Chapter Text
Excitement. Fear. Eagerness. Whatever word could be used to describe the feeling of your heartbeat resonating in your throat. You had with you your notebook in hand, a list of questions and the enthusiastic, though perhaps naive encouragement of both The Pierrot and The Doctor to go through with this. That you'd be safe in doing this.
You just had to sit in a room alone with The Jester and ask him some questions. Nothing too ludicrous.
Just ask the thing that is clearly a natural predator of homo sapiens questions that any creature with a sense of self and ego would be offended by, and somehow not do just that. For that would not only very likely mean a threat to your physical health, but worse yet, would mean you be left without any answers to your curiosities.
It was a bit funny how you'd landed on questioning The Jester out of the entire troupe. You weren't sure of their age, just that you’ve heard comments here and there about medieval times, witch hunts, and you swore you heard something about the colonization period at one point, but you were also quite certain figuring out which was the oldest wouldn't be of much help in any regard. Pierrot, bless his heart, seemed entirely ignorant to the why's and how's of his own biology, quickly becoming a flustered mess as soon as your answer became an edge too prodding, which was adorable, but admittedly unproductive.
The Harlequin was as helpful as ever, quickly twisting your words into something lecherous, suggesting that this was some clumsy way of admitting you were interested in being intimate with him after all. That quickly changed when you'd casually brushed the notion aside, simply trying to make yourself clear, but the way he had tensed, the slits of his eyes narrowing, made you reconsider your approach for this entire ordeal.
Perhaps not so much a research tone, but an interview? Like one would do with a normal person.
Ticket Taker was the most direct of the lot, a curt and firm “No”. You needn't be told twice.
Doctor had been unsurprisingly enthusiastic about the prospect, but his giddiness had quickly turned unnerving when he began suggesting preparations for a mutual vivisection.
As enticing as it sounded, you had to refuse. You did write down that he sounded quite sure that he'd survive it, though.
And so that left The Jester.
You always tried not to be the last one in the tent when his show ended, so far as not entering his tent unless given no other choice, but this time you were forced by a higher power – Curiosity. He wasn't violent, not in any direct way you had seen, and yet you couldn't help but be wary of him since the first day you'd watched his performance and had unwittingly been witness to a live execution. You know the blood wasn't fake that day, no matter what they told you.
Your leg bounced on the coarse dirt, and though you did your best to pretend to be distracted, like you simply lost track of time while scrolling your phone after the show had ended. The soft animal of your mind whimpered and jittered, desperate to be away from the piercing purple eyes that branded your forehead since the play ended. As the final chittering of voices filtered out through the tent flaps, you lift your gaze, already expecting to find Jester closer than the last time you'd seen him, but unable to suppress the way your body tensed upon seeing him standing almost directly in front of you. Always quiet, this lot, the bells on their outfits nothing but false comfort.
“What is it, dear visitor? My, but you've been sulking the entire show. Did you wish to speak with me?” He asked, leaning in a way that made you feel like a child being talked down to.
“Right, I-” you glance around the tent, mostly to break the intense eye contact, but also because you knew he was all the less likely to be honest if there was anyone else around. You lower your voice more, being cautious all the same. “I wanted to ask you a favor. Or make a proposition? I'm not sure what to call it, I just-”
“Is that why you've been parading around these grounds these past few days? Accosting my troupe with that cute notebook of yours?” He interjects. You shouldn't be surprised, of course they talked amongst themselves, behind your back. You needed to remember you were barely tolerated around due to Pierrot's infatuations. Remember your place.
You swallow, picking up your words where they had crumbled at his condescending tone. “Alright, so you already know the gist. I mean this in the most respectful way: I’m just curious, and it would just be a few questions. No body samples, no needles, no pictures. Just notes.” You insist, thinking that somehow if you explained yourself enough you’d be able to convince him. His grin widened. “Curious,” he repeated. “You’re just curious about the freaks, hm? How philanthropic.” He goaded. “But alas, we’re but a humble, mundane circus of horrors, little one. I understand it might be old fashioned, but certainly nothing special enough that would warrant a study.” He spat the word like it disgusted him. Maybe it did.
He never said it outright, never uttered the words that would absolutely put you and him in separate categories, keeping up the charade that you were on equal playing ground.
You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to groan. “Listen,” you begin, wiping your palms on your pants. “I mean it. Let’s not do this, please.” you stand up from the folding chair, throwing your backpack over your shoulders and still having to tilt your head back to look him in the eye. “There’s no one else here, ok? I’m interested, genuinely. Pierrot wants me around and I want to be around, but it’s just not natural for me to turn a blind eye to something like this.” He pauses, his appeasing gaze bearing down on you. “Like, what, exactly?” He insists. You’re not sure why he wants you to say it, to be the one to materialize the words, whether it’s some form of power play or simple recognition of what you’re asking. Your fingers tighten around the handle of your bag.
“You’re not human,” His back straightens. He's not as tall as Pierrot. “But you’re a person.” You get the distinctive sense of a feline watching something particularly amusing. “Please. I just want to understand. I’ll let you burn the book afterwards, if that’s what it takes.” It seizes at your heart, you'd rather pluck out your eyes than let months worth of research turn to ashes. The only respite you had was that this particular notebook only had notes on them, and not your previous studies.
He doesn't answer right away, and you're unsure if that is a good or a bad sign. He splays out a hand in front of him, the palm upturned. “May I see this notebook of yours?” He asks, but you feel it's not much of a request.
You fumble with your bag, twisting to bring it towards your front so you can reach for what he asked. You sift through the contained mess of your work backpack, pushing aside a few other of your books and reaching for a hidden compartment at the bottom, where you keep a small, hard covered, red booklet, visibly newer than the other ones. You hand it to him, noting how it looks specially small in his hand. He flips to a random page, then another, not in any particular order, you realize, and imagine what he might be looking for exactly.
You don't have much concrete information on them, thus why you've decided on asking outright in the first place, but you always imagined you might need to do this exact show of trust, allowing them to sift through your things in exchange for information. Due to this, you took great pains in never writing anything that might come across as offensive. Or so you hoped.
His finger tapped the spine on the book, a thoughtful hum emanating from his chest. “And the others?” He prompts. Your brows furrow.
“Others?” You repeat. His eyes look down at the bag in your grasp.You find yourself involuntarily turning it away from him, wincing when his grin widens the smallest bit. Of course. You're failing the test. “There's nothing on the circus. They're just personal notes. History, psychology, just… just anything I find interesting. Only I read them.” You admit, only half lying. You don't feel any need to mention how they double as diaries whenever the inspiration strikes you.
His shoulders roll back as he huffs out a laugh, grin widening at your defensiveness, far more than the limit that could grant deniability if someone were to try and write off the sharpness of his teeth as some form of special effect. Then the book closes in his hand and he gives it back to you.
You retrieve your notebook, clutching it in disbelief that it actually survived its small trip as you imagined it being ripped from your grasp right there and then. After a beat of neither of you saying anything, once again merely glaring at each other, you return it to your bag, your head lowered as you begin to come to terms with the likelihood that his silence was a form of rejection. You'd dealt with enough disappointment these past few days as it is, no need to have a repeat of Harlequin's mockery.
“Very well.”
It takes a moment for the words to register, and you half wonder if you imagined them. Your eyes lift, your mouth moving faster than your brain. “Huh?” You ask eloquently.
His shoulders rise and fall in a huff of amusement. “Are you dull? I said I agree to your little… interview.” He adds a flourish to the word by waving his hand dismissively, like someone conceding to playing along with an annoying kid's game so they'll be left alone.
Your face burns briefly at his dismissiveness, only eased by the timid, genuine excitement you feel fluttering in your chest. It's been so long since you've had the chance to study something so completely new. You stand up a bit straighter, suddenly very intent on being on your best behavior so he won't change his mind. “Well! Then I should, uh-” you're cut off by a small giggle that escapes you. You clear your throat, reigning in the brightness so you can iron out the details . “I assume you want to decide the details. Where, when, how many questions, what kind of questions?” Despite your best attempts, you end up rambling, a smile spreading your lips as your mind wanders.
“Naturally.” He replies, not half as amused, but unless he's about to call off the whole thing, you won't allow his displeasure to poison your mood.
Minutes later, after you'd written down on your phone all his conditions and left with a newfound spring in your step and a series of giggles spilling from your lips, after you were truly gone and the Jester could not even pick up your scent anymore, he allowed himself a true, albeit restraint smile.
Maybe he was starting to understand what had infected Pierrot and Harlequin with such chipperness recently.