A/N: I want to take the time to say that this small piece is in no way related to my last post, A Spark of Madness (which will be multi chaptered), this is a piece purely written for my (and hopefully your) amusement.
This is my first one-shot and I'm trying to practice writing in present tense, so if you guys could give me your honest thoughts, that'd be much appreciated. Also, if anyone has any questions, feel free to ask (this was clearer in my head than it is written, but maybe that's just me being paranoid). I'll get back to you as soon as I can.
So anyways, this is set in Nolanverse (with a couple references to the cartoon, B:TAS); assuming this takes place after the Joker goes to Arkham, Harley breaks him out and they've been together (as a duo, not a couple) for some time now.
Disclaimer: Sadly, none of the characters or places expressed in this one-shot are mine, only the plot belongs to me.
Rating: T
Warning: If you don't like dark themes or mild (very mild) gore scenes, this is definitely not for you. Other than that, it's a-okay.
With that said, onto the story!
Perpetual
"You run on evil, I run on fumes and stale air. I am the voice you'll never get. I am the one. I am the promise and the threat."
The Promise and the Threat: Evans Blue
Snowflakes fall onto the gloomy streets of Gotham, covering every nook and cranny it can reach. The window is foggy with the two parallel temperatures that crash into it – one from the outside world, the other from Harley's steady breaths. The room is so dark, though, that even the mist can't hide the fluffy spheres that travel to the cement clothed alley down below.
A strong gust of wind hits the city, causing the wooden frame of the abandoned building to creak menacingly. The glass in front of her seems to sink further into the building for a moment: creating the notion that it would shatter and disperse, cutting her face and upper body. Harley doesn't care to flinch.
The dyed blonde sighs as the window accommodates itself back to a straight position. She runs a pale finger over the glass, drawing random shapes across its rectangular surface. Blue eyes stare at her hand and pink, chapped lips frown. Harley remembers having a darker tone of skin – a tan she was proud of –, not this depressing, pasty color. She wonders how long ago she'd had her last sight of daylight.
It has been over eight months since her transformation from the respectable psychologist, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, into the chaotic being that currently inhabits her body: Harley Quinn.
She finds it kind of funny that her name became more recognized by her crimes in the past months than by her accomplishments over the course of years. The scowl on her faded red-painted lips grows. Strange how life worked out.
Harley plops down next to the window, placing her back against the cold wall. The contact causes her to shiver and wrap her arms around herself. The young woman looks around for something to cover her cold body. A pile of wrinkled fabric rests across the room from her – its black and red colors calling her name. The thought of dressing up in the ridiculous clown outfit dies as quickly as it comes. The garment puts unnecessary weight on her shoulders. It reminds her too much of him.
This is his entire fault, after all.
She sinks her body into the creaky floorboards and curls herself into a ball. Baby blue orbs shut tightly, underlining her desire to sleep. The darkness that cascades into view reminds her of the shadows she's grown so used to hiding in. More so, they remind her of the Bat: the same man who has foiled her dear Joker's anarchic plans countless times.
"Wake up, Harleen," the masked vigilante had told her one hectic night, "he had you pegged for hired help the minute you walked into Arkham."
The Caped Crusader has been right since day one. What is she, really, more than a silly love struck girl fitted into a clown's shoes? The dyed blonde touches her lips with the tips of her slender fingers, evoking the feel of the masked man's moist mouth upon her own. A stolen kiss. One that shouldn't have belonged to Batman in the first place. However, the Joker never cared to claim it.
How many times had she thrown herself at the clown practically begging for his affections? Hundreds, maybe thousands.
How many times had he returned her passion? The answer is simple, it doesn't even bear thinking about.
None.
Her hands form tight fists at the memories of rejection. The angry limbs do little to seem menacing, though. Harley looks at her hands with distaste, modeling the left one before her eyes. She flips it over, curls and uncurls her meager fingers. The conclusion they provide her with is that they are useless: too small and dainty to function correctly. Too inadequate for the life she's chosen to lead.
Chosen or forced? Lately, she isn't so sure.
The Joker has a way with words. Nearly everyone she's crossed paths with has pointed out this crucial fact. Harley has kept that buried somewhere in her mind, but it is resurfacing just now: now when she is too broken, too lost and too late to make use of it. The warning serves as a slap in the face, more than anything. In a short amount of time this nefarious man has destroyed her whole life.
The young woman doesn't pretend to be innocent; she knows well she allowed the Joker to lead her on. But he has abused her faith in him. He took it into his hands just as she handed it over and twisted it into something unrecognizable and frail. It became sinister – similar his coal eyes and scheming smile.
Harley understands mental illness; she's studied it for years. So when the Joker exhibited his liberating psychosis, it wasn't hard for the ex-doctor to realize how he gained such a gift. He is free because he is mad. The insanity that he represented was enough to drive her off the edge and into a sea of doubts. The Joker, being the sharp man he is, picked up on her weakness. He manipulated her to join his side, to see things his way. Soon after, she found herself clothed in red and black – the colors of his beloved anarchy – and committing crimes too atrocious for words. For him she'd given everything: lost everything. Sanity, righteousness, self respect: it was all gone, all his. She was his.
Harley's hand touches the wooden planks softly. The tips of her fingers glide over the old timber, tracing the rough patterns. Rough and cracked like scars. A smoldering feeling knots her throat, making it heavy and dry.
His face – lost behind red, black and white makeup – is not easy to forget. There is something special, something charming, about those yellow teeth when he smiles; his scars wrinkling his cheeks. The maniac laugh that booms on and on endlessly in her mind sends shivers down her spine. He has no fear, no shame. The Joker is free. Unlike her: she is well within his grasp, even at a distance.
Her fist forms once more and she hits it multiple times against the floor. Harley hates him with whatever part of her heart he'd allowed her keep. The Joker holds her perverse love in the palm of his hand: the only piece of her that really counts for anything. Everything she's done is in the name of love – his love. His madness keeps him from seeing that – that's what she tells herself, at least.
Harley knows well that she is crazy, too. The affection she feels for the madman is both inescapable and unhealthy. The blonde is consumed intellectually, so much so that her mind has long since left her.
The young woman tries to find solace in the empty house. At least here, alone, he can't hurt her. Mentally, yes – his face always haunts her –, but she is far from his corporeal reach. Even with that in mind, sleep doesn't dare taking her.
That awry smile won't go away – painted in red from ear to ear messily, it covers the true color of his scars. "Why so serious?" He always seems to retort when queried about them.
The scars: their origin is a mystery to all. Had it been a parent, a friend, a lover? What kind of person would do such a horrible thing? A madman, that's for sure. Like him – mad to the point of no return. Had he inflicted the devious everlasting smile on his face? He is capable, no doubt about it.
Not once in eight months has she heard the real story. The Joker never cares to tell. His tales shape up according to the circumstances. He was a liar; a damn good one – so outstanding Harley truly believes that not even he knows the truth. Perhaps he lies to himself better than he lies to anyone else.
Harley undoes herself from her ball on the ground and crawls towards the pile of unwanted clothing. Her pale fingers stretch towards the garments; running a cautious, shaky hand over the elastic surface. Harley lifts the outfit to her face and takes in its scent. There is a small trace, nearly inexistent, of his aroma: blood, sweat and cheap makeup. A Joker trademark.
She grips the fabric closer to her body, relishing in the feel of something remotely warm over her chest. As soon as the action registers into her system, Harley releases the outfit. Remorse bubbles in the pit of her stomach. Is she nottryingto forget about him? The woman huffs angrily.
As the clothes hit the floor, a hard noise echoes in the empty room: something vaguely heavy plunges onto the wooden surface along with the attire. Her blue irises study the red and black bundle warily, a thin blonde eyebrow arching slightly. She sinks her hand into the outfit, feeling for anything hard. After a brief examination, her hand catches something small and rigid in one of the many hidden pockets. Harley freezes. It takes her a couple seconds to decide on whether or not to pull out the mystery object.
The blonde suddenly groans at her own fear, already hearing his peculiar voice repeat in the back of her head. "Why so serious?"
Indeed, why? He isn't anywhere near her. She isn't in any immediate danger. Besides, whatever comes from her clothing is probably hers to begin with. Harley caresses the soft, durable surface of the object; its cold plane chilling her fingertips. In a quick burst of bravery she clutches the article. Her eyes widen considerably. Hayley doesn't need to see it to know what it was.
"Do you know why I use knives, Harley?" Another remembrance ricochets. His face had been contorted into a sickening kind of joy as he explained his preferred weapon. Harley had been too smitten to care what he said, but – like the warning at their first encounter – it's coming back now. "It's slower and, ah, it lets you savor all the little emotions."
Even his inclinations hold a story of their own. Harley wonders what he'd seen in her. Gullible is the first word that came to mind. It's true; she's always had a soft spot for tragedy. The blonde wants to smile at her own imprudence.
She can't. Her facial muscles don't cooperate. All they seem to manage is a thin line. The depth of the damage the Joker inflicted upon her begins to register.
"Why so serious?"
Desperation takes the reigns as she assists her cheeks with her free hand. Up she pulls the skin, but the smile never takes place. The torture this recent incapacity lights leave her lightheaded. Smiling has been her second nature; easy, like breathing. Harley Quinn could walk out of any situation – however heinous it may be – with a large grin cuddling her features. Always.
She attempts the simple action once more, her teeth grinding together with the effort. A bead of sweat runs down her forehead, glistening in the poor light seeping through the windows. Finally, an exasperated noise seethes through her lips at her failure.
It's no use trying to smile. The Joker has taken that, too. He definitely has all of her. Harley recalls the deadly article that lays on the palm of her hand.
The knife shines, suddenly seeming very friendly. It scares her to no end. "Why so serious?"
A terrible thought occurs to her just then. The knife is at eye level before she notices her hand has even moved. She manages to blink as it dives into her mouth. It is cold against the inside of her cheeks. The blade caresses her delicately; even then it's able to draw a little blood. The metallic taste in her mouth is far too familiar, almost welcomed
Harley shivers: both from fear and the sudden cold drift that enters the room. Her mind is worlds away. The only thing she feels is the temperature of her body raising hazardously. The steady, heavy drum that is her heart fills her senses. The dirty blade stings at first as it slits her left cheek. Harley stops and runs her tongue over her partial cut. It feels like she's gotten a partial Chelsea Grin. "By the end, you know who people really are."
The thrumming of her vital organ slows down enough as her body cools. The beating morphs into something more intimidating. She soon perceives that the new sound comes from reality. She hesitates, the power high that courses her veins calms considerably as a pair of feet covered in black dress shoes appear before her. This vision makes her question if the torture – the scars – is worth it.
"Harley, Harley, Harley," this time she's sure his terrifying voice isn't a hallucination.
Light crystal orbs lift from their fixation on the wooden floorboards to meet the Joker's malevolent coal eyes. He doesn't smile physically but she can see it cuddling his irises in their eternal darkness. He says nothing, does nothing; only stares at the knife still stuffed in her mouth almost as if daring her. Testing her.
Harley's heart tightens at the anticipation he reflects. The final piece to his explanation reverberates. "They are cowards, all of them." And he was absolutely right, as only he could be: they were all hopeless cowards when judgment day came around.
Her own trial plays before her eyes and his dark gaze does little to ease her fragile nerves. The Joker manages to burn her insides without even touching her. Without warning, he is at eyelevel, crouching in a way too elegant and cat-like for him. It almost appears as if they have switched roles. She is the one inflicting damage on a lost soul and he watches, waiting to follow her lead. Yet, she is still afraid. She senses it in the pit of her stomach and in the ice that has chilled her bones.
It occurs to her that no one understands him the way she does and that no one can read her as well as him, because his hand is swiftly reaching for the knife. He knows she's terrified. The Joker slides the blade away in a delicate manner, careful not to injure her skin any further. His new tenderness melts her heart. Harley's hand feels like dough under his own gloved limb. Her eyes dart to the union of their hands.
A rush of clarity streams through her system like adrenaline, only brighter, and she sees it: her love, her madness, her obedience. The Joker's softness isn't meant to be sweet or even caring – she knows him well enough to grasp this –, it's meant to be an order. He's mocking her. The clown doesn't believe her capable.
Almost as if in a dream, she imagines her prior being, Harleen, in her splendor: intelligent, stubborn, and strong. She realizes Harleen is still buried somewhere in her.
It is then that Harley decides she is not like everyone else. They are all cowards, yes, but not her, not Harley Quinn – little lone Harleen Quinzel. A traitor and a criminal, most definitely; but not a coward: never a coward. She has survived him, after all, and he would not win now. Allowing him to be victorious would be like selling herself to the devil – although he came quite near to the vicious demon.
The blonde grips the knife's handle tighter and manages to fiercely retrieve it from the Joker's hands. It's back in her mouth before he blinks. Harley challenges him with narrowed eyes, blood oozing down her face. This is hers; her moment to prove her worth.
The Joker knows this act is not for love or admiration. It is defiance. He likes that – in most cases. But the pleasure caressing him shows in the way his eyes light up with ecstasy at the sight of skin opening. The Joker runs his tongue over his marred lips, looking forward to see more of her insides. It is in his nature to lust after blood.
The tiny scratch she's created isn't enough to make a point, though, not enough to satisfy either of them. The blade dives deeper, faster, as her eyes pierce themselves menacingly into his soul with each new incision.
What kind of person would do such a horrible thing? A madman, that's for sure. Like him – mad to the point of no return. And that's exactly what she is. Madly in love with a crazed clown: a Joker.
He gazes in silence as she finishes the left cheek and begins mangling the right side of her porcelain face. That side obviously has more feeling, because liquid forms in her light eyes. The Joker's eyes twitch when he catches a glimpse of the tears. Oh, how he loves seeing her cry. Each little drop of water is adding to his cup, filling it. It is only a matter of time before he explodes. The Joker senses the feeble lifting of his extended lips.
A salty tear stings at her fresh wounds, making her whimper and bite her tongue. The momentary pain doesn't distract her from the burning on her face. When her masochist task is complete, the knife slips from her hand. Harley reaches for her anarchist colored outfit and uses it to absorb the crimson liquid painting her face.
The Joker's walls tumble and his silent streak breaks as he laughs. Despite the blurring of her vision from loss of blood and the way he giggles childishly at her suffering – more than obviously trying to hide his yearning and defeat –, Harley knows she has won. She distinguishes the submission in him, the way, this time, he desires her. She finds herself laughing along, though the sound is aimed to ridicule him. Harley ignores the way her throat wants to scream in agony.
In a rare show of frail physical contact, the Joker pulls the fabric away from her face carefully. He examines the wound closely, taking off his glove and running a bare finger over the broken skin. The clown chews the inside of his cheeks, savoring the raw texture of her bleeding flesh.
Harley flinches at the sting his sweaty, dirty limbs create as they trail throughout her cheeks. When his fingers pull away momentarily, she sucks in a deep, shaky breath. It takes a split second for her to decide to finish her act of treason.
"There was this man, you see." The way she says it makes his stare tighten. Harley is mimicking him. "One who claimed me when I was never even his, a sinister guy. He never treated me the way he should and I was so very, very unhappy. So, one day, I run away. But, see, he, is his madness, can't let me go. He searches for me endlessly. When he finds me, he is so angry, oh, so angry, that he takes a knife. Then, slowly, he walks towards me, knife firmly in hand. I panic and as he grabs me he asks," Harley tilts her head scornfully, eyes feeling drowsy, "do you know what he asks me, Mister J?"
The clown glares as a frown forms upon his lips. He supplies her with no answer, merely grabs her wrists with all his might. She's sure he'll leave bruises; she doesn't care.
"Yes," Harley breathes, "exactly. He asks, 'why so serious?' Then, he does this," her tongue flicks across her bloody lips, the metallic taste fills her senses when her tongue returns to its cave, "to me. But wait," her voice turns silent, like a whisper, as he pulls her closer, grip tightening on her wrists, "you want to hear the funny side?"
"Indulge me," he demands, eyes like a snake.
Her stare is dead, automatic. "Now I'm always smiling." Maybe he's taken her heart, her dignity, her soul. But this he can't take. It is implanted into her face permanently. A smile, revolting, infected and twisted, but a smile indeed.
No matter how unhappy or hurt she is, no matter how much pain she endures, Harley smiles. Not even death can change that. This is undying. Forever. More than she can bargain for.
THE END.