[Author's Note] Because we haven't gotten to see Joker enough lately.

It was queer, getting old. One felt more and more like a background cast member in the stage play of one's own life. No longer did one serve in the role of protagonist or villain, and one's own story was effectively told. Done. Finished.

An old Prima Donna became auxiliary, a unit of another person's story, the mentor onto a new hero or the creator of a newer monster. One watched the understudy take up the leading role; One set their journey into motion. It felt strange to put so much of oneself into another person, feeding them one's own lifeblood, all while knowing (while intending!) that they should eventually leave the nest one day.

What was Joker going to do with himself when Wildcard was grown? Disappear? He could not return to being a much of a villain, not after all the diapers he'd changed. For starters, he'd be two decades older (and slower). More importantly: he was out of practice at holding unwavering convictions. Still, he'd have to give her up one day, and when empty-nester syndrome hit, he'd need something to do.

"Are you lonely?" his daughter asked him as they walked through the aisles of the supermarket that Friday evening, the tail of her exquisitely tasteful french braid bobbing about her shoulders.

"Not particularly," Joker remarked, forearms leaned casually over the push-bar of their cart. "Public school took up eight hours of your day, daily, and then you'd usually take two or three additional hours to actually come home. I'm actually seeing you more often than I ever did in Gotham."

"Well, something's on your mind," she prodded. Joker glanced over at her. "You've gotten really upset twice in recent memory."

"Oh boy, do I know it," her father agreed. "Slimy of me, relying on my own kid to keep my marbles together." He tilted his head to the side. "I think what I need is a job."

"Not a girlfriend?"

"Some sort of career will present me with goals and force me to socialize. More importantly, I've realized that I really want to help support your friendly overtures towards Sandro's family. So let me explain my reasoning: A lot of your idiosyncrasies might be explainable by my occupation if I manage to find the right job. The fact that I'm presently unemployed isn't doing you any favors when you're spinning narrative."

"Then you should open a restaurant!" Aww, she had such tremendous faith in him.

"Let's aim a little lower. Something I could walk away from if it turned out to be a bad idea. You are still an unchaperoned minor in a city with a curfew, after all."

"Alright then, well what criteria can we list for this job?" she wondered aloud. "Has to be a job that's always 'in the know,' your brain's an encyclopedia of current events. It should also explain why I'm grizzled, independent, and witty at this young age. "

"Cannot determine if the child's grasp of vocabulary really is this poor, or if her usage of 'grizzled' is simply another manifestation of her bombastic persona." He tapped his fingers against the cart. "Well, I can fudge the paperwork and background-check for nearly anything, but I can't hold a station that puts together portrait rosters, or that data will eventually percolate it's way over to a certain someone. Police officer is off the table. I've considered 'private investigator' because of that whole 'in-the-know' thing, but you still haven't met Sandro's parents, and work like that would take me out of town. Maybe later; I think it would be fun to give you an excuse to request sleep-overs."

"Whoa! Awesome idea! That's so thoughtful of you, dad! Hmm. So we've got some things we could match it against: sleight-of-hand, nocturnal schedule, self-defense, in-the-know, relationship-to-cooking, understanding-of-chemistry, kid-is-grizzled—" She spun to face him and snapped her fingers. "A bartender!"

Joker jumped and looked at her with wide-eyes. "A bartender?"

"Bartenders know everything! I think I even know a place!" she realized. "There's this dive bar called Cashew's that has a shoot-out at least once every two weeks, and they're looking for an experienced tender after the old one quit. It's smack dab in the middle of neutral territory, right where I normally roamed at night. In fact, I met Sandro just a few blocks away! You'll probably have to work weekends, but I'm sure we can adapt."

"That... is... brilliant!" The two shared a loud hi-five (and then both had to shake out their hands from the pain of it, snickering all the while).

"By the way," she segued, "I have a question. Why are we in a Target instead of a Walmart? I seem to remember a rant back when I was eight about how the entire brand is clearly bewitched."

Joker sighed. "Look, we only came in here for the special on toaster ovens."

She looked into the cart. "But we already have a shower curtain, a bath rug, measuring cups, a blender, brand new Masterchef knives, a whisk, three wooden spoons, a saucepan, a pot, two frying pans, a new spring-form, six sets of hinges, a shelf, two vases, a Phillips head screwdriver, a new television, a new set of matching dishware, six mugs branded with Monty Python jokes, a coffee maker, three framed paintings, two shelves, a romance novella, seven different kinds of fruit, brownie mix, sixteen separate pieces of winter clothing, and a poinsettia. And the toaster ovens are over there."

He looked down. "Oh. So we have. And so they are. Hmm."

"We should probably come here more often."

"I like the ambiance."

"Technically we did need most of this."

"Wait just a minute-!"

The two of them looked at one another, furrowed their brows, gave 'gosh darn it they got me' gestures with closed fists, and muttered a simultaneous utterance as if it were a curse: "Target."

'Parents are just about to arrive,' Sandro tapped out on his phone as dusk arrived. He tossed a raw fish to Smiles, and she caught it with a happy snap. 'Will probably do radio silence while they're here.'

'No Problem. Dad & I postponing camping trip to birthday week since you'll be busy that Monday & Friday anyway, and we'll have more time to successfully get eaten by a bear. Fixing up house today instead.'

'What needed fixing?' He tossed the phone onto the covers as he made his bed.

'I'll tell you about it later.' Sandro paused and quirked a brow, wondering if he ought to read into that, but then she followed it up with a quick: 'I dare you to braid your mom's hair.'

He scowled and grabbed the phone. 'What? No. How would I explain my sudden proficiency?'

'Blame YouTube. Dooo eeettt. You know you wannnnt toooo.'

Sandro sighed, and then begrudgingly texted a mushy but truthful: 'Miss having you around already, Crazy Pants.'

'Don't worry. Just get I'll Stand By You stuck in your head. Then it's like I'm there.'

He smirked. 'Except you can't sing like Carrie Underwood.'

'Carrie-?! Newb, that song is by The Pretenders. Your family is too young! Pfeh! Okay, how about Ain't No Mountain High Enough?'

'There we go, that's even older and I could totally imagine you shrieking those lyrics off-key into a cheap karaoke mic.'

'~Aaiinnt no riiivverr wiiide enouuughh to keep me from gettin ta yooou, babe!~'

Sandro laughed but then heard the front door open. 'Gotta go.' He tagged on a heart emoticon without thinking, sent, paused, and then glared at the icon. Oh well. This friendship was already all-the-way sappy. Might as well embrace it, and enjoy that return-heart she sent.

He closed out of the app, pocketed the phone, and then exited the room and approached to greet his mother and give her that hug she expected of him. Oh? "Didn't sleep well?" he asked, leaning over slightly to peer at the dark circles under her eyes.

Mother gave a little laugh and pat his shoulder, and he proffered his shoulder to lean on as she removed her shoes. "Don't worry," she soothed. "It's a just relief to be home. Donnie, have you made any coffee?"

"Black as charcoal," Purple Turtle drawled sympathetically.

Sandro rather wished his mother would talk about work to him now and then; He felt old enough to successfully commiserate, and didn't feel like he knew much about her.

His thoughts flat-lined, because the gigantic thundercloud which passed behind him was so charged with wrathful energy that even the brush of Raphael's forearm against his shell made all his skin prickle warily. Sandro straightened, but deliberately did not turn around. He slowly bit down on his own tongue, and wondered how no one else seemed to notice. That was dynamite walking through the house, but if Sandro could just avoid arguing with him for a few hours, Raphael would eventually defuse.

Easier said than done, when the first thing which came to Sandro's mind was to not-so-nicely inquire, 'Who spit in your bean curd, old lizard?' An urgent surge of conscience begged him not to get in a fight with Raphael, not again, not now. Not when he'd promised Donnie to start taking responsibility for things, not with Wildcard yet to be explained, not when he damn well knew he'd blurt something vicious his father didn't really deserve, and get pummeled for it in a way he didn't really deserve. He could try to clamp down and stay silent, but past experience told him Raphael might taunt him. And Raphael baited hard.

Take control. Think. Come on. Do something. If you want help, you need to ask.

Heart-rate elevated with adrenaline, Sandro glanced slowly towards the dojo and ran his tongue thoughtfully over the lower ridge of his beak. What if you got Raphael to head to the exercise room instead of the dojo? He might calm down on his own. Think up an excuse to postpone practice for a few hours. Sandro wasn't going to boldface turn down lessons with his father, but Mikey was gaming and Mom and Donatello were too busy colluding with one another to—Wait!

"Mom?" he asked as he followed her to the kitchen table and the distribution of smoky black coffee. "Can I play with your hair?"

At least four people stared at him. Oh boy. His mother probably knew his hugs were a little stiff these days; and when was the last time he'd volunteered to even sit with her, much less 'hang-out' with or touch her, or anything else? Also, did boys play with hair? Probably no more than they played with makeup. Donatello started grinning into his coffee, though. Well don't give up.

"You look overworked," Sandro fumbled. "Scalp and neck massages are supposed to reduce stress." His mother gave a rare and delighted smile, and he immediately felt like a much better son than he actually was. He hurried forward to scoop up her hair and find the tight lines of her trapezius muscles as they hugged too tightly to her spine. Standing somewhere off to the side, Sandro guiltily felt Raphael waiting for him. But, whether the catalyst for his departure was restless boredom or genuine approval of Sandro's actions, Red Turtle did eventually did head off alone to maul a punching bag.

Sandro breathed out a long, soundless sigh. Sorry.

He found a knotted trigger point up against the base of mom's scalp, right at the top vertebrae, and gently worried a thumb into it. She leaned back into his hands with a quiet, "Oof. When did you get good at this?"

"I am sorry I never offered before," Sandro smiled as he spoke, guilt fading away to something lighter, perhaps pride. It was nice to be helpful this way, and to have her attention over something harmless. A hand against the top of his shell made him glance to see Leo passing him by. It was just the briefest of touches, but Sandro had a feeling it meant someone had been watching out for him after all, and that sort of made all the difference.

"I'll put down the rear seat, and then we can probably fit everything," Wildcard said as she rounded the car.

"How did we manage to buy more than we could fit in the trunk?" Joker exclaimed in dismay.

"It all started when we decided we needed a second cart. When did we get a car, by the way?"

"Wednesday," her father answered as he leaned in over their parcels to help her push the rear seat down. "Had it in the shop till this morning. You like it? Couldn't find one in green, sadly."

"Can't ever go wrong with a Hyundai hatchback," Wild agreed, "they're the humble workhorse of the automobile domain. A steadier and more dependable hunk of metal is hard to find. Besides, I'm presently quite fond of orange."

"Get's thirty-two miles to the gallon!" Joker also agreed. "And has excellent all-around crash test ratings!"

"You're such a mom, dad," she giggled, waving for him to pass her the shelves they'd bought so she could help settle the large box into the rear seat. He mimed a curtsy before doing so. "Say, you know how I told you Sandro and I have the same birthday? Well I've been trying to come up with a gift idea, but it's not like he needs anything. And I can't look like I have much money or people will get suspicious."

"Well there goes my suggestion of a military-grade turtle-shaped submarine." He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on their new television and then passed her another box. "What if you made something?"

"Made something?" The suggestion made her panic a bit. "Oh no no, you're the artsy one, not me! I don't want my gift to suck!"

"I never said I wouldn't help you on the execution of it, and we might be able to find something you have a natural affinity for. Drawing and painting are out of the question; you have no interest in either, and your grasp of color-theory is shoddy to nill. But you have a very difficult time making mistake, and will not accidentally break or chip what you are working on, so what if you tried a reductive art? Something like sculpture. Something you can do with a trusty pocketknife, perhaps?"

Wildcard racked her mind. "Whittling?" she suddenly realized.

"Ah, whittling," the Joker purred. "That does suit a 'grizzled' person such as yourself. Why! We might have to spray the whole house in the scents of lumberjack and bear grease just to accommodate you."

Her face lit up. "I need practice materials!"

"A bar of soap will suffice till you have an idea, and then you'll need a few chunks of soft wood." He tapped the top of the car. "We need to hit Hobby Lobby before it closes for the night. Let's hurry!"

"Sure! We can—dad, I understand the coasters, napkin holder, peppermint tea, scented candles, and freshly cut vegetables packaged with ranch dressing, but why on God's Green Earth did we buy a woman's fifty-six color variety makeup palette?"

Joker opened his mouth to reply, paused, reflected on the matter, and then looked at her in a baffled and begrudged respect for the subject of the discussion.

"Target."

"Gourmet or Garbage this evening?" Joker asked as he turned about and leaned his arm against the headrest to watch the back window while he pulled out of the Hobby Lobby parking lot. They'd managed to get in and out just before closing hour with only a single bag of purchases. Which said something, given that the store was filled with odds-and-ends and art-supplies to the ceiling.

"Hmm," Wildcard contemplated as she turned over the basswood lumps and carving knives she'd been given to work with. "I pick... Garbage!"

"McDonald's it is. Gonna play it straight to you, I have had a hankering for french fries and a hot fudge sunday for forever, and after that splurge back at the-store-that-shall-not-be-named, I feel like I deserve some junk food to make me feel better."

"That's our family," she snickered. "We're all across the board, up, down, side to side! We can buy Ikea or Pier One Imports; can make a bomb with world-class technology reverse-engineered from Iron Man's smart missile, or from a gas can and some fertilizer we picked up at Walmart; can enjoy fine wine tasting over goat cheese and bruschetta, or eat our ninety-nine cent hamburgers and still be happy. We can do anything with anything."

He grinned and reached over to ruffle her hair, and then leaned over to turn on the radio. He to surfed for some (older) classic rock (when had the 90's and 00s became 'classic,' exactly?) when a radio host suddenly said "Next up is Kelly Clarkson's Because of You." Joker paused with his hand over the scan button. Then he sank back and grabbed the stick shift instead.

"Dad. Change the channel," his daughter ordered, and when he didn't immediately obey, she leaned over to do it herself. He waved her away from the control. "Dad," she protested. "This song is about a person with psychological and trust issues as a result of an emotionally unstable parent."

"This song came out the year you were born. Came on once when you were seven. I must have played it every week day after that for two years," he mused aloud. "Haven't heard it in awhile."

"What!? Why!? Oh come on, this is what speaks to you? The titular character is in a bad relationship and you're single," Wild complained. "Honestly the entire chorus reminds me more of the turtle who can't leave the sewers because the boogeymen will get him. 'Because of you I never stray too far from the sidewalk.' 'Because of you I learned how to play on the safe side so I don't get hurt.'"

~I was so young, you should have known better than to lean on me.~

His daughter stomped her feet and whined irritably: "If this is your way of apologizing, why is making me feel bad?!"

~Because of you I don't know how to let anyone else in! Because of you I'm ashamed of my life because it's empty! Because of you I am afraid.~

"Fuck it now I need a sunday too," she wiped at her face. "And don't you dare tell me off for cursing!"

Wildcard heard a soft whine as the two-stage mine outside her window armed itself. She raised a brow. But then, when nothing exploded, she decided to tuck away her whittled soap to prop up the window and have a look around at whatever might have alerted the mine.

"I nearly lost a few toes...!" whispered a familiar voice from overhead, and she looked up in surprise to find where a gigantic reptilian ninja was dangling effortlessly from the shingles, one split-toed boot propped against the siding. "And I only have a few!"

"How do you know where I live? Did you stalk me home?" she reproached.

"I like to be a plesant surprise!" he snickered mischievously, with a smile no one could really stay mad with.

She gave a heavy, tolerant sigh better befitting Donatello, and then casually twisted the mine a few degrees to disarm it and leaned back. Mikey swung himself nimbly over to step onto the sill. Despite being a seven-foot turtle, he perched in the four-foot sill quite casually, and without making it look odd or cramped at all.

"Is your whole house booby-trapped?" he wondered aloud.

"Well, robbers keep trying to break in. What's up?"

"I need your help with a prank," the turtle explained, apparently totally okay with the amount of explosives in Wildcard's lfie. "Can I come in?"

"Say no more!" She hurriedly made space. "After all its not like a thirty-year-old-man in a thirteen-year-old girl's bedroom at midnight should raise warning flags."

She'd meant it as a joke, but he recoiled sharply in a way that meant the words had hit him hard. Poor Mikey. Her foresight made sure she didn't have to lose a moment's sleep worrying about his intentions, but he wasn't a cute little teenager anymore, and that left him at an impasse with the world's expectations for normality. It was something of a grand, horrible, cosmic joke that his circle of close friends should be so small; he had way too much love to give.

"Oh no," she protested, hurrying back up to the window and reaching up to the cringing ninja to clasp her hands around his. "No, no, no. I'm not scared of you. I was making fun of a world that doesn't handle exceptions to rules very well, and likes to whitewash everyone with cynicism."

"I would never do something like that," Mikey said weakly, evading eye-contact. "I'mma stop calling you 'Tiny Chick,' and I'll leave right away if I'm being creepy."

"You're a saint," she chastised sternly, "and the catholic church is just too stuffed-up to canonize one for practical jokes. Plus! If you don't flirt with me, I'm going to have to flirt with Donatello, and that's going to get really funny really fast for everyone but Donatello. Don't you know it's your duty as his brother to protect him from psychological molestation by munchkin-sized Incarnations of Pure and Unadulterated Evil?"

Bright blue eyes framed by an orange mask and ruddy freckles turned back to her, and the sunlight which dawned behind them immediately made the world feel better.

Wildcard thought of Michelangelo's confession that there was this bitter, mean-tempered 'Pizza Lady' who 'hated him,' and whose only contact with him was trading a few barbed sentences with him every time she delivered boxes of Gino's Pizza. That woman has got no idea what kind of angel is absolutely smitten with her. And if she's super lucky, he won't give up on her.

"There, that's much better." She kissed her fingers and tapped his cheek. "The whole world gets sad when you get sad," she turned away with a fling of her arms as she looked about for any knives to clean up. "I honestly expect the sky to cloud over and rain in sympathy."

"D'awww!" A grin cracked open, letting more light through. "That's so sweeettt..." He looked about her room as she quickly finished dumping her clothing into her hamper. "You have awesome taste in superheroes, yo," he remarked with regards to her posters.

"Ooh. The best," she agreed, and then clambered under her bed. He peered down at where she'd disappeared to, but she turn around and pushed out a cardboard box ahead of herself. "Feast your eyes on the best of the best!"

A disbelieving pause followed. Then Mikey crouched and reached into the box to find the thick stack of magazines and folded posters. "Naawww wayyyy... Really? How many do you have?!"

"They and some Spiderman comics were like the only things I brought from Gotham!" Wild announced as she slithered back out from under the bed and beamed at her treasures. "But I put them away when I met Sandro, cause I deliberately anti-fan-girled myself so I could be a real friend, you know? I never asked any questions, 'till the day I asked him if his dad was Raphael cause that was the one name he never mentioned." She reached down to dig out the oldest issue. "But! I hear you are the cartoonist and co-writer! Is this true? Because, if so, you are going to have to supply me with my first non-weapons-themed autograph, Hamato-san." She extended a black felt pen to him.

Mikey looked to the pen, then the stack of posters and comics, and then squinted at her. "Okay but first, this is very important: Which turtle was your favorite?"

"I'm not sure I know, but I can definitely tell you which one was my spirit animal," Wild snickered. "Now sign my comic and tell me about this prank of yours, Sunshine. I sense we've work to do!"

"Right on," he agreed, taking the marker. "I think I bought everything the prank needs. It's a good thing you left your kit with Donatello! Hemming together an extra-large dress without Raph's help was harder."

"Do pardon the Cheshire grin I'm wearing, but I think I just figured out what the plan is and its blown my mind."

"I was wondering if we had a visitor," commented a Joker from where he leaned into her door frame.

Wildcard turned her ear-to-ear grin up to him. His scars were still hidden. A thoroughly peach turtle in bright honey-colored curls was sitting on her bed, and she was cupping his chin as she applied blush. "Hey dad! Wanna help!?"

Joker looked from a manic Wildcard to a deer-in-headlights Michelangelo. "I am sorely tempted to say yes simply because we appear to be dressing a gigantic mutant ninja in drag, and opportunities like that are few and far between; But go ahead and tell me the objective of this exercise regardless."

"He's gotta pull off a salsa dress!" she gushed, and then grabbed up the makeup palette they'd accidentally purchased. "I totally found a use for this, how awesome is that!? Although I'm kinda scared I'm going to overdo the eye-shadow!" She waggled her arms (and the palette), "And the pranking power is directly related to how fantastically and over-the-top beautiful he is!"

"We're pranking someone? Say no more. He's gonna need to veil that beak to pull it off. Save the eye-shadow for last, I'm going to look for some orange fabric. And maybe some gold-sequin trim, hmm." He headed downstairs.

Michelangelo leaned near Wildcard. "Has your dad met Sandro?" he whispered loudly.

"Yeah but like don't tell Donnie," Wildcard whispered back just the same. "He'll kill me."

Mikey lifted up a hand to pinky-swear, although it took a moment for Wildcard to figure out what it was given that Mikey only had a thumb and two fingers. She wondered if Raphael's preference for the Sai was a direct result of being able to flip people the birdy with them. She accepted the pinky-swear.

Time to throw their hands in the air and roll with it.