It's a terribly silly little piece, but I hope someone out there gets some amusement from the fruits of my boredom. XD
Title: Identity Theft
Characters: Mirror Man, Wendy
Pairing: Joker/Wendy implied
Rating: Light PG
“I ought to shoot you for this.”
The Mirror Man grins. It's his professional opinion that Miss Wendy, scowling darkly as she scrambles to cover herself, is at her best with a gun in her hand. The absence of one of those prim, demure little pencil skirts, he feels strongly, will only help the effect.
Might not be a bad way to go.
Not that it'll come to that. Over the years, he's gotten good at talking himself out of impossible situations, usually of his own making. This girl's annoyance upon waking up with a different man than she took to bed last night hardly qualifies.
And sure enough, she's already stopped clutching the blankets like they're her ticket out of Hell, stopped glaring like she's trying to cave in his skull with a look. His grin widens.
“Shall I go fetch your purse?”
“Don't bother,” she huffs, stiffening only slightly as his lips brush over her shoulder.
He laughs against the back of her neck.
“Not going to be a good girl and get rid of the big, bad wolf in sheep's clothing?”
Sheep's clothing, indeed. One wolf masquerading as another, more like. And she's spent enough time around wolves that she's about as much the innocent Little Red as he is, haphazardly smushed up children's stories notwithstanding.
“Don't tempt me,” she grumbles, and he watches idly as she twists away and reaches for the telephone on the bedside table.
“What's that for?”
She smiles placidly.
“I thought I'd ask Mr. Carpenter how he'd like to handle this. Be warned, Mr. Callaghan, he doesn't look kindly upon identity theft.”
Identity theft. As he recalls, Mr. Carpenter doesn't look kindly on other men touching what's his, either. But that's neither here nor there, just as long as his gamble holds up. No reason that it shouldn't. He's good at gambling. Lived his life on it.
He makes a lazy grab for the phone and tosses it to the floor.
“Only trying to help,” he shrugs in response to her outraged glare. “D'you think he'll approve of how quickly you fell into bed with the first man who offered?”
“Do you think he's forgotten why he hired you?” she shoots back, leaning over the edge of the bed to retrieve the phone.
He leans back, hands tucked comfortably behind his head, eyes roving over that nice little figure. He's struck by the vague idea that legs like those should be outlawed, but with the mood she's in, he doesn't dare say so.
“Just saying, he might find it disturbing that you can't tell the genuine article from a slapdash, drunken imitation. Particularly when you interviewed the slapdash imitation three days ago.”
A long silence follows, broken eventually by the thud of the telephone receiver bouncing across the bedroom floor, aided by a deeply annoyed little blonde clothed in bedsheets.
“You absolute, unbelievable prat,” she fumes, climbing hurriedly out of bed and looking wildly about for some bloody clothes.
“Oh, don't run away angry,” he entreats as she wriggles into the little black dress he left in a crumpled heap on the floor last night.
In response, she reaches for her purse, and he laughs.
"Changed your mi--" he begins, his question punctuated by a shout of pain as her silly little girl-gun - emptied, he notices upon quick examination - bounces squarely off his head.
"I've got another one in the linen closet" she informs him coolly, "and you have three minutes to disappear."
The bedroom door slams, and he grins dopily for a very moment at the closed door, before springing from the bed and hastily donning everything not trimmed in black lace.
It would hardly to to show up for breakfast in his hostess's favourite nightie, after all, and he doesn't plan to miss this.
She really does look fantastic with a gun in her hand.