TRANCE

"Do you look like me? Do you burn like me?
Do you turn into your effigy?"

She couldn't stop herself.

Aside from the flush of her cheeks and the clouds swarming her consciousness whenever she saw him, there was something else. Listening to the way he talked, that sharp edge of his words, those eyes that fixated on her and kept her pinned in place. His stories that first annoyed her, seemingly self-indulgent, had her on the edge of her seat for the next piece of information, anything that could draw her closer. Anything he said, a look from him, losing herself in his gaze. But it wasn't enough, whatever it was.

It was carnal, refusing to be satisfied by looks or words. It needed. It craved.

It wasn't enough watching his pale, scarred back, the way he moved in his sleep, his green tresses falling away from his face, eyelids soft and purple. All those times she had been heading towards the maximum-security area after work, to see him like an animal in a cage, her breath caught in her throat. A monster sleeping behind a wall of glass couldn't satisfy her.

In her dreams he did.

I know you see me, watching you. I know you.

She couldn't resist; every night she fought the wrinkled sheets, lost in the feverish dreams, the memory of the barrel against her face, from the time they first met in the streets. His smile, his teeth, and something she thought she could scrape away from right underneath the surface. The memory of adrenaline made her head pound. She was flying, not here nor anywhere else, as the world turned to white.

An entire lifetime of decisions and memories, failures and achievements, had been about to be wiped out by a push of his trigger.

"How does one go about killing their attachments?"

She gasped against her pillow, her hips grinding against the mattress, her hand restlessly moving between her thighs. Dipping into her center, with her fingers curled up inside of her, pushing hard. Feeling herself drip all over her hand, she moaned and headed straight down, seeking the only mental picture that could push her over the edge. Her hips were trembling by the time she found it, convulsing against her hand. He wouldn't step out of her dreams, and it was a way of coping with the fear.

He's behind bullet-proof glass. He can't hurt me. I could just walk away. I'm in control.

She was burning up from the inside out, eyes hollow and puffy at daytime. Staring at herself in the mirror in the morning, sweeping golden hair from her face, biting her bruised lip, swaying her hips, she wondered if that was why he let her live.

Of course not. He was not that kind of man.

He was the only man who didn't fill her with that kind of indifference and disgust, like they had in the past, all those middle-aged men in the middle of a divorce and life crisis, she had been there to soothe a wound that would only grow deeper.

As the weeks passed by, the dreams switched ruthlessly between sweet and sinister, having her lying on her back, gasping for breath, head thrown back into the pillow, moving her hand faster, harder against herself, desperate for relief, feeling herself clench and it felt hollow. He was there every time she reached the edge, urging her on with a grin, taking her hand and leading her on. His lips would ghost over hers with a chuckle, amused at her state of disarray.

"Oh my, doctor, what a mess you've made of yourself."

Watching him sleep, she wondered what he dreamt about. The lines between right and wrong had never been clear, blurred from the very beginning. She cared about him, she cared about everything he'd ever said or done.

It always starts with denial, she would realize later. When you can't see how deep you're in.

The insomnia grew worse, she drank her whiskey and there was no point in resisting, really. Throwing herself back and forth on the bed in nightly terrors, drenched in sweat, spilled liquor on the bedside table, sticky sweet, her hands between her clenched thighs, gasping.

Those green eyes looked back at her every time, he was always watching. They haunted her in the mornings and the evening, while Harvey Dent ranted on the television screen and she watched him with contempt, shot glass in hand, wishing she had a shotgun instead. They followed her whenever she saw her coworkers, the guards leading her to his cell, right back into the rabbit hole that was him.

She couldn't think of it, what she had become, with her hand pressed tightly against her mouth in the bathroom at work, to conceal her gasps that slipped out from between her fingertips, eyelids fluttering shut.

Tell me I'm yours. Tell me you understand.

Some sessions she was certain he could see right through her. He knew what she did, what she was up to. There was that glimpse in his eyes, she had become so accustomed to the thought of it, that the real thing sent her mind reeling, her thighs clenching.

Could he feel the smell of her fear and arousal? She hated herself for being so primal, for letting him do this.

You're doing it to yourself, a voice inside her mind reminded her.

"You okay in there, Doc?" Joker asked her, studying her face. "You're looking… distraught." Behind the glass, he would run his hand through his green locks, his face tilting slightly upwards in that display of oblivious confusion she adored.

"I would like to see you smile one day."

She fled the room that time, refusing to push through. It was too much to grasp, her knees weak and her heart trembling, leading her to yet another sleepless night, whimpering into her knuckles as tears filled her eyes at the sensation. She was the predator, the twisted one, fantasizing about the man who had almost killed her.

She was so close to him.

The day after, after a particularly difficult session, she let herself slip. She took the biggest risk of her life, releasing him from his straitjacket. Nothing between them. A gamble. It would take nothing for him to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze the life out of her, and hell if she would let him.

Maybe she would. She wouldn't even fight it. She'd be free from the nightmares, the dreams, the pained fluttering in her chest. It was suicidal, and maybe she was.

In all twenty-eight years of her life, she had never been so desperate. Fists against the wall, she was about to beg him to do something, end it for me, bring me out of this, bring me to my senses. Fuck the life out of me. Do something. Do something, please-

When he came to stand behind her, so close she could feel his body warmth, she fought to keep her legs upright. There was nothing but her breathing and his, her heartbeat and what she assumed would be his.

But he wrapped her arms around her from behind, tightly, holding her there. She couldn't stop the tears from streaming down her face. A part of her wished he would actually have killed her instead. That feeling was fleeting, soon replaced by a sense she couldn't stop, violently it tore through her, and all she saw was green.

When she turned her around in his grip, she became aware of how tightly he had been holding her. It took effort to turn around, but he let her when he caught on, loosening his grip just enough for her to face him, chest against chest.

She studied his face with rapture, the angular shape of it, those eyes, those lips, the tresses of hair around it. All his attention focused only on her, a dizzying feeling. Breathless, waiting, begging with her eyes. She knew what he wanted and she gave it to him.

She stretched her lips to a smile, hesitant at first, then wider and he responded the same way before he leaned in and crushed his lips to hers. Her hands tangled in his hair without a thought, she was holding on to him for dear life when he pushed her against the tiled wall.

Fear twisted into a sense of ecstasy, settling low in her gut and swallowing her up, hands shaking. He was kissing her, the way she had wanted to, hard but without bruising her, grinning against her lips when she gasped for air. As if he was tasting her before taking a bite, running his tongue across her lips and her hips pressed against his, her hands tightening in his hair. She knew he could tear out her throat if he wanted to, and maybe that was it.

.

That night, he was so vivid.

He sank his teeth into her skin, lapping up her juices, making her tremble when he kissed her, and it didn't matter what was real.

As he crawled on top of her, she was wide open and falling apart, cracking at the edges, trembling from something other that wasn't fear. Pulling him down by his hair, running her hands across his scars and feeling every hard ridge of his skin, it was like she was dancing.

Touch me, touch me.

The smell of him and herself drove her crazy, his hands firmly on her inner thighs, leaving imprints in her sensitive spots. He was lapping her up, biting her to make her spine arch up from the bed.

His hand flexed between her thighs, curling so hard into a spot inside her that she was seeing stars. His mouth and lips were sucking on her swollen lips, and she thrust herself roughly against his hand, gasping his name while burying her nails into his scalp. A quiet snarl from him let him know she had done something right. He rose to his knees with a self-satisfied smirk, lips glistening, and she was too far gone to ever regain her grip.

And ever so late, she would grip him hard, coax him, take him closer, begging him to sink into her. His face came in and out of focus when he pulled her into his arms, pressing her flush against him, licking a long line from her collarbone to the pulse point in her throat, back up to her cheek.

He was inside of her at last, and it was easy to surrender. With every slam of his hips and her rocking back to him, it became easier. His teeth latched onto her skin, sucking and she made new scars down his back, letting out that side he wanted to see. Blood collected underneath her fingernails when he smiled. His long, wiry pale fingers wrapped around her throat, just so, squeezing enough to her vision to completely blacken out for a moment, before loosening their grip. Enough to tell her what she already knew.

She laughed when he pushed her over the edge one final time, filling her with warmth and she grinned ferally, cradling his head.

A part of her was in wide-eyed shock, feeling the weight of him on top of her pushing her into the mattress, him still softening inside, having branded her from the inside. What about the thesis? What am I doing? Focus.

The other part was delirious, finally found, finally there. His fingertips traced her cheekbone, looking into her eyes for a moment, his voice low and hoarse.

"Are you happy now, Harley?"

She stroked his hair, closing her eyes. Smiling like she never had before in her life.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm not slipping, I'm running headfirst along this path, and it feels so good.

Fin.

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