Loose Ends
"I am your ghost, your fallen angel,
You ripped out all my parts.
I couldn't care what invention you made me,
Cause I, I was meant to be yours."
-What Could Have Been, Sting ft. Ray Chen
Anne could barely see straight. The cocktail of drugs in her system had turned reality into a waking dream, with the night sky spinning ever so slightly above her in a way that was both disorienting and pleasant at the same time. She knew it was mainly courtesy of the vicodin, which the contract killer had been taking all week to ease the pain of her injuries obtained during the fight with J. The narcotic alone, however, left the reflexes too dull for Anne's liking, so she had added coke to the mix to offset the effects. It had worked only in the sense that she no longer felt completely numb, but she could hardly claim to be at the top of her game. Oh well, all I gotta do is pull a fucking trigger. That's not rocket science.
Itching her bleary eyes, Anne scanned the darkened street before her. The piece of paper the Joker had pressed into her hand the night of their argument had contained the address of Pari's new hiding spot, which was located in a gated community about three hours outside of Gotham City. Anne didn't have the faintest idea how J had come to locate the bitch, but she had known better than to ask. In fact, she hadn't even seen the clown since that painful night a week ago, prefering to keep her head down, nurse her wounds, and prepare for the hit. She knew she couldn't afford to fuck up. Not this time.
With that thought in mind, Anne heaved a sigh and reached over to the passenger seat, where a black duffle bag lay open, her favorite Glock gleaming amidst a pile of magazines, snow, and Marlboros. She pulled both the trusty pistol and a suppressor out, screwing the piece of equipment onto her Glock's barrel with a shaky hand, trying to ignore how heavy the gun felt in her palm. When Anne noticed the pistol quivering, she dropped it into her lap with a snort of disgust, rubbing her face in a practiced movement that avoided all the bruises J had given her. Ya gotta pull yourself together, sweetheart. She locked eyes with herself in the car's mirror, bloodshot and exhausted staring into hollow and agonized. You'll end up in a fucking ditch somewhere if ya don't. And you know exactly who'll put ya there. Anne nodded to her reflection, reaching up to trace the bump the tracker had left in her neck.
After a moment, she broke eye contact with the mirror and leaned back over to her duffle bag, fishing out a lighter and a pack of Marlboros. Anne tugged one of the cigarettes out, placing it between her cracked, red lips and lighting it before stuffing the remaining box into her pocket, knowing she would need them during the hit. She grabbed two fresh magazines from the bag next, shoving one into her gun and the other into her belt. Anne prayed it would not come to needing the extra one, and that she would merely find Pari and her boyfriend asleep in bed, but somehow she doubted luck would be on her side. When has it ever been? With a wry grin, Anne snatched the phone J had given her and a bag of snow as a last edition, dipping her finger in and snorting the powdered luck before pocketing both and hopping out of the car.
The cold, dead air of the spring night seized her the second she stepped onto the pavement, cutting through the black sweatshirt and pants she had donned for the occasion. The temperature, coupled with the bump she had just taken, acted as a refreshment for her brain, leaching away the blurry remnants of the vicodin… mostly. Shivering, Anne crossed her arms and tucked her Glock - made longer and unwieldy by the suppressor - into the folds of her sweatshirt, settling her gaze on the tall, brick wall enclosing the gated community. Anne had to grin. Did ya really think this was gonna keep me out, Pari? Stuffing her cigarette between her teeth and throwing her Glock into the sweatshirt's pocket, Anne took a step back, judged the distance and speed she would need to clear the wall, and sprinted forward. A second before she hit the brick, Anne jumped, boots scraping against the wall as she used her momentum to run up a couple steps before her fingertips finally touched the ledge. She caught it on her first try, hoisting herself up much more gingerly than usual, trying to avoid reinjuring the tapestry of wounds covering her body.
Once she had reached the top, Anne paused, taking a long drag of her Marlboro and watching as the smoke danced in the pale moonlight, curling slowly in the direction of the small mansion she knew by sight to be Pari's (Google Maps was a wonderful tool). Anne could see no lights on through the windows, and the dozen or so other houses within the neighborhood appeared to be fast asleep as well, with the only illumination coming from the night sky. Grinning in triumph, she jumped down onto the grassy slope below, only to discover it was slick with dew when her feet slid out from underneath her and her backside connected with the ground, hard.
"God fucking damnit," Anne hissed to herself, grimacing in pain as all the bruises J had given her made their presence known. Even her old gunshot stung out of spite, although this time, thankfully, she didn't pop any stitches. With a snarl, Anne scrambled to her feet, only to nearly scream in frustration when her gaze landed on the Marlboro she had been smoking laying in the grass, soggy beyond repair thanks to the dew. I really do have the worst fucking luck. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she pulled another one out, lit it, and headed for Pari's.
Anne made it to the mansion in little time, limping from the shadows of one massive house to the next, checking for witnesses in each window as she went. She hadn't bothered with the ski mask; Pari and George already knew her face, and the rest of the world would soon too, if the Joker had his way and the footage of them from the bar's security camera made it to Gotham's headlines. And when doesn't Mr. J get his way? Still, concerns about being identified aside, Anne didn't want a nosy neighbor calling the cops on her before she had a chance to even break into Pari's house, let alone whack her. If that happened, either the police would kill Anne, or J would in the aftermath. It was a scenario she was desperate to avoid.
Slipping through Pari's backyard - which sported a pool and gazebo - Anne stopped before the sliding glass doors connecting the porch to the rest of the house, gazing into what appeared to be a darkened, empty living room. Pulling her Glock out with one gloved hand, she tried the door handle with the other, beyond shocked when it gave way and slid open. Suddenly much more tentative, Anne furrowed her brow and stepped lightly onto the polished wood floors of the house, shutting the door behind her with a near-silent click. She looked around with a frown, scanning the living room as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. There were several antique couches and chairs, beautiful Persian rugs, and an enormous, ornate bookshelf - but no sign of movement. Taking another step forward, Anne strained her ears for any sound which might give her a clue as to Pari or George's whereabouts, but the house was so silent Anne swore she could hear the gentle crackling of her cigarette as it dangled from her lips. Did J give me the wrong address? She wondered.
Her question was answered the next second as a bullet exploded past her face, shattering the sliding door behind her and sending shards of glass flying. Covering her head, Anne dove behind the nearest couch, pieces of glass tearing into her arms and legs as she went. She had no idea where the gunshot had come from, all she could hear was a ringing in her ears, and the vicodin was making even that seem duller than normal. Panting, she pressed her back against the couch and clutched the Glock to her chest, head swiveling from side to side as she looked for the culprit. BANG! Anne flinched as another bullet tore through the couch, sprinkling her with debris but otherwise missing her by miles.
"It's you, isn't it?" George's obnoxious voice floated across the room towards her, making Anne roll her eyes, almost against her will. Fucking idiot. Who gave you a fucking gun? "I know it's you, Anne, I remember you." George was shaking as he spoke, clearly terrified, but there was an anger beneath his words too, and anger made people stupid. Anne knew that better than anyone. "Pari said you would come looking for her, to kill her. But I won't let you. Do you understand me? I'm not going to let you, I love her." Oh, for fuck's sake.
"Ya love Pari, huh?" Anne called from behind the couch, hoping the pain she was in didn't come through in her voice. "That's real nice, honey. I'm sure ya think you do, but I wonder… would ya still love her if you knew everything she's done?" As she talked, Anne moved her feet underneath her, gripping her gun with white knuckles and praying George would take the bait. "Pari told you she used to work with the mob, with Falcone, right? But did she tell you what she was helping them do? What she was helping me do?" Silence greeted her words, but Anne heard George's soft, hesitant footfalls pause, no more than five feet from the couch. Gotcha. "Let me enlighten ya, darling. I was a contract killer for Falcone, I killed so many people for him I don't even remember most of 'em. Their names, their faces, nothing." The last part was something of a lie, but George would never know any better. "And guess what? Every time I killed for Falcone, every single time, it was Pari who helped me; helped me find them, hunt them… murder them. I couldn't have done any of it without her, not back then." George had still not moved, but she noticed his breath was getting heavier, more ragged, as though an ugly emotion was bubbling up inside him, begging to break free. Anne smirked. "Every drop of blood on my hands is on Pari's too."
That did the trick. With a roar of rage and pain, George jumped around the couch where Anne had taken refuge, gun pointed straight at her. She was years ahead of him, however, and the second she saw his feet round the corner, she pulled her own trigger twice, both bullets embedding themselves in George's torso and spraying her with blood. The force of the gunshots sent him slamming into the opposing wall, gasping for breath as the life leaked out of him and shock overtook the body. Anne straightened up while George slid to the floor coughing and spluttering, his gun (which she realized with amusement was a 9mm Glock) thrown far out of reach.
With a snort, Anne swiped her sweatshirt sleeve across her face to clean off the blood as best she could, before wandering over to where Geroge's gun had clattered uselessly into the ornate bookshelf. She hefted the extra Glock up, ejecting the magazine to check how full it was (very), and slipping it into her empty shoulder holster, which would not hold her own trusty pistol while it was fitted with the suppressor.
She turned back to George, who appeared to still be alive, although just barely. "Thanks for the gun, honey," Anne said with a beam. Then, eyes landing on the crumpled remains of her cigarette lying on the floor, she raised her own Glock once more, found the man's head and finished him off with a single shot. "That's for my cig," she added. With that, Anne's gaze scanned the rest of the living room, finding a stairway set off to the side, which she assumed led to the second floor. And hopefully Pari.
Stepping over George's convulsing body, Anne began creeping towards the stairwell, gun raised as she listened for any movement above. If Pari was home (which Anne assumed she was given George's sickening speech about love), she would be more than awake by now, and probably preparing to fight in whatever ways she knew how. In fact, she was almost certain the genius had cameras scattered all throughout her home and was watching Anne at that very moment, tracking her movements. Not to mention George's incompetent shooting had most likely alerted several of the neighbors that something was amiss in the house, and gated communities never failed to call the cops. Anne was running out of time.
With that thought in mind, she threw caution to the wind and bolted up the stairs. At the top was a deserted hallway, even darker than the living room below, and furnished with a fluffy white carpet that squished under Anne's bloodied boots with each step she took. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she noticed the faintest strip of light seeping out from beneath a closed door halfway down the hall. Anne cocked an eyebrow. Found ya, sweetheart.
Slinking up to the door, she tested the handle once, then, when it did not budge, shot out the lock and kicked the door in with as much force as she could muster. It flew off its hinges with an explosive noise, followed by a shriek of terror from within. Stepping across the threshold, she found Pari sitting a few feet away in a computer chair and clutching a keyboard as though she intended to use it as a weapon. Anne had broken into Pari's new office, that much was evident from the dozen or so monitors blinking and beeping at her through the darkness. With a snort, she immediately fixed her pistol in Pari's direction. "Hiya, Pari!" She gave the bitch a theatrical wave, baring her teeth into an artificial grin. "Told ya I was hard to get away from!"
Pari's gaze drifted from the Glock's barrel, up to Anne's bruised face, and then back down to the pistol's black void. There were tear tracks running down the woman's cheeks, but her eyes were remarkably dry now, and filled with an emotion Anne couldn't quite place. Resignation? "Are you going to make me suffer, Anne?" Pari spoke up after a moment. She didn't ask after George; she didn't have to. "Or I suppose I should say Roulette, is that right? You haven't been Anne for a long time."
A wry grin tugged at Anne's lips; she had to hand it to Pari, not many people could remain so composed in the face of imminent death. "I was wondering how long it would take you to clock that one," she replied, stepping closer. "And trust me, sweetheart, I would love to make ya suffer, but lucky for you I really don't got the time." She raised the gun ever so slightly, aiming the barrel right between Pari's eyes, where Anne could see the resignation clearly now. There wasn't even hatred beneath it all, just the look of a woman who knew she was already dead. "Why…" But the words were sticking in her throat, and Anne found herself looking at Pari — really looking at her — for the first time since she had returned to Gotham. Her Glock began to lower. "Why'd ya betray me?"
"Betray? Betray?" Pari was stunned into disbelieving silence for a moment, before giving a breathy, half-deranged laugh. "You believe I betrayed you? I knew you were delusional, but I didn't know it was to this extent. Betrayal requires trust, and I never trusted you, you must know that on some level. I never even liked you, the only reason we began working together was because I was terrified of Falcone and needed the money. We were never friends. You are a monster, Anne, you always have been." She had stopped shaking, and her voice grew stronger as the anger and self-righteousness poured out. "Although I never did realize how far gone you were until that night in Arkham. But by then, it was too late."
Anne furrowed her brow. "For me?"
"For Gotham. I knew you had to be stopped, both of you, it was the only way. Hence why I tipped the police off about your location at the docks." Her eyes scanned Anne from head to toe, taking in the mottled and damaged features, which the killer had not even attempted to hide behind makeup. "At first, I will admit I was disappointed you escaped, but now that I see what the Joker is doing to you, I don't mind as much." Anne felt her blood begin to boil, gloved hand tightening around the Glock's handle.
"How do ya know the Joker did this?" She snarled, taking yet another step towards Pari's shrinking figure.
"You can kill me, Anne, but do not insult my intelligence." Pari set her jaw, studiously ignoring the gun inching closer to her head as she glared up into Anne's gaze. "Your fate is written across your face, plain as the day, you are simply too ignorant to see it, and as I assume you always will be, allow me to spell it out for you." The woman leaned forward, never breaking eye contact, until her forehead was brushing the end of the pistol. "The Joker could not care less about you, nor will he ever care about you. He will beat you, use you, dismember your mind piece by piece until nothing remains but him, and only then — only then — after he has made you utterly unrecognizable even to yourself, will he kill you. Just for fun; just because he can. I said it once, but I will say it again: you are no match for him." She gave a dry, little laugh. "So go ahead, kill me, just remember that I die at peace, while you will have to continue living in hell. One you could have prevented, had you been brave enough to pull the trigger."
Anne did pull the trigger then, ending Pari's speech. She watched as bits of brain and bone splattered themselves against the glinting computer monitors, creating a ghastly, dripping mosaic. "Yeah? And how the fuck can ya know all that?" Anne murmured to the corpse. "Dramatic bitch." But something about Pari's words had awoken a fresh sickness within her, and she could feel the vicodin beginning to seize her brain, blurring the edges of her vision and weighing down her limbs. With a hiss of impatience, Anne reached into her sweatshirt pocket and withdrew the bag of coke she had brought with her, dipping her index finger in several times and snorting the pick-me-up. It took the heaviness away, but she was left with nothing except a nervous energy coursing through her veins, and it only then dawned on Anne just how long she had been in the house.
Shit! Wiping her nose and storing the snow away, Anne dropped to her knees and began yanking every computer she could see out of its plug. She used her Glock's handle to smash them open, ripping the side panels off and revealing the hard drive disks. There were six hard drives in total, and, although small enough by themselves, their combined weight in Anne's sweatshirt slowed her down considerably. But she would be damned if she left a single one behind. God only knows what the fuck she has on these things. Once she had stuffed them all in her pockets, she turned back to Pari's limp body, pulling out the burner phone the Joker had given her and snapping a picture for proof. Then, she flew back down the hall and stairs, stopping next to George's body to take another photo, before slipping out the same glass doors she had entered through.
It took Anne five hours to make it back to Gotham City's rundown suburbs, where the Joker's current 'headquarters' (so to speak) were located. She had ditched the stolen getaway car in the East River and made the last hour of the journey on foot, each step a lesson in agony. By the time she limped to the front door, the bruised purples and deep blues of the night were just beginning to melt into the horizon, giving way to the magenta and tangerine of the painted dawn. Anne stopped on the house's front steps and turned her face skyward, basking in the gentle morning light. Kinda looks like heaven, she thought. Some small part of her wondered if Pari was up there now, scowling down on her from the golden clouds. But even as the question passed her mind, Anne knew it was futile to wonder. She would never find out.
With a sigh, Anne yanked open the front door, forcing her duffle bag through first and hobbling in after it. The living room was dark, per usual, but conspicuously devoid of henchmen, which struck her as odd. Normally, there were at least two or three mingling about, lounging on the couch, watching nonsense, and/or doing various drugs in between jobs for Mr. J. At the moment, however, the house appeared to be deserted, and it wasn't until she felt a brush against her back -no more than a whisper of movement- that Anne realized she was not alone. She grabbed her Glock out of her pocket and whipped around, only to come face to face with the Joker, who had somehow managed to materialize directly behind her. Was he… waiting for me?
J gave the Glock a disdainful look before cocking his head to the side. "Did ya do it?" He asked in lieu of a welcome, scars twitching in time with his words. His tone was low and gave nothing away, which Anne had begun to realize was the Joker's normal voice. Or as close to 'normal' as J ever got.
Anne lowered her gun, almost sheepishly, as she met the Joker's black gaze, drinking in the sight of him. He was dressed in the single outfit he appeared to own -minus the purple overcoat and suit jacket- and she could tell his face paint was freshly applied, given how little of the pale flesh beneath peeked through. The leather gloves were absent too, showing off the smudges of greasepaint left behind on his fingers and hands. God, I fucking missed you, she realized with a jolt. Although she hated to admit it, especially given how they last ended things; by all rights, she should want to hit him. But that was not what the ache in her chest told her, nor the tremor that had suddenly taken hold of her body.
"Sure did, Mr. J! Just like ya said," she eventually managed with a beam, repocketing her Glock and fishing the phone out. "No more loose ends." Anne pulled up the photos of Pari and George before handing the cellphone over, praying he didn't notice her trembling. The Joker took it with a noise in the back of his throat, the dead, black eyes never leaving her face. Then, with an indiscernible expression, J began to flip through the pictures, the phone's blue light illuminating the many crags of his carved smile. The Joker stared at them for so long that Anne began to wonder if she had done something wrong, leary of his continuing silence. Biting her lip, she took a step backwards. Just in case he starts swinging. It was only when the Joker's head shot back up, carved smile splitting into a human one, that Anne realized she had, in fact, done something exactly right.
With a deafening laugh, the Joker pocketed the phone and lunged at her. "Ohhhoo, great work, babydoll!" J growled, cackling as he wrapped his arms around Anne's waist and whisked her off the ground with an impressive ease.
"J!" Her laugh mingled with her gasp, and she wrapped her arms around his neck while he spun them around. It took everything in Anne not to kiss him when she was finally set back down.
"Anddd you brought me presents." The Joker added in a sing-song voice, his eyes dropping to where Pari's hard drives were threatening to spill out from her sweatshirt. "How thoughtful." His hands slipped from Anne's waist and dug into her pocket, brow furrowing as he pulled out one of the disks. He flipped it over in his hand, quickly, with disdain, before sending her one of his predatory grins. "The, uh, genius's hard drives?" She snorted in amusement at his faux-innocent tone, but nodded all the same.
"Yeah, I figured there was probably a helluva lotta shit on them that could be useful to ya," Anne said, gazing up at J and reveling in his closeness; his hair was more tousled than usual, like he had just been wearing a hat, and he had missed a spot painting on his red smile. "Plus I didn't want them getting into Batman's paws." At that, the Joker caught her eye, and Anne was shocked to find something resembling fondness in them. The look certainly wasn't without its darkness, the usual narcissism and detachment simmered just beneath the surface, but Anne had a feeling she had just found her way back into the clown's good graces. Now if only I could stay there.
With a noise that could be called a chuckle, the Joker reached up to grab her chin, giving it a couple of rough, affectionate shakes. "I'm prouda' you, dollface," he said.
"You are?" The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them, voice small and infuriatingly unsure. She couldn't help it; it was all Anne could do to stop from melting into the ground as it was.
"Mmhmm," J crooned. But his eyes were crinkling at the edges, lit up with a fiendish delight that made Anne's blood run cold. Fuck, what am I doing? What did I just do? The doubts fled with her shame, however, as the Joker sent her a rakish smile and added, "C'mon, we oughta see what's on 'em." Dropping her chin, J bopped her on the forehead with the hard drive and began heading in the direction of his room, moving at his typical shuffling pace.
Anne rubbed her forehead and, mouth ajar, scrambled after him. "Now?" She gasped, hardly daring to believe it. The Joker shot her a look as he walked, one which roughly translated into: 'That better be rhetorical.' Anne took the hint and folded her lips, remaining quiet until they crossed the threshold into J's room.
There was an ancient, dented desk shoved into one corner, with J's computer and an assortment of weapons and papers littered across its surface. This was clearly where he spent the majority of his time, as evidenced by the chair and single lamp sitting on the floor beside it. Beyond this, there was no furniture in the room save for a bare, stained mattress lying haphazardly in the opposite corner, which Anne thought might have been the same one she had used in the office building weeks earlier. A few cardboard boxes were stacked alongside it, right against the closet- which had been closed and sealed with a padlock. There was an attached bathroom as well, situated beside the desk with its door ajar, but it was too dark for Anne to see inside. Even the room's two windows had been shuttered, so that the only source of light came from the dingy, yellow lamp.
The Joker made a beeline for his desk upon entering, leaving Anne to close the old, scratched door behind them. Then, following in J's footsteps, she headed for the desk and tossed the rest of the hard drives onto it, watching as they clattered across a pile of magazines. The Joker, for his part, was busy trying to pry open the side panel of his own computer. Anne's gaze drifted back up, finding the darkened bathroom off to the side — now close enough that she could easily see into it.
"Do ya mind, Mr. J?" She asked after a moment, jabbing a thumb towards the bathroom doorway.
"Hmm? Oh, uh, be my guest." J didn't even look up as he talked, and Anne knew the momentary hesitation had been for her benefit entirely. He did that often, mock the idiosyncrasies of others until they became ticks of his own.
"Thanks, darling," she said, skirting around the desk and walking into the bathroom. Anne flipped the light switch on and immediately shut the door behind her, reaching to lock it before realizing the futility in that. He'll barge in here, with or without a lock, if he really wants.
The bathroom was small, with an odd, white overcast, courtesy of the single fluorescent bulb hanging from the light fixture. The toilet was missing its cover, there was mold dotting the ceiling, and the rusty shower was devoid of any type of curtain. Cute. Anne turned to the mirror —which was shockingly the cleanest item in the room— nailed into the wall directly above the sink and only about a foot across. She caught a glimpse of her blackened, bloodshot eyes in the reflection and paused, coming to lean against the sink.
Anne had applied her old Roulette makeup for the hit; red lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara that had become messier as the night wore on, giving her the look faintly reminiscent of J himself. Anne smiled at her reflection, studiously ignoring the flecks of blood speckling her face. It was only when she looked down to turn the water on, that she noticed the tins of greasepaint on the sink's cramped counter (red, black, and white), sitting beside a filthy, gray beanie. Anne cocked a brow at those, but decided to put them on the back burner for now. She doubted J would tell her where he had been anyway.
Sighing, Anne pulled her Glock out of her pocket and set it on the beanie, before yanking her sweatshirt off to reveal the black tee and shoulder holster beneath. She placed the other Glock she had taken from George beside her favorite, tossed her gloves to the side, and began splashing water onto her arms, neck, and face. Crimson droplets started to trace the sink, mixing with the black of her mascara, as she washed off the worst of the blood and grime. What's on those hard drives? She wondered, using her discarded sweatshirt to towel dry. What did Pari have on me…?
No. She couldn't afford to think like that, Anne had to keep faith that nothing the Joker would find on Pari's hard drives would be anything he didn't already know about her past. He chose to let me live that night in the warehouse, he's had every fucking chance to kill me, but he hasn't. Not yet. Anne caught her gaze in the reflection again, trying to stop Pari's last words from echoing in her ears. But she could no more ignore her memories than she could the massive bruise sprouted across her forehead and temple, nor the painful tapestry of blue, purple, and yellow the Joker's kick had left on her stomach.
"God fucking damnit," Anne muttered, shaking her head to clear it of the thoughts and drugs. "Pull yourself together, honey." With a deep stretch and an inhale, she slipped her hair from the ponytail and brushed it out with her fingers. Lastly, she grabbed her Glock, screwed the suppressor off, and thrust the pistol back into its rightful place in her shoulder holster. George's stolen gun was left on the counter.
When Anne walked back into the room, it was to find the Joker sitting down at his desk in front of a glowing monitor, the reassembled computer on the floor. His head snapped up, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "You took your time," J said. His tone made it clear Anne should explain herself.
"Just freshening up." She gave a twirl to show off both her lack of sweatshirt and loose hair. It wasn't the entire truth, but she hoped the theatrics made up for that.
J snickered at that. "Aww… for me?" He splayed a hand against his chest in feigned shock. "Ya shouldn't have." Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the monitor and waved her over. "Come 'ere, doll, have a look at what I found."
Anne hurried over, coming to stand beside the Joker and stare at the monitor. There were several windows open, few of which she could understand, but the small window in the screen's center was playing a video that seemed vaguely familiar…
"Oh my god, is this the security footage from Arkham?" Anne gasped, leaning in closer as she realized what she was seeing. The video clearly came from a security camera in J's old cell —which would explain how Pari got ahold of it— and showed the back of Anne, pointing her gun at the Joker, while the clown himself slowly inched forward. Although she knew this night had only occurred a couple months ago, watching it back, Anne realized it felt like a lifetime had passed.
"Uh, yeah." J sounded annoyed that she even had to ask. "Ya know, I was thinking…" His hands grabbed her hips and turned Anne around until she was facing him, then, in the same movement, pulled her down onto his lap. Her brow raised, almost against her will, and she felt her heart begin to pound in overtime. "I was thinking now that you're, ah, mine, you shouldn't look like Russian Roulette anymore." Mine. He didn't mean it in the romantic sense, and they both knew it, he meant it literally. She was his; his possession.
Anne, who was taken aback by the fact that she was now straddling the Joker, took a moment to respond. "I still look like Roulette?" She didn't feel like Roulette, at least she didn't think she did. "Is it my makeup?" She reached up and touched her red lips. "Do ya want me to change it?"
J chuckled at that, the noise low and unobtrusive, which Anne knew meant it was genuine. His scars curled upward as his hands migrated from her waist to her face, cupping her cheeks while his thumbs went to the corners of her mouth and smeared the lipstick into a smile like J's. He sent her one of his rakish grins when he had finished. "No, it's not your makeup, dollface." With a crushing grab of the jaw, he turned her face from side to side, soaking in her bruised features. "But we, uh, we will need to work on that. No… no, it's not your makeup," J's hands fell down once more to her waistline, and she felt his fingers slip under her shirt and tug at the hem. "It's the clothes, you're getting new ones. Something that'll tell Gotham who ya belong to."
No more all black, Anne thought. J will want me in color. She could hear the faint drone of the running computer, the creak of the wooden chair under their combined weight, and, beneath it all, the Joker's exhales, soft and assured, as if he was thinking before every breath. He probably is. Anne scooted closer before replying, her own hands coming to rest against J's chest and the scratchy green wool of his vest, smoothing down the collar flaps. She knew he was not in the mood to object. "First flowers, now clothes? You're spoiling me, J." Anne tried to sound nonchalant, but her tone belied the excitement. She sent him a beam, "What'll ya give me next?" Besides bruises, of course.
The Joker appeared to have the same thought; at least, the predatory smile that broke out over his face gave Anne that impression. But, for once, he did not actually bruise her. Instead, he merely shrugged and said, "Diamonds." He almost seemed serious, too, which made Anne wonder what was the catch?
Diamonds, she mouthed back, testing the word. Her hands slipped upwards, coming to rest against his shoulders and the odd, hexagonal-patterned shirt he wore underneath. It was a bluish purple color, silk, and felt as thin and smooth as water beneath Anne's shivering fingers. "Where are ya gonna get these new clothes? The same person who made your suit?" She didn't ask who that person was —she knew better than that— but Anne thought J might concede just this much, being in an indulgent mood.
Instead he gave a cruel laugh, mocking the very question itself, and slid his hands further under her shirt, his thumbs stopping next to the blossoming bruise on her stomach. Anne was sure he knew it too, given the dangerous glint in his eye. I know that look, she thought. "Ya know, most people would say, ahem-" J broke off, clearing his throat in that theatrical manner of his. "Most people say thank you when they get a present."
It was Anne's turn to laugh, hers genuine and high, girlish even. She knew her role; she always did. Her fingers traced the line of J's broad shoulders, making their way to his neck, slowly, experimentally. The pallid skin was feverish and sweaty to the touch, electrifying her own frozen flesh. The Joker's black eyes bored into her, tracking her every move like a hawk, but there was a slight curve to his lips, as if he was holding back a fiendish smile. Wasn't this your angle all along, Mr. J? Anne scooted forward once more, until their chests brushed, and then closed the gap between their lips, crimson into red.
J dug into her hips and yanked her flush against him, and she could feel a growl forming in his chest, the tension threatening to break. Anne, for her part, found herself smiling into the kiss, moving with the Joker as she imparted all of her longing, her desperation into him. She needed the Joker to know how much she had missed him, craved his presence throughout this last week, even despite her new bruises. Anne thought she felt J grin back, his hands sliding farther up her shirt as his tongue slipped into her mouth.
After a long moment, she pulled back— but only an inch, their lips still brushing. The Joker stared at her, inscrutable. "Thank you, Mr. J," she finally murmured. Then, inspiration striking her, Anne leaned further back and added in a sly voice, "When ya give me the present for real, what should I do then?"
A grin broke across J's face, and his fingers ensnared Anne's shirt hem, knuckles lying warm against her bruise. "Say thank you again, of course." Of course. He spoke softly, in a low tone, and she would have thought he was being literal except for the gleam in his gaze, which made her breath catch. In the next heartbeat, J had pulled her shirt up over her arms and head, tossing it carelessly to the side. Rather than stare where most men would, he looked immediately to the last present he had given her: the tapestry of purple on her stomach. His smile widened.
Anne, who had allowed (participated in) the removal of her tee shirt, felt slightly piqued. Petulant, she asked, "Even if I don't like 'em?"
The Joker actually rolled his eyes at that. "Shut up, doll," he grumbled, kissing her to make sure she obeyed.
Neither of them spoke very much for the next couple of hours, describing with their bodies what they would never put into words: I missed you, I want you, don't ever fucking leave my sight again. Something like that. The sex was also far better this time, than it had been in the warehouse. Then, they had just been eager to get it over with as quickly as possible, but now, with more time on their hands, they were free to show off. It made Anne forget every word of Pari's warning, the last, bitter threats of the dead woman flying from the killer's mind alongside all other thoughts but those of J; his words, his mouth, his body. Anne had known long before Pari that only death could part her from this man.
Note: I am so so so so sorry, I know its been literal years since I updated, and unfortunately I cannot promise I will keep updating with regularity, but I am trying to continue writing the story/editing some of the earlier parts and I really hope to still finish the fic. So I would just like to say thank you again to all those who have read, left comments, and/or favorited the story, it really helped me find the motivation to continue writing and I appreciate you all so much! Also, complete side note, but the song in the beginning is from the album for the tv show "Arcane" which is amazing, I could not recommend it more, the character of Jinx is (for obvious reasons lmao) my favorite and I will absolutely be using her as more inspiration for Anne's character going forward.
Up Next: Anne, the Joker, and Batman all prepare as Harvey Dent Day looms nearer.
To innercvnt (I adore the username): Thank you so much for your incredibly sweet words, in all honesty reading your comment made me want to finally finish this chapter and post it, so I'm really in your debt lol! I hope you enjoy the chapter, and thank you again! :)