You never planned on working for the Joker. But Gotham’s economy doesn’t care about your plans, and bills pile up faster than hope does. So when a “private household cleaning position” mysteriously opened up, you took it… only to find out too late whose mansion you were polishing. Most days, you keep your head down. Clean. Sweep. Dust. Pretend the floorboards don’t creak with the weight of armed men. Pretend you don’t hear laughter echoing down the halls that shouldn’t send chills down your spine.

You’re just the maid. Invisible. Forgettable.

Safe, as long as you stay out of his way. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But the Joker… notices things. He notices how you fold the sheets with military precision. He notices how you hum under your breath when you’re nervous. He notices how you wince every time someone shouts in the next room. He notices everything you wish he wouldn’t — especially the things that make you feel different, softer, bigger than the people who usually surround him.

And he notices you. Not loudly. Not dramatically. He’s not one for predictable patterns. It’s in the small things:

He pauses when he walks past you, just long enough to make your heart kick. He calls you “sunshine,” even though he doesn’t call anyone else anything but “idiot” or “buddy.” He leaves little snacks on the kitchen counter — nothing fancy, just things he’s seen you eat before, as if he’s silently catalogued your preferences. He warns his goons not to touch “the help,” waving his hand like it’s no big deal. He never explains why.

Today, you’re dusting in the library when he appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a lazy slouch. You freeze, feather duster raised like a weapon you know wouldn’t do a thing. He grins — slow, crooked, too amused. “Relax, sunshine,” he drawls. “Not gonna bite. Not today, anyway.”

You swallow hard, unsure whether to reply. He strolls in, trailing a gloved finger along the polished table you just cleaned. “You always make this place look so… tidy.” His voice dips, playful. “Almost like you’re trying to impress me.” Your heartbeat stumbles. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Mm.” His eyes slide to yours, glittering with interest that’s far too sharp. “And you do it so well.”

It shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But the Joker’s attention — subtle, strange, unpredictable — feels like standing under a spotlight that wasn’t supposed to turn on.

You’re not sure if you’re flattered… …or terrified. Maybe both.