I do not own Suicide Squad.
Trailer's freakin' me out tho.
50 Shades of Mr. J.
Her bright blue eyes fluttered open slowly.
It was quiet. Still.
She didn't know exactly where she was.
Couldn't remember how she had gotten here.
Or why.
Only that she was.
And she was.
Harleen Frances Quinzel lay stretched out flat on a cold metal surface.
Her white lab coat still draped over her starched white blouse, gray pencil skirt. Black pumps scuffed and dirty but still on her feet.
Leather strap jammed between her teeth, thick and taut.
Her feet that she realized were strapped down helpless on the table.
Just like the rest of her.
And could not move.
Her thick black glasses sat only slightly askew on her face.
Through them she saw movement in the shadows.
And turned her head slowly.
And saw him.
In all his mad glory.
Before, in Arkham, he had been tightly straitjacketed like nearly every other patient.
Bright green hair slicked back, pale face darkly curious and intent upon hers.
Dully metaled teeth.
Quiet, restrained behavior.
Full of muted remorse and sorrowful childhood stories.
But this, this was an entirely different creature altogether.
He sauntered slowly toward her, arms spread wide.
Pride radiating from his very essence.
Reddened lips, split bloodily in a broad grin.
And still that bright green hair.
His slender torso was bare, all lithe tattooed muscle and sheened sweat.
And . . .
leather?
. . . pants slung low on his hips, boots jauntily brushing the concrete floor as he approached.
"Don't recognize me, Dr. Quinzel?"
His voice was lighthearted, even jovial as he addressed her.
And she, attempting civility, addressed him as she always had.
As best as she could through the mouth restraint.
"Of course I recognize you, Mr. J."
He had claimed during their sessions to not be able to remember his name.
They, even the Batman, who always seemed to know more than he should, only knew him as The Joker.
But, she had mused, that seemed to throw into harsh light the monster he had been.
Not the reformed man he could become.
So she had chosen to attempt another tactic.
Mr. J., she always called him.
Respectful. Dignified.
And he had responded right away.
"You know, Dr. Quinzel, I have a feeling about you."
She had smiled warmly.
Be courteous and responsive to courtesy.
"Really, Mr. J.? And what is that?"
He had smiled diffidently.
"I believe in you. You strike me as different than those other doctors. I believe that if anybody can help me, make me a better version of me, it would be you."
I believe in you.
And she had restrained her smile, glowing in her chest as it was.
And responded professionally.
"Well, thank you, Mr. J. We shall see what we can do."
And now here he was.
As she had never seen him before.
Even through her sheer terror, he was beautiful.
Darkly, terrifyingly beautiful.
And she ached.
With love.
And growing fear and dread as he approached.
Nimbly lifting metal contraptions in his hands, one inexplicably gloved in protective purple rubber, as he reached the head of her confinement.
He grinned and tapped the metal experimentally together.
She saw sparks, heard the zap of electricity.
And saw the blood in his smile.
"Are you going to kill me?"
Her whisper was filled with dread and apprehension.
He paused as if savoring her frightful, helpless state.
And responded.
Cheerfully. Dismissively.
"Oh, I'm not gonna kill ya."
The casual statement did not comfort her.
Because his hungry, shark's smile had widened.
"I'm just gonna hurt ya." He paused again, relishing her blossoming panic. "Really, really bad."
She moaned as he raised the live electricity.
"But . . . why? I . . . helped you escape. I . . . I love you."
A gleam crept into his already terrifyingly winning smile.
"Because it's what I do, my dear. Because it's who I am. Your pain will bring me joy. Your screams will bring me laughter. You, my dear, will become my dancing harlequin, my girl on fire, my comedic station break."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
And then he touched the live wires to her pale, delicate collarbones.
And she found out she could move.
Jittering. Jiving. Twisting.
On the sizzling, screaming nerve endings of electric, torturous mayhem.
To the haunting sounds of his ringing laughter.
Ok, this might be all right or all wrong. I do know there are multiple origin storylines for Harley Quinn.
I also know I flipped out when I saw in the trailer, it's Harleen that he's torturing.
Hence the story. You know, so I can sleep in peace.
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