The sickly sweet liquid pours into her mouth. It's intoxicating to say the least. It is celebration time here in Gotham and what better way does the Clown Prince and his Damzel in Distress celebrate? Wide eyes as it explodes into her mouth. Yet her head rips away as the grotesque expression plays upon her lovely features. It's salty yet runs down her throat so easily.

Tequila with salt rimming the edge of the glass.

Glazed blue eyes look to her accomplice as he lifts the neck of the glass bottle to his own scarred lips. Damzel is out in full swing tonight, enjoying the carnage that lingers in the street. Smalls hands rest against the cold floor as she slowly lays her body down upon it, gazing up to the ceiling. Yet even though the two aren't look at one another, his dark eyes lock upon her figure. His greatest possession.

The key to getting to the Joker is through her. It isn't love that he has towards her, or is it? He made a mind, her mind, split into two. The voice of what he created running rampant upon her. It encourages her to do unspeakable things such as murder or torture. The Lydia he knew before would never have done this, not at all. But she proves easily just how fragile the mind is. She began to side with him, defend him against others quicker than one would think. He was quite honestly surprised about how easily she turned. But what he spoke to Batman about Harvey Dent about gravity proves to be true. All Lydia needed was a little push.

Yet now, as he stares at her, the thought of having her gone- never here- pains him slightly. He is use to waking up with her warmth laying next to him. He hasn't gone soft, not one bit. Knowing the warmth of her body is with someone else drives him insane with jealousy. But with her nude body pressed up against him every night, the scars of his name etched upon her back against the wall of his chest, soothes him as she is there. No where else.

Too many things have happened between the two. Too many things for him to sit there and list. Even as his cold eyes stare down upon the woman so completely relaxed against the floor, he doesn't seem as cold. He is the Joker. The one who is easily capable of killing anything, anyone, anytime. This woman, this woman he can't. He has destroyed her enough as is. Her mind is completely split and it will remain that way for the rest of her life he thinks. What he did to her is worse than death. To see your life stripped away little by little as splatters of crimson hit the blade. Should he add to the torment she has as her mind bounces back and forth from the innocent to the merciless?

This isn't what he needs to be focusing on.

A woman; A human made for the satisfaction of his sex. This isn't why he is created for Gotham. Batman showed just how crazy the city can be as he made his mark. The flying rat is what makes him, him. Not a pair of small tits and the warmth to start global warming between the legs. Is the vigilante a side project now? Has his newest obsession become the leading reason why he has not bombed various areas? Honestly, it really is. But he isn't about to let some bitch come in the way of why he created this 'persona'.

A persona that was made out of hatred. He was thrown into the scene as the man with a drunken face and no will came towards him with a blade. Stories he has told to the victims that actually, really, matter deal with his father. He always led the others around in a circle- just like the late Racheal Dawes. He fed her some line about an ex-wife getting in with the gamblers of the underground Gotham. He did have a wife once but she never died by any other hands than his own.

I killed the bitch. Runnin' around on me nearly drove me insane. But luckily, as the arterial sprayed my face, I was able to keep my genius mind.

Lydia had since gotten up from the cold floor of her home and made her way to one of the rather large windows. Hands come up to the handles as she carefully lifted the cold iron and pushed the double pieces of glass open to welcome in a warm breeze. Lids flutter shut as she inhales slightly, strands of raven tickle her face. And he watches. Watches in a drunken state, one hand leaning against his knee with the other draped downward. His dark eyes trace over the light scars etched into her back by him. Lydia is his possession now and if anyone were to ever undress her, hands touch the violent marks, they'd know who she belongs to.

Now, this chapter isn't long as you can tell. I've bought The Dark Knight DVD so some of my inspiration has come back. This, to me, is a good chapter to come back with because I've got some ideas for the next few chapters. Lydia and the Joker seem so 'together', so to speak. But what happens if one of them were take a hostage of their opposite sex? I just don't want this to seem like the Joker is all lovey dovey towards Lydia because he isn't. He does have a weak spot for her, obviously, but quite possibly at this point if it were his life over hers... Well needless to say he'd make Lydia the martyr.

The next chapter will be out in the next few days thanks to some inspiration that's sparked into my mind. Review if you'd like. I'm currently working on the last chapter of "A Trade Off" and I'll soon move on to "Sleepwalking."