Thread: I Started A Joke (SevenxChantho)

Gotham's black and grey palette had become a blur, a swirling mess in his vision that was dotted by the occasional strobing yellow of a passing car or an office window - what felt like a lightning strike passed through his entire body from head to toe as the Joker lost all motor functions to the violent grasp of a clonic seizure. The sensation of lifting from his body followed suit as the Joker suddenly found himself watching his own fallen form spasming on the wet pavement, and as fascinating as it was, he was more interested in the dark figure looming near. Oh yes, he would recognize it anywhere, there was no mistaking that one, no, no. He wanted to greet the Batman, wanted to say hello like they were old friends reconnecting at a high school reunion, old buddies getting together for a drink, maybe give the hero a genial slap on the shoulder - but, dissappointingly, he couldn't do anything except twitch. But he could feel the Bat, looming so close, so near, so very within his reach that body heat was emanating, breezing over the skin of his face, seeping through the damp, filthy material of the suit he had taken back from Arkham Asylum. He could feel him. What would he do? How would the masked man react when his nemesis was laid out in front of him on a silver platter, spasming and - even the Joker would admit to this - utterly helpless. He couldn't do a thing. Anyone else might have panicked but the prospect only made the clown gleeful. Would the Bat give in to the temptation? Yes, he was looming over him, staring down at him, his cowled face registering a pensive expression, something conflicted and dark and oh, he knew the Batman was thinking about it. How could he not? It would be so easy, and no one would see, no one would see a thing and the clown would die oh so happy if the Batman would just do it. Do it. Come on, Batsy. Do it. Just break, no, just bend those rules a little, just an eensy weensy bit. He wanted to say it, he wanted to goad him, but he only managed to make a soft choking noise as his back arched up off the pavement, skinny frame jerking from rapid muscle contractions, sweat and filthy water running down his face and leaving streaks in the war paint he wore, mottling the side of his face. But no. The Bat didn't do it there wasn't a single strike, not an iron fist to the face or a steel-toe boot to the ribs, nothing except - except - - was that an arm around him? Was the Bat holding him, lifting him, picking him up? No. No that couldn't be right. He could feel the solid chest plate against his side as he was held up from the pavement, an effort that prevented his head from hitting the pavement any further during the spasms, and once they died away to stillness, the Joker was left feeling as though he was floating, dream-like, through the alleyway and back to his own body. His voice and motor functions did not return at the same time. As Batman's hand's rummaged through various pockets - and would locate a sharp shard of glass, a fountain pen, a packaged syringe, and several marbles - the Joker felt himself fading away. As the masked man's hand dug into his pants pocket, the Joker wished he could get his voice back long enough to ask the Bat to buy him a drink first.