Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gotham is alive today! 

Only a grand parade can elicit a feeling so electric, so utterly delicious. 

The crowds are thick, as expected, every cheer louder than that last. Big balloons in bright colors, glitter bead necklaces lining the sidewalk. I grin as I feel the streets pulsing with desperate hope of this city’s poor, lost souls.  

They think a new mayor can save them? 

And I thought my jokes were bad. 

I slip through the crowd unnoticed, dressed in a perfectly ordinary police uniform, no makeup to reveal the real me- just a man in a sea of men. Just another faceless worker, another cog in the machine.

The irony isn't lost on me. 

I keep my head down when I move smoothly through the mass, unable to resist causing some slight discomfort. 

A hand here, a nudge there, setting off a chain reaction of confusion. Like a match in a room full of gasoline. They won't know what hit them until the flames are already dancing.

My fingers twitch at the concealed wires in my jacket- little surprises, just enough to make everyone know that the best jokes aren’t the ones told by the man on the podium. 

Ah, their fun and games have been too tame. I can’t stand it. Time for the real show. 

The first explosion rocks the pavement. Then another. And another. 

Boom. A car explodes, shattering in the air. Screams get muffled by a deafening wild roar of the crowds confusion. Panic spreads like the plague. Hope is replaced by horror. 

I’m already making my way through the calamity, my eyes dancing from face to face, finding my next pawn. 

And there she is. 

She’s not running. She’s not panicking like the rest. A look of curiosity flashes across her beloved features when she spots me. 

Does she know? Does she sense the madness running through my veins? 

I tilt my head, an amused grin playing on my lips, and I’m gone again, letting the chaos envelop me. 

Gotham has a funny way of recognizing the lost. 

They come here in search of something more, or fleeing from something less. Sometimes they find it. Most times they don’t. 

Me? Well, naturally I’m the one who shows them exactly what they’re looking for. 

Chapter Text

Present Day- One Year Later 

I hate my friends for dragging me out to this. 

It’s dark and it’s humid and I am not the type of person to, how did they put it, take the city by storm? 

That little fact however, doesn’t discourage them from convincing me to go shopping tonight. 

The buzz of Gotham's nightlife fills the warm air outside, but for now, it’s all about getting ready. A night out, a few drinks, a little fun.

So that’s how the four of us ended up with our rain soaked boots click clacking down the tile floor of a deserted Walgreens lookalike. 

I have to give it to my girls though, they know how to find good stuff cheap. Then again it’s Gotham, there’s only a select few high end stores. Half of which I’m sure have a dress code just to get in. 

Sifting through the shelves, I barely pay attention when the door chimes, signaling the entrance of a new customer. 

“Ohmygod I didn’t know this place sold sex dolls!” Leanna giggles and I promptly jerk my head up. 

The sex doll in question is a (very much ALIVE) tall, lanky man who just walked in, likely trying to avoid the downpour. I roll my eyes at her joke and focus my attention back on the brightly colored accessories in front of me. 

Honestly, if my best friend since grade school wanted to take a shot at him, Leanna could land it no problem. Always has. 

Leanna is the kind of woman that’s hard for men to resist. With her siren eyes, luscious black hair, and a wild vibe, she’s the fiercest person alive. 

Sometimes I wish I was more like her. I quickly push down the subtle feelings of jealousy as I feel a poke on my shoulder. 

“Y/N, you need to try these eyelashes. Ooh, and this blush!” She squeals excitedly, smiling from ear to ear. 

It’s contagious and I find myself letting her put a bunch of various items into the shared basket. 

My first year in Gotham hasn’t been easy. It was hard to find good friends- and even harder to find a good job. I don’t know how I got as lucky as I did meeting this bunch. 

Like I said, there’s four of us in total. That’s me, Leanna, Carmen and Eve. We all met at an amusement park last summer while waiting in line. 

I make a mental note to check when that place opens again. 

Leanna is obviously bold. Carmen is laid back, sarcastic. And Eve has been collectively named the baby of the bunch. Partially due to her being the youngest, plus she’s sweet as a peach. 

A year ago I would laugh if anyone told me I’d be living in this city. Truth is, I don’t know why I moved here of all places. The crime rates are through the roof. Danger lurks at every corner. Several nights I’ve slept with one eye open. 

But maybe that’s what I needed. After my father passed from alcohol poisoning, and my prior engagement turned domestic, I decided to change things up. 

My life was terribly bleak. 

For once, I made the impulsive decision. I bought a train ticket and didn’t look back. I’ve never made any rash decisions before or since. 

Grabbing the small black basket, I make my way over to the next aisle to see if this place has any good cosmetics. 

It’s pure luck that I managed to find a single tube of dark, wine colored lipstick. 

The pop sound of a lid from behind me gets my attention, and I turn to find the tall man who entered the store earlier browsing some of the liquid foundations. 

He selects the palest shade, which is nearly solid white in comparison to his hands. 

The only other items he holds are a face painting kit I saw on clearance earlier, and a single wand of bright red lipstick. The shade looks warmer than mine is, with some orange undertones. 

It doesn’t phase me. A man playing dress up is the least controversial thing around here- ahem, thanks Batman.

Our eyes briefly meet when the stranger passes, and I’m aware that I’ve been caught staring. Really, it’s not like that. I just have a slight tendency toward hypervigilance. Can’t be too careful. 

He regards me with a simple nod and I offer a polite, but forced, smile in return as I take him in. 

The mystery man of tonight wears one of those disposable masks covering the lower region of his face. He’s either taking health precautions or engaging in criminal activity. Judging by the looks of him, I doubt it’s the latter. 

The lighting in here is rather unfortunate. His hair looks like it has the same wavy texture as mine. It’s pulled back and tucked under a grey cap, which only adds to hiding everything but his eyes. 

He’s strikingly familiar but I can’t put my finger on it. Certainly I would have remembered if I’d known him from somewhere. There's a pull of energy he exhibits and I’m forced to ignore the unexplainable chill suddenly crawling up my spine. 

His gaze, his mere presence, makes me uneasy. But I tell myself to let it go as he briskly strides by me and heads for the register. 

Carmen walks up beside me, looking eager to get a move on. “You ready?” 

I nod, but I don’t feel my wallet in my purse and I curse under my breath. 

“Hang on, I’ll be right back.” 

Damn it, of all nights to forget something in my car. 

At least the rain has started to let up when I step outside, only a light drizzle in contrast to the constant downpour we’ve had all day. And if my weather app is correct, it should come to a full stop any time now. 

To my delight, my wallet is in the front seat right where I left it. I turn around after closing the car door and collide face first with what feels like a wall. But that’s impossible. 

Because walls don’t grunt. 

Looking up, I find the man from the store rubbing his chin. 

“Sorry.” I utter sheepishly, reaching down to grab my wallet off the pavement. He picks up his shopping bag and dismisses me with a wave of his hand.

“Tsk tsk. I’ve had worse injuries.” I can’t see him grin out here in the dimly lit parking lot, but I can hear it in his voice. 

I step back instinctively, putting some space between us. His appearance looks rugged, like someone who’s trying to go unnoticed but failing miserably. 

“You’re alright though? You look a little rough.” I mentally wince at hearing my own words. I was trying to sound concerned but I ended up sounding condescending. 

“Who, me?” He cocks his head, leaning forward just a little too close for my liking.

Close enough that an overhead street light illuminates his face. His mask is gone. Hat too. 

Ohmygod. 

I suck in a breath as my eyes feverishly scan his features and pray that I’m dreaming. There’s only one madman in this city who has jagged scar tissue running along his lips. 

Without his bright purple coat, and the neon green hair dye, Joker almost looks normal. 

Less manic, more focused, though still undeniably him.

Maybe it’s the way he seems so at ease. Or maybe it’s just the fact that Gotham's most infamous criminal could look like a regular person when he wanted to.

And then it hits me. 

I realize where I’ve seen him before. It was my first week in Gotham, maybe a year ago, and I decided to go down and watch the parade. Ridding my mind of the incident proved futile. I’ve never quite forgotten his face. 

The Joker himself in all his glory. 

My fingers tingle, every nerve alert as if my body is preparing me to run but my brain doesn’t get the hint. And despite being out in the open, I still feel like I’m suffocating. 

If it weren’t for the fact that I’m currently leaning up against my car, I fear I might have just collapsed right here on the pavement. 

My brain practically malfunctions. There has to be something I can say to spare my life. 

“You’re blonde?” I panic. 

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Of all the things I could have said. 

Joker stills, and for a split second I come to terms with religion. Just in case I get murdered and sent into the afterlife. 

But then he laughs. 

He. Laughs. Not the crazy cackle seen on news channels, it’s not frightening or creepy. He looks downright amused. 

I’d rather be dead at this point, that’s the truth. 

I’m about to open my mouth to apologize profusely, but he speaks up first. 

“Ya know, I’ve never quite, uh, heard that one before, doll.” 

I swallow. Breathing is becoming an increasingly difficult task. This parking lot is too empty for my liking. 

Thankfully, the distant sound of sirens begin to grow closer. It’s a noise I had to force myself to get used to, but when I glance back, Joker is gone. 

“What the hell,” I breathe out, shaking my head. 

The passing cop cars must have stolen his attention and, in turn, resulted in me not getting killed. It’s scarily amazing how fast he can just disappear. 

I allow myself to relax, dropping my shoulders and letting my head fall forward. 

As I stare down at the concrete, trying to calm my nervous system, my eyes catch the bright red shade of lipstick he must have dropped. 

I eyeball at the small tube lying on the cold sidewalk, where Joker stood only seconds ago. 

My fingers hover over it. There's a strange curiosity tugging at me. It’s just lipstick, right? But something about it felt different- like he bought it in a twisted moment of normalcy. 

I glance around. No one is nearby. And for about two seconds, I debate between taking it with me or letting it be. 

The only correct option is to let it be. There’s no reason for me to pick it up. 

Don’t. 

Without thinking, I bend down and take it, the weight of the little item surprisingly solid in my palm. 

Why didn’t I just drop it? Leave it? 

I sigh. If I’m being honest with myself, the idea of owning something that once belonged to a man who could only be described as a living nightmare made my night feel a bit more...alive.

I head back inside, shoving the lipstick in my purse. Leanna waves me over as she sees me approach. 

“Let’s hit up the bar.” She suggests when I walk up, apparently unaware of the encounter I just had outside.

I contemplate telling her, but ultimately decide against it. The last thing I want to do is incite any fear. I’d rather just keep that eerie moment to myself. 

“Yeah, sounds good.” I nod in agreement. 

I need a drink anyways.

Chapter Text

Too many drinks. 

Okay, I’ll give myself some credit. I wasn’t totally plastered. And I very well could have been but one of us had to be the designated driver. 

I groan as I swallow some Tylenol and grab my purse. My head is throbbing from the previous night's festivities. 

It really is a bad idea to stay out late when you have work the following morning.

My, now hungover and asleep, friends stayed in my apartment to crash last night. I know they’ll be gone by the time I get back. 

Last night. 

Jesus, I didn’t think it was too bad but the nausea in my stomach says otherwise. Everything comes flooding back to me in bits and pieces. 

If I remember correctly, our “pregame” in question was going shopping before we got ready. And in order to keep myself sane, I tell myself that’s the only thing that went down. No run-ins with infamous criminals. Nope, not me. 

My mind doesn’t seem to agree, however, as images flash through my head. Joker’s face, exposed and bare, had been just as unnerving as the war paint he usually wore.

No green hair. No makeup. Just skin that looked too smooth, too perfect for someone who is chaos personified.

Lucky for me, the rest of my night provided enough distraction. I think we intended to head to a local bar up the road because I have a faint memory of doing some really bad karaoke. I’m even more certain we snuck into somebody’s mansion at one point. 

Let’s just hope it wasn’t Bruce Wayne’s manor. Then again I’d probably be waking up in a jail cell if that happened, so there’s always a silver lining. 

I’m reminded of our little adventures as I see all the half eaten chip bags on the counter. Exactly how many snacks did we buy at that gas station?

Shrugging to myself, I grab a pack of pop tarts and head out the door. 

One thing I learned very quickly here is that cars aren’t used all that often. It’s actually more of a hassle to drive given the constant traffic. 

Most days I either take my bike or walk. I try to stay away from the subway due to no other reason but my paranoia that trains could crash. Or worse, get hijacked somehow. 

Gotham’s early morning fog clings to the streets like a low hanging cloud, its glowing haze making everything seem a little more unreal. 

The towering skyscrapers above combined with a never ending hum of traffic makes me feel like any other bit player. I can’t say I mind. Even though predictability is something I’ve always wanted, routines can be boring after a while. 

Boring, but comfortable. 

I needed a steadier income than waiting tables after I graduated with my Bachelors degree in psychology. At first I only meant to take a year off before getting my Masters but, well, there’s always next year. 

It’s a brisk fifteen minute walk to ‘Gotham Trusted Towers’, the bank where I work. 

Most hires don’t stick around due to banks being a high risk for robberies. But fortunately, it’s been a quiet four months. 

Oh, and it pays above average. 

The strong, never ending smell of coffee hits my nostrils as I walk through the doors. Every day my coworker Janet offers me some and every day I give the same response- I don’t drink it. 

If it’s over ice, perhaps. But no matter how it’s made, coffee just never sits right on my tongue. 

I sit down at my desk and do what I do most days: handle transactions and manage records. 

Try as I might to focus on the stacks of paperwork and cash in front of me, it’s proving impossible. These fluorescent lights buzz in a way that makes me want to crawl under my desk and sleep until the world stops being so loud.

Thankfully, the day is slow and customers are scarce. But slow days only mean that time drags on and we’re forced to do busy work. I remind myself it’s just a job- a necessary collateral. 

Until it isn’t. 

It’s late afternoon when a sudden burst of static breaks the silence. 

“…possible sighting of the Joker downtown, all units advised to stay alert…”

What? 

I glance over at Anthony, our security guard who’s currently standing by the front door. He turns away and responds back to his radio, then promptly walks over to me. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen the news, but Joker broke out of Arkham last night.” Anthony informs me. 

My heartbeat steadily increases with each word. Because, no, I didn't see the news and I don’t watch it as often as I should. 

I think back to yesterday when I bumped into Joker outside of that cosmetics store. I don’t want to think about it, but I do. If he broke out, it does explain why he decided to ditch the usual costume and face paint. Keeping a low profile isn’t something anyone expects from him. 

I make a mental note to double check all my locks and ammo tonight. I don’t own a whole lot of guns but I sure do know how to shoot. 

And I usually carry one on me, even now. Even concealed. I’ve heard way too many stories not to. This city is downright dangerous. 

“Damn!” Janet swivels around in her chair, joining in on the conversation. She points a playful finger at Anthony. “You better do a good job keeping Y/N safe tonight then, cause I’ve got to get home.”

He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow at her but the small smirk tugging on his lips proves that he isn’t even mad. “Already eager to leave us, Janet?” 

She gives him a look I can’t quite decipher before speaking again. “Eager to leave you. Y/N, not so much.” 

I snort in response before focusing on anything but my two favorite coworkers banter. They’re about the only people that make coming into work worth it. 

And besides, Janet held down the fort several times when I had a late appointment or other. If she wants to go home, she’s going home. 

While I don’t like the idea of working alone tonight, I remind myself she’s only leaving thirty minutes early. Nobody comes in anyways. 

Plus Anthony does an A+ job. 

A few hours later, the sun begins its slow descent over the horizon. I’m in the middle of finally finishing my pop tart when I hear the sound of a vehicle pulling into the parking lot. 

One glance through the glass windows out front shows a black van. No logo or other markings. I can’t even make out the interior because the window tint is so dark. 

More than likely it’s nothing, I mean, vans come and go all the time. This is a place of business after all. 

But I can’t look away. The black van sits there like a shadow, still as ever before I see the passenger door open and a man steps out wearing sunglasses, even though there’s not much daylight left. 

Maybe he’s a businessman. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. Maybe I’m being paranoid when I have nothing to go off of. 

Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry. I call Anthony over just in case but by the time he approaches, the vehicle is gone and the parking lot is barren. 

“It’s alright, Y/N, I’ll take a look at the cameras.” He reassures me. 

Even though I’m wary, I do my best to let it go and by the time our clock strikes five, I’ve already locked the doors in the lobby. 

The silence of the bank after hours feels heavier than usual tonight, with the soft hum of the air conditioning unit being the only sound I hear as I lock my last drawer. 

Anthony does a sweep of the place before waiting by the back door for me to close up. 

Five bucks says he’s smoking a cigarette even though he swears he quit. I smile at the thought. There are worse habits. 

I look forward to talking to him, we’ve become buddies in a way, if only because of the job. Maybe I can even introduce him to my friends sometime. 

Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I do a quick walk through as I make my way back. 

Let’s see…all computers are off, machines are shut down, the vault is wide open, just need to turn off the lights. 

The fucking vault. 

I halt in my steps, stopping right next to the big steel door that’s now swung open. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out we’re being robbed. And I’m nowhere near a panic button. 

I bet it’s some street gang again. I should have known someone was watching this place. Looks like we’re going to reset our ‘days since we’ve had an incident’ sign. 

My hands reach promptly for the gun underneath my white button down shirt. 

“Ahttt ta ta. Wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

Ignoring the sharp warning, I turn the corner to come face to face with him.

The dark purple trench coat, the wild green hair, the infamous red scars. 

I feel my pulse quicken. 

Joker is here.  

Chapter Text

Modern psychology says there are four types of responses in the face of adversity. 

Fight or flight is the most common. Of course there’s fawn, and then there’s freeze. 

I can’t move. 

I can’t move and I can’t breathe. 

For once, it’s as if my brain has shut down and my body followed suit. Fear shoots down my spine. My heartbeat thumps rapidly in my ears. 

Focus, Y/N. I’ve been trained for this. 

No, that’s not quite true. I’ve been trained for an ordinary robbery. But the Joker’s volatile nature is his biggest weapon.  

Why aren’t I running? Screaming in terror? Getting on my knees and begging for my life with tears in my eyes? 

I could just aim and pray.  

Instead, I freeze.

The sound of a gun cocking brings me right back to reality. A reality where I could very much die. 

“Let’s not, uh, play hero mkay?” The Joker hums, motioning at my gun with his own, and for a moment I forgot that I was still holding it. 

My grip tightens. 

I’m not dumb enough to think I’ll be able to withdraw and shoot him while his Glock is pointed at my face. 

But I’d be even dumber to surrender my only weapon to a terrorist. When has anyone ever managed to de-escalate a situation with this clown? 

Never.

Reluctantly, I loosen my grip on the weapon and tuck it neatly back in its holster, holding my hands up in surrender. 

Joker’s eyes flicker from my hands, to my hip and then slowly move back up to my face. 

“Little late to be work-ing…hm?” He speaks before I do and returns to shoving stacks of bills into a duffle bag. 

That’s when it hits me- he’s here alone.

I wouldn’t exactly be surprised if he had his goons hidden somewhere in the bank, especially when I recall that black van from earlier today. But as far as I can tell, nobody else is here. 

When I don’t respond, he frowns. “I asked ya a question, doll.” 

The wording may be friendly but his tone is anything but. 

Snap. Out. Of. It. 

“Ah, no not at all.” I clear my throat. I don’t know why I’m entertaining this nonsense. But maybe if one conversation can keep him entertained enough for me to survive, I’ll take it. 

“I don’t have a problem locking up. It’s actually been pretty slow since most people don’t really trust banks here, you know?” I continue, keeping my gaze locked on him. 

He grins and carelessly throws some bills up in the air, motioning between us to accentuate a point. “And for good reason too.” 

I nod in acknowledgement, but it takes everything in me not to reach for my gun while he isn’t looking straight at me. 

Tempting. 

He grabs the large bag, standing up. “See, this world…this, uh, bor-ing world, is a game,” he hums, “I’m simply here to collect my winnings.” 

It’s no surprise that the Joker views Gotham as his own personal chess board, with civilians being the pawns. But what really grabs my attention is when he says he’s here to collect his winnings. 

This man doesn’t care about money. There’s no customers or crowd here for him to put on a show- to feed off their fear. 

I take a moment to assess the picture in front of me. Joker is standing in the vault, alone, surrounded by cash. The rest of the bank remains empty. No loud bangs, no dramaticized performance, just him. 

And I know why. He’s terribly bored.

For a split second this entire heist almost looks pathetic. There’s absolutely no reason for him to be here. No point for him to prove. 

That part I just don’t understand and it bothers me to no end. I remain still and Joker gives me a curious look. 

“Is the fear not kicking in yet?” 

“Has the dopamine rush not kicked in yet?” 

The words leave my mouth mid train of thought. Why, why, can’t I just keep my observations to myself? Fucking hell. Nobody can figure him out, nobody can predict him. Oh for my own sake I hope I didn’t just piss him off. 

Joker pauses in his movements, tilting his head. He pushes himself off the wall and takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.

His movements are fluid, graceful, like a cat stalking its prey. I feel my heart thudding painfully against my chest, but I can’t show fear. Not now. 

One step. 

Two. Three. 

Joker stands a good few feet away from me but I inhale sharply. It’s bad enough seeing him on TV. But in person, he’s more frightening than I ever imagined. He looks like the living embodiment of evil. 

He shakes his head, choosing to ignore my question, “I believe you, uh, have something that belongss to me.” 

I do? 

My brows furrow in confusion until he licks his lips. 

Shit, the tube of lipstick. 

He holds his hand out and I make haste of grabbing the damn thing from my purse. I hear him snort at my sense of urgency and I shoot him a glare. 

I’m not about to approach this clown and hand it over. Getting close is a big no. So before I can think twice, I lightly toss it in his general direction and he catches it with agility I didn’t expect. 

“I always come back for what’s rightfully mine.” He purrs, winking at me and then throwing the product into his bag. 

Am I seeing things? 

That most certainly was not a wink. No way. What's his angle? I’ve got to find one of my own. And fast.

This could go one of two ways: either I die or I can lock him in the vault. He’s a far enough distance away that I could grab the handle right next to me and swing it shut. 

But is acting in haste really the best decision right now? 

I decide that it isn’t. 

Joker turns back to me, and I swear just by the knowing look in his eyes that he would have predicted the move. 

My heart sinks as silence engulfs the room. He’s going to shoot me now. There’s nothing else left for him to do. My mind races at the thought of death. 

Maybe I can bargain. 

“What do you want?” I keep my voice steady despite the fear flowing through my veins. 

“What don’t I want?” He muses, raising an eyebrow. 

I remain silent as he continues. “It’s nottt about the money…it’s about sending a message. The disruption, the panic,” he pauses, “that’s where the true value lies.” 

Right as he finishes, I hear the sound of squad cars approaching and it almost makes me feel relieved. Almost. 

Joker’s expression darkens and he holds up a single finger, effectively silencing me. 

“Here’s what’s, uh, gonna happen now doll. You’re going to play by my rules or else we make things…interesting. Got it?” 

My stomach turns at the way he says the word ‘interesting’. I’d rather not imagine what he has in mind. Only someone like him could feel glee in the midst of destruction. 

“You’re absurd.” I blurt out, unable to stop myself. 

“I’m fun.” He corrects me smoothly, straightening his collar. 

I can hear the screech of tires outside, the sirens wailing directly in front of the building now. 

Joker turns his attention toward me, a glimmer of something mischievous in his eyes. “But not everyone is in on the fun, now are they Y/N?” He tsks, wagging a finger. 

For a moment I wonder how he knows my name until I remember I’m still wearing my name tag. 

There’s no time to think further as the sound of his voice gets drowned out by the clatter of goons entering the bank and beginning to shoot at squad cars outside. 

An effective distraction to keep the police at bay. But for how long? 

Joker seems to be thinking the same because his menacing grin falters, shoulders stiffening. “You’re lucky,” he says quietly, “because I’ve gotta run.” 

I brace myself for the worst as he approaches me, the two of us standing in the doorway of the vault. He’s close enough that I can smell the grease paint.

“You’ve been very cooperative.” He hums, voice hushed. And then he pulls several crumpled bills from his pocket, tossing them carelessly on the floor in front of us. 

Amongst the scattered paper lies a Joker playing card. 

“Consider it a little token of my appreciation.” 

Before I can respond, he slips away with ease and I hear a loud shout followed by a crash.

“GCPD!”

Shit.

Quickly picking up the items Joker left, I slide them into my back pocket and put my hands up. 

The rest of the aftermath is a blur. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t win. But I did survive. 

And sometimes that’s enough. 

Chapter Text

Three hundred dollars. 

That’s the amount of money the Joker tossed on the ground. That’s the amount of money I picked up. And that’s the part of the story I didn’t tell the cops about. 

I didn’t take the cash because I needed it. I’m not that desperate, I get paid enough to live comfortably and not stress too much. It just seemed like the most logical thing to do at the time. But I’ll be damned if I actually spend it. 

Taking another sip from my wine glass, I mindlessly twirl the playing card in my hand. 

I haven’t been able to put it down. It’s like a curse. But instead of feeling repulsed by the flimsy white material, the card makes me feel real. 

It calms my mind in a way to know what I experienced really did happen and it wasn’t my imagination. 

After the Joker took off, I was swiftly escorted out of the bank and sat in the back of an ambulance while they checked for injuries. Once I was cleared, I gave a summarized statement to the police and they escorted me back to my apartment. 

The adrenaline has long since worn off, but that doesn’t stop me from jumping at every car horn or dog bark. And that cop car sitting outside does nothing to calm my nerves. 

It’s just a precaution, they said. 

Precautions happened because they didn’t catch him. The entire building was surrounded but somehow he managed to get away. 

I’m still not sure what scared me more- the fact that I came so close to death or that I somehow managed to survive without so much as a bruise. If Joker had been in a worse mood, I could be in the morgue right now, in one of those cold metal refrigeration units used to store deceased bodies. 

The thought makes me shiver and I grab a blanket. Flipping on the television, I sink back into the soft cushion that is my couch. Other than the murmur of voices emitting from the screen, my small apartment is quiet. 

It’s easy to feel relaxed once I settle in. Maybe it’s the cream colored walls or the soft, textured rug that adds a welcoming touch. But I take a moment to appreciate how put together everything looks instead of worrying. 

There’s the gray couch I’m laying on and a wooden dining table adorned with a few books and a small potted plant. My desk by the window holds a laptop and an assortment of spiral notebooks for when I have fleeting ideas. But my favorite thing is how the space smells faintly of cinnamon from a small diffuser. 

I curl up into a ball, wrapping the soft blanket around me and stare out the large window. These city lights above cast an eerie glow across the living room.

Maybe I just need to try and get my mind off everything that’s happened. A little relaxation would do me good. All I have to do is sit here and find a good heartwarming movie. Easy. 

I’m only a few minutes in when my cell phone buzzes with a text from my boss about giving me some time off to recover. 

I can’t help but feel a pang of frustration. 

Sure, it’s a nice gesture but I’d rather keep myself busy. Knowing it’s just their procedure, I sigh and set my phone on the small table in front of me.

Two hours later, I’m on the verge of falling asleep when the sound of a doorbell rings sharp and loud through my apartment.

My breath catches in my throat. 

It’s nearly midnight by now. Who could possibly be on the other side of that door? There’s certainly no reason for anyone to come by and I’m certainly not expecting guests. 

I stand slowly, my feet dragging cautiously across the polished laminate floor. I feel my pulse spike while I look around for a weapon, grabbing a nearby kitchen knife. Only once I feel slightly more confident do I approach, placing my hand on the lock but not twisting it open. 

“Y/N?” A male voice calls out, professional but empathetic. “I’m Detective James Gordon, may I speak with you?” 

Detective?

Now that is peculiar. I assumed local police would handle the bank robbery and file any necessary reports. After all, this isn’t a murder case. No one is missing. I’m not in a hospital. 

I can’t help but groan. I really, really don’t want to do this again. I’d already given my full cooperation and now I’m starting to think giving my contact information was a bad idea. But I can’t find it in me to turn him away. Besides, it’d be nice to have company if only for a few minutes. 

So I turn the handle and let him in, setting the knife back on the table. 

“Do you want some water or anything?” I ask awkwardly as he stands in my foyer. Offering refreshments is always a good way to break the ice. 

He glances at me with a soft smile and shakes his head. “I won’t take up too much of your time. Trusted Towers Bank has insured the money, but that’s not why I’m here.” 

I thought so but I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I exhale slowly and nod. “Then what brings you here Detective?” 

He swallows before leaning up against the wall, placing his hands in his pockets. “New evidence leads us to believe you could be a target. Not a bystander.” 

I beg your finest fucking pardon? 

A target? Me? There’s no way. Whatever conclusion the GCPD has reached, they need to reach a new one. Like, now. 

Just because I happened to be the only one in the bank when he showed up doesn’t mean I was the sole purpose of Joker’s little visit.

Good god, what if I was? What if Detective Gordon really is onto something?

For the briefest of moments, I allow myself to wonder if Joker actually remembers me from the parade last year. But that’s impossible. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of people in that crowd. 

And nobody knows about that interaction because, quite frankly, it’s insignificant. The Joker and I have zero connection. Zero history. There were plenty of others there that day who probably made eye contact with him too. 

But did they draw the connection? Between man and monster? Did I? 

I’m absolutely floored. 

Detective Gordon must have seen the anxious look on my face because he immediately walks over to comfort me. 

“I know what happened today was scary,” he prompts, “but I need to know if you’ve been in contact with anybody who could be involved in the robbery.” 

I release a breath, shaking my head. Getting into dangerous situations is something I’d rather not do, thanks. 

But I know he needs an answer. 

So I think back to the past few weeks at work. It was mundane, boring. The customers in line, my coworkers, the managers, nothing stands out to me other than that black van. And I’ve already given a description.

Could anyone be working closely with the Joker? 

“No.” I answer honestly but my voice waivers. 

“You’re sure?” He presses, not harshly, but it makes my heart race regardless. I thought this was all over. 

My eyes flicker to the window where the unmarked police car sits in the parking lot. There’s just no reason why I’d be a target. And there’s an even lesser reason why Joker would actually work with anybody. Maybe Detective Gordon is grasping at straws after all. 

His calming voice breaks me from my thoughts. “Hey, you survived. Not many do when it’s him.” 

When it’s him. 

The mere mention of ‘him’ makes me want to rip my hair out. I swallow, letting the words hang in the air. 

True, I survived. But just how much of that is luck and how much of it is Joker’s will? 

The room falls into a heavy silence. It’s hard not to think about how I could have died today. How my life almost got snatched away in a flash of chaos and laughter. At least one person seems to be on my side. 

“Thank you Detective.” I utter. 

“Please, call me James.” He extends his hand and I take it in mine, not missing the quick brush of his thumb over my palm as we shake hands. 

“Are you going to catch him?” I inquire, unable to resist the urge to ask for any updates. 

I can tell he wants to give me hope but he’s weighing his response. “Eventually, yes. That’s the goal. I’m here to make sure you keep yourself safe until then. Alright?”

His words fill me with a sense of reassurance. Maybe it’s my blind optimism to blame, but I’m beginning to think that the storm has passed. All I have to do is rest.

Just as I’m walking him to the door, my phone chimes with a call- the ringtone too vibrant and out of place in this quiet room. 

The caller ID is unknown. 

The two of us exchange knowing glances. But I can’t bring myself to pick it up as the screen flashes with a sense of urgency. My phone rings once, twice, three times. And each one feels like a death sentence to the darkness I just escaped. Detective Gordon decides for me, swiping to accept the call. 

Silence. 

After a few torturous seconds, a familiar voice comes through the receiver. “Well well well, I was wondering when you’d pick up. Started to think I underestimated ya there, doll.”

I freeze, looking over at James. He shakes his head, indicating that I shouldn’t say a word. 

But Joker isn’t the kind of man who waits for permission. He continues without an answer. “I must say, you were quite impressive today. I thought you'd break, but you didn't. A real trooper! How's the adrenaline holding up? Still shaking?"

I’m about to open my mouth to give this clown a piece of my mind but Detective Gordon quickly presses his finger over the mute button, so Joker can’t hear anything on our end. 

Not like it would make a difference anyway. He seems content in his monologue. 

“Oh and don’t worry, I’m not calling to ruin your little, uh, night with the Detective.” Joker snickers. “I’m calling to give an…encore…of sorts. Can’t standdd leaving loose ends.” 

My blood runs cold. James is right. I am a target. 

“I’ll tell ya what Y/N, why don’t you answer the phone next time, hm?” Joker hums. 

And with that, the line went dead. 

Chapter Text

I most certainly will not be going to a safe house. 

That’s what I had to tell Detective Gordon about twenty times for it to stick. A safe house is the most predictable next move, and I would feel safer in the comfort of my own apartment. 

Plus I can’t stand relying on others. If I die, I’ll die on my own terms. 

Relief floods me when I look out my window to see  that the GCPD has added a few more patrol cars since last night, all cruising around the parking lot. 

I tossed and turned all throughout the night. I must have gotten maybe two hours of sleep and that’s only because my body couldn’t stay awake even if my mind could. 

Thankfully I find myself in a better mood this morning. The sun is shining brightly, the sky is a deep blue, and I just know the temperature is going to hit a record high. I open my windows to get some fresh air and help my plants out a little bit.

Yes, today is going to be a good day. Whatever happened yesterday was no more than a bad dream. There was no robbery and no phone call. 

A sudden wave of anxiety hits me at the thought. 

I just need to eat something. 

Making my way into the kitchen, I fix myself some eggs, bacon and toast. It’s a terribly classic breakfast choice but it always hits the spot. 

I’m finishing up the last slice of bread when I spot a small piece of paper resting by my drink coasters. The sight makes me halt at dabbing the remaining strawberry jelly off my lips. 

I expect the worst. But, knowing I have protection right outside, I pick it up. 

If you need me, call me. -James

And look at that, there’s his phone number printed below in a neat font. I breathe out a sigh of relief. He must have slipped his contact card onto my table before leaving.

It's almost ridiculous that I’m walking around like a damn deer in the headlights, freaking out at any given slight. The worst really is behind me.

I go back and forth between adding the Detective to my own contacts list or pretending I didn’t see his note. 

Twisting it in my hands, I make a decision to place the piece of paper in a drawer and shut it. I can’t throw it out but I’m not calling. Just in case, right? 

Speaking of calling, I really need to let my friends know I’m okay. I imagine they were worried when they saw the news last night. 

I reach down to grab my phone but it’s not there. 

Strange. 

Looking around, I spot it resting above the fireplace mantle. Huh, I could have sworn I left it right here on the coffee table by the couch.. 

I guess I must’ve placed my phone there when I let the Detective in. Yeah, that makes sense. Then again any memory of yesterday is convoluted and I’d rather not think about it at all. 

Unlocking the small device, I intend to send a quick good morning text to my friends and finally get around to saying I’m alright. 

It’s only when I swipe over to my messages that I immediately notice a new text thread. 

Now I know I didn’t drink that whole bottle of wine. 

The contact name is simple- an emoji of a Joker playing card. 

I’m going to be sick. I want to smash my phone with a mallet and slide against the nearest wall dramatically. Why can’t I just escape from this clown?

My fingers shake as I click on the new message, anxiety already creeping into my chest. This city has a way of making you look over your shoulder, a way of inducing paranoia at every corner. But this? This is no nightmare. This is different. Personal. 

For a moment I consider ignoring it. Shutting my phone off, leaving it in a drawer and pretending I never saw the message. 

But ignoring the Joker isn’t an option. It would only worsen matters, if that’s even possible at this point. Even without the contact name, I could have guessed that it’s him. No one else has the nerve that he does. The reckless, insane confidence. He doesn’t need an invitation to find you, especially when he wants something. 

And he always wants something. The only question is…what does he want now? Especially from someone as boring as I must appear to him. 

I don’t want to read his text but feel compelled to. 

We really need to get ya some new locks, lots of dangerous people in this city. Don’t be mad. 

PS check the hall closet

Well that was…unexpected. 

I stare at the message, feeling my heart thud painfully against my rib cage. Pacing across the small room does nothing to help ease my worries, it’s like the walls are closing in. I grip my phone so tightly my knuckles turn white, but it doesn’t stop the tremor in my hands.

If Joker were anybody else, I’d almost find the message amusing. But he isn’t. 

What he is…is a criminal. A dangerous, volatile psychopath. Or sociopath. Differences be damned, he’s a lunatic.

The offer from Detective Gordon rings loudly in my mind. I should call him. It’s the smart thing to do.

Maybe it’s not too late to go back on that offer of a safe house.  

The Joker broke into my place for gods sake. He hacked his way into my phone. He knows where I live and where I work. And now there’s probably a dead body in my hall closet. 

So why aren’t I calling the cops? It’s not like it’s hard, considering they’re right outside. 

But something in me says not to. My eyes flicker nervously toward the hall closet as I force myself to walk over to it. I feel my chest tighten, the dark knot of dread coiling in my stomach. 

I cannot believe I am doing this. 

Okay. 3..2..1…

I yank the door open before I have a chance to talk myself out of it. 

Oh no. 

Oh hell no. 

My mouth falls open as I stand there in shock. 

The good news is there’s no dead body. The bad news? Stacks of cash, thick and heavy, fill the entire closet. I’ve never seen this much green.

All swiped from the vault of the bank. 

A flood of thoughts assaults me. Why here? Do I keep the money? Would authorities be able to track it back to me? Would I even be able to spend it without looking over my shoulder every day for the rest of my life? And moreover, what does the Joker want? 

There’s only one person who can answer my questions.

Grabbing my cell, I type out an angry text. 

Are you trying to make me look like an accomplice??

Not even thirty seconds later I get a response. 

Glad ya found it, doll. Needed a place to store it. Spend it. Or don’t.

I’m actually going to kill him. I’m going to be the first and only person in history to succeed in killing the Joker. 

I don’t know why, or how, but one thing clear: he is playing some sick game and I am his pawn. 

And now, the stolen money is in my apartment. 

My first thought is to get rid of the cash by spending it. It’s in my hands now, right? Joker said so himself. And the idea is tempting. 

Not only could I rid myself of college debt and pay off my credit card, it would also be nice to live a life of luxury and travel, to buy anything I want. But how long until the authorities see a pattern of large cash purchases and come knocking? 

A darker question nags at me- how long would I have until Joker comes back to claim what’s his? 

I quickly shut the door. My fantasies can stay fantasies. I won’t go near it and that’s that. The money isn’t mine. And besides, it’s not like Joker to leave something so obvious, so easy to take.

I stand in the hall for a long time, contemplating if there’s some hidden meaning. If he wants me to have it, he wants me to choose. I figure I have exactly three options. 

One, spend the money- which I’ve already decided I am not going to do.

Two, call the police. I could easily report this to the GCPD considering I have text message evidence that this is the Joker’s handiwork. Maybe I could even walk away. 

Yeah…that’s not going to pan out well for me. Joker doesn’t care for rules or authority. I might find myself being an even bigger target if I crossed him and turned it in. 

Which means my only safe option for now is to keep the money. Part of me wonders if this is more than a simple game of cat and mouse. And then it hits me. 

Is the Joker testing my loyalty? 

I inhale sharply. 

That’s it, I need to clear my head. I’m going for a walk. Today is one of the few times that Gotham has nice weather and I’m going to enjoy it. 

Circumstances be damned, there’s no way I am spending another second alone. 

I grab my phone to give Leanna a call and she immediately picks up. 

“Y/N? Oh thank god!” She gasps into the receiver, “I thought you were dead. Or in a hospital. Or in therapy, I know I would be after what you went through last night.” 

My brow furrows upon hearing her words. I don’t know why, she’s just being a concerned friend. The twenty three missed calls between yesterday and this morning prove that she has my best interest at heart. 

But I didn’t go through anything traumatic. Joker didn’t stab me or shoot me or mangle my face. Jesus, it was just a robbery. 

“Thanks, Leanna,” I breathe out, “I’m all good, sorry for not getting back to you sooner. It’s a lot to talk about, would you wanna get together today and-“

“YES!” She squeals before I even finish my sentence and I find myself smiling even though no one’s around to see it. “I’ll come pick you up right now. How long are you free?”

I know for a fact Leanna would let me stay as long as I needed, and I am technically off work for the foreseeable future. It would be good to spend some time in a different area. But I don’t want to overstep. 

“Well,” I reply, “my boss won’t let me back for a while so I’ve got nothing in the works.”

Except a million dollars in my closet left by a maniac.

“Ooh say less, you can spend it with your girls. I’ll come by to pick you up right now. Love you, bye bye!” 

“Drive safe, love you too!” 

And with that, she hangs up the phone. I figure a little vacation is just what I need. Staying here isn’t optimal, and neither is being locked away alone in some safe house like a prisoner. 

Yes, I need to get away.

Packing a bag full of necessary essentials is the easiest choice I’ve made all week. I’m just finishing up when Leanna texts me she’s almost here. 

The front door clicks shut behind me and I make sure to lock it. Is this a bad idea? Probably. Should I stay inside? Probably. Am I going to listen to voices of reason in my head? Absolutely not. 

A light breeze flows through the air once I fully step outside, and immediately I can feel the sweltering heat. I make sure I’m completely out of view from those patrol cars and turn in the other direction, slipping out through the back. 

They don’t notice my departure. 

No one does. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I push aside the feeling of being watched. 

Chapter Text

I feel like I could conquer the world. 

To say my makeshift vacation was good would be an understatement. I’m practically skipping down the sidewalk tonight as I arrive back at my apartment. 

My boss gave me the okay to come back to work in a few days. A little time off has been just what I needed. And the best part? I still got paid. 

I’m ecstatic. 

My friends had their own unique ways of taking my mind off the chaos. From spa days to concerts at night, and everything in between. I’ve had absolutely no time to think about a certain murderous clown at all. 

For the past two weeks, I took refuge in my best friend Leanna’s apartment, a modest two-bedroom flat tucked away in a quieter corner of Gotham. The city's usual chaos, its pulse of madness and tension, seemed distant from there. 

Her apartment was a small, welcoming sanctuary. Soft lighting, the smell of vanilla candles, and the rhythmic hum of jazz music playing low on her record player. I never quite got into jazz but it sounded relaxing enough. For a while, it felt like I was living in another world, far removed from Gotham's anarchic grip.

I welcomed the break.

Life finally feels back to normal when I don’t see any of the usual GCPD patrol cars parked out front. They must have been given orders to back off, which means there’s no danger. 

It’s over. 

My keys feel heavier in my hand as I approach my front door. The quiet hum of the city fades just as I turn the lock and step inside, letting it click shut behind me. 

Something is off. My apartment has never felt this strange. The air inside is tense, colder. The dim light from the hallway barely cuts through the gloom looking living room.

I stand in the doorway for a moment, waiting for something—a sound, a sign that the apartment was safe, normal.

Nothing. It’s all quiet.

I try to focus on the small details that make up my apartment- the faint scent of cinnamon lingering on a pillow, the old bookshelf filled with worn paperbacks, all still there. But something was different. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I turn around to place my keys on the hook. 

And that’s when I see it. 

A crisp, white envelope taped to the back of the door. It looks thin, unmarked, and eerily pristine, as though it had been placed there with care.  

No return address, no other markings except my name in the Joker’s jagged scrawl. 

My heart drops. 

I turn around to make sure nobody else is here. It’s as if I almost expect him to be waiting in the shadows, watching. I had forgotten what silence felt like. I thought I could escape it all. 

The money in my closet suddenly feels like a ticking time bomb. I told myself leaving it untouched was the safest option but now I’m not so certain. 

I feel a headache coming on already but with trembling fingers, I open the envelope. 

Y/N, 

You piqued my curiosity. Didn’t think you’d be the type to turn down a good fortune. Everyone in this city succumbs to greed. But you’ve done something quite unexpected- you’ve done nothing at all. 

How very responsible of you, doll. I’m sure that must get boring. Let’s change that! Give me back what’s mine, and I’ll walk away. 501 N Avenue tomorrow night. Come alone. 

I’m a man of my word. 

Yours truly, Joker

I read the note once, twice, three times. And then I get so pissed at myself that I crumble the damn thing up and toss it against the nearest wall.

If he wants his money back so badly, why didn’t he just take it when he broke into my apartment? For the second time, might I add. 

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, trying to think. The only obvious answer is that he’s toying with me. He wants to see what I’ll do. 

The address Joker listed isn’t unfamiliar to me. Whenever I first moved to Gotham, I foolishly continued my hobby of hiking and exploring. For obvious reasons I’m safer if I don’t. But the location lies on the outskirts of Gotham. Unlike the skyscrapers downtown, there’s nothing but backroads and open fields with a few scattered buildings in between. 

All of them abandoned. 

I stare at the crumpled paper on the floor across from me. Am I really considering this? 

I’ve heard the stories. Watched the news. But I never truly understood the chaos he could bring until now. 

The rational part of me, the part of me that’s lived a decent, law abiding life up until now, screams at me to do the right thing. Go to the police, hand everything over and move away. 

I didn’t ask for any of this. 

I would be putting my life at risk to meet him. But if I don’t comply, I risk his wrath. The Joker may be crazy but he isn’t stupid. 

He’s giving me an out. 

Closing my eyes, I sink down onto the floor and wish for it all to stop. I want my life back. I want to know a world without mind games and unpredictability. I want to stop looking over my shoulder. I want to feel free. 

I’m so tired of being pushed around and feeling weighed down. No one controls me. Not my job, not my past relationships, not my debts, and especially not someone as twisted as the Joker. 

Outside, the rain starts to fall in thick sheets, tapping against my window like the city itself was trying to force its way inside.

In that moment of desperation, an idea comes to me.

An awful, dangerous idea. 

I practically leap up toward the hall closet. So the Clown Prince of Crime wants to make a deal? He wants his money back? Well tough, I know exactly what I’m going to do with it. 

I’m sick of waiting around for him to make moves. It’s time I make one of my own. 

This isn’t about the money anymore. This is about me taking my power back in a world that spiraled out of control the moment I crossed paths with him. 

My mind is made up. 

I pull back the closet door and stand there, grasping the money in my hands- a ridiculous weight for something so light. The smell of ink and paper floods my senses, and a cold knot twists in my stomach. Joker’s promise lingers in the air. 

Am I ready to do this? 

Every dollar he'd stolen felt like it could buy my freedom... if I only give it back. But freedom wasn't a thing the Joker understood. I know that now.

A smile plays on my lips for one reason and one reason only. This time, the sight of millions in cash doesn’t fill me with dread. It fills me with glee. 

Because I’m going to burn it all. 

Right in front of the Joker. 

Chapter Text

For the record, it’s a lot harder to pack up stacks of cash than it seems. Especially when the total amount takes up at least half of a very small hall closet. 

There's no time to count it out. But after eyeballing it, my guess is there’s anywhere from one million to five million dollars here. 

Really, I didn’t think I’d have a big enough bag. But after spending way too long searching my apartment, I eventually found two large suitcases and just threw it all in there. I don’t want to touch the money any more than I have to. And I hate how guilty I feel for even handling it. But it’s not like I’m drug dealing with the cartel, I’m just…

I’m just what? Dealing with the devil?

Yesterday I was feeling entirely confident in my decision. Now? I’m not so sure. Stepping out of my apartment dragging two huge suitcases behind me feels wrong. Because it is wrong. But I do know I’m not handing this money back over to him. If anything, I’d rather watch it burn. 

Thirty minutes later I step out of my car, arriving at an abandoned warehouse right as the sun begins to sink below the horizon. 

I wanted to get here before Joker could, and I don’t see him being likely to show up when the sky is still a swirl of orange and pink. 

The warehouse is quiet. Too quiet, and it seems like the building itself is holding its breath. There’s a faint smell of rust and decay, mixed with something sharper. Metallic. 

My pulse quickens as I walk into the open space. The ceilings are ridiculously high, and the room has been stripped barren, save for some graffiti on the gray walls. 

Setting the suitcases beside me, I shiver. But it’s not because this place lacks the electricity to provide heat- it is the middle of summer after all. 

No, it’s the feeling of being watched. I haven’t been able to fully shake the feeling since the bank robbery. It’s like Joker’s twisted gaze is already sizing me up from somewhere in the shadows. But I know that’s impossible. 

There’s one entrance and one exit at this place. If anyone so much as peaks their head around the corner, I’ll notice. Until then it’s back to business. 

The weight of the lighter in my pocket grows heavier with each passing second. I’m not much of an arsonist, the most I’ve done is light up a candle. 

I bend down to unzip the suitcases before taking my time to unpack, neatly stacking the cash in a pile. Making sure there’s absolutely no one lurking nearby, I grab the small jug of gasoline I’ve brought along and hide it behind my back. 

And I wait. 

The only sense of security I have right now is a handgun that’s currently strapped to my ankle. There was no internal debate about whether or not I was bringing protection before I left. If I’m coming here alone without the cops to face this Ace of Spades- I’m carrying a damn gun. 

Okay, two. Two damn guns to be exact. I didn’t really feel like one was enough so I brought a backup. My other one sits against the front of my body, under my shirt since nothing protrudes out, making it tougher to see any lumps or printing.

My life is quite literally on the line here. Should I have brought a knife too? Am I overexaggerating or am I underprepared? Who knows how many weapons he has on him?  

About ten minutes later, a car door slams and I hear footsteps enter the building. 

The rickety lighting in here makes Joker look even more intimidating. And then the realization hits me that I’m in a shitty warehouse with Gotham’s most wanted. 

I’ve really done it this time. 

“I’m so, uh, hap-py to see ya, doll.” His voice rings out, low and mocking, “I was wondering how long it’d take for you to grow a spine.” 

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at his words, the last thing I want to give him is a reaction. My lighter practically burns a hole in my pocket by now, the gasoline bottle cool and heavy against my back.

"You think I'm just going to hand back your little prize and pretend like you haven't made my life hell?" I bite back, surprising myself at how sharp my voice sounds.

He tilts his head, regarding the money with a mere glance. “A little fight in you,” he grins, “that’s good.” 

Joker takes a step closer and that’s when I allow myself to do it. 

In one quick motion, I douse the suitcases with gasoline and flick open my lighter, tossing it onto the pile. 

The tiny flame flickers before catching on the bills, its fire licking greedily at the paper. Flames rise in the dim light of the warehouse, casting shadows that dance along the rusting walls. Joker watches the entire time, his eyes widening but overall his expression remains unreadable. 

I’ve burned all the money, millions of it, without so much as a moment of hesitation. Part of me almost regrets it for an instant. Maybe I could have done some good with all that cash. And not just for myself, maybe I could have helped a charity or something. 

Another flash of doubt makes its way into my mind. 

Everything is destroyed now. My opportunity to escape. My safety. My one chance for him to leave me alone. 

I’ve taken that chance. Taken it and set it aflame, giving Joker nothing in return but a challenge. 

I will not be bought. I will not be owned. You’re playing this game my way now. 

Glancing over at him, I hold my breath and prepare for the worst. He finally looks at me. 

"Ah," he hums with a slow, deliberate clap that echoes off the empty walls, "I like you." His voice is thick with mock admiration, but there's a dangerous undertone, like the calm before a storm. 

"Most people in this city can’t, uh, stand to burn their precious money. But you, you have...spirit.” 

For a split second there’s a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. Surprise? Respect?

It vanishes just as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual intense gaze. 

My mind races, trying to figure out my next move, how to control the situation. I swallow. “You didn’t really think I’d just give all of the money back, did you?” I ask carefully. 

Joker responds with a small tilt of his head, narrowing his eyes. “Oh doll, I knew you wouldn’t.” He tuts, stepping forward. “I didn’t have to leave it there, ya know. I wanted to see what you’d do.” 

I nod, watching the fire consume the last of the bills. The heat from the flames casts a flickering glow on his face. I keep my eyes locked onto his, unwavering, despite the palpable tension in the air.

“Well, you can’t get it back,” I breathe out, my hand hovering over the concealed gun on my hip as he moves close enough to reach out and touch. “So now what?”

Without warning, he grabs my wrist, pulling me close, and I can feel his lips hovering near my ear.

"You, uh, realize, don't you?" He murmurs, a wicked grin pulling at the corner of his mouth as he continues. 

"You've just given me an invitation by burning the one thing keeping you safe. That's a bold move, doll." His voice drops lower, softer. "And it almost makes me think you might be...worth my time."

I jerk away from his hold, taking a few staggering steps back. Withdrawing my weapon, I extend my arms and aim it at him, making sure to keep a tight grip. My finger hovers over the trigger. This is it. He’s going to kill me. 

So why aren’t I squeezing the trigger and making sure a round of bullets enter his chest? I wouldn’t be the first to try. 

My back hits the wall and I’m suddenly aware there’s nowhere for me to go. And Joker must have realized that, because in less than a second he closes the distance between us, his arms caging me between him and the wall behind me. 

The moment he moves closer, I do it. I pull the trigger. 

It doesn’t matter. 

It doesn’t matter because he’s already grabbed a hold of my weapon and jammed it. It falls to the ground with an echoing, pathetic clank. 

I’m doomed. Did I seriously think that I would be able to kill a man like him? He’s got way more knowledge on any sort of weaponry. He’s volatile. I should have known. My eyes squeeze shut. 

I can’t bring myself to look at him. Not because I’m afraid, no, but because I feel something much, much worse than fear. 

“Is it the scars?” He has the audacity to sound hurt.

When I don’t respond, his gloved hand finds my chin, tilting my head up and forcing me to focus. 

“Look at me.” 

My eyes fly open and Joker’s predatory gaze has enough power to nearly make me faint. Has anybody been this close to him and survived? I sincerely doubt it. 

For that reason alone, I can’t help but commit every detail to memory. The streaks in his white face paint, his faded green hair, the smeared black circles painted around his brown eyes. 

But what really gets my attention is the scar tissue around his mouth. Now that I’m close enough to feel his breath, I can see that it doesn't look all that scary. 

Painful to acquire, yes. But I can bet that without the elaborate bright red lipstick he draws on, no one would even notice the scars. 

My eyes flicker over his features, lingering on his mouth. He raises an eyebrow before a small smirk forms on his face. “I won’t force ya into my world, doll,” he licks his lips, “but I will make you want to play.” 

And with that promise, he releases me, taking a step back before crouching down to pick up my gun that was so carelessly tossed to the ground. 

Snapping back to reality, I quickly reach for the other one around my ankle just as Joker blocks my move, gripping my wrist. 

“Ah, ah, ah…” He tuts, shaking his head. His tone is mocking, but there’s a hint of curiosity too. “What do we have here? A little secret weapon, hm?”

My fingers freeze, suspended just inches from the gun. Joker doesn’t let the moment pass. He releases my wrist, instead focusing his attention elsewhere. 

Leaning forward, his hand—far too casual—slides up my calf.

I inhale sharply. 

The sudden contact is electric, sending a jolt through me, but the intimacy of it feels wrong in the worst way. He’s toying with me.

Joker grins knowingly. He watches closely as his hand traces the curve of my knee, fingertips moving with a purposeful slowness that makes my skin burn. 

I was wrong. He’s not toying with me. No, he’s studying me. 

Any fear that had coiled inside, tight and suffocating, began to twist into something darker, something more primal.

The sight of him, this maniac, this twisted monster, practically kneeling in front of me, looking up with those daring eyes, makes my pulse quicken.

It was sick. It was wrong. And yet—

Joker pauses in his movements. His eyes never leave mine though, as if daring me to make the next move.

"Funny thing about fear," he purrs softly, his voice hushed, “it makes people desperate. You're not afraid, are you?" 

Am I? 

I’m about to open my mouth to answer but the loud blaring of my car alarm causes me to jolt and, in turn, Joker recoils so fast as if he touched hot coals. 

But at least now I can finally breathe. 

That is, until smoke fills up my lungs and causes me to cough. Shit, the fire. Old building. Definitely not up to code. It’s beginning to feel sweltering hot in here. Joker backs away, placing some much needed distance between us but his gaze never leaves mine. 

I need to book it out of here. Why can’t I bring myself to move? 

“Ahtt, I’d go if I were you,” he nods toward the exit, “before I, uh, change my mind. Or before we’re burnt to a crisp. Whichever comes first.” 

And that’s all the motivation I need to snap out of it and make a sprint to my car. I don’t feel relaxed until it starts up smoothly and the doors are locked. 

Whew, I did it. I survived. 

I crank the air conditioning all the way up, allowing a brief moment of relief when I feel the cold breeze on my face. As I move to switch gear shifts, I notice my passenger seat isn’t empty like it was when I arrived. 

In its place sits a small clown plush. And it’s buckled in too. 

Oh. My. God. 

For the first time in weeks, the gesture gets a genuine laugh out of me. There’s no air of suspension, no vague threats, just a stuffed animal. 

I smile despite myself. 

I have SO got to find a way to get him back. 

Pulling out of the gravel lot, I decide to leave the radio off for this drive. 

I can’t tell if Joker is playing with me or if he could have genuinely been affected by what happened here tonight. But I do know something: he’s not done with me yet. 

And for the first time, I’m not sure if I want him to be.

Chapter Text

One Month Later 

31 days. Roughly four weeks. A whole month passes without so much as a whisper from the Joker. 

The silence is almost as unsettling as his presence. 

At first I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. The absence of him feels normal now, a void I’ve filled with routine. My friends still invite me out. My family still calls to check in. 

I’ve finally stopped looking over my shoulder. Oh it was incredibly difficult at first, I still saw him everywhere. 

On every news channel. Blowing up a building, fleeing from Batman, kidnapping some official or otherwise executing his brand of anarchy. He does what he does best- knowing which way the world spins and turning it in the other direction. 

But my phone hasn’t pinged. No voice on the line, no eerie cackle. No more strange letters at my door, no random “gifts” as he had called it. Not one single peep. 

Maybe he did decide to keep his word after all. 

Was it possible that he’d forgotten? Possible that I just became too boring for someone like him? 

It was a sick comfort, but one I clung to. 

And now that I’m back at work, the worst incident we’ve had is a customer in line who stole the entire jar of lollipops. 

Anthony was happy to see me, and I was even happier to see him alive and well. Apparently on the night of the robbery, he called the cops once he saw a clown mask on the sidewalk out back. 

Speaking of clown themed items, sometimes I really do think I must have succumbed to Gotham’s madness. 

There’s a saying, that the longer you live in this city, the more intense the calling becomes. 

It must be the only explanation for why that little clown plush remains on my bed. 

I could have tossed it out the window. Or hell, burnt it at this point. Made a quick stop by some dumpsters. But no, I decided to let the stupid stuffed animal join my pillows. And there’s no other reason I’d do that unless I was truly going mad. 

Alright, maybe I’m being a little dramatic.

On the bright side, I’ve picked up several new hobbies this month, one of them being jewelry making. Turns out it’s a great way to make a little extra cash. 

The small craft store has been my new favorite place to frequent and that’s where I find myself at this morning. Standing back to look at the different jewels on the wall, I fidget mindlessly with my charm bracelet. 

It was the first item I made and I haven’t taken it off since. I’ve added several charms so far, each with a different meaning. My birthstone, a book, graduation cap, lipstick, and a four leaf clover just for luck. 

My eyes skim over a variety of sections until they land on a small Jester pin. 

No. 

It’s been a whole month, everything’s over. 

My phone buzzes with an alarm that I need to be at work in thirty minutes. At least it actually went off this time. I glance back at the pin on the wall. 

Goddamnit.

I swipe it and grab a few other supplies that I need for my craft, placing everything into my basket before paying and throwing the bags into the trunk of my car. 

I’d rather risk the traffic and drive when I go shopping. Mugging is a big no thanks and I become a bigger target if I carry shopping bags. 

Pulling into the parking garage of Gotham Trusted Towers, I walk in and start my shift. 

Today, like most days I’ve come to find, is a blur. 

With a polite smile, I aid customers in their transactions. Exchanging bills, making withdrawals, creating new bank accounts and credit card numbers. 

Time passes quicker than I thought it would, but then again I do try to stay busy. 

Every day has been a repeat of itself. 

Wake up, curse my alarm for not going off, make a mental note to fix it, go to work all day, go home to my apartment, fuck around for hours and waste my own time, debate finishing my degree, yearn for a more stimulating life, go to bed, and repeat the next day. 

Every so often my mind wanders and my eyes drift over to the big steel vault. The lingering memory of Joker’s heist and everything that followed after doesn’t just go away. 

Against my better wishes, some crooked part of me welcomed the change of pace from my usual stable life. 

But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is those occasional lonely nights when I catch a glimpse of his face on television and I remember how his hands felt on me. On my face, on my leg, creeping higher until he reaches my- 

For god's sake, what am I even thinking? 

A tap on my shoulder makes me jolt from my thoughts and Janet gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. 

“It’s closing time!” She announces eagerly. “Go home, Y/N. I’ll finish up.” 

I haven’t been left alone to close since we got robbed. And even though I know my coworkers want me safe, I’m beginning to wonder if they think I can still perform my duties. 

I stand up, giving Janet a shake of my head and a firm smile. “Hey don’t worry about it, you’ve been taking care of things around here. I’ll close tonight.” 

For a moment I’m worried she’ll argue, to tell me to get my ass home and into a cozy bed. But she just raises an eyebrow and gives a supportive nod. 

“If you say so. Thanks, girl.” 

And with that, she walks off. 

I decided to stay a little later to finish up some tasks and hopefully make everyone’s day a little easier tomorrow. Anthony sticks by my side the entire time but I can tell he wants to go by the way he keeps looking at the clock. 

“You do know you’re not under any obligation to stay, right?” I chuckle, shutting off my computer and spinning around in my chair to face him. 

“And risk you dying?” He snorts, “My date can wait.” 

I can feel the way my eyes widen as I let my mouth hang in the air. “Oh my god you have a date??” 

Anthony’s phone pings right as I begin to pester him with questions. I’m so happy for him, I know he’s been trying to put himself out there more. 

“Speak of the devil, Janet already got lost.” 

Wait. Janet? As in, our Janet that works here? 

I give him a cheeky grin, crossing my arms. I knew he’d been stopping by her desk just a tad too often. No wonder she’s so eager to volunteer for closing up lately. 

“Oh you crazy kids,” I utter sarcastically, “get out of here before I give you a reason to.” 

He heads for the door, but not before giving me a look that silently asks if I’m sure. I wave him off, rolling my eyes. 

By the time I step out into the parking garage, the world outside has already fallen into the stillness of the late hour. It’s the kind of quiet that makes me feel exposed, as if I could vanish at any second.

I really wish this place would add some fluorescent overhead lights. Instead, I’m forced to rely on the glow of the city to guide me to my car. Turning the corner near the end of the garage, I abruptly stop in my tracks. 

There, standing against the hood of my car, is the last person I ever expected to see. 

Even with his back to me, I could recognize wild green hair and the sway of his dark purple suit. 

Joker. 

He hadn’t forgotten about me. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. 

Why is he back? To kill me? 

I squeeze my car keys a little tighter, as if that provides me any protection. 

There’s always the option of turning and running back into the building. But who’s to say he won’t hear me and follow? The last thing I need is another escalated situation. 

He turns and I instinctively take a step back, using one of the cement pillars to conceal myself. 

“Tsk, that’s predictable, Y/N…” Joker calls out, and I mentally wince at how he already knows where I am.  

I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t. But I promised myself I wouldn’t live in fear anymore. Not of him and not of anything else. So, taking a breath, I step out and face him head on. 

He regards me with a smile that almost looks genuine enough to be considered sweet as his eyes sweep over my figure.

“Miss me?” Joker asks in a sing-song voice, pushing off from my car with one fluid movement. 

I shake my head, “Not at all.” 

He frowns, lower lip sticking out and if I didn’t know any better I’d almost say he was pouting. It’s a new look on him and I force myself to bite back a laugh. Nothing about this situation is funny. 

So why does the air suddenly seem lighter tonight? 

Maybe I can blame the passing of time for not fully keeping my guard up. Maybe I’ve forgotten just how dangerous he truly is. 

But I know better than to ask what he wants or why he’s here. I’d never get a straight answer anyway. 

"I wasn't expecting you," I break the silence, making sure to keep my tone even.

"I know," he purrs, a spring in his step as he walks over. He slowly circles around me, and I make sure to stare straight ahead. It’s a classic intimidation move and I’m not going to respond to it. 

"But you know how, uh, fond I am of surprises.” He stops directly behind me, so close that I can feel his warm breath against the back of my neck. It’s just enough to send a shiver down my spine.

I quickly step forward, making my way over to where I parked. Maybe I can change the subject, distract him for once. And then we can promptly end this interaction. 

One can hope. 

“Speaking of surprises…” I trail off and unlock my car. The trunk pops open with a click, and I nearly hit myself in the head trying to raise it open. I swear, one of these days I’m going to get a car that isn’t the same age as I am. 

Shuffling through several shopping bags, I manage to find what I’m looking for. 

Please let this work.

I turn around, keeping the small jester pin clasped behind my back, out of sight. For once, Joker looks abruptly put off as he cocks his head, his eyes following my movements. 

“Whatcha got there?” 

And just like that, I extend my hand and reveal the pin. I’m anxious as I bite my lip, and I don’t breathe again until Joker takes it, turning it over and examining it with a look of fascination and curiosity. 

“A gift?” He raises an eyebrow, “for me?” 

I nod silently, not trusting my voice. I don’t know why I decided to buy it this morning. Perhaps since he left me with the plush, I could get him back in a way. 

Why do I feel so nervous now that he’s holding it? 

"Yeah. A jester pin. I thought you might like it." I shrug, glancing around anywhere to avoid meeting his gaze. I don't look at him, even when he speaks again. 

“You know what they say about gifts? It’s nottt about the gift itself but the, uh, intent behind it.” 

My throat tightens at his words. I can feel the weight of his stare and I cave, glancing up at him. Part of me wants to back away, to get in my car and drive off. His unpredictable nature never quite goes away. 

“Tell me, doll,” he murmurs quietly, “what’s your intent with this? Hm?” 

I swallow, trying to steady myself. And then, just because I always manage to make a bad situation worse, I try to ease the tension with humor. 

“Maybe just to make you smile.” I say slowly. 

Joker pauses, his expression unreadable for a long moment. And then he leans forward, a small grin playing at the corner of his lips. 

“Well, you succeeded.” 

Joker straightens up, his grin turning to a smirk as he watches me struggle to find my voice. 

Statistically speaking, exactly how many homicides happen in a parking garage? Because I have a feeling that number might increase pretty soon. 

He keeps his eyes locked on mine the entire time he fastens the little pin over his tie. The gesture feels a lot more intimidating than I’d like to admit to myself. 

At least he…likes it? I can’t really tell. 

Neither of us says a word. 

And then I hear it before I see it- the sound of swirling red and blue lights from a few levels down. Must be the night patrol making its rounds through here. 

Without warning, I reach for my door handle in a desperate bid for escape. But before my fingers can latch on, Joker's hand shoots out over mine as quickly as a strike from a viper, slamming the door shut with a force that rattles the entire car. The noise echoes like a gunshot in the stillness. 

I practically jump, my breath caught in my throat.

He’s right there, standing just behind me now. I can feel the heat of his body, the wild scent of something uniquely him. I can’t imagine Joker of all people putting on cologne because he smells like gunpowder and…bonfires?

I’m afraid to speak up, to demand he let me go. Partially because he could kill me and partially because I don’t think he’d listen anyway. 

But then he does something I don’t expect. 

His gloved thumb brushes over my hand, so slow it’s almost antagonizing. I struggle against him, heart racing, eyes flickering to the flashing lights growing closer. 

"You know," Joker continues, tightening his grip just enough to keep me still, "I do like surprises. But I think you're about to surprise yourself if those cops get any closer."

My mind races. I can’t think fast enough. One wrong move and I'd be at his mercy. Or worse.

His grip loosens slightly, but his presence doesn’t. He’s still right there, too close. "I think I'll have a bit of fun first." He thinks aloud, voice raspy. 

I shiver when I feel him step back, and that’s all it takes for me to come to my senses. Once I have enough room to get inside my car, I start it up and lock the doors, looking out my window just quick enough to see Joker leave. 

The sirens sound louder now, almost on top of us. He turns his head slightly, scanning the horizon. And with a final, lingering glance, he turns and walks off into the darkness. 

Leading the cops right behind him. 

Chapter Text

Clown Prince of Crime’s Midnight Rendezvous

That was the headline. 

Right there on the Gotham Gazette front page. I don’t even have to open the article staring back at me from my phone screen. The photo alone punches me in the gut. 

It looks like it was taken behind a fence, pointing up at the parking garage. Dark. Grainy. Two silhouettes.

My face is shadowed, thank god, but Joker’s isn’t. He’s standing way too close behind me, fingers curled over my hand like he’s staking a claim. The angle makes it impossible to tell if I’m frozen in fear or leaning into him.

To anyone unassuming, I’m just some random woman the media will latch onto. 

But I know. 

And worse, Joker knows. Or at least, he will as soon as he gets word. If he hasn’t already. 

My stomach drops so fast I think I may be sick. 

It wasn’t a kiss. Not even close. 

I mentally wince at the very thought. Joker had cornered me last night. Practically held me at gunpoint, well, emotionally at least. He’s a madman. 

And this goddamn photograph makes it look like we’re Bonnie and Clyde. Give me a break. 

A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Midnight rendezvous,” I mutter, shaking my head. They made it sound romantic. Like I wanted that moment. Like I invited him. Like we were about to- 

“Fuck!” A sharp tap on my car window jolts me out of my spiraling thoughts. I drop my phone in the passenger seat like it burned me. 

“Jesus,” I breathe out as I glance through the window to see none other than Jim Gordon leaning slightly out of his unmarked patrol cruiser. His badge flashes in the morning light like it has something to say. 

I freeze. I haven’t seen him since he showed up at my doorstep after the robbery, and that was over a month ago. He never saw me and the Joker together. Not really. 

So how the hell- 

I force my hands to still after fumbling with the switch. Rolling down my window, I turn to face him. “Morning,” I manage, trying to sound more confused than guilty. 

Gordon holds up his phone, the same photo I just saw, the same headline staring back at me. 

“You seen this?” He asks inquisitively. No judgement. Just facts. 

I scoff before I can help myself. “That’s not me.” 

His gaze narrows but he keeps his voice clear. “Are you safe?” 

For some reason I don’t anticipate the question. Of course he cares about my safety, he’s a cop. Okay, detective. Technically. 

For the first time, I don’t quite know how to respond. Sure, Joker is a dangerous problem, but he isn’t my problem. And now, here was Gordon, staring me down and wanting answers.

Answers I just can’t give. 

I feel his piercing eyes on me, waiting patiently for an explanation. "Detective-“ I begin. 

“James.” He cuts me off, his voice insistent but soft. Is he seriously trying to build a rapport with me right now? 

I clear my throat, quickly steadying myself. "Right, listen, I don't know what you're talking about.”

"Are you involved with him?" 

Define involved. 

I can tell by the concerned expression on his face, Gordon only wants to make sure I’m safe and not in danger. He’d offer me protection in a heartbeat if I just said the word. But I don’t want it. 

"I'm not in contact with him," I breathe out, my voice sounding stronger than I do right now. Not exactly a lie, but it was all I had to offer.

There’s a long, tense silence. Gordon didn't buy it, I know, but he nods slowly, as if he'd expected nothing else.

Unfortunately for me, James Gordon wasn't a man who easily let things go.

“I can’t talk long,” he says finally, sliding the phone back into his coat. “But I’m off shift at 6 tonight. If you’ve got something to say, say it at Aletops.” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just gives me one last watchful look before driving off and continuing to patrol the area. 

I sit there with my hands clenched tight around the steering wheel, pulse thudding in my ears. Aletops. A smaller bar, not many crowds. That means he doesn’t want eyes. Doesn't want this overheard. 

Great.

I glance over at the phone still face-down in the passenger seat like it might bite me again if I pick it up. I don’t touch it.

Instead, I stare through the windshield at the rows of sleepy cars, the gray morning peeling itself into motion around me, and try not to spiral.

I’m not in contact with him. 

I’m not in contact with him.

I’m not. 

Except now there’s a photograph and a headline and Gordon’s voice in my head saying “You seen this?”

I force the key forward and my car engine groans to life. 

This was supposed to be over. The burned warehouse. The questions. The Joker. But now he’s in my orbit. Or worse, I’m in his.

And if this morning is any indication, the world’s already decided which side I’m on. 

Aletops had a reputation. A promise of anonymity. 

The bar itself stretches along the back wall, its surface gleaming under a mix of amber and violet lights that change as the night deepens. A selection of crafted cocktails is listed on a chalkboard above, with names as intriguing as the flavors. 

On one side of the room, an intimate row of booths offers privacy for small groups. While, closer to the bar, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses creates a lively yet laid back atmosphere. A jazz playlist hums softly in the background, setting a smooth tone. 

I find Gordon near the empty bar, a Jack Daniel’s in his hand. Fitting. 

His usual confidence seems dulled, his broad shoulders tense, like he was carrying the weight of the city itself. But he seems to appear a bit brighter when he sees me approach. 

“Hey, glad you made it. You doing okay?” 

The genuineness in his tone nearly causes emotional whiplash. It’s not like he's ever been mean to me before but he’s talking to me as if we’re old friends. Especially when we don’t exactly know each other. 

But maybe that will change tonight. Besides, part of me is grateful he’s taking the lead in this conversation. I can’t stand awkward silences. 

He takes another sip of his beer and I realize I haven’t even responded. I clear my throat. “Oh yeah I’m alright, thanks. How about you?” 

I’m quick to shift the focus of conversation back to him, feeling a bit like I’m in the spotlight. Literally. It’s been all I can do to push this media frenzy to the back of my mind. 

“Mm, luckily for the department, it’s been quiet and we had a chance to catch up on some paperwork.” 

“That’s always good,” I agree in acknowledgement, “have you been here before?” 

He nods, and right on cue the bartender slides a basket of what looks like hush puppies in front of us. I give Gordon a quizzical look. 

He snorts at my expression, picking one up. “They’re mac n cheese bites,” he explains, “best appetizer on the menu. Want one?” 

I’m half tempted to say no thanks but the low growl of my stomach gives me away and he holds the small thing out to me. 

Well, when in Rome.. 

Oh my goodness. 

This is quite literally the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. It’s nearly impossible to stifle a small groan at the taste. 

“Wow, this is incredible.” I mumble in between bites. 

Gordon chuckles, gently pushing the basket toward me. “I’m not hungry so you’re more than welcome to it.” 

A grateful smile makes its way onto my face and I make sure he knows I appreciate the gesture. It’s not long before a conversation strikes up between us. 

“How rude of me, I haven’t even offered you a drink.” He jokes, “what’s your poison?” 

Two strawberry daiquiris, and one vodka cran later, I find myself in a much better mood. I don’t know how much time has passed. Just that I feel lighter. The tension that usually sits like a stone behind my ribs has eased. 

By no means am I drunk, but I can’t say for certain that I’d fully pass a sobriety test if Gordon suddenly flipped into cop mode. 

He takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes skimming over the rim of his glass before settling on me again.

“You know,” he says slowly, “for someone who’s allegedly in a romantic entanglement with Gotham’s most wanted, you’re remarkably composed.”

I nearly choke on my drink. 

I cough once, then glare at him over the rim of my glass. “Romantic entanglement?”

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, though there’s the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gotham Gazette’s words. Not mine.”

I set my glass down a little harder than necessary. “It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t anything.”

He doesn’t flinch, just watches me with that same frustrating calm.

I shift in my seat. “They don’t even know who I am. My face is shadowed. It could’ve been anyone.”

Looking away, I set my eyes on the condensation sliding down the side of my glass. “I’ve had two people at work send me that article. Joking, mostly. No one’s said anything seriously. No one’s asked.”

“But you think they suspect.” Gordon echos. 

“I think people in Gotham are too used to weird shit to look too closely,” I say. “And I’m counting on that.”

He hums in response, and for a second, I think he’s going to drop it. But he speaks up again. “You worried about him seeing it?”

I know who Gordon means by him. Joker. But I don’t answer right away. My thumb traces the edge of the napkin under my drink. “I’m worried about what it makes him think.” I answer honestly. 

Gordon nods slowly. “That he has leverage.”

“Or access. Or attention. Or whatever the hell he feeds on.” I cross my arms. 

Joker will misread the photo. I know he will. That’s kind of his whole thing, turning everything into a story where he’s the star. He likes when people react and I don’t want to give him that. 

Gordon leans forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice. “Has he contacted you today?” 

I grit my teeth. 

Before I can give him another one off answer, his phone pings and his expression becomes exasperated. 

“Damnit, not again.” He sighs, turning toward me and grabbing his blazer from the back of these tall chairs. “There’s been a shooting. Possibly involving the Joker.“ He stands up, but not before the bartender hands him back his card. 

When did he have a chance to do that? 

“Text me when you’ve made it home?” He turns back to me, the faintest look of hope in his eyes. I don’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t save his number when he left it on my coffee table. But I just might now. 

“Sure, be safe. Thank you for the drinks.” I feel a need to make up for his kind gesture. “If we do this again, the next one’s on me.” 

There was a moment of silence between us, thick with unspoken words. Gordon studies my face, the line of worry never quite leaving his own, but something in his eyes softens. Just slightly.

“It’s never on you.” He flashes me a knowing, apologetic smile and then makes a dash out the door. 

I spend the next few minutes finishing the rest of my drink before setting it down on the counter. Once I step out of the crowded bar, I figure I have about a twenty minute walk home. Plenty of time to collect my thoughts. 

Maybe it’s the round of drinks clouding my perception, but I’m so looking forward to a relaxing weekend. Getting inside, taking a nice long bath, lighting a warm candle and nestling under my thick bed sheets. 

Yeah, that sounds like a plan. 

But upon approaching my front door, I hear a loud crash on the other side. 

Oh for fucks sake. 

So much for a normal weekend. Here we go again. 

Chapter Text

I find him standing in my kitchen, clutching his arm…and is that my stapler? 

This has got to be one of the weirder encounters I’ve ever had with Joker, and that’s really saying something. 

He growls harshly as he grabs the decorative kitchen towel hanging on my stove, still apparently unaware that I just walked through the door. 

Maybe I should turn around and bolt while I still have my life. Because tonight, Joker looks downright murderous.

His makeup has been smeared and it looks like he’s gone a few days without reapplying it. His green hair? Matted. There’s several holes in his purple trench coat and every single weapon he carries is currently spread out on my countertop. 

The quiet click of the door shutting is enough to get his attention and his head jerks up, realizing he isn’t alone. I remain lingering by the foyer, unsure of what to do next. Good god, why am I acting so standoffish? This is my place of residence after all. 

My eyes scan the chaotic scene laid out in front of me and that’s when I realize his shoulder is red. 

Red. 

Oh no. Nonono. That’s blood, and a lot of it. 

Did he get shot? Actually, that’s a dumb question. Of course he did. But the fact that whoever shot at him managed to actually get a hit is even more surprising. I’d hate to see the other guy. 

Granted, I have to give Joker some credit. To the best of his ability, it looks like that towel pressed against his arm has managed to slow down the bleeding. Then again I’m sure he gets himself into situations like these all the time. He’s making do with what he has. 

But is my apartment really the best place to play hospital? Oh, right. He can’t exactly go to one. Still, that answer doesn’t satisfy me. I mean, why is he here? Convenient location? Media frenzy? Has to be. 

I open my mouth to ask what happened, but he quickly waves a gun in my general direction without looking over. “Ahtt.” 

Well, that’s certainly one way to end a conversation. 

In all honesty, I can’t tell if he’s in genuine pain or if he’s just annoyed by the inconvenience of being physically incapacitated. Just how deep of a wound are we talking here? At this rate he’s already created a trail of blood over the laminate floor and I’d rather not deal with that.

I have to do something to get this clown out of my apartment. Something that doesn’t involve calling 911. And it doesn’t look like he’s going to effectively patch that wound up with the duct tape he’s holding. 

But once he reaches for the stapler, I’ve had it. 

Cursing under my breath, I regard Joker with a ‘you’re-so-screwed’ glare as I walk past him into the hallway and swing open the bathroom door. There’s got to be something in here I can use. 

And just for the record, I’m not helping Gotham’s Most Wanted out there because of the goodness in my own heart. Even though Joker hasn’t technically threatened my life and forced me to play nurse, I wanted a quiet evening. 

It’s impossible to do that with him. 

So the sooner we get this crisis settled, the sooner he can get out of here. 

I find my first aid kit underneath the sink. Finally. Turning around to head back into the kitchen, I yelp when I see Joker’s threatening presence loom in the bathroom doorway. How long has he been standing there? 

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head, referring to the small box I’m holding in my hands. 

“Yeah-huh.” I reply without missing a beat, already opening it. This is happening whether he likes it or not. At this point, I’m ready to stitch him up and send him on his way for good. 

Seriously, I cannot keep letting this happen. 

He seems to read my thoughts, slowly moving over to sit on the edge of the tub. I raise an eyebrow at his sudden cooperation but don’t comment on it. Maybe the both of us just want to get this over with. 

Hm.

There seems to be a bit of a dilemma with his clothing. I really have no idea why he decides to wear so many layers, not when it’s as warm as it has been lately. That can’t be comfortable. 

But I’d rather die than ask the Joker himself to take anything off.

Even the very thought.. 

His impatient voice snaps me out of it. “Can you quit, uh, think-ing and start attending to your patient, Doc?” 

I swallow. “Can you, maybe...?" I gesture to his suit awkwardly. 

Giving me a pointed look, he manages to shrug off his jacket and rip away at the sleeve, despite the wound on his upper arm. I knew he had to be strong, considering all the fighting he does with Batman, but seeing him tear at the fabric like it’s nothing makes me take a long breath.

Which reminds me, Batman has never really been seen using a gun. He doesn’t kill. At least, to my knowledge. So that rules out one suspect. 

Now that Joker is wearing his button down with suspenders, it’s a lot easier to access the injury point. I gently place a hand on his forearm, getting a closer look at the wound. 

"Tsk, take me out to dinner first.” He snorts. 

Motherfucker…

I have half a mind to douse the whole wound in alcohol, just to prove a point. But I don’t. 

“Aren’t clowns supposed to be funny?” I retaliate, but he just scoffs. Tough crowd. 

We sit there in silence as I grab some of the sterile gauze pads used to absorb any fluids or blood from his injury. It also comes in handy when applying pressure to fully stop the bleeding. I need to have a clean surface when providing the antiseptic. 

Upon approaching him, we lock eyes for just a moment. There’s an unspoken acknowledgement that this is really happening. He’s letting me help him. 

Why in the hell, I have no idea. I also have no idea what I’m working with, I can barely handle a bad paper cut. Please, please let those health aide classes I had to take come in handy. 

I wipe away the blood and toss the cloth in the trash. There’s no bits of debris or glass present in the wound. And, bonus points, there’s no exit hole either. I’m also relieved to see there isn’t a bullet lodged into his skin, but it looks like a little more than a mere grazing. Part of me wonders if Joker got so mad that he dug the bullet out himself. 

Some things I’d rather not know. 

"There. Now let's take care of your shoulder, alright?” I say aloud, more for myself than him. Grabbing the bottle of sterilizer, I turn back around to face him. 

He stares straight ahead the entire time, even when I’m practically standing between his legs. I must admit, it feels odd being this close to Joker. The moment feels weirdly domestic and I mentally shake off the thought.

“This will sting.” I deadpan, even though he’s already aware of what’s coming. All I get in response from him is a noise somewhere between a grunt and a huff. 

I pour the liquid over his shoulder, making sure everything is covered. He hisses through his teeth, shifting around uncomfortably. “Nottt cool, doll.”  

It’s not cool to get a nasty infection either but of course I don’t say that out loud. 

Knowing that I need to work fast, I grab a needle and thread and do my best to sew the wound together. There’s no way it’s going to just close up on its own, even if it isn’t terribly deep. 

One last tight stitch and I snip the string, inspecting his shoulder and making sure it’s solid. 

“It’ll do.” Joker grunts, apparently feeling the weight of my stare. 

You’re welcome, you stubborn bastard.

I swallow, deciding it’s better for the both of us to just sit in silence for a while. I busy myself by packing up what supplies I have left and setting the first aid box back under my sink. If Joker’s visits are going to become routine, I make a mental note to order another one. Or five. 

Part of me expects for him to have left by the time I turn around but he remains perched on the edge of my bathtub, not moving a muscle. He’s staring down at the floor just a little too hard for my liking and I hate how I don’t know what he’s thinking. 

A quiet Joker is worse than a menacing one. 

And right now, he looks totally dissociated. I’ve never seen him like this before but then again I don’t know him well enough to. Nobody does. 

The thought of that combined with him practically sulking in front of me makes my heart sink. 

I clear my throat, deciding it’s better to give him some space to collect his thoughts. And plus, I’d rather not be in his way if he does decide to act on them. 

Stepping out into the hallway, I’m reminded of the mess that is now my apartment. Usually I do my best at making sure everything is tidy and smelling nice, but of course, Joker has a very different style. And as much as I’d like to just shove everything into a trash can, I’d rather not touch one of his weapons and risk something blowing up. 

So the only thing I can do is carefully, and properly, clean up the trail of blood in the kitchen. I never thought I’d be grateful that I didn’t have carpet. 

Other than the array of weaponry on my kitchen counter, nothing else seems to be awry. It’s then that my hall closet catches my attention. I’ve really been meaning to reorganize it. Last month it held the Joker’s stolen cash but now it’s back to serving its original purpose. 

Mainly, storing linens and spare bathroom products. Let’s see, towels, hair care products, lotions, old Halloween makeup… 

I totally forgot that it was even there. I have a bad tendency of saving the most random things in case one day I might have a specific use for it. After all, if it’s not broken, why throw it out? 

Glancing back at the closed bathroom door with a killer clown inside, I decide that today my strange habits have finally paid off. 

“Joker?” I call out from the other side of the door, holding a clean towel and a face painting kit. There’s a liquid tube of white paint, and an assortment of black, blues, reds, greens and yellows. 

When I don’t hear him tell me to go away, I take it as permission and step into the bathroom, moving toward the counter and setting everything down. 

He stands up, glancing between the products and me. 

I can’t stand the silence so I quickly explain myself. 

“I found some old stuff from last year. It’s not used, and, well, I don’t think that it expires. I mean, it still looks pretty vibrant and-“ 

My ramble is cut short when I hear Joker chuckle quietly, shaking his head. He takes another step closer so he’s standing right behind me now. I lift my head, looking back at him in the mirror. 

He’s already looking at me. “That’s nice of ya, doll. It’s not always fun being the one everyone’s gunning for, you know.”

I shudder. Why do his words feel like a confession? Could it actually be possible for the Joker of all people to have a bad night? 

And just what am I supposed to say to that? His injuries are likely a direct consequence of his own criminal actions. He could always just stop, but even the mere idea of that sounds preposterous. I don’t feel sorry for him at all. 

Clearing my throat, I walk over to the shower and turn it on. “Er, feel free to utilize the bathroom. You'll feel a lot better once you get cleaned up, J.”

The nickname slips right out of my mouth and it takes me a few seconds to register what I just said. I’m so focused on trying to make sure the temperature isn’t hot enough to scald that when I turn back around he’s giving me a funny look.

And rightfully so. He’s nowhere near a guest- and he certainly doesn’t behave like one. But there’s no way in hell I’m about to have this conversation. A subject change would do us both good.

“Just don’t get your shoulder wet.” I advise, my tone coming across more sternly than I intended. Actually, I don’t trust that Joker will be able to avoid messing anything up so I pull open a drawer and grab an abnormally large looking band aid. 

Yeah, that’ll do it. 

He raises an eyebrow when I hand it to him but he manages to press it over his wound and effectively cover the area. With that out of the way, I make a point to show where the shower products are and how to use them. For all I know he could be used to a single bar of soap. 

“Alright, shampoo and conditioner there. Body wash is in the corner. Use them in that order. There’s some more products under the sink along with a cloth. Have fun.” I explain, and that’s the last thing I say before making a hasty exit for the bathroom door.

But it’s not that simple considering he’s practically blocking the way.

I huff. “Joker, do you mind-“ 

His hand is quick to reach out and find my hip, roughly pulling me toward him and pinning me in place. 

“Yeah, doll, I mind.” 

Chapter Text

“You smell like a cop. Where’ve ya been, hm?”

What? 

Okay, first of all, cops don’t have a smell. At least I think they don’t but apparently Joker disagrees. Secondly, how can he tell? Even if he’s had hundreds of encounters with the law, what he’s saying still doesn’t make sense. 

Does it ever? 

I tilt my head, confused. “Joker-“ 

“Ahttt.” He waves his hand dismissively through the air, as if he’s already made up his mind before allowing me a chance to explain. 

Not that I need to explain anything to him. It’s not like I’m out committing crime sprees with this maniac. I’m not his pawn and I’m certainly not involved with him. James Gordon is dead wrong. 

Or quite possibly just dead if I don’t get the Joker off of his case. 

The shoot out tonight, Gordon mentioned something about Joker being involved and then promptly left. That was after the tabloids decided to leak (and falsify) a picture of us in the parking garage. 

“You know,” Joker purrs, seemingly deciding to switch subjects. I hate when he bounces around in conversations like this, I never can have time to think of a proper response before he decides he’s no longer interested in the subject. 

“People might start to think there’s something bet-ween us.” Joker instigates. 

My response is immediate, “There isn’t.”

He tilts his head, amused. “That’s not what Gotham thinks. Not what the papers think. And not what, that, uh, cop thinks, if he’s already sniffing around.” He takes another step, and the space between us shrinks until I can smell the gunpowder on him.

My heart’s pounding, but I don’t move. Not yet.

Because flinching is an invitation.

I swallow, trying not to enable Joker’s theatrics. But I also know he wants information. “Detective Gordon dropped in, and then we got drinks. What’s it to you?” I retort, feeling a bit like a child who has to explain why she’s out past curfew. Seriously, what’s his issue? 

“Mhm…” Joker hums, tapping his fingers methodically against my hip and causing me to squirm in place. “Did you talk about me? You did, didn’t you?” 

This conversation has barely even started and already I’m over it, and this entire night in general but I know he’s not going to let it go. 

“None of your concern.” I grit. 

“Wrong!” He chuckles, shaking his head before leaning in closer. “Try again, hm, I know you’re smarter than that. If you and, uh, that little Det-ective are plotting against me, I need to know.” 

“You’re paranoid,” I tell him, pushing against his chest. He doesn’t even budge. 

“And you’re avoiding the question,” he singsongs, cocking his head so far to the side I half expect it to snap. “What did he say about me? Did he call me dangerous? Unstable? Mmm, what’s that word he likes? So-cio-path?”

As Joker’s busy trying to expand his vocabulary, I’m busy trying to keep a neutral expression. It’s proven incredibly difficult when I’m feeling both fear and annoyance, especially with a mass killer in my personal bubble. “Doesn’t matter,” I say finally.

He clicks his tongue. “It matters to me.”

I feel the heat from the shower steam begin to fog up the bathroom now, only adding to create a more tense environment as he leans in. The overhead light flickers, buzzing like it’s nervous too.

Joker speaks again before I have the chance. “You patch me up, let me into your place, and then you keep secrets?” His tone is light but there’s a hint of something more sinister underneath it. “That’s not very hospitable.”

“I didn’t invite you,” I mutter, turning my head away and deciding to take a sudden interest in my decorative shower curtain’s floral patterns, or anything, anything but the man standing in front of me. 

“And besides” I continue, “why are you so concerned? You’ve been off the grid for weeks. Then suddenly, you show up, and now the whole city thinks we’re what? Meeting up for coffee?” I glare up at the ceiling, arms crossed. 

Joker stills, pulling away for just a few seconds but it’s enough time to let silence engulf the small, now steamy, room. The somber look in his eyes makes me shiver. He drags a shaky hand over his jaw, like he’s trying to scrape off some invisible weight. 

“Doll,” he says, voice hushed, “You think I wanted to go missing from your radar?” He rubs the fresh stitches on his shoulder like it’s a stubborn bruise in more ways than one.

“Some wanna be gangsters, this cli-que of mafia kids playing poker, think they’re the biggg bosses of Gotham’s underbelly…” He hums, “sore losers, really.” His lip curls in disgust. “Shot me tonight thinking they could scare me off the board. Lucky  for you, I’m, uh, harder to kill than I look.”

My eyes widen, brow furrowed. It’s perplexing, really.

I mean, I have no doubt of the grotesque things crawling around the streets of Gorham’s shadows. That part I believe. What’s really making me worry is the fact that Joker showed up here tonight afterward and decided to tell me all of this. 

Why? 

Can I even trust that anything he’s saying at this point is honest? 

Hell no. But there’s a look in his eyes that makes me curious, at least. About that, and one more thing. 

“What about the pictures?” I blurt out, heart racing. 

If these people took a chance on shooting at the Clown Prince of Crime because he stole some poker chips, my guess is that as long as he’s alive, there’s unfinished business. And unfinished business means needing some collateral. 

Joker’s nod is slow, deliberate. “They see that photo, even if the city can’t place your face, those morons will.”

The silent implication hangs in the air. 

I’d rather not think about losing my head. That is, if there’s an ounce of truth to what he’s saying. It’s not unlikely that Joker may just be doing all of this to have a laugh. To scare me. To con me. 

I swallow hard, morbid curiosity getting the better of me. “So what? They come after me now?”

His grin returns, a jagged line cutting through the gloom. “Bingo. You’re collateral, sweetheart. Unwitting, unwanted collateral.”

The steam clings to my skin, but a cold shiver creeps down my spine. Because in Gotham, getting tangled up with the Joker is less like a game of cards, more like playing Russian roulette with a loaded gun you didn’t know was even in the room. 

But getting tangled up with potential mafia bosses who are calculated, cold, and most likely have a team of insiders? 

Pass. Hard pass. 

This is not happening. There’s no way that, against my own goddamn will by the way, I crossed Joker’s path and ended up with a bounty over my head. 

Why did I have to see his face? 

Why did I have to work at a bank? 

And why does he have to keep coming back? 

All I know is that I do not want to get caught up in the middle. I thought I made that abundantly clear when I burned Joker’s money in front of him. We had a deal. He leaves me alone. He’s a man of his word. 

Until he shows up in a dimly lit parking garage and breaks into my apartment. I’m beginning to speculate if he’s taken a spare key at this point, considering how I don’t know where it’s at. 

And as much as I’d like to figure any of those answers out, I can’t. 

Joker lightly squeezes my hip, not hard enough to cause any hurt or fear, but just enough to bring me back to reality. He tilts his head as if he can read my thoughts. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t let ya out of my sight. Not for a second.” His voice drops, thick with that teasing warmth that makes my skin prickle. The statement is threatening, but I don’t feel scared. 

I feel something very different. Something I can’t name. 

For a second, the danger blurs, and I’m caught somewhere between irritation and something much messier. Somewhere I’d rather not let my thoughts go. 

I yank my hip free, somehow finding the strength to push him away hard enough to put space between us. “You’re the reason I’m here,” I spit, voice low. “Stay away.”

He freezes, eyes narrowing for a split second before he breaks out in a grin. “Now that’s the spirit!” He says, stepping back but never taking his eyes off me, like he’s daring me to believe I’m in control.

I don’t. My hand clasps around the door handle behind me as I move to exit the bathroom. 

“For gods sake please get in the damn shower.” I exhale, stepping to the side as he holds his hands up in mock surrender. 

Joker regards me with a look that I can’t quite decipher, studying me in a way that I’ve come to find he does often. Well touché, he’s not the only one who can read people. 

I don’t wait around for a response as I walk out of the bathroom, letting the door fall shut behind me. 

It’s not until I’m standing on the other side of it that I realize Joker doesn’t have any clean clothes. 

Sure, he would probably be fine throwing bits of his tattered suit back on, but every piece is covered in blood or ripped. 

I make my way back to my bedroom at the end of the hall, throwing open the closet door. I know somewhere in here I have a couple of men’s shirts and a jacket, thank you thrift shopping. Grabbing those items and a pair of black slacks that I accidentally bought a few sizes bigger, and have yet to return, I head back out. 

By the time I stand in front of the bathroom door again, the sound of running water is no longer heard. I guess Joker takes quick showers. Then again if I ever spent time in prison, I probably would too. 

Really, I almost don’t want to knock. And I really really don’t want to face him again. Not after our last conversation ended on such ominous terms. 

Albeit, fate decides for me when I hear a loud clash and then a thud that follows right behind. Did Joker trip and fall? Did he drop something? 

My instincts take over and I push down on the door handle, making sure to avert my eyes with a covered hand. 

I keep my head low, and I’m surprised to see that somehow my shower rod has managed to fall flat on the bathroom tiles. 

It’s impossible to stifle a quiet groan. One hour of Joker being here and already something has to get messed up. At least it’s an easy fix, so really I shouldn’t be complaining. The entire apartment complex could be on fire if he wanted it to be. 

The thought of how much power he has is frightening. 

But right now he doesn’t look powerful. As he walks over to reposition the shower rod back into the wall, I catch a glimpse of a white towel draped around his waist. With his back toward me, it’s clear he’s got a solid frame. 

Must be all that fighting and running he partakes in.

Because right now he doesn’t look like some haunted boogeyman, he just looks like a man. 

I quickly turn around, grateful I don’t see any more than what I already did. Still holding the clean clothes in my hand, I extend them behind me and  clear my throat. 

“Didn’t mean to intrude, sorry, just figured you might need these.” I utter nervously. 

Joker doesn’t say anything, but once I feel him take the clothes from me, I step out and close the door behind me, leaning against it. 

Good grief, what’s wrong with me? Has it really been so long that I actually got flustered from seeing someone like Joker in a towel? 

Shaking my head, I push off the door and make my way down the hall into the kitchen. 

I’m craving something sweet so I decide to bake some chocolate chip cookies. And by bake, I mean place some premade dough on a pan and slide it into the oven. After about ten minutes, I hear footsteps thud on the soft rug behind me but I pay no mind. 

I keep my eyes focused on the stove as Joker rounds the corner, coming to sit on one of the barstools in front of me.

“Whatcha making, Sweets?”

Sweets? 

Is that supposed to be a play on words? Why can’t he just call me by my name? It’s not hard. But at least he seems to be past our previous interaction and in a much lighter mood. 

“Cookies. Want some?” It’s a poor attempt at making casual conversation but I glance over at him to gauge his reaction. 

I really shouldn’t have done that. 

Because his hair is damp, and the green dye has washed out to reveal his natural darker shade of blonde. He’s wearing a navy blue shirt that was oversized on me, but fits snugly around his torso. 

And then it hits me that he’s not wearing makeup. I nearly drop my spatula at the sight in front of me, momentarily stunned.

Why didn’t he use the face painting set I left on the counter earlier? I mean, granted, it must not feel nice wearing something on your skin all the time but I figured he’d choose that over appearing bare faced. He looks downright handsome and I hate myself for even thinking it. 

This whole situation would be a lot easier if he were holding me hostage.

Joker snorts at my expression, placing his hands on the counter. “Don’t look so shocked, you’ve already seen my face. Rememberrr?” He quips.   

Yes, I remember. On two distinct occasions that were both accidents. But this is different. He’s choosing to leave off the war paint. Why? And for how long? 

I’ve really got to stop thinking so much. None of my questions about him will ever be answered. I’m snapped out of my thoughts anyways when the loud beep of a timer indicates that the cookies are ready. I didn’t really know how much to make, so I just made four. A couple for me, and a couple for him because I could already predict he’d steal some. 

He eats the gooey dessert with what I can only assume is his non-dominant hand, given the awkward movements. With his upper arm being wounded, I doubt he’ll be able to make much use of it for a while. 

“Mm, good choice, doll. Didn’t take you for a baker.” 

“I‘m not.” I mumble with a mouth full, quickly swallowing as Joker gives me a sly grin. “They’re premade and store bought.” I explain. He shrugs as if it makes any difference to him. 

One glance at the clock shows it’s almost midnight. It’s getting late and I really should get some rest. And Joker should get out of here. After a few minutes of silence, he finally speaks up. 

“I need a favor.” 

“No.” 

The word leaves my mouth before I can even think about doing a favor for the madman sitting in front of me eating cookies. What exactly has my life come to? 

His brow furrows. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.” 

I shoot him a look. Do I really need to know? Anything he could ask of me is undeniably not good. Even something as simple as picking up his dry cleaning probably involves a run in with the mob. 

Sighing, I put our plates in the dishwasher and bite the bullet. “What’s the favor?” 

His eyes move toward the bathroom and then back over to me. “Ya see, I can’t go back outside looking all disheveled like this,” he motions to his bare face, “so I need you to, uh, do my makeup.” 

I inhale sharply, my mouth parting ever so slightly in hesitance, and I swear I catch a glimpse of him glancing down at my lips. I’m under the assumption that he’s joking about this little favor until he stands up and heads for the bathroom. 

He’s dead serious. 

I blink a few times before following him down the hall as I’m trying to process just what exactly he’s asking here. 

“Joker. Don’t you do your own..er, makeup?” 

He sighs dramatically, as if I’m the one that’s annoying him. 

“Don’t be difficult. I can hardly move my arm.” He rolls his eyes, moving to take a seat on the bathtub. Yet again, for the second time tonight. “Besides, what if somebody, uh, breaks in? I need to be prepared.”

I regard him with a questioning look. Surely he’s more than capable of doing this himself. I mean he was able to get dressed and eat, but when I glance down at his bandage I think again. 

He got shot. That’s no joke. Whether or not he’s a danger to society, and he is, this is still a serious injury. Even though something tells me he’s just being too idle to do it himself. 

“Fine. Try to hold still.” 

I approach him with caution, and unfortunately I’m quick to find out the only way I’ll be able to apply his makeup with ease is if I stand right between his legs. Right in front of him. 

Yeah, tonight has successfully become a disaster. 

Grabbing one of my cleaner makeup brushes, I dip it into the white paint and begin to coat his face. I can’t even get two seconds in without feeling like I  have to narrate my every move as if I’m performing surgery. 

“Uhm, Joker, you’ve got a bit of hair in your face so-“

“So move it doll.” He hums, eyes remaining closed. 

He wants me to do what? Surely I must have misheard. I mean, yeah, it’s just hair but it’s his hair. And for him to give me the okay to touch it, even briefly, is surprising. Joker seems to read my mind when he speaks up again, but there’s a slight impatience in his tone. “I don’t bite. Come on.” 

And that’s all it takes to brush his, now combed out, hair away and continue applying the foundation. 

He’s being very calm and not moving an inch throughout this entire process. His eyes remain closed and he doesn’t utter a word. Interesting. Maybe if he’s relaxed enough there’s less of a chance he’ll feel inclined to kill me. 

He’s never made any real attempts yet but, well, I’d rather he not try.

There’s no little wands to apply any of this black pigmented stuff with and I don’t use any eyeshadow applicators. 

I chew on my bottom lip, deciding what to do. Touching the Joker’s bare face with my hands? Skin to skin? I’d sooner walk into a bear cave. 

Fuck it, I’m making this way more complicated than it needs to be. If Joker wants to act like it’s no big deal, fine, no big deal. 

I dip my finger into the deep black color and gently brush it over his eyelid. 

His sharp intake of breath doesn’t go unnoticed. But he doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t push my hand away. So I make haste and quickly repeat the same motion over his other eye until those big black circles fully cover the area. The last thing I want to do is make him uncomfortable. He’s killed people for less. 

Which makes me wonder why I’m still here. 

I lean back a little bit, looking over his face to see what step comes next. Let’s see, we’ve got his foundation and his eyes covered…actually he kind of-

“You look like a raccoon.” I blurt out, unable to hold back a giggle, before quickly placing a hand over my mouth. Part of me almost regrets saying that but I can’t stand silence. And Joker is being unusually quiet. 

His eyes flutter open, head tilting up to look at me and for a split second I’m worried my remark wasn’t welcome. But then he gives me a soft smile, a hint of something more genuine dancing in his eyes. Longing? Admiration? Comfort?

I’ve never ever seen that look from him and it’s so unexpected that I nearly drop the face painting pallet in my hands. 

Forcing my body to halt, I quickly turn toward the counter to grab his lipstick. It’s a bright red shade and there’s a hint of some orange undertones. Definitely on the warmer side. 

“Do you want to do your lipstick?” I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. The thought of practically touching his scars doesn’t repulse me, not really, I’m just worried he’ll try to stab me or something if I do. 

He’s still a criminal, even if I’ve already crossed so many lines tonight. 

Joker looks at me, head titled as if he’s weighing his options before letting out a long sigh. “Yeah, bring it ov-er here, doll.” 

So I do. I guess he didn’t even need a mirror to help apply it, because it looks surprisingly spotless. “Ta da,” he deadpans, throwing his hands up in a show biz way, “how do I look, like a model?”

“Like a clown.” 

“Same difference.” He chuckles, standing up and I quickly move out of his way, heading for the hall. 

“Where ya going?” 

Damn. I’m not out of the woods yet. Clearing my throat, I cast him a look over my shoulder. “It’s late. I’m going to bed.” 

He nods. “I’ll, uh, take the couch then.” 

“You’ll what?” I cough. 

Joker looks at me as if I’ve grown three heads. When in reality, he’s the one that’s acting so strangely. Being around him for brief periods of time is one thing, sleeping in the same space as him is another. Even if we’re not sharing a room. 

“Uh, did ya forget the whole shoulder thing again?” He shakes his head, “I’ll also have to get a new suit, and I can’t exactly go back outside right now.” 

I’m going to lose my mind. 

So, instead of him going back to his lair or whatever it is that he resides, he’s decided to recover here. In my apartment. 

Yeah, that’s not going to end well. But telling the Joker ‘no’ isn’t exactly high on my list of priorities. 

Crossing my arms, I take a breath. “How long?” 

“Just a few days, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

I groan. He doesn’t have to stay here. I’m sure he could call his goon squad or whoever to come pick him up. Then again, I doubt a man of his, er, caliber would want to be seen in such a weakened physical state. His mind is still strong though, injured arm or not, and if someone stupidly thinks they could pull a fast one on Joker, they’d learn very quickly. 

I could always call the cops, call James, but I know that I won’t. Which really leaves me out of options. I sigh. 

“Alright, fine. But come Monday, you’re gone.” 

He flashes me a grin. “You’re a real doll, you know that?” 

I can’t help but smile back, against my better wishes. “Mhm, so you’ve said.” 

Joker regards me with a nod before walking over to the couch, practically plopping down. Which reminds me, what about painkillers? I feel the need to be a hostess, even if my guest isn’t exactly hospitable. 

Making my way over to the medicine cabinet in my kitchen, I realize I don’t have much but some over the counter Tylenol. It’ll have to do. 

I approach him on the couch, setting down a water bottle and the pills. “There’s a remote if you want TV, don’t call for me unless there’s a medical emergency or a fire.” 

I don’t know why I’m acting as if he’s my patient, the last thing I am is a nurse. 

Not bothering to wait around for a response, I walk back down the hall to my bedroom and lock the door behind me. 

Like that’s ever stopped him. 

Chapter Text

I wake to the texture of something very wet on my face.

Tears? Why am I crying? And why do I feel so anxious? Shuddering beneath the covers, my eyes flicker open in a panic before I register where I am.

As I slowly gain consciousness, my surroundings become more clear. I’m still in my bedroom. Moonlight filters through the blinds, casting long shadows across the tidy room. The turquoise alarm clock sitting on my dresser ticks steadily, the only sound breaking the heavy silence of the night. It must be three in the morning. 

And I remember the terrible nightmare I had. 

This doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s apparently bad enough for my subconscious to evoke a physical reaction. 

The dream comes back to me in bits and pieces. I was driving down the road, but my brakes failed and everything spiraled out of control. I could physically feel the impact of the crash but couldn’t stop anything from happening. 

Now probably isn’t a good time for me to psychoanalyze my own nightmare. I learned a hundred different reasons for why the human mind creates scenarios in the dead of night, some reflecting reality while others do not. 

Weirdly enough, I don’t actually feel sad. Just tired. It’s going to take me forever to get back to sleep. Ugh. 

I set my pink sleeping mask aside to wipe away my tears, sitting up in bed. The idea of washing my face with some cold water sounds particularly appealing and I move to do just that, looking over toward my door. 

What the fuck. 

That’s a shadow of a person. No, a man. Standing in my door frame. Oh god. Someone broke in. Mafia? Must be. This is it. My time has come. I’m dead. My throat tightens as another round of tears threaten to form. 

Each breath comes in short, shaky gasps. I stare for a long beat- long enough for my intruder to see the confusion in my eyes, the remnants of my terror.

“Uh…ya alright, doll?” 

Joker? 

It’s him. Oh for fucks sake. Amidst my panic, I completely forgot I have a temporary roommate. I let out a breath, exhaling slowly in relief and placing my hand over my heart in a poor attempt to steady the rapid beating. 

The man had a way of unsettling everything around him, even in his weakened state. 

“Oh thank god it’s just you,” I swallow, “and yes I’m alright.” 

Even in near darkness, I can see him slightly cock his head to the side. “Thatsss a new one. No one’s ever relieved to see me.” He hums, but doesn’t make an attempt to move closer. 

I’m half awake at this point, my nervous system a wreck. But more importantly, now that the initial shock and fear has worn off, I just feel annoyed. 

I reach over to turn on the small lamp next to my bed, crossing my arms. 

“You better have a good explanation for why you’re standing in my room. Didn’t take you for a pervert.” I say disapprovingly, my words coming across bitter sounding. Joker isn’t phased. 

“Says the one who barged into the bathroom earlier while I was au naturel.” 

Oh my god. Can we just forget about that? 

I bury my face into my hands, trying my hardest not to scream out of both frustration and embarrassment. But his comment makes me feel just the slightest bit amused and I’m almost grateful at his attempt to cheer me up.

“That was an accident- you know what, never mind. Why are you here?” I groan. 

Joker remains quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering to the blanket I’m using to cover myself and then he looks back at me once more. I take it that he’s gathering his thoughts before he speaks again. “Because I have some morals I, uh, heard a scream, just checking that you’re not dead.” 

He pauses, and I can see him smirk before adding, “Unfortunately.” 

My eyes narrow. There’s no way I screamed. Yeah, I can’t stand having nightmares but other than the occasional tear and waking up short of breath, I highly doubt I’ve ever had a stronger reaction. 

Although, I have found myself sleep walking on several occasions so maybe his theory isn’t too far off as far as sleep disturbances go. But I’ll never admit it aloud. 

“I had a nightmare, Joker.” I scoff and silently hope that the explanation will be enough for him to shrug and go back to bed. If he even sleeps. 

“Aw, I was hoping for something a bit more entertaining. Some blood, maybe a few missing limbs-” 

“Joker!” 

“I’m teasing, doll.” He chuckles, as if the mere implication of him being involved with such torture is absurd. How ironic. He moves to lean against the side of the doorframe before hitting his arm against it and wincing. It’s been less than twelve hours and already he’s forgotten that he’s injured. 

I snort. Karma serves him right. And as much as I’d like to continue having this conversation (I wouldn’t), sleep is calling my name. 

“Well, thank you so much for checking in,” I retort sarcastically, “now if you don’t mind, I’m going back to bed.” 

He remains still, distracted, as he stares at a pillow right beside me. What is with him tonight? 

And then I remember. 

Ah shit. 

I still have it. The night I burned all that money in front of him, he left a small clown plush in the passenger seat of my car. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it, really, but well, it’s a lot easier to just let it stay. 

“You…” he shakes his head, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, “not only did you, uh, keep the little stuffed animal but you put it on your bed?” 

Joker turns back toward me with a cocky smirk on his face, awaiting my response. I flush and it has nothing to do with how warm I keep the thermostat.  

“Ohmygod kick rocks, I hope Batman finds you here.” I huff, grabbing the stupid plush and hiding it behind one of my pillows. He pretends to look offended, slowly pacing the length of my room until he stands on the opposite side of my bed, reaching for the lightweight stuffed animal. 

He’s already seen it, so I don’t know why I make a point to keep it hidden behind the pillow or anywhere else that’s not currently in his line of vision. My hand shoots out to move it right as he makes a grab for it. 

The plan doesn’t go over too well, considering how the both of us are practically playing tug of war right now. At least he’s using his good arm. 

“Let me see it.” 

“No.” I breathe out. 

But Joker isn’t one who gives up without a fight. Fortunately for me, I’m just as tenacious. 

I’m not exactly sure what happens after that. All I know is that I pulled back and he pulled forward, his grip being a lot stronger than mine. I don’t let go. Maybe I should have because before I know it, the world tilts and I find myself falling forward. I’m yanked from my bed onto the floor, effectively toppling onto Joker.

We both groan on the way down. 

The impact was unavoidable, really. My body crashes into his with such force that it steals the air from both our lungs. 

I feel his hands immediately move to grip my waist, as if he was trying to lessen the damage from my fall. Or maybe just to steady himself. 

For a split second, I forget about the stuffed animal. Because all I can feel is his broad chest underneath me, and god, why is he so warm? The heat radiating off his own body seeps through the thin fabric of my white t-shirt. 

It’s been ages since I’ve been this close to anyone. And he’s so comfy, I could probably doze off if I tried. 

My face hovers dangerously close to his. Close enough that if I merely turned my cheek, I would feel those scars pressed against my face. 

His hair smells like shampoo, with hints of green apple present. He must have found my other products in the cabinet underneath the sink. One body wash in particular has scents of clean laundry and powder, and the combination on him is unnerving. 

I push myself up a little bit so I’m not pressing all of my weight against him, my hands splayed against his chest for balance. But the sudden change in positions does nothing for my vertigo. Everything looks dizzy. 

“Get off,” he grunts.

“In a minute.” I mumble, forcing my eyes open, trying to focus on one single object in the room until it stops spinning. 

“Y/N-“ 

“Joker, seriously, zip it.” 

He groans in annoyance, “Could ya just-“ 

“Could you just shut up for two seconds? Stay still.” I snap, my tone coming across a lot more commanding than I intended. 

His mouth clicks shut, halting in his movements and I don’t hear him speak again. 

After a few blissful seconds of silence, I sit up fully so I’m no longer laying on top of him, but instead, I’m momentarily straddling him as I catch my breath. At least my bedroom no longer looks like a merry go round. 

When I glance down at Joker to apologize, I find he’s already staring up at me with eyes blown wide open. A quick brush of his fingers along my side reminds me of the compromising position we’re in. 

My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment I forget how we even got here. The ability to think at all is becoming increasingly difficult when his other hand moves over my back, rubbing soothing circles. 

Oh that’s not good. Nope, totally not nice at all. I have to remind myself of that or else I might risk doing something incredibly stupid. 

Am I as immune to him as I’d like to think? I find myself leaning into his touch. 

Joker’s voice breaks me from my trance, so quiet I almost didn’t hear him. "You're so… close," he whispers, voice raw, like it came from some strained part of him. 

My every instinct screams at me to back off. To put distance between us, to break the moment, but for reasons I can’t figure out, I stay put.

His hands slide up my back fully, fingers brushing the edge of my neck as if he was debating whether to snap it or pull me closer. He swallows hard, eyes flickering to my mouth for just a moment before darting back to my eyes.

I can practically see the cogs turning in his head, fighting the struggle not to give into whatever wild impulse he has. Something about a man as reckless as Joker exhibiting restraint makes me lick my lips.

His voice, a low rasp, breaks the silence again.

“Careful,” he warns, "you don't know what you're doing, Sweets," he mutters, the words rough as if he was forcing them out.

Then in one fluid movement, he manages to throw me off him, switching positions so that he’s now hovering over me before I can even realize what’s happening. 

My head hits the carpet and I’m thankful Joker didn’t decide to use his full force. He stares down at me with a solemn look. 

“You’re not someone I can play with, Y/N.” He mumbles softly, as if he’s made a decision, and pulls himself away from me. By the time I scramble to sit up, he’s already made his way out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. 

And, not for the first time, I’m left to wonder what the fuck just happened? 

Chapter Text

The sun is so bright it feels like a joke.

Gotham forgot its usual gloom today and decided to blind me instead. The sky is supposed to be gray, supposed to be cold. Instead, the light is merciless, bouncing off every shard of broken glass in the gutter and turning the sidewalk into a disco. 

I squint behind the cheap sunglasses I grabbed from the drugstore bin and pull my jacket tighter, a universal Gotham armor which reads: don’t look, don’t talk, don’t exist.

The bell above Lucky’s Liquor store door gives a tired jangle as I step in. It’s clerk, Manny, remains behind the counter like always and doesn’t even glance up from his phone. Not that he needs to, I know the layout by heart. Bottom shelf, left side, Evan Williams bottle in the brown label. I crouch, fingers brushing the cool glass. The price sticker hasn’t changed: $22.47. I grab the same liquor I bought the night I torched half a million dollars and watched a killer clown’s pupils blow wide.

My breathing slows.

Three nights ago, I woke up to an empty apartment. 

Joker had been there, shoulder still seeping from the bullet graze, standing in my kitchen like he owned it. I distinctly remember locking my bedroom door but I also distinctly remember him standing in my doorway after I had a night terror. 

His mouth had hovered a fraction from mine, eyes unreadable, chests pressed against each other. His breath was warm against my lips, and for one stupid, suspended second, I thought he was going to kiss me. I thought I was going to kiss him. 

Then he’d said it, all somber and certain, “You’re not someone I can play with.”

And he was gone, along with his explosive devices that he so conveniently stored in my flat. No note. No calling card. Just the indent on the couch cushion and the faint smell of gunpowder. I haven’t slept right since.

Shaking it off, I head toward the counter. Manny finally glances up, humming off key to whatever’s bleeding from the ceiling speakers. “ID.”

I fish my wallet out, sliding the license across. He squints, “Rough day?”

“Rough week,” I mutter.

He snorts, ringing up the bottle. “Twenty-two forty-seven.”

I’m pulling the fifty dollar bill when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Not the soft chime from a friend, no, but the insistent rattle of something that knows it’s about to ruin my day. I thumb it open anyway.

UNKNOWN: 1 Attachment. 

The photo loads in pieces, pixel by pixel, as if taunting me.

Firstly, the concrete wall of a parking garage, streaked with rust and graffiti. Then the sodium orange glow of an overhead light. I recognize it instantly as the one outside the bank where I work. Except, this photo isn’t the one I saw earlier in a breaking news article. 

My back is to the camera, hoodie half zipped, hair spilling out in messy strands. But my face, tilted just enough toward the lens, is sharp. Every detail weaponized: the tiny freckle above my left eyebrow, the exact part in my hair I keep meaning to fix. My eyes are wide, caught mid-glance.

And Joker.

He’s half in shadow, purple coat collar turned up, but his face is fully lit. The greasepaint is smudged at the edges, white cracked around the mouth, black pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. But it’s his eyes that stop my heart. Pale green, almost yellow in the light, locked dead on the camera. Not surprised. Not caught. Waiting. Like he knew the shutter was clicking. Like he posed for this exact moment.

Below the image, a single line:

Pier 39. Yacht La Sirena. 30 minutes or this hits every tabloid in the city.

What the hell? I stare at the screen, willing myself to blink it away. Manny’s waiting, eyebrow raised. “You good?”

“Actually,” I hear myself say, voice flat, “hang onto that.”

He shrugs, already sliding the bottle under the counter. I’m out the door before the bell finishes jangling, fifty still crumpled in my fist.

I start walking. Not running, running makes you a target. Eight blocks to Pier 39. Twenty five minutes if I cut through Robinson Park, twenty if I jog the last two. My sneakers slap against the pavement. My hoodie’s too warm now and sweat trickles down my spine. 

Halfway there, I duck into the shadow of a delivery truck idling at a red light. The driver’s asleep with the window cracked, radio murmuring about traffic on the bridge. I pull my phone out again as I force myself to catch a breath. Zoom in on the photo. Before I can try to figure out a defense for whatever’s waiting on that yacht, I delete the thread. Shove the phone so deep in my pocket it might as well be in another zip code. 

Because pretending it never happened has always worked so well for me before. 

A jogger nearly clips me, earbuds blasting something with a beat so loud it could wake the dead. I veer left, cutting across the grass until green trees lined neatly in a row turn into dingy buildings stacked against each other. 

The pier’s visible now, all rusted cranes and murky waters. I’m down to nine minutes. 

The change in my pocket jingles as I break into a jog. Enough for a cab I won’t take. Enough for a drink I won’t finish. Enough to remind me that someone, somewhere, is keeping score.

I don’t know why I even decided to come here. It could be a trap. But I can’t risk that photo getting out, exposing my face and therefore my entire identity. And besides, I’ve got about fuck all to do today.

The pier smells like diesel and dead fish by the time I arrive, with three minutes to spare. Even though I’m technically early, the thought only brings me a mild sense of relief. Gulls scream overhead, fighting over a french fry someone dropped on the planks. The boardwalk’s warped wood creaks under my weight.

La Sirena is docked at the far end. White hull, teak decks, tinted windows that reflect the sky back at itself. A single rope ladder dangles from the starboard side, swaying in the breeze like it’s waving me in. Two men in linen shirts and shoulder holsters stand at the foot of it and pretend to check clipboards. Their eyes flick to me the second I’m in range.

“Up,” the first one says, jerking his chin at the ladder. No greeting, no explanation. Just the word, flat as the water behind him.

I climb. The rungs are rough, salt crusted. Halfway up, the yacht rocks gently and my stomach lurches. A calloused hand grabs my wrist at the top and hauls me over the rail. I land on polished teak that smells like lemon oil before I glance up. 

Out of all people…

Carmine Falcone is waiting on the deck.

My head cocks, eyes narrowing in both confusion and anticipation. How the hell could I have possibly pissed off a mafia don such as him? I don’t run in that league. And moreover, what does he want with me? We’re not involved in any way. 

He’s smaller than the tabloids make him look, but the kind of small that still fills a room. Navy blazer, open collar, silver hair slicked back like he just stepped out of a 1940s movie. He’s sipping something amber from a crystal tumbler, ice clinking softly. The deck behind him is empty except for a table, two chairs, and a manila folder thick enough to choke on.

I jolt as the speedboat, which looks more like a yacht, technically, begins moving out into the ocean.

Please oh please don’t let me die out here.

“Sit,” he says. Not a request.

I sit. The chair is cool against my thighs. 

Falcone remains standing. He studies me the way a butcher studies a cut of meat. Slow, clinical, already deciding where the knife goes. When he finally speaks, his voice is gravel.

“You know who I am,” he smiles. It’s not kind. 

“Don Falcone. Owns half the docks, all the judges, and today, my afternoon.” I force an awkward smile, trying to lighten the mood. To prove in some desperate attempt that I’m a human and not an object he can kill at will. 

Falcone’s laugh is soft, almost fond. “Smart mouth. Joker likes that in a girl.”

The name lands between us like a live grenade. I don’t flinch. Falcone sets his glass down to open the folder. Before I can ask what this is about, he slides a single sheet across the table.

It’s a list. 

The handwriting looks like it was scribbled by my boss, Lang, the managing director of Gotham Trusted Towers, the bank where I work. These vowels are blocky, impatient, the same scrawl I’ve seen on memos about quarterly reports and passive aggressive Post-its about the coffee fund. Only in this document, it looks foreign.

TRANSFERS

11/05 – 2 bricks → Dock 17, 02:15

11/06 – 5 bricks → Vault 3, 23:45

11/07 – 10 bricks → Sub-4, 01:00

Three lines. Three future dates. Three fortunes.

I stare at it until the numbers blur. Lang wrote this. Lang, who signs my paychecks and once said I had potential if I stopped asking questions when he first hired me. Lang, who’s been clearly laundering Falcone’s blood money through my branch like it’s just another spreadsheet.

And what’s worse, my forged initials are signed at every bottom corner of the page.

Son of a bitch.

Falcone watches me put it together. “Lang’s been laundering for me since you were balancing your first register. That tabloid? My doing. Joker’s careless. I’m not.” 

So what, this is blackmail? Why is he showing me this? 

I swallow, choosing my words mindfully. “What do you want?”

“Information.” He taps the list with one manicured nail. “Your clown friend’s been hitting my trucks. Random, messy. I want to know when he stops being random.”

I wince. “You think I’m his secretary?”

“I think you’re his type.” He leans forward. “Honest. Good. Still breathing. That makes you useful.”

The yacht rocks again. Falcone slides a second item across the table. A burner phone, cheap plastic, the kind sold at gas stations. “You’ll use this. You’ll tell me when he’s planning. Where he’s going. What he tells you.” He pauses. “In return, your face stays out of the papers. Your friend with the badge, Gordon, stays clueless. And you’ll have my protection.”

Falcone’s last sentence doesn’t fall on deaf ears. I pick up the phone. It’s lighter than it should be. 

“And if I say no?”

“Then I pin the laundering on you. Embezzlement. Twenty years. Maybe less if you’re tried as an accomplice, which you are after reading that.”

He smiles again, wider this time. I inhale sharply. Prison is probably the best case scenario. I know what Falcone isn’t telling me. 

If I refuse, tomorrow morning, every screen in Gotham wakes up to me in that polaroid. By noon, Lang fires me for security concerns. By nightfall, someone puts a bullet in me for knowing too much. 

The engine’s louder now. We’re pivoting back toward the shore. This meeting is over. Through my tinted sunglasses, I watch the skyline of the city, sunlight glinting off windows like a thousand eyes.

Falcone stands. “You’ll have something for me. Or you won’t.” He gestures to the folder. “Just don’t disappoint me.”

I nod because it seems like the only acceptable option. The city swells ahead of us, all jagged teeth and neon veins, and I’m already rehearsing the lie I’ll tell Gordon, the half-truth I’ll feed Falcone, the silence I’ll give Joker if he ever asks what I’m hiding. 

Only when I’ve finally made my peace with the fact that I’m worth more alive than dead, an explosion hits the underside of the boat.

Not the whole thing, just a muffled whump from below the starboard deck, like someone dropped a washing machine full of fireworks. A plume of gray smoke rolls up, lazy and theatrical. The radio buzzes static and then quickly shuts off again. Falcone’s head snaps toward the bow. I follow his gaze.

The driver at the wheel mutters something into a radio. Falcone’s already on his feet, blazer flapping in the wind, eyes narrowed at the horizon. A second speedboat, this one matte black with no markings, slices through the waves. It’s heading straight for La Sirena. 

Then I hear an unmistakable, familiar voice echoing across the water.

Joker.

He stands at the prow, all but resembling a pirate in a purple trench coat. His hair is whipping wild, greasepaint cracked from the sun. He’s got one of Falcone’s linen shirt goons by the collar, his other hand raised in a lazy salute. A vest of what looks like Christmas lights is strapped to the goon’s chest, except the lights are blinking in a very un-festive countdown. 

00:03:59… 00:03:58…

“Carmine, Carmine,” he calls, voice carrying over the water as he glances between us. “Borrowing my witness? Rude.”

The goon’s eyes are the size of dinner plates, meanwhile Joker’s grin is wider than the ocean. A dead man’s switch dangles from his gloved pinky like cheap jewelry. He doesn't look like a man who was shot a few days ago, but then again I wouldn't expect him to either. I'm sure he's had worse. 

Falcone’s hand is already inside his blazer. The two guards on deck draw pistols, but they’re frozen. Aim at Joker and the vest goes up; aim at the vest and the goon goes with it. The math of calculating that probability is ugly.

The dinghy doesn’t slow. It rams La Sirena’s port flank with a hollow crunch of fiberglass on teak. Momentum does the rest. Joker vaults the gap in one fluid motion, coat tails snapping, landing cat-footed on the deck. The goon stumbles after him, pulled forward by Joker’s hand between his shoulder blades. The vest LEDs flicker faster now that the goon’s boots hit solid deck. 

Falcone appears at the rail, blazer gone, sleeves rolled, pistol in hand. His face is stone. “You’re interrupting a business meeting.”

“Business?” Joker laughs, high and sharp. “This is show business, pops. And I’m the, uh, headliner.”

He yanks the goon’s head back by the hair. The man whimpers. 

Falcone’s men fan out across the deck, guns up. The yacht’s engines thrum beneath them, trying to put distance between us and the inevitable. But the water’s wide open, sunlight glaring off every surface. No shadows to hide in. No alleys to vanish down. Just blue sky, blue water, and a clown with a bomb.

Sweat beads at the hostage’s hairline and rolls down the duct tape sealing his mouth. His eyes dart to Falcone, pleading. Falcone finally sighs, the sound of a man whose afternoon just got expensive.

“Put the guns down,” he tells his men. They hesitate. “Now.”

Steel clatters to the deck. Joker hums. “There we go. Civilized.” He takes a few steps forward. “Heard you were passing a little some-thing.”

Falcone’s eyes flick to me, then back to Joker. “She’s leverage. You want her, take her. Walk away.”

The words hit hard. I feel every pair of eyes swing toward me. 

Joker tilts his head, studying me curiously. Then he snorts. “No,” a quick tap to the vest timer with one finger; 00:02:28… 00:02:27… “I want the ledger.”

Falcone’s eyebrow twitches. “There is no ledger.”

“Liar, liar, yacht on fire.” Joker leans in, voice dropping to that velvet rasp that makes my knees want to fold. “Lang’s little love letter?” He sings-songs, eyes on the folder. “Dates, dollars, destinations. You were gonna keep it all to yourself, Carmine? After I went to all the, uh, trouble of robbing your bank?” He tsks. “Hand it over, and I let your boy here keep his intestines on the inside.”

The goon whimpers through the tape.

Falcone’s knuckles clench into fists at his side. For the first time, the mask slips, just a flicker of calculation behind the calm. “You think you can waltz onto my boat–”

“Waltzed,” Joker corrects. “Past tense. Also blew the fuel line on your tender. Tick-tock, by the way.” He glances at the vest. 00:01:59…

Falcone’s expression is unreadable. “You think I only have one copy?”

“I think you’re sentimental,” Joker says. “Handwritten, right? Lang’s chicken scratch. That’s the original.” 

He twirls the dead-man switch between two fingers, a lazy coin trick, red numbers blinking in sequence. “I’m not here for your, uh, em-pire. I’m here for the gag.” He straightens with a sudden, theatrical snap. “Your money moves like clockwork. I move with it. Gotham tunes in and sees the mafia’s piggy bank go poof! Even your money’s not safe, Carmine. The system’s all one big joke.” 

Falcone sighs like a disappointed parent. “You always did like an audience.”

Joker nods once, manically grinning as he gestures to his hostage. “Besides, I brought party favors.”

For a beat, we’re all silent. A gull lands on the rail, curious. Nobody moves.

I do.

While they’re busy measuring dicks, I edge sideways, one step, two, until the table’s corner brushes my hip. The folder’s right there, Lang’s scrawl screaming in black ink. My fingers close in on the files. I fold them up once, twice, slide it down the front of my hoodie, right against my skin where the burner phone already sits.

Joker’s eyes flick to me. Shit, did he see? But I have no time to speculate because Falcone’s talking again.

“You crash my boat, you draw the Coast Guard. You draw the Coast Guard, Batman gets a tan. Nobody wants that.”

“Speak for yourself,” Joker says. “I brought sunscreen.”

00:01:04.

The goon makes a strangled sound, barely audible. “Mr. Falcone, please–”

Falcone ignores him. “Last chance, clown. Walk away.”

Joker shrugs, shoving the poor guy forward. The vest bumps the table and the timer jolts to 00:00:10. Falcone’s goons twitch, rifles up. Joker’s thumb hovers over a detonator the size of a lighter.

I don’t wait. I vault the rail, clutching the files over my head. 

The fall is maybe twelve feet, water hits like concrete, cold and shocking. I kick hard, hoodie dragging like an anchor. Above all, I cannot let these files get wet. Not for long, anyway. The speedboat’s still idling near, perhaps a getaway. The driver’s staring up at the deck, mouth open. I swim for it, lungs burning, the folded list held above water as chaos erupts on deck.

Behind me, the first gunshot cracks. Then another. A scream. I can still see the red numbers in my head. I don’t want to know who dies. Not Falcone, not the Joker, I could give a damn who makes it off that ship right now unless it's me. 

I reach the speedboat, haul myself over the side. The driver’s young, panicked, hands white on the wheel. “Go!” I yell. He doesn’t argue. The engine roars; we peel away from La Sirena in a white wake.

Unable to help myself, I look back once.

Through the haze I see Joker shove the hostage overboard, vest still blinking, but the grenade’s gone, pin back in place. The splash is tiny. The explosion that follows is not.

The speedboat kisses the dock with a wet thud that rattles my teeth. Before the driver can kill the engine, I’m over the rail, sneakers skidding on slime-slick planks. The pier’s chaos. Tourists screaming, a swarm of gulls diving for dropped hot dogs, one cop already sprinting toward the smoke. I don’t wait to see if he clocks me.

I run.

My fingers are still curled around the single sheet I palmed off Falcone’s table. Lang’s handwriting now creased and damp with sweat against my palm. 

That’s the list. That’s the only list. Joker never saw it, Falcone thinks it’s still in the manila folder he slid across the table. It isn’t. It’s back in my pocket, creased into a square small enough to swallow if I have to.

The pier ends in a chain-link gate. I vault it, land hard on the cracked asphalt of the cannery lot. My shadow stretches long in the late sun, a crooked thing that doesn’t look like mine anymore.

Falcone gave me the burner and the ultimatum: Deliver any information Joker tells me, or the photo hits every screen in Gotham. But Falcone doesn’t know I have the list. He thinks I’m just a scared citizen who’ll eavesdrop and report back. 

Joker doesn’t know I have it either. And without the file, his “genius” robberies are just noise. 

He’ll hit the wrong trucks, burn the wrong cash, look like the random clown Falcone always said he was. The city will laugh, then forget. His point, that the system is a joke, dies with the wrong punchline. But with the dates, he times every hit to the minute, films it, and turns chaos into scripture.

If I don’t deliver something, anything, to Falcone, I’ll likely have a bounty over my head. If I do deliver, I’m in bed with the devil who signs my paychecks.

Of course, there’s always another option.

Gordon doesn’t have the list either. If I slide it under his door at the precinct, the GCPD sets up stings. Trucks roll safe. Falcone loses millions. Joker’s montage fizzles. The photo might still leak, but then Gordon owes me a favor. Maybe he buries it. Maybe he gets me out of Gotham before Falcone’s people find me. 

Straight path. Clean hands. A life that might still be mine.

Or I find Joker. Give him the list. Let him hit every truck on schedule. The city watches its rot in real time. That buys me more than protection. It buys me a seat at the table. Falcone’s empire cracks, and in the rubble, Joker’s chaos needs a translator, someone who speaks both languages. Me. The crooked path doesn’t just keep me alive; it makes me indispensable.

Once I’m far enough away to stop hearing screams, I press my back against a brick wall and gulp down enough oxygen to catch my breath.

New deadline: choose who to screw over. 

Give the files to Gordon and screw Joker, or give the files to Joker and screw Gotham.