Method Madness

The elevator brought Anne up in silence, like a coffin on a wire, each floor counting down the seconds before her own resurrection. The ride was too smooth, too fast, the air scrubbed of scent.

She watched her own face reflected in the brushed steel of the doors—every bump of jaw, every flaw in the makeup she'd applied twice this morning just to look like she'd woken up perfect. It was the first time she'd been to Marcus's place since filming ended. The first time she'd seen him outside the perimeter of set, studio, or a mutually haunted hotel suite.

The elevator chimed with a note so faint it was almost apologetic. Anne's thumbprint, still faintly red at the cuticle, trembled as she pressed it to the sensor. The doors opened onto a vestibule lined in black glass, no foyer, no transition. Just the raw, surgical light of the penthouse bleeding into her eyes.

She stood a moment, pulse tucked beneath the fine silk at her throat, the sense of entering a cathedral more pronounced than she'd expected. The space was all planes and emptiness—walls sheened in obsidian, corners vanishing into shadow, every surface either reflective or matte enough to swallow glare.

The only art was the city itself, which spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the great room. From this height, LA looked not so much alive as suspended in some liquid, a creature in a jar, writhing for someone's amusement.

She heard nothing. Not the usual clatter of a party thrown by the last person left on earth, not the low predatory sound that used to hum through Marcus even when he was just Marcus and not the thing he played. There was only the hush.

A slow drift of footsteps behind her, and then Marcus appeared at the threshold, as if conjured by her nerves. He was barefoot, hair wild but clean, the black of his shirt blending into the deeper black of his sleeves. He looked different.

The first difference was the eyes—still that sick green, but rimmed with sleepless blue, the irises smaller, somehow more afraid than frightening. The second difference was the way he moved: less like a hunter, more like a man who had been handed a dog he wasn't sure wouldn't bite him.

"Anne." The name caught in his throat, as if it hurt him to use it. He let it go with a smile that wasn't a smile at all, just a suggestion of teeth.

"Hi," she said. Too bright. She wanted to modulate her voice, lower it to the cool register she'd used as Selina, but it wouldn't come.

"Thanks for—" She gestured at the room, at the entire situation. "—having me."

Marcus inclined his head.

"Of course."

He stepped aside, giving her the space to move past him without the brush of bodies, the old charge that used to make her scalp prickle. She noticed, and it annoyed her that she noticed.

The kitchen was a knife-blade of marble and chrome, with nothing on the counters except a single bottle of wine—Hermitage, something French and unpronounceable even if you were French—and two glasses so thin they looked engineered for ruin. Anne moved to the island and set her purse down, unsure what to do with her hands.

He poured without flourish. Even the way he handled the corkscrew was precise, efficient, as if opening a bottle was a performance review and the wine might score him.

He filled the glasses exactly halfway, then set the bottle between them, label facing her.

"Is this a flex?" she asked, lifting the glass, the wine nearly black in the morning light.

"If it is, it's not mine," he said.

"Gift from the studio. They're still trying to bribe me into a sequel."

The corner of his mouth twitched up, then down.

"I think they're afraid to send anyone in person."

"Is that why you're hiding out?" The question slipped out sharper than she meant. She watched for the flinch, and she caught it: the smallest retraction at the tendons in his neck.

He shrugged.

"Maybe I like the view."

She sipped the wine. It was excellent—earthy, old, with an aftertaste that lingered.

"Or maybe you just like being above it all."

A pause.

"Not really," he said, voice lower.

"But I think I forgot how to be on the ground."

She studied him, glass pressed to her lips. He'd changed since wrap, yes, but not in the way she'd expected. The Joker was supposed to hollow him out, make him brittle, maybe even give him a craving for the void.

Instead, he seemed compressed, denser, like a star burning out of phase. She wanted to ask if he was okay, but she knew the answer was probably no, and she hated the idea of being the person who asked anyway.

Instead, she said, "You cut your hair."

Marcus reached up, almost reflexively, and touched the line at the nape.

"It kept getting in my mouth." He smiled, this time for real.

"I kept thinking I'd wake up and it'd be gone. Like the rest of it."

She let the silence draw out. It was uncomfortable, but she had learned that some discomforts just needed to be sat with. She took in the rest of the kitchen: the unmarked black fridge, the sculpture of a bowl filled with nothing, the lack of any evidence that Marcus actually cooked or ate here.

"So, is this how you live now?" she asked, gesturing with her glass.

"Above the city, drinking wine you can't pronounce, watching yourself on loop?"

"Sometimes," he said.

"Sometimes I watch other things. Sometimes I just stand at the window and see how long I can go without thinking about anything."

"And how long is that?"

He thought for a second.

"Thirty-seven seconds, last count." He looked at her, and for the first time she felt him really see her, like a lens being twisted into focus.

"Why'd you come?"

She laughed, but it sounded brittle.

"I don't know. Habit? Masochism? I think I wanted to see if you were still you, or if you'd gone full method and never come back."

He set his glass down.

"And what do you think?"

She took a slow breath.

"Honestly? You seem quieter. Less... dangerous."

He held her gaze, steady.

"Does that disappoint you?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. "No," she said, but she didn't believe it.

He looked away, hands splayed on the marble, fingers tense enough to blanch the knuckles. She watched the hands, remembered what they could do—on camera, off. The wine swam in her head a little, or maybe it was just the altitude.

He said, softly, "You could have called."

She let the words settle. Then: "I tried." She didn't elaborate.

He nodded.

"Right. You did."

She wanted to close the gap, to reach out and touch the sharpness of his jaw, to see if his skin still hummed with the same threat. But he was holding a perimeter, and she could feel it—a ring of empty air, a circle in which she was allowed to orbit but never land.

Instead, she laughed, a better laugh this time.

"Do you have snacks, or is this one of those minimalist apartments where food is considered a design flaw?"

He straightened, and for a moment the old smile—the Joker's smile, weaponized and then defused—crossed his face.

"I have chips," he said.

"And olives. And something that calls itself a cheese but looks like an art project."

She moved to the fridge with him, and as he opened it, the cold light spilled over both of them. She watched him take out the tray, hands careful, every motion deliberate.

She almost said: I miss the chaos.

She almost said: I miss you.

But instead, she took an olive, bit into it, and let the brine burn the roof of her mouth.

They moved to the living room. The couch was a black velvet monolith, low and wide, meant for more bodies than just two, but she curled into one corner and let Marcus take the other. He placed the tray between them, poured her more wine, and settled back, legs stretched out, feet bare and vulnerable against the rug.

The conversation stumbled along, every topic a field of glass. They talked about the film—who had reached out, what the reviews said, which critic had called their onscreen dynamic "electrifying but fundamentally perverse." They talked about the city, about sleep, about the weirdness of waking up famous and realizing it didn't solve anything.

Sometimes the silences were too long. Sometimes Marcus looked at her like he was waiting for her to pull out a scalpel and open him up. Sometimes she wanted to.

As the sun set, LA bled gold through the windows, smearing their faces in light and shadow. Anne caught her own reflection in the glass: hair curling against her cheek, wine flush on her lips, eyes not quite dry. She wondered if she looked as haunted as she felt.

She glanced at Marcus. He sat perfectly still, glass balanced in his hand, gaze fixed on the skyline but seeing something far away. She studied the line of his throat, the delicate angle of his jaw, the way his breathing barely moved his chest. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words caught.

He turned, caught her looking. For a second, neither of them pretended.

She said, very quietly, "Do you ever miss it?"

He didn't ask what. He just looked at her, eyes green and endless, and nodded.

"Sometimes I wonder if it was the realest thing I've ever done," he said. "Even if it wasn't really me."

Anne felt the world tip, just a little. She took a breath, let it out, and said,

"It was you. It always was."

The moment stretched. The city went on burning below, but up here there was only the two of them and the length of the couch.

Anne placed her glass down, steady. She folded her hands, watched the muscles of his forearm ripple as he turned his glass, the light catching on the sharpness of his wrist.

She wanted to touch him. She wanted to know if it would feel the same, or if something fundamental had been lost.

Instead, she sat in her corner, and waited for him to make the first move.

He didn't.

The city winked its lights on, and the wine in her head pulsed with every heartbeat. She let herself stare at him, no longer hiding the hunger.

If he noticed, he didn't show it.

They sat in silence, watching the world through bulletproof glass.

She thought: This is what it means to survive.

She thought: I want to break something.

But all she did was reach for the tray, and take another olive.

....

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