Batman Begins/Dark Knight 1. Chapter 1

**Blackout**

The Sequel to Clockwork

_**Synopsis:**_ _The pieces of the puzzle all make funny shapes, but in the end they fit together. Every. Single. One._

_**Author's Notes: **__For those of you who have not read _Clockwork_, it is _not_ necessary for you to read that story in order to understand this one. I have tried my very best to design _Blackout _so that it will work as a standalone; reading _Clockwork _is only necessary if you wish to know what happened to the protagonist, Taylor, when she was a child._

_This story was originally going to be titled _Welcome to a World Without Rules_, but I thought the title was too long. Regardless, I hope _Blackout_ is a good substitution. As always, feedback is more than welcomed. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing it._

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Sticky hot air and bleeding red lights punctuated the night.

From above, the flickering neon sign flooded the dark alley. The red glow sliced through the thick steam and smoke that poured from the rafters of the building up ahead, enveloping the darkness. From further inside the city, the sound of cars gliding against the pavement filled the quiet of the Narrows, accompanied by the low, rhythmic beats of club music pulsing from The Underground.

The pavement, slick from an earlier rain, was black and spotted with puddles. Water gushed from overflowing gutters, trickling into the sewage drain beneath the road.

Tilting his chin upwards and placing one hand over his throat, the Joker nimbly adjusted his tie from side to side, loosening it a bit as he moved down the alleyway at a swift pace. His shoulders were drawn forward and hunched at a sharp, predatory angle, his tongue snaking out to wet his mangled red lips.

His purple jacket thumped against his chest and abdomen as he moved closer towards the direction of the building, his switchblades and other assorted necessities all tucked safely away in the recesses of his jacket.

Two of his assailants followed distantly behind him, fiddling with the AK-47 in their hands as they walked. One of the men, with the gun strap slung over his shoulder, kept moving the safety switch back and forth in a distracted manner. He was tall and gangly, and had numerous piercings along his eyebrow and upper lip. He only had one arm.

When the Joker reached the back entrance of the building, his assailants stopped several yards behind him, turning their backs to him and holding their guns close, watching to make sure that no one was following them.

He didn't bother glancing behind him as he climbed the three steps in one simple stride; his boys knew what they were supposed to do. Above him, the blood red sign cloaked his painted face in a harsh glow. He squinted his eyes in annoyance as he ducked out of the light and pushed open the metal door.

With deliberate slowness he entered the dark room. The cool relief of air conditioning and the smell of cigarette smoke accosted him upon entry. The Joker licked his lips and rolled his shoulders, briefly shutting his eyes. His clothes were damp from the summer heat and clung to his sweaty frame. He could feel sweat beading along his hairline, no doubt smudging his greasepaint, but he ignored it.

In the back of the room, a large desk was set up in the corner, with a heavy-set, balding man sitting comfortably behind it. A woman dressed in a glittery silver dress was draped provocatively over his lap. She let out a quiet moan and arched her back when the man blew a puff from his cigar into her face.

With lines etched deep into his forehead and skin sagging around the corners of his mouth, the man was nothing if not old and haggard—meaning the woman in his lap was definitely getting paid. She let out a breathy sigh as she nuzzled his neck, her smooth, black hair trailing down the curved contours of her back as she whispered into his ear. With a throaty laugh, he moved his hand lower and stroked her backside, as if she were a cat and he the master, rewarding her for good behavior.

In the dim lighting, the woman's gold, hooped earrings glimmered, sashaying from her ears as she giggled. She ducked her head to trace a wet pattern on the man's neck with the tip of her tongue.

The Joker watched without interest.

Then, without warning, he kicked the door closed behind him, making it shut with a sharp bang and alerting the couple behind the desk of his presence. Both heads shot up instantly, but after an initial moment of surprise, they both relaxed; or at least pretended to.

"Oh, you invited the _Joker_," the woman purred, her voice a distinctive mix of husky excitement and a thick, city drawl. Without another word, she crawled off Antonio's lap and sashayed to where the Joker stood by the door.

With hunched shoulders and hooded, predatory eyes, he watched her approach, unblinking.

She smiled when she stood in front of him, staring up into his dark eyes with not the slightest hint of fear. "Come to play, have you?" she whispered to him. Without looking away, she placed her hand between them and cupped him firmly between his legs, laughing huskily when he merely raised his brows. "You're so _big_," she purred.

"I am," he agreed, unsmiling. "And unfortunately for you, doll, _not_ interested." With a speed she hadn't been expecting, Jessica suddenly found herself on the floor with a blade wedged in between her ribs, stunned at what had just happened.

It took only a second for realization to kick in. The blood rushed from her face and she turned as pale as a sheet. With a gasp, she pulled the knife from her side and let it clatter to the ground, her lips trembling.

Antonio merely rolled his eyes from behind the safety of his desk. "Get out of here, Jessica," he said, exasperated and bored. "Show's over."

With wounded pride and ribs, she shakily got to her feet and winced at the pain that flared up her side. She glared at the Joker.

"You ass," she mumbled on her way out.

The Joker merely shrugged his shoulders as he watched her limp towards the door that led out into the club. Bright, flashing colors and pulsating music wafted through the room for just a moment before the door was closed once again.

"I apologize for her . . . impudence."

The Joker licked his lips. "Perhaps you should keep your pets on a _leash_."

Antonio took a drag from his cigar, studying the Joker's tall frame. "Sit down."

The Joker did not.

"Very well," he mumbled around the cigar in his mouth. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his protruding belly. "I have to admit, Joker, I didn't think you'd show." His voice, like chafed metal and gritty sandpaper, was rough and unpleasant to the ears.

"We-_ll_," the Joker drawled, stepping closer as his eyes moved around the room in one quick sweep, observing everything—especially the security camera in the corner, "I ah, didn't want to disappoin_t_ anyone now, did I?"

Antonio smirked. "In that case, maybe you'd like to do me a little favor."

The Joker laughed, though his eyes were dark. "Do I _reaaally_ look like the type of guy to do _favors_?" The word tasted like sour candy on his tongue, and he pulled an unpleasant face.

"No," Antonio said. He leaned back in his chair. "But I'm bettin' you're gonna wanna do this one."

The Joker smacked his lips and cocked his head to the side. "That depends on what kind of favor we're talking about, hm?" He raised his brows.

Sighing, Antonio opened his mouth to speak but then promptly closed it again, hesitating. It was obvious he was wrestling with what he wanted to say. If his client knew he was contacting the Joker for the job he had ordered, he would surely have Antonio's head. And Antonio quite liked his head where it was. Fact was, Antonio only wanted to get on the Joker's good side. He was a mob boss, yes, but he wasn't quite up there with the Falcone and the Maroni families. Not yet, anyway. Needless to say, he was desperate to make his mark in the Gotham underworld. He desired only fear and respect from his peers, something he knew he might be able to achieve with a little help from the Joker.

"Look," he began quickly, his weathered, gray eyes darting around the room as if to double check that no one was lurking in the shadows, "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret." He pulled his cigar out of his mouth long enough to twirl it between his thumb and forefinger. "Something big is about to go down in the city and I uh, being a nice guy and all, figured that _you'd _wanna be a part of it. So I says to myself, why hire a thug who'd mess up the job, when I could just hire that uh, that Joker man, who'd get it done right?"

The Joker raised his brows as if to issue the man along further. Could he just get to the _point_ already? He didn't have time to play twenty questions.

Noticing his expectant gaze, Antonio cleared his throat and locked eyes with the Joker. "There's uh, somebody that needs to be . . . _disposed_ of, if ya catch my drift." He winked exaggeratedly, as if he thought that was cute or something, but the Joker stared with a blank expression, working his mouth and tonguing at the inside of his scars. He couldn't believe he had come down here for _this._

"I don't . . ." his voice was nasal and high as he waved his hand, searching for the right word. When he spoke again, his voice had plummeted to a lower octave. "I don't _do_ that, if ya catch my drift." This time is was the Joker's turn to wink exaggeratedly, and the man paled at the action and scooted forward in his chair, sensing the Joker's irritation.

"Listen, listen," he urged, anxiously slicking back nonexistent hair, "I've already been offered a hefty sum for the job." He paused, waiting to see if the Joker was still interested. He looked bored, an expression that Antonio was half expecting, but he wasn't deterred. "I'll give you eighty percent, yeah? Boss just wants it done quickly and efficiently—hell, you can even dress it up a bit if you want. Make it all theatrical and whatnot. You like that kind of thing, don't ya?"

A deep frown pulled at the corners of the Joker's lacerated mouth. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Tell me something. This 'boss' of yours . . . he thinks I can be bought with _money_?" the Joker asked with exaggerated incredulity. "Does he think I'm some kind of whore who'll do whatever he wants just for a couple green slips of _paper_? Is that what you think I am? Do you think I'm a _whore_, Antonio?"

Antonio scratched the underside of his jaw, clearly uncomfortable with the question as he mumbled around the cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth. "Look," he said gruffly, putting up his hands as if to defend himself, "I wasn't even supposed to mention it, alright? I just want the job done right." The Joker seemed unconvinced, so Antonio hurriedly continued on. "All I know is he's up to something and it's _big_." He swallowed, leaning in closer over his desk to whisper in a conspiratorial tone. "He's gonna bring this city to its knees, Joker." He paused, letting that sink in as he eyed the Joker up and down. "You want in or not?"

The clown slowly sauntered forward to place his palms on the edge of the desk, gripping the metal as he leaned forward, growling. "I _am_ the city."

Leaning back in his chair, Antonio smiled, pleased. "You'll take care of the job, then?" The Joker chuckled. It was a low, throaty sound that made Antonio's skin crawl. It was all the answer he needed. "I'll get you the address," he said, a hesitant smile flickering across his weathered face.

The Joker grinned. "_Now_ we're talkin'."

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><p>Taylor was having nightmares again.<p>

Austin had been in the shower when he heard her crying, and without a second thought he turned off the faucet and wrapped a towel around his waist. Steam poured from the bathroom as he opened the door and hurried to the bed where Taylor lay tossing and turning.

"Hey, it's alright. I'm right here." He knelt down next to the bed where his wife's face was pressed against the pillow, her cheeks wet from tears. She sobbed when she opened her eyes, seeing her husband with soap suds still in his hair and his face twisted into a worried frown.

"Austin, I'm sorry I—"

"Sh, sh. You don't have to be sorry. It's not your fault." He touched her hair and smoothed it with his hand against the pillow, staring into her eyes as he whispered to her. "I'm right here," he said again, more softly this time. Taylor sniffled and pulled her hand out from beneath the covers, reaching for his. She clutched it tightly and he let her, still running his other hand through her hair in a smoothing gesture.

In the early hours of the morning, the sky was a pallid shade of slate gray, half hidden behind billowy white curtains that hung from the window. Outside, the neighborhood lay silent and still, the sun having yet to crest the horizon. Already it was humid and sticky out, and the grass and trees were damp from the summer heat.

As dark rain clouds loomed in the distant sky, a static electricity also seemed to hang in the air, a small warning of the impending thunderstorm that was scheduled to arrive sometime later that afternoon.

Austin noticed this after Taylor had fallen back asleep and he stood in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee, staring out the window and contemplating his day. He wished more than anything he could stay home with Taylor and just hold her in his arms, promise her that everything would be alright and that he'd always be there to protect her no matter what. He set his cup on the counter and gripped the edges of the sink, bowing his head with a quiet sigh as he closed his eyes.

He was startled when warm hands slipped around his waist and Taylor hugged him from behind. He relaxed at the feel of her presence behind him. "I'm sorry I woke you," she said quietly.

Austin turned to face her, his heart practically swelling in his chest at the sight of her. Those big, green eyes would be the death of him. God, he was so in love with her. "You didn't wake me, baby," he assured her kindly. "Are you alright?"

Taylor sighed as she put her hands on his chest and leaned into him. In turn he hugged her waist and held her close. "They're getting worse," she confessed in a whisper, as if she were ashamed to admit it.

Her nightmares. She had them almost every night, without fail.

Austin felt his heart crack in two, and he held her tighter. "I'm so sorry." He ran his hand along her back but didn't know what else to say. It made him feel like a fool. He wanted to fight her demons, but he always felt so ill-equipped at doing so. More than anything, he wanted to be her knight in shining armor and fend off the monsters that breathed in her ear and haunted the dark cellars of her mind. He wanted to rescue her from all of her fears and be the hero and savior she so desperately needed.

But he couldn't, not when the monsters plagued her every thought and he couldn't be with her all the time to protect her.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she pulled away, sniffling. "I'm sorry," she said again, smiling halfheartedly in an attempt to erase the images from her nightmare. "Can I make you breakfast?" she offered.

Austin smiled sadly at her, watching as she went about the kitchen. "I think you should see a psychiatrist again," he said quietly. He watched her reaction carefully, noting the way she slowed as she placed a pan upon the stove.

"I know," was all she said, and Austin knew better than to push the matter further. Her psychiatric sessions were completely private—he knew nothing about them or what went on—and while they had seemed to do some good at first, something had gone wrong during the third month—terribly wrong. She hadn't gone back since then, and Austin had only asked about the incident once, never to receive a response. He thought that maybe if she could just push past that barrier that haunted her that maybe—_maybe_—things could slowly begin to get better and her wounds would begin to heal.

Deep down though, in the recesses of his mind, he knew that there were some wounds that had cut too deep, wounds that would probably never heal. Taylor had been scarred in more ways than Austin could comprehend, and he knew it. He didn't pretend to understand what she was going through—how could he? He knew some of her traumatic past—but there were some things that she was unwilling to share, even with him. He had his suspicions, had wondered on more than one occasion if she had been sexually abused as a child. But he didn't ask. A part of him didn't want to know. He couldn't bear the thought of her being so humiliated and ruined at such a young age. But he did his best to offer himself as her constant shield of support and encouragement. He promised himself he'd be everything she needed him to be.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and decided to change the subject, attempting to take her mind off her troubles by telling her a funny story about an incident that had happened at work. They laughed like little kids as they sat at the counter and ate breakfast together. Taylor giggled and her eyes lit up as he told his story, and for a moment everything felt good like it was supposed to, and it was one of those rare moments that Austin wished would never end.

He cursed when he glanced at the clock.

"You have to leave already?" The disappointment in Taylor's voice was enough to make him want to call-in sick to work, but he'd done that enough times and knew he couldn't risk another. He had an important article to revise for tomorrow's paper anyway.

"I'll be home early tonight," he promised.

Taylor sighed, pulling her bathrobe tighter around her as she slid from the barstool and gathered their plates. "I'm working double shifts at the hospital. I won't be back until midnight."

"Oh."

"Can you stop by for lunch?" she asked, hopefully.

Austin smiled. "Of course I will." He sighed then and pulled her close, hugging her to his chest. "I love you so much," he whispered.

"I love you more."

Austin always laughed when she said that. "I doubt that, baby," he teased. He grinned and blew a raspberry into her neck as Taylor giggled and playfully swatted his arm. They hugged once more by the front door, and after she had closed it behind she watched from the window as he backed out the driveway and disappeared from sight.

The house was eerily silent then, and Taylor tried to ignore the way the hairs on her arms stood on end as she shed her clothes in the bathroom and turned on the shower. As she waited for it to warm, she stared at her body in the mirror, scrutinizing herself and wondering what Austin saw in her. She was bruised and scarred and too thin and scared of the dark . . . she sometimes wondered why Austin put up with her.

She thought back to the day when the two of them had first met, back in that grocery store parking lot so many years ago. She had been nineteen and still in college, and Austin only three years her senior. It had been raining all afternoon, and she'd been carrying her groceries out to her car. The pavement was slick and the plastic bags filled with food that weighed down her arms were heavy. When she slipped and fell flat on her back onto the cold, wet pavement, Austin had immediately rushed to her aide, kneeling by her side in the pouring rain and asking if she was okay. Things had progressed steadily from there.

Austin was studying journalism at a school in Delaware, later transferring to Gotham University late during his senior year of college. While the two of them were dating, Austin had been a complete gentleman, always polite and charming her with his laid-back, calm, and genuinely kind demeanor. In the six years that they'd known each other, Taylor could easily say that he was truly the most loving and caring man she'd ever met. He was the type of man who rarely lost his cool and almost never showed animosity towards anyone. He wasn't perfect by any means, and the two of them had their fights and disagreements with one another, yet he'd always be the first to apologize, even if it wasn't his fault.

Their relationship had been surprisingly easy from the start, even despite the fact that she had never dated anyone before him. Austin understood and sympathized with her turbulent background, Taylor having been in foster care for a significant portion of her life.

She had been only four years old when first put in the foster care system. It was at age ten when she was adopted into a kind and loving family whom she got along with well and eventually came to love dearly. Clara, her mother, worked at a small bakery in the city and always brought home cookies for her and her older, non-biological brother, Terrance, to snack on while the two of them did their homework in the kitchen.

Her father, William, was a short, happy man with an infectious smile and laugh. He was a counselor at the high school and was well-loved and respected by everyone who knew him.

Taylor and her older brother Terrence got along well, being only two years apart in age. He would always allow Taylor to hang out with him and his friends whenever they came over—although Taylor suspected it was mostly because their mother would always make him. Regardless, she enjoyed their time together. Even now, she could still remember sitting on the front porch steps of their townhouse and listening with interest while Terrance and his friends sat on the steps in front of her, playing with the wheels on their skateboards as they joked or talked about school.

Other times when they were alone, her and Terrence would sit on the floor in the in the living room while the afternoon sunlight poured in from the window and warmed their backs. She would watch him shoot Storm Troopers and save the galaxy on his PlayStation, cheering him on by offering him small smiles of encouragement whenever he looked over at her.

Very much like her husband, Taylor had been shy, growing up, and it was something she had never really grown out of. She sometimes wondered why she was the way she was—so demure, quiet, and introverted—but life before Clara, William, and Terrance had always been blurry for her, especially as she grew older and it became harder to remember things. The past was a muddled place, like an old swamp on the side of the road she only sometimes passed. She only seemed to remember small clips and phrases—most of which didn't seem to make any sense to her at all. She didn't remember her real mother or father, or if she ever had any brothers or sisters. She had asked Clara and William countless questions, even at one point having the audacity to scourge the attic for her adoption papers, hoping to dig up some information on her past life. In the end, she had discovered little other than what she already knew.

The very first family she had been adopted into she could hardly remember at all. She figured that she must have only been five, at the time. The only memories she could recollect from that time were those of pain and misery. She remembered tears, sobbing with anguish, and being locked in dark rooms. She had been a nervous wreck when that first family had adopted her into their home. Like a paper doll crumpled one too many times, her paper was starting to tear.

She had been so emotionally broken—always crying and screaming—that the family didn't know what to do with her. Nothing they could say or do would coax her out of her strange, skittish behavior. They tried to calm her, tried to console her cries of panic and frustration, but she would only scream the name of a man, (her biological father, maybe?) that she now didn't even remember. As a result of her behavior, she would find herself locked in the basement, her "parents" too frustrated with trying to figure out what was wrong with her and just giving up altogether. When the authorities finally found out six months later, she was placed back in foster care. Again.

Five years later at age ten, when Clara and William were in the process of adopting her, the adoption agency was required to explain some of her past life to them—her past life that she couldn't remember but was desperate to know.

Over the years, she had overheard snippets of conversations. The information she had garnered, however, made no sense to her at all. For the first four years she had spent in foster care—having spent six in total—she learned that during that time, she would scream the name of a man. She would scream for this man to save her, to come back and to take her home. She'd sob into her pillow every night, murmuring his name and whimpering pathetically, all the while clutching a silver necklace he had supposedly given her.

Even though she didn't remember this man, (was he her father, brother, uncle, or friend?) she still wore that necklace. She couldn't even remember a time when she had ever taken it off. The memories of that necklace—the memories that she couldn't even remember—still haunted her. She wanted to remember, was desperate to know of the past she had forgotten . . . but she couldn't. She couldn't remember, except for the small, frightening glimpses that often appeared in her dreams.

When she would ask, no one would tell her anything. Clara always said it was for the best that she didn't know what had happened to her as a child, and after a while, Taylor finally gave up. She was happy in her new home, anyway. Clara and William were kind to her, even despite the fact that she rarely spoke and kept to herself most of the time. It wasn't because she didn't want to be with them or because she was anti-social, but because she was scared. She was scared of something that she thought might happen, was scared of people, scared to show affection, scared to say what she was feeling, and scared to place any kind of trust in others for fear of getting herself hurt.

But, even despite those irrational fears, she silently basked in the love that her mother and father showered her with—even though for a while she was hesitant to receive it. For reasons she couldn't comprehend, she had convinced herself at an early age that she couldn't let herself get too emotionally attached to anyone. She didn't know why she had let herself think that, but it was a standard she had followed religiously. Past experiences that she couldn't even remember had taught her to not get too close to anyone, to not get too attached. She had convinced herself that everything good in her life would always, at one point or another, be taken away. And in a way, it had proven to be true. Whoever this "man" was that she used to cry over at night back when she was in foster care must have really meant something her. She often wondered what happened to him and why she was "taken" from him, as she'd often overheard people say. Had he died? Had he been sick and unable to care for her? Had he just not wanted her anymore? Taylor didn't know the answer to these questions, but she tried to convince herself early on that perhaps that was for the best.

After only two years of living with Clara, William, and Terrance, a strange but lovely sense of normalcy—something she had never experienced before—began to blossom within her. She was growing accustomed to the home life that her new mom and dad had so graciously welcomed her into. She loved her family, and even if she never spoke of or showed it, she knew deep down in her heart that they knew it, too.

Growing up in their brick townhouse that lay nestled right in the heart of the city had been a wonderful experience.

That was until her mother abruptly passed away of a stroke.

The death had been so unexpected, so random, that it eroded and tore at the foundation that had been holding her perfect little family together. Her father started drinking in heavy quantities, an action that shocked both her and Terrance.

He was never abusive whenever he was befallen in a drunken stupor, but instead became emotionally distraught. Taylor and Terrance would always find him sitting in the living room recliner, beer cans littering the floor at his feet while he quietly sobbed in anguish, the glow of the television illuminating the tears that streaked his cheeks.

He became distant after that, always pulling away when Taylor or Terrence would try to reach out to him, to comfort him or offer him hugs. Taylor didn't know what to think and inside she felt broken. Her father had always been such an affectionate and jovial man, and now he refused to even hug her. It was strange to see him so sad and broken, and she felt hurt and lonely. It was like another person entirely had invaded his body. When Clara was still alive, he had been a bit on the heavier side, with round cheeks and belly and shining blue eyes. After her death, he began to drop weight, and fast. He had stopped eating, his face had thinned as had his hair, and his eyes had turned gray, dull, and lifeless. This wasn't the father who had taught her how to fix the flat tires on her bike, nor the father who always said prayers with her before she went to sleep. This was a different man entirely. He was practically a stranger.

Taylor remembered one time, after a night of drinking when William was particularly distraught, he brought home a woman with him from work, a woman whom, as Terrance later told her, looked just like mom. Terrance had watched the two of them disappear into the bedroom, and, having been fourteen years old at the time, knew exactly what was going on between them. Taylor, however, was twelve and incredibly naïve for her age. She hadn't understood what was happening.

After that fateful night, Terrance had become rebellious, always causing fights at school and eventually getting caught up in the dangerous world of drugs. At home, Taylor had found him cutting his arms in the bathroom one afternoon after school, the dried blood on the sink later proving that what she had seen had not been imagined, as she would've liked to of made herself believe.

William was aloof to everything that was going on, or at least pretended to be. This left Taylor to try and convince Terrance that what he was doing was wrong and that he needed to stop his destructive behavior; but she never did tell him. She hated herself for it—hated that she was too scared and too afraid of how he might react—so she didn't say anything at all.

When she looked back on her life, and even as she was growing up, she hated how fragile and emotionally broken she was. She'd always hidden behind her self-made blanket of fear and denial, unable to deal with it all and shielding herself from the things she wished weren't happening. Past experiences that she couldn't even remember had made her unreasonably scared and wary of everyone and anyone she met. And as William progressed further into his state of aloof depression and Terrance descended further into his blind rage, Taylor found herself becoming increasingly afraid of the one person she had come to trust over the years, come to love. She felt ashamed of the fact that she had become terrified of her own _brother_. When she was fifteen and he seventeen, it had gotten to the point where she couldn't even look him in the eye anymore.

When she graduated high school and went off to college, everything changed. Terrance had long since disappeared. He finished high school, went to community college for two years—and then abruptly took off, her father and her didn't know where. No one did.

When she met Austin, her life began to take a needed turn for the better. They fell deeply in love with each other, and the connection they shared was one of mutual understanding. Austin, an only child, grew up in a wealthy family where his parents smothered him frivolously with their money and high expectations. They wanted him to become a lawyer, to marry a nice, wealthy girl and carry on the family legacy. Taylor, on the other hand, had spent most of her life in foster care and had grown up in a broken home, too scared and too frightened to stand up for herself and to confront her brother and father with her feelings. Growing up, their lives had been on completely different sides of the spectrum, and yet they were still able to form a connection with one another, a deep bond of trust that Taylor had so desperately craved during her childhood.

As the water from the showerhead rained over her skin, she let herself laugh. Her life sounded like something straight out of a bad soap opera, and she was well aware of it.

Now, at twenty-five years old, she still kept in touch with her father. He was still drinking, still sulking in his own misery and self-inflicted emotional pain, but Taylor still cared deeply for him. He'd shunned the outside world completely; only fifty-eight years old and already he'd quit his job and was living off the funds he had set aside for retirement. Taylor called him once a week to check up on him and stopped by every month to give the house a good cleaning and make him dinner. She knew that he appreciated that because it reminded him of her mother, made him realize that he wasn't alone in the world and that he still had family out there who cared about him.

As for Austin, he wasn't in contact with either of his parents anymore. When he had informed them of his plans to marry Taylor—a timid, shy girl who only wanted to be loved and cared for—they shunned him completely and cut off his funds for school, which in the end forced him to transfer to Gotham University, a cheaper school.

He had given up his whole life and broken all ties with his family to marry her. Taylor's heart swelled every time she thought about it. Sometimes she felt that she didn't deserve him, but she was thankful to have him all the same. They'd been married for four years now, and lived in a little suburban neighborhood just outside of the inner city of Gotham. Their house was small and surrounded by trees, a privacy they enjoyed, especially during the summer time, when the trees were so thick and full of green leaves that you could hardly see the house next door.

They had, early on in their marriage, lived in a swanky, upscale apartment deep in the inner city. It had glass elevators, revolving doors, polished marble floors—and that was just the lobby. It wasn't long before they began to realize in their first months of marital bliss, however, that they couldn't afford such costly living, especially with the salaries they were making. Austin refused to ask for money from his parents, whom they both knew had more than enough to share, but it was something that Taylor respected him for. She was proud of him for wanting to make it on his own, and she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

During the day and sometimes the night, depending on which shift Taylor worked, the two of them kept very busy. Austin was a journalist for _The Gotham Times_ and Taylor a nurse at the hospital, Gotham Medical.

Despite her often hectic schedule, Taylor loved her job. She didn't know when she had decided that she wanted to become a nurse, but she supposed it was because she had always felt a need to help others in a way that her words couldn't. She had spent the majority of her years hiding behind a veil of fear, afraid to speak up and say what was on her mind. But now, by being a nurse, she felt that she could say what she wanted by speaking through her actions, and it made her feel good, knowing that she was helping people in such a substantial way.

Taylor sighed as she turned off the shower and retrieved a towel from the bathroom closet. She wrapped it around herself and wandered into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed as she combed her fingers through her hair.

With a sigh, she glanced at the clock and realized that it was time to start another day.

Silently, she prayed she'd be able to make it through it without breaking down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Taylor was reluctant to pull herself from the bed and change into her scrub. The simple act of thinking about spending another day at the hospital had her mentally exhausted. Already she was running over the patients in her mind she wanted to see first, and all the tasks she knew that needed to be done. She didn't particularly enjoy working double shifts, but she needed the money, and staffing was low. Even despite the tumultuous economy, the need for workers in Gotham was incredibly high; nobody—_nobody—_wanted to work in this cesspool of a city. Taylor didn't blame them.

Being a nurse was a rewarding profession though, even if it left her drained most of the time. Helping others made her feel better; safe, even. In control. When she was in the hospital, she felt like no one could hurt her. It was a similar feeling to the one she felt when she was with Austin, and it was a feeling she craved.

Thirty minutes later she arrived at Gotham Medical. It was buzzing with activity despite it being only eight in the morning. Taylor made her way to the break room and placed her purse in her locker before clocking in. Her friend Elizabeth Conlaine, a neurosurgeon who'd been working at the hospital for over ten years now, greeted her as Taylor as she entered the break room to put her lunch in the fridge. They were the only two there.

"Morning," Elizabeth said from behind her, where she was filling up a plastic bottle at the water cooler.

Taylor turned just as she had closed the fridge. "Oh! I didn't see you there. Good morning." She looked at her friend. Her short, curly dark hair was pulled into a messy bun at the base of her neck today, and Taylor noticed she looked less put together than usual; the under eye circles were a dead giveaway. Taylor raised her brows in question. "You hanging in there?" she asked, not unkindly. "You look like you could use about five cups of coffee right now."

Elizabeth smirked, but it was halfhearted and didn't reach her eyes. "I'll be alright. How are you doing?"

Elizabeth was ten years older than Taylor, but Taylor considered her a close friend and mentor all the same. She'd been a neurosurgeon for over fifteen years now, having graduated with honors from high school at the age of sixteen. She'd attended both Harvard and Yale, transferring to the latter to finish her last three years of medical training. Taylor both admired and looked up to her friend almost more than anyone else in the hospital. She was one of the most intelligent people Taylor knew, but Elizabeth was never one to boast about her achievements. When they'd first met, Taylor practically had to pry the information out of her that she'd graduated at sixteen, because Elizabeth had been so reluctant to admit it.

She smiled at her friend as she reached for the elastic band on her wrist to pull her hair into a ponytail. "Exhausted," she said, honestly. "No different than the usual though."

"Don't I know it," Elizabeth nodded in understanding. "Was called in at three this morning for a five-hour surgery. I just finished up."

"Ouch." Taylor pulled a face. "Did everything go okay? Are you heading home now?"

"It went fine. They'll pull through. I'm sticking around though to assist with a few other planned surgeries." She scrubbed a hand over her jaw. "It's getting busy out there."

"I noticed that when I pulled up. There are a ton of cars in the parking garage," Taylor remarked. "Is something going on today?"

Elizabeth gave her a curious look. "Yeah. The press is here, you didn't notice all the cameras and photographers in the lobby?"

"No," Taylor frowned. "I came in through the back... what's going on?"

Elizabeth's look of curiosity grew even more. "Asher is stepping down from the board today."

Taylor's brows rose in obvious surprise. John Asher was the chief administrator of Gotham Medical, and had been a large contributing factor in donating a hefty sum of money into building a brand new wing for Gotham Medical. It had been built in record time in order to accommodate all the patients from Gotham General after the hospital had been demolished by the Joker; Asher had been hailed as a hero for donating so much to speed up the building process.

"I'm judging by your expression that you had no idea about this."

"I... no, no, I didn't," she faltered, searching for the right words. "Why?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "I don't know. What I do know is that they'll be gathering some of the staff into the foyer to say goodbye and take a few pictures. It was supposed to be low-key, but you know the press." She paused to take a sip of water. "I heard he's moving to Cuba."

"_What_?"

"Pretty bizarre, isn't it?"

Taylor frowned. "You can say that again." She paused. "You said he's 'stepping down'—so this isn't early retirement?"

Elizabeth shrugged again. "Could be, I'm sure he has the money for it. There's been some talk that he hasn't been getting along with the other members of the board though. Could be related to that."

"Oh." Taylor looked down at her hands, feeling torn over the news. She loved working for Asher, and hated to see him go. He had been so instrumental in starting her career. "That's such a shame."

Elizabeth shrugged again. "It happens," she said. As she screwed the cap back on her water bottle, she studied Taylor curiously when she didn't reply. "Hey, are you alright? I mean, are you really alright? You really do look exhausted."

"Oh... do I?" With an uneasy laugh, she began to make. "It's nothing. I've just been working a lot." She shrugged her shoulders and looked away. She knew Elizabeth was unconvinced—Taylor had always been bad at lying—but her friend did not question the matter further, for which Taylor was grateful.

"Just let me know if you need anything." Elizabeth gave her a reassuring smile as they stepped out of the break room.

Taylor appreciated Elizabeth's willingness to help. She was one of the few friends she really trusted. If she ever needed somebody to talk to, she knew that Elizabeth would always be there to offer sage advice or a comforting shoulder should she need it. They never saw each other much outside of work, but Taylor appreciated their friendship nevertheless.

For the rest of the morning and afternoon, the hospital was a flurry of bustling activity. Taylor attended to a few of her usual patients, and performed a few check-ups for some walk-ins when things slowed down. Austin stopped by around two to surprise her with lunch, and they ate in the bustling cafeteria, sitting at a table in the back as other nurses, visitors, and patients bustled in and out.

"... So they have me writing this article on the new housing developments in the Narrows and it's been really frustrating, you know? I thought by this time I'd be writing about current events or crime... I'd even take politics over construction, and you know I hate politics."

Taylor's fork sifted through her salad as she listened, frowning. "You're a good writer, Austin. Don't let them tell you any differently."

"I know I am. I mean, I've written some really great articles in the past... I just wish they'd see that and give me the opportunity to write an article that isn't going to appear next to the obituaries on the back page."

Taylor smiled softly and reached her hand across the table to cover his. "It'll get better. As long as you keep working hard and putting your best effort forward. They'll see that eventually, they have to."

Austin smiled too, his shoulders relaxing. He felt like Taylor always knew what to say, and even when she didn't, her silence and willingness to listen was just as comforting to him. He leaned over the table to kiss her, his lips brushing her jaw.

"Thank you. Sometimes I don't know what I'd do without—"

Before he could finish, a shadow fell across the table, blocking the streams of sunlight coming in from a nearby window. Someone cleared their throat.

Taylor looked up in surprise. "Oh... Jason. Everything alright?"

Jason smiled weakly. "Yeah, yeah. I just... I'm sorry to interrupt. I didn't realize you were with someone else. Caitlyn told me you were having lunch... "

"It's no problem," she assured him. "We were just finishing up. This is my husband, Austin."

Austin outstretched his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Jason nodded and smiled, though the latter was halfhearted as he shook Austin's hand. Taylor noticed that he appeared rather fidgety, which was unlike him.

"Taylor, can I speak to you for a second? It's about a patient."

"Yes, of course."

She turned towards Austin and lowered her voice. "I'm sorry, do you mind... ?"

"No, no," Austin insisted. "I have to get back to the office anyway." They both stood from the table as Jason stepped to the side, looking away while they said goodbye.

"I'll see you at home?" Taylor asked.

"You will. I love you." He kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her arm affectionately before turning to Jason. "Nice meeting you, Jason."

Jason nodded and watched him leave, unsmiling.

Taylor watched Austin leave as well until he had disappeared out of sight. She waved reassuringly at him when he looked over his shoulder at her before exiting through the doubled doors of the cafeteria. When he was gone, she folded her arms across her stomach and returned her gaze to Jason, feeling confused. She didn't really know him all that well, and they hadn't spoken much before. He had been one of the first to welcome her to the hospital though, however many years ago that had been, and she thought he seemed nice enough. They rarely crossed paths though, mostly because Jason worked on the upper floors and Taylor usually the lower. Whenever she saw him with other co-workers or patients he was always very easy-going and friendly, and had a stunning smile to boot, too. But the way he had just treated Austin seemed nothing if not absurd for him, considering his usual nature.

She was curious about what he wanted to talk to her about. He had never sought her out like this before.

"Can I help you with something?" she ventured. "Should we sit down?"

Jason nodded and put a hand on her arm to guide her to the table she had just been sitting at, urging her to sit down as he took a seat across from her. He was a mixture of both concern and determination as he folded his forearms across the table and leaned forward.

"I need you to do me a favor."

"Okay... what is it?"

"I was wondering if you'd take a patient for me."

"Okay?" Taylor's brows pulled together in confusion. "What's this about?"

"I have... I have a patient who appears to be suffering from severe neurological defects."

"Defects?" she repeated curiously. "From what?"

Jason leaned closer, and Taylor listened attentively as he spoke. "I've been doing some research," he began, "and I'm still undergoing some tests." He paused to look around, as if suspicious that someone might be listening even though the cafeteria was fairly crowded and everyone seemed to be going about their own business. He looked at her, opening his mouth to speak, but then closed it, rethinking what he was going to say.

"What is it?" Taylor pressed.

"I don't know the specifics," he said, perhaps a little too quickly. "It's just a theory right now. But I believe that the defects have to do with the fear toxin."

Taylor frowned. The fear toxin... she hadn't heard that mentioned in years. She had only been a baby during the outbreak, couldn't even remember it happening. When Jonathan Crane and a man by the name of Ras Al Ghul had unleashed the toxin into the Narrows, it had caused a heightened sense of fear and panic, but Batman had managed to thwart the criminals' plans before the toxin reached the Gotham mainland. From what Taylor knew of the criminal known as "the Scarecrow", he was locked up in Arkham Asylum. And as for Ras Al Ghul, he had been killed on that dreadful night. Nowadays, people didn't mention the fear toxin anymore, but in Gotham, you grew up hearing about it in whispers or quiet conversations.

For a moment, she didn't know what to say. "So... how is the fear toxin connected with the neurological defects? I don't understand."

"It's actually pretty obvious once you make the correlation," he explained, gesturing with his hands. "We both know what the fear toxic is made to do: instill panic and fear." He paused and Taylor nodded for him to continue. "Once the fear toxin enters your bloodstream, it messes up your central nervous system, and when that happens, all sorts of things can go wrong."

Taylor frowned, wishing he would just get to the main point and half wishing that he wouldn't. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that... I think my patient's defects are actually _side effects_."

_Side effects from the fear toxin?_ Taylor leaned back in her seat. That was bizarre, if she had ever heard such a thing.

"But... why would the side effects wait so long to manifest themselves in the bloodstream? Why are they showing up now, after all this time? It's been more than twenty years, Jason. How do you even know if he was previously exposed? It was over twenty years ago."

Jason shook his head. "That's the thing... I think whatever we're dealing with is far more... recent. And if you ask me—my patient wasn't shot at purely for sport. Someone was trying to kill him—or at least put him in the hospital—for a reason. His criminal record's a little dirty, too. No direct ties to the mob, but there's felony, assault, a dozen counts of possession of an illegal firearm, and a handful of other charges. Overheard some of the officers talking when they came in to question him after surgery."

Most of what he said went over Taylor's head. She found she could only focus on the fact that he was shot at.

"Drive-by," he replied when he could see the unspoken question in her eyes. "Someone nailed him in the chest on 52nd with a 9mm. You didn't hear about it?"

"I don't typically watch the news." Shootings were all too common in Gotham. There were more than she cared to count on a day-to-day basis, and watching the news only made her more aware of that. She looked down at her lap, suddenly uncomfortable. She made to grab her wallet before getting up from the table. "I think you need to talk to the police about this, I think—"

"Taylor, please," he stopped her with a hand on her forearm, pleading with his eyes. "It's just a theory. I'm just... telling you what I think."

"Why are you telling _me_ at all?"

Jason paused, staring into her eyes. "You're familiar with Doctor Bishop, right?"

Doctor Bishop. He was the doctor who took care of the majority of the patients on Jason's floor. She knew him well—as did everyone else in the hospital. He was notorious for treating everyone below him like incompetent idiots. She remembered her first encounter with him, back when she had first started working at the hospital. It was hard to forget his condescending glare, and the way he had made her blush like a fool in embarrassment when, in front of the whole staff, he'd dryly commented on the fact that she looked better suited for a job that was perhaps "a little less demanding". Which was his roundabout way of saying, "You're just a little girl. What can you possibly have to offer?" Bishop looked down on everyone, and was never satisfied that a job had been done right unless he had done it himself. After that incident and a couple of others after it, people gradually learned to avoid him.

"I know him," she replied at last. "What seems to be the problem?"

"He's... being very vague about the patient's plan of care. The patient is young, healthy, and the bullet didn't pierce any vital organs. By all regards, he should be recovering at a slow but steady rate... instead he's been deteriorating. And Bishop shuts me down every time I question him about it, says—he says some leftover shrapnel may have traveled to the brain, but he won't order any diagnostic testing to find out. And he insists on doing a lot of the care for the patient himself. I have this suspicion that Bishop's been administering some medications himself, medications he isn't documenting. When I checked the lab results yesterday, the white blood cell count was elevated, as if the patient is trying to fight off infection. Bilirubin levels are high too. And earlier, when I checked the patient's files to see if today's results were available, they weren't there. I thought maybe the lab hadn't sent them over yet, but when I made an inquiry, they said that Bishop had retrieved them himself—then they couldn't find a copy for me, which, maybe that's a weird coincidence, maybe not. I think... I have a gut feeling that he's hiding something." He paused again before continuing. "But I also may have... overstepped some bounds when I was questioning him about the patient's file." He met Taylor's eyes to gauge her reaction. "But now he's threatening to destroy my entire medical career, Taylor, and I—"

"What?" Taylor stopped him point blank. She looked at him with wide eyes. "Jason, that's blackmailing!" she whispered, stunned by what she was hearing. "You have a right to know what's going on with the patient, and if he's withholding information, you have to do someth—"

"_No_," he interrupted. "You don't understand. I can't." He sighed, leaning forward in his chair. Taylor searched his eyes as he spoke. "He's a respected doctor, Taylor. He's been here longer than the both of us combined. You think they'd believe me over him?" He paused, averting his gaze to where condensation was sliding down the side of Taylor's unfinished glass of water. "You'd get more headway with Bishop," he said at last, leaning back in his seat. "He loathes me. There's nothing more I can do."

"But... why me?" _Out of all the people in the hospital, why on earth would you ask me?_ she wanted to know. _As if I'd actually have the nerve to stand up to someone like Bishop._ Everyone knew how she was, knew that she was quiet and even at times a bit of a pushover, and it was beyond her as to why Jason would ask her such a big request.

He only sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just figured Bishop would be more lenient with giving you information because you're so... unassuming."

In retrospect, she figured that she should have been insulted. "Unassuming" was just a nice way of saying that she didn't put her nose where it didn't belong. But she knew Jason had a point. Bishop might trust her more if he knew she wouldn't try to get in his way or do anything to compromise his work. Jason searched her eyes while she thought over the prospect. Taylor bit her lip.

"Taylor, you're the only hope I have. Something's going on with that patient. The files... Bishop's hiding something, I just know it. I need you to find out what it is. I'll help you as much as I can, but Bishop suspects that I already know too much."

Taylor exhaled deeply, feeling overwhelmed. "Jason, this doesn't seem right. You need to go to the police. I know they can help. If we're dealing with the fear toxin the authorities need to be involved and—"

"What, and bring more attention to the case and make us look like _idiots_? No. Dr. Bishop knows how to cover his tracks too well. If he starts to suspect someone's on to him, he'll hide the evidence. But when there's nothing to suspect... "

"You mean when someone like me administers to the patient... "

Jason nodded, solemn.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, and Jason studied Taylor closely as he let her digest all of the information. He knew it was a lot to ask, and a huge risk, considering he didn't even know her very well. But he did know she was shy, and thus the perfect candidate for what he needed her to do. Bishop wouldn't suspect a thing. He'd think he had won, what with getting Jason to pass on his patient to someone else, someone who he thought would blindly follow orders without questioning or second-guessing them. Bishop might even get sloppy, and unintentionally provide Taylor with the evidence Jason needed to prove the doctor guilty.

"I... I don't know, Jason. It seems dangerous. I really, really think the police should be involved. This could be way over our heads."

"If I thought there was any other way, I wouldn't be here, asking this of you." Jason swallowed, and for the first time since he sat down, the tension in his body seemed to melt and his shoulders slumped. When he looked at her, his blue eyes were earnest. "I've been a nurse for almost twelve years, Taylor. This job is my life. Hell, I care about the patients who come in here every day almost more than I care about myself." Taylor felt her heart clench at that, and she bit her lip. "Bishop's got the money to put cops in his pocket. If we—_I_—accuse him of anything without proper evidence, my career is done for. I could end up in jail." He shook his head. "I don't know what he's capable of, the extent of his power, but if he's as bad as I think he is... God, Taylor, you have to help me. I care too much to let this patient's deteriorating health slide through my fingers."

_Taylor took a breath. Despite Jason's impassioned speech, her mind kept screaming__ don't_ as she bowed her head and let the air out through pursed lips, trying to fight off the impending headache. She put a hand to her temple and sighed.

"I can do it," she relented at last, her voice wavering despite herself. _No, no I can't. I can't do this._

Jason let out a sigh of relief and put a grateful hand on her shoulder. "Thank you." He looked straight into her eyes. "If we get to the bottom of this, we can save the patient's life, and possibly many more." She nodded after him a bit numbly as he stood from the table. "The patient's in 358," he said, handing her a Post-It note where the number had hastily been scribbled on it, along with what she assumed was his phone number.

"That's it?"

"That's my number there at the bottom. We'll do this together, okay? I'm not going to throw you to the sharks."

Taylor internally winced at the grisly visual, but found a modicum of comfort in its intended sentiment. She nodded. "Okay."

"If anything—anything at all—seems out of the ordinary, I want to know about it. We need hard-backed evidence. Lab results. List of medications. All the information that Bishop's barred me from. Think you can get all that?"

_No_. "Yes."

Jason smiled, grim. "Listen... this stays between us, alright? I don't want to get too many people involved when we don't know what we're dealing with yet. But I know I can trust you." He paused, seeming to wait for some sort of confirmation. She nodded. "Thank you again. I've got to go. We'll talk again soon."

And just like that, he was gone.

She watched him leave, trying to ignore the sudden hollowness that had formed in her stomach. Why did she feel like she had just agreed to do something terribly wrong? She knew Bishop was a jerk, but it didn't explain why he was withholding patient information from Jason. And what was all that about blackmailing him? Bishop threatened to have him fired—or worse. What if Taylor did something he disproved of and Bishop threatened to do the same to her? And was getting the police involved really such a bad idea? Gotham was littered with dirty cops—that was fact—but if Bishop was hiding something, would he really pay them off so he could keep his dirty hands under the table and out of sight?

She was already second guessing herself and she hadn't even seen the patient yet.

Her mind was racing as she gathered up her and Austin's leftovers from their meal, discarding it into the trash bin.

_What have I just gotten myself into?_

She took the stairs instead of the elevator, hoping that a slow walk up the steps would help calm her elevated pulse. _You're just overacting_, she thought. _You'll get to the bottom of this. Jason could be wrong about this whole thing._ Even so, her palms were sweating as she gripped the metal railing of the stairwell. She despised Bishop, she truly did. The last thing she wanted to do was confront him, and yet, here she was, about to willingly work under his supervision.

On the third floor, she went to the nurse's station to retrieve the files on the patient. The folder was thin, and she knew instantly that all of the patient's paperwork was not included in the folder as it should be. Still, she flipped through it as she walked towards the patient's room. _Floyd Lawton_was his name.

She took a deep breath outside his door before pushing it open.

She was startled to find that Bishop was there, standing in front of the counter on the other side of the room with his back turned towards her. Whatever he was doing at the counter was obstructed from her view.

"Dr. Bishop?" Her voice came out as a mere squeak, and she could already feel the heat rising to her cheeks as images from their first meeting flashed through her mind. She hated herself for feeling so embarrassed and willed it to go away as she stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her.

Lawton was sleeping in his cot in the middle of the room. He had a shock of black hair, thick, defined brows, and a thin mustache. He was strong and muscled but also pale, with bags under his eyes on account of the wear and tear his body had been through, and no doubt the surgery as well.

Bishop sighed from across the room. He put the papers down slowly and set them on the counter. When he craned his neck to address her, it was only halfway, as if she was not worthy of his full and undivided attention.

"Jason said he'd find another nurse to replace him. Said something about his current patient workload being 'too taxing'. Sounds unlike him, doesn't it?" His voice was cool and smooth, but also vitriolic at the same time, like it was meant to constantly mock anyone and everyone. Taylor hated it.

The doctor turned and removed his glasses, giving her a once over that made her want to recoil in aversion. Delicately he wiped his glasses on his crisp, white lab coat. His pale blond hair was gelled back, not a hair out of place, and his blue eyes were cold and calculating, very much unlike Austin's kind, azure gaze. Thin lines were etched into his pale forehead, and if it weren't for those and the creases around his eyes, he would have looked photo-shopped, inhuman, almost, like he was made of wax and not flesh and bones.

Taylor felt so small beneath his gaze, the way he was regarding her—as if she were a mindless insect—and for that she loathed him. Then again, everyone in the hospital did. Bishop was cold and sterile—so utterly unsympathetic and cold-blooded that nobody even bothered to speak to him unless absolutely necessary. But Bishop was a bit of a mystery, too. No one knew what sort of things he did in his free time, if he had a family, a wife, or where he lived. He was, by all means, an entity to be avoided. And that was the unspoken rule; you didn't bother Bishop, and Bishop didn't both you.

Truth was, people were intimidated by him. And despite his unpopular standing with most of the hospital staff, he was quite favored in the eyes of John Asher, and was therefore untouchable. Nobody dared speak a word against him. Bishop had the power to ruin your career, as Jason had said, and all he had to do was whisper a few unfavorable words into the ear of Asher and it would be done. Asher trusted him full-heartedly, and no one had the guts to tell Asher he had intensely misjudged the man.

What was there to say, anyway? _You should fire Doctor Bishop because he's mean._ That was just unprofessional and preschool, no matter how much Taylor wished someone would say it. It was what everything was thinking.

However, with Asher stepping down from the board, she suddenly wondered if Bishop had the same ties with the other board members. As unflavored as Bishop was, Taylor knew that _he _knew the right individuals to butter up, and they were usually the ones who held a higher position than him.

Taylor watched Bishop from the other side of the room as she felt her palms begin to sweat once again. She was already psyching herself out.

"I have to admit," he plowed on, "I didn't think he was actually being serious." His last word seemed to slither off his tongue in a cruel hiss, and Taylor was reminded of a venomous viper bearing its fangs.

She sighed somewhat breathily, already feeling flustered and unsure of herself. She hated herself for not knowing how to respond. Even more, she hated that she didn't know if she _could_respond even if she did have something to say. Why did she have to be so intimidated by everyone? Her eventual response of, "Well, he was," sounded weak even to her own ears. She barely managed to swallow the uncomfortable lump of self-doubt that had formed in her throat.

She felt awkward just standing by the door, and instead moved to stand by Lawton's bedside, watching him as he slept. He seemed so peaceful, it was hard to believe he was in pain and not recovering as he should be.

Taylor felt Bishop's eyes on her as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and put two fingers against Lawton's neck, feeling the pulse of his carotid artery. From behind her, he sighed in annoyance, draping his glasses over his breast pocket and moving to the other side of the room.

"Miss James, is it?" Taylor nodded. It was _Mrs_. James, actually, but she didn't bother to correct him. His question was meant to make her feel like a nobody, as if he couldn't be bothered to remember some lowly nurse's last name. "Miss James," he said again, more assuredly this time, "your assistance will be... appreciated," he said, clipped and to the point.

Taylor looked over the files in her hands, wondering just how much of the paperwork was missing. On the way to Lawton's room, she had read that, after the bullet had been removed from Lawton's chest, he had been steadily recovering from his surgery when suddenly he had voiced complaints of neurasthenia—a condition that was typically marked by fatigue, loss of energy, and feelings of inadequacy. Just earlier in the week, he'd had to be spoon-fed because he was too weak to lift his arms.

"It says here that Lawton suffered a TIA two days ago?" A transient ischemic attack was caused by a lack of blood to the brain. It was usually referred to as a "mini stroke".

Bishop nodded in a bored manner and Taylor thought she saw him roll his eyes. "Yes. It was a small TIA, hardly worth mentioning. We stabilized him quickly enough."

Her confidence was back, it seemed, for after what he said she couldn't help but gape at him. She found that her disbelief over his attitude was overriding her usual fear to speak her mind.

"Dr. Bishop, surely you know how extremely rare it is for a man of his age and health to suffer from a TIA?"

"I know the statistics, Miss James," he replied in a clipped voice. Everything he said was clipped. Biting. Words intended to lacerate skin and leave scars. He turned his back to her to busy himself at the counter.

"Do you have the recent lab results?" she asked instead.

She noticed Bishop pause. "They haven't come in yet," he said, and if Taylor didn't know any better, she would have sworn he had said it through gritted teeth.

Her heart leapt in her throat at his words though. Jason had just told her that the lab results had already come in—which meant that she had just caught Bishop in a red-handed lie. She lowered her head and wondered what she would say. She watched him gather up his papers and slip them in a manila folder. He tucked it safely under his arm.

Bishop spoke up before she could. "When he wakes up, he'll be due for dinner. We'll focus on protein-rich foods, so you can speak to the dietician about that if you need to." He looked poised to leave, hand on the doorknob. "Is there anything else?"

"I checked his meds. You only have him on morphine via the PCA. Does the pump need refilled?"

"No," Bishop replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. He realized this too and attempted to mask the mistake by replying much more slowly. "I just did. He has enough to last for another twelve hours. If the pain gets too much, I'll up the dose." The doctor glanced impatiently at his watch. "If you're done asking questions..." he strode briskly towards the door, didn't wait for a reply as he wrenched it open. "Miss James." He gave her a curt, mocking nod goodbye as he exited, the door slamming a bit too loudly behind him. Lawton didn't wake.

Taylor stared at the closed door and bit her lip, angry at herself, wishing there was something else she could have said, but also confused and more than a little concern. Jason may have been right about what he had said. But she was still lacking evidence, and that was exactly what she set out to get next.

She briefly glanced back towards Lawton's sleeping form. She didn't know why she suddenly felt so drawn to the case, why she was so willing to fight for this man's cause despite the fact that her job might be on the line. There was something nagging at her though, something that urged her to push forward, regardless of the consequences.

Jason was willing to fight tooth and nail for the patient's well being, and with a burst of determination, Taylor realized she was willing to do the same. Something was not right, and she wasn't sure what that something was, but she was desperate to find out.

For one of the very first times in her life, she came to the conclusion that she was not just going to sit on the sidelines and watch. She was going to get in the game. She was finally going to take a stand for what she thought was right.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Notes:**_ _Hello everyone! Thank you so much for all the reviews for the last chapter; I know some of you found chapter two to be rather unsatisfactory and a bit slow, but I thought it was necessary to include, since much of the information in that chapter is crucial to the plot. _

_For those of you out there who are still reading, thank you for sticking with me! It's been a blast talking with some of you and getting to share my excitement with you over this story. Also, has everyone seen The Dark Knight Rises yet? Let me know!_

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><p><strong>Chapter <strong>**Three**

Taylor spent the rest of the evening and early hours of the morning keeping busy at the hospital, trying to purge all thoughts of Doctor Bishop from her mind. When 2 AM finally rolled around, she was exhausted. Having been on her feet for the entire day, the only thing she wanted to do now was to sit down.

Austin was no doubt still awake, probably sitting at the kitchen table, writing, so she called him to let him know that she was on her way home. Almost immediately she heard him shuffling around, his chair scraping against the floor before he was telling her that he was already on his way.

"I'm sorry, I lost track of the time," he apologized. She smiled to herself and told him she'd be waiting. Austin knew she hated taking the cab, especially so late at night, and he wasn't thrilled with the idea either and almost always came to pick her up, regardless of what time of the morning it was when her shift ended.

She fell asleep easily during the car ride home, and didn't wake until Austin had put his arm under her knees and then another under her back, lifting her out of the seat and carrying her bridal style into the house.

"I can walk, you know," she mumbled into his neck. In the back of her sleep-deprived mind, she felt ridiculous for letting him carry her into the house, but she didn't have the strength or the energy to resist.

Austin only smiled. She felt light as a feather in his arms and knew that he didn't mind carrying her. "I know," was all he said, smiling to himself as he felt Taylor press a tender kiss to the side of his jaw.

Inside, the house was dark, and the light in the dining room was dimmed to its lowest setting. She made Austin put her down once they were inside, much to his protests when he insisted on carrying her upstairs. She unlaced her sneakers by the door as Austin stood by, watching with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked tired.

"Are you coming to bed?" she asked him, slipping off her shoes and putting them in the hall closet.

"I'll be up in a few. I just want to put away my papers in the dining room." He placed his hand on her lower back and then kissed her mouth, whispering goodnight.

In the bedroom, Taylor robotically shrugged out of her clothes, too tired even to shower or brush her teeth before slipping under the covers. She fell asleep instantly, grateful for the overwhelming tiredness. Normally when she'd work double shifts, her mind would be so wired that she couldn't get to sleep for hours, even if physically her body was exhausted. Tonight, thankfully, that was not the case.

Morning arrived too soon, and the alarm on Austin's phone beeped loudly in greeting. It took her a few moments before she was able to force herself to roll over and turn it off. He was already in the shower; she heard the water running through the closed bathroom door. She realized then, with a huge flood of relief, that it was Wednesday. She didn't have to work until much later that night. She rolled over onto her side and let her eyes flutter closed again. She felt guilty for sleeping while Austin was in the shower, preparing to leave for work. She thought maybe she should make him breakfast, or at least some coffee, but before she knew it she was drifting off to sleep again and Austin was kissing her cheek, whispering goodbye for the day.

She could hardly open her eyes to look at him. He smiled at her as he knelt by the side of the bed, pushing back the strands of hair from her forehead and kissing her there. "I'll call you at lunch," he promised. She nodded and then watched him leave as he closed the bedroom door softly behind him.

It was almost twelve thirty when she woke for a second time, and this time it wasn't to Austin's phone, but to the sunlight streaming in through the window. _Weird,_ she thought to herself, _I could have sworn I had closed those curtains . . ._ .

She yawned as she pushed the covers back from her legs and stood from the bed. In the kitchen, she put on a pot of coffee, knowing it would be done by the time she got out of the shower.

Fifteen minutes later she was dressed in her bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her wet hair. She padded into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of hot coffee and spread cream cheese over a bagel. She ate at the counter in silence and watched a few minutes of TV. Nothing good was on since it was the middle of the day, and, uninterested, she flipped through a few more channels before finally turning it off.

After she dressed, she washed some of the dishes that had been piling up in the sink over the past few days. There weren't many. She rested her back against the counter for a moment when she finished, drying her hands with a dishtowel while thinking about all the chores that needed to be done before work later that night. She knew she had to go grocery shopping since they were out of milk, and she also needed to get a pack of light bulbs since the one on the front porch had burnt out.

She didn't particularly feel like running errands so soon after waking up though, so she decided to call her father to see how he was doing. They talked for half an hour, and Taylor could hear the TV in the background the entire time, occasionally followed by the familiar clink of a beer can against his wristwatch or the coffee table.

Taylor felt herself smiling sadly into the phone. She could tell he had been crying again today.

"Daddy," she said softly, "do you want me to make you dinner on Friday night? Austin and I could come over and cook a nice meal for the three of us." As an afterthought, she added, "Or maybe we could go out somewhere." It would be good to get him out of the house, she thought. It was suffocating him. He was always cooped up inside all day, and she knew it couldn't be good for his health.

"Yeah," he agreed halfheartedly, and she wasn't sure if he was agreeing to the first option or the second. For the rest of the conversation, they talked mostly about the TV shows he'd recently watched, since that was all he ever did, and when he finally got around to asking Taylor about her day, she told him about things at the hospital and how Dr. Asher had resigned from the board (purposefully leaving out the part about Dr. Bishop, of course) and about how Austin was doing well at work. She added lastly that the vegetable garden they'd been nurturing in the backyard was really growing. She promised to bring him some cucumbers. He seemed to like that.

After agreeing to dinner on Saturday night, Taylor spent the rest of the morning reading, doing laundry, and otherwise trying to stay as un-busy as possible before work.

When five o'clock finally rolled around, Taylor made sure to have a small meal before packing up her gear and heading to the hospital. When she arrived, she noticed that there seemed to be some kind of commotion going on. People were chattering and a loud, aberrant buzz filled the hallway. She could feel the stares of everyone's eyes as she walked passed.

She pushed through the ruckus and made her way to room 468 to see one of her patients, Jean Fulton. Jean was an elderly woman in her late sixties who had recently undergone heart surgery. She was now in the recovery process, and was always the first patient Taylor checked on when she arrived at the hospital since Jean always seemed so delighted to see her. It made Taylor happy. Despite having only known each other for little under a week, Jean had taken an immediate liking to Taylor, and treated her as if she were her on daughter, always commenting on how beautiful her hair looked and how she should let it down more often. "And your smile, dear," she'd say in the sweetest voice, "you light up the whole room and you don't even realize."

Taylor, not used to such flattery, could only blush. She knew that Miss Fulton was a patient she wanted to keep in touch with after she was discharged from the hospital. She was like the grandmother that Taylor had never had.

The elevator ride to Miss Fulton's room was too short, for when she stepped out, she immediately wished that she hadn't. The hallway was unbearably crowded, and Dr. Asher, looking tired and haggard and not at all like himself, stood amidst the chaos of crowded bodies and . . . _police officers_?

"John," she called out, knowing that using his first name would be sure to get his attention. He turned towards the noise and Taylor pushed through the throng of people to meet him. "What's going on here?"

Asher's thin, weathered face looked even more shadowy up close, his eyes drooping and his thinning hair more frazzled than usual. "I'm glad you're here," he said, his voice solemn as he looked at her. "Miss Fulton is dead."

At first, the words don't register, and she can only gape at him in shock, a crease forming between her brows. She wanted to ask if he was joking, but Asher was not a man to joke, especially about something so grave.

_This is not happening,_ she thought. Just yesterday she had sat by Miss Fulton's bedside and held her hand while Jean told her about her adorable grandchildren and her crazy cats—Bob and Marley—whom she missed dearly. Taylor couldn't believe she was gone; _dead_. Physically, Miss Fulton had been very old, yes, but mentally she seemed so young. The urge to cry was suddenly overwhelming for Taylor, and her heart felt as if it had been put through a shredder.

"Dr. Asher," she began with a quivering voice, "I stood in this room only a few hours ago and spoke with her. She was absolutely fine." It was naïve, but Taylor felt that maybe if she said it, she could convince him of the truth of her words and perhaps it would somehow reverse things.

"I believe you," Asher sighed, moving to the side to let another doctor pass. "But the police need you to answer some questions since you were the last person to see her, according to the clipboard."

Taylor swallowed and nodded her head in understanding. She knew that was coming next; how could they not question the last person who'd seen her before her death?

"How did she . . . die?"

The word felt bitter and heavy on her tongue, like it didn't belong there. Most people would think that after working in a hospital for so long that she would have gotten used to the word, but Taylor found that death was something you could never just 'get used to'. You could pretend, you could fight off the accompanying emotions, but at the end of the day, that word would still lingered in your mind, picked at your thoughts and made your stomach churn.

A nurse brushed past her and bumped her arm in his haste. She felt strangely detached from the incident, like it had happened in a dream. Taylor hugged her sides and looked towards Miss Fulton's empty room. "Where is she now?"

"She's been taken to the autopsy room," Asher said.

Taylor forced her eyes away to look around at the bustling hallway. "I don't . . . I don't understand. Why are there so many people?"

"Taylor . . . she was screaming before she died. I was a floor below. I . . . I've never heard anything so . . . gut-wrenching."

The look on his face confirmed as much, and Taylor stared at him, taking in his words. _What had she been screaming about? What would have caused her so much pain? _she wondered.

It was a moment before she was able to speak again. "No one has any idea as to why?"

Asher sighed. "We're working on it now. When was the last time you administered to her?"

Taylor knew she hadn't done anything wrong, but her hands suddenly felt clammy and her stomach began twisting itself in tight, little knots.

What if they suspected her of _murder_?

She pushed the horrible thought aside as quickly as it had come. No . . . no. She would not even consider that, it was ridiculous. She chastised herself for being so paranoid. Everyone at the hospital knew she would never intentionally cause someone's death; or have any reason or motive for doing so in the first place, for that matter.

_I have nothing to worry about. Just answer all the questions honestly and you'll be fine_, she tried to assure herself.

She swallowed down her growing panic and thought back to yesterday. "It was right before I left last night. She appeared to be recovering well from her surgery and only had a few more days before she was going to be released."

"Taylor, you didn't happen to note any . . . abnormal or strange behavior on your last visit, did you?

Taylor frowned. "Should I have?"

A strange look seemed to pass over Asher's face, but in an instant he shook it away. "No," he said. Then, he offered a grimace and nodded towards the end of the hall. "Let's get this over with."

Twenty minutes later, Taylor was ushered into a doctor's office that she'd never been in before. She was questioned by the police and two other doctors—who were only there to take report of any possible suspicious activity—while Asher stood comfortingly at her side. The interviews were less painful than she imagined, but still very thorough.

At eight PM, when the whole ordeal ended at last and Taylor wasn't needed for any more questions, Asher sent her home to rest. "You need it," he said, laying a heavy but comforting hand on her shoulder. Taylor could only nod in agreement. She wanted to check on Floyd Lawton first, to see how he was progressing and perhaps introduce herself if he was awake, but she knew that now wasn't the best time, not with all that had transpired. She sat in the break room instead and stared at the wall as she waited for Austin to pick her up. She had never felt so drained.

In the car, she told him everything that had happened, how close she had gotten to Miss Fulton and how much her death _hurt_, and Austin was silent, listening it all. Before she had finished she had broken down in tears, and Austin grabbed her hand to hold in his lap and drove with the other.

At home, they both fell into bed together, equally exhausted, and drifted to sleep.

The rest of the week went by uneventfully. On Friday, Taylor eventually learned the cause of Miss Fulton's death—sort of. The autopsy team hadn't released much information on the subject, but she did manage to garner that there were strange chemicals found in Miss Fulton's body before her death. Taylor was intrigued by the news and wanted to press further to find out more. The case had been closed, however, because her death had been ruled as a fatal allergic reaction to the medication she had been giving while recovering from her heart surgery.

Now that she knew the cause of Miss Fulton's death, Taylor felt as if she could move on. It wouldn't be easy, but she knew Miss Fulton wouldn't have wanted her to dwell on it. At least now Jean could be together again with her husband.

When Saturday came, Taylor woke up to find Austin making pancakes in the kitchen. He stood with his back to her at the stove, pouring batter onto the waiting skillet. Feeling playful, Taylor snuck up behind him, wrapping her arms around him and making him jump slightly in surprise. "Good morning," she said quietly in his ear, planting a kiss on the back of his neck. She loosened her hold on him so he could turn her in his arms and wrap them around her waist.

"Good morning, beautiful," he smiled. "Did you sleep okay?"

Taylor nodded, and Austin smiled, pleased, as he kissed her forehead. "Good." He pinched her backside then, playfully, and Taylor couldn't help the flush that rose to her cheeks. Even after having been married all this time, he could still make her blush. He smiled innocently at her and scrunched his nose, making his glasses bunch up.

They stood beside each other as they made pancakes, Austin trying his best to distort the batter into different objects such as dinosaurs and cars and even a heart. Consequently, most of their pancakes turned out quite disfigured, much to Taylor's amusement. They sat at the high counter in the center of the kitchen, feet dangling from the barstools as they talked about their week and filled each other in on everything they'd missed. When they were finished and had loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, Austin went out to the garage to organize some of his car tools, since he'd been putting it off for months, and Taylor retreated to the backyard to pull fresh cucumbers and tomatoes. The squash hadn't grown much since she had last watered it, so she decided not to pick those.

When she came back inside, a brown paper bag was filled to the brim with fresh vegetables. She rinsed the dirt off them in the sink and placed them back in the bag. Austin was just finishing up in the shower, and Taylor took a quick one herself when he was done. The two of them made a quick run to the store to pick up a few things for dinner and then drove to Taylor's father's house.

He was still living in the same townhouse that Taylor grew up in, and memories flooded her mind as she climbed the concrete steps to the door, her hand gripping the black, wrought-iron railings in bittersweet remembrance. Terrance and she had spent many summer nights sitting on those porch steps, talking and watching the cars pass by.

In the kitchen, Taylor and Austin cooked a chicken pasta dinner for the three of them. Bill was in a cheerful mood that night, and at the table, it didn't escape Taylor's notice that her father drank water instead of his usual beer.

The three of them chatted pleasantly for a while, the table having longed been cleared of the dishes. When Taylor showed her father all the fresh vegetables from the garden she had brought him, he was delighted. She smiled to herself as she put them in the fridge, remarking at how even the smallest things could sometimes make someone's day. After a while they all moved into the TV room where Bill took his usual seat in his recliner and Austin and Taylor sat on the couch. Austin held her hand in his lap while they watched TV, and Bill never said, but Taylor knew he appreciated their presence, even though they were simply sitting there, not talking. Taylor thought that he just enjoyed the company, and, out of the corner of her eye, she occasionally caught him looking over at her in Austin and smiling a little. It made her infinitely happy.

A while later, Taylor didn't realize she had drifted off to sleep until she felt Austin gently patting her thigh to wake her. She had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder. She brushed her hair from her face and looked around the room, which had darkened save for the glow of the TV. Bill was fast asleep in his recliner, snoring softly, and Taylor walked over and gently roused him by putting a hand on his shoulder. He let out a breathy, somewhat startled sigh and looked up at her.

"We're heading out now, okay?" she said quietly.

"Oh."

Taylor smiled sadly at him, noticing for the first time in a while just how old he was beginning to look. Bags and dark circles laid beneath his once-bright blue eyes. His hair was thinning and so was his frame, and he looked more fragile than ever. When she leaned over to kiss him on the forehead, his eyes widened in slight surprise, but still he did not say anything. He didn't have to.

"Goodnight," she said, and Austin said the same and promised they'd stop by again soon.

Fifteen minutes later, Taylor was waiting in the car as Austin made a quick trip into the small convenience store outside of Essex Avenue. It was muggy outside, and Austin had taken the keys with him, leaving Taylor unable to turn on the car and relieve herself with the air conditioning. She sighed and rested her head against the window, staring blankly into the side-view mirror.

That was when she first saw it.

A black car was parked only two rows behind her, and in the flickering lamplights of the parking lot, she could just barely make out the two figures in the front seat. She couldn't see their faces, but something fear-inducing deep down inside her suddenly coiled and snapped, and she knew, _knew _that the two strangers were staring straight ahead, looking at her; _watching_ her.

She had seen the same black car parked outside of her father's house when she and Austin had first arrived earlier that night for dinner. It was too bizarre, the car showing up here at this convenience store—of all places—to be considered a coincidence.

It took only seconds for her hands to become clammy. She swallowed, falling back into her seat with her hands gripping the sides, paranoid that the strangers might somehow know that she had spotted them. She quickly averted her eyes from the mirror and looked around the parking lot; it was empty.

She wasn't being irrational. This wasn't some delusional brought on over time due to her traumatic past; something in her gut told her, something . . . she just _knew_. The only thing she wanted to know was _why_. _What have I done?_

Taylor was flooded with relief when she saw Austin exit the store, a gallon of milk in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. He opened the door and slid into the driver's seat without looking at her.

"I got you that soup you said you wanted to try. It was on sale so I figured I'd get two." He passed the items off to the back seat and then started the car, pausing to look at Taylor only when she hadn't replied. When he noticed how white her face was, he frowned and reached a hand out to her arm. "Baby, what's the matter?" he asked, his voice full of tender concern.

Taylor swallowed, barely able to form words. She looked away from the side mirror. "Wh—what? Nothing. I'm fine." When Austin's frown only deepened and he gave her a look to show how unconvinced he was, Taylor let out a breathy laugh. "I'm just very tired all the sudden," she explained, trying to laugh it off. "Let's go home."

"Okay." Austin withdrew his hand from her arm, his voice still unsure and filled with doubt as he pulled out of the parking lot, grabbing her hand to pull into his lap.

Taylor cast a furtive glance into the side-view mirror once more.

The black car was gone.

_Had I imagined it? _

A part of her wondered if she was going crazy, but if it _hadn't_ really been there, then why had her stomach lurched like that? Why had she gotten so nervous? She hadn't felt that sick since . . . .

She shook her head. She was not going to think back to her psychiatric sessions. She'd been working hard for months to erase them from her memory, and she was not about to undo her efforts.

She wanted to tell Austin, wanted to scream to him that she thought they were being followed . . . but what proof did she have? Why would somebody be following the two of them, some random married couple? And what would Austin think of such a bizarre statement? Would he think she had gone crazy, or was hallucinating?

That made her scared, then. She didn't want Austin to think she was crazy. Deep down, she knew he loved her too much to ever think such a thing, but the thought scared her. So she didn't say anything.

It was her biggest mistake.

* * *

><p>The next morning, she was up at six AM to prepare for work. Since it was Sunday, Austin didn't have to work, but he was up anyway, making Taylor coffee and reheating the leftover pancakes from yesterday morning.<p>

"I'm going to Arkham today," she told him as she sipped her coffee and leaned against the counter.

Austin was peering into the fridge, his dark hair still tousled from sleep and his glasses slightly askew when he turned to face her. He frowned. "What for?"

"The monthly check-up."

"Are you the only one from the hospital going?"

Taylor nodded. It hadn't bothered her before, the fact that she was going to be the only nurse going, but there was no use in being nervous about it. Arkham was a perfectly safe and well-respected facility. Sort of.

Austin scratched the back of his neck, obviously not thrilled with the idea. He closed the fridge and set the carton of orange juice he had retrieved onto the counter.

"You volunteered, didn't you?" he asked quietly.

Taylor looked away. "Money's tight, Austin." The bonus she'd be getting for going to Arkham would more than cover next month's mortgage. She knew she couldn't pass up the opportunity, no matter how much it made her stomach coil.

"Taylor . . ." he started, "I don't want you to do something that you're not comfortable with. I know the bills are tight, but we'll make it through. We always have."

"I'll be perfectly fine," she assured him, putting on her brave face, wanting to impress him even though she had no reason to.

Austin sighed. "I know." He moved close to hold her face in between his hands, kissing her. "I love you."

At seven AM, the sky was ablaze with a fiery orange glow as Taylor pulled up to the large, steel gates of Arkham Asylum. Golden strands of sunlight filtered through the steel bars and glittered off the barbed wire that lined the top of the gate, casting luminous shadows on her dashboard. She squinted her eyes and leaned forward in her seat to take in the massive building that loomed in the distance.

Rolling down her window, Taylor was met with a strong gust of wind, strands of her hair fluttering momentarily as she tried to tuck it behind her ears. _I'll throw it in a ponytail later_, she thought.

Faded gold, green, and cranberry red leaves were scattered in the breeze on the pavement beneath the car, the twittering and scratching noises of the leaves against the asphalt lingering in her ears. It may have been summer, but that didn't mean that everything was growing and in full bloom. The trees that surrounded Arkham were dying or already dead. Most of them were charred black from the massive fire that had broken out several years ago when one of the inmates had tried to escape. Taylor had been only eleven at the time. She could still remember the worry on her mother's face when she came to pick Taylor up early from school. It was easy to remember the chaos of the crowded streets as everyone tried to rush home from work, or pick their children up from daycare and hurry home to lock their doors.

Taylor's window was fully rolled down as she stretched her arm out to give the security guard her clearance pass. He was a large, bulky and unhappy looking man; a permanent scowl seemed to have been etched onto his scarred visage of his face. _The fire_, Taylor's mind filled in the blanks. _His face is disfigured by from the fire._ The realization made her sick.

With a small, uneasy smile, she thanked him and drove forward as two bulky, heavily equipped men opened the gates and she passed through them, a slight tremor of chills falling over her as she did so.

She had never been to Arkham before, but she found that it wasn't too difficult to navigate. After checking through several security clearances, she entered into the main building, the unexpectedly heavy door slamming shut behind her with a bang. She felt as if she had just stepped into her very own prison cell. She glanced around at the bland concrete walls, which were covered in steel, skinny pipes that ran both vertically and horizontally in as far as the eye could see.

With a determined exhale of breath, she straightened her posture, pushed her shoulders back, and briskly moved down the hall. She chose to ignore the thudding pulse of her heart.

After walking down a wide and lengthy corridor, the quiet hum of a computer and the steady ticking of a clock met her ears, and she felt thankful for the noise, finding the place to be almost _too _quiet. She had been expecting screams of horror or shouting or—or _something; _anything but this strange, aberrant silence.

Taylor made her way over to a clear window with the words, 'IDENTITY CARD TO BE WORN AT ALL TIMES' plastered above it. She peered inside the window, spotting a man seated at a large desk. He was staring fixatedly at the laptop in front of him, the bluish, green light emanating from the screen reflecting back onto his clean-shaven face. He looked young.

Behind him, gray file cabinets were lined against the wall, and piles of papers were neatly stacked on the desk beside him. A set of small computer monitors sat next to each other on the desk—probably security cameras—and a small T.V. was mounted in the corner of the room close to the ceiling. Taylor cleared her throat before tapping on the window to get his attention.

The man inside the room immediately looked up. "Can I help you . . . ma'm?" he asked, blinking his eyes several times and giving her the impression that he had been staring at his computer screen for a quite some time.

"Yes, my name is Taylor James, and I'm from Gotham Medical Center. I'm here to treat some of your . . . _residents_." She offered the man a small smile and hoped the term she had used wasn't too insensitive.

"You mean _psychos_?" he replied with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

"I . . . I wouldn't call them that." She shifted uncomfortably and the man simply raised his brows as if to show his deprecation on the matter. Beneath the window, a metal bin opened and Taylor took the security pass there, clipping it to her jacket. The man picked up a phone then, and, after mumbling something Taylor couldn't make out, looked up.

"Mr. Flynn will be here momentarily to escort you."

"Thank you."

She turned away and peered down the hallway towards the flight of stairs leading to the lower level; all she could see were more concrete walls littered with a complex maze of pipes.

"You must be Miss James," an elderly voice declared from behind her.

"Mrs. James," she corrected him, kindly, as she turned to shake his hand. "You're Mr. Flynn?"

"I am, and it's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. James." Mr. Flynn, a tall, older man, was dressed in a standard gray suit and had matching gray hair. The dark circles under his eyes suggested that he hadn't slept in days, but, even despite that, the smile he greeted her with was warm and friendly. He almost reminded Taylor of her own father. "We are glad you were able to come," he said. "Not many nurses are too fond of doing the yearly checkup here at Arkham . . . as you can most likely imagine."

Taylor shook her head. "It's not a problem," she retorted, feigning easiness, like she'd done this hundreds of times before.

Flynn nodded with a smile. "Good. Now, if you'll follow me . . . ." He motioned for her to follow him down the same stairs she had just been eyeing a moment ago. They walked down the halls in silence, and after a moment, Flynn cleared his throat, preparing to speak.

"I am required to warn you, if you haven't already been briefed of the precautions, that the inmates can sometimes be a little . . . intimidating, if not frightening when you first meet them. My best advice is to just hold eye contact. Show them that you're not afraid and that you genuinely care to help them—even if you don't." Taylor bit her lip and listened patiently as Flynn continued on. "Mostly though, just show them whose boss, and that you won't be pushed around."

She nodded accordingly as they stopped in front of a thick metal door. Flynn pulled out a key card from his pocket, slipped it through a scanner, and then typed in a series of numbers that Taylor was sure he had done millions of times before. Several beeps resounded and the door suddenly shifted a little, as if it were air locked, and the two of them were able to step into the narrow hallway.

It was almost exactly the same as the last, except that the lighting was harsher and brighter, and a series of doors lined each side of the hall; a small square pane of glass on each door served as a tiny window. "This is where we keep them," Flynn informed her, "on five different levels of the facility, actually; all ranked from the severity of an inmate's insanity or misbehavior. Five being the highest."

"What level are we on?" she asked.

"Right now? Only on level one . . . but we won't be going to level five."

Taylor let out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. _Thank God_, she thought to herself. She wondered what kind of criminals they kept down there, so tightly locked away from the rest of the inmates.

Flynn stopped in the middle of the hallway and she watched him pull out a ring of keys from his pocket. "Your first patient is in here."

Taylor spent the next three hours tending to the inmates at Arkham, the typical procedure being that of simple blood tests, temperature checks, and other standard medical checkups. She wasn't able to treat all the patients, due to security precautions and the like, but she had made surprisingly decent time, each patient taking no longer than five minutes, assuming that they didn't put up too much resistance. Flynn was with her for every step of the way, along with a few orderlies if they were needed. Taylor began to feel more at ease as the day wore on.

Eventually, she found herself following alongside Flynn towards the elevator for the fourth time that day.

"Thank you for accompanying me throughout this process," she said as they made their way down the hall, giving him an appreciative glance. "The bodyguards as well," she added, grateful of the fact that there were numerous security guards on each level of the facility to assist and stand guard at all times.

"Anything to make you feel more comfortable," Flynn replied kindly. "After what happened two months ago . . . well, let's just say I didn't want any repeats."

Taylor had no idea what had transpired two months ago, but she didn't want to know, and she daren't ask.

She followed behind him as he led the way down the hall, stopping at the very last door. He was just about to open it when static could be heard over a walkie-talkie. _"Sir, we have a situation on level five, and it could require medical assistance, over."_

Flynn sighed wearily as he unclipped his walkie-talkie from his belt and held it near his mouth. "I'm on my way," he replied with heavy reluctance.

"Would you mind?" He glanced at her and Taylor shook her head no, following him down the corridor. When they reached the end of the hallway, they stepped into the elevator and Flynn pushed the button for level 5. She was surprised, though, when the elevator began to descend downwards rather than upwards. She was about to question it, but Flynn spoke up before she could, as if reading her thoughts.

"Forty percent of Arkham's structure is built underground. We figure it's safer that way."

"Of course." The whole thing was beyond her, really, but she nodded for lack of anything better to say. She was in complete awe of the whole facility, how calm all the staff appeared to be and the mundane way in which they carried out their tasks.

And yet, Arkham held some of the world's most dangerous criminals, rapists, psychopaths, and mass murderers. It was daunting to even think about. But what was even more daunting to think about was the fact that ninety percent of the criminals incarcerated in Arkham should have been placed in a prison instead. Austin had told her once that most of the inmates in Arkham, weren't crazy, but instead were just criminals looking for a way out of a death sentence by feigning insanity; it was a sly way to cheat death, as it were.

The elevator chimed, alerting them of their destination as the doors slid open to reveal a much wider corridor, with steel doors on each side. There were no windows on these doors, Taylor noticed. Up ahead, a crowd of security guards and various other staff members of Arkham were flanking the end of the hall, all crowding around one of the opened steel doors.

Flynn and Taylor pushed their way through the small crowd to the front, where a man was huddled in the corner of his cell, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them as his body violently shook, his clothes soaked with sweat. The man's brows were tightly pressed together, and his eyes were squeezed shut as quiet, quivering sobs escape from his throat.

"Lawton?" Taylor breathed in astonishment. _What the hell is he doing here?_

"What did you say?" Flynn asked, turning to face her. She couldn't even look at him, her eyes fixated on the man huddled pathetically in the corner. He disappeared from her line of sight when two orderlies stepped in front of her.

"That man," she managed, her tongue like lead, "is . . . is that _Floyd Lawton_?"

Flynn shot her an odd look. "You know him?"

Taylor shook her head in disbelief. "How long has he been incarcerated here?" Her voice sounded frantic even to her own ears, but she couldn't concern herself enough to care. She had never been so confused.

"Actually," Flynn began, and when she glanced at him she could see the gears turning in his head. "It makes sense you should know him. He was admitted here only a week ago from Gotham Medical."

"By _who_?" she wanted to know. "Was it Bishop?"

Flynn hesitated, seeming uncomfortable. "That is information I'm afraid I cannot release."

Taylor shook her head, brushing it off. She'd find out later. Her brain was working so fast she didn't have time to dwell on the question further. "Can you at least tell me what he's doing here?"

Again, he nodded no. Lawton, writhing on the floor, let out a loud shout, throwing his head back as if in pain.

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Flynn inquired.

Taylor didn't have to look at him twice to know what was wrong. "He's floridly psychotic," she replied without thought. Flynn looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and she continued. "It means he's grossly disorganized, delusional, and can resort to violence if he feels necessary."

Flynn nodded his head in understanding as Lawton continued to shake violently. The security staff buzzed around them as Flynn and Taylor stood in watch. She felt like she should do something, but she was too stunned to move. Why had Lawton been brought here in the first place? _It doesn't make since,_ she thought. _He's not insane; he never has been._ Taylor immediately had the urge to confront Dr. Bishop back at Gotham Medical. She knew that he _must_ have something to do with it.

"How long has he been like this?" she questioned, loudly enough for others to hear, finally tearing her eyes away from Lawton's sobbing form.

"We noticed it fifteen minutes ago," one of the security guards answered.

Flynn scratched the back of his neck and shifted his eyes toward where Lawton lay on the floor. His countenance twisted in a sad grimace when he saw Lawton begin to viciously tear at his eyes, running his fingernails down his lids and drawing blood.

"No!" Taylor screamed without even thinking. "Somebody stop him!" She watched in horror as everyone stood around her, as if all waiting for him to kill himself. If somebody didn't stop him soon he was going to literally tear out his sockets. "Why isn't anybody doing anything?" she shouted above Lawton's cries of hysteria.

Flynn and few other orderlies and body guards looked at her as if she had grown a third eye.

"You don't know, do you?"

"Don't know what?"

At last, the security guards moved in when Lawton let out a piercing scream, blood oozing from the wounds he had inflicted upon himself. The guards pulled his arms behind him as the man thrashed about wildly. Then, Lawton's eyes suddenly snapped open, revealing bloodshot orbs. It was the first time Taylor had ever seen him awake.

"No, _no_!" he cried, his eyes squeezing shut once again as he let out a frantic, guttural groan. "Make them stop! Please, please," he shouted. "Someone make them stop!"

He cried out over and over again, mucus and frothy phlegm spewing from his mouth and running down his chin as he continued to thrash in the guards' arms. More of them flocked around him, trying to restrain him and hold him down. Amidst the blur of the crowd, anesthesia was finally injected into Lawton, and his chanting slowed until he was only sobbing quietly, his upper body giving way and becoming limp in the guards' arms.

A strange silence settled over the hall in the aftermath. Taylor touched her arms only to feel goose bumps.

"What don't I know?" she whispered.

Flynn turned to face her, studying her face with something akin to pity. "He killed a nurse late last night, Mrs. James. Surely someone told you?"

"I—I had no idea," she sputtered, breathless. She had yesterday off; she had been at her father's house, having dinner, and Lawton . . . Lawton had killed a nurse. It very well could have been her, had she been there, had she not had the day off. Why had no one called to tell her? Why had she not _known_? "Who—who was it?"

"That I don't know."

"Then what . . . what are you going to do with him?"

"Leave him," Flynn replied simply. "He's obviously suffered from a psychotic meltdown. Our only option is to leave him here, lest he becomes violent again."

"But Mr. Flynn," she interjected, "this man needs medical attention—immediately. You can't possibly intend to leave him here to rot in this cell."

"Mrs. James, will all due respect, I'm afraid I cannot do anything more for him. It's far too dangerous; he's a threat to society."

"But he's weak," Taylor protested. "He's dying. We have to treat him. Something's not right here, I just know—"

"Weak?" Flynn interrupted incredulously. "You were not there last night, Mrs. James. He killed a man with his bare hands in the most gruesome way imaginable. I've never in all my years seen anything like it."

"How is that possible?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out." Flynn made to turn away from her, but Taylor kept at his heels.

"But if he doesn't receive medical treatment he could die."

He spun back to face her. "And what sort of treatment do you suggest, Mrs. James?" Flynn, suddenly, wasn't very nice, and Taylor took a small step back, though her face revealed nothing of her discomfit. She heard the door to Lawton's cell closing behind her. "His symptoms and random spout of psychosis are beyond me. They're beyond anybody, at present. And I am sorry, but there's nothing we can do."

"Mr. Flynn, listen to me, please," she urged, unnoticing that the orderlies and guards had all turned to watch their debate. Taylor had no idea where her desperation was coming from, but she felt the need to stick up for Lawton, especially because no one else seemed to be doing so. She had promised herself that she would not sit on the sidelines anymore, and damn it, she would not. Lawton's case was important to her, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it. "Mr. Flynn," she started again, "something has happened to him. He's not a morally corrupt or bad person, I know this. He's just . . . he's sick, sir, and he needs hospital treatment—badly."

"I understand your concern," he said tersely, "but I cannot and _will not_ do anything. He is a risk to society, Mrs. James, as I've said, and he will stay here on these premises under our watchful protection until we figure out what seems to be plaguing him. Am I clear?"

She knew it was over then. Nothing she could say or do would convince Flynn to transport Lawton back to the hospital for medical treatment. She realized her time spent pleading with him had clearly been wasted, so she nodded her head in agreement.

"I understand," she lied, for the second time that day. She was getting awfully good at that. It was then that she noticed everyone around them had stopped to watch, and she felt her face growing hot at the realization.

Flynn looked equally uncomfortable, pressing his lips tight, and he motioned for a guard to usher Taylor towards the elevator. "I think your time here with us is done for today. Thank you for all of your assistance. You'll find a check paid in full at the front on your way out."

Taylor nodded, but said nothing more as she turned her back and walked away, shrugging off the hand of the security guard who tried to take hold of her arm. She had never felt so belittled and furious.

Outside the gates of Arkham, she paused, wondering whether she was going to turn right to go home, or left, towards the hospital.

She turned left.

At the hospital, she asked around if anyone had seen Bishop recently, and after receiving many, "Nope, haven't seen him", she was eventually told that he had taken the day off.

With this information, she retreated to an empty hallway to use the payphone located there. After inserting the loose change she had dug out of her pocket, she connected and asked the operator for Nathaniel Bishop.

The phone rang for several moments, and Taylor was prepared to speak when she heard his voice, only to realize it was his answering machine. _You have reached Dr. Bishop . . . _she listened to the automated voicemail drone for a moment, and when the phone beeped, she hesitated over what to say. _Too late to hang up now,_ she reasoned.

Her message was concise and to the point, and she had a feeling he'd like it better that way. Not that she cared about pleasing him, but she did want him to call back as soon as possible. The last thing she left him with was her cell phone number before she hung up.

She sighed and leaned back against the wall, staring down the empty hallway, deciding on what to do next.

Curiosity overwhelmed her, and Taylor had the sudden urge to see the room that Lawton had previously been occupying. She took the elevator to room 355 and flipped on the light, closing the door behind her to avoid any prying eyes.

The room was clean and empty, the bed rid of its sheets and mattress. The counters were also clean. The room, pale, dull, and vacated, appeared almost as if Lawton had never even been there.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, Taylor suddenly noticed something on the far counter. She stepped closer to find that it was a manila folder of papers—the same folder of papers, she realized, that Bishop refused to give her that contained all of Lawton's information.

_Bishop must have left them here by mistake._

She placed her palms on the counter and looked down at the folder with hesitant eyes. She knew what she wanted to do, but she also knew it wasn't right.

_You could get fired_.

But she was desperate to know what exactly it was that Bishop was hiding from her.

She realized then that she wanted to fight for Lawton; she wanted to keep her promise. She wanted to get him out of Arkham Asylum and she wanted to help cure him of whatever ailment he was suffering from.

_Something's not right. _

Determined and yet shaking like a leaf, she grabbed the folder and tucked it under her arm as she exited the hospital.

_I can't believe I'm doing this._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Taylor decided to open the folder later that night, that way she could return it in the morning. She couldn't risk waiting longer than that. She didn't know when he would return from wherever it was he had disappeared to, but she didn't want him noticing that his paperwork was gone when he did.

Bishop still hadn't gotten in touch with her over the message she'd left him, and whenever she asked about him at the hospital, everyone said he had taken the week off.

It was more than odd, she thought, for Bishop to disappear so abruptly after a nurse had been murdered by one of _his_ patients. Others might have assumed he had taken time off due to stress, but she knew better than that. Bishop was known for being a workaholic, and he rarely, if ever, took sick days, vacations, holidays, or any other type of time off.

_So why now, all the sudden?_ It wasn't like Bishop had a family, or kids—at least none that Taylor was aware of. Something was definitely going on that Bishop was trying to keep under wraps, and for Lawton's sake, for his very health and state of mind, she intended to get to the bottom of it. She had never wanted to help a patient so badly before.

Not that it was going to be an easy task. Taylor had been walking around the hospital all week, feeling like some sort of criminal. At every corner she turned she expected to find Bishop standing there, waiting for her. He'd fix her with a dirty glare and accuse her of stealing Lawton's files in front of the entire staff.

The nightmarish daydreams had made her a nervous wreck for the entire week, and it hadn't escaped her notice the way the other nurses were exchanging glances with one another; especially when she sat in the cafeteria, alone, with her head in her hands, her lunch tray untouched in front of her.

_When I get home_, she promised to herself, _I'll open the folder_.

Then she could end this paranoia and move on.

She had to do it soon, too, before Bishop returned from his "vacation" and realized the file was missing.

However, the very thought of what the file might contain made her stomach churn in nervous anticipation. Not only was she going against everything she believed in as a nurse—honesty, integrity, honor—but she was breaking the number one rule she had vowed never to break. She was going against the authority above her, something she'd learned never to do in medical school, no matter how strong her inclinations were on the subject.

This was a criminal offense; she had taken something that someone with higher authority had told her not to take. She tried convincing herself that she was just doing what was right, that she was just trying to help Lawton, but it did little good to soothe her nerves. After all, what if she was just blowing Bishop's behavior out of proportion?

_Unlikely._

After work, she made a trip to the grocery store and then to a few other stores to pick up some last-minute things for Austin. It proved a good distraction from her otherwise frantic thoughts.

Austin was going on camping trip with two of his close friends from Delaware. They'd be gone for the weekend, camping in the mountains in West Virginia, leaving Taylor with the house all to herself. She hated being home alone when Austin was away, but she certainly wasn't going to stop him from having a good time and enjoying himself with his friends. _He really needs to get away for a while_, she thought. He worked so hard, and she knew he was stressed.

It was almost seven PM by the time Taylor pulled into the driveway; Ryan's Jeep was already parked in front of the opened garage, and he was securing the canoe strapped on top of it.

"Hey, you!" he greeted warmly when she stepped out of the car. His large, boyish grin was just the same as she remembered it from college. "How've you been?"

"I've been great! Wow, it's really good to see you again." She hugged him and then stepped back to do a once over. He had hardly changed a bit. She'd known him almost for as long as she'd known Austin, back when he'd taken her to Delaware to meet his rich family. She hadn't seen Ryan since they'd graduated and he'd moved on to finish his degree elsewhere.

"It's good to see you too. God, it's been years." He stepped closer and then ducked his head to meet her eyes. His voice lowered then, but the playfulness in his eyes never left. "You look thin," he said, "he's been feeding you, right?"

Taylor jumped when Austin came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "You asshole," he said to Ryan. "Of course I have been," he grinned, planting a kiss on her neck. "She's my girl."

Ryan held up his hands in mock defense. "Hey, I'm just checking."

"Austin tells me you're expecting a little boy soon," Taylor smiled.

Ryan couldn't help but grin at the mention of his son, his eyes taking on a whole new excitement. "Very soon. I couldn't be happier."

"Well, we're just as happy for you," she assured, placing a hand on Austin's arm that was still wrapped protectively around her waist. "How does it feel to be an almost-father?"

"Okay, that's my cue to leave," Austin interrupted with a laugh, throwing up his hands.

Ryan scoffed at Austin's quickly retreating from. "What's the matter with him?"

Taylor laughed and rolled her eyes. "Kids make him uncomfortable. He just doesn't know what to do with them. You should've seen him at the hospital the other day when a little boy came up to tell him that he thought he looked like Clark Kent."

Ryan laughed. "Austin's always been that way. Guess that's what you get when you're an only child."

Taylor folded her arms and leaned against the side of the jeep. "So when's Angie due again?"

"Two months."

"Nervous?"

"Scared as shit," he laughed. "But excited." He ran a hand through his hair. "I've been reading how-to baby books like nobody's business." He feigned a look of sheepishness then and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Oh and ah, don't tell Austin this, but I think we're going to name the baby after him."

"No way!" Taylor beamed. "That's so sweet of you."

"Well, what can I say, the guy's my best friend. It was Angie's idea though." He paused, and then gestured to the canoe. "Well, I gotta get this thing all strapped down, otherwise the cars behind us might be in for an unpleasant surprise. But hey, it really is good to see you again, Taylor." Ryan smiled, shaking his head. "You're a lucky girl, you know. Austin talks about you all the time; he's still head over heels for you."

Taylor smiled, warmth washing over her in waves; she felt herself blush. "I know."

As Ryan went back to securing the canoe to the Jeep, Taylor brought in the groceries and deposited the bags on the counter just as Austin entered from the hallway. He had his duffel back in one hand and his baseball hat in his other.

"All packed?" Taylor asked.

"I had a little trouble, but I managed."

"Only because I set out your clothes for you the night before."

Austin smiled. "Yes, you did," he said, "and you know I'd be absolutely hopeless without you."

"Maybe a little," she teased.

"Only a _lot_." The duffel bag slipped from his grip with ease and Austin closed the fridge. He took the milk from Taylor's grasp and set it on the counter.

"Hey, I'm trying to put the groceries away," she pouted, only half attempting to push him away when he wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm going to miss you so much," he whispered into the crook of her neck, trying to drink in her perfume, the faint scent of vanilla shampoo in her hair, the softness of her skin. "We haven't been apart this long since the time you locked yourself in your dorm during finals. Remember?"

"Of course." Taylor smiled at the memory. She had been so stressed with finals to the point of nearly throwing up, so she'd locked herself in her room for two weeks to study—and to panic—and refused to speak to Austin no matter how many times he called or slipped letters and pressed flower petals beneath her door.

"Do you remember how you drove me crazy? I just wanted to see you. I was beside myself in anger that I couldn't even kiss you, couldn't hold your hand, couldn't hear your voice . . . ."

"I was so nervous!" she cried in indignation. She held him closer. "I thought I was going to fail everything."

Austin pressed his lips to her forehead. "But you didn't."

Taylor sighed, pressing her cheek against his chest and closing her eyes, enjoying the heady warmth of him. He rubbed circles into her back and for a while they stood there, embraced in each other's arms as they thought about how much they were going to miss one another. For Taylor, her heart was beating so fast it felt as if it might come bursting out of her chest at any moment; she was trying her best to fight off a mild panic attack. Suddenly she was thinking back to the strangers who had been watching her from their black car in the grocery store parking lot. _Had I really just imagined it?_

Ryan came in a few moments later, carting a giant blue cooler that he carried to the fridge. "Excuse me, coming through . . . ."

Taylor laughed as he awkwardly tried to squeeze by them, and Austin reluctantly let her go so his friend could get by. "You know you're a real dick sometimes, Ryan."

Ryan looked to Taylor and made a face. "Is he always so whiny?" he asked, earning a sharp jab in his side from Austin.

Taylor put the rest of the groceries away while Ryan and Austin loaded the cooler with ice. She made the two of them turkey sandwiches before they left, and then finished packing the rest of the cooler for them while they ate.

When they finished, she helped them load everything in the car, running through a mental checklist in her head of things they might have forgotten to pack. Once everything was loaded into the Jeep and they were ready to pull out of the driveway, Taylor stood by the passenger door as Austin leaned towards her, one arm resting on top of the door.

"Baby, you sure you don't want to come?" Austin looked at her with a small smile, and she could tell how worried he was about leaving her home alone for an entire weekend.

Taylor shook her head, and leaned forward to kiss him. "Tell me the plan one more time, just to clarify?"

"We're driving up to Matt's house tonight, and then we'll be up bright in early tomorrow morning for West Virginia."

Taylor nodded in understanding. "Don't get eaten by any bears, okay?" She eyed both of them, and Ryan grinned cheekily.

"We'll try not to rile them up too much."

She smiled as he started the car. "Have a good time."

"Call me if anything happens, okay?" Austin leaned out the window to give her one last kiss, and Taylor could see the nervousness in his eyes as he withdrew his hands from her face and pulled away. "Ryan will have his phone on him too," he assured her. "And you already have Matt's number."

Taylor smiled through watery eyes, already missing him. "I'll be fine. I love you." She smiled and waved goodbye as the Jeep backed out of the driveway. She watched Austin's face in the side view mirror as they drove away and didn't retreat back into the house until the Jeep had disappeared from sight.

Inside, the house felt emptier than ever, and the accompanying silence was unbearable. She turned on the radio in the kitchen to break the quiet, and then finished wiping the counter and washing the dishes in the sink.

It was dark by the time she had finished, and she was too tired to do much else but shower and crawl into bed. Lawton's files plagued the back of her mind, but they were safely stored in the drawer in her bedside table. She'd look at them tomorrow, she decided. She knew she was procrastinating, but all this worrying had only served to wear her out, and now, she needed sleep.

* * *

><p>The next day, she slept until noon. The warm sunlight poured heavy through her curtains, and she blinked away its brightness as she reached for Austin, wanting to curl up against his back. She started when she realized he wasn't there.<p>

It was a moment before she was able to remember he was away for the weekend. She sighed as she settled back into her pillow and folded her hands across her stomach, staring up at the ceiling. She wondered what he was doing right now.

A while later, she crawled out of bed and wandered sluggishly into the kitchen, fixing herself eggs and toast for breakfast. Afterward, she changed into an old tank top and some shorts and worked in the garden for the remainder of the afternoon. The air was hot, but was, for once, accompanied by a cool breeze, and for hours she worked outside, pulling up weeds, picking fresh vegetables, and cleaning out bits of the garage that Austin hadn't had the time to get to. The sun was warm on her shoulders and backs of her legs all afternoon as she worked, and she reveled in it. Her days were normally spent cooped up inside the hospital under florescent lights, and the fresh air and the slight breeze was a needed relief.

When she finally decided to come inside, the evening sky was a brilliant shade of charcoal and deep, indigo purple. The wind had steadily begun to pick up throughout the evening and it was now pushing through the tops of the trees as dusk arrived and the sun took its leave. Taylor stood in the kitchen and drank a glass of ice water as she looked out the window and into the backyard, noticing the gray storm clouds that loomed in the distance.

With her clothes damp with sweat, she went upstairs to take a long, hot shower. Afterwards, she brushed her teeth and put on some underclothes, slipping beneath the sheets of her bed and promising that she'd only rest her eyes for a few minutes.

It was 8:53 when she last glanced at the clock on the nightstand, and almost an hour later when she woke, thoughts of Lawton's files plaguing her mind. She'd been able to push them away and distract herself with other thoughts while out in the garden, but now, with the chores all done, and with nothing stopping her from looking at the files, her stomach began twisting itself in knots, preparing for the inevitable.

Outside, a roar of thunder rolled in the distance, and a flash of white shone through the window, illuminating the room. A second later, it started to rain, and it slapped the roof and glass panes of the windows, gently, at first, but then harder as it increased.

Reluctantly, Taylor pushed off the covers and reached for her bathrobe that was slung over her dressing screen in the corner. Then, warily, she padded towards her bedside table and pulled open the drawer. She stared down at the folder, thinking, contemplating, and reached for it at last. It was time.

In the living room, she turned on the floor lamp next to the couch and settled onto it with her legs tucked beside her.

With a deep breath, feeling more unsure of herself than ever, she opened the folder and pulled out a small stack of papers that had been stapled together at the left-hand corner.

Her eyes skimmed the papers with interest—slowly, so as not to miss anything—and as they did, she realized with a great, wonderful sigh of relief, that she had been worrying over nothing. She flipped through paper after paper, finding nothing that seemed out of order or strange.

And yet . . . something still wasn't adding up. Something . . . something wasn't right. There had to be an explanation as to why Lawton had been sent to Arkham. Arkham Asylum was for the criminally insane, not the insane, neither categories of which Lawton fell under. He may have killed a man in cold blood, but Taylor was under no delusions that he had been in his right mind when he had done it. Something had been triggered inside of him, something must have taken over his central nervous system completely.

Whatever it was, she wasn't going to find it in his files. She'd need to see Lawton in person, if at all possible, and, if he was lucid enough, ask him about the type of medication Bishop had been giving him.

As she went to put the papers back in the folder, she suddenly noticed a smaller folder within the larger one, and it only took a second for her heart to sink to the pit of her stomach.

_That can't be good._

She put the other papers aside and pulled out the small folder, studying it with curious eyes.

Inside it, there were a myriad of folded papers, most of them torn or ripped at the edges and others that looked as if they had been crumpled and then smoothed back out again.

An odd, foreboding feeling came over her as she pulled out one of the papers, unfolding it as her eyes digested the words.

_What in the world . . . ?_

Her eyes darted left and right across the page at a rapid pace, confusion and utter disbelief etched across her features. The papers, which had been signed by one J.L. Bishop—were about an experimental test he had run in the research lab.

_My God . . . ._

As she read further down the page, her breath suddenly hitched in her throat and her eyes widened.

_He's using the fear toxin_.

Taylor realized immediately that these papers weren't meant for her eyes, and that Bishop hadn't been just being a jerk when he'd refused to let her see them. He really _had _been hiding something. The hairs on her arm stood on end.

Her mind threw a hundred questions at her all at once. Surely _Asher_ wasn't aiding Bishop . . . _right?_ And how could Bishop have possibly gotten his hands on the fear toxin anyways? Wasn't it extremely rare? _And isn't it derived from some kind of blue flower or something_?

The paper in her hands fell to the floor in her haste and she scrambled for another, the top of this paper reading 'CLASSIFIED' in black, bold lettering. Ignoring the admonition, her eyes eagerly scanned the paper, her mouth agape the whole time.

_What the . . . ? _The symbols on the page before her were unlike anything she'd ever seen. There were boxes and circles and dots and half-finished triangles—all hand written.

Then, realization struck her, and it felt as if the wind had been knocked right out of her. They were symbols, for a secret code.

_It's a cipher_.

Why on earth had Bishop gone to such lengths to conceal something? she wondered. And more than that, just _what _had he concealed?

Feeling numb, like she'd been left in the bitterest, icy cold known to mankind, she grabbed the papers, pushing the other, non-important ones off her lap, and rushed to Austin's office. She picked up the cordless phone that was sitting in its charger and dialed the number to Asher's cell phone, overcome with disbelief.

_What am I going to even say?_

Anxiously, she waited for him to pick up, tapping her fingers against the desk in nervous wait; each second that passed felt like hours.

Finally, on the fourth ring, Asher picked up, sounding groggy and tired. He must have been sleeping. "Dr. Asher speaking."

Relief washed over her at the sound of his voice. She wasted no time and launched right into what she had to say. "Dr. Asher, this is Taylor. I think I've found something that I—"

Before she could even start her sentence, the phone line suddenly went dead, and the lamp across the room and the light in the kitchen simultaneously shut off. The room was engulfed in darkness.

Outside, rain pattered against the windows as Taylor let out a shaky exhale, still holding the phone next to her ear as a confused panic washed over her. Her heartbeat quickened.

_No! _she screamed to herself. Of all times for the power to go out, it had to be _now_. She was so close to telling Asher what she had discovered . . . .

Frustrated, she ran a hand through her hair, breathing hard. _This is not happening._

Her mind was working in overdrive, and she couldn't seem to process all of her thoughts fast enough. Vaguely, it dawned on her that the generator should have come on, and it hadn't. Austin had only just purchased it a few months ago, and had set it up to turn on automatically when the power went out.

Taylor placed the phone back in its cradle, and then passed the kitchen to make her way to the door that led to the basement. She opened it and stood on the top stair, opening the electrical box that was mounted on the wall there. She flicked the switch at the top of the box a few times, but when nothing happened, she let out a frustrated cry. _Why now?_

She flipped the switch a few more times for good measure, but again, it did nothing. She slammed the metal door shut and then closed the basement door, feeling frustrated and uneasy. After a moment of quick contemplation, she suddenly remembered her cell phone.

She could still call Asher.

She hurried to the living room, grabbing her purse from the coffee table and dumping all of its contents onto the floor. Taylor dropped to her hands and knees and searched blindly through the darkness for her phone, her hands falling on her wallet, her day planner, her makeup bag, but her cell phone was nowhere to be found.

_Damn it._

Her heart was beating almost painfully fast, but she ignored it as she rushed upstairs to throw off her bathrobe. She realized then she was still carrying the papers. In her bedroom, she dug through her hamper to grab the nearest pair of clothes she could find, pulling on some old, jean shorts and a white t-shirt. Lastly, she tugged on a pair of sneakers and folded the paper with the cipher on it in her back pocket.

In the dark, she carefully navigated her way to the garage. If she could turn on the generator herself, she'd be able to call Asher, and at the moment, that was all that mattered.

The garage door creaked as it opened, and Taylor was accosted by a blast of hot, muggy air. The sound of rain had increased as it pelted against the metal garage door, and lightning flashed through the windows, briefly illuminating the shiny hood of the parked car.

As Taylor navigated her way towards the generator, she felt thankful she had just cleaned out the garage and that the floor was no longer littered with junk.

_I should have brought a flashlight_, she thought. Then she remembered that Austin had taken the only two they had on his camping trip.

Blindly, she felt around for buttons on the generator, her hands skimming the top and sides until at last she found the switch she had been looking for. She turned flipped it, and then held her breath, looking into the living room through the opened garage door to see if the lights had come back on.

They hadn't.

"You have got to be kidding me." In her anger, she cursed the generator and went back into the house.

It seemed even darker than it was before, and she couldn't help but feel nervous; she'd hated the dark for as long as she could remember. It'd always brought along so many uncertainties, especially if you were in unfamiliar territory. It was a bit like walking up the steps in an unfamiliar house in the dark, thinking that there is one more step to climb than there actually is. That sickening feeling enters your gut when your foot comes swiftly back down and, for a moment, meets nothing but air. For Taylor, the darkness felt just like that.

In the kitchen, she made sure to avoid the sharp corners of the counter as she opened one of the drawers by the stove and felt around for a box of matches. When she found them, she made her way to the living room to retrieve the candle on the bookshelf next to the TV. She set the candle on the glass coffee table and then fumbled with the box of matches until she managed to get the candle lit.

A partial glow illuminated the room, casting odd, shadowed shapes upon the wall. She turned her back to it and went to the window that overlooked the front yard. She stared out of it with a creased brow, her mind moving a mile a minute, wondering what she should do next. Information like this couldn't wait. She had to tell someone—anyone—immediately. _Dr. Bishop could be inadvertently killing people, _her mind screamed. Or, worse yet, he could be _intentionally_ killing people—that would certainly explain why he had gone through so much trouble to keep his work hidden from her eyes.

More questions started to form in her mind. How had Bishop gotten his hands on the fear toxin, and what exactly was he planning to do with it? Did Asher know about the whole thing? Was that why he was resigning from the board? Or had Bishop maybe threatened him in some way and was forcing him to step down?

_And what about Jean Fulton?_ Taylor suddenly wondered. Her death had been so bizarre and sudden; it couldn't have just been a coincidence. Not after what she knew now.

Had Bishop given her a dose of the fear toxin? Asher said she had been screaming before she died . . . .

Her stomach dropped.

_What the hell is going on here?_

The biggest question of all, though—and she realized how absurd it was, even as it came to her mind—but was it possible that Bishop was somehow working for Jonathan Crane? She'd been just a baby when the fear toxin had been spread through the Narrows, but she was well aware of who he was. She also knew that the doctor hadn't been seen or heard from in years, and, as far as Taylor knew, was still locked in Arkham.

How then, could such a thing be possible?

Taylor chewed at her bottom lip, desperately wanting answers to all her questions. She knew Asher wouldn't be at the hospital, not at this time of night, and she briefly considered driving to his house, until she realized that she didn't even know where he lived.

She swallowed and continued to stare out the window. It was then, only when her mind paused long enough to grant her a brief respite from her whirlwind of questions, that she realized the neighbor's porch light across the street was on. She could just barely see it through the thick foliage of trees, but it was there, the yellow, shining light blurry through the thick veil of rain.

_Was I the only one on the street to lose power?_ she wondered.

She had no time to find out the answer when, suddenly, the candle behind her shuddered violently. Her head snapped sideways to watch as the shapes on the wall became momentarily distorted. Then, without warning, the candle quivered one last time, dousing itself.

The room was engulfed in darkness. Her heart, pounding like a steel hammer against her ribcage, was louder than any drum.

When she turned to see what had caused the candle to go out, sticky, hot breath suddenly wafted against her ear, making her body jolt back in surprise, as if she had just been struck by electricity.

"_Surprise_."

Her scream, loud and _terrified_, rang through the house, and she heard the laughter of not one man, but _two_.

She didn't think twice before she turned and bolted.

And that was when her body collided into something solid, and the horrid realization struck her that she was trapped between two men.

"I think she's afraid of the dark," she heard the man in front of her whisper. He grabbed her forearms with a vice and pulled her to him, her hands trapped between her chest and his. She felt his nails digging into her arms, like claws, like the sharpest knives, and she cried out, panic racing through her every vein.

"Who are you?" she heard herself cry in a voice that was not her own. "Let me go!"

The man in front of her was huge, she realized, with her chest pressed against his hulking build, she could feel him, feel the muscles in his chest pulsing in his excitement; and she thought she could make out his forearms in the dark, the size of barrels. She desperately hoped she had only imagined it.

"It doesn't matter who we are . . ." the man behind her said.

"Only that we're here to kill you," the one in front of her finished.

The click of a gun resounded in her ears then, and Taylor shouted, bringing her knee up and catching the man in front of her right between the legs. He grunted and doubled over, catching himself on the coffee table, and Taylor didn't let the moment go to waste.

She ran.

With the other man still behind her and blocking the front door, she took off towards the hallway instead. She raced up the carpeted stairs, stumbling over one of them because her legs were shaking so much. Gasping, she scrambled in the dark to push herself up and finish the flight of stairs.

Behind her, she heard one of the men laughing—it was the thinner (yet no less shorter or weaker) man with the gun—and her veins turned to ice when she heard his footsteps coming down the hall to reach her.

In the bedroom, she slammed the door shut and turned the lock with trembling hands, breathing hard as she leaned her back against door, her mind racing for ideas of what to do. She could hardly hear herself think above the pounding of her heart that thudded in her ear drums, and her stomach was a mess of horrible knots; her legs threatened to give out beneath her right there.

With no weapon to defend herself with, the phone lines dead, her cell phone lost, and the door not going to hold for long—Taylor had never felt such desperation.

She swallowed thickly and pushed a lock of hair out of her face, her eyes darting around the pitch-black room.

Only one thing was for certain in that moment: she needed to hide—fast.

When the footsteps started up the stairs, Taylor had no more time to think, and she darted behind the dressing screen on the far side of the room, across from the window. She attempted to slow her breathing and the panic that was coursing through her veins, but her heart was still thudding uncontrollably in her chest and refused to stop.

_Oh God, God, please help me_. She'd never been very religious, but she'd gone to church with her mother and father and Terrance on special occasions, and now she needed him more than ever. _I'll do anything, please_.

She crouched down and pulled her knees to her chest when she could no longer stand, letting out a shuddering breath as she listened for sounds outside the door.

It was silent for all of five seconds before the door suddenly burst open, making Taylor's breath hitch in her throat.

"You wanna play hide and seek?" the man with the gun asked, his gruff voice slicing through the sound of the now-softly falling rain and the blanket of darkness. "Well then ready or not," she could hear him grinning, "_here I come_."

Holding her breath was the hardest part, because all she wanted to do was scream and cry out and take a deep breath to release her bottled panic, but she didn't dare, her body as rigid as a board.

A minute passed, then two, and then she couldn't hear him moving at all. For a moment she thought maybe he had left, but she knew he hadn't.

He was waiting for her.

Unable to hold her breath any longer, Taylor dropped her head in between her knees and let out a quiet, slow breath, unable to hold it in any longer. The rain continued to pelt the windows and the roof, and the trees outside the window creaked as they were blown in the window; still, she did not hear the man moving.

Flashes of lightning occasionally lit up the room, and she could only image that his eyes were darting across the room at every available chance as he searched for her form.

Slowly, she lifted her head from her knees and held her breath once more, listening.

The following two minutes that passed were the longest and most painstaking minutes of her life. She considered running for the door, but that idea was dismissed when she realized how weak her legs were. What if he was standing there, waiting for her to come out of hiding? She feared he would shoot her the moment she put herself in the open.

So she resolved to remain in her spot, hidden by the shadows, and for once feeling grateful for the darkness. Today, it was her ally.

But it wasn't going to be that way for long.

Startling her from her panicked thoughts was a sheet of lightning that flashed brightly across the sky, a dark, low rumble following after, reverberating throughout the room.

Taylor let out a slow and shaky breath, trying to keep as quiet as possible and finding it increasingly difficult to hold her breath for even a moment longer. _Where is he?_

Suddenly, a hand encircled her upper arm. Taylor screamed.

"_Found ya_," he said.

With more strength than Taylor thought she possessed, she spun sideways and kicked out her legs, knocking the man to the ground. She felt a brief moment of victory when he fell to the carpet on his back, but it was short lived when he cursed and got back on his feet, reaching for his gun. Taylor raced past him.

Once again, she found herself at the staircase, only this time she was going down instead of up. She wondered where the bigger man was, the one whose arms were as big as barrels, but she tried not to think of him. Her only thought was survival; she needed to get to the front door.

To her despair, she never made it.

She was halfway down the stairs when a hard shove from behind sent her sprawling towards the hardwood floor. She landed on her side with a strangled gasp, the wind knocked right out of her.

Her mouth opened, and for a few, terrifying seconds, she couldn't breathe, like some fish out of water. She rolled onto her back and clutched her stomach, wheezing for breath that wouldn't come.

Seconds later, her hands were being wrenched above her head.

"Where do you think you're going?" The man who had pushed her down the stairs laughed. "We're not done yet."

She was too busy fighting for breath to put up any resistance, her body dragged along the hardwood floor towards the kitchen like she was a child's rag doll.

"She sure puts up one hell of fight," the bigger man said. He was standing directly above her now, and she felt the heavy weight of his boot against her cheek as he pressed the side of her face into the floor.

When her breath found her, she cried out and wrenched herself away. It was then that the lights came on, and with it, a powerful surge of adrenaline on her part.

She pulled herself to her feet, bracing her arms against the counter for support. Then, she jerked open the kitchen drawer nearest to her, pulling out a large steak knife. Awkwardly, she brandished the knife in front of her, taking a step back to distance herself from her killers. With the overhead light shining harsh and bright overhead, Taylor could see the two men clearly for the first time.

The younger one, the man with the gun, was impossibly tall and thin, his brown hair cropped close to his head. His face was thin yet defined, punctuated by sharp cheekbones and cold, angry eyes. The strap for his machine gun was strung over his shoulder and dangled at his chest in warning. He wore black leather, fingerless gloves and black combat boots that laced up to mid calve.

Her eyes turned towards the bigger man next. He was dressed in all black, and had a belt of ammunition slung around his hips. He looked heavy and big and most of all _strong_, and Taylor had to marvel in sheer horror at the size of his corded muscles, his bulging chest, and thick, round, neck. He looked like the poster boy for steroids gone wrong.

"You should put that down before you hurt yourself," he said, nodding towards her knife, her only weapon.

She shook her head and tightened her grip.

"Why are you here?" she cried, hating the way her voice cracked. "Is it because of Dr. Bishop? Is it because of what I know?"

The two men exchanged glances and laughed. The big one began to stalk towards her. "Well, you sure catch on quick, don't you?"

"Why?" she choked out, even as the giant knocked the knife out of her hands with one easy swing of his hand. She heard the metal skid across the floor, far out of reach. He forced her to her knees with a rough shove, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder to keep her down when she tried to stand. "Why would he do this?"

The one with the machine gun stepped closer as well, staring down at her. "You think I give a shit?" Suddenly he was before her, grabbing hold of her hair to wrench her head back. He pressed the barrel of his gun to her head. "Do you feel that, bitch?" He shoved the gun harder against her temple when she didn't answer. "I _said_ do you feel that?" he shouted.

"Yes!" she sobbed, tasting the salt from her tears. "Yes . . . ."

"God," he laughed a little, shaking his head. "This is my favorite _part_," he said, and she knew instantly he'd done this hundreds of times before. "Look at you." He grabbed her chin, yanking her face towards his. "You're all so pathetic." He let go of her then with a shove and had to look away, as if he were disgusted by the very sight her. His eyes focused then on a picture on the fridge of Taylor and Austin. It had been taken on their wedding day, and Austin was holding his new bride in his arms, looking like the luckiest man in the world with Taylor's arms wrapped around his neck.

"Where's the big man, hm?" he pondered, turning his attention back towards Taylor. He gave her a cold onceover. "I bet he's out fucking some other bitch right this minute."

"Maybe some whore like your girlfriend?" Taylor spat, the words hardly registering in her mind before they came tumbling out.

He backhanded her, hard, against the side of her face.

She gasped in turn, her cheek stinging. Something metal was on his knuckles and had sliced her cheek. She clenched her jaw tight and stared at the ground.

"You have quite the mouth on you, uh? Maybe I should wash that out for you."

Taylor peered up at him from beneath her brows and saw he was looking towards the kitchen sink. She knew the bottle of liquid dishwashing soap was sitting there, just beneath the windowsill.

Her heart jolted in her chest. _He wouldn't . . . ._

The deep, sudden rumble from the giant behind her made her jump. "Stop fucking around and shoot her." His fist tangled in her hair and he yanked her head back, giving his friend an open shot. "Right in the neck. I wanna see the blood gush from the holes in her throat."

The gunman smirked and feigned an apologetic look at Taylor, as if he were sorry for the words from his comrade.

"He's a little . . . bloodthirsty." Taylor heard the click of the gun then, and it was as if her very veins had turned to ice. She opened her mouth to speak, but her jaw ached and her tongue felt like lead. No sound would emerge. "You shouldn't have gotten your hands dirty, little girl." He looked at her in disgust, poking the barrel of the gun against her neck even as her body visibly trembled. The barrel was freezing against her collarbones, but she didn't dare flinch away. "You made a big mistake."

"And you're about to make a bigger one," Taylor managed, finding her voice at last. She lifted her head to meet his gaze. She did not look away.

The gunman exchanged glances with the giant. The latter gripped her head and jerked her head. "What are you talking about?" he growled.

In her mind, Taylor was imagining the sight of her blood splattered against the floor, and the way the bullet would feel as it penetrated her esophagus, for that was right where the barrel was pointed. She forced herself to shake off the thought as she cleared her throat. "If you kill me—you'll lose something that you want, something that only I have."

The gunman gave her a dubious look.

"I—I have the files that Dr. Bishop is looking for," she said.

She was running only on basic instinct. She didn't know if that's what they wanted, or if perhaps maybe they really _were_ here just to kill her . . . but she had to bargain if she could. The chances of Bishop having made a copy of such a secretive document were slim to none.

And she was right, for right after she spoke, she noticed a change in the gunman's eyes, and her heart leapt into her throat. She had hit something.

"Where are they?"

Slowly, with trembling hands, she pointed to her head. "Here."

It was a lie, of course. The paper they were really looking for, she knew, was folded in the back pocket of her shorts.

At the silence that followed, she squirmed uncomfortably.

"You fucking _bitch_," he said at last. "What did you do with it?"

"I destroyed it," she explained, even as her voice shook. "When I saw it I didn't understand what it was and I got scared so I—I burned it."

The gunman studied her, his piercing eyes practically searing her flesh, and he gave a sharp nod of his head to the giant behind her. The giant released her hair, and his boots were heavy on the floor as he went to the living room.

Taylor's heart was thudding like a drum as she watched him disappear behind the couch, no doubt searching through the folder of papers she had been looking through earlier.

She was forced to tear her eyes away when the gunman leaned in close, the barrel of his gun still prodding at her neck as a constant reminder that she could be blown to pieces at any second.

"I have half a mind to just kill you right here," he whispered, and she knew he wasn't bluffing.

Taylor couldn't bring herself to speak, her whole body trembling all over. She just wanted to pass out and slip into the sweet oblivion of nothingness.

"It's not here!" the giant bellowed from the living room.

The gunman looked over his shoulder. "Well find it! I think she's lying." He turned back towards her. "In fact I _know _you're lying. I can see it in your eyes."

She bowed her head. "How long have you been following me?" she whispered.

The gunman smiled; she could hear it in his voice. "Longer than you'd like to know."

"And Austin?" her voice cracked. "Have you been following him, too?" She had to know. What if he was in danger?

"Just you."

She closed her eyes, feeling relieved, but it was short-lived.

"Ace, it ain't there," the giant interrupted. He shook his head. "She's telling the truth."

"Not for a second," 'Ace' snarled. He turned back towards her. "Get on the ground." Taylor looked at him, confused, and he yelled at her again, shoving the barrel of his gun against her throat. "I said _on the ground_! Get on your stomach."

Taylor complied without question. She was shaking as she lowered herself to her hands and knees. She pressed her cheek against the floor, not daring to look up for fear of getting yelled at, or worse. When she felt a heavy weight settling on her lower back, she whimpered, feeling breathless and terrified. He was straddling her.

Ace started to pull on her shirt, tugging it up past her shoulder blades as a new kind of terror raced through her bones.

"No, no, stop!" She writhed beneath him, feeling a surge of adrenaline as she tried to pull away. "What are you doing?" she cried.

She felt something cold and smooth against her back.

It took her only a second to realize it was the flat of a blade. She stilled, instantly.

"Each time you fail to tell me where you've hidden the document, I'm going to make a mark on your back, like so."

He demonstrated before she could stop him, drawing a long, deep line of blood down her back. Taylor screamed.

The pain was excruciating, like nothing she had ever felt before, and she was panting hard as she tried to gather her bearings. Her nails had dug crescent moons into her palms, but she could not unclench her fists.

"Please, don—don't," she shuddered, tears streaming down her face. "Not again."

The gunman leaned down over her back to whisper in her ear. "Then I suggest you start talking." He turned behind him. "Don't fucking _stand_ there," he said to the giant. "Search the house!" She heard him sigh as he leaned forward over her, his breath purposefully ghosting over her open wound and making her tremble. She could feel the warm blood trickling down her back. It was sobering, her body as rigid and tight as a steel wire.

_I don't want to die._

"Are you going to tell me where it is now?" she heard above her. "Maybe somewhere… in a safe, hm?"

"I don't have a safe," she said quickly. "I don't. You can check."

"Then where is it?" He shoved her head against the tile floor, hard. "I'm not here to play twenty questions with you. Tell me where the document is or I'll be forced to make a twin for your friend here." He ran a finger down the length of the cut he had just created. In response, her back arched and she gasped.

"I told you I don't have it!" she sobbed. "It's _gone_!"

He scoffed. "You lying bitch."

With that, he sliced across her back in one quick motion, his knife sliding between her shoulder blades with sharp precision. It was even deeper and more painful than the last, and Taylor screamed once again, her sobbing muffled when Ace reached around to cover her mouth with his hand. His rumble, low, throaty, and pleased, sounded in her ear.

"Want me to stop?"

"Please," Taylor gasped.

"_Then where is it_?"

She closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Not once did she consider telling him that the paper he was searching for was right there, in her back pocket. It was the only thing keeping her alive, and she knew that if she gave it to him, he was going to kill her without a second's hesitation. She knew too much, even though if she came right down to it, she hardly knew what was going on at all. Everything that was happening was so beyond anything she could have ever imagined. The only thing she knew for certain was that she had severely underestimated Dr. Bishop. If he even _was_ a doctor. She was starting to doubt the credibility of that.

So she kept her mouth shut, and Ace made more cuts along her back, slicing her skin open with the utmost pleasure while she screamed and cried and begged for him to stop. She was sobbing hard by the time he had finished, breathless with pain and dizzy with panic. It felt as if it had lasted for hours, but it had been a mere ten minutes when at last the giant came back, the house now in shreds from his frantic search for the document he wouldn't find.

"I checked everywhere, Ace. It's not here."

Ace leaned back, his hands slick with Taylor's blood. His wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket as he looked up. "If we don't have that paper . . . it'll be _our_backs against the wall. Do you want that?"

"Then we bring her!" the giant bellowed, throwing up his hands. "Let Boss sort it out." He stepped closer, looking down at Taylor's shaking form. "And what the fuck have you done." Her death had been meant to look like an accident, now it looked like she had been mauled by a tiger. "Now we have to take her back, you _fucking_moron."

Ace pressed his lips together, jaw tight, and looked down. His stomach coiled in disgust. Jesus Christ, he had really fucked up this time. He was for sure she had hidden the document . . . now he wasn't so sure.

They were going to have to bring her.

"Fine." He stood, looking down at Taylor's bloodied back as he shucked off his gloves with his teeth. "Get the chloroform."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Notes:** To anyone who's curious about the special item in this chapter, you can refer back to chapter fifteen of Clockwork. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

Red orange and hot yellow sparks climbed high into the night sky, tangling in the darkness. The campfire crackled and embers glowed. Austin, resting on the ground a few feet away from the warmth of the fire with his back propped against a log, watched it intently. A tin plate of barely-touched food sat next to him; he wasn't very hungry.

Ryan and Matt's plates were empty and they had already gone back for seconds. They both sat now on the other side of the fire, each in their own fold-out chairs, enjoying the silence as they ate.

"You not hungry, man?" Ryan asked, looking across the fire to where his friend sat.

Austin shrugged his shoulders, letting out a sigh that was barely audible above the symphony of crickets and frogs. "Not really."

"Well, you better eat up if you want to tackle that trail tomorrow. It'll be brutal."

Austin glanced down at his plate with faraway eyes. It was a while before he spoke. "I think I'm going to see if I can find some reception in this damn place." He hadn't meant to sound so angry, but his friends chose to ignore it, or otherwise didn't notice. He got up with a grunt, dirt and small rocks shifting beneath his boots as he went to find a grassy spot near the trees, away from the light of the fire.

Matt paused and rested his fork against his plate. "Hey man," he called after Austin, "look, if you aren't going to finish that . . ." He made a gesture with his fork towards Austin's plate.

"Help yourself," Austin called over his shoulder, only half listening. He found a stump nestled in the grass near the tree line and sat on it, pulling his cell phone out of his back pocket. He squinted his eyes at the brightness from the screen and then dialed the number to Taylor's cell phone, listening to the dial tone with impatience.

He couldn't remember if she worked tonight, but he just needed to hear her voice. She hadn't called all day, and he was starting to feel worried. Maybe it was pathetic, the way he was acting, but they'd never been apart like this, not when they were both so far away from one another, and it was something he wasn't used to. He needed to protect her, but how could he, when he was hundreds of miles away? And who would hold her and tell her everything was alright when she woke up in the middle of the night from her nightmares? Who would tell her they loved her despite all the horrible things she'd been through?

He tried reminding himself he'd only be gone for three days.

It didn't really help.

When she didn't answer, he dialed the house phone instead, receiving nothing but his own voice over the answering machine. He left a message for her.

"Hey baby, it's me. I guess you're at work, but I just wanted to say that I miss you . . . God, I do miss you." He let himself laugh a bit, running a hand down the side of his face where he felt the onset of stubble coming in. "We're having a great time out here. Weather's perfect. After we set up camp we hiked to this waterfall nearby . . . you would have loved it. I want to take you here sometime," he added as an afterthought, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knee. "Just you and me, get away from Gotham for a bit." He swallowed. "Anyways, I know you're busy. Just call me as soon as you get the chance, okay? I love you."

He closed the phone and lifted his head toward the sky, studying the intricate map of glittering stars that were scattered above him. He let himself smile a little to ease his worries. Taylor would be fine without him; in fact, she had probably gone to bed early after a long day at work. Or maybe she was spending the evening at her dad's place. Regardless, Austin resolved to enjoy his weekend away and stop worrying. She would be fine. She would be perfectly fine.

Little did he realize how wrong he was.

* * *

><p>It started slowly at first—the measured, yet gathering sensation of pain; it crept closer and higher—like flames climbing trees in a forest fire—until it was bursting behind her eyelids in an electric surge, and Taylor woke with a gasp.<p>

The pain was sharp, searing, and she felt her mouth open wider in shock, yet no sound would come out, her breath trapped somewhere within the column of her throat. Black dots chased the line of her vision as her lashes struggled to open fully. For a moment, everything was distorted and shapes were blurred beyond recognition, her eyes unable to right themselves. Yet she could focus on nothing else but the stinging pain of her back; it might as well have been doused in gasoline and set on fire.

A sob clawed its way past her throat and she choked on it, tears gathering behind her eyes.

_Where am I? _

Her cheek—throbbing from an earlier cut and possibly a bruise—was pressed against something smooth and leather.

She was lying in the back seat of a car.

She jolted upright then, the maze of cuts on her back stinging harshly as she moved. She searched her surroundings with frantic eyes, willing for her vision to clear so she could get a grasp on where she was. For the moment the car was parked, and the driver was nowhere to be found.

Outside, it was raining steadily, pattering against the roof and windows of the car in an autonomous drone. The sky was gunmetal gray; it was early morning.

_How long was I asleep? _

Taylor pressed a hand to her cheek, feeling the caked, dried blood there that had no doubt settled over what would soon become a deep scar. She traced it with her fingertips, trying not to cry, and cringing because it was still tender. It dawned on her that 'Ace' had slapped her while wearing brass knuckles. She was lucky that the steel had only grazed her cheek and he hadn't punched her. She shuddered when she considered the damage he could have inflicted on her face; he could have broken a lot of bones.

When she heard the sound of voices outside the car, her breath seized in her throat and she looked around with a new surge of adrenaline, her eyes moving a mile a second. She couldn't see anything past the blur of rain and the fogged windows. The car was freezing, though, which meant the air conditioning had to of been on only moments ago. Where was the driver? And where was _she_?

She swallowed down the whimper that had built in her throat and turned in her seat, trying to locate some kind of landmark or building that would give her a clue as to where she was. However, in every direction she looked, she could see only a blur of green. Trees.

_Where are there trees in Gotham?_

Of course there were trees in Gotham, but not like this; there wasn't _woods_ in Gotham, not in the city.

Taylor felt her heart quicken as panic overwhelmed her every rational thought. _Just breathe_, she told herself. _Breathe. Breathe, you'll be okay_.

But everything wasn't going to be okay, especially when a distorted, frowning mask painted in colors of red, black, blue, and green appeared in the window as a blur through the heavy rain. She screamed, scrambling to the other side of the car, never once taking her eyes off the horrible, disfigured mask.

Before her hands could reach around behind her to open the door, it opened for her, and a strong arm wrapped around her ribs, eliciting a gasp of surprise.

The pain she felt was dizzying as she was ripped from the car, her legs falling to the gravel drive and tiny rocks scraping her legs. Rain was falling hard and cold against her skin, plastering her hair to her face and causing the cuts on her back to burn hot as fire.

She cried out above the onslaught of rain, even as the man behind her ripped her arms behind her back and trapped them there.

"Please, please don't do this!"

She had no idea what they were even planning to do with her, where they were going to take her.

But she had no time to consider the possibilities when three more men appeared in front of her. Taylor looked up at them through the onslaught of rain and felt paralyzed with fear.

They were wearing clown masks. They were _all_ wearing clown masks.

She cried, trying to propel herself backwards, trying to rip her hands free from the grip that held them behind her, but the man was strong, and he was not going to budge no matter how hard she tried.

"Please, please, don't do this," she cried again, not knowing what else she could say to make them listen.

God, what were they going to do to her? Were they going to threaten her? Torture her until she cracked and gave them what they wanted?

She stilled suddenly when she realized the paper they were searching for—the paper she so adamantly said she had destroyed—was still in her back pocket. If she struggled too much it might fall out, and she knew she couldn't let that happen. At this point, it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Still, she had to escape. When one of the men moved forward to pull her to her feet, she kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. He went down with a cursed groan, and Taylor ripped herself from the man behind her and bolted.

She had no idea where she was, or where she was going, but she knew if she could just get out of sight she might be okay. The only thing stopping her was the massive, black iron gate that loomed up ahead.

She heard the footsteps behind her, the shouts, the men's boots crunching against the gravel drive, but she didn't stop running.

It didn't take long to reach the gate, and up close it was so much more massive than she had initially realized. It had to be over twelve feet tall; she'd never seen anything like it, not even the infamous black gate at Arkham Asylum could compare. When she pushed against it to open it, her hands slipping against the cold, metal bars—she felt her heart stop point blank when the gate would not budge.

_No! _

She swallowed and tasted panic; then her gaze fell on the chains wrapped around the two gates and the giant padlock that kept them from swinging open. She heard herself scream in frustration, but it sounded faraway and distant as she shook the bars, the chains rattling with a piercing clang in her ears.

Without any other options, she grabbed onto the slick, wet bars and grunted as she hoisted herself up onto the first horizontal bar, about three feet off the ground. A lightning bolt struck in the distance at that same moment, and thunder roared afterwards. Gooseflesh prickled over her skin, and she climbed faster, legs shaking with fear.

She was hoisting herself up to the next bar when strong hands were suddenly clawing at her shirt, her legs, trying to pull her back. She cried out and gripped the bars tighter, but it was difficult to find a solid grip when they were so slippery, and she was already beginning to lose her footing. Her wrists ached and every muscle in her arm was pulled taught as she held on for her life, her heart pounding and thrashing in her chest.

She had to escape, she had to _get away_.

Taylor screamed when she felt fingernail's digging into the flesh of her back in their attempt to pull her down, and it was enough to make her lose her footing.

And then it was over.

She felt a different pair of arms wrapping around her legs, and that was all it took for her hands to slip and for the two of them to come crashing to the ground below.

She hit the ground on her side, and the pain she felt afterwards was numbing. She cradled her arm to her stomach and for a moment simply lay there, unable to move. She felt the cool rain plastering her hair to her face and pelting against her back. The man beside her shifted in the gravel and brushed the rocks off his pants as he stood. He was silent as he reached for the back of her neck and roughly pulled her to her feet.

She wanted to fight him, wanted to give the gate another go, or perhaps run until she found where it ended, or a ditch in the ground large enough for her to slip beneath the bars—but when she tried to twist away from his grip, pain shot up her left forearm. She gasped as he pulled her closer, and her legs were so weak that she nearly collapsed against him, and he ended up supporting most of her weight. She cradled her left arm against her middle, praying it wasn't broken or fractured and it was just a sprain.

Taylor swallowed, trying to conjure her voice. "Where are you taking me?" she whispered, her voice pained and just loud enough to be heard above the torrent of rain.

The man gripped her upper arm, and when she glanced up at him, she could tell he was grimacing behind his mask.

"You're a lucky girl," he told her, his deep voice muffled from the mask. "You're going to meet _the boss_."

Any reply Taylor would have voiced died in her throat when she looked up and noticed, for the first, the building that loomed ahead of her.

In a word, it was beautiful; old, to be sure, but it still spoke of an exterior that had once been beautiful, despite the years of rain and erosion washed much of its previous splendor away.

It looked like it had once been a small inn or hotel of sorts, but it was obvious the place hadn't been in use for years. Windows were boarded or broken, and the brick on the outside was faded and chipped in various places. The plating around the faux-gold French double doors had rusted. As they came closer, Taylor noted the stray bullet shells that littered the ground around the door and then heard them _shink_ across the gravel as they were kicked aside.

Between the scuffle at the gate and the walk towards the inn, the rain had lessened to a drizzle. With a breathless wave of panic, she realized how quiet it was. She hadn't noticed it before-too caught up in the adrenaline and the shouting and the rain—the sudden silence was unnerving. She could hear no cars, no shouting, no police sirens or ambulances. Even at her home in the suburbs—which was just outside the outskirts of the inner city—she could still hear the sounds of the city.

She knew then she was very, very far from home.

The grip around her upper arm tightened and she felt the barrel of a gun pressed against her back, at the junction between her shoulder blades. She flinched away from it only to have it follow her movements as they came to a stop directly outside the doors.

"Does he know we're here?" One of the men asked from behind her.

"Not yet," another one answered.

Taylor hung her head so her chin nearly touched her chest, not having the energy to look up. She listened carefully to the voices conversing around her, trying to obtain as much information as possible. She cradled her injured arm against her abdomen while the man beside her kept a firm grip on her other arm; he was the only thing keeping her from collapsing.

"_Fuck_, you told him we were bringing her, didn't you?"

"I told the guys. Whether they told _him _or not is up for debate."

"Fuck. He's going to be pissed."

"Well, I sure as hell ain't going to break the news to him."

"Where the fuck is Ace? He's the one who should tell boss."

"Who knows. You can never find the stupid fucker when you need 'im."

Taylor heard the door open and lifted her head to see another masked-man stepping out. When he saw her, he seemed to pause for a moment.

"Ace wasn't kidding," he said.

"Does boss know yet?"

The new clown shook his head. Taylor could feel his eyes on her from behind his mask, and she stared back.

"I'll tell him," he said resolutely, looking away from Taylor at last. He didn't wait for anyone to interject as he went towards the door and pulled it open.

"What about the girl?" the man holding Taylor said, thrusting her forward as if she were merely a doll. "What do we do with her?"

The clown who stood in the threshold of the door stared at her for a moment, contemplating, and Taylor felt an odd sense of dread wash through her, wishing she could see behind his mask. She wondered what his expression would reveal.

"Put her in one of the rooms," he said.

Then he went inside.

When he was gone, the gun in her back suddenly shoved her forward with such force that she had to catch herself on the door with her uninjured arm.

"Feel that? You run off again and I'll shoot you."

It took a moment for Taylor to gather her voice, and when she did her vocal cords quivered pathetically. "I'm no good to you dead," she said over her shoulder.

The clown cocked his head from behind her and took a step closer. "I didn't say I would kill you. I said I would _shoot _you."

Then the hand around her upper arm returned and a bag was thrown over her head and her vision went dark.

That was when full panic-mode set in. Taylor was terrified of the dark, she had been for as long as she could remember. Her whole body went on alert, every muscle pulling taut.

"Please, please don't," she begged, but none of them listened. She was manhandled inside where the stifling heat and stench of rotting wood and damp carpet nearly suffocated her. A whimper escaped from her throat then, but it sounded distant, like it'd come from somebody else.

Taylor was dragged towards a set of stairs, and, as the reality of the situation began to sink in with more depth, it was no longer panic she felt, but all consuming _fear_. Before she knew it, she was hyperventilating, her body shaking uncontrollably to the point where she could no longer stand. She felt her legs give out beneath her, but the man holding her arm forced her back to her feet.

"Come on, get up," he barked.

But she couldn't. With the bag around her face—stealing her oxygen—and the terror overwhelming her every nerve… her mind went blank and she slipped into oblivion.

* * *

><p>It was so like him to stand up and be the<em> hero<em>.

He scoffed at himself as he climbed the stairs to the top floor. _Un-fucking-believable._ He might as well have picked out his coffin—not that he'd be given such amenities if the Joker killed him. The bodies dumped in the creek and buried in the backyard told him that much.

Owen ran a tired hand through his hair as he removed his clown mask. He hated wearing that damn thing. It made your face sweat, it was hard to breathe in, and on top of that, he couldn't see a fucking thing.

The climb towards the top floor was unusually silent—usually that meant that boss was in a bad mood; everyone knew to keep quiet if that was the case. You didn't mess with the boss when he was angry.

Someone had to tell him the news though. Someone had to tell him that, instead of getting the document he'd wanted, they'd brought back a _girl. _

Yeah, it was suffice to say that boss was going to be pissed.

At the top of the stairs, he stopped. Boss had been occupying a room on the top floor he had deemed the "fun" room. The exact purpose of the room was up for debate—nobody really had gotten a good look at it since boss had set up shop in it—but if the stench emanating from beneath the door was any indicator, there was something rotting in there.

Or rather, _someone_.

As he approached, he heard a loud, arithmetic thumping, like something was hitting the floor.

Owen swallowed and peeled back his shirt from where it stuck to his chest. It was soaked from the rain, but he was already hot as hell and sweat was beading down his neck. At the end of the hall, the sun was shining through the large window there, having finally found its way out from behind the rainclouds.

He cleared his throat before knocking.

From inside, the thumping stopped.

Then it was silent.

He swallowed and waited for a few moments, the hairs on his arm standing on end. A trickle of sweat slid between his shoulder blades.

Footsteps approached the door.

Owen's heart felt like a hammer against his ribs. He shouldn't be this afraid of another man; _no one_ should be this afraid of another man.

He saw the doorknob turn tantalizingly slow. He stilled himself as the door opened a crack, revealing little of the figure inside. The room was pitch black.

"Wha_t_."

He was not in a good mood.

Owen cleared his throat. "Boss?" _Man up, you stupid fucker._ "There's been—"

"Come in," boss suddenly said, opening the door wide as the stench of rotting flesh hit his nostrils like a blast of air.

As the door opened fully, the source of the rancid smell suddenly became apparent.

It was a dead body.

More specifically, it was _Rodney_.

_Stupid kid had it coming,_ was the only proper thought Owen could process. Kid had a big mouth and an even bigger ego, and it had only been a matter of time before the Joker gutted him. Literally.

He was laying in the center of the room on his back, spread-eagled across the floor with his wrists tied above his head and his legs tied and spread in a similar fashion. If the state of his body was any indication, he'd been dead for some time now.

Even so, Owen could still hear his screams ricocheting off the walls.

Surrounding the body was a dark pool of blood, accompanied by the remains of his intestines and spattered guts.

It was the most grotesque and hypnotizing thing he'd ever seen. For a moment, he couldn't look away.

"Beauty, isn't it?" The Joker's thick, nasal drawl pierced through the stink, and Owen was ashamed to admit that the hairs on his arm had stood on end when the Joker's breath ghosted across his ear. The Joker was standing directly behind him, towering over him despite the fact that Owen himself was quite tall. The Joker leaned even closer, his jacket brushing against Owen's back. Owen swore that gasoline ran through the man's veins instead of blood, because that's all he could smell when the Joker was so close.

"There's something ab_oooout_…" the Joker moved to his other ear, "_blood_ that really gets me going. Makes me feel artisti-_c_. The body is a _canvas_ and all that, don't ya think?"

"Yeah," Owen agreed halfheartedly.

"Yeaaah," the Joker mimicked, sounding thoughtful. He walked around to stand next to the body—causing Owen to take a sigh of relief—and looked down at it with a cocked head.

Suddenly, the Joker was a blur of motion. Owen caught site of the bloodied ax only a second before it went flying through the air. The sickening crunch it made as it sliced through Rodney's skull was deafening. Owen didn't even have time to step back before blood went flying and splattered his clothes.

He looked down at himself and the red spots that speckled his bare arms as the Joker giggled, twirling the ax in his gloved hands like it was a baton.

"_Mmm_." The ax came to rest on the floor next to his feet with a thud, and he used it to support his weight as he crossed his legs at the ankles. His gaze wandered up Owen's frame to meet his eyes. "You were saying?"

Owen swallowed again. _Best to get straight to the point._

"Something happened to the document you wanted." It sounded more like a question when he said it, as if he were testing the water before he got in. "It was… destroyed."

"But?"

"But we brought you the doctor—"

"You brought him _here_?"

"Yeah. Ace's idea," he added as an afterthought. He rubbed the back of his neck. "And actually…" he hesitated, "…it's a 'she.'"

The Joker's brows rose in surprise, but he made no comment. Instead, he worked his mouth in that way he tended to do when he was angry or thinking, and slung the bloodied ax over his shoulder.

"Well then," he said, "let's be sure to give our guest a _warm _welcome."

* * *

><p>When Taylor woke sometime later, it was to the sound of a gunshot being fired. She gasped and jolted straight up, not sure if she'd imagined the noise. Hear head was swimming.<p>

She took a few slow, deep breaths—just like her therapist had instructed—and studied her surroundings as another rush of dread shot through her. She'd thought it had been a dream, she thought it all been a nightmare and she'd half expected to wake up to find herself in her own bed.

Instead, she was sprawled on some dusty hardwood in a strange room. It was stifling hot, and when Taylor inclined her heads towards the boarded window behind her, she noticed strands of sunlight poking through, a stark contrast to the bitter cold rain she'd experienced that morning.

How long had she been out?

_It must be close to five o'clock , at least…._

Taylor groaned as she slowly got to her feet, her vision spinning around her. She reached out to the window to regain her balance, holding onto it until her vision cleared.

When it did, her eyes searched the room for possible exits. There was a closet, a bathroom, and then of course the door that led out. She decided that even if it wasn't locked, she couldn't risk using it as an escape. What if somebody was standing outside, guarding it? It was unlikely she'd be able to sneak out the way she'd come in, anyway.

The rest of the room was, for the most part, completely bare. There was a lone, wooden chair in the corner, and a large four-poster bedframe in the middle of the room, though it was void of a box-spring and mattress.

_I have to get out of here_.

She inspected her arm when she realized it was throbbing, but it was a dull ache compared to what she had felt earlier; it was easy to ignore the pain when her mind was busy thinking of ways to escape.

She turned to the window, where it had haphazardly been boarded over with misshapen wood and rusted nails. Warm beams of sunlight filtered through the cracks, piercing through the dusk of the room and illuminating the dust particles that hung suspended in the air. The yellow sunbeams would have been quite pretty if her mind wasn't so fogged with panic.

When she extended her arm to grab one of the higher boards at the top, she suddenly let out a cry of pain, her back igniting in pain. Her shirt was still a little damp from the rain, and when she tenderly peeled it away from her back, she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. It would take weeks—possibly months—for all of the scars on her back to heal, some more than others.

She forced herself to ignore the pain as she returned her attention back to the window. She tugged on a few boards, prying at them with all of her strength, but none of them would budge. By the time she had given up, she was exhausted and sweating and on the verge of tears.

She moaned as she sunk to the floor, covering her face with her hands in a feeble attempt to stop the tears she knew were coming. She wondered what Austin was doing, if he was having a good time with his friends and if he was okay. God, she'd do anything just to hear his voice.

Taylor started to wonder what would be going through his mind when he finally returned from his trip. He'd see that the house had been shredded to bits and he might even see some of her blood on the kitchen floor and… and then what? He'd call the police, contact the hospital to see when the last time she'd checked in was, maybe start a search party... in short, he'd be panicked.

She put a hand over her mouth to hide her sob. She would probably never see him again. She'd never again get to tell him how much she loved him, how he was her best friend and the biggest blessing she'd ever had in her life.

And her father… he'd be devastated. He'd already lost two family members—her mom and her brother—and she knew that by losing her he'd probably shut down entirely if not kill himself. It was a wonder he hadn't overdosed already, and she knew the only reason he hadn't was because of her, because she was the only thing he had in his life that hadn't abandoned him. She realized now why he watched TV so much. It was because the characters he watched in his favorite shows were the closest things to family that he felt. They were always there for him when she and everyone else couldn't be.

The tears were flowing full force now as she thought about of all her friends at the hospital, her patients she'd never get to see recover.

There were so many people in her life she cared about… and the fact that she would probably die here, all because of these psychopathic men after some cipher on a little slip of paper…

That was when she remembered it, the paper in her back pocket. She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and quickly pulled it out, unfolding it to reveal the cipher. She had no idea what it was for, or how to decode it—it would be impossible without some kind of key—but whatever the cipher was hiding, it must have been important.

And at the moment, the content on that sheet of paper was the only thing keeping her alive.

With shaking hands, she unfolded the paper so it lay flat on the floor and then studied it carefully, her eyes raking over every detail, every shape and every curve of the strange lettering laid out before her.

She listened for noises outside while she read the cipher over, and over again—but it was quiet, and soon the sun was setting behind her and had lit the room in a warm, orange glow. There was the constant, pleasant hum of cicadas in the woods, but other than that, it was silent, a type of silence she was unused to since she'd spent her entire life in the city.

But the serenity and peacefulness that the silence had provided lasted briefly. An hour later, when she heard footsteps approaching, she thought at first she might have imagined then.

She stopped what she was doing to listen more closely, every nerve in her body going rigid; the only thing she could hear, however, was the pounding of her heart in her ears.

Someone was coming.

She licked her lips and scanned the paper one last time, memorizing each and every detail—

And then she shredded it, scattering the remains as best she could and scooping up a handful of shreds to squeeze them between the boards covering the windows where they went fluttering to the ground below.

She didn't know if that was the wisest decision, or if she'd just made a grave mistake—but if they found the paper they'd kill her, and she wasn't about to risk her life.

_God, please—_

Before she could finish her thought, the door burst open and she spun around to face the intruder, her breath catching in her throat. The door hit the wall and ricocheted back towards the man standing just out of sight.

She only needed to see a glimpse of what he was wearing to register who it was. The purple suit was unmistakable.

When he came into view, when the monster slowly, slowly took a step into the room—the door swinging wider with an eerie creak—Taylor felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her lungs. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp and she unconsciously took a fumbling step backwards, nearly tripping over her own feet.

She never would have imagined him to be so tall. He was _towering_, with broad, thick shoulders and mile-long legs. She'd only ever seen footage of him on the news and pictures in the paper—but those were grainy, at best. She knew now they never would have been able to capture the true essence of the man who stood in the doorway before her.

Taylor's mind was racing as she tried to process her thoughts. _He _was the 'boss' everyone had been referring to earlier. What could he possibly want with the cipher? Was this all some kind of sick joke? The two things just didn't seem to be connected.

As she stared at him, she felt star struck—but in the worst possible way. The Joker had always been somewhat of a celebrity to her in that she'd never _dreamed _she would meet him. He was someone you heard about on the news and in the papers, the crazed lunatic you knew you'd never run into, because you naively believed you were the exception to all of his evil plots and organized chaos. Gotham was huge—the thought of being one of his potential victims was practically unthinkable. His crimes were awful and sometimes affected thousands of people, but Taylor still had always been able to detach herself from it, delude herself into thinking that something like that could never happen to her.

Yet it was happening, and she was probably going to die.

He was so much more terrifying in person, too, so much more _real_. He wasn't just some scary, made-up character the media had put together to boost their ratings, as she would have liked to of made herself believe. No, he was more than just some media staple to swing political votes or to stir up controversy about Batman. He was a man—a man who got kicks out of blowing buildings to smithereens and killing innocent people for no rhyme or reason.

As the Joker took another step into the room, Taylor's eyes widened when she saw the machine gun that swung dangerously at his side, the barrel so long it nearly touched the floor. Perhaps more terrifying than that, however, was the long-stemmed, bloodied ax in his other hand. She could smell the copper even before he stepped into the room, and the light from behind her caught the gleam of blood on the metal blade. It was fresh.

Taylor's palms started to sweat, and her chest was heaving for breaths it didn't have.

Even as the strong beams of sunlight warmed her back as she stood in front of the window, her body was visibly shaking. She'd never felt so overwhelmed with fear. She was terrified of him, and he _knew _that, like he was drawing power from her because of it.

The simple act of standing in his presence, staring at him, was almost more than she could handle. Taylor had to brace herself against the window to keep from collapsing.

It was all too surreal. _He_ was too surreal.

His trademark suit was a brilliant flash of purple, but was faded around the knees and dirty in others. Taylor's eyes started at ground level, and then slowly moved further up his lean frame—taking notice of the long, silver chain that hung from his hip and disappeared inside his pant pocket—and then to his pinstripe trousers that were just long enough that the hem brushed over the top of his mud-caked shoes.

The scars on either side of his mouth did not do him justice on TV. In real life they looked so much more painful than she ever would have imagined. They were bulging and jagged, obviously having once been stitched and sewn together crudely. The scars looked tight and strained, and the blood-red greasepaint only enhanced their deformity.

His face and ears were slathered in dirty, white greasepaint, and the paint cutting off right under his jaw, leaving his pale neck bare and exposed.

But even his deathly white face and red puckered scars were nothing compared to the fathomless black pits that were the Joker's eyes. They terrified her, seeing those dark eyes shifting back and forth, looking at her—_studying_ her. She felt so laid bare beneath his gaze as she stared at him. For a split second, she wondered if he could see right through her.

And then, suddenly, he moved, crossing the room in three simple strides. Along the way, he tossed his ax off to the side where it clattered to the hardwood. Taylor let go of the windowsill and moved forward, suddenly torn over whether she wanted to run or remain where she was.

Now standing directly in front of her, the Joker looked down at her and she let out a shuddering breath, staring at his chest. She was terrified to meet his gaze; she couldn't—not when he was standing so close. Instead, she redirected her gaze to the carpet and tried not to tremble as she felt his eyes on her, burning holes through her skin.

When he leaned in close, she jumped, the scent of gasoline and sweat and smoke overwhelming her. His jacket brushed against her bare arm and she nearly collapsed right there. Her head was spinning.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you," he whispered in the shell of her ear. "Right now."

Taylor swallowed, letting out another shallow breath in an attempt to calm her rapidly beating heart. She could no longer hold herself up, especially now that her weight wasn't being supported by the window sill. She reached behind her with shaking hands, needing support for her weak limbs.

And then she finally dared to look up at him, meeting his heavy gaze.

"I'm wait-ing," he said.

She swallowed, gathering her courage. "I have the cipher," she said, voice shaking. "I know it. That's what you want, isn't it?"

The Joker exhaled through his nose, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "What I _want_," he said, contemplating the phrase. "Sweetheart, I want a _lot _of things."

She gulped, and shook her head. "I'm the only one who knows it," she said, not knowing if that was actually true. It had to be true though, didn't it? Since everyone was so desperate to get their hands on it….

The Joker smacked his lips in response and cocked his head. "You don't know what's it _for_, do you? That doesn't exactly put you in a position of _power_ over me." He moved closer, backing her further into the window, but did not touch her.

"I just want to go home," she whispered. Her eyes didn't leave his for even a second. "Please, if I give you the cipher…."

"I'm afraid I can't let you _do _that." The Joker shifted his weight to his other foot, lifting the machine gun so it rested on his shoulder. "You see, you know too much and you've become a bit of a _liability_," he said, his voice high and nasal as he feigned sympathy. His brows drew together as if he were sorry and could not control the outcome of the situation.

"Please!" she cried, her voice cracking. "I don't want anything to do with this, this is all a mistake!" She felt her heart pounding so fast that it hurt.

"Oh, sweetheart," he crooned, his mangled lips forming an exaggerated frown. He stepped forward and lowered his face towards hers so they were eye level. "Don't _cry_. Crying never solved anything," he mock-soothed.

Taylor wanted to scream. Instead, her eyes strayed towards the machine gun perched on his shoulder, and she sucked in a nervous breath, squeezing her eyes shut briefly to fight back the tears. "Please, please don't shoot me."

The Joker tsked, then leaned back a bit. "If there's one thing you should know about me," he began, then stopped when Taylor nervously averted her gaze. "No, no," he interjected, grabbing her chin with a gloved hand. "Look at me." He jerked her towards him so she had no choice but to stare into his eyes. "If there's one thing you should know about me," he started again, "it's that _when_ I kill you… it won't be with a gun."

Taylor's eyes widened at his words, and then, without thinking, she bolted.

—Or at least tried to.

The Joker—having been anticipating her move—reached forward with one hand and grabbed her neck, smiling as he did it, and threw her into the window where her back hit it with considerable impact. She cried out as she collapsed to the floor in a tangle of her own limbs.

She didn't have time to right herself before she felt the barrel of the machine gun on her back, forcing her down. She didn't move a muscle. The room went quiet.

"Let me tell you how this is going to work," he said, standing directly over her as he admired the bloodstains on her shirt. "You're going to give me the cipher. And then I'm going to kill you, nice and quick, because I'm feeling _generous_ today. How does that soun_d_?"

Taylor whimpered, digging her nails into the floor. "Please," she begged, past the point of dignity long ago. "I won't tell anybody, if you let me go. I promise I won't," she choked. Tears stung the back of her eyes.

Her plea, however, fell on deaf ears. "I'm get-ting im-patien_t_," he replied through gritted teeth.

Tears began pouring from Taylor's eyes of their own accord. She shook her head. "I won't, I won't do it." Maybe if she refused, he would change his mind after she gave him the cipher and he would release her?

She waited with bated breath. The Joker was silent.

After a moment, he sighed.

"Then I'm going to kill you." He tossed his gun aside and it clattered to the floor. Quickly, he reached for the ax, and Taylor screamed, having just enough time to roll away before it came down right beside her head, burying itself into the hardwood.

The Joker growled at having missed his target, and Taylor was sobbing as she scrambled to her feet, begging for him to stop.

"Don't, please just—wait!"

But there was no stopping him.

She knew had to get to the door, but he was purposefully blocking her exit.

"Come _hereeee_, sweetheart." The ax dangled from his hand, the other hand was balled into a tight fist. "Daddy won't bite."

She shook her head, and when he poised the ax over his head and threw it at her, she screamed, managing to dodge it, but just barely.

The ax embedded itself into the wall behind her, and Taylor met the Joker's feral gaze just as he lunged at her, knocking them both to the ground.

They both struggled for dominance, Taylor trying with all her might to shove him away, but the resistance she met was made of pure muscle and anger. She managed a kick to his jaw, and the Joker hissed, seizing her wrists and pinning them to the floor. He straddled her legs next, immobilizing them with his weight.

Pinned on her back with the Joker above her, Taylor knew she had lost. She choked on a sob as she watched the Joker reach inside his suit to reveal a serrated switchblade. They were both breathless as she stared at him. She bravely met his gaze as he leaned over her, making himself comfortable. The intimacy of the situation was not lost on her, and she stiffened as the Joker offered her a mouthy grin.

"Mm," he shifted a bit until he was comfortable. "That's it."

His rancid breath wafted across her face as he leaned in close.

"Now… any last words?"

Taylor pressed her lips together, trembling. There was nothing more she could do.

She'd once heard that, in your last moments, you saw your life flash before your eyes.

But that wasn't true. In your last moments, you see the life you missed _out on_ flash before your eyes. You see the children you never had, the anniversaries you and your husband would never share, and the lines and the wrinkles and the wisdom of old age you'd never receive.

She closed her eyes, breathing rapidly, and waited for the blade to pierce her skin.

But it never came. The Joker had stilled above her.

When she cracked open her eyes, she realized his gaze was focused on her neck.

She looked back up into his eyes, and he returned her gaze. She was almost startled to find that he looked absolutely _confused _and maybe... hurt? Why would he... ?

He grabbed the chain around her neck and pulled it until it was taut.

His brows drew together as he met her gaze once more.

"Where did you get that?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Taylor didn't know what to say. She openly trembled beneath his gaze, a fresh sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead.

Seconds ago, he had wrestled her to the floor, straddled her, and had planned to murder her.

But the tables had turned. He was still straddling her, still breathing hard and fired-up from their brawl—but instead of slicing her neck like he'd originally planned, he was pulling the chain around her neck taut, demanding to know where she'd gotten it. The situation couldn't have been more bizarre if she'd dreamt it.

But this wasn't a dream, and the Joker's weight on top of her provided a sobering clarity to the situation.

"I sai-_d_," he repeated through yellow, gritted teeth, "where. Did. You. Get. That?"

Taylor swallowed and shook her head. Despite the stifling heat of the room, the hairs on her arm were standing on end. "I—I don't know," she gasped between breaths. She swallowed again, fighting back tears. "I've had it since I was a child…."

She studied his face for signs, hoping her words would appease him.

His expression, however, revealed nothing. His mouth was pulled into a thin, tight line, and his eyes were dark. After a few heart pounding, ears-ringing moments, he relinquished her necklace, where it fell back against her neck without a sound.

She watched as the Joker bowed his head and briefly shut his eyes. His palms were now splayed flat out on the floor on either side of her shoulders. She kept as still as a board.

"You don't… _remember_," he repeated. He didn't open his eyes until after he'd spoken, and the gaze he fixed her with when he did sent every nerve in Taylor's body on fire. She felt like she'd been electrocuted.

She realized she couldn't reply, couldn't even _move_. She was paralyzed by the depth of his stare.

When she managed to shake her head 'no' in response, he let out a heavy breath from his nose, as if he couldn't believe it. He straightened and leaned back, his gaze still trained on her, and for the first time Taylor realized he looked completely beside himself. His whole demeanor had changed in a matter of seconds. He looked broken all the sudden, like his chest had deflated and there was no breath in his lungs. The danger in his eyes was gone.

He looked _human_.

She watched him close his eyes, and she would have missed the way his lashes pressed tight against his cheeks had it not been for the sun that had cast the window aglow in a burst of orange and yellow beside him. The fiery light highlighted all the crevices and lines of his face, and the green in his hair shone with an almost metallic gleam.

For a bizarre moment, she wondered what he looked like with all the makeup stripped off, with normal-colored hair and street clothes—but she couldn't picture it.

She held her breath as she waited for his next course of action. What on earth did her necklace have to do with all this? She didn't understand it. Did he know something about it that she didn't?

When his lids opened, slowly, revealing a black set of eyes fixed directly on hers, she could do nothing but stare back. That was until his body slowly lowered towards her, caving in until their chests touched, until his abdomen was pressed solidly against hers. The heat emanating from his body was feverish. She let out a breathless gasp and lay rigid beneath him, unsure of what he was doing. She heard his knife thud to the floor somewhere near her head, and suddenly he was lowering his face to her neck. She felt his hands in her hair, gripping her scalp not roughly but with desperation, like he needed to draw her in to himself, draw her closer. When she swallowed, he chased the movement of her throat, pressing his face against it, where she felt his hot exhales of breath.

Then, he laughed.

It started quietly at first, but it slowly built in tempo and pitch, rising until he was wheezing for breath against her neck and collarbones, laughing into her hair, gripping it between leather gloves until her scalp burned and her mouth opened in silent protest.

"You," he wheezed between fits of laughter, "you… you're _scared_ of me." He drew back to smile at her, and Taylor could only stare back at him in confusion. Of course she was scared of him. Wasn't everyone? Was there not a soul in Gotham who didn't cower upon mention at his name, who didn't shudder when his face appeared on TV, or in the papers?

She couldn't have understood it then, but what the Joker found so amusing was that Taylor—the little girl who had once clung desperately to him, who had once begged and screamed for him to save her—was now trapped beneath him, and was trembling like a leaf, terrified for her life—and rightly so.

Even funnier, even more _hilarious_ than all that, though… was that she didn't remember him at all. Nothing. Not the greasepaint, not the purple suit, not his _smile_. The little _fucks_ had brainwashed her with therapy and psychiatrists and nightmares and pills. They'd made her _forget_ him. They made her erase him from her memory. He was nothing but a mere shadow of a ghost now, a fragmented piece of a puzzle she once knew.

The Joker clenched his teeth with a low growl and suddenly removed himself, rising to his full height and towering above her.

Taylor let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, staring up at him as he looked down at her.

"Get up," he ordered.

She didn't need to be told twice. It took her a moment, because her limbs had never felt so weak and she thought she might faint—but she rose, hands trembling at her sides, her body tense and rigid, readying itself to run if need be.

"Come here."

He was staring at her with unblinking eyes. Around them, the room was quickly growing dark. Only a sliver of orange light remained in the window, cutting a shaft of light across the floor where it tangled amongst the flurry of dust and cobwebs.

For a split second, Taylor eyed the door, which the Joker was effectively blocking, and then assessed the Joker himself. His hands were empty of weapons, but she wasn't naïve enough to think he couldn't overpower her if she gave him the chance. Who knew what kind of weapons he had concealed out view. And he could easily strangle her, wrap his fingers around her throat and press and squeeze until the air was forced from her lungs and she lay lifeless on the floor.

The Joker's voice left no room for further thought.

"Come here or I'll _make_ you."

So she did, trembling the whole way, but trying as hard as ever to mask her fear with a look of defiance.

He tilted his head at her, grinned—and then grabbed her, spinning her around until her back was against his chest and he was ushering the both of them to the floor on their knees. She fought him, struggling for all she was worth, thinking that, _this is it_, _this is how I die_, but instead of a knife piercing her throat, she felt a sharp prick on her forearm. It was the all-too familiar sensation of a needle sinking past her skin. She gasped, but could do little else as her energy withered and her eyes fluttered closed as she knelt there on the floor with the Joker behind her, gloves digging into her sides as she sunk into the stupor of his clawed embrace.

* * *

><p>Everything following that seemed to pass in a strange blur, like she was stuck in a fog that chased her, a cloud of unconsciousness she couldn't escape from. At the back of her mind, she heard voices, constant voices. She heard the words, "car" and "directions", she felt herself sprawled somewhere, eyes fluttering as she caught glimpses of different things, things that moved too fast for her gaze to latch onto.<p>

She heard the familiar squeak of the front door of her house opening. She felt strong arms beneath her thighs. She heard banging and men shouting angrily. She felt her shirt pulled over her head and her shorts tugged down her legs. Lastly, she felt her silk sheets against her back, and a pillow beneath her head.

Then there was silence.

When she woke some time later, it felt as if days had passed. It took her several minutes to gather her bearings. The room was dark, and her body ached like nothing she'd felt before. Her sheets clung to her bare legs, slick with sweat. A window was open. A slight breeze blew, ruffling the floor-length curtains.

Her bedroom. She was in her bedroom. She licked her lips and pushed herself up onto her elbows as shards of familiar pain shot up her back. She ignored it and surveyed her surroundings.

Her room was exactly as she had left it, not a thing out of place.

And suddenly her thoughts from the previous night came rushing back to her in a terrible onslaught, and she stilled in utter fear.

_Are they still here? _

She knew immediately that it hadn't been a dream. As much as she would have liked to of made herself believe that it was, the pain that pulsed throughout her entire body, the cuts on her back, the ringing in her ears, the explicit stench of… _him_… it was all too real, too clarifying to have been a dream.

Taylor was breathing hard as she pushed the covers off her legs. She was half naked, wearing only her underwear and bra, and the realization caused a sliver of fear to shock through her. She paused for a moment, mind racing as she tried to think back, think back to everything that had happened. She couldn't remember taking off her clothes. She couldn't remember doing any such thing. Yet, she felt okay, besides the pain of her back.

She was shaking as she reached for the nearest set of clothes, not carrying whether or not they were clean.

Her bedroom door was closed, and so she went to it pressed her ear against the wood, listening to the silence, waiting and dreading the sound of men's voices, of that sick laughter she'd grown to hate.

It was a full two minutes before she was satisfied enough to twist the knob, pull open the door.

She padded down the stairs slowly, carefully, but was shocked to find that the house was spotless. There were no traces of the earlier break-in, or of the fact that the Joker's men had ransacked her house, a vain attempt at trying to locate the document that'd been in her pocket the entire time. It was as if none of it had ever happened.

And, as Taylor rounded the kitchen counter, she realized that, _maybe that's the point_. Had they somehow gotten the information they were looking for? Had they decided to give up on the search all together?

But then, if that were true, why return her in one piece? Why hadn't the Joker killed her?

Nothing made sense, and the more she tried to reason it, the more she tried to answer her own questions, the more her head spun like a wheel and the edges of her vision started to blur.

She remembered the way he had pinned her to the floor, the way she had wrestled him for her life and the way he'd swung the axe at her, fully and unashamedly intent on _killing_ her.

Taylor suddenly collapsed against the side of the counter with a tight sob, burying her head in her hands as her cries wracked her body.

Minutes later—when she was somehow slightly more composed—she called Austin and asked him to come home.

Then she called the police.

* * *

><p>A symphony of police sirens, ambulances, and the static of radio chatter rang through Taylor's ears.<p>

When the SWAT team had arrived, busting through her front door with their guns and masks, Taylor was kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, shaking as tears streamed down her face.

It was the same spot where she'd been forced on the ground and her back had been sliced open—yet no traces of her blood remained. They'd cleaned it, removed every last trace. For the life of her she couldn't understand why—what was the point in trying to erase damage they'd already done? What purpose could it possibly serve?

Two men wearing bullet-proof vests and helmets and special goggles were kneeling before her. She could hardly see them through her stream of tears.

Moments later, after it was determined that the house was empty of any possible threats and there were no explosives or other potentially lethal devices, police officers began flooding into her home. Angry red and blue lights flashed through the front window. There was an ambulance outside.

Eventually, Taylor was lead to the couch in her living room, guided by the gentle hand of a female officer. She was in her early forties and had dark, curly brown hair that was tied in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Behind her, another officer sat down on the couch, notepad in hand.

"Taylor," the woman began, "I know this is hard for you, but I need you to tell me everything that happened. If the Joker is still nearby we may be able to catch him."

Taylor shook her head, crying. "You won't. You won't catch him." And she'd never believed anything more fervently in her life. He wouldn't be caught unless he wanted to be, that was fact.

But she told them her story, from start to finish. She told them what little she knew of the paper they were after, the man who'd cut her, the strange location they'd taken her too.

And as she related it back to them, she knew how bizarre it all sounded, how… melodramatic it seemed.

"I have to tell you," said the officer, shaking her head. "I've never heard anything like this. Usually when the Joker kidnaps a victim, they don't live to tell the tale."

She shook her head in understanding. She knew.

Officers hounded her with questions, wanting to know as much as they could. Other officers and members of the SWAT team searched the neighboring houses and the small woods out back, looking for left-behind traces or clues.

They asked to see the cuts on her back, so she lifted her shirt and showed them. They took pictures of her wounds, and soon after the forensics team arrived to dust the house for fingerprints.

When Ryan's jeep pulled into the driveway, Austin was frantic as he tore open the door and got out. The officers in the driveway attempted to hold him back as he fought to get to the front door.

"Sir, _sir_," one of them said when he wouldn't stop struggling, "this is a crime scene, we can't let you through."

"That's my wife in there!" he yelled, his heart beating faster than it ever had before. "That's my wife, I have to see her!"

He managed to break free of the officer's grip, pushing through the front door, chest heaving. When his eyes landed on Taylor—seated crumpled on the couch, flanked by three officers—he felt his heart break into fragments he didn't know if he'd ever be able to piece back together.

Her eyes were bloodshot and red from crying, and her body—folded in on itself with her shoulders curled in like a protective shield—had never looked so frail, so tiny. Her hair hung tangled and disheveled over her shoulders, and her hands were shaking with fright. He hadn't seen her like this in years, not since her last psychiatric session. It was like all their years of hard work, all those years of trying to rebuild her, of trying to help her fight off the nightmares and memories—it had all come rushing back and he felt so _stupid _because he knew you could only force the monsters down so far before they came crawling back to the surface, bubbling out of the skin like some viral disease.

He rushed to her side immediately, kneeling next to her in front of the coffee table as he pulled her to him. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes at the sight of him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck with a sob.

"Baby, baby, I'm here," he told her as she buried her face into his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist and with his other hand he smoothed down her hair, trying to calm her as she shook.

For a while, no one bothered them. The background was alive and buzzing with noise, the forensics team hard at work as the officers secured the perimeter from curious neighbors and tried to piece together a possible motive. Outside, Ryan and Matt were speaking to a police officer, trying to garner as much information as they could about the situation. They knew as much as Austin did, which was next to nothing.

When Austin ran his hand up Taylor's back, his breath caught in his throat. He could _feel _the lacerations there. Without even thinking, he slipped his hand beneath her shirt and gently felt up her back, overcome with a breathless anger.

"Taylor," he had to swallow to get his throat working again, "Taylor, look at me, who did this to you? What happened?"

She could not answer him. Tears wracked her body and she just shook her head, burying it farther into his chest. It was too much. He could see that, he could see she couldn't handle it.

He'd never felt so useless in his entire life.

"It's okay, I'm right here for you, baby, I'm right here." He whispered the words to her over and over again, a fervent mantra as she sobbed into his chest. All the while, his mind was racing. When she had called, crying into the phone, begging him to come back, he didn't hesitate for a moment. He'd asked if she was okay, if she was hurt, but all she could do was plead with him to come home. So he did. The three of them had packed up camp much faster than any of them thought possible, and Austin drove like a maniac all the way home. No one seemed to mind. They'd cut their destination time by an hour.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat, and Austin instinctively craned his neck—still holding Taylor in his arms—to acknowledge the person trying for his attention.

"I deeply apologize to have to interrupt. You're Austin James?" The man standing off to the side was tall and extremely well-dressed in a three-piece, burgundy colored suit. His mere presence was enough to capture the attention of everyone in the room, his posture straight and commanding. He was of mid-age, early forties, if Austin had to guess, with high cheekbones and neatly-combed brown hair that partially fell over his forehead, but was swept aside. He smiled lightly in an attempt to lessen the tension, to put him at ease, but Austin could not smile back.

"Yes, I'm Austin…. "

"It's a pleasure to meet you, though I'm sorry it has to be under such lugubrious circumstances. I'm Dr. Christopher Shaw, I'm a psychologist and moonlight as a detective for the Gotham Police Department, when I can." He paused to let out a small breath, clasping his hands neatly behind his back. "I'd like to ask your wife a few questions, if that'd be alright."

"I don't even know what's happened," Austin confessed, at a loss for words. He didn't want to let Taylor go.

The doctor nodded once, his lips hardly moving when he spoke. "You will soon," he said.

"Sir?" Austin turned his head to the other side. "I think it'd be best if you step over here for a moment." A police officer, a woman, was standing behind the couch, watching them with a worn expression, like she'd seen this same scenario more times than she dared count.

He let out a shaky breath he'd been holding and hugged Taylor tighter, promising he'd be right back as he placed his lips to her forehead. He looked to the doctor with rising doubt, suddenly feeling angry.

"The last time she spoke to a psychologist, she had to stay in a psychiatric ward for a month," he said to the man as he rose. Taylor maintained her crumpled position on the floor, too weary to move.

"I promise you I will not let that happen again. I just need to ask a few questions. If you could simply give us a moment of time."

Austin sighed through his nostrils, feeling as if he had no choice. When he nodded his consent, one of the nearby police officers was quick to act. "Everybody out!" he shouted. "We need a moment here."

And just like that everyone began filing outside, the forensics team having gathered all of their evidence anyway and ready to take it to the lab.

"Mr. James," the female police officer was addressing him again, "I'll explain everything to you if you'll just follow me."

He knelt down to kiss Taylor's head, whisper to her that it'd be alright—even though he had no idea if it would be—and then followed the police officer into the dining room. Upon entering, a wave of guilt washed over him when he saw all of his paperwork and newspapers and books stacked alongside the wall and scattered across the table. He had promised Taylor he'd clean it up before leaving for his trip.

"You should probably sit down," the officer told him.

He was too electrified to sit. In fact, he could hardly keep still, his hands trembling. He turned to the officer and shook his head. "Tell me what happened," he urged. "I need to know."

And so she did. She explained the kidnapping, the assault, the location they'd taken her too… and lastly her encounter with the Joker. For a moment she almost left out the part about the ax, and how the Joker had prodded her with a machine gun, but she thought he deserved to know. He had to know the trauma she was dealing with.

When she was done, Austin did need to sit down. He blindly reached for one of the dining room chairs, sinking into it like it was his last hope. For a moment, he simply stared off into space, at a loss for words, emotions, his cognitive brain shutting down completely. The images that currently plagued his mind were images he never dreamed of having, never wanted to have. To think that all that had happened to his beautiful, sweet girl… it made him sick, a sour bile rising in his throat, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth that he swallowed back down.

With shaking hands he removed his glasses, laying them atop of an article he'd been writing before he left. He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling tired, suddenly feeling angry, wanting to sleep, wanting to fight, wanting to hold Taylor, wanting to get away from here, wanting to punch himself for leaving her alone, for letting this happen.

"It's not your fault," the officer said, as if reading his thoughts. "I've seen too many people beat themselves to the ground with their own guilt. You couldn't have stopped this."

Austin did not believe her words for a second. He could have stopped this. He could have _protected _her, prevented all of this from happening.

He didn't say anything. The officer brought him a glass of water, but he wasn't thirsty. He watched the fading rays of sunlight dance through his glass until the sun dipped below the trees, replaced by a milky twilight sky, a pallet of varying dark blues and whites.

It was some time before he was able to put his glasses back on again, power his legs enough to stand. The officer—Gomez, he soon learned when he heard the named garbled over the static of her walkie—went to stand next to him when Dr. Shaw returned, standing in the doorway.

"Is she alright?" Austin wanted to know.

"She's suffered a lot of emotional and physical trauma," the doctor said, his voice heavy, careful. "To be frank with you, there's very little I can tell you at this point in time. I'll of course need to hear back from forensics before I can make any accurate observations."

Austin frowned. "What do you mean?"

The doctor cocked his head slightly. "Now may not be the best time to divulge considering the state she's in," he said, selecting his words with the utmost caution.

_Okay…._ Austin had no idea what that meant, but there were a thousand other questions he wanted to ask instead. "Is there a possibility the Joker will come back?"

"We highly doubt such a thing—"

"But we'll be keeping two officers here overnight, or for as long as you need," Gomez interjected. "We'll have full, twenty-four hour surveillance."

Dr. Shaw swallowed. "Her physical wounds will heal," he said, referring to the map work of scars on her back. "The mental wounds may take a little more time."

Austin felt himself shaking his head. He was so tired, yet so on edge. "Do we have a motive yet? Do we know what he was after? It doesn't make any sense that he'd take her and then just… return her."

"No, it doesn't," the doctor agreed. "In fact, it doesn't make sense at all…. " Dr. Shaw cleared his throat. "We need to speak with Dr. Bishop first and foremost, I think." He paused. "I will be contacting you when we found out more information." He shook hands with Austin, then nodded to Gomez his goodbye.

Afterwards, Gomez and another officer debriefed him on safety procedures, told him they were going to tap the phones lines for the next week, and instructed him to report any suspicious outside behavior. He told them that he would.

He spoke to Matt and Ryan next, who had anxiously been waiting in the driveway the entire afternoon, talking to officers, waiting to speak to Austin. They stood by the jeep as officers bustled around them, blue and red lights constantly flashing in his peripheral. Austin told them what he could, that he didn't know why it had happened but they were working on a motive. That Taylor was safe, and that was the important thing.

The two men asked if there was anything they could do, if they could help in any way, but Austin assured them they'd done more than enough simply by being there. He apologized for having to cut their trip short, but nobody was angry considering the circumstances. They unpacked his things and put them in the garage before saying goodbye, each offering him a hug and making him promise to give theirs to Taylor as well.

In the living room a few minutes later, Austin held Taylor's hands as a medic treated the wounds on her back. She remained composed throughout, holding Austin's gaze as they sat facing each other. He smiled sadly at her and touched her face. She moved to fit her cheek into his hand, and he wished suddenly that his fingertips were cloths, and they could soak up her tears and absorb all the hurt, sadness, and pain she'd been put through. He'd gladly take it all, tack it onto his own problems, hurts, pains, and bare the weight all himself. He wished more than anything that he could do that for her.

By the time the medic was done, and everyone began shuffling outside, it was almost eight o'clock, and the sky was dark. They'd been there the whole day, Austin only for the half of it.

Officer Gomez was the last to leave the premises, and as Austin walked her out, she hesitated in the doorway. "We have two police officers staked outside," she said. "If you want more, you just say the word."

Austin nodded his thanks. "Two is enough. Thank you."

She nodded, and then she was gone.

Austin watched through the window as her cruisers and a few others drove away, leaving two left in the driveway as she had promised. Austin made sure all the doors and windows were locked, and then returned back to Taylor who was still sitting on the couch. As far as he knew, she'd been sitting there all afternoon.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked, genuinely concerned. "You must be starving."

"One of the officers made me a sandwich and brought some water," she said, indicating to the paper plate and empty glass on the coffee table. Her voice was hoarse and sore from crying.

Austin sighed and came around the couch to sink next to her, pulling her into his arms. The house was quiet now, and yet his ears will still ringing from all the buzz of the excitement from earlier.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, feeling that it was a stupid question, but needing to ask it regardless.

"I don't know," she said honestly. She dug her nails into his shirt, trying to fight off an onslaught of fresh tears.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here. I never should have left you alone."

Taylor shook her head and raised her head from his chest. "You couldn't have known, I—I didn't know. I'm still trying to… process all of this. That I'm alive." She paused to lick her cracked lips, to swallow. Her eyes rose to meet Austin's. "He tried to kill me. He swung… he swung an ax at me. I just barely rolled away….. "

Austin closed his eyes, imagining the scene and grimacing. It didn't sound real. He didn't want to believe it.

There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask her now that they were alone, but it didn't feel right. She'd been retelling the incident for hours now, reliving the painful scenes, the last thing he wanted to do was put her through all of that again.

Suddenly, Taylor let out a short, quiet laugh, something caught between embarrassment and a half sob. "I probably smell awful," she said, rubbing her eyes.

Austin let himself smile a bit. "You and me both. I haven't showered in three days."

After helping her up from the couch, Austin turned off all the lights, double-checked that the doors were locked, and then climbed the stairs to the bedroom with Taylor. In the bathroom. they peeled off their clothes and stepped into the shower. He washed her hair for her, scrubbing his fingers through her scalp as she leaned back into him, closing her eyes, and then he soaped up her sides, careful not to anger her still-healing wounds.

Taylor got out of the shower first, and she dressed and sat on the closed lid of the toilet as she waited for Austin to finish. She watched the mirror fog and then bowed her head to hold it in her hands. She was so exhausted and her stomach ached with constant worry.

Neither of them said anything until the shower had turned off and they were both slipping under the sheets of their bed. They lay on their sides, facing each other, with the covers pulled up only to their hips. It was too hot outside to cover anything more.

"I don't want to sleep," she told him, breaking their long silence. Austin nodded once, understanding. "Tell me about your trip?"

And so he did. He smiled sadly as he tugged her closer, slotting their bodies together like two pieces of a puzzle connecting. He absently stroked her sides with his fingertips as he spoke, looking into her eyes as he talked for what felt like hours. His deep, quiet voice soothed Taylor's paranoia, helping her to calm down, to feel at ease. He told her about the waterfall they'd hiked to, how they'd gotten lost along the way and how Matt how confessed he was deeply afraid of wolves, and they'd all teased him about it the entire way back by howling and making a ruckus. He told her about the food they cooked and how Ryan had insisted on cooking everything, because he'd been reading a lot of cookbooks since the baby was due soon and he wanted to be able to cook for Angie. He told her about the sunshine and the mountains and how, one day when they were older, he'd like to take her out there, build her a log house with rocking chairs on the wrap-around porch and lots of dogs running around.

"You trying to turn me into a country girl?" she smiled, for the first time that day.

Austin smiled back. "You'd look cute in those plaid shirts and cowboy boots," he said, leaning down to kiss her collarbone. He hugged her close then, happy to feel her warm breath on his chest.

"Keep talking," she whispered as his fingers curled over her sides, tracing invisible patterns across smooth skin. "Tell me about our cabin."

He did, and Taylor realized there was nothing better than feeling someone's heart beating against your ear, to be so close and intimate with the person you were most crazy about, so in love with.

She felt her eyes closing as she listened, listened to him plan their future. She'd been born and raised in Gotham, and even though it held some sentimental value to her, it was also home to many memories, memories which were painful and most times hard to relieve. Moving away from here, leaving Gotham, relocating to a small town—the more Austin spoke of it, the more she wanted to do it.

And it was with those thoughts, and the sound of Austin's voice, that she eventually drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>It was a while before things would be able to return back to normal, Taylor realized. Or maybe they never would. Not after something like that, not after what she'd gone through.<p>

She wasn't permitted to return to work until the investigation with Dr. Bishop was complete. Nobody, however, was able to get a hold of him, at least not for a few days. When he did return from his "vacation", the police questioned him immediately, asked him about the suspicious paperwork that Taylor said she had taken.

He replied to all of their questions by denying its existence and saying he knew nothing of it.

When Dr. Shaw returned four days after the incident, it was a hot, Thursday night. Austin had been working all afternoon on the broken air conditioner unit located on the side of the house, and Taylor had been alternating between gardening in the backyard and drinking copious amounts of ice-cold water to keep cool. She ducked back inside the house frequently in order to pace or find solace in the bedroom, even though the upstairs part of the house was stifling.

She didn't like to be outside for too long. Anxiety preyed on her at the slightest gust of wind, or when one of the neighborhood kids yelled from their backyard as they played in the sun. It made her heart skip too many beats for too many seconds, her breath seizing in her throat like someone had shoved their fist down it, blocking her airflow. And when a car backfired across the street a little while later, Taylor thought for sure it was a gunshot, and she gasped as she instinctively curled towards the ground, feeling like a fool when she realized the real cause of the noise. Austin had been too busy working at the side of the house to notice.

After that, Taylor abandoned her gardening tools and went inside to take a cold shower. She sat down on the floor of the tub with her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them as the shower water rained down on her from overhead.

She didn't realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips.

* * *

><p>Austin was still working diligently on the air conditioning when he heard a car pull into the driveway. He was dripping with sweat, a dark V having formed on the front of his shirt and under his arms. He exhaled and wiped the sweat out of his eyes with his forearm, smudging grease. He hoped that the person in the driveway was a mechanic offering to fix the air conditioner free of charge.<p>

Instead, when he walked around the side of the house, carrying a wrench in one hand, he found Dr. Shaw stepping out of a shiny, black car. He was dressed in casual (but pressed) slacks and was wearing a dark teal suit jacket; Austin wondered how he could manage such attire on a blistering hot day.

"Dr. Shaw," Austin greeted as he stepped onto the driveway. When he was close enough, he smiled lightly. "I would apologize for not shaking your hand, but as you can see I'm covered in sweat."

"That's quite alright," the doctor assured. "I only hope I have not caught you at a bad time? I called and no one answered."

"Well, we've both been outside for most of the day," he explained. He cleared his throat as Dr. Shaw continued to stare. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes, actually... would you mind if we sat down?"

"No, no, that's fine." He gestured to the house, leading the way. "Just to warn you, it's probably hotter in the house than it is out here. Air conditioner is broken," he said, waving his wrench for emphasis. He left it on the porch near the front door before motioning for Dr. Shaw to step inside.

"I can handle a little heat," the doctor replied simply.

"Do you need me to get Taylor?" he asked as he headed towards the sink in the kitchen. "Sounds like she's in the shower, but I can get her if you need to speak with her."

Dr. Shaw shook his head as he stood near the island. "I'd actually just like to speak with you."

Austin paused, but only for a moment. "We can go in the dining room," he said at last, "it's probably coolest in there."

He washed his hands thoroughly and then retrieved two glasses of water for them. The dining room was dark and cool, as promised. Over the years it had turned into Austin's home office of sorts, since they rarely used it for eating, and as such, there was a small reading lamp situated on the table, looking entirely out of place, and papers scattered everywhere. The blinds were almost always drawn (Austin liked working in the semi-dark, there was less to be distracted by) and the sun's heat did not permeate through the window.

They both took their seats without speaking, though Austin sighed at being able to finally sit down with a cool glass of water nestled in his palm.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, pushing his glass to the side when he was done with it. Dr. Shaw hadn't touched his glass at all. "Did you find out anything new?"

Dr. Shaw looked uncomfortable, and extremely stiff, even if his usual posture was tight and straight. He cleared his throat after a moment. "Austin, I don't think you're going to like what I have to say."

Now it was Austin's turn to stiffen, his whole body becoming rigid. "And what is that?"

"We think she may have suffered a psychotic breakdown, on the night the alleged attack occurred."

Austin felt his blood rising, had to grit his teeth to remain cool. "What do you mean by 'alleged'?"

This is where Dr. Shaw calmly retracted his hands from the table, looking remorseful as he leaned into the back of his chair. "All of our evidence points to our belief that she was never kidnapped at all." Austin's mouth fell open in shock, but he didn't have time to interject as Dr. Shaw continued on. "We found no fingerprints, no signs of a break-in, of a struggle, there were no foreign substances on her."

"That's impossible," he breathed.

The doctor leaned forward. "Is it really?" he offered. "Did you not find it odd how in-tact the house was, or that the neighbors never reported any suspicious activity?" He sighed, leaned back in his chair again. "Dr. Bishop's denied the existence of the so-called papers she had taken from the hospital."

"That's your evidence?" he asked with a look of sheer incredulity. "That's what you're basing this... theory on?"

"Think about it, Austin. It's not uncommon for relapses of the psych like this to happen. You know what her childhood was like, the foster care, the abuse."

Dr. Shaw was being unreasonably calm about everything, Austin thought, and it made his anger boil even hotter.

"So you think... you're trying to tell me that she made this all up? That's she crazy?" He swallowed, not wanting to believe it, hardly knowing what to say. "What about the cuts on her back? You think she did that herself?"

"Under the circumstances, it's entirely possible. Individuals who suffer from a traumatic past such as hers often recreate unfavorable scenarios during times of stress. Unconsciously, of course," he quickly added. "Has she been stressed, lately?"

"I don't know," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I mean... no more than usual... " Austin paused then, suddenly remembering how nervous she'd been acting a few weeks ago after they'd left her father's house after dinner. He'd left her alone in the car while he went to retrieve groceries... and he remembered how she'd gripped his hand till her knuckles turned white, all the way home.

"You're remembering something," the doctor said, perhaps a bit too knowingly for Austin's liking.

Austin rubbed his jaw, which suddenly ached because he'd been clenching it so hard.

"I know this must be upsetting for you." He paused to let Austin think. "But I don't believe she's crazy. She may have been acting out an uncontrollable daydream or nightmare, entirely unaware of her own actions."

It was a long time before Austin was able to speak. He didn't know what to think, what to say. It was practically unthinkable to even consider that what Taylor had told him had just been a figment of her imagination, a strange trance-like state, some kind of relapse into her past, maybe.

Austin's voice broke a little when he spoke. "What would you have me tell her?"

"The truth," he said, and his eyes felt like blunt knives as he stared straight at Austin. "I will recommend to you a psychiatrist that she should see no less than three times a week. And she'll need to work less, if work is proving to be a stressful environment for her."

Austin clenched his jaw tight again, this time in an effort to hold his tongue. He was going to mention that they were scrambling to make ends meet as it was, that even with both their salaries combined, they were still struggling to make house payments, to pay off college loans. But he didn't. This was about Taylor and her need to seek recovery, to make the pain go away for good.

He realized he'd be willing to do whatever it took to make sure that happened, even if it meant crawling back to his parents, begging for money he knew they had more than enough of.

"This can't be real." It was said more to himself than to the doctor, and he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. Despite the heat, he suddenly felt very cold.

"I am sorry to have to tell you this," the doctor said, breaking the silence. "But it is better than what we originally had thought, is it not?"

He was talking about the Joker.

Austin nodded, wearily.

"If you have no more questions, I will see myself to the door."

Austin had a thousand more questions, but he didn't know where to begin. The information, everything Dr. Shaw had just told him, felt like a terrible lie. And more than that, as the realization of the situation began to sink in, it made him feel like a terrible husband. He hadn't been there for her. If he would have stayed home, or if she had come along on the trip with them, he could have prevented all of this pain from happening.

Now she was damaged, worse off than when she'd ended those psychiatric sessions all those years ago. Were they really back to square one, just like that?

Without looking up, he nodded his goodbye to Dr. Shaw, who quietly pushed in his chair and walked himself out, the front door closing without a sound behind him.

Austin sat there with his head in his hands at the dining room table until the outside grew dark, until his muscles became strained and tired from maintaining the same position for so long. When Taylor found him, wrapping her arms around him and asking what was wrong, he'd never struggled for words as much as he did then.

How on earth was he supposed to tell her—tell his wife, the woman he trusted and loved more than anyone else in the entire world—that everything she'd told him had been some kind of hallucination, a walking nightmare? If he were honest with himself, he didn't even know if he believed it, but what other choice did he have?

He kept his eyes glued to the table, his voice barely audible.

"I need to tell you something."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's Notes: **__This chapter is dedicated to SillySpring and also SavvyJackie, who both left me two of the most incredible and enthusiastic reviews, and, well, it was an enthusiasm I found absolutely contagious! Dear readers, thank you so much for your kind words._

_To those of you still waiting on review replies from the last chapter, you will receive them soon. I apologize for the delay._

_Some of you have voiced questions about the Joker's age, and I just wanted to say the following: the Joker _has_ aged since Clockwork, but not by much, or rather, physically speaking, the change in the Joker is nothing significant. He's not an old man as he ought to be, considering the time jump between the two stories. I know that realistically speaking, this is impossible—we as mere humans cannot stop time—but because I've always seen the Joker as a sort of immortal villain, I've chosen to keep his age close to the one he was in Clockwork. I sincerely hope this will not put anybody off—I simply don't want the age difference between Taylor and the Joker to be too drastic. Also, I cannot fathom seeing the Joker walking around with wrinkles and a cane. That's a picture I did not want to create!_

_With all that being said, if you have questions, concerns, or just comments... please feel free to leave them. I love hearing back from you all. Your support is inspiring and gets these chapters moving more quickly!_

_Additionally, if you'd like to chat, or ask personal questions that do not pertain to the story, you can find me on Tumblr at _engagemachine_._

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

Taylor's hair was still wet from the shower, and she brushed it back over her shoulder as she sat down, occupying the seat that Dr. Shaw had been sitting in.

"I saw a car parked in the driveway. Who was it?"

Austin cleared his throat. "Dr. Shaw, the psychologist that spoke to you the other day?"

"Yes, I remember." Taylor studied her husband, with his creased brows and weary expression, knowing that something was wrong as he stared into his lap. Goose bumps rose over her flesh despite the heat, and she rubbed her bare arms as she leaned forward in her seat. "What's the matter?" she asked, hoping her voice did not reveal her worry, even as her heart leapt into her throat. "What did he say?"

Austin took a deep breath. How on earth was he supposed to tell his wife that the trauma she'd been through had been a figment of her imagination? That she'd made everything up in some kind of attempt to combat her stress, her anxieties.

He steeled himself, straightening in his chair, and decided to give her the easier news first.

"He said he'd like you to start seeing a psychologist again. And I know you don't want to, after what happened last time—and I'm not sure if I really want you to either—but I'd be willing to go with you, if you think that might help. You don't have to go through his alone, is what I'm saying." Taylor watched his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed. "Repressing everything can only be making things worse—talking about it only seems logical."

Taylor was silent, and Austin waited patiently for her response. She stared at the floral table cloth in front of her, tracing red petals and green stems with her eyes. When she spoke, her gaze remained fixed on the table.

"I thought that's what would be best for me too, at first," she whispered. "It sounded like a good idea, like it made sense. But the more we dug," she paused to release a shaky breath, "the more I started to remember. And I don't _want _to remember. The fear I feel... it's _paralyzing_." She felt tears lodged in her throat and she closed her eyes as she attempted to swallow them back down. "I've spent my whole life trying to forget everything—and these—these people want me to relieve it all, all the stuff I've buried away. I can't go back to who I used to be, to the panic attacks, the insomnia..."

"I know, baby, I know," he said gently.

The silence ticked on. When she had composed herself, she let out a deep sigh.

"What else did he say?" She knew from Austin's troubled expression that he hadn't told her everything. At his silence, however, fear clutched at her insides, an emotion that often like to don sharp claws that threatened to puncture her lungs.

Austin met her gaze, and she noticed the way his hands trembled, just a fraction, as he removed his glasses and set them on the table.

"They found... no fingerprints, no evidence that those men had been here at all."

Taylor nodded, though was still confused because she had expected as much. For whatever reason, they had left the place spotless, most likely to cover their tracks so they couldn't be identified. They'd even taken the clothes she had been wearing the night they'd abducted her, which is why she had woken up in her bed in nothing but her undergarments.

"And?" she prodded, holding her breath.

"Taylor... they think it was a hallucination, that you dreamed the whole thing as a way to... I don't know—" he shook his head, "—deal with stress, the repressed emotional baggage... " Austin trailed off at the look of sheer horror on Taylor's face, and he realized he couldn't have worded that any worse than he just had.

"W—what?" Taylor straightened in her chair, hands falling into her lap, and Austin could _see_ her heartbeat thudding against her ribcage, her skin turn ghost-white. He opened his mouth to speak, fumbling and tripping over his tongue for useless words, for any words, but Taylor shook her head to stop him. Her chair scraped against the floor as she pushed it back, but she did not stand. "They think I'm lying? That I made all this up?" Austin cringed at the hysteria in her voice, the utter disbelief laced within her words, yet he remained silent, his vocal cords failing him. "How can they—I don't—" She broke off into a sound that was something between a sob and a choked breath. She pressed the flat of her palms against her temples, applying enough pressure to make her skull feel as though it were about to crack. "Do they think I'm crazy?" She looked up sharply, staring at Austin as a sudden wave of cold, paralyzing fear washed over her. "Do _you_ think I'm crazy?" Before waiting for an answer, she found herself fumbling as she pushed her chair back from the table, standing, even as her legs threatened to give out beneath her. Fear swam in her peripheral and breathed down her neck. "Do you think I'm _insane_?"

"No!" Austin stood too, nearly as startled by the tone of his voice as Taylor was. "No, no, I _don't_."

Taylor shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes. "It was _real_, Austin," she cried. "It was real, I swear it." Her hands were trembling as she released the back of the chair she had been gripping, the only thing that had kept her on her feet. She backed into the wall to separate them more, as if she couldn't trust Austin, as if he were going to take her to the nearest asylum and leave her there. "I'm not crazy, I'm _not_."

Austin felt his heart shatter as Taylor pressed her hands to the wall. She looked every bit ready and willing to sink into that plaster, to try and escapehim.

He would not be made a monster.

He moved towards her, despite the fear in her eyes, and shook his head as if to erase her doubts. "I know that, I _know_," he insisted. "I know that you're not crazy. But you—we have to consider the evidence. I didn't want to believe it myself," he paused, swallowing, "I want more than anything to believe you, but the police have spoken to Jason, and to Dr. Bishop, and nobody knows what papers you said you had found. The hospital has no records of them. And there are no fingerprints in the house—and for the Joker to return you unharmed—Taylor, he hasn't been seen or heard from in _months_. Your story, it just... the pieces don't fit." He looked down, then up to meet her eyes. "You have to understand where I'm coming from."

Taylor shook her head at him, frantic. "It happened, Austin! I did not—I did not _do_ this to myself," she sobbed, referring to the scars on her back.

Austin's expression was torn with sadness as he looked at her. "I want to believe you, I do," he said, more heartfelt than he'd ever been before, "but we've never been apart for so long, it seems... possible that you could have hallucinated this because you were frightened. We need to consider that." Austin struggled to keep his tone collected, but seeing his wife look so desperate made his heart crack. He could see the trust slipping from her eyes, and it was the most painful thing he'd ever witnessed. It'd taken months to gain her trust, to build a stable friendship between them and for him to convince her that he was not going to hurt her or use her like so many had before. It was months before she even allowed him to touch her.

He remembered the first time she had, in the dim lighting of the movie theater, her hand seeking out his with an almost childlike shyness. She carefully intertwined their fingers as the movie started, and Austin had never felt so ecstatic, his heart thrumming pleasantly in his chest. And they didn't look at each other, didn't exchange pleased little glances, but he held onto her hand for the entire movie, fighting back smiles, and refused to let go even when they were in the car and he was driving her back to her dorm. In that first initial moment of contact, he knew he had gained her trust, and it was something he never wanted to lose.

And yet, he _was _losing it, and guilt flourished at the thought that _he_ was the one who had caused this breakdown. If he would have just stayed, if he hadn't of left her alone for the weekend, she wouldn't have hallucinated, she wouldn't have hurt herself.

When he took a step towards her and cautiously raised his hands, as if surrendering and asking for permission to hold her both at once, Taylor turned her head away. She slumped into the wall, boneless, and covered her face with both hands as tears spilled between the cracks of her fingers.

When he came to her, his weight pressed her into the wall and she couldn't breathe, but she let him as he whispered promises in her ear and smoothed her hair. They stayed like that for a while, until the room was black and the sun had gone and Taylor had calmed enough to find the strength to push Austin away.

"It happened," she whispered to him. "You have to believe me, you _have_ to. I didn't imagine it, Austin. It was real, I swear to you." She was beginning to shake again, and Austin moved to grab her arm, but she tore it away as if his fingertips had burned her.

He tried his best to mask the expression of hurt that flickered across his eyes. "Taylor, I know this is a lot to take in, but you need to calm down. Please let me help you."

He blindly reached for one of the dining room chairs, unwilling to take his eyes of her for even a second. His fingers wrapped around the wooden spokes of the back, and he tugged it in front of him, gently reaching for Taylor's arm as he urged her to sit.

She eyed the chair with a wary expression, but at his gentle persistence, she turned and sunk into it. New tears welled behind her eyes.

"How can you not believe me?" she whispered.

Austin knelt down in front of her, his hands on her knees as he looked up into her face. "We're going to get through this, okay? I promise you. I don't think you're crazy. I know you're scared." He was babbling, he knew, but he continued to grapple for more words. He felt instead as if he were sifting through grains of sand. "I'm not going to let this happen again."

Taylor shook her head in disagreement, and Austin's brows drew together. "Taylor, please look at me."

She would not meet his gaze.

"Look at me, please, just _look _at me." He murmured it over and over again, brushing his fingers beneath her chin, trying to tilt it up. When she did lift her head, her eyes were bloodshot, her expression worn, and Austin cupped her face in his hands, bringing their foreheads together. "I love you. I need you to know that. I love you so much."

He waited for her response, the one she always gave him without fail. "I love you more," she said, just above a whisper.

Austin forced a weak smile, pressed away her tears with his thumbs, and his response rolled off his tongue as easily as it always did. "I doubt that, baby."

Only this time, he really did.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Austin was up before the sun in order to prepare for work. He knew he couldn't afford to take another day off; he'd already used all of his vacation time for the entire year and it was only June. He longed to stay in bed, to be with Taylor all day, but he knew he couldn't risk it, and with her taking some temporary time off until she felt emotionally well enough to return, the bills were piling up. As he buttoned up his shirt in front of the bathroom mirror, he made a mental note about calling the bank to see about refinancing the mortgage on the house. It was a last resort option, but if it'd lower their monthly payment, it was worth it.<p>

He spent an hour in the dining room organizing his papers, scribbling notes, researching for an article he had due in two days. His boss was going to kill him if he didn't at least have a rough draft put together. He mulled over burnt toast and cold coffee until five thirty, then he needed to go.

He crept up the stairs to where Taylor was still in bed and gently roused her from sleep, crouching by the side of the bed.

"Hey, sweetie."

Taylor rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sighed. "Hi."

"Hey, what are your plans for today?" he asked softly.

She eyed his suit and the briefcase at his feet and frowned. "Are you going to work?"

He nodded. "I've already used up all my vacation time."

Taylor knew that was her fault. She clutched the pillow and felt her lashes brush against it as she blinked. "I'm sorry," she said.

He laughed gently, bringing up a hand to brush the hair from her eyes. "Don't be. It's all right," he assured. "I might have a few sick days left, I'm not sure." He paused to pull the covers up to her arms. "Your plans?" he reminded her.

Taylor was quiet for a moment. Her eyes drifted towards the ceiling as memories from last night's conversation came flooding back, how hysterical she'd been, how Austin had not believed her. She swallowed as goose bumps rose over her flesh. Suddenly she did not want to be alone.

"I think I'll spend the day at dad's house." _Anywhere but here_, she didn't add.

"Will you call me when you get there?"

"Okay."

"Alright. I'm going to have my cell phone on me, so if you need anything, you just call, alright? I made sure your cell phone is charged. It's in the dining room."

Taylor nodded. "Thank you."

He smiled at her and brought a hand to cup her face, kissing her softly. "I'll pick you up tonight on my way home from work?"

She nodded and watched him leave, closing the door softly behind him after parting with a small, reassuring smile.

In the silence that followed his departure, Taylor realized it was the first time she had been alone since the incident.

... The incident that no one believed had actually happened. It dawned on her then that she had been so distraught and frantic last night, filled with such disbelief, that she hadn't actually processed everything Austin had told her.

Suddenly wide awake, she peeled back the covers and padded towards the window, catching the back end of Austin's car just as he left the driveway.

When he was gone, she called the hospital and asked for Jason.

He was the one who had begged her to take this ridiculous case in the first place. Austin said Jason had no recollection of the papers she had found—and Taylor knew that was not right, because he _had_ to know about them, he had to know because he was the one to tell her his concerns about the fear toxin.

And then there was the patient, Floyd Lawton. Did his breakdown, his incarceration into Arkham... could that possibly have something to do with the fear toxin? Had Dr. Bishop been administering the fear toxin to him?

She didn't have time to ponder her question when her call connected and she heard a voice on the other line. She did not recognize the receptionist. At her request to speak to Jason, she was told that he had left yesterday for vacation. Taylor frowned into the phone, unable to ignore the way her stomach suddenly dropped.

When she asked to speak to Dr. Bishop instead, the nurse informed her that he wouldn't be in until later. Secretly, Taylor felt relieved. She didn't know if she wanted to talk to him anyway. She knew that whatever he was doing, it was something dangerous, and she wasn't about to question him. For all she knew, he could have been working with the Joker. She did, however, need to speak to Jason. She knew he was the only one who could help her now. Not the police, not Dr. Shaw, and not... not Austin.

For a while, she paced the living room, weighing her options. She knew that, before she took any course of action, she needed to do it somewhere safe. She needed to go somewhere where she could think without the constant blood-rush and panic she felt at being alone in her own house. She wondered, vaguely, if she'd ever be able to be home alone again for any long period of time. After what had happened only days prior, the very idea terrified her.

Back upstairs, as she pulled on a pair of shorts and a teal colored blouse, she realized how quiet the house was without Austin. He normally didn't make a lot of noise when he was home to begin with, but his presence was noticeably absent all the same. Taylor willed the hairs on her arm not to stand on end when she heard a noise outside the house—and she summed it up as a branch scraping against the side paneling.

After she had changed, she called her father. The anxiety at being home alone was only getting worse, increasing by the second, and she knew she needed to get out of the house. It was suffocating her, and every sound, no matter how small, made her heart leap in her chest.

When she asked if she could spend the day with him, William seemed surprised, but delighted. She promised she'd fix him breakfast when she got there.

She called a cab, and arrived at her childhood home in no less than thirty minutes, though she had waited in morning rush hour traffic for the majority of it.

Outside, she climbed the old, familiar steps to the front door, trailing her hand along the railing which was rusted now and had become wrapped in vines that snaked around the door frame and up the drainage pipe that led to the roof. She felt herself smile a little when she remembered how she used to sit on the steps with Terrance and his friends.

She rarely let herself think about her brother these days, because it saddened her to know she'd likely never see him again—she didn't even know if he was still alive—but she did cling to the good memories, to the days when her mother was still alive and for that brief time when they had been a picture-perfect family.

When she knocked and her father answered, Taylor was stunned to see that he had dressed for her and looked more presentable than he had in years. She smiled at him and pulled him into a hug.

"You look good, dad," she said, kissing his cheek, and when she pulled back, his eyes were shining with something other than tears for the first time in ages.

In the kitchen, Taylor let him ramble about nothing and everything as she prepared pancakes and eggs for them over the stove. She listened contentedly, knowing that he no longer spoke with friends, and she and Austin were the only ones he ever engaged in face-to-face conversation with. It was good to hear him talk, and even though he was a quiet man, he had no qualms about opening up to his daughter—so long as it was nothing too personal—and had quite a lot to say.

When he told her about the police that had come to question him the other night, Taylor tensed, fearing a conversation she didn't want to have. She was thankful when she learned they had kept their questioning very routine, and consequently he had no idea what had transpired to her over the past few days. She felt relieved, knowing that he probably wouldn't have been able to handle the news. She could hardly handle it herself, and even here, in the calm safety of her kitchen in her childhood home, her muscles still felt too tense and her hands jittery. And if that weren't enough, she felt the cuts on her back with every fractional movement of her waist, when she twisted to reach for something or bent down to reach a pan from the lower cabinets, or sat down and pressed her back against a chair. Each time, she was stabbed with pain, and instantly she thought of 'Ace' and his weight straddling her legs, and the way the blade had felt slicing through layers of her skin, and the fear—intoxicating, like some drunken stupor, a stupor that cast a veil of panic over her already-fragile mind.

She took a deep breath and instead focused on giving her father her utmost attention. He deserved that.

They spent the entire day in each other's presence, and she'd nearly persuaded him to take a walk outside with her, but in the end he had declined. It was alright, though. He was far more cognizant and aware than normal, and that was good enough for her. She didn't want to get ahead of herself, but she dared to hope that maybe her father's depression was finally reaching its end.

At some point during the afternoon, when William had accidentally drifted off in a much-needed nap in his recliner, Taylor let him be and decided to wander through the house. She went to her room first, climbing the forest-green carpeted stairs and counting the steps as she went, just as she had done as a child. When she pushed open the door to her room, it was as if she'd stepped back in time. Nothing had changed. She hadn't stepped foot in her room in years, and yet everything was exactly in its place. Her plastic horses, which she had loved so much, were carefully arranged on the white shelf that her father had built and mounted for her. Her curtains were sheer and pink, and pushed aside to let in the sunlight, which trickled through the gaps in the blinds. Colorful stickers decorated her oval mirror above the dresser, and her wooden jewelry box, which she had bedazzled herself, lay just beneath it.

There were pink and yellow paper chains strung around the window frame—she'd made those in art class in eighth grade, she remembered fondly—and her bed was neatly made as it almost always was. She went over to sit on it, the wooden frame creaking beneath her weight. She splayed her hand across the quilted bedspread in reverence and picked at one of the loose threads. How many times had she curled in this green quilt with its paisley designs and cried herself to sleep?

She went to Terrance's room next, where even more memories came flooding back to her. She had spent a lot of time in her brother's room. The walls were dark blue and offset by dark, cherry brown furniture, a stark contrast to her pale room with the clean white dresser and bedside table. She read the plaques on his sports trophies—he had loved baseball—and stared at the drawings on his wall, as well as his impressive stack of video games by the old, box TV. She smiled at the antennas that protruded from it like proud, crooked bunny ears.

When she arrived at his desk, she trailed a finger across the spot where he'd always kept his comic books. She left a cleared, circle path amidst the gathered dust in her wake.

Out of curiosity, she opened the top drawer to his desk. She had no idea what he'd kept in there because she'd never been nosy enough to check when she was younger. She'd never had a desire to. Now, though, she was curious about what kind of trinkets she might find.

The drawers was filled with regular things that one might come to expect—sheets of notebook paper, a myriad of pens, markers, and pencils, a lone sock tied in a knot and was filled with loose change, an empty lighter, movie stubs, and lastly, a collection of loose, miscellaneous baseball cards. She sifted it through it fondly, smiling a little when she recalled how important Terrance's baseball cards had been to him.

She was about to leave when the sound of the recliner squeaking downstairs met her ears, but that thought was forgotten when she noticed something that had fallen between the desk and the wall, a book of some sort.

Her brows drew together as she bent down to retrieve it. It was a small, spiral-bound notebook, the size of a paperback, with a dark blue, blank cover. She dusted off the front before opening the first page.

She realized she had discovered Terrance's journal. Her brows rose in surprise at the finding; she didn't know he had kept one.

She swallowed and let herself sink to the floor, pressing her back against the wall with her knees pulled to her chest as she held the book in her hands, pressed against the front of her thighs. The pages were yellow and some of them stuck together—as if he'd spilled water on them or the book had gotten caught in the rain—and she had to peel the pages apart slowly so they wouldn't tear.

She skimmed through his entries with a cautious sort of eagerness, almost fearful of what she might find. Terrance's entries were far and in between, and the dates he had scrawled at the top of each paged indicated he wrote every one or two months, or whenever he felt distressed or simply needed to vent.

When she stumbled upon an entry dated on the day she'd been adopted by the Borden's, her heart skipped a beat and she paused, unable to catch her breath. For a moment, she closed her eyes, wondering if she should dare read his secret words, knowing that he would have mentioned her in his entry—but she couldn't contain her curiosity, no matter the uneasy feeling that had settled in her stomach.

His handwriting, even as a boy, was practically immaculate. She was surprised by this because her own handwriting had looked like chicken scratch at his age, but Terrance's penmanship was quite impressive. She'd never really noticed it when they were younger.

She read his words carefully.

_I have a new sister today. Her name is Taylor. She's not my real sister, because she's adopted, but mom and dad really like her. They've wanted a girl for a long time, and I guess mom can't have one for some reason. Taylor is quiet. She has blonde hair and mom and dad told me that we look alike. She's spent a couple weeks at our house before, to see if she likes us, I guess, but today she is my sister for real. I showed her my room and all the video games I would teach her to play, but she didn't say anything. She doesn't know what Star Wars is, but I promised her we'd watch it soon. _

_I hope she'll like me. Mom said it might take some time, because she's shy and she didn't have a good mom and dad, but mom said she'd come around eventually, and that I have to be patient. Taylor cried today when the firehouse sirens down the street went off. I don't know why. Mom hugged her and said it'd be okay. _

_I'm really happy I have a sister now, even though she's shy. I'm going to be the best big brother ever. _

Here Taylor stopped, tears blurring her vision so much that she couldn't read. She let the notebook fall closed and leaned her head back against the wall. She wondered how different her childhood might have been if she would have just accepted her new family with open arms, instead of being so skittish and afraid. Maybe it wouldn't have caused Clara so much stress and worry, maybe she wouldn't have had a stroke and died. Maybe Terrance wouldn't have run away, and he'd still be living in Gotham, and they'd be friends and have family dinners at each other's houses every Friday night.

Taylor brushed away her tears with the back of her hand and, after she had collected herself, carefully lodged Terrance's notebook between the wall and his desk, just as she had found it. Maybe one day he'd come back for it.

In the hallway, she paused at her parent's closed door, hesitating. She wanted to look inside, to see if her father had left the photos of him and Clara on the walls, to caress her mother's jewelry and spritz her perfume around the room as she'd done as a child.

Instead, she decided against it. She didn't know if she was ready to experience the flood of emotions she knew she would encounter if she stepped inside that room. Terrance's journal had already brought back so many things she had forgotten, little memories she had tucked away in the back of her mind for later but had never revisited.

She made her way back down the creaking staircase and into the living room where her father was still asleep. She smiled fondly at him and kissed his forehead, before planting herself on the couch to nap as well.

When Austin arrived to pick her up at six, William was surprised but pleased when she told him she'd be back tomorrow. Taylor found she was genuinely looking forward to it.

At the doorway, her father smiled at her, almost as if embarrassed. "Thank you," he said, and he didn't have to elaborate what he was thanking her for, because she felt his gratitude as clearly as she felt the summer heat on her skin.

She smiled back and kissed his cheek.

Austin was chatty on the way home, and after telling her about his day, he was eager to hear about hers, and she told him that her father looked good—and yes, agreed Austin, he had looked better than usual—and Taylor said she was looking forward to coming back tomorrow.

She did not tell him about Terrance's journal. Somehow it felt too personal of a thing to share. Terrance and Austin had never met, and though she spoke of her brother little, she suspected that Austin resented him for leaving Taylor and her father in the state that he had. But Taylor felt no such resentment or animosity towards him, because he was her brother and she'd always care for him, even if she was sad and hurt that he'd left without so much as a goodbye.

Austin groaned when the car pulled into the driveway and he cut the ignition. "The house is going to be scorching," he muttered. He knew he wouldn't have time to work on the air conditioning unit now, not with the sun setting and the sky beginning to fade into dark shades of blue.

She didn't respond as she followed Austin up the porch steps and he unlocked the door.

"Damn," he muttered when they stepped inside. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and laid his briefcase by the door, shrugging out of his suit. The house was humid and muggy, even worse than it was outside. "I'm going to try and get it fixed this weekend," he promised, watching Taylor as she undid the straps from her sandals. "Should we open some windows?"

"Sure."

At Taylor's short reply, he paused, fingers lingering over the buttons of his dress shirt. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Just tired," she said, and it was true. She felt emotionally drained, and she couldn't stop thinking about Terrance.

But that wasn't all of it. She hadn't felt the same since last night, since Austin had told her that Dr. Shaw thought she had hallucinated her kidnapping. She felt that she couldn't trust him anymore.

In the following two weeks, their relationship became noticeably strained because of it. Taylor tried to be indifferent, tried to pretend she was okay and that she was "recovering" and that she trusted Austin—but she didn't. And she wasn't recovering, and most of the time she felt sick to her stomach and on the precipice of feinting, because she was so worked up and anxiety gnawed at her flesh like parasites and every muscle felt tense, drawn tight like a bow. She couldn't make herself relax if she tried.

And the worst thing was not being able to_ talk_ about it with him. She couldn't tell him that she feared this wasn't over, that whatever she'd gotten herself into was only just beginning, and the cipher—which she still remembered despite having destroyed the paper—was still important and they needed it, _the Joker_ needed it. She felt she couldn't tell Austin any of this because she knew he didn't believe her.

For the first time in years, she felt that she had no one to turn to, no one to trust. The only comfort she felt was when she was with her father. She enjoyed spending time with him and escaping from her anxieties for a while, temporary though her escape was. And when she returned home at the end of the day with Austin, the anxiety returned and the sickness crept in again. The knowledge that she couldn't trust him anymore frustrated her, because she wanted to trust him and she wished more than anything she could force herself to feel differently than she did.

More than all that, though, was the sinking suspicion Taylor had that she was still being watched. She no longer saw the black car anymore, but she couldn't help but feel that something was not right. She heard sounds outside the house, and sometimes things in the garage fell without any explanation at all. The neighbor's dog from across the street barked much more than usual.

She dared to voice her concern to Austin, but he only assured her that she was overreacting.

Austin was also oblivious to the strain between them, or at the very least, had pretended not to notice in an effort to mend what had been broken, and to return to normalcy as soon as possible.

The tension though, as it was want to do, escalated. It happened when they were lounging on the couch one night after he'd picked her up from another day at her father's house. The air conditioning was still broken, and the house was torrid. Taylor was wearing the thinnest summer dress she owned, with spaghetti straps that kept slipping down her shoulders, and Austin dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt. Still, their clothes clung to their skin, and Taylor exhaled, barely audible, as she reached for the newspaper on the coffee table, folded it into a rectangle, and fanned herself with it.

With the TV on, an infomercial for OxiClean droned listlessly in the background, though neither paid much attention to it. Austin sat straight backed against the couch, a notepad resting on the arm of the couch as he jotted down notes for work, and Taylor lay sprawled at his side, her head resting in his lap as she stared up at the ceiling.

It was dusk outside, and the sky was turning brown. The heat of the day wore on, relentless to abate.

Taylor was just starting to drift off to sleep when she heard Austin set his notebook on the coffee table, his pen following with a small thud, and then he was gently threading his fingers through her hair. When she felt his fingers trailing down the side of her face, dipping to trace the curve of her neck, she pretended to be asleep. But he was gently persistent, and he whispered her name to rouse her, lowering his face to place kisses along her hairline, her cheek, and then her mouth.

"I've missed you," he breathed when she opened her eyes, and she let him maneuver the two of them so he was on top, knees digging into the couch on either side of her hips.

Taylor felt guilt curl in her gut when she realized she could not return the sentiment. It was true they hadn't been able to spend much time together, and she supposed she would have missed him if she'd been thinking more about him—but her mind had been constantly plagued with other thoughts: with Terrance, with her dad, with fear, with _the Joker_. She nearly drove herself mad trying to figure out why he hadn't killed her, and why his men had gone through all the trouble of making her kidnapping look as if it had never occurred. She could not understand the purpose of it, the motive. There had to be a motive, didn't there? Aside from wanting to cover their tracks, surely there was another reason for all this? She'd seen too much, knew that something with the fear toxin—and possibly with Dr. Bishop—was going amiss. Why, then, had the Joker decided to let her live? Maybe she'd only scratched the surface, maybe she didn't know as much as she had originally thought?

She gasped when Austin's teeth scraped against her collarbone, not gently, and his tongue darted out to lap at the small patch of redness that bloomed over the area.

"Sorry," he whispered, smiling a little as he planted a kiss on the underside of her jaw, and Taylor wished she could smile back too, indulge in his sweet touches. And she wished she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down to her.

But she didn't. Instead, he came of his own volition, slotting their lips together and breathing hard into her mouth as his hands sought purchase in her hair. He curled a finger around the elastic band of her ponytail and slid it free. When Taylor let out a small sound beneath him, he took it as an opportunity to deepen their kiss, groaning as his tongue swept with abandon against the roof and sides of her mouth, as if drunk on the pleasure of it.

Taylor pressed her hands against his abdomen and left them there, almost as if to push him away, to make him draw back, but he was too caught up in fumbling with the buttons on the front of her dress, sliding them through the holes with hands that trembled in anticipation.

When the buttons were mostly undone, he forwent the rest by tugging the thin straps down her arms and pulling the remainder of the dress past her hips and off her legs. She watched where it pooled to the floor next to the coffee table, her eyes snapping back to Austin's only when she heard the clink of his belt buckle coming undone. This was moving far faster than she had anticipated.

"Austin, I—"

Her words were lost in his mouth, in a kiss that became quickly heated by no fault of her own. When he pulled away to shuck his shorts the rest of the way off, his t-shirt following soon after, Taylor lifted her head in an effort to voice her discomfort—but her head dropped back against the pillows when he cupped her breasts and lowered his head to mouth at them.

And she didn't fight him after that, despite her discomfort and the surge of guilt she felt for not wanting to be intimate with him, for not _trusting _him.

She gasped when he aligned himself and the warm pads of his fingertips were digging into her hips, pulling her closer so her lower half was pressed against his.

And that was when she heard it, a strange noise that might have been brushed off as a figment of the imagination had she been somebody else, but for Taylor, it sounded anything but imaginary. Every muscle in her body went rigid.

"Stop!" she gasped, just as he had prepared himself to enter her. Austin grunted, his breath coming in heavy pants as he reluctantly drew back.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, panting. "What's the matter?"

Taylor struggled into a sitting position beneath him, though he was hesitant to let her get up. "Did you hear that? Did you hear that noise?" Taylor's heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute, her eyes wide with panic as she strained to look behind her towards the hallway that led to the stairs.

"I didn't hear anything," he told her. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, a touch that Taylor interpreted as him trying to push her back down into the couch so they could continue. "Just calm down," he urged. "It's alright."

But she didn't calm down, and her hands shoved on his chest with enough force to startle him.

"Get _off _me!"

Her words, loud, clear, and deafening, rang in the silence for several seconds after she had yelled them, mingling with their heavy breathing in the semi-darkness of the room. The intensity of it took both of them by surprise. She had _never _yelled at him like that.

Austin looked at her, completely at a loss for words. His hands were still on her thighs, and he removed them with something akin to caution, as if the slightest movement might set her off.

"Taylor," he swallowed thickly, "Taylor, I—"

Her sudden sob cut his words short. Her hands rose to her mouth in an effort to stifle the noise. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she gasped, her tongue tripping over her hurried apology. She shook her head as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I didn't mean to shout."

Still hesitant to touch her, Austin swallowed and nodded his head. "It's okay. I didn't mean to... force you." In all of their years of marriage, Austin never thought he would have to utter those words to the woman he loved so much, the woman he would never dream of hurting.

"What did you hear?" he asked her.

Taylor shook her head in response. "It was nothing," she lied, even as her heart thudded painfully against her ribs in a panic that was slowly beginning to ebb. In the back of her mind, she realized the sound had probably been imagined.

_Maybe I am crazy. _

Taylor pushed her bangs back from her forehead, suddenly nauseous. "I'm going to go to bed," she murmured.

Austin nodded, a bit dumbstruck, as she got up from the couch, slipped on her dress, and padded towards the hallways and up the stairs.

He didn't turn away until after she had disappeared. He pulled on his briefs and sank back onto the couch, scrubbing a hand over his face in exhaustion.

_Time, Austin,_ he reminded himself. _She just needs more time._

* * *

><p>Things were not quite the same after that. The tension between the two of them felt more palpable and stifling than the endless summer heat.<p>

Austin realized she had not meant to yell at him as she had, but he still felt somewhat ostracized by her in the days that followed. Engaging in conversation was impossible. She was short with him, and distant, and flinched away from each one of his touches. Every evening on his way home from work, when he picked her up from her father's house to take her back home, the ride was mute. The car was filled with an all-encompassing silence that not even the familiar songs on the radio could crack. He chattered to her about work, tried little anecdotes about his day to make her laugh, but the smiles she cracked were halfhearted. For the first time in a long time, he felt completely at a loss of what to do.

And if he were honest with himself, he couldn't blame her, he understood her behavior. He often found himself thinking back to the moment where he had seen the trust slip from her eyes, and the way his stomach coiled in shame and disgust and sadness when he'd told her she'd been hallucinating. He yearned to be on her side, and it felt startling _cruel_ to believe an outsider's words over his own wife's, no matter the outsider's status or the prestige of the Ph.D. that hung framed in his office.

He wanted to believe her, but he also couldn't ignore the facts in front of him, the fact that they'd found no evidence, and that Taylor had been acting antsy even before he'd left for his trip, and that neither Jason or Dr. Bishop had any idea what paperwork she had been talking about. It wasn't completely absurd to think that perhaps her paranoia and fear had culminated into a sort of violent crescendo the night he'd left, the first night they had been apart in years, and she had unconsciously acted out a scene from her past.

And stress from work must have been added to that as well, because the story she had told was nothing if not bizarre. She had mentioned a cipher that had to do with the fear toxin... but the fear toxin incident, what little he knew of it, had occurred years ago, when he was just a child. He'd been living in Delaware, where he'd grown up, and though New Jersey was close, the incident hadn't exactly made their local news station, not that he had watched the news much at such a young age anyway.

To add to Austin's increasing concern, he'd seen the strange scribbling of symbols she'd made on a piece of paper, hidden in the bedroom in their bedside drawer, and without thinking he scooped up the paper and tucked it safely in his briefcase. He was going to ask Dr. Shaw about it later; perhaps he could make something of the strange symbols?

The tension between them had culminated, for a second time, late one evening in the kitchen. Austin had had a particularly stressful day at the office, and the house was torrid, only adding to his sour mood.

After dinner, he'd changed out of his work clothes and gone outside to tinker with the air conditioning before the sun fell and it became too dark to see. When he came back inside, needing water, he found Taylor at the sink washing dishes. He entered without a word, fixing himself a glass of ice water and downing it in one gulp. He let out a deep sigh as he placed the cup on the table, beads of sweat trickling down his neck and between his shoulder blades beneath his shirt.

Taylor's back remained towards him the entire time.

"Hey," he said as he stepped behind her, wrapping a forearm around her waist and pulling her into him slightly as he planted a gentle kiss on her jaw. He felt her body tense up instantly, and he frowned as she peeled herself out his embrace. She mumbled a weak reply that he didn't quite catch.

His brain-to-mouth filter had apparently stopped working, because angry words were suddenly forming in his throat and they came spilling out before he could stop them.

"Is this how it's going to be from now on?" he yelled, regretting the words the instant they left his mouth, but too upset to care. "Are you going to flinch and pull away every time I touch you?" Taylor looked at him, tears welling in her eyes, but he couldn't stop. "Damn it, Taylor, I _miss _you. You won't even _look_ at me anymore and I—please tell me how I can fix this," he said, desperate, hopeful, tired. He gestured between them in a quick flurry of hands. "Tell me how I can fix _us_."

Taylor shook her head and closed her eyes. _Believe in me_, she wanted to say. Instead, she bowed her head, her voice a whisper.

"_I don't know_."

She slept on the couch that night, with the mumbled excuse that it was too hot to sleep upstairs, and Austin was too tired to argue with her. It was the first time in their five years of marriage they had not slept together while under the same roof.

The next day, Taylor felt sluggish and her back was aching from twisting on the couch all night. When she heard the shower upstairs running, she kicked off the throw blanket and draped it over the back of the couch, padding into the kitchen.

She retrieved yesterday's paper and was sitting at the counter with a glass of orange juice when Austin came in. His hair was still damp and his dress shirt was unbuttoned and un-tucked from his slacks, revealing the white t-shirt he was wearing underneath it. After pouring a glass of orange juice for himself, he joined her at the counter. Silence rested between them for several moments.

"I called someone to fix the air conditioner," he said at length. "Figured we might as well stop fighting with it. I just can't do it myself and I know how much the heat's been bothering you... "

Taylor took a tentative sip from her glass and spoke without meeting his eyes. "Thank you."

Austin watched as the sun beams from the kitchen window caught on the wedding ring on her left hand, making it gleam. From the front porch, he could hear the wind chimes clanging gently together as they jostled in the wind. He tore his gaze away from her hand and turned in his stool to face her.

"I won't be back until very late in the evening."

"Oh?"

"There was an opportunity to interview one of Republican candidates for the upcoming election. We need the extra money, so I volunteered. It's in Allentown, in Pennsylvania. I think it's about three or four hours from here," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I haven't put it in the GPS yet."

"Okay."

"Anyway, my boss offered to put me in a hotel, but I told him that wouldn't be necessary, and I could just drive back once we've wrapped up the interview." Austin paused, watching her expression carefully. "Are you okay with this?"

"Of course," Taylor said, and the small smile she offered him seemed like the most genuine one she had given him ever since the incident.

"I just wanted to make it back as soon as I can so you won't have to sleep alone... and I'll leave the car for you if you want to go to dad's house. You could spend the night there, if you wanted?"

Taylor's brows furrowed together. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—she was not a child that had to be coddled and fussed over. "That's alright. You'll only be gone for a few hours," she said, a bit stiffly, though he failed to notice.

He smiled, feeling relieved. "Okay."

With that, he finished dressing, gathered his briefcase, and stood on the porch with Taylor to say goodbye. Her hands were in her pockets as she looked out over the neighborhood.

Austin stood by her side and watched her, longing to pull her to him and kiss her, run his hands through her hair, to just..._ touch_ her, but he knew he was going to have to work to gain her trust again, to make things better. He was determined to sort everything out once he returned home.

He felt himself smiling as he watched the sunlight tangle through the strands of her blonde hair.

"You are so beautiful," he told her earnestly. She turned to look at him as he stepped closer. "Can I kiss you before I go?"

Taylor nodded. Gently, he clasped her elbow and leaned in, planting his lips over hers in a kiss that lingered only for seconds, but felt wonderful to him all the same. He smiled as he pulled away.

"I love you," he said, making sure to catch her eyes as he spoke. "Please call me if you need anything. I'll keep my phone on for you."

From the cul-de-sac, the cab driver waiting for Austin honked twice.

He offered her a loving smile, and she watched him go.

* * *

><p>As soon as the car was out of sight, Taylor showered, dressed, and got in the car. She had planned to call into work, to put herself back on the schedule after almost three weeks of being out, but she could not get the nagging feeling out of her head that she needed to speak to Jason first. She had to question him about why he had lied about the documents. He knew something was going on, so why had he denied it?<p>

After procuring the address to his apartment—which she soon discovered was not very far from her father's—she parallel parked on the other side of the street, leaning forward in her seat so she could look out the passenger window in order to assess the building. It was large, old, and unassuming, easily blending in with the other red-slabs of concrete housing on either side of it.

With a determined frown, she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the car door, jogging through the minimal traffic on the street to reach the complex.

When she noticed the gate out front, blocking the main entrance, and then the buzzer located nearby, she cursed.

With no other options, she decided to wait—as inconspicuously as possible. She was fortunate when, only five minutes later, a bald, middle-aged man came jogging around the corner, dripping with sweat from his workout, and as Taylor watched him punch in his code and open the gate, she waited until it was almost closed before silently slipping in after him. He took the stairs leading below and disappeared almost instantly. Taylor's destination, however, was up, and after casting a sidelong glance at the questionable-looking elevator, she took the stairs two at a time, idly mumbling Jason's apartment number under her breath as she climbed.

On the third floor, the plaque on the wall read _Apts. 45-60_. She double-checked the address she had written down, and then stuffed it in her pocket.

The carpeted halls were mostly silent as she padded down them; she could hear the distinct buzz of a vacuum from a floor above, but otherwise all was silent. When she reached Jason's door, she paused, looked both ways, and gave a cautious knock.

She wasn't quite sure what she was expecting. If he was really on vacation, as the receptionist at the hospital had said, then it had been useless coming here. But perhaps he lived with his mother, or a girlfriend, and they could give her a number to contact him.

But nobody came to the door.

Frustrated, Taylor turned, running her hands through her hair, feeling at a loss. If she didn't speak to Jason, she didn't know who else she could turn to.

Before leaving, she turned back towards the door, and just for curiosity's sake, decided to try the knob.

It was unlocked.

Unbelieving of her own luck, she paused in the hall, looked both ways once again, and then entered. She closed the door softly behind her with a click.

The apartment was dark and the blinds were drawn, and Taylor groped the wall in for the nearest light switch. When the light flicked on, her eyes scanned the apartment eagerly.

What she found shocked her.

It was a _disaster_. The couch was flipped on its side, the cushions strewn about the floor with its stuffing pouring through the torn-open holes, like wounded soldiers that had been abandoned to bleed to their deaths. Broken plates, cups, and other kitchenware littered the linoleum in the kitchen, and the bookcase, entertainment system, and desk had all been knocked to the floor. Pages from books were strewn everywhere, a graveyard of tangled stories and words.

She tried her voice, to call for Jason, but the words would not leave her throat. She knew immediately that something was not right.

Everything in her was telling her to leave, to run away quickly while she still had the chance, but the curiosity in her _burned_. She had to keep going.

And that is when she wandered into his bedroom, which was in much the same disarray, and then into the bathroom.

That is where she found him—hanging from the steel shower rod from what looked to be a self-made noose.

Taylor clasped a hand over her mouth and gasped. The leather belt dug with a vice into Jason's neck, leaving red welts that contrasted sharply with the ghostly pallor of his face. With his mouth open—as if frozen in an attempt to gasp for air—and his glazed, vacant eyes directed skywards, Taylor felt bile rise in her stomach at the sight of him.

Sobbing into her hand, she drew back and forced herself to look away, but it was too late, and the image was already burned into her memory.

On the counter, she spotted a sheet of paper torn from what looked like the back page a book. She gripped the edges of the counter and pulled herself too it, not trusting her legs be able to stand on their own.

On the blank side of the paper, in shaky pen, was written, _Dear Julia,_ but the letter had not been finished.

_A suicide note?_

But what had made him change his mind? Why had he not finished it? And what had compelled him to destroy his apartment beforehand?

_Or had it been destroyed by someone else? _

It was with that burning thought that Taylor's blood ran cold, a sudden surge of ice through her veins that stopped her heart in its tracks.

"Oh, God."

She was breathing hard as she stared at the unfinished letter. Her eyes drifted towards the opened bottles sprawled across the glossy counter, where pills had spilled out in a hurry. She grabbed for one and read the label. _Digoxin_.

It had been prescribed to Lydia Goodall. Taylor did not recognize the name, but she was familiar with the drug and knew that it slowed the heart.

She gripped the edges of the counter and looked down, into the sink, squeezing her eyes shut tight, and willed everything to go away, for this horrible reality to become a dream, a hallucination, anything.

Then she heard a voice behind her.

"Hello there."

The sound made her eyes shoot open and her heart stop, point blank. She kept her head bowed, paralyzed with fear, but she recognized the drawl instantly, the slow, sickly-sweet sharpness of a voice she had hoped to never hear again.

Her eyes slowly, slowly, crawled to meet his, sliding up the mirror until she saw him there, standing behind her in all of his glory—tall and menacing and _terrifying _so up close, punctuated by such blinding white fluorescents. She stared at him. She couldn't breathe.

He took a step closer and leaned into her before she could stop him, arms sliding against either of hers, trapping her against the counter. She felt the length of his thighs pressed solidly against the backs of hers, and she leaned forward, in an attempt to distance him, but he only followed her motion, draping his chest across her back. And he was _hot_, with blood on fire and a body that reeked of smoke and gasoline and made her eyes burn with tears.

She watched in the mirror—speechless and horrorstruck—as his mangled, blood-red mouth descended towards her ear. His tongue, a serpent's tail, flicked across the cartilage there in his efforts to wet his own lips.

His breath on her skin was _searing_.

"They're coming to kill you," he whispered, and she had to grip the rim of the sink to keep from collapsing into it. "_But I've come for you first_."

She gasped, suddenly twisting to get away, but the Joker's gloved hand gripping the back of her neck gave her no time to react. Before she could brace herself and offer resistance, he slammed her head into the mirror with a brutality that stunned her. She cried out sharply, a choked gasp tangling in her throat. The left half of her forehead took the brunt of the impact, and she heard glass shattering around her, falling onto the counter as the smaller pieces slid down the bowl of the sink and crackled like fireworks as they collected in the drain.

She was blind. Blood marred her vision, its coppery warmth sliding over her left eye, nose, and lips. Blood filled her mouth when she opened it to cry, and it tasted warm and sour and metallic, like her mouth had been flooded with liquid hot metal that had been left too long in the sun.

A thousand black stars burst behind her lids when the Joker's fingers curled around the back of her neck—readjusting his already impossibly-tight, spine-damaging clasp—and yanked her backwards, away from the mirror. She could feel glass embedded in her forehead and she sobbed, lifting her arms that felt like deadweights, trying to grasp for something, anything, to keep her steady.

When the Joker spun her around, moving his hands to grip her upper arms, her head lolled back without his support and she was helpless to stop it.

"Oh, I have _missed _you," he growled with a cruel, damaged grin, even as her head lolled back and her neck felt as if it might snap from the angle. "You just couldn'-_t _stay away, could you? Could you!?" he giggled, shaking her in time with his words.

Taylor's world spun. She could hear him speaking, but his voice was a roar in her ears, like ocean waves crashing against the shore. Her vision swam in a sea of red.

"Please," she felt herself mouth around the torrent of blood that had flooded her mouth. She felt herself falling, falling, falling, and she reached out to grasp the lapels of the Joker's suit, gripping until her knuckles were stained white. She could not lift her head and blood was sliding down her throat, giving her no choice but to swallow it down or else choke on it.

Something must have caught the Joker's attention, because his head snapped to the side, towards the open bathroom door, and his mouth broke into a slow grin.

"Time to _pla-y_," she heard him sing-song, sounding far too chirpy and pleased considering the amount of blood gushing from her forehead and sliding down her face.

Her world somersaulted and the ceiling dipped then rose as the Joker shifted her again, turning her around so her back was once against pressed against her chest. He supported her this time by cupping an arm beneath her breasts, which forced her into him. Taylor's head lolled forward and she struggled with all of her might to lift it, even as a wave of dizziness threatened to black her vision. She felt like a shield.

And it was at that moment, when another figure entered, pointing a gun at them—that she realized she _was _a shield.

"Dr. Bishop_,_ is it?" she heard the Joker say, and she felt herself blanch at the name, her heart dropping into the pit of her stomach. "So _good_ of you to join us. Do you want to play a little game?"

"Not with you." Dr. Bishop kept the gun trained on them, arm steady and his gaze blue-eyed and focus. "I thought you might make an appearance."

The Joker considered him, cocking his head to the side. "You've been following her," he said.

"So have you," the doctor replied, smug.

"She has something we both want," the Joker replied, and Taylor couldn't stop her head from lolling forward, as blackness crowded around the edges of her vision, "but it seems since I arrived _first_," he emphasized, "well, as they say... you snooze, you _lose_."

"Trite," Dr. Bishop replied, not missing a beat. "But it looks as if the only one losing is you. You're not exactly in a position of power over me," he laughed, indicating to his gun which was still trained at the Joker's head.

The Joker frowned, his face a mockery of confusion. "Aren't I? You see, I've. Got. The girl. And the girl has what you want. Right here." He tapped his gun—which he had discreetly pulled from his jacket—against the side of her head. Dr. Bishop eyed the weapon with narrowed eyes. The Joker continued on. "Now... I can kill her right here—" he jabbed the barrel into her skull, making Taylor cry out, "—and your work will be for naught. _Or_," he said, "you can follow by my rules, and maybe I _won't_ put a bullet in her skull."

For a moment, silence reigned.

"And why would I do that?"

The Joker cracked an ear-splitting grin. "Because," he said as he lowered his gun, clicked open the chamber, and emptied his bullets onto the hardwood floor. The clanged like metal drums in Taylor's ears as they hit the floor. "I'm about to make you an offer you can't _refuse_."


End file.
