Chapter Eighteen: No Trace of a Smile

Strawberry: This chapter makes the 100-page mark in the Dark Knight document! Although for some reason, this chapter took me FOREVER, it's still really short…oh well. I hope you enjoy the read! Let me know! :]

He was leaning back against the door, sitting peacefully upright with his hands twirling around each other. Fana was beside him on the floor, edgily watching him as if to ask what made him change course so freely and easily. But she kept her questions to herself, knowing well they would either go unanswered or simply be laughed at. Sometimes he would really give her an answer, but the manner with which he did so put her out greatly, as it showed her how truly inhuman he was. In that back of her mind, she wondered if it really bothered her at all that he was insane; she couldn't possibly have blamed him, knowing that two of his most major family members had betrayed his childish trust. She wondered if he was really to blame for the third slicing of his smile. Had his wife honestly driven him to such a point that he'd felt so compelled to do such a thing to himself when he was already plagued with it?

"You don't know the things she said." That was what he had told her so accusatorily based on her curiosity about what had mad him feel he needed to do it. He'd mentioned the day before that it had been the time when he had fully lost his mind and gone completely unattached, but his recognition of this happening seemed suspicious. A person couldn't have possibly thought that doing something so rash and violent could have saved someone else, no matter how dire the circumstances. He must have known it wasn't really going to help anything at all; maybe he had even known it would work the opposite way. Perhaps he had been conniving and was trying to get her to leave him for some obscure reason.

She gave up her assumptions, for she knew that no matter how far she twisted her mind to fit his criteria, she would still be completely unable to understand the things he did.

There was nothing to say, nothing to do as they sat beside one another, Fana having taken to picking at the floor tiles. He could tell that she was thinking a thousand things—it gave him a sort of prompting energy that wore him out at the same time. When she thought, he had only to enjoy it: the way her eyes started to close but refrained, the sight of electricity flowing through her veins, and her mouth sliding around as naturally as his. He wasn't like her—oh, no—but she was like him. On occasion, she had accused him of being like her, but she didn't know the half of it. It didn't need to go both ways; it only had to go the one way, and that one way was his way. If in her eyes, he was corrupt, than she was the same and nothing less.

"What are you thinking?" she asked out of the blue. He didn't trouble himself to look at her or shift at all in acknowledgment. It was no difficult question. It required no thinking, because he was already thinking about the answer, since the answer was whatever he made from thoughts. Sly, he thought, remarking at the twister of the concept.

"Plenty of things, doll face," he chanted sardonically. "Like for me to share?" She nodded, and though he was not looking her direction, he continued as though he had seen her. "I'm thinking about how…Harvey Dent is still safe and sound. And, you know, thinking about Harvey Dent…makes me think about his ol' squee-zuh. Her name is…huh. Her name is…"

"Rachel," Fana inputted.

"Ha! There we go." The smile affecting his features was daunting. The sight of the half-wiped away paint lathered on his mouth made Fana unconsciously drag her hand across her mouth, turning away as she did so. She wondered if there had been red stained on her face, but decided instantly that there must have been. Sure enough, the back of her hand was smeared with red coloring. Entranced by what it meant, she stared at the streaks condemningly. They meant that she was completely incapable of a real human life or interactions with other people. They proved that she had let her wreck of a family have an effect on her, even though she credited herself with having masked it well. The only person she had really and truly interacted with and tried to form some kind of twisted relationship with was a murderer; a clown out of his mind. The fact was, it was the sort of fatal attraction that determined that she didn't mind because she wanted to understand him so desperately. Even so, they weren't really attracted to one another; they were just there, together, two members of the opposite sex in an icehouse. It was survival of the fittest, though she never needed affection.

Maybe she didn't know what she was saying at all.

Fana started to wipe at the red paint at her face again, wishing for a mirror so that she could tell whether it was all gone or not. When she lowered her hand back to the floor, he reached for it blindly, adjourning her actions and giggling over the way he knew her mind to be faltering. "That's a nice look for you," he told her plainly, nodding to her mouth. He wrapped his fist around her fingers tightly, giving her arm a jerk to persuade her continuation. "What do you say…you leave it there?" She shook her head and started rubbing at the paint with her other hand.

"No," she replied sternly.

"Oh." She wondered if she had offended him and made to express herself with less force, but not before he went on. "Guess you wanna…reapply it later, missy…"

She scoffed. "Funny."

"I know," he hissed. "So. You were asking me abou-t…what I was thinking, hm?"

"Yeah. Keep going."

He leaned back against the wall, making himself comfortable. "We were talking about Miss…Rachel…weren't we?" he assumed, smiling lightly. "You know somethin', doll face? She was the one who was supposed to be here…right now. The dashing D.A. would've done 'what was noble'…" He nodded. "He would have come after her instantly." Then he shook his head. "I'd say you were a…mistake. But…hah…I don't believe in those…" Her nose twitched involuntarily as if something he had said tickled her face, and it made him wince in turn at how stupid she looked. "But Harvey'd be dead…and the mayor…and Rachel might be dead, too, if I was in…the mood. And look where we are now…" His fingers tensed against hers. "I'm stuck with you and no one to kill."

Fana simply stared. She did not pull away from his grip or scowl at him; did not tell him he was insane or try to convince him that he had the wrong idea. She just sat there and watched him, perhaps because she was trying to filter in the "right" thoughts, whatever they were anymore. She just didn't know anything at all, she decided.

"I wanna know something," he piped up again. Before Fana even had the opportunity to ask him what he wanted to know, he was already clarifying. "I guess…hma…I guess you wouldn't understand…dollface. But…do something for me. Preten-duh…you know how pleasing it is to kill someone."

"I never will," Fana cut in crossly.

"You don't have to," he told her slyly. "Now…now here's what I wanna know… Have you ever thought about…what it feels like-kuh…to die?" He smiled at the look of surprise on Fana's stupid, human face. "I bet you have," he went on, without a reply. He hadn't expected one anyway. "Well…so listen. You can figure it out without dying…and you know, killing's the way to do it." She tried to stop him, but he merely spoke over her. "You just…have to put yourself in their shoes." The final word hung dryly in the air as if he would never stop purring the ending "s". "You see, there are…different kinds of victims…you know. There's the ones that beg and the ones who just…don't seem to understand that…being 'strong' doesn't…hah…doesn't get you anywhere." He pushed his hair away from his forehead. "I wanna know…what kind of victim you are."

Fana's insides twisted as she stared icily at him. She knew that he had promised her, that something had changed and that he wouldn't really try to kill her, even out of sheer curiosity over malice. But still…the fact that he had mentioned it sent a shiver down her spine. He spoke again, this time talking about how Fana seemed apathetic, how he predicted that she wouldn't even care if she died, and those were the most annoying kinds. He said, "I could never kill you…be-cause…you'd never give me that…mhoh…deathly satisfaction. Hah!"

He paused, and instantly, Fana took notice.

"What, may I as-k…is so wrong with being like me?" he proposed. He considered all the possible things she might have said, knowing she would have said hundreds of things. She might have said that he was too intent on killing, too unfeeling, too wrong. But whatever she said, it was all wrong. All they would ever be were memories on the earth; a piece of history. He wanted to be remembered, and he was already well on his way to staying in the minds of Gotham for the next five hundred years. Fana wasn't going to be remembered. She wasn't even in anyone's mind in that very moment, as shown by the lack of any action her captivity had given him. No one had come to save her or even betrayed Harvey. Some would have said that he had been wrong, and society would simply turn on one another in such a way, but he knew that wasn't the case. He knew that Fana was clearly useless to the rest of the world. She hadn't made her imprint, and if she didn't start trying to soon, she'd leave the world and her name would never pass anyone's lips.

His, however…hah, they wouldn't be able to get enough of talking about that pesky Joker!

"Nothing…" His head snapped in her direction, hardly believing that he had heard her correctly. He raised his eyebrows in mock interest. He thought of the words to conflict her with, searching for her motives while he did so. Fana sighed, completely resigned. She was emotionally tired and overly drained to the point where she felt it completely acceptable to just let him have his cake and eat it too.

"Say that again," he told her strictly.

"There's nothing wrong with being like you," she repeated with more clarity. He couldn't even bring himself to believe that she had really said it, much less mean it. She wasn't necessarily surprised at herself; maybe it was just that she was tired of looking for all the fault within his thought patterns. It might have been time she honestly tried to understand. She couldn't believe that he had simply been born with all the murderous intent and psychopathic thinking. He must have been born as a regular child but into a family—or lack there of—situation that stunted his regular, human mind. It must have been hard, and though she knew she wanted to help him be what she knew he had the potential to be, she had to try her best to understand first and foremost.

He never answered her repetition of the words, but Fana knew that he had heard. They simply continued to sit there, his hand grasping hers with his rough, jagged skin. It was those moments she appreciated most; being able to see him simply looking, without the trace of a smile.