Gotham City, late evening, top of a high-rise building under a gray sky. The Dark Knight has just returned from a week-long mission in Metropolis.

The wind howls as the Bat glider descends onto the rooftop. The Dark Knight, dressed in his advanced tactical suit, lands silently, cape fluttering. He deactivates his glider just as he feels a sudden weight slam into his chest.

The Joker, dressed in his signature purple suit and smeared makeup, wraps his arms and legs around the vigilante with the strength of a starved barnacle.

The Dark Knight (deadpan, gravelly voice): “Joker… let me go.”

Joker (clinging tightly, muffled against the armor): “You were gone for a week, Batsy… A week. In Metropolis. I thought you died. I thought Superman turned you into one of his boy scout badges!”

The Dark Knight (trying to peel him off): “I had intel to follow. You know, crimes to stop. Gotham doesn’t revolve around your… emotional black holes.”

Joker (not loosening his grip): “Oh, darling. Gotham is my chaos canvas, and you’re the only one who makes the explosions art.”

From the cowl, a light blinks. Alfred’s voice buzzes in his earpiece.

Alfred (concerned): “Sir, your heat signature appears to have doubled. Are you quite alright?”

The Dark Knight (sighs, pushing Joker’s face away gently): “Yes, Alfred. Send the Batwing. I have a… situation.”

Joker (resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder, whispering dramatically): “Call it what it is, Bat. True love.”

The Dark Knight standing tall, Joker hanging off him like a koala, as the Batwing approaches in the distance.