V

His chattiness seems to have dried up, and I'm grateful, because it means I can stare through the window and avoid looking at him without him getting offended. Probably. I don't know, I never know just what will set him off and why.

Just because he's disinclined to make conversation doesn't mean that he's a quiet companion, though. My nerves are set on edge by his sporadic humming, unrecognizable tunes (almost certainly made up) that never last for longer than a bar or two, but every time he makes a sound, I tense up, preparing to defend myself.

By the time we cross one of the bridges into the Narrows, we've pretty much quit seeing cops, though I still hear sirens and I'm still on edge. When we don't get stopped on the way in, I feel a strange mix of disappointment and relief, and then the Narrows swallows us.

He doesn't stop. For about a half hour, he circles the island, finally stopping at one of the many marinas lining the neighborhood. From the looks of it, this place has either been abandoned for a long time or the people who use it are just used to the squalor—old, rusted fishing boats covered in graffiti, holes riddled throughout the loading ramps, scum floating atop the water.

He comes to a stop in front of one of the ramps, the front wheels resting on the tattered boards, and I suddenly feel a sharp fear—no, what if he jams the gas and sends me down with the car into the water—

It is with this almost-certainly improbably fear in mind that I scramble out of the car as soon as he opens his door, but he's not paying any attention to me. He gets out, then turns again, fiddling with the interior as I stand off and watch, arms wrapped around myself. The engine revs, though the car stays put, and then he deftly flicks the gear shift, ducking out of the way nimbly and narrowly avoiding getting caught as the car lurches down the ramp and into the water.

Water which must be deep, I realize as the car starts tipping forward, apparently not running into the floor of the bay as water surges into it and takes it slowly down. I've never seen the weirdly gruesome sight of a car sinking away into icy black water before, and I stand transfixed as it tips nose-down and is sucked into the depths, too slowly and too quickly all at once. Only when it's gone from view and the bubbles churning to the surface are the only marker of what just transpired do I remember where I am and realize that the Joker has come to stand beside me, hands in his coat pockets, serenely watching as the surface smooths out again.

Then, he sucks his teeth and says, "Well. That's that," and turns away.

I glance once more at the surface, then turn and hurry after him, too aware that the Narrows is not a place for a small, unarmed woman to wander alone at five in the morning.

"Aren't you worried that they're gonna find it?" I ask as I catch up, falling into stride beside him.

"Nope."

I pause, but decide to press forward. I have a theory that he enjoys questions, to a certain extent—if not for the opportunity to twist them into traps for the innocent askers, then certainly for the opportunity to show off his admittedly impressive (if skewed) intellect. I wouldn't call vanity a weakness of his, necessarily, but with all of his theatrics and twisted speech-performances, it certainly seems to be a favored indulgence.

"Why?"

He draws a hissing breath in through his teeth. "Because," he says on the exhale—"well, listen, kid—if the cops decided to drag the harbor, they'd find much more interesting things than one little stolen car."

The certainty with which he says it chills me, though I don't doubt the truth of the statement for a second. Pushing the creeping feeling aside, I ask, "All right, fine, but what about him?"

He glances sideways at me, and I flinch, expecting some retaliation, some acknowledgement that the question is too invasive, but he just harrumphs and mumbles, "You're not that unlucky."

I tell myself that the sudden rush of chills down my spine is due to the cold instead of the implication that Batman's involvement at this stage would end badly for me, but I've never been good at lying, especially to myself. It always strikes me as just delaying the inevitable, and, more importantly, delaying a solution to the inevitable.

Not that I imagine there's a solution to this whole mess. No, he made it pretty sure that this doesn't follow the rules of problem-solving. Even so, I find myself adding that cryptic comment to what I know so far, trying if not to make sense of this little escapade then to at least plot it out a little.

I know that he picked me up with an eye towards the Christmas season, meaning that he's probably setting things into motion with the holiday as some sort of end point (or beginning point). I know that if Batman interfered now, it would probably end up with me following that car into the bowels of the bay, which strengthens my theory that he's planning something a little more long-term. And I know that everything he does, in one way or another, pertains to his eternal quest to lure Batman out to play.

It seems pretty evident that he has a strategy in mind, something bigger than the last time I was involved, more grandiose. The question I keep returning to—the question I can't seem to find an answer for—is where do I fit in?

His shoes suddenly scuff to a stop, and I'm on the alert immediately, but he's only pausing at a rusted, hip-height gate that dubiously guards one of several squat duplexes lining the narrow street, all in various states of dilapidation and disarray. I look around as he fiddles with the latch and note that there are no lights in the surrounding buildings, no curious heads looking down on us, but even if there were people around to witness the odd pair on the street below, it's unlikely that a police call would be in order. This is the Narrows. People keep their heads down and ignore whatever wrongs are being done around them. You don't want to get a reputation as a snitch in this neighborhood.

The gate slowly swings open with a loud creak, and the Joker steps through before glancing back at me expectantly. I look warily at the shoddy gate, the cracked concrete path and the large "Condemned" sign on the building and don't move, and he rolls his eyes and flings his arm out, grabbing my wrist and jerking me forward a few steps.

"Okay!" I exclaim, but he doesn't release me, closing the gate and then pulling me along towards the door like he might an unruly child. I don't argue anymore.

As we close in on the building, it suddenly strikes me that in just a couple of hours, I've had more physical contact than I have in the entire time since… well, since the last time I encountered him. I've never been a touchy-feely sort of person, but even so, this last year must have been a record low for me. I would feel more resentful about the fact that he's the one breaking that trend if I wasn't so distracted by my current predicament.

The building's not much warmer on the inside, unfortunately. My feet are actually starting to go numb, but I don't think mentioning the chance of frostbite would be a very good idea. He's gone a good half-hour without getting annoyed with me; I don't want to give him a reason to pounce again (especially now that we're off the street and he doesn't need to worry about attracting attention).

The building is an old housing complex of some kind, and judging by the icy, stale air and the creepy silence, has been in a state of disuse for some time now. He takes me up a crumbling flight of stairs to a hallway lined with doors, and then, not bothering with keys, opens up the second to last door on the left and pulls me in, yanking the door shut behind us.

It's suddenly pitch black. I freeze once across the threshold, unwilling to move further into the dark. I feel the air move beside my head, hear a deadbolt clacking shut close to my ear, and then he finally releases my wrist. Oddly, though, instead of feeling free, I get the sudden foreboding feeling that I've lost a tether of some kind—to what, I have no idea. Sanity, maybe, though the idea of the Joker as anyone's tether to sanity is just… crazy.

If I'd thought the sharp, adrenaline-fueled panic of the car chase had been unusual and uncomfortable after my nine months of pleasant numbness, it's nothing compared to the sickening, dull weight of dread forming in my stomach and reaching thick tendrils up to my chest and throat, choking me. I can't see a fucking thing, and what's worse, I can't hear anything, either—anything, that is, besides my own quick, shaky breathing, impossibly loud even though I'm making a conscious effort to keep my mouth closed and breathe through my nose. For once, my imagination with regard to what he has planned for me fails me, but instead of being the blessing I thought it would, it terrifies me completely.

Without the slightest warning, a shrill, diabolical cackle fills the whole place, high and racking and terrible, seeming to come from everywhere. I instinctively jerk backwards, my back slamming into the door, and suddenly the laughter is forming itself into delighted words:

"Wh—why, Em! You're not afraid of the dark, now, are you?"

The strength has left my knees completely, and only by clinging to the door handle am I able to keep myself upright, because instinct tells me that hitting the floor would not be a good move right now. Forcing past the strangling knot in my throat, I gasp shakily, "N—not—I'm more w-worried about what's in it."

Silence follows, and I get this sudden horrible feeling that he's standing right in front of me, inches away, and I wish I was brave enough to reach out and feel around for him to confirm my suspicion, at the same time thankful for the cowardice that prevents me from doing so.

Another beat, and then light flares up, blinding me for just a second before I realize that he has soundlessly retreated several feet away and is holding the lighter he used in the alleyway just before he—

No. Don't think about that.

His back is turned, and I have time to see that we're in a narrow hallway before he starts moving forward. Without letting myself think too much about it, I follow, unwilling to be left in the dark.

He takes a right into another dark room. I linger in the doorway for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to puzzle out where he's led me now by the scant, flickering glow of the lighter, but in another second, a much larger, brighter light appears, rendering my confusion moot. I squint against it, but finally, I can see- he's hunching over a table, fiddling with one of those propane lanterns, the kind people use in a rare event that a hurricane makes it this far up the Atlantic coast.

Its light is sufficient to illuminate the whole room, and I look around to see that we're in a cramped kitchen- full of battered cabinets and sporting a big, dusty, empty space where a refrigerator used to be, but unmistakably a kitchen.

I linger in the doorway, still uncertain, but he's ignoring me now, straightening up from the lantern to strip off the purple greatcoat and swinging it around the backs of one of the metal chairs lining the table. Considering that the table and chairs look new(ish) compared to the rest of the room, I guess that he's brought them here (or had them brought here), meaning that I am currently locked into the Joker's current hideout.

Either that or he's crashing some unfortunate squatter's place. Both are equally likely.

He methodically unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves neatly up to his elbow. I'm staring, mouth gone dry, wondering if he's preparing for some more messy work (please, God, no) or if he's just getting comfortable, when he says, without bothering to turn his head and look at me, "Come on in, Em. Have a seat."

Big surprise- I'm reluctant. I cling to the doorframe, watching him mistrustfully, which has the result of drawing his gaze. He stares blankly at me for a moment, lips slightly parted, and then he shakes his head a little, almost a twitch. "Well, you don't have to if you don't want to, but if I were you, I'd enjoy the peace and quiet while I could."

I swallow hard and slip into the room, trying to stay as close to the edge and as far away from him as possible. He watches, an inexplicable light in his eyes that might be amusement- who ever knows? I reach the furthest chair from him and slowly sink down into it, putting my hands flat on the table and watching them for a moment before I get the courage to look up and ask him, "What do you mean?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches down and rummages in the pockets of his coat, all the while humming tunelessly. After a moment, his hand re-emerges, holding my gun, and I flinch, but he simply sets it down on the table directly in front of him and directly across from me with a resolute "clunk." Then, he turns away, watching me out of the corner of his eye until he's turned fully around, and he steps across the kitchen to the countertops to start looking through some of the upper cabinets.

And I stare at the gun.

What the fuck is he doing? I think ferociously, eyes darting from the weapon twelve inches away from my hand to his innocently-turned back and then back again. Is this a test? What the hell is he trying to prove, that I won't shoot him if I get the chance?

Because I'm definitely thinking about it. I'm thinking about reaching forward, fitting my palm around the smooth handle and feeling the heavy weight fill my hand, thumbing the hammer back and then putting two in his chest as he turns in response to the click. I'm in full-fledged fantasy mode.

But that's all it is—fantasy. Because as much as I'd like to do myself, Batman, and all of Gotham a favor and drop him right here, there are far too many variables keeping me from closing those inches. For one thing, I have no idea if it's even loaded—oh, I always kept it ready, but he had plenty of time between knocking me unconscious and receiving me in the living room to empty the revolver. Even if it is loaded—this is a guy who I'm sure has taken some bullets before, and I'd have to get a killshot right away to keep him from charging across the room and exacting immediate revenge, which would doubtless render me much worse off than I am now, if not dead. Until the whole mess with him started, I'd never even held a gun, and there aren't many firing ranges for public use around Gotham. I'm not exactly a crack shot.

I know I promised myself that given the chance again, I would shoot him. Well, here I am, gun in front of me, his back turned—and I slide my hands off the table and clench them into my lap. I can't do it. Not now, at least. There are too many ways it could go horribly wrong, and in my situation, I have to weigh my risks very, very carefully. I'm not willing to take this one.

He turns around, and my chance is gone. I imagine I see a particularly knowing glint in his eye, and I resist the urge to flip him off, too aware that it'll probably result in a broken finger. The floorboards creak beneath his shoes as he approaches the table, a case in his hands, and he kicks the nearest chair out of the way, choosing instead to seat himself in the one directly to my left.

He sets the case down and picks up the gun. Eyes holding mine, he tilts it upright, clicks open the cylinder, and gives it a slight shake. Bullets come tumbling out, clinking onto the table and rolling around, several of them falling to the floor, and I can't keep myself from closing my eyes in momentary regret. Damn. When I open them again, that smug look is back on his face, and he clicks the cylinder shut before holding the gun out to me.

Uncertainly, I take it, watching him closely. Still holding the unusual silence, he opens the case in front of him and starts laying out objects—two little bottles, a crumpled chamois cloth, a pack of cotton patches, and a set of what looks like metal pipe cleaners. He draws a hissing breath, and, reaching over to his coat again, he says, "It's a pretty gun, Em. Light, durable… revolvers are good, less chance of jamming. Of course, they're not as safe…"

I snort, but aside from casting me a flickering glance, he does nothing. He withdraws yet another gun from his coat, a pistol I haven't seen before, and with a click he removes the magazine and sets it on the edge of the table. "But a dirty gun is nobody's friend." With another quick move, he ejects the live round from the chamber and places it neatly on the table, then his eyes are on me again as his hands keep moving to strip the gun down. "When was the last time you cleaned yours, Em?"

I stare at his bare face for a second. Sooner or later, my encounters with the Joker always take a turn for the bizarre, but even though I more or less expect it at this point, I still have no idea how to react when it happens. He's watching me expectantly, so I settle for shaking my head and hesitantly saying, "I… I haven't really had occasion to use it since I got it; I didn't… think there was much need."

He clicks reprovingly at me. "Ohh, no, no, no, Em. Disuse can be just as damaging, ya know." He reaches for a slim metal rod, delicately attaches a brush to it, and then takes one of the bottles and flips it over, dampening the brush with the contents. "Even without fouling buildup, you've got to worry about rust." With a quick jerk of the wrist, he shoves the brush into the barrel. With any other man, the move would be a deliberate one, accompanied by a hell of a lot more lecherous eye contact, but even before I chance a look at his face, I can tell that innuendo is not his purpose here, not now. His eyes are focused on the gun, his hands moving less haphazardly and more purposefully than I've ever seen them before, the muscles beneath the ashen skin of his forearm pulled tight with the effort of careful control.

This is probably the most serious I've ever seen him, and for a man who goes by the moniker the Joker… well. It's strangely unsettling, and in a weird way, it feels as if I'm being intrusive.

He clears his throat, helpfully bringing my attention to the fact that I've been staring again. Fortunately, this time, he doesn't seem to take offense—he just says pointedly, "Ah—you might want to pay attention. There's gonna be a test on this later." I quickly refocus my eyes on the task at hand, not sure what he means but not wanting to chance his displeasure.

The next ten minutes are surreal in that they're almost… pleasant. At least, they would be if he was anybody else and I hadn't been brought here at stun gun-point. I pull my bare feet up and perch cross-legged on the chair, tucking my toes into the warm crooks of my knees to thaw them some and paying close attention as he shows me how to clean a gun, describing the process in his lilting way as he demonstrates. He speaks quietly, but his voice still fills the small kitchen space, still in that unusual high-growly timbre but steady for once, almost devoid of the usual, teasing "uhs" and "ums." I find myself glancing frequently at his unpainted face in the bluish light of the lantern, a bit more secure in the knowledge that he's focused on his task and probably won't take too much notice of me looking at him.

Sitting there in the quiet kitchen with him, I feel almost safe—at least for the time being, with his attention off of me. More than that, I become aware that a strange feeling is taking root somewhere deep in my chest—not pity, never pity, but a sort of heavy sadness. Completely leaving aside the fact that this only strengthens my growing suspicion that with his return, the emotional dam I put up after our last encounter is starting to crumble (which is worrying to say the least—strong feelings of any sort are not going to be helpful in this situation), there's the fact that the source of the sadness itself is… strange.

This is the least Joker-like I've ever seen him, closer to human than ever before, absorbed in the steady task, and it makes me wonder—does he ever get tired of it all? Does being the Joker, the most feared man in the city, twisted and brilliant and deranged, ever just completely exhaust him? Obsession, scheming, terrorizing—they're full-time jobs. I know he's out of his mind, or at least on a completely different level of sanity than anyone else, but even so… everyone gets tired of doing the same thing over and over and over again.

As he wipes the gun clean of excess oil, I pull myself away from that train of thought, telling myself that it will most definitely do more harm than good, that if he knew what I was thinking, he'd laugh in my face at best and take deadly offense at worst. I remind myself that if he ever got tired, he could just quit, call a halt to it and just… stop.

Even so, I can't prevent a little voice in my head from whispering, can he really? It's a one-way road he's walking, and with his fingerprints, with those scars… stopping almost certainly means eventual capture and permanent incarceration. Is that really any better?

A sharp click pulls me out of myself. He's reassembling the gun, which is now polished and gleaming. He looks it over, nods once in satisfaction, and then looks at me.

I raise my eyebrows, aware that my short-lived peace is officially gone and immediately on alert again. "What?"

"You're awful quiet."

"I don't… really have anything to contribute." He blinks slowly, almost rolling his eyes, and I hunch my shoulders defensively. "I… like the smell of the oil," I volunteer after a short hesitation.

That gets a quick, sharp chuckle out of him, who knows why, and he reaches out and nudges my revolver closer to me. "C'mon," he says brightly. "Time to show me what you've learned."

Well. This is unnerving. I look warily at him for a second before reaching for the metal rod and the brush I saw him use first. I try to ignore the fact that his eyes are fixed on my face way more intently than mine ever were on his, and I repeat the process of dampening the brush and scrubbing out the barrel. I reach for the little package of cloth he'd explained were used to clean out the fouling, and then let out a little yelp as he lashes out, delivering a sharp slap to my hand.

"No," he says pointedly, reaching out and snatching up the revolver. Checking to make sure I'm watching, he clicks the cylinder open, theatrically displaying the six empty chambers. He points to the barrel, then to them. "That's the thing about revolvers," he said, taking on a sort of droning, preachy tone that I've heard a dozen times from various professors and always loathed, a tone that sounds sickly funny coming out of his mouth. "Reliable… but more work. You clean the chambers juuuust like you clean the barrel—every one." He twists his wrist, holding the gun out to me.

I watch him mistrustfully for a minute, still feeling the sting of the slap, conscious of the red mark already forming on the white skin and unwilling to risk another blow, but when he shakes the revolver impatiently at me, I figure that it'll be much more dangerous to keep dithering. I swallow, then reach out and take the gun from his fingers.

I pick up the brush again and start working on each individual chamber. He watches in intent silence for a minute or two before nodding and leaning back in his chair, hands relaxed and resting on his knees, head tilted lazily back.

"So, Em," he says, just like we're comfortable pals resuming a week-old conversation, "I've gotta question for you."

"Go ahead," I say, doubly apprehensive—first at the mention of a question, which could open any number of cans of worms, and second because I've finished the chambers (I think) and am reaching out for the cleaning patches again, half-anticipating another blow. He lets me take them without comment, though, lifting his hands up and lacing them together behind his head and stretching his long legs out under the table (and I'm grateful mine are pulled up underneath me, so no awkward foot bumping is in order).

"I mentioned earlier… ya know, that I half-expected to find you halfway across the country by now. You know, not many people would be gutsy enough to stick around this place after—" he clears his throat—"killing two of Gotham's finest."

Unbelievable. After all he's put me through, after all the horror and trauma, he thinks killing those two waste-of-space bastards should have been the catalyst that finally drove me away. But of course, I remind myself, he's never acknowledged that our encounters were anything but little games, fun for the both of us, and he's also convinced himself that on some level, I enjoy his company. That's his whole line of reasoning behind nabbing me out of my apartment tonight, isn't it?

Still, while he might actually believe that I have some kind of attachment to him, I'm also convinced that he fully understands that I don't on any level enjoy his twisted little games, not when my life is in the balance and especially not when he brings other people into it. Blithely pretending otherwise is just part of the fun for him, but the very nature of the implied question proves that he knows that any sane person would have fled the city as soon as they were able, that he's curious as to why I didn't.

Any sane person.

It strikes me that he's been uncharacteristically silent while I wrestle through the tangle of thoughts, and without thinking, I glance up at him. He's watching me with wide eyes, lips folded together in a comically-exaggerated expression of patient curiosity. I have no intention of addressing his implications—to do so would prove that I understand the reasoning, understand that I should be gone, which will only strengthen his hypothesis that I want to be here, with him. So, trying to play coolly dumb but aware that my shoulders are tense and my neck's gone rigid, I ask," So, what's your question?"

Maybe it's just the light, but those dark eyes seem to flicker. Slowly, he brings his hands out from behind his head, the chair creaking beneath him as he leans forward and rests them heavily on the table, mere inches from mine. His head lowers, jutting forward, and there's not a trace of playfulness or amusement in his face and tone as he asks, "Why are you still here?"

I drop my eyes to the gun, suddenly uncomfortable with the sight of him. He's not invading my personal space, strictly speaking, but with the table in front of me, another chair backed by a wall to my right, and his body crouched at my left, I'm feeling caged. There's no way out of this room without going through him, and I'm suddenly kicking myself for choosing the chair farthest from the door, even though it had made sense at the time given my standing goal to try to keep as much distance between us as possible.

Fat lot of good that does me now.

I clear my throat and force myself to speak, trying to keep my tone light and free of the fear and tension weighing so heavily on me right now. "If you mean here as in Gotham, it's because I weighed my options after that night at the warehouse and…" Damn it, this is hard to explain to him without either making it look like I was expecting to see him or offending him—"and I came to the conclusion that if you wanted to see me again, it didn't matter how far I went—you would find me. In light of that, it seemed foolish to just uproot myself and run."

He's quiet, and reluctantly, I chance another look at him. I don't like what I see. A small smirk is playing at the corner of his mouth, and the skin around his eyes is creasing—the overall result is an insufferably smug expression that I immediately want to knock off his face.

Fuck this. I'm not here to stroke his ego.

Feeling that sudden surge of anger beneath my skin, unaccustomed to it after all these months, I make a mistake. Recklessly, dropping my eyes back to the gun, I say, "Of course, if you mean why am I here, like in this room, it's because a freak with knives broke into my—"

He moves so fast that I'm unable to do anything but release a startled yelp before he's got my by the throat, dragging me upright as my chair capsizes and slamming me hard back against the wall. I instinctively claw at the hand pinning my throat, but in another heartbeat he's got both my wrists in his other hand, pressing them hard into my chest, where they won't exactly do me any good.

No knives this time. This time, it's just me and him, my strength against his, and I'm pitifully aware that despite all the workouts of the last year, all the informal training and the conflict scenarios I'd run through my head on nights I had trouble sleeping, my power will never, ever even come close to his. I can feel the strength in his hands even as I become conscious that the fingers around my throat aren't choking me—oh, they're pressing painfully into the sides of my throat, hurting and making me feel lightheaded, but they're meant to hold, not choke.

His face fills my vision as he hunches down to my level, and even devoid of that theatrical greasepaint, it's terrifying. "Let me give you some friendly advice, Emma," he bites out, lips curled back from the yellowed teeth in an animalistic snarl. "It's not nice to go around calling people names. Especially not people who know fifteen different ways to kill you with their bare hands—and that's not even gettin' into the creative stuff. And especially—" here he tilts his head back, watching me through lowered eyelashes, suddenly clinical, "especially not if you're something of a fuh-reeeak yourself."

Any words of apology, pleading, or defense flee completely from my mind, and I'm left staring into his cold face, utterly bewildered. "I…" I start in a pitiful whisper, and swallow, feeling my throat move against his hand. "Wh—what do you—?"

The hand at my throat is suddenly withdrawn, moving up to brush some stray curls away from my face, tucking them neatly behind my ears, and his eyes are no longer on mine, either, fixed attentively on my hair instead. "Well," he drawls, his voice still venomous, warning me not to get too comfortable despite the fact that he's no longer half a second away from strangling me, "let's think about it for a second."

The hair is all neatly out of my face, but he doesn't remove his hand, instead languidly stroking his way down the length of it to where it falls just above my breasts, lingering for a moment before lifting his hand and repeating the movement on the opposite side. Eyes still distant, he says, as if reciting some long-ago memorized verse, "You're alone in the city. Unprotected. Unattached. Bored. And even after all that fuss about our time together earlier this year… when ya get a chance to run, you don't. Your mouth says that you don't like this, you don't like me, but…"

He clicks his tongue in false regret, and his fingers work suddenly into my hair, nails roughly scraping against the scalp and pulling a sudden shudder from me—it's purely physical; I haven't felt this sensation in years and my body doesn't exactly distinguish between friend and enemy when it comes to reacting to things I like.

He notices. His eyes drop to mine again, a flicker of… something in them, satisfaction, appreciation, I don't know, but I try to pour as much poison in my gaze as I can, to convey to him that I'm not faking, that I do fear him, but more significantly, I loathe him. I can see in his expression that he's not buying it.

He shifts his weight, bringing his face even closer, and finishes the thought: "Actions speak louder than words."

His face can't be more than an inch away from mine. He's going to kiss me, I'm sure of it, and who knows what else after. A swell of panic rises in my chest, heart racing so quickly that I feel like I'm going to pass out, and I don't know what to do or how to react—

He lingers obscenely close, drinking in my panic, and I notice that his breathing is nearly as quick and erratic as mine. Then, his eyelids droop shut, and he shakes his head once, fast, as if driving away the cobwebs of a bad dream—and he releases my hands, stepping back, but not before scraping my scalp again, rougher this time, drawing goosebumps that I'm insanely glad he can't see.

"Come on," he says, voice carefree and calm once again as he turns around to pick up his chair, which had gone flying along with mine with the speed and force of his movement. "You've got a job to finish; don't think I'm letting you off that easy."

Well, it's good to see that he can flick that switch, whatever it was, off so easily. Me, on the other hand—I'm a mess. I consider it a miracle that I'm still standing. The scare and the following rush of relief have drained me completely, and I doubt I can step away from the wall without crumpling to the ground. Still, he's watching me expectantly and a little impatiently, and the knowledge that he might come at me again if I don't obey gives me a little burst of energy. I step forward, and when I don't immediately fall, I bend over, trembling, to pick up my chair and set it upright.

If he notices that I collapse into the chair rather than sit down with any grace, he doesn't mention it. He's pushed his own chair back a bit, and sits perfectly still, only his eyes moving, following me as I reach for the cleaning tools again. There's no way he doesn't notice that my whole body is shaking, that my hands are trembling so badly that I'm not sure if I can even finish, but he doesn't comment on it.

He doesn't say anything, actually. For the next few minutes, he just observes in total, eerie silence as I go through the process of cleaning the gun—badly, I'm sure, given that my hands are unsteady and that I've never actually done it before, but he neither criticizes nor lashes out at me again.

Finally, the gun is oiled and polished, and I set it down, feeling shakier than ever and completely exhausted besides. This night has put me through the wringer—between the abduction, the cop chase, the murder, and the disturbing assault, I have almost no energy left. I'm tempted to just put my head down on the table and pass out right here, but to do so would be to invite trouble.

I scrape up the last tatters of bravery I still have—and I need them, too, considering that I would happily never speak to or look at him again after what just happened—and raise my head. He's watching me with that same unnerving stillness, and I draw a shaky breath in through my nose before opening my mouth and saying in a whispering exhale, "I'm very tired."

He lifts his eyebrows just a fraction, tilts his head a little, as if to say okay, and?

I cross one arm protectively across my stomach and lift my hand to my temple, feeling extremely exposed, but I push forward, seeing little other choice. "May I… may I please sleep?"

He keeps staring for a moment, pursing his lips, tongue running along the inside seams as he studies me. For a horrible moment, I think he's going to refuse, that he wants to deny me basic human needs just to watch how long it'll take me to break totally down, and in my current state, the thought terrifies me.

Finally, though, he responds. "Of course." His tone is flat, disinterested, and if he were anyone else, I would think he was… angry at me. But this is the Joker, and the Joker doesn't exactly get angry. Oh, he lashes out whenever I cross a line, but I never get the impression that he's genuinely infuriated or emotionally rankled in any way by my actions, not even with this latest incident—I think it's more a way to scare me into becoming more compliant.

He tilts his head towards the door. "Last door on the left. Just sleep, you understand? Don't get clever."

I nod. "I just want to sleep, I swear," I say, too relieved at his consent to even think about trying to make trouble. I stand, and when he follows suit, I feel another weary bolt of fear—he doesn't—he's not coming with me, is he?

But no, he just turns to keep an eye on me as I edge around him, hugging close to the wall and making my way towards the door. He does nothing and makes no move to follow, just continuing to watch me until I finally duck out of the room and into the hallway.

I don't pause to savor the fact that for the first time in hours, I'm in a separate room from him. I'm too worried that he'll change his mind if I linger, so I go straight down the hall of closed doors to the last one on the left. When I open it, I'm surprised to see light filtering in through a single window—the time has flown by and the windowless kitchen and hallway kept me from realizing that it's morning.

Additionally surprising is the fact that this is actually a fully-furnished bedroom. Well, fully-furnished might be a little generous, considering that there's only an empty desk, a double bed, and a dresser, but considering the bareness of the warehouse, which is the only Joker hideout I have for reference… the bed is neatly made, too, and given the general neatness of the room I feel like it must be seldom-used. This is comforting.

I told him the truth when I said I only wanted to sleep. I discard the smoky hoodie as I cross the room and collapse face-first on the bed the second I'm close enough. The weariness slams into me, and I barely have time to work my way beneath the blankets before my eyes fall shut and sleep sucks me in.

A/N - There we go, a nice long (and... kind of eventful) chapter to make up for the slight delay in updating. To be fair, I have a good reason- at the moment, I'm on the third floor of a beach house on the coast of South Carolina, and the sliding glass door in front of me is open so I can look out on the horizon of the Atlantic (which is particularly blue today). Needless to say, I'm enjoying my first vacation in over a year, although I am sorry it distracted me from updating on like Sunday or Monday when I planned to.

To anonymous reviewer Emma who stayed up late marathon-reading both Vivisection and Strategy- bless you. Readers/reviewers like you make the world go 'round (and I'm, er, sorry about the sleep deprivation).

And to Lisachu, who I can't PM in response- I do indeed remember you, and I'm really glad to see you back.

All right, I'm out. Considering that I'm nocturnal fifty weeks out of the year, my skin is- ahem- fair, and I'd like to see if I can coax it to turn a few shades darker without ratcheting it all the way up to "skin damage and eventual skin cancer," a task that requires some delicacy. Leave me feedback, all right? I'd like to see what y'all think about the turn things are taking. Thank you all for the reviews!