Hey guys! First of all, I want to say I'm SOOOO sorry about this huge wait. This quarter wasn't the best for me, but it's summer now and I'm back and better than ever.

I really wanted more to happen during this chapter. Honestly, I know it's a little boring, and I'm sorry for that. More excitement down the road, I promise. I wanted to add a little more, ahem, fun at the end there. But I haven't written it all yet and anyway, it was getting lengthy and I figured I'd kept you waiting long enough. I hope to post the next chapter relatively soon, especially now that I'm not as busy.

I love you all! Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews! Hopefully you stay with me - we have a long road ahead, and boy do I have some plans...


Blake stepped outside shortly after the Joker closed himself in that room with Jess. That image of her bruised and bloodied face meeting his eyes with horror and fear from where she'd been thrown to the ground… That wasn't going to let him sleep tonight.

He'd seen the Joker do things far more brutal than what he'd witnessed in that hallway, things that would make your fucking head spin. Acts of unspeakable cruelty and violence. Blake had assisted in some of those acts himself. But Jesus Christ. He'd never seen him beat the shit out of Jessica before.

It made him sick. It made his skin crawl, made him feel a way watching the Joker slice the ear off a cop or carrying a boy's tattooed hand in a shoebox had never made him feel.

And her eyes, looking up at him, already full of pain, knowing more was to come and knowing he wouldn't save her...

Blake kicked the back fence, hard, his steel toed boot splintering the worn wood. He felt responsible. He should have helped her get out, not brought her back. He was a bad man, a terrible human being. Black kicked the fence again with a short bark of fury, then proceeded to suck back two cigarettes.

The screams started as he was pulling a third from his pack, so loud he could hear them outside. Screams of agony and helplessness. Without thinking, Blake dropped the cigarette and burst through the back slider to a living room occupied by men looking like they couldn't give half a shit. Billy and Jackson were absent, but the three who'd come with him from Gotham were there.

Angry, Blake pushed past Peter near the couch as the screams were muffled, by a hand or a pillow. He made a beeline to the door, no plan, just instinct. He didn't know what he'd do when he got in that room, but he'd figure it out once he was there.

Three steps from the door, he was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Blake," Laurence said behind him, and pulled on his shoulder to turn him around. Blake stared at him for a long moment, Jess's screams dying for only a second before starting up again.

He distinctly heard the Joker loudly rasp, "Shut up." And then something softer that might have been, "I'm working." Still, she continued to scream.

"I mean," Laurence said, shrugging, "he's gonna do what he's gonna do."

It deflated Blake, diffused him. The hero complex receded and reality took hold. Because it was the truth. Blake had never been one to push aside harsh truths.

He sneered at Laurence and shoved past him, pausing on the way out only to grab a set of keys and his leather jacket.

"Where are you going?" Laurence wanted to know. Blake didn't even turn around.

"Drinking," he replied, opening the door and stepping outside.


Blake didn't return until after the bars closed, around 2:30 am, completely hammered and much happier for it. He hummed as he exited the taxi and swayed across the front lawn, up to a sleeping house.

It wasn't until he'd entered the dark of the front hall and the door clicked behind him that Blake remembered why he'd left.

Silence pressed down on him, and his foggy mind wasn't quite up to the task of processing the entirety of the situation. He put a hand to the wall to keep from stumbling as he made his way into an empty living room.

He avoided looking at the door to the right of the stairs, where they were keeping the handless kid, still alive, still in pain. But he made a beeline towards the door on the left. Jackson's room.

The door was ajar. Blake pushed it further open, to a dark and silent bedroom, where he could vaguely make out a figure curled up on the bed. The boss wasn't in here. Good.

He paced over to the bed, closer to her pale form, and stood above her for a long moment, just listening to the sound of her steady breathing. It was a relief to know she was alive.

Jess stirred. "Blake?" she asked sleepily, starting to sit up, then whimpering softly in pain and laying down again.

"Hey," Blake said, unsure why he'd even come in here and suddenly very aware of how wasted he was. "Did I wake you?" Jess chuckled softly.

"You're drunk," she said teasingly.

"What? No," Blake slurred, and Jess laughed outright at that. "Okay, yes."

"Good," she said, her voice like a kitten purring. "That's good."

"Where's the boss?" he asked.

"He went out," she replied. "You know how he is." Her tone was a little sad, but it didn't carry the anger or bitterness he'd hoped to find there. How could he make her scream, but still maintain her affection? It didn't make sense.

"Hey are you okay?" Blake asked. Jess laughed contemptuously, but at least she was laughing.

"Well I'm not mortally wounded," she said, deep exhaustion licking at her tone. "But I'm gonna scar." She started to laugh, but it dissolved into a choked sob. Blake didn't know what to do. He wanted to help her, but he had no idea how.

"Jesus," he said, running a hand over his hair.

"I'm so tired," Jess said weakly. "But I can't seem to fall asleep."

From behind Blake somewhere, he vaguely heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. Personally, he didn't think anything of it. But in a flash Jess was trying to sit up in the darkness, flurried and panicked. She groaned in pain, but placed her hand on his stomach and tried to push him away.

"You should leave," she said. Blake frowned at her. "He's back, idiot. Go!"

She pushed him again, harder this time, and he took a confused step backwards. It was only when he heard someone bumping around the entryway that he realized what she was talking about.

Swiftly, Blake swooped down and planted a gentle kiss on Jess's forehead. It wasn't the first time he'd kissed her. But back in Gotham he hadn't meant it. It wouldn't be the last time he'd kiss her, either, he promised himself.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and stumbled out of the room, sneaking upstairs so as not to encounter the boss.


Jess rolled over, her side screaming in pain, and tried to look like she was sleeping.

She'd found it difficult, in dealing with the swaying peroxide blond drunkard, to swallow a certain bitter resentment she felt, towards him and the other men, especially Jackson and Billy. They'd just stood there, as the Joker had beaten her and thrown her into a bedroom and made her scream.

They'd just stood there and watched, not even lifting a finger to help. Not even saying anything. And then Blake slunk in hours later, hammered off his ass, and treated her like a wounded kitten.

Jess closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the irritation and the sting of the cuts. She just wanted to get to sleep before J had a chance to come in and bug her further.

Earlier, after he'd finished his slicing, the Joker had jumped off the bed and, humming, cut the zip tie from her wrists. She hadn't moved - too tired to do so, or in too much pain. The exhaustion she'd felt was insurmountable. Every part of her felt drained - physically, mentally, emotionally.

When the Joker had taken gentle hold of her face and turned her took look at him, she'd met his eyes with only blank resignation. She wasn't scared of him, nor was she saddened by the torture he'd just put her through. Jesus, she wasn't even angry with him. She just couldn't muster it.

He'd been right, in any case. She should never have run. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

His mouth had twitched at her facial expression and he'd pushed a blood stained hand through his greasy green hair. He'd no longer been angry with her, either - she'd seen that by the way he'd stared. His fury had been spent, written in the lines of blood criss-crossing up her side, up the inside of her arm, all the way to her wrist. Instead he was calm, his eyes hinting at something like affection (though that was probably just wishful thinking).

He'd told her he was going out as casually as a husband might tell a wife he's leaving to work in the morning. For a moment her mind had transported her to an alternate universe, where a scarless J in a business shirt, boxers and white socks was smiling sweetly after waking her, stroking her face. Where she felt no pain. Where the hand that rested on her cheek wasn't sticky with blood. Where everything was bathed in soft sunlight and they were the functional kind of happy.

For a moment, Jess had almost smiled.

And when the Joker left, she missed him. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted to feel his body against her's and forget the injuries. She wanted him to comfort her, and she wanted to make him happy. Some part of her felt incompetent, that she couldn't seem to. That she simply seemed to make him angry.

Jess thought, laying in the darkness and breathing in the lingering scent of Blake's aftershave, that perhaps she could make him happy. Perhaps, if she tried, he could be content with her. Perhaps she could prove herself. Perhaps he'd never have to do this again.

God. How had she survived the past six months without him?

His footfalls were soft on the carpet as he entered the room, and Jess pretended to be sleeping. Despite all her tender thoughts, she simply did not have enough energy to deal with him right now. The Joker paused by the bed, looking down at her and shifting slightly as he pulled off his jacket. He smelled like rain and sweat, and she felt a dusting of water as he threw his coat over the bedpost.

Jess chanced a peek through her lashes. In the light cast by the moon, the Joker's slender yet solid frame was silhouetted beautifully as he stretched silently, kicked off his boots and ran a hand through soaking tangled curls. He was staring towards the window, and his face was washed in its glow - scarred and pensive, yet so, so handsome.

She was glad for his lack of makeup. The fantasy of that other universe, the functional one, was aided by tan of his skin, the pale pink of his lips - even scarred as they were.

He unbuttoned his shirt, stripping off the wet cotton to reveal that firm torso, those lightly muscled arms - veined and defined and pocked with scars. Jess's half-lidded eyes lingered on the hip bones jutting from beneath belted slacks as he let loose a yawn - something she'd never seen him do - and rub his face fiercely with both hands, then pass one hand over it again for good measure.

His eyes flicked towards her and Jess squeezed her eyes shut. She felt slightly embarrassed to be privy to this bedtime-Joker scenario. It seemed so intimate, so... normal. She still wasn't used to seeing the man beneath the clown.

A short moment later, Jess felt the end of the bed depress as he knelt onto it, careless of the blood stains on the tangled sheets. He climbed over her legs and bounced onto his back beside her with a loud sigh. She was turned away from him, laying on her side with her arm over her head, and she heard him settle against the pillows.

Was he going to sleep? Beside her? An inexplicable surge of butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and she had to control an unwarranted rush of affection. Never had he ever slept beside her.

There was a long moment of silence. And then she felt his fingers, warm and mild, on her shoulder, sweeping slowly down her shoulder blade and across her back. Then the pressure increased as his entire hand moved up over her sore side, under her tanktop, and Jess resisted the urge to twitch under his palm - she was supposed to be sleeping, after all.

The Joker slid his hand over the bloody gashes and crusty scabs, calling to life the sting of the wounds he'd given her. Then he abruptly wrapped his arm around her and pressed himself into her back, cradling her body with his.

She couldn't help a small gasp escape as the Joker pulled her tight against him, too tight, and buried his face deeply in the hair at the nape of her neck. It was an oddly sweet gesture, even though he thought she was asleep and he was taking no pains for her comfort, squeezing her against him like she was a teddy bear or something. He inhaled, long and slow, taking in her scent.

Warmth gushed through Jess, so intense she felt the urge to cry, as the Joker tightened his embrace and nuzzled her like a dog. She nearly expected him to try and wake her, to initiate something rougher, sexier.

But no. Though he wasn't necessarily tender - his arm was like a vice around her waist, pulling her so close to him she could barely breathe - he allowed a stillness, simply holding her in silence. It was so unprecedented, so strange and stark against the violence of their last meeting.

He smelled of sweat and smoke and masculinity. Jess squeezed her eyes shut, anguish mixing with joy as tears eeked between her lashes. His lips brushed her neck again and he exhaled against her, settling his chest against her back, his hips against her ass, all hard angles and veined muscle.

His knees bent to cradle hers, and the fingers of the hand that was draped across her torso played lazily with the shirt on her stomach. And then, unwarranted, unexpected and so, so beautiful, Jess heard the Joker's breathing deepen and steady, and he went still.

After a long while, the softest of snores came from the man behind her, the one with his arms wrapped around her like he never wanted to let her go. And even though the pressure of his embrace caused considerable discomfort against the cuts on her side, Jess relaxed and truly closed her eyes.

Because the Joker, the Ace of Knaves, the Clown Prince of Crime, was sleeping.


Jess woke up in an empty bed to afternoon sun streaming through the window. For a moment, groggy and tired, she couldn't remember what she was doing in Jackson's room and not her own. Had she slept with him? She felt a flash of panic.

But then she tried to move, and a scream of pain raced up her left side, burned up her arm. She looked down to the red stains on the tangled bed sheets and last night came back to her so vividly she lost her breath.

Her wrist itched unbearably, and when she looked down to her forearm she saw six X's etched up the side in flesh and blood, from elbow to wrist bone. They were scabbing, crusty and itchy and slightly inflamed, but she resisted the urge to tear the scabs off with her nails. She was already going to scar.

Her left elbow was stiff, a bit swollen, and it hurt to bend her arm as the cuts were twisted and pulled taut. Slowly, gently, Jess lifted the stained tank top she wore, wincing as the fabric clung to dried blood and she had to pull it away. Her fingers skimmed over the lacerations up her side. They felt terrible, bumpy and encrusted with blood, raw with pain. She let out a dry sob as her fingers swept along her ribs, tracing the full effect of how badly she'd been mangled.

Then, with a rush of panic, her hands jumped to her face, to her left eyebrow and right cheek. The scabs there didn't feel as bumpy as the ones on her body, but it hurt to put virtually any pressure on her cheekbones.

As slowly as an old woman, Jess shifted to slide off the bed. She felt weak and extremely sore. Lowering her left arm made agony blossom in her armpit and shoulder, and when the scabs on her arm and the scabs on her side rubbed together, they grated against each other like sandpaper.

Jess gingerly paced toward Jackson's bathroom. She had to see. She had to know exactly what he'd done to her.

The woman that gazed back at her from the mirror was one she didn't recognize. Appalling, bloodstained,deeply tired. Her eyes were deep brown chasms, both blackened by the Joker's punches last night. Her lips were cut and swelling and her white hair was tangled and errant and sticky with scarlet at the tips. She looked thin, drawn, very pale.

Dried blood ran in little rivers from the scratches above her eyebrow and up her right cheek, so copious they hid the actual wounds. Jess dampened a cloth with warm water and gingerly wiped away the blood.

She stared at the marks on her face for a long time. Part of her was attempting to come to terms with them, in the event that they were deep enough to scar. Part of her was mourning what he'd done to her face, mourning that she wouldn't have smooth, unmarred flesh anymore. Part of her was very, very angry.

But the face in the mirror showed none of that. The face was still unmoved, emotionless.

She saw what he'd been going for. There was a strange whimsy to the lines, and they were surprisingly neat for how badly his hands shook. A tall, very thin triangle was etched above her left eyebrow, matched underneath by its inverted twin. The overall effect of a skinny diamond across one eye was reminiscent of a mime's classic makeup. How goddamn fitting.

The curve up the right cheek was obvious. Half a long, thin jester grin from the corner of her mouth to just under the opposite cheekbone. Half a smile and only the opposite eye marked. The overall asymmetry was startling, quite irritating. She didn't like it. She hated it. God, at the least he should have finished the job.

But her body was worse by far, as she saw when she stripped off the shirt and raised her arm. Her poor phoenix tattoo... It was shredded, unrecognizable under all the blood and the scabbing skin.

The largest X was right on top of her hipbone - she remembered it as the one that had hurt the worst, though that might have been the surprise. It was about the size of her entire hand.

The rest diminished in size as they ran in a vertical column up her ribs, across her armpit, up her bicep and elbow, to her wrist. The smallest was just under the thumb. That one she could cover with two fingers.

A hot shower came next, necessary before she even considered leaving this room. She thought about simply locking herself inside, but that seemed so weak, so reminiscent of who she'd once been. That girl who just let him walk all over her, who he didn't respect. She had to face the music, and do it with strength. Moping around or pretending to sleep wouldn't get her anywhere.

She had a lot of questions. And the Joker owed her some goddamn answers.

She cringed as the warm water ran over her side, staining the porcelain tub red. Some of the bits of skin where his cutting had grown jagged felt especially raw as the scabs flaked off. She started to bleed again, and didn't dare go near the wounds with regular soap. After dotting the towel with blood as she dried off, Jess smeared the wounds copiously with antibiotics and began to bind herself in the gauze she found in Jackson's medicine cabinet. She wound the bandages around her entire torso and up her arm, then eased gently into one of Jackson's clean shirts.

She stared for a long time into the mirror, her thoughts going to what had happened after he'd cut her. Had that been a dream, him holding her, sleeping beside her? It felt like it now, in the light of day. But maybe it hadn't been. Maybe he really did care, and it was deeper than simply considering her his property. She had to speak with him.

Jess left the steamy bathroom, feeling slightly better...

Only to find the Joker waiting for her by the bed, as though summoned by her thoughts.

He was toying with a pencil he'd picked up from the nightstand, turning it over between his fingers. Jess stopped in her tracks. Despite her optimistic bravery, suddenly every atom in her wanted to run away. She even thought fleetingly about jumping out the goddamn window, but resisted, standing firm. She felt her jaw clench instinctively, her hands curling into fists, her stance growing defensive and guarded.

The Joker tilted his head and let out a breathy chuckle at her.

"Morning, sunshine," he said. She simply stared at him, hoping her eyes weren't betraying any fear. He glanced down briefly at her body, at the bandages around her torso and arm, and raised his eyebrows. He whistled lowly. "What happened?" he asked, gesturing at the blood already spotting the bandages on her arms. After no response from Jess, he said, "Hm? What, did you... fall down or something?"

"Yeah, J," she replied acidically. "I fell down."

"You," said the Joker, pointing his pencil at her, "oughta be more careful."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Hm." The Joker stared at her for a long time, his chin tilted down, looking mildly disgruntled. Then, tapping the pencil against his head, he began to pace towards her. "So," he said, "there's something I've been wondering."

"What is that, exactly?" Jess was startled at how hoarse her voice sounded - she supposed from all the screaming last night. He was closer now, close enough to increase her nerves.

"What I wanna know is," the Joker replied, his hands jumping towards her as he gesticulated, "why'd you run the second time?" His voice was low, a contained snarl even as his mouth curled into a wide grin. The pencil jumped from his grasp and rolled under the bed.

Jess took a deep breath at the question. It took her a while to gather her thoughts, but when she decided to speak she thought she had a good answer.

"You know, you were right last night," she said, staring him in the eye. He tweaked a brow and waited for her to go on. "When you said I'm different. I've changed." The Joker tongued the scars in his cheeks and regarded her with an edge of danger, but Jess took a step towards him. Just one step. His eyes flicked to her feet for an instant before again returning to her gaze.

"You were right," she continued. "I'm not how I was before." She took another step, breathing deeply. "I've learned who I am without you. And I won't," another step, "be flinching every time you walk into a room. I won't be hiding from you, or trying to please you. I won't let you make me fear you. You can cut me all you want. You can try for control. But I'm not your girl anymore."

The Joker laughed at that. What had she been expecting? His mouth closed and a high pitched chuckle gurgled through his throat.

"Ah, but you came ba-ack." The last word was sing-song, and he held up a long finger, gloved in black leather. Even without the jacket, he was wearing gloves.

"You wouldn't stop chasing," Jess replied. "I know you. And I wanted to say this to your face. I'm done. I quit. I don't work for you anymore." Gone were the tender feelings, the thoughts of pleasing him. The words spilled from her mouth before she'd even thought them out. But god, how good they felt, like every bitter feeling she'd had over the last six months finally had a place to go.

If she died now, she'd go out with pride, goddammit. There wasn't much more he could do to her, anyway. There wasn't much more he could put her through. Something was going to change, and it would change today.

The Joker's eyes narrowed, his smile sharpened, and he approached her swiftly, like a stalking wolf. Jess, for her part, didn't shrink from him. He drew up close to her, too close, and tilted his head to look at her.

"Again, with the freedom," he hissed at her, his curled hands hovering around her face. "You say... you don't want this." He gripped her chin roughly and inhaled as he pulled her close. "But I see you, Jesster. I see the way you relish it. You relish me."

After a high pitched giggle, his tongue darted out and she watched it, watched him, felt him buzz with energy, his hands slightly shaking. An electric storm.

"Hm? The way your eyes... follow me around the room." He giggled through his lips and licked them again. "I see the way you're looking at me right now." He tilted his head down and gave her a dark, significant look, his voice dropping to a rasping whisper. "What do you want to do, Jesster?" He searched her eyes for second, then smiled. "Kill me or fuck me?"

Jess jolted at the sheer accuracy of the question. He chuckled and stepped away.

"Can't tell. Never could. I guess that's just... the way things are." His tongue scraped along his teeth, and a sneer tugged at the corner of that capricious mouth.

"Both," Jess replied simply, figuring she owed him the truth. Surprisingly, she felt the corner of her own mouth rise into a somewhat flirtatious smirk. The Joker sent her an amused look for that. "I still don't work for you anymore."

"Ah, but you do, Jesster," he replied. "You have an obligation to fulfill. You owe me. And, uh, I don't forget debts."

"What the fuck do I owe you?" Jess shot back.

Again the Joker lunged at her, his grip transferring to the back of her neck as he dragged her body against his. He certainly wasn't hiding his desire for physical contact.

"Your. Life," he barked, shaking her slightly. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and when next he spoke, his voice was cracking. "You think I couldn't kill you?" No, she'd never once thought that. "That day we met - you remember that, Jesster? - I could've blown your brains out. And after, so many times... I wanted to. But no. I let you live. Uh, then, I gave you a new life. And now..." he grinned widely. "You owe me."

Jess chewed the inside of her cheek, unable to ignore the truth in his words, then winced at the pain in her sore face. It made her mad, but it also made her reconsider exactly what leverage she had against him. None, was the simple truth. She was stuck in a room with a man who wanted to keep her there, in a house full of men who would do whatever he told them to.

"So it's work or die," Jess said after a long moment, suddenly feeling resigned. She sighed when the Joker tilted his head, the look on his face letting her know he couldn't have said it better himself. "I have one condition." He tweaked an eyebrow, listening. "Stop treating me like a child."

"Oh, Jesster," the Joker said, tilting his head the other way and bringing his face less than an inch from hers. She stilled at the smell of him, at the feel of his breath across her skin. His eyes were fixed on her lips, his brow knitted slightly. "I never treated you like a child."

His tongue slid across his lower lip. And then his mouth was on hers, open and warm and wet. Jess let out a plaintive groan and tugged away half-heartedly, but his hand on the back of her neck kept her trapped against him. She moaned again as his kiss deepened, his tongue slipping into her mouth. She wasn't putting up much of a fight, she reflected.

Because, God, this felt so good. Better than kissing him last night, better than how he'd felt in her dreams. He was kissing her like he couldn't help himself. Not a symbol of power but a sign of desire. And again, that wonderful, burning thought seared through her mind: He wants me.

And she was kissing him back, passionately. All of the repressed lust and frustration, even the anger, poured into him. She fisted a hand into his blondish-green hair and brought their bodies together roughly, while his hand slipped down her back to grab her ass.

Every time she moved her left arm the injuries there screamed in pain. Every time his rough fingers dug into her hips, blood seeped its way through the bandages. But Jess didn't fucking care. The Joker was everything now, this man whose power overwhelmed her, who had come to another universe to kiss her again.

He'd taught her. He'd changed her. He was worth it. And kissing him made her sure.

"Okay," Jess rasped, ripping away from his greedy mouth. "I'll work with you." She kept eye contact for a lingering moment, his lips mere centimeters away. His breath dusted against her - he wasn't done kissing her, and seemed mildly frustrated that she had stopped. "With you, J. Do you understand?"

That made the Joker's eyes narrow and a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He tilted his head, holding her face in both hands, and stared at her, fascinated and almost gentle, for a long moment.

Then, his smile broadened and his expression grew triumphant. "Yeah," he said. "I understand." He kissed her again for a long moment, inhaling deeply, then pulled back. "I win."


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