Warnings: ...Self harm (maybe)
A/N: I have no clue where the idea for this came from. But I hope you enjoy the introspection, cuteness and violence.
A Bat on the Hand
The Joker was a social creature. He needed people to talk to and didn't care whether they were dead or alive while he did it. So being locked in a tiny cell at Arkham Asylum was the last place he wanted to be.
It was far into the night, and his insomnia in full swing. For as long as he could remember he'd had trouble sleeping. In the outside world, he had things to keep him busy; scheming, card games, chemical mixing. But here there was no one to talk to, nothing to entertain himself with...
Although, he did have a Batman in his pocket. The new therapist had subjected them all to 'art therapy', something which was apparently designed to channel their emotions into something constructive and get them in touch with their inner child. The thought of it through the Joker into a wild fit of giggles.
From the pocket of his Arkham uniform, he pulled out a bright blue sock. It had two light pink button eyes and a tiny cape. The ears were sewn haphazardly to the sock; two tiny felt triangles of cute. He smiled and played with them, flapping them up and down like Dumbo trying to fly.
"Ohh, Bats, how I miss you." He said to the sock. To the sock!
He knew he was crazy, but not this damn crazy. He went to slip it on his hand, but his knuckled bumped against something hard. It was a blunt Stanley knife. They had kept all of the sharp objects away from him and the other 'costumed freaks' in the rec room, but he'd managed to grab one when the therapist's back had been turned. It would have looked so pretty sticking out of her neck.
He took the knife out and placed it next to him.
The sock went over his hand and he moved his thumb below his fingers so it looked as if Batman had a mouth. He sighed.
"It's just not the same if you're not beating the crap outta me."
Batman tilted his head.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, Bats, you know it's true; we never just talk anymore."
Batman's mouth stayed firmly shut.
"Yeah, you always were the silent type, but that's okay. We both know I talk enough for two." He grinned at his joke. "No matter how hard you try, you can't shut me up. Not ever, ever, ever, ever." Joker stuck out his tongue.
"Ooh, do you wanna hear a joke?
...
"Aww, that's not fair you never want to hear my jokes. You know, you even laughed at one once."
...
"Don't deny it! You laughed; I heard you."
Joker crossed his arms and looked away from the dark knight, his ruby lips pouting. That damn Bat had some serious control issues, and the one time he loosens up, he denied it ever happened! Damn him!
"You have no sense of humour, Bats, and it's really your only unattractive quality." Shaking his head the Joker looked away from the accusing stare. "Well it is, Bats. Nobody's perfect except me! That's why I try so hard to give you one, so we can be perfect together."
"Someday you'll come around, Bats. Someday you'll get my jokes; you'll decipher them like Eddy's riddles and you'll see why I do the things I do. And you'll laugh. We'll laugh together."
Batman glared.
"Yes yes, I know you hate me. I know you hate me so much, but, Bats... you kinda like me too, you know you do. Why else you always come to me when I call?"
Batman scoffed.
"NO!! It is NOT just because I kill people. It's MORE than that!"
"..."
"No one can be that good! NO ONE!! THERE IS MORE TO IT THAN THAT!
"..."
He snarled. "DO YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW YOU MAKE ME FEEL, BATMAN!!?"
Joker grabbed the Stanley knife beside him and jammed it into Batman's heart. He twisted while growling in his throat. His voice dropped to a whisper, but contained no less rage;
"There. That's how you make me feel every time you betray me; every time you lock me in this godforsaken place."
When the blood rose from Batman's chest, the Joker froze. Suddenly he realized what he'd done. He'd killed Batman. His hands shook and he slowly pulled the knife from the gaping wound.
"Bats?... Batsy?" he waited, looking at the caped hero, silently willing him to move, but receiving no response. He'd actually done it. He'd killed The Batman.
Slowly, the Joker started laughing. His form went limp and the knife dropped from his hand. It clattered on the ground, but the sound was lost in the hilarity. It hurt. It hurt so badly.
He continued to laugh for the rest of the night with his eyes closed, not wanting to see the body of Batman staring blankly at him.
It wasn't until morning that the tears finally dried up, and the orderlies found him slumped in the corner of the room. He was covered in blood, and clutching a ruined sock to his chest like a security blanket, sleeping like a baby.