Author's Note: Forgive me. It has been a long time since I've last added a chapter and I hope this makes up for my absence. Enjoy.
Splish Splash
Billionaire Playboy on a Quest to Retrieve a Fox. Jack arched a brow as he read the title of the newspaper. Flipping it open he read the cover story.
Walking down the street, he squinted in the darkness trying to decipher the hideous print. Heading for a streetlight, he peered closer at the page. "...billionaire, Bruce Wayne states Marceline Fox as his..." trailing off he squinted harder. Unable to make it out he sighed. "This city really needs to do something about its lighting," he mumbled. Tucking the paper under his arm, he dug into his purple trench coat and removed a small detonator.
Harvey Dent's home went up in flames.
As fiery red-orange flames shot up into the air Jack untucked the newspaper from his arm and took to reading once more. "Much better," he sang as the fire provided just the right amount of light.
"...Bruce Wayne states Marceline Fox as being one of his most cherished companions and urges Gotham PD to do all they can to find her." Jack snickered. "Softy," he muttered in disgust, fighting back the urge to rip the paper apart.
With a scowl, his eyes wandered over to the pictures that lined the page. All of them were of the duo at fundraisers and charity events, with one or two at the opera. In all of them they were close, affectionate, staring at each other with a knowing look in their eyes.
Biting down on his scars he glared at the picture of the two of them dancing. In no time at all fire leaped into his eyes as his gaze raked along Bruce's arm and hand that was resting on the small of her back. Again she was wearing a regal purple gown with a low back, which clung to her. Instantly his mind traveled back to Harvey Dent's fundraiser and the dress she wore. "I should have kissed her," he declared with a nod of his head.
"Aaaahhh!"
Jack blinked, his eyes rising and darting to the left. A middle-aged woman wearing a bathroom robe and hair rollers stared at him in shock, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Do you mind," he growled, voice rising with each word. "I'm trying to read the paper!" He barked, shaking the newspaper for added emphasis.
"B-but you're the J-j-j..."
The stuttering came to a halt when he cocked back the hammer of his gun. "Now are you going to scream or let me get back to my paper?" He asked pointedly.
When she clamped her hand over her mouth he smiled, scars stretching high across his cheeks. "Thank you." Eyes back on the paper he looked at the image once more and then over to the next column. "Batman Rounds Up Lower level Mafia..."
The woman couldn't believe it. The most notorious criminal in Gotham was right before her. Fearfully her eyes darted to the right, eyeing the flames and the Joker cards that soared high into the air. When another small explosion went off she jumped, crying out as she did so.
Without looking Jack took aim and fired. "I warned you," he drawled when he heard the thump of her body fall along the stoop. Licking his gloved finger he turned to the next page.
Walking down the street at a leisurely pace he read:
Two weeks after the catastrophe at Commissioner Loeb's funeral, Batman has since arrested fifty criminals. Some of which like Maxwell Cartwright, are believed to have high connections with the Italian mafia. Though Carmine Falcone denies the connection, both district Attorney Harvey Dent and Detective James Gordon have their doubts.
"It's been an ongoing investigation," Gordon claims, "but I'm glad that we're finally able to clean up the city and catch the men responsible for its downfall. Now it's only a matter of time before we take down the big man himself."
While there is still a fierce battle taking place between Gotham's Dark Knight and the Clown Prince of Crime, one thing is for certain: that James Gordon, Harvey Dent, and our own Batman will stop at nothing to protect the city.
"What kind of world are we living in when a rodent steals my press?"
Just as he folded the paper and tucked it under his arm a family of five darted outside, keys in hand ready to flee the city. When they saw the Joker they stopped dead in their tracks, all but the youngest. The boy—no more than seven or eight—kept moving forward.
"Billy, don't!" At Jack's silent glare, the mother snapped her mouth shut and watched fearfully as her youngest continued to move forward, drawn to Jack like a moth to a flame.
"Hello there, I see you're a fan of the bat," he rasped eyeing the boys Batman shirt.
The reflection to the fire shown beautifully in Jack's eyes as acid green locks blew in the breeze. Unafraid the boy crept closer. Reaching out the young lad did the unthinkable: he tugged on Jack's pants.
"Do you know how much this suit costs?" Jack demanded, slapping his hand away.
The boy did it again.
A chill went through Jack. Raising his dark eyes at the family, he took in their stares. They were horrified, but not surprised by the boy's actions. If anything the mother wrung her hands together eyes glued her son in expectation. But for what?
Crouching down Jack stared the boy in the eye. The lad had the most vibrant shade of blue eyes, bluer than Scorecard's. They almost seemed to glow.
"You're mean."
"Ha-ha-ha." Jack's crackle filled the night air. "Yes," he rasped, smoothing back his hair, "I am mean. Very much so." His laugh faded as the boy looked at him, his eyes becoming far too old, far too wise for someone of his age.
"She doesn't like that."
The mother cried out when Jack flashed his gun. "Now, uh, what was that?" He asked. It wasn't that he wanted to kill the little boy, but his words hit a nerve. The child's voice had seemed to reach deeper than his ears, settling into his cerebellum, going off like a gunshot in his mind. Just who the hell was he and what was happening?
Without warning the little boy touched Jack's cheek making his breath catch in his throat. "Water always finds an opening," he spoke clearly, articulately, eyes glowing a neon blue. "But if a stone blocks its path the water will rise up; it will rise up to crush the stone or flow over and run past until it is forgotten. Do not be a forgotten stone. Allow the water to flow around you, trusting in the current to flow back." The boy paused in his speech, eyes glowing brighter. "To upset the current flow you must reposition yourself and make a splash."
Blinking the boy's eyes began to dim, returning to their natural crystal hue. Startled the boy snatched his hand away. Fearfully he took in Jack's scarred visage truly seeing him for the first time and backed away frightened. "M-mom... d-dad... what's going on?"
"Get him. Out. Of. My. Sight."
They wasted no time. The family darted past him and piled into the sedan, the father slamming down on the gas before all the doors had even been closed.
Staring at their taillights, Jack pointed the gun and took careful aim.
"What's that?"
"It's the J-joker!"
"Quick. Call the police!"
Biting down on his scars he lowered the gun. "Lucky." That little demon spawn was... lucky.
Screams and gasps filled the street as more and more people scampered out of their homes and saw his figure. Whirling around he flashed them all a smile. "Don't hurry off!" He shouted. "It's time for the grand finale!" Reaching inside his pocket for the same detonator, he flipped open the second casing. His thumb was on the button when he froze.
"You're mean. She doesn't like that."
If he pressed the button he would blow up the two homes on either side of Harvey's; one with a young family of three just starting out, and the other with the oldest couple on the block who were in their 80's. It would be a small price to pay for Harvey being nowhere in sight, not that he was going to kill him—his promise to Marceline was still in effect—but to make it look like he was still searching for the man. But why should appearances matter when couldn't press the damn button.
"You're mean. She doesn't like that."
Jack glowered at the tiny red button. What did it matter? She was already his and in a place where no one could find her. It's not like she would know? But then again she did read the morning paper after he was done, searching through and reading his exploits while keeping track of her father's pleas for aid to find her. She would know what he had done and what little hold, what little space he had gained in her heart would melt away. He couldn't afford for that to happen.
Growling he slammed the detonator of the ground, shattering it. "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!" He roared at the people, furious with himself and most of all that damned little boy.
When everyone remained in place he fired two shots into the air. Screaming everyone scampered off, doors slamming and tires screeching.
Muttering to himself about a bullet wasted he stomped his way over to his truck. "You're mean," he rasped, eyes darkening as he turned on the ignition and floored it down the street. "She doesn't like that!" He growled, speeding through a red light.
It wasn't until he ran through three more lights that he had an epiphany: how did the boy know about Marceline? More so, why did he mention water when he spoke of her and why was he the stone?
In the warehouse were a flight of stairs tucked into a tiny corner at the end of a narrow hallway. If one descended down these steps there would be another narrow hall with a purple door. No entry. But if one ascended, if they climbed up that long spiral, they would be rewarded with a view of the city.
Wrapping her green throw around her Marceline sat on a padded seat in a place where she could only assume was a lookout tower. It was a rare find and as odd as it was she reveled in this location, it gave her a quiet place to think.
In the days that passed came a series of dreams. In the first she had been walking along the riverbank when the water rose up to greet her. It formed a cerulean wall then, the water, and it parted revealing a phantom, her mother. No words could describe the rush of emotion her heartfelt or how everything seemed to come to life, feeling so real. She awoke with tears in her eyes. Every time she reflected it upon it made her heart soar, a warmth flooding through her, comforting her and soothing her fears.
That dream was to be the first of many. In the days that passed Marceline saw her mother more and more and with it seemed to live in a fantasy world, where strange creatures and beings were revealed to her. All of them treated her like she was nobility, bowing, showering her with praise. It was the perfect entry for Thalassa to take.
Like her father, Marceline was stubborn, not believing in things until they could be fully explained or seen with her own two eyes. By dreaming she was shown her people's history, wars and triumphs, great losses, and betrayals but also wondrous romances and gifts of power, afforded to only a select few.
These dreams opened her up to a world of possibility and inspired her artwork. And Jack... Jack was taken back.
...
"How did you come up with this?" He asked, voice barely above a whisper as he could not take his eyes off the image.
The painting was watercolor, a two-toned blue-black background with a watery male form as the focal point. The man's entire being was a light blue and the water seemed to flow up his person, somehow defying gravity and forming water droplets that flowed upward.
When Marceline didn't answer right away Jack looked back at her. To his dismay, the gray flecks had disappeared from her eyes. But with his dismay came discovery: the flecks only appeared when she was felt great emotion. When Tom irritated her like he generally did, they flashed in warning; if sadness crept upon her, and it did plenty, they morphed into the honey, churning like a whirlpool as though she were on the cusp of drowning. Anger, boredom, fatigue, he had seen them all except for happiness.
"How did you come up with this?" He asked once more. "It's... amazing."
In all honesty he thought she wouldn't be able to perform. Had been counting on her to succumb to some kind of sick misery that would work to his benefit, allowing him to keep her here longer. But already she had made four images in record time. And to his horror he could not find a fault in any of them.
"Marceline?"
Snapping out of her daze, she looked at him. Truly looked at him. To her utter dismay, he was becoming a distraction, a drug. Each day the feeling increasing more than the last.
It was like her vision had altered. She could see—even when he was angry—those gold flecks in his eyes, the creases of his dimples, and the true hue of his blonde hair beneath the green dye. Not only that but she could smell him. Not his cologne which smelled of mint and sandalwood, making him a walking, welcoming breath of fresh air and forest pine but scented him. Odd as it may sound he smelled like fire; a burnt char that filled her with heat and made tingles flow down her spine, all the way to her... "I-I'm sorry?" She returned, shaking her head to clear her thoughts.
For a third time, he repeated his question. "Oh! Oh, well I... I dreamed about it."
"You dreamt it?"
Marceline nodded her head. "Yes."
Looking back he crossed his arms over his chest, hand scratching along his jaw. "And what else do you dream?" He asked, eyes wandering over the other images.
You, her mind said. I dreamed about you.
...
The only thing keeping Marceline from awakening completely, from believing, was not her mind but her gift. Unlike most before her who can control a certain aspect of the sea: whirlpools, typhoons, rainstorms, etc. her gift was a rarity. And surprisingly she had been using it all her life though only in small increments.
Empath Mimicry. That's what her gift was. It allowed her to feel the emotions of others and with it take their gift their power if they had one, and harness it, making it her own.
Her father's gift of the Midas Touch was her own only she used it to create weapons, to mend aches such as when she healed a special part of Bruce. And the new found color of her eyes, that grey... When Jack nearly strangled her she cried. Her mother watched her sleep and touched her, smoothing back her hair. Marceline's essence latched on to her mother's gift, giving her the power to control storms.
Now I know you must be wondering why can't she be awakened, why can't she believe? Allow me to give you the answer. Jack is not supernatural. Not at all. But his gift for blocking out things is so heavily ingrained that it is powerful in its own right. Night after night he sleeps by her, stealing kisses and caresses. Her essence welcomes him and all that he is. Unknowingly Marceline shut herself down, blocking out her feelings so she can try to focus, to keep her head down and work so she can leave. That shutdown won't allow her to break free, to believe, to awaken until she can learn from him how to open a door she never knew she sealed shut.
When the wind blew in the drafty quarters Marceline tugged her blanket more tightly around her. Resting the back of her head against the wall, she stared out into the night sky at her beacon of hope: the Batman symbol.
A hint of a smile came to her lips as she reflected upon the day she and Bruce had tried to come up with the famed image. He wanted something unique, she intricate, and Alfred who had had enough of their bickering said, "To save you both time and trouble and to keep my ears from ringing, why don't you just draw a bloody outline of a bat!"
Months of drawings and the solution came from the one who couldn't be bothered by it all.
"Oh, Alfred..." she breathed, tone wistful. "I miss your sassy remarks the most."
"Who's Alfred?"
Sitting up straight her eyes flew to the right. She could hear it then, the subtle creak of the floorboards as he made his way up the steps. When she heard a tale tell clicking of shoes she didn't have to guess who it was.
Appearing at last Jack asked once more, "Who is Alfred?" An award should have been given from his tone. Why it lacked the envy he felt.
Marceline brought her legs up, knees to her chest as he made to sit across from her. He was clad only in his trousers, suspenders and shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His face was still covered in war paint and his hair pointed every which way. Bringing his right leg up onto the seat he nudged her foot with the tip of his shoe, a not so subtle way of telling her to answer his question.
"He's a butler."
Painted brows went up. "You have a butler?"
"No, I don't have a butler." He nudged her again, silently telling her to elaborate. Sighing she said, "Alfred is Bruce's butler. I grew up knowing him. He's like an uncle to me."
Briefly his dark eyes wandered over her sullen profile, expertly showcased by the moonlight that shined through the windows. "When you say Bruce you mean Bruce Wayne?" At this, his voice did have a bite to it. He didn't mean for it. But the jealousy was there and he wondered if those glances he saw in the paper meant anything.
"Yes."
Another breeze blew and Marceline bunched up the blanket around her. It lifted to reveal purple and black plaid socks. Swallowing hard Jacks stared at her socked feet wondering just how high those socks went up. "Are you two close?"
Marceline made no comment.
"Will you stop nudging me?" She snapped seconds later.
"Answer my question."
Holding back a curse she answered. "Yes, he's a dear friend."
"Only a friend?"
At that, she gave him a look. His gaze was directly on her and while he appeared to be bored with his own questioning she felt a twinge of jealousy come over her. Was it from him? Brushing aside the feeling she asked a question of her own. "Why do you care who my friends are?" Sitting up straighter she said, "Are you planning to do..."
"I haven't broken my word," he interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "It was just a simple question." Resting his right arm on his bent knee, he said, "The news paints you two in a rather flattering light like he's your knight in shining armor. I just wanted to know if it was any truth to it."
Marceline couldn't help but to give a bitter laugh at that. "Ha! They've done that since I've been old enough to date." She stared out the window for a brief moment before she added. "Once they even pegged Rachel as a homewrecker; said she ruined Bruce and I's secret wedding in Florence and destroyed our honeymoon. Never mind the fact that I have never been to Florence and she and I were both sophomores in High School at the time."
"Ha ha ha."
It was moments like this and sounds like that that made her forget who he was. Gifting him with a rare sweet smile she turned her head to look back out the window. "The news doesn't paint anyone in a decent light," she told him. "Doesn't matter who you are, they'll distort your image just to receive a higher rating."
"Would you say the same about me?"
Slowly Marceline turned her head to face him. "It's been almost a month since you've been here," he went on to say. "Your wounds have healed, bruises faded away—even your arm has mended." An oddity none of the men, even Dr. Gerheart could understand as it should have taken much longer for the bone to set. "I've given you my word not to hurt your family and I've kept it. Other than a few arguments here and there, there has been no bad blood between you and me." Looking deep into her eyes, he said it. "So would you say the same about me? Am I the monster they say I am?"
"You're a murderer," she said without hesitation.
Jack didn't deny the fact. "That I am."
"So how can you be painted in a false light when what they say is...?"
"A vicious psychopath without mercy," he interrupted, reciting the latest article about him from memory. "No doubt about it the Clown Prince of Crime is a crazed man who will kill without hesitation. There can be no reasoning with him. No mercy was shown. And while the Fox family will give no comment we will, and the Gotham Globe says that Marceline Renee Fox has been put to rest long ago."
Leaning back comfortably he looked her in her eyes. There was shock and confusion, and something more he couldn't name. "Is that the truth?" He asked innocently.
Biting her lower lip Marceline knew she had inadvertently walked into a trap. This very topic of his nature had been the reason for their last argument. She couldn't remember how it started, but somehow she had scoffed at him saying he was a crazed murderer. Not only did that comment add to her debt but she had been told quite simply:
"What you see in me, what you believe is crazy, is just my true nature. You see, everyone in this world, this town especially, is living a double life; they have a face they show the world and one they reserve for when they are alone. When the chips are down those people you love, that civilized crowd you flatter yourself with, they'll eat each other; tear themselves apart. And it's not that I'm crazy 'cause I'm not, it's the fact that what I am, an Agent of Chaos, and what I do—my games with the city—that force people to reveal who they truly are. They can't handle that. So rather than them being at fault for the actions they chose thanks to my little push, I'm labeled as crazy when really I'm just ahead of the curve."
As she had opened her mouth to argue with him, she felt it, an intense rage but within that rage was a sadness. Something had simply pushed him over the edge and because he couldn't contain it, he took it out on the city. Furthermore, she had to really remember and review all that he had done.
No one except for his henchmen died during his robberies. The bombs that went off at schools were filled with laughing gas. And while he did commit murder, the city, the people, were always given fair warning before he committed them. Was it his fault that they didn't heed his warning? Was he crazy for doing it again and again and again? You tell me.
"No, it's not the truth but..."
"But what?" He asked.
Licking her lips, she chose her words carefully. "You came to this city and turned it upside down. And I won't call you crazy because I know you are fully aware of what you do but..." she paused. "Even if you believe what you are doing is right it can still be wrong. And it is wrong. So while what they posted today may be false what they say tomorrow, what I know about your ways... it is true. So don't get mad when they paint you in a certain light Jack, you choose the colors yourself."
"I never said I..."
"You're like a stone," she interrupted. The breath hitched in his throat eyes growing wide as she repeated the boys words. "You are," she said staring deep into his eyes. "Nothing is going to move or change you; you won't let it. An ocean of possibility can come before you and you would force it to flow another way. I don't know how I..." she broke off. She was going to say she didn't know how she could have fallen for him in the beginning, but she caught herself.
Knowing he would ring her neck from all she had said she picked herself up off her seat. Clutching her blanket in a death grip, she moved to step past him.
He grabbed her blanket stilling her.
"All this time you've been here and there's nothing you see?" He asked, voice barely audible. Slowly he stood up from his seat, her blanket still in hand. Moving to face her he looked down at her and said, "There's nothing you see in me?"
It was a loaded question.
Staring into his eyes, she prepared herself to lie. "There is..." Tell him the truth. The command came from an invisible spectator.
The cause of the earlier chill came forward. Thalassa placed her hand on her daughters. "Tell him the truth," she whispered into her ear. "All of it."
Marceline inhaled sharply eyes flying around her. All that remained of Thalassa was a small puddle of water at Marceline's feet and no more.
"There is what?" He asked taking her chin in his hand and turning her to face him.
Heat pooled in her stomach at his touch. "There is... there are things I find tolerable," she was forced to admit at her mother's command. "You've kept your word which I appreciate and you've taken no liberties with me. At times, you are funny and you make me laugh," she confessed begrudgingly. "And you are an amazing artist. I can't lie about that. But I know what you do and I've seen the way you look at me," she told him, eyes boring into his own. "When you think I can't see you, even when you know I can, I see that look in your eyes and I remember your gift of flowers and your promise to come back for me. I know I felt something in the beginning but not anymore. I'm not—I don't... I can't."
It was at that that light shone in his eyes. Finally, she had confessed to feeling something for him in the beginning, to seeing more to him than she had let on. Most importantly she had revealed that there were feelings there still.
It couldn't be helped. She saw how he treated Tom like a brother and Michael a father saw the comradery of the men and a side of him the city didn't know. And once he had even given in. Affected by her tears he left a Joker card on her father's front doorstep with one word: safe. That she had overheard between Tom and Michael one night when they thought they were alone. How could feelings not creep upon her then?
"I don't care how well you treat me here," she told him not even aware that he was moving, backing her into a corner. "Or how you're going to track me down when I leave and I will leave," she promised. "And I—stop looking at me like that," she told him when a twinkle appeared in his eyes.
"To upset the current flow you must reposition yourself and make a splash."
"Why are you talking about splashes? What have they got to do with anything?"
In that moment Jack had to admit one thing to himself: he was tired of holding himself back. Quite frankly he was tired of it all. But most of all he was tired of sneaking something he could have now. Right now.
Marceline's back hit the brick wall. Her arms flew up, fingers curling into the silken material of his shirt as he advanced, coming even closer. How many dreams had she had like this? Too many to count.
"Jack," she said eyes growing wide as the fire in his eyes grew.
"Yes, Marceline?" He said her name in that deep baritone, mingled with his accent, immediately wearing down her defenses.
"W-what are you doing?" She asked when he moved to cup her cheek, a sweet purple haze coming over her.
Jack's scars stretched high across his face. "I'm going to make a splash."
"What...?"
Marceline never finished her question. Jack swooped down and settled his lips on hers, robbing her of breath and making her head spin. This one kiss was so much better than all the little ones he had stolen. Cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her once more.
Marceline's mind was in a torment. A part of her wanted to push him away, but that part was dying to the larger portion that wanted the heat to grow, wanted to give in. Confused she kept her lips together, trying to fight off the feelings. Jack was having none of that.
Slowly he trailed his tongue along her full lower lip. When he did it a second time he felt her tremble in his hold. Wounding a hand through her thick hair, he pulled at the hair located at the nape of her neck.
Her gasp of pain provided entry.
Jack's tongue glided through her lips with expert precision. Gently he stroked his tongue against her own, once, twice, a third time, groaning at the taste of her. His patient kiss was richly rewarded. Lost to the fire that he created in her Marceline timidly touched his tongue with her own. Pleased by her action, he pushed her more firmly against the wall his hardness pressing against her, causing her moan into his mouth. Never. Never had a moan tasted so damned good.
They could feel it all around them; the fire building, flames dancing across their skin. There were a thousand sparks going off all over their bodies, making heat pool in their bellies as the pleasure increased. The two of them continued to kiss tongues stroking, mating and building a fire that would never go out. And their essence rejoiced! Their spirits met each other half way, winding about the other, and settling in. It was the perfect splash. The perfect change of the current.
Breaking away from the kiss Jack grinned against her lips as she whimpered at the loss of contact. Pulling back he stared into her eyes, a smile now forming. Now he knew what happiness looked like in her eyes; it was pure starlight.
Please leave a review. Also, what do you think of my new cover picture for the story?
