He woke up in silence.

He sat up slowly. Muscles ached. A low fever had already settled behind his eyes, grinding against the walls of his skull like broken gears. His chest felt tight, throat raw.

He coughed once. Quiet, sharp. Typical. He was sick. It was minor. Manageable. Nothing worth stopping for.

The comms beside the bed buzzed. Video incoming. Caller: J. Bruce stared at it for exactly three seconds.

Then answered. The screen lit up. “Batsyyy!! I’m dyinggggg~! Where are youuuu?!”

Bruce blinked.

Joker’s hair was sticking out in ten directions. His nose was red, his eyes glassy, lips pouting dramatically into the camera. He looked like death. Which, knowing him, was probably the point.

Bruce didn’t react. “…You're not dying.”

“I am! It’s terminal~! I’ve got three, maybe four hours before I collapse like some tragic Victorian wife in a corset!”

“Fever, slight congestion. Your pupils are dilated. Either you’ve been snorting cold medicine again or—”

He got cut off “ARE YOU SICK TOO?! we’re sick together! Isn’t that romantic?! I think we infected each other! Star-crossed pathogens~!”

Bruce exhaled through his nose. He didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have the energy. He wonders why he even dates this clown sometimes.