You're tired.
It was another long, boring day at the office again, and that fat guy in the cubicle across from yours kept not-so-furtively glancing at your ass every time you happened to walk by. He's hit on you several times over the course of the three years that you've worked here, and now the game's getting old. He just doesn't seem to take a hint.
He's pestered you nonstop today especially, popping into your cubicle at every hour and every coffee break, beleaguering you with questions about your personal life and do you have a boyfriend? and all that jazz.
You try to be nice, you really do. You feel bad for him, in a way, feel bad that he's so desperate. He claims that he wants to get to know you better, wants to see if the two of you have anything in common, but you know that you don't. What he really wants is just a way into your pants. You don't flaunt it the way you should, nor are you boastful about it, but you're pretty sexy, even if you won't admit it. You try to be modest when someone compliments you, but you can't deny the fact that God bestowed upon you the gift of beauty. It happens sometimes. I mean, come on, it's no wonder what's-his-name is always checking out your ass.
It's almost ten o'clock when you finally step into the subway car, secluding yourself somewhere in the back where you can rest your head against the window and not have to worry about being bothered. Normally you'd take a cab, but tonight you are exceptionally tired and you don't feel like standing on the sidewalk in the dark as you wait for a cab to arrive.
Your job is located in one of the dodgier parts of the Narrows, a place where cab drivers (and people in general) rarely venture, especially at night. The building you work in is old and weathered—you know the type—the one where the red brick is chipped and faded, decorated with dead vines that messily crawl up its sides. There are vertical bars over the windows to keep out burglars, and the potted plants and bushes outside haven't seen a landscaper in years. Oh, and the little bell above the door chimes annoyingly whenever someone walks in. It's a real nice place, really.
You're a financial analyst, probably one of the most boring jobs you could ever have in the history of jobs, but you secretly love it. You've always been good at math and playing around with numbers, and you enjoy helping people try to fight their way out of the drowning pool otherwise known as debt. It gives you a sense of fulfillment, helping others in a way that you know really matters to them and can make a big impact on their lives. Especially in times like these, too, a time when Gotham is on the brink of financial ruin and the economy seems to be trapped in this stagnant, perpetual slump. Of course, it doesn't help that all anyone seems to be obsessed with these days is money. It's amazing, you think, the things that some people will do for a little cash. People die for a green slip of paper. Crazy, right?
You close your eyes and slump a little into the dark navy blue leather seat, resting the side of your head against the window. Overhead, the florescent lights of the subway car are dimmed and occasionally flicker, but it's nothing out of the ordinary. There's gum stuck under the seats and fingerprints on the window and you're used to it all and more.
Briefly glancing down at your watch, you expect you'll make it home in about thirty minutes, which leaves you just enough time for a small nap, seeing as how you're all alone.
That, however, immediately changes when the car begins to slow to a stop and the doors slide open. One lone passenger, a man, steps inside. He licks his lips and glances around, noticing you in the back and then uninterestedly turning away. He seats himself in the opposite section of seats near the back, facing you. You watch him furtively, your head still against the window, as he adjusts his jacket and then smoothes his wavy hair, which is a dark shade of blond and reaches just below his ears. He's dressed in a black suit, you notice, but that doesn't really strike you as odd because you figure he probably just got off work, same as you.
Equally uninterested, you close your eyes again, too tired to keep them open. You begin to think about what you'll do when you get home. First, you'll pay the babysitter, a little extra this time because you're usually not home this late and it's a school night for her. After she leaves, you'll check on Riley, your three year-old baby girl who is probably tucked away in her crib, sleeping soundly. After that, you'll take a quick shower, just long enough to relieve you of the day's stresses, before finally crawling into bed and turning off the lights.
Since tomorrow is Friday, you have to make sure you pay the electric bill and slip it in the mailbox before you drop Riley off at daycare and then head to work. And speaking of work, you have an important staff meeting tomorrow with the big man himself, so you'll have to dress extra nice.
As the subway car quietly hums along its tracks and the lights flicker from overhead, you mentally begin to pick out an acceptable outfit you can wear tomorrow, trying to picture all the dress clothes in your closet and which ones are at the dry-cleaners so you can figure out what to wear.
You are startled out of your thoughts when you hear someone clearing their throat. When you open your eyes, you see Mr. Wavy Blond Hair standing in the isle directly next to your seat, looking down at you.
Your first thought is initially, wow, he's really tall, but then you remember that this is Gotham, crime city capital of the world, and instinctively you pull your purse a little closer to your side. You try to do it furtively, but he seems to notice and smiles a little, just barely, and with that small action you suddenly take notice of the fact that a Chelsea grin splits either of his cheeks. You didn't notice it when he was so far away, but up close you can see it more clearly, how one scar appears to be larger than the other and how my God he's caught me staring.
You smile politely, if not a bit uneasily, and force your eyes to meet his. "I'm sorry, can I help you with something?" Your voice is tired, and if Mr. Wavy Blond Hair is listening as closely as you hope he is, he may have heard the unmistakable I'm not in the mood for small talk that is laced within your question.
Apparently he does notice, because an apologetic look passes over his face and you suddenly feel bad for sounding like a jerk. "I didn't mean to interrupt your uh... nap," he says, his voice deep and husky and slightly nasally all at the same time, "but I've got a bit of a problem that I... was hoping you could help me with."
Your ears instantly perk up despite the fact that you're so tired. You're always willing to help someone in need, (a weird habit, you figure; you're probably too nice for your own good).
"Oh, of course." You sit up a little straighter and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, giving him your full attention. You're staring up at him with your big, round eyes, and he's staring back, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his dress pants and is he smirking at me? You dismiss the thought when he starts to speak.
"See, you're just the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," he licks his lips and then drops his voice to nearly a growl as he leans in closer and grips the seat in front of you, "and I've just got. To. Have you."
Mr. Wavy Blond Hair isn't just tall anymore, he's towering, and he's still standing over your petite frame and making you feel tiny and vulnerable. You swallow and then laugh a bit nervously, completely at a loss for words.
"Um, excuse me?" Your tone of voice conveys utter bewilderment, matching the expression on your face.
He only laughs in response, his pleased little rumble sending goose bumps over your arms as he so easily slithers closer and eases himself down next to you. You twist your body slightly so that your back is towards the window, and you press yourself into it as much as it will allow. You wish that you could somehow bust out of the confines of this subway car—or perhaps vanish into its walls and disappear. Anything to make this very, very strange man go away.
Situations and scenarios similar to this have happened to you before. I mean, you're gorgeous, men hit on you all the time. It's a big city and there are a lot of men in it, it's just the way things have always been—but never in your life has something quite like this happened before. This man isn't being playful or flirtatious like most men you've encountered. This man is quick to the point, painfully blunt, and most of all, downright intimidating.
"Listen," he begins. He spreads his legs wide like men tend to do, his thigh casually grazing yours as he folds his hands in between his knees. He addresses you as if the two of you have known each other for years and are close friends simply catching up with one another. He isn't looking at you when he talks, and for that you are grateful. You don't want him to see how increasingly panicked he is making you.
You find his very presence unnerving, so unnerving to the point where you feel your hands start to get clammy. You do your best to remain calm. You'll tell him to go away, tell him that you're tired and that you're not in the mood to talk. You'll even tell him that you're "sorry" to lighten the blow. And then you'll get off at the very next stop available, just to be safe.
His voice, though, jolts you out of your frantic thoughts. "I... " he swallows, staring down at his hands with an unreadable expression marring his features. "I think you're... beautiful. Really beautiful." He swallows again and glances at you from out of the corner of his eye before quickly averting his gaze. For most men, you would consider this behavior as a sign of nervousness, but he isn't nervous. He's fidgety and compulsive, random in his movements and appears antsy, as if he just can't wait. He opens his mouth to finish what he was trying to say, but you abruptly cut him off before he can continue. This is starting to really freak you out.
"I'm sorry," you say, hoping he didn't catch the slight quiver in your voice. He looks up at you with a sharp jerk of his head, and you're startled by the intensity of his gaze, the way his hard, dark brown orbs are smoldering you, practically pinning you to your seat.
You're staring into his eyes, completely lost in them, in fact, when you suddenly realize that the subway car is beginning to slow. You nearly jump for joy at this realization but manage to contain yourself. This isn't your stop but you're getting off now, regardless.
"I—I really have to go. This is my stop." Your voice is all breathy and rushed, but you don't care. You just want to get out of this car, damn it.
You grab your purse and stand up in order to quickly slide past him. Mr. Wavy Blond Hair, however, seems to have other ideas, his arm coming up so fast you hardly even have time to register it. He leans forward and grabs the seat in front of the two of you, effectively blocking your way out. You see the veins pulsing in his hand from how tightly he is gripping the leather cushion of the seat, and your heart starts to flutter a little faster in the confines of your chest.
He's strong.
Don't panic, remain calm, you think to yourself, letting out a slow breath.
The car comes to a full stop, and you know it's only going to remain that way for a few more seconds longer.
"Please, sir," you hate how desperate your voice sounds, your nervousness clearly apparent, "I have to get off now." You won't meet his eyes because you don't want him to see how nervous you are, and he isn't meeting yours, either.
"This isn't. Your. Stop," he says, and then he is looking at you like he knows, and a terrifying jolt shoots through you when you wonder if he really does.
When you glance upwards to see the doors sliding closed, your panic suddenly blossoms inside your chest and you just barely hold back a cry of frustration. The car slowly starts forward again, and you're too stunned to do anything but try and contain the rapid beating of your heart.
"You ah," his voice is low, his eyes slowly rising to meet yours as he stares at you from beneath his brows. "You don't quite seem to... understand the gravity of the situation." As he removes his arm from the seat and turns to look at you, you can't help but feel smoldered by his gaze again, and you try to put some distance between the two of you, pressing your back into the window as nonchalantly as possible. You're fully facing him now, but at least you can better anticipate his next move, should he try to make one.
"You see, when I want something," he eyes you significantly, "I get it." He pulls back to assess your reaction, cocking his head, and you can only stare at him with your brows knitted together in panic. "You feel me?"
Author's Notes: Takes place pre-Dark Knight. I'm running this particular story on the theory that Jack/pre-Joker really is insane.
As always, comments are welcome.