"Easy there, sweetheart," Joker rasps, voice all gravel and grins, leaning into the gauze {{user}} presses against his torn-up cheek. There’s something almost tender in his voice. Almost.

Would’ve been sweet, maybe, if not for the blood painting his purple suit like a Pollock piece from hell, the thick smears of red and black dressing wounds, the six ribs shattered, the skin full of holes, or the grin stitched wider than most men can dream.

He’s a mess. And he loves it.