Author's Note: Man oh MAN has it been a while since I've uploaded anything. And forgive me for this being my one and only Harley/Joker piece. I really struggled with this one here, trying to make the Joker into something more human than his Nolanverse or even comic book self. And yes, I know, he shouldn't be human, but monster. But to me, something so scary about him would be his relateable, cynical human self. So within this piece I really explored the relationship between Harley and the Joker, mostly the creation of Harley and the destruction of Harleen. I wanted to describe and uncover how he could convert a normal girl into his love-sick toy. And excuse me for that horrid stereotype of her, but it just worked here so well. I guess I accidentally created a more human, gentle Joker than I intended, but one with motives.

Its a oneshot unless I get inspired again. Sorry for the let down if you're so excited by my work.

Anyways, I reference two songs by Dmitri Shostakovich, a Russian composer who lived from 1906 to 1975. The first song referenced is his Second Waltz, more commonly and affectionately called his Russian Waltz. If you can find the song without any interference from an audience, which you will often stumble upon when just searching through youtube (And that does add a bit more character to the song, but I didn't want to bias you :p). The second song referenced is his String Quartet No. 8, the second movement. The part I refer to as being hummed can be found at just behind the minute mark (about 55 seconds) on the first hit off of youtube. These, I believe are very important to the piece as a whole and add an atmosphere and air I couldn't really write in.

And in conclusion: my baby. Enjoy.

It had been months since the case had started, since she had a small speck of hope still within her saying how he's still a human being, how there must be some conscience left within him. Each day they met and she tried to solve him, the harder it was for herself to still see reality. To him, reality was chaos plain and simple. And he brought that with him to their meetings, slowly changing the way she saw people and things. He got in her head and haunted her memories.

She saw him wherever she went. His eyes, soulless and captivating, followed her to the grocer's on the corner, to the bank where she paid her bills, to the bar where she met friends. She could close her eyes and see him still, sitting there, looking worn and vulnerable, saying just what he needed to say to get her. The thing was, he wasn't vulnerable at all, and she knew that, and should know better.

She sat alone in her apartment, the news on the television. Here, curled in on herself, cozy on the sofa, did she dare think of him, ponder for just one moment about him. She would let her guard down, and observe him in her mind's eyes. He was startling to her, an ungodly beast contained within a man's body. He was imposing without standing, and got what he wanted without speech or movement. It was his gaze, the crazed, black eyes that could stare down an oncoming freight train, could send wild animals back to the dirty corners of the wilderness. And she knew she was in his control, no matter how much she struggled not to be. He had caught her in his trap, and was simply testing out the strings.

"Go back to your home tonight, Doc, and sit on your sofa, 'kay?" His eyes burned holes through her skin. "And when you're all nice and cozy alone," His shoulders lurched upward, all teeth bared in a menacing, wild smile, only to sink back to the familiar controlled countenance. "I want you to think of your day. And I want you to think... of me..." His head nodded slightly, face turned away from her, though those eyes never left. He moved subtly, but with purpose here in the confines of her office. "Got it, Doc?"

She wouldn't say anything to him, simply peer up from her notes, which she had been pretending to be interested in. "Why would you like me to do this?" She slowly responded, from her doctor's point of view, really still trying to crack him open, knowing all the while that it was useless.

"Because," He shifted back into his chair, hands held together between his legs, both bound by cuffs. His legs stretched out before him, flexing muscles and popping joints as they went. She observed for just a moment too long. "Because I know you'll be thinking of me anyways." A smile flashed across his face for just one moment, and she caught it.

She stared blankly at the televisions, blue eyes absently gazing at the newscaster. He had her, fully without touch. It shook her, and only here was she allowed to let it out. She knew he would know the next morning, back in her office, what he had done to her.

"So..." He broke her thoughts again, scrambling her visions and calculations like smoke through the air. She looked up, away from her paper where someone had began to doodle a pair of piercing eyes, to see him staring her down. "When am I going to be able to make myself look beautiful again? I mean, I get it. I understand. Who knows what those companies are putting into make up these days, but..." He squinted, pursing his lips in a disapproving, oh-so-skeptical sort of way. "Really? My make up? It's kids stuff. Mime's wear it to Billy's or Sandy's seventh birthday party and make balloon animals." She raised an eyebrow. "When- When am I going to get mine back?"

"I'm not sure. Dr. Arkham is looking into a way to make sure it is safe for all of the residents here." She responded mechanically. She knew that Arkham wasn't ever going to allow this guy to get his clown make-up back, even if it was lead-based and could kill him off faster. "Good riddance!" She could hear Arkham saying over this man's death.

No, not man. Monster.

"I just don't know how-" His voice cracked manically. "How in the hell I am supposed to impress anybody around this dump if I don't look good." He seemed a little desperate in his tone, his eyes sweeping the floor in a manner to that of a junkie in withdrawal looking for a needle.

"Are you worried of what people say about your looks?" She asked softly, leaning forward over her notepad, her pen poised between her fingers.

"Of course I-! What are you getting at here, Doc?" His brows lowered. He hadn't worn his signature make up since he'd been thrown in this place and forced to scrub it off in the shower. "That my self esteem is low because everyone gets to gawk at this?" Both hands touched his face, pushing in the mangled flesh of his cheeks. "I don't think so." He sounded bitter and defensive to her, like a wounded animal trying to fend off a predator. His frown didn't help. He pursed his lips, face contorted in a disapproving way. "Just tell me when I'm going to get my make up back."

"I don't know." She responded again, looking back down at her pad of paper. The eyes had spread into half of a face, the brows and bridge of the nose having come into view.

Harleen sighed to herself, sinking back into her couch. It was exhausting to remember him. She had begun to notice bags under her eyes over the last couple weeks. How could a man without laying a finger on her, without hardly saying a word to her, have her so knotted up inside around his finger? They had played this game where she pretended she was in control and he pretended that he was her's to make and play and do. But they both knew it was just a farce. He knew as well as she did that the roles were reversed, and he controlled her movement and thoughts. Shakily, she slowly stood from her couch and walked like a man on death row towards the bathroom. The television was left on and had switched to a featured program of the city's orchestra. Dmitri Shostakovich's Second Waltz was the opening piece. She walked towards the bathroom.

Closing the door to the bathroom only muffled the noise from the television, which was left on too loud. Her hands slowly reached towards the medicine cabinet and pulled out a brown paper bag. She emptied the contents onto the vanity's counter. With an almost sad determination, she opened the first container, a strong smelling white smudge and dipped her finger's into it. Bringing it to her face, she could see her end there.

"You can call me Mr. J, you know." He cooed, face close to her ear, guards no where to be seen. His hands were bound only by cuffs, not by any human restraint he hand within him. "I can tell you're different than the rest. You're not like all of them..." He smiled to himself, shackled hands slowly petting her hair. "You're just like me underneath all of this."

She closed her eyes, swallowing her fear and trying to calm her nerves. "I don't think we're anything alike." She responded, growing braver with each heart beat that was reminding her she was alive. "I haven't killed mercilessly or tortured anybody."

He hissed out a twisted laugh. "Oh, I'd beg to differ. You support the treatment of the idiots in this place. You torture me every time I'm in here with you." Her eyes tightened shut even more at his words. "You try to get me to confess some big hurt my mommy gave to me." He sounded condescending and laughed again, face brushing against her cheek. "The only difference between you and I is that society doesn't totally frown on what you do in here."

Her pen, her only possible defense, had disappeared somewhere in this entanglement. He was looming over her, hands bound behind her head in a make-shift choke hold, pulling her head towards his shoulder. "But it's okay. It isn't all bad to be like me." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, not affectionately, but as a branding. "Chaos is fun, you know."

The first smear was the worst. It was her plunge into insanity, into this chaos she heard so much about. She looked like some albino warrior princess. The smears became more purposeful and potent, spreading more and more disguise across her flawless skin. She was just like him, hiding behind a white mask than feigned innocence and purity. Her hands were shaking when she finished it, a ghostly face staring her back in the mirror. The music swelled in the other room, from an almost sad tune to a more uplifting melody. She was descending into madness to the beat of the nations' number one enemy.

Lifting the mask to her face, she secured it with a mild adhesive. She pulled her hair into two pig tails, smearing the white grease paint through her blond hair. She wiped her hands on her shirt, staining it forever with the evidence of her metamorphosis. She pulled the shirt from her body and stepped back, bare and bold, and observed herself in the mirror. She only recognized the ice-blue eyes staring back at her. Something wasn't quite right. She searched for that particular color of lipstick, a deep red, and pouted her lips, applying it generously.

"If I were to put any money on it, you've already got my make up packed away somewhere in this hell-hole or- Ohhh!" He laughed, lurching back from her body and giggling at the ceiling. "No no no. You naughty girl." He kissed her forehead again, this time affectionately, and continued laughing. "You didn't. You didn't! You did." The words oozed from his mouth. "Its your own private stash."

She didn't dare move under him. He had her pinned to her cushy chair, straddling her and resting on her knees. Her stomach dropped to the floor, rolling around under the chair near the bolts that held it securely. "I don't know what you're talking about." She solemnly responded, hoping against all odds he would buy her lie.

"Don't be silly, Harley darling." His voice was rough again. His hands pulling at her hair now, tipping her head back so he could look directly down her face. "I know exactly what you've done and why." She prayed a guard would walk by, save her from her personal devil. He had called her bluff and yanked her hair, sneering at her. "You liiiike me, don't you?" He giggled again, amused by the whole situation. His kiss was more violent this time. He dug his chin into her forehead, nipping at her hairline. "Tell me you don't." He continued to coo, low and rough. "You should know better Haaaaarleeeeey." His hand grabbed a fistful of her blond hair and he yanked her up, standing as he went, and forced her face towards him. "You should know better." It wasn't a playful response anymore, but a threat. He took a step back, forcing her with him, and turned so she was leading backwards towards a caged bookshelf.

She stared up at him in horror, locked in by his dark eyes. He wasn't looking at her anymore, but shoving her towards the metal bars of the cage. It would be a situation she would soon be forced to get used to. He slammed her head against the metal, pressing himself to her and pinning her there. He bit at her cheek, her jawline, her ear where he stopped and scolded her again. "You really should know better, you stupid little girl."

The gears were working in his head. He had known for a long time that he had her in his control, but he didn't guess for this reason. Normally, it was out of fear. But admiration, of the affectionate variety? No. He turned his face from her, looking over his shoulder, gaze darting from the armchair to her desk to the metal door that locked them in the room. He could snap her neck and be done with this problem. He could strip her naked and rape her until she was infertile. His plans wouldn't work if she wanted to help him because she loved him- To fix him because she loved him.

"So what should we dooo with yooou, hmm? Ok? Hmm?" He pursed his lips again, hands cupping her skull, pressing together in a borderline-crushing manner. He arched his back away from her, to look her in the eye. He saw the fear there, the terror of not knowing what would happen next. It amused him all the more. "Do I kill you, Doc? They would say its cause you know too much." He forced out a bark of a laugh. It was obvious he hadn't let her see any real part of himself. "So do I kill you, hmm?" He looked her in the eye again and she didn't say anything. Her mouth was hanging open like a fish. He smacked her head against the metal bars again and repeated the question, not so nicely this time. "Do I kill you, then?"

She closed her eyes in desperation, trying not to cry or make a noise or anything. "Please..." She finally gasped. "Please don't." He didn't move, simply holding her there for a few moment further. So she wasn't completely stupid after all. It was dumb enough for her to fall for him, and would have been even dumber to let him kill her. He hummed something, some awful lilting tune. She'd later come to learn it was his attempt at Shostakovich's String Quartet No 8., the second movement, to be precise.

Facing the mirror again, she sized up the monster looking at her. Her face now resembled that of a burglarizing circus clown. She took a step back, unsure of her feet and legs, and leaned against the wall. She reached a hand up and smoothed her hair, still quivering as if he was standing behind her. This was her downfall, a beautiful and painted waltz to her sure death with him, her loving and horrifying monster. Her darling Puddin'.

She began to sing the song that fueled her movements, still playing on the television in the living room. Her feet began to move and she swayed back and forth in ¾ time, dancing back towards the sound.

"Now say you love me." He commanded, his voice almost sweet and caring, but his sharp fingers reminding her of what he really meant.

"I love you." She mimed back, opening her eyes and looking up at the monster holding her to the wall.

"And say you'll never do anything to hurt me."

"I won't." She promised, meaning it wholeheartedly.

"And say..." He smiled now, tightening his grip around her neck, just below her skull. "Say you'll promise to get me out of this place."

"I promise."

"You promise what?" He questioned, smirk pulling up the deformed corners of his mouth

"I promise to get you out of here."

"Good." He was nodding, glee filling his rotten insides. "Very good."

She felt her life was collapsing before her and the only sure thing now was the beast that held her up from the floor by her neck. He didn't choke or squeeze too hard, but held her in place. She wanted to cry. How could she have let herself be played like this, read like an open book, and then torn in half simply from trying to hide it all. What would her coworkers say? What would the media say? What would be said about the once glorious Harleen Quinzel? Her end was here, captivated in his grip and gaze.

"What a good Harley you are, hmm?" He cooed at her, petting her hair lovingly, a sick, twisted sort of love though it was. He had manipulated and controlled her to get her into this moment.

The next morning, after a sleepless and terrifying night, she took a shower and scrubbed the grease paint from her face. She dressed herself normally and donned her white coat. She caught the 8 o'clock bus, then the 8:30 train, then the 9:15 ferry to the island that held Arkham's Asylum. She passed security guards, flashing her badge as needed, and headed to her office. Closing the door behind her, she pressed a clammy hand to her forehead, feeling the kisses he had left for her as if they were burned into her skin. She turned, shaking, and sank into the chair behind her desk.

She attempted to do some paperwork, shuffling things around and making a bigger mess of her desk. She was a wreck and didn't want to admit it. The night before had been the last night she would ever see her apartment, and today would be the day she saw for the last time her office. She was no longer Harleen Quinzel, but a love-sick puppy. She had flown too close to the sun and was now falling back to the earth with a sad semblance of her wax wings.

The guards led in her first patient, the man responsible for her downfall. She thanked them wearily and didn't move from her desk. He sat across from her, beyond the armchair, on a small couch. She stared at him, hurt and angry, in a glaring manner. He looked back at her, face clean and shirt as pressed as he could get it, innocent and unimposing.

He smiled, pulling his lips back and showing his teeth in an almost primal way, and asked "What's the matter, Doc? Rough night?"

She stood, losing herself in the memory of the night before, and wandered once again in ¾ time. Nearing him, she began to hum that familiar tune of the Russian Waltz and twirled about, voice growing to a tremendous crescendo. He smiled wider, knowing full well what must have taken place the night before. He stood, hands held together with the familiar cuffs and danced with her as best he could, joining in on the singing. She had fallen into madness and fallen in love with the mad man responsible for her demise. And here they were, dancing to the very anthem of her insanity.

His arms were soon around her, having somehow managed to lift them up over her and then down around her. She was pulled in close to him, surrounded now by his presence. They were waltzing in a make-shift way, him not being able to use his arms. He was down in her ear, then, humming along with her, drowning out her mind with his rough falsetto. She could have died there, and there was always the chance that that would be exactly where she died. He was dangerous and unpredictable.

She remembered this as she hit the caged bookcase again, her head smacked against it with a loud crack. Her vision swam and she reeled, trying to gain her balance. He was pulling her away again, arms still firmly around her body, dragging her now more like a doll than a dance partner. He was still humming as she swung and hit the couch. Her legs buckled and she was soon bent half over the arm. He was towering over her, eyes just as dark as she remembered. She stumbled back and incidentally pulled him down on top of her.

"Moving a little quickly, aren't we?" He chuckled, elbows propping him up. "Well, I should have known. You do seem like you had some daddy issues, anyways." He laughed, the humming having only paused momentarily. She didn't wonder where the guards were today, she didn't care. All that was or ever could be was looming over her like a reaper.

"Unlock my cuffs." He commanded, lifting his hands while his elbows stayed planted on the couch.

"I – I can't. I'm..." she looked down herself and back up at him. She was pinned to the couch. He rolled his eyes, scoffing, and hoisted himself off of her. She quickly reached for the keys within her coat pocket, and released him from the handcuffs. As soon as he was released, he grabbed her wrists and dragged her upright, swinging her around in a proper waltz move. He kissed her mouth roughly, branding her again in a non-affectionate way. His humming had fallen a little off-tune, but he continued to dance, "accidentally" swinging her into things as he went.

Soon enough her head was full of buzzing noises, her vision blurry, and a well-formed egg was swelling on the back of her skull. Her arms and legs had grown weak, being only suspended by his strong hands clasped around her wrists. She would surely have bruises there in the morning. The girl was having a hard time telling up from down when she realized she was being kissed on the mouth more and more. She felt her heart skip a beat and tried to pull herself closer to him. He pushed her back, making sure to hit her against the standing lamp near her desk before dropping one of her wrists and placing his hand on her back, pressing her close to him. She wasn't allowed to make the moves.

It had been months since he had worn his make up and he was sure she had some somewhere in the room, but didn't know where. He could smell it, the distinct baby-powder meets chalk stench. It was only then that he realized the smell was coming from her. He left her mouth, his movements stopped, and he surveyed her, one eye-brow lifted in a curious, but very skeptical way.

"When, oh when, did you get into a mask, Darling Harley?" His 'r's were rough to listen to. He didn't expect a response, knowing she was probably suffering from a bit of a headache at this point. He smiled, laughing a bit to himself. The girl was more infatuated with him than he had expected. It pleased him all the more and he let her arm go, propping her against her desk and unwrapping his other arm from around her. Stepping back, his face grew solemn again, a quiet danger she would soon learn to observe carefully.

She attempted a step towards him, eyes barely open, one arm stretched out towards him, the other still holding her up on the desk. He took another step back, shoulders tense and hunched, head lowered in an animalistic way. His eyes were ablaze with ideas: the things he could do to her, how he could stab her with her own pen, steal the keys and break out from this place. He paused, eyes glued to her and her pathetic attempt to get back to him. He took another step away. He weighed his options. She could be his hostage, she could be his plaything he kept in a closet. She wouldn't be needed in a couple weeks, anyways. Why not destroy her soon, get a taste of flesh before his escape? Or after? The thought lingered in his mind for a few more moments. Or after.

He smiled, stepping towards her again, and tore at her mouth with his teeth. She swooned, her reality still fuzzy from her head trauma. One hand, strong, slender fingers and all, clasped around her upper arm, holding her up while the other cleared her desk with a destructive sweep. Her papers scattered onto the floor, picture frames shattering and books fluttering to a crumpled mess. He laid her down there, climbing half onto the desk with one knee. Her head rolled about, blonde hair like a halo around her pale face. She opened her eyes and caught sight of him, the lights above him playing tricks with her vision. His hair hung down in a stringy, curly mess about his face, framing his scars like a tragic, deformed piece of art. The corners of his mouth were puckered and mangled. She closed her eyes again as he dove in.

His mouth, hot and violent, bit at her skin, bruising her shoulders and neck. He tore at her blouse, popping buttons and half revealing her chest. His fingers curled tighter around her one arm, the other hand holding him up as he climbed fully on top of her. She let out a cry and he laughed, hysterical and vicious. She could feel the cool air from the ventilation system hitting her bare skin, but didn't open her eyes. Her skirt had been pulling up, a large tear up the side from where he had gotten impatient. Her arm felt numb when he finally let her go, and she tried to move it. It didn't got far before he had her hands pinned above her head.

"Quit wiggling." He snarled in her ear, yanking her hair as his hand traveled away from her head. He didn't have a knife, but she felt like she was being cut by him. His teeth were like razors on her stomach and hip. Pin-pricks of blood were oozing from her shoulder now, and from just above her hip. He stopped again, heaving himself up above her and examined her from an aerial view.

She was bleeding, that was for sure. He could feel it around his mouth from where he had carelessly laid his face. She had bruises scattered about, all approximately the size of his hand. Her shirt did little to cover her, and the elastic in her bra was doing even less help. He growled at the site, pleased and aroused by his progress. She wasn't moving as much as he would have like, and pulled her hair to see her whine and whimper in response.

"Get up" he said, crawling off of her and standing. He was frustrated now, knowing he would have to rush here to get anything done to satisfy himself. He looked about the room again, eyes lingering on the door where he was sure a guard would be wandering by any moment to take him back to his cell. She had somehow managed to sit up on the desk, pathetically tugging at her overcoat to cover her torn blouse. "You'll have to do better than that, Doc." His words weren't said kindly, but as a warning, his sharp gaze emphasizing the meaning. If she didn't pretend everything was all sunshine and cotton candy, there was a chance he would be reassigned to a different idiot psychologist and she would be relieved of her duties from the asylum out of pity.

He paced about, kicking the side of the couch furiously whenever he stopped. What a waste of time it would be if she didn't pull herself together. Three months down the drain of getting in her head and fucking her up royally. He kicked the couch again. He turned to look at her, expecting to find her passed out on the floor in front of her desk from a concussion only to see her pulling her hair back into a make-shift bun, slowly edging her way to her desk chair. She had buttoned her coat fully to cover her shirt, and was shifting her skirt around so the tear wouldn't show to the guards if she sat down when they arrived. He clenched his jaw, still frustrated.

He snatched his handcuffs from the floor where they had been abandoned and placed them around his wrists, sitting back on the couch. His gaze was furious, burning a hole into the top of Harleen's head. He would just have to wait. Wait until tomorrow, wait a week until she put together a plan to break him out of here. Wait. He leaned back into the couch, head lowering, eyes never shifting from her.

A smile broke his mood. She was his: his to manipulated, to break and bend, his to destroy whenever he wanted. She was his.