A/N: Thank you to all of my reviewers, you are all the best! Also thank you to my anonymous reviewers: Tasha, xxJokersgirlxx, nightingaleraven, and Jenn!

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman.

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His eyes narrowed, head cocking to the side as if he were considering the action.

Fingers twitched at the cuff of one dark purple glove, seemingly encompassing the whole of her vision though she kept her eyes on his face. Anna could almost see the gears working in his head, tumblers clicking open and locking shut as he weighed its ramifications. Jack had always been remarkable with probability, she remembered, and could envision people's actions to a degree most wouldn't even contemplate. He didn't necessarily worry himself with the consequences, of course, but he definitely saw them.

A slight shrug of his shoulders, and the glove was off.

The other soon followed, joining its mate on the dresser.

Confidence vaguely reaffirmed, she briefly considered the rope rubbing against her wrists, weighing her odds of getting him to untie her. Not wanting to push her luck, she discarded the idea, just thankful her throat was still intact. The fishhooks were still in his hand, however, so who knew how long that would last.

Her gaze flicked to the offending pieces of metal, the kind used for hundred pound fish.

"Drop them."

He chuckled then, squeezing the hooks tightly and not even flinching when sharp tips pierced his flesh. Bizarrely, the concern she would often feel when he hurt himself, intentional or not, bubbled within her chest, a reaction she thought dead long ago.

"No."

Her heart sunk, ace seemingly burning before her eyes. He must have noticed the disappointment flash across her features, because he grinned smugly, advancing towards her. Fluttering his hands to acknowledge that the gloves were removed, as per her request, his voice was light.

"I like to play, you know that. But ya see, the funny thing about control is… when you leave, it loses some of its effectiveness. So hmm, just between you and me –" He leaned over, smeared face inches from her own, gazing coyly through a slit in his lashes. "– I found bigger fish, to fry."

He dangled the fishhooks before her nose.

"But let's not be too hasty, hmm? You always did have a way about you. Used to think some in-ter-est-ing things, used to be very…" He cocked his head again, as if searching for the word. "Spontaneous. Used to be so… very… good… at surprises."

Straightening, the Joker righted his vest, strong hands sliding elegantly down the silken material. "That's what made you so, humm, worth-while, darling, made you simply delightfulat our little games." Walking behind her in that awkward way of his, his free hand lightly ran over her hair, fingertips surprisingly gentle. "But ah one day, as the story goes, you lost that spontaneity, that ah, that joie de vivre…" He purred in her ear, elongating the r's as a hand snaked forward to caress her collarbone, the soft smack of his lips resonating in her ear.

This was not good, some rational part of her mind screamed, but the rest would hear nothing of it. His touch was electrifying, warm on skin that lay bruised and battered, fingertips drawing small spirals as they worked their way down. She fought to remain in control of herself, to ignore the sensations running up and down her spine, but his touch resurrected memories long banished, a flush rising to her cheeks. This was not happening, and yet… it was.

His breath was hot on her ear, just as it had been on the rooftop.

"And, my darling, you well, you became someone I could not recognize…"

"So did you." Her words were nothing but a murmur, wondering how the tables had managed to turn so quickly. He had learned a fair amount of his own tricks in her absence, it seemed.

"You got some really funny, ideas… some really, awful ideas." His fingertips brushed against the rise of her breasts, continuing his small circles. This was not how she saw this talk going. Not one bit. Dear god, she had to flip this, had to try again to get back on top, yet it all felt so…

A flash of light on metal.

She yelped as one of the hooks raked across her skin, the other close behind in their race across her collarbone. Tearing her face away, she could not believe she had let her guard down, furious with herself. The blood was scorching, so much hotter than his flesh, slipping below the neckline of her spattered shirt.

Wrath colored his normally sing-song voice, hooks spinning and twisting in his capable hands, his tongue gliding along his lips.

"You got the idea that you weren't mine. That you hadn't been mine since I first saw you. You got, the idea, that you could just leave… See a guy like me, I like surprises, I like 'em. But that one, that one, oh that I didn't like. And after all I had done for you…"

The hooks paused in their routine and his hands retracted, a soft whisper filling the air as he sliced through the ropes binding her hands. Bringing them forward, she subconsciously rubbed at the burns, his face appearing a moment later before her own. Breath mingling, they locked eyes, she slipping down the rabbit hole to arrive at the pit of rage that formed his core, hot like the sun.

"It's ironic, isn't it? I do this for you, and you can't even stand the sight of me. You can't stand the sight. Of. Me."

Something flickered behind his eyes, a need she couldn't place.

An instant, and the levees broke, the floodwaters released.

Breathing heavily, he cast his eyes wildly about for her hands, seizing them fiercely and bringing them to his face, scraping her nails over the mutilated flesh. Trying to wrench away made him grip even tighter, the scars jagged and bumpy beneath her fingertips, crimson greasepaint smearing over her skin. Breath knocked out of her, she could only think of what she was feeling, a maelstrom of emotions mirrored within his gaze, shared communal memory of excruciating pain and disgust.

Not even sure why, she slowed the frantic pace and shifted closer.

A jolt ran through him as her touch softened, whether out of surprise or something else, she couldn't explain. The sensation of touching the rutted flesh of his cheeks was nothing like she had imagined, crudely done with a razor and home-made stitches, angry and violent by nature. The skin was soft and stretched, warped and stiffer in some places than others, the depth of the valleys constantly changing. More cords of such agony and grief wracked her own visage, but individually they paled in comparison.

Markings. Hers marked the face of a debtor.

And his?

Gently tracing one side and then the other, her husband oddly quiet, coiled like a spring beneath her touch, she couldn't help but wonder. What did his mark? A message, a way to make his point? Or was it some sick affinity between them, some twisted form of ownership and connection? She honestly couldn't say; with Jack, the Joker, and the Devil, nothing was ever so simple.

No, nothing was ever simple.

Her fingers straying from the scars, he didn't move to stop her, slipping easily into his old role once more. Control was a funny thing, and she agreed, it required both of them to play the game, mutual assent for either side to work. He would never break her and she would never best him, though she could spend the rest of her days hoping for some sort of closure.

They were connected, tied together by countless strings, pulling each other in opposite directions and swirling in the infinite pool humanity called time. Swirling and swirling, the string never unraveling, no matter how each tried to escape.

Moving closer, she watched as her fingers were stained with crimson and white, removing the last streaks of war paint to touch the man beneath. Jack relaxed somewhat into her hand, gripping the hooks tighter to compensate for the conflicting emotions no doubt whirring in his head. It was like holding a wolf by the ears, she reflected, she couldn't let go but she couldn't hold on either.

Peering into his eyes, Anna could only wonder if she ever understood him at all.

Two and a half years before her scarring, and it's four in the morning.

He sighs quietly beside her, arm clutching her to his chest, murmuring in his sleep. Anna can't make out the words but wishes him good dreams nonetheless, he could use them. Normally she was the one lying peacefully in slumber and he awake for hours on end, mind whirring and whirring until rest became unattainable.

It was impossible for that man to relax, she thinks.

He usually reads when he can't sleep, she knows, the books on the floor next to his side of the bed stacked ten high. To look at him, constantly fidgeting, constantly talking, one wouldn't peg him for a reader, but he is. The titles are always changing thanks to the library near his work, but some are old veterans, old friends.

Somewhere in there she knows is Crime and Punishment, dog-eared and yellowed with time. She has no idea where or when he got it, but he certainly hasn't put it down since then, absorbed by the tale of murder, guilt, and moral dilemmas. She hadn't enjoyed such dark material, but Jack thrived on it.

In there is also one of Hawking's texts, she forgets the name, though to be honest she can't understand half of it, even if she pretends to. Normally he skips right to the sections on entropy and singularities, how everything ends in chaos and some other things she accidentally tuned out when he tried to explain. He's incredibly intelligent; he would be more than a nameless accountant if only he would apply himself in the right ways.

There are books on engines and on cars, though he's never been beneath one in his life. Some philosophers, notably Thomas Hobbes, figure in among the titles, though why he's reading Hobbes for enjoyment she'll never know. Sometimes she thinks it's because it makes him fall asleep faster, and if that's the case, all the power to him.

And sometimes the titles worry her, though she never says anything.

She's seen enough books on ballistics and demolition stuck under the bed where he thinks she won't look. He's curious, and that's fine, but it isn't exactly the most comforting sentiment in the world to know your husband is learning how to chamber bullets and create crude bombs. Nevertheless it is a dangerous city, and one never knew when such skills would prove useful.

Jack was strange, yes, but she doubts he would ever take anything that far.

It's odd, Anna thinks, she knows so little and so much about him. She could tell you his favorite meal, his favorite books, how many smiles he has when he decides to show them. What he wishes he could be and what he is thankful he is not, what he thinks is true and what he hopes is false.

She knows many things, but ask her about his parents, or his childhood, and she doesn't know. Ask her why he keeps getting fired from his jobs, and she won't tell you the reason she thinks is true, but the one he uses every time. Anna doesn't know why he dislikes people, why he has only her and likes it that way, why he doesn't abide it when she goes out with her friends.

Yet ask her why she doesn't care about those things, and she'll tell you it's because of the one smile he flashes when she makes him laugh. The way his eyes look in the sunlight as they're lying in the grass, the things he whispers when no one can hear.

It's because of moments like these, his arm tight around her, that she doesn't care at all.

She slowly retracted her hands, watching as he stepped away.

The anger was seemingly scorched out of him for the time being, though he was no less dangerous, a small trickle of blood oozing from his fist where he had tightened his grip on the hooks. Blood was blood, and the difference between theirs was nigh impossible to discern. As it was, her neck and chest still stung from where the hooks had done their work, the blood dried in thin swathes like ruby tears.

An idea seemingly entering his head, the Joker headed for his coat on the bed, rummaging deftly through his pockets until he had found his prize. Carefully extricating his prey from the dusty material, he turned slowly, a pair of identical knives resting on his palm. Not even bothering to see if she was watching, he held one up, his voice low, face unreadable.

"This was my gift to you. Your birthday."

Her mouth opens in an O of surprise; that wasn't what she was expecting, if anything, she supposed he would have asked which one she wanted to be tortured with. She didn't think he had even remembered its origin, scooping it up the night she was captured. "Yeah, my twenty-sixth. You said it was a specialty piece."

His gaze flickered upward, though returned swiftly to the switchblade in his palm. "I lied."

Anna remained silent, not even able to believe they were having this conversation, much less sure of how to respond.

Her husband didn't seem to mind the silence, merely holding both up this time, the metal glinting in the light of the lamp. "They're exactly the same. Exactly. You wouldn't know which one ah, saw more action. Which one sat in a drawer and which one in a pocke-t."

"Do you know?"

He didn't reply, his eyes saying all he needed.

Gordon ran a hand through his hair; if this kept up, he wouldn't have much left.

The thug sitting on the other side of the glass had been silent thus far, refusing to admit anything about his former employer. He only wheezed and clutched his side, the two bullet wounds the Joker had delivered still burning like hell, Gordon figured. It was amazing that the man had even survived, a few inches off and he would be dead like the rest of the men on that rooftop.

Either the Joker was becoming careless, which the commissioner highly doubted, or he was half-blind and carrying a heavy load. Given what his forensics team had told him of the inch of grit left on the Roosevelt Building, he could only assume the latter.

There was no Batman this time to question the scruffy young man, so they had one of the veterans of the force doing the honors. So far, nothing had worked, neither intimidation nor bribes, the good old standbys at the MCU. No one in Gotham was willing to cross the Joker, even if their lives were so recklessly cast aside by the same madman.

Those who worked with him knew he wouldn't miss a second time.

That was the only angle Gordon legally had, unless he thought of something, and fast. This man knew where Anna Fischer was, and the commissioner would raise hell to get it out of him.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this, sorry it wasn't ALL action! I'm honestly curious to hear what you think...

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