The massive, hangar-like interior of Soundstage 16 was kept freezing cold to offset the heat of the massive lighting grids, but Margot Robbie was sweating.
She sat in her black canvas cast chair, a heavy fleece blanket draped over her shoulders to cover her thin, silk slip dress. She was staring blankly at the pages of her script, but she wasn't actually reading the words. She already knew them by heart.
She looked up, her eyes drifting across the maze of heavy black cables and C-stands, directly toward the video village monitors.
Daniel Miller was standing there, talking quietly with his First Assistant Director, Tom Wiley.
He was in full costume. The dirty, thrift-store purple coat hung loosely from his shoulders. The toxic-green dye made his hair look greasy and unwashed under the harsh studio lights. The stark white greasepaint was smeared unevenly across his face, and the raised, horrifying silicone scars slashed across his cheeks, painted a sickening, smeared red.
He was supposed to be repulsive. He was designed to be terrifying.
But as Margot watched him, she found herself struck by a very strange, very inconvenient realization. The makeup didn't actually hide how undeniably handsome he was. It was a bizarre, magnetic paradox. The messy, degrading paint somehow only highlighted the sharp, aristocratic structure of his jawline and the intense, striking depth of his dark eyes. The contrast between the horrific monster he was portraying and the raw physical attractiveness underneath made the character feel infinitely more dangerous. You wanted to run away from him, but you couldn't stop looking at him.
Daniel shifted his weight, listening to something Tom was saying. As he listened, Daniel unconsciously reached up and started twirling a silver dry-erase marker between the long fingers of his right hand. Over, under, between the knuckles, in a smooth, rhythmic motion.
Margot watched the pen spin.
It was a little habit she had picked up on over the last week of shooting. Daniel always had to have his hands moving when he was problem-solving a shot. If he didn't have a pen, he would slowly roll the cap of a water bottle between his thumb and forefinger. Margot didn't know why, but she really liked that habit.
She liked a lot of his little habits.
She liked the way he always learned the names of the lowest-level production assistants and actually used them. She liked the way he would slightly tilt his head to the left when he was genuinely listening to an actor's suggestion. She liked the fact that he drank his coffee black, but always carried a spare, unopened bottle of orange juice in his hand when he walked onto set in the mornings, just in case someone else needed the sugar.
"Alright, let's get the principals to the floor," Tom Wiley's voice boomed over the soundstage PA system, breaking Margot out of her thoughts. "We need to block the balcony sequence before the wind machines deafen everyone."
Margot tossed her script onto her chair, let the fleece blanket slide off her shoulders, and walked toward the set.
Dante Ferretti, the production designer, had built a massive, hyper-realistic penthouse balcony sitting ten feet off the ground on a raised platform. Behind the marble railing was a gigantic, curved green screen. In post-production, it would be replaced with the glittering, vertigo-inducing skyline of Gotham City.
Daniel walked up the wooden stairs to the platform right behind her.
"How are you feeling?" Daniel asked, his voice entirely normal, the articulate, calming tone of the director completely at odds with the scarred, painted face.
"I'm good," Margot lied, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "Just trying to figure out the emotional peak. Harleen is smart. She knows she shouldn't be out here with him."
"She is smart," Daniel agreed, stepping onto the marble tiles of the fake balcony. "But she's also an addict. And right now, she's going through withdrawal. You've spent your entire life in a sterile hospital reading books, and suddenly you've tasted actual chaos. It's intoxicating."
A prop master walked over and handed Margot a heavy, silver Smith & Wesson revolver. It was loaded with blanks, but the weight of the metal was entirely real. It dragged her hands down slightly.
"It's heavy," Margot noted, adjusting her grip.
"Let it be heavy," Daniel told her, stepping closer. He didn't invade her space, but his proximity immediately made the air feel thinner. "You're holding a gun on him because your rational brain is screaming at you to survive. But your hands are shaking because you don't actually want to pull the trigger. You want him to take it away from you."
Daniel looked at Bob Elswit, who was adjusting the massive IMAX camera on the dolly track. "Bob, keep the framing tight on her face. I want to see the exact moment the logic breaks."
"Got it, Dan," Bob called back.
"Alright," Daniel said, turning back to Margot. He offered that small, completely normal smile that made the red scars stretch awkwardly across his cheeks. "Whenever you're ready. Just let go."
Margot nodded, taking a slow, deep breath, gripping the cold metal of the revolver.
"Positions," Tom called out. "Wind machines to thirty percent."
Two massive industrial fans sitting off-camera whirred to life. A heavy, artificial gust of wind swept across the balcony set, whipping Margot's blonde hair wildly around her face and causing the thin fabric of her slip dress to flutter.
"Sound speeding."
"Camera rolling."
Daniel took a step back, positioning himself near the edge of the marble railing, the green screen looming behind him. He stood perfectly straight for one second.
Then, the switch flipped.
Margot watched it happen. It was terrifying every single time. His spine collapsed, rounding his shoulders into a hunched, awkward posture. He tilted his chin down, letting the greasy green hair fall over his eyes. His hands hung limply by his sides, his fingers twitching in that erratic, unpredictable rhythm. The warmth and intelligence in his dark eyes vanished entirely, replaced by a hollow, predatory void.
"Action," Tom yelled over the noise of the fans.
Margot raised the heavy revolver. Her hands were genuinely trembling, the weight of the metal and the sheer, oppressive gravity of the performance pulling her directly into the scene. She aimed the barrel directly at the center of the Joker's purple chest.
"Stay back," Margot commanded. Her voice was supposed to be authoritative, but she let it crack perfectly, exposing the desperation underneath. "I will shoot you. I swear to God I will pull the trigger."
The Joker didn't put his hands up. He didn't look scared.
He slowly tilted his head, staring at the barrel of the gun. A wet, rhythmic smacking sound came from his lips.
Smack. Tsk.
He took a slow, shuffling step forward.
Margot's breath hitched. She backed up, her heels clicking against the marble tiles.
The Joker took another step. He didn't stop until the metal tip of the revolver was physically pressing into the cheap fabric of his purple vest, right over his heart.
Margot stared at him, her eyes wide, her chest heaving as she breathed. The wind howled around them.
"You're holding a piece of metal," the Joker whispered. His voice was erratic, jumping between a raspy hum and a high, nasal whine. It wasn't a polished, theatrical villain speech. It sounded unhinged, like he was making it up as he went along. "Seven pounds of steel. It's supposed to make you feel safe. Does it? Does it make you feel safe, doc?"
Margot kept the gun pressed to his chest, tears welling up in her eyes, stinging against the blowing wind.
"You spent... what? Eight years?" the Joker mumbled, his eyes darting wildly around her face, examining her like a bug pinned to a corkboard. "Sitting at a little desk. Reading thick books written by dead guys. Trying to put the rats in a maze. 'Oh, he had a bad mommy. Oh, he fell on his head.' It's a joke. It's all a big, hilarious joke."
He leaned in closer. Margot could smell the faint scent of coffee and peppermint mixed with the greasepaint, a confusing clash of Daniel's reality and the character's nightmare.
"You look down at the street from your high-rise," the Joker continued, his voice dropping to a terrifying, intimate murmur. "You see the tiny little ants. Waiting for the light to turn green. Paying their taxes. Pretending they aren't animals. And you're so... incredibly... bored."
"Stop it," Margot whispered, her voice breaking.
"Go ahead," the Joker urged, a sudden, manic energy flaring in his dead eyes. He tapped his chest, right next to the gun barrel. "Squeeze it. Pop. Just like that, you're a hero. You can go back to your desk. You can go back to sleep."
He reached up, his pale, dirty hand gently wrapping around her wrists. He didn't force the gun down. He just rested his skin against hers.
"Or," the Joker whispered, the red, scarred smile stretching across his face, "you can drop the toy... and wake up."
Margot stared into those dark, intense eyes. The chemistry was electric. It was a suffocating, heavy gravity that pulled her completely out of the soundstage and entirely into Gotham. She felt the absolute, undeniable magnetism of the monster. The script said Harleen breaks here. Margot didn't have to act it. She just let it happen.
Her fingers loosened.
The heavy silver revolver slipped from her grip, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
The Joker smiled. It was a terrifying, victorious expression.
The choreography for the next beat had been rehearsed three times during blocking. The Joker was supposed to step into her space, grab her jaw with one hand, and deliver a brief, mocking, terrifying brush of his lips against hers. A predator sealing a deal. They had explicitly agreed to keep it to a simple tap. The white greasepaint and the red silicone scars smeared incredibly easily, and resetting the Joker's face took an hour of sitting in Sandy's makeup chair.
The Joker stepped in. His dirty hand reached up, his fingers gripping her jaw. His thumb rested roughly against her cheekbone.
He leaned down, tilting her face up.
His lips brushed against hers. The red greasepaint was cold and slick. It was supposed to end there. Daniel held the mark, waiting for the camera to capture the chilling visual of the kiss.
But Margot's brain completely short-circuited.
The adrenaline of the scene, the howling wind, the intense, overwhelming physical proximity of the man she had been watching all week—it all crashed together into a massive wave of raw instinct. She forgot the blocking. She forgot the camera rolling a few feet away. She forgot the sixty crew members standing in the dark watching them.
Harleen Quinzel wasn't just surrendering. She was jumping off the cliff.
Margot didn't freeze in terror as the script dictated. She reached up, her hands grabbing the cheap, heavy wool lapels of Daniel's purple coat. She pulled him flush against her body, entirely eliminating the space between them.
She tilted her head, opened her mouth, and kissed him back. Deeply, passionately, and completely off-script.
Daniel went perfectly rigid in her hands.
Margot felt the shock rip through his body. He was completely caught off guard. His hands, which had been resting lightly on her jaw, instinctively tightened for a fraction of a second.
But Daniel Miller was a professional to his core. He didn't violently shove her away. He didn't break character and look at the camera in confusion. He realized instantly that she was off-book, but he let the camera capture the moment. He held the frame, his body tense, accepting the chaotic shift in the dynamic for exactly three seconds.
Then, he smoothly, firmly stepped backward, breaking the kiss and pulling himself out of her grip.
The switch flipped. The slouch vanished. The dead eyes cleared.
"And... cut," Daniel's voice rang out, steady and commanding.
"Cut! Fan machines off!" Tom yelled instantly.
The heavy industrial fans powered down, the howling noise fading away until the massive soundstage was plunged into a deafening, heavy silence.
Margot stood on the fake balcony, her chest heaving, the blood pounding in her ears so loudly she thought the boom mic could pick it up.
The reality of what she had just done crashed down on her like an anvil.
She had just completely ruined the choreography. She had grabbed her billionaire boss, the director of the movie, a man who had a very public, very serious girlfriend, and she had aggressively kissed him in front of the entire production crew.
"Oh my god," Margot whispered, her hands dropping to her sides. She felt her face burn with a sudden, intense heat that had nothing to do with the studio lighting.
From the video village, a loud, agonizing groan echoed across the concrete floor.
It was Sandy.
Margot looked at Daniel.
The lower half of his face was a disaster. The crisp, terrifying lines of the red Glasgow smile were completely smeared across his cheeks and chin. The white greasepaint on his jaw was rubbed away, exposing his natural skin tone.
But that wasn't the worst part.
Daniel was looking at her, a strange, unreadable expression in his eyes, and pointing a finger at his own mouth.
Margot quickly raised a trembling hand to her own face. Her fingers came away stained with greasy, toxic-red paint. The Joker's makeup was smeared entirely across her lips, her chin, and the tip of her nose. She looked like she had just eaten a jar of cherry jam with her bare hands.
"Dan, the continuity is completely destroyed," Sandy yelled from the monitors, her voice filled with makeup-artist despair. "I have to take you back to the trailer. That's a fifty-minute reset at least!"
Margot wanted the fake marble floor of the balcony to open up and swallow her whole. She felt the panicked, humiliating sting of tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She had to apologize. She had to explain that she just got caught up in the character, that it was a mistake, that she was so, so sorry.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Daniel held up a hand, stopping her.
He didn't look angry. He didn't look disgusted. He turned his head and looked down at the massive playback monitors at the video village.
"Bob, play that back," Daniel instructed, his voice completely calm.
Bob Elswit hit a button on his console. The monitors showed the raw IMAX footage. The wind howling. The gun dropping. The Joker leaning in for the brief, terrifying touch. And then, Margot grabbing his lapels and pulling him into the chaotic, desperate kiss.
The camera caught the exact, shocking shift in power. It caught the red greasepaint smearing across her face, physically marking her transition from a clean, clinical doctor into a messy, broken accomplice.
Daniel watched the screen in silence. The entire crew held their breath, waiting for the director to explode over the ruined take and the wasted hour of makeup time.
Daniel nodded slowly.
"We're keeping it," Daniel announced, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Tom Wiley looked up from his clipboard, genuinely surprised. "Dan, the script says..."
"The script is a blueprint, Tom, not a bible, and I was the one who wrote it," Daniel interrupted smoothly, walking down the wooden stairs of the platform. He grabbed a damp towel from a PA and began wiping the worst of the ruined greasepaint off his jaw. "The script had him mocking her. But this? This is better. She isn't just surrendering. She's throwing herself into the abyss. The red smear on her face is a brilliant visual. It shows the infection taking hold."
Daniel looked back up at the balcony, locking eyes with Margot.
He offered her a warm, highly professional smile, completely diffusing the terrifying tension in the room. He didn't make it weird. He didn't humiliate her. He protected her acting choice in front of the entire crew, turning a massive, embarrassing blunder into a stroke of creative genius.
"That was a fantastic instinct, Margot," Daniel said, his tone full of genuine praise. "You found the exact emotional breaking point. Incredible work."
Margot let out a shaky breath, the crushing weight of her panic instantly evaporating, replaced by an overwhelming wave of gratitude. "Thank you," she managed to say, her voice still a little breathless.
"Alright, everyone take an hour!" Tom yelled, clapping his hands together. "We need a massive makeup reset! Get the principals to their trailers! Grips, let's adjust the track for the wide shot while we wait!"
The soundstage immediately erupted into chaotic movement as the crew scattered to take their break.
Margot practically ran down the stairs, keeping her head down to hide her burning face as an assistant ushered her out the heavy doors and into the cool night air.
---
The inside of Margot's trailer was brightly lit and completely quiet.
She sat in the leather salon chair in front of the vanity mirror, staring at her own reflection.
A makeup assistant was standing beside her, using a heavy-duty, alcohol-soaked wipe to scrub the thick, greasy red paint off her chin and lips. It stung slightly, but Margot barely registered the physical sensation.
"Almost got it," the assistant murmured, tossing a stained wipe into the trash bin and grabbing a fresh one. "That silicone paint does not like to come off."
"Take your time," Margot said quietly, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.
She looked at her lips in the mirror. They were slightly swollen and flushed a deep, natural pink from the aggressive scrubbing.
Her mind was looping the last ten minutes on a relentless, terrifying repeat.
She tried to tell herself it was the character. She tried to rationalize it by saying the scene was just so intense, the wind was so loud, and the gravity of the Joker was so strong that Harleen Quinzel took over the wheel and forced her to lean in. It was method acting. It was a commitment to the craft.
But sitting in the quiet trailer, away from the cameras and the crew, she knew that was a lie.
Harleen didn't kiss the Joker. Margot kissed Daniel.
She closed her eyes, and all she could see was the way he had looked at her when he praised her in front of the crew. He had saved her. He could have called cut immediately. He could have yelled at her for ruining the expensive makeup and costing the production time. Instead, he validated her, turning her mistake into a brilliant character beat, ensuring nobody on the crew would ever question her professionalism.
The assistant finished wiping the last trace of red from her cheek and stepped back. "All clean, Ms. Robbie. I'll leave you to touch up your foundation."
"Thank you," Margot said.
The assistant left the trailer, pulling the door shut behind her.
Margot sat alone in the silence. She leaned her elbows on the vanity counter and buried her face in her hands. Her cheeks were radiating heat.
It was happening. She was developing a massive, undeniable, completely inconvenient crush on Daniel Miller.
It wasn't just because he was handsome. Hollywood was full of handsome men. It was the little things. It was the way he twirled the marker. It was the way he spoke to the crew with absolute respect. It was the way his laugh sounded real and unforced when Tom made a sarcastic comment. It was the sheer, staggering brilliance of watching him flip a switch and turn into a monster, only to flip it back and offer a gentle, reassuring smile.
And, God help her, it was the way his lips had felt against hers, even through the cold greasepaint. For that split second before he pulled away, he was incredibly warm, solid, and grounding in the middle of the chaotic scene.
"You're an idiot," Margot whispered to herself in the empty trailer.
She knew the boundaries. Daniel wasn't available. He had been with Florence Pugh for years. Florence was gorgeous, talented, and fiercely protective of him. Everyone in the industry knew they were the untouchable golden couple. Florence was currently out of town at a magazine shoot, completely unaware that her boyfriend's co-star was currently having an emotional meltdown in a trailer on the Warner Bros. lot.
Margot dropped her hands and looked at her flushed face in the mirror.
She was a professional. She had a job to do. She had to go back out there, stand on that balcony, and act like a psychopath alongside the most talented, magnetic man she had ever met.
She took a slow, deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart. She picked up a makeup sponge and began dabbing fresh foundation over her cheeks, trying to cover the deep flush that refused to fade.
The script called for Harleen to fall completely into the abyss. Margot just had to make sure she didn't actually fall in with her.
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A/N: Read ahead on Patreon: patreon.com/AmaanS