Title: Five Things That Never Happened To Harley Quinn
Beta: Gladrial
Rating: M (For mature language, violent material, and naughty sexual implications. All the good stuff!)
Summary: A small showcase of what could have been for our little clowngirl. (Harley Quinn centric alternate universe musings.)
Disclaimer: DC owns all these characters and WB owns DC and Time Warner owns WB and I'm pretty sure the rest of the world. Also, I stole this disclaimer from Amanda.
Author notes: I'm a diehard Joker/Harley shipper so of course almost all of my fics have that slant and premise, but occasionally I'll get an itch for something a little different. That's where these shortfics come in. They were intended to be drabbles, but after the first one I sorta got carried away. I'm sure none of you will mind.
WARNING! Stories number 1 and 4 deal with clown-shaped character death, but it's over by the next story anyway. So buck up, you pansy.
(Re-edited 3/2/11)
1. It All Comes Full Circle
He wouldn't be home for another forty-five minutes which gave her just enough time to get packed and be far enough away to avoid the fireworks. Harley struggled through her tears to throw random articles of clothing into her battered suitcase, the few meager possessions she already had in there barely filling it halfway. Everything she had to show for this miserable life. A sob broke through her throat at these thoughts and she attempted to push her feelings back for the moment, at least until she got out.
Yanking her underwear drawer open and pulling bundles of lace and satin to her suitcase, she barely had time for a scream as the familiar white fingers enclosed themselves around her neck. There was no need to look up into the cracked vanity mirror to see the grimly smiling face of death, the one her very dedication to had led to this existence. His chalky hands were growing tighter on her throat and there was no kicking him away and fleeing; this was the end, her end, at his mercy like every other victim.
Harley could not explain why she reached for the glint of metal laying in the drawer among the scraps of panties, or even how she escaped his vice-like grip to turn around, but the cold hardness of the barrel, like his hands, jogged her back to reality. As Harley had done so many times before, she fired, staggering backwards from the recoil into the dresser. It took only a moment for him to collapse to the floor, lifeless eyes staring up at her in a look of utter surprise.
No, no, no, no, no. Harley's mind raced as she numbly allowed the smoking weapon to drop from her hands, the shock erasing any prior emotion. What had she done? This was never what she had wanted...was it? To be free of that monster was all she had thought about only five minutes ago, but she knew she could always just come back. Now there was no coming back. Sinking to her knees on the filthy bloodstained carpet, Harley could do nothing except stare at the crumpled man in front of her, the wall behind him spattered with grey matter and a disgusting array of red and pink.
2. The Ugly Truth
She was a goddamned idiot: Harley knew this. And yet here she was, sitting on the same crummy sofa, in the same dumpy apartment, wringing her hands over the same lunkhead that gave her a blackeye just the other week. But that wasn't really Jack's fault; she should have taken into account that his job was in a very stressful and tense atmosphere... Wait, what did Pam call this? She had used an ugly word that sounded like denial, but Harley tried not to pay her criticisms any mind. Only she could truly understand her Puddin'.
Who was currently off doing heaven knows what with people of a considerably questionable nature.
"It's just an easy job, Harls," he had assured her over his coffee that afternoon. "Blast the teamster, whack Liverspot Vinny, then I'm home again. In and out like butter." But Harley was quite aware that even a small slip-up could mean a dead end, no matter how solid the plan. She knew that he'd taken White and Mo with him, so at least he had muscle backing him up if push came to shove. (Which, more often than not, it did.) Still, there was no stopping the familiar thoughts of 'what if' that plagued her consciousness on these nights.
Nothing had been quite the same since he'd taken the hit on Commish Gordon's little brat; he was more...determined. It had gotten him in good with the Falcone family though, which meant higher profile hits and more money rolling in. Sorely needed money, enough to buy the groceries every week and keep up the less than ideal apartment they resided in, which was a much better setup than they'd had before, right after she'd met him. But not even the dingy little motel room he'd brought her to from the club that night would dissuade her from sticking around; a few teeny roaches were worth hooking a fella with "connections."
So Harley had set herself up for the possibility that perhaps, because of his job of course, he wouldn't want to get hitched right away. Not that he'd asked yet, which is why she spent her days playing the good little housewife, waiting for him to get enough money together so they could buy a cozy little cottage and raise a happy family. At least, she assumed that was what he'd been doing for the last two years.
Waiting. Should she even entertain the thought that this was all she'd ever see? Faded wallpaper and a broken radio. Endless nights of worrying, never knowing if her man was going to come waltzing through that door again. Would she even be told? How Harley dreaded that phone call...He could be lying dead in an alley right now! It coulda been a double-cross or a shootout! She felt so helpless.
The sound of the old door creaking open startled her and she jumped up quickly from her seat on the shabby sofa, just in time to support the stumbling frame of Jack as he came through the door, clutching his blood-covered shoulder.
"Are you okay, Puddin'? What happened?" Harley asked as she guided him to the couch, taking care to avoid his injured arm.
Giving her the brightest grin she had ever seen, he replied, "Some of Maroni's boys got the jump on us, but they couldn't stop the hit. Now, are you gonna get the bullet out of my fucking shoulder or just stand there looking like an imbecile?"
Fetching the first aid kit, Harley couldn't help but smile. It may not be an easy life but some things were just worth it.
3. Between A Rock and A Frying Pan
She was the last person that Batman expected to contact him. It was obvious that the woman was distraught by the way she held her arms around herself even in the mild Gotham breeze of early September. Landing a respectful foot from her, he noted the identification tag peeking out from underneath her light jacket.
"Harleen Quinzel. You're the primary psychiatrist for the Joker."
Obviously startled by his immediate recognizing of her, she replied, "I see you really do keep tabs on your enemies. Thank you for coming." After a brief pause Harleen continued in a trembling voice, "You're the only one I can turn to now. I'm- I'm afraid for my life. He and I have been...involved for the last six months."
Although the thought of anyone willingly volunteering to touch that sick, depraved excuse for a human being turned his stomach to unimaginable degrees, it had happened before. Joker was notorious for charming his way out of certain situations and flipping them to his advantage, such as therapy.
"You're not the first or the last to be in this predicament, Doctor. But it would be remiss of me to not tell you that you brought this upon yourself," he stated bluntly. "Exactly why should I help you?"
Honestly, he had expected the usual responses; offers of money or an incredulous, "Because you have to!", but the only reply she gave him was a desperate, hollow look that he had seen many times before. And with a crashing revelation, Batman knew.
In a hard voice the vigilante asked, "How long?"
"Almost two months in," the doctor answered, gathering her jacket closer around herself despite the lack of cold. He was seeing the real woman now: the frightened girl in over her head and thrust, for probably the first time, into a situation where more than her life was at stake. So much more.
There was only one question on his mind, just one simple word. "Why?"
Pushing an arrant strand of blonde hair away from her face, Harleen contemplated this silently for a moment before replying in a quiet voice, "Infatuation."
4. Vive la Révolution
Everything was going his way lately. The annoying shrink with the nice tits had taken a liking to him and, despite his initial reservations, had proven herself quite nicely since joining him in the supervilliany gig a few months previous. It was great having someone so infatuated with him hanging around, but Joker knew the honeymoon couldn't last forever. She was bound to get boring at some point.
In an effort to keep things lively, he had come up with a brilliant plan involving radioactive chickens as a tool to lift millions out of Gotham National. The Joker was attempting to explain how this would work, using a nicely designed pie graph and a dying chicken drawing he'd made himself, while his gathered hired muscle maintained looks of what he took as deep confusion. Sighing heavily, the clown started again. "It's perfectly simple: We cover the chickens with-"
And Harley picked that exact moment to mouth off, with a grating, "But Puddin', that won't work..."
Spinning around to her place beside of him, fist swinging out in anticipation of the punch, Joker was incredibly surprised when he felt the prick of a needle in his back and suddenly found himself on the floor, staring up into the now darkly smiling face of his harlequin.
"Don't bother moving, sweetie. You've been injected with the highest grade paralyzer criminal favors can buy," she informed him in a calm voice. "No chance to move or speak. But that's okay, because it isn't your turn; it's mine." Harley took a seat upon a dusty crate, crossing her legs carefully as if she was in session with a patient, and then stated needlessly, "This is a coup."
Joker couldn't say he was too shocked. Not that he could say anything at all, but he did wish he could let out a very long laugh. Even a small giggle would be fine. Just how long had that bitch been planning this?
As if sensing his question, Harley began her explanation. "You see Mistah J, I was head over heels in love with you from almost our first session together. You were...magnificent. But you know what they say, 'everything changes when you move in with someone.' I realized after the first couple of weeks that we just weren't going to work out. However I couldn't go back to my old life, that's pretty much shot to hell, so what to do?"
"Then I happened to start talking to your boys here, and they had some doubts about where your leadership was headed. One thing led to another and before we knew it there was a plan! A couple of formed friendships with some of the local color inspired quite a bit of loyalty, which led to the lovely bit of formula you have pumping through your veins right now."
He wanted to call her a traitorous slag and shoot her in the stomach. As it was he couldn't even let out more than a squeak in response. This wasn't fair!
"I really wish you could reply, but you see this is just the only way to guarantee your...demise," she said, leaning back on the crate to rummage around it for something. "You're just far too tricky to kill by 'traditional' means. Explosions, cliffs, bullets, drowning..." Harley continued, finally pulling out her oversized mallet from behind the box and advancing towards his prone form, a sickly grin forming on her painted visage. "So, thanks for all the laughs and bruises. Now say goodnight, Puddin'."
His last thought before the hammer smashed his head open like a ripe melon was simple and succinct.
Fuck.
5. Miracle Affliction
It was unplanned, and unwanted, but when Harley had become pregnant there was really no one to blame but herself. That was the sort of thing karma threw at you during attempts to sleep your way to good grades and not even Doctor Filroy could wash his hands of the incident completely. This was evident by the rather sizable check Harley continued to receive even eight years later.
Still, she had been just twenty-four and incredibly unprepared for parenthood, viewing it as some sort of affliction that had been hurled at her with lifelong attached responsibilities. Not until she held her newborn son in her arms for the first time did she realize that it was truly a blessing...with lifelong attached responsibilities. And so she settled down for the burden of being a single parent in Gotham City, haven of crime. But it had been her home for as long as she'd been alive and there was no reason to leave now, not when it was more imperative than ever to be close to her family.
"Remember baby, we're just a phone call away," her mother had said tearfully before leaving Harley on her own for the first time since the birth. She had moved into an actual townhouse, her first real home with her then two year-old son. It had been like a dream come true, starting a new life as a mother and ready to experience all of the triumphs and happenings, good or bad.
And experience them she did. Between last month's flu debacle, today's toaster strudel argument, and being chosen as this week's "cupcake provider" for the soccer team, Harley was desperately counting the hours to summer camp: fourteen blissful, uninterrupted days to herself with nary a "Mommy, look what can fit up my nose" in sight. But that was at least three months away, and Harley needed to get her mother off of the phone before she was late for work.
"Yes, Mom. I'm sure Mina knows what she's doing, Mom. No, I don't think you're being unreasonable. Mom...Mom...I've got to go to work, love you!" Hanging up the phone, it was hard for her not to think that the whole "just a phone call away" thing was becoming a bit tedious. Not that she didn't appreciate her mother, but one more minute of listening to her and that glass of wine was going to become more than just a passing fantasy. And it wouldn't do to go into work buzzed.
Her receptionist job was like a mind-numbing escape from the unpredictability of motherhood. She had acquired it through a friend of a friend of a cousin, who happened to know an up and coming psychiatrist looking for secretaries for his (rather unwise, in Harley's opinion) move to Gotham. The pay was good, the hours flexible, and the benefits included dental, but she knew that her decision to stick around was more personal than that. Although she loved her baby, there would always be the part of Harley that mourned the missed opportunity for fame and a doctorate. It was impossible at this point to go back to school, not with her boy still so young, but it didn't hurt to place herself as close as possible to what could have been hers.
Pulling her missing blue sling-back from inside a toy dumptruck, which itself was hidden under the sofa, Harley could still hear the faint murmur of a television on somewhere. Grumbling about ungrateful children and electric bills, she wandered into the kitchen, shoe in hand, to find the small TV on the counter turned to the local morning news program. As she was moving forward to switch it off, a breaking news bulletin caught her eye...
"Just minutes ago, Gotham's own masked vigilante, Batman, successfully apprehended and released the notorious psychopath, the Joker, into police custody. This coming after a series of brutal murders committed during a shootout in Burnley yesterday, which left five dead and twelve seriously injured. Commissioner Gordon is expected to make an announcement within the hour addressing the supposed threat of Joker toxin rigged to go off at several unknown points in the city-"
Unwilling to watch anymore, Harley turned off the set and leaned against the counter to slide her blue shoe on, lost in thought. What would Gotham do without Batman? He was out there constantly, protecting them from the madness sprung from the city itself. Other cities were renowned for their leaders or progress, but all Gotham had was a penchant for lunatics and a man dressed up like a bat. Still, Harley knew that if she or her son ever met one of these monsters, the masked vigilante wouldn't be far behind. If anything were to happen to her baby...God, she had no idea what she'd do.
Deftly sidestepping a pair of rollerblades on her way to the door, she silently prayed there'd never come a time where she'd find herself at the mercy of a vile, inhuman creature like the Joker. And with Batman on their side, maybe she never would.
Extra Author's Note for Story #3: The question can be interpreted in a number of ways: "Why are you keeping it?" "Why did you sleep with him?" "Why have you finally come to me for help?" "Why didn't you just try to run away yourself?" I enjoy giving you choices. It makes me feel more important.