Author's Note: Not really sure where this one fits into the storyline I'm working on... it was just an idea that I had one day about the Joker's definition of happiness, and that idea became a blob of scribbles on the back of an index card, and that became this scene. Pleeeezzze review! I'm in the middle of a writer's block on the next bit of the story, and someone's comment or idea might spark something, who knows!
She slipped her hands over his shoulders, sliding her fingers under the edges of his vest. The Joker growled at her and jerked away from her touch, glaring over his folded hands into the tarnished mirror. "Get out." Harley stuck out her lip, but then her expression softened. He was having one of those days again. One of those days when whatever torture his past was made up of came rushing back to dance around in his present thoughts. Harley despised those days. Watching him deal with his demons was like having needles jammed up under her fingernails; there wasn't any sort of pain she could recall that hurt worse than seeing him like this. She wanted desperately to fix whatever it was and knew that she couldn't. If it was a punishment she could have taken for him, she would have. As it was, she could only try to alleviate the symptoms. If he would let her.
"J, talk to me…" she whispered, coming around to the side of his chair. Without warning, he lashed out with his arm and knocked a handful of objects off the dresser in her direction.
"I said get out." There was a warning tone in his voice, but it was laid like a thin veneer over an overwhelming sense of fatigue. Harley took a deep breath and wrapped both her arms around one of his.
"J, let me—" Wordlessly, he flung her off, sending her flying a few feet and catching her ribs with his elbow. Harley sucked in a quick breath. He was like an injured dog that lashed out in fear and pain and tried to rip apart the veterinarian's hand. She watched him sitting there, slumped over the dresser, the blue patterned fabric of his shirt stretched tight over his tense shoulders, and a gut-wrenching ache started up deep in her chest. The only thing she wanted was to make him stop hurting; she wanted that more than anything she had ever wanted in her entire life. He was the only thing that mattered to her, and he was breaking right in front of her… and he was too proud to let her do anything about it. The ache in her chest swelled until she felt like she would die from it. Hot tears bubbled up and spilled down over her face. Well, she told herself. She would keep trying. And he would probably hit her again. And that was what she wanted. Because as long as he was hurting her… he wasn't thinking about his own pain. And that was what mattered.
"Please, J, I—" Harley winced as the Joker slapped her, the back of his hand catching her full on the cheekbone. She held the tips of her fingers to her face; the skin was hot, and she could feel the dull tingle deep underneath the skin that would become a bruise in the morning. Taking a deep breath, she tried to think of what to say next – and all that she could muster was a strangled sob. She dropped to her knees next to his chair, crying and trying to stop; her hands were shaking as she laid them gently on his leg, gazing up at him reverently like a worshipper at an altar, her fingers tracing quiet patterns on the purple fabric of his trousers. "J, I just…" she whispered. "T- tell me what I can do… tell me… anything! Please, I… J, I love you… I…." Her voice trailed off for a moment, and she dropped her head against his leg until she recovered her words. "J… I just want you to be happy!"
For a moment, the Joker's only response was a dark chuckle. Then he shifted his gaze downward to look at her.
"Happy…" he muttered, letting the word drop off his tongue like a disgusting, half-chewed piece of food. "Happiness is being stupid enough to believe the lies we tell ourselves at night before we go to sleep." He paused, tongue playing with his scars. "I'm not that dense. I had the truth carved into me a looonnng time ago."
Harley knew that was the end of the conversation. Any mention of his scars was always the cue. When he chose to acknowledge the physical marks of his past, he was in a mood that made him capable of anything, including slitting the throat of the next person that spoke to him. With a sigh that threatened to let loose another shower of tears, she dropped her hands from his leg and got up slowly; she took a deep, shaking breath and headed for the door. She would sleep on the couch tonight.
"What lies do you tell yourself, Harley?" She stopped short in the doorway as he spoke, her hand on the doorframe, and looked back at him. He hadn't moved, and now he continued speaking without turning, looking at her reflection in the mirror. "You lay your pretty little head down on the pillow. Look out the window. Look at the ceiling. Watch me pretend to sleep. What do you talk yourself into believing? Let's see…." He tilted his head to the side, and Harley could see his dark expression in the mirror as he licked his lips and then twisted his voice into a blatant imitation of hers. "Do you say… 'This is where I wanna be'…? Or maybe… 'I got everything I need!'…. 'I don't miss any of 'em from my old life…. I don't need anybody but my Mistah J!' Right? Is that what you say, Harley?" He giggled down in his throat and mimicked a lovesick face. " 'My Puddin' is the best thing that evah happened ta me!.... He's really a sweetie!.... He just doesn't know how to show how he feels, is all…. He doesn't mean it when he hits me. He just doesn't know his own strength. My… Puddin'… loves… me.' That's the set of lies you tell, isn't it, Harley? How are they working out for you?"
Behind him, Harley dug her nails into the wood of the doorframe and wept bitterly, trying not to hear him but knowing she had no choice. He shifted in his seat, trying to shrug his suspenders into the right positions. "You either believe the lies and drift off into your happy little coma… or you accept the truth and live through Hell. Idiocy or misery, sweetheart. Pick your poison. Oh, the lies may be the easy way out. Because for every truth you accept, you hop down to the next level of the Inferno." He leaned back in the chair and eyed her fiendishly. "But if you make it aaaall the way down to the bottom, congratulations! Grand Prize! You get to waltz with Satan himself." The Joker folded his arms across his chest and gave her reflection an almost imperceptible grin. "Ever dance with the Devil, Harley? I hear he does one 'Hell' of a foxtrot." Harley wiped her eyes slowly; he was just joking again, she told herself, joking in his own odd way. She straightened up and looked his reflection in the eyes.
"What lies do you tell yourself, J?" she half-whispered. He bit down on one of his scars before answering.
"The only one I have left, Harl," he murmured nonchalantly as he got up and strolled over to her. "The only one I have left – that keeping myself alive is worth the trouble." Then the Joker leaned toward her, placing a hand on the wall on each side of her head, trapping her between his arms. Harley closed her eyes, breathing in his scent – an intoxicating mixture of gasoline, black powder, matches, sweat, and the intangible remnant of some old-fashioned smelling cologne. "Look at me," she heard him growl, and she snapped her eyes open. His face hovered an inch or so above hers, his dark brown eyes half open, seeming to look at her and through her at the same time; then he lowered his lips toward hers, stopping just before they touched. The two of them stood there for a moment, their breath mingling as the Joker's brown eyes locked on Harley's baby blues. Then the Joker let his eyelids fall slowly shut; his tongue left off playing with his scars to trace the outline of Harley's lips.
He pulled away suddenly, turning his head and squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he pushed himself from the wall. He said nothing for a minute or two, then he looked up at Harley sharply. "No," he mumbled. "No… no. …Not worth the trouble."
Harley held her breath as he brushed past her and stalked out the door.