Summary: Joker pays his favorite archenemy a house visit.

This fic will be a series of unrelated one-shots; all centered on the Joker.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman characters in any way, shape, or form…though I do own an archived version of the first comics, the game Arkham Asylum, and an intense love for all things Batman. Please don't hate (or sue) me.

Also, the lyrics sections that I use to open each story are from Neutral Milk Hotel's Aeroplane Over the Sea. (You should definitely take a look at their album!) I don't own any of that either. I just have an un-copyrighted love.

P.S. This is m/m slash. If you do not like that sort of thing then do not read this. Most of my work will mostly be implied or hinted, but I know there will be at least ONE story posted to this that is very much an M rating. It is already written and WILL be posted. Again, do not like then please do not read. If you DO want to brave it, I will explicitly post a warning for the porn chapter, as I love to call it, when I post it.

This chapter is rated T, mostly for swearing...mostly.

And one day we will die
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young
Let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see
Love to be
In the arms of all I'm keeping here with me, me

"Bruce."

The door is almost slammed in his face, but the Joker deftly slips a few digits between the hard wood, breaking them but accomplishing his goal. Win. The billionaire quickly reopens the large wooden barrier at the sound of a few distinct and simultaneous crunches. The raven haired man is looking down at the as-of-yet unmoved fingers, twisted and purpling on his door frame, in absolute horror. Another win.

Joker doesn't see his own fingers. He sees the man's eyes. They are blue. Very blue. They would clash horribly with the Jester's wardrobe. He sees the man's hair. It is black. Very black. It would look superb running down his belly button and into his pants. Or twisted in the Joker's fingers while being forced against the wall and beaten. He sees the man's skin, flushed cheeks and paling face, but his neck is tan. Very tan. Probably like the rest of his body. It could be improved by being stripped of clothes to show the purple and green welts that must be present. His love marks.

Finally, the young philanthropist focuses back on the problem at large, and their eyes meet, both in a not-so-secret challenge. "What do you want?" Bruce grinds between his teeth. The Joker can tell this man is not used to addressing him in his "socialite" voice. A wide grin forms immediately on his thin features.

"I want to play, Brucey."

"I'll call the police if you do not leave immediately."

This earns a cackle. Oh what fun this man is! How precious! The laughter echoes down the hallway behind the rich man as the Joker slides his foot across the threshold and clasps Bruce's shoulder with his mangled hand. The pain brings him back. His lips threaten to betray him again when he sees the dull horror in the man's eyes as he gazes at the hand on his shoulder. "Now, Batsy, why would you need the police?" he purrs.

Horror changes to shock, which changes to suspicion, and finally a defeated acceptance. All gorgeous on his features. If only pain had been there, too. "I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce growls in a last ditch effort. No. Not this old game.

Joker rolls his eyes with a frustrated bark and pushed his new toy back into the house with both hands, before closing the door behind them both. "Now shush, Mr. Wayne. We both know that we are both too good for that," the Jester tuts, slipping a blade easily into his uninjured hand and holding it to the other man's throat.

A new, serious expression glides onto the madman's features as he tilts his head to gather all of the relevant angles of his rival's face. The solid jaw is locked in an uncompromising scowl and the crystal eyes are sternly looking upon his own features. Yes, this is his man. Ballsy, unafraid, and stern. The eyes sing the truth, loud and clear. "Ahhh, there you are," he whispers, and wants to melt into the frame of the man in front of him.

"What do you want?"

Really, this guy is a broken record. A superficial grin plasters itself onto the Clown's face as he drags his eyes back up to his hostage's serious expression. "You really need to get your hearing checked, Mister," Joker remarks sarcastically, "I want to play." And you will play with me. Any further conversation is abruptly halted when steps are heard from a distant room down the hallway, causing the billionaire to tense and wrap both large hands around each of the Joker's thin wrists.

"Okay, I'll play with you," Bruce hisses, "but come with me somewhere where we will not be interrupted." His eyes are darting from the crazy face in front of him to the unseen presence down the hallway and back in rapid succession. The Joker can almost see the man willing the presence to stay where it is. The superficial grin turns into a true smirk of delight, and he loosens his hold on his playmate, dipping down into a partial bow and extending his arm in a 'ladies first' fashion. The blade extending the length of his outstretched arm, further emphasizing his own long limbs.

Without remark or hesitation Bruce moves into the nearest room out of sight of the hallway, seemingly unheeding of the madman and his blade at his back. To the Joker's surprise, he does not stop when they enter the room, but walks directly over to the farthest wall and applies enough pressure to open a door in the wallpaper. The Joker is giddy, and follows without hesitation. This continues for another five consecutive rooms before the pair exit into what appears to be a arboretum. It's hot and sticky and the Joker is glad when his companion takes him to a door leading to an outside garden.

Then the sun hits him and he has to turn away from its damaging rays. The central focus of the mansion is farther away than he had expected. Bruce must have lead him to the most secluded area that the grounds have to offer. Another self-satisfied smirk creeps onto his face as he squints at the house. The blade is not doing much for protecting his eyes from the sun.

"Alright, before I play your game, how do you know who I am?" a voice from behind him asks. There is a distinct lack of gravel and confidence that the Jester finds disquieting. It's too much. He ignores the questions and saunters over to the largest tree nearby, plopping down in its shade before he decides that the voice can be properly answered.

His Bat is still standing out in the sun, large hands on his well-tailored hips, glaring down at the Joker. The initial shock is gone and the tan is very apparent now. The Prince giggles at the pain behind his eyes and the very grandfatherly pose his rival is holding. "Silly, I've known forever. Who else has the money or the eyes?" He gives this very obvious information time to sink into his thick skulled mate. Really…there is nothing to be done, really. Bruce seems to come to the same conclusion, because his shoulders slump and he lets out a very long breath. The Joker wonders how that hot breath would feel on his, ahem, blade.

"What do you want to play?" the deep voice of his counterpart finally huffs, sitting himself cross-legged in the grass where he was previously standing. In the dreadful dreadful sun. Joker narrows his eyes, but lets a laugh ring from his body at the wily ways of the Batman. What a tease he is. Even in socialite form. Another laugh erupts at the thought of Batman taking different forms, perhaps with the aid of a gaudy ring. It takes a few minutes to compose himself. He does have a goal here.

Really.

The giggling finally tapering off, the Joker arranges his features into the mournful gape of a broken man. "Well Batman, I want a game of pretend," he groans, lolling his head around his neck before it connects suddenly with the trunk of the tree he has settled against. The shock of pain excites a single shouted laugh before he is again the tortured man. "I want to pretend that you can save me. I want to pretend that you care, and that I feel." The pain is now a dull ache, so the Jester spares a moment to look across the yard at his playmate.

Who looks singularly unimpressed.

"You see…" a swipe of tongue over roughened lips, "You see, you see you see…I am damaged goods…" On a whim Joker rips his (very expensive) vest open, buttons flying into the grass surrounding his shadowy sanctuary. He drops the other three knives from his sleeves, pulls the two grenades from his pants, and carelessly slips the gun from his suspenders to hold it against his own head. "…And no one can fix me. But. Let's pretend that you can. What can you do for me, Bruce?"

The man in the sun is up on his knees, eyes fixed on the gun against the messy mop of green hair. His arms are raised in an entreating posture, outstretched, hands wide and yielding. "Joker, don't. Let me help you."

The smaller, shaded man lowers the gun into his lap, pointing it casually up towards his head. His eyes are wide and his mouth scrunches into an unusual pout. Joker tilts his head, nearly letting it fall onto his shoulder, "How?"

This time it is Bruce's turn to lick his lips. He shuffles slowly towards the tree; the grass stains will never come out of these $700 pants and he doesn't think twice. "I'll get you help. I have a friend, a doctor. He can…"

"Wrong!" Joker shrieks, "That's not the game I'm playing!" Before the dark headed man can make another move he pulls the trigger. There is a sharp crack as the hammer snaps back into place. BANG. The smell of gunpowder wafts over the yard as the flag proudly flaps in the lightest of winds from the barrel of the gun. Joker looks curiously down at the barrel, the flag is several inches from his head. "Huh." Shrugging, he clicks the hammer back to cock it once more.

"What the fuck?" Bruce is up and stalking towards the deranged clown. Without any preamble he snaps the gun from out of the Joker's hands and tosses it aside towards the woods. It fires with a loud CRACK when it lands. A tree shivers at the edge of the wood from the contact with the slug. Bruce doesn't pay any attention; he is too busy gripping the Joker's shoulders firmly and shaking him. "What is wrong with you? Yes, Joker, you are fucked up! But you know what? So is everyone else! You can't just kill people and hurt others. You can't just aim a gun at your head and pull the trigger! Christ!"

Abruptly the man lets go and stalks back across the yard to where he previously sat, plopping down and putting his palm to his head. A headache is forming quickly. The giggling that had abruptly began when he finished his outburst isn't helping either.

"Ahahaha can't I? I can't…ahahahahaha! Look at me Bats!" the Joker wails. He's curling in on himself, but straightens his form out enough to dislodge the rest of his vest, letting it fall to the roots below him. The scars are littered over his ghostly body and it's horrific. He knows it. It's what makes him him. The purple welts, green bruises, and lightly pinked scars are his inspiration. Tell him he can't. Ha! "Look at me!"

Tired eyes slide away from a protecting palm. The billionaire surveys the sight before him, but Joker doesn't see the disgust he only ever sees, the horror of the truth being told, the shock. He sees sadness creep onto the features. Not the pitying sadness that has earned more than one bullet to the brain or blade across the throat, but the pain of recognition. Then the Batman does the last thing that the Jester would have ever guessed.

He unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall to the ground as well.

It's not the same same. But it is. The colors are darker from the tanned flesh, but the welts and bruising is all the same. There are bite marks, too. Jealousy swells within the clown, and he's up, running towards his counterpart and tackling him into the grass with a scream. He is running his thumb over the bite marks that pock the incredibly fit body that flexes and stiffens under his grungy touch. He wonders if the Batman could wrap both hands around his waist and touch his fingers together. His hands are large. And you know what they say about men with large hands.

"They need large gloves," the Joker shrieks, bursting into a sobbing laughter before falling against the firm body and shaking with joyless amusement. It takes several minutes of shaking before he even realizes that the body below him hasn't moved. They are just laying in the grass and sunshine together, two broken men who happened to take two different paths and still end up in one garden lawn. Broken together.

Knowing the moment will be over soon, the clown lifts his head and surveys the skin closest to his range of sight at the moment. Before he can help himself, his fingers are walking across the tan, littered chest, dancing a finger tap dance over the injuries and counting them all. Every last goddamned stunning one of them.

"Joker…" Bruce finally exhales.

"Shush Batsy. I won't tell. I'll never tell. You delivered and you didn't disappoint. Why would I tattle on my favorite Bat? Haven't yet…" the Harlequin replies. In a few minutes he'll use his palm tack to knock his rival out cold and make his escape. In a few minutes. But for now he'll just lay in the horrid sun and count the beautiful things he sees.

I would like to note that I really want to represent ALL aspects of the Joker. When I see him in my mind I will always see the skinny, lanky, bleached skin man from the comics. But. I really love TDK representation as well. That is the beauty of the character I think. There are so many version to work with. So I guess what I am trying to say is be ready for Joker whiplash. I am really trying to play around with his character to find my favorite style...

Also, this SHOULD have been the second story posted, but i haven't gotten around to the first and got antsy. The "first one" will be posted eventually...maybe. The 3rd and 4th ones are written, though. =D