Let it be known that the Joker did it all for Batman; all the chaos, the deaths, the exhilaration of a good chase — of a good hunt, all for him.
He held Gotham city close to his chest nearly every night, only long enough to catch the attention of the local vigilante and give it back because that was when he was closest to him. He thrived off of the attention the man in black gave him, thrived off the hate the man secreted because hate was so messy, so complicated yet so divine. Hate was love and Joker loved the Batman just like the Batman loved him.
He loved the flurry of angry fists pummeling him to the ground each night, a rough voice demanding he cease his theatrical actions. Loved the thought that even though the Joker had done some truly terrible things, his other half still refused to kill him and it made his heart soar and his lungs constrict because he couldn't kill him either. It was much too fun, much too pleasurable. Batman was his other half, he completed them and without him, then where would Joker be?
He went home to Harley each night, a consistent laugh on his tongue each time, even when bloody and beaten and Harley worried for his health. His sweet, dear Harley. She knew what he was, she knew that he couldn't possibly love her. Not when Batman was in his line of sight and had his large hands wrapped around a pale throat. She did her best, though. And he loved her for it. She stuck by him like a bomb to a gaggle of nuns and she made the chase all the more fun and while he didn't love her, not in the way she loved him, he cared for her in his own unique way.
But that all went away, disappeared so quickly and utterly that all he had left for the blonde ditzy psychiatrist was pure undiluted hatred because she took him away. She did it when he forbid it. She tricked him and it hurt like a knife to the chest. She told him it was revenge and for what, he hadn't cared enough to listen because she took Batman from him and he could still feel the warmth through the thick Kevlar. He wanted to hurt her, to punish her. He wanted to rip out her intestines and hang her with it but he couldn't. He couldn't leave him alone. He refused to.
So he sank to his knees and stared at the body before him blankly, uncomprehending. It couldn't be over. It just couldn't. He fell back onto the solid ground as blood touched his pale skin and a wretched sob broke through his smiling facade.
❝...Batsy,❞
He wanted to strangle him, wanted to cut him and break him and mutilate him because he left him alone. He left him in a world that didn't understand him, a world that hated and despised him and a keening sound shredding his vocal cords. Batman understood him, he was the only one who did.
❝darlin' please...wake up.❞
Fun and games like this weren't supposed to end. They were supposed to do this forever. They were supposed to be the only constant in each others' lives. The only constant that never ran away, the only one each other needed or wanted.
The Joker made an aborted move to reach out and hold the caped crusader but he couldn't; couldn't bear to touch something so broken and so utterly wrong so instead, he ran trembling fingers through wavy green hair and tugged and he kept on tugging until his scalp went numb and he felt the feeling of liquid running down his face, mixing with the tears that leaked through closed eyes and he laughed because it was ridiculous. Because Batman couldn't die. Not like this, not by someone as undeserving as Harley was and he ached to have a knife in his hands, if only just to kill himself because what was a world if Batman wasn't in it?
❝Bruce, please, I need you...❞
It was a joke, an unfunny and disgusting joke. It was a joke without a punchline. And a joke without a punchline wasn't a joke at all.