The hot water in the master bathroom of the Bel Air villa had been running for twenty minutes.
Daniel stood under the massive rainfall showerhead, his eyes squeezed shut, aggressively scrubbing his jawline with a rough washcloth and a heavy amount of exfoliating soap. The chemical, synthetic smell of liquid latex and spirit gum was notoriously difficult to wash off. It had a way of seeping into your pores, lingering right under your nose long after the silicone prosthetics were peeled away.
He finally turned the water off, grabbed a thick white towel from the heated rack, and dried his hair.
When he walked out into the kitchen a few minutes later, he was wearing a pair of worn-out gray sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt. He felt physically exhausted, but his mind was still running at a hundred miles an hour, replaying the day's footage on a loop.
Florence was standing at the kitchen island. She was wearing a pair of soft silk pajama pants and one of Daniel's old hoodies. She had just gotten back from a ten-hour editorial magazine shoot in Malibu and looked equally tired, but she was currently focused on pouring hot water from a sleek electric kettle into two ceramic mugs. The smell of chamomile and honey drifted through the room.
"You got the paint out of your ears," Florence noted without looking up, setting the kettle back onto its base. "Congratulations. Yesterday you walked in here looking like you had an ear infection."
"Sandy uses a solvent that smells like industrial floor cleaner," Daniel said, walking over and pulling out one of the high-backed barstools. He sat down, resting his elbows on the cool marble of the island. "I think it's burning a hole in my brain."
Florence slid a mug of tea across the counter to him. She walked around the island and hopped up onto the stool next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest. She took a careful sip of her own tea, blowing on the surface to cool it down.
"How was the balcony shoot?" she asked, looking over at him. "Did the wind machines drown out the dialogue?"
Daniel wrapped his hands around the warm mug. He looked down at the pale yellow liquid.
He was a very straightforward guy. He didn't like drama, he didn't like games, and he absolutely hated secrets. Even though it had happened entirely within the context of a rolling camera, he felt a strange, nagging weight in his chest. It felt like a lie of omission to just drink his tea and go to bed.
"The audio was fine," Daniel said, his voice quiet. He looked up, meeting her eyes. "But we had a slight issue with the blocking during the master take."
Florence lowered her mug. "What kind of issue? Did somebody get hurt?"
"No. Nobody got hurt," Daniel said quickly. He took a breath, deciding to just rip the bandage off. "The script called for a very brief, mocking touch. Just the lips. A tap. But when I leaned in... Margot went off-script. She grabbed my coat and she actually kissed me. Like, really kissed me."
He watched her face, waiting for the reaction. He braced himself for a frown, a sharp question, or at least a flash of understandable annoyance.
Florence stared at him for three seconds. The kitchen was completely silent.
Then, she burst out laughing.
She didn't just chuckle. She let out a loud, genuine, belly laugh, throwing her head back, almost spilling her tea.
Daniel sat there, completely bewildered. He actually checked her expression, scanning for sarcasm or a trap. There was none. She was genuinely finding the situation hilarious.
"I'm sorry," Daniel said, raising his eyebrows. "I feel like I'm missing the joke."
Florence put her mug down, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye. "Dan, I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because Elena owes me fifty bucks."
"What?"
"Elena and I had a bet," Florence explained, her British accent thickening slightly as she grinned. "We took bets on how long it would take for your co-star to crack. You are ridiculously handsome, you are the most powerful director in town, and you are currently doing this intense, hyper-magnetic psychological routine all day. I said week two. Elena said week three. I win."
Daniel just stared at her. "I just told you another woman kissed me on set, and you're happy about winning fifty dollars from my publicist."
Florence leaned her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her hands. She looked at him with an expression of pure, unapologetic amusement.
"Daniel, you're an actor in a movie," Florence said, her tone completely frank. "Stuff happens. Adrenaline happens. She got caught up in a highly emotional scene." She paused, her eyes glinting with mischief. She leaned a little closer. "So?"
"So what?"
"Was she a good kisser?" Florence asked, completely deadpan.
Daniel felt his brain short-circuit. He physically blinked a few times, trying to process the question. He actively searched her face again, looking for any hint of jealousy. But Florence was completely, fundamentally secure in their relationship. They had been together through the absolute madness of his rise to the top of the industry. She knew exactly who he was, and she knew he was coming home to her every night.
"I... I don't know," Daniel stammered, genuinely flustered for the first time in months. "I was a little too busy panicking about the choreography and trying to figure out if I should call cut or hold the frame. Also, my face was covered in greasy red silicone paint. It wasn't exactly romantic."
Florence laughed again, reaching over to ruffle his damp hair. "You're overthinking it. You look like a guilty puppy. Stop it. Did you keep the take?"
"Yeah," Daniel admitted, relaxing slightly as he realized she really wasn't upset. "It actually worked perfectly for the character's transition. It looked great on the monitor."
"See? Good directing," Florence smiled. She picked up her tea. "But if you're really going to sit there and feel that guilty about it... I suppose I could just drive down to the Warner Bros. lot tomorrow and kiss her myself as payback."
Daniel choked on his tea, coughing into his hand.
Florence just smirked, taking a casual sip from her mug. "I mean, it's only fair to even the score. I'm bi, and have you seen her? She's gorgeous. I think I deserve a turn."
Daniel finally managed to clear his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at his girlfriend, shaking his head slowly. The awkward, uncomfortable tension he had carried home from the studio was completely, entirely gone.
"You're a menace," Daniel told her.
"I'm a supportive partner," Florence corrected him smoothly. "Now drink your tea. You have to go be a terrifying clown again tomorrow."
---
Ten miles away, in a luxury hotel suite in downtown Burbank, the atmosphere was significantly less relaxed.
Margot Robbie was pacing.
She was wearing a pair of oversized, matching silk pajamas. Her bare feet sank silently into the plush, expensive carpet of the living area. The massive, flat-screen television on the wall was playing some random late-night infomercial on mute, casting a blue, flickering glow across the dark room.
She walked from the window, which overlooked the glowing grid of the city, to the edge of the king-sized bed. Then she turned around and walked back.
She had been doing this for an hour.
Every time she stopped moving, her brain instantly replayed the scene on the balcony. She could vividly feel the rough, cheap wool of his purple coat bunching up in her fists. She could smell the faint, confusing mix of mint and theatrical spirit gum. She could feel the exact, humiliating moment when he had stiffened in her grip, completely caught off guard by her entirely unprompted, aggressive kiss.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Margot whispered to herself, pressing the heels of her hands against her burning eyes.
She walked over to the small glass coffee table and practically threw herself onto the sofa. Her leather binder, containing the script for Joker, was sitting on the table. She reached out and opened it, determined to just read the lines for tomorrow's scenes and force her brain to focus on the work.
She stared at the dialogue. The words blurred together.
She couldn't stop thinking about the way he had handled it afterward. He hadn't shamed her. He hadn't called her to his trailer to have a quiet, awkward conversation about 'boundaries'. He had just looked at the monitor, validated her acting choice in front of a hundred crew members, and moved on. It was so incredibly classy. It was so professional.
And it was making her crush on him ten times worse.
Groaning in frustration, Margot slammed the script binder shut. She grabbed her laptop from the cushion next to her and flipped it open. She needed a distraction. She needed to look at literally anything other than the script.
She opened the web browser. She didn't want to look at news sites; they were all just talking about Star Wars anyway. She typed Reddit into the search bar, figuring she would just scroll through some random, mindless front-page posts until she got tired enough to sleep.
She clicked on a trending entertainment thread. It was an argument about the greatest directors under thirty.
Naturally, Daniel Miller's name was the top comment.
Margot hovered her trackpad over his name. She knew she shouldn't click it. She was already in a dangerous headspace. Looking him up online was the digital equivalent of pouring gasoline on a fire.
She clicked it anyway.
The link didn't take her to a Wikipedia page. It redirected her to a massive, highly active subreddit called r/MillerMuses.
Margot blinked, staring at the screen. She knew Daniel had a fanbase. Everyone in the industry knew about the Muses. They were a terrifyingly dedicated army of fans who tracked his box office numbers like sports statistics and organized mass viewings of his movies.
But as she scrolled down the main page of the forum, she realized the fanbase wasn't just dedicated to his cinematography.
The entire front page was a collage of high-resolution, perfectly timed paparazzi photos and red carpet candids.
Margot felt her face flush with a fresh wave of heat as she scrolled.
There was a photo of Daniel stepping out of a sleek, black Aston Martin in Beverly Hills. He was wearing a fitted charcoal t-shirt and dark jeans, wearing a pair of classic Ray-Bans, looking effortlessly cool as he handed his keys to a valet. The top comment underneath simply read: I am looking disrespectfully.
She scrolled further. There was a behind-the-scenes shot from the set of Star Wars in Norway. Daniel was standing in knee-deep snow, wrapped in a heavy parka. His dark hair was blowing in the wind, and he was looking through a director's viewfinder with an expression of absolute, intense focus. The bone structure of his jaw looked like it could cut glass.
There were dozens of them. Pictures of him at the Oscars in his tailored Tom Ford tuxedo. Short, looped GIFs of him smiling during late-night talk show interviews, capturing the exact, charming way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.
Margot sat in the dim light of her hotel room, bathing in the glow of the laptop screen, completely transfixed.
She clicked on a compilation video titled Daniel Miller Just Existing For 3 Minutes. It was set to a slow, bass-heavy R&B track. It was just a montage of him fixing his cuffs, running his hand through his hair, and giving that devastatingly calm, authoritative look to the press cameras.
She watched the entire three minutes.
When the video ended, Margot caught her own reflection in the dark bezel of the laptop screen.
She looked insane. She was sitting in her pajamas at midnight, biting her lower lip, scrolling through a fan page dedicated to her billionaire boss like a crazed, obsessed teenager.
A sudden, sharp spike of absolute mortification hit her.
"What are you doing?" Margot asked her reflection out loud.
She slammed the laptop shut with a loud crack. She tossed it onto the coffee table like it was physically burning her hands.
She stood up, walked briskly into the bathroom, and turned on the cold water in the sink. She splashed her face twice, grabbing a towel to dry off. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.
She had to get a grip. She was a professional actress. Tomorrow, she had to walk onto Stage 16, look him in the eye, and do her job. She couldn't let a stupid, inconvenient crush ruin the biggest opportunity of her career.
She took a deep breath, turned off the bathroom light, and went to bed.
---
Two days later, the air conditioning on Stage 16 was cranked so high the crew was actively wearing winter coats.
Margot stepped through the heavy soundstage doors, holding a cup of hot coffee from craft services just to keep her hands warm. She was dressed in Harleen Quinzel's conservative, tailored skirt suit, her blonde hair pulled back tightly into a professional bun.
She felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. She hadn't seen Daniel since the balcony incident. They hadn't had any scenes scheduled together yesterday.
She walked past the grip trucks and around a series of temporary black curtains.
Dante Ferretti had completely dismantled the Italian restaurant set. In its place stood the "Iceberg Lounge." It was an incredible, lavish, aggressively tacky nightclub set. The walls were lined with frosted glass and neon blue lighting. In the center of the room sat a massive, life-sized ice sculpture of a penguin, slowly dripping water into a steel drainage tray.
At the far end of the room, sitting on a raised dais, was a sleek, black grand piano.
Margot spotted Daniel instantly.
He was standing near the video village, talking to Bob Elswit. He was in full makeup and wardrobe. The dirty purple suit, the greasy green hair, the smeared red scars.
Margot took a breath and walked over.
"Hey," Margot said, her voice sounding a little too tight.
Daniel turned around. The horrifying mask of the Joker was on his face, but he didn't slouch. He stood up straight and offered her a warm, easy smile.
"Hey, Margot," Daniel said, his tone perfectly normal and friendly. "How was your day off?"
Margot blinked. She actively searched his face, his posture, his eyes. She was looking for any sign of awkwardness, any residual weirdness from the kiss. There was absolutely none. He wasn't avoiding her gaze. He wasn't treating her differently. He was treating her with the exact same warm, professional respect he had shown her on day one.
"It was... good. Restful," Margot managed to say, feeling a strange mix of profound relief and a tiny, irritating sting of disappointment. To him, it really was just work.
"Good," Daniel nodded. "We're shooting Colin's coverage first today, then we'll move into the Arkham set for our scenes this afternoon. Feel free to hang around video village, or you can grab some rest in the trailer."
"I'll hang around. I want to watch," Margot said, stepping back slightly to give him space.
Daniel turned his attention back to the set.
Margot took a sip of her coffee. His complete lack of awkwardness had successfully diffused her anxiety, but ironically, his sheer, unbothered professionalism just made her respect him even more. It was infuriating.
"Alright, let's get Colin to the floor," Tom Wiley called out over the megaphone.
A side door opened, and Colin Farrell walked onto the set.
He looked incredible. The makeup and prosthetics team had transformed the naturally handsome Irish actor into a heavy, scarred, deeply intimidating mob boss. He wore a sharp, pinstriped suit that barely contained his bulk, and a monocle-style pair of thick glasses rested over one heavily scarred eye. He carried a silver-handled umbrella like a walking stick.
Colin walked into the center of the Iceberg Lounge set, looking around at the neon lights and the ice sculptures.
"It's a bit chilly in here, isn't it?" Colin called out in his natural, thick Irish accent.
"Wait until the cameras roll, Colin, you'll be sweating," Daniel joked from behind the monitors. Daniel grabbed a small radio mic. "Alright, everyone settle in. This is Scene 42. Joker's introduction to the Iceberg Lounge."
Daniel walked onto the set. He didn't say anything to Colin. He just walked past the mob boss, walked up the three short steps to the raised dais, and sat down on the leather bench in front of the grand piano.
He rested his hands on the keys.
"Sound speeding," the mixer announced.
"Camera rolling," Bob Elswit said, tracking the heavy camera on the dolly.
Daniel let his spine collapse. The switch flipped. The brilliant director vanished, replaced by the hunched, twitching psychopath.
"Action," Tom yelled.
Daniel didn't look at Colin. He just stared at the piano keys. Slowly, awkwardly, he reached out with one dirty finger and pressed a key.
Plink.
It was a sharp, discordant, incredibly annoying note that echoed loudly through the quiet, cold nightclub set.
He waited three seconds, and pressed another key.
Plonk.
Colin Farrell, fully in character as Oswald Cobblepot, turned around slowly. He leaned heavily on his silver umbrella, glaring up at the dais. He didn't look scared. He looked deeply, violently annoyed.
"I closed the club an hour ago," Colin growled, his voice thick with a harsh, American gangster accent. "My boys outside were supposed to lock the doors. How did a freak in cheap makeup get past four guys with automatic weapons?"
The Joker didn't answer. He just reached out and hit two keys at the same time, creating an ugly, jarring chord.
"Stop playing the piano," Penguin snapped, taking a step toward the dais. "I asked you a question."
The Joker stopped playing. He didn't turn around to look at the mob boss. He just let his head hang down, staring at his dirty hands resting on his thighs.
"They didn't lock the doors, Oswald," the Joker whispered. His voice was a raspy, nasal hum. "Because they were too busy taking a nap in the alleyway. Very deep sleepers. I don't think they're waking up."
Colin's grip on the silver umbrella tightened. He took another step forward. "You killed my guys. In my club. Do you have any idea who you're talking to? I run the docks. I run the judges in this city."
The Joker finally turned around on the piano bench.
He slouched heavily, his knees spread wide, his arms hanging loosely between his legs. The stark white greasepaint and the red, scarred smile looked terrifying under the blue neon lights of the club.
"You run the judges," the Joker repeated, a slow, rattling chuckle escaping his throat.
He reached a hand slowly into the inside pocket of his dirty purple coat.
Penguin instantly flinched, reaching for the handle of his umbrella, fully expecting the clown to pull a weapon.
The Joker didn't pull a gun. He pulled out a small, folded piece of cheap notebook paper. He held it up between two fingers.
"Judge Henry Davies," the Joker read from the paper, his eyes darting across the page in erratic, jerky movements. "Lives at 442 Park Avenue. Wife's name is Sarah. Drives a silver Mercedes. Keeps his bribe money in a safety deposit box at Gotham First National."
Colin froze, the anger on his face shifting instantly into genuine, cold shock.
The Joker let the piece of paper flutter to the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another one.
"Police Commissioner Loeb," the Joker read, his voice rising slightly in pitch, sounding almost gleeful. "Lives in a gated community out in the suburbs. Has a very ugly dog. Takes fifty thousand dollars a month from your offshore accounts to look the other way when the shipments come in."
The Joker let that piece of paper drop too. He looked at Colin, the dead, hollow stare locking onto the mob boss's face.
"You think you have power because you have guys with guns," the Joker whispered, leaning forward on the bench. "But guns are so... boring. Anyone can pull a trigger, Oswald."
The Joker tapped the side of his own head.
"I took the liberty of taking some photographs of your little smuggling operation down at the docks last night," the Joker said, his voice dropping into a terrifying, intimate murmur. "I made copies. And I mailed them to the Judge. And the Commissioner. And the Gotham Times."
Colin stared at him, his jaw tight. The bluster was completely gone. He realized exactly what was happening. He wasn't being robbed. He was being dismantled.
"If you shoot me right now," the Joker smiled, the red silicone stretching, "those envelopes arrive in the mail tomorrow morning. The FBI raids this club by noon. You spend the rest of your life in a concrete box."
The Joker stood up from the piano bench. He didn't look intimidating. He was hunched and awkward, but the sheer, psychological gravity he commanded in the room was absolute.
He shuffled slowly down the steps of the dais, stopping a few feet away from the massive mob boss.
"Or," the Joker whispered, tilting his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with manic energy. "You don't shoot me. You put the umbrella down. And we can be friends, Oswald."
Colin Farrell stared at him. He didn't move. The tension was suffocating. He was trapped, utterly defeated by a man who hadn't even raised his voice.
"And... cut!" Daniel yelled from the set.
The switch flipped. The terrifying slouch evaporated. Daniel stood up straight, rolled his shoulders, and ran a hand through his green hair.
"That felt great," Daniel said in his normal voice, looking over at Bob. "Did the neon light flare on the lens when I dropped the paper?"
Colin Farrell didn't move for three seconds. He just stood there, leaning on the umbrella, staring at Daniel with a look of profound, deeply unsettled disbelief.
Finally, Colin let out a long, heavy breath. He took off his thick glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"Jesus Christ, Daniel," Colin muttered, his Irish accent thick with genuine stress. "You didn't even yell. You just sat there playing the piano, and I swear to God I actually felt my blood pressure spike."
Daniel smiled charmingly, looking terrifyingly polite in the greasepaint. "I told you, Colin. The mob is loud. Chaos is quiet. Do you want to run it again, or are you happy with the master?"
"I don't ever want to do that again," Colin joked, shaking his head. "Let's check the playback. If we have it, I need a drink."
Margot sat in her cast chair behind the video village monitors, watching Daniel walk over to the screens. She pulled the fleece blanket a little tighter around her shoulders.
Colin was right. The legend of what Daniel Miller was doing under that makeup was going to spread through Hollywood like wildfire. It was absolutely brilliant.
And as she watched him twirl a silver dry-erase marker between his fingers while he reviewed the footage, she realized her crush wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.
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A/N: Read ahead on Patreon: patreon.com/AmaanS