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It wasn’t that Stephanie disliked being a clown in Gotham city necessarily, it was just the reaction of everyone (including herself at times) when she informed them of her part time job was - without fail - why are you a clown in Gotham city ?
Straightforward answer? Money was money, and boy could she make a mean balloon animal. Besides, she hadn’t had any run in with the Joker’s lot. Yet.
The birthday parties could be fun though, and it wasn’t like she was wearing an itchy plastic wig and a giant red nose. She was a little bit cuter than that.
She twisted the ruffles around her wrist back into place as two of her colleagues entertained a group of ten six year olds. Their screaming and giggling was a good sign that the jokes were landing.
With that, Stephanie decided she need a coke. A big one.
She wandered over to the counter, a thing that could hardly be called a bar at this community hall. A group of mothers stood nearby, smiling awkwardly at the hired entertainment as she sought to end her thirst. The women returned to their little chat, when Stephanie paid for her drink, innocuous and innocent and barely watching the children laugh up a storm.
There was one father, however, who stood aside from the group, who was watching. Hawkishly.
Stephanie doubted for a moment that he was a father, as he was so young, nearly ages with herself, but it didn’t seem like a feasible age gap for siblings either.
He was pressed up against the exposed brick wall, arms folded, looking like he was waiting for the wall to implode with fire and bullets, for the balloon animals to be filled with toxic gas, for one of Stephanie’s (very nice) co-workers to yell psych! My flower has acid in it instead of water! Oh you fools! My reign of chaos has only begun.
To be fair, it was not as if these things were uncommon. Only in Gotham…
Stephanie tried to spy his hands. No ring. Not that could mean anything but darn it, single hunky man at a six year old’s birthday party with a look of paranoia was begging for an intervention.
She hopped over to him, a spring in her step, fully aware that she was committing a cardinal sin of breaking character during an event. Oh well. Fingers crossed he was worth it.
“Which one is yours?” she asked. Only to immediately burn red, even through her painted cheeks when he turned his attention to her. “I mean, assuming that”-
“Birthday boy, if you can believe it.”
His eyes were frighteningly blue against dark lashes and hair. He smiled a little, utterly charming, no doubt somewhat amused by her frilly pink and yellow dress.
Stephanie could, a tiny thing. A bit shy, his friends had largely gobbled up the attention of both her and the two other’s, but he seemed content to not be the center of attention.
“He’s sweet,” she said.
The father’s eyes lit up a little, smile growing. “Yeah, he is.”
“So you must be Mr Drake?” The man who made the booking simultaneously had just been looking like he wished he and his child could be somewhere - anywhere - else.
“Yep.” His eyes began to drift away, back towards his kid, but he still spoke to the clown standing opposite. “Tim, if it’s less awkward.”
“Ah. Stephanie. Um, not to be obnoxious,” she uttered, “But how old are you?”
“Oh. Twenty three.”
One year younger than her. Tim caught her eye, then smiled bashfully. “Long story,” he murmured.
“No judgment from me,” Stephanie shrugged. “How can I? Literal clown here.”
Tim snorted.
Stephanie continued, feeling brazen. “To be even more obnoxious… “
“No, the mom is not around.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. Kind of.”
“Can I use the clown excuse again?”
Tim raised his eyebrows. “Tell me a joke? And I’ll think about it.”
She burned red, then scrambled her brain for something. Tim pursed his lips expectantly. It was then that his young boy ran over, crashing into his father’s legs. Tim wrapped his hands around the boy’s neck. He looked up at the pretty clown (an oxymoron of a term), and waited to see what she would say.
“Uh, okay, how about this. There are three cats, right? Sitting on the white cliffs of Dover in England. There’s an English cat called One, Two, Three, a German cat called Ein, Zwei, Drei, and a French cat called Une, Deux Trois …” Tim tilted his head, listening contentedly and curiously. Stephanie began to gesticulate as she explained the joke. “So they’re looking across the water, over to France. Ein, Zwei, Drei says, ‘I bet you if we swim the Channel, I will win’. And well, the two other cats can’t stand the thought of a German winning, so they agree, each betting that that they’ll make it to France before the other two. So they jump off the white cliffs and get swimming.”
Tim shifted off the wall. It was the first time he had spent more than a minute paying attention to something other than his child. Stephanie swallowed excitement, trying to keep her pace slow and steady.
“They swim and swim, then when they reach France, One, Two, Three drags himself on the beach, shaking off the water. Ein, Zwei, Drei is waiting for him. Shoot , he thinks to himself. But at least he wasn’t last. So the pair wait, and wait, and wait. But the French cat doesn’t show up! Then they realize the terrible truth.”
Tim sucked on his tongue, waiting for the punchline.
“Sadly,” she declared solemnly. “ Une Deux Trois Quatre Cinq.”
Tim blinked, unable to conjure even a pretend smile. Even Tim’s boy did not seem to get it.
“That was terrible,” Tim complained. Tim’s boy nodded emphatically.
Even beneath her face paint, Stephanie’s blush was visible. “I didn’t say I was a good clown.”
Father and son both smiled, a mirror image, and Stephanie’s red face shifted from embarrassment to warmth. Sweet boys.