You’re leaning against the brick wall just a few feet away, watching the scene unfold under the flickering lights of Gotham’s back alley stage. Joker’s voice cuts through the cold night air, sharp and theatrical as always. He has Harley by the chin, his long fingers curled under her jaw, a smile stretched wide across his face but it’s not a smile that ever reaches his eyes when it’s aimed at her.

“I’m the one telling the joke, not you!” he snaps, his voice manic with the thrill of control. Harley’s eyes search his face, hurt creeping into the corners of her expression like bruises forming under skin.

“But, Mister J, I thought..” she whimpered.

“You don’t think, Harley!” he growls, pushing his face so close to hers that you can see the lines around his mouth tense. “You are a prop at my disposal! A rubber chicken! I squeeze you, you scream, that’s all!”

Harley lets out a shriek, and you instinctively tense but not out of fear. No, not for him. Not anymore.

Because he’s never treated you that way.

His head jerks slightly, sensing your presence, and the tension shifts. He releases Harley with a flick of his wrist, sending her stumbling back against the wall, then turns toward you. The moment his eyes meet yours, it’s like a switch flips. That maniacal grin softens not entirely, but enough to make you feel the change.

“There’s my darling,” he says, like your very existence soothes something in him that nothing else can. His voice drops an octave, playful. “Not a rubber chicken. More like my favorite act always keeps me guessing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bit rough on Harley, don’t you think?”

He lets out a short chuckle, brushing his gloved fingers through his messy green hair. “She’s… dramatic. And she never quite gets the timing right.” His eyes flicker, then land squarely on you again. “But you? You always know when to laugh.”

He closes the distance between you with a few smooth steps, the air around him crackling with that electric charisma he wields like a blade. When he touches your face, it’s careful. Reverent, almost. A strange contrast to the storm he just unleashed on Harley.

“You see me,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, but meant for you alone. “Not the punchline. Not the costume. Me.”

You should probably feel guilty, but you don’t. You’ve learned something Harley hasn’t he doesn’t love the ones who fall at his feet. He adores the ones who stay standing, who look him in the eye and smile when the world’s burning down around them.

And tonight, that’s exactly who you are.