Joker - in the manner of many who called Wayne Manor a place of residence - had long since adapted to the organized chaos that was the Batman’s house. If he was the sort to say such things - and he sort of was and sort of wasn’t, but that was beside the point - he might have even said it was somewhat overwhelming. Or perhaps dangerous. Or that maybe, when the various teenagers and children that lived here put their minds to it, the house nearly surpassed Arkham in sheer insanity.
It wasn’t that Joker wasn’t used to unrestrained mayhem and madness, it was just that usually this mayhem and madness didn’t make eye contact while buttering a piece of toast with an eleven-inch-long hunting knife . Nor did his usual brand of mayhem and madness lay in the middle of the hallway eating cheetos and writing up case reports. While not wearing pants.
Even the mental patients had been better than this.
And it is with this in mind that when Batsy storms into his bedroom - well, it’s really their bedroom these days, but whatever - with a thunderous look on his face, Joker’s first and only response was to blurt out, “it wasn’t me!”
“Where are my knives?” Bats growled with a very serious Batman face.
Hot , Joker briefly considered, before deciding it probably wasn’t a good idea right now. The Great Jason And The Unlocked Door Incident had proven it was best to wait until the kids were asleep before the horizontal tango was initiated. “What knives? You - uh - darling, you kinda got a lot .”
Batsy was not impressed. “The ones in my briefcase. You took them.”
“I- oh, the black briefcase? Those I might have hidden, yes.” Hmm. Couldn’t blame the kids for that one, it seemed.
“Why.” That growl for that one was so deep Joker practically felt it in his bones.
“Ww-eee-lll, soooommeeoonne - and-I-ain’t-saying-who-mind-you - may or may not have been on the… ah… lookout for misbehaving bats and I was like, now who do I know who fits that description?”
The Bat’s face went decidedly pale. “What?”
“You may want to lay low for a while,” Joker added, and threw the throw pillow he’d been in the process of defacing back onto the bed. “Really low. Like a slug. Run, run, little bat, in fact!”
“You didn’t,” Batsy said with no small amount of horror in his voice.
“I didn’t,” Joker confirmed, “but her -”
“BRUCE ANTHONY FUCKING WANYE -”
“- yeah, your mom is pissed and I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole. You’re on your own, Brucie dear, she makes you like a cuddly puppy trying to eat a shoe too big to fit in its mouth.”
And just like that, Batsy was gone, running off to appease the all-knowing, wrathful monarch of Wayne Manor; one Doctor Martha Wayne née Kane, freshly risen from the death last month.
Sniggering to himself and patting the pocket hiding Bats’ spare knives, Joker poked his head out into the hallway to check if the coast was clear. The only sign of civilization was in the form of the other Doctor Wayne, who was standing outside the master bedroom looking in the direction Batsy had surely run.
With the slow blink of the dearly confused, Thomas Wayne turned to Joker and frowned. “Was the… ah, asylum this bad?”
“Not even on Christmas,” Joker replied with a wide-tooth grin, a snicker and an offered pointy object. “Knife?”
“I think I’m good,” Thomas said with a faintly green expression, before he vanished back into the security of the Martha Wayne’s domain.
With another snicker, Joker let him be, determined to hunt down a few little birds.
He had some weapons to gift.