A/N: Hi guys. This is kind of a quick drabble I wrote up in the spur of the moment, trying to get back into writing again. Or rather, trying to get back into writing and not just deleting it all five minutes later. So it's kind of stupid and pointless, I haven't written for Harley in a long, long time, but I hope it's okay and I want to get into writing on here again. Please enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated.
Harley loved to watch her clown after he'd gotten out of the shower. Joker would always redress quickly, sitting in a wife-beater and trousers, suspenders hanging down around his knees and the rest of his clothes in a pile on the floor. For someone who took so much offence to anyone else damaging his clothes, he himself didn't seem to care what happened to them by his hand. The makeup, already smeared from what could have been one, two, three days wear and countless reapplications, would drip and run down his cheeks and neck. Harley, from her position on the other side of the room, hidden behind a magazine, would drink in the sight of it melting away, like a wax figure. She felt it was both horrifying and mesmerizing, as those things always seem to go hand in hand.
Like a painting being washed away to reveal the bare canvas beneath. Depending on how long he'd been out of Arkham, green dye would join the red, white, black droplets on the back of the wife-beater, already stained with such past abuses. At these times, when she could see the pale skin and natural pink of the scars peeking through, Harley was reminded of when she had first met him, a charming man clothed in orange so bright it pained the eyes. The memory of that time often caused her eyes to mist over, and she would sink ever further behind whatever pointless reading material she had chosen that day.
It had been so easy then, so simple. She'd had a singular goal in mind when she came to Arkham Asylum – to write a book, become the shining star of the psychiatric world. And he was going to be her ticket right to the top; catch hold of the rocket and soar to the sky. Comparing herself to Icarus was more like something Crane would do, but Joker had certainly seemed like the sun. He knew every flaw, every weakness, everything she was proud of and what her secret shames were. And it had taken him a single look. That was the horror of it. A single look, and he had her figured out completely.
And from then on it had only been a game to him, and she had become his ticket out. Stupid, that was what she had been. So sure of her own talent, the great Harleen Quinzel had let herself be played by her own patient. But he had been kind, he had comforted her in that way he had, he had told her how good she was. In time, the horror of what he had done seemed clouded by who he appeared to be; a young man with dirty blonde hair and scars of a terrible past. A thousand lies he had fed her, and she'd accepted every single one.
Once they'd left, once she'd worked so hard to get him out and make sure she came with him, there had been only harsh words. And Harley was struck by what she had done, and where it had left her. He'd reapplied the makeup that was such a part of him, re-dyed his hair that vibrant green which soon faded as it became greasier and more tangled, and with it gained the freedom again to strike her.
The first time she'd watched it wash away, she had hoped that maybe, with its removal, it would bring back the person there had been. Before her rose-tinted glasses had been torn away and thrown in the gutter, and the faith she had had in herself and her abilities had gone with it. But that man didn't return, and when Joker caught her watching he would turn away. She was baggage – the only times he laughed for her was when she had done something wrong, and the laughter was paired with a flash of red and sharp pain wherever he had chosen to inflict it.
As soon as he was free to run as he pleased around Gotham, his laughter was only for the Batman. Talking incessantly of him, thinking which way would be the best to gain his attention, accepting no help from the woman who had let him out. Finally Harley was forced to accept the reality – he could have escaped whenever he wanted, but he had found a game in her to amuse himself, and now that he didn't need the game any more, she was nothing more than a trained dog.
But where else could she go? Her career was ruined, her license torn up, her family wanted nothing to do with her. There was nowhere.
So she sat, and remembered the young man who had manipulated her, and learned to pretend she wasn't watching when the makeup fell away, praying he'd look up and meet her eyes and smile. Not the false one that was embedded in his skin, but the genuine one he kept only for the Bat, the one that stretched his face though he tried to minimize it. She wanted to once more be the centre of his attention, and to receive his absolute affection.
In those times, when the Joker became a melting wax figure and time, for Harley, seemed to melt away with it, she could almost believe it was possible.