Title: Used Too Well
Pairing: Joker/Harley (Nolanverse)
Disclaimer: Characters are not of my creation.
A/N: I'm obsessed with medieval/renaissance/women's history as well as Batman, so the two had to collide at some point. This is one of my own takes on Nolanverse Harley, and assumes that their relationship is pretty well ingrained at this point. As a warning, this Harley is definitely not the one of B:TAS or DC. (It's also probably one of the more pretentious things I've written. ;) )
"Except for the happiness of being loved by the one you love, which is the best of all conditions, a solitary and less brilliant life is much to be preferred." – Madame de Pompadour, mistress of Louis XV
Hers is an interesting situation, Harley thinks, trapping her between loftiness and subservience. Hands and back ache, mind whirls and heart pounds, her entire existence the picture of exhaustion and desperation. She eats and sleeps at his command, always at his beck and call, and her needs – even the most primal ones – are nonexistent.
She loves him, but it is consistently difficult.
She has read about mistresses, women vaulted into stations of worth and importance, bright faces peeking out of history's dark curtain, allowing a voice when others were so rarely acknowledged. Stout, beautiful and intelligent, they listened, laughed and moaned, always sparkling, never complaining. Kings chose them partially for beauty and at other times for wit and comfort, giving them the questionable gift of blueblooded attraction.
She is fascinated by their temerity and humbled at their (forced) selflessness, taking up those gilded reins. Pondering it, her link to these women is startling, and it almost eases her pain when she thinks someone may one day think her to be one of these remarkable women too.
Her lord, prince, ruler has dragged her out of a life of relative comfort and soothing banality, though she knows that her reluctance was minimal, if it was even there at all. At one time, he was still fledgling and hasty, lashing out more irrationally than now – it had at least made him human. He has never since asked her what she would like, for it is assumed that his desires are now hers.
Now, Harley is caught between the reward of his objective respect and the stabbing pain of his indifference, left wondering at whether history might call her his mistress or his queen. He has never left her for another, she remembers, but wonders if her next mistake might make it so. Even if he did, history would demand her tolerance, her unfailing obedience and her continued loyalty.
Like so many queens, she hates him for her displacement, her semi-involuntary thrust into a world foreign and ugly to her. Like a mistress, she loves him for what he is and is not, stumbling on a balance beam between his adoration and his anger, her head dangling over the chopping block.
Whatever she has become, she knows there is no going back.
She's sitting on a stool, back aching as she bends, running her fingers gently through greasy, snarled hair, trying not to snag a tangle. Time has lent him more power, more esteem and more prestige, and he has passed on most trivial matters to her. Honored by his trust, but insulted by such menial tasks, she presents only a tight smile in response. After all, he's the ruler, the currently unquestioned master of the underworld and above, governing as he sees fit despite the awed bafflement of his subjects. Aided again by her, he's outside of the asylum walls, rendering the mob even weaker with increasingly unforeseeable schemes. She's seen what he can do, and thinks she can predict what he will do. Blindingly intelligent, he's not confined by limits, x approaching y but never meeting.
It's been months since the Bat went into hiding, and the Joker's influence has grown. His appearance has become more intimidating, the better to match his dominion, and she can take some pride in knowing that she has helped him in a small way. While still slender, he's filled out noticeably, fine muscle and sinew over regal limbs. She tends to his outward façade, keeping him neat and proper, though a veneer of filth never seems to escape him, like cockroaches infesting a squalid tenement. She's resigned herself to the stark brown and yellow that lurks beneath twisted lips, eating into gums, and accepts it as something he'll always have. In contrast to the greasy chartreuse of before, she's now keeping his hair a brilliant green, setting it off ferociously against his ubiquitous white paint and purple lapels.
She smoothes the tangles, gasping when his hand clamps to her wrist at a particularly nasty knot. He's barely paying attention, eyes drooping in the closest he'll ever get to sleep, but her mistakes can never go unnoticed. Her breath shudders, and she whispers an apology. He lets go, hand sliding back into the lukewarm water in the tub, and she shuts her eyes briefly in relief.
Staring at his temples and forehead and the bridge of his nose, it's a mixture of horrified awe and repugnant respect, her terrifying prince of the underworld and slowly growing monarch of scattered terror. This is their private world, this dank bathroom their royal quarters, ragged towels like tapestries and stained, cracked porcelain like shiny, rich marble.
She wets his hair, soaking it through to the dark roots, and begins the process. Her fingers clench at the first plunge into the cold dye, squeezing it into her palm, perfectly mixed. As much as she wants to call him ridiculous, or vain, she is delighted to craft his image and sculpt his demeanor, displaying her work to a terrified populace. He has done this on his own before, but sloppily, and she sets at her tasks with silent amusement that she can do it so much better.
A drop makes its way to his face, and she wipes it away before he can speak. She angles in to watch him, his eyes completely shut now, and presses a kiss into the warped deep valley of his right cheek, tongue flicking out against thick tissue.
In the past, he has bared his true face when the situation demanded it, but his influence has grown so wide, so entrenched, that the makeup is now his only public visage. Here, bare in front of her and only ever her, she beams at cosmetic nudity. She kisses him again, tongue meeting bare flesh, the only taste there him.
He begins to make a sound, and she returns quickly to her task, running her fingers through hair now slimy with dye. She pulls the dye to the very end, fingers squeaking, then rubs it into the roots, tracing a line from the nape of his neck to the knots of his temples. The work is comforting, if somewhat boring. When it's complete, she plunges her hands into the bathwater, shaking off clumps and watching them dissipate.
The waiting begins, and she can't leave. She ignores the ache in her neck and the growl of her stomach, resting her hands on his naked shoulders. On some occasions, he'll want to converse with her, rehashing accounts of his favorite events, spelling out gory details in a slurred voice, giddy and pleased. It's like a king speaking of the hunt or the joust, vividly recreating the event to the same people who saw it with him, mindless of their dwindling interest. His favorite, no surprise, is to tell stories about the Bat, speaking of him like a vanquished crusader or beheaded enemy. Luckily for her, she's usually interested, laughing when he does and interjecting the correct responses when the conversation lulls.
Today, he's silent, half-dozing, and she can't stave off daydreaming.
She gazes at mildew and scum, and thinks of granite and gold, the stately yet ludicrous splendor of ancient palaces. She shuts her eyes against the filth and imagines tight bodices and lace and taffeta, gowns whose cost could have fed a village, and remembers her own accoutrement, leather and metal and far more sensible shoes. She recalls the opulent jewels that bedecked so many, rich gems buying love and adoration, and gingerly touches the ring of dark fingerprint bruises around her neck, her only current token from him.
The women she's read about had entire treasuries raided in their honor, enormous sums plunked down for the honor of taking their maidenhead, and kingdoms thrown into disarray over sovereigns who fought to make them queens. They'd grown fat on both flattery and food, adored and envied and cherished, even if it was fleeting. She looks down at her scrawny arms, near-translucent flesh stretched wafer-thin, and wonders at the last time he truly provided for her. The comparison is becoming fainter, sadder, and she thinks she's only fooling herself into believing that his misogyny means her martyrdom.
"Harley," he slurs, startling her, "have I told you about my, ah, little encounter with the Mayor I once had?"
He has, repeatedly, but she tells him no, sliding her arms around his neck at his pull, resting her chin on his shoulder. The dye is transferring itself to her own limp hair, chilly and slimy, but she doesn't move, listening to the story and feeling the rumble of his voice against her, stuttering and monotonous.
He's gotten cocky with power, and she can't help but smile.
He times the end of the story with the completion of the process, and she rinses his hair out with precision, shielding the water from his eyes like a careful mother. She watches the muscles of his neck move when he tips his head back, lips parted slightly, the smallest amount of spittle appearing in the corner of the mouth he can't fully close. She remembers, in a rare nod to what she had been, pondering theories and studies over the strange tics of his face and tongue, but thinks the answer is far more simple than what anyone has proposed.
When it's done, he steps out, slippery with pale green water.
More often than not, she dreads this, the moment when his base needs seem to take over and she's not allowed to resist. She's dragged into what passes for their bedroom. Then, she's on her back, spread-eagled with one shove of his hand, and she occupies her mind with more comparisons and daydreams.
At great cost to herself, she diminished for him the pain of living, the loneliness in a crowd that only a monarch can suffer.*
He strips her, breathing heavily, and she shudders beneath his hands as he scratches her flesh. When he enters her, his thrusts are sharp and quick, and she transforms a pained wail into a moan, trained. She knows that he can leave her bloody, has done so before, and she grits her teeth. She twists and thrusts, forcing an erotic nubile display for his pleasure alone, caressing her breasts as he bares his sickly teeth in a smile.
Erratic and mindless, it's dirty rutting and fucking, passion hidden beneath grunts and gasps. Hips thrusting up against him, she tries to imagine gentle caressing and shrill cries of lust and pleasure, clinging to him with legs wrapped about his waist.
Before this ascension, his slowly tightening grip on power, she hadn't imagined that he would do this so often, thinking him so eccentrically wise that such things were only a distraction.
Kings, though, are virile and robust.
He bends to suck at her breasts, licking and bestowing a few moments of scant pleasure before he pulls out suddenly. He grips the scruff of her neck, pulling her up, and she takes him in, tongue sliding over taut flesh from tip to base. He thrusts as she sucks, grazing her teeth and tongue while she suppresses a gag. She squeezes when his breathing quickens, licking and sucking until she's finally swallowing, wincing. With a final lick, she lets him slip from the moist heat of her mouth, and he doesn't move.
She breathes him in, wishing he'd pull back, and focuses instead on the sensation of stained sheets. Cheap and thin, a far cry from plush velvets and silk, and she thinks that if history bothers to record her, it may be to keep others from falling into the same trap.
She's pulled to her feet, the itchy heat between her legs and the bitter taste in her mouth the only reminders of their blindingly fast romp.
In great contrast to the furniture, his clothes are meticulously kept, pressed and folded and hanging neatly – she makes sure of it, as though choice is a factor. He waits for her to dress, and when she finishes, she moves to his wardrobe.
She pulls him into neat pinstripes and silk, remarking favorably on the crisp cut of the items. He has a penchant for losing buttons, and she takes on a thousandth role as his seamstress, keeping the pieces complete. He sits as she pulls on socks and shoes, tying the knots double. He stands back up and she moves behind him, clipping the suspenders to his waistband before tossing them over his shoulders, moving back to secure them to the front. After a final snap to untwist them, she does up the tie, moving it flush to his neck in a perfect Windsor.
When she picks up the chain, he snatches it, holding it tightly against her neck. He likes to choke, and beat, and kick, his favorite game, like monarchs would sit playing cards with courtiers, and she imagines this passing for entertainment. This isn't a surprise, his sporadic raving and abuse, and she convinces herself that it's the same stress driving all great men, lords and princes and kings.
Their eyes meet, and he licks his lips and leans in, hovering his mouth over hers as the chain digs tighter. She thinks absurdly of past despots unhinged, syphilis and porphyria-ravaged, beating and thrashing their baffled sycophants.
"I could be done with you in a second," he growls, breath hot against her face as she silently chokes, eyes pleading with him. "You know what I'd do if you were to slip up."
In moments like these, she feels the pain of those women, pushed to every known limit and then blamed when failing.
She swallows and moans, breath catching as she chokes out her reply. "I know – know what you'd do." He quirks his head, eyes boring into her from shadow and lines, face still starkly unpainted. "I won't slip up. It was my fault." He's not referring to any action, but she knows what he wants to hear. He keeps staring at her, mindless of her struggle to breathe, and finally kisses her, halitosis seeping into her senses and exacerbating her choking.
She gently coaxes him away, her face sweaty from exertion. When her dizziness passes, she continues to dress him with shaky hands as he smiles, licking his lips slowly.
When the last button of his waiscoat is done, he kisses her again. With both his hands on her back, she relaxes one bit, moving her own through his damp hair. She loves him, repeats it, carving it into stone and convincing herself that there's one bit of worth in all of it. She pushes the kiss deeper, opening her mouth wide over his to taste him, ignoring the decay.
When he ends it after several long moments, she remembers to look grateful for his attention, beaming with an innocent smile.
The coat, heavy and draping, broad-shouldered and fiercely cut, is pulled on last, hugging his frame and flowing down in a neat wave. She ensures that the buttons of the cuffs are pushed through their holes and then smoothes the fabric, pushing her hands over the front in mirror images of each other, leaving no lines. Every thread of this garment is burned into her mind - she's constantly cleaned and rubbed and scrubbed it inside and out, removing every trace of his work between violently bloody missions and crusades.
Night has fallen, and it's nearly time for action. They move back to the bathroom mirror, faces peeking out from the grime.
She covers her hands in the thick paint, covering and rubbing and tracing the lines of his jaw and nose carefully. His eyes never leave her when she does this, doesn't blink when she rubs the black into his eyelids and the bags beneath his eyes, marking a perfect border between the black and the white.
The red is last, and she rubs it into his lips several times, ensuring that it won't wipe off easily before tracing it upward into the rest of his smile. She aligns it perfectly with scar tissue and dimples, using her nails to pick away clumps. At one press of her finger, there's a brief flash of pain in his eyes, and she pats at the spot.
She is the only who knows that they hurt, this defining feature of his mask, and her heart softens at each solemn indication that he can feel something. Elevated to the status of demigod, lording over her and everyone else, she is his sole tie to normal emotion.
Before he can move out into his kingdom, she rests her head just beneath his chin, tracing her hand over the coat, appropriately purple. Clumped green beneath her nails, she stares at his own mark on her, bright and staining.
He pushes her away – it's time for her mask.
This, she muses, is the one thing she doesn't consider as tolerating, and indeed she adores it, his careful application the product of his own experience. Her eyes are shut throughout the process, his strong touch amplified as he traces her cheekbones, jawline, and nose. She doesn't flinch when one fingernail grazes close to her eye, keeping her reactions buried deep.
She lets her mouth fall open slightly when he applies her smile, the gritty warmth of his thumb tracing her lip, sharply erotic. She kisses the digit, imagining his eyes going dark with arousal, and wishes they could stay.
He smacks her cheek gently to bring her back. It's time to go.
His grip on her is excruciatingly tight when they enter his court, henchmen falling into an awed hush at the sight of them. The crowd parts for them, the perverted jester-turned-king and his lady, and she half-expects a bow as they walk. Their thrones are rusting barrels, scepters shotguns, their crowns blood and sweat, and their titles self-imposed.
When they reach the top of the crowd, they turn, and she's not listening to what he's saying, focusing instead on the stares of the men. They won't dare touch her – he turned one's hand to a stump before, shockingly gruesome even for him, and they've maintained a cautious distance since.
Engrossed in him, shackled by expectation and demented affection, the suffocating loneliness that manages to surround her is almost too much to bear. He squeezes her hand to the bone, both of their gloves creaking, and she swallows her anguish.
She doesn't know what she'd be without him.
* * *
"I pity you sincerely, Madame, while everybody else envies you." – Madame du Hausset, lady's maid of Madame de Pompadour
*Herman, Eleanor. Sex With Kings. New York: Harper Perennial, 2004. (an awesome book, jsyk)