I wrote this story partly as a character study and partly to quell my questions about how Rachel spent her time after The Joker had her kidnapped. But, perhaps most importantly, I wrote this story so The Joker could get some crazy sex on. I'm not gonna lie.
Truth
Rachel Dawes had dealt with her fair share of criminals. Murderers, rapists, drug dealers - she'd seen them all. She'd spent years analyzing them. It was her job to get under their skin, uncloud their souls and see what made them tick. Even when she was still in law school, trying to pass her bar exam, she knew that she would never be content in a courtroom with some white collar busted for bad books. She wanted the crackpots. Hell, she sought them out.
And here, now, was one of them. A sadistic clown threatening a 75 year old retired financial advisor with a knife and a leer. For what? Patriarchal revenge? She didn't think so.
"O.K. Stop it."
The Joker was a man of many talents. One of which, he had to say, was the ability to come up with catchy one liners and witty come backs. But that bitch's comment certainly didn't lend itself to any. What to say, what to say? No you stop it? Not exactly the retort he was looking for. Needless to say, he was already sufficiently pissed off by the time he turned around only to find Dent's luscious tart staring him down like some Xena Warrior Princess in a party dress and smart up do out for revenge. Or avenge. Yes, avenge was better.
But she was tempting, wasn't she? And he wanted to play. The absence of Dent was quite the disappointment, but his Catch O' The Day could certainly suffice. Maybe she'd gift him with a smile before she screamed for death.
So he circled her - mostly to intimidate her but also to see her ass - he wasn't going to lie to himself. And he was hard before he had finished the first revolution.
Well. That hadn't happened in awhile.
So he told her the love story. It seemed appropriate somehow. He was sick of the Oedipal Daddy issues story anyway. And he wanted to see her eyes light up with the hope that he had once loved, that he was a man after all, that she perhaps wasn't facing her impending death. Maybe, just maybe he'd show her some mercy. All bull shit of course. Then he'd see that change to the black void in her eyes. He loved seeing that shift in people. It was like the power going out when the refrigerator door was still open. That sudden absence of light was always a great and horrible surprise.
But when that didn't happen, when that light was still on even as he finished his story, he decided he'd very much like to kidnap her. He wanted to take her somewhere, talk her insane, and then maybe fuck her till that light blew out.
But then she'd kicked him in the balls and he'd thrown her out a window, so that plan was all shot to hell. Serves him right for even trying to come up with a plan.
...
Wandering around Bruce's gigantic penthouse, Rachel should have been considering how generous Bruce was being for putting up his ex-girlfriend after she had been named The Joker's next victim. But all she could think was Damn, that man has a lot of goldfish. It seemed every other room she ventured into, there stood another gigantic glass tank teeming with fish of varying shapes and colors, aquatic vegetation, colorful castles, and, in some instances, a tiny scuba diver. Why the fish? Maybe it was part of some unconscious need for him to control everything, watching from above as the entire world played out below him. So completely different from the man who hunted her. The Joker was like the child in the pet store who kept tapping on the glass just because the sign says not to.
Rachel wanted to think that the Joker was nothing but a raving madman. But she had to admit that he was also very intelligent. Frighteningly so. The way his lack of a plan always seemed to work in his favor was astounding. He had no rules, no moral compass, and yet he claimed to be a man of his word. He believed in nothing, made no attempts to justify his existence or his actions, and yet he was always on the move. He was always trying to prove something. The question that had been plaguing Rachel ever since the Joker's cold hand left hers and she fell was what exactly is it that he wants to prove? What was his reason for being? The story he fed her was a farce. She knew that as soon as he started telling it. She was a lawyer, after all. She knew a lie when she heard one. But the most nagging question on Rachel's mind was why should she care?
She didn't, of course. Not really. And yet the thoughts still ran through her mind. Who was this man? What made him do the things he does? There must be a reason. There's always a reason. Always. Rachel didn't realize that she had wandered into Bruce's large gathering room - that she was staring out the same window The Joker had dropped her from.
She liked to tell herself that living in Gotham, that prosecuting the men most lawyers in the city were too afraid to deal with, that being kidnapped and drugged just a year ago, had hardened her, had made her immune to circumstances most found horrifying. But that wasn't the case at all. That sick fuck had dropped her out of a window. She had been terrified to die. And yet here she was, staring out that same window thinking about him. It was her job and in her nature to find out the truth, but this was ridiculous.
The phone startled her on its first ring. Yeah. Hardened lady of Gotham, alright. Shaken by a cell phone playing a tinny electronic version of Beethoven's 5th. She looked at the flashing number on the screen - hoping it was Harvey or even Bruce. And praying to God it wasn't about Harvey or Bruce. She could use a controlled voice of sanity to shake her from this strange reverie.
"Hello?"
"Rachel, it's Ramirez."
Rachel sighed. One of Jim's trusted officers. A sane and controlled voice without bonus romantic entanglement. This just might be her lucky day.
"I have some great news." Ramirez continued in her usual clipped tone.
Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. "After all that's happened, we really need it right now." Images of Jim Gordon flashed through her mind...of his wife, his little boy and she bit her tongue to keep from crying.
"Don't I know it." Ramirez sounded nervous, like she was waiting for an anvil to come crashing down on her. Rachel was about to ask her what was wrong when Ramirez got straight to the point.
"Listen, I called because Harvey needs you at the station right now. We've got him, Rachel. He won't admit it, but Harvey needs your help. Questioning him is really wearing him down. I can tell."
Rachel didn't even bother to question her further. She didn't need to. She knew exactly who and what Ramirez meant. "Tell him I'll be right there." Rachel hung up the phone and rushed out the door, hardly remembering to grab her keys on the way out. She didn't know that she'd have no need of them where she was going.
...
As soon as her feet hit the pavement below, she knew a flash of bright light, a dull throbbing pain in her temples and nothing but blackness interrupted by periods of starred explosions running through her mind. And then there was nothing to see at all. Just a distant ticking and a familiar voice.
"You do sleep like a baby, Miss Dawes. I'm shocked, considering the circumstances." Rachel woke with a start, her head aching. As her eyes blurred into focus, she saw a cake white face, sad dark eyes and a horrific red sneer "What with your impending death and all..." The Joker trailed off and looked at her expectantly. As if he was waiting for her to scream and beg for her life. Not likely. She struggled to stand but found her hands bound behind her, tied to the straight-backed wooden chair she was sitting in. Her eyes cleared and she took the time to get used to her surroundings. She had a sinking feeling she might be here for awhile. She was in some dingy space with painted concrete floors and plaster walls. The room was illuminated by a single bare bulb. She had to reel back from what exactly it illuminated. Surrounding her and her smiling companion were about twenty steel oil drums and a small mechanism with a digital display. A bomb. He was going to blow her sky high. Shit.
"What is this?" She demanded as she struggled against the ropes.
"This?" The Joker smiled at her as he sat in a chair opposite her own and carefully crossed his legs. He looked as if he was in his home entertaining a guest. Maybe he was. "This, my good-hearted friend, is an experiment." He tucked a stray strand of green tinted hair behind his ear and waved his gloved hands with a flourish. "A study in, uh, human behavior, if you will."
Rachel glared at him beneath furrowed brows. "A study in...what?"
The Joker threw his head back and laughed. "Well, your behavior, really. I hate riddles, Miss Dawes, so I'm just going to come straight out and say it. You are very, ah, interesting to me. You. You who are always after the greater good." He made little air quotes with his purple fingers as he said the last words. She wanted to strangle him. "You never want to stray from the beaten path. You're always after what's right." He said right as if it were two syllables, enunciating the T. It was disconcerting.
Rachel interrupted him and rolled her eyes, not even bothering to hide the disgust. "Oh please. You can't be serious."
He quirked one dark eyebrow at her and stared as if mesmerized. "If you haven't already guessed, I hate being serious. But you have. Of course you have. The point being, just because I don't like being serious doesn't mean I can't."
Rachel pretended not to hear him and went on, "You've got some ridiculous plan, most likely involving your arch nemesis Batman, and you want to bribe him using me as the token in your little game. And in the meantime, you're going to amuse yourself by trying to prove to yourself that even an upstanding citizen and moral decent such as myself could and will go bad in the end." If Rachel could've crossed her arms in a smug manner at this point, she would have. "So you want to see if there's some bad hidden somewhere underneath my good girl exterior, Mr. - uh - I'm not sure what to call you. The Joker sounds so impersonal."
He chuckled and crossed his own arms. This was just too much fun already. And the game hadn't even begun.
"You are so predictable." Rachel continued.
The Joker's words came out lower than usual as he leaned toward her. Rachel flinched. She had a fleeting memory of that same voice directed toward that 75 year old man at Bruce's party who reminded him of his father. "I hate that word. We're just going to have to make sure this is anything but predictable, aren't we?"
"You're right. You know what would be really unpredictable, Mr. J? Letting me go and then turning yourself in. I think it's safe to say no one would be expecting that." Rachel held her breath, waiting for him to slit her throat.
He smiled at her. It would have looked almost genuine if it hadn't been for his already ghoulish appearance. "This is going to be even better than I thought. I'm so excited! I may just have to squeal like a little girl later. But you're right about everything except for the bribery part. That, as you said, would be much too predictable. No, no, no. No, Miss Dawes. I'd much rather just have fun with you.
Rachel tried to hide her shock, but it came plain on her face as her wide open mouth. If he wasn't planning to use her to get to Bruce, then there was no foreseeable reason for his actions. And action without reason was almost too much to bear. Nothing frightened her more.
He registered this in her face and barely suppressed a giggle. "By the way, I love it when you call me Mr. J." He scooted his chair closer to hers. The sound of the metal legs scraping against the concrete floor made her cringe. "Do it again, Beautiful. Only this time say it lower."
She turned her face away from his, disgusted. And oddly curious. What was his plan then? Torture? Mutilation? Rape? She knew he was a sadistic bastard but she had thought all those things would have been much too predictable for him.
He had taken out his knife from hidden depths of purple fabric and was playing with it now. Carefully spinning it in his hands and smirking at her - his eyes were burning into her. It was unnerving how much those black bottomless eyes could see.
"What do you want, then, if not to use me?"
He shook his head and looked down, muttering, as if talking to himself. "Never said I didn't want to use you. No. Not in the way they think I do. Or you think I do." He let out a short, barking laugh and cocked his head to one side. "You wouldn't mind, then, if I used you." He looked at her. Seeing. Always seeing. "I mean, uh, everyone else does, am I right?" He laughed again and the knife stopped turning in his hands. He let it rest against the seam of his trousers instead - slowly moving back and forth and back and forth. She stared, transfixed. He leaned even closer to her. She couldn't breath, he was so close. She supposed that was the point.
"Harvey uses you - the little golden idol at his side. Good for show. You certainly do look great on TV, beautiful. But in the dark, when no one's looking and he's fucking you - because that's all he does is fuck with you - he's not thinking about you, darling. Nope. He's thinking about how great it looks - the power couple - you in your little pant suit and him in his power suit. He doesn't want you, he wants the power. And he has it, when you're squirming underneath him, making the little noises that you do. And he's still not thinking of you, even when he's stuck inside you, because he's thinking that the only point of this is to maybe make a little - uh - Dent, if you don't mind the metaphor. A Little Dent that will make him immortal and you...you just an empty, ah, womb. A shining golden cunt on a pedestal."
Rachel squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. He was wrong. She knew he was wrong, and still the tears threatened to fall. She hated that he could do this to her with just his words. But she bit her tongue to forget them. She wasn't going to let him get to her. All he wanted to do was to see her fall apart - to prove to himself that he wasn't alone in his insanity. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
The Joker smirked at her. He saw the determination, the brief shadow of doubt, and the lust for revenge all pass through her eyes. This was perfect. Just what he wanted but nothing that he expected.
"And The Bat Man. What does he take from you, hm? A chance at, uh, normality? Does he even realize that you are just as fucked up as he is, precious? Why else would an empowered, uh, person such as yourself fall for the impossible? What is love to you? Nothing to you. Nothing to me. You don't love. You idolize. You want to take out your little hammer and nails and fix things. But what's the point? Things change because they can, not because some little slut wants them to." His constant smile got wider, if that was even possible, as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms - knife still in hand and obviously very pleased with himself. But she was still silent, still trying to hold it back. He couldn't stand it. He knew she was in there somewhere, just waiting to come out. He was going to have to mix things up a bit.
He rose from his chair and hovered over her, as she stared at him with murderous eyes. The knife still glinting in his hands. "You asked me before what I wanted? Well I'll tell ya, puddin'." The knife crept closer and closer to her face, and still she stared at him - seemed to not even notice the knife. So he lowered it, passing it over her collarbone and with a swift movement, sliced off a lock of her hair. It floated to the concrete, catching on some unseen air current like a feather. "I want to, uh, surprise you. You like surprises, right?" He slid the knife still lower and deftly severed the thread of one of the buttons on her shirt. The button flew past her line of vision and fell with a tiny plink to the floor. He leered lecherously at the bit of satin bra that was revealed. He licked his lips. "Black. Nice."
He could've sworn on his best purple suit that that would have elicited some sort of reaction from her but her eyes flickered down once, and when they rose to meet his again, she almost looked...bored.
Fuck. Damn. Shit.
He continued to sever the buttons until her shirt was completely open and with each flick of the knife, she seemed even more disinterested. But what the hell? Even if the reaction wasn't right, at least he got a decent view out of the deal.
"Well you are certainly being very polite about all this, Rach. Almost as if you're used to this kind of thing. Harvey a bit of a kink then? Or maybe it's Batsy who likes it all rough and tumble. I can see that." She rolled her eyes and turned her face away. The Joker raised his eyebrows. He felt like - well, almost like he was disappointing her. "So you're not the princess you like to think you are, then. Here I thought I'd be sending you crashing down from you little pedestal, but it looks like you've been knocked down already. Princess get her wings torn off, then, hm?"
She glared at him, the fire was starting to come back. He could see the red splotches rising on her cheeks. Clown makeup. Theeeere she was.
"Or maybe," he continued as he brought his face even closer to hers, holding her neck and feeling the quickening pulse fluttering beneath his fingers. "Maybe," this he whispered in her ear as his other hand came around behind her. She felt the cold metal on her back, the point pressing her flesh. She was scared and she hated it. "You never were on that pedestal at all."
She felt him everywhere and she knew that, right now, he was winning. She felt his hot breath at her ear and his lips so close to her face. His hand was on her neck as if he was controlling the racing of her heart, the rushing in and out of her breath. She felt his knife, an extension of him, pressing into her. And still he kept on.
"Maybe you've spent your whole life clawing your way up, using your White knight and your Black knight, trying so hard to make it to the top through them. But what do they do but knock you right back down again. Right back down into the dirt with the other pawns of Gotham." She felt him grin against the side of her wet cheek. She hadn't even realized she was crying. "And with the Court Jester, of course!" With that he laughed hysterically, but never moving, never releasing his hold on her. She felt the pressure on her back subside. She imagined him reeling back for the killing blow. She saw the knife hitting its mark - the mark that had been there since that night of Bruce's party. But instead of feeling the knife and her own blood wet her blouse, she felt the ropes around her wrists go slack.
She turned her head, bringing her nose to nose with him, her eyes wide. He leaned his forehead against hers, a chuckle low in his throat. "Surprise!"
He closed his eyes as he leaned into her, breathing in deeply as if he was trying to pick up on her scent.
This was too much. She was done being played. The Bastard even had the audacity to lower his guard, sniffing her like she was the willing prey. She wanted him to take part in his own game. She wanted it so bad, she could taste it, and a low growl resonated deep in the back of her throat. She wouldn't think about the fact that maybe she sounded just a little bit like him.
"You like surprises?" Her voice was strained and almost inhuman. He raised his eyebrows expectantly and looked at her, smacking his lips like a toad. She reeled back and with her newly freed hands, punched him as hard as she could in his smiling face. Blood poured from his nose and the makeup smeared around his eyes and mouth where her fist had connected. He was sprawled out on the floor but he whooped with delight.
"Ooh, the little spitfire is back! Do it again! I like it when you play rough!"
She fell to her knees beside him and punched again and again, sending him back against the wall. She took him by the fabric of that ridiculous green vest and shook him hard. His hands came up to clasp around her wrists and he glared at her, not a hint of a smile on his face save for the false one.
His voice was a low growl now, just as hers had been. "You're never going to win. Never going to beat me, sweetheart. Not like that."
Sweetheart. All those terms of endearment sounded like curses coming from his ruined mouth. But she knew he was right and it gave her an idea, insane and incredibly stupid. It was true. She was never going to win by beating the shit out of him. This he was accustomed to. To win, she'd have to keep the surprises coming. And really, she had nothing left to lose.
So she kissed him, full on the lips, moaning into that same ruined mouth.
He released his vice-like grip on her wrists and he tried to pull away, but her hands came up to his face, pulling him back, smearing away the makeup, and clawing into his hair. She pressed herself against him, settling between his legs and her hands roamed, sliding under his vest and suspenders, working them off his shoulder then flying to the buttons of his shirt. They were everywhere, it seemed. One hand deftly unbuttoned the top button of his trousers and slipped down low on his stomach. He sucked in a labored breath as that wandering hand went even lower. He hardly had time to register that her other hand was trailing lightly against his scarred face. He knocked her hands away and slapped her hard, cutting her lip and sending her sprawling across the floor.
"Bitch." No more false words of endearment. No more games. This was him.
She saw stars but then he was on her again, pushing her onto her back and devouring her blood filled mouth with his own. She knew with every rational thought she possessed that this would never work - that this would go horribly wrong fast. But she had taken away his ability to orchestrate. His power had been stripped away as soon as she had force fed him a heaping taste of his own brand of medication. All the lies, all the tricks were gone. This was simply two people feeding their most basic needs. This was the only truth to be found in this tiny room wired to explode.
She tore her swollen lips from his, spitting blood on the hard floor and glared up at him. He was breathing hard and fast, his eyes hooded with lust but still shooting daggers at her. One hand rested on her breast, the other clutching painfully on the flesh of her hip.
"You're not laughing now, Mr. J." She said it low. Husky. Just like he wanted. But now it was a mockery. If it was possible, he hated her even more. Wanted her even more. It had been so long. He had forgotten exactly how fucked up crazy bitches were.
He snarled and pushed her skirt past her thighs, his fingers bruising and searching all at once. He slithered her underwear down her legs and she rose her hips to meet his hands. He threw the flimsy material against the same wall that she had flung him against. They matched her bra perfectly. Figures.
His fingers found their way to their destination and she was arching her back and making small noises low in her throat. It was all so natural. Those noises she made practically reeked of truth. They drove him crazy. He hated it and yet he couldn't stop. He was giving her exactly what she wanted. When had their roles reversed in such a horrible way?
This wasn't funny anymore.
"What's wrong, Mr. J?" She was talking between her gasps. It was a struggle to speak at all. Not while his fingers were doing what they were doing. She bit her lip and closed her eyes as his fingers plucked at her like she was a living member of his orchestral instruments. She was whispering now so that he had to lean closer to hear her. Why did he even bother? She was just some fuck. Some cunt. She was. She was. He could just kill her now. He didn't have to hear her. And yet he wanted to. This was all so curious.
"Just as I thought." Rachel said as she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood again. "You're alone. You're just a scared little boy playing dress up." He worked his fingers faster, wanting to shut her up, to keep that lovely perfect pert little mouth from spewing out any more of that truthful bile. She gasped and her eyes glazed over for a moment. But just a moment. She moved her hips in time with his hand and continued to look straight at him. "What happened, I wonder - " She brought one hand to brush the green stained hair away from his face. It might have been a tender gesture if this were any other situation. If they were any other two people. He curled his fingers inside her and made tiny little circular motions but still she continued. "What happened to make a man into a living joke?"
"Funny story." He finally found his voice and it was a lot more serious than he would've liked. "But I'm sure you've heard it all before." Her fingers wandered then, to the still open buttons of his trousers. And this time he didn't stop her. "You know...bad childhood, fucked up adolescence, totally bat shit crazy adulthood."
"I don't think that's true." Her fingers found what they were looking for and stroked down his entire length - nails scratching - pads of her fingers smoothing. He choked back a groan and thrust unthinkingly into her open hand. She grinned. Grinned like him. "You know what I think? I think you tell all those stories about your past because any bullshit you make up is better than the truth of it, whatever it is. The truth terrifies you."
"You're right." He hissed as his own fingers still worked inside her. "You want to know the truth, Rachel?" It was the first time he had used her real name and she stared openly as his fingers worked harder to bring her over the edge. He was rapidly regaining his control and it terrified her. "There's no reason for me, Rachel. I just am, Rachel." His fingers finally did the job and she saw stars again - this time not from the pain - or so she thought.
She cried out and he was laughing hysterically as he knocked away her roaming hand and positioned himself between her outstretched thighs. This was too much. Too much. She had taken it too far, never meaning for it to come to this. But there was no turning back now. She needed to hear the punch line.
"And you know what, Rachel?" She stared up at him, her hips arching toward him, practically begging him. Horror in her eyes, mirth in his. "I love who I am. Can you say the same. Now, in this moment?" And he pushed into her, hard and fast. It was like he had stabbed her. "Now. Can you say the same? Hm? Rachel? Can you?" And he let out great whooping peals of laughter as he thrust repeatedly into her. And she buried her face in his neck, clawing at his back as hot tears ran down her chin and into her ears. He had won. Again, he had won.
But then she realized something and her tears froze dead on her face. She cut through his laughter, each thrust seeming to bring out more peels of it bubbling from him lips. "You laugh the most when you're in the most pain-" She struggled to keep her voice steady as he wavered like a ghost above her. "Lost little boy. I must've hit pretty close to home, then. You're alone. You always were."
His laughing stopped and he stared not at her but at some distant point above her head.
"Maybe. Maybe, maybe you did, my dear Rachel." he said it without a hint of anger, mirth or irony. For once, he was utterly sober.
Their rhythm slowed into a steady give and take and they were both silent. The fight had been lost for both of them. There was no point in talking anymore. She stared up into his face. His paint had been worn completely off save for some dark smudges around his eyes. He was young. Not more than a year or two older than her. She hadn't realized before. She reached a hand up and stroked his cheek, heedless of the raised scars. He closed his eyes and leaned into the palm of her hand. He was good at playing games. And for this night he could certainly play the role of a normal man.
It was oddly freeing, not having to come up with witty comebacks or scathing commentary. Right now, it would be just the two of them hating and fucking, but pretending that it was a little bit like love.
She smiled up at him gently, kindly as she rose her hips up again and again to meet his. He wasn't going to last much longer if they kept up like this. He could feel it ending. And so he leaned down and kissed her, like a man might kiss a woman. If he were a man and not a joke. If she were a woman and not a corpse. There was no crushing lips, no biting, no gnashing teeth and snarls or clashing tongues.
It was nearly over. He could see the end. Could see the edge of the cliff they were both going to have to leap. But not together. That would've been more than both of them could handle. They worked alone.
He ran his fingers through her hair and whispered in her ear so quietly that she was sure she hadn't heard right. "When the time comes, call me Jack." She nodded and he began driving into her faster. She breathed a sigh but kept her eyes on him. He came with a shudder and she could've sworn she heard him cry out her own name through clenched teeth.
He collapsed on top of her then, still wet and searing hot inside her. He turned from her as if he was ashamed and buried his face into the soft space between her neck and shoulder. Her fingers stroked tiny circles on his back and his shoulders shook. Rachel wasn't entirely certain if he was laughing or crying. She realized she didn't want to know.
They stayed like that for awhile and Rachel almost cracked up laughing with the absurdity of it all. She looked at her fingers that were still tracing patterns on his back. They were covered in the paint she had smeared from his face. She shifted underneath him and he was made aware that his body still covered hers. That he was still inside her. He slid off of her and, propping himself on his left elbow so he could still keep both eyes on her, lay on his side beside her.
To her surprise and his, she gave a small whine of protest as he left her. "No worries, pet. We'll do this again sometime." And he waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her. But looking at each other, they both knew there wouldn't be a next time. There was no time. The lie was nearly over.
And then they were crashing against each other desperately yet again, their kisses searching and frantic. She hooked one leg around his hip - the fingers of one hand digging into the small of his back and the other working to bring him back inside of her.
He allowed himself an unpainted grin and chuckled at her initiative. He brought one of her hands up by her head and their fingers interlocked. He felt the greasepaint there and laughed outright. "You might say I've been rubbing off on you."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?" She answered him through gritted teeth and she laughed right along with him. It was definitely absurd. It was a lie. But it was all they had in this musty warehouse wired to explode.
It was over just as quickly as it had begun and he listened as she cried out his name.
The air in the room seemed to shift suddenly and he rose off the floor to rummage through the pockets of his discarded trousers. "It's getting to be late," he muttered to himself as he found his pocket watch. She nodded, understanding at once. They pulled on their clothes in silence.
...
They sat on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, for what seemed like a long time. Rachel plucked at the cuff of his shirt absentmindedly, as if the contact would keep the inevitable from happening. She chanced a look at him. His head was bowed and his hair fell over his closed eyes. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he was asleep. The hand that had been playing with his shirt brushed against the bare skin of his open hand. He opened his eyes to glance at her lingering fingers and he shifted uncomfortably.
"The game." He said distractedly as if he had forgotten. "The pieces still have to be moved into place." He stared at her. He looked utterly naked and vulnerable without his makeup. "The Queen sits in her throne over there." He nodded to the chair that had been wired to the surrounding graveyard of gas tanks.
Rachel didn't move. Even though she was resigned to her fate, even though she knew from the beginning how this was to end, she never anticipated how they would get there. So he lifted her from the floor, his hands catching under her knees and holding tightly to her shoulders and placed her on her chair.
"Now, now, O Queen, My Queen. Don't go shooting daggers at your Court Jester. He's just putting you back on that pedestal where you belong.
She said nothing, just watched as he set to work making some knots in a rope.
"We're all making some crazy choices tonight, aren't we, Queen?" His face was still blank, his eyes still unnervingly open.
She wanted to reach out and touch that blank face. It fascinated her, tore at her to know how alone he was. But she couldn't reach. She couldn't touch him any longer. Her hands were already tied behind her back.
"You and I - we, uh, made the choice to lie tonight. And that was good fun, wasn't it, Queen? But all good games have to end sometime. And there's no time for a rematch." He stood back, surveying the work he had made on her ropes.
Rachel finally found her voice. "You can't have a game if there's no winner. No lies without intent." It was clear what she was saying. Always an advocate of truth was his little DA.
He shrugged and sucked in his lip petulantly. "All a matter of perspective, lovely. All a matter of perspective. Freedom of choice, that's my motto. You can choose to think what you want. And, uh, your Black Knight can choose to save you or your White Knight." He laughed. It was a sickening sound and the force of it nearly brought tears to his eyes.
"And I chose to save you, Jack."
He stopped laughing and turned towards her, his face lined, his lips turned down in a severe scowl. His thumb stroked lightly against her cheek. "That light. It's still in your eyes. I couldn't put it out. Not my fault, though. Jack's, I think. Maybe he likes it there."
And there he was. Real. True.
He started backing away towards the door, not taking his eyes of her and slowly shaking his head. "It didn't work, you know, Rachel. That saving thing. But I am actually kind of, uh, sorry. To have to kill you."
"Then it worked." She whispered as The Joker turned away, laughing again, and left her to die.