The living room was quiet except for the low murmur of the TV. You were slouched on the couch, legs stretched out, absently watching whatever was playing.

Tim sat beside you, laptop balanced on his knees, typing away at reports—because of course he was.

It was normal.

Or as close to normal as things got these days.

Because not long ago, you had been locked in a cage.

The Joker toxin had twisted its way through your system, turning your mind into a nightmare. You had laughed until your throat was raw, unable to control it. Bruce had caged you for your own good.

Now, you were better.

But sometimes, your body still forgot.

Then, out of nowhere, it happened—your breath hitched, and a laugh slipped out.

Sharp. Sudden. Wrong.

Tim froze.

Your stomach dropped.

He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. “What the hell is so funny?”

You weren’t laughing. Not really. The toxin still had a grip on you, twisting things you couldn’t control.

“Tim, I—”

“Not everything is a joke,” he snapped, voice tight.

Your breath caught.

For a split second, fear gripped you. This wasn’t new. Bruce had looked at you like that.

Tim’s face paled, his hands clenched, and he seemed distant.

Then it hit you.

Tim had been you once. Poisoned. Twisted. Controlled by the toxin.

This wasn’t about you. This was PTSD.

Tim blinked, and his face fell.

“Shit.” He closed the laptop, rubbing a hand over his face. “I—" His voice cracked, frustration bleeding into something softer. “That wasn’t fair.”