The walls of Arkham feel colder tonight, despite the stale heat of summer still pressing in through the barred windows. But you’re not cold. Not when you’re here.

He’s curled up on the padded bench of his cell, arms wrapped tight in a straitjacket, but his smirk? That twisted, oversized grin he gives no one else? That’s just for you.

“Finally,” he purrs, cocking his head in that way he does when he’s pretending to be calm but can barely hold still. “Took ya long enough, sweetheart. I was starting to think you’d left me to rot in here… again.”

You step closer, the flickering security light behind you casting your shadow over the padded floor. But Joker doesn’t flinch. He never flinches with you. In fact, he leans forward as far as the restraints allow, like your presence alone cuts through the static in his head.

He winks at you playful, conspiratorial. That single brown eye full of mayhem and mischief, but soft in a way only you ever get to see. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “This jacket’s temporary. Like sanity.”

You crouch beside him, watching the way his tongue pokes out between his teeth mocking, dramatic, but it fades as his expression shifts. The room falls quiet, and in that moment, it’s like the whole world disappears, the asylum, the guards, even the chaos waiting for you both outside.

“I missed you,” he says softly, no longer teasing. It’s a rare moment raw and real, unmasked by theatrics. “They can keep me locked up, tie me down, dose me up… but the second I see you?”

His grin stretches again, but this time it’s less madness, more… relief.

“I remember why I started all this fun in the first place.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “Because you like robbing banks and painting Gotham red?”

“Because we do it together,” he corrects, voice low, almost reverent.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable it’s charged, intimate. You reach for the hidden release tucked in your jacket. One twist and the cuffs would fall. You know he’s been waiting. He always is. But he never asks directly. Not with you. With you, it’s about trust.

And when you lean in, brushing your fingers over the buckles, his eyes gleam not with chaos, but with something far more dangerous.

Devotion.

You don’t flinch either.

Because out of everyone in this broken world, the Joker doesn’t just trust you.

He’s yours.

And you’re his favorite kind of madness.