A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Thank you also to my anonymous reviewers: Censes, xxJokersgirlxx, Tasha, and Jenn!
Disclaimer: I don't own Batman.
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Four hours of questioning had passed.
Gordon pulled the heavy iron door shut behind him.
The disheveled young man only glared in response, no doubt recognizing his face as that of the commissioner. Normally a small-timer like this would never meet a man like him face to face, but this small-timer wasn't exactly a small-timer any longer. Not if the hundred-thirty death toll of the Gotham Central bombing had anything to say about it.
His footsteps hard on the tile, the commissioner paused before the table, the fluorescent light of the interrogation room highlighting the gray that had nearly overrun the russet of his hair. His voice was calm and composed, unlike Burns' had been; the last thing he wanted to do was scare the young man.
At least not yet.
"I only want to ask a few questions. Simple questions, a yes or no will do fine." The thug only continued to glower from his slumped position in the chair, breathing heavier than normal as he pressed a hand to the wound in his side. "No one is listening in this time – I've sent them away, I promise."
A pained laugh, forced between thin lips. The thug's voice sounded young, he looked young, maybe only twenty-two, twenty-three. "Oh yeah? How do I know that?"
First words their suspect had uttered all day, at least that was something.
Smiling sadly, Gordon only shrugged. "You're just going to have to trust me on this one."
His hands clasped in front of him, he searched for sign of a negative reaction, but found only promising results in the other man's visage. Gordon supposed he would start slow, simple questions to definitively prove her hostage state. With Burns constantly reminding him of the Joker's revenge, the commissioner figured his silence had been at least somewhat worn away by the stone of fear.
"So… the woman the Joker has with him, does she have the scars?"
Gordon was aware he needn't elaborate, any mention of a scar in Gotham had been forever tainted by the madman and his pallid countenance. There were scars, and then there were the scars; nothing was in the middle.
The young man didn't say a word; he didn't have to for the answer to be clear.
Nodding, the commissioner pulled out the straight-backed chair, falling into it with a silent sigh. His hands lay interlocked on the table, his entire demeanor radiating composure and quiet determination. Gaze catching with the Joker's henchman, Gordon kept his tone honest and level, the last avenue open to him before they were required to end the interrogation.
"Listen, you're in a bad situation. There's no getting around that, and you know it. Since the Joker, your boss, has already tried to kill you… it's likely he'll finish the job, whether you talk or not. True?" The commissioner paused, assessing the thug's interest. The other man seemed to be listening. "He'll assume compliance with the investigation, though to be frank, both you and I know he doesn't need a reason to take a life. He's made it quite clear that you mean little to him, as he shot you with the intent to kill in the first place."
Holding the other man's gaze, Gordon leaned forward, injecting as much weight into his words as possible. "If you stay in the city, you will be a dead man. Without question. The longer you stay here, the more true that becomes. He'll get you on the streets or he'll get you in County, make no mistake about that. He'll even get you in here if we wait, I don't know if you remember Lau. The Joker isn't a forgiving individual."
Was that fear flickering in the young thug's eyes, Gordon wondered? Good, there should be if he wanted to survive.
"However…" Leaning back in the chair, he gestured as he spoke. "If you supply the location of the Joker's hostages, I will get you out of the city. I'll personally handle the arrangements, without the other officers' knowledge, so it won't get back to him. Hell… if I need to fly you to Chicago or New York myself, I will. You know this is your only way out, I'd use it if I were you."
He scoured the thug's face, cutting a true father figure as he inwardly prayed the offer would be accepted. "You can trust me, I promise."
Releasing a shaky breath, the thug slumped further and not entirely in pain. His dark hair lay matted against his forehead, eyes bright with the realization of how short his life really was. "How…" He swallowed and started again. "How soon can you do this?"
Gordon only smiled.
He knew he should have folded; Freddy had a flush to his pair of nines.
Groaning as he watched Freddy's hand gleefully swipe the bills from the table, Will could practically feel his wallet growing lighter already. He was far from a rich man, and Lord knew the Joker didn't pay too well, preferring to burn cash rather than dispense with it.
They had all heard about that little… incident. Needless to say, none of his crew had been happy, especially since the great majority of them had originally worked with the mob for most of their lives. Seeing their hard earned cash go up in flames was like a stab to the heart, for Will included.
He had worked with Gambol for fifteen years, taking care of the debtors and monitoring his rackets in case the bookies became too sly. Important work on the East Side, especially when the Narrows was notorious for its violent poker bars and two-faced bastards. His strong build and reputation for callousness had earned him a high spot in the mobster's crew, that was, until Gambol had been sliced through cheek to cheek by his current madman of a boss.
But it wasn't wise to think such thoughts, he remembered, he'd have to watch it; they said the Joker could read minds.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out three more twenties, lying them on the others waiting in the center of the table. The boys had already put in, and Will would guess there was over five hundred dollars in the pot. That's about what his paycheck would have been on a good night or two, before the Joker did his work.
Will could recognize good work when he saw it, having carved more than a few faces in his time. Each face was like the last, barely even registering as the knife sunk into flesh and ripped through it like fabric. Most of the time he never thought of these people after he had dragged them back into the street, leaving them with a mark of Gambol's wrath and a few broken bones.
Then that lady, Barker, had been brought to the warehouse.
The five of them were supposed to watch the hostage, though to be honest, she didn't need much watching. For the first day, all she did was sob, until one of the boys had whispered something in her ear to shut her up. She had closed her trap then for hours, sleeping fitfully and shivering at intervals. Easy job, really, all they had to do was smoke, sit, and play cards.
Then she began to talk. Half of it was lies, but the other half…
"You listening to me?"
Will blinked, breaking from his thoughts and directing his attention to Freddy. "What?"
"I asked if you think that lady is telling the truth."
The crisp sound of a card flipping from the deck, a queen of hearts. Not what he needed, he had mostly spades. "Course I don't. You think anyone would want to marry the Joker? Come on, use your head, she's lyin'."
One of the other men chimed in, a grizzled fellow whose name Will couldn't remember. "Yeah, that freak couldn't get a woman to look at him even if he paid her."
The rest of the men sniggered and grunted their agreement, but Freddy wasn't content to let the matter lie, as usual. A frown creasing his forehead, Will watched as he dealt another card. "But what about the scars? You tellin' me that's a coincidence?"
Will sighed, as much at his poor luck as Freddy pressing the issue. He didn't know what it was, but something niggled in the back of his head, something not right. "Listen, take it from me, Freddy, plenty of people get cut up in this town. She's probably some bookie who stole from him, or some broad he met before. Wouldn't surprise me if he gave her those scars himself."
Freddy shrugged, still perturbed but sensing the need to move on. Sliding his chair back, he placed his cards face down. "I fold, got to go check on the girl. And yeah, Will, you're right, I guess. None of my damn business anyway." He turned the next card and walked away, heading for the screen on the opposite side of the warehouse.
Damn, the final card, an ace of hearts. It was just not Will's day at all.
Her eyes leapt from the knives to his face and back again.
Under no circumstances would she allow herself to look further down. He didn't deserve the satisfaction of seeing the desire he had inspired in her earlier, however light.
God damn him.
Anna knew they were alike, knew they were intertwined in ways neither had expected. For a man who saw every consequence, she bet he didn't see this one, for all the time they had lived together and he had watched her afterwards. In rare moments of honesty she could admit that she was closer to him than she realized, more practical and solemn as he had once been. She didn't exactly loathe it, either, recognizing that the person she had been was not always the best – she had to confess, he had been right more than she realized. The addictive personality had slowly been erased, charisma replaced by pragmatism, the inner blaze dampened to a quiet glow.
The opposite had seemed to happen to him.
He was wild, a force of nature when compared to the mortals that surrounded him, larger than life and ruled by only his own whims. The traits each had cast off the other had absorbed, changing them further into what they knew they should hate.
Anna hadn't realized she had spoken the last thought aloud, but his firm tone sent her crashing back to earth.
"Hate, darling? Funny word, very funny. Not hate, definitely not. You'd be dead already if I hated ya. We became what we loved…"
That strange need she had glimpsed before darkened his eyes.
A slight grin twitched at the corners of his lips, a hint of hunger underneath as he saw her eyes give in and stray down his form. Casting her a glance, a few steps and a spring and he was at the door, calling gruffly for the men still stationed in the living room. Their lumbering footsteps were heavy in the hallway, heralding the entrance of three thugs, one still donning his mask as he entered the bedroom. In their hands rested the gleaming barrels of silenced pistols.
Gesturing to her with a careless wave of his hand, he divided his stare between her and his men. "If she leaves the room at any timewithout me, shoot her. Don't ask questions, just blow her head off. And boys, anything she says, anything at all, don't listen." In two long strides he was at the bed and rifling once more through his jacket, extracting a pistol from one of the pockets. Handing it to the nearest thug, he gestured broadly with his arm.
"There are no guns in here, so she won't be armed with one. You're all going to wait outside and be ready, because ah, if you're no-t…" He trailed off tellingly, letting them fill in the blanks with whatever punishment they feared most. With the Joker, it didn't take much imagination to come up with fifty different ways of dying.
One look around the bedroom was enough to prove it.
Nodding eagerly they fled the room, taking up their stations outside as he slammed the door behind them. His hand reached for the lock but he seemed to think better of it, shrugging, his fingers moving to work on the buttons of his vest instead. Tossing the flashy garment on the dresser, he bent to rifle through the bags, removing a coil of rope from inside.
He advanced awkwardly, body slightly tilted. Fantastic, she figured, not five minutes without the damn bonds and it was back to being tied up. She rubbed furiously at her wrists, trying to restore blood flow while she still could.
The rope fell at her feet with a dull thud.
Eyebrows climbing higher, her mouth opened slightly, gaze drifting from the rope to his face. He couldn't possibly want her to…
Oh….
Well that explained the shooting order, as well as the firearm precautions. Jack had always been secretly thrilled by a risk, and it seemed now that at face value he cared nothing for his own life as well as those around him. In the end, he knew, he would have the last laugh, and to him, that's all that mattered.
It would be her own fear that kept the knife from slitting his throat, kept her in check. All he had to do was sit back and enjoy it, wielding control over her when it seemed he had none.
And the bastard was enjoying it…
Shocked, Anna thought some corner of her mind might have been too.
His tongue crept between his lips, gliding across the scars as his eyes raked her like hot coals. Twin pools of deep brown had darkened to black, offering a silent promise if she would accept it. Reason screeched inside her head to refuse, anything was better than being forced to play this game again…. Yet try as she might, she couldn't entirely convince herself she was even being forced, almost like two skilled players setting the bet and the prize, humming with the need to win.
And the rules could be changed, couldn't they?
Her eyes must have given her away, eager for the challenge. Captivated by the flame and dying to play, drawn to its heat despite all warnings.
Their lips crashed together, plans and emotions exploding within her head like several thousand fireworks. The scars were both everything and nothing, his tongue plundering her mouth even as she fought back in kind.
Through the haze of the kiss, she felt the warm handles of the switchblades thrust into her hand.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this!
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