The first time that girl took him and Lola to the city was the last time they all went together.

It had started out with an hour's worth of frenzied searching on the part of Lola, trying to find an outfit that would not make her look sickly, or a scarf that wouldn't make people stare at her and whisper, "That girl must have cancer, you can so tell she's bald."

Luckily, that girl swept in and saved the day, just as she always did when it came to fashion disasters. She wrapped a thick and stylish looking black scarf-thing around Lola's head and then slid a pair of sunglasses onto her face. After she enveloped Lola in a trendy black coat that looked brand new, expensive, and had extremely shiny silver fasteners, they were ready to go. That girl bit back her laugh when she looked at Jack's careless attire – his deity sweatshirt and a pair of well-worn and battered jeans.

"You want some shades, too? You'd look cute in them."

Jack glared at her. "Be quiet. Come on, let's just get this over with."

It was a long and tedious ride to the city for Jack. Lola was nearly beside herself with excitement, and he always hated going anywhere public with that girl. People always stared at her. Back at home it was kids he went to school with, checking her out. On the train to the city, it was men. Men casting glances at her from their seats and over their newspapers. Grungy men, drunk men, men who looked like they were on their way to work. They all stared at her with that same, universal sign of longing in their eyes. It made Jack tense and irritable, and so furious he could hardly speak the entire ride. He was also drumming his fingers like mad, which annoyed that girl to the point where she actually reached over and punched him in the hand so hard that his cuticles tingled.

The only content one in their party by the time they stepped out at the station was Lola, who kept peering over the brim of her sunglasses in a faux-sophisticated manner, her brown eyes flickering over everything a mile a minute. She kept pointing out stupid things like billboards and ads plastered to the sides of buildings. And when she saw Wayne Tower standing up against the skyline, its million windows sparkling in the mid-afternoon sunlight, she actually shrieked and pointed, abandoning all blasé pretense.

They'd done it for her, of course. She wanted to go into the city with just the two of them, and go into the stores that she'd only ever dreamt about going into when their mom and dad had ever taken them there. That girl had to buy a dress for a mandatory charity formal that her class was throwing, up at St. Katherine's. It was sponsored by some businessman who donated nearly every year, and the girls were expected to go to show their respect and thanks. In a pious manner, of course. Which was, apparently, the problem.

"It's going to be a butt ugly dress, too, because we can't show our shoulders or our bosoms or our thighs or even our ankles, I'll bet. I think it'll have to be a burka."

Jack snorted. "Your bosoms?"

"Jesus Christ, our tits, all right? We can't be parading around with our tits spilling out of our dresses. Probably because that stuffy businessman would take one look at us repressed little Catholic girls and bust a nut having all those fantasies of what he'd like to do to us."

"Ew," Lola said, wrinkling up her nose and thumbing through a rack of glittery dresses.

"D'you think they have, like, NunCo? 'Cos that's where I'll need to go to get this dress. NunCo. Apparel for virgins."

"Oh quit bitching," Jack said, amused. "Just get something so we can get out of here. I hate shopping."

"I don't care," she replied sullenly, and stuck her head in a rack of clothes to search for an acceptably bland dress.

"You looking for something in particular?" the moody cashier said, leaning forward with her elbows on the glass display case and glaring at the three of them. He noticed that she looked around his age, eighteen at the most. He wished he could manage to get a job at a joint like this – he bet they paid her more in an hour than he got paid in a day down at the butcher's, where he had managed to get a job. And she didn't go home covered in blood and stinking of carcass, he guessed.

"Something ugly. Don't worry, we shouldn't have any trouble here," Jack replied promptly. That girl let out a dry laugh from a rack over. The cashier just blinked at him. Lola shot him an admonishing look, as if he was going to get them banned from the city for being so socially awkward.

They spent an eternity in that store, and the next store, and the store after that. Lola tried on a thousand dresses, it seemed, each one of them more sparkly or sequined or frilly than the last. She was thrilled with the day, and the smile plastered on her face was so large it looked as if she'd slept with a coat hanger in her mouth. Like she'd never stop smiling. If Jack was in a better mood he probably would have appreciated the sight a little more – his sister being so happy, that is. It happened so rarely. But the dresses and the waiting rooms and the moody and judgmental cashiers, and especially the men who turned their heads and stopped mid-sentence while talking on their cell phones to stare at that girl, put him in the sort of sour mood that he rarely experienced when in the company of that girl and his sister. He wished they could just go back to that girl's apartment and hang around and watch T.V. or something.

"Stop looking so petulant, Jack." That girl peeked her head out of a dressing room. "This is about Lola and she's having a great time."

"I know that," Jack mumbled. "I just don't like . . . going out, around all these people."

"Better than the Narrows, I'd think. At least these people dress nice and shower regular."

"It's worse than the Narrows," Jack went on, his frustration building. "It's . . . . it's you. I hate walking from store to store with you."

"What did I ever –" that girl began, looking hurt.

"All the men on the streets stare at you. Don't you see them? It . . . it bothers me."

Jack stared down at his feet and scratched absently at his burning cheek. He hated saying it out loud, hated admitting that their stares irked him more than he would like to confess. It made him feel weak, the way it bothered him. But he couldn't stop it from bothering him, either. It was something that rose up in him like burning acid, scorching his insides and bathing his sight in red. He was a guy; he knew what they were thinking about when they looked at her. The same things he thought about when he looked at her, sometimes. The same things he dreamt about. But those thoughts, those fantasies, weren't supposed to be for them. She wasn't theirs. She didn't belong to them.

"I see them," she said softly, moving out from her dressing room and coming to stand in front of him. "They're just horny old men. What does it matter?"

What did it matter? She wasn't theirs, but she wasn't exactly his, either. In the months since they had first kissed, back in the fall, they had never truly established any sort of agreement between the two of them. The term 'girlfriend' sounded vulgar and wrong, somehow, whenever he thought it in relation to that girl. Not that everybody back in the Narrows didn't think that they were together. Jack had been in more fights since fall than he'd ever been in his life, combined. He couldn't even walk home from work without some asshole or two catching up with him asking about that girl. And that "gentleman" Jimmy Nolan had been the last and most recent.

"Hey, Napier! Napier, wait up."

"I'm, uh, not in the mood for idle conversation right now."

"Haha. Itsuh good thing I don't wanna have any of that then. I just wanted to know 'bout you and that Louise chick. That little Catholic school girl you hang around. What's the deal, man?"

"Deal . . ."

"Yeah, bro, you know . . . you gettin' some? She's gotta be givin' it up. Why else would you be all over her like you are?"

Jimmy had turned his head and cleared his throat noisily, and then spat a wad of spit and phlegm onto the cracked asphalt.

"Maybe I, uh, like her."

"Ha, right. Right. You sayin' there ain't nothin' goin' on?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Oh come on . . . I know all 'bout them Catholic girls. Frankie Yatz told me that one of 'em took him to the movies and then blew him right there, in the middle of Forrest Gump. They love doin' that shit."

"She's not like that. And if I was you, I'd keep my mouth shut about it."

"Hey, I'm just sayin' . . . she's pretty fuckin' hot. If I was you I'd be givin' it to her every day. I mean, those tits –"

And then Jack had punched him, a vicious right hook that swung out of nowhere and had knocked Nolan to the ground before he knew it was coming. Something had come over Jack, something brutal and barbaric, and he found that even though Nolan was hardly putting up a fight and was on the ground half of the time, he was being urged on by some unamenable insistence inside of his gut that told him to beat every square inch of the little bastard's skin. And he had, until he was gasping with exertion and his knuckles were split open and bruised, and some of them very likely broken. His lip had been split from a well-placed punch from Nolan, and Jack had tasted his own blood – a salty and savagely enjoyable taste, at the time.

That girl had been furious when he'd arrived back at his place, where she'd been sitting up with Lola waiting for him. But she never seemed to understand that he had to do it – why should guys like that get away with talking about a girl like her? As if they were trying to contaminate her into becoming like all the other sluts Jack lived around; like they didn't have enough whores, they had to bring her down too. That girl hadn't seemed to understand that, or his anger.

"I can't believe you're getting into fights for my honor, for Christ's sake. Do you know how . . . melodramatic that is?"

"Oh, oh, sorry. My mistake. Next time I'll be sure to let Jimmy Nolan tell me all about how much he'd love to fuck you."

"That's exactly what you should do, Jack. He's just a guy. And so are you. Guys are supposed to talk about stuff like that."

"I don't want to talk about stuff like that. I don't want to talk about you like that."

"Well, then you'd better just learn to take it with a grain of salt, because nobody is going to stop."

"If I beat the hell out of them all, they will."

"That would take up a lot of time and energy, don't you think? Just chill out, would you? I don't need some white knight defending my reputation as a pious little virgin."

She had sounded mad then, but she didn't sound mad now. He supposed it was because he had kept his anger more or less in check, at least to the point where he wasn't going around throwing a punch at any random man who checked her out.

"I don't like knowing that they look at you and think about what they'd like to do to you," Jack crossed his arms over his chest and stared determinedly down at a rip in his jeans.

"How do you know what they're thinking?" that girl asked, her voice soft.

He snorted. As if they would stare at her the way they did with honorable intentions. That was her problem: she was too innocent for her own good. "Because I'm a guy. I know."

She paused with one hand outstretched, nearly brushing his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. There was a shaky breath from her direction before she asked, "Do you think about me like that?"

Jack looked up with wide eyes, abruptly aware of what he had said to her. He expected her to look insulted, or maybe even disgusted, at the suggestion. But the look on her face was slightly calculating and she had a flush painted across her cheeks that did not look like it was from anger. He wasn't quite sure how to respond to her. Should he lie and tell her 'no', and continue to hide all those lust-driven thoughts he had managed to keep secret all this time? Or should he say something noncommital and blow the whole thing off as ridiculous to discuss? Or maybe, just maybe, should he tell her the truth, if only to see what happened. . . . what she would say . . . Maybe that sometimes, she thought about him like that, too . . . .

"I . . ."

"What're you two doin' in here?" Lola demanded, carrying an armful of black dresses and looking annoyed. "I don't like this store. Louise, could ya help me put these back so we can go get somethin' ta eat?"

"Oh! Yes." And then that girl rushed off, blushing, without a backwards glance at Jack.

They spent the rest of the day in the city, but things were strangely quiet and awkward after that. Even Lola noticed it and it put a damper on her mood, as well. Though that didn't stop her from wanting to check out Wayne Tower first hand, going up and standing by the large glass front door and peering inside until she smudged up the glass with her nose and a security guard told her to clear off.

They ate at a tiny little diner with old fashioned booths and a malt machine, even. Jack had saved up just enough money to be able to pay for the meal, even though that girl protested vehemently about it. He ended up having to throw her money back at her face and then shove his own into the confused waitress's hands.

"They actually love each other," Lola reassured the waitress, who looked unsure if she should go get her manager. "Don't worry."

"Shut up, Lola," Jack growled, glaring at that girl, who sat shaking her head at him and muttering something about 'chauvinistic men'.

Jack didn't really speak to that girl until they were on their way back to the station, where there was a hold up in the middle of one street out in front of a church. Lola let out an excited screech and darted forward to watch as the large, oaken front doors swung open and a couple dressed in their wedding attire came out. They looked very young, no older than eighteen or nineteen, and their rigid postures and hunched shoulders displayed, blatantly, their discontent with the entire situation. They did not look happy. Not like you were supposed to look on your wedding day. Still, Jack figured he wouldn't be too happy if he had two rows of people on either side of him, tossing rice at his face.

But if the twisted expression of dislike on the young man's face was anything, it was nothing compared to that of the bride's. Her lip was pulled up in a disgusted snarl, though even that didn't manage to detract from her appearance – Jack took one look at her and realized, with a jolt, that he was probably looking at the prettiest girl in the city after the girl standing next to him. She looked vaguely familiar, too, with long, curling blonde hair and an overtly womanish figure.

"I had no idea they were getting married today," that girl mused, standing up on her toes to get a better look at the couple as they descended the steps, the groom almost dragging the bride after him.

"They don't look like they're primed for, uh, marital bliss."

That girl smirked up at him and replied, "Of course not. Christ, I would have thought you'd recognize them. That's little Johnny Sabatino and Peyton Riley. You know . . . the kids of the mob bosses?"

Jack blinked and then turned his attention back to the groom. His hair was slicked back and the color of coal, and on closer inspection his skin had the olive tone that set the Sabatinos apart from the other inhabitants of Gotham. The line of guests on the groom's side was made of similar looking people, including a man with greying black hair and a heavily scarred face. Johnny Sabatino the elder. The man was an infamous legend where Jack came from.

"But the Rileys have always fought with the Sabatinos," Jack mumbled absently. "Why would they let their kids get hitched?"

"They made their kids get hitched. An arrangement to stop the rivalry between the two mobs, you know? You see how they're treating each other?"

Little Johnny threw himself into the back of the black town car waiting out in front of the church and allowed his bride to clamber in after him, her teeth bared and her nose wrinkled as she hitched up her long white skirt and struggled to shove herself into the back seat without getting caught on anything.

"They hate each other," Jack remarked, smiling grimly. "Well, that's interesting, isn't it? Should make for some . . . colorful . . . developments."

That girl frowned heavily. "You shouldn't talk about it like that. I feel sorry for poor Peyton Riley . . . I mean, that guy is obviously a major jerk. Could you imagine their wedding night?"

That girl shivered and then, unexpectedly, reached out and gripped Jack's hand in hers. She leaned against his arm and they watched as the town car pulled out into the street and disappeared around a corner, most likely heading for some fancy hotel. The crowd settled around the church steps looked at each other warily for a long moment and then began to disperse, each of the men gripping their women's shoulders and looking over their own with shrewd expressions of distrust. The Sabatinos, with their dark skin and hair, were easily distinguishable form the Rileys, who were all fair skinned and had more than one redhead amongst them.

Lola came bounding back over breathlessly. "That was so cool, Jack! I've never seen a real wedding like that before! Hey, are you 'n Louise gonna get married in this church? Oh please, please get married soon, Jack! I wanna see the ceremony and Louise's dress!"

"Stop talking like you're gonna drop dead any second," Jack snapped, feeling sick at the thought. "I'm not getting married any time soon, so you're just going to have wait."

They didn't end up getting back to the Narrows until ten, and they didn't get home until thirty minutes after that. There had been yet another delay when the train had broken down. They had all ended up having to sit in a grungy station that smelled of urine and booze and wait until the city mechanics fixed whatever problem there was. Lola and that girl talked the entire time and Jack listened with minimal interest, but with a sense of contentment at finally being out of the crowded streets of the city.

It was pitch black and eerie on the way back to their homes, and the two girls were thoroughly spooked about having to walk back through the alleys of the Narrows so late. They both flanked Jack, and he was a cross between annoyed and thrilled that that girl gripped at his arm whenever a rat upset a trash bin and went scurrying off into the darkness.

"We're gonna get raped and murdered!" Lola wailed as a drunken bum staggered by, mumbling about 'the price to pay for blood'. Certainly nothing to get excited about; you could hardly pass a day without running into delusional or downright insane bums.

"No you aren't," Jack snapped. "You've got me, haven't you? You think I'd just stand around like an idiot and watch you get raped and murdered, or something?"

"But if they got a gun and say, 'Let me have the girls or you die', you'd have ta let 'em rape us!" Lola reasoned hysterically.

"No I wouldn't. I'd fight them. Just shut your mouth and keep walking, would you?" Jack snorted in annoyance and then shifted his leg so that he could feel the metallic pressure against his ankle – the knife that he had tucked into his sock. He didn't want to admit that it made him uneasy walking around this late with the two of them – that girl in particular, who he knew attracted the wrong sort of attention.

"Here, come on, let's take this alley. We'll be at the end of our street and we won't have to go all the way around the O'Neill building. Stop blubbering, I already told you that nothing's gonna happen to you."

Jack grabbed his sister and that girl and drug them through an alley to their right, stepping over a sack of garbage and ducking underneath a low-hanging clothesline. Lola and that girl glued themselves to his arms again, each of them tugging at him and throwing him off balance every two seconds. As much as he liked the feel of that girl's palms on his skin he was getting more irritated by the second. They were acting like they were walking through hell, or something, and not the home they'd lived in for years and years. He knew it was rough sometimes, but it was beginning to get ridiculous, the way they were acting.

"Jack, watch –"

But Jack went sprawling, his foot caught on something large and unseen by him, as distracted as he was by the girls hanging all over him. His palms scraped against the gravelly asphalt of the alleyway and he swore loudly, sure that he had cut his palm on a stray piece of glass. Lola backed away but that girl scrambled down to help pick Jack up. He pushed her away in annoyance and embarrassment and then looked down at the bum he had tripped over, stretched out across the length of the alley with a broken bottle of alcohol clutched in his frozen fingers. That girl and Lola started forward down the alley cautiously, but Jack stood and stared down at the bum as a cloud shifted overhead and a swatch of moonlight shined down to illuminate his face. Pale as death with wide, lifeless eyes.

"Jack, come on! I'm gettin' scared," Lola called out. He turned and hurried to catch up with them, his body feeling strangely numb and his mind eerily hollow. Empty like that alleyway was empty, save for the dead man he had tripped over.

"I'm going to drop you off at home and then take Louise to her place," Jack told Lola woodenly. She would have cried out in disappointment any other time, but the night had her frightened, and she just wanted to get home. She said nothing, but practically sprinted up to their tenant building. Jack and that girl waited until she tapped on the upstairs window to show them she'd made it in all right before Jack turned and started striding back towards the alley they had just come from.

"Where are you going?" that girl asked, jogging to keep up with him. "Come on, Jack, I want to get inside. . ."

"I had to drop her off before I went to check that bum, again," Jack told her, casting a distracted look back at her. "He's dead."

"That's awful." That girl shuddered, crossing her arms over her chest. "But what does it matter? Why do we have to check him?"

"Because," Jack said, stepping carefully over to the body that lay half covered in filth. He reached out to turn the man's head to the side and then examined the familiar planes of his face. To double-check he even looked at the large-knuckled hands which gripped the alcohol bottle. There wasn't any mistaking it, this time. He knew those knuckles; knew them as well as he knew the own bruises that he had worn on his face for the past fourteen years. "It's my dad."


A/N: So this is, officially, the last of the "light", innocent chapters. This does NOT mean that there will be no more sweet moments between Jack and Louise. This does mean, however, that things will get a lot harder for poor Jack from now on, and you'll be able to distinguish, hopefully, MAJOR Joker-like qualities emerging in his character. The next chapter was, originally, part of this one. But it was ridiculously long so I split it up. : )

The second part will be posted after I've heard from you guys about how you feel about this development!

BTW, the response I got on chapter three was outstanding! theatre-gypsy, peacefulgrace, Misplaced Levity, crystalstars88, Cullenista, V Evey, Jack's girl, Simplelover15, and Ignatius J. Reilly – you guys ROCK! Seriously, please keep doing what you're doing, you really make writing something special and you keep this story alive. And any other readers – please don't hesitate to drop a line, even if it's only two words. You've no idea how much I appreciate it.

Enough of my rambling! Xx.