let him go, but the threat is still there. His living room is dark, so he closes his eyes again.
"What's wrong?" Ann says once he has steadied his breath.
He can't tell her.
"I can't tell you."
Oh goodness.
Loki shakes his head. Robin Hood weeps with him.
"Well..." Ann stutters, unsure of what to say. Uncomfortable. She's uncomfortable. She doesn't have to keep it going, she can stop talking already. She has served her purpose being the most sympathetic one in the group, she can hang up now and never speak to him again. It's getting late, they should go to sleep already. Is the call still going? It really is. "So, what have you been doing today?"
She can't be serious.
"That was a bad question," Ann laughs nervously as if she realized her mistake (did she? What does she know?). "Uh, what kinda shows do you watch?"
"Shows?"
"Y-yeah!" With renewed vigor she talks faster, as if to drown out the bad mood that fell upon them ever since he called. "Y'know, what kinda stuff do you watch on TV? I usually watch drama and rom-com, but some kick-ass action is always good," she rambles on, not giving him a chance to answer. "Are you a thriller guy? Or are you more into sci-fi? I like sci-fi too, it's really–"
"I watch cooking shows," he blurts out, her incessant chatting stressing him out. "And tokusatsu shows. And those channels that only play ads all the time. I don't have time to watch anything in chronological order."
"Wow, that's sad."
Pause.
"Wait I didn't mean that–!"
Laughter bubbles out of his chest, raw and free and too ugly to be heard by human ears. He doesn't care, though, he doesn't give a damn this time, it's too–it's too 2 AM for him to care so he keeps on laughing.
Ann starts laughing too, and he laughs even more, his shoulders shaking and mouth hurting along with his sides and it feels so good.
It's been so long since he could laugh and just forget about his problems if only for a while, live in ignorant bliss and pretend that his life is only a bad dream, a figment of his imagination. Just a dream that he'll soon forget, replaced with a brand new one much more pleasant than the last.
"Why cooking shows?" she asks once they've both calmed down, sounding genuinely curious. He barks another laugh.
"I don't know. Because I enjoy it? Aren't all the shows I mentioned questionable at best?"
"Well, that too, but cooking shows sounds the most out of place on a guy like you."
"Science fiction doesn't suit you that well either."
She giggles like a wind chime on a breezy day, voice resonating through the small apartment. "It's kind of a new thing. Futaba introduced it to me when we were out looking for Featherman merch in Akihabara."
"Featherman..." he hums. "I used to watch that as a child. I didn't know it was still airing."
"Haven't you tried streaming it?"
He shakes his head, a small smile grazing his thin and chapped lips. "No, the thought hadn't crossed my mind yet."
The dried blood on his bottom lip reminds him of the blood on his hands that isn't his. It reminds him of who he is, what he is, what he has done and what he is about to do–
(Because he's so close, close enough that he can taste his victory (but is it worth it? Is it worth all the blood and pain and suffering he has caused?))
He chooses to forget, if only for a while.