Chapter 10

I escape every now and then

And to think I find myself back here again…

And again

I used to know who I was

Until you came along

-Nine Inch Nails: Home

Looking Glass

"This is unhealthy," Angie said in a whisper.

He nodded slowly, thumbs pressing circles into her neck muscles; an oddly soothing feeling from such a…such a man. "For who?" he asked, after a mirthful chuckle.

She swallowed, feeling the pressure he exerted on her throat increase at the motion. He eased off accordingly.

"For me." Obviously.

Now he laughed openly, coming around to stand beside her at the sink. She'd been washing dishes when he'd let himself in; she'd almost managed not to jump when he put his hands on her shoulders from behind. He had a strangely silent way about him, for all the loud, raucous statements his very being seemed to make.

"Is that the kind of thing they told you, at your…place?" Joker asked. His eyebrows made suggestive gestures, but she still didn't know what he was referring to.

"What place?"

"The place all little girls - go, to, ah..." his hands swept the air between them, grazing her arm. "You know. To heal. The Well-Wood."

"Wellwood?" she asked. She turned to face him. "How did you know about Wellwood?"

Joker shrugged nonchalantly. "I have ways. And means. Sources."

"About me?"

"About all sorts of thing-s."

"Who was your source?" Angie was more forceful than she'd intended; it was careless of her. She had a feeling about what might have happened last night, at the fundraiser. She wondered if things might have gone differently if she had gone with Harvey to see Jane. However, she didn't back down. This man was full of mystery; whatever offense he may take from her tone, relenting now would be showing weakness to a wolf.

"You know," he started, then closed his mouth abruptly. He thought a second, then went on. "Y'know, Angie…Angel. I thought I recognized the name. Of course, you have to know your mother spoke about you. Her on-ly daughter…when I read the obituary, I didn't really make the connection. Un-til I met you. Then, I knew."

It was a disjointed explanation, but an explanation all the same. "So, my mother told you?"

He nodded, almost somber. "More than a few things."

"Like what?" she asked, but the Joker was already shaking his head, moving closer.

"You don't really want to talk about that, do you? Hmm?" He slid to her, invaded her space; soon he was bent almost at the waist to meet her shorter height, their heads together…like last night. She closed her eyes – like last night – and tried to slow her heartbeat. His hands moved over her arms, and she thought she couldn't believe such gentleness could come from a criminal like him. Then his grip hardened, squeezing tight. Proving that disbelief right.

"I do…" she said. Her voice was weak. She cleared her throat. That heart of hers wasn't in any mood to cooperate. "Tell me what else," she went on, valiantly struggling against the weight his presence put on her rational thoughts. Still, she hadn't opened her eyes, and she felt his breath on her face once more.

"Later," he breathed. He licked his lips; she felt the coolness graze her own face, but he made no apologies. "Right now…tell me to stop, Angie. If you want me to."

The blood in her veins was threatening to pulse right out of her pores with the force of her pounding heart. She breathed, and it sounded like shuddering. He was incredibly close now; the sounds he made were more like noise, rushing in her ears with his breath, his movements, even the creaking of his leather gloves. She wondered in a spark of clarity why he'd dropped by today. Then, clarity dissolved once again.

"Will you…?" she asked.

Her hands, dripping wet against his coat; she didn't care, and neither did he. Pressing into her, not a sliver of space between them now. He kissed me last night, why doesn't he again? she wondered.

That was different, Angel. That wasn't a kiss. Not like this could be.

"Are you ask-ing me to?" Nothing they said was above a whisper now; he was puffing heated words into her open mouth. They exchanged strained breaths, and still their lips didn't touch one another's. Without waiting for an answer, Joker grabbed her by the waist, crushing her into him and off the ground. Startled, her instinct was to struggle, but the angle was all wrong for resistance. He turned with her in his arms and dropped her on the kitchen table; glass and metal jangled in panic as she fell on her back. What felt like a fork dug painfully into her flesh, and Joker hovered a moment above her, his face unreadable, almost unhappy. When he erased the distance between them, she could feel every inch of him, bruising her.

Angie had inherited the table from her mother's shop; good thing it's sturdy. The Joker's weight was all over her now. Her hips jumped under him; he answered in kind, and a noise escaped her throat. She wasn't currently in control of herself, she realized. The thought took her to somewhere between giddiness and dismay. She felt him, his hardness, harsh like a weapon against her softest parts. It almost hurt when he pushed himself onto her, but it didn't stop her from pushing back. The only thing between them then was a few layers of cloth; the grinding proximity almost negated even that.

And then, with startling speed, rational thought returned. It was like waking up to find one's self perilously close to a fire; Angie remembered what it was to get burned. This thing between them was blazing out of control, too fast. With great effort, she stopped her movements under him.

"Stop," she gasped. "Sorry…please, Joker. I'm…asking."

He did stop, for a moment, looking down into her face; eyes half-closed, her lips red and cheeks flushed. "That's the ma-gic wor-d," he said, smacking his lips. His voice was deeper now, dangerously so; it made Angie think of darkness. Where have I heard that voice before? He pushed against her again; though her eyes widened, she wasn't completely shocked. Annoyed, she struggled to push him off and was genuinely surprised to find him unmoving.

"Joker," she tried again.

"Go on," he encouraged. His movements weren't so driven now – he was deliberate and measured. She had been to this place, this state of momentary terror and disbelief, once before – Angie regained her senses with the speed of necessity. The Joker was playing with her, as usual, and he wouldn't stop until she stopped him. It was a damn good thing she'd been fully clothed when he came in.

She groaned, and squirmed beneath him; this had gone sour pretty fast. "Please," she said, before managing enough leverage in her left arm to slap him. It was weak, but would have been better than nothing on anyone else. The Joker was amused; judging from the swelling against her, it excited him, too. "Get off me!" she ground out between clenched teeth, struggling anew, her arms a flurry between them.

He overcame her easily. It was a poor angle to be stuck in during a fight. His strong hands pinned her down, one locked around her jaw. He pressed into her again. This time she knew it was a jab, an insult. He was still hard, but he wasn't going to use it now; too much risk of injury, here. Too much effort to remove her clothing.

As if to illustrate this unspoken point, he shook her head in his hand. "You. Can't. Trust. Me. Or anyone, really." His tone lightened, and he finally lifted his heavy arousal from her. His breath was still quick, but he retained control of himself. Indeed, she doubted if he'd ever lost it. More than she could say for herself, she noted shakily. "What did you need?"

"I need you to get off me," she said carefully. He laughed. A flash of anger shook her insides, but it passed as he rose from the table, letting her scamper away from him.

"No, no. That's not what you need…" his eyes flickered down her body, before some change overtook him. His smile died, and he shook his head, sweeping a hand through his hair. No laughter this time. When he spoke next, he avoided her eyes; it looked casual, but Angie could tell – something was different now.

"You, ah, needed some-thing. Some favor, you mentioned it when I came in. Before we got all started on the Well-wood and your mother…what was it?"

Angie shook her head, confused, throat dry. "Oh," she said suddenly. "A car."

"Oh? What for?"

"None of your goddamn business."

Joker laughed; it sounded tense, but with him it was hard to tell. "One could argue, Angel, that if I'm to pro-vide a car to you I should have the, uh, privilege of knowing what you plan to do with it."

"Fine." The heat was cooling in her cheeks now, and it left her trembling and angry. She felt so vulnerable to him, but still – the way he was acting now…she wondered despite herself if he would have stopped for anyone else. Unaware of her scrutiny, he made a questioning gesture.

"My old psychiatrist is breaking out of Arkham and I need to pick him up at the brewery across the street."

"Hmm," he said. That seemed to shake that strange mood from his features. "When is this?"

"Tomorrow."

"Ah…" he risked a look at her face. It didn't last long before his eyes searched the apartment for some other, safe focal point. One without guilt, she thought. "I can't, ah, tell if you're joking or no-t. But, okay. I'll leave some-thing…in the parking lot. I'll make sure you know it's yours."

"I'll only need it for a day."

"Good, that's all you're getting." He straightened his jacket; somehow, his pants didn't seem to need it, if her surreptitious glance could judge. "I'd go with you, but I've got some plans to see through."

"That's fine." The last thing I need is the two of you getting together. "Thank-you, Joker."

"You are welcome, Angel-fish." His formal tone matched hers. He sucked his bottom lip thoughtfully. "What's that guy's name, again?"

"I never told you. Jonathan Crane."

"Ah," he said, like a light had turned on in his head. "Good-old…Crane."

Angie was certain he couldn't have met him; still, the thought of them working as a team gave her chills. "You don't…know him, do you?"

Joker gave her an indiscernible look; it gave her the idea that he was trying to gauge her feelings toward such a thing. "He…ah, he ran the asy-lum," he said simply. Angie was aware that he hadn't answered the question; she could probably get it out of Jonnie, anyway. She hoped. She nodded thoughtfully.

The Joker watched her steadily, now over whatever awkwardness had prevented him from making eye contact a few minutes ago. Angie wondered why he would do a favor like this for her after an…incident like that.

"So…" The Joker was back to casual, sauntering to her refrigerator like he hadn't just had her pinned to the table. He tapped the door with his fingers absently, glancing at the few generic magnets holding pattern pieces and bills in place. "Busy to-morrow, I assume?"

"Probably. Why?"

"Thought I might stop by. See…how you're doing."

Now that her heart had stopped pumping at such a breakneck speed, she was left with a healthy dose of annoyance. "I'm sure I'll be fine," she said, realizing it might not be true. Seeing Jonnie Crane might break her heart again, but she wondered what the Joker's comfort would cost her. Probably best to keep them far apart.

"Al-right." The Joker left her fridge and moved to the door; he kept his distance from her as he passed. "By the way…do me a favor and stay out of down-town Wednesday afternoon. 'Kay?" He turned to look at her, black eyes sincere as a puppy's.

Angie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Sure."

"Next time I'm here I'll try and, ah, con-trol myself," he laughed.

"What?" she snapped, incensed at his gall. The door swung shut behind him as he turned his back, and he made no move to answer. He was probably halfway down the stairs by the time she got the nerve to say it out loud.

"Don't come back here," she whispered.

Who are you kidding, sweetheart? You don't want him to stay away.

It was too late, anyway. He was already gone.

Nightmares

There was a monster lurching through the rubble of the mansion on the hill. A giant of burlap, twelve feet tall, the bulbous head of a pumpkin wrapped in rough tattered fabric. Nothing about it was human. In the black torn-out eyes, nothing. Emptiness. In the gaping, wide-slit mouth, fire and blood. She knew this shape as Scarecrow.

Chasing this demon was a shadow, a darkness-draped man with a hidden face. He moved fast, and the Scarecrow hadn't seen him. Heavy stone blocks overturned in the monster's wake, and the dark man made his way over them with the grace of a cat. When he finally entered the scant light thrown by a waning moon, she saw his face; the girl jumped, startled. The head of a bat. Another monstrosity, but this one wasn't evil. It was just a feeling she had.

When the darkness-cloaked Bat caught up with the enormous Scarecrow, a horrific roar tore the night in two. The jagged ruins of the house crumbled further. In her dream, the girl covered her ears; that fiery maw was huge now, and growing. The monster fought, but the shadow won, and the fire inside the terror's mouth was snuffed to embers. The shadow rested, and his home seemed to sigh on its foundations. He was brushing dust lovingly off a cornerstone when the cackle came over the black hills from all directions. The shadow stood, bat ears stark against the pale moon. That laughter went on, grew louder, and underneath the obvious notes she could hear the creaking of old wood and that awful, shrill noise you get when you're terrified. The light of the moon grew until it blotted out everything else, and she was left with nothing but blinding white and the screech of fear.

Jane opened her eyes to a day without sunshine. For the first time in recent memory, there was nothing bright to burn away the nightmares of the last six hours; less than six, actually, if one considered all the time spent talking to the police after the Joker left Harvey's fundraiser. She'd known it would be a late night, but honestly – if Bruce Wayne's parties always ended in a house fire or hostage situation, she might sit the next one out.

Thankfully, Harvey had been found alive and confused in the kitchen of the penthouse, and she supposed she had Batman to thank for the fact that the clown gang hadn't had time to search the place thoroughly before someone was thrown out of a window. Rachel was unharmed, too, miraculously. The Batman had risked his life and limb to save hers. Considering the strange look that had passed between them, Jane wasn't surprised.

Maybe he has a crush on her, she thought. She was kidding herself, of course. Whoever Batman really was, she doubted he'd be a very successful hero if he let his feelings dictate a big decision like should I hurl myself out of a high-rise or not?

Speaking of feelings, just about every man in Rachel and Jane's life had had some harsh words regarding their behavior during the incident. Jane was aware that if she'd been a young man instead of a young woman, those conversations would have gone quite differently. She and Rachel had shared some eye-rolls at the patronizing lectures from the police, the conspicuously late security team, and Harvey. The only big men not talking down to the two of them that night were Bruce Wayne and Lieutenant Gordon. Bruce had seemed somewhat shell-shocked, and Gordon had just come from his own eventful evening; neither were in any mood to waste their energy annoying the only proactive people in the room.

Jane had found Rachel during a lull in the interviews, shivering on a chair under a blanket. She looked shell-shocked too; of course, she'd just been tossed out of a window by a mob clown, so it was understandable. Rachel had given her a tense smile as she seated herself at her side.

"So, I hear you're the new Batman," Rachel said through chattering teeth.

Jane laughed, modestly. "It was nothing," she said. "It was easy. I was just kicking around the pieces the real Batman left behind."

"Still. Sorry I wasn't around to see it. Must have been…satisfying."

Jane looked at her then, lips blue, hair ruined by the wind of falling a few dozen stories. Rachel had a look about her that reminded her of Angie, the night of the riot; leg shattered, like her life had been shattered earlier that night. Shaking violently under an ambulance blanket, paramedics and policemen wagging their fingers in disapproval of their actions. As if any of them could have done anything different. They weren't like Gotham's criminals, making every decision based on how much pain they could inflict, or how much power they could gain; when you decide to do good in your life, you find that when the time comes you really have no choice at all.

"Not nearly satisfying enough," she said.

Later, she'd seen Gordon at the gaping window, staring out over the city with an expression like it was burning down before his eyes. He looked tired. She remembered him from the riot, too; he'd been the first friendly face she and Angie had seen in…well, months, really. He had arrived shortly after the ambulance in his own car, and had gone with them to the hospital. At the time, Jane had been terrified of Arkham. The great cast iron gates loomed in her memory, as fresh as a new trauma, and she'd been sure she and Angie were about to be swallowed whole by the asylum again. Jim Gordon had stayed with them through their admission to Gotham General, until both girls were safely wrapped up in sleep. Whatever Gotham was coming to now, she'd always associate Gordon with safety.

When she stood beside him above the city, he said, "I want to send an officer home with you tonight."

Jane was silent a moment. She was reluctant to give up her privacy, but she knew she couldn't argue with his logic. "Okay," she said.

"Problem is," he continued, "I don't know which officers I can trust."

And so Jane had spent the night in one of Wayne's more subtle hotels downtown; she shared a floor of four suites with Bruce, Rachel and Harvey. After the night they'd had, none of them wanted to be out of earshot of Bruce's well-screened security team.

The relative safety of the hotel wasn't enough to keep the nightmares away, though. Last night's scant sleep had produced dreams the like of which she hadn't seen in a long time. She was pretty sure she could figure out the significance of the last one, though; it worried her, the thought that when one monster was defeated, another would always be ready to take its place. This new guy looked like a joke, and it somehow made him far more serious. If this was the mob's new attack dog, Jane wondered if Harvey's willingness to take them on might soon disappear.

A sudden knock on her door nearly stopped her heart. She tried to calm herself with the memory of Bruce telling her that no one, aside from the four of them, would have access to this floor. Then again, last night's party was supposed to be invitation-only, too. It didn't help her nerves any to think that his security team may have conveniently disappeared again.

"Jane?" The voice was muffled through the door, maddeningly unidentifiable.

"Coming," she said, wrapping herself in a robe. She peered cautiously through the peephole; with relief, she realized it was Harvey. She found him dressed and ready for work, to her surprise.

"Morning," he said cheerily, handing her a Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Before you protest, let me assure you, I have no expectation that you or Rachel will be coming in to the office. In fact, it is my explicit order that you both take the day off. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going anywhere. Let the mob send in their worst clowns."

"Okay," she said, smiling. "I'm…happy to hear that."

"And frankly," he said, leaning in, "last night's clown was terrible. I didn't laugh once."

Jane's cheeks hurt; she suddenly realized she was beaming. She laughed, looking away; there were times when he was too bright to look at. "Me neither."

"Also, Jane…if you don't feel safe, you are completely free to leave this office until this case is over with. You'll always be welcome back, but no one will blame you for sitting this one out."

She shook her head. "I've seen worse," she said. "I'm not going anywhere, either."

"I know you have," he said, quietly. Then he smiled; it was the first shot of sunlight she'd seen all morning. "And I'm glad to hear you'll be staying. The more Gotham sees good people stand up to these criminals, the better. Now, I've got to go-"

"Court's still on?"

"Yeah, of course. I've got to get Lau tied up in Kevlar, before some other costumed sniper ruins my day."

How many people died last night? she wondered. "Be careful."

"Always am," he said. "Listen, the funeral…"

"I'll be there."

"Let's just see how today goes," he said. "I'll see you later, Jane." He stopped, squeezed her hand in his for a moment. "Thank-you. You're an incredibly brave person."

He was gone before she had a chance to reply; she didn't feel like a particularly brave person most days, but when she did, she was sure it came from working with him. Gotham could be a brave city, when given the chance.

"You too," she said to no one. Thinking of the days ahead, she could only hope that bravery would be enough.

Watch the World Burn

"Eighth at Orchard. You'll find Harvey Dent there."

Far above the city, a lonely man in a dark suit perched on the edge of a skyscraper; the ghostly scratches of errant radio signals burned in his earpiece. The ether was full of voices tonight.

Hours ago, Bruce Wayne had stood in his underground hideout, watching the man he'd so easily dismissed as an attention-seeker commit murder on tape. This was madness. It was unnecessary, frivolously violent. This garish killer had taken the game too far.

"Targeting me won't get their money back," he'd said to Alfred. "I knew the mob wouldn't go down without a fight, but this is different. They've crossed a line."

"You crossed it first, sir," Alfred answered, carefully ignoring the monitors at his back. "You've hammered them, squeezed them to the point of desperation. And now, in their desperation, they've turned to a man they don't fully understand."

"Criminals aren't complicated, Alfred." His armor stood ready behind him as Alfred watched him prepare. "We just have to figure out what he's after."

Alfred had gone on to make a suggestion that Bruce hadn't liked one bit. The idea that he'd been wrong about this guy with the makeup had occurred to him more than once last night, but the concept of him not understanding him at all…that went further, deeper than had seemed possible yesterday. It was as chilling as it was infuriating.

Now, Batman was suspended over Gotham in the haze of a cold, breaking dawn. Up this high, where he felt most useful and least restless, the streets almost glowed; this was the time of waking. Most days it meant opportunity, another 24 hours to make things better. Today, though, would be different. The aching in his bones told him how much of Gotham's hope had been destroyed a night ago. Today, he knew, things would have to get better just to break even. The madness of this clown would have to be nipped, before it killed everything Batman had worked so hard to create. So he waited, listening to the empty voices, looking for a sign from the city.

A moment ago one voice had cleared the clutter of calls flowing back and forth through the air.

"Eighth at Orchard. You'll find Harvey Dent there."

The building at the corner of Eighth and Orchard was a derelict tenement. Squad cars squealed to a halt out front, detectives and uniforms swarming the steps up to the open door at the top of the stairs. Batman watched them enter from the corner, saw them take in the two dead men sitting at the table with cards fanned in their grips; all jokers. Losing hands.

Their names were Patrick Harvey and Richard Dent. A message written in blood, for everyone's eyes. To say that he had a bad feeling about it would be a colossal understatement.

It takes a special kind of criminal to be so open about his intentions. Batman saw the trepidation in Gordon's eyes as he gathered his evidence; it was almost as if time was running out for everyone in the city. After a year of consistent success, maybe the Batman had finally met his match. Someone without greed, lacking avarice. If his goal was so mysterious, his limits might be unknowable too.

Some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money, Alfred had said. The possibility had chilled him to the bone and driven him out to the rooftops with a new sense of urgency. Some men, he was coming to realize, had no motive more complex than evil.

Some men just want to watch the world burn.

Thanks all for reading, and please do review! Also, check out a story I'm beta-ing called "Here and There", about the rise of Catwoman in Nolan's Gotham. I don't remember if I've mentioned that before, but it's a cool fic. And song suggestions are always welcome.

-nH