A/N: Another stupid idea because I can't stop writing about Harley.
Harleen Francis Quinzel. What a name to be given and forced to grow up with. As if it wasn't enough that Harleen automatically made her sound like a grandma, she had no middle name to fall back on, as Francis was really just as bad, if not worse.
She liked to be called Harley, though, and was quick to insist everyone call her that. It sounded quirky and cool to her, and made her feel like someone worth getting to know, someone who was tough yet beautiful, exotic and intelligent.
Everyone called her Harley, and she quickly grew used to it until it became just her name and lost the special touch it had originally had. That was all fine by her, just as long as no one called her Harleen, but then she met him and he said her name and it was new and special all over again.
Of course, she had heard the "harlequin" remarks a few times before; that wasn't what renewed her interest in her own name. Really, she can't say exactly what it was, but something in the way he said her name pulled her further and further in until she had completely given himself over to her.
He had his pet names for her, and they were nice. They were sweet to an almost sickening degree, and even when he was at his most angry and using them to hurt, she still thought they were nice, but nothing compared to hearing her name in his voice.
"Harley," he would say, though he put so much emphasis on the beginning, saying the "r" so softly it almost wasn't there, so it sounded more like "Haaahhhrley" to her and she wondered if he did that on purpose to linger on the "ha" in her name, or if it was just the psychologist in her overthinking things as usual.
"Harley," he would say, and she would melt. Gentle, angry, pleading, sarcasti, annoyed, smitten, sultry, frustrated, amused, it did not matter his tone. "Harley," he would say, and she would be a puddle at his feet.
"Harley," he would say, and she was his.