Warning for some dubcon-ish behavior/speech in this chapter. Please proceed carefully.

XV

When I wake next, it takes me a moment to get my bearings. Coming to consciousness in my own bed is kind of a trip; it makes me feel for one blissed half-second that the entire thing has been one horribly drawn-out nightmare—a feeling that disintegrates along with the last cobwebs of sleep as all my aches and pains return to me, but for a second, at least, I was at peace.

My location isn't the only thing that throws me off; I realize after a second that gray light is streaming in through the window. I haven't woken before twilight since he first came for me; haven't seen daylight (except for on the wrong end, the faint lightening of the sky that signals pre-dawn) for days. I lie in bed and stare at the shuttered window for a while, a curious sensation filling me, as if I'm drawing strength from the light and from my bed that I occupy alone. Certainly I feel more rested than I have in a while, able to deal with things I couldn't handle last night.

I turn my head away from the window and towards the door, unconsciously seeking the Joker. I can't see him, and I can't hear him, either—he might be sleeping. It's not easy to fly under the radar in an apartment that is (generously speaking, if you count the bathroom) only three rooms big. I'm not particularly surprised that I didn't wake up to find him in my bed—something about his energy last night made me feel like he had no intentions of sleeping, and even if he had… well, I feel strangely sure that he'd had enough of me for one night.

Newly rested, I feel strong enough to admit to myself that last night was a big mistake. I know by now that asking the Joker for something (or otherwise indicating that I want it) is the surest possible way of not getting it. I don't know, maybe that was the plan all along—maybe it was my subconscious's clever way of keeping me alive for one more night. The memory seems too fuzzy to be examined closely, like I'd been drunk or drugged.

I sigh at the thought. What I wouldn't give for a strong drink right about now. It's an absent-minded wish, not a desire I'd make good on even if I had the opportunity. I'm feeling halfway strong for the first time in days; I have no intention of fogging my wits now.

I could use some food, though, and coffee wouldn't go amiss, either. I roll out of bed, still fully clothed, and go to the bathroom to freshen up. As I go through an abbreviated morning routine, I again register some discomfort at the fact that I can't hear any movement from the rest of the apartment, but I don't allow myself to hope—or dread—that the Joker's taken off. Maybe he did fall asleep, I tell myself, casting a passing glance at my battered reflection before leaving the bathroom.

My first step into the living area proves me wrong. He's sitting upright in the armchair in the corner overlooking the rest of the room, and he's not asleep—but from the looks of him, he's not awake, either. I take a few hesitant steps closer, leaving plenty of space between us but wanting a better look. His eyes are half-shut, the pupils just visible beneath the dark sweep of lashes, creating the vague illusion that the black paint around them have swallowed them whole. His lips are closed, corners of his mouth pulled downwards in a natural resting frown, and his arms lay flat against the rests, fingers hanging loose off the edges. From a distance, I can't tell if he's breathing.

It's profoundly unsettling, and not a little creepy. Noiseless and motionless, he looks uncannily like some giant eerie clown dummy, but I can't bring myself to try to call his attention or approach him to check for signs of life.

Fuck it, I think, if he's dead, he'll start to stink soon enough. Shaking off the heebie-jeebies the best I can, I cross into the kitchen area to search for some food that hasn't gone bad. After throwing out some bad fruit and emptying the expired milk, I select some eggs and bacon that are still good—protein will stick to my ribs, keep me going in case I end up skipping a few more meals.

Soon enough, the kitchen feels warm and alive, and the sizzle of the frying pan and soft rumble of the coffee machine have replaced the unnerving silence. I hadn't realized how accustomed I've gotten to constant noise, chatter, and activity until he stopped talking. To burn time while the food cooks, I wash the dishes left in the sink during my unexpected absence—the plates are scummy and gross after being left unattended for three days, but after all I've seen in that short span of time, it seems stupid to get squeamish.

Soon enough, the kitchen is in order and my food and coffee are ready. I sit at my little four-person table to eat, facing the Joker so I can keep a wary eye on him. My stomach revives in response to the smell of food, though, and before long, I've all but forgotten about him, and I eat quickly and hungrily.

However, three days with nothing to eat but a few slices of pizza takes a toll on one's stomach. I only manage to make my way through half of the food on my plate before I give up, feeling uncomfortably full despite the fact that I've only managed to eat one egg and two slices of bacon. I eye my cup of coffee warily, eventually deciding that I can probably manage it if I take small, infrequent sips.

The light outside of the window is fading, and a glance at the kitchen clock tells me that it's not yet five o'clock. Gotham Three airs news updates on the hour, so I pick up my coffee and go into the living area, gingerly seating myself on the farthest end of the couch from the still creepily-inanimate Joker.

I turn on the TV, glancing again at him, but he doesn't so much as twitch. I turn the channel to Four and turn the volume up as much as I dare. It's not quite five—they're airing live footage of the Gotham City Philharmonic performing Handel's Messiah. Any other day, I'd enjoy listening to the oratorio, but today… today, it just grates on my nerves. Immediate physical needs tended to, the need to know what's in store is starting to itch uncomfortably beneath my skin. I sip my coffee and wait, fingers tapping convulsively against my knee, unable to stop myself from glancing repeatedly at the Joker.

He's still motionless. As far as I can tell, he hasn't even blinked. Starting to worry a little, I increase the volume. No response.

Shortly, the news comes on—and my story is first. The anchor, an appropriately solemn-looking man with thin gray-blonde hair plastered to his forehead, addresses the camera from his desk:

"As we go into the second night since the notorious domestic terrorist known only as the Joker resurfaced with a challenge for disgraced vigilante the Batman, and police are reporting no leads. The Joker sent a DVD to Gotham Channel Three which included the following footage. Be warned—the footage may disturb some viewers."

The picture has been hastily edited, I can tell, with half-second bursts of static marking scenes apparently too unnerving for the Gotham public to witness. It doesn't matter; the basics translate. I watch calmly, eerily detached from the image that my brain tells me is me, that battered, white little creature curled up on the couch, totally oblivious to the Joker's scrutiny. I listen as he growls at the camera, finally getting confirmation that my guesses are accurate, that the situation is exactly what I think it is.

Like it or not, I've become a pawn in the game between Batman and the Joker, a distraction designed to keep the hero off his game. I should be angry, but really—I've known this almost from the beginning. After all, isn't getting Batman's attention always his end game?

The picture cuts from the ghastly, laughing face back to the sober-faced anchor. "As of yet, there have been no reported sightings of either the Joker or the Batman. A representative from the Gotham Police Department assures us that they are doing all they can to find the Joker and return the captive safely home."

From there, they move on to the lighter topic of the Christmas parade planned for the next day. I stare blankly at the screen for a second before my brain catches up with me, and I lift the remote to switch off the TV.

When I next look at the Joker, I nearly jump out of my skin upon discovering that his eyes are fully open now, and fixed on me. I know he sees me jump, but at least I don't cry out (though I can't quite stop the words "For fuck's sake" from slipping through my lips).

He's still unnervingly motionless, but at least he's present—at least I know he's not dead. Wouldn't that be a relief. Recovering a little, I pull my legs up onto the couch and say, trying not to sound defensive, "Well, you said I could see the video."

He blinks twice, licking his lips in the same way another person might stretch out after a full night's sleep, and then, voice pitched slightly lower than his usual mocking keen, he purrs, "I did. See anything… interesting?"

"I imagine they only played an excerpt, but I think I got the gist."

"Good," he says briefly, and stands from his chair with a sigh, dusting off his thighs. Without speaking to or looking at me again, he walks past the couch and into the bedroom.

I get up slowly and go into the kitchen to refill my coffee. At the counter, I find my eye is drawn to my cell phone, left there when I was abducted several nights ago. For a second, temptation flares up—but it's easier to tamp down than it has been before (aided in part by the fact that the phone is bound to be dead by now).

Before the temptation has the opportunity to resurface, the Joker emerges from the back room and goes straight to the half-full coffee pot, also effectively hemming me into the kitchen area. I retreat to the farthest counter from him and lean back against it, fully prepared to scramble over it into the more open living room if he comes too close.

For now, though, he seems content to just pour some coffee and stay put, not necessarily presenting an immediate threat—but, trapped as I am, it doesn't exactly put me at ease. Even more unsettling—he's barely said two words since he… woke up, or revived, or whatever. The Joker is a chatty person—his silence doesn't bode well.

So, naturally, I brave the perilous terrain that is conversation with him. I say, "So what were you doing just them?"

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, putting on a puzzled look as he replaces the pot. "What, in the bathroom?"

"No," I reply quickly, certain that I don't want to hear him carry the willful misunderstanding any further. "When you were sitting there just now, you looked… dead."

He turns his head and stares at me for a second. "I wasn't dead."

"Yeah, obviously." I shake my head, giving it up. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

Instead of leaving, though, he turns around, leaning back against the counter with his legs stretched out to block my escape route and fixing me with a stare. "You seem a little more lively."

I'm immediately on guard. "Fishing for the opportunity to say I told you so?"

"Should I?"

I pause for a second, looking down at my feet and taking stock of my mental state. I do feel better than I did last night, that much is undeniable—sleeping in my own bed did me good, and the stupid, suicidal impulse has faded. Still, something's left… something that's not quite recklessness, something a little more thoughtful and bone-deep. This something makes me feel certain that I'm not going to try to run and hide from my death sentence, should it prove inevitable. I'm tired of scrambling to add time to the clock. It's gone on long enough.

Of course, I have no intentions of telling him all this. I look up and refocus calmly on his face. "We'll see what happens."

He flashes me his yellowed grin and straightens up, turning away and meandering over to the table, where he helps himself to the remnants of my food, standing and picking through it like some great scavenging bird. I'd still have to pass a little too close to him to escape the kitchen, and after witnessing his creepy form of half-sleep, I'm a little unsettled, so I stay put for now. Reaching to fill the silence again, I say, "So, what are the plans for today?"

"Plans?" he repeats as though he's never heard the word. I try not to show evidence of my exasperation.

"Yeah, plans. You—I mean, it's Christmas Eve—in another seven hours, we're looking at Christmas Day. Didn't you have some gifts you wanted to give?"

"Well, if I recall correctly… ah, one of those gifts was for you," he says, mouth full, glancing at me over his shoulder. "Spending time with you? Ring a bell?"

"Yeah, but—" I stop myself as he turns back to the table, knowing enough by now to recognize when I'm not going to be able to get him to talk. Frustrated nonetheless, I stare at the plate of food he's demolishing, wishing I'd had the foresight to spray it down with roach poison after I'd finished. Staring across the kitchen at the clock so I don't have to look at him, I say dispassionately, "Well, at any rate, it would probably be a smart move to leave the apartment soon. Eventually, someone's gonna come here to look around—whether it'll be the cops or Batman looking for clues or my landlord hunting for money, I can't say, but I doubt we'll be safe for much longer."

"Safe," he says, drawing out the sibilance of the word, but otherwise, he doesn't respond.

I give up and decide to risk passing close to him on the way to the living room. He doesn't touch me as I go by, but he does look up and fix me with an unsettling stare. I'm uncomfortably aware of his eyes following me all the way to the couch, but, determined not to let him see how anxious he's making me, I flop down on the couch with a careless, bored sigh, picking up the remote and turning on the TV. I hear him chuckle softly, making me think he's not quite buying the nonchalance, and I resist the urge to give his turned back the finger, firmly telling myself that just because I'm not trying to outrun death anymore doesn't mean I need to invite it.

And for all my efforts to play at not giving him a second thought, I zone out as soon as I put the remote back down. I can't help wondering what he's up to. Since the night when he killed that police officer in his home, there's always been something in motion—even when we were waiting around, there was always something we were waiting for, some plan or research that needed to be carried out before he made his next move.

This time—well, I definitely get the sense that he's waiting for something, but I have no idea what it is, and that bothers me. Sure, I'm used to being kept mostly in the dark, fed only a few tantalizing hints here and there, but based on my surroundings and the things he said to his henchmen, I was always able to piece things mostly together.

Now that it's just me and him in the neutral ground of my apartment, that information flow has shut down, and I don't like it.

I'm frowning in dissatisfaction, oblivious to what's on the TV, when he suddenly drops down on the couch next to me. Right next to me, as a matter of fact, settling in thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes fixed on the TV and tongue probing at all the crevices and hollows inside his mouth as if the thought that I might want a bit of space hasn't even occurred to him.

I shift, starting to scoot a few inches away, but his arm drops across the back of the couch and he grips my shoulder, pressing against it—not forcefully, but I'm sure that'll change if I don't yield. Silently, I slide back against him, and his hand relaxes, now just resting on my shoulder instead of gripping it.

I'm tense, even more so at the fact that he doesn't appear to actually be doing anything aside from watching TV. I glance briefly at the set, wondering what channel I'd chosen without thinking about it, and I hold back a snort when I see what's on. Adventure Time. Of course.

I've never been locked in a cage with a tiger, but I imagine this must be what it feels like. Even if the tiger isn't particularly hungry or pissed off, there's always the fear that it might take a swat at you just because—well, because that's how a tiger is. My muscles are taut, ready to launch me away from him at the slightest sound of a weapon being pulled, and I know he can feel the slight tremble of anxiety and the stiffness of tension coming off my body.

Note to self, I think, trying not to breathe faster than normal, embracing the inevitability of death does not equal embracing fear.

This goes on for two fucking hours. I'd think he was just lost in thought or watching TV, but after those first few minutes, I started risking a glance at him now and again, and almost every time, he was staring at me. Having to sit next to him is one thing, but after a while, the staring threatens to drive me right out of my skin.

After I deem enough time has passed since the first attempt, I move to get up. I imagine I can feel him watching my every movement, but he makes no motion to stop me this time, and I retreat quickly to the bathroom, where I splash some cold water on my face and brush my teeth to buy some time.

Meeting the eyes of my reflection in the mirror, I mutter fiercely, "Get it together. Stop being such a wuss."

When I go back out into the bedroom, the Joker is standing just inside the doorway.

For the second time tonight, I jump a mile, hand jerking up instinctively to smother a scream that never quite manifests. I abort the movement, dropping my arm to my side, and, furious with him for getting that reaction out of me again, I say, "What is your problem?"

Probably the wrong question to ask, given the huge variety of truthful responses he could almost certainly come up with. He doesn't answer, though. His tongue flicks out, serpent-like, to swipe at his top lip, and he just stares at me like he's been doing regularly for two straight hours.

I'm suddenly getting a very bad feeling. I sidestep, going for the door, but his arm extends and grips the edge, giving it a swift, deliberate pull, and it swings shut, falling into place with a click that seems noisy in the sudden unbearable silence between us.

I take a reflexive step back. He takes two steps forward, floorboards creaking beneath his shoes, and I scurry further backwards until the backs of my legs hit the edge of the bed. Ignoring the little voice in my head that insists further retreat will only give him a stronger taste of my fear, I circle backwards to the other side of the bed as quickly as I'm able, but he doesn't let up, continuing in his steady pursuit.

By the time I've backed myself into a corner, I've begun to accept the situation. I'm trapped between the bed and the wall, and the only avenue of escape I can see is to scramble over the mattress, a flight that could be easily thwarted—all he'd have to do is throw me a little off-balance and I'd collapse on my stomach or back onto the bed. At the moment, facing him seems to be the preferable option, and so I try to compose myself and show him nothing but calm as he comes down the little lane composed by the edge of the bed and the wall, the gap between us steadily dwindling away to practically nothing.

This is it, I think, looking up into his painted face and knowing that for all my efforts, my fear must be evident. This is when he finally kills me.

He lifts his hand, winding his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck and cupping the back of my head tightly in his palm. For one adrenaline-heightened second, I wonder if he could crush my skull with those fingertips.

Then, sharp and fast, he bends down and kisses me, and this… this is not like the other times. The first time was a taunt, the second was just him responding to the violent challenge I'd set forth, but this… with his hand holding my head so tightly I can't move an inch, with the way his tongue is pushing forcefully into my mouth—it's the same thing he was doing last night, just in a different form. It's a reminder. I own you.

And, as always when provoked, I respond with stupid belligerence. I bite down—hard.

Of course, I've forgotten his apparent taste for masochism. Even as the sharp, metallic taste of his blood fills my mouth, he makes a muffled, guttural sound and pulls back—but before I can hope that he's finished, he twists his arm and flings me down to the mattress. Before I can flip over and make a break for the door, he follows me, chest pressed hard—almost painfully—against mine, and he grins. "And I really do like you, Em," he says, continuing some imagined conversation out loud. I can see blood on his teeth, gathering on the inside of his lower lip, and I'm not sure whether to be repulsed at the sight or satisfied. "You've got the balls to bite. That takes, ya know—a rare person. At least, when you're dealing with me."

"Oh, get over yourself," I start to say, but before I can quite get it out, he smashes his mouth against mine again, and this time, too frustrated and too flabbergasted to do anything else, I kiss back, just as hard. My hands drift up, but instead of balling them into fists and aiming for his gut, I grab the edges of his coat forcefully, trying to convey a simple message: the fact that you initiated this doesn't mean shit; this is happening because I want it to happen, got it?

Apparently so, because he breaks away and aims a horrifying grin at me. "And, uh… like I've said before, it's pretty obvious: you like me, too."

I stare straight up into those cavernous eyes, searching for something—anything – human in them. Hell, I'd settle for lust. But no. I only see constricted black pinpoints in the center of that murky brown that's only even a color when you're looking at it this closely. They say eyes are windows to the soul—fair enough. When I'm looking into his, all I can see is an abyss out to devour.

His hands have started to wander. Trying to ignore the fingertips creeping beneath the hem of my shirt, I open my mouth without quite knowing what to say—never a great idea around the Joker, but the only one I've got right now. "I know what this is."

"Oh, do you," he said, his other hand resting on my throat, fingertip brushing against my chin. He couldn't sound less interested in what I have to say, and the fingers beneath my shirt are tracing light circles around my navel, making it difficult to think past the lightning bolts of sensation shooting straight down from his hand—doubtless his object. I struggle past them.

"You're bored because whatever plans you have, they evidently require waiting, and waiting's… no fun. So you've—decided to make use of the only toy you have at your disposal."

"Mm, sounds like you've got me all figured out," he croons as he drags a finger along the waistline of my jeans, prompting a certain shortness of breath. "Tell me more."

Recognizing a warning when I hear it, I refocus. Switch off, I firmly order my body, to no real avail (of course). Ignoring the treacherous lifting of my hips and quick breathing the best I can, I look back into his eyes again and say, clearly, "I'm not your toy."

"Maybe not," he concedes, looking straight back at me, "but, uh, your pupils are dilated. A lot. So I must be doing something right."

I turn my face away from him, and he lets loose a throaty chuckle, bending down, his hair brushing against my throat as he gives the spot directly beneath my ear a sharp little bite, sending the air rushing shakily from my lungs all at once. He laughs again, lifting goosebumps from my skin, and doesn't bother to lift his mouth from my ear before speaking again, low and way too intimate: "Maybe it's time you quit focusing on my motivation and think instead about what you… want."

I twist my head forward again, prompting him to lift his face before it gets hit by the side of mine. Fiercely, I hiss, "I want you to quit treating me like a rag doll."

"Oh, no, no," he purrs, lowering his head again, mouth nearly colliding with mine as his hand slips out from under my shirt. "I'm pretty sure being treated like a—ah—rag doll is exactly what you want. At least for a little while." His fingers skim down over the front of my jeans, resting for a second at the cleft of my legs before he starts to stroke firmly, rhythmically and I shove my head back hard into the mattress because I know I need to stop him, but right now, in the haze of hormones and anger and frustration and maybe-Stockholm-syndrome, the thought of just lifting my hand and shoving his away seems practically impossible.

"See?" he enthuses in my ear again. "Isn't it just more fun to give up control for once?"

He doesn't give me the chance to answer before his mouth is on mine again, and I'm kissing him back and moving against his hand, because fuck it, I'm gonna die soon anyway. He pushes against me, and as my hand leaves his coat to knot itself into the coarse hair at the back of his head, his hand lifts and slips upward, unfastening the button of my jeans with one deft flick. He jerks the zipper down, and I'm wondering if I'll actually be weak and brave and stupid enough to go through with it, then—

A phone rings.

At first, disoriented, I think I'm imagining it, but it happens again. Without further warning, he disentangles himself from me, straightening up and swiping my hands away from his coat as he reaches into a pocket.

I pull my elbows up to support me and say the first thing that comes to mind. "You've got to be kidding me."

He doesn't bother to meet my eyes, pulling a clunky little burner out of his coat and studying the screen as he murmurs, "Normally, yeah, but now—we gotta get to work."

Without further explanation, he climbs over me off the bed and strides to the door, answering the phone as he goes: "Better tell me somethin' good, Eddie."

As soon as he disappears from the room I drop back against the mattress, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. It comes away smeared with red, and instinctively, I catapult from the bed, darting into the bathroom and kicking the door closed behind me. My reflection is—well, I can see how it would be funny in other cases, but at the moment, the red smudged on and around my mouth does nothing but disturb me. With the whiteness of my skin and the discolored bruising, all I can see is someone halfway to clown status herself, and considering the lapse in control I just demonstrated so spectacularly, the thought freaks me out.

I turn on the faucet, duck under the water, and start scrubbing at my mouth. By the time I'm done, my lips and the skin around them are still red, but at least this time it's a natural reaction to the rough treatment instead of his paint.

Still feeling unclean—and a bit concerned that I don't feel unclean enough— I go for the mouthwash, pulling it directly from the bottle and swishing it around to banish the taste and feel of him from my mouth. As my lips twist into the absurd shapes necessary to push the mouthwash into every little crevice, I scowl furiously at myself in the mirror.

Fucking idiot. All you had to do was push him off. So what if you're inexplicably attracted to him; you're a big girl, you're thoroughly capable of keeping all those guilty little impulses locked up where no one can get to them.

My mouth takes on a wry twist as another thought creeps in—no one but him, apparently.

The humorless smile turns into a frown as I realize that lately, it feels like every other second I'm upbraiding myself for being stupid. You'd think I'd learn to quit acting recklessly, but no— apparently, whenever I'm presented with the opportunity to act on a terrible idea, I go for it. Thinking this, looking at myself in the mirror, I have a little epiphany. This is exactly what he wants.

Increasingly, he's showing me that he's more than capable of pushing those bony fingers through the cracks in my mental wall, prying them wide open and robbing me of any security I used to feel. He's exposing the flaws in my mind and setting them up in front of me, forcing me to look at them.

"He can't—he can't do that," I whisper to my reflection, mindful of listening ears. "He can't put me at war with myself like that."

Of course, he can, hence the conflict in the first place—but I see a certain steeliness in the set of my jaw and I realize that, without quite meaning to, I've decided not to let him anymore.

And the only way to do that is to embrace the stupid parts of me that he wants me to despise—the parts that weigh one man's life over hundreds of others just because I happen to have seen him and not them, the parts that—apparently—crave the Joker's touch and attention equally, despite knowing from experience how dangerous they both can be… the parts that want to die and the parts that still want to stay alive.

I stare at my own battered face and make up my mind on the spot. Not only am I going to quit letting him use my own mind as a weapon against me (easier said than done, I'm sure), but I'm going to start looking for a means of escape. Not because I particularly care whether I live or die after all this—my brain's pretty much reached a stalemate on that topic—but because I don't want him to have the satisfaction of being in control of me anymore.

Sure, he's got the city under his thumb, and sure, I've been shown before that efforts to escape are usually futile—but this time, I've got the advantage of not being the only subject of his focus. Hell, not even the biggest one. Batman's back, fugitive or not, and Alberto Falcone's gotta be taking up some space in his mind. Since he took that phone call, I'm willing to bet that a showdown between the big names is about to occur. If that's the case, it'll leave pitiful little me on the sidelines, small and crumpled and forgotten.

And overlooked, if I'm lucky. If I'm right, tonight will be the perfect time to part ways with the Joker.

And I'm going to do it, even if I have to take a bullet to the head to ensure that I get away from him.

A blow to the door makes me jump, and I realize that I've been standing motionless, treating my reflection to a thousand yard stare as I put myself back together. His voice reaches me through the door, impatient: "Em! Time to go."

I look quickly around the bathroom and my eyes fall on the clothes I'd abandoned in the corner last night. Moving fast, I lean over and fish the knife out of the discarded jeans, slipping it into my back pocket. Straightening up, I take a breath, wipe my mouth again almost compulsively, and then turn to open the door.

A/N - I know, I know, it's been unforgivably long, but you would not believe how crazy the end of July turned out to be for me. I hope this chapter kind of made up for it. Or maybe you just 'noped' right the hell away from the screen in disgust; I don't know, y'all have different priorities and opinions here.

So fire those opinions at me! You kicked ass last chapter with your reviews; naturally I'm up for more. Especially on a chapter that might be controversial. I don't know, the progression made sense to me, so that's what I need your feedback for!

Quick note to guest reviewers- several of you have asked questions, but I try to avoid responding to reviewers in the chapter space, because it could get the story deleted. :( However, I would love to reply to you, so perhaps consider getting an account, even if you only use it to private message? It's quick, free, and easy! Just think about it. Especially repeat guests; I'd love to be able to talk to you!

Psst- I've taken delight at dropping canon character references here and there in this fic. Did you find the one in this chapter? Next chapter's gonna have an even bigger one, so keep those eyes open. We're drawing closer and closer to the end here, so you might want to steel your hearts. And with that wicked warning, I'm out. See you next time!