Finally, a story with chapters! Set in the same AU as my other Harleen Quinzell stories. TL;DR Harley and Joker in a consensual kink relationship where they truly love each other. Joker is based on animated series in voice and appearance, Harley and Poison Ivy a combo of animated series, Harley's comics, and my brain, Catwoman is New 52ish, Batman is Kevin Conroy, and everyone else is from the 60's tv show. I was inspired a bit for this story by the surprisingly well done LEGO Batman Movie, which did an insightful job analyzing the depth of Batman and the Joker's dysfunctional relationship. My other Harley one-shots give some back story, so do check them out - but it's not necessary to read them first. Enjoy! Please review if you like it.

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Chapter 1

Prologue

"Have we ordered die flowers, yet?" Mr. Freeze asked the Penguin.

"FLOWERS?" Poison Ivy screeched, throwing her arms up to shoot killer vines out. The Riddler quickly popped in front of her.

"Easy, easy, Toxicodendron," he wheedled. "We're getting those fruit carving things that only look like flowers." Ivy huffed.

"Well, all right then. We'd better be." She flounced off. Riddler whooped and winked at Mr. Freeze who breathed a sigh of relief.

"Danke schön. We were on thin ice there."

"I'll go change the order," the Penguin quacked and waddled off to find a secluded spot far away from Ivy to make his call. Upstairs, Catwoman lay on her bed stroking Isis and sniffing away tears while Harley gently rubbed her on the head.

"I can't believe he's really gone," Catwoman said softly.

"I know, Sugar," Harley replied. "When somebody's been around so long we start to think they'll be here forever." She sighed. "Mistah J is takin' it so hard, he must'a blown up twelve pedophiles already today. Get it out, though, I say. Better out than in, right?" Catwoman nodded and Isis purred.

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Six weeks later

Bruce Wayne sat alone in the dark mansion, whiskey in hand, staring through the shadowed living room into the inky black night mocking him from the unshaded windows. Alfred would have closed the curtains. Alfred… Bruce gulped his whiskey as a spasm of tears threatened to burst forth, then hurled the glass at the window. It hit the bullet-proof glass and shattered, the tiny pieces tinkling to the floor to meet their former cabinet-mates. Bruce doubled up, grabbing his hair as if the pain could stop the empty burning agony in his heart.

Then, with a disgusted cry, he flung his arm out to reach for the rest of the whiskey which he had conveniently placed on the side table. Except, it wasn't there. He swung his arm around in the dark, patting the table to see if it had fallen over. Maybe when he threw the glass? No bottle.

Bruce let out an enraged curse as he got down on the ground to grope around the floor, trying to find it. Frustrated, confused, and pissed as all hell, he grabbed the table by the legs and threw it across the room. The piano let out a jangled protest as it crashed, causing Bruce to erupt in a stream of profanity as he began kicking and punching the couch, yelling and screaming incoherent nonsense until finally, for the first time since feeling Alfred's hand go limp in his, he broke down in sobs. Collapsing on the floor, Bruce cried with the shattered, hysterical sobs of an abandoned child.

Half an hour must have gone by before he could finally move on to quiet whimpers. Bruce wiped his nose with his sleeve as he drew a shaky breath. His hand, moving back to his side, met a tissue. Bruce stiffened and whipped his head around, as if that would help in the dark.

"It's ok, Batsy, I'm here to help," he heard a quiet Brooklyn accent say gently.

"Harley?" Bruce's shocked mind began racing. How the hell had Harley Quinn broken into Wayne Manor? And, wait a minute, what the hell was she doing at Wayne Manor anyway, and good God, she had called him Batsy – he tried to spring to his feet, but the several glasses of whiskey he had downed before all the crying made him unsteady and he stumbled. Bruce reached for where he thought the couch was but he missed and was toppling over when two strong hands caught him and started steadying him.

"Take it easy, Batsy, you been drinkin' a lot tonight. That's becomin' a habit, huh?" Harley said as she wrapped an arm around his waist and started walking him to the couch. Bruce was too disoriented to protest as she got him seated, fluffing up a pillow to put behind him. Patting him kindly on the shoulder while he tried to piece together what was happening, she bounced off and returned a second later to place the box of tissues in his lap.

"Here we go," she said brightly. He felt her sit down cross-legged on the couch next to him, popping her gum. Bruce's gut finally caught up to the situation and tightened into a thousand knots.

"Harley," he said firmly.

"Yes, Batsy?" she replied sweetly.

"I. Am. Not. Batman." He hissed. "I don't know what the hell you're doing here or what you think is going on – " He paused when he heard the scratching of a pencil on paper.

"What are you doing?" he snapped.

"Takin' notes," Harley said. "Go on, Batsy, you're doin' real good."

"It's pitch black," Bruce said.

"Uh huh," said Harley, still writing.

"You can't even see to write!" Bruce sounded completely exasperated. Harley's pencil never stopped scratching.

"I'm writin' by feel," Harley said. "It's a therapist skill, we have to be able to write our notes without breakin' eye contact with our client."

"I am not your client!" Bruce yelled. "And I am NOT Batman!" Harley shuffled some papers around, pulled one out, and handed it to Bruce. He stared at it. A glow-in-the-dark chart stared back at him.

"Now you can see here, Batsy," Harley said, pointing with her pencil, "denial is one of the five stages of grief. You are right on track!"

I'm losing my mind, Bruce thought. I'm drunk and I'm grief-stricken and I'm hallucinating Harley Quinn in my living room. He jumped when Harley poked him with the pencil.

"Batsy, earth to Batsy!" she was calling. She giggled when he grabbed the pencil and snapped it.

"Anger, very good! That's another stage. Now some people think that the stages of grief are a straight line, but actually it's all jumbled and you jump back and forth and around and around –" she was pointing at the glowing chart with another pencil.

"Harley," Bruce said. He grabbed the pencil-holding hand gently this time. "Harley, stop. Just, stop. What is this? Tell me the truth. Why do you keep calling me Batsy? What are you doing here?" Harley took her hand back and sighed.

"We're all really worried about you, Batsy. Mistah J has been beside himself wonderin' if you're ok, and you haven't patrolled the city in weeks! You just sit by yourself in here in the dark, drinkin' and stuffin' it all inside and pushin' all your friends away."

"How do you know what I'm doing?" Bruce asked. "And why do you think I'm Batman?"

"Well, because you are." Harley sounded genuinely confused. "Everybody knows that." Bruce tensed.

"What do you mean, everybody knows that? Why on earth would anyone even think that?"

"Batsy, you're freakin' me out a little bit," Harley said. "Of course you're Batman. Who else in Gotham City is rich enough to have all your nifty gadgets? And we all know how traumatizin' it is for a little kid to lose their parents so violently. Plus you haven't put on the suit since Mistah Alfred died, which is very understandable… " Harley's voice got worried. "You really thought we didn't know it was you?" Bruce's voice sounded strangled.

"Batman keeps his identity a secret." Harley got perturbed.

"We thought that was just a joke…" her voice trailed off. Bruce's chest heaved.

"Everybody knows? Who's everybody?" he demanded. Harley chewed her gum thoughtfully.

"Well, I mean, everybody. All the criminals, the petty ones plus the ones in Arkham, the police force knows, Commissioner Gordon, the Gotham citizens…" Harley shrugged even though Bruce couldn't see it in the dark. "We didn't think it was really a real secret."

"If it wasn't a real secret then why was I keeping it?" Bruce exclaimed angrily.

"Well, I always figured it was so's the police wouldn't have to arrest you for bein' a vigilante if they didn't have any evidence you was Batman."

"Oh my God…" Bruce groaned. "My life is over…" He leaned his head back on the couch, rubbing his face with his hands. "I can't deal with this. Not now. Not ever."

"Now you calm down just a minute," Harley said firmly. "Helpin' you deal with Mistah Alfred's death and gettin' your life back together is exactly why I am here. Nothin' about you bein' Batman is gonna change just because you thought your secret identity was actually a secret. The whole town's always known and it's no big deal at all, so quit your worryin' about it." Bruce frowned to himself.

"Are therapists supposed to be so bossy?" he countered.

"Well, I guess you wouldn't know, seein' as how you've never seen one before," Harley said sassily. "But seriously, Batsy, me and Mistah J and the whole gang has been really worried about how depressed you've become and we're gonna help you get through this. We all know how much Mistah Alfred meant to you and I know losin' him hurts real bad."

"Yeah?" Bruce said sarcastically. "What would you know about it? You're not even a real psychologist and you're dating an abusive maniac."

"Actually," Harley said haughtily, "I am a real psychologist. I passed my state boards fair and square, just like I passed all my classes and got my degrees. I thought you were supposed to be a detective, Bats," she snarked. "I bet you haven't even read my doctoral thesis. It's very original on new methods of motivatin' criminals to reform and I guarantee you won't find another one like it on the internet. And," she continued, "me and Mistah J are in a consensual kink relationship, which you oughtta understand, bein' such a masochist yourself."

"I am not a masochist," he retorted.

"Oh really?" said Harley. "What do you call not really datin' Catwoman even though you two love each other to pieces? And hangin' up the Batsuit for six weeks when bein' out there fightin' crime would make you feel much better? But instead you're sittin' here in the dark drinkin' when you have tons of super friends who love you and would be here with you. But you won't return their calls, 'cause the mighty masochist Batman doesn't want anybody around to keep him from hurtin'." Bruce was quiet so Harley continued.

"You wanna know what I know, Batsy? What I know is that you can't deal with Mistah Alfred's death the same way you dealt with your parents dyin', 'cause Mistah Alfred ain't here to take care of you. And what I know is that you are drivin' yourself into a deep depression which is gettin' very serious." She stood up. Bruce tried not to let his tears show through in his voice.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out," he growled.

"Oh, I ain't leavin'," Harley said. "And neither are you. Mistah Freeze iced all the doors shut."

More chapters to follow! See you soon in Chapter Two!