I don't own any characters, storylines, settings, etc. from the Dark Knight and other Batman media. I don't own the Joker - he owns me.

Warning: This is little more than fangirlish smut brought on by a recent viewing of The Dark Knight. My inspiration was pretty much events in my life at this time and fantasies that I had about him after seeing the movie for a second time. (Droooool.)

Chapter 1: Id

"C-C-C-C-C-C, A-A-A, A Minor, F-F-F-F-F, G-G-G, G seventh...." Arnie Davidson's adorable wail reached me even behind layers and layers of thick velvet drapery.

There was the shuffling of feet onstage and then the director's shrill cry: "No! No! No!" The piano music screeched to a halt and there was the angry sound of a pair of flamboyant high heels going up the side stairway.

"Hold your arms like this. No, no, no, Frenchy! All right, and when it comes to the next part, you do the step-touches, remember? Just like Deb told you?"

I sighed and leaned against the railing that ran along the network of ropes and pulleys that held up the complex curtain system. They had already run the song three times and it still wasn't up to Mrs. Gay's standards. I would be singing "Those Magic Changes" until next year.

"Smile, everyone! You're enjoying yourselves!" she cried as staccato clicks descended the side steps. "From the beginning!"

I didn't much like being Miss Lynch, especially not in this scene where my only purpose was to run on and break up the whole number. I had been so excited when Hermés told me that I was going to be her understudy. Me actually standing onstage and speaking lines! Not just standing upstage and pretending to chat with others and singing backup. But no sooner had I conquered the tremors in my hands than the novelty wore off. I had such a hard time being a crabby English teacher. I was much better fitted to my actual role as a cheerleader. I often caught myself hopping up and down and chatting animatedly with a group of girls when I was supposed to be overseeing the imaginary punchbowl at the high school hop with an iron fist.

I wondered what Hermés was doing in France as I listened to water dribble through a pipe behind the formidable black concrete wall beyond the maze of ropes. Hell, I wondered what Bonnie was doing just a few feet away in the audience. I felt like I had been stuck backstage forever.

The door clanked open and I jumped with the sudden noise; the conversation and directions onstage had reduced to a murmur, cushioned by layers of fabric. The rack of brightly-colored dresses for the high school hop scene shuddered and the jumbo-sized Barbie dresses rustled in their plastic dry cleaner bags. It must have been one of the stage moms; they were fitting girls for dresses in room 216. I couldn't wait to get mine. I wondered if it would be the same flouncy lilac one that I had worn last year for the "Blow Gabriel, Blow" scene in Anything Goes.

Cheerfully humming "It's Delovely" to myself, I wove my way through the curtains to peer through a gap in the set to see what was going on onstage. Gritty dust and dirt crunched under my character shoes as I climbed the small set of stairs. It got so dirty onstage. The boys were always filthy when they finished the "Greased Lightning" dance, covered in a film of pale particles and bits of sawdust from construction....

I was suddenly interrupted in my reflection. It all happened in a flash. I didn't even hear anyone come up behind me before a gloved hand clamped itself over my mouth. The sticky, rubbery fabric pressed against the lower half of my face and I felt suddenly claustrophobic and panicky. I fought the urge to scream bloody murder; even in my terror, I still feared Mrs. Gay being angry at me for interrupting rehearsal.

"Shh. There, there beautiful," a voice purred close to my ear.

I struggled against the vice-like grip on my jaw to look at the person who was speaking, not because of the menacing, almost laughing tone or because I recognized the voice that had been in staticky recordings on the news quite frequently, but because I was shocked and confused. No one ever called me beautiful. I finally succeeded in turning my head. At this point, I realized that it was more serious than a friend or acquaintance running up behind me and trying to scare me out of my wits; he wanted me silent. All I could see of my captor was a red gash on a pale face.

"Shh," the voice reiterated. The red gash contorted and buckled to reveal teeth. A tongue darted out to moisten the red paint. I knew at once who stood so very, very close to me. It was all I could do not to lose consciousness, though that would have made the ordeal much more tolerable.

"If I let go, do you promise to be absolutely silent?"

His other hand, clothed in the same wretched material, let my wrists free and reached up to stroke my chin. Hating the awful pulling sensation on my skin, I brought my arms up and tried desperately to push them away.

"Ah-ah-ah," a lock of his slimy hair trailed across my face as his hand clamped on my neck. I wanted to vomit. "Now will you be quiet or won't you?"

I nodded feverishly. Anything to be free of those putrid-smelling fingers. All at once, I was free from his grasp. I staggered for a moment before clattering off of the platform behind the set. I threw myself into the corner, past the rack on which some red, white, and blue costumes from last year's show remained, along with a furry black cat suit and various other old costume components. I tripped over a tupperware container and stumbled to a halt beside a box of masks. I look frantically from the eyeless white plastic face on the floor to the white face distorted by a red gash and two dribbling pools of black that drew closer and closer by the minute. My vision blurred with tears and in his flamboyant costume, he seemed to blend in with the colorful racks and props backstage.

"The Joker!" I cried, my voice strangled and hopeless.

"Oh-oh! Shh!" he brought a finger to his lips. "You promised."

Closer and closer. Measured steps, his purple shoes quiet on the scuffed black floor.

And then something very odd happened. Words flew out of my mouth no louder than a whisper - things that one would expect someone to say in my position. But after each sentence, a little ghostlike voice in my head spoke up.

"No! No! No!"

Yes! Yes! Yes!

"Don't come any closer!"

Closer! Closer, please! Touch me!

"Leave me alone!"

Never leave me!

"I don't want any trouble!"

I want you!

"It's okay, I just wanna... talk," he responded to the horror in my expression.

I couldn't believe the things that my own mind was conjuring. How disgusting! I was suddenly recalled to general psychology class. Something about the id and the ego - the personality being like an iceberg with the tiny bit of our thoughts that are acceptable being shown and the rest - the dark and dangerous urges - are hidden beneath the surface. No wonder I had suppressed such atrocious ideas. I fought to push them back again, but the floodgates had been opened. I suddenly saw how broad his shoulders were, how muscular his arms were, how very tall he was, how big his shoes were.... I realized how handsome his face was beneath the makeup, even with the scars. In fact, even the scars became sexy - kinky. I wanted to lick them.

I gave a gasp, slapping my hands over my mouth as if I'd spoken this sentiment aloud. How could I ever think such a thing! It was wrong!

"Sh-Shh," he stepped still closer, moving more slowly and tentatively as he approached, as if not wanting to frighten a skittish woodland animal. "I just want to talk to you."

My eyes locked on his as he loomed over me. I pressed my back to the standing cabinet against the wall and looked up at him. He towered over me, perhaps an inch or two between our bodies, not touching me, but framing my short stature with his mammoth build. I sucked in a little breath, breathing in his scent - it was suddenly intoxicating, a sweet musk, but also with a hint of danger - gun powder, oil, and blood. His face was so close....

He raised his hands, as if unsure what to do next. He looked as if he was about to speak. Things stayed like that for a moment, suspended in time. A lazy strain of piano music floated through the curtains, the costumes racks, the boxes of props. Our gaze never broke. He stared at me. I stared at him. In the blink of an eye, his tongue lashed out, running across his lips. It was an immediate reaction - like flipping a switch. I was propelled forward as if my a sudden spring being released. I grasped his face with my hands and closed the slim distance between our lips. I was a women driven no longer by sense and reason, but by urges and wants. My id.

The deed was done in a fraction of a second. I released his face, balling up my fists and bringing them to my face. He stared down at me with confusion and shock. I felt my eyes welling up and brought my fists to my eyes, trying to curl as far into a ball as I could without touching his body, which stood so very close to mine. I could just reach out and take hold of it... no! I was a filthy, evil thing, just like him. Worse!

"Well," he said at length.

What would he do? Kill me? Laugh at me? Call me a freak and a psycho? Or just turn and leave? For some reason, that last one seemed the hardest to bear.

"It wasn't what I was expecting," he said slowly. "But I won't say that I didn't like it."

I uncovered my eyes and looked up into his face, searching it to see if he was mocking me, being sarcastic. As I looked, his face broke into a maniacal grin and he gave a cackle that I'm sure everyone onstage and in the auditorium heard. But before they could investigate, he was gone, me thrown effortlessly over his shoulder and spirited away.

[I hope that you enjoyed this! I was completely inspired when I went to see The Dark Knight for a second time. I really don't like action movies, but I adored this, solely for Heath Ledger's portrayal of the Joker. (Okay, and the explosions.) He was just smex in a purple suit a basquillion times over. Salivation city. Sadly, I have a history of infatuation with strange, disfigured, and/or psychotic men - Edgar Alan Poe, Salvador Dalí, The Coffin Maker from Volume 3 of Godchild, and countless inanimate boyfriends (notably a backpack and a wall). So I started thinking of what would happen if I lived in Gotham and ran into the Joker. I tried to make it as realistic and un-Mary Sue-like as possible. I apologize sooo much if it was just one of those awful self-insertation OC fics that just makes everyone go braindead as soon as they read it. I wanted it to be a story about this normal-ish girl (in the acting troupe, small group of friends, not very popular with guys) who suddenly has all of these devious desires.]

In the Next Chapter: Smutsmutsmut. Rape warning (if it can be called rape - she totally wants it). Joker makes a sex tape. Woo-hoo! I'm just letting my fantasies run rampant here. My apologies.