Author's Note: I know, this makes no sense. I actually dreamed this, not kidding, and it just seemed so amazingly creepily Joker-esque I just had to write it down. And I know that one of the characters, even though she is blind, would be able to tell the difference between the two other characters in this story by their voices--I myself am visually impaired, so I have first hand experience--but this is just how it happened in the dream, plus, it just makes for a more dramatic story. Also, I tried to put in as much exposition as I could, but if you have any questions, ask away, except don't ask how it ends or what happens--I don't know, it was one of those cliffhanger dreams. :) Enjoy.

Sweet Kisses

He did not think of the stars glittering quietly overhead or the cold wind that was blowing in from the glassless window or even the fact that a beautiful young girl was seated in his lap, her arms wound around his neck. All he could think of was that he needed to get back home. He chuckled to himself quietly—a place where every citizen alive wanted you dead or behind bars and where a masked vigilante chased you nonstop wasn't much of a home.

Still, Gotham City would be better than this crazy place! He sat trying to think of the last thing he had been doing there before he had ended up here . . .

"Don't the crickets sound pretty, Gwynplaine?" the girl seated in his lap asked, her head resting contently on his shoulder.

Annoyed, the Joker snapped out of his thoughts. He had no idea who this Gwynplaine was, but whoever he was, this girl was obviously crazy about him, and the Joker wasn't about to tell her that he wasn't the one she sought.

"Yes," he answered.

She reached up to touch his forehead, her fingers trailing down his nose, dangerously close to his mouth. He roughly pulled her hand from his face.

"Why do you never let me see you?" she asked.

"What?"

"You know I need to feel things with my hands to see."

So, she's blind! That's why she thinks I'm . . . and yet, still, why?

"Why do you never let me see you?" she asked again. "They call you 'The Man Who Laughs', but I do not understand why."

The Joker wondered how on earth these people here could know that. "The Man Who Laughs" was a nickname one of Gotham's journalists had given him. He said the alias had been based off a book by Victor Hugo that told of a disfigured clown named Gwynplaine. Gwynplaine, having no other way of earning a living, worked in a sideshow, displaying his Glasgow smile for laughs . . . and then, the Joker realized that's where he must have ended up!
There was also a young woman in the troupe Gwynplaine was in, a beautiful woman. Gwynplaine adored her but was too ashamed of his smile and thought that it wasn't fair to her that she could not see him to admit his feelings for her . . . And suddenly, the Joker realized who the innocent blind girl was who sat in his lap.

"Dea?"

"Yes?"

It was her.

There was a pause as they sat there for a minute. Now this was crazy. He needed to get back home, to Gotham, to finish the task of finally killing his enemy (okay, maybe not kill him, but he definitely needed to kick his ass. Seriously.) How was it that he was somehow stuck here in 1700s England . . . ?

She kissed him.

He was so taken by surprise at the kiss that he almost fell off the window seat he was sitting on. Anger flooded him and he gripped her shoulders to push her away from him, but suddenly, his body relaxed as he realized that the last time he had been kissed . . . the last time he had been kissed . . . when was the last time he had been kissed? He couldn't remember. Slowly, as if he was the puppet of some invisible taskmaster, his gripping hand moved upward to gently cradle her cheek.

He found his mouth, which normally remained firm, the lips pulled taunt in anger, frustration, or sheer insanity, softening, feeling as though they were made of flesh for the first time in a long time, whereas previously they had felt as cold and lifeless as a statue's lips. He found himself surrendering to her kiss, responding to it, his arms moving to encircle her waist. The raging psychopath in him was melting away and he felt adrenalin, a familiar sensation, filling him, but it was a kind of adrenalin he had not felt in a long, long time—the mad energy he felt when committing a crime was being replaced by the devouring hunger for love. Granted, it was not the love felt by the heart—he was convinced such love did not exist—but rather, that felt by the body. The Joker didn't even try to suppress the groan that came to him as she tightened their embrace.

His heart was pounding. This long-forgotten adrenalin rush felt so good! And it was so strange to think that, the last time this had happened to him—whenever that had been—most likely, he had forced the kiss, had pinned the girl with her back to the wall, but now, the one kissing him wanted it, craved it, yearned for it; never mind that she thought he was another, that didn't matter to him. . .

He hurriedly picked her up, carrying her across the room, and in a flurried whirlwind, they collapsed onto the bed, drowning in kisses. His heart raced and his blood simmered close to boiling when he felt her fingers undo the button of his purple jacket and felt the garment slip lifelessly from his shoulders.

Dea felt ready to faint. She loved him. Oh, how she loved him! His hands felt cold against her warm skin, but she didn't care. She wanted him, wanted to show him she loved him . . . oh, what beauty would commence that night?

"Oh, Gwynplaine . . ."

He buried his face in the side of her neck, nuzzling her, nearly lost in the desires that raged in him and the knowledge that they would soon be ravenously satisfied . . .but then, her hand slid down his body and drew near to his waist, nearly touching the sheath where he kept his razor. It all came back to him. No. No!

What the hell was he doing? He couldn't be wasting his time here with her! He needed to get home, to finish his work! Anger filled him; she had nearly distracted him, and even though the distraction would have been very nice, it would have given Batman—wherever the hell he was now—chances to plot, to scheme, to . . . oh, appearances could be so deceiving! Then, the idea for his next brilliant joke hit him and he looked down at the stunning young woman he held in his arms—and he genuinely thought that she was exquisite, and that was too bad, because perhaps, had she lived in Gotham, he might have. . . he smoothed her hair back from her face, gazing down at her.

"Oh, you are so beautiful . . ."

"No," she said, reaching up to rest her hand on his shoulder, "It is you who are handsome."

They lay there for a moment in silence, then, he noticed tears in her sightless eyes, pained longing on her face.

"Kiss me," she begged.

He obeyed, the kiss warm, scorching, hungry, one hand gently caressing her cheek whilst the other busied itself to free the weapon at his waist without drawing attention to the action. He felt her give a surprised shiver when a sly flick of his tongue crossed her lips and, just as he had hoped, she parted her lips slightly. He deepened the kiss momentarily, savoring it, because, hey, why not, since he was here, but then, he gently broke it and pulled back just enough so that he could speak; their mouths were barely apart. He gently took his one free hand to lead hers up to touch his face.

"My love," he said as he guided her hand over his cheek, his voice the hushed, sweet murmur of a lover, "Would you like to know how I got these scars?"

And he tenderly slipped the blade into the corner of her mouth.