Wandering Star

A/N: I'm just playing in the Batman movieverse. Siren's the only thing that's mine. And I know I don't say it enough... but thanks to all of you who review! It really encourages me to keep going!

Chapter 1

Siren scrambled through the service corridor, out the emergency exit, and onto the roof just as she heard the Gotham City Police pry open the elevator doors. She jumped as the thunder rumbled overhead. To add insult to injury, the rain started to pour down, soaking her hair and blurring the painted black mask around her eyes. Looking around quickly for a place to hide, she started to panic a little. Over the last few months, she and her counterpart had knocked over almost every bank in Gotham, but this was the first time she’d gone it alone. They were mostly just for fun. It’s not as if they made off with the entire safe or anything, but the adrenaline rush was the object of the game.

Siren spotted an open ventilation shaft and crawled inside, curling up in the darkness. “This fucking sucks,” she whispered, kicking a dead rat back down the shaft. She’d been so bored and restless the past few weeks. Like something in her life was missing. True, it had been fun to witness her own funeral--- see who showed up. She was flattered to see that Bruce Wayne himself had made an appearance. Shatzi, Dax, and Mya had kept in a little clump under an umbrella, sobbing dramatically. Apparently they weren’t too broken up-- Mya stepped into Darcy’s place in Belladonna’s Kiss easily enough the next week at a club. She supposed Jonathan had been right about that one. She’d just wanted to take over Darcy’s life and she had done it pretty satisfactorily. In the wee hours of morning, she’d taken to slipping out and following some of her old friends-- just to see what they were doing, of course. She missed her old life in some ways, but her new one satisfied her most of the time. But it was times like these when she was awake, not sure what to do, that she wished she could have just lived a double life. But she could lie to everyone but herself.

She could hear the raspy voice of Lieutenant Gordon on the floor below. “They’re gone. We missed them again,” he rasped, sounding defeated.

“Sir… don’t you think we should get Batman in on this? This is the fourth bank they’ve hit in the last two weeks.”

“I’m not sure that’s really necessary. He’s got enough problems with that green-haired lunatic running around killing every other person on the street. This seems to be small potatoes.” Siren growled at his disparaging remark. “They don’t even take all that much.”

“See… that’s why I think they’re professionals. They aren’t doing this for the money. They’re doing it for the thrill. Which means they’ll never stop. This is only going to get worse.”

“They?” Gordon’s voice took an air of amusement. “What do you mean, they?”

“There’s two of them. There’s no way that they could get it done so quickly with just one. There’s got to be two. And then… the security guard down there… he was mumbling something about--- I don’t even know, but he sounded like he was off his rocker.”

Siren covered her mouth with both hands to keep from laughing. “Stupid cops,” she whispered. Jonathan would kill her if he knew that she’d taken some of the toxin to get past those guards. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He didn’t know she’d gone alone tonight.

He’d been too busy working on some new little trick to bother with her whereabouts. Most recently, he’d been more interested in mind control. Probably an obsession that started with her. The money accumulated from the bank robberies was funding his little science project. He spent all of his time in the basement of the asylum mixing things together and testing it on unsuspecting victims. Several nights before he’d slipped a little into her wineglass. She didn’t remember much about the evening after dinner, but she’d awakened to find one arm handcuffed to their bed and angry bruises on her wrists. She hated it when he made her into a lab rat.

But then there were the other times when it felt like he was the only person on Earth who could possibly understand her. He never condescended to her-- something Erik had done often. The more she thought of it, the more she remembered Erik acting like her father rather than her lover. Sometimes the thought that she would break Erik’s heart if he could see her now made the tears well up and a lump grow in the back of her throat, but then those thoughts were chased away by a slight caress of the smooth velvet of Jonathan’s voice in the dark. Or if it was really bad, the pinch of the tourniquet and quicksilver rush of the morphine. He’d begun to use less of the morphine for himself and often erupted into violent fits of rage. Those were the times when Siren fled to the streets. Playing with him was no fun then. He felt no fear, remorse, or pain during those times and their playful sparring became almost gladiatorial.

As soon as she could hear the footfalls of the policemen on the sidewalk below, she crawled out of the hole she’d wedged herself into. As soon as she was out in the open, it seemed to rain more heavily than before. “Great night,” she grumbled.

By the time she made it back to Arkham Asylum, the intricate, painted patterns around her eyes had bled into a raccoon-like mask that obscured most of her face. The shiny, black vinyl, form-fitting catsuit she wore was torn in several places where she fallen, tumbling over slippery, wet fences. Her hair, dyed a temporary black, was plaited to her head, dripping tendrils of gray rainwater into her eyes. She practically fell through the window.

“What the fuck?” Jonathan groaned sleepily, rolling over and staring at the window. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Don’t start with me, Crow-boy… you have no idea what I’ve been through tonight.”

“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me,” he grumbled, sitting up and watching her undress.

“Actually, no. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get into this bed and sleep for the next hundred years or so.”

“Well wash that shit off of your face and hair before. I’ve been through three sets of sheets in the time since you came here.”

She rolled her eyes and walked into the bathroom, pulling the gloves from her hands and tossing them over her shoulder. “Anal much?” she asked, giggling and turning on the faucet.

“You know I detest disorder.”

“How ironic,” she mumbled, scrubbing her face with the soap. “I’ve never met a neat crazy person before.”

“I am not crazy,” he shot back with a growl.

“Whatever you say, baby.” They spoke no more as she leaned over, putting her head under the warm water in the sink. The black dye oozed out of her hair, staining the porcelain a sickening gray and leaving her hair stark white.

She still couldn’t believe that her transformation had been so complete. Right down to every last bit of color draining from her skin and hair. She felt completely detached from the dearly departed Darcy Sylvan and had worked very hard to erase every trace of her former self. She even spoke of Darcy in the third person now. As if she had been just a blip in the obituaries. She supposed that was how she could love him and feel nothing for the rest of the world. Her love for him was painful, but necessary. Sad, but exhilarating.

Jonathan, on the other hand, had absolutely no trouble drawing the line between Scarecrow and Jonathan… most of the time. He embraced Dr. Jonathan Crane as a necessary persona, even though Crane had become the character to be played, The Scarecrow his true self. In the cold darkness of their bed, it would become obvious quickly just who she’d crawled into bed with. Jonathan with his cool acceptance of her kisses. He harboured his love for her deep down, afraid to speak it out and show it because of scars that still stung years later. But it was there and when he held her, she could feel it in the desperation of his caress. “Please love me back,” his silence seemed to say. The Scarecrow was a disheveled and brutal lover. He didn’t bother to ask for her love, but took it absolutely. She was the one who feared refusal-- her refusal. There was no doubt in her mind that if she tried to push him away, he would take what he liked anyway. An out-of-control force that cared nothing for her tears or pain. The Scarecrow required her absolute submission to his will. And though she trembled in the wake of his madness… the darker corners of her psyche… the ones where The Siren played… found this completely erotic.

A scraping sound and a whiff of sulphur dragged her from her thoughts. She turned and saw him sit up in bed, holding a dim candle in his hands. He stared down at the flame which cast weird shadows over the lines of his face. “Who would it be tonight?” she wondered. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, brushing the stray wave of hair away from his forehead. He looked up at her as she stood in the doorway of the bathroom, framed by the severe neon light. He blinked slow and sleepily and smiled a little. “Jonathan,” she breathed, a wave of relief settled into her stomach. She turned to shut off the light and walked over to the window, closing it where she’d come in minutes before. When she turned back, he still stared at her, scrutinizing her every move. She stopped and stared back, crossing her arms first over her chest and then behind her back. She shifted from one foot to the other before finally folding her hands in a caricature of daintiness in front of her. “What?”

“Just looking at you,” he purred. “Aren’t I allowed?”

“I suppose. But you’re making me self-conscious.”

“You have nothing to be self-conscious about, love. You’re so---” He stopped himself and looked away.

“I’m so what?” she asked, climbing over the footboard of the bed and crawling towards him. One thin strap of the white camisole she wore slid down her shoulder as she reached him.

“So-- beautiful,” he whispered, toying with the strap between his fingertips.

Siren narrowed her eyes and looked at him, a puzzled expression crossing her features. “I think that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he replied, smirking playfully. “Wouldn’t want to have to knock you down a few notches.”

“As if you could,” she whispered, leaning down and licking his lips. “You have no one but yourself to blame for my attitude.” She tried to pull away, but he reached up, tangling his fingertips into her hair and pulling her face down to his. He stared at her a moment and then kissed her with a desperation not often displayed through his cold exterior. She tasted the sweet, almost metallic flavor of his lips and tongue and sighed with peaceful familiarity. Their relationship may be unhealthy, but it was all she had to hold on to.

He stopped and pulled back from her. “I-- I wanted to--- I needed to---” His eyes bore into hers for the slightest moment and then they fell, looking down, his eyelashes resting on the crest of his cheek.

“What is it?” she asked. This behavior was most unusual. “Are you alright?”

He rolled over and opened the drawer beside the bed. As he rummaged through the drawer, she examined the freckles that dotted his back, moving with the delicate muscles that worked beneath his skin. He turned back to her, holding up something small and glistening in the candlelight. “This belongs to you.”

She took the small object and turned it over in her hand. She recognized it as the small diamond stud she’d been wearing the night of Erik’s death. “Why are you giving me this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I feel slightly guilty.” Siren choked and coughed dramatically, nearly dropping the earring. “Very funny… look, I’m trying to be serious.’

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Go on.”

“You have to believe me. I never meant for everything to happen… the way it did. And I’m sorry.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Jonathan? Please tell me that you haven’t added another to your arsenal of personalities. I have enough trouble dealing with the two I already know about.” She stared at him with a raised eyebrow, unsure as to how to react to this little twist. Then her expression softened and she smiled. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Well, maybe a little to be sorry for, but it’s over and done with now. I made my choice. Regret is a useless game,” she explained, prying the back off of the earring and then pushing it through the narrow hole in the cuff of her ear.

“Did he give that to you?”

“Did who give me what?” she asked, reaching over him and taking the large pillar candle from the bedside table, playing with the wax that had melted around the wick.

“Drago. Did he give you that earring?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. When?”

Siren looked up through heavy lids around the flame of the candle. “I don’t really remember. I find it so hard to remember things these days.”

He nodded and pulled a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand, then leaned forward and lit it with the candle. “I’m not very good at all this you know.”

“Good at what?” she asked, pouring a little of the wax in the palm of her hand and shuddering at the burn.

“Being… Expressing…” he sighed with exasperation at not being able to find the words to say what he wanted. “I just don’t want you to think that I don’t---” His voice trailed off as her indigo eyes met his. “Nevermind.”

Siren smiled and put the candle aside. “It’s okay,” she purrred, getting up on her knees and leaning over, kissing his forehead, “I know you like me.”

He smirked and looked up at her. “You do, huh? Well maybe I’m just using you for sex.”

“Whatever you want to call it,” she whispered in his ear before throwing her leg over his hip and climbing astride his waist. Crossing her arms over her chest, she pulled the thin camisole she wore over her head and threw it behind her. Then, leaning forward, she plucked the cigarette from between his lips and took the last good drag. She exhaled slowly, letting the smoke ooze out of her mouth. She held the ember close to her skin, “Dare me to put it out?”

“What?” he stared up at her, a look of amusement at first, then concern.

“Add to my scars.” She held the cigarette butt so close to her nipple that the skin around it prickled. She raised her eyebrow and before he could raise up to stop her, she’d pressed the cinder to the areola hard enough to extinguish the flame. She cried out with the pain and doubled over into his arms.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he shouted, pulling the cigarette out of her hand and throwing it down.

“Yes,” she sobbed, trying to push him away, but his grip was tight.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, pushing her hands away from the burn. A small, circular, welt had raised just left of the center of her breast.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she whimpered. “I just feel so numb inside sometimes.” Siren dissolved into real tears for the first time since just after Erik’s death. She cried half from the pain of the burning and half from the moment of clarity where she’d realized what she’d become. She allowed him to wrap his arms around her tightly. He kissed her forehead affectionately and tucked her head under his chin. “I just don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Anyone you want to be,” he whispered.

“No… anyone you want me to be,” she pulled back from him, looking up into his face. “You made me this way, so fix me.” She took his hand and pressed it to the blistered flesh of her breast. “I want to feel something other than this frozen, useless boredom. I didn’t want to hurt anymore, but I want to feel alive again.”

“I don’t know how.”

She pressed his palm against her again, wincing as the rough callous on his thumb scraped the reddened welt. “Yes you do,” she rasped in his ear, taking the earlobe between her teeth and nibbling gently. She spoke again, but this time her words were lost in the corner of his jawline. She sighed and relaxed against him as he embraced her fully, pulling her closer. His mouth brushed against her cheek and she felt his breath, warm and moist against her skin. “I wish I didn’t love you,” she whispered and let him take her down, rolling her to her back.

“It’s too late,” he laughed softly, running a single fingertip down the slope of her cheekbone. “But you’ve got your revenge. It’s too late for me too.” He smiled sweetly and pressed his forehead to hers.

Siren picked up his hand and examined it closely. She ran her fingers over every bone and sinewy tendon, marveling at how beautiful and delicate they were. She turned it over and held it between her own small hands, then pressed it to her lips momentarily. “You have the most beautiful hands. Did you know it?” she asked.

“I hate them. They’re thin and fragile… just like the rest of me. Another of my inferior physical features, making me a constant target.”

“Target for what?” she asked, lacing her fingers through his.

“I wasn’t born a lunatic, Siren. I was made one. People hurt me, I hurt them back.” He looked away from her quickly. “And that started way before last summer.”

Deciding that this conversation was better left alone, she changed the subject. “Well I think they’re beautiful,” she smiled mischievously, “and useful.” Kissing his fingertips again, she pressed the palm of his hand to her breast. “Put them on me,” she purrred low in her throat, staring up at him with ravenous eyes. She groaned softly as he massaged her breast gently. “Yes… my evil lover… touch me.” He obliged her quickly, pinching the bud of her nipple until it stood up, then taking it into his mouth. He suckled tenderly, rubbing his tongue firmly over it again and again, soothing the round burn she’d inflicted upon herself earlier. He kissed his way up the slope of her chest and tickled the hollow at the base of her throat with the tip of his tongue. By the time his mouth closed over hers, she was waiting anxiously for him to breathe into her.

Every nerve in her body was switched on as his fingertips traveled all over her body. The rough, calloused palms of his hands swept over the cold, alabaster of her thigh. Siren whimpered softly and let her knee drop to one side, arching impatiently towards his exploring hands. “Greedy little wench,” he chuckled softly, jerking his hand back from her skin momentarily, as if it were hot.

Siren nodded and giggled girlishly, taking his hand and pressing the palm to the warm area of skin just under her bellybutton. His fingertips brushed the hood of her sex lightly, making the goosebumps pop out all along the length of her body. “Don’t tease me tonight.” She arched her back, bringing her lips up to meet his. As their mouths touched, her lips parted, allowing his tongue to flick over the slight opening and then probe gently into her mouth. She bit down gently on his generous lower lip and nibbled softly before sucking it into her mouth impatiently. She raised her hips, helping him peel the remnants of clothing that still clung to her lower half. Then immediately, one hand was in her hair, stroking his fingers through the mess of damp, white tresses. The other tripped and slowly dipped lower until his palm rested heavily on the bare, tender flesh that covered her sex. He loved to play with her this way, stroking her sex slowly, flicking a fingertip over her clit until he could watch the pleasure wash over her features. Watching her come was almost as satisfying as intercourse. Much more interesting.

He pulled back from her mouth, pulling her lower lip out with his teeth until she could taste a hint of blood in her mouth. “I never tease,” he whispered almost inaudibly, then dropped his head down to kiss and lap at the sinewy jugular vein that ran along her throat. She winced slightly as he bit down, leaving small bruises that he quickly soothed with firm sweeps of his tongue. He spoke no more and put a finger to her lips, a silent order that she should do the same. His blue eyes pierced into hers, the lights from the streetlamps out the window glinting and glittering off of them. She was fascinated with his lack of expression as he slid his hand up and down the inside of her thigh. It was as if he was lost in thought of someplace far away. In truth, he could not imagine being anywhere but here, watching her reactions as his caresses became more intense. The cruel voices that taunted in the dark were quiet when he looked at her. If only he’d met her a long time ago. How different could his life have been? The horrendous years of his youth would have been so much easier to take with Siren there to understand him.

She whimpered, soft and sudden, when the tip of his thumb scraped the sensitive, swollen nub of flesh at the center of her sex. He twisted his wrist nimbly and entered her with a single fingertip. The carefully manicured corners of his fingernail scraped the sides of the opening and wrung another desperate gasp from her lips. She arched up to kiss him, but he pulled back slightly. He didn’t want to be distracted from his voyeuristic intentions. He turned his head as if to say no. She relaxed again against the pillow and let him have his way. She bit her lip, trying not to embarrass herself with frantic screams of pleasure. His fingers were dexterous and opened the folds of her sex, letting the damp, early spring air cool the heat that had gathered between her legs. Little teasing stokes with the tip of his finger made her body shudder and more of the silky dew drip down her thigh and over his hand. She arched upwards quickly in an attempt to force his fingers inside deeply, but he resisted the urge and pulled back just in time. Then he indulged her for a few intoxicating moments, pressing first one, then two digits deeply inside and stroking that mythical hidden spot in slow circles, all the while pressing his thumb aggressively against her clit. He would tease her until she begged. Only then would he pin down her wrists, crawl on top of her, and take his own pleasure. It always began this way, with his hands or his mouth, it didn’t matter. She always begged in the end. He had studied her carefully and knew exactly which buttons to push. Even the dark ones that she tried to keep hidden.

“Please Jonathan,” she panted, reaching down to press his palm firmly against her center. “I can’t wait anymore.”

“Wait for what, darling?” he asked coyly, a smug smile crossing his features.

“Please,” she groaned, her words trailing off as he pinched the sensitive flesh roughly.

He put his face down close to hers, so close that she could feel his breath brush unnervingly against her throat. “Please what?” he whispered, his lips pressed against her ear. “You have to say it.”

Siren bit her lip and looked up with feigned innocence. “Fuck me?” she asked, making her voice high and girlish, then giggling with the slightest tinge of madness. He obliged her so quickly that she barely had time to whimper as he took his hands away from her body.

TBC...