A/N: Thank you for the reviews! A special thank you to my constant reviewers for without them, I wouldn't be so thrilled about and motivated to write this story! And here's to Shouri Majo, wickedthunder02, WornOutDancingShoes, curburdogg, and Brynnie-Chan124 who identified the song mentioned in the last chapter, "Stuck in the Middle with You."
Disclaimer: I don't known anything but Anna.
Enjoy!
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It was already four in the morning.
Her side blazing in protest, she sustained the brisk pace, swiftly entering and exiting the tiny realm of each streetlamp like a wraith. Heavy overcoat shrouding her form once again, it concealed the slim blade clutched within one ashen fist, trembling in her right pocket. The rigid feel of the warm handle was alien to her skin, years having passed since she had even looked twice at the switchblade and the memories it contained. It had been a gift from him on her twenty-sixth birthday, if she remembered correctly; matchless, a specialty piece. Or at least, that was what he had said.
Anna had seen its twin on the television six hours before, tormenting his latest victim.
A shiver coursed through her at the memory of the poor woman, her eyes rolling wildly in alarm, muffled screams edging past the gag to carry cleverly into the living room of the soul who rightly deserved to be in her place. Questions and doubts spun around her head like the Harpies, shredding her self-control and piercing the armor she had so carefully erected. Did that woman have a boyfriend? Was he watching as a madman tormented the woman he loved? Did she have children?
Were they watching?
The urge to retch clawing its way up her throat, she paused, falling against the side of a darkened building as she fought to regain her composure. Panic rattled inside her head like a caged animal, growing more violent as the minutes ticked by and each location she searched proved as fruitless as the last. Exhaustion and dehydration clouding her mind, she could sense her fear trying to yank her feet endlessly forward, grappling with the realization that left cold sweat on her brow.
She had no idea where he was.
Such thoughts joined the adrenaline in fueling her wild goose chase.
Pushing away from the building, she started down the avenue once more, the pinpricks of light that marked one of her old haunts visible on the corner some blocks down.
It would be the eleventh of such establishments she had tried.
Leave it to him to find the irony in launching her onto the streets, directionless and clueless, left to search bar after bar for him exactly as he had had to search for her. One time it had taken him nearly five hours, she remembered hazily, and most nights he never found her at all.
Her mental tally edging towards six and a half, she had to admit he was better at this game than she was.
Of course, there was no guarantee whatsoever that this even was the game. For all she knew, she was wrong in her assumption, and he had taken his hostage to some common abandoned warehouse, fully intending to torture the poor woman as Anna combed the streets all night in vain. If that was the case, she could only hope – and it was a slim hope, given the days it had taken the last time – that the Bat could find his location before his captive's borrowed time was up. If her theory proved incorrect and the Bat was unsuccessful, this would repeat, night after night, for as long as it took her mind to shatter.
He had always possessed a sardonic sense of humor, one that had only fermented into something much more terrifying in her absence.
Except this time, she wasn't laughing with him.
Fingering the blade in her pocket and wondering why she had not yet been attacked, she continued towards the hulking brick figure of The River Lounge, praying to find the one she sought beyond its familiar double doors.
--
She needed a drink. No, not just a drink, three shots of the best vodka she could buy.
On second thought, leave the bottle.
Anything to halt the panic swelling exponentially within her chest, running her heart in double-time as the blood pounded mercilessly within her ears.
Every bar she could think of had seen her worried visage at least once that night, gaze frantically scrutinizing the dizzying array of tables, spirits, and patrons, the last of which eyed her suspiciously in return. No sign of the Joker and his trademark suit, not a clown mask to be seen in some eighty square blocks of city.
Her hypothesis, it seemed, had indeed been dead wrong.
As she held her head in her hands, the rays of morning splashing across her back, she wondered if he was having a good old goddamned laugh at her expense. Resentment searing a tiny hole in the overwhelming arena of terror that threatened to crush her, she hoped he died from asphyxiation.
Or choked on his tongue.
The stone of the park bench chilled her backside, overcoat splayed haphazardly around her, dew seeping into her sneakers. Through her fingers she glimpsed the chaotic collection of black tables and chairs beneath the soaring oak trees, the stomping grounds of many a weary citizen out on their lunch break. As it was, a smattering of pigeons moved between the interlocking legs, waiting for the morning joggers to pass by with their breakfasts and pestering the few people who had already arrived to sit. Her thankless entry level desk job had been right around the corner, and she had fed the rats with wings once upon a time too.
What had possessed her to come here, she couldn't say, both desperation and fright guiding her recklessly to places which had held any importance to their former life whatsoever.
Anna had already passed the Italian restaurant they would frequent when they had the extra money, its closed drapes and darkened interiors so different than the liveliness of her memories. The fountain in Bullwick Square had been next, where she had occasionally convinced him to run through with her on particularly scorching summer days, begging for a smile from his normally stern countenance. Locations of incidental importance, meant more to allow her to feel as if she were actually doing something, instead of running meaninglessly while the clock ticked down.
But this park, she reflected, was different.
Letting her chin rest in the palm of her hand, she doubled up over her knees, staring at one group of tables in particular. She wasn't sure if it was the exhaustion or her own frayed nerves, but the memory returned more vividly than she would have hoped.
It was the last ten minutes of her lunch break, and she nursed a cup of coffee in one hand, holding the book open with the other. An exquisite day for Gotham, the sun filtering through the foliage to kiss the words in front of her.
A shadow, suddenly blocking that sunlight.
Her gaze drifts upwards, alighting upon the handsome face above her. The gentle angles of his cheeks are arranged in what she thinks is supposed to be a pleasant grin, but he is obviously not a man used to the expression. He holds himself awkwardly, shyly, and can't be more than twenty-one years old.
"Hi … are you using this?" He points to the chair across from her, one of the few left open.
"No, feel free to take it." She's surprised when instead of pulling the chair to another table, he sits down at hers.
He shrugs, brown eyes warm in the sunlight. "Hope you don't mind?"
She shakes her head, going back to her book. He seems to have other plans, however.
"So you're reading Crime and Punishment." His voice is smooth to her ears as he gestures to the cover. "We read that in a class last year – one of my favorites."
She appraises him again, noting that the timidity detracted nothing from his features; rather, it softened his face and the threat of a frown. "Really? I find that while he deals with guilt well, it's a little…. Well, too depressing. I'm into more action and romance, I guess."
He opens his mouth to reply, when her watch alarm beeps – her break is almost over. Back to data entry it is.
"I'm sorry… I really need to get going. Got to get back to the daily grind, you know how it is." She smiles gently, noting the frown that tugs at the corners of his lips.
Nodding in understanding, he extends his hand. "I'm Jack, by the way."
"Anna – pleased to meet you." His hand is warm, stronger than she would have thought. "Maybe I'll see you around sometime."
"Yeah, we can only hope."
And she had.
Day after day for the next two weeks, he had been sitting at the same tiny gathering of tables during her lunch break, equipped with a book or a cup of coffee, twiddling his thumbs and surreptitiously searching for her presence. If something didn't seem quite right, she ignored it, excusing his obsessive tendencies for boredom, the way emotion never quite met his eyes for reserve. Currently single, she couldn't resist chatting with an attractive guy, and he seemed well-read, ambitious, interested in the world and in accounting, primarily, to boot. Kind enough, even if he was a bit solemn and slow to smile. Overall, he was nothing approaching her usual easygoing type.
And that's why she surprised even herself when she agreed to a coffee with him, then a lunch, and a dinner, and the rest of the hallmarks that lay on the slippery slope of a romance.
Sitting at one of those black tables, she never would have dreamed the stranger across from her would become both her husband and the scourge of Gotham in less than a decade. After all, he seemed almost normal until they moved in together and she began to gamble…
Until they moved in together.
She shot upright, the fog of exhaustion at least temporarily cleared from her head. The one place she had assumed he would never willingly return to, so far out of time and mind as to not even register as an option. And yet, the more she thought about it, the more appropriate it seemed.
He had always been more concerned with endings than beginnings, unlike her.
And that was why she was in the park and he was in the old apartment.
--
She turned onto Samson Street, the stench of the sewers threatening to overtake her.
Gray apartment buildings rose sixty floors to either side, floors like stacked ice cube trays hundreds of meters into the air. They blockaded the sun from reaching the cracked pavement; the street seemingly plunged into never-ending shadow, no matter the time of day. Ironically enough, these buildings were condemned and barren, the asbestos in the walls and ceiling forming too major of a health problem for Gotham to ignore. She could still recall the eviction riots, as people who had no where else to go fought to keep their contaminated, cancerous homes.
That was one of the two times she had counted them lucky to have the apartment they did. The other was when she discovered that the woman in the apartment across from theirs could make amazing stuffed grape leaves.
Their once upon a time building was tucked into a niche at the end of the avenue, bordered on two sides by the asbestos towers, and on another by some defunct corporation headquarters. Only twelve floors high, she couldn't ever remember seeing the sun from her window.
As she neared, Anna could perceive only a single car parked out front, meaning that they had probably evicted the tenants and closed the building like the others. Some of the windows were boarded up, others chipped and peeled beyond recognition.
Asbestos, fire, infestations – the Narrows was notorious for its deplorable living conditions.
Only meters from the front door, Anna resisted the urge to crane her neck and search for their tenth floor flat, keeping her eyes adhered to the double glass doors in front of her.
Panic slashed at the inside of her brain, demanding to be released.
Just keep walking. Her feet traced across the white concrete of the entrance. Think of the woman, his hostage. You owe this to her, it should be you upstairs.
What if he's not there?
Of course he's there.
And if he's not? What time is it? She fought the urge to glance at her watch, pulling her coat tighter around her form, a habit she had developed long ago.
Pausing, her reflection stared back at her from the glass of the door, illuminated with the weak light of early morning. She stared herself in the eye, steeling herself, before reaching out and grabbing the metal handle. It gave easily and allowed her into the small antechamber before the second set of doors, the first barrier passed. Her hand reached for the second set of handles.
It was locked.
You're making a mistake, you're making another mistake. He's not up there.
Just calm down. He's up there. And if he's not, then he's not and we look elsewhere.
Feeling foolish but unwilling to leave without a try, she walked to the wall, the list of names and intercom IDs still posted. Her fingers mechanically punching in the familiar numbers, she spared a glance down the list, noting the faded names still scrawled beside her apartment number. How many times in a drunken stupor had she forgotten the presence of her key, and searched blearily for the code on that very list? And how many times had he wearily buzzed her in, the clock in the lobby showing all hours of the night? She wasn't exactly sure, but she would bet it was dizzingly high. Some things never changed.
She pressed the intercom, her voice painfully dry, scraping like sand paper against the walls of her throat. "It's Anna."
It buzzed as the door unlocked.
He is here.
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A/N: Next chapter... she meets the Joker.
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