VI

Even before I really wake up, I'm aware that something has gone horribly wrong.

It's only a split second awareness before I come fully to consciousness, triggered perhaps by the fact that the room smells foreign, or that the bed feels strange or that I can hear someone else breathing, so I don't exactly have time to prepare myself for anything before I open my eyes and see that I am not alone in the bed.

My purely instinctive reaction is to scream bloody murder, bring my hands up, and shove his chest as hard as I can. Unfortunately, since he's on the side of the bed pressed against the wall, this has the rather humiliating effect of pushing me off the bed instead of him. I land with a hard thump on my hip, the deep ache upon contact serving to remind me that I'd fallen out of my own bed on exactly the same spot last night, after he'd pistol-whipped me with my own gun.

As if it has been waiting for the reminder, a splitting headache kicks in at my temple. This only serves to blacken my already foul mood, and I sit straight up to glare at the crooked bastard who happens to be responsible (directly and indirectly) for all my aches, pains, and annoyances.

He looks completely undisturbed, as if he's used to waking up to screams and attacks. Indeed, he's merely cracked one lazy eye open to see what all the fuss is about, and as my head surfaces above the line of the mattress, he has the gall to smirk and release a sleepy snort-laugh into his pillow at my predicament. The asshole.

"What the hell," I say, my voice a little too hoarse from sleep to quite reach the yell I'm aiming for, "you figure that since I'm here, we might as well go back to day one, sleeping in the same bed?"

He opens the other eye just so he can roll them both at me, and then, his voice rougher and deeper than I'm accustomed to, he says, "Oh, shut up," and rolls over towards the wall.

I was winding up for a bitch-out, but his barefaced audacity chokes the words in my throat. I struggle to my feet, aware that my fists are clenched so tightly that the blood has left my fingers, and for a second I just stare speechlessly at his turned back. A blind, wrathful idea flashes into my mind, and I'm two seconds away from just pouncing on him, taking advantage of his lowered guard to just start whaling on that smug face of his, but before I can move, sanity kicks in. If I did that, it would be all too easy for him to just shift his hips, throwing me off-balance on the already unstable mattress, and from there, he could just flip me over and pin me—

Oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

The vivid mental image strikes a chord of memory that I've been a little too preoccupied to think about in the moments since my waking, and I feel my eyes growing huge as I realize that being on a bed with him, duking it out or not, is the last situation I want to be in right now. Not with the sudden remembrance that he'd featured prominently in some of last night's dreams in a decidedly not antagonistic setting.

"It's too early for this shit," I growl instead, and I mean it—I'm way too groggy to deal with any of the things running haywire in my mind at the moment. Even so, still a little too sleepy to be as cautious as I should, I can't resist snatching up my pillow and winging it at his back, needing some outlet for my horrified frustration. Fortunately, he doesn't react, giving me the opportunity to wheel around and escape through the second door in the room, which I correctly surmise leads to a bathroom.

Fortunately, the lock seems steady enough, and I flick it gratefully. Finally isolated for a moment, I press myself backwards against the door and close my eyes tightly.

No. No, no, no, no, no. Sex dreams don't mean jack shit. They certainly don't mean that I want him. No.

I breathe steadily for a moment, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and when the emotional turmoil has died down to a dull roar, I turn my efforts hesitantly towards untangling the mess that is my mind right now.

I've been dreaming about him most nights for a while now. It's really inevitable, especially considering my lack of any sort of sexual outlet for at least a year, that one of those would eventually happen—doubly so considering the ideas he planted last night. It's only my subconscious mind picking up on undercurrents and incorporating them into the usual set of dreams.

I'm calming down just a bit when another terrible thought strikes me: who knows how long he was in that bed with me? Who knows if I did anything in my sleep? Of course I'd know if anything significant happened—not even I could sleep through that—but even the thought of cozying up to him makes me want to bash my head backwards into the door (I refrain, of course, hyper-aware that any unusual noises might rouse him into coming to investigate, and I don't want that).

That's another thing, I think ferociously, opening my eyes. Nine months and I can't sleep through the night for fear that he might come prowling around—then suddenly, he comes crawling right into bed with me and I don't even notice?

I can't sift through the implications of that right now. Instead, I push away from the door, going to examine the contents of the little bathroom to see what I have to work with. Fortunately, there's a window in the bathroom—the glass is opaque, but there's enough light to get a good look at my surroundings, though it's weak, blue-tinted, clearly coming from a streetlamp outside rather than the sun—how long was I asleep?

The mirror catches my eye—not so much the mirror as what I see in it. I'm a mess. My hair is tumbling everywhere, red curls sticking out in all directions, but more eye-catching is the mottled, ugly bruise spreading out painfully from my temple. That's not the only mark on me, either—no, my neck's a battlefield, dotted with faint smudges of blue-purple—right at the front of the throat, where he grabbed me in the car, and then separate, more defined fingerprints from the latest attack last night. I wince as I look all the marks over, remind myself that after so many hours spent alone in the Joker's company, I'm lucky to get out with just these so far. Still, they won't be the last.

I find toothpaste and a toothbrush in the drawer beneath the sink. I don't trust the toothbrush for a second, but after giving the toothpaste a quick, suspicious examination (you can't be too careful), I deem it probably safe and use my finger to scrub my teeth and tongue the best I can. The water runs, and I figure the housing development must be on a well system rather than an electronic pump—not surprising, considering the amount of blackouts the Narrows suffers regularly.

I feel a little more human now, but I need a shower. My feet are filthy from wandering around barefooted all of last night, not to mention the fact that I stink of fear. A shower will make me feel more like myself. Still, I have no desire to loiter around while he goes Norman Bates on me, so I resolve to be quick about it, and I'm on high alert as I undress, ready to jump for a towel at the slightest suspicious scratching.

I forget that no electricity means no hot water until the water comes creaking ominously through the pipes, and I actually debate with myself for a minute as I watch the icy spray. Is cleanliness worth potential hypothermia? I'm already undressed, though, and I clench my teeth, telling myself to suck it up before taking a deep breath and stepping beneath the frigid water.

I have to bite back a yelp at the shock of the cold—I certainly don't want him barging in on me now. Still, it feels like being repeatedly punched in the chest, and I scramble quickly for the bar of soap—Ivory, looks fairly new, but I don't have time to wonder about the placement of toiletries in the Joker's hideouts; it's too damn cold. I lather up and take the quickest shower of my life, fueled equally by the freezing water and the prospect that he might break the door down just for a lark.

As soon as my body's clean, I duck out and wrap a towel tightly around myself, then gingerly sit down on the edge of the tub to take care of my feet, which are still blackened by the time spent on the asphalt. About the only benefit of the temperature of the water is that I'm feeling much more awake and much more suited to deal with certain unwelcome realities, and so as I scrub my feet, I think.

I will no longer allow myself to avoid dealing with the facts. First—the Joker's re-emergence in my life seems to have kickstarted my emotional state. After nine months of maintaining a comfortable neutrality, I ran a pretty thorough gauntlet last night—fear, sadness, anger, horror—and all of them intense, none of them the muted shadows of themselves to which I've become accustomed. Somehow, he has the ability to draw out potent emotions that life in the real world has completely failed to produce. I guess I shouldn't be surprised—each encounter with him is so intense, so visceral, that everyday life pales in comparison. When I'm with him, everything is immediate, threatening—feels real. Day-to-day life can't compare; it's like watching someone else through a TV screen, safely detached.

And while over the past few months I've become accustomed to that detachment, comfortable, even, with the ease of it all… there's part of me that's whispering something else, that I wasn't alive, not really. His reappearance has opened up those lines again, reconnecting me to my existence, showing me that I value my life again. It's frustrating because dealing with him would be so much easier if I genuinely didn't care.

But, my mind whispers, is your safe life really worth it if you don't give a damn?

Easier, certainly. Worthwhile… I'll have to come back to that one.

Second: I didn't wake up when he got into bed with me. Taking into consideration my hyper-alertness of the past few months, my inability to get through the night without waking up a dozen times to make sure all was well… it strongly implies that rather than waking to make sure he wasn't there, I was checking to see if he was, at least subconsciously, and subconscious or not, the implications are… troubling.

I turn off the water, lift my feet out of the tub, and move over to the toilet, perching on the closed lid and shutting my eyes with a slow exhale.

Third. The Joker has convinced himself that I have an attachment to him, and given the nature of his address last night, he believes that it's at least in part sexual. This wouldn't be quite so unsettling if not for my awareness of the first realities, in addition to the fact that I'm beginning to pick up on the same behavior from him that he claims to have observed in me.

Oh, last time there was tension, certainly, but it was always underscored with the understanding that it was all a game, that he was merely pushing buttons to see how I'd react. Now, though I'm certain we're still playing that same game, I'm getting the uncomfortable feeling that we've advanced to an entirely new level. Last time, he made it very clear what he was angling for. This time, I have no idea what his endgame might be.

At the start of it all last night, I believed that he was abducting me because I had a part to play in some Gotham-centered scheme of his. Now, I'm not so sure. While I'm certain he has a plan that extends far beyond whatever he's doing on a personal level with me… I'm starting to think he picked me up as a side project, out of idle curiosity, maybe. Someone who formed an attachment to him intentionally, I feel sure, would very promptly be introduced to the business end of his knife, but someone who, from his perspective, became attached reluctantly and by accident… well, that might be worth exploring.

I open my eyes, feeling goosebumps spread over my skin, and this time I don't bother trying to blame the cold. It freaks me out, trying to think from his point of view, but what chills me even more is that in light of the evidence I've just examined, I can no longer deny that he is, at least in part, correct. I am attached to him in some way.

Oh, I don't believe it's out of some repressed desire to endanger myself and go hunting for thrills like he keeps implying—it's it's much more likely survivor bonding, me instinctively trying to get close to him as a means of protecting myself. Even so, the nature of the attachment doesn't matter much, because the fact remains that it happened without my being aware of it or consenting to it. The fact that I'm only really becoming aware of it now is terrifying. It tells me that maybe I don't have as much control over myself as I thought I did, and not being in control of oneself around the Joker is a very dangerous position to be in.

I already gave into foolish impulse once, last night. What happens if it starts happening more frequently, and in more areas than just my temper?

I stop myself before I go too far down that train of thought, because I'm not super-human and there are still some ideas I can't bring myself to deal with.

My teeth are chattering, and this time, it is because of the cold. I need to get dressed.

I wrinkle my nose at the thought of putting on last night's clothes again, but I don't have much of a choice—it's either the tank top and gym pants or waltzing around in a towel all day, and I'm certainly not doing that. Moving quickly, I pull on my clothes again, allowing myself a moment of wistful remembrance of my full closet at home, full of much warmer and much better-suited attire.

No sooner do I finish than something hits the door, making me jump. It sounds like someone striking the door repeatedly with an open hand, and as I glare at it, his voice drifts into the bathroom, muffled through the wood but still unnervingly close. "Time's up, Em. Don't be a bathroom hog."

For a split second, I toy with the idea of refusing to come out, of making him break in to come get me, but I dismiss it for the sullen impulse it is—I can't imagine he'd be too happy with the act of rebellion, and remembering that I've already hit him with a pillow this morning, I figure I'd better make up for it by being submissive for now. Still, I can't quite hide my annoyance as I snap the lock back and yank the door open, glaring up at him.

He's leaning against the doorframe on his elbow, obviously just out of bed, face still devoid of paint. He's divested himself of the bloody waistcoat and his dress shirt is unbuttoned and hanging open over a white t-shirt beneath. He's wearing suit pants, unbelted and blood-free—it was too dark last night to take much note of color, but the fact that they're clean probably means that he changed before coming to bed. As I take in the sight, I feel my shoulders loosen in relief—first that he appears to be perfectly comfortable sleeping mostly-dressed, thank God, and second that he didn't bring someone else's blood into the bed I occupied last night.

"Like what you see?" he asks coquettishly, and my eyes snap back up to his, glaring again, itching to tell him to cut that shit out. Fortunately he moves right along, jerking his head to the side to indicate the bedroom. "C'mon. Out." I duck under his arm to escape into the bedroom, and as I pass, he taps my backside with his spare hand, making me jump and yelp—fortunately, the gesture isn't so much a hey-good-lookin' as a come-on-move-hurry-up. I wheel around as soon as I'm a safe distance away, intending to glare daggers at him, maybe yell a little bit, but it's too late—I just catch sight of the edge of the door as it closes, hear him chuckling to himself as the lock clicks into place.

Right, I think derisively, like he's in any danger of me walking in on him.

As I hear the pipes creak again, followed rapidly by the sound of running water, I realize something. He's locked in the bathroom, probably going to be at least a few minutes in there… and I'm out here, alone and unwatched.

Of course I'm not going to run. We're in the middle of the Narrows, the most dangerous part of the city on a good day, and I have no doubt that he's way more familiar with it than I am. With me on foot, he'll certainly catch up to me before I get too far. Even if by some miracle I manage to escape the neighborhood, he's proved before that he's very capable of making Gotham itself a cage. No, flight is not an option.

However, I can definitely get a better look at my surroundings, maybe scope out some potential weapons for if things get dangerous—and inevitably, with him, they will. Heartened at the thought that I might actually be able to start constructing some sort of defense, I go to the door and open it carefully, mindful of any creaks that may draw his attention.

I get approximately a step and a half into the hallway before I see what's at the end of it, standing by the front door. The hallway has no windows, ergo no real light, but enough natural light is filtering in from the room I'm trying to leave for me to make out the person standing there, silent and unmoving and clown-masked. Some part of me flashes back to the last time I saw that unsettling sight, back at the warehouse, where I narrowly avoided being raped, and before I quite know what I'm doing, I'm stepping hastily back into the bedroom, slamming the door and locking it tight.

I wait for a second for repercussions, for the minion to come banging on my door or for sounds of the water stream in the bathroom to abruptly cease. When neither warning sign comes, I release a slow breath and shake my head.

Well. That explains why he wasn't afraid to leave me unattended, at least.

Now that leaving the room is out, my options are limited. I could go to the window, see if I can't get a better grasp of my bearings, but it's pointless, really. I can tell by the sickly blue light that it's probably well after dark outside, and it's not as though I'll be able to leave here unless he wants me to. My eyes fall instead on the bed, on the crumpled heap of blankets atop it, and some instinct propels me forward. I hesitate just a moment at the recollection that he was in this same bed uncomfortably recently, but I push it aside and climb onto the mattress, curl into a ball, and cover myself completely with the blanket, blocking out every last pinpoint of light.

It goes straight back to childhood. Whatever's under the blanket, the monsters under the bed can't touch. It's silly, of course, but I can't help but feel safer.

And tired. Unbelievably tired, considering that I slept through the hours from early morning all the way into the evening. Still, if anything's exhausting, an insurmountable situation is at the top of the list. Maybe that weariness is to blame for the tears suddenly welling up in my eyes, and I don't try to fight them. The urge to cry is something that tends to build up the longer you put it off, and I don't want to break down in front of him, not like this. Who knows what he'll do? Additionally, I can't help but feel a little relieved. I haven't cried in months. It's a bit reassuring to know that I still can, that I'm still able to indulge in this temporary unburdening of emotional turmoil.

I allow myself a few minutes of those deep, chest-wracking sobs before I hear the water shutting off, and just like that, I stop. My highest priority right now is to listen as hard as I can, and I hear him clunking around in the bathroom for a bit, and then the door swings open.

I don't dare to re-emerge. I just listen to his footsteps going back and forth, the sound of drawers opening and shutting, the rustle of fabric. After a minute or two of this, the footsteps get close, and I bite my lip as I feel the mattress sinking beneath his weight. He's sitting on the edge, from the feel of it, close to where my feet are curled up but thankfully not shifting any closer.

There's a moment of horrible stillness, and then—"Em?" I don't respond. There hasn't been enough time since I stopped crying; he'll see the evidence of it, the tear tracks, the redness around my eyes and nose. I don't want him to see, to be able to file my weakness away for further reference.

The mattress creaks, and then he's poking the blanket and my feet beneath it. "Come on, Em. Naptime's over."

No. I hold my breath and stay perfectly still, thinking that maybe if I just play dead, he'll get bored, leave the room to deal with his minions and leave me alone.

His tone changes, dropping a little. "Unless, of course, you're hoping I'll come under there with you?"

Oh, to hell with that. Suddenly, the prospect of being seen directly after a good cry doesn't seem so bad, and I struggle my way out of the blankets, sitting upright and glaring at him.

The paint's back on, and he's dressed for the evening, a fresh green waistcoat over a lavender dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. He scans me quickly, doubtless taking in my rumpled and rather soggy appearance before appearing to dismiss it, clicking his tongue and standing. "I got you something," he says, bending over and pulling out a huge paper bag from under the bed. He tosses it next to me, and I instinctively flinch back—his last idea of a gift was to put me in charge of the fate of ten people, so I'm a little wary of accepting things from him. When I look up at him, though, he's giving me a level stare, looking a bit put out, so I swallow back my apprehension and gingerly open up the bag.

I'm a little confused when, instead of the severed head I half expect, I pull out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and, from the bottom, a pair of heavy black boots with no heel. I blink at the clothing for a second before lifting my eyes to him, and, on cue, he shrugs.

"Well, since we're going to be moving shortly…" He bounces on the balls of his feet and gives me a conspiratorial look. "Bare feet and pajamas are a liiittle conspicuous in the dead of winter, Em."

"We're going to be doing something that requires subtlety?" I ask, unable to keep myself from lowering my chin and looking pointedly at his face and the lurid makeup he wears.

He chuckles and doesn't respond to that, instead just telling me, "Get dressed, Em. Mumbles went out and got 'em for you; you'll hurt his feelings if you turn 'em down."

Who the hell is Mumbles? I think for a moment before realizing that he must have sent a henchman out for these sometime during the day. Well, if he's supplying me with attire that will be better-suited for the cold, I'm not going to complain. I get up from the bed, gathering the clothes and moving pointedly past him towards the bathroom again, because I am not changing in front of him.

Once safely locked away in the bathroom again, I discover that the clothes are all in my exact sizes. Since the thought of him checking me for labels while I slept is a profoundly disturbing one, I tell myself that he must have a talent for sizing people and strip off my pajamas. I have another moment of discomfort when I grasp the fact that the shirt is green—he seems to be partial to that color on me, but since it's a decided improvement on my sleeveless tank top, I elect to wear it anyway. The boots are a little big, but I figure that's probably a calculated measure—it'll keep me from running too fast. Regardless, I'm profoundly relieved to have something on my feet.

I don't dawdle in the bathroom. I bunch my old clothes into a ball and shove them beneath the sink before re-emerging. He's still standing where I left him, and gives me a quick once-over before nodding in approval. "Good. Let's go. Time's a'wasting."

Without another glance in my direction, he goes to the door, flinging it open and exiting into the hall. I toy with the idea of refusing to follow, but deciding that it'll be better to go of my own arguably-free will than to force him to come back and drag me along, I get out of bed and pursue.

I catch the edge of his silhouette at the end of the hall, ducking into the kitchen. The clown is no longer looming, so I proceed hesitantly along, following him to the kitchen. I stop in the doorway when I see several other newcomers, some masked, some not. There are four in all, grouped around the table, and since I have no intention of entering a room full of strange men, I linger in the doorway, figuring that as long as I'm in his sight, he can't say that I didn't obey.

He doesn't appear to greet any of them, standing just inside the door and observing. This leaves me subject to stares from the men, ranging from bold to curious to outright hostile, and I shift uncomfortably, remembering well my numerous encounters with Joker henchmen. I'd forgotten that on the scale of things that are nerve-wracking, dealing with the Joker and his men is somehow almost worse than dealing with the Joker alone.

He speaks, drawing their attention away from me. "Well, fellas, whaddya say?" he asks in a genial tone I've never heard before. I interpret it as a warning sign—just what the warning is and who it's meant for, I have no idea, but I've learned that when the Joker sounds overly friendly, I'd better watch my step.

One of the masked men answers. "Everything's in order, boss. Targets in sight, vehicles acquired, cops don't suspect a thing."

"Good, good," the Joker says, sounding genuinely pleased, which only serves to bring my guard up even more. If things are going well for him, they certainly aren't gonna be okay for Gotham, or for me. "Get ready to move. Keep your eyes and ears open."

One of the braver henchmen speaks up, jerking his head towards me. "And her?"

In unison, the rest of them glance my way, and then we all look back at the Joker, unified in our curiosity as to my involvement in this. He's looking directly at me as if he hasn't even noticed the unspoken question in the air, and for half a second, his eyes crinkle in amusement at some private thought. Then, he brings the cup down and says casually, "Yeah, her too. Are we ready?"

Amid the chorus of agreements, he takes my elbow, and I swallow hard as I look up at him, realizing that whatever scheme he had in mind, whatever plot he abducted me for, it starts tonight.

There's no waiting around once the men are up from their seats at the table—he steps out of the kitchen again, pulling me with him as we leave the apartment to the dusk-lit hallway beyond. I expect him to retrace the steps that led us here, but he turns, taking us to another staircase in the back of the building.

The stairwell is pitch black, and once the last henchman lets the door fall shut behind us, we're left in complete darkness. Hardly comfortable with the idea of being alone in the dark with four strangers, I find myself grasping for his shoulder again, the way I did in the alley last night, and once I find it, he lets go of my elbow, trusting the dark and the fear to keep me close.

He doesn't seem to have any problem with the blackness, moving fast down the stairs quite as though he can see perfectly, and I have to hurry to make sure he doesn't get more than two stairs ahead of me—any lower, and I'll lose my grip. I stumble once or twice, using his shoulder to keep my balance, and each time he chuckles low. I scowl in the dark, but console myself with the thought that the henchmen are having an equally difficult time, judging by the muffled cursing and clattering behind me.

Finally, we reach the bottom and he blows through the door. I can suddenly see again—we're in a small underground parking garage, devoid of electricity like the rest of the building, but the opening allows for some faint street-light to illuminate the place. I let go of his shoulder immediately but keep up the pace, following him towards the two vehicles parked near the entrance, a car and a windowless van. The henchmen behind us split up, two going for the car and two circling around the front of the van, and the Joker throws the door of the latter open, turning to grab my arm again, propelling me into the back. I don't resist other than shooting him a black look, climbing in and finding a seat on one of the benches lining the back. He follows, pulling the doors shut as the engine starts, and once again, we're cast in darkness.

There's a full barrier between us and the henchmen up front, and I'm a little surprised to find that I'm a modicum more comfortable alone with him than in their company, even in the dark. I hear him release a sigh as he takes a seat opposite me, and then it's quiet aside from the rumbling of the engine.

Since it won't make much of a difference, I close my eyes and tilt my head back against the side. It's hard to try to prepare myself for what's coming, since I don't have the slightest idea of where he's taking me or what he has planned, but I do my best, attempting to level out my breathing and relax my shoulders.

Of course, it's hard for me to relax with him humming absently in the dark just a foot or two away from me. I open my eyes again, glaring into the blackness as if he'll sense it and maybe shut up, but he only graduates to light singing—"He sees you when you're sleepin'… he knows when you're awake—"

Okay, enough of that bullshit. "You know, I never pegged you for a Christmassy kind of guy," I comment, if only to make him quit with the creepy rendition of holiday tunes.

It works, though I'm not entirely sure that it's worth the trade-off of conversing with him instead. "Oh, yeah?" he answers gamely. "Why not?"

"Well, you know," I say. "All the happy music, the festive décor, God rest ye, merry gentlemen—seems kind of the antithesis of what you're about."

There's a second of silence, then he looses a soft laugh, which doesn't help the growing feeling of foreboding in my gut. "What, exactly, do you think I'm about, Em?"

Shit. I backpedal a little. "Well, I mean… not that I know, exactly, but it seems like… chaos, destruction, panicked people en masse, things like that are a little more your bag."

"What, chaos and panic don't sound like perfect descriptors of the Christmas season to you?"

I'm silent, figuring I'd better stop digging while I can, and I hear him shifting in his seat. After a moment, he speaks again, his voice much closer now. "I'm a giver, Em, and Christmas… well, it provides ample opportunity for little… gestures, you know, to reconnect with old friends. Like you."

This conversation is definitely taking an undesirable turn. I don't want to talk about him and me and what all of this means. I'm just now coming to terms with the fact that my own brain might be hiding things from me; the last thing I need is him sifting through everything I say and emerging with some skewed version of my own words designed to prove to me that I'm secretly evil and madly in love with him.

So, I quickly play the trump card, the one that always seems to divert his attention, if only for a moment. "And Batman?"

I hear him suck a breath in through his teeth. "What about Batman?"

"Well," I say, choosing my words very carefully in response to the challenge in his voice—come on, say something stupid, I dare you—"I just… it seems weird to me. You know, that you'd think about giving me a gift but not him. You've known him longer, after all, and… well, isn't that something that arch-nemeses do? Give each other inappropriate, passive-aggressive gifts on birthdays and Christmas?"

"Oh, there's nothing passive-aggressive about it, sweetie," he assures me, but he sounds cheered, and he apparently can't pass up the opportunity to talk about Batman, especially not to someone who recognizes their status as nemeses, because he goes on: "But you're right. He does deserve somethin', huh? If only because he's the only effective law enforcement in this place. Keeps the job from getting boring—yeah, a guy like that is priceless. However, it's not as if he's got, uh, a forwarding address. And with the cops all over him these days, as funny as it is to see him cast down from that pedestal they all had him on, it's not as if I can just drop off a treat at the nearest police station." He heaves a regretful sigh. "You see my predicament."

"Yeah," I say, and I try to slow my heartbeat, to make my voice as casual as possible before I ask the next question. "So what are you going to do?"

He's silent, and despite my efforts to stay calm, I feel my pulse quickening. I'm not trying to put one over on him, not exactly, but I am trying to get a bead on his plans, trying to figure out where I fit in, and past experience tells me that he doesn't take too kindly to prying. If he suspects that I'm trying to trick him into giving something up…

"Well," he says finally, "that's the question, isn't it? What do you give a guy who thinks he owns the whole city?" He pauses again, then, sounding knowing, pleased with himself, he answers his own question. "You fix something in the city. Do something he can't do, and do it in a way he can't ignore. Let me ask you something, kid—does the name Falcone ring any bells?"

My brow furrows. "Like, Carmine Falcone?" He clicks his tongue in the affirmative. "Well, yeah—he was kind of like head mobster a couple of years ago, ran a big chunk of organized crime in the city, but I heard he went crazy. Isn't he in Arkham?"

"Yess," the Joker hisses, sounding pleased. "Yes, he is, and take it from me—he's loonier 'n a bowl of fruit loops. His son, however… well, he's loony, too, but he's decidedly no-t… in Arkham."

That explains a whole lot of nothing. I frown confusedly into the dark, wondering what the hell ties Batman, the Falcones, and Christmas together—and additionally and even more perplexing, what I have to do with any of them, but I've already gotten away with several questions thus far, and I'm getting the sense that I might not want to push my luck. I fall silent, crossing my arms and leaning back against the van again. He takes it upon himself to once again fill the silence with his humming, and I just shake my head.

Well, that lasted all of five minutes.

Time passes—an inordinately long time, actually, and I find myself wishing for windows so I can get a sense of where we're headed, but I guess that would defeat the purpose of the van. The Joker, fortunately, does not take it upon himself to make conversation, and he keeps his distance, so I guess there's that.

Just when I'm starting to wonder if we're actually leaving the city, the van rolls to a stop, and I hear him standing, though I don't follow suit. After a few more moments, the back doors open, and the Joker, hunched over to accommodate the low roof, swings around and peers abruptly into my eyes.

"Ready to play?"

A/N - Eep. No sooner do I make a plan to update than life gets in the way, go figure. I hope the length of this chapter made up for it a little, as well as the bit of exposition of the Joker's Christmas plots (though somehow I doubt it helped too much).

So redstarbloom did some marvelous fanart of Emma that made me ridiculously happy. There's a link in my profile and everyone should check it out because it's beautiful!

And with that, I need to jet, I'm expecting guests shortly and there's some domestic stuff to do before they arrive so they won't be afraid that they're entering a maniac's lair. Heh. Leave me thoughts and feelings about this newest, and I'll update as soon as I get the chance!