A/N: So I'm no batman super fan. All of my knowledge comes from watching the movies, Wikipedia, and my friends who are true diehard batman fans. Normally I hate it when people always try to make characters slash when they clearly aren't. But, Batman and Joker's relationship really is fascinating so I decided to explore it. Bear with me while I figure everything out. Anyway, enjoy!

Dull green eyes regarded the space with only a mild curiosity. It reeked of raw sewage and piss, rat dropping and crusty bird shit, white as snow. He sat under wood rotted away by the teeth of termites and forest green mold shone with soggy, suffocating moisture against the walls. The dank conditions were only offset by the sharp sliver of light, which shined through grimy windowpanes, like cheese through a grater.

He was not amused.

It took a lot to not amuse the Joker just as it similarly took a lot to amuse the Batman.

A large grin spilt the madman's scarred, ruby lips at the thought of his favorite playmate just as the true extent of his injuries became readily apparent. Purple bruises that matched his bloodied suit blossomed on stark white cheeks like dead violets. His entire body seemed to hum with the overall pain of a good beating and his nose was easily sprained if not broken, coagulated blood clogging his nasal cavities with its sludge like consistency. He could feel his ribs, set and reset countless times by the worker monkeys of Arkham, jutting awkwardly from their not-so original positions but he was used to that now. The other inmates hadn't liked him very much and they weren't afraid to show him just how deep their hatred ran.

A rat, fat and black as night rustled ominously in the shadows causing the Harlequin of Hate to jerk suddenly, upsetting his injuries.

"Shit!" He wouldn't have minded the pain if the cause of them had been his Batsy's fists. But the crazed clown knew his beating and subsequent capture wasn't the vigilante's doing. No, his bat always let him go.

He lapped his sharp tongue over yellowed, bloodstained teeth and spat at his feet. He grimaced as the binding of ropes dug into his skin and made him bleed. This pain was simply no good if he couldn't identify his perpetrator.

"I see you're awake," Voice as dank as the surroundings suddenly boomed from the shadows. The Clown Prince of Crime flashed his unidentified captor a toothy grin, careful to show off his jagged fangs but kept his voice so innocent.

"Well, ah, ya know, I gotta get my beauty sleep." He batted his eyelashes in the general direction of the voice and licked his plump lips with loud smacking sounds.

"Can it clown," The voice cut in, unamused and razor sharp. "I don't have time for your blathering."

"Well you see," Joker continued, unfazed. "Not that I don't like surprises, but being taken in the middle of the night does set a guy a bit off kilter." He crossed his legs as best as he could in his bindings. "So if you need something all you have to do is ask, I'd like to think that I'm an, ah, reasonable man. Kidnapping me was a bit pre-mature don't ya think?"

He leveled the shadow with his best grin that seemed to tear his face apart more than it already was. His green eyes shined, losing their dullness and becoming just as sharp as the stranger's tone. Even without his knives, bound like a sausage, he managed to look deadly.

"This isn't a game."

At this the jester broke into loud cackles, shrill insanity bouncing off the walls and hitting him all over again in a crazed cycle of irony. Filthy pigeons flew away in fright as the joker doubled over in laughter, drowning in his own amusement. He jerked in his binding as his lungs deflated like balloons as all the air in his body seemed to be put forth in a laugh that cracked eardrums. Finally after several moments and deep gulping breaths, the laugh diminished to feminine giggles.

"That's a good one," The Joker said around his giggles, the corners of his eyes pricking with tears. "If you haven't noticed, games are, well, kinda my thing." He licked his lips once more, stained by lipstick and blood. The all too familiar copper taste flooded his mouth and stuck to his gums. Black pits of eye make-up with green gems like a snake's regarded his assailant waiting for a response.

The silence stretched on in waves as the jester waited, grotesque smile sitting pleasantly on his face. The figure, on his part, wasn't baited by the maniac before him and instead opted to walk away, footsteps echoing throughout room.

"Wait, come back," The Joker whined, voice sounding childishly disappointed. "I thought were were just getting started." A snicker escaped him.

"Don't stop the party on my account!" More giggles threatened to escape. "Besides what's a part without a clown!" He cackled again, voice rising at unpleasant octaves as he barely finished his sentence before it was engulfed by genuine hoots.

The sound seemed to echo for miles.

Muscles were tense under what felt like too tight skin and strained to break free in bloody ripples. Gaunt eyes regarded the broken city looking for any sign of trouble. A cool sheen of sweat coated his upper lip underneath his cowl and his plated armor stuck to him like the metaphorical second skin that it was. It was too quiet for his liking. Yes, police sirens did wail in pockets of the city while cars and trucks skidded over messily paved roads made slick by the recent rainfall. But petty crimes-robberies and break-ins-didn't concern him. The Gotham PD could, hopefully, handle it. The kind of quiet he was referring to was a lack of gunshots, pained screams, and overall chaos. It was the absence of deranged laughs that seemed to be ingrained into his eardrums. A cold chill clawed up his spinal cord at the mere thought of the homicidal sociopath's laugh but he quickly shook it off and focused on his task once more.

Calloused fingers rubbed his chin in thought as an unidentified but all too familiar feeling weighed down his chest and reduced his breathing to a gruff, asthmatic wheeze. Something wasn't right. He cleared his throat of sudden phlegm and spat over the edge of the building he was perched on. Dull vibrations pulsed over his body in sudden waves, originating on the left side of his utility belt. Only one person had the number to it.

The Caped Crusader removed the cheap burner, which looked small and useless in his large hands. Holding the phone to his pursed lips, he spoke with a throat full of gravel.

"What is it, Alfred?"

There was silence on the other line and he could imagine his loyal butler trying to piece his words together carefully.

"Sorry to disturb you sir," His accent was clear in his clipped tone, a method to camouflage his worry. "But a package has come for you."

Underneath the cowl, the billionaire's face looked confused and wary. Who would send him a package at that hour? And why? And why did Alfred sound so concerned?

"Well, what is it?" There was more silence except for the slight static that crackled along his ear canal like a lick of electricity. The good butler's breathing could be heard as he came up with an acceptable reply. A car horn sounded from several stories below Batman along with muffled swearing.

"Maybe…maybe it is best if you see for yourself." Alfred sounded unsure of himself, drained, and tired. A feeling of guilt tugged Bruce's mouth downward into a frown. He understood the amount of anxiety his dual identity could cause.

"I'll be right there." The conversation dropped with an audible click as Bruce pocketed the phone once more. He gazed across the ebony horizon of his city, the same city costumed freaks treated as their personal playground. With one last look he dove off the ledge, gracefully, like black silk.

Alfred regarded the cardboard box in front of him and something vile coiled in his stomach. He straightened his tailored suit and brushed non-existent dust off of his pant leg while he waited for Bruce to return. He was almost afraid to turn away from the box and its contents as if the entire apparatus would come to life and attack him. He didn't put anything past the harmless looking object. He had made that mistake before.

"It won't bite." Alfred jumped, adrenaline and sudden fright making his heart pound with a dull ache against his ribcage.

"That was not funny, Sir," Alfred said as a slight smirk appeared on his master's lips. Bruce on his part, simply shrugged, skin pulled taut over bulging muscles and tendons. His dark eyes scanned his confidant's face and could clearly see the worry the Englishman was trying to hide under his annoyed expression. Alfred glanced at the box and the billionaire followed his eyes to it, laid eerily alone on the kitchen counter.

"Is that it?" he asked, sobering quickly. His voice was suddenly heavy, weighed down by the concrete evidence in front of him that something wasn't right. The butler cleared his throat though he only nodded.

"What is it?"

"See for yourself sir," His butler replied, raising an almost challenging but mostly tired eyebrow. His stance showed his impatience and weariness, arms crossed, glaring subtle daggers at the package.

Bruce steeled himself for the worst, severed fingers or any other bloody body parts as his mind raced at who could be responsible. Jaw tensed, mouth in a thin, resigned line he peered into the box.

It was a clump of hair about the size of a child's fist. Dirty blonde and greasy, looking unkempt, possibly the hair of a dog and coarse to the touch. It lay alone in the box, no note, nothing. He must have looked confused because Alfred gave him a sympathetic if not pitying look.

"Alfred…what is this?" A slight pink tinge colored his cheeks at the look Alfred sent him, making him aware of his own incompetence and reminding him of his days being raised by the old Englishman.

"I do believe it is his hair, sir."

Bruce recoiled in utter disgust, dropping the chopped chunk of hair just noticing the green tint. He held his large, balled fist awkwardly at his side clearly stifling the urge to scrub his hands clean. Rocks rolled in his intestines as his eyes darkened. His jaw jutted out in frustration, fists clenching and unclenching as he pondered what it meant.

Was this a sign from the Joker? An indication that the Ace of Knaves knew his true identity? Surely if the clown was as smart as he claimed to be, then he would've figured it out by now. He even gave indication that he knew more than he said which must have been quite a challenge. If there was anything the Joker loved more than laughing and murder, it was talking. He visibly bristled as the clown's laugh echoed in his mind before he shook it off.

"May I speak out of turn, sir?" Alfred asked after the silence settled in like cool rainclouds. The billionaire could only nod, mind pre-occupied with a deranged man who reeked of gunpowder and explosive chemicals.

"What the hell does this mean?" The Butler exclaimed, rubbing the creases from his forehead. "Cleary this is some sort of symbol, but of what I am unsure. I mean this is the Joker we're talking about. It must be part of some sorted twisted game but I highly doubt he's gotten as desperate as cutting off pieces of himself. If I didn't know any better, it would almost appear as if he's been…well…"

"Kidnapped." There was no question in Bruce's voice. The Joker had been kidnapped. But why? The unhinged murderer had been laying low since his last escape from Arkham. No high jacking news feeds for the mere sake of doing so and no blowing up buildings for his own twisted amusement. Sure the lesser villains, the other themed or costumed freaks, had challenged him in his archenemy's absence. But they were nothing compared to the Harlequin of Hate. No, the other criminals often deemed insane by the corrupted justice system of Gotham caused havoc because there was always an ulterior motive, always something to gain. But not with the Joker.

No, he killed simply as a pastime, something to do when boredom struck. His kills lacked emotional attachment and the sheer randomness and sometimes utter childishness of his stomach churning acts easily proved his lack of humanity and therefore his lethalness. He killed because he was bored, destroyed lives because there was nothing else to do, tortured the vigilante with declarations of love despite his sociopathic inability to actually do so because it made him laugh. There was no doubt of his insanity, so why would someone dare kidnap arguably the most deadly creature to ever grace Gotham's darkest corners?

And why send Bruce proof of it? Why not that blonde girl Joker kept around as a physical and emotional punching bag? What was her name again? Right, Harley Quinn. So why not Harley, why him?

"What if it's a trap?" His eyes matched his flat tone as he looked at the older man. More questions formed in his throat attempting to be processed by his brain but never quite achieving it. His head suddenly throbbed, chemical reactions in his brain working into over drive as the thick vein running alongside his temple threatened to burst.

"But what if it's not sir?" he surrogate father questioned more out of obligation than actual curiosity. He could care less what happened to the unstable jester that caused the man who was practically a son to him so much psychological and emotional distress. Just because he frowned on Bruce being the one to end the clown's life didn't mean he was opposed to someone else doing the job.

"If it's not a trap," Bruce repeated thinking out loud as adrenaline ran through his veins. "If it's not a trap, then someone has captured the Joker and wants me to know about it. They also want me to know that they know my identity. Whether they knew already or beat it out of him, I don't know. But they want me to know they have him, but why?"

A/N: So, how was it? It's only the beginning for what looks like will be a pretty long story. The slash will be very slow going for their relationship to really develop so don't hold you breath for a sex scene a few chapters in. Please review, they really let me know what my reader thinks more than favorites or follows though those are really appreciated too. Sorry, I ramble when I'm nervous. Please review.