A/N: Hi everybody! It's been forever and a day since I've posted anything on here, so…yeah, I hope this works out. I really enjoy this story a lot. It's far from being done (those little plot bunnies just keep popping up out of nowhere!) but I hope it's enjoyable enough to the dear readers that I can continue it. Um…yeah! R/R of course. Let the games begin! Sweet Jebus, the html for this stuff is confusing...

Disclaimer: Just about everything belongs to Chris Nolan/DC Comics, etc. Sakura belongs to me.

ATROPHY

She was a professional dancer, graceful and powerful, beautiful and wonderful; the perfect woman. He was a hardened killer, a freak to the rest of the world who wore clown makeup and manipulated mob bosses for fun.

He could barely wrap his mind around the fact that he had her in his bed.

Her skin was so perfectly soft and warm under his touch, like…that puppy he remembered petting as a kid, just not…furry. He had wanted to wear his gloves for this, but she had overpowered him in a burst of strength he was surprised that even she had (her profession required her to have a great deal of muscle) and removed the apparently offensive things covering his hands while she straddled him on his bed. His face was hot and flushed as he touched her; she knew of the scars on his face and his chest and back and stomach, had seen him with his shirt off plenty of times, but he still found himself to be self-conscious of the jagged white lines that stood out against his pale flesh. But it seemed she didn't mind.

She was covering him with hot kisses, leaving no inch of flesh on his torso untouched by her tongue and fingers, including his hands. She was gentle in her touch and surprisingly confident. He found it peculiar that she was so bold.

After all, she came under his…care after he'd stolen her from an earlier predicament.

The Joker prowled the streets of Gotham at night on occasion, when he wasn't harassing the mob. One such night, he had heard the voice of a yelling woman: "Get…fuck off…goddamn motherfucking bastard!" He only heard snatches of that spicy sentence, but its meaning was clear. A woman was being attacked; whether it was by a stranger or not didn't matter. He found domestic violence of all forms as well as rape disgusting when it came to people he cared about, who, not so ironically, he could count on one hand.

He killed for fun and knew what the world thought of him for it, but he never preyed on the weak simply because of their position to him. He had always thought that those that felt they had the right to abuse someone or something that depended on them were sick people that deserved to be punished themselves.

Anyways, he was curious. Something about the woman's voice was calling him to her. Maybe it was the way she'd used several obscenities in one sentence. But he had come across a struggling woman two alleyways down, the one behind the dance theater, being held against a wall by a big burly man, probably a drunken body-builder with a machismo disorder. This man, pants down around his ankles, was forcing his victim's legs open, growling profanity under his breath as he fought to hold the woman still, which was proving to be a difficult task. She fought him at every turn, twisting her body, squirming like a stubborn toddler; she even went so far as to bite her assailant's hand when it came up to cup her face. The man howled in pain, but did not let go.

"You crazy bitch, you need to learn some manners! I swear to God I'll make you regret what you just did."

The next moment, the woman's would-be rapist was dead.

The Joker had broken his neck, come up behind like a ghost in the night and twisted the idiot's head around so fast his spinal column snapped with a loud, satisfying crack, like cartilage from a chicken being bitten. The Joker grinned, flashing yellowed teeth, happy with what he had done. There really wasn't anything like killing for a good cause. But this woman that he'd saved, someone he felt should be grateful for what he did, was different.

He had seen plenty of pretty women over the course of his lifetime, but this woman…was radiant, even in the half-lit gloom of the alley behind the theatre. She had slid to the ground in shock after her attacker had been killed, but even so, the Joker could tell she was tall and skinny, a dancer type, muscled and well-defined, with plenty of curves to go along with it. She had a delicate face framed by long, straight, silky-looking red hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes. But she was staring at him wide-eyed, like a deer in head-lights.

That thought made him giggle. She did look a bit doe-ish. Well, sort of.

"Look now, sweet-cheeks…"

In the few moments it took for him to step towards her, she'd scrambled to her feet and was running back towards the theater exit. She was mighty fast in heels, but he caught up with her fairly easily, wrapping his arms around her neck in a chokehold.

"Now, now, little lady, I'm not here to hurt you, but I can't just have you wander off and tell everybody about our little rendezvous, can I?"

She was struggling against him too; the more air she lost, the more she fought him. She would pass out in just a few moments…

She elbowed him in the stomach, something he hadn't planned on. He let go with a loud "Oof!" and a manic giggle and she took off again, wobbly from lack of oxygen. He liked her; she had spirit, and those with spirit were always the most fun to break.

It was almost effortless this time to catch her, but he made sure she couldn't jab at him again. "Ah ah, you pretty thing, that simply will not do." She was choking… choking… struggling…. Her movements were losing their power…and she had passed out in his arms. He couldn't help but notice that she had a beautiful neck as her head lolled back against his shoulder. He smirked.

She would have bruises in the morning.