maskormenacelogs | whatever here that’s left of me

Entry tags:

whatever here that’s left of me | closed

WHO: Joker and ~~Jeannie~~ Harley
WHERE: Their place in De Chima
WHEN: Early August
WHAT: A Silver-Kryptonited Joker hallucinates that Harley is his late wife
WARNINGS: Gruesome memories of spouse and fetal death. Updated: Mild in-scene violence/abuse and some PG-13-ish screwy foreplay.

On a hot afternoon in August, the Joker comes home to find his dead wife in the kitchen. She has her back to him, doing something or other. Acting like she belongs there.

He’s dreamed of her like this countless times, so he knows what's coming. He knows that she’ll wait until the last possible moment to show him her face, until he’s good and close. Then she’ll turn, and he’ll see that she’s been burned alive: her skin charred and split, her eyes molten, her mouth forever locked into a scream. And she’ll reach for him as the kitchen begins to burn all around them, and he’ll let her pull him into the flames with her.

He knows all this, and he knows he can’t stop it, but as he stands there in the doorway, he still can’t make himself look away from her, even knowing what's to come. The sight of her is too precious.

All the details are still there, still crisp. The little cowlick at the back of her head, which she hates, which he used to love to kiss. The way she leans back slightly as she stands, trying to counterbalance the weight of her heavily pregnant belly. Even the easy movements of her hands are just as they were, birdlike and free. Something tingles in Joker’s chest, and his mouth has gone dry.

Slowly, he crosses the kitchen toward her, because this is what he’s fated to do, what he always does. His body feels like it’s moving outside his control. He wraps his arms around her swollen stomach, ducks his head, and nestles his nose in her hair. She still smells like the same shampoo, floral and sweet.

He wants to say her name but doesn’t dare, afraid it will shatter the spell and start the second half of the dream. Instead, he kisses her hair and murmurs the most important thing, which he always tries to say before the fire begins: “I love you, baby.” His voice is the one she knew: soft, almost shy, with none of the hyper-stylized Transatlantic theatricality of the man he’s become. In the years right after her death, he tried to tell her lots of things in these dreams, to apologize and beg and attempt to atone for something he could never undo. Now, only one thing matters: “Always love you.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Harley has been known to start more than a few kitchen fires, all while doing seemingly menial things with the oven. Baking a frozen pizza, heating up some Hot Pockets, making some Kraft dinner, and, her personal favorite, boiling a goddamn pot of water.

Now she’s simply laying out Pizza Rolls on a pan, and it’s a toss-up regarding whether or not any of them will end up torched.

Her hands are nimble (though the dexterity needed for her current activity isn’t incredibly demanding) but her fingernails are painted bright, blood red, with tiny black, sparkly diamond-shaped stickers affixed to the centers. And her clothing is hardly that of pregnant housewife who’s expecting her husband home. She’s dressed too much like someone who’d be at home dancing on a table for that.

She honestly almost doesn’t even realize it’s him when the apartment door opens and she hears someone enter — even though she would swear that she’d know the sound of his footfalls anywhere — because everything about him, from the sound of his steps to the way he slides his arms around her, is completely foreign. And for a few seconds, the ones he needs to be able to get a word in edgewise before she can say hiya, puddin’, Harley actually freezes. The stark white hands, the purple material of his jacket sleeves, those are both familiar. But even his tone, never mind what he says with it, only makes her shoulders stiffen and her hands pause.

Of course, once her brain manages to catch up with the program, Harley has to wonder if maybe this whole ‘coming to a strange new world’ thing has updated his perception of their special arrangement. If he’s finally starting to understand what an asset she is. That, when she curls up with him in the middle of the night (on the nights he actually comes to bed anyway) and murmurs that she loves him, she actually means it. That he can trust her wholeheartedly.

Obviously, obviously, that has to be it.

Harley wants that to be what’s happening.

But, then again, there are moon rocks or whatever falling out of the sky and people have been acting weird.

So.

For once she sounds cautious, almost delicate, like she’s treading very, very carefully on thin ice here. With an air of almost detached professionalism that belongs to one Harleen Quinzel as she attempts to feel out the situation. “I was just making dinner.”

Assuming Pizza Rolls can be considered an actual dinner.

To Joker's crystal-addled mind, she looks and feels exactly as she should. Her hands are his wife's hands, with the neatly-shaped, baby-pink nails and a slender gold wedding band that they will never pawn, no matter how bad things get. Her clothes are his wife's clothes: a high-waisted maternity top with a preppy-sweet Swiss dot pattern, stretchy-waist capris, matching hair barrettes. And when he strokes Harley's flat belly, his mind assures him that he's caressing the full curve of his pregnant wife's stomach, that he can even feel the subtle kick of his son's heel against his palm. (That boy would have been a real athlete if he'd lived, a baseball star, Joker's certain.)

It's her voice that makes him pause. Not because it's off--it's not; it's perfectly Jeannie--but because he hasn't heard it in so long. She never speaks in his dreams, and he has no recordings of her voice. He has photos of her face; he has the coroner's report of her death; he has a handful of smoke-blackened memorabilia hidden away for safekeeping. But her voice, he thought he'd lost that forever, and the sound of it hits him like a gut punch.

Joker's throat closes. He swallows down the lump, audibly, and pulls her closer against him. "Leave it." The words come out sounding half-strangled.

He wants to hear her talk again, to hear her say absolutely anything. He ought to ask her some sort of open-ended question, something that will prompt her to talk at length, but he can't seem to think. His eyes sting. "Just... be with me, for a minute. Please."

Harley drops the Pizza Roll instantly when he says leave it. There isn't much she won't do on command for him and, especially with the way he's talking, it isn't any different now. This is the dream, isn't it? It's exactly what she's been angling for. And she doesn't think he's sounded anywhere close to this, well, genuinely amorous since she'd been his psychiatrist in Arkham.

Her demeanor is typically like getting hit with a baseball bat over the head, or a right hook to the nose. But, right then, turning her neck to lean her cheek against his chest and sliding her hands over his, Harley frowns faintly and looks less glib than she normally does.

Spending too much time worrying over things is a weakness. If you failed, you tried again. And that outlook -- one that she'd had to work hard to embrace after ditching her old life -- is one she typically abides by. But every once in a blue moon Harley is less sure that she can leap without looking and just tuck into a somersault if the landing's too rough.

"Is everything okay?" This might be the sort of interaction she's been so desperately wanting from him, but it's like, now that she has it, Harley's not sure what to do with it. That somewhat strangled tone of voice and the way he pulls her closers to him only amplifies the feeling that something's not right.

She should just say fuck it and enjoy the ride. She should savor this while it lasts instead of second guessing it. But that would be what she'd do if she didn't actually care.

Also, with the moon exploding and shit, there might be a giant asteroid heading to the planet, about to wipe them all out in twenty minutes. Which is something Harley would like a head's up about.

Her cheek should be crackling where it’s pressed against him: charred skin flaking off, hard cheekbone rubbing through. Instead, she feels warm and soft. Alive.

Joker’s hands tremble against her stomach, and he presses his eyes shut. Tries to breathe.

Is it possible he’s not dreaming? Possible that she might actually be here? The Porters bring people from all over, after all. Various universes. Various times. What if they’ve somehow brought her back to him?

Surely not. That would be far too kind; the Universe doesn't work that way.

He needs to answer her question, but for a long moment, he doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth.

How many times did she ask him variations of that question in life? Is everything okay? Are we okay? Did you hear back about the job? He could never give her the kind of answers she deserved, and he’s alarmed to find he still can’t, even all these years later. Now, as then, the only way he can tell her what she deserves to hear is to lie.

He swallows again. Manages to choke out the most bare-bones of responses: “Yeah.” Yes, everything’s fine. Yes, they’ll be together and safe for always, in a beautiful new starter home, with their beautiful boy. Yes, he’ll take care of it all, don’t you worry.

But what if she’s real?

He opens his eyes and looks over her head at the kitchen. He’s clutching Jeannie to him, fingertips digging shakily into her belly, like someone might snatch her away at any moment. The kitchen, he realizes, is his own, the De Chima one. In the dream, he’s always back in the apartment they shared together, the cold, dingy one with the wallpaper peeling off in limp pieces. And, of course, she never speaks. All of this is wrong, off.

His pulse quickens slightly.

The fire should have started by now, too. He never gets this long with her, never gets to hold her like this. It’s always the same, a hell-script he’s played through countless times, and it’s never like this.

Oh, Jesus, what if she’s real?

“The baby,” he says, suddenly worried. He hasn’t seen any pregnant women here. Doesn’t know what effect a Porter might have on a fetus. “Is the baby all right?”

Harley wouldn't describe him as a man of few words, so the simple yeah response she gets has her furrowing her brows. If she'd had to guess what his response would have been, it would have fallen into one of two categories. The first being a long, theatrical explanation on how everything had gone to hell in a hand basket, or that the evil clown empire had fallen, or about a volcano eruption that would bury them all in the planet's fury. Something like that. Or, second, for him to get offended that she'd ask if everything was okay in the first place. Like his behavior and words were odd in the slightest and she was crazy to even insinuate they might be.

Instead, it's almost ironic that he's wondering if the Jeannie he's seeing and holding is real, because his next question has her wondering Is this real? Did he really just ask that?

Her first instinct, that something's off, is the one she should have listened to, because this... this is not right.

The I love you, the just be with me, the baby.

Which begs the question: what baby.

Harley still remembers being briefed on the Joker at Arkham. She'd been told that no one knew who he'd been before he'd appeared as green-haired, white-skinned, bank-robbing murderer. And he'd told her plenty of stories about his past during their therapy sessions, most of which she'd believed. But he'd never mentioned a baby. Or whoever the hell the mother of this supposed baby was.

Unless this is a recent development. And, oh, God, is she the other woman? Is she the mistress while there's some chick living in a house with a white picket fence, light yellow floral kitchen wallpaper, and a kid?

Harley isn't able to block out the sharp stab of jealousy in her chest, and her shoulders tighten up, her jaw sets in an attempt to keep her lower lip from trembling, and she whirls around in his arms, jabbing him roughly in the chest.

"Baby?! What baby?!"

He feels the tension in her a split second before she turns. He’s fucked up, clearly; he’s said the wrong thing and thereby activated the second half of the dream. He should have just held her! Why didn’t he just hold her? Joker mentally tries to brace himself for what’s coming: the ruined face, the reaching flames, the whole nasty shebang.

So when she whirls to face him, and he sees just his own dear Jeannie glaring up at him, alive, Joker’s momentarily dumbfounded. He lets her jab her dainty finger at him, barely feeling it despite the force she puts behind it. He’s just staring at her, mouth slightly agape, and her words do nothing to clarify matters for him.

None of this makes any sort of sense whatsoever. Not even by his standards.

He lets go of her and slowly brings his hands to his chest, palms out, in bewildered surrender.

“The…” He waggles one index finger toward her stomach, which to him appears to be perfectly round and full and pressing against him: there’s obviously, unmistakably a baby in there. His gaze flicks from her eyes to her stomach, then back again. (And wow, she is stunning when she’s angry; she always was, with her mouth set and her eyes bright. How did he ever forget that?) “The baby, our baby.” He licks his lips, nervous. “Future starting pitcher for the Knights.”

Now that Harley has a good look at his face, she barely recognizes him. Sure, the features are the same. The coloring’s the same; he’s a peacock among pigeons. But the bewildered expression, the I-give-up-you-win hands, those are both so out of place on a man like him.

What the hell?

Harley doesn't doubt that her desire for reciprocal I love yous, and blissful domesticity, and a gaggle of little clown babies has been fairly obvious. Yeah, it's a thrill to rob a bank or kidnap Bats or strike terror into an entire city. Sometimes it's even actual fun. But there does come a point where even a henchwench has to start thinking about the longterm plan. And, because of that, because she doesn't think he's oblivious to her own wants, just that he's deliberately ignoring them, Harley eyes flash with anger. They might not be literally bursting into flames and melting, but the expression in them is the sort that might actually be about to spew hellfire.

"Do you think this is a joke?" Another sharp jab, with less of an effort to restrain her own strength. She's not going to do anything crazy, like putting her hand through his chest (...maybe), but she's not holding back from leaving bruises. "This is funny to you?" Her voice has gone up an octave, and her brain is telling her that yes, yes, this is some sort of screwy joke. That he's messing with her just to see what kind of rise he can get out of her, all for shits and giggles.

This time, the jab does register: that strong, bony finger feels like a coffin nail being driven into his sternum. Joker takes a half-step back, retreating from her. He doesn’t mind the pain—with Jeannie looking at him like that, it’s perversely enticing, actually—but he does recognize that it shouldn’t be happening.

For one thing, dreams aren’t supposed to be painful in such specific, vivid physical ways. He can feel that jab, and he’ll probably feel it tomorrow, too. For another, Jeannie was never that strong. She was a force to be reckoned with her in her own way, sure. But was she physically strong, in this weirdly superhuman sort of way? Hell, no. She was just a normal woman, whereas this feels… Well, more like Harley, actually.

Joker’s eyes narrow: he’s putting the puzzle pieces together now, and it shows in the calculating way he’s looking at her. The woman’s voice is Jeannie’s, but the hideous shrillness in it, that’s all Harley Quinn. And the words she’s stressing—joke, funny—those are Harley-esque choices all the way, too.

He doesn’t know what he’s dealing with here—if she really is Harley, if his mind has conjured up some gruesome combination of the two women out of thin air, or if this is some especially cruel sort of test, maybe connected to all the weird things that have been happening since he arrived in De Chima—but he knows what she is not. This creature might look like his wife, but she is not Jeannie.

Which means he just opened his heart, spilled his secrets, to the thing that stole his sweetheart's face.

He stalks back in toward her, jaw setting, eyes glittering, and shoulders pitching forward. His upper lip pulls back in a snarl, and when he speaks, his voice is the Joker’s again, livid and cold. “I’ll show you funny.”

His hand snaps out, intending to catch her by the wrist and give it the sort of sharp, hard twist she deserves.

Harley can see it happening: the change in his demeanor that comes over him as though he’s just had some unpleasant truth come over him swiftly and suddenly.

She’s still furious, feeling like the butt of one of his jokes, but it’s impossible to ignore what’s happening. Harley doesn’t have a clue what he’s seeing or where his confusion moment before was coming from — except that, perhaps, it had something to do with a baby, which is something that, when she’s had time to analyze it, she’ll likely start to put the pieces of it together — but she does realize that whatever it was seems to have clicked on a negative way. She doesn’t even make a move to evade his grasp. And, frankly, even that awkward angle is nothing compared both the type of physical pain she’s endured in the past or the emotional stab of pain that came from thinking he had a whole family somewhere else.

Anyway, the rage in her eyes is doused by an expression of relief that he seems to have come back to his senses, that he’s not looking at her like a puppy she’s kicked. And makes it pretty obvious that this wasn’t a joke. So what, then? Something else, obviously. A hallucination? A bad memory? But that, of course, entails that there would have been a child and some other woman to have a bad memory about.

But the thing is that if something is playing tricks on his mind it isn’t fair to be angry at him. Instead, she should be worried, like she initially was. And if she’s also morbidly curious, well, that can’t be helped.

Harley can easily break his grasp. She knows it. He knows it. She knows he knows it. He knows she know he knows it. But this isn’t the time for a display of strength, this is the time to show him he can trust her to take care of him and whatever’s going wrong in his head.

So her fingers go limp in his hand. “There you are. Something’s not right. Up here.” She taps the side of her head with a finger on her free hand. “Am I close? Tell me what baby you’re talking about. Let me help you, puddin’.”

Joker’s stomach clenches as he sees the look in her eyes change. He wants her to stay awful, he realizes; he wants an excuse to smack her, to hurt her, to take out on her all the confusion and anger and guilt that has nowhere else to go. As long as she’s a monster, she’s clearly not Jeannie, and then he can deal with her. But when her hand goes limp and she’s looking at him like that, the resemblance is just too uncanny. There’s too much of his wife there now for him to hurt her, and too much genuine kindness in her eyes to make it satisfying, even if he could.

He lets go of her with a frustrated snarl and turns away. He’s not crazy; he knows he’s not crazy. But right now, oh, right now Joker could almost believe that he is. And if he keeps looking at Jeannie—no, at this thing pretending to be Jeannie, or Harley, or whatever it’s trying to be—he might just tumble down that rabbit hole in earnest. “Keep your wretched paws off of me.” As if he weren’t the one who’d grabbed her in the first place.

Even as he struggles to process what he’s seeing, to determine what’s real and what isn’t, the practical part of his mind is already pointing out that if, by some chance, the thing standing there and calling him puddin’ really is Harley, he’d better come up with a way to spin this, and fast.

He’s never told her anything about his actual past, because why would he? Doctors have always tried to get into his head, and Harley’s no different. Joker’s never cared to give her any ammunition for that battle. Sure, he’s told her stories—plenty of them, especially in the beginning—but none of them were particularly truthful. And all the stuff about Jeannie, about that part of his life in general… Well, no one needs to know that. And technically speaking, all of that happened someone else, anyway. It’s nobody’s business anymore; it’s old news, and deeply private.

Except that now he’s gone and blabbed. And if the thing in his kitchen is Harley—or, really, anything other than a pure hallucination—he’s up the creek without a paddle.

Joker makes himself look at her again, and the sight of Jeannie still standing there is almost more than he can stand. Not my wife, he reminds himself. Not my baby, not my wife. Not my anything.

He puts on the regretful look that used to serve him so well with Dr. Quinzel: shoulders slumping softly, eyes going large, mouth settling into a sad, guilty line. He doesn’t know what this creature is, but he can’t afford to take chances. Not with something this important.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that.” He gives a little shake of his head. Rubs at his brow, like all of this is just more than he can process. “There for a minute, I…” He forces himself to look her in the eyes again, and ignores the tight feeling spreading up from his stomach to his chest. Not my wife. “Well, I could’ve sworn I was my old man. I felt like him. I was him...”

Oh. Oh...

On the surface it makes sense. Except for the fact that said old man hadn’t come across as particularly loving and affectionate in the stories she’d been told about him. And that, well, Joker had gestured to her stomach to indicate the baby he’d been talking about, which meant either he wasn’t an only child (which would also be news to Harley; surprise!) or he wouldn’t have been around to witness the scenario he’d been recreating which would make the whole “I thought I was my dad” excuse a bit suspect.

If Harley had been as ditzy as she normally pretended, she likely wouldn't have picked up on those things. But now she's watching him with the eyes of a highly trained psychiatrist. Eyes reflecting the glint of a person who believes she knows her patient better than anyone else. Eyes that are worried but don’t want to push too hard too quickly.

Referring to her hands as wretched paws is hardly the most horrible thing he’s ever said (or done) to her and even if he hadn’t almost immediately apologized Harley would have come up with an excuse for that sort of outburst. Especially when something wasn’t quite right. Clearly there’s too much confused misinformation running through his head to be mad at him for snapping at her.

So, almost immediately, she feels guilty for jabbing at him so forcefully, for inflicting pain and projecting rage at this poor, poor man who’d simply gotten mixed up and was trying to make it right now. Who wouldn’t get confused given everything that’s happened?

“Did I...” Harley trails off, very much aware that she needs to choose what she says carefully. She can’t know what he’s thinking or seeing, and that makes him potentially even more volatile. The wrong words or actions could set him off like a stick of dynamite.

Instead, she mimics his earlier gesture, hands up and palm out, symbolically surrendering. “Ok. Why don’t we forget the dinner I was making?” Because pizza rolls are the most well-rounded, culinary masterpiece anyway. “I’ll order pizza. Extra cheese. Or Chinese. And we can sit down and relax until you’re feeling better.”

Not that she’s going to let the conversation drop. Harley wants to know whether Joker had thought he was talking to his own mother. Or if he was the baby he’d been referring to. And why he’d have been acting out the actions of his father like his dad was anything other than an asshole. That sort of thing.

And Harley’s like a dog with a bone when she gets curious.

There are precious few situations in which Joker would turn down good takeout. Even the lousiest of days can often be saved by a warm, grease-spotted container of chicken lo mein or a cheese-dripping pizza, especially when it’s coupled with an hour or two of high-quality entertainment. But the woman standing in his kitchen still looks and sounds like his Jeannie, and the idea of sitting beside her (and being gently interrogated by her, no doubt, about his flimsy cover story) is more than enough to qualify tonight as a special exception. He needs to get out of here, to get away from her, now.

“No, no.” He rubs at his eyes with one hand, like maybe that will make the scene in front of him change, and gives her a dismissive wave with the other. “I need to get down to the club. Just stopped by to change."

Joker shakes his head again. Makes himself smile apologetically at her, though the sight of her still makes his stomach twist. “Another night, hm? When I’m back in my right mind. Well—so to speak!”

He manages the thinnest of chuckles, not nearly enough for the joke, and turns on his heel to flee. He needs to get out of the room while he's still even remotely sane, before her face and voice unravel him completely. “Ta-ta, now."

Like it’s going to be as easy as that with Harley, who's already invested in figuring out what the fuck's going on and, on top of that, is genuinely concerned about sending a clown who doesn't seem to know what's what off into the world. To work, of all the ridiculous things, when he's already admitting to believing he was someone else. Assuming that was even true. Even if it's not true, something had clearly thrown him off-kilter. And Harley's seen how many people he can kill when everything's operating normally.

She cares just the teensiest bit about the last part, if only because things are going so swimmingly here so far and she's not that keen on finding out if this world has an Arkham lookalike, even if she's accepted the eventual likelihood that she will find such a thing out.

But it's the fact that he seems to be trying to run away from the situation instead of facing it head on that has Harley most concerned. Yeah, he's an escape artist of sorts. But this feels different from that. He's not laughing loudly enough, or projecting bombastically enough, or, even still, responding properly enough to her (with, maybe, the exception of grabbing her wrist) for Harley to believe that everything's fine.

"Work can wait, can't it?" she says a little more sharply than usual. Or even than she intended. "If your hardwiring's shorting out, you need to call out sick. Or, hey, I'll do it for you."

To whom it may concern,

The Joker will be out of work until he can remember he's not his dickhead of a dad.

Sincerely,
Dr. Quinn, Medicine Clown

Then adds, like it'll make the slightest bit of difference: "I brought pie home from work too."

The sharpness in her tone catches him like a fishhook, snaring him at the threshold of the kitchen. It's so perfectly Jeannie, who never let him slide with any of the bullshit he gets away with these days, and who always said that there were more important things in the world than work, or money. Even when they'd been nearly starving.

Joker stands there in the doorway, back still turned to her, fingers twitching ever-so-slightly at his sides. But he can't quite make himself walk out.

It's not Jeannie in there. No matter how much he might wish it was. No matter how convincing its portrayal of her might be. Jeannie is gone, and she's never coming back. Not to this world, not to any other.

So why can't he just leave her? Walk out the door, go down to the club (which he isn't even really supposed to be at tonight, but fuck it), and drown all this madness in the familiarity of the stage, the crowd, the laughter?

Then she mentions the pie, and relief floods through him: it is Harley, that thing must be Harley! Jeannie would never say that; no one else would say that. It can only be Harley, and if she's working at that stupid restaurant, they must be in De Chima. That fits with the finger-jabbing, with the puddin', with all of it except what his eyes and ears are telling him. Which means that this whole thing is just a problem in his head, not in reality. And those, Joker knows how to handle.

He straightens his posture, drawing himself up with a haughty sort of wounded pride. If it's Harley, he needs to be very, very careful how he proceeds from here. He's tipped his hand far too much already. "My hardwiring," he snaps, "is fine."

He makes himself turn back to her, his expression carefully arranged into a condescending sneer. "And let me be perfectly clear." The sight of her standing there--still Jeannie, still pregnant--makes his stomach seem to freefall, but he stalks toward her all the same. "You do not tell me what I need to do. Not with illness, not with pie, and certainly not with a rousing night of comedy! You got that?"

Has he ever actually listened to her like this before? Where he actually stopped in his tracks like her words had frozen him in place, save for the slightest twitch of his fingers.

Harley doesn't think anything she's said since Arkham has had this much of an impact, subtle as it is. She's still not sure why, but it definitely has to do with whatever he thought was happening when he came into the apartment.

And, yeah, sure, for someone who's used to being dismissed more often than not -- at least since abandoning her life as Harleen, and even, in a lot of ways, before that -- there's something heady about her words hitting home that gives her a brief rush of power. Even if he's quickly making sure she knows that her opinion means diddly squat in this case.

Normally, she'd submit to his insistence that she not butt in and tell him what to do. Maybe even cower as he stalked towards her. But that short power trip has Harley squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw and looking at him like everything he's just said is completely irrelevant.

"It's not fine. You're not acting fine. So sit your butt down, let me order you dinner, let me feed you pie, and talk to me about what the heck's going on. Because I'm not stupid and I can tell something's wrong and I will handcuff you to the radiator to keep you from going to work if I have to and the pie is apple and, dammit, I love apple pie."

And then she actually stomped her foot to punctuate her point.

Is she actually defying him right now? Squaring her shoulders and stamping her foot, like she's about to have a temper tantrum if he doesn't give her her own way right this moment?

In one fell swoop, she's managed to capture both the decisiveness of Jeannie and the brattiness of Harley, and Joker is appalled to feel his body responding to her. He knows she's Harley; he knows that nothing good can come of encouraging her; he knows that he needs to stay focused on correcting the damage he's already done here. But she's got her jaw set, and she's so weirdly bossy, and he remembers that once upon a time, Harleen Quinzel was famous in the Arkham gossip circles for taking out Killer Croc with a fire extinguisher. And what wouldn't he give, really, to be able to hold Jeannie one more time?

But it's not Jeannie. It's Harley, just Harley...

His gaze runs over her, eyeballs to toe-tips. And as it returns to her eyes, Joker knows what to do.

He lets a little heat show in his eyes, like he's thinking of grabbing her and slamming her down on the kitchen table, of reminding her how he deals with bratty little girls and their tantrums. He moves in closer, his voice dropping to the same low, hungry one that used to murmur in her ear.

"Is that what you want, you little bitch?" He reaches for a clump of her hair, wrapping it around his hand and giving it a slow, controlled tug. "You want to handcuff me to the radiator?" He chuckles, and that's the same as it used to be, too: quiet and intimate, like the world is a joke only the two of them understand. "Climb in my lap, feed me some of that apple pie of yours?"

Harley has learned not to push too much; has figured out that even ideas she thinks are brilliant are likely to be met with disdain. She had literally gotten pushed out a window because she'd gotten overzealous and taken things into her own hands. Sure, her intentions had been good -- she'd just been trying to help, honest! -- but she'd apparently made a misstep somewhere in that whole situation.

And, for a second, seeing the flare in his eyes, she's thinking the same has happened here: she's gotten too mouthy, too bossy, too Harleen.

Shit.

Harley's a moment away from waving the proverbial white flag and trying to laugh it off. Just kidding, Mister J, where's your sense of humor? Like she's suddenly forgotten (again) that she actually possesses a backbone. Hell, there have been times that she forgets that she's actually the stronger party here. It's a difficult thing to remember when he can actually pin her in place with just a look.

So she's bracing herself for something less than pleasant when he leans in, imagining that, as he reaches for her hair, he's planning on yanking hard enough to bring tears to the corners of her eyes. And when that doesn't happen, when it's instead a tug that's meant to smart but not seriously hurt her, when he calls her a little bitch in a way that's less likely to be accompanied by a back-handed slap and closer to a term of endearment, Harley's left momentarily breathless.

This she remembers. Long appointments in the sub-sub-sub-sub basement of Arkham that left her shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold dampness of his cell, even though she knew it was wrong.

"If I have to." She can hear the deep, throaty sound of her voice, combating her usually shrill tone. "Are you going to make me do that?"

Harley thinks she really might do it, too. Show off that backbone of hers. He's practically asking her to, isn't he? With the way he pulls out that conspiratorial laugh, the one that had made her feel like the most important person in the world to him. It's the one that made her determined to do anything for him, to reinvent herself into what she thinks is his perfect woman. It hasn't yet worked, but Harley considers herself a work in progress and it'll, of course, take time, which she's obviously willing to put up with.

He tightens his grip on her hair and wraps his other hand around her hipbone. Eases her head a few inches to one side as he pulls her close. He could swear her pregnant belly's pressing into him, but that's impossible, surely.

It feels good, either way: that pressure, that warmth. And her voice is just right now, the voice of Jeannie on the nights when they'd slow dance in the kitchen. Joker thinks of Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse-Five, slipping through time against his will.

He knows this is not Jeannie, and he knows what he's going to do to her, but reality feels hard to hold onto when she's talking like that. He can almost believe that he's fallen backward in time, that he could take her by the hand and lead her back to that long-ago bedroom with its cheapo furniture, and make slow, gentle love to his wife while their baby dreams inside her.

"I'm considering it," he murmurs.

Joker never likes to show Harley actual desire if he can help it--it spoils her, and he doesn't want her Getting Ideas about what she means to him--but at the moment, it serves his purposes better than words ever could. So he keeps her held snugly against him, even as the physical proof of his interest in this plan becomes unmistakable. Even as part of him hates himself for all of this.

"Flip the roles, we might just have ourselves a deal."

Encouragement is, of course, a dangerous thing when you’re trying to keep someone hungry for it. Encouraging Harley is like teasing a wild lion with a slab of beef.

Give her an inch and she’ll take way more than a mile.

She’s so used to hearing things like not now, Harley, and go away, Harley, and no, Harley, and why did you bedazzle my good suit, Harrrleeey! that she’s almost literally starving for positive reinforcement. So when said positive reinforcement comes in the flavor of practically applauding her for standing up for herself and up to him the only possible outcome is a bad one.

She almost doesn’t even care what’s actually wrong, not when it has him acting like this. This is exactly the sort of thing she’d thrown away her whole life for: someone who’d convinced her that everything would be just fine and they could be together if she just did a few teensy favors for him, who made her feel so special that she didn’t care whether she’d lose her medical license for doing so, that had her giddy in response to what was so obviously the sweetest devotion she’d ever experienced.

And then people acted like she was totally Looney Tunes for being willing to follow Joker to the ends of the Earth. They just didn’t get it.

Her head tips to the side, not fighting the tug on her hair, as her body relaxes against him. She almost doesn’t care, can almost be selfish about this, because all she wants is to hear him use the words love you again, even if it’s only because he thinks he’s someone else. She’s craving all the dark promises he’d made her in that chilly room in Arkham. But the problem, of course, is that she does care; she cares very, very much. And it has her at least seeking reassurance from him that he’ll remain in a place where she can keep him safe until this passes. “Promise you’ll stay with me tonight and you can handcuff me to whatever you want.”

He knows he's got her as soon as he feels her melt into him like that. And thank the good Christ, too, because he's not sure how long he can keep this show going before things start to actually break in his head.

Billy Pilgrim didn't know how good he had it. All that nincompoop had to do was sit back and enjoy the show.

Joker lets go of Jeannie's hair so that his hands can wander elsewhere. He wants to keep her distracted; he wants to remind her how good he can make her feel. If she's focused on those things, she'll be less likely to think through the obvious problems with both his plan and the explanation he gave her earlier.

He pretends to think about her request. Sighs. "Harley..." Like she's thrown a big ask out there and he'll have no choice but to turn her down.

Then, reluctantly: "All right." He kisses her forehead. "But only this once." A smile, right against her skin. "And only because you brought pie."

He lets go of her, only to scoop her up in his arms and carry her out of the kitchen. His heart's doing double-time, and his stomach's a hard lump in his belly, but that's okay. All he has to do is hold himself together until he has her stripped and handcuffed to the headboard. The second she's helpless, he's going to the club.

Telling him to call in sick! What a laugh.

Harley doesn't consider herself stupid.

She had actually graduated medical school with flying colors. Though that had been (in part), due to her bribing professors and doctors. But it wasn’t as though she didn’t know her stuff.

But she does, in fact, consider herself to be a giant idiot when she finds herself chained to a bed with no key, with the sound of Joker’s laughter echoing in her head. Whenever Harley gets herself into something dumb like this, she hears that laughter. And to add insult to injury there’s always good old trusty Harleen waiting in the wings with her responsible black-rimmed glasses and condescending smile to flick her in the back of the brain.

Good job, nitwit.

Harley’s found herself in way worse predicaments involving handcuffs, so that part doesn’t really bother her. And she could probably holler to see if any of her suite mates are home. Except she’s fairly sure Joker wasn’t boneheaded enough to leave the keys behind anyway. Besides, though Harley isn’t shamed by much, she is embarrassed that she’d actually fallen for that endearing, darling you mean the world to me voice. Again.

She’s contorted herself into various positions over the hours, trying to get into nightstands, looking for bobby-pins. Has managed to stretch herself to search the floor with her toes for wire hangers. So far she’s knocked over a lamp and found out that the bed frame is extremely sturdy, even compared to her strength. And, while she could probably break a thumb to slip out of the cuffs, that seems like overkill, even for her.

What was the worst that would happen if he went on down to work? Maybe he’d kill a few people telling crappy jokes. Poison someone’s drink because he got confused about who they were. Peanuts in the grand scheme of things.

But by the time she hears the front door open — and assumes he’s come back finally — Harley’s managed to go from embarrassed and dismayed to livid and ready to throttle him for tricking her. And doing so so easily.

As though that’s not bad enough, she’s starving, having missed out on dinner. No pizza rolls, no General Tso’s Chicken, no stuffed crust, and certainly no pie.

Just as he'd expected, the club improved Joker's mood tremendously. He's always in his element at the Laugh Factory, and the show was especially good tonight, too. He stayed late, giving some of the talent suggestions on how to improve their acts (not that they asked for any, but hey, he's a giver!), and by the time he finally makes it home, he's nearly forgotten all about that unpleasantness with Jeannie earlier.

It's only as he actually steps into the house, whistling "Fly Me to the Moon," and gets a look at the entrance to the kitchen, that the full weight of it all descends upon him again. Stupid Jeannie. Stupid Harley. His own stupidly unpredictable mind, playing tricks on him and making him compromise the integrity of his secrets with, of all people, his sycophantic girlfriend. Sure, he got the upper hand in the end, but how annoying it is that any of this should have happened at all!

He stalks directly into the kitchen, wanting to confront it straightaway, and is pleased to find that it's just a kitchen now. No Jeannie. No Harley. No humiliating signs of intimacy. He helps himself to a large slice of apple pie and a can of orange soda, and, still whistling, carries both to the bedroom.

As he approaches the door, his mind attempts to serve up images of Jeannie as he left her, naked and cuffed to the bed. Joker knocks them down as they come, like he's playing a mental game of Whack-A-Mole. It's just Harley in there, he reminds himself, if anyone's even still in there at all. If he's lucky, perhaps she managed to pick the lock and haul her ass off for a girls' night in some other city. Christ, that'd be nice...

He opens the door--not Jeannie, not Jeannie, not Jeannie--and there's Harley, looking like Harley, exactly where he left her.

Well, you can't win 'em all, can you?

Joker looks at her only long enough to determine that she is, in fact, Harley, and that she doesn't appear to be armed. Then he shuts the door behind him and strolls over to set his pie and drink on the dresser. The whistling stops. "Evening, Pumpkin." His voice is warm, almost cheery. Like there's nothing wrong here at all.

He loosens his tie and removes his jacket. Drapes the latter neatly over the chair in the corner. He's still not looking at Harley.

"You ready to be a good girl for Daddy now? Or do you need a little more Time Out?"

Harley’s scowling, her mouth all twisted up in a way that’s unusual for her. She’s typically smiling, or, on a particularly bad night, she’ll find that her lower lip trembles in the most obnoxious of ways. But right now she looks as though she might actually bite him like an irritated tiger if he gets too close.

Actually, she really might actually bite him if he gets too close, and not in the teasing sort of way.

She only waits long enough to see him come into the room, to let him get settled and take off his jacket, to register that if the pie on that plate isn’t for her that she’s going to find a way to shove it whole down his throat, handcuffs or no, before she launches into a tirade. “Of all the nerve. You absolute cad. You louse! I oughta come over there and rearrange your face.”

Okay.

She’s clearly upset far past the usual, though that has a lot to do with the fact that she’d been genuinely worried about him and this had been the stunt he’d pulled in response. This hadn’t been a situation where she’d been trying to get his attention or interrupting his planning and then had gotten told, in no uncertain terms, to get lost (or even had then been handcuffed to a bed so she’d stay lost for a few hours).

She’d been concerned enough to put her foot down and let a little bit of Harleen out, which was no minor thing considering how unmanageable Dr. Quinzel could be when she was given a little leeway.

“You unlock these right now. Or I swear I’ll—“ What? She’d already tried snapping the cuffs on her own and hadn’t been strong enough for that. But she’s convinced he won’t leave her here to starve or anything — probably — and the suite mates will eventually come to the rescue even if he does.

“Well, you won’t like it, buster, that’s for sure,” she ends weakly, with a jangle of the handcuff chain.

Ah, she's a treasure when she's angry. And my, my, my, she really is angry this time, isn't she? Joker turns to her, taking in the sight before him: one very naked, very spirited henchwench, valiantly attempting to threaten him when they can both clearly see she can't do jack.

He chuckles. What he ought to do, he knows, is walk right back out the door and leave her here a while longer. See if she's willing to be better behaved after another hour or two without food or water or a bathroom break. But her performance--and the language with which she chooses to curse him--is oddly endearing. And besides: she'll be more fun to play with this way.

He picks up the refreshments and carries them over to the foot of the bed, where he perches well out of her reach. He can see what she did to that poor lamp; he's not taking any chances. Joker sets his unopened can of soda down on the floor, then, with the plate of pie in hand, turns his attention to Harley. His smirk is all smug amusement, the sort of look a shark might give to the feisty clownfish who dared challenge it: Well, aren't you cute there, Skipper?

"I'm sorry to hear that." He doesn't look sorry, not even a little. "I was really hoping that nonsense you pulled earlier had run its course. But look at you." He shakes his head and slices the tip of the pie slice off with his fork. "You're still half-crazed."

She’ll show him half-crazed, which she does, in fact, attempt to do by kicking at the plate of pie he has, only to hear the cuffs rattle as she reaches the end of her literal rope.

If anything, that smugness, that air of being perfectly poised and in control that he gives off (which normally would make her think she was behaving foolishly) just sparks the rage in her stomach. It burns its way up to her chest, her throat, and turns her cheeks red. “That I pulled. Are you kidding?”

For a moment, Harley can’t help but contemplate whether or not she can strangle him with her feet. If she could just get him close enough it’s got to be completely doable.

“You left me chained to a bed and took off with your brain all marooned on some desert island!”

Even if he’d still been hallucinating, she probably wouldn’t sound anything like Jeannie right now, not with her high-pitched voice and almost murderous tone. And a complete disregard for anyone else who lives in the apartment who might overhear her. “How was I supposed to know if you’d had a nervous breakdown or ended up picked up because you didn’t know who you were.”

Harley knows better than to carry on like this. It’s not likely to get a positive reaction, and it’s certainly not likely to get Joker to produce a set of handcuff keys. But the adrenaline of being worried and angry and stuck in one spot for too long has her rage free flowing in a way that usually only happens when she gets on the “this is why all heroes are actually villains” track.

“I was looking out for you, you snake! What’s wrong with you?”

Joker nods as she rants. It's an exact imitation of the nod psychiatrists tend to give him, a patronizing one that says, yes, I'm listening, but you and I both know that's bullshit. He doesn't flinch away when she kicks at him; he doesn't allow his smile to fade in the face of her anger. He just sits there and nods and enjoys the first bite of his pie.

And damn, that is some good pie. Flaky crust. Sweet but not too sweet filling. Very satisfying.

"Well, I believe that you believe that," he says at last. "And I'm sorry to have had to leave you like I did, baby--really, I am." And now he does let the smile exit the stage, and looks at Harley with an expression of tender concern. His gaze stays on her face, in spite of her nakedness; he doesn't seem to care about anything below the neck at all.

"I want you to know I don't blame you for what you did. I know some people might call it controlling--trying to hold a man hostage just so you can play nursemaid and feel needed. But I know you only did it because you care." His eyes are all pitying affection as they watch her; he's looking at her like she's the love of his life but also a dementia patient. "You were just trying to help me, weren't you, Harley Girl?"

“Controlling? Controlling?! You think I was being controlling when you left me tied to a bed?” She should stop while she’s ahead; Harley knows that. Take a step back while he’s still looking at her with affection, instead of irritation or rage. Even if that affection is mixed with something that makes it very clear that he thinks she’s acting like an out-of-control Arkham patient. The kind that typically gets a shot of something potent and numbing.

She’s started yanking on the handcuff chains again, like a trapped animal, like she might actually start gnawing at her own wrists if she doesn’t get free some other way. It might become necessary if he keeps calmly eating pie in front of her like he’s the doctor and she’s the patient.

“You don’t remember coming home and telling me you loved me because you thought you were your father.” Harley has enough sense to lower her voice in case someone else was in the apartment and could hear her. Screaming at each other was probably expectedly par for the course, but she wasn’t about to throw his past issues with his father (if they were even true) out into the universe.

The fact that she’s stripped, save for the handcuffs, doesn’t seem to trouble her in the slightest, though. Someone else might be uncomfortable being completely naked while being psychoanalyzed. Harley, however, seems to think this sort of thing is just a regular Tuesday.

But she really needs to get a grip. Breathe. Relax. Get herself free so she can figure out what’s really going on with him.

“Puddin’, c’mon. Of course I was just trying to help. When have I ever done anything but try to help?”

Trying to help often ended with her creating a bigger mess, but that’s entirely beside the present point.

"Yes, you want very much to be helpful to me. I can see that."

He pauses to enjoy his second bite of pie, which might actually be even more delicious than the first. He should always bring dessert when he has to deal with her, Joker decides. It makes the whole process so much more pleasant.

He's still wearing that tenderly condescending expression. He's not worried about the way she's rattling her chains; if she was physically capable of freeing herself, she'd have done so already. No, Harley just wants attention. As usual.

"And you're right: I did have a little slip-up earlier. Couple wires crissed when they should have been crossed." He dismisses the whole thing with a wave of his fork, like the mistake was nothing more than a typo or a misspoken word. Could've happened to anyone, that gesture says. It wasn't a big deal.

"Thing is, Harley, baby: that only lasted a few minutes." Joker pushes a little more concern into his smile: Remember, Poopsie? Never mind that he's lying through his teeth. "But even once I was right as rain again, you just couldn't let it go."

He returns his attention to his pie. Gives a sad shake of his head, like it hurts him to see her this way. "Why, you'd have kept me here all night if I'd allowed you to. Made me look weak and unstable, undermined me in the eyes of the club...just so you could feel helpful."

“I—“

Well, of course she’d been planning on keeping him there all night. She’d have to to make sure he was better and to try to figure out what was happening. And, anyway, it would have been a wonderful excuse for some snuggly one-on-one time.

Not that that had been her motivation.

But also—

“I never would have told anyone else something was wrong!” Harley seems genuinely offended that he thinks she’d run her mouth or something and make him look weak or unstable or anything else she knows he wouldn’t want to be seen as. And if she herself sees those things, well, that’s different. But any moments of dodgy sanity are ones that Harley would take to the grave.

The jingling of the handcuffs stops suddenly and her shoulders slump as she looks at him with giant I would never! eyes, her entire expression turning dejected, like she’s a puppy he just punted. Harley’s getting completely distracted by the narrative that she would have blown his reputation before he even has a chance to make one for himself in De Chima, but she hardly seems to realize that.

“I could’a just told the club you had the flu. Everyone gets the flu. And then we would have been able to stay in, just the two of us, until you were feeling better. We could have had some dinner, listened to some records, played some cards. What’s so bad about that?”

Jesus, she's still going.

He can tell he's making progress with her--that dejected look says plenty, as does the defensive language she's using--but poor little Harley still doesn't seem to understand what she's done wrong.

Joker draws a deep breath, then allows the first glint of anger to appear in his eyes. If condescension won't help her see the error of her ways, perhaps watching his tenderness melt away will.

"I do not get the flu," he snaps, over-enunciating each syllable like he's talking to a willfully obtuse child. "I do not get anything, save the pounding headache you give me when you talk like this."

His facial muscles and shoulders begin to tighten up as he throws himself more fully into the role he needs to play. He looks like a man who's trying very hard to control his temper. "Didn't you ever hear that the show must go on? You think I want Batman hearing that I can't even make it to a comedy club? That I'm, what, stuck at home, with dear Nurse Harley feeding me chicken soup?"

He drops the fork on his plate and sets the whole thing aside. "You know, I came up here intending to feed you pie and kiss everything better." He exhales. Lets his shoulders slump a little, so that she can see just how much she's disappointing him with all this. "But I'm starting to think you just want to pick another fight."

Harley frown only deepens, but it’s more as though she’s realized she’s shot herself in the foot instead of getting through to him. That instead of getting what she’d wanted to begin with (pie and kisses), she’s blowing her chance at that. Again.

With anyone else, Harley would see right through the bullshit and call it out. With Joker, she just gets that horrible feeling that she’s screwed up terribly.

Here she was, just wanting to take care of him, and she’s botched even that in the most amateur of ways. Of course the last thing he needs is anyone thinking he gets sick. Especially Batsy. And Harley knows better than to point out that Bats hasn’t even come a’knocking yet.

Really, it’s questionable whether the guy even knows either of them are here.

She lowers her eyes, less challenging bull seeing a red flag, and more I give, I give. “I don’t wanna fight, puddin’. I was just worried,” she says in a small voice, that doesn’t sound anything like Harleen. “I was scared something had happened to you while you were out and I wouldn’t be able to do anything to help.”

Joker's display of anger simmers down as Harley switches into surrender-mode. That's more like it, now; that's the way things are supposed to go.

There have definitely been times in their relationship when he's enjoyed having her rile him up. Anger can be a satisfying emotion, especially when it's directed at a partner who's so much fun to whale on. But tonight, he's just not in the mood. The day's been too strange, and his memories of not-Jeannie from this afternoon are still too fresh.

What he'd like, what he'd really like, is to swallow enough tranquilizers to knock out a horse and fall into a couple hours of actual restful sleep. Wake up with those memories properly repressed and his battery fully recharged. But there's no way to demand that without risking proving to Harley that there really is something wrong with him, and he's not entirely sure that the tranqs would even work. No, the best he can realistically hope for tonight is just to avoid any actual interrogation. And the best way to get that is to keep Harley in her place.

He allows himself the smallest of sneers. "Why would I need you to do anything?" His voice flattens, losing its emotional affect and turning colder. "There you go again--insulting me when I'm only trying to be kind to you. I'm not a child, Harley; I don't need you hovering over me."

He removes his gloves as he speaks, and sets them next to the pie on the rumpled bedspread. "And when I say that something's under control, and that you don't need to worry about it... What do you think that means you should do? Take a guess."

Harley’s eyes focus on the thread in the comforter, like he’s made a point too obvious for her to even attempt to contend. “Of course you don’t, Mister J. I was just—” At least she manages to catch herself before trying to justify herself again. Anything else would be absurdly stupid, obviously, and Harley doesn’t want him thinking she’s too dumb to even navigate a simple conversation.

Raising her gaze back up to him slowly, all hesitance as the last of her defiance leaks out of her shoulders and taut jawline, she’s trying to ignore any flare of hopefulness in her expression that him setting things aside means she won’t have to spend another twenty-four hours like this, with sore arms and numb hands. “I shouldn’t worry about it. Because it means you’ve got everything under control.”

Never mind that things were rarely under control, or that she often worked behind the scenes to make sure things worked properly (whether they actually did work properly once she got her mitts on them was an entirely different subject).

“I’m sorry. I got carried away. Like I usually do.”

Joker watches her in silence for a moment, waiting to see if she's going to follow that (very good) response and apology with another round of justifications. When he sees that she's apparently gained sense enough not to, he nods his approval and allows his expression to soften. "Correct. But it's all right. I know you didn't mean it..."

He scoots over and picks up her left lower leg with his bare hands, and guides it to rest across his lap. Then, with slow, deep strokes, he begins massaging her calf muscle. "And next time, you'll know to be better behaved. To just relax. Let me take care of things."

He knows Harley could kick him in the head with the other foot, no problem. He knows she could scissor him between her thighs and squeeze until his spleen plopped, also without a problem. But he touches her like the idea of either of these things happening is absurd. His strokes are calm and deliberate, and his hands, though scarred, are steady and strong against her.

"Would you like a little pie? You must be hungry, after all this time."

Harley’s ashamed of herself; what decent doctor would push a patient to talk so forcefully? Granted, she’s not his doctor and he’s not her patient anymore (she’s not even technically a doctor now) but it had been how she’d been treating the situation.

Her skills have clearly degraded horribly if she’d thought she was handling things properly. It’s truly embarrassing to be sitting here (and not because she naked and handcuffed to the bed) while he’s looking out for her needs. The way he’s massaging her calf like he knows and cares that being chained up might have left her sore and with kinks in her muscles. How he realizes how hungry she must be, especially since she’d never gotten her pizza rolls (which, speaking of, hopefully someone had turned off the oven). It brings a rush of gratitude, which logically is absurd, but illogically makes perfect sense to Harley.

Really, he must love her. It’s just difficult for him to express. Just like it’s difficult for him to talk about what he’d seen in the kitchen.

Her toes flex and Harley sighs gratefully, admitting, “I’m starving.” She wants to be the one to comfort him and rub the knots out of his shoulders, but she’s heard what he said about letting him take care of things. So she’s pretty sure that anything that doesn’t allow him control over the current situation will result in a downward spiral. “I’d appreciate the pie, if you don’t mind.”

His smile turns just the slightest bit smug when he hears that sigh. The fight's definitely over now, her anger's gone, and all that's left to do is smooth over a few of the remaining rough spots to make sure things stay as they should. And God, it feels good to win. Even against such an unworthy opponent as Harley.

Joker's warm hands work slowly up her leg, paying special attention to the tendons around her knee. He wants her nice and loose and relaxed, and in all honesty, her legs aren't awful to touch. "Oh, it would be my pleasure." He massages her for another moment, like he just can't quite bear to take his hands off of her, then gives her shin a soft pat. "More of that after a word from our sponsors."

He eases back out from under her leg, setting her ankle gently down on the bedspread, then picks up the pie plate and soda and gets to his feet. He strolls up to the head of the bed, then perches just beside her, placing the soda next to the unfortunate lamp on the bedside table.

"It occurs to me: I can't even recall the last time we played Feed the Harley." He spears a bite of pie with the fork and brings it to her lips. "I really have neglected you as of late, haven't I?"

Well, Harley wouldn’t quite say he’s been neglecting her, even if she hadn’t been treading carefully. But, then again, it doesn’t take much for her to feel neglected, both justifiably and unjustifiably. In truth, she thinks she could wrap herself up in every last bit of his attention and not have any problem with it at all. In reality, this sort of affection from him is less common than she’d like.

It’s more common on the rough nights she can sense something’s wrong when he wakes up and pulls her into his arms. Those times, normally chatty Harley holds back from saying anything at all, afraid it’ll snap him out of whatever’s actually allowing him to show even the slightest, most subtle hint of vulnerability. And she rarely falls back to sleep for hours after, wanting to savor and not miss it.

Obediently, she opens her mouth to take the offered bite of pie, making sure to chew and swallow before saying anything. “I know you’re busy.” Not that that usually keeps Harley from demanding attention. If anything, it typically has her acting out more. The whole “even bad attention is attention” schtick. But just like she’s not thinking of squeezing him until his organs burst, like he clearly knows she can, she’s actually doing her best to avoid a fight.

“This isn’t Gotham; no one knows who you are…” Which Harley trails off in the middle of saying and winces. “But that’s just because you haven’t been here long enough.” That’s added quickly, like she’s expecting a bad reaction to the statement that no one knows who he is. And even more quickly keeps going with, “Do you think you’ll come to bed tonight?” Or, rather, early that morning.

Harley isn’t vocalizing it, but she can tell the night’s taken its toll on him, that this would be the sort of night he’d take a handful of sleeping pills so he could get a good night’s rest if he thought he could get away with it. And, because of that, she’s also fine taking the “blame” for wanting him to come to bed under the guise that she needs him there so she can rest if it’ll make him feel better. Stronger. Not weak. “I can never fall asleep when you’re not here.”

There are few times when Joker would describe Harley as lovely, but the word springs to his mind now. When she's like this--obedient, careful, and sweet--she's almost a pleasure to look at. She drives him bonkers in the bad way most of the time, but right now? Right now, he's surprised to discover he doesn't hate spending this moment with her at all.

He catches that almost-slip of hers--no one knows who you are, please!--but she's so quick to make amends that all right, fine, he can overlook it. She's not trying to antagonize him; she's just hungry and worn out and talking foolishly. Besides: he'll straighten out the ignorance of the people here soon enough.

Really, he should be working on that right now. But he's tired, and it's been a heckuva day, and the thought of sitting down and trying to hash out fine details right now is too awful to bear. Especially when Harley's asking him so respectfully to join her.

For the first time since returning home tonight, Joker lets his gaze drop from her face to the figure beneath, admiring the curves and strong gymnast muscles that make her his Harley. Lovely, yes. That's precisely the word.

He sets the plate down on the side table and nods, his voice turning softer and lower. "Tonight, Pumpkin? I think I just might." One hand dips into his trouser pocket and emerges with the key to her handcuffs. He dangles it from his fingertips, letting her see that it's so near, then places it just out of her reach on the other side of the busted lamp. With enough contorting and pain, she might manage to get it with her feet. But he doubts she'll have the opportunity.

"Once you've had the rest of your supper, that is." He picks up the remaining half-slice of pie, holding it by the sturdy back crust, and kneels beside her on the bed. Placing the pie directly on his bare palm, Joker offers it up to her, holding his hand steady just below her mouth. He knows she'll have trouble; it's a tricky and mildly humiliating way to eat. But he also knows she can manage it...if she's hungry enough. As far as punishments for her poor behavior go, this one is about as gentle as they come.

His other hand reaches for her hair, stroking the loose wisps back from her face with unusual tenderness. "Go ahead."

She knows this display is meant to solidify that she knows where her place is; she also knows that he could have come up with a lot worse if he’d wanted to. Though, for a second, Harley actually wonders if it’s a bad thing that he didn’t feel the need to put more thought into a punishment for the way she’d behaved. He’s either being truly kind or he just doesn’t give enough of a shit to come up with something only he could imagine.

She’d really rather not contemplate that.

Instead, she finds herself flushing with pleasure as his eyes roam lower than her face. Not out of embarrassment. Hell, embarrassment has long since left the station and gone off the rails somewhere around Nofucksgivenville. This is hardly the most compromising position she’s found herself in in front of him. So not out of embarrassment but out of pleasure that his expression indicates at least some level of admiration. It’s rare enough for him to look at her like this — hell, it’s rare enough for him to look at her like she’s a human being at all — which makes it a real treat.

Her eyes only flick to the side for a fraction of a second when he takes out the keys and puts them in a place that she’s clearly not meant to reach without a struggle.

What makes her truly happy, though, is his concession that he just might join her in bed that night. It’s not a promise, of course, and, besides, how much of what he ever says is a promise anyway? But it’s close enough to one to make her toes and fingers tingle with the anticipation of getting to enjoy a decent night’s sleep curled up with him. If she’s truly lucky, he’ll actually sleep for a stretch which will allow her to savor the experience for as long as possible.

“Of course, Mr. J. You’re right. I shouldn’t go to bed on an empty stomach.” Harley really wants to turn her head and kiss the hand he’s stroking her hair with; that’s far more interesting to her than the pie (and how many things are more interesting than pie?) but she also thinks it would be an awful thing to do uninvited. And she’s too relieved that this particular argument is over for now to rile things up again.

She has to crane her neck to sink her teeth into the buttery crust and tartsweet apples of the pie, and even with her flexibility it’s impossible to do without getting filling all over her mouth and chin. Maybe he’ll let her lick his fingers clean. It’s that thought that gets her through the first few bites despite the physical discomfort of having to contort herself to eat from his palm while still having her hands chained to the headboard.

“You don’t want any of it?” Harley’s both careful not to talk before she’s chewed and swallowed and to make the offer. Though she doubts he’ll answer in the affirmative.

But what kind of partner doesn’t check to make sure the other doesn’t want the last bite of pie?

She’s striking when viewed from this angle.

Even kneeling, Joker towers over the seated Harley, which gives him a crow’s-eye view of the back of her neck. He admires the jut of the vertebra at the base of it. The way her muscles and tendons move as she stretches to eat from his palm. She’s a marvelously crafted woman, a real top-shelf selection. Especially when she’s too busy eating to talk.

Her breath feels warm and humid on his palm, her lips close enough to his skin to start giving a man ideas. He thinks of her teeth snapping down on his fingers. Her tongue skating along his knuckles. She’d turn her face up to him and smile around his digits, he decides, with the pie filling smeared all over her and that wonderfully unhinged gleam in her eyes. She’s a hell of a woman, come to think of it…

His other hand tightens in her hair, getting a better grip and giving her the softest of tugs at her scalp.

“No. You finish it.” He withdraws the hand with the pie, putting an extra inch and a half between her lips and the final bit of dessert. It’s not much of a difference—she can still reach it, if she strains—but with him gripping her hair, he knows it will sting. He wants to see her suffer, just a little. To see her obediently inflict a bit of pain on herself, just for the privilege of eating from his hand like a pet.

“And remember, Harley: good girls always clean their plates.”

Harley’s a smart, driven, (formerly) successful woman. If someone had suggested five years earlier that she’d ever eat off a man’s hand to prove how well-behaved she was, Harley likely would have broken their nose. Then twisted it to make sure it really got her point across.

She’s not thinking about that right now.

What Harley’s thinking about is 1) she’s gotten the green light to lick and suck on his fingers as much as she’d like and 2) she very much wants him to think of her as a “good girl”. Perhaps even one who’s grateful that she’s being fed at all (and, to be perfectly honest, she’s kind of close to hungry enough to be grateful for this new twist on a hand pie).

Even the fact that he increases the distance and she knows her scalp will smart when she maneuvers to bridge it isn’t enough to dull the enthusiasm in her expression. Though she does make sure that the slightest hiss of breath escapes her lips when she pulls her head forward. Harley wouldn’t want him to think that he hadn’t inflicted enough pain. That wouldn’t do at all.

She makes sure to drag her upper teeth across his palm as she finishes off the pie, a playful tit for tat meant to let him know that, no, really, I’m done being difficult and trying to boss you around and I’ve definitely learned my lesson, before shifting slightly. Harley has to ignore the ache in her shoulders, that’s more left over from twisting this way and that to try to get out of the cuffs earlier than any contortionist act she’s doing for, as she shifts to be able to bend further forward and capture his index finger between her teeth, scraping their way down to the knuckle just so she can lick and suck her way back up, catching stray crumbs and dropped pie filling as she goes.

It’s meticulous, slow-paced work that Harley repeats on his other three fingers before moving on to his thumb. Some people might look at his hands and see a metaphorical minefield, or only be able to view them as instruments of horror and destruction. Harley knows better, though: they’re precise instruments that need to be cared for and tended to. And, if he’s going to allow her the pleasure of being the one to do those things, she’s going to make sure she does so perfectly.

By and large, Joker likes who he is. He's a star. He's a nightmare. He’s brilliant, fearless, ruthless, and always, always in control. He is, in short, exactly who he wants to be.

Except when he's with her.

She has a sneaky, nasty way of weaseling past his defenses and making him feel things he’s not supposed to feel. She knows how to slip past his mental barricades and set entire columns of day-glo dominos into chaotic, spiraling falls. She turns his own body and heart and brain against him; she makes him do and feel and think things that don’t mesh at all with his sense of who he is.

He despises her for that, lovely though she is. She is a liability. A contaminant.

And she’s doing it again right now. She knows how personal his hands are to him, and how grotesque he knows they are, with their scars and calluses and bruised-looking nails. They’re the one part of him he prefers to keep hidden, the one part for which he feels any genuine sense of embarrassment and shame. But she sucks and licks at them like they’re as beautiful as the rest of him, drawing each of his digits in turn into the wet, greedy heat of her mouth, and Joker’s chest tightens as she works. She knows just how to do this, how to seek out the most intimate and sensitive places with her teeth and tongue. How to play him like a calliope.

His pulse quickens as she goes, and he hates her for that, too. Joker forces himself to hold still, as if that could possibly prevent her from seeing the effect she’s having on him. She sees too much, his Harley. She always has.

He waits until she’s finished, until his fingers shine from her attentions and other parts of him are screaming for similar treatment. Then carefully, neatly, he releases her hair and withdraws his hand. He’s looking at her with unmistakable desire, but he keeps his movements crisp and precise as he removes a monogrammed handkerchief from his back pocket. He takes Harley by the chin and cleans her up, dabbing away the pie filling she’s smeared across herself and trying not to let his gaze linger on her lips. They look full and wet after her treatment of him; they catch the light beautifully. God, he’d like to put them to use. To put her to use.

If only he had a rocket he could shove her into now. He’d send her far, far away. Remove her influence from his head and his loins. Blast her into the fucking stratosphere.

Instead, he finishes cleaning her and leans down to kiss her. Gently at first, then deeper and more forcefully as he stops trying to resist it. She tastes like apples and cinnamon. She’s warm and soft. She’s his. And right now, after everything he's seen and done today, Joker just doesn't have the strength in him to fight it.

Still fully clothed, and without breaking the kiss, he shifts his weight on the bed. Moves to kneel between her legs. And gently, lovingly, eases her down to the bed beneath him.

Sleep can wait.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

whatever here that’s left of me | closed

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject