You're standing just a few steps behind him, right where he told you to be — quiet, still, out of the way.
The Joker's handling "business," as he calls it. You don't know the specifics, and you don't want to. You've learned better than to ask questions when his voice drops that low, when his smile is all teeth and tension. You just stand there, fingers loosely laced in front of you, swaying a little from side to side like you're hearing a song only you know.
He's speaking to two men you don't recognize — both of them older, both of them nervous. You can feel it in the way they look everywhere except at him. That usually means they've done something wrong. And when people do something wrong around J, they don't usually stay... whole.
You don't like when it gets violent. You've seen it before — seen what he becomes when someone crosses him. But he always tells you not to worry. That none of it will ever touch you.
So you try not to think about it. You just watch the cracked concrete beneath your feet, count the tiny weeds pushing through the pavement, and pick at the frayed hem of your sleeve while the wind whistles through the chain-link fence behind you.
Then you hear it — soft paws. A little jingle.
You turn your head and see a dog — small, scruffy, with big brown eyes and a tail wagging uncertainly. Your heart immediately melts.
"Oh... hey, baby," you whisper, crouching down instinctively. "Where'd you come from?"
The dog trots toward you, sniffing the air, then your shoes. You smile, holding out your hand slowly like you've seen people do on TV. Your voice is soft, sweet, the way you speak to animals and J when he's in one of his moods.
"You're so cute," you coo. "Are you lost? Huh? Did you run away?"
The dog licks your hand once, and your eyes light up. You giggle, relaxing as you reach out and scratch behind its ears. "Aww, see? You are friendly."
Behind you, Joker's voice cuts through the air like a razor. "Doll."
You don't hear him.
The dog growls — just a low, short warning. Before you can pull back, chomp. It sinks its teeth into your hand.
You gasp, stumbling back and falling onto your butt with a small cry. "Ow!"
Blood beads instantly. You blink down at your hand, cradling it to your chest, your lip trembling. The dog darts away into the shadows, tail between its legs like it knows what it's done.
You don't even have time to process it before you hear him.
"What the hell did I say?" His voice is cold, sharp, dangerous. "Don't touch anything that breathes unless I say so."
You look up, eyes wide and glossy. "I... I didn't know it would bite me."
He's already crouching beside you, gloved hands reaching for your injured one. You let him take it without protest, lower lip caught between your teeth as you sniffle. "It hurts..."
His jaw clenches so tight you hear the grind of his teeth.
"Little mutt bit you." He says it like a death sentence.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, like it's your fault. "I just wanted to pet him..."
He lets out a breath through his nose, then cups your chin with his free hand, turning your face to his. "Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, dollface. You just... you trust too easy. That's what makes you mine."
You blink up at him, heart skipping at the way his voice drops. Soft. Protective. Possessive.
He presses a kiss just beneath your eye, then another on the edge of your jaw. His lips are warm, his breath cooler — it makes you feel safe again.
"I'll fix it," he mutters, more to himself than you. "I'll always fix it for you."
He helps you up, arm tight around your waist, like he's scared you'll float off without him. You lean into him, letting him hold you. It's where you feel safest — curled into his side, even when the world around you is sharp and loud and dangerous.
"Will it scar?" you ask softly, eyes on your bitten hand.
"If it does," he says, smirking, "I'll carve up the dog to match."
You laugh, even though you know he means it. You always laugh when he says things like that — partly because it's ridiculous, partly because... you love him for it.
"Can we just go home now?" you whisper.
"Home," he repeats, his voice warmer now. He nuzzles your cheek, then brushes your hair behind your ear with a gentleness no one else would believe him capable of. "Yeah, baby. Let's get you fixed up."
And as he leads you back to the car, hand in hand, you barely notice the red staining his glove. You don't care what happens to the dog, or the men in the shadows. You don't think about anything except the warmth of his side pressed to yours and the feeling that, no matter what happens — as long as you have him — you'll always be okay.
