"FUCK!" screamed Tory as soon as she'd slammed the back door behind her. "Fuck fuck fuck fucking HELL!"
She collapsed onto the yellow-green grass of Jorge's backyard and burst into tears.
What was she doing here? What was she doing here?
She'd known all along that this was a bad idea. Like she'd said to Jon, so long ago:
When I'm around you, I feel like there is more to me than there seems. And frankly, that's both incredibly scary and incredibly cool…the thing is, I feel more like myself around you, but I'm not sure if being myself is always such a good thing…
She'd known, even back then, that spending time with him would change her, force her out of her comfortable ideas and into a new and frightening sense of reality.
Every once in a while she'd had the sinking feeling that she had gone too far, that she was losing her inner moral compass. Things which would have seemed awful to her only a few months ago now seemed perfectly reasonable. Theft had become a joke, torture practical, murder an unfortunate necessity of business.
Only now – when she realized the full extent of their crimes - could she see just how low she'd fallen.
Tory rolled over onto her side and curled up in the fetal position, letting her cheek rest against the prickly grass, and sobbed. It all seemed to be springing up at once. The loss of her beloved family and friends, the trauma surrounding the General's death, her confusion about Jon – it was too much. Her grief was overflowing her body, spilling over her physical boundaries. Her sobs wracked her small frame until she was breathless and gasping; tears soaked her cheeks, leaving salty residue behind that dried her skin. The sounds of her whimpers and occasional cries seemed quiet in the night, as if the surrounding desert took the sounds and buried them in its dry, crusty earth.
Images and thoughts reverberated in her skull. Tory pounded her fist on the ground, her fingernails biting into her palm, but she couldn't stop them.
Pain – the shoelace cutting into her hand as she struggles to hold it tight.
Chest spasms, struggling to breathe. Jon on top of her, his hands around her throat, laughing manically as she loses consciousness.
Jon's lips brushing her own, their swift touch sending electricity all up and down her body.
The General's purple lips and flapping tongue.
Jack shouting and laughing in joy at his death. Blue eyes so bright, so happy.
Just now – so bright, so hard. His lips curving, "We killed her together."
"Whatever it is, no matter how bad it is, I will understand."
Jon's hand up and down her back, up and down. She wishes he would touch her other places…
His lips against her cheek.
His arm around her waist, holding her tight.
Pressing her against him.
Oh, God.
Jon.
Jon.
"I hate him!" screamed Tory into the ground. "I hate him! I fucking hate him!"
The way he could undo her with a single look, a little smile…his calm, cool manner. Cold, he was so cold. She'd known that – had always felt that. He was so dangerous. They both were.
They'd killed their goddamn parents. She remembered the smile on Jack's face as he'd recited his story and whimpered. Although, to be fair to Jack, he had seemed a bit bothered by what he'd done.
Jon hadn't been bothered when he'd told Tory about his senior prom. He'd practically glowed with pride. Then again, indirectly causing an accident probably wasn't half as traumatic as stabbing your own father in the throat.
Jon had helped kill his mother, though. Tory shuddered. She saw it in her mind: Jon pulling his mother's arm behind her back and holding her, helpless, as Jack advanced with the knife.
What kind of person did that!
She squirmed against the ground, digging at it with her fingers, as if in burying herself she could bury the thought, could erase what they had done.
Then she thought: I can't erase what they've done.
The realization should have brought more despair; instead, it brought relief. She contemplated it idly, repeating it to herself like a mantra, as her clenched-tight body slowly began to relax.
I can't erase what they've done.
I can't erase what they've done.
Her mind at last eased, her thoughts slowing until she felt blank and empty, exhausted by her torrent of grief.
Tory rolled onto her back and looked up at the stars. That was one thing she'd missed about her native Wyoming – the night sky. The darkness seemed to be almost ablaze with the white light of the stars, and the Milky Way shone, its path clearly visible in the black sky.
Wiping her eyes and regaining her breath, Tory absently contemplated the unique order of the stars, feeling – as always – reassured by the vista. Some people looked at stars and felt insignificant. Tory always felt the opposite. Here was this beautiful pattern, and she was a part of it. A tiny, tiny, tiny part, but a part nonetheless. What was more amazing than that?
Everyone had a part. Even Jon and Jack had a part.
What was their part?
They were monsters. Real monsters. She wasn't sure she could ever think of them as human anymore. Could she ever be comfortable with them again, wondering if they could kill her as easily as they'd killed their parents? Could she ever look at their hands without seeing their own kin's blood dripping down those long, pale fingers? Could she ever bear Jon's touch again, or would she always skitter away, waiting for his hand to fasten hard around her wrist?
What part could monsters play?
The thought seemed to come from outside herself.
Monsters can see in the dark.
Tory blinked. Monsters can see in the dark? An odd way to put it…yet it made sense.
These were dark times for humanity, that was for certain. Tory had seen enough of Gotham to realize that. She remembered the day she'd stumbled upon the dead body of a homeless man on her way to class, and the time her friend was raped and almost killed in a back alley.
So, if these were dark times, then maybe monsters were necessary. When things got gruesome and dirty and brutal, ordinary people couldn't handle it. It took people who weren't people, who were more – or less – than human to cope with things like that.
Was it true? Did monsters have a place in the world? Were they needed?
She came back to her original thought:
I can't erase what they've done.
Well, she couldn't. And she wasn't responsible for it, either. Tory laughed – a hysterical, half-choked giggle – when she realized that she'd been trying to share in their guilt.
Her initial reaction had been that if she was living with murderers, she was endorsing their crimes. Her emotions exhausted for the time being, she examined that idea with clinical calm.
If she lived with them, was she as guilty as they were?
No. She had never participated in their crimes. She wasn't responsible for what they had done before she'd met them.
But shouldn't she turn them in? Make them pay for what they'd committed in the past?
That one was relatively easy. She'd given Jack her word that she wouldn't do so. Besides, if she turned them in, they would die, and Tory didn't believe in the death penalty.
They'd committed terrible crimes and learned a lot in doing so. Could they ever use their skills for good? Could they ever change?
She doubted that their personalities would change significantly. But it was possible that they could use their talents in other arenas. However, they probably wouldn't do so unless she nudged them in the right direction.
That was her responsibility. Not towards what they had done already, but what they were capable of.
Something clicked inside Tory. When she'd come out here, everything had felt all wrong. Now, everything felt all right.
They weren't human, but they needed her. They had no conscience: therefore, Tory would be their conscience. She wasn't sure how much she could do to change their ways, but she was bound to do all she could.
And besides all the heavy morality stuff…as much as she hated to admit it…she needed them.
She'd always felt connected to Jon, right from the start. And, once she and Jack had worked out their differences, she'd come to appreciate him, too.
She thought about them, about their eerily alike looks, their expressive blue eyes, their identical mouths that smiled so differently. Jon, groping around the table for his coffee and flipping his brother off. Jack, wrestling with her for the remote, his ribs shaking with laughter even as he glared at her. Jon's arms around her waist in his morning hug. His cold blue eyes that always warmed whenever they glanced at her. The way he kept an absolutely straight face whenever he told a joke. The feel of his lips against her hair, her cheek, her mouth. The subtle tenderness that he always showed her, along with his not-so-subtle possessiveness.
She hated – hated – what they'd done. But she couldn't hate them. She knew she should, but she couldn't. She'd lived with them too long, shared too much with them. If she left now, she knew she'd be leaving a piece of herself behind.
Like it or not, her destiny was here.
Tory lay on her back for a few more moments, thinking. Then she got up and opened the door, entering the house once again.
Jon was a night owl. He would still be awake.
Jonathan was having a bad night.
His vision was distorted, wavering and shaking. He leaned against the shower wall and closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He'd once loved the night, finding it easier to concentrate when the rest of the city was asleep. Now he hated it. The hallucinations intensified as he grew more tired – another reason, besides mere addiction, for his numerous cups of coffee a day. Caffeine was his medication now – that and exercise. When he was physically tired, the visions faded. It was only when his brain began to slow that he was plagued by the hallucinogen's effects.
Jonathan heard noises. Voices whispering from a corner of the ceiling, an ominous creaking sound beneath his feet. The opening and shutting of the bathroom door.
Despite his efforts, Jonathan tensed at that last one. It was just a hallucination, he told himself, but words didn't comfort his frantically racing heart. Oh, God, it was him, it was the Batman…no, no, it was just a hallucination…Batman…no…no!
Jonathan's nerve broke. He flung open the shower door, letting the water hit the tile floor as he frantically scanned the bathroom.
Well…it wasn't exactly a hallucination.
"Tory?" he gasped, strongly aware of two things: one, he was stark naked. Two, the distortion of his vision and the hallucinations were gone. Apparently, shock was also an effective remedy.
Hmm. He'd have to remember that – whoa, whoa, wait a minute. What was Victoria doing here!
No, Jonathan told himself firmly, do not speculate about the possible reasons for Victoria's presence. You're probably wrong, and there's no point in getting all excited. Particularly when you're standing in front of her stark naked.
"Hi," she said breathlessly. Her eyes dropped briefly down, then back up to meet his. Jonathan felt his cheeks beginning to burn.
"Hi. What is it?" he asked, considering reaching for the towel to cover himself. No, it was too far away.
"I just wondered," said Victoria, slowly walking forward. Jonathan caught his breath and held it as she moved closer. "If you…"
"Yes?" he whispered. She was mere inches away. Her cheeks were flushed to match her red nose and eyes. She looked like she had been crying hard. Jonathan wondered what could have upset her, but was rapidly distracted from that thought by the fascinating sight of her moving lips.
"If you…if, um…" She blushed even more deeply. "If you were…going to be done in the shower soon?"
They stared at each other for a moment, the only noise the splashing water of the running shower.
"Yeah," said Jonathan quietly. "I'll be out in just a minute."
"Um, okay," Victoria replied sheepishly, and she started to turn away.
He couldn't take it any more. He grabbed her arm, spun her around, pulled her against him, and kissed her.
Their only kiss had been that tentative peck back at Arkham. This was no peck, and it wasn't gentle. Within seconds Jonathan's tongue forced her mouth open and invaded her, eagerly tasting her wet warmth. She responded with equal aggressiveness, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her mouth hard against his. The feel of her jean shorts and ribbed tank against his naked body made him writhe in need.
Without breaking their kiss he turned and shoved her against the shower wall, wrapping one arm around her waist and supporting her head with the other. The water was pounding around them, soaking her clothes. He reached up underneath the wet tank and caressed her bra-covered breast. She moaned into his mouth and wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him even harder into their kiss.
The kiss slowed, deepened. Harshly probing tongues became softer, more caressing; they explored each other, tasted each other, reveled in each other. At last their lips broke reluctantly, and both gasped for air, their chests heaving.
Victoria leaned her head back against the shower wall and smiled up at him as she caught her breath. He smiled back, still only half-believing that this was real, still expecting her to dissolve under his touch: just another mirage.
He remembered his initial fantasies about her. He'd wanted to own her, possess her, and then terrify her into submission. He'd wanted to pull her to the floor and whisper her deepest, darkest fears into her ear until she was screaming and writhing underneath him.
When he'd gotten to know her better his desire to frighten her had faded. He hadn't wanted her broken and crippled by fear the way he was now. He'd wanted her to give herself over, to voluntarily love him, to be truly his forever. And now…
Looking at her – at her red nose and sore, weepy eyes and wet hair straggling all over her face – he couldn't imagine life without her.
He wanted her beside him, now and always. And not just as a conquest or a possession – as a partner. His partner. In life, in love, and, most likely…in crime.
"I love you," he whispered, surprising even himself.
A single tear spilled down her cheek. He might never have noticed it amid the flying droplets of the shower if he hadn't been watching. He caressed her cheek with his palm, wiping it away, and her head turned to follow the caress.
"I love you," she whispered into his palm, then looked back up at him, dark eyes shining. She smiled again and reached up to kiss him.
This time, it was a gentle kiss. When they drew apart, Jonathan wrapped his fingers around the edge of her tank top.
"Come on," he whispered into her ear. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes."
Another slightly iffy chapter in my opinion, but hey, I'm just the author - what do I know? Plus I had a lot of fun writing the shower scene...as I'm sure you could tell. ;)
As per request, I am from now on displaying the titles of the chapters prominently. Just in case any of you were wondering.
Question: If I wrote a sex scene for Jon and Tory, would anybody read it? I think it would be fun, but it probably would be relatively graphic and I'm not going to write it if no one is interested in reading it. Also, if I didwrite it, I'd make it a separate chapter so anyone who wanted to skip the scene could do so without missing the plot.
Lemme know!
P.S. Yes, I did burn a CD of Cillian Murphy singing "So New" to fall asleep to at night. So sue me, I like the song. :)