A/N: So, this is my first attempt at a Suicide Squad fanfic. I love Joker and Harley and decided to give this a shot. This first chapter's reviews are all going help me decide if I'll post more so please give me some feed back whether it's positive or negative. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy! Love.
"Time to pay up, Mistah Jokah." He barely hears her.
He's lying on his bed pants still around his ankles, tie undone and shirt buttons popped open. The woman, a lady of the night he called upon in a moment of desperation, stands now fully dressed. Her arms are crossed against her chest and she taps her foot on the floor impatiently.
"Hey, I gotta go," she says after a pop of the gum she is chewing -rather loudly he notices. "My kid is waitin' at his fathah's." Her thick accent harsh now as she tries to get his attention. The Joker rises slowly, redressing himself he avoids eye contact with her.
"Leave," he demands suddenly in a tone that left no room for opposition. The woman however apparently feels the need to argue.
"Excuse me?" Her voice rises and octave as her arms drop to her sides. "Ya still owe me money!" He glances sideways at her then. Beads of sweat still glistened on her dark skin. Her dark, curly hair sticks out in different directions and her makeup has begun to run away from her eyes. He smirks, knowing he'd given her a run for her money with his endeavors. The smirk however does not last and he walks to his desk across the room. He thought she'd be fun to play with, dark and mysterious, but she wasn't. She wasn't anything like what he desired -no, he desires blonde curls and blue eyes and skin so flawless it begs him to leave marks on it.
"Your services were required to please me. It is a service you have not fulfilled because you see, I'm still rather displeased." The woman scoffs at him.
"Look, Mistah Jokah," another pop of bubblegum, "I don't want none of ya funny business. Just give me what ya owe me." He hears the flick of a knife behind him, but he remains facing the desk.
"No funny business, eh?" he asked, opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a handgun. "My dear, you see, I'm all about the funny business." He whips around, firing his gun and hitting her right between the eyes. He smiles and lets out a laugh, but it is an empty laugh -a forced laugh. There were no other cheers, or applause, just silence filling the room. His smile slid from his lips as he fell to his knees. His joke was useless without an audience. And his audience, the only one who mattered, was nowhere to be found. She'd vanished into thin air, it seemed. His partner in crime, his insanity, his queen, his Harley Quinn.
He began pacing his room, stepping over the body on the floor before finally falling backwards into his bed again. Where is she? He can't remember the last time he was this unhappy, this miserable.
"Aw, come on, Puddin'," he can hear her perfectly, as if she were right there purring in his ear. "Don'tcha wanna rev up your Harley?" she giggles. A long lost smile spreads across his face. It is a genuine smile, one that fell the moment he found out she wasn't at Arkham.
He flings himself from his bed, a new found longing to find his queen. He straightens his clothes and place his gun in his waistband before stepping over the woman lying on the bloodstained carpet. He had to find his Harley.