Title: She Belongs to Him
Rating: M for Mature
Warnings: violence, use of alcohol, sexual themes
Summary: The Joker kidnapped a seventeen year old girl nearly three months ago. Batman and Gordon have had no luck finding her. When Batman finally catches her wandering the streets, can she finally tell them who the Joker is? Joker/Oc
A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.
There's no better way of knowing
In a world beyond controlling
Are you going to deny the savior in front of your eyes?
Chapter 7
After her first appointment with the physical therapist, AJ decided that escape would be more beneficial than anything. The therapist was an old, droning woman with more pity than help, and AJ had never been more excited to see a person leave a room before. Once she was gone, she'd whipped back the golden and crimson trimmed covers to put her feet down on a hardwood floor. Alfred had changed her bandages on her arm but also covered it in plaster similar to her leg. The heaviness threw her off momentarily, and she nearly slid to the floor. Though it seemed strange, she thought that the presence of soft pajama pants and the black tank top she was wearing also threw off her balance. For some reason, she could think much more clearly at Mr. Wayne's house and remembered to chew through the tape around her hand and yank the needle out before walking.
Walking with a broken leg was beginning to become her best talent. The medicine kept it all numb from the hip down so she was easily able to balance herself with the hard build of the cast with little pain. The room was so open and huge, there wasn't much furniture close together for her to use as leverage, though, and by the time she got to the door, the time spent in the hospital was apparent. Her muscles had atrophied, and she was already panting. Leaning on the golden handle, she gave it a twist and opened the door to a hall of gold and crimson matching her room. A staircase was about four or five yards in front of her door. Other rooms branched off, and she wondered just how big the manor actually was.
Two steps outside of her room, though, and she ran into a wiry body whose arms wrapped around her like a cage. "Whoa," he said in surprise. For some reason, the timbre of his voice struck her as familiar. Before she could do anything, he scooped her up into his arms like a new blushing bride and began carrying her back into her room. "If you keep walking on that leg, it's going to be damaged beyond repair."
"Let…" she began to panic, trying to get her mind to work. "Let me go!" She wriggled, but he was a strong man. When she glanced up, it was into the handsome face of Bruce Wayne, a man she'd seen in the papers a million times. The playboy smile and finely chiseled features threw her off for a moment, but when he set her on the bed, she tried to crawl away.
"AJ, stop it," he said worriedly. She hopped down from the bed and hobbled her way into the corner, pressing her back against it like a cornered animal. He was dressed in a tie and suit, hair wet from a recent shower or dip in the pool, and staring with concern at her leg which was trembling beneath her weight. "I'm not going to hurt you, but you're hurting yourself."
She was certainly panting with exertion and slid down to the ground. When Bruce made to go around the bed, she started and was prepared to crawl away again. So, instead, he pulled out his cell phone. "Don't make me call the nursing staff, AJ, because they will strap you to the bed." She shook her head quickly left and right, black hair fanning out over her face. "Then let me help you," he told her, taking a few steps toward her and holding out a hand.
Meanwhile she had frozen and blinked in confusion at him as though she were an uncomprehending child. The press of cold leather suddenly flashed into her memory, a warm and gravelly voice echoing the same words. Her eye drifted along the shape of his jaw and cool mouth, staring into familiar eyes as he kneeled in front of her. Awkwardly shifting to her knees with the clunky cast in the way, she lifted a pale hand with tiny fingers and touched his face. It was Bruce's turn to freeze, not in confusion but in terror. This girl, this unstable woman, had figured out the connection.
"Batman…" she whispered. A breathless and relieved chuckle came out of her mouth, cinnamon and mint washing over him. "I remember you." Tears pricked in her eyes, the same way she had cried that night he'd interrogated her. That tiny gesture had pushed him over the edge. She had a special power in that way; she forced people to want to protect her. Gordon and Miss Jackson and the nun were all under her sway. Maybe even the Joker had fallen for it. "Saved me," she said, swallowing and lifting her other hand to cup his face. "You…saved me." Bruce didn't have a chance. She was unlike any woman he had ever met before.
"The psychiatrist is doing well with you," he smiled while his brain panicked. Enclosing her tiny wrists in his hands, he gently coaxed her forward enough to scoop her into his arms again and take her back toward the bed. She didn't struggle, and it crossed Bruce's mind that maybe she didn't trust Bruce Wayne, but she seemed to trust Batman for some reason.
Is it because I saved her from him?
Whatever the reason, he could use it to his advantage. Slowly his mind began to relax as he tucked her back into bed. Even if by some miracle she was able to convey to the press that Bruce Wayne was indeed Batman, then what chance was there that someone would believe her? He appeared to be a lazy playboy. If anyone spoke to her for more than three minutes, they would realize she wasn't completely stable, though she seemed to understand her own mumblings more than anyone else did. The only issue was that if she managed to tell the Joker who he was, it would cause major problems for him. As only the vigilante, he was mildly safe from the police. As the vigilante with a confirmed identity, the people would demand he be arrested. Not to mention the Joker would try to kill him.
AJ watched the light play on his face while he worked over her, reinserting the IV into her hand and rummaging around in a drawer for more tape. When he left, she figured she would try to escape again, but the lack of medication was making her knee throb painfully in its cast. Her fingers were frozen, his warm as he brushed her skin with the lightest touches as if he thought her to be made of glass. She was already worn out, sleep calling to her as her breathing evened out. That Bruce Wayne could be Batman baffled her, but she supposed that stranger things had happened.
Truly, she could reason better when not under the influence of so many drugs.
When he was finished, he looked mildly pleased with himself. Then a look of concern marred his perfect features as he leaned over her. "You can't tell anyone, AJ," he said softly and slowly, as if speaking to a very stupid child. Clearly he thought her to be slow. "We have to keep this a secret."
Her laughter was quiet as she turned her head toward the pillow, breathing in the scent of shampoo and laundry detergent. "Know secrets," she whispered. "I know secrets." Her hand came up, fingers curling, and he gripped the icy appendages.
"I wish you would tell me," he told her, the tone of her voice making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Whenever he was near her, he felt as though he were on the edge of discovering something vital. She had spoken to him more in the last two days than Sister Augustine had reported to the hospital since her recovery. Then, as wispy as smoke, she would pull back and sink into herself again, amongst the secret memories of that man, leaving him changed but right back to where was to begin with.
Concentrating on the words and saying the sentence very slowly, she stared into his eyes, that one moving back and forth rather quickly. "They wouldn't…wouldn't be secrets, then," she told him seriously, speaking perhaps the longest sentence she had ever said in his presence.
"You're trying to get better, aren't you?" he smiled. "I suppose that after three months with that madman that normalcy seems strange to you." Looking into her eyes, he could tell that she wasn't insane, just ill. There was a person inside there that needed help. Pulling away, her tiny fingers dropping from his grip one by one, he straightened his tie. It was a hell of a way to start the morning. "Please don't try to walk on that leg again."
Blinking as he walked out of the room, she slid deeper into the warmth of the covers, giggling as she touched the hand he had held. No promises were made, so she would most definitely try to escape again as soon as the opportunity presented itself. It was strange. The unquestionable desire to get away was there, but she had no idea where it was she was supposed to go.
Bruce ran into Alfred on his way out of her room, the butler pushing a tray of sliced fruit and a plastic cup with a few differently shaped pills inside. Alfred paused to explain. "I heard the commotion. I thought it might be best if we sedate her for a few hours, at least until she gets used to her surroundings." Bruce nodded, agreeing.
"I had to carry her back to her room. I don't know if it's the medication or if she's just got such a high pain tolerance that she doesn't feel it, but she keeps walking on her knee," he stated. "And…she knows, Alfred. About me."
Alfred nodded sagely. "I suspected that she would make the connection."
"Why?" the bachelor asked, curious.
"Well, you see, Master Wayne, there is something special inside this young woman," Alfred said wisely. "In fact, I don't think I've met anyone quite as remarkable since Miss Dawes. She is smart, she has intuition, and she's been through a great ordeal. Purified by the flame, Sir. I think that she knows a lot more about what is going on around her than she pretends and maintains her advantage by playing ignorant. I also think that you should mind your attraction to her, Sir, as she is a very unstable young woman as well."
Bruce widened his eyes in shock. "Alfred, I'm not—"
A wizened hand rested on his shoulder. "You can't lie to me, Master Wayne. I know that you would never take advantage, but mind your heart." With a reassuring smile, he pushed the tray into the room. Shaking off the words, Bruce made toward his car where Lucius Fox was waiting for an update on the next company shipment.
AJ was shivering in her cell, rocking back and forth for some sort of warmth and singing softly to herself to block out the sounds of arguing from outside. The Joker's gang consisted of perhaps three or four men, and they took turns guarding her after the incident the first night. She was filthy again, even after her shower, drenched in dirty lake water and on the verge of bursting into tears every time she thought about what she had done on the bridge. The point of it seemed to evade her at every end. It was a test, obviously, but of what?
The door burst open as if kicked, and a steel barrel full of trash and clothes was shoved into the room. After the initial startle, she glanced around the man's broad shoulders to see a flash of white and red, a glinting knife in the Joker's hand. "Hurry, hurry, hurry," he ordered, shifting up and down impatiently. Moving his shoulders, the man who had moved the barrel struck up a match and tossed it unceremoniously onto the cloths. It burst into flames. A gun was pointed at her, and she immediately became aware of it as the other boys made a hasty retreat.
"Up, up, up," the Joker said to her. He jerked his head in direction of the fire, and she walked over to it. "Get those clothes off, doll." With little hesitation, she peeled off her sopping t-shirt and set it on the bed, wrestling with her pants as anxiety built in her stomach. When she made to unclip her bra, he stopped her. "Ah, ah, ah," he held up a finger and shook it in the air. There was a chair in the corner, and he sat down in it, keeping the pistol trained on her.
She didn't understand, so she waited for his instruction. The barrel produced a lot of heat in the tiny room, warming her fingers and drying her hair. For a moment the thought that he had lit the barrel so she wouldn't freeze to death crossed her mind, but it was quickly stricken from her thoughts. Still, a blessing was a blessing in whatever disguise, so she enjoyed the warmth as long as she could while he stared at her from across the room, reclined in that chair.
Suddenly he sat forward, frightening her and making her flinch. A crooked smile spread across his garish clown mouth as he stood up and slipped the pistol back inside his coat with a rustle of cloth. She curled her wrinkled toes against the cold concrete as he approached. "So," he began, abruptly crossing the room and flicking out his knife so that it pressed against the side of her mouth, "tell me something." His grip on her jaw was fierce, and she let out an unintentional whimper. "Ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?" His breath on her ear was warmth. The press of clothing against her naked, wet body was cold, and she shivered.
At her silence, he stowed the knife away and seized her hand, hard fingers digging into her waist as he pulled her around in a circle. The humming was a dark tune, macabre in the blackness, the dance slow and awkward with her heavy cast. She tried to keep up, but once again he didn't seem to realize that she did have a broken leg and kept going. On the third circle, he dipped her back a little bit, increasing the tempo of his humming just a bit. They spun around and around again, his bruising hand on her hip sliding up toward her bony ribs. Grease paint smeared on her cheek as their faces brushed, his laughter soft and frightening.
When he pulled back for a moment, golden eyes with flecks of green stared at her, but there was no want in them. No desire burned there like they described in the storybooks. In his gaze, there wasn't even the dark lust that she'd seen in the other man's eyes just a day ago. Nothingness reached inside of her and pulled, and she felt herself going limp with fatigue and disinterest. There were only so many times in a day she could be frightened nearly out of her mind. When the kiss came, it was not unexpected, but it was flavored with murder and bitterness.
The potential for violence trembled in his muscles, fingers clenching on hers. The pale moonlight streamed in from cracks in the walls, the romantic ambience of sirens and scurrying rats making her want to laugh. She didn't move, didn't fight. She stood there with her eyes open. Skin pressed against cotton. Her knee throbbed, and she clenched her fingers in his coat when he jostled the cast by taking one step further toward her.
She wondered why then of all times when just that morning she had been completely naked and alone, without warmth and struck with fear. The terror she felt then was different, almost mandatory. She'd seen the type of things the Joker did on the news. He killed people. He blew up banks. He shot women in the underbellies of orphanages. He killed her best friend, Eric. Just how many hostages did he steal poison kisses from and tease and frighten to an early grave? Then he pulled away, the abruptness shocking her so that she almost stumbled. The warmth disappeared and left her wanting. He turned with a wicked smile. "See you, doll."
He departed, leaving her shivering in the dark, covered with paint. The heavy thud of the lock sliding home let her know that he wouldn't bother her for a while at least. Yet he hadn't taken the barrel of fire with him. She stumbled over to it and put her freezing hands on top, hoping to gain some sort of feeling back into them that wasn't pain. Her leg was pulsating with sharp jabs, nearly making her eyes water with the intensity. If he continued to force her to walk on it, there would be no fixing it. But no rescue was coming. She was an orphan, and the police didn't know where she was. Batman was on the run from the police, though he seemed to be helping the city despite that. He didn't know where she was.
She fell asleep on the mattress with cold reality's arm around her waist.
Her wakeup call wasn't as nice as it was the previous morning. The fire had died down at some point in the night, and the chill was back. Heavy boots stomped into the room, and she awoke to the entire world shaking. One of the Joker's goons was kicking the foot of the bed. Two others swarmed her, clad in clown masks and dark clothes. The one on the right grabbed her wrist and hauled her to her feet while ignoring her cry, jarring her knee so badly she nearly collapsed. He shoved her into the other man, cocking the shotgun in his hand. An awful ripping noise sounded behind her, and she was spun around. The man began binding her wrists together with black tape.
"What's going on?" she demanded. "Let go of me!"
The man with the shotgun pointed it at her head, and she froze. "Location change, sweetheart, now let's go." A piece of the black tape went over her mouth, the criminal smoothing it over with his fingers before pulling a pistol from his jacket and whipping her around. The barrel pressed into her back, his hand on her shoulder to guide her as they rushed out of the room.
Gunfire echoed through the haunted hallways of the asylum, and she saw it was either early morning or very late at night. The blonde of the group came running down the hallway where the fire burned every night, waving his arms and out of breath. "Can't go that way," he said when he caught up. "We've got to go out the window or something. They're throwing smoke bombs."
The one holding her swore. "All right," he nodded. "Come on, we'll go out the window."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" the man with the shotgun argued. "It's a good twenty feet to the ground. What the hell are we going to do with her? She can't jump with a bum leg."
"So we push her," the blonde answered, already heading down the hallway. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, antsy. The man with the pistol hesitated but shrugged and started pushing her down the opposite way of the smoke bombs.
They came to a window in what appeared to be an office. It was large enough for one person to go at a time, and the blonde ducked out first. She labeled him to be the youngest and a bit of a coward. He hit the ground and whistled as quietly as possible. The brunette with the shotgun dropped his weapon out the window and let the other man catch it from below. He paused with his legs over the sill. Holding out his hands, he said, "Give her to me." He didn't hesitate to shove her towards the window. Hands locked around her waist and helped her shift her legs over the sill. Then they were falling.
They hit the ground with a thud, his legs absorbing all of the impact. Giving a grunt, his fingers locked onto her arm, the other catching the weapon thrown his way. Putting it at his hip, he gestured forward as the man with the pistol landed behind him. They went out through an alley and into a sterile, police van. The Joker was there to rush them. The blonde shoved her inside opposite the Joker and slid in next to her, closing the doors. The other two jumped into the front, and the car took off.
AJ's mind worked in a fury trying to understand what went wrong. Had the police been there? Or was it just some rival gang? She'd read that the Joker was stirring up the mob. Maybe they'd finally corned him. Whatever it was, the chill of the night was settling into her bones, lack of sleep getting to her as her head bobbed while they drove. They seemed to drive for hours, no one making a noise. Not even the Joker was ordering them around.
Suddenly the blonde made a noise like a derisive snort. "I think she's tired," he said. AJ immediately glanced up at him through bleary eyes and then shot a glance at the Joker who was watching them intensely. She shivered under his smoldering gaze. A gloved hand reached out and pulled the tape from her mouth slowly, glue sticking to her skin. When it was off, she took a deep breath in from her mouth, catching the metallic taste of blood in the air.
Fatigue drugged her and made her slow. The strangest thing was that they had taped her wrists and mouth to keep her from screaming out, but it had never even crossed her mind. It was the last thought she had before collapsing against the blonde man's shoulder and falling asleep.
AJ's second attempt at escape was much harder. Waking up at all seemed to be a chore. Her body was covered in a cold sweat from the dream as she dragged herself out of the bed with her bandaged hands and lay on her stomach for a while on the floor. Darkness cast the room in a violet hue, city lights twinkling from beyond her glass prison like millions of stars. The cool of the floor helped to battle the haze in her mind. It had taken her at least a half an hour to realize the butler had dosed her with some sort of sedative. By that time, she had been too comfortably warm to do anything but sleep. The drug had worked much too quickly for her liking.
The cast thumped as hit the floor, pain shooting up her leg and making her bite down on her hand to keep from crying out. The sedative was supposed to make her sleep, so she figured that meant fewer painkillers. She was also feeling nauseous from the switch from morphine to whatever pill the butler had given her earlier in the day. Her mind wasn't quite as clouded as it had been in the hospital, but her movements were lethargic, and she had to concentrate to crawl even a few feet. Wherever she was supposed to go, it was important. There was an urgency in the back of her mind that made her fingers twitch and her feet want to move whenever she was awake.
Her hand bumped something heavy and cold. Glancing up, she realized that it was the wheelchair the nurse had left. The staff had been kind enough to wheel her into the bathroom for a sponge bath. Using just one knee, she managed to use the locked chair to stand and then sit in it. The leather was cool against her feverish skin. Working the foot pedal down was hard when she kept hitting her hand on the metal and was trying to lift her heavy cast at the same time. Eventually she was able to sit in it and unlock the wheels.
Wheeling over to the door, she turned the handle and made all the previous progress as before in a much longer period of time. Closing the door behind her, she made her way over to the staircase. The carpeting was thick and impeded the movement of the wheels, but once she was at the top, she locked the chair and clambered out. The fractured bone in her arm gave a twinge of pain as she lowered herself to the floor and began a slow descent down the steps. She kept her hand on the wall, the uninjured one keeping her balance as she slid down each stair on her bottom. It was the type of thing she'd done as a kid.
She had to pause on the first landing, out of breath, muscles straining. Stitches were torn, blood from her wounded eye seeping over her nose and lips. The darkness was familiar. Broken warehouses and explosions and gunpowder flashed in her mind. Being with him had been a macabre dream, full of stolen kisses and poisonous obsession. Bits of their time together crashed and devoured the rest of her life. Sister Augustine was a stranger, the god she worshipped a dead deity. Hours spent playing a piano were a waste, her scarred body never going to appear on stage. Everything had become so mundane and worthless, and she didn't know why.
Shaking herself, she crawled the rest of the way down the stairs with much effort. The floor at the bottom wasn't covered in carpet. Linoleum was shined to the point of perfect, her blood dripping onto it and marring it. She allowed herself a smile as she leaned against the bottom step to catch her breath.
Wayne Manor was extensive. Wherever she was, it seemed to be only a small part of the mansion, a dozen doors leading off in every direction. She could see outside a pool of the clearest blue, lights shining though no one was swimming. A dead fireplace sat in the corner surrounded by plush chairs and loveseats of the finest quality. A sleek, black grand piano sat in the corner, and she found herself using the stairwell railing to get to her feet. Stumbling over to it, AJ ran her bloodied and bandaged fingers along the keys, smearing the ivory with crimson.
She was a dirty thing. The piano was too lovely to taint with her touch.
Yet she seated herself on the bench and placed her fingers exactly where they should have gone. Reality blended into the past as she began to play, the piano's sound clear and resonate in the room, shaking her to her very core. Bending her head over the keys, she let it take her away as if she were dreaming again.
Their new home was the warehouse by the river, an old and abandoned building used by the silver manufacturing company. Mostly a wide open space for storage, there was a metal staircase that led up to the office where some homeless man or woman had, at one point, made his or her bed. A small cot was seated in a corner. Or perhaps the Joker had thought to make provisions for her. She never found out. The second she was taken out of the van, his hand gripped her arm painfully and yanked her up the stairs and into the room. There was no lock, but the gun was all the reminder she needed of what the consequences of escape would be.
Her cast was falling apart. The plaster was beginning to peel as it was crushed and soaked over and over again. The bone beneath throbbed to the painful rhythm of her heartbeat. She didn't want to imagine what the gunshot wound would look like after being drenched in river water. The infection would probably cost her the leg if it didn't kill her. Though the fire had been a nice, if not accidental, gesture, she doubted he would give her antibiotics.
Someone opened the door, and she pressed herself further against the wall.
It was the brunette who had carried the shotgun. There was an apple in his hand and some sort of mush in a bowl in the other. He set it down in front of her and then crouched, turning her head from side to side. The blonde shouted something downstairs, and the Joker lingered in the doorway with a gun in his hand.
"Looks feverish, boss," the brunette said, letting go of her jaw and taking her hands. They trembled. He spoke to her. "You cold?"
She had to clear her throat to speak. "Yes."
"Could be shock or the broken leg," he continued, carefully examining her leg. "Not enough food, exposure to the cold. She'll live." He glanced back at his boss. The Joker narrowed his eyes, bouncing on the balls of his heels.
"Out," he ordered suddenly, accenting the letter on the end. The brunette shot to his feet and left in a hurry.
Bitterness made her voice harsh. "What do you care if I'm hurt?" she demanded. "You shot me."
A chunk of wall exploded by her head, the sound of impact deafening. She recoiled and covered her ears. He sauntered into the room like a graceful lion. "I'll shoot you again, doll," he threatened lightly before chuckling to himself. Crouching down beside her, he made a clicking noise with his tongue. "The Batman thought he, uh, found you today. He was wrong."
"He's looking for me?" she asked, the words bursting out.
"Yeah," the Joker answered, trailing the barrel of his gun up the inside of her calf. "You see, this city didn't learn its, uh, lesson the first time." Sniffing, he made a face as if that displeased him. "I don't like doing the same thing twice-ah. A little kidnapping to spice it up, a few explosions, and then we'll finish it off with a big bang."
Narrowing her eyes, she looked at him. "So why keep me alive? You've kidnapped me. You're done."
He chuckled and bowed his head. "You see, it's that, uh, bravado that's in every one of Gotham's people." The barrel of his pistol knocked against her forehead as he pressed it tight. "So I thought I'd capture the prettiest little thing I could find and, uh, bring her down to play. And you are beautiful," he murmured, letting the gun slid over her cheeks. "The Batman prides himself on rescuing damsels in distress. The game is, uh, just beginning, doll." Those eyes outlined darkly in kohl burned into hers, smoldering flames.
"So," she swallowed, "kissing me is…it's part of the game." She hoped he didn't decide to play a little rougher.
His smile was wide. "You are beautiful."
Thanks for reading. Review please.
