Harley winced. Covering the latest of Mister J's tirades hurt more than she thought it would, but even if the purplish bruise showed through her makeup, the mask would cover it. Maybe tonight would be better.
She hated this. Hated the way his moods changed from minute to minute. Sure, he'd do nice things. Sometimes after a heist, he'd bring her a gorgeous piece of jewelry he'd swiped just for her. Or he'd tell her how important she was to his operation. How he couldn't live without her.
All the things that made her stay.
Then there were those times he raised his voice to her. Blamed her for what'd gone wrong. But he'dnever hit her. Not until last night.
The possibility had always been there, and some days he had raised his hand just to lower it a second later and turn his attention to one of the henchmen. She hated them, too, those random outbursts of violence that left her trembling in their wakes.
Ugh, so much hate. So much she hated about him. But she loved him, right? And if she loved him, she had to stay.
Didn't she?
Ivy said she didn't. But Ivy didn't understand. She didn't know what it was like to be in love.
Cursing under her breath, she adjusted the mask over her still-swollen eye. "Showtime," she whispered to herself.
Her head rang. She held a warm washcloth to her mouth, still reeling from the unexpected backhand. Tears tricked, but she didn't wipe them away. At this point, with the way her face throbbed, she barely felt them. Barely knew they were there.
In her trembling hands, she clutched her mask, as though it was her lifeline, the only object tethering her to this life she had. A life she'd loved for years and years. The excitement, the danger, the payoff….
What did it matter if this happened?
Steeling herself, she went to remove her makeup.
Mister J never removed his. How could she love someone who wouldn't let her see his true face? Ever since they met at Arkham, back in the old days when she thought she could make a difference in the lives of people like him—that stupid naivety she both loathed and missed—she'd wondered what lay beneath the makeup. What he hid from the world. And she'd sought to find out, help him stop hiding from his past, but instead he'd manipulated her, and she'd worked so hard to break him out of the facility. Dedicated her entire being to him. Changed her name, her entire identity.
For this.
She stared at the woman in the mirror, the woman with the purple bruise beneath her eye and the split lip, and wondered how the hell it'd gotten to this. How it'd gone downhill so fast. It had nothing to do with Bats. And everything to do with them.
Tears still falling, she stepped to the grate where she kept the prepaid cell phone hidden. Before she lost her nerve, she texted Ivy. Just a quick message to let her know she was okay.
She could barely move. Her body ached head-to-toe from his fury. Something had gone wrong—she couldn't even remember what; the night before was just a blur—and she'd suffered the worst of Mister J's anger. One of the henchmen, Joey maybe, had carried her into her bedroom, where she spent the night in and out of consciousness.
For the first time in a long time, she thought about her old home in Brooklyn. Frequently, her mother told her she was too much like her father, and every time she said that, Harley would scoff, say she was better than her old man, who stayed in jail more often than at home. And then there was Barry, her sweet, stupid brother. No doubt he still slept on the couch after being up half the night playing and writing music no one else would hear. It'd been years since she'd spoken to them. For all she knew, her father had died in prison.
But her mother's voice rang in her head. "Stop this nonsense, Harleen. Stop it. You're a smart girl, you're better than this." Yeah. Days like today, she didn't believe that for a moment.
When she woke again, someone was sitting on the bed with her, stroking her hair. Her left eye barely opened, and her muscles screamed even when she didn't move. "Sweet Harley," Mister J said. "Sweet, sweet Harley." He said it over and over until she relaxed under his touch. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. She never cried in front of him. He hated weakness.
"We have a plan tonight, Harls. I need you. I need to know you're on board."
"Of course, Mistah J," she mumbled. An automatic response, whether she meant it or not.
"I'm worried about you," Ivy said.
Harley shrugged. "I'm fine." Though the bruises that showed through her makeup said otherwise.
"You're not. This has been going on for too long. You can't keep letting him do this."
"It's never been bad. He yells sometimes, sure, but he loves me."
Shaking her head, mane of fire-red curls bouncing with the movement, Ivy allowed the vine of a Morning Glory to wrap itself around her arm. "There's no room for love in Joker's life, only obsessions, of which he has two: himself and the Bat."
Bloodied and broken, Harley pulled herself from the rubble of an explosion Mister J had set to kill Batman. Surely he hadn't forgotten she was in there too? Had he?
Ivy's words came back to her so strongly she thought the woman stood next to her. His obsession was Bats. Plain and simple. He didn't love her. He'd left her to die.
Dragging her useless right leg, she crawled to a safe zone and tried to assess her injuries, but coupled with the ones she'd received throughout the last couple weeks, she wasn't sure which were new injuries and which had been aggravated. She coughed from the smoke and wiped fresh blood from her mouth. Internal injuries.
She really would die here.
If by some miracle—or curse, maybe—she survived this, she would leave for good this time. She'd go reclaim the life she'd had before. Return to being starry-eyed Harleen Quinzel who could be better than her con artist father, instead of exactly like him.
A rustle of fabric sounded from her left. A figure resembling Bats, but smaller, approached her. Harley leaned her head against the brick and closed her eyes. "He left me," she said. "He left me here to die."
"I know," a woman's voice answered. "But I won't." Tenderly, Batgirl cupped her swollen cheek. "How bad is it?"
"Internal," she replied. "I'm not gonna make it."
"Like hell you're not."
For the next little while, she faded in and out. Muffled voices surrounded her, then peaceful black, until finally she regained consciousness in a hospital bed, surrounded by monitors and cool white. She'd always liked white. So clean, pure.
Her eyes focused on a shadow in the corner. Bats emerged, all ominous and stoic like usual. Didn't the guy ever smile? Mister J smiled all the time.
Even when….
The memories hurt more than the physical pain. She looked up at him without fear. She couldn't remember to be afraid.
"I need to know the Joker's plans," he said.
"Hello to you too, Bats." She struggled to sit up, to show she wasn't the broken marionette whose strings had been pulled by a man who'd never loved her, that she was strong, but his hand on her shoulder stopped her. It was that moment, that little bit of tenderness, that steeled her resolve. She'd never be Harleen again; that girl had died the moment she fell in love. No, she'd do one better. "Sit down. I'll tell ya everything you need to know."