Levity

The story circulated in amongst lesser interests almost constantly. Edward Nigma was looking for a crew to carry off what supposedly would be the greatest heist the city had ever seen. I sincerely doubted that, and when Neck Tattoo brought back rumours, Jack's thoughts were clear on his face.

“What's he planning on stealing?” Wade had asked, mouth full of take out chinese food. Neck Tattoo had shrugged, that was apparently as much as he had heard. He went to keep speaking but the television was put on, volume low enough to mean everyone dropped silent quick, especially when it became obvious Jack was quite interested in what the over-painted news anchor had to say. It wasn't anything special, they were speculating. Some of them even seemed to be relaxing, after blowing several buses sky high (128 people dead, 9 still in critical condition) the city had gone quiet and the Joker hadn't been seen. Half the news stations seemed to see this as a victory, whilst the rest were waiting for whatever 'the maniac clown was planning'.

They could join the club.

I'd been in this shitty basement apartment for a week and nothing had happened. Jack's promise of using me as bait hadn't been met. In fact they seemed to have achieved very little. Jack was planning, but I could make less sense of his rambles than ever. He made me stay in his room, of course, but barely came near me. He was sleeping less than ever, eating worse than I was although he was shovelling food in his mouth now. Blackgate had made him skinny, scrawnier than I could remember him being beforehand. More than that, it made him look old. Not all of the time, and it was never like he took care of himself but premature lines had formed around his eyes and his forehead; they stuck no matter how his features were fixed.

I was worried about him, that was unacceptable.

But his lack of interest had given me time to think, plenty of time. The anxiety and dread had faded somewhat. And if Jack could plan, so could I. Whatever he was working on with Crane couldn't happen. Jack wanted chaos, to show people how messed up they were inside. Crane wanted control.

I tried to remind him of that the other evening when I was feeling a bit more sure of myself, I'd been sat on the bed, hair still wet and dripping tears down my back. He wasn't doing anything, sat on the chair in front of the desk tapping a pencil against his knee in an infuriating pattern. “You're going to break that soon.” I had started, hoping that was innocuous enough a statement.

He'd lifted a brow, sucked in one cheek and continued. “J..” The scars on the side closest to me twitched, “Jack.” He did grant me a look then, his face strained, bags under his eyes. Pity flooded my chest first. “You don't have to do whatever it is Crane wants too.” I didn't mean to phrase it how I had, and I knew how it sounded, like he was caught, scared of Jonathan. Maybe he was but he didn't react. “Let him do whatever it is, get himself caught again. Or...” I was stretching now, “We could leave. Properly, leave Gotham, find some of that stash of money you didn't burn and just go.”

I was surprised when he bit, “Go where?” I'd shrugged, shuffling when he stood from the chair, joints cracking and joined me on the bed. He kept a good metre or so away, legs hanging over the edge as his back met the thin sheet. It was too thin, it was cold down here. “I don't know.” I'd answered honestly when he'd repeated the question. He went quiet for so long I almost thought he was asleep, watching his face settle. He hadn't slept in close to two days, barely left the damn desk. This was progress. I cleared my throat, his eyes opened and closed again, but he was present. “How could...” My own mouth dries as he moistens his, “Why are you... after...”

I was flustered and even half asleep he could tell. He smirks, it twists his scars horribly. “Don't strain yourself.” It's a joke, that's what catches me off guard first, something like Wade would say. Jack makes a joke. I make some humoured noise and the smirk becomes a smile. It's gone quickly and I'm no closer to an answer.

Why would Jack work with the man who maimed him? Then again, why would he want me here? I'd been the catalyst. That sobers me. Does he feel like he has no other choice, that this is his only option? There wasn't the usual fervour in his actions. His heart wasn't in this. It was a play, he was making the right moves, saying the right lines.

Jack needed saving. I first thought that sitting beside him on that bed and it still echoed now, Wade now onto his third beer and the clash of the bottle opener hitting the table pulls me to the present. I jump which earns a chuckle from several of them.

Jack needs saving, he needs stopping. The two are the same.

I need to bring him down. Bring Crane down. I shook that off, Jack could hate me, would hate me. But he had to be stopped. For Gotham's sake, and, almost more importantly, his sake.

The headache I've had since my first realisation spikes and I can feel Louis looking at me, the scar curving around his neck a flushed red against his drunken skin. I have never liked the people Jack recruits, why would I? But Louis sets my stomach in a tangle, it feels like a natural reaction, a gut instinct. I know about him too, I know exactly what he had done to his girlfriend a decade or so ago. I'd met her a couple of times beforehand, she was a bigger state than I was. Louis never cringed away from mentioning her, or the state he had left her corpse in. I detested him, and I was on edge any time he was around. That certainly wasn't helping my headache and I wanted to be in bed, to try and hope broken sleep would fight it off. I wouldn't leave without permission, I knew that and Jack was sat beside me, but had purposefully ignored me for the whole time we'd been in the main room.

At least I was smarter than to argue now. I was also smart enough not to plan an escape. There had been an opportunity four days ago, it felt too easy though. Like Wade had set it up. I didn't know if that his way of apologising and giving me a chance or a test Jack had arranged. I showed no notice of the unlocked and unguarded door. Nothing had changed, not until those two nights ago when Jack had lain beside me. It was small things, but he'd actually slept, me in the same bed. He'd handed me food, spoken to me more, asked me to read over several dull housing documents he was for some reason studying. Jack was starting to trust me, there was no chance of it ever being like it used too, it shouldn't be. I'd torn myself away, shredded us. He was different, and although minimally, so was I.

But I still wanted to save him. How he had done when I was twelve. How I had tried after the attack.

Jack's leaning forward suddenly, and I drag my gaze from his knee. I'd been staring, caught in my head again. This time Wade shoots me a half amused look. I barely glance at him, dragging my feet back up under me. There's an emergency broadcast on the screen, someone turns the volume up.

Edward Nigma has successfully kidnapped the major. We watch in silence, the anchorwoman vanishes to a live feed outside the majors home, police everywhere. “I'll give it to him,” Wade speaks finally, “Not bad.”

Neck Tattoo looks pleased with himself.

Jack finally excuses himself about an hour or so later. Or rather, he stands, grabs a couple of handfuls of rubbish and chucks them in the garbage. There's a miniscule nod in my direction which grants my own freedom and I get up, brushing down my jeans and once again avoiding Wade's eyes. A couple of the others say goodnight, Louis is the most vocal and I sort of nod before heading straight into the master bedroom. Relief strikes, even if I'm only a few metres further from them. Jack mutters something more, and appears once I've quickly used the en-suite bathroom; cleaned my teeth, washed my face somewhat and brushed my hair. I wipe mascara away from under my eyes, not even sure why I bothered to put it on. I haven't been outside since I'd gotten here.

I look rough without it, that's why, and I'm trying to portray somewhat being together. I'm not sleeping well so I look tired, eyes dull. My hair needed a cut anyway, and my roots are far more obvious than I would have normally allowed the last couple of years. I fiddle with the matching toothbrushes, dragging my eyes down to them. That was one small benefit of Jack being in prison, it seems like they had forced him to brush his teeth. I almost laugh at my own inner dialogue but smother it. They were the only thing on him that looked better, a far better colour. That, and he was washing almost as much as a normal person. More than likely from boredom.

Jack's on the bed again when I come out, the bedroom door closed and bolted. I can hear the others in the lounge, the laughter swells and I make out a couple of comments that seem to involve me. I hover, Wade doesn't shut them down, which doesn't surprise me but in the most ridiculous way actually hurts a bit. I scold myself, moving away from the temptation and towards the lone chest of drawers. I'd placed all the clothes in here directly from my backpack, although I was running low now, having only packed enough to get out of the city. I'd have to ask one of the others to get some clothes soap from the store, this place had a washing machine but it was ancient so I'd be washing my stuff in the sink and waiting days for it to dry.

There's another sudden pain that flashes behind m eyes and I wince, changing into an over large shirt I was using for bed. I don't know whose it was, they seemed to have brought several packs of clothing from a superstore to keep them going.

I pick a few of Jack's bits off the ground, hanging them over the chair and frowning at the bed. He's lain across it, in such a way that I've got no chance of actually getting in and the goosebumps are already prominent on my exposed legs. I try and move around him, he keeps his eyes closed and although there's an amused smile ghosting he doesn't try and help.

I could smother him with a pillow.

The thought comes sudden and quick, blaring through my mind. It's so fierce that I can feel the tendons in my hands tighten and adrenaline flood my body. Not now, if I was to try it now he'd easily fight me off, and do the same to me. Probably not, he'd hurt me bad. Ruin any chance I had of saving him. That's even more ridiculous than planning his murder, saving him.

I could never do it anyway. I could want too, every minute of every day and it would never come to be. My head is pounding. “Jack, move.” I croak, my voice has barely been used the last few days. He does, without argument and half watches me hit my head on the pillow closest to the wall, tugging the stupid, useless sheet up to my neck. “Headache?” He sounds years younger when he asks and I grumble a response.

I don't let myself react when his hand lands on my upper arm and moves to my shoulder. “Did you not pack anything in your little 'running away kit'?” I shake my head slightly, the hand moves up so his knuckles are brushing against my cheekbone. “That's not like you.” He laughs a little to himself, “Normally drugged up.”

“No, I'm not.” I snap, finding myself feeling stupidly hurt for the second time in ten minutes. “I haven't touched anything in years. You know that.” He pauses, but then his fingers go back to massaging the back of my skull. “ Mmhm, good going Elle.”

I huff, tucking my legs up. He continues with his hand on my head for a few more minutes. It does seem to be helping but suddenly they lift and he vanishes for a while. I hear the click of the switch which leaves the room weakly illuminated by the streaks of light from the street lamp outside. Jack is perfectly still, the mattress dips slightly and then that's it. At least he is trying to sleep, which is a positive, if he keeps going he'll literally collapse. The others are still awake, voices muffled by the door. After a while they too quieten, no doubt falling asleep where they sit. It's the middle of the night. Several years ago that was our prime time.

I catch myself in my worries as sleep continues to escape me. There has been nothing from Bruce either, the news keeps catching on that. No sign of the Joker or the Scarecrow, but also no sign of the Batman. I don't know how long Jack will believe my lies if Bruce keeps hiding. Surely he'll help now, with the mayor in danger? I still doubt that, he wanted the police to handle this, he could sit back and watch them fuck it up as ever if it suited him. Liam drifts to mind, and that's a different sort of fear, he'd go in hard. He'd look for me, assume the worst and let his temper rule him. Imagining him coming across any of the men in the other room makes my insides clench.

Tears prickle, and I refuse to let them fall. There was no saving any of them. They would all lead themselves to their own destruction. Innocents would suffer and where would I be, once again on the sidelines, aware and of no help to anyone?

Jack's hand returns, I hadn't actually noticed his movement, too caught up again. He tests the waters, sees that I'm not going to shrug away and it drags down my side, over my hip and onto my thigh. His nails dig into the skin slightly. God, I want too. He hasn't said anything, I can only make out his breathing as a loud car goes past the building, horn shrieking.

I shouldn't, no way in hell should I. But I do, I want too and I do. Finally, when I've nearly worked myself up to actually taking matters into my own hands, he does. His fingers slide to more delicate skin instead and I open my legs slightly, shifting onto my back. He's still not sure, and it's so reminiscent of the first few times we had sex. Not the first, that was alcohol and caught up emotions. But he almost seems shy, and it has been so long. After the attack, the scars, it was rare. He hated me so much for what felt like so long. Any time we had sex it was just that, there was minimal build up and he'd never ever look me in the face. He'd have me up against wherever we were and not speak to me afterwards.

This is the opposite of what I should be doing. Some sane part of me prods deep in my brain. I ignore that, as I'm good at. His fingers finally slip in-between my legs and there's a slight hum when he finds just how willing I am. It's still gentle, irritatingly so and even when a breathy moan escapes me he doesn't increase his pace. I'm lost as to how long this farce continues for, my body aching for him to push his fingers deeper, for his thumb to press harder against me. I whine his name, a burn is building but it's too slow, not enough. The only reaction I get is his other hand holding down my hip when I try to buck them up to meet my goal. I swear at him and he chuckles, deep and breathy. He continues his torture until I finally feel the tightening in my whole body, I've lost all concept of time, and I'm a panting, sweaty mess when I feel the telltale signs. My fingers hurt from clutching the covers and my legs are trembling.

He pulls back his arm and shuffles before a major dip in the mattress as he manoeuvres himself over me. His scars are deep caverns in the odd lighting but for a change they add to his appearance, not mar it. I help him take my t-shirt off, and there's another stretch of time as his mouth explores my neck and chest. I'm such an over-sensitive mess I'm sure I'm close to crying when he finally murmurs my name against my sternum and pushes himself into me.

I lose myself almost instantly, and my moans are far less quiet. He doesn't seem to mind, fingers grasp at my waist, his other hand rests on my collar bone, enough pressure on my windpipe to make my breaths desperate. He doesn't last long either, and rests so his body is touching all of my front.

He kisses me, so gently, like everything else had been.

It's only once, then he heaves himself up and flops back down practically as far as he can get away on the bed.