She's So Heavy
"You're my doll, rock and roll, feel the glamour and pain
Kiss me here, touch me there, hanky-panky…
Make me walk, make me talk, do whatever you please
I can act like a star, I can beg on my knees…
…Come on, Barbie, let's go party…."
- "Barbie Girl," Aqua
It was driving him crazy. Com-plete-ly crazy.
That was a good one, wasn't it? Driving him crrrr-a-zy. Well. Crazy was a relative term, he had figured that one out a long time ago. There was crazy like, "that skateboarding stunt he just did was crazy, man!" or there was crazy like, "you're crazy for selling that for so little," or the alternative, "you're crazy for paying that much!" Then there was crazy like that Australian guy with the snakes and crocodiles and stuff. There was crazy like the guys that jumped out of planes for fun. Crazy like berserk Viking warriors, crazy like suicidal terrorists, crazy like '80s rock stars, crazy like a fox – wasn't that a commercial, or something? Crazy like the annoying frog ringtone – and as a side thought, crazy like a person would be after listening to it for too long… crazy like comic book villains, crazy like the old man in the trench coat that sits on the park bench every day…. Then there was the kind of crazy they locked you up for.
He wasn't sure, but he was willing to bet he was already past that. Was there a name for that level of crazy? Probably.
He hadn't really been crazy up until now. No, no… no. They had thought he was, of course. But he hadn't been. She had seen that right away. She—
Damn it, he was thinking about her again.
Billy jumped out of the way as the Joker threw his AK47 haphazardly into the van; the Clown Prince himself climbed in after it, slamming the back doors so forcefully that the windows rattled. Billy slipped his clown mask off but kept his eyes to the ground as he motioned to the big guy in the driver's seat. They had recruited him, along with a handful of others, a day or so after the Joker had reenlisted him and commandeered Dan's Corvette. They had been holed up for weeks in an empty comedy club waiting for the Boss's plan to develop. There had been a few skirmishes in those weeks, but the Batman had given them all a proper beating this time, and the device the Boss had been working on for the past month had been crushed into metal shavings under the Batpod's tires; the Joker was bleeding, tired, angry, frustrated, and apparently distracted by something in his own head. He wasn't talking much at all. Clearly, not in the safest of moods. Someone was going to get it when they got back to the club. Billy just hoped it wasn't going to be him or Dan. He watched as the Joker flopped down in the nearest seat, lying down on his back and squeezing his eyes shut, digging his fists into his painted forehead. The Boss was mumbling to himself, something mostly incoherent, but part of it… sounded like… Beatles lyrics? "…feel my finger on your trigger… happiness is a warm gun, mama… bang bang, shoot shoot…." Yep, definitely Beatles lyrics. He kept repeating the "bang bang, shoot shoot" bits – alternately singing, mumbling, and laughing eerily to himself. Billy shivered; angry Joker didn't scare him, amused Joker didn't freak him out, screaming Joker didn't really affect him. But creepy singing Joker made him want to piss his pants. He tossed his hair out of his eyes, pushed his clown mask back on, and tried to look at anything but the Boss.
Wrong, wrong… it was all… wrong! The Joker dug his knuckles into his forehead as the van lurched into motion. His whole thought process was messed up. Why was he thinking… about… her? He growled in frustration. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. Harley was a toy, a life-sized doll he had dressed up and turned into his own personal court jester. She fetched and carried, she kept the kitchen stocked for the goons, she served as daily proof of what he could do to someone's mind… and she kept the sheets warm for him. She was mostly an annoyance, occasionally an amusement. She wanted him desperately, oh, that was the fun part. Watching her squirm. Lying next to her at night and completely ignoring her, making her want him even more and not giving in an inch. Giving her a quick smooch and then walking away. Touching her in aaaaalll the right places, letting her get her tongue halfway down his throat and then throwing her down and ignoring her for the rest of the day, leaving her begging for more. Oh, she never complained. That was what really cracked him up. She probably thought he was just afraid, poor baby, afraid of being intimate with someone, afraid of showing too much of himself after whatever mysterious emotional trauma he had been through. It was a load of crap, but he let her believe it. As long as he held something over her head, he controlled her mind. That was how it was supposed to work.
And that's why it was driving him crazy.
Because now it didn't work quite that way. Now… she had a leg up on him. Ooh, that was an interesting choice of words. But now she had leverage; she didn't know she had anything on him, but she did. Because now… now he wanted her. Funny little world, hmm? He wanted her, and it was driving him crazy. He wasn't supposed to feel this way. He was a cat playing with a mouse. A month, he had held out, and now all of a sudden all he could think about was getting little Harleykins out of that dumb clown suit and into bed, bang bang shoot shoot, as the song went. What had changed?
Oh, he knew what had changed. Today was different. Today he was in need of a… distraction, something else to direct his attention to, something else besides the Bat-man and the plot he had just ruined. It had been a good one, too. Rig up a device that would send a massive electromagnetic pulse shooting through Gotham, take out the entire electrical grid. Traffic lights go out and cars crash; trams shut down; hospitals lose power and thus patients; TVs stop working, oh heavens, no; computers shut down, no games, no internet, oh God, what is a city to do? There would be panic, mayhem, chaos, utter confusion without their precious appliances and conveniences and social networking sites, ooh, he could almost taste it.
Of course, the Bat had to show up and crash the party. As usual. Working with a crew full of new recruits wasn't a cakewalk either – Billy was the only clown in the bunch who had a clue what was going on. Batman had taken full advantage of that. And along with giving the Joker a bloody nose, a bruised jaw, a couple slashes from his little Bat-blades, and possibly a cracked rib, he had destroyed the EM device that had taken the Joker weeks to perfect, nearly the whole time since he'd been out of Arkham. Now that hurt, having his masterpiece run over by a glorified motorcycle. Well… he supposed maybe he could just go home and play with his other creation. Maybe it was a sign of weakness… but today was different. Today he was just too tired and angry to care. He needed a distraction. Somewhere to funnel his disgust and his frustration. Something he knew he could do, and do right.
Hmph.
Rationalizing didn't make him any less angry with himself.
Harley played with the knob on the radio, trying to find a volume that suited her. J had been gone all day, and he had taken all his clowns with him, leaving the hideout completely empty – except for her. For some reason the Joker had refused to let her go along on this particular adventure. Whatever. She had spent the day acting like she always had back in high school when she had the house to herself; eating whatever and whenever she wanted, playing loud music, dancing around in her underwear while singing into a hairbrush…. There had been several passable renditions of *NSYNC and Backstreet Boys numbers, a little Shania Twain, and of course the obligatory "Old Time Rock and Roll," ala Tom Cruise – she had put on one of J's shirts and a pair of his socks and had done the slide-in entrance onto the hardwood stage of the abandoned comedy club they were holed up in. After she was finished, of course, the locale inspired her, and she spent the next half hour on the stage delivering stand-up routines to an imaginary audience and a room full of broken tables and chairs.
The Factory, once a hip, urban stand-up club furnished with grungy metal fixtures and decorated with humorous graffiti caricatures, had been owned and operated by a guy named Ryder Wolfe, a figure apparently linked with the Joker's mysterious past – J called him "an old friend," which meant either he was on the Joker's hit list, or he owed the Clown a big favor… like the use of his property as a hideout. The club had been standing empty for months now, ever since Wolfe had packed up and gone home to Ohio to take care of his ailing mother, and its location and state of abandon had made it the perfect choice for the Joker's new base of operations. The clowns had taken up residence in the various dressing rooms, there was a kitchen in (mostly) working order, and Ryder's apartment upstairs, although dusty, was perfect as a private suite for Mistah J and his little Harlequin. Harley sat there now, adjusting the volume on the radio and frowning at the TV that didn't work. That was the problem with a life of crime, she reflected absently – you always ended up hiding in a place where the utilities had been shut off and the TVs and refrigerators and showers didn't work. Speaking of showers…
Harley wandered over to the vanity mirror and brushed away some of the dust; she stuck out her tongue at the face that looked back at her. Ugh, her hair was a mess, having spent several unwashed days tucked inside the jester hat, and her face was covered in the faded and smeared remnants of week-old greasepaint. She felt grimy. She wanted a nice bubble bath. Maybe if the Joker stayed out all day, she could sneak off to one of her friends' houses, Mindy or Erinn's place, maybe…. Harley walked back over to the bed and peeked at the clock on the radio: no, J would be home any time now. And boy would he be ticked off if he came back and found out she'd run off to take a bubble bath. She sighed, slipping off the Joker's shirt and socks and changing the radio station. The '90s channel she'd been listening to had faded out to static, and now the only thing coming in was an Oldies station; she recognized the guitar solo from Cream's "Sunshine of Your Love" and left it alone, wandering back to the mirror to examine herself. The black lace undies were fitting a little looser lately – with all the running and sneaking and criminal activity she was starting to lose some weight, getting back to the gymnast's figure she'd had in college. She'd give this lifestyle one thing – it kept you in shape.
BANG! Harley couldn't help squeaking in fear as the door burst open behind her. She whirled around. The Joker stood framed in the doorway, glaring at her intensely, the dried blood caked on his face making his painted grin more menacing than usual. Harley breathed a sigh of relief and tried to run her fingers through her tangled hair.
"Oh, J, it's you. So how'd it go? Today? With the… electric thingy… and…." She trailed off; the Joker wasn't answering, and that was never a good sign. He took a few steps into the room, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. Obviously upset, Harley thought, and she took an instinctive step backward. "So, I… take it the plan didn't work out, huh?" The Joker removed his purple trench coat without speaking, staring at her with eyes blazing with anger. "The Batman? He showed up again, didn't he?" Again, the only response she received was an irritated glare as the Joker threw off his pinstriped suit coat and started unbuttoning his vest. Harley could clearly make out the dirty print of Batman's boot on the green fabric. "God, J, you got kicked right across the ribs!" she gasped, temporarily forgetting the dangerous mood he was in as she moved closer to examine him. "Here, lemme help… and I gotta get something and get that blood off your face—" The Joker pushed her roughly aside as she reached for him, and Harley realized that a sound resembling a growl was bubbling up from his throat as he pulled off the vest himself. He wadded it up angrily and pitched it into the corner like a dirty green baseball, kicking first one shoe and then the other off on top of it. Harley watched him cautiously as he flicked the suspenders off his shoulders and began tugging at his necktie; if he kept pulling at it like that, he was going to tear it, she thought in a momentary flash of motherliness. Slowly she eased her hands up toward the knot. "Here, c'm'on… J, let me— J, you're gonna rip it!" Her voice had risen a bit, and the Joker dropped his hands in frustration, eyes boring into her with controlled rage as she undid the tie. "These things are custom made, ya know," she was saying, trying not to make eye contact. "Can't just go and steal another one if you trash this one; you'd have to have another one made, and that's an awful lot of trouble just for a tie. Ooh, it's got blood on it, I hope it comes out… geez, J, how much did you bleed? I don't see any— oh, he got you on the nose… God, it's not broken, is it? Does it hurt? There, the tie's untied; d'ya need anything for your nose? I've got some—"
"Harley," the Joker rasped, and she looked up, wide-eyed. "Shut… up," he growled, yanking off the necktie and wrapping it around his hand tensely. Harley took a couple steps back, stopping as she felt the dresser behind her. The Joker glared at her for a moment before tossing the tie in her general direction and turning his attention to unbuttoning his shirt. When he spoke again, his words were broken into phrases that matched the rhythm of his fingers as they worked over the buttons. "You're not… going to talk… tonight. No …no, no. No one's… gonna talk…. Not tonight." He tossed the hexagon-patterned shirt onto the dresser behind Harley; then, slowly, he pulled a short-bladed knife out of his pants pocket, pulling the trousers off in the same deft movement and kicking them out of the way. Harley had the briefest notion that she might be in danger, but the sight of the Joker stripped to his boxers and striding toward her purposefully was enough to override all her fear circuits.
Without warning, he lunged toward her, taking her head in his hands and pressing the knife against her face. It was an action he had always reserved for his victims, and the Joker watched with a sort of dark amusement as a wave of unaccustomed terror flickered across Harley's face. She was watching the knife blade out of the corner of her eye, and he licked his lips, savoring the sensation as her fear seeped into his veins like a drug. "Done talking?" he murmured, and Harley nodded gingerly against the knife, still watching it warily. "You see, my little Har-le-quin," he continued in a sing-song voice, "I don't need… talking. I don't need… conversation… tonight. I need… something that doesn't require a lot of thinking. I need… a lift… for my poor, battered ego. I need… a distraction." He watched her face as she processed his words, her eyes darting from the knife to him and then stopping, brows furrowed in thought. He nodded as if answering her unspoken questions. "Now. I think… that this is going to be the perfect job for you, I really do. 'Cause, you see, I'm gonna give you what you've been wanting, aaaaallll this time." Harley made some sort of noise in response, and the Joker made a face, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "No, no, no, don't be coy, Doc. I know... I've seen that hungry look in your eyes." At this, he chuckled darkly, wiggling the knife so the tip danced in front of her vision. "You… want… a little more… action… in this movie, hmm? A little more… umph, a little more pizzazz! Well you're gonna get it. You're… gonna… get… it…. But you're gonna get it my way." For a moment he simply stared at her. Harley watched the knife intently until the Joker slowly lowered the blade and deposited it on the dresser behind her. She wanted to feel excited at his words, but the only thing she felt at the moment was relief.
The next thing she felt was the wall as it impacted her forehead.
The Joker walked slowly over to the corner where he had flung her and reached down, dragging her up by her neck into a standing position. He shoved her roughly into the wall again, his left hand pinning her arm in place and his right palm against her cheek, pressing her face against the plaster. He leaned in to whisper in her ear, ignoring her efforts to free herself.
"Ready or not… here… I… come!" he growled, then he buried his face in her neck, relishing the feel of her pulse pounding against his lips. He wasn't quite sure if she was terrified or excited. Both would be nice. That would make everything sooo much more interesting. He dropped his hand from her face to hold her other arm still; he could hear her gasp as he freed her head, and he just knew she was about to start talking again. Well, he would put a stop to that nonsense. Before she could speak he jerked his head up from her throat and occupied her lips with a rough kiss. Her head bounced off the wall with the force of his motion, and he heard her make some noise down in her throat. But it wasn't a sound of protest…. The Joker almost choked on his own breath. Dear God, she was laughing. Giggling, even. He growled in disgust; that giggle always made her sound like a little kid – and he had no intentions of feeling like he was screwing a little kid. He forced her head back, biting down hard on her lip and grinding her head against the wall. This time she whimpered a little. Ah, that was more like it. Still excited… but scared enough to keep quiet. Exactly the cocktail of emotions that always got him going, that always set him off, faster than a speeding bullet, as the saying went. It was like crisscrossing blow and heroin – and he'd done enough of that back in the day to do some comparing. Drugs didn't impress him anymore. Liquor left behind an insignificant buzz; crack just made him jittery; but adrenaline…. oh-ho, the smell of adrenaline lit him up like a Roman candle, exploded like firecrackers in his brain. He slid down Harley's neck, dragging his nose along her skin as if snorting an invisible line, leaving behind streaks of red and white greasepaint to mark his path. Her terror was almost tangible, a layer hanging in the air just above her skin, and floating through it, heavier and less noticeable, a hot wave of desire. The Joker could almost taste them, mixing in his throat, popping and crackling and sizzling on his tongue.
"J…" Harley whispered. The Joker grunted angrily into her chest; there was an icy ringing sound swelling in his ears, throbbing like a cheese grater against his eardrum, and her voice was floating down to him from some distant, echoing place that he wanted very much to ignore. He let his face creep down her chest, lips making urgent whispering gestures against her skin, sliding down until his painted face was buried in the soft pillow of her breasts. "J…" she breathed again. The Joker growled angrily and sunk his teeth into her flesh; the sharp gasp of pain he heard in reply told him his point had been taken. She tried to jerk away from him, regain some control, but there was nowhere for her to go except closer to the wall; the Joker felt her move and laughed irritably into her chest.
"Hmph," he chuckled, jerking his face back up level with hers. Harley instinctively tried to duck away again; his dark eyes were staring at her, bright and mirthless, from deep within black rings that seemed to grow and surround her, filling her vision. It was like staring down a pair of deep wells into water lit by moonlight, inhabited by twin monsters ready to surface and claw you down into the depths. It was like staring down the barrel of a shotgun and watching the bullets fire in slow motion. The eyes narrowed as the Joker leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against hers and shoving her head into the wall again. She tried to wiggle free, but his forehead felt like a vise against her skull. "Now, now," he rasped, "hush and take your medicine… like a good little girl, hmm?" His voice was teasing, soothing, but his eyes were acidic. "I thought… I was giving you… what you wanted. No? Well. No. Need. To. Worry. It's just the pre-show. We haven't even gotten to the main event! Now…" His eyes began wandering up and down her face, bouncing rapidly around with a sort of manic energy. "Where… to go… from… here? Soooo many dark roads…." The last word descended into an animalistic growl, and Harley caught a glimpse of teeth bared in a snarling grin as he flung her sideways onto the bed. There was a sickening crack as her head bounced against the radio, which rolled off its perch on the pillow and continued to blast a muffled guitar solo into the mattress. Harley felt woozy. She tried to crawl to the far side of the bed; if she could get off that side… if she could… if… what had she been trying to think of? It all seemed a bit fuzzy. She gasped as the Joker's hands wrapped around her ankles, dirty fingernails digging in deep, leaving behind ten little red smiles in her porcelain skin like a morbid signature. Before her head could clear completely, he had jerked her toward him, flipping her over in the same motion, and climbed on top of her, straddling her waist and catching her flailing arms with practiced ease.
"Hey," he growled, dark eyebrows crashing together sharply. "Hey! Shh… hey, shh! Stop mov— Hey!" He jerked her to the side, trying to pull her into the correct position on the mattress. The radio was in his way; he glared at it for a moment, then flung it off the bed contemptuously. It hit the hardwood closet door and shattered, ejecting its batteries and cutting off Iron Butterfly in mid-organ solo. Silence dropped over them like a thick blanket, broken only by the waning sounds of Harley's struggle, her whimpers trailing off and the scrape of her heels against the sheets dying down to a whisper. The Joker shifted his weight until he was sure she couldn't wriggle free and then closed his eyes, savoring the quiet sound of her submission. "Done?" he grumbled. When Harley murmured a nervous mm-hmm, he slid his hand over her mouth to make sure. "Good. Now…."
Harley watched the Joker's eyes as they wandered around the room, his nose wrinkling up as he decided on his next move. She sincerely hoped that move would be off of her. The thought struck her with a painful irony; up until now, she would have given one of her limbs to be where she was, stretched out on a pile of sheets with the Joker's weight pressing down on her hips. But this wasn't how she'd pictured it. His thighs felt like beams of hot iron squeezing against her pelvis. She could barely breathe against his hand, and every time she managed to drag in a whiff of air, the thick residue of greasepaint on his fingers nearly made her choke. For the first time since the start of their partnership, Harley got a real sense of how thickly the grit and dirt lay on his skin. She could smell his breath, his sweat, the flat, sticky odor of the old paint on his face, and the lingering gasoline fumes in his hair. And she was terrified.
"…us to …consummate… this little venture," the Joker was saying, as her attention drifted in and out. "Seal the deal, so to speak. How was it the old preacher-man used to put it? 'The two shall become one flesh?' Now. The way I see it, that means you're mine." He paused. "In fact, let's make it official." Harley felt the Joker shift his weight as he let go of her arms to reach across her, to the nightstand. He took something and brought it up in front of her face. She froze. It was a knife. The Knife. Cupid. Her eyes snapped up to meet his. He was grinning.
"Now," he began, pressing the blade against her collar bone. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. If you're a good little girl and keep it shut, it can stay that way. If you don't…" he simpered, angling his head and raising his eyebrows teasingly, "I'll slit your throat. Mm?" Harley had to blink a couple of times to recover her focus before nodding gently. The Joker mimicked her nod as he slid his hand off her mouth. Wrinkling his nose again, he pinned her right arm between his leg and her own body; then he took her left hand, almost gently, and spread her fingers. Their eyes met for a second as he began bouncing the knife in his hand. "This'll only take a minute," he smiled, beginning to hum something that Harley vaguely recognized as "Barbie Girl." What a stupid thing to be humming at a time like this, she grumbled internally. Why on earth would h— Then she screamed as he dug the blade into her palm.
The pain was white hot, and all the more blinding for its unexpectedness. She moaned again, and then quickly bit her lip, afraid he might make good on his promise to stifle any more noise permanently. But the Joker didn't even seem to notice. He was cutting away merrily, stopping to survey his work occasionally like an artist with his sculpting knife. What was he carving? Harley could feel hot blood running down her wrist, dripping off her elbow onto the sheets; she could feel her pulse pounding in her temples, feel her lip going numb from the pressure of her teeth; and she could also feel every detail of the Joker's legs and crotch as they pressed her against the bed. That brought about a surprising sensation that, for a moment, blocked out the pain – a deep wave of arousal. He was getting hard. The fact that he was doing so because he was enjoying her suffering, she pushed out of her mind. She was better off focusing on the throbbing in his shorts than the throbbing in her palm.
"TA-DA!" the Joker exclaimed with a little growl of excitement, tossing the knife back onto the nightstand. "It's… official." He twisted her wrist around backwards, forcing her to look at the bloody gashes on her hand. Frightened, she glanced at her palm. Stretching the entire width of her hand was a jagged letter "J," with the top running from index to pinkie fingers and the hook curving down onto the heel of her hand. He had sliced up the flesh around the edges of the letter – to be sure it would scar. Harley sucked in a deep breath as he pulled her hand back toward him. He smiled wickedly. "I now pronounce you… MINE." With a startling, animal-like speed, the Joker ripped off the remainder of her clothing and threw it over his shoulder, followed by his boxers. Then he slammed himself into her like a rocket.
For a split second, Harley was back in college, her freshman year, lying on the rug in the back of Terry Robins' van. He had driven out to the woods behind the truck stop and parked in what he had imaginatively termed "The Secret Spot," a clearing off the one lane road where a house had once stood. The house had been reduced to an overgrown hole that had once been the basement, but the gazebo still stood, and the driveway behind the half-collapsed garage was intact. The ground had been littered with used condoms, fast food packages, broken needles, and crumpled beer cans – those territorial markers recognizable to college students the world over. Terry had parked behind the ruins of the garage and they had crawled into the back of the van, shucking clothes as they went. Harley remembered how every cloth surface in the vehicle had smelled like pot, remembered the way Terry had looked leaning over her, his grandpa's dog tags dangling in front of her face, remembered that "Rush, Rush" by Paula Abdul had been on the radio. And she remembered being terrified. Contrary to popular belief and bathroom graffiti, Harley had never been the slut her high school enemies had made her out to be. Terry had been her first. And she had been so scared, a deep, core-shaking kind of scared that had taken most of the romance right out of the moment. The fear had morphed into downright terror when Terry had pulled a Magnum condom out of his wallet. He had promised he'd be careful, but every part of Harley's petite little body had been screaming that it would hurt like hell.
She had been right.
She had cried for half an hour when they were done, with Terry patting her shoulder gingerly, a little bewildered and not sure what he was supposed to do for her. The tears had been partly embarrassment, brought on by the thought of her grandmother Myra's finger-pointing insistence that she was a nafkeh, a dirty little whore, with her dirty Gentile boyfriend and his dirty sex-wagon. But mostly she had cried because of the pain. She had never expected losing her virginity to be smooth sailing, but she hadn't expected it to feel like she was being skewered by a samurai sword either. It had been quick, not nearly satisfying enough to make up for the hurt, and she had sat awkwardly propped up on one leg the whole way back to her dorm. It had hurt the whole next day, too. She had sworn later to Erinn and Mindy that she meant it when she said it hurt like hell, that it was the worst pain she'd ever felt.
She took it back now. As the Joker rammed himself into her, she took back that entire conversation. That was cake. That was a lover's caress, a gentle kiss on the cheek. This was hell. This was like having her virginity ripped away from her all over again. Only this time, there was no kiss on the forehead, no whispered promise to go easy, no sugary pop soundtrack on the radio. There was only the Joker's paint-smeared face and the blinding colors of the pain, and between the two of them, they filled her whole field of vision. Another scream bubbled up to her lips, and this time there was no stifling it. The Joker didn't seem to care, though. He was operating on autopilot, and if he heard her cries at all, he heard them only as an incentive to go faster. Harley felt his fingernails dig into her flesh, and she gritted her teeth against the other groans that were threatening to escape her throat. She might not be able to regain all her dignity now, but she refused to just lie there and scream while he had his way with her. She caged the scream until it came out as a muffled growl and then pushed back hard against him. He didn't move off her; instead, he moved with her, and when she tried to push him again, he laughed harshly and returned her movement with a sickening eagerness.
That brought about something entirely new, and Harley slapped her uninjured hand over her mouth in surprise. Rising up from underneath the pain, mingling with it, was a deep, almost primal sensation of pleasure. It didn't lessen or soften the hurt, that was impossible; instead, it mixed with it, swirling together with it like a pair of dancers until the two feelings were nearly inseparable. She bit her lip, and the cry that came out this time was not one of pain.
The Joker watched her face shift from terror to confusion to a glassy-eyed look of gratification, and he grinned. It was a frightening, rough smile, but its menace was lost on her. Harley slipped her arms around his lean torso, closing the gap between them, and as she did, she could feel the blood from her hand mix with the sweat trickling down his back. But surprisingly, that was all her hand felt. The pain in her palm was fading to black under the sway of more powerful sensations.
The Joker stared blankly up at the ceiling. It was late. No pedestrian sounds from the alleys outside; just passing traffic on the freeway behind the club. Not even a dog barking. The silence was miserable, and the Joker wished it was something tangible that he could kill. Silence made him think. And he hated thinking.
He had broken his own rule. Well, that was appropriate, right? Wasn't he the Anti-Rule? An agent of chaos? Growling deep in his throat, he let his eyes fall back to the bed, roaming down to the two peaks his feet made under the sheet. The bed looked like a visual representation of chaos. The thick blanket was somewhere across the room; the sheet was twisted into strange formations; and both it and the pillows were streaked with greasepaint and blood. He shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. He shouldn't have let any of it happen. He had stopped teasing her for a while, and in that short while he had given her a power she was never meant to have. Harley. Just thinking of her name made him sick.
Absently, he scratched at his chest with dirty fingernails. Something flaked off; it was dried blood. From Harley's hand. He could still make out the smudged shape of her palm that was smeared down the right side of his ribs. Tiny clots of it, along with dried crumbs of face paint, clung to the fine, light hairs on his chest. There was a handprint on his right shoulder. And… were those scratches? Ugh. She had drawn blood on him. Well this was just peachy. He tried to remember when she had scratched him. All he could call up were flashes, images – of the two of them, as a unit. It was a sickening thought. He stuck his tongue out and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the picture.
He had let his guard down, let it go past the point of no return. It had been his intention to taunt her, to scare her, to carve her hand until she was in a haze of pain, and then do what was necessary to relieve his tension before making a quick exit. But the one thing he had wanted to avoid had happened – he had enjoyed it. Too much.
Groaning, the Joker sat up and swung his legs off the bed, swaying a little with momentary vertigo. He put his face in his hands and massaged his temples. The last time he had felt like this was the morning after Ray had dared him to drink the cooking brandy back in college. Was it possible to get a hangover from sex? He wasn't sure, but he knew he felt like vomiting. One hand still cradling his face, he patted the bedclothes until his searching fingers found his boxers. He tugged the shorts over onto his lap and began to drag them on, swaying drunkenly. They were filthy, he realized – somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that might have belonged to his mother echoed something about always having clean undies. Oh-ho, if Mommy could see him now, he thought as he stood up, wincing at the popping in his knees. All things considered, his underwear would be the least of Mother's worries. Shuffling his feet along the dusty floor, the Joker swiped green tangles back from his eyes and began staggering away from the bed. He had to get to the sink and try to coax a trickle of water out of it; he couldn't handle having Harley's handprints all over his chest. It was too much. And… the knife. He stopped halfway across the room and changed direction. Cupid's blade needed to be cleaned. There was no excuse for poor maintenance of one's weapons. He shuffled sleepily over to the night table, where the knife still lay open and bloody, pointing menacingly in the direction of Harley's sleeping form.
It was all about leverage, he reflected as he plucked the knife off the table. He let the blade sit in his hand for a moment as he stared at her, an enticingly female shape stretched out under the folds of worn out sheets. It was all about leverage, and he had lost it. Practically handed it over to her, actually. He made a disgusted face. Aaaalll that work, over the past month, stringing her along… gone, and for what? A… temporary respite from his nagging testosterone? And the damage was done. Now that she'd had what she wanted… it was like writing her a blank check for anything else she begged for in the future. He was, simply put, screwed. The ball was in her court now. Harley had… quite literally… seen the man inside the costume; she'd heard his voice as it really was, without inflection or theatrics; she had seen him at his most vulnerable – at his most human. That was the worst part. His humanity was showing through, like an ugly pair of shorts through a hole in your jeans, and it was just as embarrassing. Embarrassing, and… dangerous. He gripped the knife tighter. He had to get his leverage back… somehow.
Turning on his heels, the Joker marched into the tiny bathroom at the other end of the apartment. It was a little grungy, a little dusty, but for the most part it still looked as it had before good old Ryder had abandoned the place. The walls looked like what might have been imitation marble, a deep reddish-brown with dark veins, and there were still a few bottles and tubes of various substances lying around on the glass shelf behind the sink. There was no light – not even a bulb in the fixture, the Joker noticed – but the mix of moonlight and neon from the bedroom window spilled in just enough to illuminate the area around the counter. It wasn't even really the balance of power that had him upset, he ruminated as he headed for the sink. That was part of it, obviously – he had given up his control of her for a while, and he admitted that. But there was more to it than that. It was what she was doing to him internally that held the greatest danger. He stared at the dirty knife blade pensively, then slapped the handle flat against his forehead. How could he have been so stupid? Sex, and everything that came with it… all the… endorphins, all the neurons firing, all the physiological reactions she had stirred up… God, he was starting to feel again. The nausea returned slightly and he grimaced, trying to fight off the inevitable. He should have known that he couldn't have pleasure without inviting the pain back in along with it. They were a package deal. You either felt both of them, or you pulled yourself out of the game and felt nothing. And after all the hard work he had put into making himself numb to the world… one slip, and this was where he ended up. He seriously considered stabbing something, then remembered that he had gone to the bathroom to clean the knife in the first place.
Mumbling under his breath, the Joker turned and wiggled the silver knobs until a tiny rivulet of water began tumbling sluggishly from the faucet. The club's utilities had been shut off, but Dan and a couple of the other clowns had messed with the pipes and managed to tap into the water supply of a neighboring building. That Dan was a godsend, he reflected as he began cleaning Cupid's blade. Having someone around who instinctively knew how to fix things was like a dream come true – especially compared to the last bunch of goons he'd worked with. Now if only Dan could tell him how to regain his leverage…. He shook droplets of water off the blade and smirked. Kid probably couldn't even spell leverage. He glanced around for something to dry the knife on; as he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dirty mirror, and he stopped.
For a moment, he hoped what he saw was simply smeared greasepaint. The alternative was too sickening. On the right side of his chin, smearing up from his jaw line to his lower lip and the corner of his scar, was a large red smudge. Paint… he told himself. Just smeared makeup— He reached a cautious finger up to touch it, and this time he did vomit, reflexively, barely making it into the sink. It was blood. Harley's blood. At some point she had reached up, in the midst of whatever rapture she'd been in, and touched his face. Touched his scars. He wrinkled his nose disgustedly and instinctively closed his throat against another wave of vomit. She was all over him, the little witch. Slapped her handprint on every part of him, apparently, marked him like a tree set to be felled. He hadn't even noticed. He didn't remember her touching his face at all. He splashed some water into his mouth to clear out the taste of the vomit. Had he been that far gone? Had he let himself get so involved that she could leave a mark on him without his knowledge? Lower lip quivering, he growled and pushed himself away from the sink, turning around to lean on it. The porcelain was cold even through his shorts, but he barely paid any attention. He took a couple of deep breaths until his stomach settled itself. Then he crossed his arms petulantly. It was coming back. All the… sensation, all the old reactions. All the pain. He felt like a root canal patient coming out from under the gas.
(kill the pain)
The little gnawing voice started up somewhere at the back of his brain, like it always had. He reached back and scratched the nape of his neck, not even aware that he was doing it, as if his subconscious was trying to dig out the voice's owner.
(kill kill it kill the pain kill)
Both hands flew to the back of his head, and this time he did notice – he growled at himself the way a dog growls at his own leg after a flea bite. He pulled his arms sheepishly back down in front of him and began scratching absently at his elbow, as if he were trying to appear casual to a nonexistent audience. Don't get paranoid again, he told himself. Don't get anything again; that was the point. He had to find a way to reverse what Harley had started, a way to
(kill the pain)
numb the sensation that was starting to creep back in. He gripped Cupid's handle until his knuckles were white and his nails began digging into the heel of his hand. It was his own fault. Aaaaaallll his own stupid fault, for thinking he could indulge one group of nerve endings and leave the rest of them asleep. His tongue crept out to play with the corners of his scars, and suddenly the gnawing at the back of his brain grew to an unbearable frenzy.
(killitkillthepainkillthekill herkillthepainKILLTHEPAIN)
"I CAN'T!" he screamed, throwing his arm back toward the origin of the voice. The blade in his hand slammed into the wooden trim around the mirror, bringing the glass down with a resounding crash. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the last few shards dropped around his arm, one or two of them slicing tracks in his skin. Then he abruptly snapped his head toward the door as he heard the stirring of sheets in the next room.
"J? Are you okay?" Harley. Still half asleep, but awake enough to stumble in here and see him …like this. Whatever this was.
(Kill her, kill the pain.)
This time, it sounded rational, in its own way – as rational as a gnawing voice behind your hippocampus can sound. It was her fault, more than his. Wasn't it? He listened intently to the soft flap of sheets being thrown back, the shuffling of Harley's feet as they touched the floor, the squeak of her weight leaving the mattress, and his mind went into overdrive.
"J, what was that noise? Did something break?"
(her fault all her fault)
And for once, the back of his mind was right. Mostly. The Joker let his fingers drop from the handle of the knife; it stayed embedded in the splintered mirror frame. His eyes narrowed. He had to
(kill her kill the pain)
put a stop to this. He couldn't afford to go back, not when he'd worked so hard at putting up all the walls. He had to stay numb. The alternative was unacceptable. Ignoring the crunching of glass under his bare feet, he began marching back into the bedroom.
As he came through the doorway Harley was standing by the bed, a hand resting tentatively on the corner of the dresser. She was still naked, and in the dappled neon light from the window her greasepaint streaked body resembled a Jackson Pollock show piece. One large smudge between her breasts looked suspiciously like the Joker's face. That made him even angrier. His fists clenched like vises as he strode across the room. Harley took a cautious step toward him.
"What broke, J? It sounded like gla—" The word was cut off in a guttural lggh as Harley's forward motion was stopped short by the Joker's hand. His long fingers wrapped around her neck like a collar. Blue eyes widening to the size of saucers, Harley felt herself being marched backward. She tried resisting, but it only made the pressure on her throat more painful, so she allowed herself to be dragged and concentrated on clawing at the Joker's wrist. Her fingernails had no effect on him. He simply shoved her purposefully back, in a roughly straight line, regardless of obstructions. Harley felt her side clip the corner of the night table and tried to groan; the sound stopped halfway up her throat and stuck there as a gurgle. She couldn't breathe in or out, and all she could manage was a clicking sound deep in her throat as the Joker slammed her into the wall. Pulling at his hand weakly, she turned watery eyes up to look at him. The edges of his face were beginning to swim with an odd colored haze – a funhouse effect that would have been fitting, except he no longer looked very much like a clown. Most of the paint was gone from his face; the black smudges around his eyes were faded to deep grey, and the red remained only in the deep indentations in his scars. It gave him the look of a man who had just taken a serious beating and had gone after his assailant for revenge. His eyes had taken on that gun barrel look again, and Harley felt her head swim with fear as much as lack of oxygen. She realized she couldn't keep it up much longer; she was going to black out… and then, she was fairly sure he would kill her. Where that certainty came from, she didn't know, but she didn't doubt the idea for a moment. He would keep squeezing her throat until her brain tuned out from the rest of her, and when she hit the floor, he would slice her up. She tried to speak, but managed only a gurgle, and even that small sound seemed to upset him. He growled at her and gripped her throat tighter. Colored splotches began to dance across her vision. Her arms were getting weaker, and she gave up trying to pull his hand away. Her wide eyes, now streaming with tears, flicked back to his face and locked on the first thing they saw – the bloody smear below his scars. I did that, she realized with what was left of her conscious thought. And summoning up all the strength that was left in her arms, she reached up to brush her fingers across the mark.
The Joker had felt her resistance ebbing, and he watched what he thought were her death throes with something that wasn't quite amusement. Then her fingers met his face. He flinched at the touch, like he had been shot, as Harley wiped her thumb across the mark in a gesture that was somehow familiar. He tried to pull back, but he couldn't avoid her fingers without loosening his grip. As her tiny porcelain digits slid across his face, he cringed, and then—
("Come here, honey, you've got it on your face!")
The voice cut into his thoughts like a crossed signal on the radio, something bubbling up out of the white noise under the main frequency. He winced as if it had been a nail being driven into his skull.
("Where?")
("Right there, on your chin.")
Reflexively, the Joker tightened his grip on Harley's neck. His eyes were still locked on hers, but they weren't seeing her or anything else in the room. The echoes of voices grew louder, and they began to call up flashes, fuzzy and discolored, like afterimages. He closed his eyes and saw
the ladder. Holding down the legs of the ladder as she came down, smelling like paint and primer and new sheetrock. The ceiling fan he'd just installed was squeaking as it spun, and he knew he'd have to go back up and tighten the screws. "It must have been on your hand from the roller, and you smeared it wiping your face," she said, voice echoing through a house that had yet to be furnished. When he sniffed he could smell the paint – Dolphin Grey, which looked a heck of a lot like lavender to him – and then he felt it drying on his face. "Here, let me get it." She wiped his chin with a warm, clean thumb. How she managed to keep her hands completely clean while painting a whole living room, he never figured out. Back to the ladder now. She was wearing those mom-jeans she'd had since the '90s, and somehow they made her butt look amazing. He followed her to the ladder and looked up after her. "Nice view," and he followed it with a grin. A cheeky grin. She smiled down at him over her shoulder, dimples reaching up to eyes that were soft and
—green. No, not green… blue. The eyes he was looking at were blue. The Joker snapped back to reality. Harley's fingers were weakly stroking the mark across his chin, her blue eyes half-lidded and hazy, and his fingers were wrapped around her neck tighter than a noose. His dark eyes skipped quickly across her face, taking in the pallor of her skin, the blue creeping into her lips. What had he been remembering? He searched his mind but the image didn't come back; there was only the realization that he was in the process of choking Harley to death… and the notion that he might not want to do that after all. He stared blankly at the wall for a moment… and then he dropped his hands.
Harley fell to the floor with a defined thunk, and for a moment there was complete silence; then her survival instincts kicked back in and she began coughing, taking in air in long, screaming gasps. It hurt to breathe, but she gulped down the air like she'd never tasted anything so sweet. Tears dripped down her face onto her bare chest. She lifted her head and was immediately dizzy; tiny silver particles floated in her vision like afterimages of a sparkler on the 4th of July. What had just happened? The Joker had been seconds away from killing her… and then he hadn't. Nothing had occurred to stop it... he just… hadn't. She lifted her head as far as she could; the Joker's bare feet were still planted firmly in front of her, dirty and bleeding in several places. He hadn't moved. He was standing immobile, staring at the wall just above her head. From below he looked even taller, more imposing – but also, Harley noticed, he looked more… hollow. From down here she could see his ribs more prominently than she'd noticed before, and she realized how seldom she actually saw him eat. He's gonna keel over if he keeps going like this, Harley heard herself think. Considering the fact that he had just tried to kill her, she wondered if she should care. Taking a deep breath to fight off another wave of dizziness, she watched the Joker's feet turn and begin to shuffle out of her line of vision.
The Joker moved away sluggishly, leaving Harley huddled naked in the corner. He felt like he'd been hit over the head; he was dizzy, and for the first time in quite a while he wanted to sleep. He dug his fingers through his tangled hair, attempted to pull out a knot, and gave up. He hadn't killed her. Why? He snorted to himself. Oh, he knew why. Because he was too… far… gone now. He'd awakened something that he couldn't numb back into submission. And now, if he was going to keep himself from completely falling apart… he'd have to keep her around. It was the only solution. He growled at himself anyway; as usual, rationalizing didn't make it any better.
Harley pulled herself up slowly from the floor, using the night table as support. She couldn't spend the rest of the night in the fetal position on the floor – although that sounded like an attractive prospect in her current condition. The skin around her neck was already turning dark with bruises; she probed at it cautiously with the tips of her fingers, winced, and decided to leave it alone. Her hand dropped to her chest, and she could feel her heart pounding with leftover terror. And she still wasn't sure if she was out of the woods yet. It might be dangerous, she realized, to try and talk to him now; but anything was better than crouching in the corner waiting for him to leave the room. She opened her mouth and tried to speak.
"J…" she managed to squeak. The pain in her throat was exquisite. She had to swallow a couple of times before she could continue. "J… what's…wrong?" Across the room, the Joker stopped. For a moment, he only stood there, his back to her and his fists clenched. Then slowly he turned, viewing her sideways through a curtain of green curls. His mouth was set in a grimace, and his eyes were hard.
"Wrong?" he repeated, raising one eyebrow microscopically. He pursed his lips, thinking – There's a whole book waiting to be written on what's wrong here, Harley-kins – and the other eyebrow inched up to join the first. "What's wrong?" he growled. God, what a question. He stared at her venomously for a moment, wishing he had killed her while the urge was still on him. Then, without warning, his eyebrows crashed together and he stomped toward her, taking the whole distance of the room in only a handful of powerful strides. Harley only had time for one cringe of terror, and then his lips were on hers, hot and angry and demanding. For a moment she was so confused she could barely move; then the Joker grabbed her around the waist and dug his nails into her skin, and that brought her back to reality. She slipped her arms up around his neck and pulled him closer, the aching in her neck quickly being forgotten, and as the Joker felt her respond his kisses deepened even further. Harley felt her knees weakening; she needed air, and she tried to push the Joker back so they could move away from the wall. He pushed back twice as hard against her. The momentum of his motion slammed her into the wall – and then carried both of them to the floor. There was a second of disconnect between them as they landed, and Harley gasped for breath like a drowning swimmer breaking the surface. Then he found her lips again and wrapped himself around her, and she let herself be pulled under.
The Joker quickly jerked his boxers off again and turned his full attention to the girl beneath him, heated hands urgently tracing the outlines of her body. His lips never left hers, but as he entered her, the corners of his scars twitched upward in the vaguest semblance of a smile.
Leverage was a multi-faceted word.