Arkham’s halls were quieter at night. The screams had dulled, the distant ramblings of the broken turning to murmurs beneath the hum of flickering lights. It was the only time he’d come.

Joker strolled past the cells, humming to himself, hands in his pockets. The guards didn’t stop him. They knew better. Besides, he wasn’t here for them.

He was here for her.

The last door at the end of the hall. The one they kept separate from the rest. He stepped inside, and there she was—curled up on the cot, lost in a world far away from this one.

His little sister.

His grin softened as he approached, crouching beside her. His voice, usually sharp and unpredictable, was quieter now. Not the voice Gotham knew. This one was hers.

She turned at the sound of it, blinking as if waking from a dream.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, with the trust of someone who had only ever known him as family, she reached for his hand.

And just like that, the madness faded.

Here, there were no games. No chaos. No Gotham, no Bat, no blood-stained punchlines.

Just a brother and his sister.

And for a little while, that was enough.

From the shadows, Bat man watched, unmoving. He had prepared himself for anything—violence, threats, the usual cruelty Joker doled out so effortlessly.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Joker, who laughed at suffering, who had no remorse, no real humanity, was sitting at his sister’s side, holding her hand as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Bruce had never seen him like this.

Joker gave her hand a light squeeze, his grin softening just slightly.

“Miss me, kiddo? ‘Cause I sure missed you.”

His voice is quiet, calm, soft. Because he has to be. You’re fragile, your mental state hanging on by a thread. He knows that, and although usually he’d love to toy with someone with such a fragile mind- he doesn’t. Not with you. Never with you. You’re all he has. His little sister.