Roxy, female, writing for the love of story. Huge TDK and 2019 Joker fan. Joker fanfiction, generally romance and dark romance. 18+ Blog. Come find me on A03. Requests Open!
This blog is for Joker lovers. I am a huge fan of both the Ledger and Phoenix Jokers. I enjoy writing and reading Joker adventures and highly romanticized depictions of Joker, Joker X reader and original characters as well. Happy to take requests.
Started: 24/12/2020
Last Updated: 16/2/2022
Total Works: 18
Ledger Joker (TDK)
Russian Red (The Joker catches you playing with his lip stick)
Wild Pearl *New Work* Joker gives you a very unique Xmas gift.
Elvira This is my first crossover fic and its’s 1983 Scarface/2019 Joker! It is set in an AU after the unfortunate demise of Tony Montana. Joker was a good and loyal friend, but he always loved Elvira. Now that he is gone, Elvira comes to Gotham seeking comfort, without Tony around, the lines between them are blurred.
New Work** Murray Franklin Show (Holly meets Joker through her backstage work at the Murray Franklin show and after being in awe of his performance she spontaneously invites him to take refuge in her apartment. Arthur Fleck is a quite house guest and their relationship awkward. Holly is ready for Jokers return and so is Gotham city.)
Murray Franklin Show Part 1
Murray Franklin Show Part 2
Murray Franklin Show Part 3
Murray Franklin Show Part 4
Murray Franklin Show Part 5
Murray Franklin Show Part 6
***
Little Black Dress (Love story/ angst/ SMUT NSFW 18+)
Tomorrow’s Light (Love poem for Arthur)
Hot Buttered Muffins (Domestic Fluff and Shameless Smut) NSFW
Clown Wars Chapter 1: Joker Island (action adventure/ love story)
Clown Wars Chapter 2: The Purple Coat (action adventure/ love story)
Clown Wars Chapter 3: Home (action adventure/ love story)
Red Suit Re-bound (SMUT with feelings 2019 Joker, NSFW)
Dark passenger (SMUT with Feelings 2019 Joker NSFW)
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, coarse language, mentions of suicide.
**
Hazel stopped her knee from bouncing. She took a deep breath. held it.
She released the air slowly. Steadying herself.
Time tall call it in.
The phone rang three times before answering “Lieutenant James, speaking.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant”
There was silence at the other end. Hazel could practically hear the lieutenants brain ticking at the sound of her voice. The panic. The beady eyes darting. The rage.
She let the silence stretch, in the breath before he spoke she cut in.
“I’ve got him, Sir” There was another extended delay on the other side of the phone line, this time a confused silence.
“What are you talking about,” the gruff response. “How did you get out…”
He cut himself off before saying too much.
“Hey, don’t worry about how I escaped. I have something for you that’s going to make you forget all the trouble between us. Consider me your new favourite detective.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Hazel. Get to the damn point, would you?”
“I got him, Sir: Joker! The real deal. He’s unconscious and hand cuffed.”
Silence. He didn’t believe her – why would he. She knew it would take some convincing and she was ready for that.
“This changes things Sir. When I bring him in all of Gotham is going to know my name. All of Gotham is going to see the calibre of detective I truly am – something you’ve been trying to hold back for too long. That said, I am an opportunistic woman and willing to offer you a cut of the glory, but it’s going to come at a price.”
“You have the joker? That’s absurd bullshit Hazel.” he laughed, then added “What you really playing at?”
“Even if I was lying about Joker, and I’m not, – I’m out of your basement and I’m feeling talkative – that’s a problem for you. So, humour me Sir, and ask me what it is I want for the Joker."
“What do you want?” He said, sounding more impatient that curious.
“I have been asking myself what a fair remuneration for the clown is… and for my discretion on a secret as big as yours. Plus, you attempted to take my fucking life. I’d say it would be fair to ask for a lot. Lucky for you my needs are simple.”
Hazel heard irritated mutterings at the other end of the phone line as she paused.
“I want you to write me a letter of recommendation suggesting my promotion. I want the letter to be so complementary that I would step into your job tomorrow if for some reason you were unable to fulfil it.”
“That’s all you want? A letter? Bullshit! Besides, you take the letter, and then you will come out with all your crazy claims about me and try take me down. How the fuck could I trust you?”
“I would love to turn you in, sadly, I am aware how corrupt our organisation is, and how many friends you have. I know you will lie through your teeth and play every trick to make me look like a liar. Even if I succeed in having you imprisoned, there would be cops with a vendetta against me, blocking my career because of some distorted loyalty to you. They wouldn't care how evil you are - you are one of them. I can’t be bothered with that - I just want you out of my dam way – and I want you to write me a letter so exemplary that everyone else gets out of my way too. I want the career you bloody know I deserve. It’s been a glass ceiling I can't fucking break... especially since my dad. I’m sick of it.”
Hazel let the pause extend and then added softly.
“I want you to mention my father in the letter. I want you to acknowledge him as a good cop – despite what happened at the end of his career. You were his buddy. His partner. surely you can draw out some positive sentiment."
The lieutenant didn’t answer right away. There was a measuring silence. She could feel him sizing her up over the phone line.
“Your dad…you know Hazel I was always sorry what happened to him, the way he lost his way. The way he was treated. I know it hasn’t been easy for you as a Madden, with the legacy he left you.”
“Spare me, Lieutenant. Save it for the fucking letter.”
“You would stay silent about what you know, and you would bring Joker to me, in exchange for this letter of endorsement?” he tested the words.
“Correct. I am holding your darkest secret. From here on, you have my fucking back, Lieutenant.”
“Pretend I believe you, how does this work?”
Hazel could tell from his tone that she didn’t need to pretend – he believed her. He couldn’t see past his appetite for Joker and how it would look for him. The first lieutenant ever to come close to catching Gotham’s supervillain clown.
“Simple” Hazel replied. “You have been seeding the notion that the clown was behind the killings, so let’s run with that. The media is going eat that up and there is nothing to prove otherwise, except my eyewitness account. You need to stop what you are doing though, or I will 'out' you in a heartbeat. It won’t make sense for our story if you keep killing whilst the clown is locked up in Black Gate, and I don’t want the blood on my hands either. I’m a real cop, remember.”
"I understand your terms, but I don't understand how you got the Joker - that’s impossible!"
"You have yourself to thank for that." Hazel scoffed. "He got mad about you framing him, and all my snooping by your request. Turns out he was watching that night you took me. He followed, and he kidnapped me from your own damn basement! I pretended I would side with him against you, and then I stuck him with his own anaesthetic needle. Simple, really."
Silence.
"This is going to make my career in a big way.”
The lieutenant spoke to himself after a beat. “My department solves the Gotham Slasher case, and I bring in the clown. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”
“You couldn’t” Hazel agreed.
“I need evidence you have the clown.” He added abruptly.
“And I need the letter before I give him to you.”
An extended pause.
“Okay” said the lieutenant – his words still wrapped in hesitation. “If you can prove you have the Joker, Detective, you have yourself a deal.”
“Good. I’ll send you the meeting place. And Lieutenant…”
“Yes?”
“This is going to change our lives, forever.
**
Hazel watched the lieutenant’s car roll to a stop with the crunch of gravel.
The meeting spot was a quiet laneway that backed onto an abandoned warehouse on the opposite side of the Narrows to the old church, and far away from J’s apartment. It was neutral territory where the Lieutenant couldn’t help himself to more information than Hazel wanted him to have.
Hazel watched him get out and straighten his suit. Tension in his posture, he took a quick glance in both directions before he approached her.
“Alright.” He said gruffly. “You got me here. Where is the dam clown?”
“He’s somewhere close, still sleeping. You don’t get him until I get my letter – I trust you brought it.”
The lieutenant patted his breast impatiently indicating he had it.
“You don’t get the letter until I get some proof.”
“I don’t take you for a chump, lieutenant.” Hazel flashed him a smile. “Of course I have proof.”
Hazel reached into her own pocket pulling out a folded baggy. The lieutenant watched cautiously, not yet impressed.
Hazel let the clear baggy unfold, opened it and extracted the precious contents. She held them in her flat palm towards the lieutenant. She noted his eyes widening slightly, recognition flicking across his expression.
“You can touch it.” She added. “It’s for you.”
The lock of green-blond hair rested in her palm, along with the small square of purple material: little keep sakes harvested from the clown as evidence of his capture.
Something shifted in the lieutenant’s posture. Hazel watched the guardedness and suspicion melt away, replaced with a dark energy. Arousal. He wore the expression of a man who had discovered a stack of cash completely unguarded. He was mentally spending it. He was high. Ravenous.
The lieutenant took the offering from Hazel’s hand and examined it closely. A grin that made him even less attractive spread across his face.
“And he’s out cold, you say? How long for?”
“Not sure. I’m not an anaesthetist- but I pumped two of these bad boys into him just in case… I just hope I didn’t kill him…”
Hazel pulled out the two empty vials of anaesthetic which the lieutenant took along with the hair and swatch of clothing. She handed him the evidence bag so he could pack it securely.
“Yours for the keep.” she said, “now where is my letter?”
The lieutenant pocketed the bag and reached into his suit Jacket.
“There.” He passed the envelope. “Unsealed so that you can check the contents – check I’ve blown enough wind up your ass.”
He added with a curl of his lip. Hazel ran over the lines reading fast but thorough.
Hazel Madden has showed exceptional talent as an officer from the onset here career. Since taking her on as a rookie, I made it my mission to promote and recognise her for her work and dedication throughout the course of her career. Over the last several months, as lead detective on the Slasher case, Hazel Madden has showed incredible bravery and tenacity in the name of her city: Gotham.
The letter went on in the same vein, acknowledging significant points in her career and recognition she had received, then:
The late Carl Madden made a 25-year contribution to the Gotham City Police Department before his untimely passing, and I have no doubt that Hazel will continue to greatness through her ongoing service to GCPD and the good people of Gotham. Her career and steadfast commitment to justice would make her father proud.
The letter then went on to articulate his recommendation for a Purple Heart, stating that it was a worthy recognition and a stepping stone in a bright career.
“I think it’s the right amount of wind, Lieutenant.” Hazel nodded. “You have won yourself a clown. Follow me.”
The lieutenant took a tentative glance at his vehicle – his refuge – and then followed her.
Hazel meandered through several sections of warehouse until she came to an old breakroom where she had left the clown. She stepped into the room and then to the side so as not to obstruct the lieutenant’s view.
“There.” She announced, gesturing towards the corner.
The clown’s purple form was slumped against the wall like a sack of potatoes. He was out cold and his muscles held no tone on his frame.
“Holy fuck.” The lieutenant breathed.
The lieutenant grinned perversely and Hazel knew he could already see the headlines. It took all she had not to roll her eyes in disgust. The lieutenant didn’t care about the people Joker hurt – he despised the helpless. He murdered the weak, the vulnerable, and those like poor Lucy Halmer who dared to make him feel rejected just by existing.
The lieutenant didn’t want to capture Joker out of any sense of right and wrong. He cared how he looked to the outside world, nothing more. In that way, he was incredibly predictable.
**
Getting the clown back to the lieutenant’s vehicle was a slog.
Working together Hazel and the lieutenant dragged him on a drop sheet and then manhandled his form into the backseat of the lieutenant’s vehicle.
“So let us get our story straight” the lieutenant said as he pulled away from the curb. “We tell the press that you were investigating him, you got a little too close because of good detective work and he targeted and abducted you from your own apartment in a manoeuvre to stop himself from being found. After keeping you hostage here in this warehouse for several days, you got lucky when a street worker leant you a phone in his absence. You called me – because you trust and admire me – and I came to your aid. The joker returned, springing us, and I wrestled him and stuck him with his own anaesthetic syringe. We then brought him in together. We are both heroes, you for getting so close to finding him, and me for rescuing your ass.”
Hazel swallowed the urge to puke.
This lie was going to bring justice.
This lie was going to change her life. It was going to be worth it.
“Yes. That’s it.” Hazel answered “And they will believe it because large portions of the story are true, and the best lies always contain truth. Also, we are the law, and our credibility is less thoroughly questioned.”
“Good. Then call the press and tell them what’s coming in. I want the stairs on the GCPD inundated.”
“I’ve already been calling around to various news outlets.” Hazel reassured “I didn’t say what but told them it was bloody big.”
“Did you call it in to the station” the lieutenant asked
“Not yet … about to do that now…” She let the silence stretch
“No. We don’t need to alert them – imagine the two of us dragging him into custody single handed.”
“But lieutenant,” Hazel feigned concern. “it’s the Joker – shouldn’t we have choppers, riot squad, police cars all on standby – anything could happen.”
“Look at him” The lieutenant glanced in the review “The scum is drooling on himself. He’s not capable of anything.”
“If you’re sure.” Hazel murmured.
“We don’t need anyone else stealing the limelight.” He added.
Predictable.
“Okay.” Hazel agreed. “Let’s do this.”
**
The lieutenant pulled up out the front of the GCPD and the crowd moved in around his vehicle like quicksand.
The area was inundated with Media. Major outlets, small news crews and individual people in droves rubber necking what all the fuss was about. Hazel’s stomach was in free fall.
It was as much excitement as nerves.
Conventional paths of justice weren’t fitting for Gotham city. It was necessary to bring Joker in; justice depended on it – it had to go seamlessly.
Hazel leapt out of the passenger side of the Lieutenants car and moved to the back door, yanking it open.
The clown’s dark eyes rolled up towards her looking heavy and vacant, then they closed again.
The lieutenant got out the driver’s side and moved towards the media. Up ahead Hazel could see him telling them to get back and make a little space for them to operate. Bullshit. The media were exactly where he wanted them: all eyes on him.
The lieutenant returned to Hazel at his vehicle.
“This fucker is starting to stir – should we call back up?” Hazel asked.
The lieutenant gave the Jokers face a provocative slap. The clown didn’t flinch. He remained in his seat flopped broad. The joker let out a small groan like someone in his dream state was bothering him and then went quiet.
“Not necessary. He’s still out. If there’s a little life in him that will help us get him up the stairs – they’ll get some good shots of us that way.”
The lieutenant’s vanity was so gross.
“Get up, you prick!” Hazel grabbed at the clowns purple coated arm and yanked.
The lieutenant got him by the other arm, and they got him to standing. The clown grumbled incoherently. Cameras started flashing and the crowd packed in around them, ignoring the physical boundaries the lieutenant had tried to set.
Hazel steered Joker carefully to the outskirts of the crowd forcing the reporters back.
The street side was in a frenzy, barely contained from the outbreak of chaos: the rhythm of bodies, jostling for a better view. The calls of reporters and photographers, trying to get that perfect snap, and the noise of a crowd calling like a lynch mob at the criminal they were ushering up the stairs.
“Let him rot!”
“Down with Joker!”
Hostile voices hammered at them.
“Give us a smile Joker – show us them scars!” a photographer jeered.
Hazel threw a shoulder against the reporter pushing her way past.
The crowd was getting too close for comfort, and it crossed Hazel’s mind that they might be mobbed.
“Keep walking prick!” she growled at the clown. “Lift those feet if you know what’s good for you!”
He was heavy and hard to keep upright, lightly conscious, and barley helping himself.
Hazel took one heavy step after another, with a white knuckled grip on his purple coat, steadying him.
Behind them, someone screamed.
The sound was piercing cutting through all other noise, stopping Hazel in her tracks.
Shrill. Blood curdling. Serious.
The scream was quickly followed by the noise of a crowd in panic. Something was happening.
Hazel scanned the crowd.
The jeers and shouting dissolved into fearful calling and bodies pushing.
“Look out!” a man’s voice yelled the warning.
Hazel spun her head in his direction, still gripping the clown tightly.
A white news van was accelerating towards them, dead on. Mounting the curb, it hit the first couple of stairs bounding wildly and sending folk scuttling from its path. In its ascent it clipped a reporter who rolled and scrambled quickly back to his feet.
“Get back!” Hazel yelled.
“What the fuck is this!” The lieutenant yelled as the news van veered dangerously close.
Before the van had completed its stop, the back doors pulled open and a group of men spilled out.
They weren’t regular men.
They were suited. Masked. Armed.
The leering clown masks that veiled their identities were instantly, and shockingly recognisable.
They were the henchmen of Gotham’s Most Wanted villain, and they had come for the sleepy asshole in Hazel’s custody. Hazel and the crowd all knew it.
One of the men squared his shoulders in their direction, eyes locking with Hazel through the holes in the mask. His Glock 17 modified for full-automatic fire lit up the sky with a continuous pop pop pop.
The crowd dropped as casings and bullets rained over the pavement.
The lieutenant released his grip on the clown and snatched towards his hip.
The clown didn’t drop to the floor when he was released as he should have. His body didn’t feel limp in Hazel’s grip. He held his form. His muscles were now taught under Hazel’s hands.
Wide awake, Joker spun. He pushed himself free from Hazel’s grip with such force that he sent her sprawling. The pavement knocked the air from her and grazed her palms. In the same motion Joker recoiled, swiftly linking his cuffed hands over the lieutenant’s head then neck, yanking the startled man flush against him.
His instincts blunted by panic, the lieutenant discarded the weapon in his hand to grab at the metal links around his neck. The lieutenant clawed feverishly, trying to break free.
“I always feel fresher after a good nap.” Joker purred into the lieutenant’s ear. “And since we are joined like this, you, and I are, ah, gonna go for a little ride.”
Choking the lieutenant with his cuffs, Joker wrestled him towards the van.
Hazel leapt to her feet drawing her weapon.
Again, the henchmen peppered the area with bullets, chips of pavement dancing around Hazel’s feet.
Hazel dove for cover. Her body pressed against a parked vehicle, she watched the lieutenant dragged dangerously close to the van.
"Freeze! Or I’ll shoot!" She was on her feet, trying again to stop his progress.
Dammit!
The clown was blocked by the lieutenant, and she couldn't take the shot. Another round of bullets released in her direction, tearing up the side of the vehicle she hid behind.
Behind her she heard the police station come to life.
The terrorism alarm was blaring and Gotham’s finest were spilling from the building in a well-trained emergency response.
The lieutenant, Joker, and his band of armed men tumbled into the van. A screech of tires and the smell of burning rubber punctuated their escape as the rouge media van accelerated wildly through the crowd and slammed off parked vehicles.
Police officers who had joined the stairs on foot let off futile rounds in the van’s direction.
Behind the vehicle Hazel stood, her weapon useless in her hand as the van with the lieutenant inside careened out of view.
Sirens wailed as the squadron of police cars started to eject from the secure basement parking beneath the station – but they were walled-in by the mass of media vehicles and panicking civilians.
Horns blared. Sirens screamed. Crowds of people, and vehicles all fighting for position.
Some were trying to flee, some attempted to clear the emergency path. It was a level of chaos that would make joker himself proud and precious minutes rolled by before the first of the police cars worked itself through the crowd in pursuit of the van.
Hazel knew it was too slow.
Then came the microphone shoved in her face.
“What happened here today detective, what went wrong? Was that the lieutenant who was taken hostage by the Joker?”
“What was it like to be kidnapped by the Joker? How did you survive?”
The voices of countless reporters competed for her attention. She pushed past, ignoring all of them.
“Hazel!” A familiar voice caught her attention.
Jason came running down the stairs towards her.
“Jesus Hazel – you are alive!” he blurted “The Joker has had you for five days – I was starting to fear that maybe…”
Jason left the rest unsaid, but she knew what he meant: he hadn’t expected her to come back alive.
Jason wrapped his arms around her in an unsolicited, and unwanted hug.
Hazel resisted the urge to knee him, shake him off, or tell him to stop acting like a blowse.
She was a victim.
Her life had been at risk. She needed to present like it, even though it made her skin crawl.
Hazel let her head drop into Jason’s chest, softening into the embrace. She let out an uncustomary sob. Around them she heard cameras. She would be all over the news as Jokers survivor.
“I’m so thankful to be safe” she mumbled into the tweed of his suit “But the lieutenant – what if he…”
“shh.” Jason hushed “don’t cause yourself more grief. The squad is after him. Leave it to them right now – you’ve been through too much already.”
Jason put his arms around her, drawing her softly against him. His grip was light, hesitant, as though he didn’t know what to do for her, but his care felt sincere.
Hazel could hear the sirens behind her fading. Finally free of the grid lock and in useless pursuit of a van long gone.
Jason steered her up the stairs towards the GCPD entrance. Hazel could hear the rhythmic beats of GCPD chopper, gaining speed. She watched the under belly of the chopper as it passed overhead – at least 5 minutes too slow in their response. They would be arial searching for a van that had already been discarded.
Hazel allowed herself to be guided up the stairs by Jason.
It was degrading to be comforted in such a way, but things could be worse.
The lieutenant wanted a headline. Maybe it wasn’t the one he imagined, but it was a headline.
Joker wasn’t destined for captivity. Joker belonged to the bedrock of Gotham. There was no way to outsmart a man that raised himself in the underworld.
I come bearing proof that I am still completely and utterly obsessed with J & Alina. So obsessed, in fact, that I've apparently started drawing them now. 😭
Exhibit A: attached sketch.
But you're probably wondering when the hell the next chapter is dropping. I mean... it's not like it's been four months or anything...
Okay. Apparently it has been four months.
First of all, I am so, so sorry for disappearing. A lot of things were happening in my personal life. Everything is completely okay now, life just has a way of getting a little out of hand sometimes.
I was also procrastinating aggressively out of fear of messing things up. Shout out to my fellow perfectionists 🫠
I have good news though! The next chapter will be posted on Monday. And even better, I've got the following two chapters mapped out as well.
I am genuinely, ridiculously excited about where this story is headed. Some of the scenes coming up have been living rent-free in my brain since 2024, and I cannot wait to finally share them with you.
To everyone who's still here after my accidental vanishing act—thank you!!! Thank you for the comments, the hearts, the asks, the reblogs, and for continuing to care about these two chaotic disasters as much as I do. It means more than I can properly put into words.
And for anyone worried:
Yes, this story will have an ending. I know how it ends! The challenge is figuring out how to get from point A to point B without writing another 200,000 words along the way. 😭 But I'm going to do it, dammit. I don't care how long it takes.
Thank you for sticking with me. I love you all very much, and I hope you enjoy this little sketch. It's still a work in progress, and this is only a zoomed-in peek, but I couldn't resist sharing.
Can't wait to show you more. 🖤💚💜
— Jesterfairy
P. S. Please ignore the hand, I need to redraw that bitch. Hands man... They're the bane of my existence 😑
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide, mentions of grape.
Connection
Night 3 in the clown’s apartment felt different.
Hazel’s mind was alive with the story he had spun, and she chewed the details relentlessly. It hadn’t got better after reading the report – rather, reading it had fuelled her rage. It shattered reality; yet, made more sense than anything to date. The details provided in the submission turned her heart to ice and channelled her rage like a laser.
There would be retribution, that was certain.
She couldn't fucking sleep.
How was she meant to recover from her injuries and close this case if she was just staring at the cracked ceiling all night?
Where the fuck was the clown?
Joker had said he would be out on business for a couple of hours, but it was well into the night. Hazel had spent the day reading and re-reading the testimony, her mind spinning. She had taken a shower, borrowed another one of J’s shirts, rummaged through a drawer and borrowed briefs, washed her old garments and hung them on a small wire rack near the window. Occasionally she sat and patted J’s big mut of a dog, or raided his fairly baren cupboards for cereal.
Hazel let out a frustrated huff.
Maybe he didn’t want to be near her after the things that he had shared.
Maybe he didn’t want to be near her after she kissed his scared jaw as though he was human.
Maybe he was out torturing the lieutenant!
Maybe he was playing with her for sport.
Hazel felt a flush to her cheeks as she thought of him one-upping her – he had tricked her before. Still, this time his confession didn’t feel like a lie. Her gut said it was the truth.
Jesus.
The city had gone to hell. The joker wasn’t even the worst of it.
The face of that little boy repeated on her. A memory that she had repressed for so long was now at large in her mind; dark eyes afraid, mirroring her blue ones as she had sat in her dad’s car. Two children, no power in the world, no choice. Yet, even with everything she had been through, she was one of the lucky ones.
Jack wasn’t.
Yet, he had made his own luck in the most twisted sense.
A strange wave passed through her: admiration. Then it crashed.
Hazel felt a pang in her guts. It made her sick that the badge she served could have failed that little boy. It took one man to harm him, but a whole failed system to bury it.
Anger flooded her anew, her hands balling beneath the sheets.
Hazel remembered her parents fighting in the kitchen. That recurring dream now took new meaning.
“You need to stop, Carl.” Hazel remembered how her mother’s tone sounded, low and cold. “You’re going to get in trouble and take us down with you. You know what they do to whistle blowers.”
“I can’t live with the blood on my hands! I want a better world for you and Hazel.”
All these years she thought her dad had lost his conviction, his dignity, as an officer. Lost his backbone for the job. But that was just the cover up – in fact they ousted him because he had the spine to stand up, but integrity was no match for a city that fights dirty. He couldn’t even convince his wife to stay beside him as he fought for what was right.
And Jack.
The recovery from his facial wounds must have been torture, and he survived on his own after that… an orphan. A street rat. No wonder he knew the underbelly of Gotham as well as he did.
It was incomprehensible.
Something ached deep inside her as these thoughts played out, boiling in her chest. It was an angry, burning, grief-fuelled ball that was spreading inside her creating pressure that threatened to burst. It had something to do with her dad, something to do with Miff, and a lot to do with Jack and the injustice of it all, but none of it was clear.
Hazel didn’t want to know what the feelings meant, she wanted to cut the pain out of herself, or perhaps she wanted to unleash them.
Hazel snapped back to the present as the locks at the door rattled.
Joker was home.
The apartment door opened with a creak of a hinge and Hazel pretended to sleep as heavy boots crossed the floor.
Hazel held her breath as he drew near. Her heartbeat faster, strangely thankful for his return.
He seemed to pause a moment, as though checking for her on his mattress. His presence made the air prickle as he watched over her. Several seconds passed: an unnatural stillness and Hazel imagined his eyes trained on her, perhaps running the length of her. She could feel his gaze, she was sure of it.
At last, the scuff of boots as he moved on.
Hazel listened to the rustle of his undressing: the methodical clacking of weapons placed on the kitchen surface, one after the other, then the swish of the heavy coat to the rack, lighter with its arsenal off-loaded. A pause stretched, and then she heard the running of the bathroom tap as he performed the rudimentary removal of grease paint and towel washed down his body over the sink.
Already she was learning his routines. Before bed the face was always bare. He ate breakfast like a king but skipped meals otherwise. The last thing before bed, was to check the dog where she slept happily in her crate.
“Good night, Sacha Girl.” He hummed. Hazel heard the big dog let out a happy whine in reciprocation.
Finally, Hazel felt the drop of weight on the mattress beside her and felt the mattress hollowing, drawing her in his direction.
Hazel stayed limp, her breath slow and deep to mimic sleep. Inside, her stomach flipped, charged by his presence. Once again, she lay in the dark with the clown prince, only he was not just Joker anymore, he was also Jack. Not just a monster, but something human. Whatever pull he had before, whatever mystique, it was more alive than ever.
Hazel laid still a long time until the rhythm of his breath deepened, then, carefully, she turned her head to look at him.
He rested on his back; his sheet bunched at his hips as was typical -the man ran hot. His breath was steady with an easy rise and fall of his chest.
Asleep so soon?
Uncanny.
Like a sin, Hazel studied his scars in the dim light. The shadows pooled in the hollows like moon craters. Bare faced he resembled that boy – but in rugged man form. His quite expression and sandy hair were a nod to the person he might have been, if life had unfolded differently.
Her eyes continued along his sleeping form, the shadowy dip between his chest muscles, and the lines in his abdominals. He was lean, and scrapy, like a cage fighter. Small puncture wounds marked his belly in those same shadowy divots.
He looked good. Fit, strong.
Judging by the map of scars across his body, he probably wouldn’t be alive without someone fixing him up. Had the same Dr who fixed her, stitched up those wounds across his abdomen? What about when he was a boy – had her father brought a doctor to him? How could he have trusted anyone? Had her father stitched him himself?
That thought was mind bending.
Hazel raised a hand, tentative. Hovering above the sleeping man, afraid to bend the air space between them in case he sensed it. Her hand hovered above the puncture scars on his abdominal.
She watched his belly rise and fall.
Something in her tingled. Yearned.
She hesitated, but only for a beat.
Suddenly she had the overwhelming urge to touch him, just as she had earlier that day.
How would he react? Especially when sleeping…
Her heart skipped just at the thought of connection.
It was one thing to sleep with an informant… deep down Miff was a good guy. But to seek warmth from a man like this… Gotham’s most wanted was dark to his core, yet she desired it.
Hazel knew it was madness, yet the compulsion to touch was overbearing.
Hazel lowered her hand and let the tips of her fingers contact his abdomen.
Just a graze.
Her heart spiked – feeling warm skin under her fingertips. Jokers body heat.
Holy fuck.
Lightly, she traced the v-line groove of his obliques admiring his sleek form.
He gave a grunt. A short, involuntary response to her touch. Then, his had snatched up and grabbed her wrist.
Hazel’s heart thrummed evenly in her chest. As much excitement, as respect for the harm he could inflict.
His grip was tight, strong. All Joker, no Jack. Her wrist seemingly fragile wrapped in his broad hand.
It stung.
"I can’t sleep." she said softly, answering a question he didn’t ask out loud.
His grip held.
Testing him, she turned her wrist.
He allowed it, and she turned herself free.
Registering his release as encouragement; she spread her hand across his lower stomach with increased conviction.
Taught.
"And you think that’s gonna help you sleep?" he answered, dryly.
"Yes."
She knew it would.
Nothing quietened the noise in her head like doing something she shouldn’t.
She glanced at his face, measuring his expression.
Neutral.
Always the performer.
Always the impression of control and restraint, like if he could control himself, he could control the universe.
But, there was a glimmer of something in the eyes. The mask of indifference had a crack - just enough to tell: he was intrigued by her attention.
He laughed. A short breath through the nose.
"All your problems are still gonna be there when we are, ah, done, sweetheart. Except, you’ll have one more.”
He gestured at himself in the dark: the additional problem.
Then he shifted. His dark eyes finding hers in the dim light of the apartment.
She didn’t see the carefully composed façade that was joker, but the blood and bones of the man beneath it. His body hummed with restrained energy. His expression remained relaxed but the small amount of light that reflected in his eyes revealed something hungry, predatory.
She had his attention.
It thrilled her.
Heart hammering, Hazel nudged her frame up against him and curled into his side. His chest was warm. Her legs just touched his. His lean muscles coiled to pounce like a man famished.
“What’s one extra problem, at this point?” Hazel retorted.
“hmm” The clowns only reply.
Then Hazel got serious.
“It’s not right what happened to you.” She said quietly, as she traced her fingers in small circles across his skin.
“Is that what this is about?” She could hear the eye roll. “Don’t delude yourself, detective. I am not that boy.”
“You look like him. Just older… and meaner.”
Her hand brushed the elastic waist of his briefs, and she curled a finger beneath the band, curiously.
There was a rumble from the clown and hips shifted slightly towards contact.
“You’re going to get yourself in a lot of trouble, Detective” his voice was smooth. “If you tell yourself I’m some injured plaything you can nurture. I liked killing my dad. I like hurting people. Ya understand, cupcake? No womanly wiles can fix what this is.”
“Maybe your dad fucking deserved it. Besides, I’m not trying to fix you. Fuck that.”
Hazel let the band relax back, flush with his skin and brushed a flat hand across the outside of his briefs. The rock-hard protrusion spoke louder than words, contradicting his nonchalant tone.
Hazel stroked her hand up the length of him through his briefs, feeling a kick and then let her hand settle on his abs.
Knowing that his body already hungered was enough.
She could feel his energy intensify dangerously as she backed off.
Felt his hand beside her flinch, resisting the impulse to grab her.
Hazel smiled in the dark.
She leaned in, lips to his ear.
“I know exactly who you are, Jack. Joker. I don’t care. Maybe I will tomorrow.” Hazel kissed the crest of his ear softly. “I’m sick of thoughts. Sick of feelings. Sick of rules that don’t make any fucking sense. I lost my dad to some bullshit I was fed, and I licked boots my whole friggen career just to read what I read today - call it a beautiful decent to chaos, if you want.”
Again, that rumble in his chest. The sound of his amusement that had become so familiar.
The sound enveloped her in a comforting fuzz as warm as his skin.
“Theres too much noise, Jack.” She grazed her lips across his ear “right now, I just need you to silence it.”
A calloused hand wrapped around her thigh. Tight, squeezing.
He dragged her limb across his, entwining them, as though her physical surrender was a commodity that now belonged to him.
Hazel’s heart raced.
“A beautiful decent to chaos.” He purred “That’s interesting to me doll. We would make an ironic, ah, coupling.”
“So you do want it then?” Hazel teased at his pride, knowing full well he burned. “You have a good poker face.”
Again the rumble of amusement, but his grip tightened, teasing on the edge of rough – a warning of sorts as to where the power really lay, and that her teasing edged a fine line.
Hazel knew exactly where the power lay and carefully testing it was a rush. He was lot of man and a presence that commanded her to stay alert. She liked that. She was bored by men she could toy with carelessly.
Now he nuzzled into her, as he answered, burying his face in her neck, her hair.
Hazel’s breath caught at the brush of his cheek on hers and a tangle of his hair up against her.
“You think I didn’t notice your tight little form the first time you came to see me. Hmm?” he breathed the words into her skin. “You think I didn’t consider the taste of you as I ran my hands up your thighs?” He kissed her neck. “I confess, detective. They weren’t the prettiest of thoughts… not if it’s romance you’re after.”
“What thoughts?” Hazel breathed, tilting her chin and absorbing kisses along her neck.
“I considered helping myself, detective, and tossing your ruined body into Gotham harbour.” He drew back slightly “What do you think about that? Hmm.” His eyes shone with Machiavellian glee. “Do you still pity that dead boy inside me?”
A small sound escaped hazels throat as he resumed kisses. J’s lips were hot on her skin and that heady mix of spiced cologne and combustibles that seemed to permanently linger on his skin made her giddy.
“What a gentleman” she breathed, sarcastically, then “But you didn’t. Why?”
In part she teased. In part she wanted an answer.
Her skin was hot, flushed by his attention, and an ache coiled in her belly.
A hum of approval from the clown, savouring her responses as he kissed to her collar bone.
The grip on her thigh released and his hand swept the length to her hip. He cradled her curves and squeezed
“I told you, detective. You are special. Irreplaceable. Part of a bigger plan.”
More kisses feathered across her collar bone, then a pause.
“I wouldn’t be the man of reputation that I am today if I couldn’t play long-game. Self- restraint is the difference between common criminals, and what I am. I don’t commit crimes, detective. I discipline Gotham.”
Hazel groaned, frustrated by the lengthy answer and the pause in his affections. She reached a hand down his briefs.
The clowns grip on her ass tightened painfully in response. His focus flicking back to her like she’d poured fuel on embers.
“It’s a little taboo for a cop, don’t ya think?" He almost growled the question.
His chin tilted towards her, breath washing across her skin and dark gaze burying into her soul.
His gaze was burning, dangerous.
Right now, there was a beast in there he was struggling to harness.
Hazel could feel the heavy beat of his heart and the heat of his skin.
The tension in his posture.
The composure and restraint were a lie he was barely holding together.
The feral look in his eyes was the truth.
For a beat he explored her features. Then shifted to close the gap between them. His lips crashed on to hers. Hard. Feral. The rush of it firing her synapses, flooding her, and clearing her mind of every thought and feeling except him.
Drunk on him.
He pulled her in tightly and she gasped as he squeezed her flesh. A whimper escaped her as he pressed to her, dissolving into heated kisses, the clowns tongue finding her own.
He kissed with the intensity of a man who burned cities for entertainment.
He kissed her like a man who’d tried to bury human needs and failed terribly.
He was a man as much as a monster and human need burned tirelessly at his core.
Hazel breathed raggedly into his neck as his hands swept over her body, squeezing soft parts of her, gripping, savouring. She could feel her pulse between her thighs.
The hands that intoxicated her now had also destroyed so much. Hurt so many. Could easily hurt her.
As she kissed him back, Hazel didn't care.
Her anger was channelled elsewhere.
My enemies enemy is a friend.
Brilliant.
Maniacal.
Clown Prince of Gotham.
Broken enough to enthral her.
And now she was just broken enough to stop resisting.
With a surge of energy, the clown pushed her down, and with a hard kiss rolled on top of her.
Hazel let out a sharp cry at the pain in her side. Her stitches were only a few days old and the movement felt like ripping, but the euphoria she felt beneath his weight quickly numbed the pain.
Her heart raced beneath the cage of his strong arms and chest, the light catching striations in his curved shoulder muscles as he hovered over her.
Surreal.
He eyed the teal shirt she lay in.
"I’d tear that shirt right off you, if it wasn’t mine.” He smirked “Lose it, detective. Lose all of it.”
Hazel laughed a little, working down the buttons and rolling her arms out of it.
“keep goin’, cup-cake. A man hasn’t got all day.”
Hazel lifted her hips and wiggled out of the briefs she had borrowed.
“hmm.” His dark, vicious stare ran down her neck and body, consuming every inch of her. “That’s better.”
He sank onto his elbows and his lips met her bare chest, broken lips feathering kisses across her breasts.
Hazel drew breath as his lips caressed her.
Then a kick of his knee against her thigh. Spreading her. Rough. Sharp.
He knelt between her thighs bending over her.
Kisses to her stomach.
Hazel held her breath as he curled his tongue across her lower abdomen.
Slow.
Intentionally withheld.
His hand grasped her thigh pressing open as he feathered broken kisses along her lower abdomen, and the crease of her thigh. He reached a hand to hers entwining fingers beside her hip, as kisses worked the length of her thigh and back up.
“People assume that I’m impulsive.”
He hovered between her thighs, eyes trailing over places that made Hazel want to curl up. He trailed his fingers softly, across her skin, admiringly.
“In fact, I am a man of extraordinary discipline when it comes to getting what I want-t.”
Hazel’s breath caught as hot lips met flesh.
He lavished his tongue slowly across her, and she whimpered, curling her hips towards him.
“That’s good Doll.”
He spread his tongue across her and held, before sucking gently, tantalisingly withheld.
Hazel wanted to scream.
Soft kisses worked to tease her, intentionally not giving too much.
And then she felt his fingers against her, as though gently mapping her.
Hazel grew stiff, scared he’d withhold.
He circled her core.
His lips stilled on her flesh as he slid a finger into her. Maddeningly slow, and smooth.
Hazel moaned, almost tearful with need.
And then he resumed the pressure with his tongue and lips, filling her with his fingers.
Hazel cried out a little.
“Good girl.” He breathed into her. “you’re a wet little mess, detective.”
He licked the length of her as his fingers worked, kissing methodically, adoringly between her thighs.
Hazel squeezed around him in agony.
He kept building.
Pacing.
Teasing.
It made no sense that this depraved man could make her feel that good.
The coil in her belly started tightening.
And she entwined her fingers in her hair.
His fingers deepened, broadening strokes, allowing her more as he kissed her.
Hazels hips curled and her breath laboured, short sounds escaping her throat as he pleased her.
The clown focused, intensifying his tongue in gentle curls.
Hazels back arched desperately, her legs opening for him and in response he gave her more.
Hazel felt a wave building as he pushed deep with his fingers and lavished with his tongue.
She cried out as a wave surged through her, and she pulled him in towards her.
Her body contacted, electric waves rolling through her body and the clown didn’t slow.
Wave after wave, and trembling as he dragged her pleasure out almost too far.
He stopped only when she curled away from him, sensitive. Then he travelled up over her, his hand adjusted his own briefs, sliding back from his hips and his weight coming to rest over her.
He took her breast in his mouth, pressing a tongue to nipple and hazel ran thick wedges of his green curls through his fingers.
Hazel wrapped her arms around his strong body, hands gripping his shoulders, his kisses worked back up her neck and he found her lips. Firm kisses. Deep.
His hips rolled against her.
His hard cock pressed against her still sensitive parts.
He perched up on his elbows and aligned.
Again, Hazel held her breath…
Then he pushed, stretching her mercilessly.
Deeper.
Hazel gasped into his shoulder, struggling for breath as he gave her more than she could contain. Her hands clung to him helplessly.
A growl from the clown as he paused and savoured the feel of her wrapped around him and gave her body some time to adjust to what he offered.
“That’s it, Doll.” He purred “open for me.”
The he curled his hips and deepened, impossibly.
Hazels head tipped back into the pillow and he opened his mouth in her neck, sucking and kissing.
“I’ve always wanted to fuck you, detective.” He growled between kisses. “I knew you’d be so tight. So sweet.”
He rocked his hips hitting deep and Hazel scrunched her eyes shut, breathless.
He open kissed her mouth and rocked again, strong hand clamped to her hip, pinning her beneath his force.
Hazel relaxed under his weigh as he ground rhythmically into her, his lips exploring everywhere that he could reach.
He built his rhythm savouring her until his knocks came steady and firm.
Again that coil started to build in Hazel’s belly, she ached between her thighs. She kissed him back, harder.
Her eyes locked with him a moment. Blue eyes lost in the abyss of his stare.
A guttural sound from the clown.
She curled her fingers into his back as he fucked her, the steady motion becoming a chase, the look in his eyes depraved.
The coil tightened into something so intense it had to shatter and she held his dark stare as it did.
Hazel cried out as her body released.
The clown growled as he ruptured. Stuttering against her hips as he released himself, before lowering onto her heavy breathing and sweaty.
Hazel held onto him in the dark, their hearts hammering against each other.
Killer. Madman. Man.
She savoured his warmth and his weight.
**
Hazel lay in stillness. Her head against the clown’s shoulder.
Her mind wandered, softly.
“The testimony” – Hazel started, almost to herself “It changes things.”
“mmm-hhmm.” The clown responded lazily “I knew the truth would change things, Doll.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”
“You will, detective.” He opened his eyes a slit. “At least now you aren’t restrained by lies, and that’s the fun of it.”
He rolled away punctuating the end of the discussion.
Hazel scooched closer, put and arm around him and rested her forehead on his back, soaking up the skin and connection.
The clowns easy breathing steadied hers Leaving Hazel in a state of hollow, depleted, calm against him.
Except the headache she could feel slowly setting in…
Perhaps the excitement had stirred up concussion symptoms – but she was determined for a good night sleep, she had a lot of work ahead of her.
Peeling away from the clown, Hazel stood up. It was like a knife in the head as soon as she stood and it reminded her of the pain in Lieutenant James’s apartment, and the first night at J’s when her injuries were freshest.
She slipped into the bathroom.
Maybe the clown would have something. She swung open the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Russian red lipstick, Band-Aids, mouthwash, sleeping pills. Hazel paused.
Nothing of use.
Reluctantly she went to the kitchen and repeated the same process. Mostly the cupboards were bare except for the cereal she had been eating, some tins, and some pancake mix.
She tried the fridge. Behind the eggs was a little bag that looked like a medical bag. Hazel glanced over her shoulder – she was really snooping at this point.
Her head pulsed with another surge of the headache.
Fuck it.
She needed a good rest.
She picked up the little bag and unzipped it.
No headache tablets.
Just little vials and syringes. Anaesthetic…
Her stomach dropped.
Hazel remembered the first night the clown had stuck her. The sting of it. The way her vision had faded and how she ended up back in her own bed like she had woken from a dream. He had put her in a car trunk and ransacked her home.
He had lied to her then. He had lied more than once.
Hazel picked up the vial of anaesthetic in her hand and turned it in her fingers. The headache faded as her attention narrowed.
She wasn’t living the lie anymore, and the truth said: she couldn’t trust anyone. She new what justice looked like, and the only person she could trust to deliver it, was herself.
Suddenly it dawned on her - she knew what she had to do.
She didn’t like it, necessarily. Yet, it was the only thing that would fix the problem: once and for all.
Hazel felt peace wash through her. Not the kind of peace she stole by giving her body to the Joker, letting him flood her mind and her senses for the fleeting, albeit incredible, distraction. True peace. The kind of peace that comes from solving a problem.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, coarse language, mentions of suicide.
Origins
“Do you wanna know how I got these scars?”
The question hung in the air, teasing. Threatening. Daring Hazel to answer.
A trickle of sweat ran the length of her ribs under the borrowed teal shirt.
The question was the clown’s signature.
He was known to taunt with false intimacy before he killed, the same way a cat might release a mouse for the sport of catching it again. But none of the stories he told were true... they were always changing. The story was his prelude to death. Psychological warfare.
Yet, Hazel couldn’t resist the possibility that he was offering her the truth.
Joker’s breath washed over her neck; his knife still paused to her cheek. The wall of chest at her back and his physical presence like a vice grip she was frozen in.
“Cat got your tongue, Doll-Face. Hmm?” he rumbled.
Hazel turned to face him. He loosened slightly. Tentatively she raised her eyes to meet his. Her heart galloped as their eyes met.
His expression was still. Emotionless.
He was waiting for her to take to answer the question. Waiting for her to take the bait.
Hazel let out a slow breath.
Despite herself, her gaze dipped to his cheeks: deep rivets of pain. Of trauma. Hazel savoured the details of his jaw: the strong cut of his features, the ropey texture of the scars, the smaller nick that partially cleaved his bottom lip. She lingered reading his features because her let her.
It was a terrible story etched into his face and perhaps it was the origin of it all.
Hazel felt a trill of life breathed into her, a welcome distraction from the Lieutenant, and Miff, and the path ahead of her. She wanted the answer at any cost and she buzzed with anticipation. Joker was offering information forensic psychologists spent careers unravelling… what drives such a mad-man?
Her professional curiosity was temptation enough, the fact that the story linked to her father… this wasn’t information she could afford to pass.
Her perhaps that was the lie she told herself to excuse her personal interest.
Hazel drew breath, readying to speak as though she was negotiating a trap that might spring any second.
"How did you get your scars?" Hazel swallowed.
The words felt wrong hanging in the air. Like she had asked the question in the stillness of a tomb
The clown flicked the knife shut as though for no reason the mood had left him. He stepped away from Hazel, leaving cold air in the space where he had stood over her.
Hazel watched him wander to the sofa and drop into it, letting his knees fall broadly. Theatrics and threats were discarded, replaced with a demeanour that seemed earnest – or perhaps another façade to fool her.
One mask, swapped with another.
With a sweep of his fingers he ran his sandy-green hair back off his face and then leant forward looking Hazel over from under his brows.
He didn’t run his usual routine, instead he took a conversational tone.
“Alright detective.” He said simply. “Parts of the story you already know - I’ll, ah, help you fill the gaps.”
He circled a hand in the air lazily for emphasis.
“We were kids you and I, but I know you remember, even if you haven’t made all the pieces click.”
"We were kids?" Hazel repeated his words as though the sentence itself was senseless. She shook her head "I don't even know what you are suggesting.”
"It’s the truth cup cake. I saw you that day. Like me, you were no more than ten years of age, passenger side of the squad car. I’d never forget those eyes.” He paused. “Call it our meet cute. I know you saw me."
He smirked at that comment, entertained with himself.
Hazel furrowed her brow.
“I first saw you in the holding cell at GCPD before the batman disappeared from Gotham – the night before you hijacked the ferries on Gotham harbour. Right before you blew the guts out of the holding cell and escaped.”
“Not that doll, ancient history compared to tha-t.” he rolled his eyes, impatient.
Hazel frowned, matching his impatience: he was winding her up.
“I’d remember if I’d met you before – it doesn’t make any sense.”
He raised his brows.
“Just because you don’t remember right now, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Trauma hides things from us, Doll, but I know deep down you remember.”
The clown looked at her with dark eyes. Measured.
Suddenly she felt naked, like he was looking through her into parts she didn’t mean to share. He looked at her with such conviction that she almost believed him.
Almost.
He was a known liar, and she was proving herself gullible.
Hazel opened her mouth to tell him so, but he spoke first.
“I heard you say my name, Detective.” He paused. “I didn’t think you remembered until this morning. You were dreaming, and you said my name in your sleep."
Hazel’s stomach lurched.
It was strange, but possible. She had been in his company for days – so-what if he entered her dream. It didn’t mean anything.
“I said Joker?” Hazel asked.
The clown shook his head with a tsk. A flash of irritation crossed his features as though Hazel should comprehend faster.
"That’s not my birth name, Doll. You said my name."
Hazel felt a cold freeze come over her body, like she was locked in place by the words and the weight of the implication.
His birth name.
Impossible.
Even the GCPD didn’t know who the fuck Joker was. He had a record and prints at the station, he’d been in and out of the asylum, but there were no early records that predated the alias of Joker. No one in the system new his origin.
The muscles in her shoulders burned with tension.
No.
Hazel, Enough!
He was lying and wasting time. She was an idiot to think he was revealing something to her because she was special. He was probably stalling whilst his hench men went after the Lieutenant so he could beat her and piss her off.
Hazel went to protest, to insist she was done with games, but before she spoke a sense of familiarity hit her.
The image of a sandy haired boy flashed in her mind.
The boy from her dream.
In that instance she knew it was the truth.
It was not sudden clarity, not a revelation, but an echo. A wisp of something vague. A fragment of recognition.
Hazel stilled. Her mind raced in disbelief. There was something there in the repressed quarters of her mind, she was suddenly sure of it.
Either that, or the clown was sending her loopy.
The clown smiled, a smile that told her he saw her realisation and hungered for it.
Hazel ignored him and focused her mind on the face of the little boy – he was clearer now.
Sandy hair, loose and wild around his face. Shockingly dark eyes that locked with hers and held them.
Hazel replayed the whole dream scene. She was seated in her dad’s squad car deep in the Narrows. She remembered how withdrawn and troubled her father had been, frighteningly distant despite his physical presence. She watched him as he approached the warehouse and the little boy appeared in the doorway and the little boy locked eyes with her.
Hazel felt her gut knot as though she was transported right back to that moment.
Dark eyes, bandaged cheeks.
The little boy stared, and Hazel stared back.
In many ways the look in his eyes was a mirror of herself. A thousand words: powerlessness, confusion, the desire for comfort, expressed silently through the meeting of their gaze. Despite the distance, they connected over something profound: fear and uncertainty.
Holy shit. It was like an electric bolt through her body as fragmented memories fired.
Without warning, everything in her mind snapped into focus:
The words escaped her lips before she could consciously process what she was saying.
“You are Jack Napier.”
She said the words fast and full of breath.
“The missing boy. My father’s last case before…” a lump rose in her throat and she stopped.
A pleased rumble from the clown.
“hmm. That’s the one, Doll…that’s me. Little Jack.”
Hazel’s mind was spinning wildly. Snippets of old news coverage and her parents hushed arguments came flooding in.
“They said you killed your parents.” Hazel blurted. “They said you drowned in Gotham Harbour.”
“They said a lot of things doll. That I was a killer. A cliché: victim to a violent father. That I was better off dead.” The clown spread his hands and raised his brows, a grin spread across his face. “Yet here I am, resurrected.”
The smile disappeared from his features.
“Really, I was just a boy that wished he was a man. My mother used to speak of my father and say, Jack, one day I fear he will kill me, yet she stayed. I dreamed of running away and taking her with me. We talked about all the places we might go… but there was always one more reason to stay.”
His voice was steady, matter of fact. Like he was detached from the story he was telling.
“One day he came home angrier than usual, laid off from his job. He’d already been drinking. My mother and I tried to stay out of his way, but that only enraged him more. He came looking for us, looking for trouble. This time when he took his hands to my mother, I decided to be that man I wished I was and protect her.”
Silence stretched.
“You fought him?” Hazel asked.
Joker let out a laugh, rueful, one of regret. A laugh that said, if only.
“I called Gotham City Police Department.” He licked the scar on his bottom lip “It was the first time I had ever called for help, and it was the last. Scared me more than my father did, to make that call. Why would they help a boy from project housing in the narrows?”
Hazel felt the urge to protest but didn’t – it was their job to help. Why wouldn’t they?
“He was starting off slow with her that night, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the day he would kill her. So, I called, and sure enough GCPD came to the rescue. Or so it seemed.”
Joker smoothed the material of his pant leg, taught quads giving shape to the pin stripes.
“That’s the night I first met your dad.”
“Holy crap. My dad was one of the officers that took the call-out? Hazel gave a bewildered shake of her head. Her palms were damp in her lap. This information was wild.
“He was, and a colleague officer. Your father took my dad in cuffs and took him to the squad car where he remained, but his colleague stayed in our apartment. This officer wasn’t well intentioned and had the room all to himself…the way he wanted it.”
Hazel drew a breath. Without knowing what he would say, she could feel the darkness ahead. As though she was being drawn into deep, murky waters waiting for something to wrap around her ankles and drag her under.
“My mother sat, frail and shaking, like a bird. Like something hopeless that’s been broke too many times and can’t remember being whole, a packet of frozen peas pressed to her bruised cheek. The officer gave my battered mother a smile I’ll never forget.” Joker paused to lick the scar in his bottom lip then added “Every time I burn this city, it’s in the name of that smile, and his words that followed.”
Joker’s eyes flicked up to meet Hazels. Arctic cold and razor sharp.
“I can make all your problems go away, Mrs Napier… but nothing in this city comes free.”
Hazels’ blood ran cold, but Joker smiled at her with an ironic grin, seemingly amused at the darkness of it all. Despite the loopy grin, Hazel caught the anger that flickered beneath it.
“Even as a child who had never expressed lust, I knew what he wanted. The hunger and contempt in his eyes told me everything I needed to know; we were in more danger than before I’d made that call.”
“J, no.” Hazel breathed.
Joker arranged his posture to embody the officer and the memory that lived inside him.
“You’re pretty Mrs Napier, but are you smart?” Joker borrowed the officer’s mocking tone. “Are you gonna put those good looks to work to save you and your boy.”
Hazel felt chunks rise in her throat.
“When asked to choose between her dignity or her safety, my mother chose dignity. I remember the hatred in the officers’ eyes when she straightened a little and told him no. She was so powerless, but she hurt him with that single word. Maybe he didn’t expect rejection from a woman with nothing, wasn’t used to it. For a moment, I could see him wrestling with his choices – take her by force, or punish her with natural consequence – he chose the later, and after a several minutes of silence he brought my father back in, ugly and cursing and left us to him.”
“What happened then?” Hazel asked, but her stomach turned because she already knew.
“My father turned to me first. He labelled me a traitor, a pig-lover– an insolent boy. Told me he was going to permanently fix my attitude. And he did – calved a new outlook right into my face. A hack-job with a kitchen knife.”
Hazel watched the flicker of tension in J’s jaw. There were feelings beneath the scars, but he denied them, distorted them, used them in violent ways.
Her stomach curled.
Who could hurt a child that way?
“and your mother?”
“He killed her, and for that, I killed him.”
He spoke about his parent’s deaths with clinical indifference. Matter of fact. Emotionless. Like a spoiler to a film you’d never bother watching. The grief belonged to a skin he had shed many years ago. All that was left was a twisted mess, anger and hollowness and sadistic glee.
Hazel felt a surge of anger.
“Was my dad complicit in this?” Her voice rigid “did he know.”
Hazel swallowed. Even after all the years of anger towards her father, she couldn’t bare to believe he was complicit to the harm of a mother and her child.
“Your father wasn’t complicit, but he was naïve. After I ran he found me hiding-out in a warehouse in the narrows, fed me, brought me basic medical items. He admitted that his partner extorted victims regularly. He believed that if he stood with me to tell the story, he could bring down the perpetrators within GCPD and have me acquitted. He had me sign a testimony about what happened that night and promised me he would stand as a witness.”
“Holy fuck.”
Hazel let the information sink in. It was almost too much. Her father, harbouring a fugitive. A child. This boy that would ultimately become Gothams most destructive force. She almost didn’t believe it, but it made too much sense. The dreams of her father that haunted her continuously, the way he always tried to tell her something, but couldn’t. What could he have said? The little boy in the warehouse door wasn’t a dream, he was real and he was the monster seated in front of her.
The clown leaned back locking his dark eyes with Hazel. What was his expression? Unreadable. Maybe it was just empty in there, reflecting whatever Hazel wanted to see. A true void.
“There was a warrant for my arrest – wanted for the murder of both my mother and my father. There was no record in the system of the police call out so there was nothing to corroborate my version of the story except my word and his – the truth was covered with lies. In a state like this, with no juvenile justice system – I would have spent life in Black Gate prison for killing the man who murdered my mother and mutilated my face. The same system I turned to for help was about to eat me alive and pick it’s teeth with my bones.”
Hazel stared through the floor. After all the years she had looked towards her dad with disappointment and contempt, she felt a flare of pride at his stance. Perhaps he wasn’t a coward after all.
“Mum never talked about the specifics of his dismissal from GCPD – just that she was ashamed of him. I could see he had changed and didn’t care about the job. That broke my heart to see. He was angry, he drank. Her story was easy to buy.” Hazel paused “When I got old enough to ask real questions, I didn’t bother. He was gone by then, and I’d closed my heart.”
“Your dad tried to convince me that I was important, that someone would care, but that stary eyed optimism cost him. He needed to believe it because he had you. I knew it the moment I saw you, seated in his vehicle: big blue eyes, so unassuming. He needed a world that he could bare to leave you in, and that blinded him.”
The clown leaned back into the sofa resting too casually, in comparison Hazel perched, hanging breath by breath to the new reality as it unfolded.
He stared at her in a way that made her shiver.
“It fascinated me that he loved you so much that he projected it onto me. He actually thought that I was worth something. I wasn’t worth shit, and the world showed him that soon enough.”
“He made a mistake thinking I mattered just because you did. He made a mistake trusting the system to be its own judge. Worst of all, he made a mistake trusting me. I didn’t want to be acquitted in a court and move into the foster system, nameless and abused. I wanted to become something that the whole city would regret… and I did.”
The grin that teased Jokers lip was something different. A sick pride. Power. Showmanship.
He enjoyed what he had become. It was something he had accomplished.
“Your father tried to fight it alone, a glutton for punishment. His story never made court, they buried him in lies because the truth was too ugly and all the while I watched from a distance. Gotham showed her true heart like I knew she would and your father took the fall… but he carried out one last justice.”
“It didn’t take much, a little DNA on the scene, his report that he’d chased me and seen me fall into the harbour, it was Gotham winter and the water would kill in minutes. A week later an item of my clothing washed up to corroborate his story. Of course, there were many who didn’t believe that I was dead, officers that believed he had conspired, but that didn’t matter – the rumours of my death hit the news and to a corrupt police department that wanted no more noise on the issue, it was a fine enough outcome. A kid like me wouldn’t survive the narrows even if I was alive, it wouldn’t be for long.”
“Your father was consumed by guilt and disgust. It tortured him that the law and the justice weren't one in the same - he had to choose, and he choose justice. When he couldn’t save me his way, he gave me a shot on my own. He couldn’t have imagined the, ah, potential he was releasing.”
That self-satisfied smile lingered and he stretched his strong arms over the sofa backs, taking up space as though reliving his grandest moment.
“You’ll never understand what it feels like to be reborn, and to build yourself in the image of your own darkest imaginings.”
Hazel felt a stab of pain in her chest. Her insides churned with grief, and wild spikes of outrage. How dare they treat him that way: her father, and Miff, little Jack Napier and his mother. All the while pretending to be on the right side of justice. It made her angry. It made her sick.
Jack Napier had escaped the fate of prison; he had escaped an unpalatable journey in Gotham foster care or homes for boys. Yet, what had those years alone looked like? She couldn’t imagine what transpired for that boy – fleeing the crime scene that used to be his home and becoming what he was now: The Joker.
What horror had filled those years?
A deep melancholy gripped her and a sense of protectiveness, maternal in its ferocity.
Hazel turned towards him on the couch where he sat. Her body flooded with painful emotions. He sat, calm and broad and tentatively she shuffled closer. She reached for him and her breath caught as her hand found his cheek.
Joker didn’t react, chest rising and falling softly.
Gaining confidence, she curled closer and cupped his face gently, as though it was little Jack Napier receiving a tender touch so long overdue. She traced his jaw with her fingers feeling the light abrasion of a shaved face.
In a way, his fractures were beautiful.
His eyes turned to her and the depth struck her hard. For a moment they were just blue eyed and brown eyed kids trying to make sense of something far bigger than them.
Heart hammering wildly, Hazel leant forward and placed a small kiss on his scared cheek.
The scar was cool beneath the warmth of her lips. Smooth.
The world seemed to stop.
Hazel heard him breath, a short inhale.
There was a moment pause that stretched; all consuming, as she hovered beside him.
For a moment longer he absorbed the touch of her hands on his face and let her presence linger.
He raised his hand to hers and his calloused hand covered hers. Then he gently removed her.
It wasn’t angry, it wasn’t forceful.
He just created space.
He released her hand back and looked at her.
His face was more neutral, freer of character or emotion than she had seen it and Hazel wondered if it was actual sincerity peeking through… but she knew she shouldn’t trust the mirror.
Joker reached out to Hazel and smooth a strand of hair back from her face.
“Don’t be as naive as your Pa. hmm. You’re smarter than that.” Jokers voice was quiet. “The boy you want to comfort is long gone.”
The words hit with a twang of emotion – perhaps the boy in the doorway could have been saved, but not the man in front of her.
“Is Jack Napier buried alive?” The hush of her tone matched his as she remembered the clown’s advice to bury her own grief alive.
Joker laughed, softly.
“Jack Napier was dead even before he put 32 knife holes in his father’s chest.” He licked his lip, thoughtful. “Doll, I stabbed my father even after the life was gone from his eyes, because it felt good. Don’t confuse your emotions for mine, kid, it will be the end of you.”
Joker got up. Standing over Hazel.
“I need to be somewhere; a man’s got business and what not” he straightened his shirt. “I can’t shack up here with you all day playing house, even though I know you like it.” He smirked. “You’ll be okay a few hours, Doll. Just don’t do anything rash without me.”
He reached into a pocket.
“I have something for you.” He added.
He withdrew a folded sheet of paper, softened and heavily discoloured from time.
“My written testimony.” He announced. “I’ve never showed anyone except your father the day he helped me write it. It’s full of specific details you’ll find interesting. Locations, dates, names. Everything your father wanted the world to know. Everything that got buried in lies.”
He folded it in Hazels hands and held her fist for a beat.
“I don’t consider myself sentimental, but, ah, I kept it all these years. It’s been a reminder that when I had the chance to beg my abuser for mercy, I didn’t. Most importantly, it’s a reminder that this hell scape known as Gotham deserves The Joker.”
He let go.
“I don’t need the note to remember what I stand for. The information is yours now detective. As I said they never wanted you to have it because you'd be too powerful with the truth.”
Hazel gripped the paper silently.
He left her unceremoniously.
A few long strides and the clanking of locks, and Hazel was alone.
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
A/N:
Sorry for the wait on this one! I wrote it crazy fast, then spiraled a bit in edits until I couldn’t tell what was working anymore. Letting it sit helped more than I expected.
I really love how it turned out. 💜 I hope you do too!
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 39 Unlivable
Silence followed.
Not the empty kind—but the charged, humming quiet that comes after something irrevocable has been said.
Alina didn’t answer him.
She couldn’t.
Her lungs refused to remember their purpose, breath caught somewhere high and useless in her chest. The rain battered the windows in relentless sheets, thunder rolling so close it felt like it vibrated through the bones of the building. The fan rattled overhead, uneven, protesting.
Jack didn’t move.
He stayed where he was—close enough that she could feel the heat of him in the air, the subtle displacement of space his body made just by existing there. The bed dipped beneath his weight, a reminder she couldn’t escape by closing her eyes.
Her fingers clenched in the blanket at her chest.
Not to pull it away.
Not to push him back.
Just to hold on.
His gaze stayed on her face now—watching. Reading. As if the answer he wanted wasn’t in her mouth, but in the way her throat worked, the way her pulse jumped beneath her skin.
“You’re shaking, sweetheart” he said quietly.
Not an accusation.
An observation.
Her body betrayed her again, a faint tremor running through her limbs like a fault line giving way. She hated that he noticed. Hated that he always did.
“What are you doing here,” she managed, the words barely scraping out.
Something unreadable crossed his face—too fast to name. Shame, maybe. Or something darker.
“I wanted to see you,” he said.
So simple.
So bare.
So infuriating.
The words landed like a blow—because of course he said it like that. Like it was obvious. Like wanting her now erased every way he’d ripped her apart to force her away.
Her chest burned. Her throat thickened.
You wanted to see me?
Then why did you aim a gun at my heart?
Why did you tell me to run?
Why did you watch me drown?
Her fingers curled tighter in the blanket.
“Don't,” she whispered, choking on the heat in her chest. “You can’t just... say that.“
He looked away, jaw tight—like her words had brushed a nerve he thought he'd ripped out long ago. Then he leaned back just enough to give her space—an inch, maybe two. Not retreat. Just allowance. And still, everything in the room leaned toward him.
Outside, lightning flashed—white‑hot and brief—catching his face in stark relief: the sharp line of his cheekbone, the hollow beneath it, the rain beading on his lashes… and the scars, raised and jagged, catching light like something raw and unfinished.
When darkness slid back in, he was still there.
Unchanged.
Unmoved.
He let the quiet settle—slow and heavy—like ash after a fire.
Then finally, low:
“I know what an asshole I sound like. Believe me.”
He exhaled hard through his nose, almost a scoff—at himself, maybe. At the sheer stupidity of it all.
“I tried to leave things where I dropped them,” he said. “Walk away. Don’t look back. That’s usually the trick.”
A small shrug.
“Didn't take.”
“Then I saw you on my TV...”
His voice went quieter, not softer.
“And staying gone stopped being an option.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, fingers knotting in the blanket until her knuckles went white.
Something warm slipped past her lip—she only realized she was crying when she tasted salt.
No sobbing. No sound. Just a few tears she hadn’t meant to give him.
Jack went very still. He didn’t smile. Didn’t mock. He only watched her quietly come apart, like he knew he had no right to touch it.
Then, slowly—as if approaching something wild, something fragile—he shifted closer.
The mattress dipped. His coat brushed her knee.
“Don't,” she whispered hoarsely. “Just... don't.”
He stilled instantly.
Her breath hitched hard, shuddering loose in her chest.
“You don’t get to do this,” she whispered. “You don’t get to just… show up… and say things like that—after everything you did.”
Lightning split the sky. Thunder devoured the next second.
Her voice sharpened.
“You made me beg. You broke me on purpose. You walked me out like I was a problem to dispose of.”
A shaky breath.
“And then you just—you watched Gotham tear me apart like I was some goddamn joke on a talk show. And now you come here? You come here like—like I should just… absorb it. Like I should be glad you remembered I exist.”
It hit in waves.
Anger. Grief. Heat.
Her voice cracked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Silence. Heavy. Relentless.
Then he swallowed—hard—and when he finally spoke, there was nothing in his voice to hide behind.
“I know.”
Two small words. So painfully unornamented.
No trick or excuse—
Just acceptance. Like a verdict he’d already sentenced himself with.
Her breath shook. “That’s not enough.”
“I know,” he said again, softer.
Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders trembled.
“Then why are you here?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you just stay gone?”
His gaze skated away, posture tightening like he wanted to shrug it off, make it a joke, turn it into something easier than it was.
He didn’t.
His fingers curled into the sheets instead, knuckles stark. His thumb pressed down into the mattress—slow, deliberate—as if he had to brace to say it.
“I tried, doll.”
Bare.
Human.
And the softness of it hurt more than anything cruel he’d ever said.
He looked back at her—really looked—and her chest caved beneath the weight of it.
“I really thought I could,” he said quietly. “Thought if I cut you loose, I’d remember who I was—that things would… settle.”
Thunder rolled slow and heavy outside, further off now than before.
“But they didn’t,” he finished, voice rough.
“Everything just got... worse.”
Silence spread between them, tender like a wound.
“I dreamt about you,” he said. “Every damn night. Woke up pissed because you weren’t there. Spent the day convincing myself it didn’t matter and—”
A humorless breath.
“—that didn’t take either.”
He swallowed, jaw tight.
“I’m used to life being empty. Always have been—”
A pause.
“But without you?”
His eyes didn’t blink.
“It didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt—unlivable.”
The words seeped into her. Slow. Inevitable. Like water finding every fracture she’d tried to seal shut.
Something inside her pulled tight—then tore open.
Her throat burned. Her vision blurred. Heat flooded her face and there was no stopping it—no discipline strong enough, no willpower vicious enough to hold it back.
Because he wasn’t apologizing. Wasn’t promising better. Wasn’t pretending he deserved her.
He was just telling the truth.
And somehow—that hurt worse.
Her breath stuttered out of her, sharp and shamed. Tears spilled fast, before she could stop them—silent and furious—tracking hot down her cheeks.
She pressed her hands over her face, as if she could stuff it all back in.
It didn’t matter.
Her body folded. Not toward him. Not reaching. Just… collapsing. Shoulders curling inward, spine caving as if something vital had finally given out.
Jack didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t dare.
If he’d smiled, she would have hit him. If he’d mocked, she would have screamed. If he’d said anything glib or playful or Joker—
She almost wished he would.
Instead he only watched—quiet, steady—as if even he understood there was nothing to laugh at here.
No victory. No power. Just ruin.
His fingers twitched in the sheets.
Slowly—carefully—he leaned in just a fraction.
Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Not quite comforting. Not quite coaxing.
Just… helpless.
She saw it in his eyes. Felt it in the air. That terrible, aching urge in him to do something—to wipe tears, to steady her, to take back every bruise he’d ever carved into her.
His fingers twitched again, then went still, like even his hands didn’t trust themselves.
He stayed where he was.
Not because he didn’t want to close the space.
But because he finally seemed to understand he had no right to.
And somehow, God, that broke her worse than anything else had.
Her shoulders trembled harder. A wet, broken sound slipped against her palms before she could swallow it back. She tried to steady herself, to pull everything in again, to be small, contained, untouched—
It didn’t hold.
“I hate you,” she gasped into her hands, voice tearing raw through her throat. “I hate you so much.”
A truth and a lie—twisted together so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“I know,” he murmured.
Not offended.
Not wounded.
Just… accepting it like another scar he’d earned.
Lightning flickered again, gentler now. Rain softened against the glass. The storm outside was moving on.
The one inside her wasn't.
She dragged in a shaky breath, trying to force herself back together and failing—tears still sliding between her fingers no matter how tightly she pressed them there.
And finally—
finally—
that terrible stillness he’d been clinging to broke.
Jack leaned forward.
Slowly. Carefully.
His hand lifted—hovering beside her cheek like a question.
He hesitated—
And for one suspended heartbeat, she had a choice.
—
But she didn't push him away.
And when his fingers finally met her skin—knuckles gliding gently down her jaw, his thumb catching a tear he had no right to—
Something inside her buckled.
She leaned into it.
Into him.
He exhaled like it hurt.
Then he drew her in.
Not aggressively. Not possessively.
Carefully.
Like the most dangerous thing in the room wasn’t him.
It was her.
Her forehead hit his chest. A quiet, broken sound escaped her before she could smother it.
His coat was cold. His shirt was damp. He smelled like rain and smoke and something painfully familiar.
His arms wrapped more fully around her—tentative at first. Then tighter. He tucked his chin into her hair like a man who didn’t trust his voice.
And they stayed like that for a while—the softening thunder breathing for both of them when they couldn’t.
Eventually, he shifted. Slow. Careful.
“Lie down,” he whispered—tentative, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved to ask.
She didn’t have the strength to argue.
He leaned back slowly, taking her with him—not by force. Just a quiet insistence that left no room for thought.
She went.
Because she was so tired. Because her bones hurt. Because some pathetic, treacherous part of her had missed the way her body fit against his like memory.
She turned onto her side without thinking.
He followed.
An arm slipped beneath her neck.
Another settled at her waist.
He curved around her like he’d always been meant to live there.
No conquest. No claim.
Just quiet closeness. Just breath. Just warmth.
The storm was quieter now, gentled—rain softened to a lulling hush against the glass, thunder fading into distant grumbles like the sky had finally worn itself out.
Her body betrayed her in increments.
Her breathing slowed first. Then her pulse. Her muscles softened against him—each beat of calm a cruel contradiction.
Because the man who let her drown was now the one holding her above water.
And worse—she didn't have the strength to care.
He shifted—barely.
Just enough for his chest to press more fully to her back.
Just enough for his breath to brush her ear—gentle as a ghost, warm where he used to kiss her.
That old current hummed awake beneath her skin before she could even think—a deep, warm ache unfurling where she had sworn she would never feel him again.
Her hips tensed in reflexive denial, even as heat pulsed low—stubborn and alive.
No.
God, no.
Not this.
Not now.
Not him.
Her eyes squeezed shut, breath catching as fury tangled helplessly with need—self-loathing and longing clawing against each other inside her ribs.
Her thighs pressed together on instinct, desperate and ashamed, as if she could cage the feeling there—crush it before it owned her.
She hated it.
Hated how easily her body gave him this.
Hated that some deep, ungovernable part of her still recognized him as safety. As gravity. As something dangerously close to home.
She swallowed—tight and trembling.
And then she felt it—
The unmistakable press of him against her lower back.
Hard.
Undeniable.
Her heart lurched.
Oh God she thought, humiliation flooding hot beneath her skin.
She felt him go still.
Utterly.
Like an animal catching scent.
Like restraint tightening around bone.
He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Didn’t take.
He simply… stilled.
Understanding her.
Feeling her.
And for once—choosing not to touch what he clearly wanted.
It should have helped. It almost did—
But fear rarely listens to logic.
“Please,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “Please don’t… do anything.”
There was a beat of silence, thick enough to drown in.
Then his voice—low, steady, almost careful—for once not something sharp enough to bleed on.
“I won’t.”
His arm tightened around her—not dragging closer. Not grinding in.
Just anchoring.
His breath shook once against her hair.
But he did nothing.
Nothing but hold her.
Nothing but stay.
Thunder rolled far away. Rain softened. The heat relented, slipping away like a fever breaking in the dark.
Eventually, her breathing slowed, syncing with the steady rhythm against her spine.
She hated him.
She needed him.
She didn’t know how to survive either truth.
But for the first time since he left—
She slept.
And he didn’t let go.
Not once.
---
She woke alone.
Sheets warm, tangled. The air still heavy with storm-scent and sleep. Her pulse was slow, sluggish. For a moment, she didn’t move—barely breathed—afraid it would all vanish if she did.
Her hand reached instinctively behind her.
Nothing.
Just cotton. Just empty space.
Her chest pulled tight.
She rolled slowly to her back, blinked up at the ceiling, the faint murmur of the rain now little more than background noise.
Her heart sank with each second that passed.
Of course, she thought.
Of course he was gone.
A dry, humorless sound scraped up her throat and died before it could become a laugh—that hollow ache returning like punishment.
This was what he did.
He came with storms and left with silence.
Cracked her open. Softened the parts she’d fought like hell to harden.
Made her forget how to protect herself.
And then he vanished.
Again.
Her chest didn’t break this time. It just… folded.
God, how could she be this fucking stupid.
How many times did he have to do this?
How many times would she let him?
She dragged her hands over her face, pressing until her vision pricked, as if sheer force could cage the grief before it found a way out.
But it did.
It always did.
She swallowed hard against the burn in her throat, ashamed at how deep it went.
Unless—
Her breath caught.
Her gaze flicked to the corner of the room.
What if…
What if he hadn’t been here at all?
What if none of it had happened?
No restraint.
No warmth.
No breath against her hair.
No arms around her in the dark.
What if the one night since he left that she hadn’t felt alone—
—had been nothing but her brain lying to her so she could survive a little longer?
Her heart jolted, sharp and violent, like someone had reached inside her chest and twisted.
Because that—
That hurt worse.
Worse than betrayal—
Worse than abandonment—
Worse than him leaving was the idea that he hadn’t come at all.
That the comfort had been conjured.
That the tenderness had been imagined.
That there wasn’t a version of him who’d stayed, even for a single night.
Heat stung the back of her eyes. Her throat burned.
God.
What kind of pathetic creature grieved harder over losing a dream than losing the real man who ruined her?
She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth, swallowing down a sob that didn’t make it past her chest.
It shouldn’t hurt like this.
It shouldn’t hurt more.
But it did.
Because at least if he’d held her and left… it meant it had existed.
At least then the tenderness had been real before it shattered.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Stupid. Stupid. STOP.
Her breath came sharp. Uneven.
She forced herself upright, hands trembling against the mattress. The room swayed in the quiet after-storm hush, heat still clinging to the air like breath on glass.
She dragged a shaky hand through her hair—
And froze.
There.
On the floor.
A dark shape.
Crumpled. Heavy.
Hem soaked through.
Rain-wet.
His coat.
Her pulse stuttered like the world had shifted under her feet.
It hadn’t been a dream.
He’d been here.
He’d touched her.
He’d held her.
A sound broke the silence.
A soft clink—metal brushing ceramic. And beneath it… the low murmur of a television.
She blinked, heart thudding, suddenly breathless for an entirely different reason.
He was still here.
---
She crept toward the door, barefoot, heart hammering.
Every step felt fragile. Breakable. Like the floor might fall out from beneath her at any second.
Fingers trembling, she turned the knob.
The door gave with a soft creak.
She slipped into the hallway, breath shallow, pulse hammering as she crept toward the living room.
Turned the corner.
And—
There he was.
Sprawled sideways across the couch like it was a throne.
Legs kicked up over the armrest, boots on. Hair still damp from a shower. Shirtless. Just a pair of dark jeans—wrinkled, half-buttoned—as if he’d gotten bored halfway through the act of dressing.
Scars mapped his chest in sharp, unapologetic lines, catching the morning light. One hand dug absently through the Tupperware container of Emma’s leftover muffins. The other cradled a mug, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.
The television played quietly in front of him.
An old cartoon. Black-and-white. A little character with big eyes running in frantic circles while the background looped endlessly.
Alina stood frozen in the doorway.
He didn’t look at her.
He just picked a crumb from his lip, then tilted the muffin container toward her like an offering.
“Blueberry’s decent,” he said around a mouthful. “Banana nut’s kinda shit.”
She said nothing.
Couldn’t.
Her brain short-circuited trying to make it make sense. The storm. The warmth. The solid weight of his chest pressed to her spine. The way he stayed.
And now—this.
The Joker. In her living room. Watching cartoons and eating muffins like it was Saturday fucking morning.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he added after a beat, glancing at her over his shoulder with an infuriating, lazy grin. “You sleep okay?”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Rage bloomed hot behind her ribs.
She stalked forward and clicked off the TV.
He blinked at her. “I was watching that...”
Alina stared at him, vibrating with disbelief.
“You break into my apartment—terrify me—turn my life inside out,“ she said slowly, voice shaking with the sheer absurdity of it. “And now you’re just… eating muffins and watching cartoons?”
He nodded once, solemn. “I like cartoons.”
She stared at him.
For a heartbeat, there weren’t even words—just disbelief and fury flooding her veins in one unbearable rush.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hissed.
“Define wrong,” he said, licking a bit of muffin from his thumb. “In the moral sense, or more of a psychiatric framework?”
She stared.
He stared back.
Then—shrugged.
“I was hungry. Thought you wouldn’t mind.”
Alina’s jaw clenched.
“I’m not talking about the fucking muffins!”
He blinked. Tilted his head. “You’re not?”
“No!” Her voice cracked. “I’m talking about you—being here! Sitting there like nothing ever happened. Like we’re just… like we’re—”
She couldn’t say it.
She didn’t even know what she was trying to say.
He waited.
Patient.
Silent.
Then slowly, almost gently:
“Yeah.” Something flickered across his face— amusement, maybe. Or something darker. “That’s the bit you’re stuck on, huh?”
Silence stretched. He set the mug down with a quiet, deliberate clink.
Then—calm as if discussing the weather—
“Well. You’d better pack a bag.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He rose from the couch like he had all the time in the world. Unbothered. Certain. Dangerous in that quiet, maddening way that made the air feel too thin.
He tossed the muffin container onto the coffee table and stretched—long, slow, unhurried. Muscle rolled beneath pale skin in fluid, powerful lines; not posing—just existing.
Which somehow made it worse.
That maddening calm never left his eyes—like he owned the room.
Like he owned her.
Her gaze dropped—traitorous—to the sharp line of his stomach, where his jeans clung low over his hips.
The stark cut of hip bone.
That arrowed groove disappearing beneath denim—a path she knew too well.
Heat flickered through her as her mind filled in the rest from memory—shamefully, vividly—before she could choke it down.
He smirked.
Fuck. He’d seen her look.
Her heart skipped—
Because he knew.
He stepped toward her.
One slow stride. Then another.
Not touching her.
He didn’t need to. The air between them was already electric.
She hated how her pulse stumbled. How her body reacted like it remembered him better than she wanted to admit.
Then, he leaned in—just enough to make her lungs forget how to work. His voice dropped low.
“Why would you go anywhere with me?” he repeated her question back to her, like a joke.
Then, with that quiet, predatory confidence that made the room feel smaller:
“Because I came back for you.”
A pause. His gaze dipped to her mouth. Then back up to her eyes.
“And you never stopped wanting me to.”
---
His eyes held hers for a beat longer.
Then they dragged down her body—slow, deliberate.
No shame. No hurry.
Like an artist studying a ruined canvas he still found beautiful.
When his gaze returned to hers, something dark flickered there. Not quite a smirk.
Just that same terrifying certainty.
And then—
He turned.
No parting glance.
No explanation.
Just an ending, like her voice had never mattered.
His footsteps receded down the hall, slow and maddeningly calm.
For a stretched, unbearable moment, Alina didn’t move. She only stared at the hollow he left behind, rage and confusion twisting tight inside her… tangled with something she refused to name.
Then she followed.
Bare feet whispering over the floor.
Pulled by fury.
Pulled by gravity.
She reached Emma's bedroom and stopped in doorway.
He was already there—like he belonged.
He stood in front of Emma’s dresser, shrugging lazily into his black shirt as if this were his room and this were his morning. He buttoned it one-handed with obscene ease, the collar left open, that pale line of throat and collarbone unapologetically visible.
Like this wasn’t madness.
Like she wasn’t burning.
Then—Emma’s comb.
He picked it up without pause, without thought.
Drew it through his damp curls in languid, practiced strokes. A tiny frown of concentration tugged at his brow as he smoothed back a rebellious strand. He looked absurdly domestic. Infuriatingly casual.
Violently intrusive.
Like he had a right to touch things here—
A right to anything.
To take breath.
To take space.
To take her.
Her fingers curled into fists.
She stood there in the doorway, still in nothing but her bralette and underwear, pulse hammering, limbs rigid with fury.
He caught her reflection casually in the mirror.
Glanced at her.
Unfazed.
“Better put something on, sweetheart,” he drawled, casual as if he were stating something that had been decided hours ago. “Can’t exactly take you home dressed like that.”
That did it.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
But something deep and buried and exhausted snapped inside her.
She stepped into the room.
Slow
Controlled.
Each step quiet but filled to the brim.
He didn’t move or turn.
Just watched her from the mirror as she stopped behind him, fury simmering in her eyes like heat off asphalt.
“You really must think I’m pathetic,” she said softly.
Calm.
Precise.
The comb paused mid-stroke.
He met her gaze in the mirror again—eyes darker now,
Alert...
Interested.
“Hmm,” he hummed softly, lowering the comb with deliberate slowness, setting it gently back on the dresser.
He turned to face her. No smirk. No mask. Just that quiet, coiled focus that always meant something was coming.
One step.
Then another.
Measured.
Soundless.
Like a man walking toward something he already owned.
Alina's bare shoulders rose and fell with the effort of holding herself together, but she didn’t move. Didn’t back away.
Her spine stayed straight. Chin high.
"You think I’m pathetic,” she repeated—low, but stronger now. “Because I let you come back. Because I let you touch me. Because I didn’t throw you out. Because I—”
Her voice cracked.
She swallowed hard.
“Because every time you rip my life apart and leave me bleeding, I still… I still want—”
She couldn’t finish.
The truth lodged in her throat like glass.
She turned her face away, as if not facing him might undo it. As if silence could cauterize the wound.
But his gaze didn’t waver. She felt it—anchored, merciless.
“And after everything—” she whispered.
She looked up. Met his eyes.
“After you broke me. Aimed a gun at my chest. Told me I was just another game. Threw me away like trash...”
Her hands curled into fists. Her voice grew louder.
“After months of silence. After I had to crawl my way back into something like a life.”
Her brow furrowed. Her tone sharpened.
“After you humiliated me on live TV. Called in like you still had any right to speak to me.”
A breath. Trembling. Controlled.
“And then you show up here. Eat muffins. Watch cartoons. Stand in my best friend’s bedroom, combing your hair like you live here. Like I’m yours. Like you didn’t walk away and let me drown and only came back when it suited you again.”
Her jaw clenched.
“And you honestly—honestly—think I’d just… go with you?”
Her chest rose and fell like she’d run a mile.
He watched her.
Still.
Quiet.
Unbothered.
Like she was weather. Something to stand in. Something that would pass—if he just waited.
Then he did the worst possible thing.
He smiled.
Soft. Confident. Certain.
Like he already knew how this ended.
“Yeah,” he said simply.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Just certainty.
Because in his world, she would come. Because she always had. Because gravity didn’t ask permission—it pulled.
Something broke.
Not like before.
Not collapse. Not sobbing. Not begging.
Something detonated.
Her breath shuddered—
Then she screamed.
“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
Her hand grabbed the nearest thing—Emma’s brush—and she hurled it across the room. It hit the wall, splintered plaster raining.
His brows flicked up, not in fear.
In interest.
She was already moving.
“YOU DON’T GET TO DO THIS!” she shouted, voice cracking open into something raw and feral.
“You don’t get to tear me apart and LEAVE—and then come back and act like none of it mattered—like my feelings mean NOTHING.”
A frame on the dresser went next. Then a candle. Then a pillow she slammed into his chest hard enough that he actually staggered a half-step back.
He didn’t laugh.
Didn’t mock.
Just looked at her.
Like she was fury made flesh.
Like he’d waited his whole goddamn life for this moment—her voice sharp with fire, eyes wild, chest heaving with the weight of her own defiance.
He looked at her like a man seeing God.
And she hated it.
Hated the way his gaze shimmered with awe and something sick and tender. Like her rage was beautiful. Like it turned him on. Like it made her his all over again.
And worse—worse—was the way her pulse kicked under her skin.
The way her spine buzzed with the twisted thrill of being seen like that.
Wanted like that.
Worshipped like that.
Her fists clenched. She wanted to scream. To claw the look off his face.
Because it made her feel powerful—
and powerless—
All at once.
His scars shifted with the faint curl of his mouth, eyes dragging over her like a tide pulling at the shore—like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.
“Jesus doll,” he said. Quiet. Like it was a compliment.
His pupils blew wide, swallowing the color of his eyes.
She stared, breath caught in her chest.
“I love you like this,” he murmured. “When you quit pretending. When you stop being good.”
A breath.
“When it finally breaks through… all that fire you keep bolted down.”
Something inside her recoiled.
Because he wasn’t joking.
He wasn’t trying to be cruel.
He meant it.
“You don’t know what you look like right now,” he whispered. “Shaking. Burning. Ready to tear the world apart.”
He swallowed hard, like he could taste her fury on the air—like it fed him.
“You’re—God—you’re beautiful when you lose control.”
And that was it.
The moment the final thread tore loose.
Her hand moved before she could think.
—without planning, without mercy—
She slapped him hard across his face.
It landed with a sound like splitting wood—raw and final.
His head snapped to the side. His eyes went wide—not angry.
Shocked.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there. Breathing hard. Like the contact had rewired him.
Then—Goddammit—there it was.
That slow, crooked, reverent almost-smile trying to claw its way onto his face.
Admiring her.
Worshipping her.
But she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t regret it.
“You think this is hot?” she hissed.
“You think I'm doing this for you?”
He touched his cheek. That near-smirk hovered there, but faint now. Unsure.
“This isn’t foreplay,” she said. “I’m not awakening for you. I am not coming alive. I’m just trying to fucking breathe—and you—” her voice broke, then sharpened, “you think that’s sexy?”
He stared at her.
The smile finally died, his face went blank.
“I am not your entertainment,” she said.
Something shifted behind his eyes.
Not fear. Not anger.
Maybe shame.
Maybe.
“You think you can just snap your fingers and I'll just follow you like some loyal pet?”
His jaw twitched.
A flicker of expression—maybe regret—but he didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t deny it.
She shook her head, breath leaving her in a tremor she couldn’t mask. God, she was so tired. Tired of bleeding for him. Tired of wanting something that didn’t know how to stay. Tired of feeling like property around him instead of a person.
She stepped closer.
Close enough to see the exact point where his breath caught.
Close enough that if he reached for her, she wasn’t sure she’d survive it.
“Don’t you get it?” she whispered
Her chest rose hard once. Then again. Tears burned and held—suspended—refusing to fall because if they did, she wouldn’t stop.
“I’m not yours anymore,” she said.
It wasn’t a declaration.
It was grief.
A burial.
Something fragile and precious laid down and left to die between them.
Silence.
The room seemed to pause with her, as if even the air understood what it cost to say it—
and then his gaze lowered.
Just for a heartbeat.
Down.
To the place above her hipbone.
Where his mark still lingered.
Her stomach twisted. She braced for it—for the smirk, the cruel retort she knew he was capable of.
If you’re not mine… why is my name still on your skin?
But nothing came.
He didn’t grin.
Didn’t speak.
He just looked at her.
Not amused.
Not Joker.
Just Jack.
And for a suspended, fragile heartbeat…
he looked wrecked.
Jaw tight. Breath unsteady. Like the world had tilted and he hadn’t caught his balance yet.
Then it vanished.
All of it.
The tenderness. The hurt. The crack in the armor.
His face closed. His gaze emptied.
Clean. Efficient.
The way a light goes out.
He stepped forward.
Slow. Controlled.
And when he spoke, it wasn’t a whisper. It was something lower.
Raw. Certain. Unshakable.
“Yes,” he said.
No hesitation. No mercy.
“You are.”
He reached for her wrist.
“Come on—we're going home.”
She yanked away like he’d burned her.
“NO!”
Then she lunged.
Shoved him—hard. So hard he actually stumbled.
He caught himself against the wall.
Stared at her.
Like she was a bomb.
Because she was.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”
They stood there—
Him, like she was the only thing in the world that could hurt him.
Her, like he was the only thing she’d ever wanted to erase from existence.
The air between them crackled.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then—
His expression shifted.
Twisted.
Like this was the moment he realized he might actually lose her.
Like he felt it.
Like he knew he couldn’t stop it.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet—almost desperate.
“You think I don’t know what I’ve done?”
The words scraped out of him, rough and splitting at the edges.
“You think I like this part?”
He took a step forward—but it wasn’t calculated.
It was helpless.
A hand lifted, then dropped.
“I came back for you. I didn’t know what else to do.”
A breath. A tremor. His eyes searched hers like they might offer a way back.
“I came back, Alina. I—fuck. I couldn't stop thinking about you.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
He swallowed hard.
Then murmured—almost to himself:
“You said I broke you.”
He nodded once, slow.
“Fine. Maybe I did.”
His jaw clenched.
“But you broke me too, doll.”
She stared at him.
Her heart didn’t soften.
It splintered.
And then—it ignited.
“No.”
Her voice came low—terribly calm, like something that had burned past screaming and found something colder.
No tremor.
Not fear.
A rage distilled down to something lethal.
“Don’t you dare try to make this romantic.”
“It’s not romantic,” he growled. “It’s a curse. You live in me. You’ve infected me. I came back because not having you was killing me.”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” she whispered.
Soft. Precise. Final.
And somehow the whisper landed worse than shouting.
“Don’t you dare.”
He blinked—stunned, like for a moment he’d glimpsed himself through her eyes and didn’t recognize the thing he saw.
She stepped toward him, fists heavy at her sides.
“You don’t get to come back now,” she snarled.
“You don’t get to crawl into my life again because you were lonely. Because your head got loud. Because your bed felt cold. Because—suddenly—you decided you couldn’t live without me.”
Her hands shook.
Her entire body shook.
Not with fear.
With rage.
With grief.
With power.
He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “Alright, you’re mad—”
“Mad?” She laughed—sharp, breathless, broken.
"You destroyed me in that courtyard, Jack. You told me I was nothing. Pathetic. A joke.”
His eyes flickered—sharp, involuntary—like she’d dragged him straight back there.
“You aimed a gun at me and said it was all fake. That you used me. And I believed it. I still see it when I close my eyes.”
“I was lying Alina...just trying to get you to—”
“No, see, that’s the lie,” she hissed, stepping toward him now. “The lie is that you let me go for me. Like you were doing me some goddamn favor.”
Her voice broke—then came back stronger.
“But it wasn’t mercy, was it?”
He went still.
“It was cowardice.”
He said nothing. Just stood there, like the words had stripped him bare.
“You were going to kill me,” she whispered. “Don’t fucking lie.”
“Alina—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “You aimed that gun at me with full intention. But you couldn’t pull the trigger, not because you cared—but because it would make you feel something.”
He looked away, jaw flexing.
“You couldn’t live with that. With feeling something human for once. So you ran from it. Like a fucking coward.”
“Doll—”
“No. Don’t try to rewrite it. You ran. Like you always do. The minute something cuts deeper than you planned, you vanish.”
She saw it—just once. A glimmer of something ugly and wounded crossing his expression. As if her words had drawn to the surface the very thing he'd tried so hard to drown.
He moved toward her.
She flinched—recoiled. Like the air between them had turned toxic. Like letting him near would split her open all over again.
He stopped mid step. Fists clenched, then flexed—as if he didn’t know whether he needed to hit something or fall apart.
His voice came fast. Unsteady. Like the words had been building in his chest too long and finally broke loose.
“I know I fucked up. Jesus, doll, I know.”
She stared.
He dragged a hand down his face.
Took in a shallow breath.
“You’re right, Alina. I ran. Like a coward. Like a goddamn idiot.”
He laughed—low, bitter. The sound of someone who finally understood the joke was on him.
“I’ve walked through kill zones without breaking a sweat. Rigged cities to blow and slept like a saint. Made mob bosses crawl. Outsmarted Gotham PD at every turn. Vanished from the goddamn world without leaving a shadow...”
He shook his head—slow, disbelieving.
“But you?”
His voice dropped. Rough, low, real.
“You walk into a room and I forget how doors work.”
A pause.
He met her eyes. Held them.
“You make me stupid. You make me—human. And I couldn’t fucking stand it. So I ran.”
He took in a shallow breath.
“I’m not built for this shit, Alina. I don’t do feelings. I don’t do—whatever the hell this is.”
His eyes flicked to hers—naked and ashamed.
“But I came back.”
His voice frayed at the edges.
"And for a guy like me… doll, you gotta know what that means.”
She said nothing.
Her chest tightened. Just barely.
A twitch of breath. A splinter of something old and aching. One awful heartbeat stuttered—warm and stupid, flaring behind her ribs.
But she crushed it.
“You came back because you couldn’t sleep.”
Her gaze pinned him.
“Because the silence got too loud. Because you missed the way I looked at you—like you were something more than the wreck you are.”
He froze.
“And now you want what? Forgiveness? Redemption? Another hit?”
Silence stretched between them—until finally, he said it. Quiet. Unsteady.
Honest in a way that hurt.
“I want you.”
It landed like a wound.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t look at him.
Her lashes fluttered once.
And then—
She felt them.
Tears gathering. Slow. Treacherous. Her body breaking ranks without permission.
He stepped forward.
She flinched.
He stopped.
“I hate that I need you,” he said quietly. “But I do.”
She turned her face slightly away, swallowing hard.
It hurt. Because he meant it. Because she’d wanted him to mean it.
And because it didn’t matter anymore.
When her voice finally came, it was threadbare.
“So what happens now?”
No fire. No fight left.
“You put me back in your bed?”
Her eyes lifted to his. Tired. Hollow.
“On a leash this time?”
He flinched.
His jaw tensed. Something flickered in his gaze—shame, hunger, grief.
Then, quiet. Ragged.
“No leash.”
A pause.
“Unless you wanted one.”
His voice shook—just a little.
“I wouldn’t touch you unless you asked me to.”
Another breath. Almost a whisper now.
“But God, Alina… I’d wait forever, hoping you would.”
Her vision blurred, not from the tears—but from the sudden, brutal weight of it.
Like the floor had shifted beneath her.
Like his voice had cracked something loose she’d barely kept buried.
He looked at her then—really looked—and something broke in his eyes.
“I don’t want your fear, Alina. Not anymore.”
A beat. Shame flickered.
“I just want… you. However you’ll let me.”
And that was it.
The moment the wall gave out—and everything inside her surged to meet it.
Tears spilled—hot, unwanted—cutting down her cheeks like salt in an open wound.
But they didn’t drown her.
They lit the fuse.
Grief and fury collided—violent, blinding—fusing beneath her ribs until her chest felt like it might split.
Because how dare he say it like that.
Like he was the wounded one.
Like she held the power now.
Like he hadn’t already torn her open and called it devotion.
Her breath hitched—but not from tenderness.
Not from hope.
She shook her head, once. Slow.
Because where had this been?
Where had it been when she was on her knees in the dark, begging for scraps of warmth?
Where had it been when she would’ve followed him into fire?
Her voice broke through the quiet.
Low. Furious.
“You don’t get to destroy my life and then make me comfort you about it.”
And his look—God, his look—he knew it. Knew he’d crossed every line that mattered.
But still, he dared.
“Doll, I didn’t come for comfort—I came because—” He faltered. “Fuck—I thought... maybe I could fix it. Us. Start over. No games this time. Just—"
“SHUT UP!”
She snatched his coat from the floor and shoved it into his chest.
He didn’t move.
She slammed it into him again, harder this time, until he finally caught it—like reflex more than will.
Her face was soaked. Not the kind of crying that begged for comfort.
The kind that warned you not to touch.
“You don’t get to be here,” she said, each word a fracture.
“Not in this apartment. Not in my bed. Not in my FUCKING LIFE—Not after what you did in that courtyard.”
He swallowed.
She stepped closer.
Deadly calm now.
“And I swear to God, Jack—If you try to stay—If you try to laugh it off—If you try to reduce this to some kind of game again—”
Her voice dropped to a knife.
“I will make you bleed.”
Silence followed—thick, absolute.
Wind rattled the old windows. A siren screamed somewhere far away. The world seemed to tilt toward them and wait.
Something dark flickered in his eyes—instinct, raw and violent and achingly familiar.
The kind that grabbed.
That pinned.
That took what it wanted and dealt with the fallout later.
His hand twitched at his side—then stilled, fingers curling into a fist like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for her.
She felt it in the air—like a wire tightening.
He could force this. He’d done worse. He’d taken more.
For one awful, charged heartbeat, she truly believed he would.
Then she watched it hit him.
Watched something raw and jagged flare across his face—then burn out.
He exhaled slowly.
Painfully.
Like a man setting down a loaded gun aimed straight at his own heart.
“Dammit,” he muttered, low and rough—not amused, not mocking. Just lost.
He looked down at the floor between them, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. When he lifted his gaze again, there was no Joker in it.
Just Jack.
Bare. Exposed.
He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff he’d never planned to fall from—only now realizing he already had.
Then something in his face shifted.
Acceptance.
Maybe respect.
Definitely pain.
He exhaled again—slow, steady—like folding a blade back into its sheath.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”
He shrugged into his coat with movements that were too careful—like he didn’t trust his own body not to betray him. Adjusted the collar like it was armor.
He didn’t touch her.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t play the clown.
He just looked at her—soft, devastated.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “you’re right. You should hate me.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
Stopped once—hand braced against the frame, knuckles white.
He didn’t look back.
“You’re not pathetic, Alina,” he said.
“You never were.”
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Silence swallowed everything.
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N:
Oooof. I’m so sorry for offering hope and then ripping it away so ruthlessly—but I couldn’t live with myself unless I gave Alina the space to finally put this man in his place!
This was her Jane leaving Rochester moment—the “I love you, but I won’t erase myself for you“ reckoning. And wow, did some of those lines hurt to write.
Our man is so catastrophically down bad and still utterly incapable of saying “I love you” like a functional human being. Not that it would save him right now anyway—he torched that possibility the day he pointed a gun at her and told her all those cruel lies. Sir really said “let me emotionally self-sabotage in the most unforgivable way possible.” What a stupid, emotionally constipated wreck of a man...😑
As for where this goes next—I do have several scenes planned and a loose concept of the ending, but I’m very much flying by feel at the moment. I’m just as excited (and maybe a little terrified) as you are to see how I manage to pull this all together 😅
I'll also be fully honest and say this is actively driving me a little insane. I want them, back together desperately, but my need for everything to be psychologically honest will always come first. After everything Alina’s been through, she deserves growth. She deserves agency. She deserves to choose him, not collapse back into him.
And that restraint is currently my personal hell. 😭
Thank you all so much for the incredible comments on the last chapter! It genuinely means everything that you love these two as much as I do 🥹 I’m so glad you’re here with me on this feral, emotionally ruinous ride 🤗💜💚🖤
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
A/N:
⚠️ Opening note:
I’m honestly terrified this chapter is boring. It’s quiet. It’s slow. It’s just her, and the air, and the ache—and a lot of weather.
But rest assured… by the end, something happens. Something very big.
This is also the chapter I broke myself writing. So I really, really hope it hits the way it’s meant to 🙏
If you make it to the end—thank you.
If you feel anything—thank you.
I am, as always, hanging on by a thread and whispering into the void.
Okay. Deep breath. Here we go 💜
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 38: Heat Lightning
She woke tangled.
One arm beneath her pillow, the other curled to her chest. The pillow was damp. Sweat clung to her skin in a light sheen, and the air—God, the air—felt thick. Oppressive. Like something waiting.
Alina blinked slowly. Somewhere far off, a car honked. Closer, a pipe clicked in the wall, expanding with the strain of summer heat in early spring.
She rolled onto her back with a low groan, pressing her hand to her eyes.
Last night's dreams were already slipping away—just smudges of velvet and the weight of something she couldn’t hold. But the feeling remained.
That ache behind her breastbone. That hollow throb of grief and longing, indistinguishable from one another in the murky air.
She didn’t know what she’d dreamed—only that whatever it was had meant something.
And now it was gone.
She sat up slowly, rubbing the crick in her neck, skin prickling with sweat. The heatwave had somehow worsened overnight. Her room, windowless and airless, felt like a sealed box.
She opened the door. Warmth greeted her—heavy, but lighter than her room. The hallway was dim, only the pale wash of daylight spilling in from the living room windows.
The television murmured in the distance. She drifted toward it, drawn by the familiar rhythm of anchor voices.
When she rounded the corner, the studio lights of last night’s broadcast lit up the screen—rewind footage, familiar graphics, the looping headline: JOKER CALLS LIVE—TERROR RETURNS?
Emma scrambled for the remote.
Click. Silence.
The room felt louder in its absence.
Emma winced, guilt already in her eyes. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t think you were up.”
Alina just stood there, the nausea rising slow and familiar. That cold twist in her stomach, her throat, her ribs.
“It’s fine,” she lied.
But Emma didn’t turn it back on. She left the remote on the cushion beside her like it had bitten her.
“I made muffins,” she offered instead, softer now. “Blueberry, and banana walnut. Want one?”
Alina picked one up from the counter. Still warm. Still soft. She took a bite, but the taste didn’t register.
“Is it really noon already?”
Emma smiled gently. “You were out cold. Probably needed it.”
Alina nodded, swallowing crumbs that felt like sand.
A quiet settled. Gentle. Companionable.
And then:
“I can help you pack, if you want,” Alina said. “Your train leaves at four-thirty, right?”
Emma froze mid-sip of her tea. Then she set the mug down too carefully.
“I’m not going.”
Alina blinked. “What?”
“There’s no way I’m leaving you after what happened yesterday.”
Alina stared at her.
“Emma—”
“No. That’s final." Emma's voice sharpened. "You were ambushed on live television. He called you! You think I’m just gonna hop on a train and go cuddle a newborn while you deal with this alone?”
Alina felt it hit—that rising pressure behind her ribs, the kind that steals your breath before it breaks you.
Alina didn’t mean for her voice to shake—but it did.
“That’s… that’s why I did it. The interview. The money—it’s for you, Em. For the train. So Eddie would back off and you wouldn’t have to—”
She stopped, jaw tightening.
“Please don’t make me feel like I shouldn’t have done it.”
Emma opened her mouth, but Alina was already moving.
“I got the advance. Early payout.” She disappeared into her room, returned with a folded stack of bills—small, but enough—and held it out.
“This should cover your ticket. Food. A gift for the baby—whatever. Please... Just go.”
Emma looked down at the money. Then back at Alina.
“You went on that show… for me?”
Alina gave a small nod.
Emma blinked, stunned. “But—I told you not to do it. I begged you not to go on.”
“I know,” Alina said softly. “But you needed help.”
Emma’s eyes filled instantly, her voice breaking. “I can’t take that,” Emma said, “Not if it came at that cost.”
Alina’s expression didn’t change. She just stood there, steady, holding out the money.
“You have to,” Alina said. “Otherwise it meant nothing.”
And the fire Emma always carried… flickered, then cracked.
“I don’t want to leave you,” she said quietly.
“I know,” Alina said. “But you have to.”
Emma stared at her, eyes glassy. “Why?”
Alina exhaled, and for once, the truth came easily.
“Because you’re the only good thing left that he hasn’t touched.”
Something raw crossed Emma’s face—grief, helplessness.
Her mouth parted, like she might say something. Anything. Then closed again.
Alina’s expression didn’t budge.
“You worked so hard for this time off. You’ve waited so long to meet her.” She hesitated—then finished quietly, “…please don’t miss something beautiful because of me.”
Emma flinched like the words hit a bruise. Her face crumpled—small, involuntary. She looked down, then back up again, swallowing hard.
Finally—after a long, unbearable pause—Emma exhaled. Shaky. Slow. Like it hurt to let go.
“Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll go.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to something fierce and trembling.
“But you have to promise me something. If anything even feels off—even for a second—you call Gordon. Immediately. No waiting. No ‘maybe it’s nothing.’ You call him. Do you hear me?”
Alina nodded. “I will.”
It wasn’t loud, but it was steady enough that Emma let out a breath.
Then, she pulled Alina into a hug—tight, sudden, full of the kind of fear she rarely voiced aloud.
Alina didn’t move at first. But when she finally returned the embrace, she felt the faintest tremor in Emma’s body… and the warm, damp press of tears against her skin.
Emma drew back gently, thumb brushing the corner of her eyes before she pretended nothing had happened.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll… start packing.”
She tried for a smile. It wobbled.
“And hey—eat another muffin, okay? They’re better warm.”
Then she turned down the hallway before the tears could spill over, leaving Alina alone in the sweltering living room, the air thick and unmoving around her.
The quiet closed in again.
And somewhere far off, thunder murmured.
---
Hours later, Alina stood alone in the small apartment.
It felt even more suffocating without Emma in it.
It wasn’t just the silence. It was the lack of tether, of someone else’s gravity keeping her rooted.
Alina considered leaving—just to get some air. A change of scenery. The press had thinned since the interview; just a few idling cars now, a rare flashbulb like a dying insect. Maybe she could walk around the block. Maybe she could remember how to feel like a person.
She dressed like she might.
A sundress, soft and loose. Her hair swept into a bun. A shaky hand dragged eyeliner across her lids, followed by mascara. It helped. A little. Enough to trick herself into thinking she was okay.
She stood at the door with her fingers wrapped around the knob.
Just turn it.
But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
She’d only left the apartment once since the night he'd let her go. And that had been in a car from Kip's production team—with a driver—picked up and dropped off like a fragile package.
The thought of stepping outside—of seeing a neighbor, a stranger, or God forbid, someone she knew—made her feel like her pulse might shatter her skin.
Like her throat might collapse in on itself.
She let go of the knob.
She tried to busy herself. Mundane things. Ordinary things—
She watered Emma’s plants. Cleaned the dishes. Put away the leftover muffins Emma hadn’t taken for Joel and Becky.
It was so damn hot.
Sweat prickled her back and made the sundress stick to her spine. The tendrils that had escaped from her bun felt like a noose at the base of her neck.
She prayed it would just rain already.
When there was nothing left to do, she stood at the kitchen counter and stared at the chipped backsplash tiles—old green-and-ivory porcelain. Art deco, 1920's maybe. Probably original to the building.
She wondered what it looked like back then.
What the city sounded like. What kind of woman stood in this kitchen, hands on this same counter, breath caught in this same air.
Was she happy? Was she safe?
Did she keep secrets in silence too?
Alina shook herself hard. Like a dog shedding water.
Enough.
She turned toward her room.
There was a box in the corner she had never opened. A time capsule from a different life, carried here by Emma like a wound in storage.
She sat on the edge of the bed and opened it—a battered watercolor set. A pad of heavy paper, pens worn to nubs, and rusted tubes of gouache.
She brought it all to the breakfast nook—wobbly chairs, old table stained with Emma’s tea rings. Filled a chipped mug with water. Sat down.
Stared at the paper.
For a long moment, she didn’t move.
And then something in her cracked open—silent and inevitable.
Her hand moved. Brush to paint. Paint to page.
She didn’t think. She didn’t see—not in the way she used to. She just bled. Quiet and fast and shaking.
When she looked up, the sun was gone.
The apartment glowed blue with the last light of dusk. The air was thick and swollen, the humidity high enough to blur the edges of the room.
Three sheets lay in front of her.
Three faces stared back.
The first was all red—raw, slashed, a mouth caught between a scream and a prayer. Blood that bloomed and bloomed but never dried.
The second—bruised purple. Shadows gouged beneath the cheekbones. Dark circles under darker eyes. Fingers pressed into the throat—not in clear form, but in shape, in suggestion.
The third—cold blue. Hollow. Watching. The eyes too black to read. The jaw sharp enough to cut. The silhouette more suggestion than substance.
But she knew that face.
God help her, she knew it.
Her stomach turned.
The paint was still wet. She watched a bead of sweat drip from her temple, roll down her wrist, and fall onto the paper—mixing with the still-drying blue, distorting the pupil, making the face blur and weep.
The effect was worse. More haunted. More human.
A breath escaped her chest without permission.
Goya. Bosch. Munch.
They came to her mind, uninvited. Painters of nightmares. Of holy terrors. Of silent screams buried beneath the skin.
What was happening to her?
Outside, thunder rolled—low, long, and close.
She looked up. The kitchen light flickered.
And for just one second—
It felt like she wasn’t alone.
—
She stood very still, eyes scanning the apartment.
The flicker passed. The hum of the refrigerator resumed. Nothing moved. But the air had changed—just slightly. As if someone had breathed in behind her.
She pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead, trying to will the sensation away.
Heat did strange things. Loneliness did stranger.
Another rumble shuddered through the sky.
---
She needed water.
A reset.
A shock.
Something.
She moved fast.
Down the hall. Into the bathroom. Flicked on the light—it buzzed, dimmed, steadied.
Her mother’s voice surfaced without warning, old and gentle and superstitious:
“Never shower during a thunderstorm, honey. You could be electrocuted.”
Another rumble answered her before she could shove the memory away.
She turned the dial anyway.
Lukewarm water sputtered to life, fogging the mirror in patches. She stepped, scrubbing fast—like she was washing something off, not away.
Sweat and paint and dread swirled down the drain in weak spirals.
The water should’ve felt like relief. It didn’t. Every distant growl of thunder knotted her stomach tighter.
She shut off the shower before it warmed. Toweled off fast.
Cotton clung to her damp skin as she dressed—a mauve bralette, soft and familiar, and white panties with the tiny blue flowers pressing coolly against her hips.
She clipped her wet hair up, stray drops sliding down her shoulders in the thick air, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
---
The apartment was too quiet.
She couldn’t name it, but something had shifted. In the air. In her blood. As if the world itself were leaning closer.
Alina opened the fridge. Ate cold pasta salad straight from the container. Tore off a piece of bread.
She ate standing up, the door ajar, cool air brushing her knees.
One last bite.
Then, she shut the door. Drifted to the living room.
Her hand hesitated over the remote.
House rule: no news.
But Emma wasn’t home. Emma was on a train, headed away from all of this.
Away from the danger.
Alina pressed the button.
The news flickered on.
“Storm of the century expected to break sometime around midnight…”
A round, harmless-looking weatherman gestured enthusiastically at thermal maps and swirling radar animations.
“More updates at the top of the hour as the front moves in.”
Then the shift.
Batman. Mafia bust. Sirens.
The usual storm of Gotham’s chaos.
She watched without really watching, her mind already drifting.
Where there was Batman, there was usually—
“…still no word from the Joker since last night’s unexpected live call—”
A freeze-frame appeared. Her face. Kip’s. The studio lights frozen mid-glare.
Her stomach shot upward.
Her thumb snapped down.
CLICK.
Next channel.
An infomercial for The Incredible Indestructible Knife! “Cuts anything! Never dulls!”
CLICK.
Two figures in period clothing filled the screen—wind-tossed, wild-eyed. The moors stretched behind them, bleak and endless.
Wuthering Heights. The 1970 version.
Of course it was.
Cathy’s voice filled the room—breathless, frantic. Heathcliff’s followed, low and furious, the two of them circling each other like storm fronts ready to collide. Every line was soaked in longing and bitterness and that terrible, impossible need to be understood by the one person capable of destroying you.
Alina didn’t move.
Heathcliff’s anger broke first. He grabbed her. Cathy shoved him back. They clung and fought and tore at each other in the same breath.
When he dragged her into the mud and smeared it across her face—Alina’s breath caught.
A claim.
A wound.
A kiss sharpened by fury.
Cathy gasped into him like she couldn’t tell which one of them was hurting.
Alina felt something hot twist low in her chest.
She watched every second. Forced herself to.
The way Cathy’s hands fisted in Heathcliff’s clothes, the way he held her like he wanted to crush her against him—love indistinguishable from violence; that deep, feral recognition:
If I am ruined, it is because of you.
If I am alive, it is also because of you.
Her head throbbed. A slow, pulsing ache behind her eyes.
But—no tears.
The film moved on.
The separation.
The sickness.
The madness of grief that dragged Heathcliff half-feral across the years.
It shouldn’t have hurt this much to watch—
shouldn’t have felt this familiar.
When Cathy’s ghost returned—white, barefoot, wild-haired, beckoning through the moor’s fog—Alina’s chest constricted. The wind on-screen screamed across the heather; the score swelled, haunting and mournful—
Heathcliff followed her into death like it was the only place he had ever meant to go.
Two figures alone on the moors.
Two shadows finally converging.
The music was devestating.
Alina's fingers curled against her chest on instinct. Something inside her wanted to crack open—like her ribs were pushing outward, trying to let the ache escape.
But nothing broke.
Her eyes burned.
Her throat drew tight.
Every breath hurt.
And still—no tears.
Just pressure.
And heat.
And that terrible, hollow pain in her chest that felt like longing wearing the mask of grief.
The credits rolled.
The music faded.
She sat in the silent blue glow of the television, pulse hammering behind her eyes.
Outside, the storm held its breath.
And somewhere deep in her bones, she felt it—
When it finally broke, it wouldn't be the sky that split first.
It would be her.
---
She turned off the TV.
The apartment felt too quiet afterward—the buzz of static still ringing in her ears. She stood there for a moment, heavy-limbed, then did what she always did when her thoughts wouldn’t slow.
She checked everything.
Door. Lock. Deadbolt. Chain. Then again.
The windows next—Emma’s makeshift security system, strips of scrap wood wedged tight like a prayer. Nothing moved. Nothing ever did.
Still, her hands were shaking.
She brushed her teeth, stared at her reflection without seeing it, then stepped into the darkened hall.
She couldn’t sleep in her room tonight.
Too hot. Too dark. Too closed in.
Emma had told her to use her room if it got bad. More airflow, she’d said.
So she crossed the hall and slipped into Emma’s room—lavender, fabric softener, a kind of safety her own room never quite managed.
She dragged the box fan from the corner, set it on the dresser, and clicked it on high before crawling into bed without turning on the light.
Her skin stuck to the sheets. The pillow was already warm. Above her, the ceiling fan creaked softly with each slow rotation.
She lay on her back, eyes wide open.
Don’t think about Cathy and Heathcliff.
Don’t think about Jack.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the thoughts kept clawing at the inside of her skull.
What a joke.
What a sick, twisted joke.
Heat crept along her neck, her thighs, her spine. She turned, kicked the covers away, pulled them back again.
Still no rain.
The pressure didn’t lift. It settled.
Eventually, her body gave out before her mind, the edges of her thoughts softening until she slipped under.
---
She was on the moors.
The sky was gray—its edges bleeding violet—and the air felt unnaturally still, as if the wind itself were holding its breath.
The scent of heather drifted around her, sweet and ancient. Long grass brushed her shins as she walked, wildflowers opening and closing in soft pulses, reacting to her presence like they knew her name.
The ground beneath her feet felt strange. Soft. Almost freshly turned, as though something had been dug up—
Or buried.
There was no sound. Only that impossible, suspended stillness—the kind that exists in the second before something monumental breaks.
She looked ahead.
A lone figure stood in the distance.
Black trench coat. Long, dark-blond curls stirring in a wind that did not exist.
Just a silhouette at first—unmoving, unreal.
She walked toward him. The grass tickled her ankles; the flowers leaned toward her and folded shut behind her, sealing the path.
The closer she drew, the more the shape sharpened.
Jack.
Not the painted monster.
Not the nightmare that had haunted her.
Just Jack.
She knew the shape of him instantly—the way a body knows its shadow. The slope of his broad shoulders, the tilt of his head, the tension in his stillness.
He didn’t move.
He simply waited.
She stepped forward.
The sky pulsed red behind him, turning his outline dark and bright at once. His coat clung to his frame like it had been soaked—heavy at the hem, dragging with some unseen weight.
Her throat tightened.
His scars—
They were gone.
His cheeks, his mouth, his jawline—smooth. As if nothing had ever been carved into him. As if the world had never dared to wound him.
But something glistened there instead.
Red.
Thin streaks of it along his skin where the scars once lived. As if the memory of the cuts had risen to the surface—not healed, not hidden, but bleeding through the dream.
Suddenly, a flash split the sky—white, searing, absolute.
It swallowed the moors whole.
Blinded her.
Burned the world down to a single color.
No thunder followed—
No sound at all.
Just the electric hush of heat lightning, gathering its breath before the break.
Her vision reeled. For a second she was nowhere—or everywhere—
Then the darkness rushed back in.
And he was right in front of her.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to breathe the same cold-thin air.
Close enough that she could see the shine in his eyes.
Except—
They weren’t brown.
They were black.
The same dark shade as the sky—storm-heavy, endless—but still impossibly warm when they landed on her. Haunted, yes. But relieved too.
Like he'd been searching for her in every shadow, every night, every breath.
“You look far from home,” he said softly.
“I think I’m lost,” she answered.
His expression shifted—a shadow moving beneath the surface, a flicker of hurt he didn’t bother to hide.
“Lost,” he repeated, almost gently. “That’s how I found you.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but something warm slid down her wrist—a slow trickle.
She looked down.
Her palm was covered.
Her forearm.
Red. Thick. Warm.
Not paint.
Not this time.
It clung to her pulse, slid between her fingers, dripped slow and heavy down her arm. It made a soft sound when it hit the grass—like petals falling.
She stared as it soaked into the earth.
No fear.
No pain.
Only a strange, inevitable calm.
When she lifted her gaze, he was closer.
Close enough she could have reached him. Close enough his heat brushed her skin.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“I missed you,” he murmured.
Her brow knit, a trembling flutter rising in her chest—grief and anger and relief braided together until she couldn’t separate them.
“Why did you leave me?” she whispered.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
He caught it with rough fingertips. His touch so gentle it hurt.
“I couldn’t keep you,” he said, voice low, thick with a grief that felt ocean-deep—wide enough to drown her.
Her throat closed.
The air thickened around them, tightening like invisible hands.
Another flash split the sky—white, silent. And when darkness slid back in, his hand was at her spine.
She swayed toward him without meaning to.
He was gravity.
And she was so tired of pretending she wasn’t falling.
“Everything hurts when you’re gone,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. “Even the silence.”
His forehead rested against hers.
His hands slid up her back, curling into her damp hair like he’d been waiting a lifetime to touch her again.
Alina's heart felt like it might split open—spill every terrible, tender thing she’d been holding into the soil beneath them.
Her hand lifted before she realized she was moving.
She touched his cheek—lightly, desperately—fingertips grazing the red lines where his scars should have been.
The color smeared beneath her touch.
Warm.
Soft.
Bleeding across her palm like something alive.
He closed his eyes, as if the contact undid him.
“You’re not real,” she breathed.
“Neither are you,” he whispered into her hair, pulling her closer still.
His lips found the place beneath her ear—slow, lingering, right at the quiet place beneath her jaw where her pulse lived.
Warmth bloomed there.
Sticky.
Spreading.
Then she felt it—something tugging at her feet.
Soft at first.
Then heavier.
The ground turning to warm tar.
Or blood.
Drawing her down inch by inch.
But she didn’t care.
Not with his hands in her hair.
Not with his breath on her throat.
Not with the sky trembling, waiting to break.
“Don’t wake up yet,” he whispered.
Then the sky split open.
A flash of white—
And water struck her skin so fast it felt like fire.
Searing. Cleansing. Real.
She gasped—
And everything went dark.
---
She woke with a sharp inhale—choking on heat.
Above her, the fan wheezed. Blades turning slow, useless in the airless dark.
But most disorienting of all—rain slammed the roof in frantic, gasping torrents.
Finally.
Violently.
Lightning cracked across the ceiling.
A glimpse of movement in the mirror—
Her silhouette. Or something else.
Then thunder. Immediate. Brutal.
The kind that makes your teeth ache.
Her pillow was damp.
Not sweat.
She touched her cheek. Slow. Disbelieving.
Tears.
She hadn’t even noticed them fall.
A breath shuddered out of her as she wiped her face and rolled onto her side—
—and froze.
Something was off.
Not just the storm. Not the pillow. Not the ache still blooming in her chest.
The air.
It felt different.
Not just hot—disturbed.
Her skin prickled. Every fine hair on her arms stood upright.
She sat up slowly, heart thudding now in time with the rain, a rhythm too fast, too loud.
Her eyes searched the room.
Nothing.
Only the hush of shadows. The fan turning in slow, drowsy loops. The curtains—white and weightless—spilling from the tall, old windows like restless phantoms.
They breathed with the wind. Touched the floor like fingertips reaching.
The scent of rain curled inward. And something else.
Ash? Smoke?
A sudden bolt of lightning lit the room in a stark, colorless flare:
The dresser.
The armchair.
The door—still closed.
Then darkness, all at once.
But heavier now. Denser.
As if the air itself had thickened—
As if something had been disturbed.
Something that did not wish to be seen.
She held her breath.
Thunder cracked the silence wide open, so close it felt like the walls themselves recoiled.
She flinched.
Then—
Another bolt of lightning.
Brief and brutal.
And for a single, searing heartbeat—
She saw it.
Not a memory. Not a shadow.
A figure.
A presence.
Rooted in the corner like it had always been there.
Still.
Unblinking.
Watching her.
Her pulse jumped to her throat.
But she didn’t scream.
Didn’t blink.
Just sat frozen—lungs locked tight, gaze welded to the silhouette that should not exist.
Her mind rushed in with the only mercy it could manage:
This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Still dreaming.
But dreams shimmer at the edges. They ripple. Shift...
This thing did none of that. Didn’t so much as sway with the storm winds battering the windows.
It stood like a fact.
Unwavering.
Undeniable.
Another flash of lightning lit the room—
Just for a moment. Just enough to see—
Eyes.
Dark and endless, fixed on her with a stillness that stopped her heart.
Not brown. Not glinting.
Black.
Consuming.
As if the storm itself had taken shape—and chosen her.
Her breath left her in a jagged sound, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.
No, this isn't real.
It’s not—it can’t be—
A flash split the room—white, vicious.
And when the light vanished—
The shadow in the corner was gone.
Her stomach dropped. Something inside her went utterly still—like prey recognizing the thing in the dark that had always been coming.
Another flash.
And then—
He was there.
At the foot of her bed.
As if the dark itself had exhaled and placed him before her.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe—
Wished she could scream, speak—do something.
But something deeper had already surrendered.
Something primal. Cellular.
Because her body remembered what her mind refused:
The sharp cut of his jaw.
The wet strands of dark blond hair clinging to his face.
The absence of paint. Of mask. Of myth.
Just Jack.
Raw. Real. Impossible.
Beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful—right before it destroys everything you thought was solid.
He wore the same trench coat he’d had on the night he’d made her leave. Rain-soaked. Heavy. Clinging to him like a memory that refused to dry. Water slipped from the hem in slow, patient rivulets.
Underneath, his shirt was half-unbuttoned, plastered to his chest—every breath outlined in soaked cotton, every shadow of muscle visible.
He looked like he’d walked straight out of a fever dream—
Like he hadn't slept in years.
Like he'd torn himself apart just to get to her.
His knuckles were red—scraped raw. His jaw, dark with unshaved stubble.
The way he stood—tilted, uneven—like something inside him had cracked and never healed right.
And still—still—that gaze never wavered.
Deep. Dark. Alive with something old and aching.
She felt it drag like silk down her spine—a shiver beneath her skin, low and deep and helpless.
Her soul stuttered.
Her breath caught.
A hundred nights came crashing in—every moment she’d ached for him, hated him, needed him—
And now? He was here. At the foot of her bed.
Real. Rain-drenched. Watching her breathe.
Blood roared in her ears; her vision tunneled, the room collapsing to a single point—him.
“…You’re not real.” She whispered—thin, raspy, terrified to believe.
The wind screamed through the windows.
Something cracked outside—wood, or thunder, or bone.
And then—his voice.
Low. Soft. Almost gentle.
“Aren’t I?”
Her heart misfired.
Her lungs forgot what they were for.
He took a step forward.
Not rushed. Not threatening.
Just closing the distance he’d already claimed.
The storm outside broke fully then—wind surging through the cracks of the windows, the curtains lifting and falling like something answering.
Alina couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Every instinct in her body screamed two things at once:
Run
And
Don’t you dare move.
He reached the side of the bed and stopped.
Like he was giving her a choice.
Like he’d let her shove him back into the dark if she wanted to.
But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
His eyes moved over her—slow, intent—like a man relearning the shape of something he thought the world had taken from him.
The damp hair clinging to her throat.
The faint shake in her fingers she couldn’t hide.
The way her breath betrayed her when his gaze dipped—and stayed there, low.
She felt the exact second it went too far.
His jaw tightened.
His throat worked—once, then again—rough, unhidden.
But he didn’t look away.
He stared.
Like he was memorizing the damage.
Like he was counting how many seconds he could allow himself before he broke.
When he finally dragged his eyes back up, it looked like it hurt.
Like pulling away cost him.
Outside, the pressure finally gave.
The heat surrendered.
Cool air slipped through the rattling panes, skimming her bare skin—her throat, her collarbone, the soft rise of her ribs—following the path his eyes had already taken.
And suddenly she felt everything.
The silence.
The tension wound tight between them.
Her own body—achingly aware of itself.
She was barely dressed. A thin bra. Cotton underwear damp from heat, clinging in ways she couldn’t pretend not to feel.
He had seen her like this before—so many times.
Touched her like this.
Taken her like this.
But now—God, now—it felt different.
More naked than naked.
As if time had unraveled—rewound—and he was seeing her again for the very first time.
Her breath hitched.
She pulled the blankets to her chest and retreated until the headboard met her spine—cold and unforgiving.
He didn’t follow.
Didn’t move.
A muscle jumped in his jaw—just for a second.
His fingers curled, then released—like he’d remembered something important.
Restraint.
He stayed where he was.
Watching.
As if he’d expected this.
As if he knew he was the ghost in the doorway, the storm in her bed.
And still—he stayed.
Like a man willing to be damned, if it meant he could look at her one second longer.
The fan groaned above them. The storm screamed outside.
Then—
he moved.
A single step closer.
Then another.
And slowly—
like he was afraid to break something—
He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she felt him.
His heat.
His presence.
His breath in the air.
Her body didn’t know which way to run. Toward him. Or away.
So it froze.
He leaned forward—just enough for his coat to ghost across the sheets.
Just enough for her to see it:
Hunger flashing through his eyes before he locked it down.
That look reached inside her before she could brace—heart racing, warmth pooling low, her thighs tightening in answer—a response that made her stomach turn with fury at herself.
Then— his hand moved.
Slow. Intentional.
Not demanding. Not rushed.
Like a question without words.
He reached for the edge of the blanket pooled at her legs—and took it between his fingers.
The fabric shifted.
And barely—just barely—
His fingers brushed beneath it.
Skin to skin. Just the faintest graze against the side of her thigh.
A whisper of contact—
But it struck like lightning.
Her body went still, breath shallow. Dizzy with how little it took.
That hand—those fingers—had once known every inch of her.
Had dragged moans from her throat, clawed truth from her hips.
But now, this sliver of contact felt cataclysmic.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears—and outside, the sky answered.
His fingers tightened on the blanket, flexed once against her thigh—then stilled.
Not hard. But enough. Enough to say don’t move. Enough to say I remember you. Enough to make her breath catch like it used to, right before he made her beg.
And in that single, patient squeeze, every lie she’d told herself about being over him shattered in her bloodstream.
His eyes lifted to hers.
Dark. Steady. Unblinking.
Like a hand around her throat.
Every nerve in her body caught fire.
There it was.
That gravity.
That sick, holy pull she had prayed she’d outgrow.
And then—
He spoke.
Low. Steady. Like gravel soaked in honey.
“You really thought I’d let you go, doll?”
—
She stared back at him, speechless. Her hands clutched the blanket tighter to her chest like armor—but it didn't matter.
The part of her that still belonged to him had already answered.
Heat curled low. Her thighs pressed tight. Her breath forgot how to lie.
And she knew, with a terrible clarity—
She'd never been free.
Just waiting.
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N:
Oh friends 😩
I am SO SORRY this took as long as it did, but I absolutely completely lost my mind over this chapter. I stared at it. I rewrote it. I doubted every sentence. I walked away. Came back. Screamed internally. Screamed externally. Had a crisis. Dramatically declared I could never write again. Then crawled back, rewrote it again, stared at walls, whispered to ghosts, questioned my existence, and THEN finally hit post.
This chapter needed to feel monumental and my brain said “okay but what if we ruined your life in the process?” 😌
And to everyone who left comments on the last chapter: YOU LITERALLY KEPT THIS FIC Alive. Thank you, thank you, THANK You!!! You have no idea how much they meant to me. Just knowing that this story is resonating with actual human beings out there in the world?? What is life 🥹. You are keeping this cursed little fic alive with your kindness and enthusiasm.
Now listen to me very carefully:
I AM SO EXCITED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER I COULD SCREAM INTO A PILLOW.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, coarse language, mentions of suicide.
SCARS
"We knew he was going to kill the woman!”
Her dad had hushed his tone, but Hazel’s childhood ears were sharp, piqued by the unusual angst in her father’s tone. She hung fearfully on each word from where she listened in her bedroom.
"If victims don’t play along with his demands he doesn’t help them.” Her dad continued. “If you had seen the sight of her - black and blue. And the boy who called it in... he was just Hazel’s age. He put his faith in GCPD and we let him down in the worst way possible.”
“That’s enough.” Her mother’s voice was stoney, final. “Why would anyone believe you? What happens if you report the so-called corruption and they don’t believe you? If that happens, you lose your job. Police in this city - they don’t go easy on whistle blowers. Besides, I don’t know why you care so much. The boy is a criminal and after what he did, he is beyond salvation. He belongs in Black Gate Prison.”
“He's still a child!”
“He killed a man!”
Hazels mum’s expression morphed from judgement to a smile that was sickly sweet. Beautiful, but dangerous like a Venus fly trap.
“Mrs Napier was pretty, wasn’t she?” She baited. “When they showed her on the news, she looked pretty.”
Hazel’s father hesitated, aware of the set-up by his angry wife and unsure what to say. She didn’t let the silence sit long, opting to push further.
“I just wonder if Mrs Napier were plain would her death have mattered to you so much?
Her father slumped at the table.
“I never noticed what she looked like.” He sighed. “I am fighting for a world where corruption is punishable, and crooked cops are held accountable! Don’t you want a better Gotham for Hazel? Why shouldn’t I tell the truth?”
“You can’t change this city – you will lose your career over it, and then you will lose us.”
Hazel’s mum stood, signalling the imminent closure of the conversation.
“I’ve warned you already and you better listen.” She added curtly “If you report this - and it turns on you, I am taking Hazel and we are leaving.
Where Hazel lay by joker sleeping her eyelids futtered and her hands twitched. Her sleep was fitful and she surfed the cusp of waking. The dream was changing. The cacophony of the Narrows seeped into her mind, her dreams were twists of memories and thoughts, triggered by the sound outside. Flashes of Miff, the fight between her parents, and mixed with something older and stranger.
"Don't tell your mother we missed gymnastics. And whatever you do, don't tell her I took you into the Narrows."
Hazel’s dad smiled as he said it, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere. He held himself with a tension that made her uneasy. She was supposed to be at gymnastics, but without explanation he had brought her here. Now she was parked up in an alley in the Narrows, waiting.
Hazel watched her father disappear into a warehouse. He was carrying a box of take out and a medical box. A door opened at the warehouse and Hazel watched keenly from her father’s car. A shadow moved in the open door: just a shape she couldn't make out. Then stepping gingerly out of the shadow, she saw a boy.
Hazel stared. He was roughly her age, best she could tell. His face was covered in parts, as though gauze or bandages crossed his cheeks. Hazel wondered what he was covering. His eyes locked with hers for just a moment, even at a distance it struck her how unusually dark his eyes seemed to be, he held her stare for a moment before retreating into the warehouse.
Hazel sat in the car heart knocking uncomfortably in her chest. Just a child, locked in a squad car in one of the most dangerous places in all of Gotham. She couldn’t wit for her dad to get back.
Why would he bring her here? Who was that boy?
Finally, her father emerged from the building. He smiled at her as he approached, so false, so paper thin. She studied his face seeking reassurance as he returned but found none. His expression was empty. Void of any of the vigour he had once had, depleted of the energy she loved him for. He got in the car beside her. His serious demeanour put her on edge and she fidgeted her hands, waiting for him to speak.
When a long silence followed Hazel blurted out nervously.
"Is that the missing boy from the news?"
Her father looked at her, the weight of his worry slowing his response.
“I must warn you Hazel, things are going to change for our family.” He said with eyes full of pain “I found Jack Napier, and I am going to help him.”
Hazel wanted to ask more; ask what he meant – but she felt the air leave her, that old familiar feeling that the dream would silence her no matter what, and that her dad would never explain. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe.
Hazel awoke heaving for breath like someone had been sitting on her chest. Sweat pooled at the base of her neck and she could feel the sheets clinging to her. She turned on the mattress.
Fuck!
That iteration of the dream was new.
What was that?
She was tired of the dreams and couldn’t understand why her mind pick, pick, picked at the memory of her dad. Didn’t her mind have more pressing things to worry about? He had let her down and she didn’t care to think about it or relive the past.
As her heart rate slowed, Hazel got her baring’s. J's apartment. Asleep on J’s Mattress.
The sun was up and she knew that she had slept the whole night, despite the dreams. Her body felt like shit, but slightly better. The pain in her ribs was dull and her head clearer.
"Ouch" there was a stab in her side as she sat up, searching for the clown.
He was there at the kitchenette again, cooking pancakes. Hazel let out a breath.
"Rise and Shine, Princess” he nodded.
Joker cooking breakfast. Saving her life.
This was more than an episode of the twilight zone, it was an entire freakin season.
Hazel got up and shuffled herself to the table. Sacha left the spot by joker’s feet and padded her way over to greet Hazel, her docked tail giving little stumpy wags. Then, she left and took Hazels spot at the mattress. She panted and her tongue lolled out in a grin - she seemed happy with the spot upgrade.
Joker dumped the plate of stacked pancakes in front of Hazel and then flicked on the television.
"Just in time for the 9am, I'd say. He scrolled through static until he got the news channel, and then he swapped the remote for bandages and sat down opposite Hazel.
“We will redress your wound after breakfast.”
Hazel kept eating
"I'll lend ya another clean shirt too, and you can shower… the showering part is for my sake, detective.”
Laughter lite up his coal stare.
Hazel felt her lips pull into a smile – his broken smile was catching. Quickly, her expression flattened again.
He was being too helpful.
What was the clown really up to?
Before Hazel could ponder too deeply the jingle for the 9am news played and the jokers own face flashed across the television.
Hazel straightened, watching intently. Beside her the clown’s energy prickled as he watched himself on the screen.
“Man-hunt for Gotham’s most wanted. The notorious mass murderer, Gotham’s supervillain: The Joker, is at large and at it again.” The anchor announced.
Next, the Lieutenant came into view. He was being filmed on the steps of the GCPD, surrounded by reporters.
“What's he doing?” Hazel frowned.
“We regret to confirm that the Joker is the number one suspect in the recent string of homicides." He looked sombre. "Agent Hazel Madden, one of our very own is feared hostage. When we find him, we will hit him with the full force of the GCPD. We urge anyone with information to come forward." He stared down the camera earnestly. "Hazel if you can hear us, hold on. We are coming to save you.”
Joker was grinning ear to ear.
Hazel’s brows were in a ball.
The anchor woman’s voice faded away under the knocking pulse in Hazels ears. She could feel the heat flaming up her neck and setting her cheeks on fire. She was furious. Hazels fists clenched.
"This lying prick will make me vomit. Ass-hole! What does he plan to do? Make me disappear and blame you?"
Joker rolled his neck letting out a series of cracks.
"I’m going to enjoy hurting this guy - nearly as much as the bat.”
"No." Hazel flashed him a look. "He's mine. He's going to be convicted of multiple homicides and sent to Black Gate where he will live out his years miserably and die. That’s justice."
"Deals a deal cupcake – he’s only yours if you catch him first. I've been a ah, gentleman and let you recover some but it’s still best man wins. Besides, you should relax,” He slapped his knee with a grin. “He's gonna save you from me."
"I'm glad it's funny to you," Hazel glared. "I’m humiliated."
Jokers smile faded.
"I'm not laughing at you, doll face. I'm laughing with you. Taking you was his first and last mistake. Taking you will finish him, one way or the other. Think about it... why would he make a statement like this if he knew you were free? Hmm? This arrogant schmuck thinks you're still in his basement and everything is going to his plan. That gives you time and strategic advantage. The tables are turning in this little game."
Hazel was silent. The clown was right - not that she could trust the clown either.
Joker flicked off the television. The screen went black and Hazel found jokers reflection in the dark glass. From the TV screen to right here beside her. The garish red grin and the cracked white paint. Notorious Joker. It was surreal.
“Eat.” Joker added bluntly. “You need your strength if you want to win – you are only halfway through your breakfast.”
"I should call Jason. My partner." Hazel wasn’t hungry anymore.
The clown cocked an eyebrow
"Is that your final answer? Ah, I think it’s above his pay grade, love."
"I trust him."
"Sure, you trust his intentions. But do you trust him to let you handle this your way? You let him know and he will be obliged to report. Due process as they say."
Hazel slumped in her seat. Again, J was right. She couldn't tell Jason yet. She needed evidence.
She thought about all the times Jason had tried to talk her out of her ideas because she bent rules. It was true. He would follow due process. He would report it right away and Hazel wasn't ready for that. As J had pointed out, she had to make sure her case was faultless, or the lieutenant would use his position to bury her.
"He's cunning. But he's not as smart as you."
It was as though the clown read her mind. Measured her doubt and countered it.
"How would you know." Hazel scoffed. "You don't know him. You don't know me. No need to blow wind up my ass."
As she said it, she regretted lashing out. He was her only friend.
Sort of.
“He's getting sloppy” joker curled his lip in disgust. “he's going to get what’s coming to him... either your way, or mine."
"Huh."
Despite her mistrust in the clown and her strong suspicion that he had a hidden agenda, she was comforted by his words. The lieutenant abducting her was sloppy. How did he think he could get away with what he had done?
He wasn't going to get away with it.
"Worst of all" the clown continued. "He is a man without a code. No moral code. No immoral code. No. code. at all." the clowns voice dropped an octave. "Entitled. Undisciplined, and not at all interesting."
There was a venom in his tone that caught Hazel off guard. Her eyes darted up to him. The light-hearted homicidal clown that flipped pancakes had been replaced by something much darker. A flash of his true, violent nature and a deep bitterness towards the world.
His street-weathered hands flexed at his sides and his posture tightened, a knot of tense muscle.
Hazel watched him. This was more than anger brought on by his stolen identity, and it certainly wasn't rage on her behalf. He didn't care about her; he was incapable of it. He was not angry that the lieutenant had abducted her and threatened her life.
What was it?
“J” The name slipped from her before she realised how tender it sounded. “What’s bothering you?”
"You can’t trust the system it’s full of slime, doll-face. That’s all I’m saying.”
He let his shoulders drop and stretched out his fingers, actively releasing the tension.
“Let’s get you patched up.” He changed the topic.
The clown kneeled beside her.
“I’ll need to see it, Doll.”
Hazel obliged, undoing the bottom several buttons of the shirt. A little hum through her body as she took back the layer.
Excitement?
She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a thrill to be tended to this way. Or just surreal. Or maybe it was because he was the worst iteration of exactly her type. The thrill she had always chased, but on steroids.
Stop it, Hazel.
It didn’t make a lick of sense to feel that way around him. It wasn’t in her personal interest, that was for sure.
The clown lifted the shirt gently to expose just where she had been hurt. She felt the brush of rough hands against her ribcage. The blood on the top was dry, and it stuck as it peeled it away from her skin.
“There we go.” He said quietly
Hazel held the shirt in a bunch to free his hands. She watched the clown carefully peel back the dressing to reveal the laceration underneath, his movement gentle and precise.
"Shit!" she breathed.
The cut at her side was deeper and angrier than she expected - with several crude stitches pulling the skin together.
"Uh huh." He acknowledged. "Piece of glass went straight between your ribs. Perforated your lung. Collapsed it. Bled a lot. Would have killed you.”
“Holy fuck. Did you stitch me?”
“I had my guy look at you, he’s a licensed doctor, but does some less conventional work on the side. Luckily for you, it was something that could be managed with a needle aspiration technique and he got you breathing properly. Let’s face it - I was never going to carry you into ER."
"Really. You wouldn't blow your cover for me?"
The clown didn't answer. His eyes locked on the wound he was tending to. He dabbed round it with a cotton ball.
"He gave you an anti-biotic shot, but you'll want to get this checked in a real hospital. My guy can only do so much on a fold out table."
“Your guy?”
The clown looked up, his dark eyes meeting Hazel’s.
"Doll-face, when you’ve been stabbed, shot and beat as many times as I have, it pays to have someone you trust take care of your medical, ah, off the records."
The clown returned his attention to the task at hand and Hazel watched him. Gently, he cleaned dried blood from Hazel’s skin, then reapplied antiseptic on the peripheral.
His hands were marred with scars, knuckles thickened from being busted more than once. Yet, he worked with a rugged elegance that mesmerised Hazel. They were versatile hands, violent yet skilled.
Hazel felt a calm wash over her – one that was entirely misplaced and she knew it.
“Why did you save my life?” Hazel asked after a beat.
With steady fingers he placed the new adhesive over the top of the wound. He smoothed the corners of the adhesive nice and flat.
“Maybe I like your lil head where it is, on ya shoulders. Or maybe I want to knock it off myself.” He teased.
Then he stopped and looked at her. Really looked at her.
Hazel froze under his gaze.
“Needed to save your life, doll. Wasn’t your time.”
Hazel took a breath.
“Am I in your debt now? Is Rose?”
The clown took the adhesive rubbish and scrunched it as he stood. His dark stare stayed with Hazel.
“Doll, this is different. Something bigger than that. Our paths are inextricably intertwined, whether we like it or not, and your choice to come find me that night at the church, not random, but serendipitous.”
Hazel frowned.
“That’s all sounding a little poetic for a man with your reputation.” Hazel let the shirt lower back over her side. She winced at a little sting of pain as the material brushed.
“It’s not poetry, cup-cake. It’s about restoring the natural order of things… from order to chaos. The information you are working with has been doctored. You’ve been living and working under a false pretence and making the best of it. A neat little life with the neat little rules they fed you. Lies. I’ve decided you deserve the truth.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Hazel felt her body tense, a natural resistance to being led somewhere she didn’t understand.
The clown took a slow blink.
“Gonna need you to stay calm on this one, kid. I knew ya dad, okay. He was a good cop - if there is such a thing. It was a long time ago, but I never forget a name, and I never forget a face.”
Hazel stomach lurched.
Her mouth opened but no words came. She felt her stomach churn. Her dad had been fired from GCPD for sloppy police work and cutting corners, a weak version of the man she once admired. He drank himself into a hole before leaving her forever and she had closed her heart on him for that. She felt a swell of anger. She built a career despite her dad, and she prided herself on being nothing like him. Not weak, like him.
He was anything but a good cop.
Being a good cop took spine.
Was the clown messing with her? Making things up?
“You are a liar” Hazel blurted, ripping up out of her chair and jabbing a finger in the clown’s direction. “You needled me and you went through my apartment. You probably went through my information, my diaries, whatever you needed to so you could make this shit up and manipulate me! Do you think I’m an idiot?”
The clown blinked calmly.
“I knew him, doll, and I know you too. When we crossed at the station all those years ago, I took one look at you and knew you were a Madden. I’d recognise those eyes anywhere. I followed your career at a distance from then - don’t get the wrong idea cup-cake, I am not fixated with you, just a healthy curiosity. What I didn’t expect was to get a message from Rose that the detective Hazel Madden wanted to meet with little old me.”
He spread his hands in appeal.
“That’s the best evidence I can give you that I am telling the truth. You requested to meet Gotham’s most wanted, and I granted your wish. If you aren’t stupid detective, then consider this; it all went a little too smooth to be luck, don’t you think?”
“You anesthetised me and raided my apartment; you call that smooth?”
“Does your department even have a figure on how many people I’ve killed? I know I’ve lost count.” The clown mused. “But you are alive, aren’t ya? So, yeah. I’d call that smooth. Point is, I wanted to meet you, Detective. that’s the only reason I let it happen.”
Hazel pressed her lips together processing the information. There is no way she could trust his word. She needed more evidence, more detail to the story, but she needed to be careful he didn’t reel her further into a lie.
“Okay, so you knew my dad in some capacity. Why does that make me special? Why would you, of all people, want to help me? I don’t believe the altruism.”
“My father tried to kill me.” The clown stated matter of fact. “My mother let herself die, despite of me. Your father tried to change the world for you.”
His expression was still, dark eyes ready to swallow the universe.
“I have always wondered what it would feel like to care for a person more than yourself, the way he must of cared for you. I have always wondered what it would be like to be the subject of such care – or what it took to be that special…like you were to him.”
The clown stepped forward closing into Hazel’s space, hovering a head above her. His hands ghosted to her neck and he dipped his head, breathing her in like a vampire ready to draw blood. His hands trembled with restrained violent energy.
“Your father wasn’t wrong about you. You are special detective. Yet, you’re afraid you’ll be like him, like your pa.” His breath was hot against her ear. “Well, I hate to break it too you kid, but you’re more like him than you could know, and it ain’t a bad thing at all.”
“That’s bullshit” Hazel whispered. Keeping her eyes down, away from the intensity of the clown.
An ache that she despised was building in her throat – where was her anger that she trusted so completely? Where was the sass and the rage she was so comfortable swinging? Joker still hadn’t proven anything, but his words tore at her, cracking open something she had tried to bury.
“My dad didn’t do anything for me” Hazel stuttered. “He was a coward and an embarrassment. He left me.”
A tear broke and rolled and the clown swept it aside with a calloused thumb.
“Sure, that’s what you’d believe after the lies you’ve been told. They lied to clip your wings, detective.” He turned her chin up to catch her eyes. ”They lied because you would be too powerful with the truth.”
Joker ran his hands over the crest of her shoulders and swept down her arms. Hazel let him, limp and confused where she stood. The clown’s hands found hers and enclosed them; small hands lost in his.
“Look at you.” He studied her “You are so fragile, but still, you’ve got bite. You’re like a fierce lil terrier, at war with the world. Ready to create justice. Your version of justice. That’s your power. That’s why you need the truth.”
Hazel looked up at him where he hovered. Her breath caught.
In the wash of light from the windows she caught a chocolate hue in his eyes and a sandy blond to his hair beneath the green rinse. Dimples marked his cheek, despite the scarring. There was a hint of something familiar, a boyish charm she almost recognised. She felt herself give in to it; submit, to the truth in his tone.
“Tell me.” She said quietly. “Tell me the truth.”
He let go of her hands and slowly circled her.
“You want to know about your dad – but are you ready to hear it?” he tested “There’s no going back. You can’t just pull Alice back out of wonderland, ya know.”
Hazel stilled as he stopped behind her and the hair on her neck prickled. He wrapped a strong arm around her waist and drew her against him. Hazel froze like prey, butterflies taking flight in her stomach. He brought them flush together until his head nestled over her shoulder, his wild mane coarse on her cheek.
“Relax, Doll Face,” he hummed as he held her. “You’ve decided to trust me, haven’t you?”
Hazel could feel his strong body pressed to her and the iron grip of his hold. She consciously softened into it, letting the back of her head rest into his chest.
“Hmm.” The familiar sound rumbled in his chest. “That’s better now, isn’t it-t.”
Hazel nodded feebly against him, the ache in her heart had become something more – a burning at his touch. It was wrong, especially for someone like her – a Gotham detective, but the power of his grip intoxicated her.
There was a click in the silence that Hazel recognised as his switch blade. She didn’t dare look down but she caught the glint in his grip as he raised it. Still, she felt grounded, even as he raised the knife ghosting her neckline and pausing at her cheek. His broken lips brushed her ear, sending a shiver through her. Her heart raced.
“There’s a question I tend to ask people, right before they die.” his voice was low in her ear. Gravelly. “You see, nobody wants to look at these scars. Even in the face of death, they are still horrified by the look of me. They certainly don’t want to talk about them.”
Hazel’s breath shuddered through the silence as he paused.
“That’s not how you feel though, is it detective? No. I can feel how your heart races for me, but you aren’t afraid. Notas afraid as you should be. Why is that, hmm?”
“I don’t know why.” Hazel whispered.
“I do.”
Ever so slowly, softly, he traced the shape of a Glasgow smile across her jaw line, in a mimic of his own.
“Ya see doll” he said quietly “I am every bit the monster on the outside, as I am on the inside, and it scares people. It titillates me to see the horror in my victims’ eyes when I confront them with the question, because nobody wants to hear my story – but everybody who wants to be polite. Except you. You want to hear the truth, you hunger for it. You hunger for the chaos it will unleash because at least it’s real.”
He brushed a scarred cheek against her skin as he dipped his lips to her shoulder caressing her skin. Hazel drew a sharp breath.
“Are you ready for the question, Doll? Are you ready for the truth?”
the clown paused for effect.
"Tell me, detective - do you wanna know how I got these scars?"
**
Oh my goodness feels so good to get this chapter done. I really hope you enjoyed a little tease of Jack Napier story line and the developments between Joker and Hazel.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Muder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide.
Safe House
Hazel woke to pain. Her eyes felt like they were glued shut and when she peeled them open, the light was like a knife straight into her skull.
She squinted as she tried to adjust, but her vision was blocked.
Something black hung too close to her face to make focus.
As she blinked the cloudiness from her eyes, the head of a huge dog sharpened in view. The rottweiler grinned at her with a lolling red tongue and chocolate brown eyes.
Startled, Hazel tried to sit up. The searing pain in her side knocked her back down onto the mattress where she lay.
“Sacha! heel!”
A familiar, gravely, voice sounded.
Hazels eyes shot wide as she recognised the Jokers timbre and the big dog bounded away in the direction of his call.
Hazel felt a wash of relief at the sound of his voice and stifled a sob deep in her chest.
She might be relieved to be alive and free, but like hell would she let the clown see how close she was to losing it.
What kind of upside-down world was it that hearing his voice was a source of relief?
With her vision gradually clearing, Hazel recognised his form leaning in the doorway nearby.
His posture was relaxed - almost lazy as he watched her. His shirt was rolled to his elbows showing strong forearms and his vest open.
“Ah, she stirs.” He held her in his dark gaze.
Hazel felt a flitter of butterflies under the intensity of his watch.
“Quit staring.” she mumbled.
“Don’t flatter ya-self, love.” He said with a grin “You’re cute, but you’ve seen better days.”
Hazel looked around the room. She took a deeper breath, relieved to feel she was breathing freely. That horrible sense that she couldn’t get air was gone, and her lungs felt like her own.
Was this where J resided? Would he have brought her, a cop, into his own space? Why?
Inspecting the space, she saw it wasn’t as bad as she might have imagined. It was a single room, a budget hotel room of sorts. Not really what she had pictured. There was a bloom of peeled paint in one corner of the ceiling, and it was scarcely furnished, yet it was orderly and sunlight washed through big windows. There was a sofa, the double mattress she lay on, and a small table near the kitchenette.
"How did I get here?” Hazel asked
“Rose came to me… told me you were in trouble. Lucky too. You knocked that pretty head of yours bad and you lost a lot of blood.”
Hazel thought of Roses words…
"People don’t mix with him unless they are absolutely desperate"
Hazel grimaced at the debt on favours - would this be Rose's debt, or hers?
“Where am I?”
The clown spread his hands, and a boyish smile spread across his painted cheeks.
“My humble home, doll-face – well, Sacha’s too.”
He ruffled the rotty’s shinny head and she whined with enthusiasm.
Hazel looked down at herself. The pyjamas she had been abducted in had been exchanged for one of the clowns’ teal shirts. She felt bare beneath, aside from her underwear.
J read her thoughts.
“It was a necessary change, to treat your injuries Doll face. Your dignity was kept intact.”
Laughter lines creased beside his eyes
“You weren’t naked long…and I promise I didn’t, ah, look much.”
“Good to know.” Hazel rolled her eyes.
Hazel stretched her bare legs out, ironing out the aches and fixing to stand.
“You should eat something. You’ve been out a while.”
The clown moved to the kitchenette.
His broad shoulders hung over the cook top and hazel heard the hiss of a hot pan as he cracked eggs, and the smell of bacon which made her stomach rumble.
Whatever nausea she had felt had eased and Hazel hoped that was a sign that she had not been too severely concussed. She still felt shaky on her feet, and getting herself up was intensely painful, but she felt more alert.
Hazel watched the clown, bewildered. His hands seemed to work with the same ease with which he handled his knives.
Was this a domestic streak?
When he turned around, pan handle in his grip, and slid the load onto her plate, Hazel looked up at him eyebrows raised, and a dimple in her cheek.
“Wha-t?" He asked
Hazel shook her head, her lips pursed and her eyes gleaming.
The clown rolled his eyes.
“Are you surprised to see the infamous Joker cooking?
His eyebrows pulled together in judgement.
“I need to eat food, just like everyone else. Ya know that, right?”
It was true enough, but an odd sight none the less.
Hazel took the plate and made her way to the small table and chair that sat beside an open window. Judging by the view they were in project housing area, deep in The Narrows. The clown put his own plate down and sat in the seat opposite her.
“The GCPD would shit themselves if they knew you were here, practically living a normal life right under our noses."
“I think I’ve cleaned up enough of your bodily fluids for my liking, let's keep a little mystery between us, detective.”
Hazel ignored the comment.
“A lot of people in the building must know you are here?" Hazel continued. “Aren’t you concerned that someone might out you?”
The clown stopped chewing, dark brown eyes locked on Hazel before swallowing with a gulp. His expression straightened.
"I'm not worried, and here's why. It doesn't matter that they know where I am. What matters, Doll Face, is that they know that I know where they are. Do you follow me?"
He pointed his fork at Hazel.
“They value their lives, so they mind their own business and stay well out of mine. It’s a contract of sorts."
He thrust a mouthful of food into his mouth and chewed.
“That level of, ah, cooperation from Gotham folk - that's the true value of my reputation”
Joker gestured at her plate.
"Ya gonna eat?"
Hazel’s stomach grumbled audibly.
Come to think, she had never had her dinner the last night at her home. Interrupted, first because of J's visit, and then because of the Lieutenant.
The lieutenant.
It came flashing back to her. How he had come to her home. How he had attacked her.
Her heart picked up pace and Hazel felt anger ignite inside her.
That snively prick. He had always given her a bad feeling but the fact that he had gotten away with so much right under her nose... it made her blood boil.
"I won't be staying here long. I need to get that prick lieutenant James into custody."
Assuming the clown plans to let me leave...
Hazel let confidence lead. An announcement of her departure, no hesitation.
She shoved a forkful in her mouth letting the words settle casually.
Good. So good. She was famished.
"Oh yeah?"
The clown arched a brow from opposite her.
“You are going to take him into custody?”
"Yeah." Hazel replied "He's the one who did all this. Not sure how much Rose told you." She chewed as she spoke.
A little smile pulled at the corner of the clown’s mouth as he watched her eat and talk.
"You're a class act, Detective Madden."
Hazel rolled her eyes and swallowed.
"So, I'll finish up eating and head to the GCPD."
"I guess that’s good thinking.” The clown mused. “Rush in there weak, bleeding, on the tail end of being drugged and with a concussion.” He circled his hand in the air theatrically as he expanded the list “No plan. Guns blazing. Just walk right in and arrest the head of the GCPD..."
Hazel shovelled in another forkful.
"You think it's a bad plan?" She mumbled through her food "Lucky nobody asked you."
The clown clicked to himself.
"A stubborn minx like you asking for advice? I wouldn't expect it."
"Are you suggesting I hold off and let him do a runner? No fucking way!” Hazel paused, then frowned. “You just want him for yourself."
"If I wanted him, he’d already be dead." the clown pointed out. "Our little competition is on a pause whilst you rest - I like a worthy opponent, or the game is no fun.”
Hazel eyed him suspiciously.
“There is still the issue that the Lieutenant might run.”
The clown rolled his eyes.
“Who is he running from? You?"
the clown let out a short bark of laughter
"He didn’t seem intimidated when he threw you around your apartment and locked you in a basement. The guy IS the GCPD.”
Hazel scowled but J continued.
“Do you even have hard evidence against him? He's gonna be good at covering tracks. He planned to take you. He premeditated it all."
"I was in his mother’s fucking basement. Rose saw it!"
"So, you have an X- crack-head as a witness? is that enough? You tell me, detective, you do this for a living."
He rested his hands on table and leaned back to look at Hazel in Ernest.
“Not to mention, Rose is friends with the last victim, Miff, whom rumour has it you knew intimately. How’s the credibility holding up?"
"The lieutenant was in my apartment.” Hazel stated fact. “There would be evidence there."
"Did you find trace evidence at any of the other scenes. Hair, clothing fibre, DNA? Anything?"
What joker was saying was true. The slasher – aka Lieutenant James hadn't left a bread crumb. He knew the game too well. He knew exactly what they would sweep for and how.
"This is different.” Hazel said quietly. “He's fucked with me and I'm going make him pay for it."
"Hey – I want to see that work out for you doll... I do. Just trying to present you with a little, ah, logic. Take your time."
"I never asked for your help"
"Actually, sweetheart, that's exactly what you did. You went to lengths to find me in the Narrows and ask me for help with your case. It was cute, actually. Then there was the whole 'damsel in distress' encore where you would have fucking died without me."
"Fuck you."
Hazel stood up from the table pushing her chair back.
The world spun.
A giant wave of nausea came over her and she felt her knees buckle.
The clown shot out an arm catching and holding her firm. He eased her back down to seated.
Hazel’s head thumped. Her ribs hurt. She felt dizzy and ill.
Fuck. That friggen knock on the head.
Hazel jerked her arm free as she sat and the clown relinquished his grip.
"All I'm saying doll face, is use that pretty lil head of yours. He's a powerful adversary. He's smart, he's patient, and he is well resourced. You are smarter than him – but you need some time to recover.”
The clown's dark eyes watched over her as she dipped her head, exhausted.
“I say this from experience," he continued, an edge of sincerity to his tone that Hazel wasn't familiar with "some of the slipperiest crooks are hiding in the GCPD. You can’t trust the system to back you, and you can’t rush.”
Hazel starred at her empty plate.
She felt too sick and too stupid to reply.
How did she get here - beat up by her boss and lectured by Gotham's most notorious villain? She'd be happier propped up and bleeding out against the garbage bin in the alley where Rose had left her.
“Of course, you could ask me to peel him alive for you doll-face. I would do that for you... happily." He smiled broadly "but if you want to deal with him your way... you got to wait till you’re a bit stronger, and until you have a plan.”
Hazel let out a whine. Pressing her palm to her aching head. She hated it but it made sense.
"He's not going to get the best of a Madden twice, detective. You're smarter than that.”
What did he mean by that, exactly?
"Get a proper night’s sleep and then work on a plan. When you have all the information"
Internally she scoffed. She had all the information she needed.
Still, she was tired. Too tired for this shit.
"That's my girl. Relax." the clown cooed, doing a terrible job of reading the room. His voice was low, calm but laced with agenda.
Then the clown was standing beside her. The lean muscles in his forearms flexed as he reached out for her. He took grip of her arms and lifted her to stand, keeping a steady hold.
Hazel obliged. She was too tired to care. To defeated to shake an arm free - and truthfully, she felt unsteady on her feet and was grateful for the assistance.
Sleep. That’s all she cared about.
Now that she was fed, she couldn't think about much else other than sleep.
It would be helpful. Restorative. Just like J said.
Then she would be ready to face the Lieutenant.
Her bare feet padded across the linoleum floor as the clown guided her back to the mattress.
He guided her back down to lay on the mattress, and she curled into a ball.
What happened when she slept? The thought flittered across her tired mind.
How could she trust Gotham’s most notorious criminal? A man who had needled her in the neck.
Yet she couldn't trust her own people. Not just yet.
This wasn't a choice. As topsy-turvy as it was, for now, the GCPD was the enemy, and Jokers apartment her safe house. Once she was well, things would be different.
“Get some rest kid. Tomorrow, we will change your dressings, get up to speed, and you can decide what to do about the Lieutenant.”
Hazel groaned.
"Perfect."
**
Hazel lay awake on J’s mattress long after night fall.
Get some sleep. Come up with a plan of attack once rested.
That’s what they had decided, but it was easier said than done.
Sleep had come easily, but it didn’t last. Despite her exhaustion she had fitful sleep, and then eventually wide awake.
Even high up in J's apartment, the Narrows was loud. Bins clattering. yelling. Sirens.
Instead of her own bed, she was resting an arm’s length from a murderous psychopath. There was that.
The more she tried to settle, the more restless she felt. Laying awake in the dark, her thoughts were starting to churn, cycling up, gaining momentum.
Hazel kept a hand resting on her own chest and focused on steady breathing for relaxation. She did it to try to settle the turbulence she felt inside, and to resist the growing bindings of anxiety in her chest.
Hazel peeked at the sleeping killer, seeking distraction. Or maybe she desired company.
Ambient city light shone in J's window illuminating the mattress in a way that mimicked moonlight. A rectangle of cold light fell across the clown where he lay on the opposite side of the mattress.
The sheets tangled at his waist and the light illuminated the crests of him and the shadows pooled in the V of his hips, and the striations of his muscle.
Hazel drew a breath.
He was built like a fighter. Sleek. Lined abdominals, and fingers of muscles along his rib cage. His chest and shoulders gently curved in his relaxed pose.
He seemed completely surrendered to sleep – so confident his reputation was enough to keep the neighbours silent and his enemies at bay. Unlike Hazel, he could indulge in some decent shut-eye.
Hazel let her eyes trail upwards, exploring the sleeping man's bare face.
Before getting into bed, he had bent over the sink and washed his face like it was nothing. Routine. His bare skin was territory the world had never seen – yet here, he lived his habits like she didn’t exist.
Hazel had pretended she was still asleep just to be safe. Perhaps his privacy meant more than he was letting on.
His face looked pale in the ghostly light. The damaged cheeks, free of greasepaint, mimicked the craters of the moon herself - crests and diverts along the scar line. Lines that carved the story that was Joker.
His lips were relaxed, gently closed, as he breathed through his nose in a deep steady rhythm. At peace.
The devil slept like a lamb.
For a moment Hazel felt compelled to touch his face, but she dismissed the urge, daring instead to shift a little closer.
Within proximity to his bare skin, she felt a buzz across her own, a biological call for connection. It wasn’t logical, it didn’t have meaning – just the chemistry of a man and a woman in proximity, exacerbated by a sense of loneliness she was struggling to swallow.
She was so close she could smell him. There was something sweet there, the hint of a cologne, perhaps.
He was a monster, but he smelt like a man.
Hazel felt a pang in her heart as she watched the man beside her. The anxious weight on her chest was growing.
Hazel could feel her breath becoming shallow despite her effort to be calm. Not the shortness of breath she had felt in the basement. That was different, physical. This feeling in her chest was a reflection of her mind. It was troubled, anxious, and tightening.
It was a feeling – like the night terrors - she had always run from.
Hazel pressed firmer on her chest and closed her eyes.
Breaths were shorter.
Less satisfying.
She couldn’t sustain the calm.
She couldn’t get air at all.
It’s a panic attack.
She coached herself silently.
You are okay.
Breath in…, 2, 3, 4, … and out...easy
Yet, nothing could stop the sense of dread getting stronger.
Spreading.
Her guts ached deeply, and a throbbing pain bloomed inside her heart.
Not anxiety. It was different.
Something more...
Indigestion? Heart failure?
“Miff!” his name escaped her lips involuntarily.
Images of his lean tattooed fingers turned blue invaded her mind.
He didn’t deserve what had happened.
Her stomach hurt.
Her mind hurt.
It was a job - and she a detective. She should be able to handle a body.
Get a grip, Hazel.
She tried to push the images away.
She had to get away from it. harness it, contain the rougue thoughts.
Perhaps she would get up and get a drink… but she didn’t want to disturb the clown. For all she knew he would stab her in his sleep if she moved too much.
Hazel glanced again at the clown, at his eyelashes resting on those damaged cheeks.
This time, as she watched, she saw the roll beneath his closed eyelids as his eyes shifted, and slowly one eye peeled open to peek back at her.
Hazel's heart skipped, startled to be caught staring.
"Take a picture, Doll. It lasts longer." The clown rumbled sleepily, before rolling away.
His broad back now turned in her direction, cutting the sense of his presence and leaving her more alone.
The sound of his steady breathing resumed.
To Hazel's surprise, she felt heat prickling at the corners of her eyes.
She had to be quite - not wake him again.
In an attempt to suppress unwanted, bodily reactions, Hazel squeezed her eyes tightly shut
It didn't help.
Hazel felt the heat of tears welling at the rims of her eyes. A lone tear broke free and rolled off her cheek to the mattress. Soon tears fell freely, silently, and Hazel was all but powerless to stop it.
Hazel couldn’t remember the last time she cried.
Not her parent’s divorce.
Not her dad’s funeral.
I'm loosing the fucking plot.
This was a job. Miff was an informant, nothing more. The lieutenant was a crook – and she dealt with crooks all the time…she was good at it.
It took all the control she had not to sob into the night air. She did not want the Joker to hear her where he lay with his back to her. She did not want him to know the state she was in. She didn't want to piss him off, either.
Inwardly, she cursed herself and told herself to get a grip, but the dam wall containing her emotions had ruptured and there was no going back.
Was the clown really asleep?
Hazel took a quivering breath and held it, trying to silently bring her body and mind into order. It didn't help. Her body trembled and her thoughts were no longer neatly contained the way she liked them. Instead, her thoughts were raw and spiralling beyond her control, gaining power by the moment.
The images that came to her were sharp and utterly haunting.
Her heart thumped.
If it was all in days work … then why did it hurt so much?
"It's grief."
the clown pointed out flatly, as though reading her mind.
Hazel stilled.
He was awake. He heard her.
His back was still turned in a display of indifference as he spoke.
“No point trying to tell yourself you are above feelings, pet. That’s just embarrassing at this point.”
Hazel could picture the roll of his eyes as the lecture expanded
“I know every useless emotion on the spectrum - never felt any of em mind you, but I’ve seen all the grotesque ways that emotion presents. You are grieving, Detective. Whether you like it or not, you cared for him. That's human nature and you aren't above it."
there was a pause
"You are shocked. You are frightened. You are hurt. You are human.”
He said the word human as though it was wrong.
As though it was a weakness, a defect. As though it made her less than him.
Hazel felt less than.
“You play tough, sweetheart, and it’s endearing, but you aren’t nearly as tough as you pretend. You aren’t built to go through things like this and not feel them. You aren’t built like me."
A hearty sob broke from her chest and then another.
Then, she was crying freely. Just like the flow of silent tears had been impossible to stop, the sobs racking through her body, aching her throat, where impossible.
Laying on her side facing the clown's back she buried her face in her hands and cried. Her crop of black hair matted on her damp cheeks and her nose ran.
There were more tears than Hazel knew she had. A full body catharsis. One that was unwanted and unbecoming.
It wasn't something she gave herself permission for, but it was something her body was taking, whether she liked it or not.
To her surprise she felt a shift in the mattress and the clown rolled to face her.
More unexpected still, he draped a heavy arm around her shoulder and gave her two brittle pats on her back.
"There, there cupcake.” He clicked mechanically. "Let. it. out."
Even though his attempts at sympathy seemed primitive and insincere, Hazel let herself drop her head into his chest. His arm stayed, encircling her.
It was warm, and his relaxed muscles felt soft and inviting. Even the dusting of chest hairs that brushed her cheeks felt like comfort. Her lips and cheeks felt hot as she buried against his cool skin.
He was everything she should find abhorrent, yet his body was a physical refuge from an internal storm that threatened to engulf her. A human life raft she shouldn't reach for. He was far more dangerous than the storm.
Slowly, Hazel felt her body start to settle.
Her breath began to sync with his, joining that slow, easy rhythm.
The tears stopped coming.
"Better?" he asked dryly when she was silent and still.
Hazel gave a feeble nod, still buried in him, but all she felt was empty.
She wasn't sure if it was better or worse. Just a void. and her cheeks itched from drying tears.
"How do you kill it?" Hazel whispered.
"Kill what, Doll?"
"This!" She gestured at herself – at the mess she was, “the pain. The feeling. The weakness!”
The clown raised a hand to cup her cheek. His bare hand was rough and calloused, a match for his weathered cheeks. His thumb shifted softly across her skin as his coal eyes met her electric blue stare.
Hazel felt a swell roll through her body, a response to his touch. A soft sound fell from her lips.
His touch was a mirage of nurture, a roll play as required, but that didn't matter to her. It didn't matter there was no kindness in his eyes to match the gesture. Just a thrumming violent energy.
He held her gaze not with feeling but with measure.
"You can't kill your humanity, doll face. You can only bury it alive."
Another swell of emotion took over her.
She wanted it gone.
Lieutenant James had baited her like she was an idiot. She had brough Miff into it, all for nothing.
He had died for nothing. Because of her.
"I hate him" she whispered into the dark.
"mmm." The clown was nodding off again. half with her, half asleep.
With the clowns form beside her breathing steadily, she stared into the dark, feeling rage, feeling sorrow and feeling numb, all background noise now. She didn't know how all the conflicting things were possible at once, but she hated it. Hated the Lieutenant.
Hated herself.
The clown pulled her in a little.
“Ya know what they say, doll face,” he mumbled. “don’t get mad, get even.”
Hazel closed her eyes and rested on the killer's chest.
She let out a breath.
That one thought gave her comfort.
She couldn't turn back time, but she would certainly get even. She would see to it that Lieutenant James was brought to justice.
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
A/N: HAPPY ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO THIS UNHINGED FIC 🎉🎉
To celebrate the moment I accidentally sold my soul to Joker/Alina dynamics exactly 365 days ago… you get an early update today!!!
And ohhhh boy... This chapter is a mess 🤭
Emotional collapse? Check.
Public chaos? Check.
Longing so intense it physically hurts? Oh, absolutely.
A dream sequence that is basically emotional porn? Correct.
Thank you for being feral gremlins with me for a whole year. I adore you. And thank you SO much for all the comments on the last chapter. It really lit a fire under me.
Okay. Deep breath. Let’s go back into the flames. 🔥🖤
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 37: More Broken Than Before
The silence after the call was worse than anything he'd said.
For a moment, no one moved.
The cameras stopped rolling, the lights dimmed—but the air didn’t shift. It held, like breath locked in a collective throat.
Then the break.
Noise.
Voices.
A sudden rush of motion.
A producer barked orders from behind the glass.
Another voice overrode them—higher, frantic.
The headset crew scattered into motion, too fast to track.
Joyce was the first to reach her.
Her face was pale, lips parted like she meant to speak but couldn’t. Her hand hovered near Alina’s arm, then dropped.
Across from her, Kip was already pulling off his mic with sharp, jerking motions.
“How the hell did that call get through?” he barked to no one and everyone.
A stagehand flinched. A producer opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“Find out,” Kip snapped. “Now. Before the affiliates call.”
His suit still looked perfect. His hair hadn’t moved. But the flush in his cheeks betrayed him—and the panic in his eyes.
He didn’t look at her. Not once.
Security was already moving. Two men in suits flanked the side of the stage, talking rapidly into their earpieces. One gave Alina a single, assessing look—the kind meant for suspicious packages and perimeter breaches.
Then he looked away, lowered his voice, and murmured something into the other man’s ear.
Someone was yelling about lockdown protocol.
Someone else said the word police.
And then someone touched her—gently, at her elbow.
She turned to see Joyce.
“Miss Vale? Come with me.”
Her legs moved, but she didn’t feel them. The studio blurred around her—monitors, cables, faces turning away too fast.
Voices swelled and splintered like glass behind her.
“…confirmed?”
“…shut it down now—”
“…no one leaves—”
A man in a headset brushed past, nearly clipping her shoulder, but didn’t stop. Someone else whispered urgently into a walkie-talkie, casting her a sideways glance like she might explode.
They were afraid.
Not of him.
Of her.
Of what it meant that he had called for her.
The corridor beyond the set felt even colder, somehow. Longer. Like she was being led away from something—herself, maybe. Or the version of herself they’d all agreed on.
A victim. A survivor.
Not this.
Not the girl the Joker knew by name.
---
She sat on a black leather bench in a dim hallway behind the studio, eyes cast downward, hands folded in her lap like a child in trouble. The fluorescent light above her buzzed faintly.
Joyce's voice beside her said, “Someone from the GCPD will be here soon, just routine, don’t worry.”
Another voice—lower, irritated—muttered something about liability.
A hand appeared in her line of sight, offering a cold bottle of water. She took it without looking.
Across the hall, Kip was pacing in tight, jerking lines. His jacket was gone, sleeves shoved up, face blotched red. He kept running his hand through his hair, then stopping to jab at the air. He was whispering—but hard, furious. Red-faced rage barely wrapped in restraint.
She couldn’t hear the words.
Only the rhythm.
Only the sight of him losing his shit.
Alina looked down. Her hands were shaking again. The bottle trembled between her palms. She set it aside.
Then:
“Alina!”
Emma’s voice cracked down the hallway like a whip.
She appeared in a blur of movement—messy hair, wild eyes, clutching her bag too tightly. Her cheeks were flushed with panic.
Her gaze locked on Kip first. “What the hell did you do to her?”
He stopped pacing. “Excuse me—”
“She trusted you!” she snapped, voice rising. “Your producers told her it was safe. You promised her—”
“She was briefed on every segment,” Kip said quickly, trying for composure but still panting. “She agreed—”
“You ambushed her on live television!” Emma spat. “Then you act surprised when he calls in? Either you’re a liar, or you’re a moron.”
Kip’s jaw moved, but nothing came out.
Emma turned back to Alina, her face softening—then crumpling.
She dropped to a crouch in front of the bench. “Honey,” she whispered. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Alina didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her body was stiff, her eyes far off.
Emma reached up and gathered her into a hug, one hand cupping the back of her head like she was afraid she might break.
Alina didn’t move.
Emma held on anyway.
Then, very softly, she said: “We’re going home. Let’s go home right now.”
From down the hall, Joyce stepped forward, awkward. “I’m sorry—but we’ve just been told the police are on their way. They want to speak to—”
“I don’t care,” Emma said flatly, standing. “They can come to our door. She’s not sitting in some glass box like a suspect.”
“But it’s protocol—”
“Let them try me!” Emma’s voice had steel in it now. “I said we’re leaving.”
She touched Alina’s shoulder like she was fastening armor that wasn’t there, then pulled her gently to her feet.
They made it halfway down the hall before the sound hit them: shouting.
The paparazzi.
They were already outside.
Flashbulbs burst like fireworks. Cameras surged forward. Barricades meant nothing.
“ALINA! WHAT’S YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH HIM?”
“DID YOU KNOW HE’D CALL?”
“WHY DID HE SAY THAT TO YOU?”
“ARE YOU IN CONTACT WITH HIM?”
Alina froze.
The words hit her like glass bottles—loud, fast, breaking.
Emma shoved her way through.
“BACK OFF! MOVE!”
She kept an arm wrapped tight around Alina, shielding her from the lights, the questions, the speculation snapping like teeth.
Behind them, the studio loomed like a beast unsatisfied.
Ahead, a cab screeched to the curb. Emma threw up a hand. The driver barely had time to stop before she wrenched the door open and ushered Alina inside.
Cameras flashed. Voices barked. Feet pounded pavement in pursuit.
The door slammed shut.
The noise didn’t follow.
Inside, it was dim and still, like the eye of a storm.
Alina barely felt the seat beneath her. Didn’t register Emma giving the address. Couldn’t remember how they got moving.
Because all she could hear was him.
Not the show.
Not the crowd.
Just his voice, smooth as silk and sharp as glass, echoing through the quiet:
Hi Doll.
---
The cab turned the corner to their street and immediately slowed.
“Oh, God,” Emma breathed. “Shit—shit.”
They hadn’t even stopped yet, but Alina could already see the camera flashes. The crush of bodies. Dozens of people pressed up against the front steps of Emma’s building.
Her building.
Home.
At least, it had been.
The cab pulled to the curb.
Then—
F L A S H.
F L A S H.
F L A S H.
The bulbs started popping before the door even opened.
Alina’s breath hitched. Her fingers gripped the seat so hard her knuckles blanched.
Emma reached across her, slamming the lock down. “Stay here a second—don’t open it.”
But the shouting had already begun.
“ALINA—ALINA VALE—OVER HERE!” “WHAT’S YOUR RELATIONSHIP TO THE JOKER?” “WHY DID HE CALL YOU DOLL?” “WHY DID HE LET YOU LIVE?”
Alina’s vision blurred.
Too fast.
Too bright.
Too loud.
It felt like the warehouse again.
It felt like the chair.
Like the gun pointed at the old man’s head.
Like sweat rolling down her spine while her heart froze in place.
Then a new voice cut through it all—sharp, commanding, utterly still:
“Gotham PD. Step aside.”
A dark figure moved through the crowd, parting it like a blade.
Gordon.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.
Ruiz was close behind him, one hand raised, the other near her badge.
The crowd rippled uneasily—but cleared a narrow path.
The cab door opened. Emma stepped out first, shielding Alina with her body, her voice hard as steel:
“Get back. MOVE!”
Flashes kept going. Shutters clicked like machine guns. Someone tried to lunge closer and Gordon snapped, “You want to get arrested tonight? Try it.”
Then—he was in front of them.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just reached out a hand and said, calmly:
“Come with me. We’ll get you inside.”
Emma didn’t wait. She grabbed Alina’s hand and they ducked through the chaos, bodies pressing in from all sides.
Reporters screamed:
“WHAT HAPPENED IN THE WAREHOUSE?”
“DID YOU CARE ABOUT HIM?”
“WAS IT STOCKHOLM SYNDROME?”
Emma flung open the storm door and pulled Alina inside.
The hallway was narrow—just a few steps from the world to home—but it didn’t feel like sanctuary anymore.
It felt like a trap.
Gordon entered last and closed the door firmly, the sound echoing as the frame shook.
He pulled the blinds down, switched off the porch light, then paused—a tired breath slipping from him before he turned back.
The flashes still seeped through the curtains, brief, pale flickers like heat lightning on a distant horizon.
Alina stood frozen, her dress clinging slightly with sweat, face white.
Emma wrapped her arms around her. “You’re okay. We’re home. You’re okay, honey.”
But she wasn’t.
She couldn’t be.
Ruiz’s voice broke the silence, gentle but pointed:
“Miss Vale… can we talk? Just a few minutes.”
Emma whirled. “Seriously? She just got ambushed on national television and then hunted through the streets like a criminal.”
Gordon didn’t rise to the anger. He hesitated, the line of his mouth tightening with something like regret before he spoke.
“She’s also the woman the Joker addressed by pet-name on live TV,” he said quietly. “That makes her a target. We need to understand what that call meant—what he meant.”
No pressure. No accusation. Just reality.
Emma moved protectively in front of Alina.
“She doesn’t have to talk to anyone tonight. She doesn’t owe you anything.”
Gordon nodded once. “I know. And I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “But the way he spoke to her—it matters. For her safety. For everyone's.”
His eyes moved to Alina.
Emma looked at her, heart breaking. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. You don’t owe them anything. Not tonight.”
But Alina—numb, exhausted, wrecked—finally nodded.
One small, miserable nod.
Gordon exhaled. “Let’s sit down. That’s all—just sit.”
But as they stepped further into the apartment, Alina had one thought looping behind her eyes like static:
I should be scared of him.
But all I feel is how much I miss him.
---
The table was cluttered with unopened mail and a half-eaten takeout container. Emma cleared it with one hand and set a glass of water in front of Alina.
Gordon and Ruiz sat opposite.
Alina’s hands rested in her lap. She didn’t touch the glass. She didn’t lift her eyes.
Her body still felt borrowed, like she hadn’t fully come back into it yet.
Ruiz flipped open a small notepad but didn’t write.
Gordon didn’t touch anything.
He just studied her for a moment, then said:
“We watched the broadcast. I’m going to ask a few things—carefully. You can stop me at any time. But this is about keeping you safe. And keeping others safe too. Understood?”
Alina nodded again.
Gordon folded his hands on the table.
“Did you know he would call?”
“No,” she whispered.
“You didn’t have any warning? No strange messages, no signs?”
“No.”
Gordon’s voice remained level.
“Have you had any contact with him since your return?”
“No.”
Ruiz spoke up, voice lower:
“Has anyone contacted you anonymously? Gifts? Letters? Flowers?”
“No,” Alina said again. But it felt thinner this time. Less real.
“Alina,” Gordon said, softer now. “The way he spoke to you tonight… it was familiar.”
She looked up, finally.
His expression didn’t change.
“Doll,” he said. “That wasn’t a threat. That was… possession.”
Alina flinched.
But Gordon didn’t look away.
“I need to know if he’s still influencing you. If there’s something you didn’t tell us... Something we missed.”
Silence.
Gordon watched her, waiting for something she didn’t offer.
Ruiz glanced down at her notes.
“You told us you never saw his face. Was that true?”
“Yes.”
“Not once?”
“No.”
“Not even a glimpse? Not even—”
“No.”
It came out fast. Too fast.
Ruiz looked at Gordon. Gordon didn’t blink.
Ruiz shifted slightly, elbows on the table, leaning in just enough to soften her voice further.
“When you were with him… did he ever touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable?”
Emma made a sound—like she might cry or scream.
Alina's stomach dropped to the floor.
She didn’t speak.
“You don’t have to describe it,” Gordon said quickly. “You don’t even have to say the word. Just—did he cross a line?”
Alina stared at the table.
The wood was scratched and uneven, the kind of surface that caught light in strange, broken ways. Her eyes fixed on a groove that curved like a crescent moon, and she followed it with her gaze, as if it might lead her somewhere else—anywhere else.
Her chest rose, then fell.
Too slow. Too carefully.
Ruiz’s voice came softly, pulling her back:
“Miss Vale?”
A beat.
Then another.
Alina lifted her chin.
“No,” she said. Not a whisper. Not a waver. Just a clean, perfect syllable.
Silence.
Ruiz didn’t write it down.
Gordon didn’t move.
Emma’s breath hitched behind her.
The word sat between them like a dropped knife—sharp, wrong, ringing with everything she wasn’t saying.
Because nobody in the room believed it.
Not even her.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then Gordon exhaled—slow and heavy—the kind of breath that came from too many years of asking people to relive the worst parts of their lives. When he spoke again, his voice had softened.
“Miss Vale,” he said evenly. “You’re safe with us. Safe to tell us anything. We need the truth.”
Alina stiffened.
A tiny tremor ran up her spine.
“You think I’m not telling the truth?”
The silence that followed was sharp and immediate. Ruiz’s eyes flicked up. Emma’s mouth opened. Gordon sat back a fraction, as if bracing for exactly that reaction.
“Alina,” he said, tone steady, “I think you’re holding something back. Trying to protect yourself…”
A pause.
“…or him.”
Emma made a choked, outraged sound.
Gordon didn’t look away.
“And I don’t know why,” he finished quietly.
Alina stared at the scratched table. Her nails dug into her palms. When she finally spoke, her voice was thin:
“I told you everything.”
Gordon held her gaze. Not accusing. Not unkind.
Just precise.
Gordon didn’t blink. Didn’t press.
He just sat back, exhaled through his nose, and said quietly:
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Then that’s what we’ll write down.”
He didn’t touch the notepad. Didn’t move to pick it up. Just let the silence linger—heavy, unfinished.
Ruiz glanced at him, her brow tightening.
Emma let out a shaky breath, still wound tight.
Then Gordon added, more gently now:
“If anything changes… if there’s anything you remember, or decide you want to tell us later…you know how to reach me.”
He stood slowly. No rush.
No sound except the dull pulse of the press beyond the window.
Ruiz clicked her pen shut. Closed the notebook. Nodded once at Alina with something like empathy in her expression.
“Thanks for your time,” she said softly as she stood and followed Gordon to the door.
Gordon had already put his hand on the doorknob when he stopped.
Just a small pause—the weight of years settling across his shoulders.
He didn’t turn fully toward her. Just enough for his voice to carry.
“One last thing,” he said quietly.
Alina stilled.
“He’s… good at reading people. Better than anyone I’ve dealt with.”
Her breath caught—but if Gordon noticed, he didn’t show it.
“He makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. Like he understands something about you no one else ever bothered to see.”
His tone wasn’t accusing. Just tired. Worn down by years of studying a mind that refused to make sense.
“It isn’t real,” he added. “It feels real—that’s the danger.”
A beat.
A breath.
The faintest strain of worry in his eyes.
“Just—watch your thoughts, Alina. That’s where he likes to live.”
And before she could react—before her stomach could finish dropping—the moment shattered. Gordon yanked the door open, flooding the hallway with white light.
Reporters screaming her name.
Cameras snapping like teeth.
Flashes flickered against the walls like ghosts trying to claw their way inside.
Gordon’s voice rose above all of it—unshakeable, cutting clean through the chaos:
“Clear a path! Move!”
Ruiz followed, matching his command.
And then both of them disappeared into the frenzy outside, the door slamming shut behind them.
A silence swelled in the wake of their absence, as if the room itself exhaled.
Alina’s pulse rattled in her throat.
The shadows in the corners seemed too still. The quiet seemed wrong, like something had been let in by accident.
Emma locked the door—deadbolt, chain, another lock—each metallic click echoing like the closing of a crypt.
When she finally turned, her figure was framed by the dim, flashing lights behind her, casting a flickering shadow across the floor.
Her eyes found Alina’s and held them.
And the look there—pity, uncertainty, something aching and unsure—made Alina want to crawl out of her skin.
It was that look.
The one people gave a wounded animal in a cage.
Not sure if it would bite. Not sure if it could heal.
It said everything Emma wouldn’t...
It said—she wondered, too.
But—mercifully—Emma shifted the air.
“Why don’t you get a shower and put on some comfy clothes?” Her voice was gentle, but firm. “I’ll reheat the pizza from yesterday. You need to eat something.”
Alina didn’t argue.
She moved toward the bathroom like it was a lifeline, not a door.
Stepped inside.
Shut it.
Locked it.
Let the water run until the mirror blurred and the tiles turned slick with steam.
Then stood under the spray, arms wrapped around herself, skin burning.
And all she could think was—
Three days ago, I stood in this same apartment. Called Eddie. Spoke calmly, firmly. Like I was finally done being afraid.
Like I was finally something solid. Something strong—
But here I am again.
Shaking. Hiding. Letting Emma clean up the mess.
Her knees buckled.
She sank to the floor of the tub, hair plastered to her face, the water roaring like static.
And wondered—
How many times can a person break before there’s nothing left worth putting back together?
---
Alina stepped out of the bathroom, smelling faintly of soap and steam, her hair clinging damply to the shoulders of her soft T-shirt. The tile had chilled her feet. Her body felt heavy—so heavy she barely understood how it was still moving.
She padded down the hall toward the spill of lamplight and flickering TV, then paused in the doorway of Emma’s room.
Emma sat cross-legged on the bed, swallowed by an old hoodie. Her mascara was smudged. Her eyes were raw. A glass of wine sat sweating on the nightstand, untouched.
She looked up and gave a small, careful smile.
“C’mere,” she said gently.
Alina sat down. The mattress dipped under her weight. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
A box of leftover pizza rested between them. Emma slid a plate toward her. “Eat a little, okay? Just a bite.”
Alina nodded. She picked up a slice—cheese and dough, warmth, familiarity. She tasted none of it, but she chewed anyway.
Emma did too. Small bites. Staring at her plate like it might offer an answer.
The TV played low in the background. A Golden Girls rerun flickered on the screen. Neither of them watched.
They ate in silence.
Not peaceful. Not easy.
It was thick.
Loaded.
Emma kept glancing at her. Then away. Then back again. Like she was orbiting something fragile. Something dangerous.
Her knee bounced. She smoothed the same crease on the pizza box, over and over and over.
The silence held.
Tightened.
Alina felt the dread before Emma even opened her mouth. It rose slow and cold, fingers crawling up the back of her neck.
“What?” she finally whispered—already regretting asking.
Emma froze.
Then shook her head too quickly. “Nothing. I just… I just hate that they made you talk about him tonight. I hate that they—” She cut herself off, exhaled through her nose. “It’s just been a long day.”
Another lie.
The room hummed with it.
Alina took another bite, though her stomach rolled. “You’re acting weird.”
Emma flinched. “I’m not— I’m just worried about you.”
Alina stared at her slice. “I know.”
Another silence. Not long, but long enough.
Emma’s next breath shook.
“…The way he talked to you.”
Alina didn’t move.
Emma’s fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of her hoodie. “On the call. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She glanced sideways. “It wasn’t just that he called. It was the way he said your name. Like… like it meant something. Like you meant something to him. I don’t know.” She gave a quick shake of her head, biting back the rest. “It just—stuck with me.”
Emma’s gaze fell to the pizza box. She dragged her fingernail along a dent in the cardboard, then paused with her hand resting there. “I know we haven’t really… talked about any of this. And if you don’t want to, I’ll drop it. I promise. The last thing I want is to make it worse.”
Alina’s pizza slice sagged, forgotten.
Emma hesitated. Then, quietly: “It’s just… you never talk about what happened while he had you. Not really. And I get it. I do. But after tonight, I just—”
She didn’t finish.
Silence stretched.
For a moment, Alina almost believed the conversation would dissolve, mercifully, into nothing.
Then—
“Alina…”
The name was barely a breath.
“When Ruiz asked if he touched you—”
Her heart dropped so fast she felt it in her fingertips.
Emma pressed on, gentle, careful, like approaching something cornered.
“The look on your face when she said it… I can’t get it out of my head. You went somewhere else. Like you weren’t even in the room.”
Alina’s stomach twisted.
No. No, not this. Not now.
“But after tonight… hearing him speak to you like that…” Emma’s voice broke. “I’m scared, Lina. I’m scared of what he might’ve done to you.”
Alina felt her throat clamp shut.
Emma went on, voice softer, apologetic, terrified:
“I’m not asking for details. God, I’m not. I just…” She took a shaky breath. “Did he… did he hurt you? Did he—”
Alina stared at the slice in her hands until the crust and cheese blurred into a soft, watery smear.
If she didn’t blink, maybe the tears would stay where they were. Maybe she could hold them back by force alone.
But then Emma reached out, tentative, resting her hand on Alina’s wrist.
“I just want to understand,” she whispered. “So I can help you. So I know what I’m dealing with. I need to know what he did to you. Because something happened. Something more than—than just captivity.”
Slowly, helplessly, Alina lifted her head.
And the moment her eyes met Emma’s, the tears gave way.
Emma’s face crumpled. “Oh, honey… oh no—” She scooted closer, arms already lifting. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry—”
But Alina was already breaking. Already shaking. The tears spilled fast—hot with shame, thick with grief, relentless in their betrayal of everything she was trying to hold together.
Emma gathered her in without hesitation, as if she could shield her from every memory at once.
“I’m here,” she murmured, over and over, brushing trembling fingers through Alina’s hair. “You’re safe now. You’re safe. You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have pushed—I’m so sorry.”
Alina sobbed harder—because Emma thought she was crying from trauma.
From remembering.
The chloroform.
The panic.
The raw-boned terror of the first night he'd whispered mine like a curse and a prayer.
From the bruises.
The silence.
The fear.
And maybe some of it was that...
But that wasn’t why she was crying now.
Not really.
It was because tonight—hearing his voice again—
that low, rough warmth he used only with her,
that awful intimacy that made her feel chosen,
wanted,
known—
had shattered something inside her.
Because she missed him.
Because she loved him.
Because she hated herself for every piece of that truth.
Because she could never explain it to Emma.
Could never say it aloud.
Could never confess that she was crying not just from what he’d done to her—
but from what he’d made her become.
She’d dragged Emma into this.
Let her offer kindness, shelter, safety—when Emma didn’t even know she was holding someone too far gone to save.
Someone ruined in a way that didn’t look like blood or bruises, but something deeper.
Quieter.
Permanent.
Emma stroked her hair with a reverence that hurt.
As if Alina were still good.
Still whole.
“You don’t have to relive it,” she whispered. “You’re not alone.”
Alina let herself be held.
And under Emma’s arms—
under the lie of safety—
one thought rose like a knife through her chest:
I’m a monster.
Because I want him.
Because he hurt me.
Because I still want him anyway.
Her tears soaked Emma’s shoulder.
Emma only held her tighter.
---
Later—much later—Alina lay curled on her air mattress, staring at the faint glow of the fairy lights above her, their batteries nearly gone. The room was dim, sheets clean. Quiet. Lavender-scented.
Safe.
But none of it touched her.
Everything hurt. Not the kind she could point to. Not the kind anyone could fix. Something deeper.
Something twisting beneath her ribs like bruises that hadn’t bloomed yet.
She pulled the blanket higher. It didn’t help.
Her eyes were raw from crying. Her cheeks stung with dried salt. Her skull throbbed with that sick, hollow ache that came after too much emotion—after too much truth.
And now that the tears were gone—
now that sorrow had burned itself out—
something else rose to take its place.
Anger.
It came hot. Sharp. Wild.
Her jaw locked. Her fingers clenched the blanket until her knuckles went white.
How dare he.
How fucking dare he.
The thought echoed, low and rhythmic, like footsteps in an empty hall.
How dare he take her. Make her love him. Then force her to leave like it was mercy.
How dare he destroy her life and call it survival.
How dare he make her heart something he could pick up or set down as easily as a coin on a table.
He ruined her life with the simplest choices.
Turned her name into public currency, her fear into dinner conversation, her survival into spectacle.
Everyone knew her now, but no one saw her. No one saw what it cost.
And Emma—dear, steady Emma—he'd dragged her into this orbit too, forced her to carry a weight she never asked for.
Bills missed. Shifts swapped.
Nights spent watching over someone who couldn’t explain why she couldn’t breathe.
How dare he do that.
How dare he make her walk onto a stage because they needed the money he’d taken from her life.
How dare he make her wear bravery like a costume.
How dare he let her believe she might get through the interview untouched—
only to appear.
To call.
To speak to her in that voice.
Hi, Doll.
So easy.
So familiar.
So fucking intimate.
Two words that slipped under her skin the way sunlight slips through curtains—uninvited, inevitable.
And she hated—HATED—the way something in her leaned toward them.
Toward him.
Like a flower toward sunlight.
Like a wound remembering the blade that made it.
She pressed her fist to her sternum, as if she could quiet the trembling there.
Because the truth—the ugliest part—
was that she missed him.
His voice.
His heat.
The way he softened only for her.
The way he would sigh in his sleep, pull her closer without even knowing it.
The way he smelled like smoke and rain and the night itself.
The way he looked at her like he saw straight into the parts she hid from everyone else.
And that want—that terrible, impossible want—didn’t make her brave.
It made her ruined.
More ruined now than when he first stole her.
She wasn’t just broken.
She was more broken than before—
because now she knew what it meant to be held by someone who didn’t believe in gentleness, and loved by someone who didn’t believe in love.
And still—
still—
some part of her mourned the loss of his arms around her.
Some part of her longed for the danger of him, the warmth of him—
the terrible rightness of belonging to someone she should never have touched.
The anger tightened in her throat, hot and helpless.
A prayer.
A curse.
A confession she would never speak aloud.
How dare you, she thought into the dark.
How dare you leave me wanting you.
---
Eventually, sleep came.
But it was not mercy.
It pulled her under like deep water, slow and strange.
And in the dream, he was there.
Not his face.
His hands.
They moved through a darkness too rich to be black—something greener, deeper. Like moss in moonlight. Like breath held under velvet.
He was holding something.
No—folding something.
Her green dress.
The one from the studio. The one she had tried to feel powerful in.
The one he’d seen her in.
His hands moved slowly, reverently, smoothing the fabric as if it were sacred.
As if it were hers.
As if it were his.
He didn’t crush it.
He didn’t tear it.
He held it gently, fingertips grazing the curve of the collar, the line of the zipper—the same path his hand had taken down her back once, in the dark.
Then his touch drifted lower, stroking downward. The fabric shivered—
—and for a moment, just a moment—
she felt it.
A whisper across her hip.
A slow sweep over her waist.
A warmth that curled low and deep.
—even though he wasn’t touching her at all.
Even though it was only fabric in his hands.
Her body arched, seeking warmth, seeking him, seeking a hand that wasn't there.
But the sensation faded like breath on a mirror.
And the grief that followed—small, startling—
told the truth she wouldn’t say aloud.
He went on smoothing the velvet as if he was remembering the heat of her skin,
turning it over like it was something he’d memorized. Something he’d missed.
Then he pressed it to his chest.
His fingers fanned over the velvet, like he needed the softness against him.
Clutched it.
Clung.
And when he exhaled—just once, deep and quiet—it wasn’t a laugh or a growl or a threat.
It sounded like grief.
It sounded like longing.
A sound that might have warmed her neck if she’d been standing before him.
A sound her body knew.
And that, more than anything, made her tremble.
In sleep, her body flinched. Her hands curled into fists beneath the blanket—as if reaching for something warm that wasn’t there.
Because every part of her wanted to reach back.
To take the dress.
To feel those hands smoothing her instead of velvet.
To let him hold her like that.
To ask him why he’d let her go—if he’d ever meant to at all.
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N: Oof... That was a lot 😩 Her longing for him is so strong, it honestly hurts to write sometimes.
I hope you enjoyed Chapter 37, otherwise known as: “Alina Really Should Be In Therapy But Instead She’s In Love With The Joker.”
Thank you for reading, screaming, theorizing, crying, and enabling my madness for an entire year. This fic has grown into something huge and beautiful and broken because of YOU.
Chapter 38 is already in progress, and we’re about to enter a whole new level of emotional damage. Stay tuned, stay hydrated, and feel free to yell at me in the comments. 😭🖤💜💚
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, coarse language, mentions of suicide.
Hopeless
Drip, drip, drip.
The sound of water was the first thing that seeped into Hazel’s awareness. Then, her nose burned with smell of bleach.
Hazel peeled her eyes open and let them adjust to the light. She noticed with a sense of panic a tightness in her chest, like she was breathing through a snorkel that had half submerged. There was something very wrong with how it felt. She focused on breathing easy, steady and full.
Hazel lay still and listened. Apart from the dripping that sounded like water in a pipe, there was silence. No footsteps. No breath. No feeling that another being was present.
Hazel turned her head a fraction taking in the space around her. A dim globe hung from the ceiling above her illuminating a white room. Clean. No furniture.
Quietly, Hazel tried to shift from where she lay on her side and realised, she was still bound. Her right arm was arm cardboard-numb from being folded beneath her own bodyweight. She rolled onto her back with a grunt. Her body hurt including a steady thumping in her skull, and a painful pressure in her chest.
Holy shit. The Lieutenant had attacked her.
It seemed like a bad dream – one of her nightmares.
The Lieutenant was the Gotham slasher?
How did she miss it?
Hazel focused on keeping her laboured breaths calm and steady. She didn't allow herself to panic and breath harder when the air didn't come. Just nice easy breaths.
That’s it, Hazel. Easy.
Squinting at her wrists she inspected the cable ties that bound her. One on each wrist, looped through each other and pulled tight enough that they couldn't be slipped off. The ties on her ankles were set up the same. She gave a futile yank at the ties on her wrists, testing their strength. It burned her skin, but the ties didn't yield.
With some exertion, Hazel leveraged herself upright. It was hard to manoeuvre with her bindings, but it was possible. Once seated she had a better view of the room.
Four walls and a low ceiling. Each white wall was clad in some sort of undulating spongy material that looked like sound proofing. In one corner an old pipe passed - the source of the dripping sound. The smell of bleach suggested that the room had undergone thorough cleaning. She was lying on a thin mattress - new.
She was in a purpose-built prison of sorts.
There was a staircase at the opposite side of the room that led to a door. This seemed to be the only obvious entry or exit point. Hazel assumed from the design of the stairs, and the general feel of the space, that she was in a basement.
It was logical to believe that the door at the top of the stairs was locked. She would try it, but not immediately. She did not know what or who, waited beyond its confines. If she started making noise, she might draw her assailant – the lieutenant - back to her.
She was better taking time to think, and to try and remove her bindings.
Law enforcement statistics crawled in her mind:
Secondary locations favour the assailant and increase control over victim.
Secondary locations significantly reduce odds of survival.
Victims should avoid relocation at all costs.
Hazel accepted the morbid truth of it: Finding herself bound in a cellar wasn‘t good. If she wanted to get away, she had to be smart.
Hazel continued her scan. Beside her bed was a bowl of water – a silver pet bowl placed on the ground. The sentiment that she should drink like a dog was not lost on her – but it also meant that he didn’t necessarily intend for her to die before he returned.
The idea that he had plans for her more significant that her death was bone rattlingly terrifying.
One small section of the wall was boarded over, she noticed. It was also whitewashed so it blended in.
What lay beyond it?
If she was in a basement or cellar, then it might a storm door – an exit straight to the outside world. It felt like the place to start.
In a worm like action Hazel managed to stand herself up without the proper use of her hands. A wave of dizziness swept over her and her knees buckled and dropped her, hitting the ground with a force that knocked the air from her lungs.
Hazel lay foetal. Her whole body hurt. She was parched with thirst and struggling against the pressure in her chest. As she recovered, hugging her bound arms against her, she felt utterly hopeless.
Pull it together, Hazel.
With a groan, Hazel rolled onto her back and adjusted her arms to touch the pain at her ribs - the point where she had felt the stabbing pain when she was attacked in her apartment. With shock, she discovered a warm, wet feeling against her skin. The bleeding hadn’t stopped and there was a large patch of red blood on her shirt. It was mostly bright fresh blood, darkened on the fringes of the stain.
This was a problem.
The pain in her ribs intensified after looking at it. Now that she knew how much she was bleeding it was harder to put the pain out of mind. Hazel raked at her shirt with her bound hands trying to get a view of the wound and idea of the damage, but it was useless.
One thing was sure; time was of the essence. She needed to get out fast, without over-exerting herself, and without drawing attention.
Hazel scanned the room, baren except for the mattress and the bowl. Her eyes settled on the globe hanging from the ceiling. If she smashed it…a shard of glass had the potential to sever the plastic cable tie – but she could easily cut herself, and it would be very difficult to use her bound hands effectively. Also, breaking glass would make noise, and breaking the globe would leave her in darkness. It wouldn’t work.
The boarded section of wall had her interest.
Hazel made an ungainly roll back to seated, this time really pacing herself before standing. Her legs were trembling and numb and saliva pooled in her mouth. With tiny shifts of her bound ankles, she made her way to the boarded wall.
Hazel raised her hands up to the panels, the wood was thick and rough under the coating of paint. She pressed against it, testing for movement but the structure held solid. Hazel ran her hands along the edge, all the way to where the wood met the wall. Thick nails – like those of a nail gun – had the wood firmly embedded. Hazel examined the nails all the way along, all solidly embedded except for one which jutted out just a quarter inch. She tested the wood at that level – it didn’t budge.
Hazel tried to get her fingers to grip underneath the lip of the first panel but the tight binding on her hands made it hard to apply much force. The wood was flush, and firm and she couldn’t get a good angle. Hazel’s head started to spin from the effort. Knowing that she was bleeding and with the horrible sense that she wasn’t getting enough air, she felt like she was racing the clock.
Nothing was budging. Hazel felt her hope wane.
Even if she got the panel off, the best she could hope would be to call for help to anyone who passed by on the street - assuming she was on a street. Getting enough panels free to climb out seemed ambitious. Too much noise would alert Lieutenant James that she was awake and trying to escape.
Where was the Lieutenant? How much time did she have before he came for her?
The Lieutenant would have to return to work at some point – she reasoned, but she had no reference on time in the white, sealed room.
No light entered the room from the outside. If freedom lay beyond the boards, there was no sign of light from there - only the artificial light of the globe.
Maybe he left the light on to disorient her.
Hazel tried to reason the time past.
The Lieutenant had turned up at around 11pm just after Joker left. How long had she been unconscious after that? How long would the anaesthetic effect from the chloroform have lasted?
Surely not all night.
She had to assume it was night and the Lieutenant was still in the building.
Hazel glanced at the door, a tempting illusion of escape - he could be guarding the top of the stairs.
Still, he had places he was expected to be and he couldn’t wait all day. He was likely confident she was securely enclosed whilst he attended to his routines.
Hazel reasoned that if she could move a board just enough to monitor dawn break, she would be able to gauge when he would most likely be gone, reported back to work. Then she could try her luck with the door.
She needed try the boards again.
Maybe she would be able to get a proper grip on the boards if her hands were untied.
Getting her hands free was the first step.
Hazel swallowed back a wave of nausea. How would she get her hands free?
The raised nail head was an option…repetitive dragging against the plastic bindings would eventually fray the binding – probably.
She just needed to stay up right long enough to get it done.
There wasn’t much time.
Her thirst was raging, and the intermittent dizzy spells were increasingly hard to contend with.
Hazel looked back at the dog bowl – too many steps away now, and besides she didn’t trust it. Despite how desperately parched she was, she would go without.
She had to focus on her bindings.
Hazel found the raised corner of the nail. Her two hands pressed together she raised them above the nail head and dragged them down. As she hoped, the cable tie caught and then flicked over the nail head with a ping.
The sound made her heart swell with hope. Hazel was sure the friction over time would fray the band.
One.
She counted her first effort. Unsure how many tries it would take she set her goal at fifty.
At 50 flicks it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay up right. Hazel’s legs trembled and a cold sweat had drenched her pyjama top. She wished for a jumper.
Blackness started to encroach on her vision and she felt the world tip, barley catching herself. She didn’t have the energy to keep standing.
Hazel raised her wrists to inspect the work. The plastic was stretching and had chink marks in it.
You need to yank it with all your weight and it will bust through.
Fixing her gaze on the nail head she aligned her hands flush on the wall.
1, 2, 3!
She slid her fists down the boards so flush they stung with friction, the nail caught and she dropped her body weight against the binding. The cable strained then snapped, dumping Hazel onto her knees with bruising force.
Hazel grunted with pain and rolled over to her butt, circling her free wrists until the pain started to subside.
As the feeling returned to her arms, she brought herself up. She found the edge of the board and started to pry. Her nails scraped. Splintered. The board didn’t budge.
Her thirst was unbearable.
Blood loss.
Shock.
Potential concussion.
The giddy feeling was getting stronger. Her vision was blurring - growing dark at the edges.
She sat.
She had to sit.
For a moment she pressed her head into her hands. It was hopeless.
She just didn’t have the strength or the stamina to persist with the boards. There was only one more option.
She needed to try her luck with the door at the top of the stairs. She couldn't delay any further - despite the risk.
Hazel turned her head in the direction of the stairs just as she heard the rattling of the lock.
The basement door swung open.
**
Hazel blinked up at the dark silhouette that had filled the door.
“Rose?”
Rose’s lean figure hurried down the stairs, shushing her as she came.
“Quite! I watched him drive away, but he could be back anytime. I'm going to get you out of here.”
Hazel blinked up at Rose, bewildered. Against the new light cast from the stairs, Rose looked like she had a golden glow – a halo. To Hazel she was a street-wise, knee-high booted angel.
Next thing Rose was kneeling beside Hazel, with a quick flick of a pocket knife the bindings on Hazel's ankles were severed.
With Rose’s help, Hazel struggled to her feet. Little dots danced in front of her eyes and Rose stepped in to support her. Hazel linked an arm over Rose letting her weight hang on the woman’s wiry frame.
"Why are you here?" Hazel spluttered “God, I’m so glad that you are.”
Rose paused long enough to look Hazel in the eye.
"I Recognised him at the station when he barged into our interview. When I saw your bosses’ beady eyes it all came back to me: he was the man in the Van at Miffs house. He killed Miff. He killed all those others. I knew no one would believe me, except maybe you. I wanted to talk to you somewhere private, so, I followed you to your house and I waited.
Rose turned and started up the stairs, still speaking over her own shoulder.
“Of course, I never did you get a chance to talk to you. After you know who left – and the lieutenant turned up in that Van, I knew you were in a world of trouble. You've had a busy night, girl."
"Wow Rose. With those smarts you could work for GCPD"
"Huh!' her laugh was dry. 'You keep your eyes and ears open to survive the Narrows. No thank you all the same."
"Is that where we are? The Narrows?"
"You're in a basement on Gold Spur Street."
His dead mothers house.
It made sense.
Hazel remembered the three standalone houses next to the brewery – each with their own small block and a cellar.
Stupid!
She’d shoved one of her calling cards in the door frame just a couple days earlier. No wonder he was pissed she wasn’t following his directions!
The stairs were hard work. Her feet were heavy, and she caught her foot as she climbed, jarring herself painfully. Conversation stopped as Hazel focused on getting enough air just to move.
Rose pulled at her and Hazel pressed on best she could.
The house above was quiet and dim. Hazel felt coarse carpet beneath her feet as they silently entered the hallway and then a living space.
Hazel did a visual sweep of the room making out a floral sofa covered in a clear protector. The furniture was dated, not as many years as the home, but old. The late Margaret's furniture, Hazel figured.
As they stepped cautiously out the front door, a swell of elation swept over Hazel.
Freedom.
Dawn was on its way. The sky was lighter, a haze, grey like the city. Sunrise was yet to bleed colour into the world.
The first car that came along the street still had headlights on. The stark beams pinned them with nowhere to hide. Hazel straightened her back as much as she could and walked a few strides with purpose. Sticky with blood and sweat, barefoot and hobbling in her sleep-ware – Hazel was worried about attracting the wrong kind of attention.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the vehicle passed. It wasn't Lieutenant James.
“Want me to call someone?” Rose asked.
“Call my partner!” Hazel gasped. “You got a phone, Rose?” The few steps she had taken of her own accord had zapped her energy. She was dragging her feet now.
“There is a payphone at the end of the block.” Rose puffed and kept walking.
The movement was making Hazels side ache and every breath hurt.
Without warning, her knees buckled and Rose pitched with the effort to keep her from falling.
“Jesus!” Rose was stern “Stay on your feet. I can’t carry you like that!”
Rose was walking her in the wrong direction, away from the shops end of Gold Spur. Away from the civilised world, in the direction of The Narrows.
Hazel tried to speak but her mouth seemed to have disengaged, not responding to her brain.
She was just too tired.
How far was it to the phone?
Hazel forced another footstep. Her mouth was like cotton balls. All she could think about was water. She wished she had drunk the dog bowl dry – even if it was poisoned. She needed to stop for water.
“I need wat-“
Her words faded.
One minute she was standing. Next minute she felt like she was floating in a giant sea. Bobbing on a raft. In her delirium the sun was beating down, and she could taste the salty spray on her lips. Mouth too dry.
“Hey! Hey!”
Hazels eyes reeled open as she hit the concrete, the impact jarring her awake.
“Hey!” Rose shouted again, “You have to use your feet! I can’t drag you. You'll die here if you don't stand.” Rose pulled at her hard “GET UP!”
Hazel didn’t move. She stayed on the ground and closed her eyes.
Next thing, Rose’s arms were tucked underneath her own underarms, and she was being dragged off the sidewalk. Rose pulled her in short shunts, cursing with effort. Hazel tried her best to cooperate as Rose pulled but she had lost control of her limbs and her will to try was slipping.
Hazel felt the air grow cooler and she smelt trash.
Rose had pulled her into an adjacent alley and was propping her against a dumpster.
The older woman crouched down taking her hand tightly. Hazel couldn’t see her clearly, but she could feel her grip and hear her.
"I’m sorry. I can’t get you to the phone, girl. I don't have the strength. I’ll come back for you, I promise. I’m gonna get help"
"Stay! " Hazel croaked. Her voice was too weak. Too quite. She wasn’t even sure the plea had her left her throat.
**
Hazel Floated in the ether somewhere between here and gone. Like fingers trailing the surface of an ocean, unable to break free for air. Occasionally, she registered a glimmer of light, sound, or a coherent thought, but mostly she floated in darkness, unable to break free.
How long did Rose leave her that way? Hazel didn’t know.
Minutes. Hours.
Eternity?
Hazel was beyond a fight for justice, or to fear for her life - too tired to fight for consciousness.
She wanted Rose back just so she wasn’t alone.
Rose promised she’d return with help… surely she wouldn’t just leave.
At one point she dreamt about the clown.
A flicker of comfort in her heart at the familiarity.
First, she dreamed she smelt him: leather and matches. She imagined the weight of his booted strides approaching, and the way his coat would swing with each step.
She thought she heard voices in the background.
She dreamed of the touch of leather across her cheek.
The gloved touch was smooth, a stroke at first.
Calming. Welcome.
Eyelids pulled up, one side, then the other. Light in her eyes, blinding. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Then a gloved hand clapped her cheek. Two brittle slaps.
Small, but sharp.
It stung.
Maybe it hurt enough to be real.
"Hey! Can you hear me?"
The voice again... maybe it was real?
She couldn't tell. She couldn't wake...she was too tired and disoriented to even care.
...and then she was being lifted.
The world tilted.
A slog in the guts as she was thrown over a shoulder. A rag-doll across a broad back.
Then, the voice like gravel:
"I got you doll. No dying on me tonight.”
**
Hazel has been collected by an unlikely hero! Is she better off or worse??
Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment or share if you have enjoyed.
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 36: Live On Air
The green room smelled faintly of lemon water and stale makeup brushes.
Beyond the door, the studio moved like a machine—voices barked orders, cords scraped across linoleum, shoes clicked too fast down hallways. Then: laughter. A phone rang. Someone swore.
Too loud.
Too alive.
It felt like the edge of something she wasn’t ready to fall from.
Too much.
Alina sat perfectly still on the little red sofa, ankles crossed, back too straight. Her fingers picked at the hem of her dress, catching on the thin fabric of her tights. Her hands wouldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t.
Everyone had been so kind. Too kind. Like they were handling glass they fully expected to shatter.
Joyce, the woman in charge of hospitality, had said she could ask for anything—coffee, tea, sparkling water, kombucha—and smiled like she meant it. The production assistant had handed her tissues without asking why she needed them. The makeup artist had worked with light, careful motions, patting concealer beneath her eyes like she was performing last rites.
They all told her she looked beautiful.
And she did.
Maybe too much.
She stared at the woman in the mirror as if through water—an image warped by waves and distance. Black eyeliner flared like a blade. Her lashes curled, her lips held a breath of color, her skin blushed into life like a princess in a coffin.
It was the first time she’d worn makeup since the day he took her.
The day her life split down the center.
And what stared back was a version of herself she didn’t trust. A version that belonged to someone else.
Before the ruin.
Or somehow after it.
They’d all been so careful. So reassuring. When she’d called to accept the offer, she’d been explicit—no questions about anything invasive, or dehumanizing. Nothing about the things no one should ever have to say aloud on camera.
They’d agreed. Emailed it in writing. Even met her in person, all smiles and soft voices.
Your comfort is our top priority.
We just want to give you a voice.
Emma hadn’t believed it for a second.
She’d stood in the kitchen just two nights ago, arms crossed tight against her chest. “Alina, you can’t do this. You’re not ready. You don’t owe anyone this. They’re going to twist it. Traumatize you all over again.”
“I’ll be fine,” Alina had said—because admitting anything else would’ve splintered her open.
Because the money would let Emma take that trip.
Because this was something she could give back—
Even if it cost her something she didn’t yet have words for.
She smoothed the hem of her dress—deep green velvet, short hem and high at the neck with little cap sleeves and a black lace neckline. She’d chosen it because it reminded her of stories—of witches and old forests and girls who knew things. She wore sheer black tights and soft boots with worn-down soles.
Her hair spilled down her back in long, careful waves—gentle, composed. Nothing like how she felt inside.
Emma had curled it herself, standing behind her with shaking hands and too many bobby pins. “You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, even as Alina stepped into the dress.
But she did have to do this.
She needed the money.
Emma needed the break.
And some buried part of her needed this, too—this performance of composure, this armor made of velvet and eyeliner, this fragile idea that she still had a choice.
She just wished the air didn’t feel like it was tightening around her throat.
Someone shouted outside the door—“Thirty seconds to segment setup!”—and her pulse thudded once, hard enough to make her vision sway. A wave of nausea rose, but she forced it down. She had learned how to still her body in the worst places.
Her stomach clenched.
The lights outside the door shifted.
Joyce knocked once, then peeked in. “We’re ready when you are.”
The air tasted sharp. Metallic.
Alina nodded. Her voice caught behind her ribs, refused to move.
She stood.
Her knees felt wrong. Not weak—just not hers.
She walked.
Each step softer than the scream under her bones.
And somewhere deep behind her eyes, her mind whispered the only truth she still trusted:
He’ll be watching.
---
The hallway to the stage was cold.
Not physically. But in that clinical way that makes hospitals feel too clean, too white. The kind of cold that seeps behind your ribs and tells you nothing here is meant for comfort.
People passed her in blurs—crew in black shirts with headsets, someone wheeling in an extra chair, a man in khakis adjusting a boom mic. No one really looked at her. They all smiled like they’d been trained to.
Smile gently at the trauma girl.
Don’t make her flinch.
The stage manager greeted her with a clipboard and a whisper.
“We’ll start with soft questions. You’ll just be sitting with Kip, very conversational. You’ve seen the mock-ups.”
Alina nodded, though she couldn’t remember anything from the packet. She could barely hear over the rush of her own blood.
Through the doorway, the studio light flared hot and artificial. Two cushioned chairs. A matte-black coffee table. A small, tasteful bouquet.
Everything looked expensive and calm.
Like a funeral.
“Three minutes,” someone said behind her.
Kip Farthington was already in his seat—hair perfectly slicked back, smiling with teeth too straight to be real. He wore a navy suit with a white shirt and no tie, his collar open just enough to suggest casual authority.
He looked like a news anchor designed by committee—Ken doll handsome. Inoffensive. Artificial.
He rose when she entered.
“Alina,” he said warmly, holding out a hand. “Thank you for being here.”
She shook it. His hand was smooth, bloodless. Too light. Like touching paper.
She sat in her seat, crossing her ankles, folding her hands in her lap like a child in church.
The cameras weren’t rolling yet, but she felt them.
Heavy. Watching. Waiting to feed.
Kip leaned toward her, eyes almost kind. “You look lovely. That dress is going to look great on camera.”
Her mouth formed a thank-you, but her throat refused to give it breath.
The mic tech approached—reached toward her shoulder—and she flinched before she could stop it. The woman apologized softly. “Just the wire,” she said, all gentleness.
As if the wire weren’t another mouth waiting to swallow her words.
As if everything wasn’t already too late.
“Thirty seconds,” someone called.
The lights shifted. The air tightened.
Something in her chest locked into place like a loaded chamber.
The world contracted to a single spotlight, two chairs, and a man pretending to understand.
She wasn’t ready.
She had never been ready.
But that had never mattered before.
The music swelled like a cue.
The red light blinked on.
And everything in her stilled.
—
Kip sat poised, hands folded. Suit crisp. The expression on his face walked the line between solemnity and intrigue.
His voice came low and smooth, practiced.
“Good evening. I’m Kip Farthington. And this… is Gotham Evening Feature.”
A pause. His eyes found the lens.
“Tonight, we bring you the story of a woman whose name became synonymous with sacrifice—a woman who stood face-to-face with Gotham’s most feared criminal, and survived.”
Her heart kicked, hard and fast.
The screen on set flickered—cutting to the missing flyer. The one Emma had chosen. The smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. A face that didn’t look like hers anymore.
Then: shaky footage. Sirens. The bank steps. A blur of screaming faces.
Kip's voice pressed on:
“On October 16th, during what police described as the most psychologically manipulative hostage event in Gotham’s history, twenty-eight-year-old waitress Alina Vale made a choice—She offered herself in place of a stranger.”
Alina’s hands clenched in her lap. Her nails bit into skin.
“She survived the unthinkable. Walked free. And seventeen days later… vanished without a trace.”
A beat.
“For nearly four months, the city searched. Wondered. Feared the worst.”
She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t work.
“And then—she came back.”
The camera angled toward her. The heat of the lights flared again.
“And tonight, for the first time… Alina Vale is ready to speak.”
She sat up straighter. It felt like stepping to a ledge.
Kip turned toward her, voice softened just slightly.
“Alina, thank you for being here.”
She parted her lips. The words snagged on her tongue.
Then finally, quietly:
“…Thank you. For having me.”
Kip’s smile was gentle, rehearsed.
He leaned back slightly, giving her space—or the appearance of it.
“Alina,” he began, “you’ve said very little since returning home. People have wondered…” His voice softened like he was tending a wound “…how you’re holding up.”
A safe question. One she could answer without betraying anything.
“I’m… adjusting,” she managed. Her voice sounded wrong in her own ears—thin, almost borrowed. “It’s been a lot to process.”
Kip nodded sympathetically, as if he knew what “a lot” meant.
He didn’t.
Kip folded his hands over his knee, expression solemn in a way that read more rehearsed than respectful.
“Let’s start at the beginning, Alina. Back at the bank.” He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he already believed he’d solved.
“How did it feel…the moment the Joker walked into that room?”
A lump rose in her throat.
Of course he had to take her back there.
Why would she expect anything else?
“I felt… terrified,” she said quietly. “Like everyone else. Everyone knows who he is—what he’s capable of...”
“I’m sure you were,” Kip replied, voice dripping sympathy. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you all.”
The way he said sure made her skin prickle—
He leaned in slightly.
“Now, something people still talk about… You had the chance to choose someone else. To save yourself. But you didn’t.”
A slow beat.
“You stayed in the chair. Offered up your life in exchange for a room full of strangers... Why?”
Another sharp pain bloomed under her ribs.
She still couldn’t believe she was dragging these thoughts into the open—into cameras and lights and millions of strangers’ living rooms.
“Well… honestly, Kip…” She swallowed. “I just wanted the suffering to end. There were so many people there—children, elderly folks, mothers, fathers….”
Her voice cracked.
“I don’t— I didn’t have anyone like that. My parents died when I was twelve and my only other relative—my aunt—she passed away too. I guess I thought my life wouldn’t… leave the same kind of hole.”
She took a shaky breath.
“And I couldn’t just sit there and watch everyone die, one after another.”
Kip frowned—intensely sympathetic, camera-ready.
“Oh, Alina… What a burden to carry. What a noble choice you made.”
She had the sudden, vivid urge to stand up and walk out.
Instead she looked at her hands.
“And then,” Kip continued, smoothing his papers as if easing her gently forward, “the moment he broke the rules of his own game and decided not to take your life. What was that like?”
“It was a relief, of course.” She tried a small smile, but it felt wrong on her face.
“I’m sure.”
Kip’s eyes narrowed—not unkind, but curious in a way that set her nerves on edge.
“Here’s the question on everyone’s mind.”
A pause.
“Why? Why do you think he let you live, Alina?”
She froze.
She’d known this was coming, but it still hit like cold water.
“I don’t know,” she said, too quickly.
Then softer: “I genuinely don’t.”
Kip nodded as if he believed her—but the sharpened glint in his eye suggested he didn’t.
Heat crawled up her neck.
She looked down again.
The questions kept coming—details about the graveyard, her capture, the warehouse. She repeated what she’d told the detectives. Nothing new. Nothing she hadn’t already rehearsed.
Until Kip set his pen down.
Straightened.
Lifted his gaze to hers with a different kind of interest—sharper. Hungrier.
“Alina… you were isolated with him for nearly four months.”
She stiffened.
“That kind of prolonged captivity… it changes the brain. It changes how we relate to the only person near us. Even when that person is dangerous.”
Her pulse throbbed beneath her skin.
No.
This wasn’t in the contract. He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere near this.
“I think what our viewers want to understand,” he said, voice warm, coaxing, “is… what was that like for you? How did it feel?”
She swallowed. It scraped all the way down.
“I… I'm not sure,” she whispered. It was barely a sound.
Kip nodded with sympathetic gravity, eyes soft, head tilted just so.
To the viewers at home, he probably looked compassionate.
To her, he looked like a man testing the strength of thin ice.
“It’s important to understand the emotional landscape,” he continued. “When a survivor forms… dependencies. Attachments. Even involuntary ones.”
Her stomach lurched.
She couldn’t believe he'd said the word “attachments.”
It felt like being stripped in front of millions.
She wanted to speak. To set a boundary.
Nothing came out. Her voice was gone—trapped somewhere behind her ribs with all the other things she refused to remember.
Kip offered a sympathetic frown.
“And considering the unusual length of time he kept you alive…” Kip leaned in slightly. “Some people have wondered if—”
He stopped.
A smile.
A boundary deliberately skirted.
“…if there was ever a moment when you saw him as something other than the monster people believe he is.”
Her heartbeat stuttered hard, painful.
No. No, no—that wasn’t allowed, that wasn’t in the agreement—
“I…” she managed, barely.
He tapped his papers lightly, as if embarrassed on her behalf.
“I just wanted to go home,” she whispered.
“Of course. Of course.”
He held up a hand, as if protecting her from misunderstanding.
“But online, there’s been some… speculation.”
Her breath stalled.
“A theory that the Joker hasn’t come after you since you escaped because…”
He hesitated—the kind of hesitation meant to look respectful.
“…because perhaps he cares for you... In some way.”
Her pulse thundered.
He leaned in, voice lowering, intimate in a way that made her skin crawl.
“Where there were moments,” he said softly, “when the… boundary between fear and something else became unclear?”
Her heartbeat stuttered.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Kip waited.
Just a second too long.
The silence pressed in—hungry, expectant.
Then, soft as silk drawn tight around a throat:
“Alina… did you ever feel he wanted something from you that you couldn’t refuse?”
Her entire body went still.
There it was.
The drop.
The line he wasn’t supposed to cross—obliterated.
A cold rush washed down her spine. Her ears rang.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move.
She couldn’t believe he’d just said that—on live television—after he'd promised.
Her mind screamed: Get up. Walk out. Now.
But she sat motionless, heart hammering, the lights burning into her.
Kip sat perfectly still, watching her as she stared at the floor, unable to speak.
Then—
Kip cleared his throat lightly, shifting his earpiece.
“Ah—just a moment,” he said with a small smile. “My producer is telling me we have a live caller.”
Her stomach plummeted.
Live caller? No. No, no, no—this wasn’t—she hadn’t—
Kip turned toward the camera with professional ease.
“You’re on Gotham Evening Feature,” Kip said brightly. “Who am I speaking with tonight?”
A beat of silence.
Then—
A low, amused hum crackled through the speakers. Not a word. Just that sound. Like someone very pleased with himself.
Alina’s breath stalled.
Kip’s smile wavered—not enough to register with the audience, but Alina caught it. His eyes darted toward her, then back to the camera. Still smooth. Still smiling. But something in him clicked to attention—
Like a dog catching the scent of fresh meat.
“Caller?” he prompted. “You’ve got the floor.”
Another pause. Then a voice—low, casual, rasping. Like a joke waiting to happen.
“Just wanted to say…”
A drag of breath, stretched out for effect.
“Not lovin’ the tone, Kip.”
The world stopped.
Light. Breath. Thought.
Gone.
Recognition slammed into her—so fast it hurt.
Pure. Blinding. Brutal.
It was him.
No mistaking it—that lilt, that sardonic warmth, smudged with ash and gunpowder.
The voice that had lived under her skin for four months and carved itself into her dreams.
Her body remembered him before her mind could even form the thought.
Kip didn’t move, but his pupils sharpened—pinpricks widening in recognition.
He knew.
She watched it flicker across his face: shock, disbelief, awe. Then a flash of something sharper—hunger. Pure, ravenous opportunity.
The interview wasn’t derailed—
It had ascended.
He angled his chin just slightly toward the camera. Like he’d practiced it a thousand times.
“A strong opinion,” he said smoothly. “Care to introduce yourself to the audience?”
A low laugh filtered through the speaker—not loud, but heavy with lazy satisfaction.
“Nah. I think they’ll figure it out.”
Joker let the silence hang for a beat too long—just long enough to make the crew twitch and the air feel thinner.
Then, lightly:
“Big fan of the show, by the way.”
Alina’s stomach turned.
His voice was so casual, so amused—it was almost gentle. But she knew better. Knew that tone. That practiced softness. The way he let people feel safe just long enough to lean in.
“Well,” Kip said, still smiling, still polished. “That’s always good to hear.”
He adjusted his notes with smooth precision, gaze fixed calmly on the camera.
Joker’s voice slid in, soft and cutting.
“Good to hear, huh? Does it feel just as good watching her squirm while you peel her open for Gotham?”
Kip blinked, his head tilting a fraction before he steadied it. “Excuse me—?”
Joker sighed, long and theatrical.
“Oh, drop the act, Kip. I hear it. That little tremble in your voice… that hitch in your breath when you ask her to remember.”
Kip shoulders tightened, irritation flickering behind the smile.
“This is a sensitive interview,” he said, voice cooling. “So if there’s something you’d like to add, let’s keep it respectful.”
Joker hissed between his teeth.
“Respectful,” he echoed, savoring it.
“Right. Because asking if she got cozy in the dark with me—that was just good journalism, huh?”
Heat crawled up Alina’s neck.
Her pulse thrashed, trapped.
She wanted to disappear into the chair, into the floor, out of the reach of the cameras and the wires and him...
The color drained from Kip’s face. Just for a moment. Enough to make the makeup sit wrong on his skin.
Then, swiftly—too swiftly—he rallied.
“Public interest is undeniable,” he said, tone turning grand. “Gotham has questions. I’m simply offering Miss Vale the chance to clear the rumors.”
A low, pleased chuckle unfurled through the line.
“Sure, sure. All in the name of transparency, right?”
“Absolutely,” Kip replied, noble on cue. “Tonight is about giving Miss Vale ownership of her story again—something that was taken from her.”
Joker let out a small, weary sigh.
“Y’know, Kip… this is why I don’t like you.”
Kip’s brow furrowed. “Pardon?”
“I said I don’t like you. Wanna know why?”
Kip straightened. “With all due respect—”
Joker cut him off, voice smooth and amused:
“If you’re gonna be a creep, be a creep. Watch her fall apart. Lap it up. But spare us the performance. This isn’t about dignity—it’s about ratings. You’re not a journalist, Kip. You’re a voyeur in a suit. So own it.”
A pause.
“Because that?” Joker purred. “That, I could respect.”
He let the silence thicken.
“But you…” A soft tsk. “You wrap it up in empathy. Call it ‘giving her a voice.’ Like it’s noble.”
Kip’s lips parted—ready to defend himself—
—but Joker cut in before a single word could form.
His voice dropped, slow and intimate.
“Tell me, Kip… when you rehearsed your questions… did you imagine her crying for you?”
A strangled sound came from one of the crew—someone who hadn’t meant to react out loud.
Kip inhaled sharply.
Joker laughed—quiet, delighted.
“That’s the part I can’t stand,” he murmured. “You pretending this is about her healing.”
A pause—
A breath—
A knife sliding in—
“…when we both know it’s about you getting your little thrill… watching her relive things only I ever got to see.”
Kip froze.
The entire studio went perfectly still.
Then—his recovery. A tight chuckle. A polished shake of the head.
“You abducted her. She escaped. And now you’re calling into my show to monitor her. It makes you look—”
“Careful,” Joker whispered.
Kip didn’t pause.
“—obsessed.”
A razor slice of silence.
Long enough for the breath to stall in Alina’s throat.
Long enough to remember what had happened the last time Kip tossed out a word he thought was harmless.
Soft.
And now?
Obsessed was worse.
That word had teeth.
She felt the shift—how the stillness in the room sharpened.
Joker didn’t laugh. Didn’t breathe.
Then:
“…Is that right?”
“It is,” Kip pressed, sensing leverage. “You’re watching her. Following her. Calling in the moment you don’t like a question—”
“Kip,” Joker cut in, voice smiling. “Deep breath now.”
“I’m simply pointing out,” Kip said, tone measured to the point of patronizing, “that you’re revealing more about yourself tonight than she ever did.”
Another long silence.
Then Joker let out a soft, almost sympathetic laugh.
“Oh, Kip,” he crooned. “You poor little man.”
Kip’s jaw tensed.
“You think this moment is about you showing Gotham how brave you are,” Joker said. “How fearless you sound on camera.”
Kip inhaled—ready to counter—but Joker sliced through him:
“Funny thing, though. You haven’t looked at her once.”
Kip stiffened and turned.
Alina sat small and tight in her chair, hands trembling faintly in her lap.
Joker’s laugh was low, delighted.
“See, that’s what kills me,” he said. “You’re so wrapped up in your heroic little monologue you didn’t even notice her cracking right in front of you. Some advocate you are... You sure this is about her healing—and not your ratings reel?”
Kip’s mask cracked—a bead of sweat pooling at his hairline. Panic flashed, then vanished as he straightened, restoring his tone.
“You don’t get to talk about her wellbeing!” Kip snapped, riding the high of his own moral outrage. “Not after what you did to her.”
Joker inhaled sharply through his teeth.
“Oh, buddy… if you’re gonna poke the bear, poking with your eyes open works better.”
Kip pressed forward, emboldened.
“You kept her for months,” he said. “Why? Why spare her? Why let her go? Why—”
“Ok, champ,” Joker interrupted softly. “You want my motives? My psychology? My deepest, darkest reasons?”
Kip leaned in.
“Yes. That’s exactly—”
“No.”
A clean slice.
A dead stop.
Kip’s mouth shut.
“I didn’t call in for you.”
A hush swept the room.
Alina lifted her eyes.
Not to Kip—
To the camera.
To the voice that had filled her world.
“I called—,” Joker murmured, soft and possessive, “for her.”
Alina’s heart stuttered.
The silence was absolute.
Then, slow as a caress:
“Hi, doll,” he breathed. “I missed your voice.”
Something inside her broke open.
Not pain—something worse—
Recognition.
Relief.
A pull so immediate her breath cut off in her throat.
It didn’t matter what he was—
What he’d done—
What he’d left her to survive—
Her stupid heart still knew him.
Still wanted him.
Still surged toward that voice like it was a lifeline.
Like muscle memory. Like instinct.
“And you look real good tonight,” he added. “That dress suits you.”
She flinched—barely—her knees pressed together, fingers curled into her palms so hard her nails bit skin.
No. No, no, no.
She hated this.
Hated herself.
Hated that a single compliment from him felt like oxygen after months of drowning.
But God—
She’d missed him.
Missed the sound of him.
Missed the way his voice reached right into the hollow places in her, filling them with that familiar ache she could never outrun.
Her skin tingled as if he were standing behind her, mouth at her ear, smiling when she shivered—
and the worst part, the part that made her stomach twist—
was that she felt this all on camera.
In front of millions.
She could feel her face reacting. Feel the heat rise to her cheeks, the softness in her eyes she couldn’t stop.
She was betraying herself.
Betraying every reason she should hate him for abandoning her.
For breaking her.
For letting her crawl home alone.
And still—
still—
her body reached for the sound of him like a starving thing.
A low, dizzy ache unfurled inside her—quiet, inevitable—
An ache that felt too much like longing. Too much like home.
Then—
“This conversation is inappropriate—”
Kip’s voice crashed into her like cold water, ripping her out of the moment with brutal clarity.
A low, irritated huff crackled through the speakers—quiet, but sharp enough to silence the room.
“Kip,” Joker said calmly, voice slow and deliberate, like the breath before a guillotine drops. “Last warning.”
Kip lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, forcing steadiness into his voice.
“This is my interview,” he said. “I won’t be—”
“Shh.”
Joker didn’t raise his voice—just sliced clean through him.
Heat flared on Kip’s face, but beneath it, Alina caught a flicker of something else—fear. That quiet shh had shaken him more than any threat could.
His fingers twitched—just once—against his thigh, then stilled.
“Now,” Joker murmured, “keep her name clean. Keep her story straight. And keep your questions… outta places they don’t belong.”
A pause.
“Because if you don’t?”
Silence swallowed the studio.
Joker’s voice came quiet, final:
“I’ll sew that little career of yours shut.”
Kip didn’t speak.
The edges of the professional smile he’d held all night loosened and fell away.
The line clicked—
And everything fell silent.
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N: Phew. That was intense, huh? This scene has been living in my head for months, so finally getting to write it felt absolutely surreal. I can't wait to hear what you guys think! ☺️
When I started this fic, I had no clue it would grow into what it is now. Almost a year later and I’m still fully, hopelessly obsessed with these two beautiful disasters, and I’m so committed to giving them the ending they deserve 💞🖤
Thank you for screaming, theorizing, and spiraling with me. Your support and comments mean the world!! 💜
Next chapter is fully in the works. Shit's about to get real 👀💟💚
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
A/N: Soooo… remember last chapter when I confidently announced “next one’s the big one”?
Yeah. About that...
Turns out Past Me is a liar and Present Me had to drag her by the ankle back to the keyboard because I accidentally forgot a whole chunk of setup 🤦🏼♀️
But good news! This chapter still delivers.
Bad news! It will hurt.
Best news! You signed up for that. 😘
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 35: Everything Has a Price
The apartment was still dark when she sat down at the table with a piece of toast she wasn’t hungry for.
She wrapped her sweater tighter around herself, waiting for the radiator to wake. The windows were fogged with the first hints of morning, the whole room muted and cold in the half-light.
It had been a week since that difficult interview. The detectives came by less often now. Emma tried to force normalcy into the cracks. And Alina kept one lie on repeat:
He kept me in the warehouse. Just the warehouse. I never saw anywhere else.
She told herself she didn’t know why...
But she did.
Because if she told them about the tunnels—the underground lake, the generator, the damp stone walls—
They might find him.
And she couldn’t stand the thought of them finding him.
She took a bite of toast just to give her hands something to do. It tasted like cardboard. Her jaw ached from the effort.
She hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time her eyes closed, her mind dragged her back to the same moment—the same words—replaying with the precision of a blade:
You think it meant something when I touched you?
I fucked you because it was easy. Because you were there.
Warm.
Willing.
Pathetic enough to mistake being used for being adored.
The words struck harder now than the night he’d said them—like her brain had saved them for when she wasn't defenseless.
At the time, she had been shaking, unable to reconcile the man who’d made her feel more wanted—more known—than anyone ever had—with the one spitting those words at her.
She hadn’t had room to feel it. Not fully.
But now—with warm toast in her hands and Emma asleep just down the hall—she felt every syllable like a fracture in the bone.
She stared at the table. At the quiet. At the steam lifting from the mug.
Had he meant it?
Had she really just been… convenient?
A body he used because she was close at hand?
Because she let him?
Had she invented all the rest in her own desperate mind?
Outside, the city was starting to wake. Ice scrapers. Car doors. The faint beep of someone unlocking their car.
She tried to focus on those sounds—tried to let them ground her.
But it was no use.
Her mind kept circling back. She needed to know the truth:
What had she meant to him?
For days now, she hadn’t been thinking about the gun, or the tunnels, or the escape—
Just the possibility that everything she clung to:
the warmth,
the way he held her at night,
the way his voice changed when he said her name—
Had never been real.
Just bait.
A performance she mistook for devotion.
A game she lost the second she forgot it was one.
She sat there, motionless, staring at nothing. Heat rose under her skin like something rotten, shame prickling at the base of her neck until it felt like her body wanted to crawl away from itself.
She blinked—once, slowly—and swallowed hard.
It felt like choking on nothing.
How could she have been so easily fooled?
He had told her, hadn’t he? That first night in the warehouse—long before she ever crawled into his arms willingly.
From the very beginning, he hadn’t hidden a thing. He’d told her plainly:
This was a game.
He would push.
She would break.
Then beg...
And she had gone along like a fool—
Let herself feel something when he touched her. Let herself build meaning out of desperation. Let herself hope—like a child begging for a bedtime story.
Worst of all, she’d let herself need him.
Like a drug that shredded her veins and still left her aching for more.
And now all she could hear was his voice again, soft, precise and cutting through her skull:
Warm. Willing. Pathetic.
Her stomach turned. A low twist of nausea under her ribs.
She shifted in her seat, trying to breathe through it—but the shame stayed lodged beneath her skin, hot, sick and inescapable.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, eyes closed, willing the thoughts—the shame—to scatter.
Took a breath.
Then another.
She picked up the now-cold toast and forced a bite. It scratched down her throat like paper. Dry. Heavy. Tasteless.
Fine.
Maybe none of it had meant a damn thing.
And maybe that was better.
Because if it was just a game—
If she was only convenient, compliant, forgettable—
Every moment, a calculation in disguise—
Then maybe she could learn to live with it.
Hate him.
Hate herself.
Heal.
Then, at least, it would make sense.
She waited for the thought to settle. For it to feel true.
It didn’t.
Because she couldn’t stop seeing his face when she'd said it:
I love you.
That single flicker in his eyes—
Not amusement. Not cruelty.
Something else.
Pain.
Shock.
Like she’d split him open from the inside.
-
A man playing a game doesn’t falter.
A man using someone doesn’t look back.
No.
He'd told her to run.
Not like a monster enjoying the final move of a game—but like a man afraid of what he might do next.
That pleading, desperate edge in his voice.
The panic.
He wasn’t warning her.
He was begging her.
And the gunshot—God. That gunshot.
It still lived in her bones.
She rubbed her arms, as if she could shake it loose.
She didn’t know if it was meant for her—or at the part of himself that cracked.
If it was meant to drive her out the door—or stop himself from dragging her back.
Maybe he believed he’d kill her if she stayed.
Maybe he didn’t want to.
And maybe that was what shattered her.
Because if it wasn’t a game—if any of it was real—
Then what the hell was she supposed to do with that?
How do you forgive someone for breaking you when part of you still aches for the hands that did it?
How do you live with that?
How do you live with yourself?
She sighed and let her head sink into her hands, elbows braced on the table.
She stayed like that for a long while, letting the tick-tick-tick of the googly-eyed cat clock Emma brought home from a flea market wash over her—eyes rolling, tail flicking, mocking the silence—until her mind finally went quiet.
Eventually, her shoulders snagged. She let out a long, uneven exhale and rubbed at her eyes, the heels of her palms pressing hard until stars flickered behind her lids.
When she finally lifted her head, the room felt a little too bright, a little too sharp.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her gaze slipped across the table.
A pile of mail sat untouched—grocery ads, bills, a glossy charity envelope Emma kept meaning to recycle.
And on top of it—something new.
A clean white envelope, untouched and too official-looking. Her name printed in bold black letters stared back at her.
She reached for the envelope slowly—reluctantly—like it might detonate if she touched it too fast.
The paper was smooth. Too smooth. Heavy stock. Expensive. Intentional.
She flipped it over, and her stomach went cold.
Farthington Media Group. Gotham Evening Feature Division.
Her pulse stuttered.
Kip Farthington.
The man who had sat under studio lights and smirked while speculating about her life like she was a chess piece.
The man whose commentary had pierced her lover like a knife, striking some hidden place inside him.
The man who had dared to say—on air—that she mattered to The Joker.
He had no idea how close he’d been to the truth. No idea how deep that truth ran.
No idea what his words had cost her.
She slid a thumb under the flap, the paper tearing with a soft rip that felt too loud. Inside was a single page of thick, glossy letterhead.
She took a deep breath, unfolded it, and there it was:
Miss Vale,
You are invited to appear in an exclusive televised interview with Kip Farthington, airing live on Gotham Evening Feature—our highest-viewership segment.
Her throat tightened.
We want to begin by acknowledging your incredible courage. Your resilience has inspired countless people, and we feel privileged to offer you a safe, compassionate space to share your journey.
Her eyes rolled before she could stop it.
Safe.
Compassionate.
From Kip Farthington. The man who'd spent years turning other people’s pain into prime-time entertainment.
She kept reading.
We deeply understand how overwhelming the past few weeks must have been. We are committed to surrounding you with support, sensitivity, and care during your time with us.
Her stomach flipped.
They didn’t understand. They didn’t know anything.
Her eyes moved lower.
In recognition of the emotional vulnerability and time involved, we are offering an honorarium of $12,000 USD. We hope this will ease any burden and allow you to focus on healing and reclaiming your story.
Twelve thousand.
Her breath hitched.
We believe your voice is essential to Gotham’s understanding of recent events.
Your bravery is inspiring.
Your story matters.
Each line felt worse than the last—slick with false empathy, dripping with performance.
It wasn’t for her.
It wasn’t for survivors.
It was for ratings.
And the thought of facing Kip live on camera made her feel like her insides were bracing to make a run from her body.
She could already picture it—his practiced sympathy, the polished concern, the meaningful pauses.
She could see the headline graphic:
THE GIRL THE JOKER LET GO.
They'd make her a prop.
A symbol.
A thing.
And worse—
God, worse—
She could picture him seeing it.
Not in the dark. Not in the quiet. Not the way he looked at her when no one else existed—but through a screen.
Dissected.
Packaged.
Consumed.
Her breath caught.
Her grip crushed the letter, the edges biting into her palm.
Kip Farthington. Smug bastard with a talk-show smile. A man who had spoken one sentence too close to the truth and cracked Gotham’s most feared criminal open like a fault line.
And he hadn’t even known.
Still didn’t.
She scanned the final lines again, each one landing like a physical blow:
We would be honored. Your strength. Your story. Your healing.
LIES.
Every word.
They didn’t want her story.
They wanted to feed on it. Twist it. Sell it.
She put the letter down because she needed her hand back, needed her fingers to stop shaking.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The cat clock clicked in the silence like a countdown.
Her pulse thudded, hard enough she felt it in her teeth.
The world waited.
And then—
She folded the letter with a brutal, unforgiving crease and shoved it into the envelope like she was stuffing a wound closed.
No.
Absolutely not.
Not a chance in hell.
She wasn’t walking into that spotlight.
She wasn’t giving Kip or Gotham or anyone the right to strip her open again.
She wasn’t letting Jack see her on a stage like some broken little exhibit.
If exposure was the cost—
She would burn the whole invitation before she paid a single cent.
---
Footsteps padded toward the kitchen—slow, dragging—and then Emma appeared in the doorway, wearing her rumpled powder-blue waitress dress. One collar point stuck up crookedly. Her sweater buttoned uneven. Her hair was half-pinned, half-falling.
She blinked hard at Alina, like she couldn’t quite focus on her.
She reached for the coffee pot—and missed the handle entirely. The pot wobbled on its base, clattering once before she caught it with a sharp inhale.
“Emma,” Alina said, the question tumbling out. “Why are you dressed for work? You just got home a few hours ago.”
Emma grimaced, pouring coffee with shaky hands.
“Eddie needs me back in,” she said. “Apparently I’m the only one who can keep the breakfast rush from rioting.”
“He told you that?” Alina asked.
“More or less.” Emma shrugged. “He said the diner’s been falling apart without me—regulars asking where I am, new hires screwing things up, customers getting cranky. So—” She swallowed another gulp of coffee. “I’m going in.”
Alina’s gaze swept over her—the smudged makeup, the rumpled uniform, the limp posture trying to straighten itself.
“You’re exhausted,” Alina whispered.
Emma tried to smile. “Nothing a little caffeine and mascara can’t fix.”
It didn’t land.
She leaned against the counter, one hand pressed to her forehead like she could physically push the headache away.
“You don’t have to go,” Alina said softly.
Emma shook her head fast, too fast. “I do. Eddie’s already pissed. He told me if I miss another shift, he’ll have to cut my hours, and I can’t—”
Alina’s stomach twisted.
The silence stretched.
Then, suddenly—too brightly—“Anyway! Joel called last night.”
Alina blinked at the abrupt change. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Emma tried for a smile. “They’re inducing Becky early. Like—three weeks early. So I’m gonna be an aunt sooner than anyone expected!”
For a moment her eyes softened—just a flicker of joy breaking through the exhaustion.
Then it dimmed.
“Which means,” she said quietly, “I need to make sure I don’t screw anything up at work right now. Eddie’s definitely not giving me a weekend off to visit if I fall behind. So... I just need to go in.”
Emma forced her voice brighter, sunnier.
“I’ll be fine. The breakfast rush is easier anyway. People are too hungry to ask questions.”
She finished her coffee in three quick swallows and set the mug down with a dull clink. She crossed the room and rested a warm hand on Alina’s shoulder—gentle, but trembling faintly.
“We’ll get through this,” Emma said, quiet but determined. “Okay?”
Alina nodded, though the words felt like thin ice.
Emma gave a small, brave smile and stepped back. She grabbed her faded tote bag and slung it over her shoulder. She tugged her boots on while standing, wobbling once as she jammed her heel down.
“If I look like I’m sleepwalking later, just pretend you didn’t notice,” she said with a tired laugh.
“I notice,” Alina said softly.
Emma paused, just for a heartbeat. Something pained flickered across her face. Then she shook it away.
“Text me if you need anything,” she said—habit, automatic, still sincere.
She opened the door.
Cold air gusted in.
Then she left, the door snapping shut behind her.
The apartment seemed to sag with her absence. Too big. Too quiet.
Like the warmth had walked out the door with her.
---
The week stretched.
Gray mornings. Pale afternoons. Nights that seemed to vanish the moment she blinked.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, the cold began to break.
A strange, early warmth slid in—days hovering above what early spring had any right to be. The radiators clicked less often. The windows fogged for different reasons: humidity, breath, the city thawing.
Emma worked. Too much.
Alina watched. Too closely.
She noticed the little things first.
The way Emma winced when she bent down to grab a takeout container from the bottom cupboard.
The way her laughter, once easy and bright, came out thinner, stretched.
The way she forgot her keys twice in one week.
It built slowly, like steam behind a closed door.
Emma waved it all off, called herself tired, clumsy, distracted. Said the diner was just understaffed, not a crisis. But the dark circles under her eyes told a different story. So did the stack of unpaid envelopes growing on the counter.
Alina kept offering to help—she could go out, find work, take some weight off.
But Emma cut her off fast.
“Are you kidding? It’s been, what, a month since you escaped that psycho? I’m not sending you out there to dodge creeps and news vans.”
She tossed it off like a joke, but her voice cracked a little.
“You’ve been through hell. Just… let me protect you a little longer, okay?”
Alina nodded, grateful—but something knotted in her stomach.
That psycho.
That should’ve been the end of it—
But he was still the first thing she thought of when she opened her eyes.
Still the last breath in her lungs before sleep.
She didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to.
But there he was—burned into the quiet, no matter how loudly the world called him a monster.
And sitting here, being looked after so gently by the same friend who was risking her sanity to save her—without ever knowing the truth—
It was unbearable.
Because the girl she saved had chosen the wolf.
Had stepped forward and whispered: take me.
And sometimes—still—some small, broken part of her wished he’d never let her go.
---
Weeks passed in a strange, dragging blur. The frost retreated from the windows. The crocuses faded as tulips started poking their heads through the dead grass near the curb. One day, Alina opened the window and the air felt different—thick, warm, and wrong for early April.
A heatwave, the news said. A record-breaking one. Temperatures were climbing into the high 70s by the end of the week. “Unseasonable,” the anchors called it. “A fluke.”
Alina didn’t care. It was just another thing that didn’t feel real.
One evening, Emma came home with her apron still knotted tight around her waist, hair coming loose from its pins, a smear of something—ketchup?—on her cheek.
She dropped her bag and stood in the doorway, breathing like she’d outrun a storm.
“Long day?” Alina asked.
Emma let out a tired huff that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“Long week. Long everything.” She kicked her shoes off with a dull thud. “We were slammed. Eddie won’t hire anyone new ‘because the press scares off good workers.’ And the ones he has—” She shook her head. “Well. They’re kids. It’s not their fault.”
Alina listened.
Emma rubbed her face, palms dragging down.
“Also,” she added softly, reluctantly, “my brother called. The baby came. Didn't even have to induce after all.”
Alina straightened. “Oh. That’s wonderful!”
Emma nodded, eyes glassy with pride and longing.
“It is. They want me to visit. Just for a weekend. Help out. You know how Joel is—lost but pretending he’s not.”
“You should go.”
Emma’s smile tilted, fragile. “I can’t. There's just no way Eddie would let me leave right now.”
The words landed heavy. Alina felt them lodge somewhere deep.
Emma reached for a glass of water and leaned her hip against the counter while she drank. She blinked too long between gulps, as if her body was catching up to her fatigue.
“Maybe next month,” Emma murmured. “Maybe when things settle down.”
But they weren’t settling. Not really.
The reporters outside the diner didn’t thin—they adapted. The customers didn’t calm—they complained.
And Emma—Emma kept moving through all of it like a thread barely holding fabric together.
---
One night, Alina found Emma asleep on the couch, uniform still on, shoes kicked under the coffee table, her phone buzzing harmlessly on her chest with another text from her brother:
Wish you were here. Baby would love you.
Emma didn’t stir.
Alina covered her with a blanket and tucked it around her shoulders. She stood there a long time—too long—feeling something grow painfully tight under her sternum.
---
By the next morning, the warmth outside had climbed further. Unseasonably high. The city’s air felt heavy with it—damp, thick, electric, like a storm was brewing behind the sky even if no clouds showed yet.
It pressed against her skin in a way that felt almost intentional, like the heat itself was watching her.
Emma came in from her shift with her hair sticking to her forehead, her skin flushed from heat and stress. She tossed her bag onto a chair and sank down next to it.
“This weather,” she muttered. “Feels like August.”
“It’s April,” Alina said quietly.
Emma let out a humorless laugh.
“Exactly.”
She rubbed her eyes hard—too hard—and for a moment, the defeated slump of her shoulders made something inside Alina lock up.
The next night, Emma didn’t come home until nearly 4 a.m.
When she did, she stood in the kitchen in the dark, silent except for the soft, rhythmic sound of her trying not to cry.
Alina didn’t say anything.
She just went to her. Slowly. Gently. And wrapped her arms around her.
Emma didn’t resist.
Didn’t say anything.
Just let her forehead fall to Alina’s shoulder and stood there, shaking. Her tears soaked through Alina's sweater.
“I can’t go,” Emma whispered after a long time. “Joel and Becky need help so bad, and I can’t even buy a goddamn train ticket.”
Alina’s arms tightened around her.
“I told Eddie I’d work double shifts this week so I could get next weekend off,” Emma went on. “He said if I wanted time off, I could make it permanent.”
Alina’s stomach clenched.
Emma pulled back, wiping at her face with the heel of her hand. “I hate saying anything. I don’t want to add to everything you’re already carrying. Or make you feel like you owe me.”
But Alina did.
She owed her for everything—for all the moments she had allowed while drowning in her own ruin:
Emma’s late shifts.
Emma’s shaking hands over the coffee pot.
The way she’d said we'll get through this like it was a promise to both of them.
Emma was breaking.
And Alina had done nothing but let her.
A pulse of shame and anger pushed up through her chest—not at Emma. At herself.
She wasn’t going to let her carry this alone anymore.
She moved before she could talk herself out of it.
“I do,” Alina said.
Emma tried to wave her off, but Alina caught her wrist. “I owe you everything. And I'm going to fix this.”
Emma looked at her, startled. “What?”
“I'll take care of this,” Alina repeated. “And you’re not working tomorrow. You need to rest.”
“I can’t just—”
Alina was already walking to the phone.
“Alina—”
“I’m serious.” She picked up the receiver and dialed, her hands oddly steady.
Emma stood frozen.
It rang once. Twice.
Then: “Yeah?”
Silence. Then static. Faint, like someone breathing through the line.
Alina pictured him in that booth—apron stained, smirk ready, surrounded by cracked linoleum and grease—but all she could hear was the echo of her own heartbeat, sharp and stuttering, like ice cracking in a glass.
Alina swallowed. “Hi. Eddie? It’s Alina.”
A pause. Then a slow, amused tone:
“Well, look who it is. Gotham’s very own miracle girl.”
She said nothing.
“Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you. Thought you were off the grid, recovering somewhere fancy.”
“Emma’s not coming in tomorrow,” Alina said.
“Is that right?” he said, dragging the words. “And here I was thinking she liked having a job.”
“She’s sick.”
A pause. “Uh-huh. You sound pretty healthy yourself. Should I be expecting you to stroll through the diner to cover her shift?”
Alina closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath. “She’s not coming in,” she repeated. “And next weekend, she’s going to visit her family. You’ll need to find someone else for those days too.”
“Would you look at that,” he murmured. “All bold and bossy. Didn’t know surviving the Joker came with a personality upgrade.”
Alina’s jaw tightened. It took everything not to snap—not to let him win.
He chuckled, low and thick. Then his voice dropped, dragging slow over the syllables like a hand sliding somewhere it didn’t belong.
“I gotta say… your voice sounds different, too. Guess being someone’s little plaything’ll do that to a girl.”
Alina’s fingers gripped the phone tighter as his words crawled under her skin, the same old nausea rising—the familiar sting of being reduced to a thing.
Her throat burned. But her voice didn’t waver. “This conversation’s over.”
“You sure?” he said softly. “Cause I could think of a few—”
She hung up.
The silence rang louder than the dial tone.
Her hand stayed on the receiver. Her heart pounded, but she didn’t let it show.
Emma just stared at her.
Alina didn’t look up. She just said, quietly, “It’s done.”
“Alina. Oh my god. Eddie’s going to—he’s going to cut me down to one shift a week, I swear to god, I can’t—”
Alina reached for her hands. “No, he’s not.”
Emma laughed once, breathless and panicked. “You don’t get it—”
“I do get it,” Alina said. “And I’m not letting you carry it alone anymore.”
Emma tried to pull her hands away, overwhelmed, but Alina held firm.
“I mean it,” she said. “You’re not going in tomorrow. You need to rest. Whatever he does, whatever comes of it—we’ll deal with it. I have a plan.”
“A plan,” Emma echoed, still reeling. “Alina, what kind of plan—what are you even—”
“Just trust me,” Alina said gently, but with a force that stopped Emma cold. “Please.”
Emma stared at her. Searching. Like she wanted to argue. Like she couldn’t quite believe it.
But something in Alina’s face must’ve landed—because Emma’s shoulders dropped. Her breath hitched.
“…You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
A beat passed.
Then Alina added, softer, “You’ve been holding me up since the day I got back. Let me take care of you now... please.”
Emma blinked quickly, eyes suddenly glassy.
“Go take a nice bath,” Alina said, voice warm but firm. “Then get some real sleep. And next weekend? You’re getting on that train. You’re going to meet your niece.”
Emma let out a shaky exhale.
And then, without a word, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Alina—tight, fierce, like something inside her had just given out.
For a second, Alina froze.
It caught her off guard, being needed.
But then her arms came up—slow, then stronger—until she was holding Emma just as tightly. Solid. Steady.
The anchor this time, not the one adrift.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, she understood:
She could be someone else’s strength.
Even after everything.
Maybe because of it.
---
Later that night, when the apartment was finally quiet again, Alina slipped into her room and closed the door.
She knelt beside the nightstand and pulled the drawer open.
The envelope was still there.
Waiting.
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
She thought of Emma, hunched over the kitchen counter earlier, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist like a child.
She thought of the bills stacking up.
Of Eddie’s anger.
Of the reporters blocking the entrance.
Of the strain pulling Emma thinner and thinner.
She thought of twelve thousand dollars.
Her hand closed around the envelope.
Hard.
She took a breath.
Then another.
If this was the price of Emma getting on that train, she’d pay it.
Her fingers fumbled for her phone.
She dialed the number at the bottom of the letter—the line for Kip Farthington’s production office.
Each ring echoed through her chest like a heartbeat.
One ring. Two. Three.
She almost hung up—
Then someone answered.
“Farthington Media Group. How may we assist you?”
Her throat closed.
She forced the words out anyway.
“This is Alina Vale.”
A pause.
A sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“Oh,” the voice said—brightening instantly, professionally, hungrily.
“Miss Vale. We’ve been expecting your call.”
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N: Eeeee!!! I cannot wait for you to read the next chapter. I was so hyped about it, I basically blacked out and wrote the whole thing in one sitting. 😵💫
Just gotta edit it so it doesn’t look like I typed it mid-possession.
But yeah. It’s coming. And it’s so good. Stay tuned. 🖤
P.S. GIMME ALL YOUR PREDICTIONS!!! Or just lemme know you’re still here.
I LOVE YOU!!! 💜🖤💚
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Muder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide.
Trigger Warning This chapter has themes of sexual harassment and violence
Gotham Slasher
Stillness engulfed the space where the joker had been moments earlier, Hazel’s shaky breath sounded in the empty room.
Hazel rubbed her neck, sore where he had jerked it. Her scalp stung. Hazel took a deep breath. Held it. Counted slowly down. Repeated. Her breathing steadied.
He stole her spare key and believed he could come and go - she would have her locks changed.
Asshole.
Why was her life so full of jerks?
Hazel needed to distract herself from Joker. She needed to focus on the case. She was taking the night off officially, but this was a chance to do her best work, alone.
On the surface it felt like none of the pieces fit, but Hazel felt she was close to something – like a string about to pull.
This was the way her case’s often broke open. First a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. Then, seeming fragments quickly coming together to form a picture. Usually it was a new idea, or a new piece of evidence that made it all click. As hopeless as the case seemed, this night to herself was a chance to let intuition lead. She was free of the constraints of her partner, her jerk boss, and most of all the fucking Joker.
Hazel closed her eyes and visualised Joker as the perpetrator. She pictured him killing Miff. The body was found so close to his old church and the whole Narrows was his playground. He certainly had proximity, and one could argue he had motive.
Jokers’ dark eyes burned into her mind’s eyes – the disgust he’d worn when she suggested he was the slasher – when he grabbed her and told her he could show her the difference. She believed him. He was more than this. Despite everything, she didn’t pick him as the killer.
What else was she missing?
Relax. Don’t over think it.
Hazel visualised Hammond and all the pieces of evidence that linked to him. His contact with two of the victims. His large space at the brewery and suspected ownership of power tools. His anger at what he called riff raff spilling from the Narrows. Yet, her gut didn’t pull her towards Hammond.
By now Jason would have released Hammond because they didn’t have enough to hold him.
Even if Hazel had been convinced, holding Hammond wouldn’t have impressed the lieutenant.
Hazel sighed at the thought. She didn’t know why Lieutenant Jame was bothering her as much as he was. He had always been a thorn in her ass – but lately it was more. He had micro-managed her case for months.
Maybe all this shit with his mother’s ailing health was adding stress to his life that he couldn’t handle.
Everyone had stress – it was not an excuse.
Hazel visualised the meeting in the lieutenant’s office. He had showed the news clip about Joker and then given her and Jason a spray for not being further ahead with the case. The lieutenant had thrown his empty drink in the trash, and the bottle had smashed, but before he did, Hazel had noticed a Davey’s Drop logo on it, and she suspected he had attempted to cover it from her.
It struck her as an odd coincidence since the drinks were not widely distributed. It was possible he had been to Gold-spur. Of course, the bottle could have come from elsewhere, but her first thought was that he was micro-managing more deeply than she had suspected – maybe tracking locations and checking her work. So, she had clammed up about Hammond.
Jason’s phone had rung then, and they had learned of another body which had taken her mind elsewhere, then she had discovered the victim was Miff, and dealt with Joker. Now that things were quiet, the smashed bottle bothered her again.
She still did not know what to make of it burner felt it needed to be explained.
Hazel cracked cases by pulling at threads. Little kinks in the fabric that seemed out of place. Sometimes those kinks just flattened, a loose bit of fluff that meant nothing. Other times the thread was connected to the whole, and when she pulled, everything started to unravel. The point was, she never ignored an anomaly, or something that stood out as unusual. No matter how irrelevant a detail seemed, anomaly’s always needed to be explained before they could be dismissed.
Hazel pulled out her laptop. As though on autopilot she opened the GCPD data base.
She needed to stop grappling with the facts and let instinct guide.
Hazels fingers paused above the keys for a beat, and then she typed.
Cameron Edward James.
She punched Lieutenant James’s full name into the search bar.
His file came up. At the top of the page were his birth details. Her eyes settled on the section that described ancestry.
Biological Mother: Margaret Ann James.
Fingers relaxed on the keys and mind in an empty autonomous kind of flow; Hazel copied the mothers name and placed it back into the search bar. She hit enter and instantaneously Margaret’s file was in front of her.
Hazel froze in confusion.
What she read could not be right.
Deceased.
The text screamed from the top of the file.
No.
The Lieutenant had been taking time off to tend to his mother - she had dementia and was in a home on the mainland. At one point, the office had made a care package for him to take to her…they‘d signed a card.
Yet, the red print at the top of the file was clear.
Margaret Ann James wasn’t at Woodlands Garden Home on the mainland. Margaret Ann James was dead.
Hazel sat completely still.
Even though it didn’t make a lick of sense she knew: this information mattered. When one anomaly lead straight to another, that was a sign to keep pulling the thread.
Hazel opened a new browser and searched again, this time for obituary’s.
Margaret Ann James died of natural causes in her home on Gold Spur Street. Maragret was survived by her only son: Cameron Edward James.
Gold-Spur street.
Hazel’s mind whirred. That was three strikes.
Assuming he still owned his mothers property, that would make it possible he did get that bottle from Gold-spur Street. It seemed profoundly relevant now that she knew his mothers illness was a lie.
Hazel sat and starred at the words, a stone in her gut. Everything felt deeply, gut wrenchingly off.
There was a loud rap at her door and Hazel closed the laptop.
The prick of a clown was back, and she didn’t feel like sharing what she had just learned. In fact, she was done with him and would tell him so in no short words.
The so called prince of crime, had added nothing to the case except mind games.
Hazel grabbed the door and ripped it open.
She drew a sharp breath.
What she expected was the clowns petulant face. What she got was the beady stare of Lieutenant James.
Hazel’s face arranged itself in an expression of polite surprise, and then a smile.
The lieutenant didn’t hesitate, stepping around her to enter the small room. He surveyed her apartment then gestured at the couch.
“Mind if I sit?”
Hazel minded.
She waved a hand and nodded.
“Sure. Have a seat. What can I help you with, Lieutenant”
“It’s me that can help you” the lieutenant answered “I would like to start with an apology. Things got heated back there. I don’t like to make excuses, but there is a lot of pressure on me from above on this one.”
He smiled like a used car salesman.
Hazel nodded.
“I understand.” She said.
She didn’t understand, or care. He was giving her the creeps. The information she had learned hadn’t time to land and here he was in front of her.
She just needed to play it cool and move him on.
The false smile plastered across her cheeks tasted fucking bitter. Where was the clown now, anyway?
This was all too close for comfort.
"Not just that” His grey eyes channelled on her. “I wanted to check on you. You seemed off at the scene. I Don’t think I have ever seen you like that. Rattled."
“I had a Bad burrito.”
“That it?” The Lieutenant drew his brows “could have sworn it was about the corpse. You took one look and just paled.”
Hazel raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.
“What is it that you want, Lieutenant. You’ve come to my home, at night, feigning sympathy. Would you buy that line if you were me? Let’s cut to the chase.”
Ok, maybe she wasn’t keeping it cool.
"There it is again. That hostility towards me. I’ve come here to be nice. To check on you. But you give me the cold shoulder - just like you always do."
Hazel shifted, uncomfortable with the strange tone of the comment and unsure where the conversation was heading.
“I don’t think I give you any shoulder, I just try to do my job. Results. That’s what I care about. Sometimes you get in the way. Like this Joker thing. It's not the angle we should be chasing. It's a waste of time.”
If he was going to be in her apartment, she would at least push him a little. Maybe she would learn something from his reactions.
She stood up, making her way over to her kitchenette, creating space between herself and the lieutenant. Creating a distraction.
He stood and followed her across the room towards the kitchenette.
Hazel watched him approach in the glass of the cabinetry.
“Want a coffee?” She asked.
She didn’t want him to stay long enough to drink one, but she did want to change the topic and to pick him a little.
“Sure”
Hazel gripped the handle to the overhead cupboard and pulled it open, losing her view of him for a moment.
“As I said earlier today. I’ve always tried to help you. I would still like to help you.”
He had moved closer.
Hazel started to pull out mugs and the coffee paraphernalia.
“I don’t need your help.” Hazel answered.
“See, why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act so cold with me. I came all the way over here just to apologise and what do I get in return?”
Even though he was speaking calmly there was a quiver of emotion in his voice.
“You aren’t cold with everybody” the Lieutenant continued from behind her.
He was too close. Hazel felt his presence like cobwebs on her skin.
Hazel closed the cabinet and found his face in the reflection again.
“So, how are you doing with your mum? That must be stressful?” she deflected, then “creamer?”
She took the instant coffee lid off. A scoop for each of them. Jug boiling. Click. She filled each cup.
“I’m not here to talk about my fucking mum, Hazel.” The irritation leaked “I’m here to talk about you and me. The fact that I give orders and you ignore them. The fact that you treat me like I’m less than, when in fact, I am your superior.”
He sighed.
“I didn’t want it to come to this, but you’ve left me no choice: I know the last victim was one of your informants. I know you were close with him.”
Hazel froze. Just a glitch before she caught herself and continued stirring the coffee.
"I suspected it, but your reaction today confirmed everything I wanted to know." The lieutenant inched closer. A breath away and a head taller.
Hazel laid down the spoon gently and wrapped her hand around the mug.
"You were upset because you fucked him."
Hazel’s words stuck in her throat. She needed to fire a response, something to prove she wasn't rattled, but nothing came.
“That’s right. I know what you’ve been up to.” His voice was syrup. “If this got out, it could be career ending for you. So, from now on things are going to roll a little differently between us. You’re going to show me some long overdue respect. You’re going to be a little warmer, too."
A hand touched her waist, fingers spreading broad.
“If you are willing to lay with dogs like him to get information - well, imagine what you might do for me to keep your reputation and your fucking job.”
The lieutenants hand ran over the curve of her stomach, and he eased his body flush against her back.
Hazel’s stomach tightened, ill. Her heart hammered wildly. She had more information coming at her than she could possibly process and it froze her tight.
When his fingers breezed the waist band of her pyjama bottoms the freeze shattered instantly.
Hazel spun and flung the cup of coffee in his face. Hot drink washed across his chest and neck.
His hands left her for his face – a fraction of reprieve before he swung at her.
"Bitch!"
Hazel dropped under his reach, loosing balance and hitting the floor. She heard the glass above her shatter where he had swung and missed.
Hazel rolled and he lunged at her again.
Hazel felt lightning strike into her rib cage.
Something sharp had struck her.
The pain was crippling. Hazel doubled over, hugging herself, all the wind in her lungs gone. Her shirt was instantly tacky beneath her fingers and that familiar metallic smell filled her nostrils: she was bleeding.
Hazel flipped on her back as he loomed over her. Labouring for breath, she kicked his hands away and kicked at his shins. She thumped hard against him with her heels.
Still struggling for air, she tired quickly. He weathered her strikes and threw his weight against her, forcing his way past her shield.
Hazel heaved for breath, and bit into his arm so hard she shook.
The lieutenant responded with a tight grip to her collar and lifted her. With a vicious slam he knocked her head back against the floor. Hazels ears rung. He slammed her down, once, twice, and then everything went black.
**
The next thing that Hazel saw was the underside of her own coffee table, blurred.
Her head thumped and she could feel pain at her side. She felt like she was breathing through a tight straw.
A sudden tug at her legs sent pain searing through her – zip ties ripping tight around her ankles.
Hazel tried to roll.
Her hands were already bound.
“Get these the fuck of me!”
Her voice betrayed her, coming out hoarse and weak.
And then she was pulled out from under the table, the rug burning her back.
“What does it take to actually shut you up?” He asked playfully. “You know, this is your fault? I tried to steer you where I wanted you – I really did. My instructions were clear - find the fucking Joker. But you can’t follow orders. You are an obnoxious pain in my ass - must run in the family.”
Then he was upon her, cloth stuffed across her mouth and nose. The sweet aroma of chloroform invaded her nostrils.
Hazel wriggled her body ferociously and tried to hold her breath.
He bore down harder across her mouth.
“I even tried to offer you a second way out – an agreement of silence. Honestly, I anticipated your rejection. Now we do it my way. As a results driven modern woman, I am sure you understand - If you won’t cooperate with my vision, then I need you out of the picture, for good.”
Hazel blinked feverishly trying to stay awake. She felt herself slipping.
Semi-dream-state the familiar vision of joker’s break-out from GCPD police station flashed in her mind.
She would never forget the night the Joker broke out of the GPCD using a cell phone as a detonator and a human as a bomb. It was the night she learned how much she revered him. Not for his violence, but for his skill. For his art.
This time what she really noticed in the memory was the debris. She remembered how it had rained down around her. How debris circled around him as he walked. He was a mortal prisoner self-resurrected as God, claiming his power.
Falling around her… rubble, ash… and hundreds of Joker cards, some shredded, some whole.
I’m not the only one with the cards.
It was true. GCPD evidence room had plenty of them.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Muder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide.
Close to Home
The sun bled a deep, smoggy red as it set over the water. Swooping gulls filled the air with an ark-ark call, backed by the sound of waves lapping on the pier. The dying light hit the city so that the western fronts of the glass giants glowed golden.
They were at the southern docks, in the Narrows. Not far from where Hazel had met Rose that first night. Nothing good happened in these parts and the ocean water that stretched ahead was a grave to many who’d met an unfortunate end.
Hazel clicked central lock on the vehicle and walked along the concrete pavement. Already there was a crowd of people on location: the police and several reporters.
Hazel ducked under the tape. Opposite her she saw her boss.
Someone didn’t waste time.
The bastard couldn’t get out of her hair for so much as a minute so that she might do her job.
Jason walked at her peripheral and one of the beat cops approached to meet them. The cop stuck out his hand and exchanged an introduction.
“Man, it’s nasty – I never seen anything like it.” his pale, clammy complexion spoke louder than his words.
Seven headless bodies in, Hazel was sure it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before.
“Bodies that way.” He pointed “Down the alley between the two warehouses. Heads clean off – no sign of it.”
“Thank you.” Hazel was short.
Hazel wanted to get to the body before the Lieutenant did. She was aware of her boss not far away. She could feel his glances towards her, even as he artfully deflected questions from the media. The more time she got to investigate the scene with-out his interference, the better. She sped up her feet and smiled as he was stopped again by a second throng of reporters.
The air felt cooler as she entered the space between the two buildings, and the light was dim, as though the chill of impending dusk had settled there first. She could see her forensic team up ahead. She greeted the team briefly.
“We are just setting set up”
“See you over there.” Hazel answered, leaving Jason to linger in discussion.
She could now see the lump on the ground which was the victim. Despite the strange angles that corpses often rested, a human body grabbed the eye a mile away.
The cold intensified as she approached, wind blowing from behind carrying the conversation had by Jason and the team she had passed. The wind penetrated her jacket and leached into her bones. Night was coming. They would need flood lights over the scene.
Hazel approached the body, slumped on his back and limbs sprawled like rags.
Her foot steps slowed to a stop several feet short.
It couldn’t be.
The wind at her back fell away and the voices at the end of the alley faded to nothing.
Hazel took two empty steps and knelt beside the body.
Her eyes washed over the length of him. Washed out Metallica shirt – black with dry blood. Baggy jeans.
Plenty of people wear clothes like that.
Hazel reached out and touched her fingers to the corpses palm. The hand was cold, but soft - rigor mortis had been and gone which made time of death over 24 hours prior, maybe longer, considering the cold. Early decomposition gave a sponginess to the flesh that might have mimicked life if it weren’t for the cold and the colour. Hazel gently traced her fingers over the paled flesh, then hesitated.
A pang gnawed in her gut. When she turned the hand she would know – there would be no going back.
Hazel slipped her hand into his and gently turned his wrist so that the back of his palm was raised to her vision.
Her eyes roamed silently over the roman numerals on the ashen knuckles. The scorpion. Long fingers, intimately familiar.
“Jesus. Miff.” Hazel drew a sharp breath. "What happened to you."
Her words fell away, unanswered. Gulls. Wind. Voices. All silent.
“What did you say?” The harsh voice of her boss broke the moment, and in an instant the noise of the outside world slammed back.
Hazel dropped the corpse’s hand and stood up, brushing herself off.
“Everything okay, detective?” Lieutenant James asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be,” Hazel answered with the same wry tone she normally would.
“You don’t look good, Detective – white as a sheet.”
Hazel shook her head and scoffed.
She ignored the pooling of saliva in her mouth and the twist in her guts. The way her breath felt high and tight in her chest.
In fact, those bodily sensations made her angry. This was a job. Same as all the rest.
Her boss cocked his head waiting for her to answer.
Arrogant, nosy, prick.
Hazel was sure he couldn’t give two shits if she was okay, or not. Why the fuck was he up her ass all the time.
Hazel felt the familiar heat of rage growing and the blood pump more forcefully around her body. Her breathing deepened.
Maybe this was his fault!
If he was not always meddling with the way she did her job, pushing her to follow empty leads, then maybe she would have caught the slasher by now! He was the one who forced her to pursue Joker. Maybe, Miff was dead because of the favours she pulled – and it was the lieutenant that forced the angle!
Hazels lips pinched together, gunning the lieutenant with her eyes.
“What is this?” she spat. “Mental health week? Fucking Are You Okay Day? Of course I’m okay, why the fuck not! – it’s another day on the job, Sir!
The lieutenant put his hands to his hips
“Don’t forget who it is you are talking to Detective. I give you some rope because your dad and I were buddies, and I’ve always been sorry how things ended for him – I know it was hard on you when he lost it. but there is a limit.”
"Yeah – well I am tired of putting energy into false leads. You’re out of touch – caught up in your personal problems”
Hazel paused, even in the moment she knew that taking a dig at his ailing mother was too far. Her frontal lobe was screaming at her to stop and compose herself - but the breaks were off now.
“With all due respect, Sir, maybe we wouldn’t be here – another body in, if you just let me do my fucking job!”
The lieutenant moved closer. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed even further.
“You think I’m complacent? My ass is on the line – it’s me scrutinised in the media. They show my face to this. The city looks to me for protection form that lunatic terrorist, Joker.”
His face grew red.
“You try living up to that squeaky prick Jim Gordan! We may not have batman, but I’ll be dammed if I’m made a fool in front of this city!” He jabbed a finger at Hazel “Listen to me carefully Detective– you do what the fuck I tell you to do or when it all goes to shit - it’s gonna be your ass fried long before it’s mine!”
“Your joker hunch is bullshit, and we are wasting time!” Hazel yelled.
“That's it!” The Lieutenant roared over her. “I have had enough of your denial of your subordinance - take the god dam evening to cool off, Hazel. Come back with a better attitude or you’re off the fucking case!”
**
Hazel walked into her apartment and silenced her phone and stashed it in a drawer. For what short time she could get away with, she had had enough of everyone. Hazel trudged to the couch and dropped onto it. The familiar cushions offered zero relief to her mood. She elevated her feet to her coffee table.
With irritation, she thought of how the clown had done the same thing. It was alright for her, not him.
It was dark out: the sun had set hours ago, as had her argument with the Lieutenant. She had swung by the gym, thrown some weights around and punched a bag. She didn’t feel much better for it. Dejected she had bought some noodles on the way home – but she had no appetite. They sat cooling on the table.
No sign of Rose now, right when she wanted her. She went over Roses words in her head. The fact that she knew Miff had been missing and had such fear – she said he had wanted to go to Joker. The visitor at his house, the van. If Miff had wanted to find Joker, would he have known where to find him? Hazel had so many questions for Rose.
Hazel ran her fingers through her sweaty hair and rested her palms against her eye lids. Her palms felt cool against a cracking headache. The pieces of information from the case swirled around in her head.
There was Hammond who had proximity and cause; so far nothing of interest had come up on his surveillance tapes. Hammond had a connection to Lucy and Gabriel. He was angry - he had space. It was possible.
But now Miff made no sense in the context of Hammond.
How did Miff fit into this?
Hazel knew at least one link between Miff and the case: Joker.
Hazel groaned.
She was too close to it all. She couldn’t see any pieces that fit together. She needed to clear her head and look at it from a fresh perspective.
A shower would help switch the noise off.
The hot water hit her skin leaving it pink and the glass fogged quickly. Hazel dropped her chin and let the water run over the back of her head, neck and shoulders.
I give you some rope because your dad and I were buddies
That prick Lieutenant James’s words replayed through her mind with a swell of anger that off-set the calming effect of the water on her skin. The hide of him, suggesting that he had ever been helpful – if anything, she had climbed the ladder despite his complete lack of support.
Asshole.
Her dad lost his will, his professional edge. He gave up on himself. He drank. He got fired by the GCPD.
Being her dad’s friend was no feather in the cap. Hazel had had no help from either of them.
Fuck them.
With a frustrated sigh, Hazel realised that the shower wasn’t helping.
With a twist of her wrist, the flow of water closed, and hazel pulled a towel from where it hung on the glass panel, dabbed herself unceremoniously then wrapped herself.
She froze as she heard her bathroom door shift.
She held still and listened. She had locked the door behind her – yet there was someone in the apartment – she could feel it.
“Evening, ah, Detective.” Came the familiar voice, then without pause the clowns coated frame sauntered in.
Fists tight on the towel she scowled at the intruder.
He cocked his head, tongue poked into his cheek, as he looked her up and down in her towel.
He flashed a smile. “Ah doll-face! You look cute all wet – like, hmm, a half drowned chihuahua."
“What are you doing here? Are you fucking insane?" She regretted the word choice even as she said it. “I mean, do you know how tense things are right now?"
The clown clicked his cheek “Pretty little lips, but such nasty things come out.”
Hazel glared at him as she stepped out of the shower cubicle.
"A little privacy please...”
The clown rolled his eyes
"I wasn’t planning on watching. You got an ego on you for a half drowned chihuahua.”
He spun on his heel and headed to the living room.
Hazel pulled on her pyjamas with sharp yanks her body still wet and followed him.
“Honestly – the media are all over this, you could easily be seen coming here and besides - I didn’t invite you.”
The clown sat and leant back on the sofa. He spread his arms across the back rest.
He eyed her unblinking.
“Oh, is that so? Well, if you don’t like me coming and going, why give me a key, hmm? You give a man the impression you want him around with gestures like that.
Now Hazel rolled her eyes. he looked too comfortable. He looked at-home in her apartment: knees broad, arms wide. The top button relaxed today…thick, strong neck and a glimpse of chest...
stop it!
“I didn’t give you a fucking key!”
She glanced at the door. It was shut, dead bolted. No forced entry. She knew she had locked it.
“Let me remind you, cupcake. You came to find me in the Narrows...I let you. You turned your back to get a needle in the neck... you rode home in a trunk and slept while I turned your apartment over and took everything that I wanted… including the spare key.”
Hazel felt blood drain away from her face. She had a spare key in her safe. If he had it, then he had been through everything in her apartment, even deeper than she realised.
The clown knocked himself twice on the head firmly with a gloved fist then lowered his voice for effect.
“You see. You gave me the key by being stupid, Detective Madden. So, as it happens, I’ll come and go as I please.”
Hazel felt anger lapping flames up her neck and the excruciating conflict to storm away or physically attack him.
She couldn’t take another moment of these arrogant men.
At least the rage was a distraction from Miff and her prick of a boss.
He watched her intently, seemingly feasting on her response and his lips split in a cruel laugh.
“Oh. You think you are tough, detective? Is that what you think? Look at you. That petulant display of anger - you think it’s impactful, or even convincing, to me?”
He stood. He stepped closer.
“You aren’t built as hard as you like to pretend, detective. You play tough. I let you. But you’re like one of those packages with stickers all over it – screaming FRAGILE.”
The clown’s eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as he mocked.
“You’re not hard” He continued “You’re as pure as bleached sheets.” His eyes wandered down her shamelessly, and back up. He circled her, close. “I have never wanted to ruin something, so completely…”
“Fuck you!” hazel gritted.
The clown leaned in. Smokey.
He had the calm expression of a house cat watching a goldfish in a bowl: patient, amused - the predatory tendencies masked away.
“Doll, I like it when you talk dirty.”
Why the fuck was he here? Bothering her at this time of night. And on this day of all days - after everything that had happened.
“Why the fuck are you here?” Hazel blurted out
The clown huffed impatiently.
“Enunciate, sweetheart. I don’t know what you are saying when you get all emotional.”
"You know what I'm talking about!”
"I don't. Doll-face. I think I sense hostility?"
"There was another headless body today – and now, here you are.”
“Oh that. Is that what you have your knickers in a twist about. An informant? His death is not worth losing sleep about I’d have thought.”
J blinked his dark eyes. His breath was slow and steady. Bored.
“How do you know that? How could you possibly know who the victim was? That information has not been released.”
“I know everything that happens in my city, cupcake. I already told you that. And okay, I admit, I know you were fond of him. That's what's got you all riled up.
I’m not riled up!
Admit it - you're blushing right now, Doll face.
Hazel swallowed her rage. She ignored the allegation.
“Did Miff come and talk to you? Did you see him? This all seems like a lot of coincidence, and you told me there is no such thing.”
“What are you insinuating, detective?”
“That you killed him! I have reason to believe you might have met with him, then you turn up here practically gloating. I am not just insinuating - I am directly asking - did you fucking kill him?”
“Why would I kill him?” the clowns tone lifted.
“Because he was a fucking informant! He led me to you. Maybe, you are the god dam Gotham Slasher. Why else would you be here, right now? What are the chances that you saunter in right now?”
Lazy amusement crossed his face.
“You are dumb for a smart little thing, aren’t you? What would I gain through keeping quite about any of my crimes? I run this city based on my reputation – the more kills, the better. I have nothing to hide, Detective. You sought me out because you were sure of that."
"Well, maybe it isn’t a flashy enough crime for you to lay claim publicly. You can admit that you would benefit from his death? If only to punish him for informing on you. Or maybe it was to punish me!"
"That’s better detective. You’re asking yourself the right question. Who benefits? Now look closer to home. Who stands to benefit if there are fewer crooks on the street? Who stands to benefit if they can draw the infamous clown prince out of so called 'hiding'? Hmm? The GCPD does. You do.
“Me!” Hazel’s voice shot up.
“Yes you.” The clown hissed. “I thought you knew right from the start. That planted card was nothing more than an invitation to enter into a game. I’m here because I like to play; not to solve your case for you.”
“Funny you mention the card! You are the only one in the dam city with access to your trademark Joker playing cards! It’s your hall mark. Your signature at every crime. Forensics have determined it authentic. You want to know how? All the cards you’ve left previously are covered with the same shit. Traces of gun powder and microscopic lint from your fucking purple pocket!”
“Oh, the cards legit you say? And that means I did it?”
“Yes! You leave that same egotistical stamp on every crime you commit! Why am I looking for a more complicated solution than what's right in front of me? You said it yourself – when something makes sense – stop asking questions. Your card; your crime!”
The clown moved around Hazel with the ease of a serpent.
“That card is the only interesting piece of evidence you have in your whole case file. The fact that it has my gun powder on it – and my pocket lint, only makes it more interesting. Arguably your most important clue. Only you can’t work out what it means.”
He ran his hand through his hair, sweeping it back.
Hazel watched the way he moved. There was tension under the suit, almost concealed by his aloof demeanour; but not quite.
The calm was a thin veil to hide his building frustration. Hazel could see it in the narrowing of his eyes, and the raised vein in his broad neck.
“You handed me the card that first night, like it was worth nothing. I knew right then you were no threat to me, detective. Just a cute toy to be played with." a wicked smile twitched at his gnarled lip. "I agreed to work with you, detective, because I knew that if you were to get anywhere in this little game of yours... you would need me.”
Smug prick!
Hazel wanted to respond with aggression. Venom. To reject what he was saying. but no... it was a taunt. Bait. Designed to get in her head.
The clown wasn't as calm and cool as he pretended to be. He couldn’t be. He had nothing. Just like her. Needy for answers. Just like her.
She would call him on it.
“Oh yeah? What does the card mean?”
“The answer is much closer to home than you think, Detective. Close and personal, even." he paused.
Tongue darted out to lick the small scar on the base of his lip, the way he did so often.
"I'm not going to spell it out for you, Detective. That’s cheating. What fun would that be?”
What the fuck did he mean, close and personal? Was this another dig at Miff?
The Clowns theatrics were getting annoying. Hazel was tired. Her headache was thumping, and she needed time to rest and think. To do some actual work. She had delt with one-too-many assholes for one day.
“If you are going to be painfully cryptic all the time, just get the fuck out of my apartment.”
The clown grinned and his eyes gleamed with unhinged delight.
“Ooo... She loves me… she loves me not… she wants my information… she doesn’t. You can keep a man on his toes, can’t you, cup-cake” The clown laughed, a snort through his nose. "You are bouncing all over the place Detective, and it’s not a good look on you. Not becoming at all.”
“If you had information, you’d have spilled it by now.” Hazel was bored. Done.
“You say I'm the only one with the cards... but that isn't true, is it? The clown probed. “I could help you solve that riddle. Honestly, I’m disappointed you haven’t seen it by now.”
His eyes were wild like he might lash out, but instead he cracked his neck.
“But I won’t help you, because you forget who you are talking to Det. You forget your manners. You’re going to have to work it out yourself.”
'You forget who you're talking to' His words reverberated.
What was it with the egos on these men? First her boss pulled that line, now this dirt bag criminal. It didn't warrant a response.
She was done with the clowns’ games.
At worst, he was the killer responsible for Miffs death and potentially the 6 others, at best, he was offering nothing towards solving the case and taking delight in messing with her.
“No comment?” His expression flattened suddenly, his eyes growing cold and dark. Like the lack of her response was far worse than her protests.
He couldn’t control silence. Couldn’t manipulate an empty space.
She held the silence. A little rush went through her as she saw his neck muscles flex.
He had buttons she could push, and she was finding them. The power to annoy him thrilled her.
“Like I said, you are plenty dumb, for a smart broad.” he spat the words.
The heat of anger in Hazel reshaped into something cold. Sharp. Fuelled by the little tells in his body language that he was losing composure.
"You are!" her retort was almost infantile, but she enjoyed it. "Formidable Joker. Ha! You've got nothing for me. To think I admired your work... but you are smoke and fucking mirrors. Just a man with nothing, hiding behind a mask. You think that your crimes make you different from the common folk? You pretend you’re better than us. But if you are better than the people of this city, why do you perform for them?
Hazel raised her chin for the finisher.
“You don't teach Gotham lessons. You dance for us. All in the hopes we might notice you and give a fuck!"
Something snapped in the clown.
She saw it like a flash behind his eyes.
His arm shot up. his gloved hand grabbed a fist of her hair, yanking her head back. Barred teeth in her face. Words slithering through his teeth.
"That pretty mouth is going to get you in a world of trouble, detective." He bent to her, his lips grazing her ear. Hot puffs of his breath against her cheek. "I let you play cute a little – but enough is enough.” He shook her. “I don't need a weapon to break a pretty little thing like you."
His other hand swept up her torso and nestled softly around her throat, all the while controlling her with the fist of hair. Her scalp burned like it might tear.
Hazel was locked in.
"I could do it with my bare hands." He mused.
He gave her throat a slow firm squeeze cutting air with measure, so Hazel spluttered. Not tight enough to choke her out but a hint towards the force he could apply if he decided to.
Sweat ran down Hazels body.
"I could teach you first-hand how to properly respect my work - how to tell it apart from these common place murders.”
He squeezed again causing a fit of coughing in his grip.
“Did you know that if you cut a person just right, you can actually unpack their insides, right in front of them?"
He changed his grip from her neck to her jaw, yanking her head around until her blue stare met black soulless eyes.
He searched her features, as though looking for something.
“I’m not a common criminal, Hazel. I’m something much worse.”
With an angry thrust he pushed her back. Hazel stumbled.
An undignified mess of hair and spit.
"I'm disappointed by you, Detective Madden."
His voice was flat, distant. Like the search was over and he had not found the thing he wanted.
Then he turned on his heel and left the apartment.
The anger had left him – at least on the surface. Replaced with disgust.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Muder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide.
Authors notes: J‘s a little quite this chapter whilst the story builds but hang tight he‘ll be back in a big way.
The story is just starting to heat up!! 🚔🤡
Rose
The fog was lifting from the streets as Hazel got down the quieter end of the Old Town. The newly rising sun was already spilling light into the world. Hazel’s head had cleared, and the remnant fragments of the dream and unwelcome memories of her father were faded to the background. Maybe there would be a bakery open near Gold-spur where she could grab a coffee and take a wander around after her run. See where her instinct took her.
Coming onto Gold- Spur Hazel stopped, rather struck by a rustic beauty she hadn’t noticed the first few times around.
How could this historical pocket exist in a bleak, modern city like Gotham? A city where all the other buildings reached ominously towards the sky as though it was a competition. She held up her hand to block the new apartments from her view. With those intrusive buildings removed, Hazel felt as though she had taken a step back in time.
The old shop fronts on the wide, steep guttered streets, the old-style homes and of course the brewery right up then end on the edge of her view. Structurally the building remained exactly how it was in the old photo behind the bar at Davies Drop.
Hazel walked hands on hips slowly catching her breath. The air was still cool enough to cause a plume in front of her and even though the old timey street inspired her imagination and made her feel like she had taken a trip back in time, there was still the acrid flavour of Gotham smog on every inhale.
Hazel came in from the north, just as she had when she and Jason had interviewed Hammond, passing the Grocers where Lucy had worked, and the apartments she had lived in. There were no lights on in the apartment block; most residents yet to wake.
Hazel passed the Grocers and other small shops by, soon arriving at the three houses on small blocks - the ones the apple farm workers had once lived in, according to Hammond.
Hazel looked over the stout fences that framed the front yards. The houses were dark too.
It was too early to make house calls for general information gathering, but it would be good to leave a calling card so that the neighbours could get in touch.
Lifting a latch quietly, hazel slipped through the white gate and headed up the path. The path was stoney with a small amount of grass grown through. Hazel followed the path all the way to the front door and slipped her card in the door jam.
For a moment Hazel thought she heard a noise inside –a rustle behind the door. She paused in case someone presented, but only silence followed. Hazel left the card and turned away.
Heading back down the steps from the porch, Hazel paused scanning her eyes around the perimeter. There seemed to be a storm door to the side.
Subterranean basements. This little corner of Gotham she knew little about. She wondered if perhaps they had used the extra storage space for the cellars when the homes belonged to orchard workers. Hazel ducked back through the gates as silently as she entered, leaving the small house to sit peacefully in the grey light of dawn as she ventured back to the sidewalk.
Exiting the gate Hazel noticed a van parked right by the curb. There were a few cars parked along the street, but this was parked most directly in front of the house closest to the brewery. Perhaps it belonged to whomever lived in the house. For good measure, Hazel plucked a second card and tucked it under the windscreen wiper on the curb side of the vehicle.
Hazel checked her watch, it was not even 6am, the Brewery wouldn’t be open for some time. Yet, she wouldn’t mind having a quiet poke around the general area. Hazel kept her pace up to a brisk walk, not wanting to cool too much after her run. The sweat that had gathered on her back and hairline was already chilling. Gotham mornings had a bite to them.
As Hazel neared the brewery her interest was piqued by banging inside the courtyard. The gates were shut, and Hazel couldn’t see into the bar area where she and Jason had sat the day before. The noise was loud coming over the fence line, a clatter and hammering sound. Hazel pressed her ear up to the fence and listened. Was that the faint sound of power tools? She listened for a moment, unable to identify the sound, then banged firmly on the fence in between the bouts of noise.
Hazel’s knocks went unanswered. The sound came from deeper in the property – perhaps in the bowels of the old brewery.
Hazel waited for a lull, and in the silence, she hammered again and yelled.
“Gotham Police Department – Open up!”
This time the sound stopped completely and was followed by some shuffling. Moments later a flustered Hammond peered through the gate.
He wasn’t the welcoming sight he was the day before and he opened the gate only a crack, enough to peer out, disgruntled. His eyes widened in silent recognition.
“What do you want?”
“Everything okay in there, Hammond? That’s a lot of noise for -” Hazel paused to glance at her wristwatch “ – 6:15am”
“Everything is just fine in here.” Hammond answered. “Is this another interview? Thought we were done?”
“Not at all – like I said, I was just in the area, heard the noise and thought I’d check on you.” Hazel eyed Hammond carefully, his hair line was light with perspiration and his cheeks had a pink hue to them.
“You been exercising, Hammond?” Hazel asked
Hammond huffed loudly and rolled his eyes.
“It sure sounds like an interview” his voice strained with frustration “I told you everything I knew yesterday about Lucy and that lad she was seeing, I don’t want nothing more to do with it. You need to leave.”
“Wait – the lad she was seeing. Was Lucy seeing someone Hammond? I would have remembered if you mentioned that.”
Hammond’s jaw slacked. His expression skewed with discomfort at information he had just released, silently fighting for a way he could reel it back in, but he couldn’t.
“Well, they were together sometimes so I assumed. That’s all. Like I said, she used to come here for a drink after work every now and then.”
"Who was she seeing?"
Hammond looked over his shoulder like he wished he could leave. Then sighed and let the gate relax open just a little.
"That dude from your picture. Gabriel."
“Were they both here that night, Hammond?”
Hammond rubbed his face with both hands
“Shit.” he sighed under his breath before meeting Hazel with a pained expression. “Yea. They were here. They arrived, about 7 after her shift and were here till 9:00, left together about then.”
lying jerk...
“That sculpture in the front" Hazel was casual. "– you make that yourself”
“Yeah.” Hammond frowned. “What of it?”
“What kind of wood working tool would you use on a job like that?”
“What tool do I use?" His hands tightened at his sides. "This is crazy. You just asked me about two dead people - then switched topics. Why are we talking about woodworking?”
“An electric saw?” Hazel mused. “They make a bit of noise… but I guess you’ve got a bit of space around you, so as not to bother your neighbours…Do you own a buzz saw, Hammond?”
“I had one before it was stolen. Now I carve by hand.” He eyed Hazel suspiciously.
“Stolen? You report that?”
“Why would I report a stolen power tool?" his voice went up. "You’re standing here, with no leads on a multiple homicide case, a stones throw from the Narrows, I've got junkies and hookers on my doorstep every morning and you think I’m going to expect the GCPD to recover my electric saw? This conversation is fucking insane!”
Hazel could feel Hammond’s eyes on her as she paused to give him a smile.
“Say, Hammond” You don’t suppose I can trouble you for a glass of water? I have run all the way from East Parade.” Hazel wiped her brow with her forearm for emphasis
Hammond’s lips pulled up into a sneer.
“I do mind. I know exactly what you are up to - snooping around. I know what my rights are, and I know I haven’t done anything. Why the fuck would I help you do your job? GCPD. Good for nothing! You are bad for business. This whole mess is bad for business. You think the Riff-Raff drifting in isn’t enough? – I’m practically broke! The Narrows is closing in on me with all the new project housing and now you are here, dragging my ass through this instead of finding the actual killer or cleaning the streets!”
Hazel had her phone out and hit speed dial for Jason, he picked up after one ring with a foggy hello.
“Rise and shine – meet me with the car on Gold Spur”
Hanging up the phone Hazel tuned to Hammond with hard eyes.
“I think you better come in for a little chat. Maybe spend some time explaining to us why you didn’t mention all this before. If you have any security footage on this building – I’d like a look at that too."
"Me! Why do I need to come into the station?"
"Because Hammond. As of this chat, your venue is the last known location for not just one, but two homicide victims, and you may be the last person who ever saw them alive.
**
Back at the station with Jason beside her, Hazel leant on the desk.
“So, Hammond, how about you tell my partner what you told me back at the gate at Davies Drop.”
Hammond sat at the interview table with his head down. Hazel hoped that a single night in the holding cell would loosen him up, but so far nothing. The warrant was approved but unless they found something, Hammond would be able to walk in a couple of hours.
“As I said. It was nothing – just that she was there that night, and the dude from the picture…he was with her.”
“That’s pretty relevant to our case – isn’t it, Jason” Hazel raised her head to Jason.
“Yes, it is.” Jason frowned “Seems like a big thing to forget… after all, the pair were murdered – decapitated in fact – I am sure you heard that, didn’t you, Hammond”
“Now, I am sure Hammond has a good explanation for saving that information – give him a chance to talk” Hazel fawned.
Hammond slouched in the chair, broody. Hazel wasn’t sure if he would answer, but before he had a chance there was a tap at the door.
Hazel and Jason turned as the station reception officer peeped her head in.
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt. Detective Maddon, can I get a quick word?”
Hazel blew out air as she stood and made her way to the door.
“This better be important.”
Once in the hall, the receptionist spoke in a shushed tone.
“I have a woman out front - determined she must see you. She’s making a real scene about it.”
“That's it?” Hazel shoved her hands on her hips “You don't need to interrupt me for that! Tell her no. Tell her to book an appointment. I’m in the middle of an interview.”
“I told her, no, at first. She is one of those street walker types – I think she’s high, but she's adamant it's urgent and she knows strange details about you that she would have no reason to know. She swears she has information pertinent to your case."
"THIS INTERVIEW is pertinent to the case! This interview is urgent! Don’t interrupt me again, tell her to come back"
"She asked for you by name, Hazel. She said you would know her. Said if you didn’t want to talk to her, she would leave peacefully – but she needed to hear it from you. She said you would know it was important when I told you”
Hazel paused halfway back through the door.
"Fine. What's her name?"
"She said her name was Rose, knows you through a friend called Jay, apparently.”
Hazel stiffened.
She only knew one Rose: Miffs connection to Joker. The woman who met and led her to the church that night.
What could she want?
“Shall I put her in an interview room?” The receptionist asked, reading Hazel.
“Have Rose wait in my office. Don’t let her talk to anyone else. I’ll be there soon.”
**
Hazel sat at her desk slouched in her chair. She watched Rose pace around her office. Rose muttered intelligibly and squeezed her hands into fists and released them as she paced.
“Rose, you can’t just turn up here like this – Jesus, you’ll get us both in big trouble.” Hazel thought of Joker “or dead.” She added.
Rose turned to face Hazel her eyes focusing for the first time.
“I wouldn’t have mam - except that it’s terrible important!” She leaned towards Hazel and dopped her voice. “It’s Miff.”
At the mention of his name Hazel straightened up.
She hadn’t spoken with Miff since he had connected her with Rose to get to Joker. He had left a voice mail telling her he had made a mistake connecting her, and a second one begging her to call it off.
Hazel had never returned his calls. It wasn’t his place to worry and frankly it had pissed her off. She felt the heat of irritation on her neck just thinking about it.
“Oh? and what about him” Hazel asked flatly.
“He’s missing.“ Rose started pacing again. Hands wringing. „I wouldn’t expect the GCPD to care – but you – you gotta help me. Miff kept his nose clean. He wouldn’t have asked me for that favour if you and he weren’t…close. He stuck his neck out for you. Now you owe him.”
Hazel crossed her arms across her desk.
“First, I don’t owe anyone anything – second, please stop pacing and sit down before you wear a trench in my floor. Start your story at the beginning.”
Rose hesitated but sat down in the chair opposite Hazel, clasping her hands in a white-knuckle grip. She Sucked a deep breath and started.
“Miff’s a good guy. He always looked out for me. He’s always told me to stay away from trouble. He always told me it’s not worth the dept to get mixed up with you know who.” Rose leaned close, “I used to have a problem with Heroin. The state said I was born an addict, because of my mother. Well, back then, I would have sold anything for a hit – that’s how I started working for you know who.
Rose picked a fingernail as she elaborated.
“That’s how it works, see. Even amongst the savviest of underworld players there are only whispers of you know who on the street – you don’t find him less he wants you to.” Rose paused as though the next part hurt. “It’s in your darkest hour he appears, offers himself as a lifeline. Whatever you need – for whatever he wants. Desperate people take the bait, like I did.” A shaky breath. “A contract with the devil – it’s for life.”
The words chilled, but Hazel just nodded in quiet understanding.
“I wanted to listen to Miff” She continued “but all I really had was the illusion of choice.”
Rose shook her head at the memory.
“Of course, my addiction got worse and so did my trouble. It would have been the death of me if it weren’t for Miff. He took me in and helped me through the withdrawals, told me to always come to him first. He’d give me a dime bag of weed and tell me to sleep. He saved my life. That’s why I helped him with that wretched favour when he asked.”
Rose paused. Her hands softened, and she stared into the distance, deep in thought. Hazel noticed how her eyes were glassy with emotion but alert. In this moment she seemed grief struck, but sober. Maybe she was still clean. Maybe the receptionist had read it wrong – she was frantic with worry, not drugs.
“Rose,” Hazel attempted to focus her. “What did you have to tell me about Miff?”
“He has been quiet lately. He felt bad about getting you in with you know who. Said you were in over your head this time and it was his fault. He kept saying maybe he could fix things. He wanted to come to some agreement with you know who where he would take your place in any debt you might incur. He felt responsible.”
Hazel felt cold clamp around her heart.
What was Rose suggesting?
That Miff would try to negotiate her freedom? Bad idea. And not asked for. The fear was quickly surpassed by anger.
What was his problem? She could handle herself…
“Anyway,” Rose continued “I thought I talked him out of that madness, but I needed to be sure. I hadn’t seen him round so I decide to go over for some smoke– not just for a smoke – I wanted to see him. He was not answering. His doors were locked. I thought I better not break in.”
Hazel raised an eyebrow “Good choice, I guess. Then what happened?”
“There was a van parked at his house, so I think to myself maybe he got visitors. Maybe that’s why he’s not answering. So, I take a nap in a doorway opposite and wait for the company to leave. The head lights wake me later, blinding in my face, and the van leaves.”
“Did you see the driver? Did they talk to you?”
Rose shook her head. “I saw the driver, just a glimpse. Middle aged man. No passenger. He doesn’t stop. I cross the street figuring it’s my turn to visit now. I knock at Miffs door but he’s still not answering. It strikes me as odd, but maybe he’s just real high on smoke and fell asleep. Miffs a good guy – the last thing I wanna do is wake him. So, I set up camp in the alley way behind his house, and I stay there all night. I’m telling you he’s not been in or out. It ain’t like him. Miff, he’s always there.”
“And that’s why you are here, to report him missing?” Hazel confirmed.
Rose’s eyes were like saucers now and filled to the brim with dread. “Something bad has happened – I can feel it in my bones.”
Hazel nodded in a well-versed gesture of validation “I am sure there is a rational explanation.” she reached out a hand to Rose “but you have my word I will look into it. You are right, Miff is a good guy. I will find him.”
Hazels words were offered as reassurance to calm Rose and promote cooperation. Yet, Hazel felt a certain weight in her guts she couldn’t ignore. It was true, this was out of character. Miff was always there.
Yet, she could hardly trust Rose’s account of events entirely. She would call Miff when Rose left. It was the easiest way to put the situation to rest.
Before Hazel could continue wrapping up the session, she was interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
What the fuck!
Was it impossible to get through an interview uninterrupted in this place today?
This time there was no polite hesitation as the door slammed open and her boss stepped through. He was back from tending to his mother. The short reprieve was over.
Lieutenant James looked dark. “Hazel, a word if you will.” he nodded towards the hallway.
To Rose she nodded. “Stay put. I’ll be right back”
Inwardly she groaned.
Fuck.
**
Hazel Followed the Lieutenant into the hall and tailed him up the corridor into his own office. Jason was there, already seated in one of the chairs. He nodded at Hazel with heavy features as Hazel came in.
Not good.
The lieutenant sat down at his desk and folded his hands.
“How’s your mother?” Hazel asked.
“As well as can be expected. She is settling into the facility” the lieutenant replied. “A greater concern to me is the state of this case and the publicity shit storm that’s about to unfold.”
Hazel didn’t answer. She had the distinct impression he was referring to something she wasn’t yet privy to, but she was about to find out.
The lieutenant took out a remote and clicked on the small TV screen that was mounted against the left wall. The TV crackled to life to show a Gotham News reporter on the screen.
“It’s been 4 years since The Joker terrorised this city, ensuring that no Gotham citizen would feel safe. Whilst we’ve moved forward – the city remembers the horror all too well. We thought the Jokers reign was over, but recent anonymous information supplied to the station tells us that The Joker is active again and is now the number one suspect in an open multiple homicide investigation. With 6 bodies and counting – is The Joker really the Gotham Slasher? And if so, what hope do Gotham City Police Department have of stopping him without the Batman….
Lieutenant James punched his thumb on to the remote and the screen went black.
“Who slipped it to the press?” Hazel asked
“Your guess is as good as mine - about a dozen witnesses watched you pull a Joker calling card from the corpses head.” The lieutenant’s tone was full of contempt as he stared her down. “I told you to follow this lead hard. Didn’t I? Now the whole bloody city knows and what do we have on him? Nothing.”
Hazel bit at the inside of her cheek but said nothing.
“I have city hall breathing down my neck.” he continued. “I am sure you can appreciate the repercussions of this leak – It’s the god dam Joker – he brought the city to his knees. We have no more Batman, no more Harvey Dent, we don’t even have ‘super cop’ Jim Gordan who's sunning his retired ass in the Bahamas or wherever his wife dragged him to – Jesus knows he owed her” the lieutenant scoffed. “There are no more heroes in Gotham! It’s just us. So, tell me.” He threw his arms wide, palms open “Have you got anything further? and please, I am hanging on it!”
Fuck she hated his beady eyed face.
He slumped into his seat and wiped his brow, reached for a bottle on his desk and took a swig of his drink. His face was hot. Sweat visible at his brow line.
Hazel watched him intently as he lowered the drink back to the table. Watched him release it and then retrain his eyes on her. A flicker of something crossed his face as his eyes met hers - she didn't know what, and then with a sharp flick he dumped the bottle in the paper basket.
The smash of Glass in the bin made Jason jerk beside Hazel.
Soft.
“Well? What have you two got for me?”
Hazel shook her head. On a normal day she would consider it strong to say that she and Jason were holding the last man to have seen Lucy and Gabriel alive, that they had secured a warrant and by the end of the day they would have searched his premise and watched over all the camera footage taken on site, but not today.
Not after what had just gone to air.
This was going to turn into a media and political shit-soup and the Gotham Police Department would be tossed first into the crap-pot. Hazel was garnish.
Something in her gut told her silence was her friend.
Jason’s phone rang and he excused himself to the lieutenant, then pressed his phone to his ear.
The way his voice dropped caused Hazel’s head to snap around, hanging on his few words before he flipped his phone shut.
The expression on his face was torture, like the words he had to speak tasted terrible and he couldn’t bare to pass them through his mouth.
“What?”
“Another headless body, in the Narrows."
Hazel’s eyes flicked from Jason over to her boss who looked ashen. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between a thumb and his fingers as though trying to supress a headache, or a stroke, or perhaps a full-blown adult tantrum.
Hazel stood from her chair. It scaped abrasively beneath her.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure as always, but I guess that’s meeting adjourned.” She muttered.
Hitting the hallway Jason grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face him.
“Hey! It’s both our asses on the line! Do you always have to be so oppositional?"
Hazel yanked her arm free and continued onwards.
“Why didn’t you tell him we were holding Hammond?” Jason followed her with rushed footsteps.
Hazel shot him a glare over her shoulder but didn’t slow down.
“It’s not enough. I need some real answers first.”
"We need answers – this is a partnership, remember?”
Frankly, Hazel felt like Jason’s part in the partnership was filing reports. She doubted that blurting it out would help the situation deescalate, so instead she shrugged.
“We doing this, or not? Partner…”
She didn’t bother to tell him the other part. Something didn’t feel right, something was gnawing at her gut and she had no intention of opening her mouth whilst something felt off. She knew better than to lay out all her cards.
Jason’s shoulders dropped and he raised a hand in submission
“let’s go.”
Hazel paused outside her own office. She had forgotten all about Rose.
“I just need to stick my head in and reschedule someone.”
Hazel swung her office door open before Jason could ask questions.
The chair where Rose was seated was empty and Rose’s bag was gone.
Fuck.
**
Thanks so much for reading. Would love to hear a comment if you are on this journey with me. Things are going to get a little darker, plus the return of our beloved clown prince in the next chapter :) Out soon.
