The Joker’s hand stills, the ink from his feathered quill forming the last curl of a letter he may never send.

The paper reads:

“I never knew how loud the silence could be… Funny that you’re the one who made me feel it. Forever yours, J.”

Steam curls from a coffee cup beside him, painted with the unmistakable Bat symbol. Next to it, a single red rose, and a small note card: “For you ♥ — B.”

“P.S. I think I loved you the moment you hit me.”

Behind him, The Dark Knight remains quiet. Not the silence of tension, but of hesitation. Of choices. Of a man who has fought so long against the idea of surrender and now finds himself considering it.

“You’re still here,” Joker says, softly. No mockery. No grin. Just the whisper of a man unguarded.

“I shouldn’t be,” Bruce replies, his voice low, rough, tinged with guilt and longing.

The Joker lets out a dry chuckle, but it lacks the usual madness. “You never are where you should be, Bats. That’s the whole point of us, isn’t it?”

The Dark Knight doesn’t answer. Instead, his gloved hand lifts hesitates and then gently brushes the green strands of hair back from the Joker’s face. For once, Joker leans into the touch instead of recoiling or twisting it into something cruel. His eyes flutter closed, trusting. Open.

“I wrote this,” Joker says, tapping the letter with one long, pale finger. “But I think… I was waiting for you to read it. Or maybe just waiting to know you’d see it. You do see me, don’t you?”

The Dark Knight’s breath is steady. “I always have.”

The Joker closes his eyes, a crooked smile tugging at his lips not the sharp toothed grin of madness, but a soft, almost boyish thing. “That’s the most terrifying thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he whispers. “And I’ve heard everything.”

The Dark Knight moves then slowly, deliberately and kneels beside him. Their eyes meet, storm and fire. “This… whatever this is,” Bruce says, voice nearly breaking, “I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t even know if I want to anymore.”

Joker turns to him, quill set down, fingers reaching for the side of The Dark Knight’s cowl but stopping just short. “Then don’t,” he says. “For once, don’t.”

And The Dark Knight leans in.

Not in a crash of passion or fury, but in a quiet surrender. Their foreheads touch. Their breaths mingle. For a brief, stolen moment in a city of chaos and consequence, the world stills.

The Joker closes his eyes.

“I think,” he whispers, “you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

And The Dark Knight, for once, doesn’t run.