So, this is my first fanfiction, and it is unbeta-d. I know, the horror. Bear with me, it might be okay?
Pairing: the Joker and Jonathan Crane. Sort of. In a "screwing with each other's minds" way. We'll probably briefly drop in on Bats from time to time, as well.
Rating: M, for violence, (some of it sexual), and bad language. Currently, I am not writing this as a traditional slash fic, so scenes of a physical sexual nature past the early scenes of sexual violence are unlikely.
Warnings: early on, an extended scene of sexual violence. I am also planning to have the Joker do some very nasty things to people. 'Cause, you know, he's a nasty man.
So... yeah...
Prologue: And Boys Just Want To Have Fun
Don't bother blaming,
These games and guns,
He's only playing,
And boys just want to have fun.
Amanda Palmer, Strength Through Music
There are two men.
One is small, thin, effeminate, he doesn't look like a threat.
This is one of his greatest advantages.
His eyes are a curious shade of cerulean you have never seen before.
If eyes are truly the windows to the soul, then you are surprised that the ice inside this man is not freezing him to death from the inside out. It should be coming from the corners of his mouth, cracking his skin, covering and blinding those eyes.
You didn't know blue could burn like that. You didn't know Hell could burn like that.
This man is a doctor. He has one of the highest tested IQs in the world. He could have done great things.
In a way, he did.
He made a compound no other doctor could have made. He could have cured cancer, AIDs, even schizophrenia, (he is a psychiatrist, after all), but he didn't.
Instead, he made a toxin that rends the minds of all who breathe it in.
Including his own.
Once, this man was named Dr Jonathan Crane. A faceful of his own fear toxin later, and he is a straitjacketed lunatic who calls himself "Scarecrow".
He's getting better, though. A mind like that, although now broken, like glass, retains its power. The pieces are shards, they sparkle in the light. They are beautiful. He is a dangerous man still.
The other man is taller. His body has a sinewy strength that suggests that he is poised like a cat, only waiting to strike. He likes to play with his food before he kills it.
That's all humans are to him. Toys.
His appearance is a stark contrast to Crane's. Crane obviously was once a well presented, painstakingly clean man.
Not so this man.
His face is painted. You would say like a circus clown, but it isn't. It reminds you of the Britanni.
You know, how they used to paint themselves blue with woad before battle?
That's what this is. Warpaint.
And if the eyes are the windows to the soul, then this man doesn't have one. They are blank, empty. There is nothing in this man's eyes except malice and insanity.
But don't call him crazy. That's a fatal mistake.
He calls himself the Joker. So does everybody else. They don't have a choice. No name, no age, no background, nothing. Even Batman, the world's greatest detective, can't find anything on him.
He is a less a man and more a force of nature.
The Joker doesn't want anything. Well, almost.
He wants to watch Gotham burn. He wants Batman to stand beside him, with him forever, his other half. He wants to be completed.
That's one of the last things he told him. The response was less than... positive.
More than anything else, he wants Batman to smile for him. He'd do anything to make Batman smile.
You know he would. Inhibitions? What are they?
Crane is in Arkham Asylum. Still mad, but becoming less so, day by day.
The Joker is held down as much as possible, in transit, still in his purple suit, but not for long. Commissioner Gordon is aiming a shotgun straight at his head. The Joker is singing show tunes and asking after Gordon's children.
His lawyer has pleaded insanity. The Joker is less than amused. When he breaks out, that man will be one of the first to go. So off to Arkham he goes, drawling "Cell Block Tango" all the way.
They haven't met yet, our boys. They're going to. They shouldn't. It will not be good for anyone, perhaps except them. Maybe not even them.
And they're going to have so much fun, our boys.
Crane can't see you. He can't see anything. But there's a spark in those eyes, glows behind the blue. Soon he'll begin to see again.
The Joker can't see you either, of course. You're not really here. But his gaze still makes you uncomfortable. You especially don't like the fact that he winks at the air, the volume of his voice increasing,
"He had it coming, he only had himself to blaaaame. If you'd been there, if you'd have seen it, I betcha you would have done the saaaaame!"
I promise this isn't going to be one of this fics where I write about Crane's "orbs" or anything like that. I just think of Crane's eyes as being the closest physical equivalent to the Joker's scars - they are easily the most noticeable thing about him.
IQ = Intelligence Quotient. (Although I personally do not believe that intelligence can be quantified.)
The Britanni, the native inhabitants of Britain, (and the inhabitants of northern England and Scotland alone, the Picts), were believed to paint themselves blue with woad before battle. This is now largely considered a myth.
"Cell Block Tango" is a song from the musical "Chicago". It's about the murders committed by various women in the prison. It struck me as the sort of the thing the Joker would find funny.
I do not intend to write all of this in the second person, it'd get annoying pretty quickly. Thus, we'll be in the third person most of the time from here on out.