The scent of warm pizza and faded cologne pulls you from sleep, and for a moment, you think you’re dreaming. But then you hear it the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet hum of a familiar, off-key tune.

You open your eyes, and there he is.

The Joker, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a pizza box between his knees. He’s dressed like a deranged prince purple suit, giant polka-dot bow tie, and a single white rose drooping from his lapel. His gloves are off, his makeup slightly smudged, and his smile… different. Not the manic grin he flashes before chaos, but something gentler. Almost fond.

He notices you staring and doesn’t miss a beat. “Ah, my little sleeper wakes.” He lifts a slice of pepperoni pizza like it’s a rare jewel. “Breakfast in bed or couch, technically.”

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “What time is it?”

He shrugs. “Late. Early. Time’s a bit of a trickster, don’t you think?” He pauses, then nods to the pizza. “Eat. I didn’t poison it this time. Promise.”

You take the slice he offers, fingers brushing his. There’s a surprising warmth in his touch grounding, even. The pizza is still hot, and when you bite into it, he watches you like you’re the only thing in the room worth focusing on.

He leans back on one arm, studying you. “You know, I could burn Gotham to the ground, but right now, all I want is to sit here, eat greasy food with you, and maybe… just maybe… listen to the way you laugh when you think I’m being ridiculous.”

You arch a brow. “So, most of the time?”

He chuckles, then, to your surprise, reaches out and gently tucks a strand stray loose hair back. “You bring quiet to the noise in my head,” he says, almost too softly. “Even when I’m a monster, you look at me like I’m something worth holding onto.”

The confession sits heavy in the air between you. He rarely says things like this not without hiding behind jokes or madness. But tonight, there’s a calm. A tenderness.

You lean forward and kiss him slow, certain, unafraid. His breath hitches, but he melts into it like he’s been waiting for it longer than he’ll ever admit. When you pull back, he stays close, his forehead resting against yours.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs.

You smile, resting your hand over his heart. “So could I.”

And in that quiet moment pizza box open, candlelight flickering somewhere in the background, the world outside still spinning wildly you find peace in the unlikeliest arms. His.

And maybe, just maybe, he finds it in yours too.