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Winter has never been a kind season, especially not to Joker.
When he opens his eyes, it’s still dark out. The snow has since stopped falling, at least, but that doesn’t mean he’ll get a chance to go outside. The temperatures have dropped from the twenties to the negative teens, and the wind chills do little to help. It’s warm inside of Joker’s house, but for some reason, Joker shivers violently.
He looks over to his alarm clock, the numbers a red blur, his vision still adjusting to the light. Six-thirty. Mike should still be asleep. He originally came over to hang out and play Mario Kart and possibly scream at Team Canada on the television. Originally he was going to head back home around ten, but the snow had been relentless—about thirteen inches relentless, to be precise.
Joker tries to sit up, but for some reason, he feels like a weighted blanket is pressing down against him. His head is pounding consistently, and any time he tries to look around his room, the world starts to spin. He knows he took his anxiety medicine last night, including his emergency trazodone—so what’s happening? Did he seriously get sick again?
He reaches over to his bedside lamp and flicks it on, bathing the room in a bright orange glow. Even that doesn’t seem to help. His vision soon clears enough for him to see his surroundings—his danmei collection neatly organized on the bookshelf, his gaming setup, his cat occupying the desk chair, sleeping peacefully as if everything in the world is perfect and catered to her every whim. Everything is normal. Ordinary. But something feels so… off.
Mike is probably still asleep in the guest room, but there’s no sound except for the furnace working overtime. Maybe he left in the middle of the night? Or maybe he sleeps like the dead. Either way, something inside Joker urges him to at least check on Mike, just to make sure he’s okay. Mike always says he’s okay, but Joker knows him well. He was once told that he knew Mike better than he knew himself, and to be honest, maybe Joker does. He’s been Mike’s best friend since they both were barely in pre-school, and they have never spent a single day without each other (maybe with the exception of getting sick or going on vacations).
Just as Joker considers getting out of bed, he hears a loud clang! come from somewhere in the house. His eyes immediately grow wide as he quickly flicks off his lamp, pulling the covers closer to his chin. There’s another sharp sound, like a large piece of metal falling to the floor. There can only be one explanation for the sounds: someone is breaking in.
Wait, that can't be right! Joker made quadruple sure that all of his windows were locked securely and each curtain was drawn; he went around the house at least six times securing each lock, turning off every light except for the stove light, and he checked his security system right before bed. Mike had proclaimed that he would protect Joker if someone ever somehow broke in, declaring himself the ‘Defender of the Palace’. Joker had simply told Mike to drink his chamomile tea before it got cold.
Maybe he should’ve taken Mike seriously, because whoever else is inside is a klutz. Joker flinches as another loud clang! comes from down the hallway. Joker closes his eyes tight, pulling his blanket over his head. He trembles violently—he isn’t sure if it’s from the chills or fear. He considers reaching for his phone and dialing 9-1-1, but then remembers: Mike is also in the house.
Joker has to check on Mike.
He throws the blanket off and stumbles out of bed, careful to hold himself against a nearby wall to steady himself. His cat slowly lifts her head up, making a curious trilling sound as she watches her human in the midst of a crisis. The sounds of an attempted break-in seem to do little to bother her. She just yawns and curls into the chair, falling back asleep.
Joker slowly twists the doorknob, pushing his bedroom door open. The house is swallowed in darkness other than the dimly lit kitchen down the hallway. Joker knows he should just go back in and hide, phone the emergency line, and maybe grab something to defend himself with if needed. The thought alone causes his stomach to drop.
He softly clicks the door shut, searching for something he could defend himself with. There’s scissors on his desk, but they’re his prized sewing scissors. He wouldn’t want to clean up blood. And on the floor is a heavy book on the history of clownery, but he borrowed that from the library, and Joker would rather die of embarrassment than have to explain to Alva why his textbook is damaged.
What can he use? There’s nothi—
The hockey stick.
Luca had left his stick here by accident a few months ago and never asked for it back, so Joker kept it safe in his closet until Luca remembered it was there. He makes his way over to the closet and slides the doors open. There, hidden behind his Hatsune Miku cosplay dress, is the stick of wood. Joker reaches for it as if it were the holy grail itself. It’s heavy and made of real, solid wood. It might break if Joker has to defend himself, but he’ll just give Luca an I.O.U and a hesitant explanation. Luca most definitely cares more for his friends than he does a piece of wood.
Opening the bedroom door one more time, Joker peers his head out, glancing around. It’s still dark except…
The kitchen light is on.
And the oven beeps, a shrill sound in the darkness.
The silence that follows the beep is worse than the noise itself. It stretches out, thick and suffocating, making the hallway feel miles longer than it actually is. Joker freezes, waiting for a shadow to cross the linoleum or the heavy tread of a boot, but there’s nothing—just the low hum of the refrigerator. Every instinct tells him to lock the door and hide, but the light is an invitation he can't ignore. He edges further into the hall, the cool air biting at his skin. His pulse is a frantic drumbeat in his ears, rhythmic and deafening. He passes the shadow of the coat rack, flinching when the wood of the floorboards gives a tiny, traitorous groan beneath his weight. He’s certain that every shift of his clothes against his skin sounds like a landslide in the quiet house.
Joker grips the hockey stick in both hands, trembling violently. He takes a slow step forward out of the bedroom, careful not to make any sound. Except he’s breathing heavily. And his teeth are chattering. And maybe the intruder can hear every single thought of his—
“Good morni—”
Joker screams, eyes bolting shut as he swings the hockey stick, knocking over what sounds like a picture frame. The intruder yells back, and in the darkness there’s a loud thud! When Joker reaches to flick on the hallway light, he takes in the scene before him. There’s a dent in the wall that he’s never noticed before, and a splotch of paint in the spot where a picture once hung.
And then, on the floor, is—
“Mike?!”
Okay. Joker seriously fucked up.
Mike is on the ground, wincing in pain as he holds the spot Joker had swung at. “What the hell was that for?!” Mike demands, his voice shaking with anger. But his eyes are wide in what could be shock, disappointment, or unable to process that he’d just been hit in the head with a two pound wooden stick used for shooting pucks and not for hitting intruders—or best friends—with.
“I-I’m so sorry, Mike,” Joker stammers through tears he doesn’t realize were falling, “I thought… I thought you were a burglar and so I…”
Joker drops the stick and helps Mike to his feet. In the light he can see that the damage has been done—there’s a small bruise on the side of Mike’s face, but there doesn’t seem to be any life-threatening injuries. Even so, Mike could sue Joker for aggravated assault.
And Joker doesn’t have a good lawyer.
“Dude,” Mike says. The heat in his voice dies the second he sees Joker trembling. He reaches out, grounding him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I was just warming up a bagel.”
Joker blinks. Hard.
Oh.
Damn it.
So that’s why the oven went off like it had been pre-heated. The realization hits Joker harder than the one time his cat scratched his face for trimming her nails. The anxiety is still there, but with Mike’s warm touch, something heavy seems to have lifted. The panic remains, but it’s quieter, now. Tolerable. Because Joker soon comes to the realization: Who the actual fuck would pre-heat a bagel during a break-in?
Probably the dumbest—and hungriest—criminal in the world.
Mike soon smiles, as if he wasn’t struck on the head with a hockey stick. “Hey, it's okay,” he soothes. “You’ve been really on edge lately. And I promised you last night that I’d protect you.”
Joker knows he should’ve believed him. Mike—the obnoxious kid Joker has known since pre-school. Mike, who forgot just how ridiculously long and impossible his best friend's legal name was and assumed he was joking around (hence the nickname ‘Joker’). Mike, the guy who, apparently, warms up bagels at six in the morning.
The silence should be awkward. One of them should speak, or Joker should just drop to the floor and apologize until he’s blue in the face—begging Mike to call the cops for the felony of attacking somebody over a toasted bagel.
Neither moves. Neither says a word.
The toaster oven beeps.
“You should probably check that,” Joker soon murmurs, unable to make any eye contact with Mike.
“Maybe I should,” Mike agrees.
He turns and heads into the kitchen, while Joker stands awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by shattered glass and the heavy realization that weighs him down—that he is probably going to jail. And there is no way that a Get Out of Jail card from his Monopoly gameset would let him go. He’s tried it once with a speeding ticket, but the officer just sighed and made him take a breathalyzer test.
Pushing the uncomfortable memory aside, Joker carefully sweeps up the remaining shards. Soon, the hallway is clean, replaced by the warm aroma of bagels and—impossibly—hot coffee. Joker didn’t even think he had a coffee machine. But Mike is the kind of guy who pulls bunnies out of hats, so why wouldn’t he be able to manifest a Mr. Coffee from the void?
Joker meets Mike in the living room, where Mike has turned on the television. The dull voice of the weatherman is the only sound in the room, other than Joker’s heart frantically racing. Mike has set a plate down on the coffee table, where two bagels are waiting, untouched. Soon Mike notices Joker awkwardly standing by the sofa. He smiles, “I made you a bagel.”
Of course Mike did.
“Oh. Um… thank you.” Joker doesn’t move from his spot.
Mike’s smile evaporates like steam. “You don’t have to be afraid, y’know. I dont bite.”
He’s right—Joker shouldn’t be afraid. But he is. He’s terrified. But Mike is inviting him to sit down, on Joker’s own sofa, watching his television, eating his bagels he’d kept hidden away in the basement freezer—
Wait. Hold on.
“Mike,” Joker says, caution in his voice, “how did you even know I had bagels? They were downstairs.”
Mike grins. “I raided the freezer last night while you were crashing out over Mario Kart,” he explains, as if it’s an everyday occurrence that your best friend robs you of your prized possessions. “I was going to make latkes but I didn’t want to go through with the prep work, so I just threw in some bagels and called it a breakfast.”
“And the coffee machine?”
Mike laughs. “I brought it in while you were distracted—too busy wishing the referees would step on a pile of LEGO bricks for that last bad call.”
“Oh. To be fair, it was a bad call. And that referee deserves it.”
Joker finally sits down, keeping himself at least two arm’s lengths away from Mike. “How’s your, um… injury?”
“Oh, that?” Mike dismisses him, reaching for a bagel. “It’s fine, Joker. You couldn’t even swing a fly swatter!” He strikes a dramatic pose, his accent shifting instantly into a pitch-perfect Black Knight. “’Tis but a scratch.”
“A scratch?” Joker echoes. “Mike, there’s a bruise on your forehead.”
“I’ve had worse.” Mike finally drops the act, his grin widening. “Joker, I’ve known you for God knows how long. We literally did WWE moves at recess; you've flattened me plenty of times.”
“But that’s different,” Joker says, and he isn’t even sure why he’s still arguing. “I thought you were a burglar! I was prepared to hand over my wallet. I wouldn't have known how to sic the cat on him, but I definitely would've let her use the guy as a scratching post while I did my breathing exercises.”
Mike tilts his head slightly. The air soon shifts, and the conversation changes. “I think you could use a bagel.” He reaches for the untouched bagel on the plate, passing it over to Joker. “Here. My own recipe, baked fresh from the Walmart freezer section.”
Joker makes a sound—a half-laugh, half-sigh. He takes the bagel hesitantly, as if it were the Hope Diamond itself. He murmurs a small ‘thank you’, turning his attention back to the TV. There’s a commercial playing, and an emu is being chased by some guy with piolet shades and an obnoxiously yellow shirt.
“Hey, Mike.”
“Hm?”
“You said something last night.” Joker breaks his bagel in half. “About protecting me.”
“Yeah, I did,” Mike agrees. “And that hasn’t changed.”
“I wish I could protect you,” Joker finds himself saying before he can even think to stop the words. “It feels like every day since preschool, you’ve come to my rescue. Every meltdown on elementary school field trips, every panic attack in high school... even now, when I nearly knock you unconscious with a hockey stick, you’re the one making sure I’m eating breakfast.”
Mike falls silent for a minute, as if every word has evaporated, and all he can do is stare. He shifts, scooting closer to where Joker is trying to make himself smaller on the sofa. “You do save me, you know,” Mike says, his tone softer now. “You may not realize it, but you do.”
“How?” Joker’s voice cracks. Here come the waterworks. He wipes a stray tear from his eye with his free hand. “How can someone so emotional and awkward be some kind of hero?”
“I can name tons of socially awkward heroes. Spider-Man, the Flash—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Mike shrugs slightly. “The point is, you’ve given me a home. A house is just four walls, a roof, and overpriced property taxes. But you?” He lifts his gaze to meet Joker’s teary eyes. “You’ve given me a place to keep my soul safe.”
“I couldn’t even protect you if there was an actual robbery.” Joker leans back against the sofa. “I’d just hide in the closet and cower in fear like the stupid, weak—”
“Stop.” Mike places a finger against Joker’s lips. “Quit that negative self-talk. Your bagel’s gonna get cold.”
Joker realizes how he’d forgotten about the bagel—the same damn bagel that started this whole mess. It has grown a bit cold in his hand, but the thought of eating anything makes his stomach ache. He does try, though, taking a small bite on the broken piece with the least amount of garlic.
The two sit together in silence, Joker watching Mike’s every movement carefully, taking in everything that has happened over the course of—Joker checks his watch he didn’t realize he wore to bed—an hour and twelve minutes.
The news plays a segment about a local library cat named Barnaby who has been "patrolling" the fiction section for ten years. The reporter, speaking in a hushed, overly serious tone, interviews a student who claims the cat tripped a fleeing book-thief just last Wednesday. Mike lets out a small, wet huff of a laugh, nudging Joker’s shoulder with his own.
"See?" Mike whispers, gesturing to the screen where Barnaby is currently yawning at the camera. "Socially awkward hero. Just like you."
Joker doesn't look away from the screen, but he doesn't pull his shoulder away, either. Instead, he lets his head tip sideways until it rests against Mike’s, the height difference making the fit slightly clumsy but undeniably right. The fabric of Mike’s hoodie is soft against his temple, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and the burnt sugar of the bagels.
For the first time since he woke up in a cold sweat, Joker’s heart isn't racing; it’s humming a steady, grounding rhythm that matches the person beside him.
"I’m not a hero," Joker murmurs against into the quiet of the living room, though the protest has lost its edge. "I’m just...me. Socially awkward and emotional and… me."
He feels Mike’s head shift against his as Mike turns to look at him, the movement bringing them so close that Joker can feel the warmth of Mike’s breath. Up close, the bruise on Mike’s forehead is a dull reminder of the morning’s chaos, but the look in Mike’s eyes is something else entirely—something deep and calm and incredibly real.
"Exactly," Mike says, his voice a low vibration that Joker feels more than hears. "That’s the part I’m trying to protect. Not the house or the stuff, Joker. Just you." He reaches out, his hand hovering for a second before his fingers slide into the space between Joker’s, lacing their palms together. Mike’s hand is large and calloused and ridiculously warm, acting like an anchor that finally stops Joker’s world from spinning. It’s a familiar weight, yet it feels entirely new, like a secret they’ve been keeping from themselves for twenty years.
Joker looks down at their joined hands, his thumb tentatively tracing the line of Mike’s knuckles. Everything he was going to say—every apology, every self-deprecating joke, every "thank you"—dies in his throat. Words feel clumsy and unnecessary compared to the way Mike is holding onto him, as if Joker is the most valuable thing in the entire room. He realizes then that Mike didn't just bring a coffee machine or bagels into this house; he brought the only sense of safety Joker has ever truly known.
Outside, the wind howls against the windowpanes, rattling the glass and burying the world in more white, but Joker doesn't shiver this time. He just squeezes Mike's hand, leaning further into his space until there’s no room for the cold to get in. They don't have to say the words yet; the "I love you" is already there, tucked into the shared plate of bagels and the quiet glow of the television.
For now, in the stillness of seven-forty-something in the morning, it’s enough to just sit there and be each other's home.