Summery: Being the Joker and Harley Quin isn't a healthy business. Like a pair of painted vagabonds, they live in old motels and abandoned warehouses, stealing and murdering and of course always after the Bat. Series of little stories of their misadventures.

AN: so I was sitting in the hospital all day waiting to get an x ray done—it was lame but fantasizing about this story helped a bit. I thought, hmm, what would be nice? I know, a non origin story seen as those are all I've done so far.

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Rabbit Hearts.

1. You Made A Deal

There was a Motel 6 just on the east side of the Narrows boasting 'A location near many exciting attractions where new adventures await you!' That may have been true, but the red-brown carpet with suspicious looking stains attested otherwise. In one of the nearly identical rooms on the second floor there was a small window with a view of the Ihop across the street. The glass was so caked in dirt and grime it was nearly impossible to see the closest exciting attraction. There was a bed in the corner with a dark lavender bed spread, also sporting bruise like stains across its surface in addition to the over washed, gray sheets.

It wasn't sanitary, and it was pleasant, but it was home. At least for a few nights anyway. Until 'Jane Smith' turned up dead and her credit card was stopped.

The door burst open, and two young people dressed in bright violets and crimson toppled over the threshold and sprawled across the rust coloured carpet. Despite the flamboyant clothes they could have been a normal couple, until one got a look at their painted faces. Bright white face paint slowly turning gray with sweat and the melted back from around their hollow eyes. They'd painted wide red smiles on each others' faces; though his were highlighting two vicious scars tearing the corners of his mouth, while hers were simply romantic.

She was holding him up, a purple arm around her shoulder while she struggled to help him onto the bed. His leg was dragging, the muscles trying and failing to work around a blood stained gash across the leg of his violet trousers. At last she managed to throw him on the bed with an unladylike huff, and shook her platinum blonde curls out of her wide blue eyes.

As he hit the bed the Joker released a long string of curses and tried to sit up to examine his leg.

"No, don't. I'll sort it out."

He looked at her darkly, a threat looming beneath the black rimmed eyes. "You had better."

The threat was always and never there. She knew he would never kill her but he had no qualms about coming close. She thought maybe he loved her but could never quite know for sure. All she had to go on was the way he curled up around her in bed every night, like a waifish needy child. That was the only way they slept, tangled limbs with blonde heads close together on the same pillow.

Love was only a word to him, but Harley was very nearly sure he felt it for her.

She started taking off his trousers, undoing loose purple buttons and sliding them over the narrow lesion in his thigh. After prodding around the bullet wound and being slapped across the face twice for not being gentle enough she moved to the bathroom to get their toiletry bag. All the essentials. They were running low on sutures, chloroform and the Colgate Max Fresh tooth paste she liked.

Grabbing a scalpel, tweezers, peroxide, towels and sutures, Harley hurried back to the bed where the Joker was waiting with glassy eyes, his jaw clenched firmly.

"I'll be as quick as possible," she promised, swabbing his leg with peroxide and cutting a hole in a towel to make a dam. Glancing at her lover's ashen face she quickly went to the mini-bar and grabbed three small bottles of vodka. He tipped them down his throat, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as the vodka ran through his system.

Neither of them really drank. There wasn't time, there wasn't a purpose. Maybe if they stayed at a nice hotel they would order room service and gorge themselves on wine and expensive food—always going on someone else's tab. Those were times when Harley felt half way back to normal. When human interaction didn't involve a gun or a hammer to the head.

They'd clear their make up off and let the unsuspecting bell boy wheel in a lovely white cart loaded up with treats. Harley would tip and make small talk while he wandered into the bathroom, unable to really focus on having another person in the room to come up with what qualified as normal speech. Pretending to be something he wasn't was undesirable and nearly impossible. Harley was better at it. She could tip the bell boy and say thank you.

Just like how now she was looking up at him with her mouth pressed into a firm line, her big blue eyes so worried and sad, so empathetic like she was feeling the same pain he was. It made him uncomfortable having her look at him like that, like she would do anything to make the pain go away, to fix him and love him forever no matter how horrible he was to her.

Harley had many purposes no matter how often he might want to throw her off a building.

"Ready, honey?"

He tipped the last little bottle of liqueur down his throat as make shift anesthesia.

Performing surgery in a dingy hotel room was part of Harley's life at this point. Four years at medical school and three as a doctor but her brain decided to block it out and concentrate on other things: gasoline, bullets, hammers and dynamite. Somehow the motor skills for performing surgery stuck, even if it did make her feel a bit sick. Sick to know she'd felt superior to him at one point. The sight of blood and exposed muscle was just part of the job these days.

Afterwards, Harley snuggled up next to him, he was quiet and pale and only moved his arm enough to let her lay her head on his chest. He patted her head lazily. "Good job," he croaked, his eyes slipping shut.

Harley wrapped her arms around his chest and buried her face in the emerald waist coat, noticing it still smelt of the febreeze she'd sprayed it with a few days earlier by way of dry cleaning their clothes. Just over the febreeze was the thick, noxious odor of gun powder, strangely heady and enjoyable in her sleepy state.

It was nearing dawn and Harley began to slip into sleep. She tugged on him to turn towards her in their favorite position; one leg hooked over his hip while the other slipped between his knees, messily tangling their joints together. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to his chest with one pale hand clutching a hand full of ashy blonde curls.

Harley's hair felt soft under his fingers, and he tugged at a knot until she squirmed and pressed her face deeper into his shirt. She played her part well, pretending to be normal well enough when it was needed, and doctoring him up when he was hurt; being pretty enough to be deceptive but cruel enough to kill ruthlessly.

And there was her most cruel purpose of all, he thought, still tugging at her hair even though she was ignoring it now. She trusted him completely, loved him thoroughly and would do anything he asked. The most deranged of all being how every night she curled herself around him, not questioning his irrational need to be close to her.

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Note: Just felt like writing a few little stories about them being nutso's. Drop me a review! I've got a few in the pipeline.