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Ashes, Ashes	By : JaneKrahe Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 6445 -:- 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
- 1
- 2
Ashes, Ashes (please review? oh, pretty please?)

Chapter 1: “In Over Your Head”

Barbara Gordon sighed, shifting in her cheap computer chair. Cheap, not because she couldn’t afford a better one, but because the Gotham City Thirteenth Precinct couldn’t - wouldn’t - pay more. But, then again, Barbara supposed that there were better things to spend money on than cushy desk chairs. Considering how poorly the police had been doing in recent months, Barbara figured most of the money given them by the lovely, stingy taxpayers was going to hazard pay. The newest face on the Wall of Ass-Fuckers (the force’s name for it, not hers) had been wreaking havoc on Gotham for three straight months, and he seemed to stay seventeen steps ahead of everyone, especially her father, Commissioner Gordon. Barbara rubbed her eyes and sighed. The computer screen in front of her glowed as it scrolled dizzyingly through hundreds of faces. She’d spent a week using a brilliantly designed face-matching program to try and figure out who the hell this new baddie was. Unfortunately, there was no trace of him to be found, and Barbara had tried every database she knew of. When she’d had no luck in Gotham, she’d moved onto the Metropolis databases. She checked everything from hospital records to elementary school yearbooks. The criminal wore grease paint on his face, and was mostly seen only on grainy security cameras, so the maddening truth of it was, Barbara could very well have already come across him, but the face-matcher wouldn’t necessarily recognize him. The thought that she’d already found the bastard, but had passed over him because the picture quality was so bad, made Barbara want to scream.

She placed her hands on her neck, twisting it from side to side. Time for coffee. Barbara stood, making her way through the cramped offices, to the coffee machine in the basement. It was mostly dark down there, as Barbara was the only person in the building. It wasn’t that the precinct was closed. On the contrary, the new guy was keeping the cops so busy that it was pointless for them to check in at the office. He seemed to be in three places at once, at any given moment, and it was all they could do to clean up the mess. And that Batman weirdo… Barbara shook her head, pushing the coffee dispenser button a bit more forcefully than was needed. A year ago, Batman had literally handed them the mobster Carmine Falconi, complete with a folder of dirt to send his whole operation down in flames. And yet, even he couldn’t get this new character. Barbara took her Styrofoam cup, heading back to her desk. The program was still running, useless as it was. She sat down, sipping the coffee. It was grey, and lukewarm, and bitter, but it was keeping her awake at 2 am, and that was all that mattered.

The program was fine by itself, and would beep loudly if a match was found, so Barbara stood again and wandered over to the Wall of Ass-Fuckers. It wasn’t a wall, really, just a big corkboard, and normally it would be covered with pictures of money launderers and serial killers. But lately, the only pictures on it were of the new guy. Most were poor-quality surveillance photos, but recently, an eye witness had managed to get out his camera and take a picture from his apartment window while the guy and a few of his goons were robbing a bank. The picture was color, and had been cropped to show his face. His hair was green, his face painted white, with black around his eyes and red over his lips, extending his smile greatly beyond the norm. There appeared to be some scarring on his cheeks, but the detail wasn’t clear enough to tell for sure. It was clown makeup, but it was the most disturbing clown makeup Barbara had ever seen. It was smeared and inconsistent, and though most clowns look absurd, the effect on him was downright terrifying.

Barbara looked at the only other piece of evidence on the Wall. It was a card, a jester from an antique deck. It was his calling card, and so most now called him the Joker. Barbara almost laughed. The Joker. It was ridiculous. But then again, there was nothing ridiculous about the people he’d killed. Looking at the picture again, Barbara realized that he was looking at the camera. Wait, that couldn’t be right, could it? One of the problems she’d been having with the face-matching program was that the Joker was not looking at the camera, that his eyes couldn’t be seen. Then, why was he now looking at the camera? Barbara moved forward, staring into his eyes. They were dark, and abyssal, and the black paint magnified their intensity. She shivered and clutched her thin grey sweater closer around her. She studied the rest of the picture. His posture was off, slightly, from the picture in her computer, and the background - Barbara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. It was a different picture. The background was not a city street, but a desk… her desk!

Barbara froze. From behind her, she heard slow, chilling laughter. Then, a hand clamped itself over her nose and mouth, she caught the distinct stench of chloroform, and the world went dark.

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

Joker sat in the back of the black sedan, staring at Gordon’s daughter. She lay across the black leather seat, her head on his lap, hair spread out like a flaming halo. She was younger than he’d thought she would be, considering her PhD in psychology. She was maybe twenty, twenty-two at the oldest. The clothes she wore were very nice, obviously an advantage of Daddy’s position. But why, with her credentials, was she working for the Gotham police? Joker smiled, more a death grin than anything born of pleasure. Evidently, even the great Commissioner Gordon needed help sometimes, and from his own daughter, no less. Joker brushed a lock of her silky hair out of her face, the blade of his knife grazing her flawless skin. She was pretty. No, he had to be honest with himself. She was the most beautiful woman he’d seen in a long time. Maybe he’d keep her around for a while. She was going to be incredibly useful as it was. His hideout needed sprucing up anyway. A woman’s touch, and all that. Joker laughed. More likely, he would decorate his walls with her pretty blood once she outlived her purpose.

The car slowed to a stop, and Joker looked up. They were at a shitty little Chinese restaurant. He lifted Barbara Gordon’s head and waved a small vial of smelling salts under her nose. She shuddered violently, her eyes flew open, and she began struggling almost immediately. “Stop,” he commanded, twisting his fingers through her hair, his other hand holding a very sharp knife to her throat. She stilled, her green eyes glaring up at him, fiercer and more intelligent than he’d expected. “Good girl,” he continued, licking his lips. “Now, listen real close, sugar, and I won’t kill you all over my nice new car.” She said nothing, so he pressed on. “We are about to enter a restaurant. We will be attending a meeting of some local baddies; you’ll probably recognize most of them. And that, in essence, is what I want you to do. Use those pretty green eyes. Look at who is there; memorize their faces. You are Gordon’s daughter. No one’s word is more solid than yours. Do this, and you may not die tonight. Got it, doll face?” She nodded once, and Joker had to admire her guts. He was pulling so hard on her hair that several strands had already ripped out, and she hadn’t made a single sound. “Good girl,” he purred again. He didn’t want to get out of the car yet. He was enjoying the feel of the girl draped across his lap. It wasn’t something he was used to. But business came first.

Joker got out of the car, pulling the girl with him. He shoved her at his two cronies, both in clown masks. They caught her and followed him inside. He walked past the hostess, a heavy woman in an ill-fitting red cheongsam. She ran after him, shouting in Chinese. Joker turned and caught her by the throat. “Leave. Now,” he told her, throwing her to the ground. She did, stumbling out the door as fast as her thick legs could take her. She was shouting something in garbled English as she ran, something that sounded like “Demon”. Joker had to smile at that.

He walked towards the kitchen, his men following behind with the girl. Joker heard voices coming from the next room. A man with a Chinese accent was saying, “I assure you, gentlemen, your money is perfectly safe.”

Joker began laughing. He threw open the swinging door and sauntered into the kitchen, laughing hysterically. He stopped in front of horseshoe-shaped table, laughing till tears came to his eyes. Then, he straightened, the laughter cut short, and he said, “I thought my jokes are bad.” There was an immediate uproar, but Joker raised his hands. “I’m here to offer my services,” he said over the din. The men quieted. “But first - a magic trick.” Joker pulled a freshly sharpened pencil out of the inside pocket of his coat. He knew he would have to make an instant impression, and the best way he could figure was to demonstrate his unique ability to kill, and kill with style. He placed the pencil on the table, standing it straight up by its eraser. “I’m going to make this pencil disappear.” He waved a hand over it in a dramatic fashion

As he expected, a henchman of Gamble, one of the mobsters present, moved to grab him. Quick as a serpent, Joker caught the back of the man’s head and slammed his face into the table - and subsequently, his eye onto the pencil. It went straight in, all the way to the eraser, killing the man instantly. The body slid to the floor, taking the pencil with it, and the Joker turned to the stunned room. “Magic,” he said. No one moved. Perfect. His audience was captivated. He began to pace the room, nervous energy flowing through him, as it always did after he killed. “Now, men, I have a question for you- how did the Batman manage to pussify all of you in one fell swoop? I’ve asked myself this many times, and I can only find one answer.” He stopped, placed his hands on the table, and leaned forward. “You see, boys, Batman is a freak.” He smiled, though he hated himself for his next words. “And so am I.” He began pacing again. “I can help you. All I need is your support - and your resources.”

“Why would we need a freak like you?” Gamble spat.

Joker shuddered slightly. He couldn’t help it. He always reacted badly when someone called him that. He hoped, however, that no one had noticed. “Because, you don’t understand the Batman like I do,” he replied. “Well, that - and her.” Joker extended a hand to Barbara Gordon. His crony thrust the girl at him and he caught her by the arm. Joker shoved her against the table. She doubled over as the edge hit her in the stomach. He came up behind her and placed a hand on her forehead, pulling her face up to the room. His other hand, the one holding his ever-present knife, he placed across her sternum, just above the neckline of her dove-grey cashmere sweater, the blade pointed towards her throat. Joker pulled her closer, trapping her between his body and the table. His lips on her ear, he whispered hoarsely, “Be good, doll, or I’ll ruin that pretty sweater of yours. Open your eyes.” She did, and he tilted her head roughly about the room. “See them all? Do you recognize them?” She nodded. “Could you remember them all, if you had to?” She nodded again, and Joker had to be impressed at her fortitude. Most women would have dissolved into pathetic puddles of tears and piss by now, but this Barbara Gordon was one tough little bitch. “Good.” He tossed her back to his men with only the slightest twinge of regret. He’d been having a little too much fun pinning her to that table, her warm, living body pressed against his. Business first, kid, he scolded himself. Pleasure later.

If at all, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered brokenly. He shook his head. Addressing the room, he said, “So boys, I hope that was… inspiring.” He got blank stares back, and marveled at these idiots’ ability to run a place like Gotham when they were so dense. He licked his lips, and pointed back at the girl. “That, dear friends, is Barbara Gordon, the Commissioner’s daughter.” A shudder of understanding went through the group. Joker smiled. “You see, if you don’t give me the resources I ask for, I will let her go. And she will go running to her daddy about all of you. Helped along, of course, by the files I have on you all. I may be a freak,” he growled, “but I’m not a fool.”

“You let her go, and she’ll rat on you, too,” Maroni said nervously.

“She can try,” Joker said, “but they haven’t got me yet, despite the anvil-sized clues I’ve been dropping.” He took another look around the room, and was pleased to see fear in the eyes of every single mobster there. “Pleasure doing business with you, boys.” With that, he swept out of the room, his men scurrying after.

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

Barbara sat in the back of the black car, arms and legs crossed, foot jiggling like it always did when she was pissed. That Joker asshole had snatched her from a police precinct, of all places, and they were now driving to some undisclosed location. It was so dark outside she couldn’t see where they were, no matter how hard she tried. She was sitting as close to the door as possible, because the Joker was in the seat next to her, and he seemed to be have a good time tossing her around like a rag doll. It was strange, though. Her father’s men were looking for a man in his late thirties, early forties, but after hearing the Joker’s voice, Barbara realized he was in his mid-to-late-twenties, not much older than her. She hoped she could get away to tell her father his mistake. She felt eyes on her and turned. The Joker was lounging in the other seat, his elbow propped on the door’s armrest, his head in his hand. He was watching her intently, his face strangely neutral. It was insanely eerie, and after awhile, Barbara couldn’t stand it. “What the hell are you staring at?!?” she said.

Joker smiled, and Barbara realized something. The scars on his face… it was as if someone had taken a knife and ripped open the corners of his mouth halfway to his ears. The red paint on his lips followed those scars. It was horrible, and Barbara wondered who had done something like that to him. She shook her head, clearing morbid thoughts of mutilation from her mind. He hadn’t answered her. “Well?” she demanded.

Joker’s smile widened, making the scars more pronounced. “I’m staring at you,” he replied. His voice had a strange inflection to it, a nasally drawl that from anyone else would be annoying, but on him, it simply added to his creep-factor.

Barbara rolled her eyes and sighed. “I can see that, asshole, but why are you doing it?”

The Joker straightened a bit in his seat, and clasped his hands in his lap, a sardonic image of a proper gentleman. “You’re a beautiful woman, Barbara. I like looking at you. Aren’t you a fan of fine art? Don’t you have a print of Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose by John Singer Sergeant hanging in your apartment?” Barbara opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. “Obviously, you like beauty, as well,” he continued. “Why should you be surprised that someone might like to look at you?”

Barbara got over the shock of his knowing something that personal about her, and said, “I’m not some work of art to hang on the wall and admire.” It always bugged her when men acted as if a woman was nothing by a pretty toy.

Joker laughed. It was a cold sound, and Barbara shivered despite herself. He seemed to notice. He reached for her, suddenly. Barbara backed against the door, but there was really nowhere for her to go. His hand caught her arm in a vice-like grip. He wore black leather gloves, but she could nonetheless fell a searing heat radiating from his grasp. He pulled her, and though she fought, he effortlessly slid her across the seat towards him. She beat her fists against his chest, but he didn’t seem to feel it. He pulled her into his lap. She fought harder, worried about what he was thinking, but he caught both her wrists in one hand. She was trapped. He wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her close against him. “You know, doll,” he began, “I didn’t really do my homework before I snatched you. You are a lot tougher than I thought.” He raised his hand and tangled it in her hair, pulling her head down onto his shoulder. She struggled feebly, knowing he was stronger than her, but unwilling to simply give up. After a moment, though, the strain on her scalp was too much, and she rested her head on his shoulder, shuddering even as she did so. She told herself it was probably just the grease paint, but he smelled really good, like sugar cookies. It actually made her hungry, and her stomach growled painfully. She realized it had been about twelve hours since she’d last eaten.

She thought the Joker noticed, because he released her wrists and moved his hand to her stomach. Barbara took stock of her situation. She was sitting in the Joker’s lap, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tangled in her hair, his other hand resting on her abdomen. This was getting way too intimate for her tastes. She pulled away and was shocked to see that he let her go. She slid back to the other side of the seat, trying to get the feel of him out of her mind. He radiated heat even through his thick frock coat, and it had seeped through her clothes to her skin. That, combined with his oddly attractive scent, made for the strangest sensation of duality Barbara had ever experienced. Most of her was disgusted by him, this man who had brutally killed so many, including three cops and a Catholic priest. But a very small part of her kept thinking how interesting it might be to sit in his lap again, and breath in that scrumptious smell.

Barbara was horrified with herself. She was engaged to be married! How could she even consider that? She thought then of her father, and of her fiancé, Harvey Dent, Gotham’s D.A. She knew it would be days before they missed her. She and her father had never been emotionally close, they were more like distant friends than father and daughter. And Harvey had been so busy with the Joker and his mischief that he hadn’t spoken to her in a week. Barbara sighed and leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. She didn’t love Harvey. She knew it; Harvey knew it. For some reason, Barbara had never held out much hope for true love. Her PhD told her it was because her parents had lived in a loveless marriage for fifteen years before her mother had run off to Boca with some young stud and never looked back. But then, Barbara didn’t care to delve too deeply into her own psychological problems. She took psychology so she could delve into other people’s problems, so maybe her own wouldn’t seem so bad.

The car turned sharply, and Barbara straightened. The seemed to be going down a long driveway. Sure enough, several moments later, the car stopped. Joker leaned over her, his mouth by her ear, and said dryly, “We’re home, honey.”

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

Joker sat in his room, staring blankly around. He’d set up in a large, abandoned inn well outside of Gotham. The room was near the attic, big and elegant. Or had been, years before. Now, it was dilapidated and decadent, and absolutely perfect for him. Like her, Joker thought absently. He realized after a moment what had just gone through his head, and was horrified with himself. It had been 13 years since he’d last fallen for a girl, and that had ended so badly he couldn’t bring himself to think about it. And now, here he was, lusting after the Commissioner’s daughter, on the cusp of his ascension to power in the underworld. He thought he’d managed to build his self-control to the point where he would never care about the opposite sex again. But this girl, God, it took more restraint than he liked to admit not to creep down the hall to the room he’d put her in. Not to do anything, just to look at her, to watch her sleep, to wonder what it would be like to be in bed next to her, curled up together - Joker shook his head. These thoughts weren’t getting him anything but discomfort and anxiety, and it was no good torturing himself that way.

Nonetheless, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he satisfied his curiosity. Sighing, he stood and left the room, heading down to the end of the hall. Her room was the only other one on his floor, which was the seventh, so he felt safe knowing she couldn’t escape. So, instead of posting men at her door, he posted them at the entrances to the floor. He never liked having people around while he slept.

He came to her door, placed a hand on the knob, and paused. What if, as he stood there, staring at her, drinking in the sight of her, what if she woke up? She might think he… Joker laughed at himself. He was a murderer. It seemed so silly, but he hated the idea of Barbara thinking him some kind of peeping-tom freak, or worse, a rapist. He supposed the idea of a murderer being well and truly disgusted and enraged at the idea of rape seemed strange, but he had his reasons. Eventually, the need to see Barbara became too strong, and he opened the door.

Joker froze. She wasn’t asleep. She was standing in front of the window, her arms crossed, glaring out at the night. The light from the moon was playing across her skin, making it glow, and he thought he’d never seen anyone look more beautiful. Barbara turned, and Joker was surprised to see the glare on her face soften a bit when she spotted him. “What do you want?” she asked.

Joker thought quickly, licking his lips. It came to him in a flash, when they’d been in the car, and he’d heard her stomach growl. “Prisoners aren’t worth much dead,” he said in what he hoped was an arrogant tone. “So, I suppose I’ll have to feed you sometime.” He held out his hand and waited, pulse pounding in his throat.

She seemed to consider his offer. Then, after a moment, she said, “Yeah, sure,” and took his hand. God, it felt so good to touch her. He led her back down the hall to his room, where he had a platter of food set out. He hadn’t been hungry when one of his men had brought it to him. He sat her down in a chair at the small table, then pulled up a chair next to her and took a seat. “Help yourself,” he said. She looked at the food, a collection of fruit, bread, and cheese on an antique platter, then back at him.

“How do I know it’s not poisoned?” she asked.

Joker rolled his eyes. He’d never met such a cautious person before. He took a blackberry off the platter and ate it. It was really good, and he wondered for the first time where his men had gotten the food. Barbara looked back at the food. She seemed unconvinced. He sighed, and before he realized what he was doing, he picked up a blackberry and held it to her mouth. She looked him in the eyes, and slowly opened her mouth. He placed the berry on her tongue, his fingers brushing her lips. She closed her mouth and Joker stared at his hand, amazed at what it had just done all of it’s own accord. He looked back at her. She was staring at him, suspicion etched on her face. Then, the strangest thing happened. He had a sudden, powerful desire to kiss her; it so strong that he actually leaned forward slightly before catching himself.

And the worst part was the look in her eyes. She knew what he’d almost done. She knew, and she didn’t look happy about it. Joker stood and walked away from her, trying to lower his heart rate. “You should take that stuff with you back to your room,” he said, his back to her. He waited, and after several tense moments, he heard her get up and leave. Once the door was closed, he turned around. She’d left the food there.

Joker sat down on his bed, put his head in his hands, and for the first time in seventeen years, he cried.

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

Barbara lay awake the next morning in the musty bed, staring at the ceiling. She was trying very hard not to think of anything at all, but one image kept creeping into her head. The look on the Joker’s face, the night before, when it seemed like he was going to kiss her. It was a look of hunger, and passion, but underneath it, (and only someone with Barbara’s area of expertise would have seen) was a look of pain, deep pain. Barbara realized then that he wasn’t just some random madman, that something had happened to him to make him the way he was. She wondered what could have caused it; she thought it would probably have to do with the scars on his face. But, then, there was no use worrying about it. It wasn’t like he could get sentenced to Arkham. If he got caught, he got the electric chair.

For some reason, the idea of Joker being put to death horrified Barbara. It wasn’t the idea of death that upset her. Her father was a cop; he’d killed people on the job. No, it was the idea of the Joker dying that upset her, and she didn’t know why. It was starting to piss her off.

She looked around the room. She’d spent the greater part of the night trying to find a way to escape, but she was several floors up, and the staircases had guards on them. She was well and truly stuck, and despite her law-enforcement upbringing, could think of little alternatives. She decided to appeal to the Joker. Ask him to drive her into town, blindfolded so she could lead no one back, and let her go. She laughed grimly to herself. She knew it wouldn’t work, but she could think of nothing else.

Barbara was halfway to his room when she heard his voice. She stopped outside his door, leaned against the wall, and listened. “You see, Mr. Batman, I’m a man without a plan; a dog chasing cars. Introducing a little chaos where ever I can. I’m an agent of chaos. And you know the best thing about chaos, Mr. Batman? It’s fair.” Joker sounded as if he were on the phone. There was a pause, and he continued, “I’ve got this little girl here, Mr. Batman, and I’d hate to see her pretty face slashed to pieces on the morning news, all because you refuse to let one little corner of the city slide for the night. If all goes well, no one will be hurt; I just don’t want you looking over my shoulder.” There was another pause, then: “Trust me, Mr. Batman, I’ll know.” A third pause. “I’m not going to tell you that, it’s no fun if you know everything! Just stay away from 32nd and Ross tonight, or Barbara Gordon’s luscious blood is on your hands.” Barbara heard a phone slam, then silence for several moments. She was frozen with fear. Does she walk away, pretend she heard nothing? Or confront him?

She was still standing in the hall, trying to make up her mind, when she heard the Joker’s voice from the other side of the door, much louder than earlier, as if he was pressed against the door. “What frightens you more, doll? The idea that I might kill you - or the idea that the Batman’s arrogance might force me to?” He flung the door open, and grinned at Barbara, who gasped.

He had startled her, but Barbara was good at thinking on her feet, and managed to recover almost immediately. “You don’t scare me, Joker,” she said.

“Don’t I?” he said. Then, without warning, he lunged at her, drawing a switchblade. He caught her by the back of the head, and thrust the blade into her mouth, pushing against her cheek. He leaned his face into hers, so close they were almost touching. Heat radiated from him. Barbara didn’t move; she could feel the knife on her skin, so close to ripping her open. “Wanna know how I got these scars?” Joker asked. “My father was a drinker and a fiend. He’d beat mommy right in front of me. One night, he goes off crazier than usual, mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn’t like that. Not. One. Bit.” The Joker pressed the knife a bit harder, and Barbara whimpered. He smiled at that, then continued, “So, me watching, he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it. Turns to me, and says, ‘Why so serious?’. He comes at me with the knife - ‘Why so serious?’. He sticks the blade in my mouth, all sticky and warm with my mother’s blood. He says, ‘Let’s put a smile on that face’, then -” he ripped the knife from her mouth, leaving her shaken, but unharmed. Barbara dropped to her knees in shock.

The knife dropped to the ground in front of her, and she heard the Joker’s voice from above say, “You’re in over your head, Barbara. Yes, indeed, in over your head, and I’m not sure I’m in the mood to help you out.” And with that, he was gone.
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Ashes, Ashes