Batman's words collided in his head like a never-ending hell, unable to escape no matter how hard he tried to shake away the memories.

            'You mean nothing to me,' repeated his voice, over and over, scraping along the walls of his head with bloodletting claws. 'Because I could never love a freak like you.'

            Freak. Monster. Psychopath. Every time the memories replayed, they grew more vile, more horrific, more real. And that's what haunted Joker the most.

            What Batman had said was real.

            There were no 'take-backs' or 'starting overs.' What Batman had said was real, and he had meant it, and he had beat the fact so deep into Joker's body that he felt the pain of each blow even as he woke up.

            It was a slow, disorienting rise. Joker was aware of the pain first, the way it lingered in each bone and string of muscle. A groan left his throat as he squinted, blinked away hurtful memories, and opened his eyes to the warm light of a room he didn't recognize.

            His brows furrowed, red-painted lips twitching downwards.

            Where was he?

            Thin silk slid down his bare chest as he sat up, and he blinked, running his hand along the fabric. Wherever he was, money was no worry. The bed, the furniture, even the walls spoke with riches.

            Joker swung his legs over the bed and stood up, but when he stepped forward, his wrist snagged. He stumbled back, offended, and found his wrist cuffed to the bedpost. His brows rose.

            "What the..." He tugged at the handcuff and yelled with frustration, rattling the chain and making a commotion. "Hey!" he shouted. "What is this, huh? Some sort of sick game?"

            After a while longer of cursing and tugging, Joker gave up and plopped on the bed with a grimace. His eyes ran along pill bottles, rags, and rolls of bandage. He scrutinized them with a pout. Now who in their right mind would try to patch him back together?

            He glared at the door, drumming his fingers on the edge of the bed. Waited for the culprit to show themselves while he demanded an explanation. When that time didn't come, he sighed and threw himself back on the bed, arms spread as he gazed up at the ceiling. It was annoying, how fast he could get bored. His fingers itched to do something, but with his wrist cuffed to this rich ass bed, he couldn't do anything other than just sit there and contemplate.

            Of course, his mind drifted back to the events of last night. The Batman, with all that hate he exuded. And the words he said with such a ferocity that it still made Joker flinch just thinking about it.

            'You mean nothing to me.'

            He could still feel the heat of Batman's breath over his face. The fury bleeding from his eyes.

            'I could never love a freak like you.'

            Joker swallowed, unable to get the image of Batman's eyes from his head. Why did it hurt more, remembering the intensity of his eyes? Why did the goddamn Bat have to go and change that mask anyway? Why didn't he consider that Joker couldn't, for the life of him, handle those goddamn eyes?

He huffed and tugged his arm, rattling the handcuffs. In an effort to forget his thoughts, he sat up, glared at the chair by the bed, and kicked it. When the noise it made didn't satisfy him, he kicked the bedside table, knocking off pill bottles and rolls of bandage. He kept kicking the damn thing until he was positive someone would hear.

            Sure enough, footsteps sounded from beyond the door, and Joker sat up, interest piqued. He didn't care who it was. Anything to distract him from thinking about Batman.

The doorknob rattled, locks slid, and the door carefully swung open. Damien Edwards stepped through and shut the door behind him, examining the room. It was a mess—chair skewn, table on its side, pill bottles and first aid all over the floor. His eyes trailed onto Joker's figure, and they stared at each other for a while, suspended in silence. In a way, their contrast was amusing: Joker, with his vibrant hair jutting in different angles; face paint smudged; dress shirt hanging off his shoulders like he'd just pulled a one-night stand. And Damien, with his black, slicked back hair and clean-pressed attire.

            Joker was the first to interrupt the silence.

            "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, glaring. "And what's with all this shit, anyway? How'd you find me? Did the Bat set you up to this?"

            Damien cleared his throat, slowly fixing the chair so he could sit a fair distance from the clown.

            "And the handcuffs," complained Joker, shaking his wrist. "Are these really necessary? Look, I get it—you don't want someone like me to mess with your fancy getup—"

            "Joker," said Damien, leaning back in his seat. "If you would just give me a second to introduce m—"

            "I know who you are," spat Joker, rolling his eyes. "You're that—" He waved his cuffed hand. "—billionaire guy. Edwards, whatever..." His brows furrowed, and he considered the man in front of him, lips curled with distaste. "What's a guy like you doing taking care of me anyway? It's awfully rude, you know. I didn't ask you to bring me here."

            Damien sighed, crossing his ankle over his knee. He'd rehearsed multiple stories to tell while he patched himself up last night, but even now, he couldn't quite find the words. At first, he considered greeting the Joker as Batman—masked and all. But after the shame of what he'd done, he didn't know if he could face the Joker again as the caped vigilante. He risked giving away his identity by approaching Joker as himself, but he figured the risks were lower. Keep the Joker from getting too excited.

            "I..." Damien started, catching the Joker's eyes. He had that disinterested 'I'll kill you if you don't hurry up' look on his face. "The Batman... and I made a deal." Joker's eyes glinted with both interest and conflict. "He told me to take care of you for a while. You were in bad shape, so..."

            He motioned to Joker, and the clown glanced at the bandages wrapped around his chest.

            Joker made a half-hearted noise. "Yeah, well. I'm fine now," he said, glaring at Damien. "Uncuff me and I'll be out of your hair."

            "At least eat something before you go," said Damien. "You've been out of it for a while."

            "Look, Mr. Edwards," said Joker. "I don't need your help. So if you could just—" He shook his cuffed wrist, glaring at Damien as the man stood up. "—that'd be great."

            "I'll be back," said Damien, turning to leave. Joker groaned and spouted his frustrations, and Damien couldn't help but smile to himself as he shut and locked the door. One thing was for sure—the clown hadn't lost too much of his spirit. Even as he walked down the hall, he could still hear the Joker's shouting.

A figure joined his side, and Xilef caught his eyes, looking irritated.

            "Don't tell me he's staying another day?" he said, voice low.

            Damien sighed, hands in his pockets. "I have it handled, Xilef," he said. "Thank you for your concern."

            "I don't think you do, actually," said Xilef, narrowing his eyes. "I've known you since we were teenagers, Dame. Something happened last night." He stopped in his tracks, and Damien sighed, following suit. "You can talk to me."

Something did happen last night, but the regret of it all still leeched onto his back with guilt-tipped claws. Just thinking about it made his throat tighten and his stomach drop. He doubted talking about it would help. And would Xilef even understand? Only someone who was in his exact situation could relate to what he was going through. What would anyone think if Damien Edwards admitted he felt something for his sworn enemy? For a person that was supposed to be wrong in all ways, and terrorized the very city he swore to protect with his life?

            What then?                                

            Damien sighed and managed a small smile.

            What did he stand for anymore, if he contradicted his own values?

            "It's fine," said Damien, brushing his hand up Xilef's arm. "Really."

Xilef's eyes glittered with trouble, but he didn't press any further. He simply nodded, and the two began walking again.

            "Is there anything you need help with?" asked Xilef gently.

            "Like I said," said Damien, flashing a more convincing smile. "I have it handled."

──────••• ♤ •••──────

Later that night, Damien entered the Joker's room with two plates of dinner.

            As much as the man found Joker's cold shoulder hurtful, he told himself he deserved it. That he deserved worse. In a way, he felt like he was hiding behind his true identity. If he were masked, Joker would've given him a few different choice words.

Instead, he eyed Damien up and down with that confused half-scowl, half-pout of his and said, "Are you calling me fat?"

            Damien couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the question. Joker blinked at the sound, searching the billionaire's face.

            "No," he said, amused. He tipped the knocked-over table upright with his foot and set the dishes down. "I figured I'd eat with you."

            Joker rose a brow, the gesture deepening when Damien handed him a plate. He glanced up at the man's kind face (those eyes were a bit familiar, weren't they?), down at the food, back up at his face, back down. He scrutinized it before lifting his hands to take the dish, fingers brushing against Damien's.

            "O... kay," he said after a while, brows furrowed.

Damien pulled his chair closer, seated himself, and rested his plate in his lap. Joker couldn't have looked more confused.

            "Is this some kind of trick?" said Joker.

            Damien handed him a spoon and shook his head, amused. "No tricks," he said. "I promise."

            Joker narrowed his eyes, and he lifted the spoon, the handcuff around his wrist rattling.

            "I could gauge your eyes out with this."

            "That wouldn't be very nice."

            "I could kill you in a heartbeat."

            Damien shrugged, taking a bite of his dinner. Joker's eye twitched. "My friends wouldn't be too happy about that."

"You should be scared of me," he said, his frown deepening.

            "Your food's going to get cold," said Damien through a mouthful, gesturing his spoon towards Joker. He couldn't quite tell the look on the clown's face. Was he annoyed? Angered? Amused, maybe? Now that he looked closely—without the distraction of fighting him or dealing with his raucous laughter—he noticed the fascinating complexities of his face. Who knew what really went on in that head of his. A smile could either mean a happy thought, or the kind that got you killed. The twitch of his brow could signal anger or delight. So many nuances.

            Joker turned away and forced himself to eat.

            "I don't like you," he said stubbornly, hiding the fact that he enjoyed his meal. Damien only smiled, and they ate in silence, begrudgingly enjoying one another's company.

            Deep down, Damien knew he shouldn't have gotten this close. He should've cleaned Joker's wounds, patched him up, and sent him on his way the moment he looked fine. In and out, no feelings attached. Instead, he let his heart get in the way of things. Told himself that it was fine to show the Joker some hospitality—as long as he did it as Damien. Told himself that, maybe if he sent him off well enough, what he had said and done would land a lesser blow.

            But what he'd done had already scarred.

            He knew that. He wished he didn't know that. He wished he could start over from scratch and erase everything he'd ever done that made Joker think they had something. Wished he could erase his own feelings, his own mistakes in letting the clown get close. He wished Joker was only an enemy to him—the way it always should've been—but of course, that would be too 'easy.'

            No matter what Damien decided to do with his feelings, there would be regret on either side. Keep hurting Joker to erase the fact he felt something for him—or give into his feelings and betray the city's trust, betray every Gothamite who looked up to him, betray everything he stood for. The answer had always been painfully obvious, and for years, Damien had chosen his reputation. It was logical, it was safe, and it was necessary.

            It was easier to stick to hate and push Joker away like he'd always done. Because, in the end, Joker didn't matter. He was just an enemy—a criminal, who committed wrongs no matter what he did. An enemy who meant nothing to him.

            The mantra didn't even hold anymore.

            Despite what he felt, Damien savored this in-between. The only shared dinner he and Joker would ever have, and a time where they weren't fighting or making deals.

            The constant battle in his head made him ache deep in his core.

            He could never have Joker. He should never have him. And to even think of wanting something more intimate with him was a crime in and of itself.

            He means nothing, he kept lying to himself. You've said it already, and Joker heard you loud and clear.

            It's over.

            Damien set his plate aside.

            It's over.

            He glanced aside and found Joker's eyes fixated on him, scrutinizing his every detail.

            It's over because it never started in the first place, and you're smart enough to keep it that way.

            Damien blinked, lifting from his reverie, and Joker narrowed his eyes.

"I know that look," he said, breaking the silence between them. His voice was soft, calculated. "Where did you go?"

            Damien cleared his throat and motioned towards Joker's plate, avoiding his eyes. Was he that obvious?

            "You haven't finished your dinner," he said.

            Joker set his plate on the table and swung his legs over the side of the bed, facing Damien. "Come here," he said.

            Damien rose a brow. "Excuse me?"

            Joker signaled a finger towards him nonchalantly, but beneath his cool façade, Damien could sense something violent and unbridled. That manic energy that ran along his skin.

            "Get closer," he said, something flashing in his eyes.

            Damien opened his mouth to protest, and Joker's hands shot out, grabbing his face and yanking him closer. Damien stumbled out of his chair and braced his hands on either side of Joker's hips, reminding himself not to react too violently. If he showed he could defend himself, he might give himself away.

            Joker narrowed his eyes and tilted Damien's head back and forth, examining him like some specimen he'd stolen from a museum. The billionaire let him look, his heart skipping a beat when Joker's face came closer, thumb swiping across his lips.

Something sinister, like recognition, glittered in the clown's eyes.

            "You know," breathed Joker, his expression dark, "you have the most beautiful eyes, Mr. Edwards."

            Damien tipped his head back, but Joker yanked him back, nails digging into his skull. The edges of his red-painted lips twitched up, something flashing in his gaze. A feeling of wrong twisted in Damien's gut.

            "What's this really about?" said Joker, tipping Damien's head to the side. "What's your game?"

            "There is no game," exhaled Damien, hating the way his face heated being so close to the clown. "I'm just as surprised as you are. When the Bat told me to take care of you, I thought he was out of his mind."

            Joker scoffed with amusement, eyes pinned on his. Damien realized this was the longest they'd made eye contact, and Joker didn't even know it was him.

            "Yeah," said Joker, pushing Damien's face away. "He's lost it, alright."

            Damien rubbed his jaw, sitting back in his seat. The back of his head told him to wrap things up with Joker and leave, but his heart had other plans. He cleared his throat, eyed Joker tentatively, and said, "He must care about you."

            Joker's face fell, and he forced out a bitter laugh to cover up his reaction.

            "Please," he said, studying Damien's face. "If he really cared, he'd be here. Not chuck me to the nearest rich washup." He narrowed his eyes with a pout. "No offense."

            "None taken," said Damien.

            Joker hummed, giving the man another once over. He crossed his arms and turned away, leaning back against the bedpost.

            "Y'know... I think I've scared off the Bat for good," he said quietly, his gaze faraway.

            "What makes you say that?" pried Damien, his chest tightening.

            Joker picked at the sheets and sighed, refusing to meet Damien's eyes. The contrast was disorienting since he was so intent on examining his eyes earlier.

            "See, the Bat and I—we have this game," he said. "I stir up a little trouble, he comes to stop me. Same old, same old..." He gestured a hand. "I thought we had something, but I was wrong. Can you believe that?" he laughed bitterly. "I really thought I had a chance with the bastard. Me."

            "Well..." said Damien carefully. "You are a criminal. It's his job to stop you."

            "But we were more than that," sighed Joker, clutching his chest. "You wouldn't get it." He sat up. "Think of it this way. Have you ever wished you were someone else, just so you could get someone's attention?"

            Damien shrugged. "Sure."

"It's like that," said Joker. "No matter how much I try, as long as I'm me—" Joker's voice snagged. "—then the Bat could never love me. I mean—ahah—who could love a freak like me, right?" Damien frowned, his chest aching at the phrase. "But if I was someone else, then—" Something glinted in his eyes, making his face fall. Damien mistook it for heartbreak. Joker had just discovered his newest scheme.

            Damien carefully rested a hand on the bed, and Joker leaned back, exhaling with newfound excitement. Forget what happened last night with Batman, and all those hurtful, nasty words he'd said. He would prove him wrong. He would show him that he really did care about Joker.

            And he would do it by ripping his heart out, just as the Bat had done to him.

            "Say, I need to use the loo," said Joker, forcing a smile. He shook his wrist. "I promise I won't hurt you."

            Damien eyed him for a moment, and after a while, he gave in. He pulled keys from his pocket, leaned forward, and lifted Joker's wrist, studying him from the corner of his eye. There was that manic energy in his eyes, but it wasn't enough to predict his next move.

            The cuff unlocked with a click, and Joker rubbed his wrist.

            "Thanks, darling," he said with a grin.

Damien stepped back, and Joker stood to his full height, running his eyes up the billionaire's frame. If Damien were anyone else, he'd be intimidated.

            "There's fresh clothes in the closet," said Damien, stepping aside. Joker stepped forward and narrowed his eyes at him, wondering why he wasn't showing the slightest hint of nervousness. "If you want to change."

            "Hmph," said Joker, walking away from him. "You are one odd guy, Mr. Edwards."

            "It's Damien."

            Joker filed through the clothes on the hangers, smiling over his shoulder. "Right." He grabbed a wad of clothes and gave them a look. "Well, Damien, you need a better wardrobe. What is this? Emo pajama day?"

            "I didn't know what would fit you."

Joker peeled off his dress shirt and tossed it aside with a shrug, heading to the restroom. He caught Damien's eye—found him quickly glance away—and shut the door. He stood there for a while, lost in thought as he stared at the wood. He still couldn't shake the feeling that he knew the billionaire. Could've sworn those eyes were the same ones that glared at him with such hatred last night.

            The same eyes he obsessed day and night over. The same eyes that made him shudder every time he looked into them.

            Joker sucked in a breath and pulled away from the door.

            The same eyes that belonged to the Bat.

            He glanced at himself in the mirror, caught up in the mystery of it all. Damien Edwards couldn't really be his beloved Batman, could he? He had the same, gorgeous eyes, the same swoopy black hair. And those lips—he'd gazed at them long enough to recognize them before the Bat changed his mask. Had kissed them, had dreamed of kissing them countless times after the fact.

            Joker changed into the new clothes, ignoring his disheveled self in the mirror.

            It couldn't be him.

            Joker tied the black sweatpants around his waist, but no matter how tight he pulled the strings, they still sagged on his hips.

            It couldn't.

            He pulled on the black t-shirt, hesitated, and gave it a sniff, smelling rich, oaky vanilla. His brows furrowed.

            The clothes didn't smell like Batman. But that didn't shake the mystery plaguing his mind.

            He knew Batman's features individually—but put them together, and he couldn't be sure if it was really him.

            Joker tugged at his shirt, the V-neck dipping below his collarbones. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he startled at the sight. Although the clothes swamped him, he almost looked... normal.

            He combed his fingers through his hair, flattening the neon locks.

            If Damien Edwards really was Batman...

            He squinted at himself, imagining himself with black hair, a black moustache. No blue and green eyes—brown, he told himself—and no face paint. Normal. Everything normal.

Well...

His skin rushed with excitement.

Becoming someone else to get to him wouldn't be so hard after all.

"Hey, Damien," said Joker, opening the door. "I get to keep this, right—"

            He blinked, finding the room empty. The plates were gone, along with the cuffs, and when Joker glanced to the side, he saw the room door wide open.

            His chest stirred with conflict.

            Batman wouldn't put that much trust in him.

            He clutched the door, narrowing his eyes at the stretch of hallway beyond the room.

            Was this a test? Some sort of game to keep leading him on?

He recalled the kindness in Damien's eyes—the calm, studying interest in his expression. Batman had never looked at him like that. Batman had never looked infatuated.

            Joker grabbed his old clothes from the floor, tucked them under his arm, and padded into the hallway barefoot, taking in the dark, empty walls. As he wandered, both confused and intrigued, he ended up in a lobby the size of a museum, with the ceiling stretching two stories high and the walls lined with an open, golden-railed balcony. The marble floor felt cold under his feet as he looked around, eyes landing on a wall of photos.

            He glanced around the dim, fire-lit space, and approached the photos, finding two large frames of a man and woman. Below them, the man and woman smiled in front of a theater, holding their laughing son in their arms. He stepped closer. Found another frame of a teenager, but all the light had bled from him. His eyes stared ahead, dark and vacant.

            Right, thought Joker, walking over to another cluster of photos. Damien was the one the news always portrayed as the tragic orphan.

            His eyes landed on a plaque of names—donors to the Edwards Foundation—and fixated on a specific one.

            William Barren, it said.

            Joker smiled to himself, eyes lingering on the plaque as he made his way towards the exit. As much as he wanted to stay and dissect the place further, he had a plan to flesh out.

            The name William would be a perfect place to start.

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We're still on a bit of a slow start, I know. Things will start picking up soon ;)

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love,

Sheera Ayame