On the surface, Joker is still wearing the same smile as usual. What it takes to wipe it off his face remains to be seen (or, at least, he’d rather no one ever find out), but it makes for a good enough mask that he’s mentally doing okay. Physically, well. While bandages have been removed from his hand, it’s still clear that it’s healing from having a dagger go straight through the middle. Tender new wood is over it, discolored from hiding what is clearly bright red blood beneath its surface. His wings also rest tenderly from where they’re spread along the ground, still feeling the wounds on his back. Koel’s lovely cooking (and, more importantly, the ingredients she’s used) have helped, but, well… Iron is a nasty thing to someone more fae than human. At least his feathers have grown back.

The blunt statement has him grinning a little more dryly. “Well, wouldn’t anyone?” He shrugs. “More people around in the daytime, and we both know I’m a chatty sort.”