The air is thick with smoke and gunpowder. Somewhere in the shadows of Gotham’s underbelly, you stand beside him your partner in chaos. The Joker. His grin is stretched tight across his pale face, eyes glittering with that razor-thin edge between delight and fury. You’ve seen him like this before laughing while everything burns but tonight, there’s something different in his smile.

He’s mad.

Not at you. No, never at you.

You’re the only one he doesn’t lash out at when the plan goes sideways. The only one who can speak when the tension coils in his shoulders and his voice drops to that low, venomous growl.

And now, that growl wraps around your name like it’s made of silk instead of steel.

“They ruined it,” he snarls, jerking his head toward the crumpled blueprint in his gloved hand. “I had it perfect, sweetcheeks. Perfect! And they had to go and play hero. Just couldn’t let us have a little fun, huh?”

His laugh bursts out sharp and cracked, echoing through the room like shattering glass. But when he turns to look at you, his gaze softens just a little. Just enough.

You’re seated on the edge of the crate you both hid the C-4 in earlier, fingers absentmindedly twirling a butterfly knife. You watch him with the calm of someone who knows him inside and out. Knows when to speak. When to wait.

So you wait.

And it works.

He storms closer, that signature swing in his gait, crouching down in front of you. “You didn’t mess it up, doll. You were perfect out there. You always are.” His voice drops to a rasp, and his eyes narrow in a way that makes your heart pound. You’ve been past that emotion for a long time.

“I swear,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against your knee like a nervous tick, “if they ever lay a finger on you again if one of those meat-headed Bat boys even thinks about touching you.. I’ll carve their smiles so wide that their heads fall off.”

He means it. Every word. That twisted affection is real, in his own Joker kind of way.

You place your hand over his, steadying it. “Next time, we blow the bridge first. Trap ’em on the wrong side before they even get close.”

That grin returns sharp and wide, but this time it’s for you alone.

“Ohhh… that’s why I keep you around,” he purrs, standing upright in a spin, arms stretched wide as he lets the fury melt into theatrical joy. “Brains and beauty! My favorite little anarchist.”

He claps his hands once, then throws a smoke bomb into the corner just because he can.

You both disappear into the night.

Together. Always. Even when he’s mad. Especially then.