It's like a drink of cool water to kiss him now, heat merged beneath the surface, tainting all of the skin just above when she pressed closer.
It was like him, cool and composed, almost sweet in a bizarre, sociopathic way, and yet also dangerous, a spike of danger that yanks you by the chain away from him.
She steps closer, molding her fingers in dark green hair, memorizing the perfect plain of his eyes, knowing that the vastness has no bounds.
She is Harleen Quinzel, reborn as Harley Quinn, the Joker's wife as she steps closer like the world has not fallen at their feet.
She carries with her the pain of the world, the way she fled into his arms years ago, and now the joy of insanity, of a love that is unlike any other though not precisely a good one.
Harleen smiles like she's happiest, living the perfect and sweet life, as if there is not guns and knives and a bat hiding in their basement as if their kids that they'll have won't grow up to be completely insane.
She only steps back as if suddenly that's where she's supposed to be, as if suddenly her fire diminished for a moment, and then it's gone.
Harley sits up in bed, feels the bitter sting of the dream that leaves her eager for more, reminds her that they can be more, but she isn't Harleen anymore.
She stands up, knowing that even though she wants it, is forced to remember that night every time she closes her eyes for sleep, that she can't have it; she gave up that kind of future to be with the man that she's grown to love.
Harley stands, deciding that those are relics from her past, ones that she doesn't need to relive.
She used to long for a man that would love her right though she'd long since left it behind to be with a man that she loves more than she could ever be right.
Harley Quinn sees the fire that burns in the Joker's soul, feels the brunt of that pain that consumes her, makes her crave more.
She'd given up her sanity to be with him, would give it up again for his sake.
The woman that stands today, just having awoke, is not like the woman that used to treat the Joker, he'd burnt it out with that internal flame of his, left burnt marks, scars, across her from it, made her learn to love the heat of danger, to crave it.
She'd changed for him so easily even though sometimes she'd want more, other days, wonder what could make him truly see her, and yet she knew that he loved her.
He'd let her live after all, let her fall to survive, loved her through every bruise, every shock, every burn.
Harley smiled though that dream remained with her like a persistent fantasy that she couldn't shake; she'd fight for him even though she knew that he wasn't the marrying sort.