A/N: Saw the Dark Knight. Loved it. Possibly much more than I should have, because now I'm unusually obsessed with the Joker, but whatever. XD
Disclaimer: If I owned any tidbit of the Dark Knight, I'd be so euphoric I'd practically be in hibernation (are you getting my negatory on the owning thing, because i'm not so sure that got across).
Burn
Damn it all, the only thing he'd wanted was to see him burn.
When you come down to the bones of it, the cold numbers and statistics of a thing, it was utterly perfect, and he was unstoppable. He loved no one, so they couldn't be used against him. He had no fears, he couldn't be cowed by idle threats. He never relaxed, he couldn't be caught off guard. He had no weaknesses but the pure mortality of his flesh.
Except for him.
Jesus. He was the cheating player and the object of the game, the diamond he wished he'd never found. It would be so simple, so easy to snuff out that fragile flicker of life in him, but each time he could pull the trigger that would brain the bastard, he found his hand still. His easy plan of just killing him didn't even apply anymore.
He wanted him to live, but he wanted him to die. Time and fucking time again. He wanted him to be his toy, his elusive prey in their game of cat-and-mouse. He wanted to witness the delicacy of his death as it would no-doubt present itself; but he wanted to do so again and again. Rivulets of blood, the vitality of life staining his lips as it left him. But then, bewilderingly, he would set him free. Of course he would. Time and time again. He would rebuild everything, recover, become the strong beacon of freedom and justice that he was and would always be . . . and then he would catch him again, and the blood would flow once more. And he could taste the flavor of his lips, so sweet. So sweet . . .
But he digressed.
Bare-faced and straitjacketed, he hardly strikes a frightening sight. With his hair combed back and his face scrubbed clean, he's just a man with frightening scars. The magic he had in his fingers and his cards is gone. His knight stole it away, but he would get it back.
He stares out of the confines of his yellow-padded cell—as promised by his Dark Knight—via the barred windows they foolishly allowed him, and he swears that he will escape from his cage and find him. And he will take back his magic and he will taste the heady sweetness of his literally scalding quarry, ready for the gasoline that will bring him to a flame in the sugarhigh that follows.
And he will see him burn yet.
Well, I liked it.
-Vacancy