A/N: Hey everyone, this was just a quick, little humorous one-shot I wrote. Shows what happens when someone tries to be nice to the Joker.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Joker, or Arkham, Gotham or Lays. They belong to their respective owners, and all are greatly appreciated. This Joker was based off of Heath Ledger's character in Batman: The Dark Knight.

"Sir?" a nervous voice called to the man lying face down in the dirt. She slowly rolled him over on to his back and scrambled away when she saw the telling Glasgow smile on his calm face. Forcing herself to go back to his side, the young woman put a hand over his mouth to feel for breath. A shallow stream of air blew warm against her fingers, making her flinch back in fear. The Joker was lying on her property, three towns away from Gotham city. For the moment the murderer seemed out cold, she could either run or she could be the kind of person she admired for bravery, and help him.

Carefully she poked him and received no response. Even more cautiously she patted down his coat, taking out seven knives, three guns and a grenade. The joker was heavier than she thought he appeared to be. As she dragged him across her small yard surrounded by prairie, she questioned what she was doing. If she helped him she could be arrested for assisting a criminal. She could hide all of his weapons and make sure he kept his distance from her as she called the police, but then there would be little point in dragging him in to her house, as she had already done. She would help him get better then tell him he would have to leave.

She made it to her guest bedroom and got him up on to the low-rise twin bed. She looked at his dirty dry face and oily green-brown hair. His blue Arkham suit was ripped and muddy but she saw no blood on him, just some small scratches. Judging by his dry lips and pale coloring she guessed he had collapsed from dehydration. Overall, he was not a pleasant sight to look at. He also smelled.

She went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. As she carefully poured water down his throat, avoiding the thought of drowning him, she watched his eyes move beneath his lids, but he did not wake.

A week later he had been coherent three times when she was around. She had questioned him and all three times he had said he didn't know his name or how he had gotten in to her yard.

On the end of the seventh night the Joker was stumbling around the hallway. "Mary?" he called, his deeply cracking voice bouncing back at him.

"Jack?" the young woman asked, coming out to the hallway. She was wearing a large baggy white shirt and blue capri pants. "What are you doing up?" she asked, rushing to him but coming up short as she caught sight of his facial markings and recalled who he was. "You could hurt yourself," she stated.

"I'm fine, just a little hungry." Mary stared at him for a few seconds, trying to imagine Gotham's nightmare eating at her table. "Are you, uh, ok?" he asked, tilting his head in curiosity.

"Yeah, fine. The kitchen is this way," she said, turning and leading him down the hall and to the small kitchen. "Sit," she instructed, pointing to the single chair near the door that led to the back porch. "Any idea what you're craving?"

"Got anything uh... crunchy?"

"I can make you a grilled cheese sandwich with a side of chips," she offered. The Joker, called Jack, nodded at the suggestion. "Do you um, do you remember anything yet?" she asked nervously.

"No, it's just a flash of intense colors and a headache," he said, leaning the back his head against the counter, heavy lidded brown eyes observing her intently. "Do you know anything? Maybe if you do it could trigger some memories. Anything on the news about a city missing an important man?" he flashed her a joking, dirty smile.

Mary shook her head, delaying the inevitable. She placed the golden sandwich on a plate and brought it to him with shaking hands. He smiled wider as she presented him with the food, unaware of how grotesque he appeared, with his thick protruding scars and rotted teeth. She held up a bag of Lays and a non-brand name she had picked up by accident a few weeks ago. "Do either of these sound appealing?" Jack reached out towards the orange bag and opened it. Looking at his dirty hands, he set the food on the counter and stood up to wash his hands. "Here," Mary offered while walking over to him to give assistance.

He accepted and leaned heavily on her while he washed his hands. They were just oily from him running his fingers through his hair, but the oil and dye came off on his hand and left disgusting streaks. "I must have been a hobo for my hair to have been this bad," he said lightly. Mary just smiled and held her breath as his own rancid breath blew to her nose. "Got anything to drink?" he asked as she helped him back to the seat.

"Of course," Mary said, relaxing as she distanced herself from him. "There's water, milk, orange juice and a few bottles of beer."

"The water sounds good,"he said lightly, watching her ready his drink. He accepted the filled glass and sipped at the cool liquid. He held a quiet, sensible conversation with the woman in her kitchen until he started falling asleep mid-sentence. Mary helped him back to the bedroom and tucked him in, feeling silly for doing so.

The next morning Mary woke up to the sound of running water. She sat up quickly and saw sunlight streaming through her window. "Oh no," she muttered, realizing she was late as she threw off her blankets and pulled on her pants. Stopping by the bathroom, she listened to off-tune humming from the small room before moving on to the kitchen. Halfway through her breakfast Jack came out in his blue outfit. "Morning," Mary said with a nervous grin. "How do you feel?" She hoped that when he felt better he would just leave of his own accord, preferably before his memory returned.

"Clean," came the quiet reply. "Um, I found an unopened toothbrush package, I hope you don't mind," he said while looking at the floor. "You could have told me that my face was so bad," he said so quietly that she had to strain to hear him.

"I didn't want you focussing on that when you were healing," she told him truthfully. Maybe he would have remembered who he was if he knew about the marks. His uneven, irritated scars were a constantly reminded everyone that he was a mass murderer. The reminder might also work for him. "I don't mind about the toothbrush, by the way. I would have offered it to you eventually." She glanced at the clock and practically inhaled the rest of her cereal before tossing the ceramic bowl in to the filled sink and grabbing her purse. "I've got to go to work. Try not to over-stress yourself while I'm gone. Try not to leave the house, the TV only gets the history channel but there are plenty books in the living room. Have a nice day, I'll be back around six." Mary said all of this while walking down the path to her detached garage.

As she drove out the driveway she saw him wave from the door. "Bye-bye sweat-heart," he muttered with a sarcastic little twiddle of his fingers.

Mary drove back hurriedly, feeling a need to be home. As she pulled up to her driveway she slowed dramatically. Her lot was smoking and black. Her car pulled up the blackened and rubble ridden driveway. As she exited her car she saw the place where her house had been earlier that day. She felt tears fill her eyes as she stumbled over the upturned dirt and rocks. No flames burned, indicating that the explosion had happened a while ago. As she stumbled to where her front door had been she spotted a playing card that sported a thin cartoon man in a checkered belled hat and a checkered jerkin over striped stockings, finished off with pointed and curled shoes.

The End

Hope you liked it, even marginally. Reviews are appreciated in any form but flames.