Archive of Our Own ^beta

They were, once again, at a precipice, cards of fate long since dealt. 

The King of Hearts held the Wildcard's life by the fabric of his lapel, a plummet guaranteed to end it below. This high up, the whole of Gotham sparkled below like a field of sickly fireflies, feebly flickering their dimming lights as if only to prove they were still there, still fighting to hold on to what little life they had left, defiant against the darkness that crept through every crack and corner of the world.

The Wildcard laughed, quiet and rasping from winded lungs and cracked ribs. 

“Seems we’re at checkmate again, Bats,” he wheezed, grin stretching impossibly wide in a triumphant, terrified way that reminded the King far too much of a snarling wounded animal. "Your move."

The King's fingers trembled with adrenaline and exhaustion, but even so his grip held tight. 

He knew this would end the way it always did. The board would be reset, the game began anew. Every round, his adversary would taunt him, plead with him, try his hardest to cajole him into making the final play.

He never did. Even through all the hell he had to pay, all the lives lost or left in disrepair, all the anguish his for had caused him, he'd never make the final blow.

Tonight was no different.

With a heave, the King pulled the Wildcard up and over the edge, blocking out the wheezing giggles of triumph and despair from the latter. Legs shaky from his wounds, the Wildcard leaned heavily on him, arm looped around his neck. He still stumbled, and the King reached to catch him, keeping a firm but gentle hand on his back.

His beloathed companion laughed quietly to himself all the while as he led him to a quiet spot on the roof, even as he sat him down and begun to examine what had to be painful wounds. 

The Wildcard just sat there, dazed and ever mirthful, as his cuts were carefully wrapped and bones reset. He did not fight it. He knew the round was over, that the game would continue if he was patient, and so he simply let the King have his way. 

Satisfied his adversary wouldn't bleed out, the King gave himself the chance to catch his breath, sitting down next to his fallen foe.

He knew his mercies were toxic, poisoning himself from the inside out with each forsaken second chance. He knew it didn't work, knew it never would, that every wasted kindness would only serve to stab him in the back and reopen his old wounds.

The Wildcard side eyed him, relaxing as the King sat down beside him with a smile as bittersweet as cyanide. 

"Guess the game's over then, eh Batsy?" He crooned, leaning back with a pained sigh. "Police en route, or are you planning on dragging me back to Arkham yourself?"

"Later," he murmured, eyes closing for a moment of blissless respite. "You're not going anywhere on that twisted ankle."

"Wouldn't dream of it Batsy dearest," his foe chuckled, making no attempt to prove him otherwise. "There would be no point anyways- what fun is a game if you never lose?”

The King fell silent for a long moment, looking upon the fool with wearied pity. The Wildcard's expression darkened, smile fading a little. 

"Oh… spare me your words, Bats, I've heard it all before."

"We don't have to keep this cycle in motion, Joker. My offer to help you will always stand."

The clown looked away, a soft, sad chuckle echoing from his injured chest. "We both know that's not in the cards, Batman, not for either of us. This game's gone on too long for either of us to fold now."

The vigilante said nothing. A single drop of rainwater slid down his mask, the sky starting to break into an all-too-common Gotham downpour. The King lifted his cape over the Wildcard's head, shielding his injured foe from the rain. The jester smiled, then giggled, then broke out into a raucous cackle, startling the Hero. 

"Even after all that, you still try! Honestly, Batsy, I'm touched that you'd go through so much trouble for little ol' me, but I gotta- heh- gotta know-" he could barely get the words out through his laughter- "you know what they call doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result?"

It took the clown a moment to recognize the low, rhythmic rumble that echoed from the King’s chest, so rare it was to hear. The smile that tugged softly at the corner of his lips proved the laugh’s source, and he couldn’t help his own laugh rising once again, renewed by their shared moment of reverie.

The hero's voice faded, the remnants of his smile still on his face. The Wildcard leaned his head against his shoulder, still giggling like a hyena. The king didn't oust him from his spot, only letting him tug the cape around him with a shiver. 

"Sounds like the start of a joke, you and I," he giggled, glancing towards the storming sky. "Two lunatics sit in the rain..."

"I'm sure you'll be able to get dry back in Arkham."

"Mm, perhaps... Does that mean it's time to drag me back there?"

The King of Hearts looked at his fallen foe, rain slicking green hair against bleached-white skin. In the distance, sirens wailed, no doubt searching for him. The dawn cracked over the horizon, the clouds above starting to gently break.

"We got a few minutes," he hummed. "Plenty of time for a couple of lunatics to watch the sunrise together."

The Wildcard smiled, and for once it was genuine.

"Sounds like a plan, Bats."