Just a quick one-shot, something that sprang to mind and wouldn't leave me be until I had written it fully. Food for thought, essentially. Please review!

Enjoy!

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Bruce had to admit, the oddest thing about the scene wasn't that the Joker was in his penthouse – it was that the Joker was in his penthouse, smiling up at the ceiling.

Fine Italian leather shoes whispered over the marble floor, his step light from years of practice. Rain fell like tiny stones onto the stone patio, masking what little noise he could not prevent. The sound barely disturbed the clown, shoulders shaking as he chuckled softly to himself, relishing a joke only he could understand. That was not to say he was oblivious to even the slightest movement; the hidden line of tension in his left arm bespoke of the ability to strike at a moment's notice. One glance and a glint of metal could be seen in his fist, the smooth lining of his coat whispering over the speed loader at his hip.

"I can't believe you never ah, fixed it. What is it – Bruce Wayne getting chea-p?" The soft pop echoed through the empty apartment, giving Bruce pause. The madman hadn't even bothered to turn around, lank green curls tossed back as he peered upwards.

The billionaire's fingers itched to reach for a weapon, his common sense barely suppressing the notion in favor of maintaining his disguise. The Joker had been unusually horrific in his exploits the past two weeks, Bruce could only guess at what he was doing here.

Extortion, more than likely.

Kidnapping.

Murder of the Prince of Gotham to knock the rich down a few pegs.

He kept his voice level. "Never fixed… what?"

The Joker spun on his heel, a gloved hand pointing lazily upwards as a grin stretched across his scarred features. Skin pulled and pitted in unnatural ways, Bruce averted his eyes from the sight. It was a sick tableau he had seen hundreds of times beneath the halos of street lamps and in the flash of an explosion, lit for a second with a putrid Technicolor. In the calm and dull twilight of the apartment, it was he, not his enemy, who stood barefaced. Nonetheless, it seemed wrong somehow.

He shows who he is, while I hide. I am an honest man. I am. Aren't I?

Shivering at the thought, he brushed it aside. Batman could not be compared to the Joker, he knew that, so why did he care if he hid his face behind well-scrubbed skin and Armani? Disquieted, he took the time to glance in the suggested direction.

Ah, the bullet hole.

It had blasted apart some of the ornate ceiling, yet the damage caused by the Joker's slug had been the least of his worries the past few months. A carpenter was called at some point, he believed, but it hadn't seemed to matter when children were found bludgeoned to death by schoolbooks.

Returning his gaze to the clown's, Bruce shrugged, keeping up the airs of an insanely rich playboy. Inwardly he could hardly believe they were even having this conversation, but that wasn't something the Prince of Gotham would say.

No, he would say:

"The Jacuzzi unfortunately came first on my list. It's not like I'm home enough to really notice it, anyway."

Flash a large smile, create some fear in the eyes. That's it, Bruce, the voice can shake. This is a man you never want to meet in a dark alley… only you do, don't you?

"No, no, ya wouldn't be. Too busy out on the town. Whoring and shelling out cash, and whatever else the hell it is you ah, civilized people do." A knife slid easily from the Joker's fist, gently hissing as it left its handle. Pale pink darting over the scars, a sick sloshing noise filled the apartment. "But I'm not giving you enough credi-t, am I? That isn't it, that's not the whole… story. No – definitely not."

A beat.

"You never no-tice because you're just too damn busy playing with little old me."

Concealing the ripple of shock at the other man's words, Bruce channeled the energy into a half-step backward, brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

"Oh tut tut, don't play games – I like 'em, but this is just going to get old." Grin disappearing, the Joker brushed past his unwilling host, heading to the fully stocked bar at the other end of the room. His shoes thudded against the floor, cheap leather at odds with the rest of his outfit. Humming a random tune, he took his place behind the bar, one gloved hand absentmindedly running over the smooth marble finish. The stock hidden beneath apparently met with his approval, eyebrows shooting upwards as he mouthed some of the more expensive names.

Forcing a laugh, Bruce surreptitiously checked his pocket for his cell phone, cursing himself for thinking to go unarmed. The Joker wouldn't know who he was, would he? And if he did, why wasn't he doing something with that information? Frantic thoughts swirled in his head, kept in check by sheer determination alone, yet he refrained from allowing it to seep into his voice.

Batman plotted, but Bruce Wayne resorted to the only thing he had.

"Listen, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. However… I think that maybe we can come to some sort of an agreement. I'm thinking, I just pay you whatever you want, and you leave…"

His voice oddly flat, the Joker's gaze jumped to Bruce's own, head cocked in curiosity. "You're going to pay me." It wasn't a question, the whiskey tones too smooth, too assured.

"Yes. Name your sum."

Grin twitching at the corner of his mouth, the Joker fixed him a sideways glance. One hand deftly snatching a glass from beneath the bar, it clinked loudly as it hit the counter. He leaned over slightly, sucking thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek.

"You know – I'm gonna be honest. I didn't come here for the ah, pleasureof your company. I didn't even come here to burst your bub-ble. I came here to… tell you a story. A funny story." The glass scraped along the counter, moved slowly by the side of a gunpowder-blackened finger.

"So I was ah, unloading into this bastard's head – now, now, don't get your morals all in a twist – round after roun-d, had to refill a couple times. Let's just say he was a real pain in my ass. So I'm shooting 'em up. I go to change the magazine, and wouldn't ya know, I see somethin'. Maybe you'll recognize it. W.E..3.4.0." He dragged out each number. "Ring any bell-s?"

Bruce shook his head, the code igniting an itch in the back of his brain. It was too familiar, scratching at the door separating his mind like a rat eager for cheese. Or, given the fact that this was the Joker, a dog eager to leave. W…E… W… E… Wayne… Enterprises…

And suddenly, it clicked.

"Wayne Enterprises, number seventeen out of forty-eight thousand."

The words flowed out of some forgotten memory bank, Lucius explaining how to read the serial codes floating lost somewhere in his head. Some distant part of him had known that the company operated mostly on weapons, but he would never have dreamed they would end up back on Gotham's streets. Or, more importantly, in the hands of his enemies.

The Joker merely grinned, ignoring the vodka he had at first chosen to slosh a fair amount of tonic into his glass. Bruce followed the path of the tiny waterfall, mind blanking as his tongue sought futilely to make a noise one might mistake for a word. Picking up his drink, the clown knocked back without a word, as if the clear liquid had been the real thing. Shot glass returned to the counter with a soft clink, Bruce could see garish streaks of scarlet greasepaint left on the rim.

Streaks of blood smeared across a car window, a glass table.

Stalking back to the door, the madman's voice was nothing but a rasp, grin pulled taut across his scarred cheeks. "Just wanted to come and give my regards, ha, moneybags. In keeping that trust fund you ah, keep me in business. Or maybe I kee-p you in business?" A mocking thoughtfulness crossed his features, the bright, quick eyes devouring Bruce's reaction.

"So ya see, Bruce, I'm your best customer… And as we all know, the customer. Is. Always. Right."

One gloved hand shooting out to press the elevator button, the Joker glanced back over his shoulder at his stunned companion. Bruce could barely breathe, mind already jumping to the registry of Wayne products, filing away a note to shut down that wing of operation – dear god, was the madman actually right?

Bruce knew of the problems of escalation, and was prepared to combat them. This, however, was a notion so removed from his train of thought he had not the slightest clue how to handle it. His tools and his equipment, used to keep the city safe, had been bought with blood money. In saving the city, he was destroying it.

The madman knew that too, goddamn him, knew who he was – but did he? It had to have been a guess, a jab, something to make him slip. Was the solution nothing more than the problem?

No, Bruce decided as a dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, he knew.

As if reading Bruce's thoughts from the lines etched into his face, The Joker simply tilted his head in acknowledgment, a sick laughter bubbling up from the dark and silent core. Heavy arms manufacturing, he had found, would get 'em every time – and people said he was crazy.

"Thanks for the booze."

The heavy chrome doors slid slowly shut, cutting off the first rings of laughter and plunging the apartment into silence.

Rain like gunfire fell on the stone balcony.

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A/N: After watching Batman Begins again, I remembered that Wayne Enterprises dealt also in heavy arms manufacturing. It would be the ultimate irony that the Joker would purposefully use Bruce's bazookas and bombs to wreak terror, I don't think he would be able to resist. After all, in saving the city, Bruce is destroying it.

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