It was the middle of the night when your stomach betrayed you.
The penthouse was silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside the bulletproof windows. You blinked up at the ceiling, lips twisted in mild annoyance as your stomach gave another impatient grumble.
The Joker lay beside you, motionless. His bare chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Pale skin glowing in the faint green light of the security monitors, lips parted just slightly, a hand resting lazily on your hip like he'd claimed it in his sleep.
You stared at him for a moment. Just to be sure.
Still breathing.
Still out cold.
You slipped from beneath the silk sheets like a whisper, careful not to shift the mattress too much. Your feet hit the cold floor and padded silently across the room. You didn't bother putting on pants — just tugged his oversized tee down a little and crept toward the hallway.
The kitchen was colder, lit only by the blue glow of the fridge as you opened it and stared in like something magical would appear. A few odd leftovers. Expired milk. Questionable jars of... something.
Then your eyes landed on the box of cookies you tucked behind a vodka bottle earlier.
Jackpot.
You poured yourself a glass of milk, grabbed a handful of cookies, and tiptoed back to the bedroom with your treasure. The Joker still hadn't moved. You eased back into bed, sliding the plate onto your lap, and took a bite.
Crunch.
You froze.
Looked over.
Nothing.
He was still lying there the same way. Breathing slow. Chest rising. Eyes closed.
You relaxed. Bit into another cookie, this time a little softer.
Still.
Crunch.
You sipped the milk to balance it out, but the cookie-to-milk ratio was off, so you took another bite. Then another. The tiniest little smack escaped your lips — not on purpose, but it just... happened.
You didn't notice it, at first.
But he did.
Joker's eyes had snapped open the moment you left the bed.
He was a light sleeper. Always had been. The kind of man who could wake up at the click of a safety being released from across the room. Years of paranoia baked into his bones.
So when you crept away? He noticed.
When the fridge opened? He heard it.
And now, he lay there, eyes half-lidded and glowing with something between exhaustion and agitation, listening to you smack and crunch and sip your milk like a cartoon character.
He didn't say anything at first.
He just watched.
Watched as you sat cross-legged, hair a mess, crumbs on your shirt, legs swinging softly under the blanket. Oblivious. Happy.
And still smacking.
"Baby."
You jumped slightly, mid-chew, eyes darting to him like a guilty child.
He hadn't moved much, just turned his head a little on the pillow. Voice deep and rough with sleep.
"What," he drawled slowly, "in the hell are you doing?"
You blinked. "...Eating?"
"Loudly."
You looked at the cookie in your hand, then back at him. "I was hungry."
He dragged his palm down his face, groaning softly. "At three in the morning?"
You shrugged. "You have cookies. That's a you problem."
He rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "You woke me up. With snacking. Do you understand how ridiculous that is?"
You popped another cookie in your mouth and chewed even slower this time — dramatically soft, just to prove a point. But still... a little smack slipped out.
He sat up halfway, eyes gleaming now. "You think this is a joke?"
You grinned. "Kinda ironic, considering who you are."
He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You wanna play games, huh?"
"I'm just eating cookies," you said innocently, holding one up like a peace offering. "Want one?"
He stared at you. Stared at the cookie. Then stared back at you.
"You're lucky I like you," he muttered, laying back again. "Otherwise I'd have thrown the plate out the window. With you still holding it."
You reached over, kissed his shoulder lightly. "I'll be quiet."
"You won't."
"I'll try."
He didn't answer. Just closed his eyes again, muttering something about "brats with sweet teeth" and "goddamn midnight mice."
You settled beside him, still munching — quieter this time — while his hand found your waist again. It tightened a little, a silent threat or a silent comfort. Maybe both.
But even with the occasional crunch, smack, and clink of the glass on the nightstand...
He let you stay.
Because for some twisted reason, in the middle of all the chaos that was his life — you, crumbs and all, were the one thing he never minded too much.
Even at 3 a.m.
