RESURGENCE
Sequel to 'Therapy'
AN: WARNING! IF YOU'VE CLICKED ON THIS STORY HAVING NO IDEA WHAT 'THERAPY' IS, YOU MAY FIND YOURSELF A LITTLE LOST AS TO WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON AT TIMES IF YOU CHOOSE TO START READING FROM HERE. IF YOU'D LIKE TO READ THE PREQUEL TO THIS TALE, WHICH DEALS WITH HARLEY'S TRANSITION FROM QUACK TO QUACKERS, YOU'LL FIND IT ON MY PAGE.
For the rest of you, welcome back, and prepare for a POV change- in 'Therapy', I felt that he first/past-first/present tense was necessary in telling Harleen's tale and for the joys of the unreliable narrator and us seeing her reasoning on things. For this story we open up to a much larger world outside of the asylum, and I wanted the workings of Harley's mind to be somewhat of an enigma, so a semi-omnipotent third-person perspective feels much more natural here.
If you are jumping in without reading therapy, you need to know this tid-bit of backstory; in this iteration, the murder of Jason Todd (Robin #2) at Joker's hands almost a decade ago was what ended Joker's reign of madness and got him thrown into Arkham. This, as in the DCEU, is what triggered Batman's descent into the darkness; he almost killed Joker for what he'd done. Before all of this, Dick Grayson had already abandoned the handle of Robin and moved to Bludhaven, taking up the role of Nightwing after Jason's murder.
Anyway, enough of the babble. Forgive the exposition in the beginning. Read on, and enjoy!
Chapter One:
Mad City
Gotham was a city at war. Almost a year had passed since the Joker had escaped Arkham Asylum with his therapist in tow, and only now was the city coming to terms with returning to a state of being where the antics of the self-styled Clown Prince of Crime determined how they went about their daily lives. The tabloids lapped it up; first it was Smylex released at a charity event attended by Gotham's finest, where the clown had narrowly escaped the Batman. Then followed the sabotage of a newly-opened theme park, which had resulted in fifteen deaths and a dozen major injuries. It was classic Joker madness, the sort of erratic violence the people had expected from day one of his escape. Housing sales soared as those who could afford to made desperate moves out of the city, many of them remembering the clown's reign of terror a decade ago. It was only a matter of time until the city went to hell again, those citizens had reasoned; they had not been wrong.
Before the Clown had been locked away in Arkham, he and his men had gained full control over Gotham's thriving underworld; when he was finally been caught by the Batman during an agonizing chase which had ended with the brutal murder of the vigilante's colourful sidekick, it became a race to the top between the dozens of gangs and crime syndicates, and the Falcone's and the Maroni's had come out on top, establishing a fragile partnership. Their war had left many of Gotham's criminals dead, and for the duration of Joker's abscence the city had enjoyed relative peace under the watchful eye of the two families. Still, in recent years there had been relative peace between Gotham's underworld in the Joker's absence.
It was not to last. Unfortunatley for Gotham, the Joker had not forgotten his place at the top of the pecking order. The Iceberg Lounge, establishment of mob-boss-turned-club-owner Oswald Cobblepot, had come to serve as a meeting place for all of Gotham's horribles. There was a parle in place which every criminal respected, on pain of death. No weapons allowed, in order to keep the peace. Joker was not one for keeping the peace; he had marched his way into the club after two weeks hiding out from the Batman, brandishing an AK47 with twelve goons at his side, and had taken to his old booth in the club as though the past ten years were only a dream. Knowing that the Clown was not to be easily dismissed, the heads of the families had come to pay their respects to him, and had made an effort to keep him appeased.
The most unexpected thing surrounding the Joker's return was, of course, the effervescent woman who had arrived on his arm that night when he had first returned to the lounge. The girl had come as a shock to all, as no one who remembered the old days could ever have imagined Joker with a woman at his side, especially not a woman such as Harleen Quinzel had once been. The story of the Joker's therapist-turned-sidekick was a delicious one, and the media had lapped it up; everyone wanted to know the story behind this woman, this mysterious, colourful Harley Quinn.
The media used that name for her, rather than her birth name; there was a tendency to glamourize the Joker's moll, the way a magician's assistant might be coveted. Each media outlet had a different angle on this woman, threaded together from the little that was known of the truth of Joker's escape; she was a maniac, the signs should have been picked up by her superiors at the asylum long ago. Others claimed that she was just another victim, drawn in by Stockholm Syndrome. There were appeals from her parents on the news in the beginning, but that all died down eventually as she became just another piece of Gotham's mismatched furniture. All outlets agreed that she was insane, and that there had never been something like her in Joker's history before; perhaps she managed to get through to the clown in some way after all, one article mused.
Harley and the Joker were often found gracing the rooms of the Iceberg Lounge now, though their appearances would be without routine and unannounced. After the initial whirlwind of mad-cap schemes and colourful escapades which Joker orchestrated as an outlet for a decade's worth of isolation, sparring with the Batman and causing havoc, it seemed that her Puddin' had worn himself out, and was now focused on getting back to the business side of things. There were lots of meetings about hit jobs and weapon imports and money, money, money. This didn't sit quite right with Harley, who had only just discovered her love for the manic lifestyle Joker had promised; why her clown, who she had always considered the freest spirit of all, cared so much about controlling the underworld she couldn't understand. It was the megalomaniac in him, she supposed. Her inner therapist still cried out to her from time to time. She'd become quite adept at batting her away.
Bored or not, Harley had little choice but to follow where her Puddin' lead. Most nights in the club she could be found dancing in the golden heart of the club, her movements free-flowing and erratic; there was something captivating in the unashamed way she threw herself around to the music, and most nights eyes would be on her rather than the professional dancers hired by Cobblepot. If not on the dance floor, she could be found at the bar talking with the baristas and sipping cocktails whilst the clown was preoccupied or sat at his feet with her arms folded onto his lap and her high heels discarded by her side, pretending to be listening as he talked business with some mob boss or other.
Tonight she was dancing. She wore a red-and-black dress, studded with diamantes in their corresponding colours and cut to mid-thigh. The dress swung freely as she moved in time with the music, her silvery-blonde hair with its red-and-black tips dancing about her head in loose, shimmering curls. She was singing along and smiling, a diamond shape inked below her right eye. She was a vision, a mad-man's day-dream, not someone to be ignored.
All eyes followed the girl as she breezed away from the dance floor, grabbing a drink from the bar before sliding through the crowds and over to Joker's booth; through the gold chain curtains she saw a familiar face and almost burst with excitement, drawing away the gold panel and announcing her presence with a squeal.
"Sally!" she chimed, stepping over Joker's feet and throwing her arms around the man who sat opposite him in the booth. The head of the Maroni family was by far Harley's favourite of the people Joker would have grace his private corner. Salvatore was in his fifties, devilishly handsome, a waxy Italian with a razor-sharp jawline and kind, fatherly eyes. He seemed to always be smiling, and loved to laugh, which given the company he was keeping, was a favoured trait. Sally knew her father- it was from him she had finally got the full story of why Mr. Quinzel had spent so many years of her childhood behind bars. He had been working for Salvatore on a job, tasked with busting up some judge just enough that his bribeable replacement could take his place overseeing the trial of one of Salvatore's sons. The job had gone wrong, and the judge had been hurt much worse than expected; Mr. Quinzel had been caught, and woe betide, a twelve-year sentence for GBH had ensued. Harley imagined that she ought hate the Maroni's for this, but it was her father who was really to blame, wasn't it? Besides, Sally brought her chocolates; strawberry ganache, her favourite. How could she ever hate someone who brought her strawberry ganache?
Salvatore in turn adored Harley. He called her his pet and would bring her fine Italian chocolates whenever he visited, or sometimes cookies baked by his wife. She would sit at his feet eating her gifts as he and Joker discussed business, and he would stroke his fingers over her hair like she was a kitten. Most nights with Salvatore around Joker would be in a merry mood, but as Harley dove into her box of ganache with edible gold leaf detailing, she found that he seemed somewhat deflated, his expression consistently stoic.
"Cheer up, Puddin'!" Harley cooed, popping another chocolate into her rosebud mouth. She had almost eaten the whole box, but she couldn't help it. "Why you lookin' so glum?"
Joker frowned at her. The accent was beginning to grate on him; he knew that she had begun to over-play it as he had once or twice remarked that he thought her natural twang alluring. After nearly a year of that incessant screeching, it was beginning to lose its charm.
"Don't call me 'Puddin'."
Harley pouted back at him. She knew that what he meant by that was, 'don't call me Puddin' when there's anyone else around to hear,' though he would never admit to such a thing.
Harley's nickname for Joker had moved like a whisper throughout Gotham's underground over the months, and now everyone had a reason to chuckle at the clown, something laughable which made him feel less threatening than the psychotic megalomaniac they knew him to be. No one ever passed mention of it to his face, of course. Still, Joker heard the accursed word hidden behind hands and whispered into ears with hushed giggles. He was all for a good laugh, but never at his own expense.
That was why, when he and Harley were leaving the club and he heard the dreaded word- or perhaps he only thought he heard the word- muttered somewhere in the crowd, Joker finally snapped. He kicked over the nearest chair with an angered yell and scrambled his way atop its table, pulling his handgun and firing three shots up into the ceiling. What would usually have been met with screaming was met with only silence, as every face in the club turned to look at the man, who stood hunched over and breathing heavily, weapon still in hand. The music blared on, so Joker pointed the gun at the DJ and blasted a hole through his chest, taking out the sound system with another shot and silencing the commencing screaming with a roar of,
"SHUT UP!"
As though it shared a hive mind, the room obeyed. Harley stared in shock, trying to pinpoint the cause of this outburst, knowing better than to interfere. She watched as Joker cricked his neck and brushed his fingers back through his hair and stuffed the last piece of ganache into her mouth. The room looked on in shock.
"The next person," Joker began, rolling back on his heels with an animated expression, "to say the word 'Puddin...'"
Joker sprang upwards and fired the last of his bullets up into the main chandelier, sending shards of glass reigning down upon the club and taking out half of the bulbs. The screaming started again as Joker finished with a manic roar,
"-Is going to become it!"
With that it seemed that his outburst was finished. He hopped down from the table and adjusted his collar, taking a firm hold of Harley's hand and leading the way out of the back entrance to the underground car park, where Frost unlocked the Lamborghini and opened up the doors for the pair of them. Joker instructed Frost to drive, and held his head in his hand the whole drive back to their secret apartment. Harley didn't say a word for the whole journey. All Joker said on the drive home was,
"It sounded better in my head."
He said it with a groan, still not removing his head from his hand.
"I think they got the point," Frost consoled him, his voice monotonous as ever. "Do you want me to transfer any money over to Penguin? For damages?"
Joker sucked his teeth. "That wrinkled old scrote can get his own damned chandelier repaired, lord knows he has the money. And there are plenty of snotty undergraduates with sound-systems in this town who'd kill to DJ at Gotham's most notorious night-spot."
When they finally arrived home, Joker immediately pulled off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, lying back on the bed with a groan. Harley took off her shoes then removed her accessories one by one, lining them up on the dresser before kneeling beside her lover on the bed, taking his head in her hands and stroking his electric green hair. He sighed aloud and reached up to touch her wrist.
"'Is going to become it'," he repeated loudly, despair in his voice, playing his address to the club over and over. "Messy delivery. I mean, what was I going for? What is it even supposed to mean?!"
"I think they got it," Harley comforted, secretly smiling at the way he could get so caught up over something like this. "Don't worry about it, sweetie."
"Messy delivery, and a terrible punchline," He insisted. He looked around the room and frowned anew. "And this place is a mess."
"I'll tidy it up a little in the morning," Harley reassured him, pressing a glittery kiss against his alabaster cheek. He wiped it away on the back of his hand, staring at the shimmering red smear. He pulled her face down to his own and pressed a kiss to her smiling lips, tasting the cherry of her mouth. When she broke away he said the words, watched the way her face lit up as it always did. Then he got to his feet, pulled off his shoes and fell into bed still half-dressed. Harley snaked out of her dress and fell in beside him, burying her face into her pillow and wrapping her arm across his front, content in the sensation of having him there. Even now it didn't feel quite real, that he was hers and she was his.
"Sleep tight, Puddin'."
He smiled into the pillow, reaching back and brushing a hand over her own. He did like the nickname.
"Don't let the Batman bite."
