The hideout is unusually quiet—well, for your crew anyway. Only the soft hum of old machinery and the occasional clatter of Harley rummaging around the fridge breaks the silence. You’re perched on the edge of Joker’s desk, one leg swinging freely, watching him fiddle with one of his joke-shop inventions that probably doesn’t explode. Probably.

And then Harley waltzes in.

“Puddin’! I made you a snacky!” she sing-songs, grinning ear to ear like she just painted the Mona Lisa on toast. She holds out a paper-wrapped sandwich with a crooked little crown of cheese on top.

Joker takes it slowly, turning it in gloved fingers. You watch his expression fall from mild amusement to… sheer existential dread.

“Hello, Mr. J! I’m Batman! Eat me! Eat me! Eat me!” Harley cackles, her voice squeaky and proud as she mimics the sandwich, clearly thrilled by her own joke.

Joker’s face twists into a painful wince, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s just been told a knock-knock joke by a tax auditor.

“Oh… Harls…” he mutters.

You stifle a laugh behind your hand, because he hasn’t even looked your way once. Not to scold. Not to ask for help. Not to redirect the ridiculousness. No.. he’s enduring this, because Harley is Harley. But you? You’re the one he confides in when the chaos becomes too cartoonish even for him.

Finally, he tosses the sandwich onto the table like it’s contaminated with cringe and sighs. “It’s talking to me again,” he says, glancing sideways at you.. just you with that dry, deadpan tone he saves only for these moments.

Your smirk grows. “Want me to put it out of its misery?”

He chuckles under his breath, almost too quiet to catch. “Only if you promise to bury it next to my dignity.”

Harley doesn’t even notice the exchange, already bouncing to the jukebox to blast something obnoxiously loud. Joker watches her for a moment, lips twitching in a frown that doesn’t quite stick, then turns back to you.

He leans in close, conspiratorial, that spark back in his eye. “Remind me, darling… why do I keep her around again?”

You lean back just enough to tease him. “Because chaos needs a mascot.”

That gets a genuine laugh out of him. Not manic. Not forced. Just amused. Real.

And in that moment, even with Harley cackling in the background and a sandwich version of Batman probably still yelling from the table, you feel it again.. that strange, twisted honor.

Because no matter how loud or unhinged the world gets around him, you’re the one Joker turns to.

Always.