WARNING: This fic is a rather morbid, messed-up piece of work. For the most part, the warning is that this is from the POV of a crazed (no matter how much he may deny it) man and his "relationship" with his "heroic" counterpart. Also included in this fic are: rough sex (yes, I said it), suggestive and occasionally mildly crude language or turns of phrase, hinted non-consensual sex between said crazed maniac and a young woman, and psychological analysis.

The Games We Play

By

Godell

Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, only this oneshot. The title belongs as much to Eric Berne as any other author…judging by how common a title it is.

Chapter One (Joker)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's late.

Normally he doesn't take this long to get here. I've had everything ready to go since about 10:30. That was about two hours ago.

'Course, just because I have everything ready, doesn't mean I'm going to use everything. Nothing's planned in this little tryst, really. It's just…fun.

Still, waiting this long gets me a little…edgy.

I hate when he plays hard to get. That's normally my role in this lovely little game we've been playing.

I lean back in my seat in the empty, dingy hotel lobby, sharpening my favorite knife for the hundredth time. My plum suit's getting a bit dusty, but that doesn't matter. It'll get dirty soon, anyway—that's the way I like it.

I check the old clock on the grimy, peeling wall. 12:46.

I sigh. Looks like it's time to pull the first card.

"I could just leave," I say out loud, the scrape of the knife against the steel bar in my hand giving my words a better edge. "I've got all sorts of chaos to make. There are so many people in Gotham—so many…choices."

I lick my lips and taste the bitter clown makeup on my tongue. "Perhaps I'll find a little nurse down at the hospital. I like nurses—or girls, I should say. So soft—so easy to…so easy to break. Not like Batsy."

Nothing. No sound, no Batsy, nothing.

I check my watch—maybe the clock on the wall isn't working properly.

I shrug and keep talking to thin air, knowing Bats is there(!). Or if he isn't, well, y'know, one of the best things about being a guy like me is…you never get bored.

"Of course, I'm a guy of varied tastes. Simple, but…varied. Other men will break too. A police officer, maybe. Or a policewoman. Or both." I'm practically purring with approval at that idea. "Oh, yes, yes. Getting those uniforms off would be a bit of a hassle, but it wouldn't take long for them to…lighten up."

Of course, talking about uniforms brings me to another, and currently more frustrating, "uniform". I lean back and prop my legs up on the coffee table, fiddling with my tie.

"But see, darlin', it's just not the same. No, Bats, you're my favorite playmate. And no matter who I turn the screw on, if you know what I mean, you're the only one who always comes back for more."

My soliloquy is rudely interrupted by a silver batarang that barely misses my head and pierces the wall.

"It's the only way to preoccupy you, Joker," a deliciously familiar voice growls.

I grin (but then, I'm always grinning, aren't I?) and look behind me, where Bats is standing by the door, as stony-faced as ever. He's in uniform, of course, and I want to get him out of it as soon as possible.

In fact, he should be getting out of it right about now. That's normally how this goes.

"You're late," I say, putting on a scowl…considerable work, as you might guess.

"I had other criminals to deal with."

I raise an eyebrow. "And that matters because…?"

Batman crosses his arms over his chest, his scowl and voice somehow getting even colder. "I'm not wearing this for your sake, Joker."

I can't help but laugh at that. "Oh, yes you are. Don't play dumb, Batsy—I'm the only one who's ever given you a real challenge. And vice versa."

I lick the scars at the corners of my mouth slowly, watching Batsy's eyes follow my tongue.

"Now. Time for you to take this affair a little…more…seriously."

--

We have an agreement, Batsy and I. We have an…accord.

I was let out of the Arkham Asylum a year ago. I celebrated with the death of a family—just a Mommy, Daddy, Daddy's Little Girl and Jr. I waited for Batsy to show up, to start the game again. I was patient—no explosives, no threats, and I even made sure a kid called 911 before her oh-so-hilarious demise.

I wanted it to be just me, and Batman.

He did arrive, all gruff and heroic, pounding my face into the ground, making me laugh harder than I had in a long, long time.

It was good, oh so good to be back.

Once I got up again (and I always will; anything for him), we had a stare-down, man to man, freak to freak. The blood was already beginning to dry, and the girl wasn't of use anymore. I propped her up beside me, her pretty little arms folded on her naked lap.

"Out with a bang, eh?" I grinned as Batman raised his fists again, then stopped. "You know, Batsy, there is a way you can keep me from doing all this."

"I'm not taking off my mask," he growled.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, reeelax. I'll take it off youwhen I'm good and ready. It's no fun knowing so early. No, that's not what I'm talkin' about."

"Then say what you mean for once, you bastard."

I rested my chin in my hand, not saying anything, just…watching.

"Do you…enjoy a good, ah, power struggle?"

--

I can't help but nod appreciatively as Bats stands still, still as the buildings looming in the window behind him.

"You're getting…good at this. Very good." I run one fingernail down his bare spine, grinning at the ever-so-slight tensing of those tough, well-muscled arms. "Take off your mask—but don't look at me."