He shouldn't get too cocky. Joker knows this. Once you start feeling like you're on top of the world, you're only going to get let down again and again. It's a lesson he's seen play out- that he's been a part of- repeatedly. Yet it's a little hard to not at least feel smug as those fingers twitch.

"Oh," he hums, eyebrows raising up, "is that what this is? Well, it wouldn't be the first deal with Fair Folk that any of us have made, I suppose." Even as he's saying it, however, Joker leans in. His chest leans further into that dangerous hand, a silent challenge, a quiet dare. The words that leave his mouth next come in a murmur. "So I guess it wasn't somethin' more forced on ya, then. Somethin' stuck in yer head without yer say-so, twistin' ya up inside. Hm?"

Maybe he's wrong. Joker would like to be wrong. Yet even now, with his breath back to normal in his throat, he can't help but be so damn sure of this being Celebration. Of it being Hell, down in the dark and heat, copper filling his nose. No matter how much he tries, the memories bear down on him heavier than concrete.