(A/N: WOW, Thank you again to all of my reviewers! I especially want to thank the anonymous reviewers here. Everyone has been extremely supportive, and I appreciate that more than I can say! This isn't a past-lover-catches-the-Joker story. There are flashbacks in here, written in italics. Enjoy!)

Disclaimer: Batman is not mine.

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Her feet were taking her who knew where, just like old times.

Sighing, she kicked at a stone, listening as it skittered down the nearest alley, cutting a swathe through the gravel which coated the streets on the sweeper's off days. Some things never changed, no matter what dark hero was patrolling the boulevards and hopefully keeping an eye on her too every once in awhile. Anna had not asked for a babysitter, needless to say, but she would like to feel comfortable knowing that the Joker's leering, bloodshot eyes were not following her every move.

Would he play with her long when the time came?

Shivering, she brushed such consideration aside, furious with herself for entertaining the paranoid thoughts of a trapped rat. They had been creeping up on her more and more as the days dragged on, swirling around her head as she sat in silence or watched another meaningless television program, her phone a constant presence beside her hand. Gordon had promised he would call when he had arranged a meeting with Gotham's famous protector, that was, after she had submitted to more of his little interviews. Revealing what she needed of his personality to lessen his inhuman quality, she had surrendered no further to Gordon's probing questions, some twisted part of her holding out until a weary commissioner had tired of the game and told her to go home.

That had been over two weeks ago.

Two weeks of twiddling her thumbs and wondering if behind every door there lurked a silenced pistol held in one purple gloved hand. The operation had strayed down a different path than she had originally imagined, becoming less of a smash and grab job than she had planned. The idea was to beat him at his own game, not brood and brood until it came time to erect an elaborate plot just waiting for him to come punch a few holes. In her opinion, the commissioner and the Bat were approaching the problem from the wrong direction.

The objective was to reroute his misplaced rage upon the true culprit, hoping he would grow weary of tormenting Gotham if given a chance at more… personal prey. It was nothing more and nothing less, or at least that is what she told herself in the middle of the night. Some corner of her mind whispered that she was fooling only herself, that guilt and a host of other feelings had driven her here.

It was the same corner which murmured his name without end.

Pulling her overcoat tighter around her form, Anna paused, glancing up in shock at where her feet had unknowingly taken her. The red neon sign was a bit dirtier than she remembered though was as incorrect as always, the ey's at the end of 'Barney's' having burned out a decade earlier. Only newcomers ever chuckled at the sign, the regulars either too jaded or too intoxicated to take much notice.

Now that she was here, it became the question of the hour: should she stop and a have a drink?

It wasn't as if Gordon was going to be calling anytime soon, she reminded herself crossly, and she certainly was not looking forward to another night of insomnia and infomercials. After the past two weeks of living on the edge, the least she deserved was a rest.

A little drink it was then.

--

The shot glass hit the counter with a clink.

Her throat burned brilliantly as the amber colored liquid slid its way down, relaxing her with the semblance of routine, the expected pain. Anna could feel her shoulders releasing the tension the last two weeks had ingrained, the hunger that had remained in the pit of her stomach since Gordon's first interview finally subsiding. As a present to herself, she had bought a better name than he had offered.

Leaning on her elbow, she scanned the length of the bar, recognizing the same haggard expressions, if not faces. Even Wally, the ever patient bartender of years ago, had seemingly left the forgotten hellhole that was the Barney's establishment. Not that that was surprising, if she was going to be honest with herself. It was a shabby place, and anyone in their right mind would try to escape.

She supposed that made her crazy.

Nonetheless, she was thankful that the lights were perennially dim here, providing at least partial cover for the condition of her face. Perhaps that was why she had always felt at home on one of these stools, relishing the lack of stares and underhanded comments made quite obviously behind her back. No one was looking at you if they were too busy looking into their own glass, searching for answers in the bottomless pit of their own depression.

As her eyes crept over the lonesome booths, cracked lamps, and bottles glittering in the diffuse light, she began to realize how little some things ever changed. Time blurred in the smoky haze of cigars and sea of smooth jazz – this could have been any day. Wally would be standing in his place next to the tap as she dragged herself inside, falling heavily onto a stool and ordering a vodka straight to start. He would listen as she gushed about her problems, about her husband and his mind games, or entertain her when she did not, a bastion of amusing stories and observations.

And as the night wore on those stories would becoming grimmer and she would drink her way onto the floor, watching the world spin around her and finding all of it so goddamn pathetic. That was, before the bar closed its doors and she was dragged once more onto the street, left to find her own way home.

She preferred those nights to when he came and got her.

It was eight months before she left her husband. Nearly a year after the loan sharks had done their work.

A night like any other, Wally's face swimming in front of her eyes as he refilled her glass countless times. She sandwiched the newest shot between her hands, listening to the soft drone of the bartender as he spun some mob joke at the other end of the bar, the dim lights suddenly brighter than she remembered. Drifting in and out of her own thoughts, Anna waited for the punch line, readying herself for the shock of laughter to fill the smoky room.

But the laughter never came.

Blinking, she realized that it wasn't a trick of her ears; he had halted his story just before the climax, the rest of the bar falling silent with him. There was only one thing in this world that would make Wally leave his joke unfinished, and it was the last thing she wanted to deal with right then.

She did the only thing she could do – draw up her collar and hunch into the bar, thankful that she was the farthest from the door. Holding her breath, she began the waiting game and listened.

The door clicked shut behind him, the hard soles of his shoes audible on the tile.

"Where's my wife?" His voice was as taut and near the breaking point as always. "Where is she, Wally, good friend?" He drew out the barkeep's name, causing half the room to shudder at his tone.

The bartender was placating in spite of everything, nothing like good old Wally to assuage an irritated spouse. "She's fine. Listen, why don't you sit down and have a drink, and we'll –"

"I don't drink." Her husband's reply was sharp, and she could just imagine his hands twitching in that way of his. "And neither did she until… not that long ago, so we will not talk about this."

The scrape of a bar stool as it was pulled back slightly, the hoarse voice of a patron she had met only a few times before carrying down the length of the counter. "Why you botherin' with that boozehound anyway, huh?"

If possible, the silence deepened.

When he finally spoke, she could hear the slight hysteria in his voice, even if no one else could. "I'm sorry, what was that, that you, uh… that you said?"

"I said, why you comin' to get her? No one's goin' to rape that. I mean just take a look…"

Three years later, and she would not forget what came next.

Her husband's husky whisper and a sharp scream that would haunt her for weeks, followed by crying and what would in her nightmares forever be "What the hell, man? What the hell?" as chaos erupted around him. He made his way to her calmly all the same, gaze searing a hole into her spine.

Swiveling around, she groaned at the sight of him, the sudden action causing her head to spin more than normal. He looked out of place, neat but worn suit buttoned tightly to his collar, tie still constricting his neck like a… a… whatever they called those snakes. His shirt was a deep shade of cobalt, but in this light it looked almost purple. The outfit repulsed her for reasons she could only guess at; her face riddled with scars, and she was the one embarrassed by him.

She turned sullenly back to the bar as he approached, a frown pulling at her lips to pucker the scars. "I had hoped you were the health inspector."

Placing a hand on her shoulder, he ignored the comment, leaning close to her ear so as to be heard above the riotous commotion he had left near the door. His low tenor tickled her skin, odd speech patterns not as strange as they would eventually become. "It's four in the morning, Anna. You need to come home. I thought we agree-d –"

A growl escaping her throat, she lashed out with more speed than she thought she had, throwing his hand from her person and spinning to face him. "We agreed… we agreed… I don't remember agreeing to anything." His visage and dirty blonde hair, like Wally's, swam in the sea of light, yet she was anchored by the critical intensity of his deep chocolate eyes.

"Of course you wouldn't." He sighed, attempting to pull her from the bar stool as gently as possible. "You're just going to make me out to be the, uh, the bad guy."

Finding it too difficult to stand, she collapsed into him, sticking her finger to his chest even as he attempted to lead her away. "You know what's wrong with you?" She rolled her eyes, allowing him to half-carry half-drag her to the door. "Well, besides a lot, that is…"

His eyes glittered strangely, glued to the entrance as the disorder parted around them. "What's wron-g with me, darling?"

She hiccoughed, taking one last swig of her glass before it slipped from her fingers to shatter on the floor. "You worry too much."

Days later, Wally would tell her that he had driven a wine opener through the other man's hand.

--

The shot glass joined its two siblings on the bar.

Wiping her mouth on a napkin, she drummed her fingers on the notched wooden counter, bronze rod digging into her ribs. If she kept this up, she doubted she would be finding her way home again, even if it was only late afternoon and surprisingly good weather for Gotham. And yet, assuming she found her way back to the apartment she rented from the tyrant upstairs, what was there to do anyway? Sit, wait, and watch Oprah.

Her mind made up with surprising lucidity, she hailed the bartender, asking for a glass of whatever beer he had on tap. The look he gave in response as his gaze danced over her scars was priceless, perhaps even comical if it were happening to anyone other than her – for a bartender, he had an awful poker face.

The thought of poker made her wince, and she eagerly swallowed some of the most awful lager she had ever tasted, the unappetizing liquid a safe haven in comparison to the direction her thoughts had been taking.

Cradling her beer, her glower crawled irritably to the television perched above the array of spirits, a large and gaudy machine she could not remember being there before. Some young thing was on the screen, and Anna could just make out her words, the volume turned down to its lowest setting in the quiet bar.

"Sarah Laurentson, filling in for Mike Engel and reporting live from Gotham Central on this, the two week anniversary of Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes' murder." The reporter was smiling, as if she had not announced a fact as utterly appalling as senseless killing. "We're here on Platform 117, investigating the horrific new developments in this game of cat-and-mouse. Around three pm today several large explosions were heard from within the freight tunnels, as well as the telltale sounds of gun shots. The police and rescue workers arrived at the scene only to find this left in his wake."

The camera flashed to the burned out remains of several freight trains as firefighters and paramedics rushed purposefully along the narrow stretch of platform, giving orders and taking them with the ease of breathing. Soot blackened the walls and more than a few faces, steam rising in billows from the still smoking wreckage. Three or four bodies of what looked like laborers were being loaded onto stretchers; the faces were quickly covered by sheets, but not before the camera captured the iconic greasepaint and joker cards tucked into their front pockets.

A light gasp rose from somewhere behind her.

Anna turned her attention back to the screen, beer forgotten in her hands. The pretty young thing was talking again. "Sources say these trains arrived early this morning with a shipment of undisclosed materials, having used false papers to gain entry into the station. The shipment was unloaded and, we assume, removed from the premises a half hour before the fire. Its current whereabouts and identity are unknown, but Channel Five is working tirelessly for the truth."

"Yeah, right." Anna snorted, sipping her beer once more. She had to admit, she was curious nonetheless, a twisted cord of anticipation snaking around her heart.

The television switched tactics as she sipped, finally interviewing one of the individuals at the scene, a man with flame orange hair. "This man, the Joker –" an image appeared on screen, stopping her heart for a few beats as she greedily absorbed his features, "He's a monster. Who knows what he wanted? More gasoline to blow us all up with probably."

The interview continued yet she paid no attention, the world having faded far from her realm of consciousness in wake of his grinning visage. Unable to breathe properly, she gulped, her lungs seeming to have refused the advice of her brain in inflating as usual. A freeze-frame shot from one of his videos, it highlighted the jagged scars stealing from the corners of his mouth, greasepaint smeared with relish upon the souvenirs of what she remembered as the worst night of her life. Insanity burned from within the very pits of hell, black paint the walls of the depraved and icy grotto which contained Satan himself.

He was a monster. A monster that still made her heart race, and not entirely in fear.

Some removed corner of her brain noted as a few of the patrons began to look first at the television and then at her, as if finally noticing the scars through the haze of their own little worlds. Some grumbled and stared outright, others fingered the glimmering edges of who knew what within their jackets.

It was definitely time to go.

Reaching into her pocket, Anna pulled out her wallet, searching for a twenty. It left her hand to fall silently to the counter, a silence echoed in her careful footsteps through the door of purgatory and into the sunshine once more.

She never noticed the guarded pair of eyes that followed her form as it left the lonely tavern, taking careful note of her every movement. Later that night, that same pair of eyes would glow in impatient delight as the scene from the bar made its way into the ear of the Clown Prince himself.

Those watching said he laughed hysterically at his own joke as he quite literally, shot the messenger.

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