When she awakens, aching and dazed, the brevity of her slumber causes her eyes to burn like desert rope. Her eyes burning, are too, stiff.
Wet cotton swabs are taped over her lids, she peels them off with pinched fingers, agitated.
The gold-flaked spackel of the ceiling spirals in her vision, the twirling ceasing the moment her lip begins to pulse. There, knotted under her nose, are stitches zippered all the way down to the cupid's bow. Her lip, it feels, alien, like a numb little animal curled up in the furrow above her teeth.
She snickers, her finger nudging the tiny creature inbetween her front teeth and nose, it's belly shaven and knitted.
The tables squeak when she fidgets atop of them, J's mink coat too warm around her. Harley tries to move again, squirming to find deeper comfort against the rickety tabletops that had been hastily pushed together to create a jerry-built surgical table.
The music inside the club bangs the glasses, shaking the stanges on the shelves like rattlebacks in gyration. She counts every distant blurred reflection as she would stars, the night sky being the liquor display, her starship being the horse-shoe shaped sectional surrounding her.
She gulps, her throat sticking together like hot gum.
She is so thirsty... But doubts J will allow her to drink with her face this banged up. Expanding her mouth, little by little, she can feel each careful cord greedily snag her skin. There is little room to fit even a straw in. She feels for the patch and needle likely to be stationed on her arm instead.
'The drip it is then.' She thinks sourly, but she notices that he has too, neglected that choice as well. Her arm is bare.
That and now, she is all alone. The VIP section completely abandoned, with only her left to recover singly. Her body is fattened by gravity, mind clouded, desperately she tries to remember the names of the drugs J has given her- but gives up when her tongue twists around the complicated vowels.
The insides of her cheeks are peeling, the crown of her tongue flaking, that gross white sick coating her mouth thicker than fat on bacon. Her thirst is unquenchable at this point.
That is when she remembers the water hoses behind the bar, she could slurp the water in plentiful, by drowning in it. Slapping her lips together, she grimaces in pain and lifts off the table, stiletto's first to touchdown.
As she skirts, wobbly-legged, around the glass-cased platforms toward the mahogany bar, she spies J.
He is without his henchmen, without the crowds, seated all by his lonesome, hunched over the bar, glaring at an empty glass and a full bottle of Midori.
She bores her nails inside her flesh, forcing herself to speak, the stitches nearly pulling loose. "Is that glass polished, Mistah?" His green head lolls, indicating he has heard her, but he takes his time in responding, mulling over her bubbly anticipation until he candidly snarls, his index finger jabbing the bar top. "Shut your mouth."
Crestfallen, she plops down beside him, burying her tender face and sored feelings into her arms. If she huffs, she will be walloped. If she asks for a glass of water, she will be walloped twice as hard. His mood dictates this delicate ritual of rapport and magnanimity, and right now he is no sunflower, but a curmudgeon dragon willing to crush maidens beneath his talons.
She peeks at him from underneath her lashes. He is blowing breath onto his empty glass. Yes, a dragon, smoke billowing, leather wings snapping and everything- the resemblance uncanny.
She wonders that if she professes her love, if those words could alleviate and temper his mood. She skips over that ridiculous thought with wounded feet, bitterly fantasizing over sexual exchanges that might do the trick instead.
But, no, no.
He is holding himself away, his skin tightening in a way that lets her know that he's distressed. Touching him, reaching for him, would only spell her death.
Her chin perches above her elbow, studying him, patiently holding out for him to break the surface, withdraw from those dark depths that which pull him down so frequently.
He notices her ogling with lackluster emotion, twisting off the cap of the bottle and corking it with a spout, he beckons for her to lift her lips to him and without a word, he gently bottle-feeds her the liquor.
It is a small, attentive distraction from the many faces of his nuisance.
The obsession for a moment to catch his breath, to regain the tattering's of his mind, persuades him to spoil her and, just maybe, lean the rottenness that fills him up. He is worried that his little canary will try to speak, he has forbade her concern and if she should choose to speak anything heartfully, he will squelch it like a snail in the garden.
He detests how tough her heart is, how it can still beat within her chest, still swell full with his fingers crushing it every moment it grows. But that little mustard seed of admiration has a funny way of betraying his mind from his eyes.
He cannot live with such a crippling, he plucks the metal nipple from her mouth, choosing to speak his thoughts rather than wallow. "I have been thinking of my brother."
She is confused, which is the only natural response he could have ever expected. "Brother? J- I didn't know that." Her voice is careful, warbled by her wound.
"Only the old crew know of him and of course, the Batman." He shouldn't sound off-put, this conversation is already tittering off the rails, but it has to pass, it has to go and leave his mind alone.
"What happened to him?" She doesn't dodge around his sorrow, but drives a stake clean through.
He sucks his teeth, glaring down his pissant reluctance. "A hit gone bad. He was meant to knock off an elective official... The new, well new then, criminal justice administrator. But, ah... The intel was wrong, the men were wrong and he-" He pauses then, knowing it's bad to speak incorrectly of the dead. "-My brother was the one left to foot the bill."
He drags his nails across the bar, seething, eyes wild. "Every man but him got away, scot-free. It wouldn't have been sooo, so bad, if I hadn't killed them all. You see, I've always had this little whimsy- This little doodlebug in my head...That his capture was an act of subversion. That some of my more eminent goons were planning a coup against us."
He smashes his glass and the bottle against the backwash. The sound of shattering is easier to swallow than the anguish building. "But my bloodlust cost me the proof. I should have interrogated them."
"Which one's pudding? Who did it? I'll rip em'." His baby is snarling, her lip dripping blood again. He has his hand on her forehead and in her hair, clutching her, yanking her, away in a second.
"That's not what this is." He reprimands, shaking with rage at her misinterpretation. She is after all the one who is always spilling her guts, always fucking promulgating her feelings. He is furious she would neglect that thing, this emotion he is making vulnerable for them, for himself.
Her eyes have widened, now seeing that his pride has been bruised, his needs deafened to her ostentatious display. She slopes down to the floor defeated, his hand still bunching the cap of her skull, submitting is the only apology she can offer now.
"I'm sorry, Puddin'. I was mad like you... I wanted their skins more than I wanted you happy." His grip loosens, hesitating, before bringing her up onto his lap, she curls relieved inside his embrace.
"I forget sometimes how much you are like me." He soothes her, his face retracted as far as possible from hers, his knuckles tight in his plated teeth. His anger is still not yet vanquished, just simmering. But it is enough of a meager change for her to rebound, pacified and jovial once again.
She nuzzles the splay of cards on his collar, comforted in his enveloping grip.
Despite, the almost certain promise of his wraith once again, a question formulates out of pure jealousy and envy. She showers some painful kisses at his neck, seeking the place where his hair begins to curl, it has always been the place where she confesses. "Do you love him?"
"Wha-?" His grips tightens painfully, but there is victory cementing the cracks of her insecurity, for he hasn't dumped her on the floor outright yet. She tires once again, "I was asking if you love him or not? I'm wondering why you haven't busted him out of Arkham, if all you ever gonna do is sulk bout the entire thing?"
There will bruises on her arms tomorrow where he is gripping.
His breath is there, right in her ear, he talks as if he has won something. "He's dead. They didn't bother taking him to Arkham unlike you baby, they saw what he meant to me, they saw my prodigy, my partner. No, no, no. They didn't take him to the same cozy farm you got sent, they took him far, far, far away and put him down. Because if they kept him alive, he would have burned the world to the ground, just to get back to me. " He shoves her off his lap, his voice venom. "You didn't burn a single match for me. So, baby, don't go questioning my love, oh no, it's your love that needs to be put to the test."
Five Months Later
Harley ventures the halls of a private fabric shop, her hands touching everything she can get a hold of. The endless variations of textures have for the moment, preoccupied her.
She searches for a sheet of velvet, only the finest will do for her needs. In the dome reflection of the stores security mirrors raised above the halls, she see's herself immersed in the ravines of cloth. Harley runs her tongue along her top teeth, her veneers and scarred lip the source of her fixation. The trepidation she once had over the superficial aspects of her appearance have all but faded by now.
She proudly wears all the jewelry that J has gifted to her to compensate for that dead embarrassment.
A clerk has been patiently guiding her along, although, Harley suspects that the stoicism is a benefit of being one of the most feared individuals in Gotham. "What color would Monsieur prefer?"
"Monsieur, I like that...Ooh." The clerk makes no further comment. "It needs to be somethin' bold and poppin'. The brightest, nicest colors you got, Missy!"
The hard-nosed woman sniffs at her, before with her hand inclined, shows her some of the most dazzling fabrics they have to offer. Harley spiders her fingers along the woven bolts, humming and hawing. "I dunno, they all are lookers. What do ya think?"
The clerk adjusts her glasses, bending over her. "If I had to choose, I would pick the color best associated with your Monsieur. I would select a fabric that bequeaths him, and that too flatters you."
"Me...?" She points to herself, brows knitted.
"Why yes, Mademoiselle. You will be by his side, it would only be proper if the color compliments you as well. Your business dictates that you dress appropriately, and a powerful, cooperative couple speaks volumes without a word needing to be said. I believe the proverb is, dressed to the nines."
Harley selects a purple linen, kicking out her heel in excitement. "It's dressed to kill."
Harley rejoins the henchmen that J had escort her today, they gravitate, smokes snuffed, hands extended for her shopping bags when she leaves the shop. She follows them down the lot, their bodies shielding her as cattle would a calf when the wolves race.
She knows them all by name, every profile down to the punctuation's and distant relatives. Harley considers them friends.
But they are dull and boring. J doesn't like them talking directly to her unless absolutely necessary. And if she was truthful, it was absolutely necessary that the silence be broken. "Did ya see the pretty stuff I bought J!"
They all eye her wearily, fingers to their earpieces, most of their brainpower spent on navigating the four lane street. "C'mon you guys! I need you to talk to me... If you don't J will hear bout' how you all bored me!"
It was immediate.
"What do you want to talk about?" The tallest bloke grumbles, his voice very bassy. She could very well prattle on about her presents, or her shoes, or her dresses, maybe even her hammers and mallets. But by their sleepy eyes and pursed lips, they wouldn't have the capability to volleyball the topic.
She thinks of something risker.
They wouldn't be able to talk about this conversation anyway, not without their hands and feet removed first for ever having talked to her.
"Have you guys ever heard of The Jester?" The silence stretches and nearly chokes her.
A chuff of astonishment comes from the tall one, "Fuck me running. He actually told her."
Harley claps pleased, prancing up beside the big guy. "So you know bout' my Puddins' brother?"
He lifts one bushy eyebrow. "All I know about The Jester, is that he is boss man's twin, like identical twin." Now this tidbit, is something she didn't already know. Her heart nearly plunges between her feet at the idea. That two... That someone who looked exactly alike to her Mistah J once walked about.
She flushes.
Big Man continues, "And that, his brother, helped build the crime empire here in Gotham, if not personally spearheaded the entire thing. He is quite the urban legend amongst us thieves."
"If he even existed." A skinny henchmen hisses, agitated.
Harley wheels on him, lip curled. "You calling my J a liar!?"
A large hand extends itself out in-front of her, careful not to touch. Big Man speaks ruefully, "Don't mind him, Missy. It's just hard for some of us to believe he ever did truly walk among us. I mean, some of the things he did, are just...incredible."
"Like what?" She puffs her bangs, cracking her knuckles at the man who insulted J.
"Well..." He scratches his impressive beard, "Like the night, the one that happened during the bad hit, some friend of my sisters, told me that he actually knew one of the blokes that were there that night and that he had told him about what really went down, before you know, boss man iced him and the rest of the crew. He had told me, that Batman had showed up about half-way through, and that The Jester, in order to cover the assassination attempt and spare the men- went head on head with the Bat. That he, turned himself in, in order to protect the project and the crew."
"What bullshit. Why would he save those men? Only to have his brother kill them afterwards... Pfft. Besides, it's not in these clowns nature to stick out their necks for others." The skinny man, eyes her with contempt and disgust.
"You know I preferred when you couldn't talk."
She brings her fist to his teeth, the power of her punch rattling back inside her skull. But for the pain, there's the satisfaction of watching the man's teeth spill like coins against the sidewalk.
The men are deathly silent after that.
Not that she cares, she got what she wanted, more shining pieces of the puzzle to her Mistah J.
They start to round the corner to the vehicles, when she happens to gaze across the street, the first spring storm rolling in on the horizon. She catches the breeze, tasting the thunder and cool wind.
But in her basking...
She sees a panel van parked between two buildings, quite inconspicuous.
And eyes, she swears there are eyes on her. The prickling sweat, the bristling hairs, her sense of balance sucking in on herself.
Oh, yes. It has to be a peeper. A dirty, old stalker.
She moves to dart across the street and apprehend the stalker violently, when a light, a darting reflection from the building above, beams into her eyes blinding her.
Detective Coyle chews at the lip of his coffee cup, watching The Clown Queen and her entourage make their way to their automobiles. His partner has the camera, rapidly snapping, when she spots them.
"Shit, shit, fuck." Coyle curses under his breath, his hand ready to turn on the ignition if she should move on them. His partner grips his holster, the movement is far too quick. "Jesus, don't move. She'll make us out."
Andrew shifts in the passenger seat, cautiously bringing the camera down from it's tripod, hiding it from view.
Coyle studies her, her face scrunched up on them, her hand wiggling in her purse for a...phone perhaps? Nope, a glock. He turns his attention back to his partner, "Okay, we've burnt this nest. Radio it in, they'll pursue."
"Wait, for fuck sakes, she's backing off. " Andrew puts his crucifix in his mouth, lifting the camera once again, clicking off fifty pictures a second.
He looks back out the tinted windshield, watching in disbelief as she paws at her face, the sunlight fluttering in her eyes.
Her lackeys grab her and guide her back towards the ghost cars, their heads swinging around, searching for the disturbance, before tailing it out.
It is a relief their tires don't screech. They are calm.
Coyle relaxes back into his seat, his hands sticky on the steering and his bladder painfully full. His eyes trained on the sky, thanking any fucking God for having intervened.
His partner nudges him, "Should we call it in?"
Coyle runs his hands through his hair, breathing out deeply. "Fuck yeah."
Andrew dials in on their private phone, the receiver answers, the phone pressed to his ear, the other ear cupped with his hand. "Yes get me, Amanda Waller's office."
It is hushed for a moment, only their near-shit-flying-panic breathing disturbing the crackle of the phone.
Then his partners eyes read, 'Got them.'
The next few chapters are already uploaded on Ao3, under the same story name. I will slowly update on this site. Thank you everyone!