DISCLAIMER: All characters from the DC canon belong to DC, not me. This story is strictly not-for-profit. No copyright infringement is intended. If you have been living in a bush and are not familiar with the Christopher Nolan films, I would urge you to buy them (yes, buy them!) before reading.

Chapter contains mild references of a sexual nature.

Harley

Detective McCain rocks backward in his chair. To his left, Detective Hadley shifts in her seat. I take in her warm, lined brown face and tightly coiled greying hair. For a moment there is pure empathy in her eyes, and then it's gone. She looks down at her file on the table.

The police interrogation room is a cold, off-white box. One wall is a two-way mirror: I am absolutely certain that the room on the other side is packed with spectators. Commissioner Gordon will be there, and half the Gotham City Police Department - all eager to watch the freak show.

Dr Quinzel, the psychiatrist who tried to cure the Joker. And ended up as crazy as him.

The Joker's girl.

I stretch my arms above my head, arching my back and rolling my neck to relieve the tension. I let my head tilt slowly backwards, allowing my lips to open slightly. Through my half-lidded eyes I catch Detective McCain appreciating the pose. I'm fully aware that I'm drawing attention to my breasts under my tight red top. Men.

Bored, I flop one arm across the table and sink my blonde head down to rest on it, letting out a throaty sigh. Blackness. One second, two seconds. I snap my head up and open my blue eyes wide to meet Detective McCain's gaze, giving him my most inviting doll-pout. He doesn't flush: instead there's a brief moment of indecision followed by a genuine amused grin. He knows the score - he knows women. Despite everything, I grin back. I decide I like them both.

Across from me, behind Detective Hadley's shoulder, is the camera. We've been recording for two days, but these Detectives are new. Maybe they're taking it in shifts. After all, it's not every day that an informant walks in and offers everything they need to put away the most dangerous man in Gotham - and half the mob. Keeping me talking must be high priority.

McCain keeps watching me with his amused grin, as his partner leans in to speak. They probably want to go over J's connections to different organised crime syndicates again. I've already given them names, dates and audio files. But I guess they don't want to take any chances. In case something happens to me before the trials; they'll want it all on film.

I'm not prepared for what comes next.

"You say that you didn't have a... sexual relationship with the Joker." Hadley says, visibly pushing down her discomfort and embarrassment.

My face must have darkened, because the grin is gone from McCain's face. He inches back warily.

Determined, Hadley continues.

"Anything that could call into question the truth of what you've told us leaves an opening for the mob's lawyers. If you say you didn't, we'll accept that. But the jury will think it's strange that a man like the Joker kept you around when there was no..." She breaks off, finally looking embarrassed.

Idly I glance at the cheap ballpoint pen in her hand. I've killed a man with less. Killed men. But then I squash the darkness down and let out my breath, relaxing my muscles. I let my open-eyed little-girl look infuse my face. My voice comes out small and breathy. It occurs to me that the way my mood changes so rapidly may be making them nervous. Oh well. We can't change who we are - not really.

I light my cigarette slowly, inhaling deeply. My real voice, my old voice comes out now: low, even and focused. I let the little-girl look fall from my face.

"Once, maybe twice a year. If you can call it sex." My voice breaks on the last word, and I feel shame burning my cheeks.

The unspoken question hangs in the air.

I'll answer it. If I'm doing this, then I'm going to give it everything I have in me to give.

"It took J a long time to... get under my skin." I can't help the bubble of joy that pops up in my chest, lighting up my face as I remember.

It doesn't last.

"And when I was completely his, he didn't want me anymore."

The words taste sour to me. The pain must have been in my voice too: the look of deep empathy on Hadley's face is back.

The camera is silently recording. I take another drag of my cigarette.

And begin.

*Please review this chapter!* If you thought something didn't quite work, I would really love to know. :-)

Oh, and it may have dawned on you by now that Harley is pretty much batshit crazy...