5: DoNuts

by Evelyn Brightpaw

In the fallout of the Halloween maze fiasco, the Joker is forced to do some serious thinking - about himself, about Billy, and especially about Harley. Sometimes... a man just needs to take a long walk. Based on the comic "Laughter After Midnight." Please read and review!

AN: This is a story for all the comic fans out there. I'm always in the Nolanverse, and if I lean in other directions, it's usually toward the Animated Series; but I decided it was finally time to pull a story from the comics and adapt it into the world of my story. This fic is based on the Paul Dini comic "Laughter After Midnight" (BATMAN ADVENTURES ANNUAL #1, 1994), which is one of my favorites. I tried to keep the essential timeline and unexpected comedy of the original while still making it fit into the Ledger/Nolan style. Please read and review!

---

DoNuts

"We're gonna stimulate some action,

We're gonna get some satisfaction,

We're gonna find out what it's all about;

After midnight, we're gonna let it all hang down."

- "After Midnight," by Eric Clapton

November 2, 2008. 11:39 PM.

The back door of The Factory banged against the concrete wall, echoing like a hollow gunshot in the silence of the alley. It was cold, but not quite cold enough to see breath in the air. And it was empty. No traffic, no pedestrians in the street at the alley mouth – odd, maybe, for a major city, but not for this part of it. Around here, people turned in when the news shows did. The only people out after midnight around here were those who didn't want to be seen.

The Joker pushed out into the chilly breeze, gloved fists balled up tightly and shoved into deep pockets. He let the door slap shut behind him, ringing out another echo that sounded like gunfire. But that was okay. That was a familiar sound to most of the neighbors – like crickets, or the reassuring creak of an old house. For a moment, he just stood – feeling the sudden drawing sensation of blood vessels reacting to cold inside his nose, on the back of his neck. The chill made the paint on his face feel wet again, fresh, and he twisted his face in reaction. He was starting to hate the scent and the feel of it. It was cheap. It always felt wet. And it had a thick, cloying smell that left his nostrils feeling constantly clogged. He needed something smoother, something higher quality – something that wouldn't wipe off every time that little witch tried to kiss him. Theatre makeup, maybe? The good stuff actors used? It didn't sweat off under stage lights, so maybe…. He decided he would go looking for a shop that sold it. It was as good an excuse as any to get out and be alone.

They were driving him crazy. All of them. Dan, with his vacuous face and his Awwwwww, yeeeeaaaaahhs after every sentence; Peter going back to the empty refrigerator every ten minutes, complaining about how a fat man can't live on bread and bologna alone; Bobby's increasing paranoia, and his insistence that he now be called "Rob," which he felt was a better name for a domestic terrorist; Dionté's insufferable silence – and Billy. Billy, with his sanctimonious glares, which he'd kept plastered on his face for the past two days – every time he so much as looked at the little witch, or walked past the door to a room she was in, there Billy was, icy, full of cold and righteous indignation, and always watching. Like he was standing guard.

And then, of course, there was her. Harley. The little witch herself.

He hated her. Or at least, that's how he wanted to feel. Maybe sometimes it was true. Little pockets of time when all he could see was hot rage, and she became a personification of all his pain. Sure. He hated her then, and easily. Other times….

Other times, he felt like he did tonight. He didn't know what to call it, because it wasn't a feeling he'd ever had before. And that annoyed him, the not having a name to put to it. But sometimes, he would look at her, or think of her…and it was like wearing a shirt that just doesn't fit right…or the strange disconnect from reality one feels after being awake all night, when it feels like your surroundings are peeling away from you like an adhesive film.

Like needing a cigarette.

The thought struck him out of nowhere – he hadn't had a smoke, or wanted one, since the night his world crashed down around his ears – but it was an accurate description. Harley gave him a sense of needing something he didn't have access to – a curious feeling of displacement, of hovering just outside the edge of some cloud he needed to penetrate. A nervous sense of detachment. He snorted derisively at the realization and tucked a wisp of hair behind his ear – an unconscious repetition of his old habit of perching a second cigarette there for later. Then he caught himself in the action and dropped his hand quickly, shoving it back into his coat pocket. There would be none of that, not tonight. Kicking a soda can out of his path, he started walking briskly down the alley. Maybe if he walked hard enough and far enough, he could walk that feeling off his shoulders.

At the end of the alleyway, the Joker stopped just short of the edge of the building's shadow. The street was deserted. There were people, sure, in the windows above him; silhouettes moving in squares of yellow or beige light, in step with the quiet orchestral murmur of someone's television set and, somewhere, the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings, hushed and apologetic. But the street was empty of everything but cars and shadows, and he felt it again, the weird sensation of being out of place. He had a sudden unwarranted memory of reading The Great Gatsby in school, of the scene when the narrator looked over the windows of the city and wondered what went on within, feeling at once unity and disconnect with the human drama around him. He'd always liked that scene. Understood it on an elemental level. But Nick Carraway, he wasn't; and right now, looking up from his pool of shadow, he had absolutely no desire to know about or connect with any human drama unfolding on that street. What he needed was to get out of it all – his own private universe would be fine right now, thank you very much. What he needed was to pretend the city was empty and that he was its sole inhabitant.

What he needed was the night itself.

The Joker pushed himself out of the alley and into the dim yellow puddle of light under the streetlamp. They were all that color in this part of town, the color of old newspaper. The air was thick with a light mist and the city's habitual smog, turned yellow by the streetlights and moving like languid, silty water through the dark. Further down the street, one of the lamps was flickering on and off, giving the whole scene that quivering around the edges that water always seemed to have. A cat that looked like it had seen much better days limped out from under a beaten-up station wagon, its white fur dingy with dirt and with the same yellow light coloring everything else around it. It looked up and regarded the Joker with a face distorted by scars.

"Tough year for you too, hmm?" the Joker sneered. The cat mewed at him cautiously in reply before deciding he wasn't a threat and limping past him to an overturned garbage bin. The Joker felt the edge of his mouth twitch into an unaccustomed smile; then the moment passed and he resumed his brisk walk down the sidewalk with no real sense of where he was going to stop – only the need to walk until that nagging feeling was gone.

He went with eyes half closed, taking in deep draughts of cool air thick with the yellow fog. It was the thickness of the air that was somehow comforting and familiar. The fog was present without taking up space; it accompanied the walker without weight or significance. It required no reasons or replies – it simply was. It was content to exist, and to let you exist along with it, if you wanted. The Joker's mind roamed backward again, this time to college. As a chemistry student, he hadn't had much time for poetry, but he'd taken Dr. Frazier's lit class because he'd wanted to have a class with — …well, the reason didn't matter anymore, he amended hastily. But he'd read Eliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" at Frazier's request, and he'd never forgotten it. Oh, sure, he couldn't quote it or anything, but he'd never forgotten the feeling it had stirred up in him. He remembered an image that had caught his attention, something about a yellow fog rubbing its muzzle against windows, curling up around something and falling asleep, like a dog. He'd never understood it, but it had filled him with a sort of calm – empty, and perhaps sad, but a calm all the same. Now, as he shuffled through the dim street in front of him, the idea clicked into place easily. Walking with the fog was like taking a walk with a very old animal, perhaps a retriever, something too old to run ahead or chase behind, but very content to simply step along beside you quietly, without pushing for interaction or fuss over anything. The kind of dog who simply put his head on your knee when he knew you needed it, and happily slept at your feet when you didn't. Tendrils of the fog were curling around his ankles now as he turned the corner of the block, and he unconsciously walked a little slower, so as not to whisk them away. They were the only companions he wanted tonight.

---

11:45 PM.

Two blocks down and one over, he saw the first signs of life that didn't have four legs. He was about to duck into another alleyway when he noticed that the piles of cardboard boxes had an organized structure. A weak, disgruntled looking fire was muttering in a trash can at the back. He scurried away from the alley mouth before the seven or eight pairs of eyes caught sight of him. Gotham's homeless population was out in force tonight.

The Joker shuffled down the road until he was sufficiently clear of all the vagrants he could see. No offense to them – they were probably a lot better company than what was waiting back at the club – but he didn't feel much like interacting. Besides…the sight of his scars was usually enough to send most people running. He didn't blame them. Sometimes he felt like running himself. But of course, you can't run from your own face. God knew, he'd tried that a long time ago.

He stopped for a moment in the shadows of a much-neglected pay phone booth near the middle of the block. Nobody on the streets here, either – but the light and the atmosphere were different. The street lamps here had a bluer tint to them, and he'd left the fog behind somewhere he hadn't noticed. Maybe it looked brighter here because of all the reflections. There were many more windows on this street – of shops, of laundromats, all holding onto the dim lights for only a moment before sending them back to him amplified. The building behind him was almost all window, it seemed. He turned to scrutinize it. The glass was that kind that looked bronzed and mirror-like, the ones that let the people inside see out but nobody outside could see in. His was the only face in this mirror, and he approached his reflection reluctantly, as if even that was too much human contact for tonight. The image was clear but slightly stretched, distorted by imperfections in the glass. Like a trick mirror, he thought slowly. Like a funhouse mirror.

Unbidden and without warning, his memory was dragged backward to the room full of mirrors, and he was flooded by images reflected a thousand times over in the walls around him – old ladies in kitten sweaters, blood spatter on glass, a voice like crushed asphalt rasping through his walkie…and rage. That blind, animal urge, and tossing Harley to the ground, her screams wobbling the glass. The crunch his gun had made against her cheek. Clawing at Billy's hands and being dragged across the room. Wanting to pistol-whip Billy while he was at it. And Harley's little cries of protest, always that – he couldn't see any memory of two days ago without hearing them like a soundtrack. The Joker let his face fall against the window glass with a thunk, leaving a streak of dingy white paint on the bronze surface. God, he thought. Can't even get away from them when they're not here. "They're following me," he said out loud. There was a grumble in his voice that was startling even to him in the silence, and his glove made a squeak against the glass as he slid his hand into a fist. Peeling his face off the window, the Joker forced himself to look up. The visage looking back at him was a white smear, slightly distorted by the wobbles in the glass but clearer than he really wanted to see. In the cool streetlights, the scars stood out from his cheeks like dark canyons. "Ah, hell," he mumbled, and squeezed his eyes shut.

So what? he grumbled internally. So what if Billy was going to spend the rest of eternity glaring at him in his spare time? He could deal with that. And if he couldn't, he could always slice a few of the tendons in the kid's face so he couldn't glare anymore. That would be interesting…. The Joker sighed. That would also be messy and disappointing, but so what? And…for that matter…so what if he'd roughed Harley up a bit? What was Billy's problem all of a sudden? He'd never been self-righteous enough to say anything about it before Halloween. Why suddenly grow the balls to say something this time?

Because this time you almost killed her, you bastard.

He wasn't sure if it was his own voice, or Billy's, or maybe someone from a long time ago he'd rather forget. But it was an uncomfortably truthful voice, and it made him want to punch a hole through the glass. "Ya know, I, ah… I went on this walk to get away from thoughts like these…," he muttered to nobody, scowling. Screw what he'd told himself a few days ago about maybe sleeping with her not being a horrible idea. It had been. It had been a miserable idea. He couldn't handle all this…feeling business. Up until last week he'd been a rock. Cold. Emotionless. Objective. And now, God…it was all back. All of it. He was nervous where before he would have been unmoved; he got his hopes up and got disappointed; he was getting pissed and not being able to control it. And then, of course, there was that nasty taste in his mouth that he used to know as guilt. Damn, was that back, too? The Joker made a gagging face at his reflection.

"Okay," he conceded to the face in the glass. "Okay! So… perhaps… I might have gone a little overboard back there at the funhouse. Fine. Are you happy?" He nodded just so he could see the reflection nod back, but somehow, that didn't seem to help. He growled. "Well, dammit, she was about t— …Yeah, you know what she was about to do. Don't look at me like that. Geez, you say it like I was trying to kill her."

But weren't you? came the matter-of-fact response in his mind. The Joker sneered.

"Ah, no, act-u-al-ly, I wasn't. If I'd wanted to kill the little witch, I would have slit her throat already."

But you almost did, was the immediate answer.

"YES, okay?" the Joker barked. "Yeah. Mm-hm. Yes. I aaaaalmost killed her. Glad we, ah… cleared that up. As if she didn't have it coming."

So then why leave her alive?

"Because I—" he started, then choked the words back abruptly. "No. Screw you. I don't have to justify myself to you, you're just a reflection." He stood in silence for a few moments, then began to smile a pained, distasteful smile. "You're a reflection. Hell. I'm talking to my reflection. Oh-ho, God….maybe I am crazy…." He eyed the painted countenance in the glass again, and it seemed to confirm the statement as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Is that what it is?" he asked, and answered himself with a half-nod. "I'm crazy? Weeeelllll, isn't that a new and scintillating concept, hmm? Hmm-hm….heh…heh-heh…..ha…. That must be it! I'm crazy! It's the answer to everything, isn't it? Ha! Hahahahahahaha! Woo-ha-ha-ha!" Propping himself against the window with both gloved hands, he dissolved into peals of icy laughter that echoed off the glass all around him until it seemed to fill the whole street with its presence. He laughed until his sides hurt, until he was sure it was no longer funny but couldn't remember how to shut himself up. He laughed until his throat was raw.

WHAP!

The smack came so abruptly that for a moment, the Joker had no idea what had hit him. Dazed, he coughed around the laugh he'd been forced to swallow and looked around, blinking slowly.

Lying on the pavement at his feet, with a smear of his face paint down one side, was a battered brown shoe. The Joker shook his head, still confused. It had once been a nice shoe, he could see; it was well made and still had a good heel. But the sole was coming loose from the toe, the leather was scuffed and rubbed in a million places, and someone had replaced the matching lace with a piece of rawhide. It was stretched, as if the wearer's feet had been too big to fit. But where had it come from? He turned to scan the sidewalk.

"Shoe's mine," said a cracked, bassy voice behind him, and the Joker spun around. Leaning out of the next alley was a homeless man in a patched army coat. His skin was the color of old coffee, his hair was like steel wool perched over the leather of his face, and he looked about five years older than dirt. The Joker noticed that one of the man's feet was nearly bare, with dark toes peeking out of a gaping hole in what used to be a sock. Still a bit taken aback, the Joker just stared blankly.

"What?" he finally managed. The homeless man lifted an eyebrow.

"I said, th' shoe's mine. Course, I letchoo keep it if it'll make y' shut up. Some folks round here tryin' to sleep." And he fixed the Joker with a look that reminded him of a prissy dorm director he'd had in college. It was that face that snapped him out of his shock, and he slipped a gloved hand quietly around the knife in his coat pocket.

"You know… I feel sorry for people who can't appreciate a good joke, I really do," he began. The man in the alley didn't move as the Joker took a couple of cautious steps toward him. "You miss out on all those…warm and fuzzy feelings that come from laughing." His hand tightened around the knife.

"So you all warm an' fuzzy now you done woke me up, cacklin' like a hyena?" the man grumbled. "Well, 'scuse me fo' disagreein', but I think I'd be a who' lot warmer if I was still asleep under my blanket." His face hadn't dropped its imperious look, and he gave no sign whatsoever of being intimidated. The Joker was immediately annoyed.

"Oh, you want to go back to sleep?" he sing-songed, the knife inching out of his pocket. "Here, let me help you with that. I'll make sure you don't get disturbed eeeever aGAIN—"

"Man, you ain't gonna kill me." He sounded matter-of-fact, and almost amused. The Joker stopped short.

"Ah, …pardon?" he growled. The homeless man snorted derisively and grinned, showing teeth the color of ivory.

"What I said. You ain't gonna kill me. If you was gonna, you woulda already. An' besides – man, I ain't nothin' but a bum in a alley. What some big criminal mastermind got to do wi' that? I ain't got nobody to tell I saw ya, an' I ain't got nothin' you want. An' I know what game you play. You always talkin' about ...choices, an' provin' somethin' about how people really are… man, I ain't part of that. You don't get nothin' outa killin' me. So kick my shoe back over here, put yo' little letter opener back in yo' pocket, an' get yo' white self outa my alley. I'm goin' back to bed." And having said this, he crossed his arms and looked expectantly at the shoe lying on the pavement at the Joker's feet.

For a moment, the Joker did nothing but chew on the scars that lined his cheeks, trying to process what he'd just heard. His eyes narrowed into what were usually intimidating slits; the homeless man didn't budge. He tilted his head, inspecting the man in front of him. Then… without making a conscious decision… he bent, picked up the shoe, and handed it back to its owner.

"Here," he grumbled. The man shoved his foot back into the loafer and nodded.

"Okay, now we gettin' somewhere. Now, run on. Go…scare some kids at a birthday party, or somethin'." He punctuated this pronouncement with a wave of a tough, wrinkled hand before shuffling back inside the alleyway. The Joker heard a rustling of cardboard and a tinkling of glass bottles as, he presumed, the man crawled back into whatever shelter he had created. And then he was alone on the street again. A moment or two passed in silence. Then, for some reason he couldn't quite name, the Joker followed him.

The old man was curled up in a pile of dirty blankets at the mouth of a huge square box – one that looked like it once held a washing machine or something equally hefty. It was connected on one side to a refrigerator box that lay flat on its back, as if it were a secondary sleeping chamber attached to the washing machine box living room. Curling around the man and his dirty blankets was an even dirtier patchwork quilt that looked ready to disintegrate. The red, white, and yellow squares were a sharp contrast to the man's dark, leathery skin. He was in the process of lighting a cigarette when he looked up and realized the Joker was standing in front of him.

"Can I help you?" he snapped around the cigarette, putting a battered lighter back into an inner coat pocket. The Joker was about to reply when the first whiff of smoke floated past his face and stopped him. He twitched in surprise – nine times out of ten, the smell of smoke made him want to punch the smoker in the face. Apparently this was time number ten. A little itch started up in the back of his throat, asking to be scratched, begging for a reminder of the old familiar bitterness. The Joker shuffled his feet, then replied hesitantly.

"I, ah…. Can I bum a smoke?"

The old man raised one silver eyebrow in something between amusement and annoyance; then, after seeming to consider it for a moment, he reached under the quilt and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels. He tossed it up to the Joker, who had the cigarette out and between his lips before his brain even registered what he was holding. It was a speed born of habit. Like riding a bike, he thought wryly as he let the pack drop back into its owner's lap. And he only hesitated for a moment more before letting himself drop onto the blanket pile beside him and leaning over for a light.

He felt the buzz before the cigarette was even lit – seeping in from his memory, a remnant of cool evenings in the chemistry building parking lot, when labs were over and he was completely alone and free to let the nicotine talk to him. The high spread through him like a soft tingle, and he inhaled eagerly.

Then he let out a series of spluttering, surprised coughs.

"God, this tastes like dirt," he muttered, glaring at the old man but only half meaning it. The old man looked at him half-lidded over his own cigarette as he took a long drag, then gave him a sage smile.

"Man… you a wanted terrorist hidin' out in the ghetto, bummin' a smoke off a homeless brotha in a cardboard box in a alley. Whatchoo think it's gonna taste like, a Cuban?" He blew out a smooth stream of smoke, and then laughed, a sound like the familiar creak of a well-loved old chair. The Joker coughed again – and then found himself laughing with him, this time not a cackle but a soft baritone chuckle that reminded him of someone he used to be.

---

11:59 PM.

There was a Dunkin' Donuts shop on the corner of Avenue F and Nestor, and the Joker coughed out the last of the Camel's lingering smoke as he approached it. He glanced at the scrolling marquee clock outside the bank across the street. It was almost midnight. Light still spilled out the windows of the donut shop, and he could see a handful of last minute customers finishing their pastries and coffee before they were kicked out and the lone cashier closed shop. He was cutting it close, but…. The Joker ran his tongue around his mouth and made a face. He'd forgotten how much Camels tasted like licking an ashtray. Grimacing, he made for the door of the shop. It was one minute till closing, but he had to have something to get that taste out of his mouth. No way was he spending the rest of the night with a mouth full of industrial sludge.

The bell over the door tinkled sleepily as he pushed through the entrance into the warm pink-and-orange interior. For a moment, nobody paid him any attention. To his left, an older man sat alone with a cinnamon roll and a copy of the Times. To his right, in front of the store window, a couple were staring sappily at each other over two cups half-full of cold coffee. A handful of college students at a round table near the back were shutting down laptops and shoving papers back into notebooks. None of them looked up. At the counter, a lanky cashier with too much curly hair for his paper hat stood with his back to the door, cleaning out the espresso machine.

"Machines and ovens are all off," he called over his shoulder without looking. "You're one minute before closing. What's under the glass there is all there is. And coffee only. I just put this to bed for the night." His words were immediately followed by a loud blast of steam. "And if you don't mind, it'll be to go. I'm locking up as soon as you pay." He whipped a dingy cloth half-heartedly over the counter below the machine and tossed it down into a bucket. "What'll you have?" he sighed, still without turning. The Joker stepped further into the room and shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

"Sur-prise me," he rumbled in a dark sing-song. "You know, I…ah… I just LOVE chaos…."

Behind him, he heard the clatter of the couple's table jerking as they jumped, and the sound of their coffees slopping in a little river onto the floor. The college students froze, hands over mouths. At the counter, the cashier whirled around, only to stagger backward into his freshly-cleaned espresso machine. His face, which the Joker saw was heavily scarred from acne, had gone pasty with shock.

"Oh my God," he mumbled. The Joker sauntered up to the counter.

"Is that a new flavor? Geez, I knew they were hard up for names, but this is getting a bit ridiculous. I mean, first Starbucks had to go and confuse everybody about the meaning of the word tall, but now you guys are naming pastries after deities. Where does it END?" The Joker leaned over onto the counter on both elbows, glancing at the cashier's name tag as he did. "Tell me, Stan – may I call you Stan? – tell me, what does a God-flavored donut taste like?" Behind the counter, Stan was quivering like a rabbit with a fox outside its cage. His eyes darted rapidly around the room; but amazingly, he managed to form words.

"Umm…r… raspberry?" he croaked. The Joker lifted one paint-caked eyebrow. Then his face exploded into a grin.

"Ha…ha-ha! Woo-ha-ha…ha ha ha! Raspberry?! Ha ha ha ha! Wh…ha! God-flavored donuts…raspberry! Woo-ha-ha-ha-ha!" The Joker doubled over against the counter, smacking the glass with a gloved fist until his laughter subsided. "Oh….oh-ho…whoo…that… that's a good one, Stan. You know, I like you…." And he heaved himself upright again. His hands went toward his pockets.

"No, please!" Stan yelped, and behind the Joker's back, one or two customers gasped in fear. The Joker smirked.

"Whyyy…is everyone so JUMpy tonight? Hmm? Can't a guy pull out his wallet around here?" And to the surprise of everyone in the room, the Joker pulled a wrinkled, misshapen leather wallet out of his back pocket. "You'd, ah…you'd think I was trying to rob the place, the way you're all acting…." he mumbled. After a moment of digging, he fished out a hundred dollar bill and, very daintily, placed it on the counter. Stan gaped.

"Umm…th…uh…."

"Oh, shh, shh-shh, shh…I know," the Joker fussed, waving a hand. "That's a lot of change you probably don't have. Don't worry. It's all…for…you, Stan-the-Donut-Man. A tip. For all your trouble serving me right before closing. Now, ahm….let's see…." While Stan stared blankly at the hundred on the counter, the Joker bent and glanced at the remaining donuts in the glass case below. There were two stale-looking glazed, a slightly squished Bavarian crème, and some sort of round things with no hole. The Joker popped back up; Stan, who had just begun to relax with the Joker's face out of sight, froze again. "Are these things filled?" the Joker quizzed, and Stan nodded quickly and stiffly. "What with?" the Joker followed, and Stan's Adam's apple bobbed nervously as he tried to answer.

"Wh…r…rasp…berry…," he whispered. The Joker's face crumpled into laughter again.

"Wh…ha! Really? Woo-ha-ha-ha! They're God donuts?! Ohhh-ho, you've been holding out on me, Stan-the-Donut-Man!" He was still laughing to himself as he bent back down, watching Stan's taut muscles loosen with relief through the back glass. He only wanted one right now, but… what the heck. He could take the rest back to the club. Billy or Dan would eat the Bavarian, and if he didn't eat both glazed, Peter sure would. And Harley would want the other r— He stopped his own thoughts in mid sentence. No. Harley was not getting the other raspberry. He didn't care if she begged. Maybe if he stopped feeding her, she'd get the hint and go away.

"Umm…m…uh—" Stan began. The Joker whipped back up and planted his elbows on the counter, sending Stan flailing back to the safety of the espresso machine with a whimper.

"Tell you what, Stan My Man, I'll take 'em all. Just… bag up what's left there, and I'll be on my way." Reaching over the cash register, he slipped a paper bag off a stack and held it in front of Stan with two fingers, wiggling it like a treat. Stan didn't move. "Well?" the Joker prompted, and shook the bag a little more stiffly. "I mean, come on….you've got to close up soon, right? And we don't want you stuck here after midnight, locking up alone, in this part of town…do we? No…no, no. No. We want… you… home… safe. Soo-o…." And he shook the bag again. This time, Stan took a couple of cautious steps toward him. "Mmm—mmmh…" the Joker hummed, bobbing the bag up and down until Stan's clammy fingers finally reached it. The cashier snatched it away the way a person would snatch a toy from a dog that might bite. He opened it and the sliding door of the case without once looking away from the Joker's face. "Good boy," the Joker murmured as Stan began clumsily loading the donuts into the bag.

"H…h…here you g-go," the young man muttered after a few minutes. He had managed to drop the tongs and hit his head on the overhanging lip of the counter before he finally got the bag closed and reached it across the register to the Joker's waiting grasp.

Within a matter of seconds, the purple gloved hands were grasping Stan's face instead.

"THANKS, Stan!" the Joker growled, pulling the cashier forward until he was leaning over the counter. The customers behind him gasped, then fell into a thick silence. Stan was staring up at him with bulging brown eyes like an animal about to be slaughtered. The sight of it sent a comforting wave of adrenaline floating up the Joker's spine. Aaahhh, he thought. It was like slipping into a bath of warm water. If Harley was pulling him off his game, he reasoned, then this would bring him back. Inducing chaos always did that eventually. With one hand, he held the cashier's face still, his lips squishing upward like a fish. With the other hand, he patted the boy's shoulder reassuringly.

"Mmmhh!" Stan managed to gurgle around the Joker's fingers.

"Hey, shhhh…," the Joker soothed, stroking the cashier's curls. He stroked a little too aggressively at one point, because the static he generated raised the hair like a small, one-sided afro. "No, no… don't get all… bent out of shape, STan…" he mumbled. "Geez, you need to lighten up. Try smiling once in a while. Say… I know. How about a story? …Wanna know how I got these scars?" His eyebrows were up in an expression of perfect childish innocence, and he nodded cordially. Eyes still bulging, the cashier shook his head no as insistently as he could with the Joker's fingers on him like a vise. "No?" the Joker repeated for him. Pushing his jaws against the purple leather of the Joker's gloves, Stan managed to free his lips slightly.

"Mo ffank you," he spat slowly. "Don' like phtories." His face was still terror-stricken, but he had managed to keep his eyes in his head. The Joker looked at him blankly for a moment, then cackled.

"Oohh, Stan, Stan, Stan…," he said through chuckles. "You are one ballsy kid, you know that, STan?" He patted the cashier on the shoulder heartily. "Yeah. You do. You know that. But it's okay. I'm starting to like you. WELL, Stan-the-Donut-Man, if you don't have time for a story…." He turned Stan's head from side to side slowly, as if studying him. "Then, ah… how about I just leave you with a smile?"

"Nmmmph!" Stan writhed. The Joker ignored his wiggling and reached into his pocket, producing Cupid with a flourish.

"HERE we GO!" he growled, and the blade shot out. Stan whimpered like a dog. "Now, now…," the Joker cooed. He placed the blade on the counter for a moment and reached into the bag of donuts. "I don't have all my tools yet. Juuuuussst wait…." Humming to himself, he rifled through the bag until he had produced one of the raspberry filled pastries. He laid it on the counter beside the knife, and picked the blade back up.

Then he jammed the blade into the center of the donut, producing an eruption of magenta ooze.

"Mmmph?" Stan whimpered, confused. The Joker shook his head as he twirled the blade around in the filling, making sure both sides and the center channel were swathed in a liberal coating of raspberry before continuing.

"Ah, like I said, STan… I'm gonna leave you with a smile. I never actually said what flavor that smile would be. Hopefully you aren't allergic to raspberry. …Actually, I'd consider that very unFORtunate, being allergic to the filling of God-donuts." The Joker was waving the knife as he spoke, and Stan watched it cautiously. "Would that make you allergic to God, too? You know, I think that would explain some people's problems…."

"Mmmph-mm?" Stan tried to answer. The Joker gave his face a squeeze.

"Yeah, nevermind. Theology is…much too deep for schmucks like us to be discussing after midnight without substantial amounts of liquor. SO. Stan. Stan-the-Donut-Man. How about a smile? Say…CHEESE…." With a deft sweep of his arm, the Joker transferred his grip from the cashier's face to his hair, releasing the screech that had been building up inside Stan's mouth. Humming a singsong baritone grumble, the Joker brought Cupid up to the young man's cheek.

Then he slid the flat of the blade slowly up Stan's scarred and pitted skin, leaving behind a streak of bright red goop in the shape of a smile.

"Ya…ta-ta…ta-ta…," he sang to himself, leaning back and surveying his work like an artist. Apparently satisfied with the left cheek, he flipped the blade over and spread the remaining filling up the other side. "Hmm" he grumbled when he had finished. "No…no. Not thick enough." He dipped the knife into the donut again and spread another layer of the raspberry glaze on the cashier's face, repeating the action several times until he was happy with his work.

"TA-DAAA!" he exclaimed, and let go of Stan's hair. The young man stood frozen in place as the Joker wiped Cupid's blade clean on the inside of his purple coat. Slowly, the realization dawned on him that he did not, in fact, have gaping holes in his face; his muscles sagged with relief, and he caught himself against the counter. The Joker stowed the knife in his pocket again and smirked. "See? Now you can smile aaaall night." And having said that, he picked the bleeding donut up off the counter and took a rather large bite.

For a few minutes, the Joker realized, he had forgotten why he'd come in the shop to begin with; but as the raspberry filling coated his tongue, cancelling out the ashy reminders of the Camel, he found himself with an unexpected smile of his own. "Mmmh," he grunted around the pastry, and a few crumbs sprayed out. He brushed them off his lapels, and then shoved the rest of the donut into his mouth with something resembling childish glee. A few squirts of the filling oozed out of the corners of his mouth, mingling with the red greasepaint. He licked up what he could; what he couldn't, he smeared into the painted smile where it was lost in the hills and valleys of his scar tissue. "Mmmh," he grunted again, slapping his hand against the counter. "Stan," he sputtered around the bite he was trying to swallow, "that…was a very good donut."

"Umm," Stan faltered, his jaws readjusting to freedom. "Uh…wh…yeah…. Yeah, thank you…you're welcome…wh…yeah…." He still hadn't moved, and he watched the Joker cautiously as the clown picked up his bag of remaining pastries and rolled down the lip. He managed to maneuver the whole bag into one of the pockets of his overcoat before turning, surveying the room around him, and then whipping back around to Stan again.

"Well, STan," he pronounced, "it's been a pleasure. But if you'll excuse me, I think I'll be heading home. Don't want to break my curfew." He gave Stan a grin that was both gleeful and incredibly terrifying; then he turned and began walking toward the door. Every eye in the room followed him. He was almost touching the door when Stan broke his silence.

"That's it?"

The Joker stopped in his tracks, and for a moment, he didn't move. Then, he swiveled slowly around, his head tilted in curiosity. "Is what it, Stan?" he murmured. The attention of the customers now shifted back to the cashier, who gulped down the lump of fear that was forming in his throat and tried to stand up straight.

"I mean…wh…you…." He tried to decide on the right words, decided there weren't any, and just spoke. "You didn't kill me. You didn't even cut me."

"Are you complaining?" the Joker asked, one eyebrow arched in amusement.

"NO!" Stan answered swiftly. "I just… I mean… I wasn't expecting—"

"Of course not, Stan," the Joker rumbled in a soft voice that wasn't entirely comforting. "That's the problem. ExpecTAtions. People have too many of them. And they shouldn't." He chewed on his scars for a few seconds, glancing around at the room full of petrified faces, and then he grinned, gesturing grandly as if he were a speaker they had all paid to listen to. "You see," he murmured, "exPECting something means that that something follows a pattern. And patterns…." He waved his hands. "They're just another version of rules. Pay attention, Stan. The world – the REAL world – doesn't have rules. Not rules like you think. The only rules that matter…are the rules of nature. Everything fights to survive. Everything dies anyway. And between those two natural laws…the oooonly thing that's certain…is CHAOS. Unpredictability. Your stupid rules tell you that you're going to walk home tonight, go inside, eat ramen noodles, and then go to bed. CHAOS says that might happen… or you might get hit by a bus. Tell me, Stan – which one is right? Can you know? You two—" And he waved his hand at the couple by the window. "Your rules say that you'll get married, have a couple of kids, buy a house, and live normal American lives. You wanna know what CHAOS says? Hmm? CHAOS says that might happen…or he might end up as a drunk, leaving you alone every night because your neck is less attractive than the neck of that bottle. Or he might go screw some whore while you're so pregnant you're no fun in bed anymore. Or you might decide you weren't really made for the whole marriage thing anyway, and he'll come home to an empty house. Have all the expecTAtions you want. They don't do you any good in a world of chaos." He fixed them all with a dark stare, made as if to turn back to the door, and then stopped once more. "And you know what? Expectations vary. Your expectations of people affect the way you interact with them – and that's where injustice comes from. But you wanna know the beautiful thing about chaos?" Nobody moved as he looked around the room at them, like a teacher waiting for a raised hand. Then, without warning, the spun around toward the door, reaching his hand inside his coat as he did. His arm whipped out, and there was a sudden and terrifying explosion of sound. By the time most of them realized that what he had pulled out of his coat was a Glock, the man with the newspaper had thumped forward onto the table, bleeding onto his cinnamon roll, the bright, fresh exit wound on the back of his head sickeningly reminiscent of raspberry glaze. The Joker replaced the gun inside his coat, and then turned to look over his shoulder.

"Chaos…is fair."

With the sound of the room full of customers breaking down behind him, the Joker pushed the door open and stepped back out into the cool of the autumn night. The bell tinkled despairingly, the door closed, and suddenly he was in what seemed to him a soundless vacuum – empty of heat, and empty of people – but full of endless possibilities.

The night was still young.

Glancing around one more time, the Joker took a deep breath of the gritty Gotham air. Then he scampered across the street and headed west.

---

12:30 AM.

A few blocks over and one street up, where Robinson opened onto Merchant not far from the Gotham River, the Joker came across a newspaper kiosk. It had once been painted a bright salmon color, but had faded into a dingy pastel and didn't look as if anyone intended to repaint it any time soon. The Joker could see why. The kiosk had been set up in better days, back when the Robinson-Merchant intersection had been a busy hub. Back when more people walked to get where they were going, and a bus stop had stood just a few feet away. But times had changed. The transit people had moved the bus stop a few years before, and fewer people were walking often enough or slowly enough to stop and buy a paper or magazine. For that matter, fewer people were reading papers and magazines. The internet was slowly soaking up what customers this vendor had left. It was a story written all over the kiosk's dim light bulbs and peeling paint.

The vendor himself was standing at the far corner, a dismal slump in his posture as he attempted to straighten a stack of auto magazines that had slid sideways on the rack. A key ring was looped around one thumb. He appeared to be in the process of closing up shop for the night. Quietly, the Joker approached from the cover of a scraggly tree, keeping well out of the glow of the streetlight.

"How much?" he said.

"I'm closing," came the man's reply, with the barest hint of an accent. He didn't even look up to see who was speaking. The Joker snorted.

"Ah…no offense, man, but you don't look like you're in much of a position to turn down a customer." He watched as the man moved over to the next rack, and now he could see the face that went with the body. It was a roughly handsome face of some vague Middle Eastern descent, a face that would have been smooth and elegant if not for the lines of exasperation setting in. The man's shoulders bobbed in his leather jacket as he snorted in return.

"You're telling me," he mumbled. "I lose the bus stop… I lose the foot traffic because people are lazy…the internet steals my customers…and now the terrorists. They ruin everything. Eight years ago, everybody likes me. Hey, Omar, how's the kids? Hey, Omar, let me stop and tell you about my day! Everybody wants to buy my papers. Then terrorists start blowing things up. Now, it's like I sell drugs. Oh, let's go across the street, he might be a terrorist. No, honey, we can't buy your Highlights from him, he might send the money to Al Qaeda! They don't even know whether or not I'm Muslim. Don't take long enough to find out. They take one look at my face, see a color they don't like, and they run."

"Yeah, I, ah… I know the feeling," the Joker smirked, easing his way out of the shadows. The vendor finally looked up from his magazine straightening. When he caught sight of who was speaking to him, he made a small strangled noise in his throat and backed up against the kiosk front. After a second of thinking, he flipped his key ring up around his knuckles and stuck a few of the longer ones between his fingers. The Joker's eyebrow twitched upward in something resembling amused admiration. "Ah," he began, wiggling his index finger at the vendor knowingly. "Now, see… that…is actually a valid response to being confronted by a criminal. Woefully inADequate against the menagerie of weapons currently at my disposal, but, ah… a valid response. UNlike the begging, bargaining, and whimpering I usually encounter. Straight to the point. I like that." His hand slipped into his coat and began fishing for something with a blade and a handle. "That's why…it's almost a shame…when I have to kill people like you. You're an endangered species." He chewed over the final word as his fingers closed around something. He pulled it out; Ah, the little hook-tipped one, he thought gleefully.

"If it's such a shame, then don't," the vendor managed to croak, lifting his fistful of keys as the Joker approached. The Joker giggled.

"Haha…oh, Omar…. I said almost a shame. There's a difference. Nice try, though." Bobbing the knife a couple of times in his palm, letting it slip into its familiar niche against his thumb, he marched the few remaining steps until he was breathing in the terrified vendor's exhalations. Omar's fist snapped up to put the keys between his face and the Joker's.

"What do you want? What do you want?" he choked. The Joker raised a bland eyebrow. Geez, hadn't he practically just told him that? he thought, gnawing the scar inside his right cheek. He wanted to kill him. That should have been made obvious by the verbal mention of killing and the knife he was currently holding. And what kind of question was that for someone holding a knife on you? What was with this assumption that he had to …want…anything?

Of course…now that he thought about it…. He let his face fall slack, and instead offered the vendor a look of complete innocence.

"I just want a paper."

In the silence that followed, Omar blinked dryly, and the fist holding the keys wavered slightly, dropping a few centimeters – although, the Joker noted with admiration, not completely relaxing either. He continued to stare stupidly for a few moments, his face so still that the Joker almost didn't notice his hand, which had snaked out to the left and slipped a newspaper off the first stack. Trembling, Omar held it up between them.

"H…here…," he whispered. The Joker regarded it – almost as stupidly as Omar a second before – and then he snatched it.

He also snatched the keys out of the vendor's other hand, and in one deft movement, he had pinned the man's wrists to the frame of the kiosk behind him.

"Well, THANKS, Omar old buddy. Such a magNANimous gesture from a man who clearly can't afFORD to give away many complimentary papers. You're a real stand up guy, Omar. You know that? A real…stand UP…guy. I tried being a stand up guy once. They yanked me off stage after three jokes. Incidentally, that was right before I got these scars. Wanna hear about how I got 'em?"

"Umm…," Omar started. The Joker shook his head, ringlets of hair flapping around his temples.

"Nah, don't answer that. I've already been turned down once tonight and I don't think I could handle the rejection." He started to chew on his scars again, then stopped suddenly in mid bite. "Course, I could show you." And with slow purpose, he let his eyes drift sideways to the vendor's keys, which were dangling from one purple gloved pinkie.

With a growl of sudden panic, Omar began to struggle wildly against the Joker's grip. The Joker had already begun to tighten up before the vendor moved.

"AAAAhhh…ta-ta-ta-ta, oh, no you don't," he rasped, forcing Omar back against the structure. "Now listen. I like you. And I'm feeling generous today. So, you know what, Omar? I'm …not… gonna kill you. But that leaves me with a little PROBlem. I have this lovely set of keys here, and I can't, just CAN'T, leave without putting them to good use—"

"No," Omar grunted, but the Joker shook him a little.

"Shut up. NOW. Let's see what we have to work with…." Running his tongue over chapped lips, he sized up his options; then with the accuracy of a striking cobra, he flipped his left hand around the vendor's wrist, simultaneously swinging the keys around to his palm and pinning the wrist back against the kiosk with the back of his hand. Omar had tried and failed to break free in the split second, and the Joker chuckled, spreading the keys with his thumb. "HA! Hmm-hm! Ooh, that was close one. Nice try. NOW, let's see."

Humming, the Joker began a systematic inspection of the vendor's loaded key ring. Whatever he picked had to be sharp….enough to slice skin without him having to dig…but not TOO sharp. That would be much too clean. He found himself hoping the guy had a longer key or a weird ornament, something with a point that had a little more purchase, a little more of a handle. You could carve somebody with a regular house key, yeah, buuuutttt… it was sooo… time-consuming. If— his eyes fell on a long rectangle at the back of the key ring, and he grinned. It was a multi-tool. A poor man's Swiss army knife. Just FULL of little gadgets and doo-hickies that were juuuussstt right for torture.

The Joker could have danced a jig.

"What are you—" Omar began, but before he could finish the sentence, the Joker had completely rearranged his grip – around the vendor's neck. His left hand held the man against his kiosk like a vise, and his right jingled the keys as he jauntily began flipping open the multitool.

"Okay, here we go, here we go, let's see…. Hmmm. Knife. Other knife. Can opener? Is that what that is…. Mm, laser, that's nice… aHA! SCREWdriver. That's more like it. Whaddya think, Omar?"

"HELP! HEL—" The Joker clamped his hand over the vendor's mouth before he could scream again. The eyes behind his smarmy grin were dangerous.

"Ah, geez, man, cut a guy a break," he growled. "I mean, all I wanted tonight was to take a walk and get a lousy paper, and maybe get in a murder or two…and then you had to go and make me like you, which took that away from me…. And my walk hasn't been the most relaxing thing ever… come on, make the torture session a little easier on me, hmm? Hey, let's do it thi—" Suddenly he stopped dead. One paint-caked eyebrow jerked up, and Omar tried to follow his gaze between forced gulps. The Joker was staring intently at the keychain, as if it were something he'd never seen before. He sniffed. Licked his lips. Sniffed again. Then he brought his eyes up level with Omar's and sighed in exasperation. "Really?" was his only statement as he released the vendor's mouth. Omar spat and looked at what the Joker was dangling in front of him – his Star of David key fob. "Really?" repeated the Joker.

"What?" Omar snapped, managing to take a step before the Joker remembered himself and pinned him again, this time with an arm across his chest. "What," he grumbled, "a guy who looks Arabic can't be a Jew?" He tried to plaster a look of righteous indignation on his face, which was difficult with the Joker's arm compressing his lungs. All he got from the Joker in return was an expectant stare, waiting for a better answer. Finally, Omar relented. "Okay, all right…. I, um… I converted for my girlfriend. So we could get married."

"You converted," the Joker mumbled, unmoving.

"Yes."

"For your girlfriend."

"Yep."

"….You didn't get circumcised for her, did you?" the Joker sneered after a momentary pause for thought. The vendor sneered back at him.

"NO, I didn't, I was circumcised in the hospital when I was b— You know what? No. I'm not having a conversation with you about my manhood. This is ridiculous." And with some difficulty, he managed to cross his arms in a huff underneath the Joker's restraining arm. The Joker simply stared at him blankly for a very long, silent moment.

Then he burst into a fit of near choking laughter.

"Woo-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! HA HAHa haha HA! Mmmh…hmm…hmmm…wh… you… and you were…but now you… woo-ha-ha-ha! Oh…oh-ho…oh, that is RICH!" His chest spasming and hiccupping with more waves of laughter, the Joker released his hold on Omar and flopped against the kiosk beside him, gasping for air between guffaws. "Ha…ha-ha…only in America, folks…. Ha-ha….woo-ha-ha!" He still held the tiny screwdriver and the keychain in his fist, and Omar began edging away from him while he had the chance. "Oh, come back here, you walking contradiction," the Joker gasped, his black eye paint now beginning to smear from tears. He grabbed the vendor's sleeve and pulled him back. "I can't torture you after that. You're too funny to torture. Besides," he coughed, wiping his eyes and breathing deeply. He threw an arm around the vendor's shoulders just for good measure. "If I carve up your face, then who are they going to get to broker the future peace deal in the Middle East?!" The last word ended with a snort, and the Joker tumbled back into the throes of laughter again. Omar rolled his eyes and tried to duck out from under his arm.

"Yes, yes, alright. Can I have my keys back now, please?" He waited until the Joker finally stopped laughing enough to look up and gave him an expectant glare. Still snorting and chuckling, the Joker nodded forcefully.

"Okay. Okay. You win. Here you go!" He made as if to toss the keys into Omar's waiting hand; then, with an unexpected burst of speed, he slammed the man against the kiosk again, pressed his face flat against the corner of the frame, and stabbed the screwdriver deep into the wood – straight through Omar's earlobe.

"AAAAAGGHH! OH MY GOD! OH GOD!" the vendor screamed, wriggling like a fish as he realized he was pinned to the kiosk. He was screaming more from shock than pain, the Joker knew, but it was fun to watch nonetheless. He backed up a couple of steps, bent to retrieve the newspaper that he'd dropped while laughing, and popped back up with a grin stretching his face.

"Ya know…you're not off to a very good start with this whole Jewish thing if you're gonna keep using the Lord's name like that," he quipped, waggling the rolled-up paper like a rabbi holding a scroll. Omar grunted, and lifting his leg, tried his best to kick at the Joker's shins. It pulled at his ear too much, however, so he gave up. Chuckling, the Joker began walking away, reaching out to pat Omar on the arm as he passed. "Relax, guy. I just gave you an ear piercing. You'll thank me later. Chicks love 'em." He winked roguishly at the snarling newspaper vendor, saluted him with the rolled up paper, and set off down the street. "Oh, and thanks for the paper!" he called over his shoulder.

Then he turned off into an alley, heading back the way he had come, with the sounds of the vendor trying to free himself slowly receding on the autumn breeze behind him.

---

12:49 AM.

He was done reading the newspaper by the time he got back to Avenue F and turned south, following the alphabet streets (which, thanks to him, now ended at W) toward downtown. There had been an article about whether or not the governor of Alaska had abused her powers; the author had clearly thought she had, and the Joker couldn't have cared less. There had been a flood in Vietnam. People had died. The Joker had shrugged his shoulders. India had sent a mission to the moon. Well, then. As good old Chris Farley had said, and the Joker agreed, la-di-frickin'-da. He wadded the paper up and pitched it in the direction of a nearby bin. It unfolded itself in the air and fluttered limply to the sidewalk a good five feet from its intended target. The Joker ignored it and walked on, keeping to the shadows of the buildings so the occasional passing cars didn't catch a good glimpse.

He didn't know why he had wanted the stupid paper in the first place. There was never anything important in it. Politics crap, economics crap, the latest stupid thing someone had invented to make the population even more dependent upon technology…. All worthless. It was a waste of cheap paper and ink.

Of course, there had been that one article on page three. The one about the kid from the maze on Halloween night. The one he'd told Billy to shoot.

Billy must not have done very good shooting.

The kid had lived.

Of course, that was why he'd really wanted the paper the whole time. He couldn't lie to himself about that. He'd been waiting for commentary on the dead pizza boy for the past few days, but none had come; now he knew why. The little bugger had survived. Well, the Joker reasoned, you had to at least admire his spunk. He knew a thing or two about being hard to kill. So the kid had earned a kind of grudging respect.

So then why was he so pissed that the kid wasn't dead? He shouldn't be. Chaos was a game of chance, and the kid had lucked out this time. That was all. But telling himself that didn't make him any less angry. And underneath his layers of greasepaint and sarcasm… he was livid. He had wanted that stupid pizza boy dead, in a way that he had very seldom wanted any victim dead. That was unlike him, to care so much about the outcome. Why? Why was it so important that the kid died?

Because he was there. Because he saw you.

The Joker growled and gritted his teeth in response to the little voice's words, ducking into an alleyway instinctively as if the voice were someone he could evade. He let himself collapse against the brick wall with a thump. Saw me? he thought. What does that mean, saw me? What did it matter? Of course he saw him. All his victims did. He wore face paint, not a mask, for God's sake. The kid couldn't tell them anything about the Joker's face that they didn't already know.

You know what it means. He saw YOU. The real you. And you're scared he'll tell.

Scared? the Joker snorted. Of what? That the kid would tell the cops or the media that he beat up Harley? So what? Hell, he was a violent criminal who blew things up for kicks and giggles. He doubted anybody would be surprised that he slapped his girlfriend around. In fact, they probably suspected it anyway. They— the Joker stopped mid-thought and groaned in disgust. Damn. He had called her his girlfriend. What was the matter with him tonight? He shook himself, like the wrongness was something he could shrug off, and stomped angrily down the alley.

"She's not my girlfriend," he muttered to the trash cans. He jerked his collar up to hide his face from no one and started climbing the boxes stacked at the fence. The chain links were bent and warped from countless other climbers' feet, and he scaled the barrier easily and dropped, catlike, on the other side. "She's not," he repeated over his shoulder. Then he stomped on through to the alley's other opening.

He came out onto the sidewalk somewhere on Straig Street. He wasn't precisely sure of his bearings at the moment, but he knew that somewhere not far off there should be a subway stop; and somewhere several blocks to the southeast stood Gordon's little fortress, the MCU. Of course, he amended, it wasn't really Gordon's fortress anymore. If it had been, he might have paid him a visit. But the way things were, he thought better of it and turned back north up Straig, breathing out heavily. He was tired. His feet felt stiff. And he was pretty sure the donuts were getting squished in his pocket. Sniffing disgustedly, he decided he might as well get back to The Factory and hand them off to someone before they were past eating. He was still dreading going back and having to interact, but there was no excuse for a wasted donut.

Halfway down the block, on the other side of the street, the Joker found a telephone booth that looked like it still worked. The door had to be jerked a little, and everything was obviously dusty from disuse, but the works were still intact. He dug some change out of his pocket. There was no way he was walking all the way back. Somebody would just have to come and get him, because he did entirely too much thinking when he walked – and his feet were actually starting to hurt a little. He dialed the number of the little pre-paid cell he made Billy keep for just such occasions. Then he slumped into the corner of the booth and waited until he heard the clicking sound of someone picking up.

"Hello?" came the voice. The Joker let his head drop against the glass with a thunk. Of course. He should have known. He should have assumed that, tonight of all nights, she would be the one to answer. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice civil.

"Where's Billy?" he growled. "And why wasn't this phone in his pocket?"

"He went to take a piss," Harley answered, and he could feel the caution in her voice. "I just figured somebody should answer it. You… I mean, it's important, isn't it?" She was choosing her words carefully. Didn't want to give him anything to blow up over. Good. That meant she was learning. The Joker stood up straighter.

"Listen, Harl. I'm done walking for tonight. Send one of the guys to pick me up." He waited. There was a silence, in which he could hear her swallow nervously.

"W…does it matter which guy?" she asked cautiously. The Joker started to bark at her, then stopped – it actually was a valid question. He chewed on his lip for a minute before answering.

"Anybody but Bobby," he mumbled. On the other end, he heard her exhale and relax. Before she could say anything else, he cleared his throat and started talking again. "I'll be at the phone booth down from the intersection of Straig and…." He craned his neck to see the nearest street sign. "Straig and Avenue L. Tell 'em to get here quick and don't attract any unwanted attention. Got it?" He raised his eyebrows at her even though he knew she couldn't see him. Somehow, though, he got the impression that she saw them anyway.

"I got it, boss," she replied smartly, her voice hesitantly optimistic. "Don't worry, J… I'll take care of everything."

"Good," he grumbled, and hung up before she could go on.

Pushing the door of the phone booth open, the Joker stretched and popped his neck. That hadn't been too bad. Maybe he had managed to walk that feeling off his shoulders after all. Nodding in agreement with himself, he walked across the sidewalk to the shadows of a building and leaned against the brick to wait.

---

12:54 AM.

Harley's face was set in a grimace of concentration – both on her thoughts, and on driving the car. It had been a long time since she had driven stick, and frankly, she was a little rusty. The blue Corvette had left a trail of rubber behind in the back lot of The Factory. Dan had followed her to the street yelling something she couldn't hear, but of which she got the general idea: in no way was he happy about her running off in his pride and joy, and not to burn the tires, and if she stripped the gears he'd kill her. Something like that. She shrugged to herself. Dan could be without his car for half an hour. It wouldn't kill him.

She had known what she had to do as soon as J had hung up the phone. Billy had watched disapprovingly as she threw on her leather jacket, but said nothing. That was okay. He'd done all the talking for both of them the past couple of days.

I don't think it's the only reason, Billy had said to her from the chair next to the couch, but I think it's a pretty big part of it. He had given her his spot on the couch in what had once been the Green Room, and he was pretty adamant that she keep sleeping there until she had recovered from Halloween.

What is? Trying to sit up, but giving up and settling for one elbow. Silence from Billy. Then a deep breath.

You forgot the destination, Sis. You got caught up in the road trip and tried to veer off on the wrong exit. More silence, and looking at Billy with a raised eyebrow.

I don't get it.

Listen, Sis…I don't pretend to be able to explain the Joker. But every now and then, he does something that I do understand – at least in theory. Harley, the Joker is goal-oriented. We all are. It's a man-thing. We visualize the end product, and we follow the straightest line possible from here to there, no stopping for scenery or taking side trips. And when obstacles pop up… (a sigh) A wise, mature man will try to learn how to go around obstacles gently. But even the best of us are guilty of shoving those obstacles out of our way from time to time. And a man like the Joker…he doesn't shove. He bulldozes.

And screw whatever's in the way, huh?

Yeah. I'm not justifying it. It's crap. He's a bastard. And if he ever hits you again in front of me, I'll give it back to him. But I know WHY he did it. You forgot the goal, Sis. You got caught up in the moment and forgot the long-term mission.

Geez, Billy… you act like J's got a playbook written down somewhere.

Not that specifically, no. But…the Joker has a point to make. His goal is an idea, or maybe a set of ideas. He wants people to understand those ideas. To accept them. To internalize them. And sure, you were getting into the superficial parts of it – the torture, the plotting, the I'm-a-big-bad-criminal jargon… but you stepped out of the road when you targeted the pregnant chick. The Boss is all about people being animals on the inside – but he wants everyone to be aware that it's their choices that make them that way. Babies don't make choices. I think the way the Boss sees it, they're probably the only human beings on earth he doesn't want to tear down. You weren't thinking about the point. You were just thinking about the process.

A snort, slumping back onto the mattress.

Well, I apologize for being so female.

Hey, don't apologize to me. Actually, don't apologize period. You shouldn't have to, and really, I don't think that's what he wants from you anyway.

Then what does he want from me?

Other than sex?

Screw you, Billy, you know what I mean. (laughing)

Yeah, I do. I think… I think he wants the Harley Quinn you were advertising when you busted him out of Arkham. Not the Doctor Quinzel you were before – and not another Batman.

Another Batman? How the heck am I another Batman?

Think about it, Sis. You'll figure it out.

And she had thought about it. Long and hard, all day today. And she felt that now, as she turned up the stereo and turned a sharp corner onto Straig, she knew what he had meant.

She had been holding out on him.
Not in the ways most people used that phrase – she hadn't been withholding emotions or confidence, and she certainly hadn't been turning down sex… but she'd been withholding herself. And that was somehow worse. There was a little part of Harleen Quinzel who was still fighting the good fight somewhere in her brain. She wasn't terribly vocal, this little ghost, but she was terribly visible. And that was what had been keeping her from really understanding J this whole time – and what had been keeping him from fully investing in her presence in his world.

She had to break. She understood that now. The Joker was all about exposing the rotten inner core of humanity – cracking open people's facades and identities and discarding them like shells, leaving only the naked nut (pun only slightly intended, she chuckled) behind. And he never forced them to break. He gave them the circumstances, and they made that choice on their own. She wasn't exempt. Nobody was. In order to serve his purpose, to be a viable part of his universe, she would have to break. Fully. Completely snap the old Harleen in half, take her off, and put her away. Fully become Harley Quinn. If she didn't…well, that's what Billy had meant. If she held out on him, refused to break, then she was just as bad as the Batman. And it had to be her who did the breaking. Just like the rest of Gotham – he provided the circumstances, but the choice was left up to the individual. So she had to make the conscious decision to break, if she wanted to give him any kind of psychological fulfillment. Well. She could accept that, if that's what had to happen. She rolled down the 'Vette's window and shook the tangles out of her hair. It was like a marriage or a business partnership, she decided. They weren't dating, they were on a mission. Romance wasn't the goal – the goal was the goal. She had to show him that she could put that first. That's what tonight was going to be about. And that was news she had to deliver in person.

This is where we start over. No more playing around. No more Ms. Nice Girl. From now on, we do this right.

She turned the stereo up another couple notches as Rob Zombie came on. She was a woman on a mission. And she wanted Gotham to know it.

---

1:06 AM.

The Joker heard the bass thumping before he saw the car. Actually, it was more a sensation under his ribs than a sound. He lifted his head off the brick of the building and glanced down the street. The wumph wumph of the bass notes sounded familiar. Was it…. Yeah. It was. He shoved himself up off the wall with a chuckle as the Corvette screeched to a halt in front of the phone booth, Rob Zombie's "Dragula" blaring from the speakers. Dan must be in rare form tonight, he thought.

Then he stopped short on the pavement a few feet from the car.

The leg that was stepping out of the 'Vette definitely didn't belong to Dan.

"Somebody call for a car service?" Harley simpered, grinning roguishly. She crossed her arms, leaned against the car, and waited for him to respond. For a few moments, he didn't.

"Harl…," he finally began, and there was a growl starting up underneath it. Harley nodded.

"I'll take that as a yes," she quipped. "All aboard?" The Joker didn't move.

"Ya know, Harl," he started to grumble. Harley rolled her eyes.

"Ugh, come on, J. You got no sense of humor tonight. You know that?" She bounced up off the car and onto the sidewalk in front of him. He started to talk, but Harley reached up and laid one finger across his lips. "Hey. You said, 'anybody but Bobby.' And I'm anybody but Bobby. So you wanna ride home, or not?" She smiled at him again, even as he smacked her hand away.

"Ah, Harl… did Billy give you a lobotomy while he was bandaging up your face? I told you—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Harley replied, waving her hand at him. "You said send one of the guys. Well…ain't I one of the guys?"

"Um, not last time I checked," the Joker frowned, glancing sardonically at the swell of her breasts under the jacket, "and I, ah… I think I oughta know." His eyebrow was rising little by little to a dangerous level, but again Harley waved him off.

"Psh. Okay. So strictly speaking, I'm not. But I am one of the guys – I'm part of this crew. Right?" She waited, and he finally nodded imperceptibly. She marked a mental victory. "And besides. You don't have to have a stick to drive stick. Now, are we going home or not?" And she flashed him her most fetching smile. The only reaction it got was a dead silence and a piercing stare. Harley held still; she had been expecting this. He was sizing her up. Feeling out her intentions. The Joker glared at her, narrowing first one eye and then the other. His fingers wiggled restlessly inside their gloves.

She was different. Same black and red clothes (not her costume, but always black and red – how much of those colors did she own?), same face, same walk, same Jersey in her voice. But there was something under that Jersey that unsettled him. Something with purpose. Something akin to confidence. It wasn't something he could put his finger on, but here she was, and she wasn't the same Harley he had left at the club. That Harley, he could quite easily kick out a tenth floor window and feel nothing but relief. This Harley… well, he wasn't sure what he felt. And that was a definite red flag. It set him on edge. People were essentially always the same, deep down. You were born as yourself, and you died as yourself, with relatively little change in between. So whenever somebody displayed a sudden and remarkable shift in persona… hmph, he snorted internally. When somebody shifted radically and suddenly, either they had slipped on a big gigantic mask, or they were finally acting like their true selves. Now if only he knew which one had happened to her.

Not knowing could prove dangerous. For everyone involved.

Dangerous because you might like her better this way? the voice came again, and this time, the Joker suppressed an urge to vomit as he finally recognized exactly who it belonged to. And you were having such a good time tonight, weren't you? it chuckled. All the chaos, and the long speeches, just like old times. And here she is, ready to screw that up all over again. That's what she does, you know. Screws things up. And you know it. Always have. So… are you pissed at her because you're afraid she's going to mess it all up, and nights like tonight are history? …Or are you pissed because that's actually what you want her to do after all? Change you? Fix you? Well, you are sort of a mess, so having a girlfriend could only be an improvement. Oh, I'm sorry. She's "not-your-girlfriend." My bad.

"Shut UP," he growled through his teeth. Harley made a face.

"I…didn't say anything…," she murmured. The Joker jumped, startled at the realization that he had spoken out loud. He mentally cursed the voice. IT was the problem. IT didn't know what it was talking about. …And even if it did, it was talking about it WAY too clearly. No mental voice was supposed to be this defined, and this… snarky. That was one good thing about Harley, he remarked to himself pointedly. The more she was around, the more nebulous and undefined that stupid voice seemed to get. And…well…he supposed that was something.

At least, it was something enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now. He decided to run with it. But cautiously. Like running with scissors.

"Something's different," he said eventually, his gaze still not leaving her face. "You're different. Seriously, did Billy actually lobotomize you?"

"What makes you say that, J?" Harley had attempted cuteness, but let it drop by the end of the sentence. "I mean…what's different?"

"Ah, well, let's see," he began. "You've already been here five minutes, and you've managed to successfully park the car, come up with intelligent and convincing answers to my questions that don't make you sound like a bimbo, and you have yet to try to stick your hands up my shirt or your tongue down my throat. Are you sick?" And feigning a concerned-mother face, he laid the back of his hand against her forehead. Harley laughed and shoved his arm away.

"Oh, shut up," she grinned. The Joker's eyebrows shot up again.

"Ah. See, that – that's what I mean. Who are you, and what did you do with Harley?"

"Harley…is right here, J. I, um… I left Harleen at home. For good. That's why I came instead of the boys. I figured you should be the first to know. I've been doing some serious thinking while I was laid up, and, um… well, this is the new me. Whaddya think?" Holding her arms out, she did a little twirl, as if she were modeling an outfit – although, he noticed, she did it gingerly, still nursing the bruised ribs.

"I think…," the Joker mumbled. What did he think? I think you think you like it, the voice started, but the Joker growled it into silence. He stared at her for another minute or so, still deciding. Then he grabbed her arm without warning and twisted it behind her. "I think you just told me to shut up a minute ago, and I think you'd better never do that again. Hmm?" His face had gone suddenly violent, but Harley steeled herself and put on a flirtatious look.

"Ah, come on, J, you know you liked i…OW, ow, 'kay. Got it!"

"Good." The Joker shook her a little, just to make sure. But he wasn't entirely as angry about it as he felt he should be. Something about her talking back to him like that… true, it wasn't what he would have asked for earlier this evening. Actually, it was slightly terrifying… buuuttt…it meant she was turning into something. Becoming something. What, he wasn't sure of yet; but up until now, she'd been about as useful as a blow-up doll, and any sign of a personality was promising. People with defined personalities could be predicted and controlled. It was the ones with no identity you had to worry about. Yeah, he told himself. Sure. This was actually a sign of progress. Right? The voice didn't answer, so he took that as a yes. He eased his grip on her arm, enough for her to turn around without letting her go. "Now listen, Harl. I get it. I really do. And I like where this is going. But let's not push our luck. Think you can get me back to the Factory in the next ten minutes with a minimum of… distracting sexual innuendos? I've got some donuts in my pocket that are gonna get really squashed really quick if they stay in there much longer. Keep up the good behavior, and you, ah… you might get one." He watched her face; the girl's round blue eyes widened like sparkly silver dollars.

"You got donuts?" she whispered rapturously. The Joker tried to keep up his intimidating face, but her look of ecstasy was too comical. He held back a chuckle.

"Yeah. Yeah, I ah… I got donuts."

"Raspberry filled?" she hissed. The Joker sighed, but not with displeasure. Then he nodded in response. Harley bounced up and down with excitement.

"BUT," he amended, "you've gotta earn it. Hmm?"

So caught up were they in the negotiation of donut privileges that neither of them noticed the GPD patrol car cruising slowly up Straig and parking noiselessly just behind the Corvette. The radio, which Harley had left on, was enough to cover the soft hum of the engine before it slowly shut off, its driver gaping in utter disbelief.

For the first few seconds, Joe Abramov forgot how to use his radio. In fact, he forgot almost everything he'd learned at the academy or since then. The sight of Gotham's public enemies number one and two loitering on the sidewalk like a couple of teenagers was enough to put it right out of his mind. Joe was a rookie's rookie, barely out of training, and the fat cop he'd been assigned as a partner wasn't doing much to put his education to use. So far, he'd been given very little to do except chauffer Lauder around to three different food vendors which he claimed were "part of the patrol route." Five minutes ago, Lauder had gotten out at an all-night video store, saying he needed to "question" the girl that worked there, and told Joe to drive in circles around the block until he radioed for him to come back. Joe had protested. Wasn't he not supposed to be alone on patrol? Lauder had snorted and told him that nothing ever happened on this block anyway.

"Yeah…nothing…," Joe mumbled to himself as he stared, slack-jawed, at the two criminals conversing between the pay phone and the blue Corvette. It was the Joker. THE Joker. And his girlfriend. And here was little Joey Abramov, rookie extraordinaire, alone in a patrol car with no partner, one sidearm, and a pair of slowly retreating balls. He cursed under his breath. He was in a situation, and no mistake. If he radioed for Lauder, the guy wouldn't believe him. If he drove past them to go find another cop, they'd see him and might start shooting. He didn't have many options. So Joe thought about it. And thought about it again.

Then he took a deep breath and, as quietly as possible, opened the cruiser's door.

"GPD! T-turn around, and um… and show me your hands!"

The Joker and Harley both froze at the voice from behind them. Harley gave the Joker a questioning glance; the Joker raised one eyebrow at her in an amused gesture that she knew well. Then they both turned to face the voice, slowly.

About ten yards away, using his cruiser as a shield, was a young cop with his gun pointed at them. He looked scared green, and the police issue Glock in his hands was shaking. The Joker took it all in at one glance and started walking toward him.

"Ah, where's your babysitter, kid? It's past bedtime," he drawled. The rookie jumped like he'd been shot, and he waggled the gun a little more obviously.

"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER! I'm, um… I'm armed and prepared to fire! If you don't stop m-moving and sh-show me your hands, I WILL shoot!"

"Geez," the Joker murmured, waving his hands. "Can't a guy have a romantic rendezvous with his woman on the sidewalk anymore without being threatened by cops? I, ah… I didn't know PDA was a crime. I mean, I don't wanna go crying police brutality, or anything, buuuttt…."

"I told you to stop!" the rookie screeched, and Harley hopped off the sidewalk to join the Joker, laying a hand lightly on his arm.

"Come on, J," she grinned. "Kid's so scared, he might fire that thing accidentally." The Joker pretended to consider that for a minute, then stepped back.

"Okay, I'll play along. What, ah… what exactly are you planning to do?"

"Umm," Joe gulped. "I, um… I'm placing both of you under arrest…for, um…." The rookie's voice trailed off, drowned out by the Joker's sudden raucous laughter.

"HAHAHAHAHAHaHaHahahaHA! WOO-hoo-hoo! HA-HA! Oh! Oh-ho! You… you think… Woo-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Harl! Harl, the kid thinks he's gonna arrest us all by himself!" He was nearly doubled over with hilarity. Behind him, Harley didn't need to be cued; she was already giggling herself. The Joker took a couple of deep breaths to recover and stood up, waving the cop away as if he were a fly. "Listen, kid… between the two of us and that car, we've got enough weapons to start a militia, including an M1 Garand to blow your skull apart and a machine gun that can chop what's left of you into dog food. Assuming you can aim it, what are you and that little, ah… cap pistol going to do to beat that?" He was already chuckling again under his breath as he headed toward the Corvette. "Get back in your paddy-wagon and drive back to wherever your good-for-nothing partner made you drop him off, and we'll both pretend we didn't see each other. Hmm?" And turning around as if the cop were no longer an issue, he threw an arm around Harley's waist and started escorting her around to the driver's side.

They made it almost all the way around the car before the young cop broke from his stupor and started after them. "STOP, both of you! I'll shoot!" Harley and the Joker turned to see him come out from behind his car, gun still pointed shakily at them as he walked in their direction. He was trying to walk boldly like Clint Eastwood and yet stay low profile at the same time; the result was an awkward sideways shuffle that did nothing for his dignity. The Joker growled at the annoyance of it all and started back in his direction, when suddenly Harley grabbed him by the coat.

"Don't worry, J," she soothed. "I got this one." As the Joker watched her with an ill-disguised mix of temper and curiosity, Harley walked straight up to the cop and took hold of his wrists. He jerked instinctively, but she held him in a firm but gentle grip.

"Listen. Sweetheart," she began, and the Joker cringed as he heard the Jersey come back into her voice with full force. "Are ya listenin'?" She nodded until the cop nodded along with her. "Are ya sure?" Another nod. "Good." Without warning, she drew back her fist and slugged the rookie full across the face. He hit the pavement with a quiet thump. The Glock dropped harmlessly from his hands and landed beside his cruiser's tire. Harley walked back over to the Joker, dusting off her hands. "There. Taken care of." And she grinned her most attractive grin. Her hand was reaching for the car's door handle when she paused. "Wait. One more thing," she murmured. Then she reached into the Joker's pocket and pulled out the Dunkin Donuts bag.

"Harl, what—" he started.

"Shhh," she interrupted, a finger over her lips. "You'll see." She rummaged in the bag for a second until she found what she wanted; then she pulled it out and tossed the bag back to the Joker, who was watching her with now with blatant interest. It was the jelly-filled one. Harley carefully pulled it apart and took a bite of the larger half, as carefully and as daintily as was possible with a jelly donut. Then she took another. "OhmyGod, J, this tastes like sex," she managed to say through her full mouth, and she shoved the last bite in on top of what was already there. The Joker gaped at her, wondering how she was going to manage to swallow it all without choking.

"Ah, slow down, Harl – I'm not qualified for CPR, ya know."

"Mmmph," Harley replied as she gulped down what she could. "Can't. We got crap to do. No time for loitering. Now…," she sighed as she finally finished swallowing. "Let's see what we can do with this." The Joker watched as she took the other half of the donut over to the unconscious rookie's body. She bent down over him and studied his face for a moment. Then, humming lightly as she did so, she smeared some of the raspberry jelly on the young man's face in an unconscious imitation of the Joker's own artwork an hour before. Having drawn on a smile, she finished by opening the cop's mouth and jamming the remainder of the donut in between his teeth. Then she wiped her hands clean on his uniform and returned to the Corvette, an accomplished smile on her face. "Okay. Now, how's about getting you home?"

For a few seconds, the Joker continued to stare at her as if she were an alien pod-creature who simply happened to look like Harley Quinn. That was clearly the only option. This was NOT the girl he had left behind at The Factory.

Isn't that a good thing? the voice chimed in one more time.

The Joker opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it and closed it, and then opened it again.

"Harl… I don't say this often, so ah, don't get used to it… but good job." And he actually meant it. It was crude and slightly amateur, but it was major progress for her. Harley averted her face, but she was blushing enough that he could see it even through the haze of bruises on her cheekbones.

"Aaahh, it was nothing," she murmured. "Pigs love donuts. Classic gag." But he could tell she was holding back a huge grin. For a brief moment, he wondered if he would regret giving her the compliment later. Then it passed, and he reached over and lifted her chin with one gloved finger.

"Of course it was," he agreed. "But youuuu thought of it fair and square. And I guess that counts for something. Now. Get in the car, and get me back to the Factory before the kid wakes up, and maybe I'll …congratulate you… when we get there." And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to look her over, to really look at her. She was only in a plain red t-shirt and black jeans under the jacket, but there was no pair of pants on earth that could hide how good her thighs looked. And he resignedly allowed himself to admit that maybe she was going to start earning her way back up in his estimation – maybe a little slowly, probably with some major setbacks on the way. But still. Earning it. The Joker pulled his eyes back up to her face just in time to catch her hiding a look of utter disbelieving joy.

"You mean it, J?" she whispered. The Joker rolled his eyes behind closed lids and smothered a disgusted growl.

"Yeah. Yeah, I ah… I mean it." He waited for her to squeal, or start vibrating and giggling like she was prone to do. But it didn't happen. She wanted to; he could see it welling up behind her eyes. But he could also see her biting her lip and clenching her fists. She was determined on pain of death not to squawk or do anything otherwise annoying, and he grudgingly let himself be impressed. What she did say, when she had suppressed the squealing, was equally surprising.

"Sounds like a plan. I accept." And she did allow herself a wide grin that, much to the Joker's surprise, momentarily aroused him. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet uncomfortably to cover it up.

"Good. Now let's—"

And then she was kissing him. There was absolutely no warning, and he was so startled by it that he let it happen before he could react. Then he realized that she had him by the neck, and his hands were free. Growling with annoyance, he mentally retracted his previous suggestion and grabbed her shoulders to shove her off.

She didn't budge.

Instead, the Joker found himself being slammed into the side of the Corvette, Harley's nails digging into the wool of his coat lapels and her lips forcing his mouth to do things it hadn't done in years. It was uncomfortable, and unaccustomed, and… his stomach lurched. And unexpectedly exciting. No. No…no, no. Not happening. Not here. Not so soon. He tensed his arms to push her away again.

Then instead, over the protests of a voice that was slowly being smothered, he dropped his hands to her waist and let them settle there.

There were alarm bells going off in his brain, but somehow she was managing to drown them out. He knew he was letting her get away with what he shouldn't. He knew he was letting her lead which was a bad, bad, BAD idea. Buuuutttt….. Ah, what the hell, he finally relented. How much harm could it do? Ignoring one more scream of protest from his brain, the Joker let himself relax in her grip.

A few seconds later, she released him on her own, holding his lower lip between her teeth for just a second before letting it go gently. It shocked him; he always had to push her away when he was done – and here she was pulling away before he was over it. She was done first. She was never done first. What universe was this? As he stared at her, Harley gave him a wink.

"Don't look so surprised, Puddin'," she simpered. "You were the one who wanted to get home so bad. Now get in." She reached for the door handle and then stopped, moving her tongue around her mouth awkwardly. "J, have you been smoking?" she quizzed, licking her lips, her nose wrinkled with distaste. "Since when do you smoke?" She wiped her mouth and spat onto the pavement. "Ugh, the stuff you get into when I'm not around…," she mumbled. But she followed it with a wink and a smile. And as she popped open the driver's side door, she reached behind him and gave his butt a hard squeeze. He jerked awkwardly, surprised by the suddenness of it. It was only when Harley slammed her door and he heard the radio station change that he began walking, slowly and dazedly, around to his side of the car. He got in silently and sat, staring, face forward and frozen in astonishment. Beside him, Harley smiled a quiet, accomplished smile. Then she threw the car into gear and took off.

On the pavement behind them, Joe Abramov lay unconscious, a raspberry smile congealing on his face. The radio on his shoulder barked static into the empty street, and Lauder's orders to come back and pick him up fell on deaf ears. The gritty silence of the evening fell back around the cop and the car and the lonely phone booth like sediment settling in water, and the wispy remnants of the Corvette's exhaust mingled with the dirty fog that was now creeping back to its places, easing up to the sides of the buildings and nosing carefully around the rookie sprawled in the street.

The voice on the radio tried one more time and fell silent, static fading into despondent white noise made grey and fuzzy by the dirt in the air.

Gotham tucked herself in under her blanket of grime and resumed her fitful, restless sleep.