Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to "Batman" or any of its characters, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

A/N: I dedicate this story to my good friend Karen, whose love for Joker is both admirable and adorable.

Screaming with Laughter

Despite his propensity for inspiring fear in others through both chemical and psychological means, Dr. Jonathan Crane himself could not recall the last time he had felt frightened. Perhaps repeated exposure to his toxin had dulled his ability to feel terror, or maybe after all these years in Gotham he had become desensitized to the horrors the city had to offer. At times he would find himself longing for a sudden rush of pure, primitive fright—just to remember what the sensation felt like. He often wondered if he would ever again feel scared, or if the emotion had atrophied inside of him, decayed to the point of rot.

The thought was enough to arouse a rare fit of melancholy, and he decided to take solace in a bar frequented by his fellow Rogues—he'd only been there a handful of of times, and on every occasion he had been dragged along by Two-Face (although almost every aspect of Dent's life varied on a daily basis, his aversion to drinking alone was a constant) but he was confident that he would be able to find his way there without much difficulty. It was a dump, no doubt about it, and he found the seedy atmosphere revolting at best, but even a hole-in-the-wall that stank of soured beer was preferable to being alone with his thoughts. As he walked, storm clouds brewing in the sky above him, he recalled the night that Two-Face had smashed a beer bottle over the head of one of Penguin's henchmen; the man was making disparaging remarks about a recent failed heist of Dent's that Batman had intercepted, and seemed to care little if he was overheard. Dent had taken it upon himself to teach him a lesson in watering hole etiquette, and jammed what we left of the bottle into the man's right eye socket. As he screamed and collapsed onto the floor, Two-Face commented that if he survived the ordeal he was welcome to join his crew, as his new appearance would be fitting for the occupation.

Crane had found it all very exciting, and hoped that Dent would be there when he arrived; although he did not particularly enjoy his company (nor did he consider him to be a friend), Dent was a remarkable subject to study. Crane would watch his every movement with appraising eyes, tucking it away in his brain for further analyzing. It was a habit of his, and one that he employed with all members of the Gallery; although he was not a physically intimidating man, he more than made up for his lack of muscle with his ingrained psychological training and the lethality of his mind.

Upon his arrival, he was grateful to see Two-Face seated at a table, an open bottle of whiskey before him and his ever-present coin flipping through the air. As he approached, Dent surveyed him with a look of slight bewilderment—Crane was not one to frequent bars of his own initiative, and during their previous visits he had made no secret of the distaste he felt for the establishment.

"Hello, Harvey," Crane said politely. "May I sit with you?"

Dent motioned towards the chair across from his with an undamaged hand, still obviously perplexed by Crane's presence. "I'm surprised to see you here, Crane. Didn't think you were the type."

"Variety is the spice of life, Harvey."

"Didn't take you for the seasoned type either."

"And exactly what type do you think I am, then?" Crane asked, beginning to grow irritated. He was unsure if Dent was purposefully insulting him, but he disliked the remark all the same.

Two-Face breathed a heavy sigh of annoyance, one cheek caving slightly inwards with the exhalation while his exposed one remained frozen. "I don't have time for this right now. I'm supposed to be meeting someone to discuss business, not playing twenty questions with you."

"Who—"

A loud, chilling laugh cut through the air, interrupting Crane and causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. There was no mistaking who it belonged to, and when he turned to face the owner he did his best to conceal the onset of dread threatening to wash over him.

The Joker walked towards them, gloved hands tucked into his purple coat pocket, his hair a lush, vivid green even under the bar's dingy lighting. He was smiling, but that did little to quell Crane's anxiety; Joker was always smiling, whether he was in high spirits or on the verge of a murderous rampage—although, Crane supposed, it was possible that nothing put him in a better mood than the latter scenario.

"Harv! I didn't know you were bringing a friend." Joker grinned at Crane, causing his stomach to lurch and the taste of bile to fill his mouth. He had never liked being around Joker, and on past occasions where their paths had crossed he had done his best to avoid attracting the Clown Prince's attention; now not only was Crane directly in Joker's line of sight, but the clown had acknowledged him. He would think nothing of spilling Crane's blood if he thought he would find it the slightest bit amusing—Crane knew it, Dent knew it, and the rest of the bar's occupants knew it; it was likely for this very reason that the room had gone quiet, the previously raucous crowd now waiting with bated breath in the anticipation of the violence that often followed Joker's arrival.

"I didn't bring him," Two-Face said smoothly, "he just showed up." Dent continued to flip his coin through the air casually, as if the clown's presence had no effect on him whatsoever; still, Crane detected an air of caution in his tone.

"Well, as long as you're here Jonny Boy, how about joining ol' Harv and I for drinks?" Joker clamped a hand down onto Crane's shoulder in what Crane hoped was a gesture of good faith; he winced as Joker roughly squeezed, digging his fingers into the thin man's skin.

"Jeez, Jonny, maybe you should order some food to go along with your liquor," the clown giggled. "Or would thickening up ruin your whole scarecrow routine?"

"I came here to talk business, not to socialize," Two-Face said gruffly.

"I'll leave you to it then," Crane said quickly, thankful for the chance to escape. He attempted to rise from his seat, but before he was able to make an exit Joker had grabbed a fistful of his jacket and pulled him back onto the chair.

"Now Harvey, that's not a very nice way to treat your friends!" Joker exclaimed, wagging a finger with mock admonishment. "What's wrong, did you wake up on the wrong side of your face this morning?" He grinned as Dent's unblemished cheek flushed red with anger, then turned his attention towards Crane.

"So Crane, tell me, how's life treating you these days? Still getting your kicks from jumping out of corners and spraying people with that toxin of yours?"

Despite his desire to avoid incurring Joker's wrath, Crane could not and would not sit back and allow the clown to make a mockery of his life's work. "I would hardly label what I do with such a vulgar term as getting my kicks," Crane said between gritted teeth, spitting out the last few words with emphasized disdain.

Joker snickered, obviously delighted with Crane's annoyance. "Oh, don't be like that Jonny! Besides, I think that what you do is great!" He reached across the table and grabbed Dent's whiskey bottle, taking a deep swig before letting out a low sigh of content and wiping his mouth on the back of a glove. "Tell me, did you ever scare anyone so bad that they wet their pants?"

Crane stood, his jaw set and eyes sparkling with fury. "I've had enough," he said coolly. "Goodnight, gentleman." He nodded towards Two-Face. "Harvey, it was a pleasure seeing you."

Joker rose from his own chair, his smile now replaced with a mournful frown. "Well, if you insist," he said sadly. "Then again, maybe it's for the best." He began to fumble with the flower pinned to his jacket, a vibrant yellow chrysanthemum that clashed sharply against the purple fabric. "How's the old saying go? Two's company and three's a crowd?"

A glimmer of cruelty flashed in Joker's eyes, and Crane realized too late that he had made a grave mistake.

Crane thought of how he had lamented over his loss of fear earlier that night, and how he had so achingly yearned to feel the sensation of horror again. What a fool he had been. Now as he felt the beginnings of terror blooming inside of him, turning his blood to ice and squeezing his heart, he wanted nothing more than for the feeling to go away.

"You know what you need, Crane?" Joker smiled dangerously. "A good laugh."

Before Crane had time to react, Joker had reached up and grabbed him by the hair; tears of pain pricked at his eyes as Joker yanked his head towards the breast of his coat and lightly squeezed the flower upon its lapel. With a quiet hiss, a green cloud of misty gas began to emit from the flower; Crane struggled, desperately clawing at the clown's hands and wrists in a vain effort to break free, but Joker's grip was strong and he released Crane only after he was satisfied that he had inhaled a sufficient amount of the gas.

Crane staggered backwards, coughing and clutching his chest. Crazy bastard, he swore inwardly. I'll—

"Ha, ha."

Laughter bubbled and spilled from Crane's lips; he brought a hand to his mouth in shock, eyes wide with sickened, terrified realization. No.

"Ha ha ha, ha ha ha!"

The previously earnest spectators now took a step back in horror at the sight of Crane hunched forward, his arms wrapped around his stomach as waves of laughter shook his body, a wide, gruesome grin splayed across his face. Two-Face turned away in disgust, and what little remained of Harvey Dent's former self felt pity for Crane.

"HA HA HA, HA HA HA, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Crane felt as if his stomach would burst from the force of the laughter; each cackle brought a fresh influx of pain that rippled through his body and caused tears of pain to trickle from his eyes. He crumpled helplessly to the floor, rolling around on the filthy wood paneling as he felt cigarette butts and peanut shells crush beneath his weight. He could scarcely believe those manic howls were coming from him—he couldn't even remember the last time he had truly laughed of his own accord. Splashes of color danced before his eyes, his heart rapidly pounded in his chest, sweat clung his drenched clothes to his body; he couldn't keep this up, not for much longer. Either his heart would give out or his stomach would rupture, or—if he was lucky—Joker would put him out of his misery. He doubted that he would be so fortunate—after all, where was the fun in that for Joker?

So this is how it ends, he thought. Dying on a dirty bar floor, giggling like a mad man and surrounded by a crowd of horrified strangers. Even in the depths of a toxin-induced nightmare, Crane had never imagined his demise to be anything close to this.

Joker stepped into Crane's line of sight, his figure illuminated by the dim lights on the ceiling, and Crane's heart leapt. Maybe he would get a merciful death after all.

"I'm sorry to have to put you through this, Jonny Boy, but you seemed so unhappy that I thought you could do with a bit of cheering up. Laughter is the best medicine, you know—but what am I telling you for, you're the doctor!" Joker let out a snort of laughter, then reached down to playfully tussle Crane's damp hair. "Now, don't you worry your pretty little head about dying. I made sure to give you a less powerful dose than I usually dish out to my lucky recipients; after all, Gotham wouldn't be such a fun place without a scary guy like you around!"

Joker rose and straightened his jacket, smoothing out any creases and wrinkles. "'Course, you don't look so scary right now." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly and shook his head. "You really should do something about that. Anyway, give it a minute or two and you'll be back to normal—or as normal as a guy like you can possibly be. Take a couple of Tylenol and call me in the morning if you aren't feeling so hot—you do have my number, don't you—and maybe Harley can help you out, she used to be into that medical mumbo jumbo too." He tapped a finger against his chin pensively. "Or perhaps psychiatry was more her forte..."

He shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. "It matters not," he said in a disinterested tone that implied he had already forgotten what he was talking about. He looked back down at Crane and sighed wearily. "Well, I suppose the right thing to do would be to give you some help getting home."

Joker reached down and grabbed Crane by the front of his shirt, lifting him with surprising ease; he dragged Crane across the bar, the heels of his shoes trailing behind him as they scraped across the floor, and tossed him unceremoniously out the door and into the cold, wet Gotham night Crane hit the cement, gravel digging sharply into his skin; rain drops pelted his face, soaking clothes already damp from sweat and tears.

Once the laughter had subsided, Crane allowed himself only a moment of still rest before lifting his sore body from the ground and beginning his journey home. He was exhausted, his throat raw and his every nerve screaming with pain, but still he walked; he was unsure of what would happen if Joker walked outside and find him, and he did not want to wait to find out.

He no longer missed fear. That longing had been replaced by a renewed passion inside of him: a fervent urge to create as much terror as possible and inflict it upon every single person who crossed his path.

Especially The Joker.

Crane did not know if he would see Joker again in the near future. He did not know if whatever chemicals that had lead to the creation of Joker would have altered his ability to feel the fear toxin's effects, and he did not know how long it would take for him to design a more powerful strain. He did not know when he would have the opportunity to enact his revenge; he did not know if it would take weeks, months, years.

There were several unknowns and uncertainties in his path to retribution, but he would face and conquer them all until his vengeance was met. And there was one thing he did know.

He would not rest until the laughing clown screamed.