XIII

We burst outdoors to the sound of sirens, but my calm holds. The police always seem to arrive at the scene just one minute too late; why should this time be any different?

The Joker hustles down the street, dragging me behind him. His head is bobbing above his shoulders, twisting occasionally to show a flash of wildly-rolling eye—he's looking for something. After a moment of this, he hums "Mm-hmm" and jerks me towards a black car with heavily tinted windows. I have no choice but to follow, but I do so doubtfully—does he really have time to pick the lock, with police only a few streets away from the sound of it?

My concerns are addressed indirectly when he pulls on the passenger-side door handle and the door comes smoothly open. His hand leaves my wrist, flicking up to my shoulder, and as he shoves me inside I can feel the impartiality of the touch—for the moment, at least, I'm nothing more than chattel to him, which makes me believe even more that he meant every word of his little diatribe inside. My foot is barely clear of the door before he slams it shut, and as he moves swiftly around the front, I wonder vaguely who leaves a nice car like this unlocked in the ghetto?

The answer comes to me quickly enough, informed by the tint of the windows and the memory of our unexpected visitors—mob guys, of course. It's exactly the kind of arrogance one would expect from the criminals who believe they run this town.

Still, they're not cocky enough to leave the keys in the ignition I note as the Joker thuds into the driver's seat beside me. He slams the door and then hunches forward, groping beneath the dashboard. I crane my neck, vaguely interested despite myself, but I can't see what he's doing with his hands, can only hear a rough clatter, then some snapping. He re-emerges with a handful of wires. He touches two together, they crackle, and then the car hums to life. Abandoning the wires, he puts the car in gear and swerves away from the curb, twisting the wheel to take us down the nearest cross-street.

For the next few minutes, he weaves his way along a dizzying path, going up another block then turning sharply again, repeating the deviations with a leaden foot until I start to feel slightly sick and decide that I should avoid looking out of the window until the nausea subsides. I turn my attention instead to securing my seatbelt. The lap belt brushes against my stomach, drawing my attention to the stinging cut I've all but forgotten in the adrenaline rush of escape, and I'm a little startled to see that a large part of my shirt front is stained with blood.

I adjust the lap belt so that it rests over my thighs and lower stomach, and, trying to ignore the sickening lurch of the car as it twists back and forth, I gingerly peel my shirt up to examine the fresh wound. The fabric has served to smear blood across the skin of my stomach, but it isn't difficult to identify the cut running from my navel halfway up to my chest, not particularly deep, but nasty. The bright well of blood obscures the surrounding flesh, but I imagine that if it were clean, the edges of the wound would be visibly jagged. I wish for a wet cloth and a bandage, something to hide the evidence of the gash and the threat it represents, but the wish is futile.

I suddenly feel foolish, like a child examining in wonder the bare gum from which its first baby tooth has fallen, and I roll my sticky shirt down again, trying not to wince as the damp cloth scrapes against the cut. There's nothing I can do about it at the moment. The injury looks messy, but I'm not in danger of bleeding out, and worrying about infection seems ridiculous since I'm far from certain that I'll be alive long enough for infection to set in.

In the meantime, the Joker has straightened out the car, putting us on a relatively steady path, and I feel safe enough to glance up again. I can still hear the sirens, but they're distant, posing little immediate threat. He is taking no notice whatsoever of me, peering sharply out of the windshield, and my staring effects no change. For a strange span of seconds, I find myself fantasizing about drawing the knife out of my pocket and putting it through his throat, or at least lunging over to give him a wound to match mine, but even as I daydream about it, I know I won't do anything. How many chances have I had to kill or maim him? How many times have I stopped at just imagining it?

For some reason, I feel the urge to get his attention. Buzzing in his ear for no reason isn't likely to get a good result, and I'm wary of provoking him in light of what just happened, but fortunately, my mind lands on a question I think is fair to ask.

"What did that henchman mean when he said that… they all know I'm not with you of my own free will?"

He glances distractedly at me, double-taking as if he's forgotten that I'm here. His gaze doesn't linger, returning to the street ahead, and he doesn't answer me.

I press on anyway. "He said they'd all seen the video. And you… you keep talking about a hero wanting to save me—Batman, right? How do you know he even knows I'm gone?"

"Ahh, come on, he's too much of a busybody to keep his pointy nose out," he mutters, half to himself.

"No, but Grumbles," I argue. "He said, 'we all saw it.'" He doesn't even grace me with a glance this time, and, putting the pieces together reluctantly, I say, "You made one of your… home videos and sent it to the news, didn't you?" My eyes dart, unseeing, back and forth as I make the pieces fit. I was asleep for a while last night, and he was the one to wake me up. I don't know how I could have slept through it, but then again, I've been sleeping unusually heavily lately.

Shifting sideways, wincing as the skin of my stomach twists and stretches a bit, I fix him with a steady scowl and ask, "Did you make me bait for Batman?" No answer, but I don't really get the sense that he's pointedly ignoring me so much as just genuinely uninterested in what I'm asking. "You did, didn't you? You challenged him to come find me."

He twists the wheel abruptly to the left, hard, and the g-force presses me against the passenger door for a few seconds. As he straightens us out again, he bites out, "If you've got everything aaalll figured out, then why're you asking me?"

"I haven't figured everything out," I say, not bothering to straighten myself from where my back has landed against the door, since this position affords me a better view of him, anyway. "In fact, I feel like I'm just barely stumbling along here in the dark with what little I do know. I'm a really curious person, okay? You know that about me. If I don't have answers, I'm going to constantly be guessing. And maybe you're okay with that, and maybe you're keeping me in the dark because you think it's funny to watch me flounder, I don't know. I'm not trying to piss you off, but I ask questions when I don't know what's going on. Again, you know that."

Speaking before I'm quite finished, his voice carrying over mine, he says, "You can watch the tape, if you want. Though, uh, I wouldn't hold out much hope for having all yer questions answered."

His easy acquiescence takes me off-guard, and I fall silent at once, thinking this over. If he doesn't mind showing me, then I'm not sure anymore that I really want to see it. It's not just the contrarian in me, either—over time, I've come to understand that whenever possible, if I express a desire for something, he will withhold it. For him to make an exception means that the sacrifice of giving me what I want is outweighed by the satisfaction of giving me what I want, which means that what I want will be… unsettling, probably, to say the least.

Still, I'm not going to back down now, and part of me wants him to know that—though I am absolutely not interested in picking a fight right now. It hardly seems to matter, anyway. Quietly, I say, "I'd appreciate that."

He glances sideways at me, mouth pulled up in a weird crooked half-smile. He's laughing at me, like he always does, for my effort at politeness, but I'm too beaten and worn out to care much. Still, I'm alive, and as long as I am alive I don't think I'll ever be capable of refraining from mouthing off to him, whether my heart is in it or not, so, folding my arms across my chest and sinking wearily down into my seat, I mutter, "Fuck off, I was raised to be polite. It's instinct no matter who's on the receiving end."

"You wanna get rid of that habit," he advises me generously. "People'll take advantage of you."

I release a short bark of laughter. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

He nods, but there's an absent-mindedness about it, as if I've turned back into something inanimate in his eyes, a hunk of stone. I find myself idly wondering if he ever has conversations with inanimate objects, guns or knives, and I hold back a snort at the thought, realizing that I'm long overdue for some rest. While it's true that I've been sleeping probably ten hours a night since this all began—much more than my typical restless six—I've also sustained much more injury, blood loss, and stress than is typical for a usual day, which wears one out a lot more quickly than you'd think.

I shoot a quick, envious look at the Joker, wondering how he does it. Is he just so accustomed to the hectic life that he isn't drained by it anymore, if he ever was? I remember, the first day I met him, a henchman telling me that his habit was to go without sleep for six days in a row.

I don't know how true that is, especially for time when trouble is simmering rather than boiling—I've already seen him sleep twice, and I've only been in his company for somewhere around forty-eight hours, though it feels like much longer. A thought suggests itself that this might be due to my presence, but I dismiss the idea, as much for the fact that it's a frightening thought as that it seems unlikely.

I'm getting nowhere, and this train of thought is bordering on delirium, I think crankily, and shut my eyes. I'm not afraid to doze a little, not right now. While we're in this car, at least, I don't think I'm in any real danger. Unless, of course, he thinks it'll be funny to slam on the brakes and send my head crashing into the dashboard, but I think I'll take my chances.

I doze fitfully, unable to get comfortable with the combination of stinging aches and the cramped sitting position. I get a few minutes' sleep here and there, and he doesn't seem to mind, if he even notices. I imagine it gives him some time to get his head together and start laying groundwork for his next move without me chattering at him.

Eventually, though, I give up on the idea of sleep, opening my eyes and sitting up with a sigh. It doesn't take me long to realize that I recognize this area of the city.

My head whips around and I regard the Joker with huge eyes. "This is Cathedral Square."

"You should be a tour guide," he comments without missing a beat.

Ignoring the quip, I say, "Please don't tell me we're going to my apartment."

There's a few seconds' silence, and then, face scrunched up and head tilted slightly, he asks, "Well, do you want me to tell you the truth, or—?"

I groan, throwing my head back against the rest. "Seriously? Why?!"

He pauses as though taken aback by the question, and then, finally, he asks, "Well… why not?"

"You don't think that people will come looking there?"

"Do you?" he counters instantly.

I frown, studying him. "That depends," I say reluctantly. "How many people saw that mysterious video we talked about?"

"Oh, I think it's safe to say the whole city's seen that video by now." I throw my hand out, palm-up, indicating that he's made my point for me. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye and then chuckles low in his throat. "Settle down, Em. They might have checked your place for evidence earlier… but I doubt it. The cops aren't too keen on saving you. Not if it means coming up against me."

I muster a snort at his usual cockiness; he doesn't seem to notice. "And even if they were there… they won't have stuck around. No, they're pretty eager to leave this one to the Bat-man."

"Okay, well, fine," I acquiesce, deciding not to ask how he knows for sure (it's unlikely he'll answer, anyway), "but how do you know he won't show up?"

"If I know our hero," he murmurs, glancing up through the windshield at the black sky as if expecting to catch a glimpse of his adversary right now, "—and I do—he's already come and gone, uh, several times."

"And you're not worried he'll come back while we're camped out there?"

"Not really," he remarks flippantly. I stare at him, and after a moment of this, he yields slightly. "He's gonna have his hands tied for a little while tryin' to figure out what's going on with Falcone—and, well, ultimately, he's not gonna expect me to take you home."

"No, I guess not," I admit softly. If the Joker really did call out Batman publicly over my kidnapping, then taking me back home is the last move Batman will expect.

Okay, it's a decent idea, I admit begrudgingly to myself, sinking further down into my seat—and, perhaps belatedly, I realize that arguing with the Joker isn't necessarily in my best interest, anyway. Sure, if the police and/or Batman are there, I'm probably looking at a throat-cutting—but in the more likely event that they haven't wasted police muscle by staking out my apartment, I'm instead looking at a hot shower, a full change of clothes (clothes that actually belong to me), a first aid kit, food, and possibly some rest in my bed.

Suddenly, I find myself hoping that we'll find my apartment empty and the streets outside clear.

When we finally reach my street, he slows the car to a crawl, not slow enough to look suspicious, but checking, searching for evidence of a police presence. I don't see one, and if he does, he doesn't indicate it. There are no police cars, there's no visible crime scene tape—the only suspicious vehicle on the street belongs to us.

Eager to get back home, even if it's under his rule and temporary, I turn to him and say, "If you need somewhere to drop the car, there's a parking lot one block south of here, no attendants, the mechanical kind. It's usually pretty full, I don't think anyone would… notice…"

I falter as he turns his black eyes on me. My sudden helpfulness must seem suspicious to him. I tell him the truth as quickly as possible: "Well, I mean, now that I think about it, I'd be… okay with stopping by my place for a while." I'm careful not to sound too eager, lest he decides that he'd rather put up somewhere else out of sheer spite.

He doesn't answer, but keeps the car on its course, and when we come upon the parking lot I mentioned, he casually, almost deliberately directs the car through the gate. I try not to be too obvious about my relief as he snatches a ticket from the dispenser and finds a spot near the back.

The lot is empty of people and unlit, relying on glimmers of light from the surrounding streets for illumination—never mind security. For maybe the first time, I'm grateful that my neighborhood, like most upper-class areas of Gotham, is not strictly safe. I've long since come to terms with the fact that the Joker being discovered by police or anybody inclined to rat him out to the police is not a good thing, at least not as long as I'm in his power. If I can sneak him into my apartment without anyone noticing… that'd be for the best.

I shoot him a furtive sideways glance as we come to a stop, but he seems lost in thought, pocketing the keys as he gets out of the car. I follow suit, frowning. Since explaining just why my apartment would be an adequate hiding place, he hasn't really spoken that much. By the time I circle around the car, he's already striding through the parking lot, as if he's forgotten me.

Seeing this, I pause belatedly, and temptation creeps in. Would he really notice at this point? If I just left, would he even care? He's clearly got his own thing going by now, something much bigger than his game with me. If I bailed, it might even be a relief to him, not to have to deal with me anymore, whether or not he's willing to admit it.

I begin to edge back around the car again, thinking seriously about making a break for it. Without appearing to glance around or break his swaying stride, he tilts his head slightly to the side and barks out harshly, "Emma!"

Right. My resolve fails me immediately as I feel the ghost of his grip tightening upon me again. I run to catch up to him, and he shoots me an irritated glance as I move into place beside him.

Since honesty usually yields good results with him (as long as it doesn't verge into disrespect), I make no secret of my slightly-displeased confusion. "What's going on?"

He maintains his uncharacteristic silence, eyes crawling from side to side as he checks out the lot and the street beyond for potential threats. He may as well not have heard me, but I'm not willing to let it rest. Fear dies away fast when you've experienced it as intensely and as often as I have over the last long span of hours, so despite the serious scare of earlier, I find myself asking, "Are you mad at me?"

I don't really think he is—I don't think he really bothers with petty things like grudges. Still, I'd like a response from him, and I think that question will get one, even if it's not exactly a pleasant one—anything short of a stabbing, I think I can handle.

Of course, as usual, his reaction is not at all what I'm expecting. He shoots me a flickering glance, and then his hand slips down and grips mine, hot and rough and dry. This isn't the usual commanding death grip, though; he actually laces his fingers through mine and gives me a squeeze that I suppose is meant to be comforting. His lips part, and finally, he speaks. "Shh," he says absently. "No, no, I'm not mad. Thinking. Shh."

Every now and again, he'll do or say something that is so weirdly normal that I have no clue how to respond. Now is definitely one of those times, and so, thoroughly subdued, I let him hold my hand, my own fingers tightening instinctively in response to his, and we continue towards my building that way, keeping to the shadows and back-alleys. I find myself tugging on his hand as often as he pulls on mine—we're navigating a dark maze of backroads, and he's got a good sense of direction, but I'm more familiar with the area. Between us, we puzzle our way to the side of my building in good time.

He lets my hand go as we approach the fire escape, and I glance around quickly to see if anyone's watching us, but the alley's empty and the windows studding the side of the opposite building are all dark. Good. The ladder is within easy reach for him—the bottom rung is at his eye level; he should have no problem reaching up and pulling it down, but instead he reaches down towards my waist, gripping it as though he intends to lift me.

"Whoa, whoa," I say, slipping startled hands onto his shoulders for stability as I plant my feet and look up at him. "Why don't you—"

"The ladder's stuck," he says laconically, tightening his grip. "C'mon." I realize belatedly that he must have come this way at the start of the whole mess, and my mouth is twisting wryly at this realization as he hoists me up. I quickly refocus, grabbing the ladder and pulling myself onto the platform with his help.

I twist around as soon as I'm secure, just in time to see him take a strong leap and clear the bottom rungs, grabbing hold of the icy platform directly. For a second, I get another flash of temptation—I could smash his fingers, or get my knife and cut a few of them off, but I dismiss the idea as foolhardy and move instead to help.

He doesn't seem to need much assistance, climbing up quickly and nimbly, but I still grab him beneath the shoulder and help hoist him to relative safety. He gets his foot caught on a rung, though, and surges forward unexpectedly, knocking me back into the guard rail. He narrowly avoids crushing me flat, instead ending up sprawled over my legs. The ridiculousness of it makes me laugh wearily, and instead of getting up right away, he rolls onto his back. I think I catch a glimpse of a grin.

I stop laughing. While it would be a bald-faced lie to say I haven't come to enjoy these rare chummy moments, even crave them when the going gets rough(er), I've learned not to trust them. I'm not saying he overcompensates in meanness for them later, but… well, the pendulum always eventually swings back, and with him, it seems to happen sooner rather than later.

He languidly lifts his legs from mine and gets up, the escape creaking under the shift of weight. Doing nothing so gentlemanly as to offer me a hand, he points instead to the next ladder. "You first."

Keeping my silence, I get up, squeezing past him and hoisting myself up. As I start climbing I almost say don't look at my ass, but I catch myself just in time. What's wrong with you? You're still bleeding because of him, still reeling from the very serious death threat, and you're thinking about flirting?

I chalk it up as a defense mechanism, because right now, I'm too tired to face the sharply divided nature of my feelings for—about him. I'll think about it later, I promise myself. Right now, all I want is the security of my home, however temporary it may prove to be.

We climb in silence until we reach my broken window. He left it unlocked, and after peering inside to see if I can register a human presence, I slowly slide it open.

So far, so good. The slight noise doesn't seem to disturb anything—or anyone—that might be lurking in the shadows, so I carefully climb in, landing lightly on the floor of my kitchen.

The Joker follows right away, having a little more difficulty squeezing through the small space, and I move aside quickly as his feet hit the floor and he maneuvers the rest of his body inside. Immediately, he produces a gun, and his hand curls around my shoulder, positioning me in front of him. Great. Now I get to play human shield. I'm not reckless enough to say anything, but I roll my eyes as he begins to steer me forward.

Meticulously, we search the place, and find—nothing. I'm a little surprised despite myself. There's no evidence that the police were here at all, not that I necessarily know what to look for. Still, I find myself growing increasingly resentful. The Joker said they would leave this one to Batman, but still—they didn't even put in a token effort? What the hell?

My annoyance fades soon enough. Like the Joker said, no one wants to be in his line of fire, and what's another endangered-soon-to-be-dead girl in Gotham, really? I'm too tired to stay mad.

After we've searched the place thoroughly, the Joker puts the gun away and then grabs my other shoulder and spins me around. I'm startled when he ducks his head to peer into my eyes, looking serious, which is unsettling, to say the least. "How many of your neighbors know you?"

I blink, startled. "My—neighbors?"

"Upstairs, downstairs—how many of 'em?"

"N-none."

He looks unconvinced. I find myself scowling, and I try to shrug his hands away, but they stay put. "Look, you know that. You're always rubbing my tendency towards reclusiveness in my face. I don't do the friendly neighbors thing, and anyway, this is Gotham. If you're worried about someone blowing the whistle because they see lights or hear footsteps… I honestly doubt they'll realize or care that we're here."

Behind his lips, he runs his tongue over his top teeth, and finally, he nods. "Good." He releases my shoulders and turns away. I watch him for a second as he shrugs out of his heavy coat, and with the entitlement I've come to expect of him, he pulls the refrigerator open and bends to inspect the contents, laying his arm along the top. This reminds me that I haven't eaten since the pizza last night, but curiously enough, my stomach doesn't ache.

I recognize this as a bad sign, and probably part of why I've been feeling so tired so quickly. I promise myself I'll eat something later, but right now, I just want a hot shower and some bandages. "I—" I catch myself before I ask him for permission. After all, this is my house. A bit more boldly, I say, "I'm gonna go… shower and bandage up."

He glances swiftly at me out of the corner of his eye before returning his gaze to the fridge. "That so?"

Ugh. I try not to glare at him, but it's hard—he would take the opportunity to remind me that, my apartment or not, I have no real power here. If he doesn't want me to clean off and patch up, then tough luck, I'm not doing a damn thing. Ratcheting up the sarcasm in my tone in order to assume some of the power I know I don't have, I ask, "Is that okay with you?"

"I was just wondering if you meant it as an invitation," he says idly, his head disappearing into the fridge.

I don't dare to reply—I scurry out of the kitchen as quickly as I can without drawing attention. He doesn't follow.

A/N - I think at some point this story evolved into an anti-buddy-road-trip comedy. Oh, well.

Y'all heard the phrase "calm before the storm?" ...yes. Storms are on the way—quiet little crushingly destructive storms and big noisy everyone's-invited storms. MAN, I can't wait for you to see.

Now I have to rush. Whiskey and Portlandia are calling my name. Tell me what you think! Is Emma going to be able to keep holding it together? What is she gonna do, trapped in her own apartment alone with a terrifying killer? Are they gonna run into trouble sooner or later? The (at least partial) answers to these questions and more- next time! (ok I'm going to stop now)