A/N: This is my first time trying out another version of Harley x Joker, just to see how it feels. Set after The Dark Knight. Nolanverse. The Joker is based on Heath Ledger's performance. I imagine Brittany Murphy as my Harley Quinn.

On The Edge

"I don't know how to express that being with someone so dangerous was the last time I felt safe."
- Janet Fitch, White Oleander

She is not afraid of the scars.

Maybe that's what makes her different in his eyes, maybe not. Maybe that's why he decided to see if she could stick around. To see if she will eventually run like the others, cringing in fear and disgust. So many others, men and women alike, have seen his face and been repulsed. Most of them died.

Because that face belongs to a monster, Gotham's self-proclaimed ruler. When he grins and flashes yellow teeth, enhanced by white greasepaint and lipstick, people run and scream. She knows that no one sees him like she does; no one can see who's really beneath all that face-paint.

Most of the time she doesn't know either; he has told her so many different stories by now. He has a thousand different pasts, a thousand masks and veils to hide his true self behind. But no matter what facade he picks for the time being, she sees him differently than the rest. She is not afraid of his closeness or his distance, his laughter and violent outbursts. She remains standing still, taking whatever comes her way.

And isn't he gorgeous with the city burning behind him, orange flames matches his purple suit and gives it a stunning color. A thoughtful expression on his face at what he has just accomplished.

Knife in hand, absently twisting it, his mind has scattered again and he is somewhere else, already thinking about the next, vague step in his plans. The city is in the palm of his hand with no effort at all. He stands there, shoulders slightly hunched, and watches the fireworks in the distance.

His face can twist into a million different expressions depending on his mood, on what he has set himself to. Mostly he is so turned into himself that he doesn't even notice her presence, but when he does, she feels it to the very core of her bones.

With him, Harley feels bare. Completely open, as if he has cut her up, shredding all the walls she could possibly build up. Even with her own white makeup covering her face, red lipstick and black eye shadow circling her eyes, she feels stripped.

Now she waits patiently for him to make a move, for his usual hyper-alertness and restlessness to return. Their days are crazy, unpredictable to the point she can't keep track of anything, night turning into day and day into night. She has been with him for a year now, more or less, she doesn't even know why she is still alive. She has seen the world in front of her crumble and collapse; she has seen him pushing through it with brute force and gasoline. She has hardened, built up a perfect shell from everything else.

Her skin is always bruised somehow, covered with nasty scrapes and deep cuts, from the wild life they are leading, from being too close to him. She is used to landing on her head, breaking her bones.

The sight of an entire block with buildings collapsing to the left brings Joker back to the present. His head moves a bit from side to side, shaking his faded green tresses, muttering something to himself. Then he spots her, standing a few feet away.

She feels the familiar surge of fear run through her for a moment before it melts away into scorching hot calm. Holding her mallet in her hands, loosely, shifting her weight between her feet, waiting. Maybe he doesn't even remember how she ended up there with him, it doesn't matter. The entire night might have slipped past him unnoticed – it wouldn't be the first time. He just acts, never reflecting, and suddenly finds himself standing on a rooftop or in an alley somewhere with blood on his shoes. She has seen it before, the small expression of surprise on his face before he shrugs and moves on with life. He never gets stuck on anything, moving through every second in a neck-breaking speed.

And now when his dark eyes have settled upon her, she knows it's a moment of fate, flipping the coin. She waits, and he stalks towards her in long strides, determined again.

"Harleeeey, why so serious?"

That line has been repeated a thousand times, always introducing various acts of violence and slaughter, but with her he takes a slightly different tone. Still testing her, eyes moving rapidly, lips splitting into a grin. He speaks jerkily, throatily. "It's such a beautiful night."

Another block of buildings collapses like a house of cards. He nods to himself, listening to the sounds of it, the tremors in the ground as the explosions fill the air behind them and light up the night sky.

She is staring at his face now, at the blood running down his temple. It mixes with the white greasepaint, the red smearing along his scars, but he seems completely oblivious to it. Not even a bullet in his body can faze him.

He doesn't like it when she stares. A moment later her chin is roughly grasped in his hand, his knife underneath her jaw line. She makes no move to pull back, swallowing the discomfort and staring calmly into his eyes. Sometimes, when she is angry, she puts up a fight and challenges him, and it always end up with her bloody and him laughing.

She wonders where the blood comes from and she wants to check him over to make sure it's not too serious, but it would not end well.

He jerks his head to the side, his stare deepening and nailing her down, violent in its very nature. She has feared his eyes before; they seem like bottomless black pits. She knows he thinks she is staring at the scars; that she is finally afraid of him, finally going to run away.

Not that he'd let her. But a part of her knows he doesn't want her to.

Yes, he thinks she finally sees his scars for what they are, and that thought is the only thing that really gets to him. A trace of pity in her eyes and he would strangle her.

Unlike everyone else, Harley doesn't squirm or struggle in his grip. She stares at him, keeping her gaze steady and her breathing calm, feeling the knife against her skin. Its pressure increases slightly, prickling the skin. Something inside of her has always been stronger than her fear for him; her need for him.

She doesn't plan on living without him, he is her entire world, and her heart beats faster in fear when she slips and even thinks of him wounded, dead, gone. He is hurt, he couldn't care less, and one day he might just walk right into an explosion and never come back.

His breathing is ragged, uneven, as he presses the knife to her throat. After what feels like an eternity, she reaches up a hand, half expecting him to slash her wrist. She doesn't take her eyes off of him for a moment.

He lets her place a hand on his face, feeling warm skin beneath the paint. Tenderly, Harley wipes the blood away from his brow and keeps it from running into his eyes. It's emerging from a sticky place in his hair, mixing with his dark roots.

He is watching her, his gaze hard and unpredictable, his jaw moving to the side.

Still keeping her hand on his face, she leans closer. The knife is pressing harder against her skin, she resists the urge to back away and waits out the agonizing moments.

Then her mouth is on his, he is the one who lets her. He kisses her harshly and she reaches up on her tip-toes. The knife is withdrawn from her neck, but still in his grip. She presses herself flush against him. Knowing he could kill her any second or leave her with a new, gushing wound, she never wants to play it safe – if he wants to, he can do it anytime.

She is in his arms, on a rooftop three o'clock in the morning, police sirens blasting in the distance, the sound of concrete falling together somewhere else, everything is frail and her life is flickering away.

She feels him press himself against her, roughly. Her heart beats strongly in her chest, reminding her of the fact that she is still alive. The kiss is bruising, violent, like always. She flicks her tongue over his rough scars; he pushes his face against hers, she accepts him and treasures every inch, every scar tissue of his.

He often talks about the scars, but never what made him like this. She is allowed to touch them, sometimes, with her life at stake, never stare at them, never show any emotion to the sight of them.

Secretly, Harley loves them. They are a part of him that she wouldn't trade. His soul is too complex for words, there is a raw, sharp-edged beauty to him. Even now with his face streaked with blood, real skin showing through, hurt and worn-down, eyes gleaming with the desire to kill, he is breathtaking.

He pulls apart too soon, laughing darkly, as he turns towards the city again. She stands behind him, silent, waiting for the dust to settle and dawn to conquer. He is impatient to get back to work, to plunge his knife through flesh, for real this time.

She brushes ashes away from her clothing. It's time to move.

She would die for him, but that bores him. So she lives for him instead.