Not that there was anything wrong with that. With him, there was no room for Harleen Quinzel, the bubble-headed bottle blonde who flounced away from and quit gymnastics with aspirations to prove how very smart she was, how very capable and scholarly. With him, there was no Harleen Quinzel the college student who'd slept with her professors in desperate attempts to keep from failing her courses. There were no forged recommendation letters, there were no plagiarized papers... and best of all, there was no plan for a tell-all book, no plan to exploit the so-called 'costumed criminals' that were kept deep in the heart of Arkham Asylum (where the word 'super villain' was strictly verboten). No plan to turn her sessions with the most infamous patient in Arkham into a million dollars and a literary tour.
Harleen Quinzel had simply ceased to exist, and so had any mistakes Harleen had made.
Because Harley Quinn was not Harleen Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel had wanted to be rich and famous, loved by everyone, given the attention she thought she deserved. Harley Quinn lived for one thing, and one thing only: her Puddin's happiness. Making him laugh, making him comfortable, making him dinner (badly, but she tried). She allowed him to take out his anger on her when he needed to vent on something, and she eagerly welcomed any itches he needed scratched.
Harley loved him so much that there was no room for any ambition of her own except to be close to him and make him the happiest man in the whole, wide world... whatever that meant, and whatever the cost to her.
And he was so generous. He gave her things. He crafted roles for her in his elaborate, theatrical schemes. He occasionally indulged her when she pounced on him, smearing him with grease paint and sweat and pheromones, her gloved hands wriggling their way under his neatly-tucked in silk shirts, under the waistband of the shockingly purple Italian wool suit trousers.
He filled every inch of her mind... but she was aware of it, welcomed it, basked in it.
And he knew it.
"Tell me something, Harleykins," he drawled lazily. He lay on his desk in purple wool vest and electric green shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Drifts of paper covered the floor, each page filled with tiny, cramped handwriting and diagrams of complicated contraptions ...and doodles of a man in a bat suit being murdered in gruesome ways. Harley lay on the carpet among the sheets and sheets and sheets of paper, not for any complicated psychological reason, but... she was comfy where she was, and she liked being with him. And he was in a pleasantly mellow mood (for him). He'd been silent and thoughtful for the past half hour and Harley had just lay looking at the ceiling and listening to him breathe.
She sat up from her repose on the floor immediately, crossing her legs and putting her chin in her hands; her gaze was adoring. "Like what, Puddin' Pop?" she asked.
He grimaced theatrically at the pet name, but forged on anyway. A white hand pushed emerald green hair away from his forehead and he made a hmm sound in his throat, as if choosing words carefully.
"Why, exactly, do you suppose I haven't killed you yet?" His tone was offhand.
She sometimes wondered the same thing when he was standing over her, screaming and flashing his eyes, backhanding her for forgetting to shine his wingtips or missing a shot at the Boy Blunder or getting him the wrong kind of pie. So many mistakes all the time, as he was quick to remind her. But every other henchman of the Joker's got one strike, and then met a grisly end.
Harley always came up smiling, though.
"Ya need me, Puddin'," she ventured.
His eyes slowly moved from the ceiling to her face, and his stare was cool. "Is that what you think? Try again, Harley girl."
Her lower lip wobbled for a second, but she pulled herself together and thought about it. She looked back at him and tried to see herself from his point of view. Of course she knew he was capable without her... he was already the most prolific criminal since Al Capone when she met him. No, he didn't need her; he wanted her. A delicious shiver went down her spine.
"You know I need you, is that it?" she said, slowly.
He snorted and reached a hand down to tug her hair. Not too hard, but not gently either. "You're a walking cliche, Harley."
She sighed, though her heart raced. She had an idea of how he saw her, from the admiring glances she sometimes caught him giving her when she was all dolled up in her trademark red and black. There was no Harley Quinn without the Joker, and she knew she must represent to him something other than just a lover.
Harleen Quinzel had come to him a blank canvas, and had emerged at the end his greatest work. Vastly improved anyway, she thought. He'd created for himself the perfect audience; one who got the joke more than anyone else ever had or had bothered to try. The thought both enthralled and excited her and (in a very small, closed-off part of her mind that she didn't often consult) revolted and horrified her.
He sat up and stretched his lithe body, spine popping, then looked down at her. "My dear girl, when are you going to understand that being a syrupy romantic isn't necessarily a virtue?" He didn't seem to expect an answer and frowned, staring at a point on the wall over her head. He sighed.
"Oh, Puddy Tat," she crooned, kneeling so her chin was level with the top of his desk, "What can I do? Tell me what I can do..." and she reached for him.
He leaned away from her and swung his legs around to the other side of the desk and stood, kicking some of the paper out of the way of his feet. The entire desk sat between them now, and she flopped back onto the floor with a pout. "But Mista-"
"Don't be petulant," he chided absently. She bit her bottom lip and watched him, her heart beating faster still. She didn't like him like this; she couldn't read him at all. She didn't know whether to gather him into her arms or protect her ribs and head.
Gradually, his bright green gaze lowered until it settled on her once again, and she did her best to look back. It tired him when she acted shy or afraid in a situation like this, and she didn't want him to roll his eyes and walk out of the room on her. Slowly his lips parted in a grin, and he patted the desktop. "C'mere, kiddo."
She emitted a happy squeak and all but leaped onto the desk. She spread her arms open wide and he graciously bent into her embrace, kissing her deeply. It was funny, though; he still seemed distracted. It was so unlike him; usually his attention was raptly focused on whatever he happened to be interested in.
His hands moved delicately to her shoulders and she shivered delightedly, and then his grip tightened. Fragile bones ground together and she squealed. "Harley." His voice was very, very quiet, and she strained to hear. "Do you somehow think you're more special than everyone else? Do you feel safe with me?" he squeezed her shoulders harder and she winced. "Do you think, in that dizzy little blonde noggin of yours, that I wouldn't do it?"
She knew he would, someday, and told him so.
A smug expression flickered briefly over his face, and he let go and shoved her away roughly. A hand drifted up to his brow and stayed there, so he looked like Lawrence Olivier with the colors all wrong. "And you're still here?"
"Always!"
He cocked his head. "Why?"
There was no hesitation: "Because life with you is always fun." She paused, and looked at the ceiling for a second, reaching up with one hand to rub her sore shoulder. "And I always liked guys with a sense of humor."
He raised an eyebrow.
"...And nobody in the whole world is funnier than you, Puddin!" she hastened to add.
He shrugged extravagantly, self-satisfied as a cat. "Comedy, my dear, is the last refuge of the nonconformist mind."
Her racing heart started slowing down, and she giggled. "Non-conformist, huh? Is that how Doctor Leland puts it?" She lowered her voice dramatically in a parody of the psychiatrist who had once been her mentor, "My official diagnosis of the patient is that he's a non-conformist. I'm sure he'll grow out of it."
He smirked. "You know as well as I do that some of history's most famous philosophers were considered completely insane."
"'Most famous' isn't the same as 'greatest'," she pointed out.
He chuckled and ruffled her hair. "Truer words were never spoken, cupcake."
She beamed and hugged herself, and then daringly wrapped her arms around his waist.
He curled his lip and raised his hand, and she screwed her eyes shut. When no blow came, she cracked an eye open and saw him glaring at her furiously... And she felt the blood drain from her face. Her mind raced frantically; what had she done?
Then she realized: she had made him second-guess himself. Which meant... he ...cared?
A smile bloomed across her face just in time for him to smack it off again. And again. And again. A thin noise came from her each time he hit her, but she understood why he was doing it and took it as best she could: he was angry with himself. Maybe that was why he had started the bizarre line of questioning. Why do you suppose I haven't killed you yet? Do you think you're more special than everyone else? Why are you still here? And his firm assertion that of course he didn't need her.
It was because he felt something?
And here she'd always thought he was doing her the favor, letting her stay.
"How you doing, Pumpkin Pie?" he asked her gently, looking at her wide-eyed, flushed face with shining green eyes. He raised a hand and pushed firmly against her mouth, where her flesh had already begun to swell and fresh bruises had already begun to show themselves.
She whimpered, but smiled at him with teeth stained pink with her blood.
He stared at her intently, his eyes scanning her face, her hitching chest, her clenched hands... and waved a hand dismissively. "Stop that. You're all right."
She exhaled raggedly. "There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt," she quoted.
"Very thin," he agreed.
"I love you," she told him.
"Of course you do," he said, and tipped an imaginary hat to her.