Bruce had gone straight to the Batcave, stayed down there until tiredness overwhelmed him, and awoke with a pounding headache, and a sense that the day would only get worse.

"Did you have a good time partying last night, master Bruce?" Alfred said with thick disapproval rolling from his words. Alfred knew he'd been to the Joker's house last night. If he'd been drugged against his will he would have informed Alfred immediately. That left recreation. Alfred's censure was no more than his own. He couldn't figure out how he'd allowed a surveillance visit to turn into… whatever it had turned into. They'd never been alone in a house together, at night, no other guests to turn attention away. Nothing else to do but take the next glass Joker had offered. If Joker hadn't been drinking as much himself, his suspicions would have risen immediately. It would have been easier to justify stopping. But he was. They'd talked. At one point, Bruce had become aware that he was enjoying himself, the knowledge wandering in from some dim, far-off part of his mind. He strangled the notion in more drink.

Always the wrong thing to do.

And then there had been that— that…

Bruce had his share of fears. Among the worst were the ones that implicated him in the deaths of innocents, the ones that said there was something to that tired threat that was lobbed against him, that the Batman had some affinity for his villains. More than the ordinary citizen. That he would protect them, even—god. Even if it meant someone he cared about would get hurt.

He felt sick. It wasn't the hangover.

He'd always known the Joker had some magnetic influence over those who fell into his grasp. He'd always tried to deny it could affect him, yet he remembered all too clearly what had almost happened last night.

Even knowing who he was.

Murderer. Villain. Worst of the worst. There was only so far that surveillance excuse could take him. He suddenly saw all that time he'd spent worrying over the Joker's motives, trying to find space to visit him at every possible opportunity, in a different light. God. Tim had been right. He was obsessed. He didn't know how to stop.

He ground his hands into his eyes, stared haggardly into the bathroom mirror. It would start today, he decided. No more answering the Joker's invitations. No more going to his parties—if he was even invited after this. If this… rejection didn't spiral the Joker into a murderous rage.

It's not on me if it does, Bruce thought. I can't be responsible for his every act. I can't be. That way leads madness.

He considered calling the Joker's mansion. Leaving a message. What—apologizing? Trying to explain? His hand hovered above the receiver for minutes, while he stared agonizingly at the blinking red dot. He got as far as calling the landline, watched the answering machine pick up.

That evening, without surprise, he heard the news report that the Joker had gathered a group of hostages near the Gotham Harbor and was going to kill them, unless Batman showed up.

I knew it, Bruce thought, with a sick kind of satisfaction. It felt easier to put aside his own emotional guilt when there were lives on the line, when the Joker showed his hand. I knew it all along. He was just biding his time. It was just another game, wasn't it?

Many people had been sucked in by the Joker's games. Bruce Wayne merely another casualty. One of a statistic. Nothing more.

Batman drove into the streets of Gotham, eyes narrowed. There was a fight out there, waiting for him.

/

"Why Bats," the Joker said, and smiled grimly. "You came."

Batman took a step forward, eyeing the warehouse edge and the group of people crying, hanging from a rope. "let the hostages go."

"Of course," the Joker answered, nodding genially. "That's what I said I'd do, didn't I? But you know what…" suddenly his face turned to a scowl. "I don't think I will." Batman stepped forward to catch the rope as Joker let go, and flinched and ducked at the sudden bang. When he rolled out of his crouch and looked back where he had been, he could see the gun kicked away on the floor next to the fallen hostages, blood spilling crazily across the ground. It wasn't a joke-gun, there had been no flag, no punchline.

Batman growled. He leaped forward, crashing his fist against the Joker's turning figure before he could react. There was a burst of startled laughter, like a warning, before a knife slipped into his hands and Batman felt the cold press of steel in his side before he knocked it away. He grabbed the Joker's hair, yanked his head back and slammed him to the ground, his face cracking against splintered wood; Joker rolled away and came to a crouch, blood spilling out of his nose.

"What's the matter?" he said, darkly. "Aren't you having fun?"

"Why did you kill them?" Batman dove forward, ducked under the Joker's arm and grabbed the front of his shirt.

The Joker stared at him, eyes glittering and dark. "Why not?"

Then Batman was gasping at a sudden blow, twisting away as far as he could. The Joker attacked him with heightened fury, the sort that Batman had seen from him rarely, as though to match Batman's sudden rage. But if there was ever an intent to kill, it slipped away, leaving only the wish to hurt. There was a roiling tension in the air, a kind of frenzy. They clawed, punched, and stabbed, and every time Batman saw a way to end the fight, somehow Joker would spin away, or get in his own blow. Eventually, even rage passed over into a kind of numbed focus, the physical sensation of cracking bone and blood. Batman caught him eventually; Joker's mood had shifted like storm clouds rolling back from the horizon, and when Batman realized the change he paused.

The Joker lay on the ground, his neck pinned under Batman's arm, and when he let the pressure go slightly Joker only gasped in air and stared unfocused into the distance, grinning. In the darkness, the black of blood around his mouth was horrible. Batman touched his finger to it, digging the edge of his gauntlet down. Then he stopped.

The silence of the night seemed vast and quiet. In all the city, no one had noticed the fight on the old docks. The ever-present, faint music of sirens had faded, leaving them in a careful void.

When the Joker sat up, propping himself on one elbow, the shift of fabric dragging against wood was impossibly clear; their shared heavy breathing and the lapping of the water beside them, hidden from view by the black edges the streetlamps left behind.

Joker met Batman's eyes with a smile, tired and mischievous, and tilted his head back. His hair was in disarray, it fell over his face limp and curling in the sea breeze; the bow at his collar had come untied, dragging dirtily across his waistcoat; his skin glowed with bruises.

When Batman dragged the handcuffs out of his belt, Joker held his hands out without protest, and didn't run, (though he could have) when Batman pulled himself to his feet, hissing in pain.

"The Batmobile's that way," Batman said.

"Okay."

"You're going back to Arkham."

"Okay."

/

They didn't speak. He concentrated on the road.

/

"I'm sorry."

The light they were at turned green, but Bruce's foot stayed pressed to the brake. "What?"

He thought he must be hallucinating. He couldn't comprehend those words coming from the Joker's mouth.

"I'm sorry," the Joker said again. Bruce looked over at him. The Joker sounded calm, rational, sincere. There was no hidden mirth, no cruel twist behind his words, only an eerie calm. His smile was beautific, his eyes glowed. "I didn't understand; it was my fault. I wasn't playing the game anymore—of course we can't be enemies if I'm not a villain! You didn't forget me, you were waiting for me to remember the rules." In the light, he looked otherwordly, almost seraphic, filled with a fanatical purpose. "You thought I'd abandoned you." His smile turned soft, and he laid his hand on Batman's arm. "You reminded me of my purpose. I won't forget again, I promise. I won't leave you alone out there in the dark."

That's not what happened. Bruce stopped himself from speaking. Did you think I wanted this? Did you think I encouraged this? I knew you wouldn't be able to walk away from crime; and I was right, wasn't I? You couldn't stop yourself from making a scene, trying to get my attention. I knew this would happen. I knew you couldn't stay away—

He's right.

The cars behind them beeped once or twice, then streamed cautiously around the idling Batmobile; no one quite brave enough to turn it into a fight. Bruce gripped the wheel so tightly his hands clenched, sending pain signals back up his arm. The light ahead of them seemed to blur.

The last car went past, there was space to move, and he turned right without bothering to signal, veering into the dark alleyways of the Narrows and away from the perfect dome of Arkham Hill, looming above them like a black-shadowed stain in the distance. Then he cut the gas.

Outside, a momentary breeze skittered a few pieces of trash along the ground. Away from the streetlamps, the walls of the buildings around them, the rusting fire escapes and the pyramids of trashcans all faded into the uniformity of night.

"…Bats?" Joker's voice was uncertain. "What are you doing?"

He was holding the wheel but staring out at nothing in particular. The space under his chest seemed to constrict, the breath struggling out of him like it was someone else's air.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

The Joker turned away, turned back; the confusion on his face painted him vulnerable, pitiful. Human.

"Then why are you laughing?"

"No reason… No reason at all."

.

.

.