IV

The peace (relatively speaking, of course) doesn't last for very long. After a mere mile or two of convoluted route (a mile or two that I can't help but notice has taken us into a neighborhood that looks sketchy as hell), the Joker parks the damaged car. Well, "parks" is putting it a bit generously, considering that half the car winds up on the curb, but I'm not in the mood to quibble.

I watch as he climbs from the car, brain racing to make sense of this new development. Of course, I realize belatedly, we can't keep using this one, not now that he's gunned down two cop cars and the police are looking for it. I stay where I am, unsure of what I'm meant to do, and after a second, he ducks his head back in to peer at me. I anticipate a snippy comment, but he just stares thoughtfully at me for a second. I expect he's trying to decide whether to drag me along as he steals a new form of transport or leave me to wait, banking on my being too cold and too scared to run.

Another movement, then he gives a twitchy sort of shrug and reaches for me. "Upsy-daisy, Em. Let's go."

I'm beyond arguing, at least for now, not after what I've just been through. I silently slide across the seat and even manage not to flinch as he grabs my elbow and jerks me out (since apparently I'm not moving quickly enough for him). He sets me on my feet, shuts the door, locks the car, then winds back and wings the keys deep into a nearby alley.

"C'mon," he says, hunching his shoulders and beginning to stride jerkily down the street. I linger for a moment, wondering foolishly how he plans to make me, but when he doesn't so much as glance over his shoulder to see if I'm coming, I realize that my choices are incredibly limited. It's freezing out here and this neighborhood is terrifying, all boarded windows and vague shadows in the alleyways hinting towards predators waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. At this moment, I'm probably safer with the Joker than alone.

I've never hated a mere concept before, but at the moment I'm feeling pretty unfriendly towards irony.

"Damn it," I mutter, and, holding my arms tightly across my middle to try and ward off the freezing wind, I hurry quickly to catch up, attempting to keep an eye out for broken bottles and such with the limited light I have. I don't think he'll take kindly to the idea of carrying me if I slice my bare foot open, and—irony's being a bitch again—I certainly don't want him to leave me here for the vultures.

He appears to take no notice of me as I catch up, head busily swinging back and forth and lips parted absent-mindedly as he assesses the street. Whatever he's looking for, I'm guessing he doesn't find it—he pulls his lips back from his teeth for a split second, releasing a brief growl of annoyance, and then abruptly switches directions, cutting in front of me and heading directly into one of the aforementioned sketchy-dark alleyways.

"Damn it," I snarl again, but unwilling to risk being separated from him for too long and getting lost in the freezing dark, I plunge in after him immediately.

That worry about the dark is unbelievably warranted. The light from the one functioning street lamp on the road we just left fades after only a second or two, leaving me with only the sound of his purposefully-scuffing shoes to guide me, and I put a hand out instinctively as I move, feeling around in the cold blackness. After a second, my fingers collide with the heavy material of his coat, from the feel of it at the point where his arm meets his shoulder, and since he doesn't jerk away or give any indication that he's noticed, I grip his arm and follow as quickly as I can without stepping on the back of his shoes (which I imagine would be met with a sharp blow from out of the dark—even I feel like hitting people who do that to me; I can't imagine how much it would annoy him).

And of course it's too much to hope for that we'll emerge from the alley without any problems. Of course it is. This is a Gotham alleyway, I remind myself as I hear a new set of footsteps. I feel the Joker's arm lift under my hand as he slows, and, assuming I'm being told to stop, I obey. He sighs heavily as a rough voice snakes towards us: "Hey, man. Gotta light?" The voice is sinister—intentionally so, I'm sure—and half-laughing. I guess the line's a sort of in-joke to muggers.

The Joker speaks, his own voice lively and high compared to that of the shadow in front of us. "Sure," he says, and I wonder if the mugger can hear the danger coiled in it the way I can. Then again, I know who I'm dealing with. Still, I imagine I can hear the guy take a step back even as a click echoes through the black alleyway, signifying the exposure of a knife blade.

The Joker's coat rustles as he digs in his pockets, completely unhurried despite the fact that I'm pretty sure a weapon's just been pulled on us, then murmurs "ah-hah" as he finds what he's looking for. His arm moves beneath my hand as he lifts it, and the scraping sound of flint reaches me a second before a tiny flame flares to life right in front of him.

The sight of that disembodied white face floating in the blackness, bordered by distorting shadows as the lighter flame flickers, is almost enough to send me running. I catch a glimpse of rough stubble and the whites of the mugger's eyes as he realizes his mistake, and then the Joker's other arm shoots forward.

I've never actually heard the sound of a blade ripping through flesh. Despite the fact that the Joker obviously appreciates his knives, each of my encounters with him earlier in the year seemed to end with gunfire rather than knife blades. Sure, he's nicked me here and there, but that's just a light scratching sound as the skin is severed, and only then if you're listening. This is much louder, a sickening squelch as he buries his blade to the hilt in the mugger's gut, then an actual wet tearing as he yanks it upwards towards his ribcage. The whole time, he holds the lighter steadily aloft, casting the faintest glimmer of light on the whole gruesome scene, illuminating the mugger's horrified face as he realizes he's being eviscerated.

Then, in a flash, the Joker jerks the knife back and carelessly shoves him towards the wall, and the mugger falls into it with a gurgling groan. The Joker clicks the lighter closed and puts it away again, tsking disapprovingly as the mugger's moans begin to fill the alleyway, and then he reaches up and grabs my hand from where it's still resting on his shoulder as if frozen there. "Sorry about that, Em," he tells me in a tone that makes it pretty clear that he's anything but as he tucks my hand beneath his arm and resumes the walk through the alley as if nothing had happened.

I can't find the strength to do anything but follow. My stomach should be turning sickening somersaults, the way it did the first time he killed a man in front of me (and the second, for that matter), but despite the gap of time that has passed since the last time I saw evidence of his lethality, I seem to have adjusted to the sight of death. After all, it's harder to be shocked and appalled by killing when you've killed two men yourself. Even so, I'm getting flashes of the sight from just moments ago, of his stomach opening to reveal white and pink and red all painted vaguely orange by the flickering light—

No, I tell myself firmly as we finally emerge from the alleyway to the next street. Don't you dwell on it, not now, not while you're still in danger. You've already seen your fear return, you can't afford to start feeling conscience now, too, not while you're in his grasp. Whining about his casualties is a good way to find yourself joining them.

The Joker releases my hand abruptly once we reach the light and makes a beeline across the street. I see the same thing he does—a black sedan, neither small nor big, not sleek or boxy or bulky, just… there, totally nondescript. In other words, the perfect getaway vehicle. I cross my arms tight again and follow more slowly, trying to ignore the fact that the icy pavement burns the soles of my feet and watching to see what he does.

He delves into the coat again, and I watch with an odd blend of disgust, bemusement, and fascination as he re-emerges with several strips of flexible metal. He starts locking them together, and I can't hold back a scoff as I realize that he's putting together a makeshift slim jim. His eyes roll towards me even as his hands work, and I find my shoulders hunching half-defensively, half-apologetically. "I just—what are you gonna pull out next, a full-sized lamp?"

"Ah," he says absently as he steps forward and jams the tool down past the driver's window, "you're welcome to come feel around for one."

The vaguely insinuating tone in which he says it throws me off too much for me to even think about replying, so I just sit in silence until the lock pops open a surprisingly short time later (or unsurprisingly, I suppose, considering who I'm with). The thought of the Joker flirting is just a little bit too much for me to handle at the moment, especially given the fact that I've just seen him kill yet another person and he still has some blood drying at the base of his thumb (I imagine he wiped the rest off on his already-stained waistcoat), so as he jerks the slim jim free and yanks the door open, I just circle around to the passenger side in meek silence.

Aside from unlocking the passenger door for me, he seems more interested in noting his new surroundings than in pursuing my discomfort at the moment. I watch him, wondering idly if I'm about to witness my first hotwiring, but it seems that nothing so sophisticated is in order—another dive into the coat yields a screwdriver, which he jams into the ignition, and with a rough twist, he brings the car to life.

"I swear I'm getting you a Swiss army knife for Christmas," I say without thinking, and immediately direct my eyes forward, not wanting to see the significant look I'm sure he'll give me in response to the notion, however idle or flippant, that he's on my Christmas list the way I'm apparently on his.

He's not letting me get away with it that easily, though. A heavy arm falls behind my shoulders and I feel his breath in my ear as he leans close. "Well, ya know," he says conspiratorially as I try my hardest not to cringe away and reveal my fear (and fail spectacularly), "I could always use more grenades. I mean, if you're looking for a way to express your gratitude."

There's no way I'm taking that bait. I just sit in silence, waiting for him to withdraw, and when he doesn't, hard as I might try, I can't stop my eyes from darting momentarily to his, wondering why he won't just get out of my space. He laughs through his nose, doubtless enjoying this clear evidence of my nervousness, and only then does he lean back, arm slipping off my shoulders and leaving chill behind it. The interior squeaks as he twists around to check the backseat.

"Ahh," he growls in satisfaction, ducking down to rummage on the floorboards, and he returns abruptly with two objects. The first, he tosses at me, and I catch it and hold it up to examine it. To my surprise, I find that I'm holding a black fleece jacket—too big, and it smells like cigarettes, but at this point, I'm far from complaining, especially considering that I'd resigned myself to spending the rest of my life warding off frostbite.

I slip it on immediately with an instinctive, soft-spoken "thank you," and when he doesn't respond, I glance over to note two things. First, the other object he'd found in the back was a towel, and second—I can hardly believe it—he's using it to scrub the faded paint free from his face.

I'm immediately transfixed. I've never seen him without the mask of face paint, though obviously he has to take it off sometimes—practical needs such as shaving aside, he must strip it off routinely in order to apply it afresh again; new paint caked atop the old would start to look ridiculous very soon, and if there's anything this man is not, it's ridiculous. I've always been both fascinated and repelled by the rare glimpses of humanity I sometimes see in him. The idea that a fellow human being could be capable of the things he's done disgusts and impresses me equally, and now as the paint comes off, leaving big flesh-colored patches behind it, it throws the contradicting sentiments in sharp relief.

And even more disturbing than the conflict in my gut is the fact that I can't seem to help but notice one thing in particular as the makeup comes off. Even with the scars, despite the frame of matted green hair and the yellowed teeth, it's impossible to ignore the fact that the Joker was—is—an extremely handsome man. You don't really notice it as much with the makeup, especially considering the fact that the war paint marks him as something intensely dangerous, something other, but strip away the distracting color and it's all too apparent that, scars or no scars, he would never have a problem attracting any number of people if looks were the only factor. I've noticed it before, of course—that paint can't hide lips and eyes and perfect bone structure—but never has it been so obvious, and never has it made me feel so uncomfortable and vaguely sick.

Before I get a chance to think about why, though, and before I become aware of the fact that he has become aware of my indiscreet staring, I find myself with my face pressed against the glove box, his fingers curled bruisingly around the back of my neck to hold me in place and his head once again hovering too-near my own.

"Curious, Em?" he purrs, giving my neck a painful squeeze that belies his almost innocuous tone of voice—which drops a guttural octave with his next question: "Or didn't your mommy ever teach you it's not polite to stare?"

I scrabble for the glove box, trying to get my hands up so I can brace against it and push away from him, but he just lifts my head a fraction and gives me a harsh shake, like a mother cat punishing a kitten, before shoving me back against the dash. "I'm sorry!" I cry out, almost reaching towards him in a pleading gesture, but I check myself just in time—I figure that would be practically asking for a set of broken fingers. "I've just never seen you without the paint, I'm sorry, you took me off guard!"

Far from being placated, he tightens his grip further, prompting a gasp of pain from me. "Oh, I'm sorry," he breathes, his tone making a mockery of the words, "did I spring it on you too fast? Here." He jerks me upright again, and, maintaining his hold on my neck, he reaches up with his other hand, grabbing me hard by the chin and wrenching my head around to face him. "Stare. Take a second to get used to it."

Reflexively, as usual, I avoid his gaze, looking out of the far right corners of my eyes, out of the windshield. He shoots an impatient breath out through his nostrils, and his hand leaves my neck, only to return in seconds, and this time, something cold and sharp presses against the skin. "Oh, no, Em," he says, and his voice is low now, calm and free of the forceful growl that had stained it just seconds again. "You're gonna look at me. There's no easy way out for you."

I think it's the utterly terrifying implications of that statement, the reminder that far worse things loom on the horizon than punishment for daring to look at his bare face, that lends me courage. Slowly, I bring my eyes back to his.

"Thaaaaaat's it," he hums encouragingly, pushing his jaw forward, commanding attention. "Get a good look."

I obey him. I let my eyes travel along the knotted skin of the scars, darker than the rest of his face, linger for a moment on the chapped lips, then move up the prominent jawline to finally look into his eyes. It seems like I've been avoiding them all evening, but even so, the difference is striking. Without the makeup ringing them, making them heavy and black, they are lighter—focused and steady, edged by light eyebrows normally consumed by the makeup, and perhaps it's just a trick of the dubious light, but… they look almost peaceful.

These are not the eyes of a madman. I know it's a false, stupid thought even as I think it, but I can't seem to stop my hand from drifting up, index and middle fingertips brushing ever-so-slightly against the skin where his jutting jaw meets his ear.

He doesn't tolerate it for longer than an instant. He trades his painful grip on my face for a painful grip on my offending wrist in a flash, and he jerks my hand away from his face, flinging it back at me so quickly that it nearly collides with my chin. I could almost hug him for it, because as soon as he thrusts me back, I return to my senses.

Slow the fuck down, Stockholm, I abuse myself soundly, more than a little shaken by my own actions as he flicks the knife away from the back of my neck and tucks it back into his pocket with an annoyed grunt. The cozier you get with this psychopath, the sooner you'll wind up dead. Think you can remember that, or is the pretty face that you've always known was there going to turn you into some cooing bleeding-heart?

Even as I breathe heavily, recovering from the scare, I risk a quick glance at him. He's facing front again, back in his seat, and as I look over, he straightens his tie, jaw hitched almost mulishly. He's clearly annoyed, so I don't apologize again. I don't do anything to attract attention to myself, for that matter. I simply sit, quietly and still, as he puts the stolen car into drive and rips away from the curb with a loud screech.

As we go along and as I start to see more and more police officers, it becomes apparent to me just why he saw fit to take the makeup off. Theatrics are all well and good when one wants to be seen, but we're flying under the radar now, and white tends to catch the eye in the dark. Natural skin, on the other hand…

I risk another quick look. He's leaning over the steering wheel, neck craned as he peers up to check the sky, probably ensuring that they haven't called in air support, and in the shadows his scars are quite difficult to make out. I wouldn't bet on passing police officers noticing them the way they would face paint. If one pulled up beside us while we're stopped, though…

I'm just going to hope that doesn't happen. He's got at least two guns on him, and even leaving the extra bloodshed completely aside, I'm not looking forward to the prospect of one going off inside the enclosed space—my ears are still ringing from the shots he fired earlier, and the gun wasn't even inside the car then.

The safest place to direct my eyes is forward, and I watch the road silently. The route he's taking is unfamiliar and includes a lot of twists and turns, but judging by the declining neighborhoods and the increase of dilapidated abandoned buildings surrounding us, I'd guess he's headed for the Narrows again.

The clock reads 4:23. I think I've been with him for about an hour and a half, and I close my eyes at the thought. If he can cause this much mayhem in ninety minutes… unbidden, my brain flashes back to something he'd said earlier, when he found it out was only December twentieth: "Oh, good. We've got a couple of days then."

I'm not sure whether to be relieved or terrified at the implication that he plans to keep me alive—and judging that I've been with him for this long and have only suffered a few bruises as compared to the cuts, bites, concussions, and shards of glass studding my back that followed each shorter encounter previously, I'd say it's a fair assumption to make. I have no idea what he's planning.

The old game ended, I think desperately. Where can he possibly go from here?

I'm afraid to imagine.

"You know, you're awful quiet." His voice prompts my eyes to open, and I glance sharply at him, but he's only watching the road, fingertips drumming absently along the steering wheel. "I remember you bein' such a chatterbox. What happened?"

Yeah, look who's talking, I think, but after the little outburst earlier, I have no intention of voicing the thought. Instead, I shift a little, tucking my hands under my arms (the jacket helps, but I'm still barefooted and still cold, and I'm not about to ask him to crank up the heat again). "I can't think of anything to say."

"Oh, I doubt that," he rejoins immediately, a sneer twisting along his lips for just an instant. "I bet you've got a lot to say. You're just scared to say it."

"Well, can you blame me?" I snap, and I immediately regret it. The question amuses him, though; he chortles and then draws a hissing breath through his teeth.

"That's it. There's the Em I remember. Saying whatever's on your mind the second you get a little riled, no matter what, ah, common sense deems wise. You were always good for a laugh, you know."

"That's why, then?" I venture, even though I'm aware that I may be treading on thin ice. He doesn't reply, just rolls those disarmingly calm eyes to their corners to look at me for a second before returning them forward. I go on. It's what he seems to want, after all. "That's why you did this—why you're still doing it? Because you think it's funny?"

He squints, the skin around his eyes creasing deeply, and stabs the index finger of his right hand through the air at me several times. "That's part of your problem, Em. You're obsessed with the why. Not that I blame you, I mean, it's a common enough condition… but c'mon. Leaving aside the fact that it is really funny—" and he extends his right arm as he speaks, cradling the back of the headrest casually with his hand, and I flinch away—"why does there have to be a reason?"

"Because," I say, struggling to ignore the fact that there's only a few inches between that dangerous hand and my skull, "people don't just do things. Even reflexive action has a purpose, usually self-preservation. We've talked about the survival instinct enough before—"

He's shaking his head, though, and I read the rough tap he gives my headrest as a sign to shut up. "Not even you can tie our little games to an instinctive motivation, Em."

"I wasn't trying to," I argue.

"What, then?" he challenges, not missing a beat. "Come onnnn. What do you think my motivation is?" His tone is so laden with mockery that it throws me off, and I gesture wordlessly for a second until he prompts me with an impatient "Hmm?"

I settle on "Entertainment, maybe?"

"Well, I do dress like a clown," he quips, pulling a pensive face for all of a second before letting it drop completely. "But no," he growls, turning his head to stare at me as we roll to a stop at a red light. "Ya see, about the stupidest thing you could do is try to pin a motive to me. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, Em—riddles were never my schtick. Ya wanna know why?"

I lift troubled, unwilling eyes to his for a moment, but I can't quite manage to answer, too afraid of what he might say.

As usual, though, he doesn't require my participation. "Because," he says as my eyes fall again, pronouncing the word with relish, "riddles can be solved. Because the way riddles work—" and he taps the back of my seat hard, earning another flinch from me—"is that naturally, if you have a problem, there must be a solution. Hey. Look at me."

I've learned the folly of disobeying that particular order by now. Silently, I look at him, holding his gaze even when the vinyl creaks beneath him as he leans slightly towards me. Quietly, in a tone totally devoid of theatrics or growling menace, he asks, "Do I look like a fucking riddle to you?"

All I can do is swallow, and beneath the heavy weight of his stare, even that small motion takes effort. It seems to satisfy him, though, and he leans back, returning his attention to the road as the light changes to green.

A/N - Eeeehhheeehee. I enjoyed writing this this chapter. I enjoyed writing the alleyway like a fragment from a half-forgotten nightmare, I like the removal of the paint forcing Emma to face a couple of uncomfortable facts, and I really enjoyed writing that last conversation, especially in light of the fact that I've occasionally seen the Joker and the Riddler's "schticks" compared. I love them both as characters, but they are so astronomically different that I don't think there is a comparison. Eddie's Mr. Rationality; the Joker is the antithesis of that.

This chapter may or may not have tipped you off to the fact that we are headed towards a thorough examination of the tension between our two leads. (How's that for vaguely promising?)

Regular reviewer Scarslett asked me this time if we would see Harley Quinn in this story, echoing several reviewers for Vivisection last year, so I figured I should talk about it in one of these notes. Basically, I told her that I didn't want poor Harley to have to battle yet another demand on Mr. J's attention (and I also really like Emma and don't want her to meet the business end of Ms. Quinn's mallet), but I have another reason, which is essentially that these women are very different, their involvement and interactions with the Joker are very different, and I'm examining a different theme and a different type of antiheroine (heroine? villainess? I don't even know anymore) in each 'verse. What it boils down to- the conclusion I've arrived at after writing frequently for one or the other since I first started with Emma a little over five years ago- is that Harley is a sheep in wolf's clothing, and Emma is a wolf in sheep's clothing. Harley was born soft and sweet but she found fangs and claws, drew them on, and has become one of the pack, so to speak, while Emma is the opposite- from the start, she acknowledges her sharp angles and the things that make her a bad person, but she fights them and seeks to live a normal life. Those two similar-but-separate dynamics really intrigue me, but I want to keep them apart, keep the lines untangled. For the sake of purer study (or something like that, I don't know, it's 3:40 in the morning here, I should stop updating while sleep-deprived). Hopefully that makes some sort of sense and goes a way in explaining why I don't intend to bring Harley into this 'verse.

So I updated last time the night before a nine-hour day of classes, so basically I was periodically receiving reviews on my phone (I just wrote throne; can you tell what I've been watching?) as I walked around campus with a big stupid grin on my face. What I'm saying is reviews are SmileX. You guys poisoned me with SmileX. Keep up the good work.