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It should’ve been more intimidating than this. Or it should’ve felt that way, at least, but obviously the threat wasn’t quite having the effect she’d wanted.
Backstage, warm and muffled and yellow like the inside of an egg, the Jester had made some catty remark while their boss’s back was turned. Clearly they’d forgotten that their favourite-underling-privilege only extends so far; another lesson was painfully overdue. Normally, when one grabs their mischievous little underling by the collar, slams them into the nearest solid wall and draws a line across their throat with one knife-wicked finger, they don’t laugh.
So now Lady Luck finds herself standing here with a handful of clown, pinning her Jester in place with her looming presence and a bewildered scowl, and they’ve clasped both hands over their mouth all of a sudden because of a noise she swears was a giggle.
‘Are you laughing at me?’
For once, it’s actually a question. Her voice is as hushed as the backstage area around them, low, fluttering like the discarded clipboard the harlequin was using to check inventory. They’re scarlet. The practised composure and sweet, measured smile are vanished, and they look just about ready to melt into the wall. They collect themselves enough to speak.
‘No, milady.’
‘Are you sure, dear? It sounded like it.’ She towers, pulling them into her dark, severe shadow. ‘And you’ve been running your mouth all day. Maybe you’ve become a little too bold, my precious little lovely, laughing at me like that.’
Their ears stay red but their face pales a tad, and Lady Luck can feel the lump in their throat sink past her gloved hand as they gulp.
‘Miss, I-!’ The Jester manages a nervous, attempting smile. ‘I think you know full well, if I were to laugh at you, I’d not be silly enough to do it to your face. What kind of fool do you take me for?’
This time, the laugh is artificial and weak, a placating mewl like the whine of a puppy. It’s almost enough to make her feel bad about winding them up like this, picking away at their seams as they scramble and try to stuff their mind back into itself as it unspools. The Jester is certainly the best at dealing with this treatment; it’s been a long, long time since they would really cower like this, and normally when she taunts them they quip back so quickly it makes onlookers wince.
But they’re really cowering now. Buckled knees and all.
‘If there’s a joke I’m missing, dear, then I’d love to hear it.’ She shifts her grasp of their shirt collar to a more relaxed hold, letting their whole foot touch the floor instead of just the tiptoes. ‘Something funny? A humorous tale crossing your mind, a dirty limerick or two to make you chuckle?’
Gaze flickering away, they seem to just go quiet, jaw working around something difficult.
‘Enlighten me. Please, do. I’m simply dying to be in on the joke.’
The flush of red is back. They squirm beneath the burning spotlight of her half-lidded eyes, mouth twitching at the corners. Her thumb finds their throat again, brushing. They snort.
Ah.
‘I think I see.’
They nearly leap at the soft murmur. A tiny tinge of entertainment in her voice is enough to have them on edge, nerves like live wires, fight or flight instinct screaming at them through the fishbowl of their rehearsed calm demeanour.
‘Oh?’ they gasp out, trying to sound like someone with a normal pulse.
‘Quite a funny joke you’ve thought of, dear.’ Under the mean little smirk, she’s wrestling her excitement as much as they’re swallowing their fear. ‘I suppose it really tickled you, hm?’
And then the Jester positively jumps out of their skin.
To their credit, they drop out of her grip with a yelp and manage to make it all of three feet before being scooped up. The ground falls away and up they go, heels over hat, into the air and Lady Luck is tickling them so the absurdity of it is enough to make them laugh all on its own. Every flail and thrash only tangles them in the veil of her hair and quickly, too quickly, they’re a dangling puppet held up by red strings and their shirt is untucked and oh sweet mercy, her hands are cold-
‘How long have you kept this secret from me, my dear?!’ She barks out a laugh, more like the cracking of ice and the scream of metal brakes than the low chatter of chuckling leaves. ‘You’d hide this treat forever! How could you be so cruel to deprive me of this, you know I always love finding new ways to torment you!’
The Jester can’t reply. All of their wits and composure, gone. Lady Luck’s hair is a scarlet ocean and they’re adrift, sinking beneath the waves as they desperately paddle for shore. Faintly, beneath their own howling giggles and her taunting, they can hear the steady thrum of what they assume is her heartbeat, and they notice that – pinned flush to her body – their head is resting on her chest, back pressed to her belly, feet kicking pointlessly at her shins.
The thought is terrible, but this – this proximity, this camaraderie, it feels good. Something approximating normal, maybe even affectionate; a playfight between friends, however one-sided. It’s good to laugh, good to share this moment of lightness with anyone, even with her. Good to relax and let go. Good.
It’s good until they realise that they can’t breathe, at least.
‘I could do this for eternity! Look at you wriggle and- ow, you brat!’
Lady Luck drops them to tend to the fistful of hair that they just tried to yank out of her head. It still looks perfect, obviously, but ouch. The little blonde hair-puller is sprawled on the floor and she’s nearly tempted to pin them again, but there are better things to do, and it’s bad form to break one’s toys so quickly, and if they lose their voice from squealing then there’ll be questions, so she just puts her hands on her hips and watches them catch their breath.
It's a sight, too. Their face is rosy and healthy in a way she doesn’t get to see often, bright with sweat, hair a mess, hat knocked askew. Chest rising and falling in a steadily slowing pattern, they seem to finally run out of tiny breathy giggles, sitting up and blowing a loose gold strand from their forehead. Their eyes are shiny with tears but only a few. Laughter still creases their eyes, dents their cheeks. They have dimples. Pretty pockmarks that don’t show on camera, not when they’re smiling placidly for the audience, only when they laugh for real.
‘Evil.’ Ugh, their voice is already slightly hoarse. Hopefully it’s better by recording time tomorrow. ‘Vicious. Horrid. Cruel to me, your faithful assistant, who has been nothing but nice to you-!’
‘Stop, stop, you’re making me blush.’ They aren’t, but she waves her hand, taking a step back. ‘Tidy yourself up, you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge, dear.’
With a huff, they begin the shaky process of lifting their jelly legs from the ground, and of trying to resist the urge to cover their weak points when she looks at them.
‘It is pleasant to hear you really laugh for once, though.’
Her voice sounds casual, a hint of sincerity masked with don’t think about this too hard that makes their head and their heart hurt.
‘Much better than that annoying fake laugh you do on air. Try and sound more like that in the future, won’t you?’
There we go, her usual awful self, unpleasant as a glass of white wine and warm corn and just about as confusing. She turns to leave and they’re just standing there, slightly sticky, knowing that they’ll feel absolutely high for the rest of the week and still just a little bit empty: not just because she was just holding them and it was torture and she was holding them, but because she just stopped and didn't explain herself, and because what was that? Who does that? How is she just going to pretend that they weren't entangled just now, like that, a twisting braid of limbs and hair and smiles? What is she thinking, who does she think she is, who does she think they are?
What are they?
They’re somebody who knows, that if you make a joke and be funny she’ll think that you won’t care, and she won’t push it further, because she won’t see a thread she can pick at if you keep the seam on the inside. Everything is neat, and everything is normal, and they don’t still feel hands playing piano keys up their ribs and hot laughter on the back of their neck.
‘Very funny, ma’am. Maybe I’ll get you next time, see how you like it, hm?’
Their hands form half-hearted claws in the air.
‘I’d love to see you try, my dear.’ She blows a kiss that tastes like burnt wood, then adds, ‘But don’t you try stealing any side-squeezes on air. You know better than to start a war you can’t win, don’t you?’
With an airy windchime-laugh, she leaves, letting them stammer and stuff their heart down their throat, alone with only themselves to talk them out of jabbing her in the ribs next time they’re both on stage.