There's towels, and his clothes all sweat stained and bloody on the floor. Nudging them both with a toe he grimaces and leaves the bathroom in search of clothing and Harley, so she can do some laundry. He's clean, unfortunately denuded of his makeup but he's clean and cool, that's what's important. If only he could find Harley (maybe a bell would work, he'd have to tell her to sew bells on her costume, or maybe get her a collar)

Harley hears him whistling from the kitchen, once the shower's stopped, and hunts through the cupboards for dinner tonight. Her good mood rockets upwards at the sound of whatever he's whistling. She knew he'd be put out by the bad weather but everything is alright again, right down to his shriek of "HARLEY!!" and the soft thump of clothes hitting her face, his smell, blood and sweat mixed in, more familiar to her than her own face.

Outrageous what some people consider clothing, he understands why Harley picked the red paisley monstrosity. It was by FAR the most tasteful shirt in the closet. Lost temporarily in a day dream involving colourblind clowns and colour coded traps, he sneezes. Oh. It's cold, his skin is all over goosebumps, cold water dripping from the ends of his hair.

Ick.

Dampness is unpleasant, but so are his options. Sighing, he drags his fingers through his hair (more dye, he's starting to look silly) and contemplates making Harley find him clothes. Hell, why not? He feels uncomfortable and shouldn't Harley be the one fixing that?

"HARLEEEEY!" Footsteps rocket up the stairs, both her pigtails dripping with clean water, her shirt undone and coming untied, she looks rather...damp (Not the only one who's cold) Another weird thought. He puts it down to the weather. She stares, starry eyed and he frowns, before another shiver reminds him why he called her. "Find me something, Harl. Decent, puh-lease!" he drawls the last word out and shuffles over to collapse on the bed.

Ho-ly. Harley's brain freezes for a moment, barely processing what her Mister J wants, gaping dumbly. After all its not every day a girl sees the love of her life standing in the bedroom glistening with water, not a towel in sight...

A book clips her shoulder, and he sees her snap out of her daze. He can't figure out what the hell happened to her, did her brain melt? His hair is making a wet spot on the pillow, he grumbles and tosses that at her too. She makes an adorable (what?) squeak, and a pigtail shakes loose.

"On my way, Mistah Jay!" She chirps, heading towards the cupboards, and he chuckles at the way she flings things around the room.

Somewhere something beeps, long and irritating (did he leave a bomb lying around?), Harley emerges from the closet panic-eyed, black pants with a faint grey check and an emerald green shirt that makes him think of the fifties land on the bed as she hurtles downstairs, leaving him to be blown up by whatever the fuck he did.

Harley's happy noises are audible from the bed (crazy broad) and slowly a delicious smell distracts him from downstairs while he debates with himself the relative hilarity of being discovered blown to kingdom come in his birthday suit or in someone else's clothes.

Clearly rather than meeting his maker, he's expected to meet Harley for food. Part of his earlier debate resurfaces- dress for dinner? Glaring unhappily at the clothes (that shirt is GREEN and, he supposes, polyester) he weighs the merits of naked dinner.

Oh. Cold. Right.

Resigning himself to his cruel fate, he picks up the pants and drops them like a housewife dropping something distasteful into the bin. He won't wear some other man's underwear (he's not a barbarian) but can't bring himself to wear some dead guy's pants without underwear. It's a bit of a pickle (bit more than a pickle, he snorts and rubs at his scars) Catch 22 and all that. To wear pants or not to wear pants (he is the man in this arrangement, after all. Maybe Harl can find him a pipe too).

Harley has found an apron in the kitchen, with a pattern of eyeblinding plaid in baby pink and assorted putrid pastels, with a frill of white lace trim around the edges. Must've belonged to a little girl, since it barely covers Harley's stomach and is, as far as he can tell, something only a little girl would love. Brandishing a pan of something that smells fabulous (better than other attempts, it actually looks like it's edible) she smiles coyly and shoos him out of the kitchen, grinning like a demented June Cleaver.

"Out you go, puddin'! Dinner's almost done!"

He's peering into the pan, and sniffs. Meatloaf again? He considers telling her he already had it for lunch, but can't remember if he actually ate lunch. What was he doing at lunch anyways? Right. The salami. Giggling, he swats at Harley and pecks her cheek on the way to the living room, enjoying the illusion of the nuclear family.

Harley bustles around the kitchen, setting the table with mismatched cutlery and anything pretty that catches her fancy, silver candlesticks with Halloween and Christmas candles, plates decorated with swirling abstract designs in clashing colours. It all comes together in a kind of unified discord she finds appropriate. With a woosh, the blowtorch lights and melts half the candles away, and she lovingly places the serving dish in front of the place of honor. Picks it up and moves it towards the middle. Pouts and twirls a pigtail as she realizes there's no dessert. Skidding to the freezer, she finds ice cream in a rainbow of colours and (allegedly) flavours. Perfect! Heaving a sigh, she declares dinner perfect and puts the meatloaf back in front of the place she's set for her puddin'.

Cartoon children and villains spout Beatles lyrics on the television, the colours flicker over his face, cast a bright glow on his face for once clear of makeup though he's forgotten that he isn't wearing any. Tongue flickering in a (parody?) of lewdness over his scars, fingers twisting in his hair as he tries to see how many references he can catch, occasionally yanking on his hair as the cartoon makes him giggle. Performance criminals? HAH! He isn't wearing makeup though, and he's wearing someone else's pants, and there's no way the cartoon will distract him for long, keep the twisting frenetic energy enthralled long enough for Harley, long enough for Gotham City to feel comfortable. Harley calls him for dinner, and he stares at the screen as the little kidlets save the day once again before heaving himself off the couch. He's feeling the prickle again, pins and needles through his entire body, in his mind, electric and slowly building.

"Meatloaf again? But I already had it for lunch!"

Harley's face falls, and he sits down to dinner.

Alright guys, whoever's reading this I'm sorry I totally screwed up and deleted a review on the previous chapter (I fail at this whole internet thing) and instead of fixing the problem here, fixed it on my computer copy, uploaded that, and replaced the chapter. Because I'm a dope. So my dear Agent Blank .E I love you for the review, and I fixed the spelling screw up, if you see any more errors lemme know!

As always, con-crit welcomed with open arms and explosive bouquets.