Abigail's house on the outside of Gotham's city limits was of a modest size with humble architecture. It was the inside that took one's breath away. One expected, after seeing the sparse outdoor appearance, to be greeted with nothing interesting, a single woman's home. What they were greeted with was a palatial home on a small scale, decorated almost entirely by herself. She tossed her keys into the small porcelain bowl next to the door, removing her coat and hanging it before ushering Christine inside. "You haven't been here in an age," she smiled, glancing over her shoulder down the hallway.

"Have you added any new paintings?" Christine asked, moving past her hostess and into the living room. That room was Abigail's pride and joy, the room that saw all of the action. It was in this room that she entertained anyone worth entertaining. They stared up in awe at the paintings on the walls, all by artists that they knew of, mostly due to them being infamously expensive on the market.

Abigail slipped into the room, moving behind the couch and pointing at one picture high on the wall. "That one," she said with a prideful expression. "Guess who."

"Hm, the look on your face tells me that it's an Impressionist painter," Christine pondered, going down onto her knees on the couch and crossing her arms on the back of it. "It's not of a ballerina, so it can't be Degas. In fact, it's not even a woman, so that crosses out both Degas and Renoir."

Abigail gave a bark of laughter. "Oh, you're good. Of course, you were taught well." She folded her arms over her chest and sighed, admiring the work of art. "It's a Sisley."

"Is that…?"

"Yes!" Abigail squealed. "It's the one that I've been fighting Christophe over in Provence for. Over a year of raising prices and tempering the owner! Thankfully, he was British and not a big fan of the French… or men, for that matter." She beamed a mischievous smile in Christine's direction. "Do you want something to eat, love? You look famished."

Christine slumped on the couch, resting her head against one of the brocaded throw pillows. "I want some sleep, to be honest. Food would be good, though." She looked up at Abigail, her eyes glimmering pathetically. "Lots and lots of yummy food."

"You're in luck, then! I just so happen to have lots and lots of yummy food in the fridge. How does homemade macaroni and cheese sound? I love that when I'm not feeling well, and you don't look like you're in the best mental state." She patted Christine on the head before bending down and kissing it. "We'll talk about it later. And don't tell me that you don't want to! I know you well enough to know that you do. You just don't want to be too eager to spill the beans."

Abigail disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes, and Christine stood up from the couch, walking around the room, glancing here and there. Her cat, Ginger, was curled on the chaise lounge opposite the couch. Passing her hand along the cat's soft cream-colored fur, she smiled. Ginger and Astaire were brother and sister. On the far desk, one where Abigail usually did business during the day, there were newspaper clippings scattered everywhere. She lifted one of the larger ones up to read the tiny print. In removing that piece from the desk, a picture was revealed. Commissioner James Gordon stared up at her in black and white. The newspaper article beside it was about his promotion. The one in her hand was about his constant attempts to preserve justice in Gotham City.

"I forgot how much you liked to snoop," Abigail laughed from behind her. Christine turned, the newspaper clipping still in her hand. Her friend carried the tray in and set it down on the coffee table before going beside her. "You weren't, uhm, supposed to know about this." She snatched the article out of her fingers and set it back down, shutting the open book that they lay upon.

"Were you ever going to tell me about that?" Christine asked with a hint of a smile.

Abigail smoothed her hand over the book's cover, shaking her head. "No, I don't think I would have." She looked down at her friend; her eyes were noticeably sad despite the smile on her face. "It's all a farce," she muttered, giving a bitter snort of laughter. "Come on, the macaroni's more interesting, I assure you."

They both went to the couch, scooping up a warm mug of their piping hot dinner and settling in. "I don't know, Abby," Christine sighed, tilting her head back against the couch and spooning some into her mouth. She shut her eyes as she chewed, enjoying the rich feeling against her tongue. "I've seen him, the way he acts around you."



"I really don't want to talk about it," Abigail sighed, shifting her weight on the couch so that she was facing Christine. "I've sort of accepted it as a loss already. I mean, his wife and kids… I couldn't do that to him." Chewing absently on her food, she stared up at the ceiling. James Gordon was one of a kind, that's for sure. Ever since she'd first met him at the opening of a new exhibit, she'd been unable to stop thinking about him, about his easy smile and subtle intelligence. He wasn't arrogant like most of the men she worked with. Hell, she wouldn't have been surprised to find out that he did not even own an ego. He did everything for the city, as far as she could tell. "Let's talk about you. I'm not the one being pursued by a mass murdering psycho in grease paint."

Abigail noticed Christine flinch, and she gave a concerned frown, reaching out and patting her softly on the shoulder. "I just… really don't like it when people call him that. Or say anything bad about him."

"Oh, man," Abigail said quietly, leaning over the placing her mug on the coffee table. It was clear to Christine that she'd finished eating in an attempt to focus on conversation, and she hugged her own mug protectively. "You're in really deep. I can hardly believe this. You always did have an eye for the wrong guy, but you're taking it a bit far, don't you think?"

"I can't help it," Christine gushed, "I don't know what he's done to me. It's like I can't think without thinking about what he's said to me, or what he has done." She leaned against the back of the couch, pulling her legs up onto the cushions. "It's like… when he's around, I can't help but be afraid of him. I know what he's done. I'm not stupid or anything." She shut her eyes, sighing heavily. "But when he's gone and I start to think, all I feel is sympathy for him. He's not a good man by any means, but he's not the antichrist."

She knew that she didn't make sense. There were a few scraps of sanity left in her somewhere, telling her to listen to herself. She sounded like an addict, like an abused wife that only returned time after time for more punishment. But he'd never hurt her. He would never do that to her; he'd said that himself. "You probably think I'm a nutcase."

"Actually, I don't. I'm here to be impartial. I'll give this Joker fellow the benefit of the doubt. If you feel like this about him, he can't be… that bad." The words felt foreign on her tongue. She, too, knew what this man was capable of. She also knew that her friend was a logical young woman. She wouldn't fight for a cause that she knew was futile, especially not one that would put her safety in danger. She truly cared for this man, despite his imperfections. "Harvey and Gordon have already given you that side of things. I'm here to be your friend. Tell me about him."

Christine's eyes fluttered open, and she could hardly contain the smile that burst forth on her lips. She had always known Abigail to be infinitely patient and understanding, but she had not expected this from her. No one else would have listened to her. No one else would have let her show them the better side of J.

"There is not much to tell. I met him at Villiers', of course, at the bar. At first, he kind of creeped me out, but once we started talking, I got used to it. He still scares me sometimes, but that's only every so often." She paused, placing her mug on the coffee table and licking the spoon before placing it inside the cup. "There was a fight one night between him and Tony. Tony won. He was brought up to my room."

Slowly, she recounted every moment after that they'd spent together, every spark and every attempt to smother her affections for him in hopes of returning to normal. She told Abigail about her washing off his makeup, about how handsome the face beneath the thick layers of paint was. She told her about meeting him in My Alibi, then their kiss in the car. Every tale she wove, she wove with striking detail, details that she never would have remembered with any other man – the smell of his cologne, what his mouth tasted like, how it felt to touch his bare skin, something that few people could boast of, no doubt.

As Christine continued speaking, Abigail sat and listened. She had never heard her friend talk about a man in such a voice. She trembled when she spoke of him, but it was not a frightened shake. He had gotten down under her skin, changed her. She could not tell if her affections were nearer to love or obsession, but she figured that anyone involved with such a man would lean more towards the latter. The look in her eyes affirmed Abigail's beliefs.

Going along with this would mean arresting her morals, her beliefs. Supporting Christine's relationship would mean allowing herself to look away as he slowly destroyed her. But having her turn him away now would do even more damage. She watched as Christine seemed to sink into the couch, her body gone slack from illustrating the past few days. She even told her about her nights spent with Harvey Dent. Abigail wished that she would forget about Joker and just focus on Dent, but she knew that that was impossible. How could she forget someone like that?

Just as Christine was finishing her story about Harvey's having her arrested, the doorbell rang. Abigail gave Christine a quick, yet warm hug before standing up and hurrying toward the door. She noticed the man standing on the doorstep immediately. However, when she saw him, she did not feel that soft, enchanted feeling that usually warmed her stomach when he was around. She opened the door with a wide smile on her face. By his response of a similar smile, she knew that he did not pinpoint it as fake. "Hello, Harvey," she sighed, leaning against the door. "Come so soon?"

"I have to talk to her," he replied, looking around her shoulder and back into the house. "May I?"

Abigail nodded, taking a step back and allowing him to enter the house. "She's in the living room. But, please, don't be insensitive. She's been through a lot today."

Harvey snorted, "Her?"

"Yes, Harvey, her." Abigail's voice was surprisingly firm, and he nodded, knowing that she was serious. He disappeared into the living room and Abigail knew that it would be wise to busy herself upstairs. Her head was killing her, she realized as she staggered up the stairs and into her bedroom. Beside the bed, the cordless phone's messaging system was flashing red. She went over to it, collapsing on the bed and pressing play.

"Hello, Miss Morris, this is James Gordon from Gotham City Police Department. I was calling to thank you for watching Christine. I'm not exactly sure what's going on with her, but I do know that she needs someone like you to take care of her. It means a lot to us, Harvey and I, that you accepted. If you ever need anything, just call."

Downstairs, Christine was nearly shocked out of her skin by the sight of Harvey, and she bolted upright on the couch. "I'm just here to talk," he assured her, holding out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up onto her feet. "Is there a guest room for you? I feel odd having such a conversation out in the living room."

"I have a room downstairs," she said softly, her eyes low. While growing up, Christine had always been friends with Abigail, even though she was much older. When she'd left for college, Christine had felt like she'd lost a piece of her. Abigail, of course, returned with precisely what she had left to achieve. Soon, she was working at the Gotham Museum of Art and the owner of this humble house. While there were only two bedrooms, one was automatically pushed off to the side for Christine. She did not visit very often, but when she did, it was ready for her.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp and showed him to the room. It was smaller than Abigail's, but as beautifully furnished. Christine sat on the edge of the bed, and Harvey sat beside her. "I came to apologize."

"You've already apologized, Harvey," she murmured. His forehead was creased as he leaned over and curled an arm around her shoulder. "You can apologize a hundred times, but that won't change anything. There's not a person in this world that can change what has happened."

"Christine, don't say that." She shook her head, but he twisted his fingers in her hair and held it still. "I haven't done anything so bad that I can't be forgiven."

Christine shut her eyes. "It's not what you've done, Harvey. It's what he's done. This has absolutely nothing to do with you. You couldn't be any more perfect, but that's beside the point, don't you see? You have no faults. How could I blame you for my falling in love with someone?"

At the word, Harvey's heart shuddered in his chest. "You don't love him, Christine."

"I don't?"

"This isn't love. It's an infatuation. You can't say no to him because you're afraid of what he'll do to you. When you realize that you can't deny him, you think that you're in love with him. It's not true. Your mind's playing tricks on you."

Ever since she'd met him, Harvey had always had a way to put pieces together, to have things make absolute sense. She felt herself drawn to him, even now, by the thought that he knew better. He knew her better. The past few days were shrouded in a confusing fog. He was that bright light that she felt forced to move towards. He knew the answers; he could save her. As he has mentioned to her the previous day, he could be the strength she needed.

Leaning into him, she wrapped her arms loosely around his waist. "I can't help but think that you're only saying these things to get me back, to have me forget about J. I can't, Harvey; 

that's impossible. If I could, don't you think that I would have tried by now? He's poisoning me. I can't stand it."

"Then why do you insist upon seeing him? If you want to be rid of him, stop putting yourself into situations where you are forced to think about him."

"You don't understand," Christine moaned into his suit jacket. "He won't stop. No matter how hard I try to have him out of my life, he only pushes back with more force. I can't stand the power he has over me, but I find it impossible to give it up."

Harvey buried his nose in her soft hair. "I've told you so many times that you have me, Christine. There's no need to worry about him, if only you'd stay with me."

Christine pulled away from him, looking up into his eyes. "Forever? Every moment of every day? He'll find some way to get to me. I can't be locked up in your apartment for the rest of my life, especially since you're never there. Do you want me to follow you? Do you want me to be your shadow?"

Brushing his fingers over her cheek, Harvey beamed down at her, shaking his head. "No, I don't want any of that. I want you to be my wife."

A gasp fell from Christine's parted lips. He didn't have a ring, it's true, but he had the best of intentions. Before she was able to answer, he leaned down and claimed her lips with his own. The kiss had a subtle gentleness and honesty that she had not felt with Joker. His had been comprised solely of necessity and desire. Harvey was slow and sweet, measured, and comfortable.

She shuddered as she felt his hand fall from her face to her thigh, sliding inconspicuously beneath the hem of her dress. Breaking the kiss, she leaned back, "Harvey, we can't. Abigail said that she didn't want this to happen under her roof." He silenced her with another kiss, leaning them back onto the bed. It cradled them in comfort, and Harvey slipped his hand from beneath her dress to the small of her back, ushering her closer against him.

Everything began to blur around Christine. She could hardly feel the fabric of her dress caress her face as he lifted it up over her head. The kisses did not burn, they merely melted into nonexistence. As he pushed into her, she gasped, but not at the sensation. She could not believe that she was allowing such a thing. She loved Harvey, but this is not what she wanted. Her mind reeled as he rocked against her, his dirty blonde hair falling into his eyes that flashed with urgency. She saw Joker in his eyes, that obsession, the light that had scared her.

She cringed in on herself, but her body ushered her to moan loudly into the silence that surrounded them. She wanted it to be over. She shut her eyes and settled back onto the pillows, arching her back with pleasure that she was ashamed to be feeling. When he was finally finished, he collapsed beside her, oblivious to the fact that she had not reacted as he had. He held himself close to her, placing small kisses on the side of her face, murmuring to her that she could give him her answer later.

Just as she was drifting off to a fitful sleep, Harvey's cell phone began to ring. He nearly jumped up off of the bed, hurrying over to the puddle of slacks on the floor, fishing out the phone and opening it immediately. "Harvey Dent." Christine watched as his face bled from interest to complete and utter shock. He did not speak another word, but shut he phone and began to get dressed.

"What is it? What's going on?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"That was Gordon." Harvey pulled on his shirt, not bothering to tuck it into his pants. His jacket lay slung over the foot of the bed; he ignored it. "The Joker has his wife."

Christine's lips fell open and she let out a strangled sob.

"You have to stay here with Abigail. I'll call you later to tell you what's happened." He went to the side of the bed, bending and giving her a hurried kiss to the temple. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she lied, watching Harvey rush out of the room before curling her arms around the comforter and burying her face into it. What was he doing? How could he be so brainless? Kidnapping the Commissioner's wife was one of the stupider things that someone could do. She just hoped that this would not lead to his being arrested. She felt the surprising warmth of tears on her cheeks.

In the background, the front door slammed.