Title: Scars (One shot)
Author: Fiddlestiicks
Rating: T (focuses a lot on our favorite - domestic abuse!)
Summary: After all, it did always wind it's way back to the scars, for her
Keywords: Harley, thoughts, scars, Joker
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Okay, so, here in the universe of my fic, we're working under a slightly Nolan Joker skew, only in respect to his appearance. We're going with the idea that Joker wears makeup over a series of pretty gruesome scars. Harley and everything else, for all intensive purposes, stays the same.
SCARS
By Fiddlestiicks
There was no object or force, divine or manmade, that could change her mind about him. Despite the scars he gave and the scars he bore, he was the epitome of perfection and devilish charm, in her eyes. The normal world may have looked on at him like some sort of a sideshow clown who moonlighted as a criminal mastermind, but she knew better. Oh, she knew much better than any of them, the proof burning further into her memory each and every night they retired as a couple, when she saw him in the natural form that no one else was privy to, scars and all.
After all, it did always wind it's way back to the scars, for her.
That was an intimate part of him, something reserved not for his work, not for even his inner circle, but for her. A sight that she alone was allowed to see. A rational mind could chalk this up to the fact that even criminal madmen had to remove their disguises, especially their makeup, at some point, but she would never see it in that light. No, it meant something. It just had to mean something, that her Puddin' trusted her to see him like that. She hadn't quite pinpointed the exact significance of this act, yet, but she had gotten far enough in the thought process to deem it significant, and that was a start.
She had never minded them, in the first place, only attributing them to the stripped down version of the man she'd fallen in love with as a doctor, as a professional. That was her first glimpse of someone much different than she knew, now; a more broken, vulnerable face he'd shown her whilst finding the cracks in her cleverly applied façade of mental stability. They hadn't talked about the scars, at that point, not in any way she considered to be realistic or true. Sure, there were the stories upon stories detailing fictional ways he received them or gave them to himself, but she'd quickly deemed that a lost cause of a subject, finding no truth there. They were simply part of the charming, intelligent patient that lured one Harleen Quinzel into losing much more than simply her job, but her very sanity.
He hadn't always believed her when she said that the disfigurement didn't repulse her, however. In spite of his unfailing cockiness and unbelievable ego, he had moments. Not moments of insecurity, but moments of rage that needed focusing, that grasped at any straws it could possibly play off of. Most of the time, that release came in the form of a look that just lingered too long, any look he felt was criticizing or disrespectful - the perfect opportunity to broach such a subject as to garner himself praise and to expel his frustrations.
"Fucking look at me," he had growled furiously, his long, nimble fingers just a hair more gentle than the pressure it would've taken to crush her delicate throat. She kept her tear-filled blue eyes averted; this just had to be a trick, like the times before. She knew he didn't honestly want her to look into his face, and that obeying that false command would only earn her a harsh punishment. He slammed her against the wall with a mite more force, breath hot against her cheek in a way that struck fear into her rapidly beating heart.
"Can't stand to look at your Puddin' now, can you, Harley-girl?" He jeered, the pet name she used for him just dripping with venomous sarcasm as he spoke, a frighteningly wide smile plastered on his bare face. This comment drew her eyes upward, if only to disprove him.
"O-of course I can," she stammered, looking up at him with all the adoration and love she always had, a watery smile coming over her already bruised lips, stretching painfully where a little blood dried in the corner of her mouth. "You're the handsomest man in the whole wide world, Mistah J. Y-you know that," she continued, reaching a hand up to brush along his jaw line in an attempt to make up for whatever she'd done to make him think otherwise.
She not only loved his scars, but the scars he'd bestowed upon her as well, each having a particular time and place attached to it, which she could vividly recall, at random. The bruises were just as special, but they faded; the scars were eternal and proud, little hints of raised flesh that bore his touch, his ownership. And she loved each and every one of them, from the quick and deep to the slow, almost sensual and more shallow of the lines. She could run her fingers over the indentations and raised flesh, never more amazed that she could move her Puddin' to such emotion, even if it was rage. That was simply how he played, and sometimes, how he kept her in line, the scars a reminder of lessons she'd already learned. He only did it because he loved her, and needed to mould her better. He could make her better, make her who she wanted to be. She just knew he could. She could tell by all the tiny nicks and scars she bore.
After all, it did always wind it's way back to the scars, for her.
--FIN--
Let me know what you think. I've been throwing around this idea for just a bit, and this is my final version of a piece I've been working on. :)