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Ashes, Ashes	By : JaneKrahe Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 6446 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Barbara picked up the knife, cursing herself for having not done so earlier. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t some pussy-footed debutante who couldn’t get up in the morning without her maid, she was Barbara-fucking-Gordon, the Commissioner’s daughter, the one woman the entire Gotham City Police force feared. And here she was, groveling at the feet of a madman. She stood, trying to shove aside her disgust, wondering what her next move should be. The Joker was going to kill her; that much was certain. And not just because he wanted to, either. That Batman was a vigilante nut-job, and somehow, Barbara didn’t think he’d stop patrolling the city just for her. So, the question became, when would the Joker strike?

Barbara knew she was still useful to him, and would be for at least a few days. But then, there seemed to be no sense in this man, and she decided he would probably kill her just to see what her blood tasted like. Barbara took a deep breath, settling the knife comfortably in her palm. It was a black switchblade, brand new, and perfectly clean. She glanced at the Joker’s closed door, then back to the knife. He was in there, all by himself. He was strong, sure. Frighteningly strong for a slim man, but surprise was on her side. She could do it; she could kill him. Hell, even if she could wound him, it might be enough. She looked back to the door. It was now or never.

Barbara slammed the door open. Her quick eyes caught the Joker just getting up from his bed. She lunged at him, knife pointed at his chest.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Joker had little time to register shock. The girl flew at him, his own blade in her hand. The look on her face was grim, determined… exquisite. He caught her by the arm and flung her onto the bed. She aimed a kick at his head, which he dodged easily. She kicked again, this time at his knee. Her foot struck, but Joker was beyond pain. He gripped her by the wrists and forced her down onto her back. He got on his knees above her, using his own weight to hold her down. She was strong, and knew a thing or two about fighting. Barbara struggled for almost a full minute, but Joker, though built thin and wiry, was nothing but muscle, and waited silently. Finally, she was forced to give up.

“Let… me… go,” she said, panting slightly.

“Now, why should I do that,” the Joker asked, “when I’ve got you in such an… intriguing position?”

“Fucking bastard, let me go, or I swear to God - “

“‘God’?” the Joker interrupted angrily. “What kind of ‘God’ do you believe in, doll? Because the God I know does nothing for nobody, he just gets his rocks off watching us squirm.” She pushed her wrists against his hands, but he held fast. He laughed, but there was no real amusement behind it. “God isn’t going to save you, little girl,” he growled. “And believing otherwise is nothing but naivety. You are many things, Barbara Gordon, but naïve you are not.”

She was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in an extremely distracting manner. Joker tried looking into her eyes, but that was almost worse. They shone with anger and strength, a bright, poisonous green that seemed to glow. His mind was racing with the manic fury it always took on when someone mentioned God or Love or Family, or any of those other pathetic lies people told themselves to shut out the frightening dark. But he, Joker, he WAS the dark, he lived it, worshiped it, bathed in it, and it felt to him the only safe place in the world.

Barbara began struggling again, not with her arms but her legs, and keeping her still forced Joker to grind his hips down. Big mistake. It immediately reminded him that he was holding a beautiful woman down on his bed, HIS bed, of all places, and the thought brought with it desires he thought he’d stamped out long ago. And then, unbidden, came that almost painful urge to kiss her.

What the hell? Joker thought to himself. She already thinks I’m a fucking bastard. Might as well reinforce her ideas; it’s not as if she’ll ever trust me. And, it’s only a kiss, after all. As he made his decision, Barbara tried to sit up. Instead of pushing her back down, he leaned forward, and pressed his lips to hers.

She began fighting immediately, so Joker laid all of his weight onto her, holding her down with his body. He held her wrists above her head, and kissed harder, pressing her into the mattress. And then, the strangest thing happened. Barbara stopped fighting him.

And started kissing him back.

Joker licked her lip, and she opened her mouth, allowing his tongue to dart in. His grip on her wrists slackened involuntarily, his hands trying to wander on their own. He had to concentrate to keep them still. He reveled in the feel of her pinned beneath him, the taste of her sweet pink tongue.

Barbara’s legs shifted, Joker was suddenly settled between her thighs. He cautiously slid one hand down her arm, avoiding her breast, down her side to her hip. The arm he had just released drifted up, and Barbara’s small, elegant hand ran through his green, pomaded hair. The touch made him shiver, and he deepened the kiss, bit her lower lip, and -

Barbara gasped and pulled away. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Joker couldn’t figure out why. Her lips were stained red from his makeup, and the simple thought that it was *his* makeup thrilled him, made it hard to think.

Then, he tasted blood.

He’d bitten her. He’d nearly bitten through her bottom lip. It was her blood on his tongue, sweet and thick.

He tried to grab her, pull her back to him, but she catapulted off the bed and out of the room.

And Joker found himself alone, on his knees in an empty bed, swallowing the blood of the most beautiful woman in the world.

And hating himself for it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Barbara hurtled down the hall, back to the room that was her cage. She slammed the door behind her and collapsed against it. But the problem was, the thing that had scared her was right in the room with her. No door could be barred against it, for how do you hide from yourself? Her hand was covering her mouth as she sank to the floor, baffled, horrified, scared, and thrilled, and entranced.

She covered her mouth out of fear she would vomit - and out of fear that she might go running back to the madman’s room and beg him to do it again, bite her, mark her, do things to her that men like Harvey Dent would never dare. Things that would destroy her father, if he knew.

Barbara’s nerves began to settle. She took her hand from her mouth, and was shocked to see it covered in red, a mixture of blood and Joker’s grease paint. She realized then that the wonderful, sugary, mouthwatering smell came, not from his face paint, but from his hair. Her other hand, the one that had traitorously run itself through his green waves, smelled of vanilla and melted sugar.

Barbara stood, only slightly unsteady, and made her way to bathroom. She couldn’t bring herself to look in the mirror until she’d scrubbed every speck of red off her skin. Once she had, she stared at her reflection. The bite had made her lower lip swell, so she looked like she was pouting. It had stopped bleeding, and had never really hurt - but therein lied the dilemma. When the Joker had bitten into her lip she’d felt no pain, no fear, only exhilaration. And that was what had sent her flying off the bed. Barbara Gordon was not some masochistic freak who kept a whip and a set of shackles in her closet next to her Burberry coat and Dior heels.

And yet, there she was, getting all hot and bothered over one nibbly kiss.

Barbara had had her fair share of boyfriends, some serious, some not so much. Some were very sweet, and some were very hot, and some, like Harvey, were perfect in every way.

But none of them - *none* of them - kissed like the Joker.

Barbara shook her head, furious with herself. Every few seconds she was replaying the event in her mind, and each time it seemed better and better. She stormed to the shower and turned the cold tap as far as it would go. Then, clothes and all, she got in.

The first icy blast of water took her breath away, and she stood gasping in the downpour, willing herself to come back to her senses, to be Barbara Gordon again. Her skin broke out in goose bumps, and she started to shiver violently. She could feel her mascara running down her face, but didn’t bother to wipe it off. She was so cold she could barely move.

The Joker wasn’t cold. Heat came off him in waves, a fiery, insistent heat she’d never seen in a human being before. It was like he had a fever, or had just come out of a hot bath. Just the memory of that searing heat warmed her. Warmed her in all the wrong places.

Barbara got out of the shower. She was shaking so hard it hurt. She knew she’d never be able to completely rid herself of the memory of it, so she decided to just go to bed. She crawled under the sheets, ignoring her cold, wet clothes, and after several moments, fell into a deep, uneasy sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Joker paced his room, checking his watch every few steps. He had less than an hour until the meeting at 32nd and Ross, and he was debating about bringing the girl. He needed her there, to be a leash on that ridiculous Dr. Crane, but he also dreaded the idea that the Batman might show up, despite his warnings. If he did, he’d have to kill her, right then and there.

And he didn’t want to.

Most people Joker met fell into one category - who cares? He didn’t give shit who lived or died, it was all the same to him. Everyone dies. *Everyone*. But the idea of killing Barbara Gordon upset him, more than he liked. The last time he’d met someone he didn’t want to kill - Joker didn’t like thinking about it. As always, however, the mere thought of a girl getting close to him brought the memory forth, and he had no choice but to relive it.

He’d been fourteen years old, stuck in a house for way-ward kids. They had tried to put him in foster care, but it never seemed to work. Each time, his social worker would get a frantic call one day from one of his fake parents, saying something like, “This child is uncontrollable. He’s a dangerous menace, and we can’t have him in our home any more. He’s a freak.”

The scars gave him an eternal grin, he was always smiling, and Joker hated it. What if he didn’t *want* to smile? What if all he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and die, because at night he saw his father’s face, and tasted his mother’s blood, over and over and over again?

His mind worked too fast for the rest of him, and sometimes all he could do was scream. Scream, and fight.

They sent him to a group home for kids with problems, and it was worse there than anywhere else. Until Anna.

She was a year older than him, beautiful and graceful, and he saw his mother every time he looked at her. And she always smiled at him. She was the first person who wasn’t scared of him, or hated him, or judged him at all. And she would sit with him sometimes, and let him talk, let him ramble on about the world, and it’s cruelty, and how nothing mattered but power and chaos.

And she drove him crazy, because she was so beautiful.

And one day, he was outside, and he saw a flower growing in the otherwise dead garden. It was a tiger lily, and reminded him of Anna, because she was exotic and rare, her dark eyes, her golden skin, her ebony hair so like his mother’s.

And he’d gone inside, up to her room, and knocked on the door. It took her a long time to answer, and when she did, she didn’t open it all the way. She was pulling her hair out of the neck of her shirt, as if she’d just gotten dressed. He’d been rendered speechless.

“What is it?” she asked, a little impatiently.

“I - I brought you this,” he stammered, voice cracking, and he held the flower out to her.

She had frowned. “Oh, um, that’s nice.” She took the bloom from him, saying sullenly, “Thanks.”

“Um… can I come in?” Joker had asked, barely summoning the courage to do so.

She had sighed. “Look, you’re a nice kid and all, but - I’m just not interested in you that way.”

“Anna?” came a male’s voice from inside the room A boy walked up to the door. It was one of the older boys who were so mean to Joker. He was shirtless. “What the hell do you want?” he’d snarled when he caught sight of young Joker.

“I - um -”

“Get out of here, you freak.” The boy had grabbed Anna and pulled her back inside, slamming the door in Joker’s face. The tiger lily fell to the ground at his feet.

Joker picked up the flower, and his vision began to blur.

His own memory dropped out for awhile. The next thing her new, he was standing above Anna and the boy. They were dead, and he held a large kitchen knife in his hand. Their blood dripped off him as he turned and left the room. He walked down stairs, through the living room and kitchen, past his foster mother, past the other children, out of the house, and away from the system forever. He never looked back, and no one tried to stop him.

Joker shook himself out of his reverie. He looked at his watch again. He needed to make a decision. He decided to go see Barbara, maybe ask her. But then, he knew what she would say. Nevertheless, he headed down the hall to her room. He didn’t knock, just opened the door. She was curled up in bed, fully clothed, fast asleep. He went to her and shook her by the arm. “Wake up, doll,” he said. There was no answer. She was cold to the touch, and her skin was white. Her lips were purple. She was falling into hypothermia.

~Hey, everybody, thanks for the reviews! I'm already working on chapter 3!~
~Come visit me @ www.myspace.com/poetrygeek!~
~Almost finished with Chapter 3. I've expanded Joker's back staory, and good little twist about his father is coming! Stay tuned!~
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Ashes, Ashes