by reason of insanity (JOKER X READER) ❌

chapter 7: play the game

because you're mine, i walk the line

author's note: HIIII yall asked and i heard you. just. very Very belatedly. i do wanna warn you that this chapter contains descriptions of child abuse and its emotional effects, all talked about with joker's usual complete lack of sensitivity or tact. it starts at "what's the worst thing" and ending at "you tossed a pillow at him". this topic is very personal to me so i know how it can trigger people- please take care of yourself <3 thank you all for hanging around for this one !

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You were in your cell in the afternoon when he started asking you questions.

"What's the worst thing your parents did to you?" he asked first, flat on his back on the floor in a white tank top and the usual bright orange asylum sweatpants. You were stretched out on his bunk, trying to decipher whatever the fuck was going on in Pride and Prejudice, so the question startled you, and you looked up from the book, frowning.

"What?"

"You said they weren't good to you," he said, slowly, like you were an idiot. "So what'd they do?"

You searched your memory for whenever the hell you'd said that, then realized it didn't matter. "Classic sob story," you said, shrugging. "Dad had anger issues even before he started hitting the bottle, and y'know that saying 'shit flows downhill'? He mostly gave my mama hell, so then she turned around and gave it to me."

"You get hit?"

"Sometimes." You could count every time it had happened on your fingers, the memories vivid and clear as day. There was no worst incident when it came to that- every one was awful in its own way. The first was because you'd never thought he could do it to you, and every other time after that was because no matter how much your father cried and apologized for what he'd done while drunk, it always happened again.

"Open fist or closed?" The question broke you out of the memories, and it took you a minute to process it before you could answer.

"Open."

Joker hummed from his spot on the floor. "Your mama ever do that?"

"A few times," you said. "Those I deserved. I talked back a lot as a kid."

"You backtalk a lot now," Joker snickered.

You tossed a pillow at him, which he just barely caught before it hit his face. "Shut up."

A few seconds of silence passed, and you thought that was the end of it, so you went back to your book. Then-

"What's your favorite color?"

***

The questions continued, with no rhyme, reason, or pattern among them. You tried to figure out why he was doing it, and the only reasons you could come up with was that he was either bored or he really did just want to know more about you. Boredom, you could handle. At times, he was like a particularly rambunctious child, distracted by mayhem, bright colors, and flashing lights. But genuine interest was another thing. It was a brand new minefield you weren't sure you knew how to navigate.

It also didn't make a lot of sense. Sure, you and he spent most of your time together now, but that was borne from necessity. And sure, he threatened (and occasionally delivered) bodily harm in various creative ways to everybody who looked at you wrong, but your idea was that he'd come to see you as an extension of himself, the way self-obsessed parents see their children.

But if that was the way he looked at you, he wouldn't be asking you anything. He wouldn't care who you were, as long as you played the part he wanted you to (not that you really knew what that was anyway). And you were sure he didn't love you- the thought was absurd. The Joker didn't love anyone. He hadn't even kissed you again after that first time when he got back from solitary.

You remembered what Dr. Beck had said- who does really "get" the Joker? and decided you were probably not going to get to any good conclusions by going down this route, so you left it alone. Or, well, you tried to. Still, you couldn't help thinking about it. About him, and what your role in his life really was.

Until one night, when you got up the nerve to ask him.

He was hanging upside down from the top bunk, legs hooked behind the mattress. You were sitting cross-legged on the bottom bunk, thinking very hard about ditching Pride and Prejudice entirely to start something else.

You set the book aside. "J," you started, feeling more than a little stupid, "What are we doing, man?"

Joker giggled. "Sitting in here," he said, almost simperingly. "I never took you for an idiot, Y/N."

"Okay, that's not what I meant," you said, rolling your eyes. You sat up straighter and tossed the book aside, "What the fuck are we doing here, why do you- everybody said you'd kill me, so why am I still-"

In some overly complicated maneuver you weren't really paying attention to, Joker twisted off the top bunk and landed on the ground, cat-like, crouched between your knees. His hands came to rest on your thighs, nails digging in slightly. He was grinning like he knew something you didn't (which was true, the things you didn't know about him alone could fill libraries).

"Why are you still alive?" he finished your question for you, and giggled. "Well, it's sure not because you're putting out, now is it?"

You gritted your teeth. He had such a talent for pissing you off. "Then what the hell is it?" you demanded.

Quick as a snake, he grabbed your chin and forced your head still. He was almost in your lap now, and suddenly deathly serious, pale eyes wide and almost apocalyptic in their intensity. "People have parts to play," he said quietly. "Some people are useful, or- or entertaining, or sometimes I can even respect them. Some people are boring, irritating, stupid creatures. But they're all just parts, every single one of them is blind to the greater game, you understand?"

You didn't, but you nodded anyway.

"But you- you defy categorization. You should be useless." He gave your head a shake. "You should be dead, but instead, somehow I like you. And instead of convincing you to swallow your tongue or hang yourself by the pipe in the ceiling, I think about cracking your ribs open-" and here he dug the heel of his other hand into your sternum until you let out a strangled yelp of pain, "-and swallowing you whole."

You were hardly thinking as his hand pressed in, white-hot pain flaring in your chest in one bright, continuous burst, and then it was gone, and you were left panting and disoriented. Joker didn't move, just watched you catch your breath with those predatory eyes.

"Thank you?" you managed eventually, but it came out sounding like a question.

Joker's grin was like a shark's, all teeth, and he said, "Don't thank me yet."