White, black, and red swirled in front of her, combining briefly before disappearing down the drain. Hands cuffed behind her back and swaying drowsily from sedatives, fiery Harley Quinn was being taken away, leaving only broken Harleen Quinzel in her stead. The orderlies that scrubbed away the makeup had been told to be extremely careful because of her volatile nature stemming from the Joker, but they needn't have bothered with the additional precautions. Her entire being was drained from the day's events, making Harley perhaps the most compliant prisoner in all of Arkham.
After her pale skin had turned pink from the hot water, she was fitted for a jumpsuit. Just like the one J wore when we first met, Harley thought tiredly. An image of the Joker sitting at a cold, metal table sporting the bright orange uniform burned in her brain. She could not think of him for very long without tears welling up. Harley had grown to resent the ease at which she cried; J was always quick to punish those who were weak.
Orderlies, nurses, and a few psychiatrists spoke to her as she was ushered from room to room. They treated her many cuts and bruises, set a few bones, and wrapped both of her ankles in tape, always chattering away. She paid no attention to anyone, even those she knew from her time spent as a psychologist at Arkham.
Harley was fixated on what happened prior to her admittance to the asylum; the Joker's face set in a feral snarl jabbed at her thoughts. There had been nothing but pure hatred in his eyes before he was taken away from her. The physical pain he inflicted as punishment was nonexistent compared to the torment of his disappointment. There was no doubt in her mind that he was still livid and pacing in his cell with quick, jerky movements. He had probably already taken out a few Arkham employees in his rage. Harley's head hung low as she was guided into her own cell. She could not have fucked up more.
The concrete room was small and reminiscent of her old college dorm but without the luxury of a desk and company of a roommate. One tattered single bed bolted to the floor was placed in a corner. A sturdy looking sink and a relatively clean toilet were the only other fixtures to fill the space. Harley collapsed onto the bed gratefully, her head spinning from the medley of drugs they had administered.
She was far away from the other prisoners, male and female alike. Their groans and incessant mumbles were barely audible. Harley was thankful for the special treatment that being the Joker's right hand and an ex-employee of the asylum granted her; labeled as extremely dangerous with an in-depth knowledge of the institution assured that she would be kept apart from anyone whom she could use to escape. Harley was merely glad for the time alone to process her thoughts.
She stretched out slowly and took inventory of each of injury, trying to avoid remembering the moments she received them. But the flood of images was impossible to put off for long. The second Harley closed her eyes, she was transported to the top of one of Gotham's seediest nightclubs, The Nest.
Back to back guns blazing with the love of her life was exhilarating. They were both laughing as the gunfire filled the night air. She was dressed to the nines in a red and black corset pulled tight and a short leather mini skirt. He was impeccable in his trademark purple suit. They made for a frightening couple.
It was a run-of-the-mill job, a seemingly safe night out. Whenever one of the mobs of Gotham got a little too greedy or a little too big for their own good, J took a personal interest in knocking them back down to size. Harley agreed that the only formidable foe of Gotham should be the Joker, but she knew instinctively that her partner craved the attention from Batman and grew restless whenever the hero chose to spend time fighting someone else.
"We're almost finished, Harl!" The Joker let out another roar of crazed laughter as bodies tumbled over the side of the building or simply fell twitching to the ground.
Harley's face lit up at the pet name and she redoubled her efforts, picking off each dark figure that dared to advance towards them. "Only three more on my half!" She yelled over the sound of cascading bullets, "make that two!"
But a convulsive tremor that ran through J made her falter. Was he shot? Harley knew better than to turn around and assess. They were still under fire and whatever had happened he would handle it just as he handled everything else.
She let out a relieved breath when his back pressed harder against her own and he resumed shooting, but her consolation was short lived. Harley gasped as a winged shadow crept along the edge of the roof. The Batman had come to play.
Did J know? Or was his shudder the result of subconsciously sensing his archenemy? Harley bit her lip, watching the Bat move lithely among the shadows. The few mob henchmen that remained did not miss her momentary lapse of inaction. Harley screamed as a bullet hurtled past her ear and buried itself into the back of the Joker's right shoulder.
She felt him stumble forward, his animalistic howl of pain awakening something inside of her. Harley turned to him and fell to her knees, dimly aware that the mobsters had scattered.
"You FUCKING BITCH!" He screamed and whipped around, grabbing her by her pigtails and yanking her to her feet. Harley's eyes burned from a sudden onslaught of tears, triggered not from his words but from his obvious pain.
"The B-Batman," she managed to sob, "he's here!" Harley couldn't move her head to find him because of the Joker's iron grip, but she guessed that was why the roof was nearly empty.
"You," slap, "let," slap, "me," slap, "get shot!" His face hovered above hers and his red lips drew back from his teeth into an awful sneer. She winced and shook her head numbly, too distraught by his injury and the fact that the Batman was going to snatch him and worsen it to fight back.
The Joker dropped her abruptly, her body collapsing into a graceless heap on the ground. Harley's eyes opened just in time to see the Batman colliding with her love and both men tumbling to the other side of the roof. She let out a small sniffle and attempted to stand, but the darkness that flirted around the edges of her vision surged forward and Harley fell once more.
She curled into a ball under the thin blanket that Arkham graciously provided. How could she have been so negligent? Her true calling was to protect J and she had failed miserably, managing to land them both back in the asylum.
Harley's fists clenched and unclenched at her stupidity. She should not have been so easily distracted. J could have died and then her life would have been over as well. Harley would not blame him if he escaped and left her to rot; she deserved whatever punishment he had in mind.
She knew other things had happened after she blacked out. Somehow, they had been transported to Arkham and somehow, she had been beaten more savagely than a couple of slaps. The Batman would not have dealt such brutal blows that broke her ribs and collarbone. She was fairly certain that her brain was blocking out those particular memories. Harley dreaded the moment they came back.
"J," she whispered into the mattress, "I'm so sorry." She pressed her face down and tried to control the racking tremors that shook her body. "So sorry, so sorry, so sorry…"
Harley felt miserable and oh so small. She had spent the past six months becoming badass Harley Quinn who killed, stole, and lied without so much as a bat of the eye. She felt invincible when she was in her new outfit and makeup, as if she belonged next to the Joker. She had made so much progress.
But that was gone now.
Harley was raw and vulnerable, just as she was when the Joker first laid eyes on her. She was once again Harleen Quinzel who was not special and had no control over her life, no control over what happened to her. J had given her power and goals. But she failed him and paid the price.
Her eyes squeezed shut once more and with the last of her willpower she shoved away the rest of the memories that threatened to overtake her. They would visit later, when she had more strength.
Harley knew she had a session early the next morning; the psychiatrists were practically dying to analyze such a high profile, dysfunctional relationship. Her last thought before she lost consciousness was a steely resolve to stay true to J and refuse to give them what they want.