A/N: Welcome to the sickness of my latest obsession! Yes, I've decided to go out into the fanfiction world and provide a little Batman and Joker love for you all.
Summary: The story's set up is a firsthand documentation of the relationship between the Joker and Batman from the perspectives of both characters respectively as well as an omniscient narrative, describing situations at hand. Batman records their encounters in a computer database under Joker's file. Joker, however, takes a more creative approach to remembering his good times with the knight by writing poetry. Together, the documents and narrative show just what happens to the Joker and the Bat as they deal with loss, love, and each other.
Warning: Homosexuality. Cussing. Violence. Sex.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own the wonderful world of Gotham, nor Batman or Joker or any other characters used from the Gotham universe. If I did, your childhood would have changed DRAMATICALLY. ;)
Twinkle, twinkle little bat.
How I liked it when you sat
upon my chest and grabbed me so
as if you never would let go.
You growled at me all dark and mean,
"Where are the kids! What's your scheme?"
Oh, how I howled. You'd lost your cool.
"Kids? Well, Bats, they should be in school."
Your fist kissed the side of my head.
I felt as if I'd laugh to death.
You're so cute when you're beyond pissed.
"What?" I asked, "Have they been missed?"
Lifted by lapels and slammed to the floor.
"Joker! I'm not playing games anymore!"
"Oh, but, Batsy, it's so much fun!"
A kick to your groin, "Besides, we've just begun!"
I smile and cackle, fleeing the fight.
'Another time, my dear dark knight.'
The Joker sat quite pleased with his work. It was as light and whimsical as his current attitude. He was always in a good mood after an encounter with the Bat. Either that or an aggressive one. Considering the Joker's mental state, there was a thin difference. He signed his name, Joker, sharply at the bottom of the page much to a henchman's dismay. In lieu of adequate writing surfaces, the Joker would often use the back of a spare lackey. It served him well as inspiration struck him spontaneously, and due to his impulsive nature, he found it necessary to write when the opportunity presented itself.
Joker's private room was ill lit. The boards creaked and groaned in such a way that anyone bold enough to enter the madman's sanctum feared that the floor itself would fall apart and leave them for dead, that is, of course, if the Joker didn't do it first. The Joker had 'decorated' the room to his liking, with splashes of red paint on the ceiling and disturbing images covering the walls. The blood stains on the torn and tattered wallpaper didn't help either. A bed was crammed into the corner, the covers and pillow dark with bits of the Joker's own blood, results from many a beating from the Bat. Deceivingly toy-like devices littered the floor, each withholding some deadly power. It was like a child's bedroom turned nightmarish. Joker felt at home.
The room was on the top floor of an abandoned apartment complex. A powerful mob had once claimed the building under their dominion but the Joker persuaded them to move out and keep quiet about it years ago by recruiting some to his own forces and killing the rest. His only reasoning being that, as a young boy, he had always wanted to live in this neighborhood. The morning after the takeover though, he couldn't remember ever having specifically wanted it at all much less for a reason.
The Joker gave his underling a kick to the seat of the pants. The man responded accordingly, by leaving, though grumbling all the while. The Joker glanced over the paper, taking in his work. He let out a chuckle before throwing the paper behind him. He lifted an arm in the air and inhaled his aroma.
"Sewer," he noted, "how delightfully–new."
Last night I located Joker in a new hideout. To my slight dismay, he had chosen to take refuge in the sewer systems. It was a risky move for him, considering that Croc claimed Gotham's bowels as his territory. It was apparent that either they had come to some sort of agreement or the Joker had gotten rid of him as the rank and murky waters showed no sign of the creature.
Nonetheless, finding Joker was the easy part. It was getting information out of him that was difficult. After facing a few hordes of lesser opponents, I stood face to face, alone with Joker. As usual, he attempted to pull me into banter. I sometimes wonder if he has some sort of Saturday morning cartoon fixation on me. Still, he always manages to push my buttons.
Regardless, a struggle ensued, admittedly due to my initiating it. After a round of fighting, I had him down on the ground. I restrained him beneath me, straddling his torso and pinning his arms with my knees.
He always has a smile on his face. I know it's the scars that make it appear so, but whenever we have a confrontation, he seems to smile out of his own will. He chortles, chuckles, howls, and screams with laughter all during. I've made theories about his mental instability on multiple occasions but I feel most confident in saying that the man has sadomasochistic tendencies. It sickens me that I seem to bring them out.
He has a habit of wriggling his body when pinned. Over time, I've discovered that he doesn't do so in an attempt to escape. However, I am unclear as to the motive or thought behind the movements.
...it has crossed my mind that the position may give off some form of–pleasure, enticing him to move his body in such a manner, once again due to his sadomasochism… I shudder at the thought.
He revealed nothing to me about the missing children of Gotham's most run down public school. He simply batted around in his fit of puns and ludicrousness. I punched him in an attempt to produce answers. Punching never helps but the hits seems to satisfy me a little.
…that is, my anger. Hitting Joker satisfies my anger.
He flipped me over, much to my surprise, and took a cheap shot to my genitals. I don't know how he knew that I'd forgotten the protection for that particular area but I was down for the moment; Embarrassing but accurate.
The Joker got away. Day began to break above in the surface world and I retreated to the Batcave. I must remember to update his file. He's become more physically capable than he used to be. Or maybe he'd always been this capable. I'm not sure. Then again I'm never sure about him.
"End dictation," he said solemnly.
The bright blue, large screened computer hummed. Alfred's voice had been programmed into the computer and the butler's technological voiced counterpart responded.
"Right away, Master Bruce," it replied, the screen going into a quick frenzy, saving, transferring and updating all at once.
The caped crusader ran a hand through his dark hair. The latex and rubber of his suit made a slight squeaking noise against the leather of the chair he was sitting in.
Right, I haven't even changed out yet. Bruce thought, a finger swiping at the black that inked his eyelids.
Alfred usually would have met up with the hero down in the Batcave, reminded him to change out of his clothes and list off the duties as Bruce Wayne for the next day. However, Alfred had not because he could not.
The Batcave was enormous. The underground caverns echoed with every sound. It smelled earthy, roots hanging from the ceiling. Bits of light existed in the cave, pale blue lanterns in a sea of dark and dirt. The super computer was the biggest source of light. Bruce watched it momentarily as Alfred's tin voice declared that it was entering sleep mode.
Bruce thought about changing the voice of the Batcave's massive terminal many times but something always stopped him from doing so. Remembering Alfred wasn't like remembering his parents. Bruce found memories of his mother and father to be unnecessarily painful and refused to think of them. Alfred, on the hand, hurt in a different way. Bruce assumed that it was because Alfred died of old age. It was a coming death, one that they could talk about and come to terms with, not like a murder.
Bruce approached the Batcave's restroom. He turned on the dim light and then the sink. The water flowed clear but it was exceptionally cold. The half disguised hero braced himself for the shock of the water against his skin. The sink became absorbed with black. Bruce looked up at his reflection and touched it. The coal makeup had faded on his eyes but streamed down onto his cheeks. It looked as if Bruce had cried. He glared at the reflection as he dug a towel into the skin that covered his right cheekbone. He was a grown man after all; he shouldn't be gazing at himself with a face drenched in half washed makeup. Then again, a grown man shouldn't be wearing makeup at all.
Meanwhile, the Joker stood at his own bathroom sink. He had finished the ritual of unmasking himself. He was not to be seen or disturbed and the doors were bolted. He let the water run, trapped in some train of thought no sane person could navigate, let alone understand. The water had a tint of brown to it as it ran from the faucet. The basin contained a sick mixture of black and red all within clouds of creamy white foundation. A rag hung nearby, stained with the same colors. Joker looked into the cracked and broken mirror, a house improvement he had done himself. Bits of his real face were visible but so spread out and disfigured that he was indistinguishable. He stared into the shards of his reflection, his hands griping onto the sink, his breath heavy, his mind a million sanities away.
A/N: Well, there's the first chapter. Joker and Batsy like good reviews as they make love to them, only Batsy likes positive critiques because he's a logical, perfectionist prick, and the Joker does in fact like flames, but not the kind fanfiction would give me so be nice lest his pyro-happy ass come find you.