Joker catches that first flash of tension in Bats's body, the way it settles in the jaw. It triggers an odd sense of rightness for him, almost of home. How many times has he seen that jaw tighten just like that for him?
Batman's mouth and jaw have always been of particular importance to him. They're the balance to his own, after all, the grim tragedy mask meant to come as a set with his lovely comedic one. And for so long, they were the only thing besides Bats's eyes that suggested there was anything vulnerable in there at all. Seeing them like this, here? It's enough to take the edge off Joker's rapidly growing rage, to remind him that the man he knows is still very much present beneath that godawful tattoo. Joker is still languidly advancing, no more than two steps away now, but a touch of humor lights up in his eyes, and the taut springs in his limbs loosen just a smidge. It's all right, he thinks. Sure, he might have to take out a few idiots in Duplicity's processing department, but it's all going to be just fine.
And then, in a blink, Bats transforms.
Joker has seen Bruce Wayne many times, and has clocked countless hours watching footage of the performance, as well. As far as acts go, Bruce isn't exactly a great one, but he's Bats's, and so it matters. In most circumstances, an appearance by Brucie doesn't trigger much of an emotional reaction in Joker, because, come on, it's a cheap little parlor trick, and barely even that. A little goading, maybe the (entirely sincere) threat of shooting some random bystander, and wouldja look at that, kids? Batman has suddenly appeared on the scene! Hallelujah, what a miracle.
But he's never seen the transformation in real time before, and certainly not like this, with Bats deliberately summoning Bruce in the middle of a conversation. Joker knows it's to throw him off, but goddammit, it's working... Up close like this, he has the awful sensation that he's watching Batman being swallowed alive, like Bruce is quicksand rushing up to devour him. Which is stupid, utterly batshit - ha - but there it is, and he has to fight down a visceral urge to snap a hand out and catch Bats by the chest. To pull him back. Though whether that's to save him or to simply stop him from escaping is a little fuzzy...
So it takes a moment, just half a beat or so, for Bruce's words to really sink in.
Clark Kent. Good care. Cat.
...Wait.
Joker stops, leaving only perhaps two feet of space between them. He's well within Bats's personal space, which he of all people knows is a dangerous place to be, but truly, what the actual fuck did Bruce just say?
Clark Kent? Not just a man - which, that's already going to be something to process later, but okay - but Clark Kent? Joker has read Clark's work, and look, not to put too fine a point on it here, but the guy's no Lois Lane. And now Joker's supposed to believe that Bruce is jockeying with Mittens the Kitten to get a seat on Daddy Clark's knee?
He's heard some crazy things in his time, sure, but that one? That one's a real doozy.
He stares at Bruce's Stepford eyes for another fraction of a second, his brow slightly furrowed. He looks like a man who, for once, just really doesn't get the joke.
He's imagining Bruce reading Clark's latest piece of copy, a real knuckle-biter of an article with a title like 'Mild Heat Wave Expected to Continue.' Clark wants to know if he's used too many adjectives. Bruce wants to know if Mittens gets the other spot in the bed tonight.
And then, from the more lucid part of Joker's brain, comes a reminder: He's screwing with you, genius. Time to return the serve.
Understanding sparks in his eyes. It's not often that Batman asks him to dance, but if his dearly be-Batted wants to play, why, who is he to say no? And the theme for tonight's dance, he has to admit, is a fun one: Let's You and Me Let Our Alter-Egos Fight.
Suits him just fine!
And so Joker brings his own stage persona into full technicolor life, offering up his own mirror to Bats's Bruce. His shoulders go a bit more open, his gestures a bit more expansive. His voice, quiet and human a moment ago, returns to its full mid-Atlantic theatricality. This is the Joker with a body count in the thousands, the Joker who fully intends to tack a couple more zeroes on that number before his final curtain call. His eyes are calculating and mad and delighted, and there's nothing tender left in them at all.
"You know, actually..." He's right up in Bats's face now, every tiny movement of his own now taunting and smug. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think you might be right." He rocks back on one heel, his gloved hands flashing up into an exaggerated shrug. "Hell, I always said you needed someone to take care of you. And I mean..." He gestures at Bats, a sweep of a hand that encompasses face, chest, the whole caboodle. "I know you like to play protector, but when it comes to actually keeping those under your care hearty and hale?" He smirks, eyes glittering. In his memory, he can hear that delightful crowbar, thwack thwack thwacking, as Jason Todd's flesh made a mess of the floor. Come on out and play, now, Batsy, baby. "Not exactly a track record to inspire confidence."
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Batman's mouth and jaw have always been of particular importance to him. They're the balance to his own, after all, the grim tragedy mask meant to come as a set with his lovely comedic one. And for so long, they were the only thing besides Bats's eyes that suggested there was anything vulnerable in there at all. Seeing them like this, here? It's enough to take the edge off Joker's rapidly growing rage, to remind him that the man he knows is still very much present beneath that godawful tattoo. Joker is still languidly advancing, no more than two steps away now, but a touch of humor lights up in his eyes, and the taut springs in his limbs loosen just a smidge. It's all right, he thinks. Sure, he might have to take out a few idiots in Duplicity's processing department, but it's all going to be just fine.
And then, in a blink, Bats transforms.
Joker has seen Bruce Wayne many times, and has clocked countless hours watching footage of the performance, as well. As far as acts go, Bruce isn't exactly a great one, but he's Bats's, and so it matters. In most circumstances, an appearance by Brucie doesn't trigger much of an emotional reaction in Joker, because, come on, it's a cheap little parlor trick, and barely even that. A little goading, maybe the (entirely sincere) threat of shooting some random bystander, and wouldja look at that, kids? Batman has suddenly appeared on the scene! Hallelujah, what a miracle.
But he's never seen the transformation in real time before, and certainly not like this, with Bats deliberately summoning Bruce in the middle of a conversation. Joker knows it's to throw him off, but goddammit, it's working... Up close like this, he has the awful sensation that he's watching Batman being swallowed alive, like Bruce is quicksand rushing up to devour him. Which is stupid, utterly batshit - ha - but there it is, and he has to fight down a visceral urge to snap a hand out and catch Bats by the chest. To pull him back. Though whether that's to save him or to simply stop him from escaping is a little fuzzy...
So it takes a moment, just half a beat or so, for Bruce's words to really sink in.
Clark Kent. Good care. Cat.
...Wait.
Joker stops, leaving only perhaps two feet of space between them. He's well within Bats's personal space, which he of all people knows is a dangerous place to be, but truly, what the actual fuck did Bruce just say?
Clark Kent? Not just a man - which, that's already going to be something to process later, but okay - but Clark Kent? Joker has read Clark's work, and look, not to put too fine a point on it here, but the guy's no Lois Lane. And now Joker's supposed to believe that Bruce is jockeying with Mittens the Kitten to get a seat on Daddy Clark's knee?
He's heard some crazy things in his time, sure, but that one? That one's a real doozy.
He stares at Bruce's Stepford eyes for another fraction of a second, his brow slightly furrowed. He looks like a man who, for once, just really doesn't get the joke.
He's imagining Bruce reading Clark's latest piece of copy, a real knuckle-biter of an article with a title like 'Mild Heat Wave Expected to Continue.' Clark wants to know if he's used too many adjectives. Bruce wants to know if Mittens gets the other spot in the bed tonight.
And then, from the more lucid part of Joker's brain, comes a reminder: He's screwing with you, genius. Time to return the serve.
Understanding sparks in his eyes. It's not often that Batman asks him to dance, but if his dearly be-Batted wants to play, why, who is he to say no? And the theme for tonight's dance, he has to admit, is a fun one: Let's You and Me Let Our Alter-Egos Fight.
Suits him just fine!
And so Joker brings his own stage persona into full technicolor life, offering up his own mirror to Bats's Bruce. His shoulders go a bit more open, his gestures a bit more expansive. His voice, quiet and human a moment ago, returns to its full mid-Atlantic theatricality. This is the Joker with a body count in the thousands, the Joker who fully intends to tack a couple more zeroes on that number before his final curtain call. His eyes are calculating and mad and delighted, and there's nothing tender left in them at all.
"You know, actually..." He's right up in Bats's face now, every tiny movement of his own now taunting and smug. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think you might be right." He rocks back on one heel, his gloved hands flashing up into an exaggerated shrug. "Hell, I always said you needed someone to take care of you. And I mean..." He gestures at Bats, a sweep of a hand that encompasses face, chest, the whole caboodle. "I know you like to play protector, but when it comes to actually keeping those under your care hearty and hale?" He smirks, eyes glittering. In his memory, he can hear that delightful crowbar, thwack thwack thwacking, as Jason Todd's flesh made a mess of the floor. Come on out and play, now, Batsy, baby. "Not exactly a track record to inspire confidence."