Title: The Magic Trick

Part II: Saint Solemnity

Summary: "Sometimes I look at you," Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck." The drunken father, the butchered mother. The gambling troubles, the pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady… "Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" An in-depth character sketch, complete with romantic interlude.

A/N: The Big Romance. I dislike having this split as chapters and may repost it as a whole later…it's really intended to function as a sketch/glimpse into various points of The Joker's life, and to examine the pieces that have made him. We'll see if it turns out satisfactorily.

Thanks a million, by the way, to all who have favorite this or put it on their Alerts list. I am touched and surprised, since this is hardly up-to-par writing—too choppy, really, more like a stream of thought. I imagine this being told orally, to be honest—and am surprised it's not (apparently) over-difficult to read. It was intended just for fun, and I'm really very flattered.

To those of you who are new to The Magic Trick, again I say: just for fun, and please don't be mean! :)

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The Joker stared at Ramirez. "Why is this so hard to understand, sugar?"

The Latina cop worried her lip with her teeth, staring at the madman as he licked his lips, searching for blood. "Don't—please don't pull me in this."

A nasty grin lit up his face. "But you're already in it, aren't you, gorgeous? You've been Maroni's since—what? You were fifteen? All because of your pretty mother." His eyes lit a little and he snickered. "I could threaten to tell Maroni you've lost loyalty to the Family, and I'm sure he'd be pissed, after paying all those medical bills. But let's face it, I've never been the tattling type."

He was on her before she could blink, a paring knife wedged into her cheek. Horrified, she tried to move, but couldn't—partially because he was so damn strong, and partially because she was just terrified.

"Now Maroni promised me you'd be here to do anything I needed, so long as I didn't lose his inside 'man.'" He seemed to find this funny and chuckled. "Tell me, precious—are you a woman of your word?"

She trembled against him and for a second he savored the feeling. "Na-ta-ta-ta-ta. Don't get all upset." He wiggled the knife gently. "You want to know how I got these scars, gorgeous?"

She didn't move, but a whimper escaped her mouth.

"I lived alone with my mother till I was ten. She was in and out of hospitals—like yours—all my life. Real sick. I loved her with every bit of me."

A ribbon of helpless drool spilled from the corner of Ramirez's taut cheek. The Joker's lip curled in disgust, but he ignored it.

"Then, some—madman—decided to bomb the hospital she was in. Almost everyone died, and those that were injured had no place to go." His voice was a low growl. "My mother's guts were everywhere. Her face was torn clean-off."

He chuckled and eased his grip a little, carefully removing the blade from Ramirez' mouth, but not releasing her. "I was in orphanages and foster homes my whole life. At one of them, our foster father—his name was Donald, and fuck-all if he wasn't a mean son-of-a-gun—decided he didn't like the look of me. I was too serious, too sad. So one day, while he was beating a little girl, I stepped in and sassed back, told him to leave her alone. So he did this." He presented one side of his scarred face to her. "And this." The other side. "I bet your mom is real sad, you leaving her all alone at Gotham General in that dingy suite next to the guy with the gangrene in his foot." Ramirez' eyes widened. " Maybe I should go visit her for you, send your regards. Maybe I can put a smile on her face."

"I'll do—whatever you want—" Ramirez gasped out, her eyes trembling with unshed tears.

"Get the lady," he growled, and shoved her away from him. She stumbled and landed on her rear on the pavement, looking horrified and scared. He started to walk away, then turned back and stared at her meaningfully. "Your mother will be your downfall," he said solemnly, as though imparting some great wisdom. She didn't even seem to process the comment.

When he turned away again, she suddenly said, "Please—will you hurt her?"

He grinned, his back still to the woman sitting on the concrete, and kept walking. "Who knows?"He looked at a beautiful, sad-eyed brunette. She was walking by his side, silent, while Ramirez sniffled and cried on the cracked pavement behind them. "Who knows?" he asked her.

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"You again?" Jackson glowered, staring at the girl who had once again set herself down on the bench across from him. Edie? Emma? Piglet? Something like that. It didn't matter; he was going to have to find a new place to eat his lunch between classes. He was not a fan of the overcrowded cafeteria, nor of his roommate who drank every night. The other boy was a dirty slob with a dull-witted and pervy sense of humor, and often experimented with various drugs in their room. Jackson had no desire to hang around there, and he had no desire to have this strange girl for company. She was probably just fascinatd by his scars.

"Yep, me again," the girl responded with a grin. Her hair was pulled back today, fresh curls escaping her pony tail and haloing her face. "You've got that look on your face again, by the way."

"What look is that?" he asked, amused in spite of himself.

She reached out before he could think and traced a light, cool finger between his furrowed brows. "So serious," she murmured, sounding a little sad.

His hand flew up and gripped her wrist as he stared at her. His grip was tight enough that he could feel her bones creak, and she winced but didn't move. The line between his brows tingled, like he could still feel her fingers there. He tried to remember the last time a girl had touched him willingly and failed. He thought about the times his mother had held him, but those memories were so long ago that they all blurred together and he couldn't tell, for sure, what was real and what was not. "You probably shouldn't touch someone without asking first," he snapped after a moment, almost flinging her wrist away.

"Can I touch you?" the girl—Evelyn, he remembered suddenly—asked with an impish smile.

Jackson's lips twitched. he sensation was unfamiliar, but he had to admit he was intrigued by her sass.

"Are you coming on to me?" he snickered.

Evelyn just grinned back though, not taking any offense to his derisive tone of voice. "Damn straight," she teased, and for a second it took a concentrated effort not to let his jaw drop. Instead, he looked down at his sandwich and licked his lips nervously, having just lost his appetite and trying not to look like a total loser.

Evie got up. That's it, he thought, more than a little bitter. She's leaving now. Idiot. He didn't know if the last bit was directed at her or himself.

But Evie Harris simply held out a hand to him, beckoning, and said, "Come on."

He blinked. "Huh?" Again, he licked his lip. He could almost taste the blood.

She smiled, slowly this time, and it blossomed over her face like a fresh dawn. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and gentle, more gentle than anything he thought he'd ever heard.

"Come away with me."

A flutter of magic uncurled in him, and without thinking twice, he reached out and took her hand. "Where are we going?" he asked, and she smiled again, her fingers tightening on his, lacing through.

"Does it matter?" she asked.

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It was mild for March—it felt like late April, in fact. They were sitting on a bench at the farthest corner of campus, by the lake, and she was asking him questions—why did he choose to come to this school (scholarship, of course), what his majors and minors were (chemistry/engineering and psychology, respectively)—and why. She asked where he roomed, what he liked, his favorite kind of music and foods. Sometimes he would give her the truth, and sometimes he gave her answers so outrageous that she laughed—and he decided that he liked her laugh. Liked it a lot. It was honest and loud and straight-forward, not some simpering giggle meant to flirt or offend. He knew when she laughed that she wasn't laughing at him.

Also, when she laughed, she threw back her head to do it, and all that gorgeous hair would fall around the white column of her throat and he'd think briefly of pressing his lips there, or to the space between her collarbones. Beautiful. Then he'd touch the still-red scar, puckered and painful-looking on his lower lip and upper-chin, and that definitely squashed any fantasies he may have entertained about running his mouth over her. Instead, he imagined briefly—a knife stabbed upward through the bottom of her chin, a line of red, her neck snapping in a flash of white heat—

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked, her voice light and teasing as she stretched out her legs next to his. She was wearing jeans and gray legwarmers and little ballet-flats with silver hearts. Even through the denim and wool he could see the shape of her strong, pretty calves and delicate ankles. He looked down at his own legs and feet—dark, close-fitting pinstripe pants with converse sneakers and purple laces. His legs looked like sticks compared to hers. He thought of Dave Monroe, with thick, branch-like arms and a stupid rippling six-pack he liked to show off by wandering the dorms without his shirt. He suddenly found himself imagining Evelyn on the kid's arm, looking blissful and ignorant—and then imagined them ten years from now, when Dave had a beer-gut and liked to hit things like his father.

His hands tightened on his knees. "I just want to do something I'm good at, and do it well, and enjoy it," he explained after a moment. "I don't know what that is yet. Probably something related to chemistry, but not teaching. Probably not research. Something I can get my hands into—make stuff. Hence the engineering, too."

"Something tangible," she stated. It was a guess, but not really—she knew what he meant, and he nodded. "And money means nothing...?"

His face fell into a frown before she even knew what happened. "I don't care about money," he snapped. "Pretty much all money is dirty. I just want to do what I do well, and do it with class."

Evie filed that away. Their friendship was still too new to push that particular envelope just yet. "So what about the psych minor? You thinking of being a counselor?" Her lip curled into a now-familiar grin. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I think you're the type who could do anything you set your mind to—but it's hard to imagine you having patience with some of the people out there."

For a moment, Jackson started—it was the first time he could remember anyone voicing a faith in his abilities. Then he relaxed and grinned back, certain she was not mocking him. It was a real smile, for the first time. He said, "Nah. I just do that for fun. Like to figure out how people work, what makes them tick."

She snickered, thinking of their Women's Studies class. "You're good at that," she teased. "Good at pressing buttons."

For a moment he let himself think briefly about pressing her button. It made his toes tingle.

It also alarmed him, that he could go from thinking about backhanding her to making her arch in ecstasy against him, all in a matter of a single second.

She was gazing at him, looking amused and wistful. "You know what I think?"

He made a noncommittal grunt. "You think?" he asked, as though it were a surprise.

She swatted his arm playfully, and he jolted at the harmlessness of the action. It was almost—affectionate. "I think you worry too much," she said, her mouth curved gently and her eyes shining as she looked at him. It was like she was drinking him in, scars and all. Her finger reached out for the second time that day, skating the furrows of his brow, down his nose, over his lips to the scar on his chin. "You should smile more. You have a gorgeous smile."

For a moment he stiffened. The aforementioned smile had disappeared entirely. He felt awkward again, and angry at his awkwardness. "Whatever," he glowered, licking his upper lip when she took her hand away.

Evie didn't let it phase her though. She just smiled and turned the conversation around, asking him another inane question that he couldn't help but answer.

It was dusk and starting to get about as cold as March could be before they stopped talking and headed back to the dorms. She took his hand again and he was startled by how cold it was—pale and blotched with red. He himself was like a furnace, radiating heat, and where her chilled little fingers touched him he thought he could feel the imprint for hours. He imagined, for a second, breaking her fingers in his grip, and then the moment was gone. She said goodbye outside of his building, wrinkling her nose and teasing him about continuing to harass and stalk him in the near future. He just kind of smiled and thought that her scrunched up nose was actually kind of cute.

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Months passed. Spending time together became a regular thing. Lunch most days, and dinner when they couldn't. Hours spent out by the pond or crashing in one of the lounges and watching movies. He didn't like his roommate enough to invite her over—could just imagine the jackass saying something vile and offensive—and he didn't like her roommate enough to go over, so they met in the middle somewhere and munched on popcorn all night. At some point or another, she'd started touching him again—more than just his hand. When he was thinking deep thoughts that had his brows furrowed, she would come up and smooth them away with her fingertips. Sometimes he'd sit on the floor in front of her and she'd comb her fingers through his hair. The first time it startled the hell out of him and he'd almost crushed her fingers, but he'd gotten used to it—the soft pull of her grasp on his hair, the gentle massaging on his scalp. She eased his tension away.

He realized, at some point, that he knew nothing about her. Nothing he hadn't seen, anyway. She was popular, he figured, and she radiated confidence. She laughed a lot—more than he thought was possible for one person. Almost anything could make her laugh—even the most simple of moments. She found humor in strange places. She was genuinely interested in the people around her—he figured that made them feel important and was probably why they liked her so much.

So he did some reconnaissance. He had figured her for popular—lots of kids knew her, even if he didn't really see them hanging out. And he found out that she was popular—just not in the traditional sense. She didn't go to parties or anything—was more apt to stay in her room reading or go for a walk if it came to that…or watch a movie with him. But people knew who she was, respected her, thought she was smart and clever and funny. They came to her with their troubles, or when they just needed to talk over a cup of hot cocoa, which she was always happy to make for them. Yeah, some people didn't like her—thought she was no fun, or too much of a hardass because she expected things from people. Things like decency and respect, courtesy. A modicrum of intelligence. She didn't back down and expected you to do things right, or ask for help. Not half-ass stuff.

He liked it. And he was fast growing to like her—maybe even as more than "someone to hang out with" (because he still wasn't sure she was a friend, wasn't even sure he knew what a friend was supposed to be). For the first time in his life, he thought maybe he could tell someone things…especially when he thought of her skinny little fingers combing through his burnished hair, or the pale line of her throat.

When her birthday came up, he sat in front of a mirror for an hour, trying to look his best and thanking whoever was listening that his roommate was gone. He liked what he saw there, in spite of the scar—his eyes looked warmer than he'd ever seen them, almost sparkling, and his lips were full and strong and unchapped, since he had somehow forgotten his long-lost habit of licking them nervously. He figured with Evie, he was comfortable—safe—and the anxious twitch had faded into nothing as his happiness grew.

"I pay homage to the gods of chaos," he had said mockingly, once. He couldn't remember why.

She had traced the tight, serious furrows in his brows with sad fingers. "Here I thought you were asking for intervention from the saints of solemnity." She'd said it reverently, and for a split-second, he'd trembled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd trembled in quite such a way. He decided then he never wanted anything dark to touch this corner of his life.

For a few weeks, he'd been afraid to lay a hand on her.

Of course she had shattered his lofty and noble goals soon enough, always curling next to him, touching his face and hair, teasing him. He almost became as physically affectionate as she did—though his touch was infinitely lighter, more careful. He was very aware of how easily he could accidentally break her.

She seemed unbreakable, though. Unshakeable. He couldn't get rid of her, even when he was attacked by a sense of conscience or fear and tried to alienate her. She was staying. She wasn't leaving him. She wouldn't even hear of it.

In response, in—gratitude, perhaps—he had big plans for this night, the celebration of her birth. Simple, but elegant, he thought. Classy. For a moment he imagined his father—younger, smiling, clean, happy—courting his mother, and desperately in love. Well this—this thing, with Evie—it might not last forever, and it might not be love, not yet…but he would be damned if he'd let it end in tragedy or bitterness.

He chuckled and combed through his hair one last time before straightening his collar and throwing on his pea-coat. Someone knocked on the door—he knew it was Evelyn. Throwing it open, he grinned down down at her pretty, upturned face.

"Why, hello, beautiful."

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"Call up that other fella," the Joker said suddenly, right before he swung himself into the semi. He'd been tickled when the boys found one that said "Laughter is the best medicine" and had fancied it up with a hastily-scrawled "S" in spray paint. The brunette woman was behind him, looking just as amused at the "s" as he was.

Slaughter.

"Uh—what other fellow, sir?" one of the thugs asked, looking both confused and nervous. The anxiety increased when the Joker turned to look at him like he was stupid, licking his lip in a way that signaled impending danger.

"The one. Who was close. To Gordon," he said slowly, almost spitting the last word. "Do I have to do everything myself?"he asked the dark-haired lady next to him. She looked conflicted, but smiled encouragingly anyway.

"Wuertz?"another asked, cringing when the Joker's sunken eyes met his.

"Yeah. Whatever," the madman said offhandedly, as though he couldn't be bothered with such trivial details. "Call him up and tell him that if Harvey Dent lives through this, he's gotta be the one to pick him up. Gonna take him to the warehouse."

"The one the girl's gonna be at? At Avenue X?"

"Don't be an idiot, Steve," the Joker responded jovially.

The henchman looked down at his old work shirt, which was clearly labeled "Rick."

"Have Wuertz take Dent to the other site. Ummmm, and you—Jonathon—" The Joker pointed at a new guy, whose name was Alex.

"Alex," the new guy corrected, completely oblivious

The Joker paused, stared, and then—simply, lazily, dismissively—without even looking—he shot the man.

"Jonathon," he repeated, turning back to Rick, "you go back and get more barrels of oil. There's a detonation device already at the site in one of the back cupboards—hook it up. Be ready to rig Harvey to it. Set it to go off at the same time as the lady's."

The men looked at each other. The Joker obviously was intended to drag out this streetfight scene for as long as he could—for kicks—but that didn't mean it would be easy for them to get all this done in time. It didn't matter though—most of them were used to, by now, working without a plan and catering quickly to the Joker's whims.

The madman just looked at the semi's sliding door again and chuckled. "Slaughter," he echoed, shaking his head and grinning at the lady next to him. "That's a good one."

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