Normal font = present, italics = past (10 years ago)

DC owns everything.

Just like an amnesiac trying to get my senses back
Oh, where did they go?
Laughing with a mouth of blood from a little spill I took
Oh, what are you laughing at?
-Laughing With a Mouth of Blood, St. Vincent

Harley was given the following day off to recover from her first session with the Joker. Once they'd dragged him out of her office, she'd nearly suffered a nervous breakdown and was immediately whisked to Medical. After a basic psychiatric evaluation, which she passed, they treated her for a moderately bruised trachea and supplanted her with a prescription of extra-strength Ibuprofen before releasing her. Rather than heading off the island, she had stormed back into Jeremiah Arkham's office.

"Do you see this?" she'd screamed, pointing at her mangled neck. It had been twisted into a garish rainbow of reds, blues and purples, to the point where Dr. Arkham dropped his pen in shock.

"I can't do this," she continued, "he almost killed me. Look at me."

"Harleen, what –"

"He almost killed me," she shouted at him.

"The Joker did that?" his eyes grew large.

"Yes! I'm done. I'm done. I can't do this," she began pacing and ruffling her hands through her hair. Her superior stared at her blankly before shaking his head to and fro.

"No, Harleen. Just listen to me. Have a seat –"

"No!" she shrieked and planted her feet. "I won't do this. I can't."

"Harleen," he snapped. "But he didn't kill you. He could have easily, but he didn't. That's… That's fascinating behavior. Do you know how many people he's killed?"

She paused but began to shake her head furiously. "That's besides the point –"

"No it's not," he suddenly snarled and rose from his chair in an insidious wrath. He leered down at his young employee and pointed a bony finger at her.

"Now listen to me, Harleen. You will continue this case. You will. And you will not come to me anymore with your complaints. Because if you do, I will fire you. And not only that - I will make sure that no one in this entire goddamn city will hire you. Do you hear me? You'll be working a pole down on Park Row before Gotham Medical would even consider you as a bedpan cleaner."

She stared at him, mouth agape. Her cheeks flushed red as his threat began to sink in. He was an extremely powerful man; there was no doubt about that. He seemed to be in just about everyone's inner circle in Gotham, and unless she was in his, she was in no one's.

"Do I make myself clear?" he growled. She hung her head and began nodding despondently. He smiled curtly at her.

"Wonderful. Now, why don't you take the rest of the day off? Hell, take tomorrow off too. I don't care. Relax. Have a couple glasses of wine tonight. Go see some friends. Just don't think about it. But in two days time, you will be back. You will throw on a scarf, put on your big girl smile, and do your job."

He sat back down and was smiling cheerfully at her now.

"Now get out."

Meanwhile, in Intensive Treatment, The Joker had been placed under heightened security. At least one security guard was mandated to stand outside of his cell at all hours, despite the fact that public enemy number one was in no state to make an escape. He'd spent the majority of the past two days curled up against his bathroom partition, vomiting and laying awake in an insomniac stupor. He sporadically slipped into spurts of sleep, for maybe half an hour at a time. He didn't dream. If he did, on the off chance that a flicker of activity flashed through his mind, he dreamt in red. Red. No less, no more. No shapes or figures or speech. Red.

Consequently, his body was so consumed by exhaustion that he could barely crawl to and from his rusting toilet. He was being ravaged internally. A blood test indicated that he had been a regular cocaine and opiate user for years; the latter kept him awake, the former wanted him under. The withdrawal combination was teetering on the point of dangerous and threatened to become lethal. Every guard that was posted to his cell was instructed to have Medical on call at any point in time. They gave him a pills twice a day, for what, he didn't know, but he chucked them up just as quickly as he had to dry swallow them. The trays of unidentified slop came three times a day as well, though they quickly piled up in the corner of his cell. He figured he would rather die than eat whatever faux-beef concoction they delivered him. His mouth acted as a 24-hour hose, spouting hydrochloric acid, saliva and bits of orange and white pills.

On the third day of his detox and his ninth in Arkham, his stomach managed to hold its own for about an hour. He'd choked down his bitter pills and they appeared to keep his nausea at bay. He laid on the damp floor and spoke to himself in a half-dream state, weaving in and out of reality. In his fragmented stream of consciousness, he thought about killing the guard outside and making his escape. He delved into glorious, fractured fantasies about blood and screams and the demise of Gotham. His mind flickered through gorgeous scenes of chaos and destruction… A city in flames… A city bleeding to death… A city purged in darkness. He heard voices shrieking in his head – his own? The dying citizens? – and he laughed into the damp concrete floor. Whoever they were, they were good company.

A pounding on his cell door momentarily snapped him out of his delirious state.

"Get decent, clown, you got another session today," Frank Boles yelled through the door's porthole.

"Fuck you," he mumbled into the floor. The cell door opened and three guards entered, wielding batons and a straightjacket.

"Get that freak in this," Boles ordered and tossed the straightjacket onto the ground.

Seven minutes and no struggle later, the guards had delivered him to Dr. Quinzel's office. They shoved him down onto the brown chaise, waved at his psychiatrist, and departed.

Once they were left alone, she clasped her hands and stared at him expectantly. Though her black turtleneck managed to hide her grotesque bruises, no amount of cover-up could swathe the darkening bags underneath her sleepless eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mister Joker. How are you today?" she smiled curtly at her patient. He slumped forward and several locks of greasy green hair fell onto his forehead. His eyes closed in exhaustion while his scarred mouth parted slightly. It was clear to her that he was undergoing a fairly rough withdrawal: the circles under his eyes had worsened and his ashen face had been drained of all vitality. Further, the skin infection caused by his scars had spread.

"Mister Joker?" she asked, concerned. He ignored her and crashed down onto the bolted chaise. She watched his constricted chest rise and fall in shallow breaths as he struggled to get comfortable.

"Are you alright?" she pressed.

"Would… you… stop talking?" he finally drawled, lolling his head back and forth. He'd pulled his feet up to the chaise and curled his knees to his chest.

"I… I mean –"

"I… can't listen to your… stupid… voice right…now," he mumbled.

"Have you been taking the medication I prescribed you?" she asked, and paused before continuing, "the Suboxone is for the withdrawals and the Amoxicillin is for the…scars," she whispered the last word. He didn't respond and instead, began to snore lightly.

"This isn't naptime," she drummed her fingers impatiently.

"Leave…me…alone, Har…ley," he slurred, nestling his cheek into the plush chaise. She shifted uneasily around in her chair, unsure of what to do. His faint snoring resumed and she felt a slight twinge of pity for him. She briefly jotted:

patient asleep during session - severe withdrawal symptoms

increase dosage?

Several minutes dragged by, which she routinely spent doodling, checking the clock, checking her fingernails, and checking the clock, until he began garbling world salad.

Sta…tic… lolly…gag…ers…No. No… too… loud…Brush…your nee…dles…Pur-ple la…laughter go… not finger…nail…

She stared at him nervously. He was clearly in the middle of a psychotic episode and she was not willing to test his volatile state. She scratched down a couple nonsensical phrases yet scowled; they didn't mean anything. How could they?

Har…le…quin…

She glanced up at him and froze.

"Har...ley…quin," he drawled further. Her face paled as she jotted:

harlequin

harleyquin

harleyquinzel

She quickly erased the last line and her stomach began churning. Almost immediately, the Joker's leg twitched back to life. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned audibly into the chaise.

"How was your nap?" she asked evenly. His dark eyes flickered to hers and he blinked languidly for several seconds.

"You look like shit," he finally sneered.

"So do you," she smirked. His mouth curled into his proverbial grin.

"Heh."

"How are you feeling?" she pressed.

"How do you think?" he snapped.

"Are you eating? You should at least be drinking water. You must be extremely dehydrated."

"Blah… blah… blah…" he muttered into the leather fabric.

"I'm serious," she sighed.

"When are you not…"

"Please don't do this," she begged and rubbed her temples.

"Would you just…shut…up," he snarled weakly. "Stop… nagging me."

"No. And besides, I thought maybe we'd like to talk about a couple of things today - "

"No."

"I-I'm sorry?" she stammered.

"No. Be quiet," he hissed. She stared at him for a moment before gritting her teeth together.

"You can nap in your cell," she suddenly snapped. His eyes rolled over to meet hers and he grinned cheekily.

"Mmmmmm… someone is cranky today. I'm still willing to shake out those kinks for you, Harl. Clear off that desk…unbuckle my straps and… we're good…to…go."

"Stop that," she scowled. He lethargically pulled himself upright on the chaise.

"You're no…fun," he sighed and rolled his eyes.

Suddenly, his nose crinkled and he sneezed explosively. Blood erupted out of his nostrils and streamed down his face like a running faucet, staining his white straightjacket. She froze in horror and wondered if he had blown out his septum. He giggled childishly and licked his bloodied teeth.

"Whoops," he glanced down at his soaking straightjacket. Harley had to choke down the rising bile in her throat.

"I'm calling Medical," she announced suddenly and picked up her desk phone.

"Oh don't do that," he rolled his eyes. "You're being so dramatic. It's just a bloody nose."

She stared at him blankly and slowly put down the receiver.

"Bloody noses don't look like that," she sighed and gestured at him. "Perforated septums do."

He shook his head, despite that fact that the entire lower half of his face was now drenched in his own blood.

"Nope," he giggled, popping the 'p'. "Happens all the time."

Harley squirmed in her seat and the silence in the room thickened ostensibly. Her patient shifted his eyes from side to side.

"Well… uh, this is awkward," he grinned. She eyed the box of tissues on her desk and hesitated; after the last session she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. Yet she glanced back at him, and a dark memory flashed through her mind. It was potentially the darkest memory she had, one that lurked deep in the recesses of her subconscious and frequently found itself reemerging in her nightmares. He watched her carefully as she grabbed the tissue box and rose to edge her way to the front of her desk.

She leaned against her desk, cherishing its safe distance from the chaise. They stared at one another for a long moment before she took several small steps forward and offered him the box, an arm's length away.

"Uh… pretty tied up here," he hunched his shoulders. He was grinning at her now, baring his crimson teeth like some demented Cheshire cat. She hesitated again and glanced around the room in a desperate attempt for help. She finally conceded when she realized that it was just the two of them, and stepped forward until she was about a foot from him. He glanced up at her and widened his grin before she pulled out a tissue with delicate fingers.

Her hand was shaking violently as it approached his face and he watched her with dark glee dancing in his black eyes. He could feel her trembling fingers as she dabbed at his skin, and as their eyes met, he could see the fear in hers.

"Boo," he issued.

She reeled backward and nearly tripped over her heels, much to her patient's amusement. He was cackling gleefully.

"Awwww… Aw no, my little lamb. Don't want you dropping dead on the spot just yet," he hooted.

He watched her eyes well up with fearful tears and she bit her trembling lip.

"Don't cry," he demanded menacingly. "You keep fucking crying. It's so irritating."

She sniffed hard and closed her eyes.

"Sorry," she murmured. When she reopened them, they were dry and she cautiously stepped forward to resume her dabbing routine. He could smell her baby powder skin and shampooed hair. She was so… clean. Perfectly manicured fingers continued to swathe his face, although they were becoming increasingly stained with blood. He was tainting her.

He grinned wildly.

He was tainting her.

He wondered how badly he could corrupt her. Distort her. Twist her. Break her.

Though, it wasn't exactly that she was pure. Ten years ago she was more mentally unhinged than he was. She was snarky and cunning and a grade A bitch. And he loved it. He'd seen more straws jammed up her nose than any junkie sliming around Crime Alley, and she was always…always willing to shed her panties. He wasn't sure if there was a place in the city they hadn't fucked.

He wanted that girl. He wanted her but she was gone. Instead, he watched the girl he no longer knew and his scarred mouth twisted itself into a sneer.

"What?" she asked cautiously, stepping backward into a sea of crumpled, bloodied tissue wads. He tilted his head.

"What happened to you?" he asked darkly. She paused to silently register the weight of his question.

"I realized that not everything is a joke," she finally remarked in her best professional voice.

"Oh… but it… is."

"No. I'm afraid that I don't share your perspective on… jokes," she sighed.

"You're right, maybe it's because you're a stupid bitch," he suddenly snapped in rage.

She stepped backward guardedly and swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Or maybe it's because I don't hide my pain behind a fake smile anymore," she countered with a new edge of confidence. He threw his head back and began to scream in laughter.

"Is… Is that what you think this is? Hmm? That I'm some dejected, unloved creature who cuts my wrists because Mommy didn't love me?" he cackled.

"I know you," she raised her voice over his screeches, her confidence with it. "I know why you're always smiling."

"Oh… Oh ho ho ho… Oh you really don't," he snarled. "You really…don't."

"Why don't we talk about your father, then? I think we both know that he wasn't particularly fond of your jokes," she gritted her teeth.

"No," he roared. "No. Why don't we talk about you? Why don't we talk about your fucked up life and your screw-ups and the fact that you ran away from all your problems, whereas I… made them… part of who… I… am."

He grinned widely, spreading his garish scars.

"Yeah," she nodded sarcastically. "All those years of cocaine and Oxy. Because popping pills isn't escapism."

"But dollface, you were the one always running," he chuckled haughtily.

"That is not true," she snapped. "Besides, am I the one locked up in a cell right now? No. No, I'm not the animal in the cage."

"Oh but you are, my little lamb. You just… haven't… sprung out… yet."

She was sprinting, trying to gain as much distance as her short legs would take her. She didn't know where she was headed – she didn't even care – she just needed to get away. A scorching fire burned through her lungs as she was gasping for air, and by the time she stopped, she nearly collapsed onto the pavement. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, and heaved in and out.

Breathe, she told herself.

She watched the blood drip out of her nose onto the sidewalk as she struggled to regain her breath. It was almost therapeutic, in a sense. She couldn't feel the stinging clout, but as she watched the blood begin to pool at her feet, she figured that she must have been feeling something, somewhere. She straightened herself out and assessed the damage with her hand. Her face was numb. Swollen, but numb. She could taste her own rusty blood on her teeth but realized that her nose had slowed its bleeding. She couldn't determine if it was broken, however.

After a moment, she became acutely aware of just how unnerving Downtown Gotham could be at two in the morning. Three corroding streetlights struggled to illuminate the damp, musty street and a foul, unidentified odor wafted past her. Darkness lurked everywhere. She heard a metal clatter resonate behind her and she swiveled her head around. A thick dread slowly consumed her and she began running again. She whooshed past black alleyways and immediately turned the street corner. Her nose met with crisp, salty air and she realized that she had reached the docks of the East River. A strong ocean breeze blew past her, and she remembered learning in a geography class somewhere that the city sat smack in the middle of two rivers mouths that ultimately flowed into the Atlantic Ocean.

The city itself was subdivided into three isles: Uptown, Midtown and Downtown, which were all ultimately connected by a weave of bridges. The isle trifecta was nestled between a series of rivers and the Atlantic to the south. The Palisades, where the city's wealthy commuters resided, was attached to the western mainland. Its geography was similar to that of Manhattan, though it boasted a larger commercial seaport and shipping industry than that of New York.

She now realized that she was in the Downtown's East End, bordering dangerously close to the Park Row neighborhood, or what Gothamites lovingly (or wearily) referred to as Crime Alley. Blaring neon lights flickered against the night's murky sky, advertising for gentlemen's clubs and dive bars. She heard glass shatter behind her, followed by a raucous guffaw. It wasn't long until she was walking at an expedient rate again, head pivoting to and fro. She traversed the wharf of Gotham's Industrial District, a constructed nightmare of decaying metal and steel. The Sionis Steel Mill's smokestacks moaned in the near distance and she could barely make out the billowing smoke pouring into the black sky. This was the Gotham that constantly made the national news; it wasn't the fast-paced, hip bustle of Midtown or the profligate sophistication of Uptown. It was here. It was a young woman, walking alone on a September night a couple minutes past two a.m., staring into the blackest abyss she had ever seen.

On late, late nights in Brooklyn she'd occasionally pass out on the D Train by accident and end up in Coney Island. It was no matter to her though, as she'd end up stumbling over to the beach and napping in the sand for a couple hours. Yet she would somehow…somehow make it home just as the sun rose.

She wasn't sure if she was going to make it home tonight though.

Her hair flapped in her face as another wind gust rushed past her. She began running again, until she ultimately came to a bridge's underpass, underneath which she could make out a lone, warmly lit establishment. As she approached the decrepit building, she made out the word "diner" on its poorly illuminated sign.

She quickly ducked into the building and was met with an almost soothing warmth. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead and the faintest rumble of an industrial dishwasher whirred in the distance. There was nobody here other than herself, and as she glanced around at the peeling floral wallpaper and cracked tile floor, she wondered aloud how the place could even stay afloat.

After a moment, she precariously slid into a tattered red booth and picked up a menu.

"Welcome to Mario's Diner! Open 24 Hours!" was printed in cheap, blocky letters on the cover.

"Heya, welcome to Mario's," a sluggish voice interrupted, followed by a yawn. She glanced up at the waiter approaching her. He didn't appear to be much older than her, and he had black hair with a yellow pencil tucked somewhere in his flyaway curls. When his drowsy eyes connected with her face he froze. They widened visibly as he muttered,

"Whoa."

She shied from his gaze, suddenly ashamed of the dried blood caking her face. He noted the raw impact area, just left of her nose, and winced. It would leave a hell of a bruise.

"Can I get a black coffee?" she asked sheepishly. He blinked at her for a couple more seconds before his brain registered her request.

"Oh… oh yeah, sure," he nodded before pausing. "You…uh… you need anything else?"

She shook her head and he left. She began rubbing her temples; a creeping pain began to form as she slowly started to thaw from shock. She wondered how her mother was faring. Her weak, feeble, pathetic mother. The kind of mother who remarried to a complete deviant after her first husband died in combat. The kind of mother who let her man bust through the door completely loaded on whatever he was on, only to start slapping at anything and everything in front of him. He'd lost a bet, or something of the sort, and saw to it that both his wife and stepdaughter would pay for his sloppy blunder.

Harley buried her bloodied face into her hands. She was so tired of defending her mother from a raised fist. She had endured three years as a punching bag, simply because her mother had been the weakest person she'd ever known and she feared to envision her fate if her stepfather did not equally distribute his wrath. When her own father passed, her mother completely spiraled down the sanity chute. A mourning woman is not known to make rational decisions, so not even a year after Harley draped the military flag atop her father's casket, she was carrying a basket of flowers down an aisle for her mother.

The three years that followed their household were plagued by alcoholism, gambling and her mother's unlimited Xanax prescription. Harley often found herself daydreaming about taking the kitchen knife one day and taking it to Roger's pudgy belly and carving -

"Here," the waiter broke her train of thought as he placed the steaming mug in front of her. "And, uh, this is for you too."

She glanced up at him with a startled expression and he raised his eyebrows: he was holding out an icepack wrapped in a wet towel. Her stream of consciousness evaporated and she smiled shamefully, gingerly taking the generous offer.

"Thanks," she murmured, pressing the towel to her face.

"You… need me to call someone for you or somethin'?" he scratched at the back of his neck. She shook her head and sighed.

"No… Um… I think… I think I'll be okay," she nodded. Before he could respond, the door swung open. In stumbled Jack, clad in a black shirt and slacks, cigarette hanging between his lips. He grabbed it and exhaled.

"Yo, Tony. I'm hungry," he announced.

"Aw, c'mon, Jacky, what'd I tell ya about smokin' in here? My old man hates that shit," the waiter scowled. Jack rolled his eyes and flicked the cigarette.

"He likes me better than you," he snickered. His dark eyes shifted to meet Harley's shocked gaze and he froze.

"No way," he muttered and squinted his eyes in disbelief. "No…way…"

He paused before sneering, "Are you following me or something?"

"I should ask you the same thing," she retorted.

"Wait, you know this gal?" Tony turned and gestured to her. His friend ignored him and lumbered his way over to the booth. He nudged her thigh with his knee.

"Move," he ordered.

She shot him a glare but he easily pushed her across the booth seat with a swift motion his knee. Before she could protest, he immediately slid in next to her.

"What the hell happened to you?" he demanded, peering closely at her face. The smell of Bourbon and tobacco filled her nostrils and stung her eyes. His bruise from two nights ago had developed quite garishly, as a purple-blue mass spanned from his cheekbone down to his mouth. The split lip from had scabbed over, though it stretched slightly as he spoke. She averted her eyes and ducked her head, suddenly humiliated that he had seen her in this state.

"Hey, I'm talking to you," he slurred past the cigarette in his mouth. He grabbed her chin but she jerked away from him.

"Stop it," she finally snapped. An intense anger flashed through her large eyes, transforming her from fearful to feral.

"Stop it. I'm so sick of people touching me. Just stop it," she cried out hysterically. She'd slid to the corner and curled her legs up against her chest. He blinked languidly at her and finally sighed.

"Tone," he turned over his shoulder. "Can you get me the usual?"

The dumbfounded waiter pinched the bridge of his nose before turning off and mumbling under his breath. Jack turned back to Harley, who was now curled up into her icepack. He scooted closer to her and stopped just before his body touched hers. Mutedly, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and dangled it in front of her face. She shot him a weary glance but after a moment, took it.

"Thanks," she mumbled before taking a drag. A silent moment passed between them, through which the tension gradually subsided. Her face had relaxed a bit more and she finally swiveled her head to meet his stare. She removed the icepack from her face and offered it to him, to which he scoffed,

"What?"

"It's for your face, genius," she quipped before tossing it into his lap. She took several more drags from his cigarette and he stared at the cold blue square. Awkwardly, he placed it against his cheek and winced at its cool touch.

Meanwhile, she stubbed the cigarette out on a napkin and began wiping her face with Tony's towel. The white wash towel quickly turned crimson as she attempted to sponge the caked blood off her face.

"What the hell are you doing here anyway?" he raised a brow. "This isn't exactly the neighborhood for a midnight stroll."

"What are you doing here then?" she countered.

"Stalking you, obviously," he sighed theatrically. She cracked a smile; she could tell he was in a good mood. His coal eyes from two nights ago had dimmed to a murky brown shade in which a flicker of humanity managed to shine through.

"But really," she rolled her eyes.

"I was hungry," he shrugged and threw his thumb over his shoulder. "Tone over there is my boy. We go way back. His Dad owns the joint."

She glanced around the empty restaurant and pursed her lips.

"Booming business," she muttered. "What is this? A front for the Mob or something?"

A silence followed and she glanced up at Jack, whose eyebrows were raised.

"Oh."

"I'm surprised you're not cut up into a bunch of pieces," he scoffed. "I mean, I know you can pack a punch, but you sure you should be running around at this hour, toots?"

"Have you seen me?" she glared at him gloomily. "You think I just waltzed out the front door for a goddamn promenade?"

He grinned cheekily.

"Touchy, touchy," he tsked. "You got a shithead boyfriend you need me to whack?"

"No."

"No what? You don't have a boyfriend or you don't want him whacked?" his grin grew wider. She glowered at him for a second before hiding her face in her towel.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she finally mumbled.

"And why not?" he leaned in closer. She shot him an exhausted glance and sighed,

"Because I don't want one."

"And why's that?" his grin threatened to split his face in half.

"I don't know... I've never had one," she muttered and resumed wiping at her face. He raised a brow and watched her carefully, assessing the statement.

"Heh," he finally smirked.

"What?" she eyed him, annoyed.

"You look like shit," he shrugged.

He snatched the towel from her and cupped her cheek. His long fingers curled into her thick blonde hair and jerked her head forward. The purple bruises on her neck were still fresh from the other night and thus she wriggled her head in protest.

"Goddammit," he sighed, "would you hold still?"

He leaned in closely to dab at her face and she stopped struggling at the towel's cool touch. She could smell him more clearly now as a musky combination of alcohol, tobacco and sweat wafted up her nostrils. His tongue flicked out to assuage his scab in astute concentration as he gently wiped at her blood. He cleaned most of her stained face, but as he dabbed around her nose, she winced. He grinned darkly at her reaction. Suddenly, he squeezed her nose between his index finger and thumb and shouted,

"Honk!"

She squeaked in pain and her fingers immediately flew up to cup her face.

"What the fuck?" she cried out and he cackled.

"Oh, relax," he rolled his eyes. Her fingers gingerly stroked the bridge of her nose and she winced.

"It's not funny," she murmured sadly. He blinked languidly at her, a peculiar expression on his face. His fingers tenderly cupped her chin and she attempted to lurch away.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey," he murmured and raised a finger to her nose. She stopped struggling as he gently ran it across the bridge almost in a strange, ticklish caress. His dark eyes flickered to her ruby red mouth, fixated by her stained lips.

He tapped the tip of her nose.

"Is it broken?" she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Nah," he shook his head.

"How do you know?" she pressed, leaning forward. His finger slipped from her nose to her lips as he leaned in as well.

"You don't wanna know, Harley girl," he purred and her eyes lidded ever so slightly.

Suddenly, a heaping plate of spaghetti plopped down in front of them. Jack snapped to attention, now entirely engrossed in the prospect of food.

"The usual," Tony yawned and then glanced at Harley. "You sure you're good?"

"I'm good," she strained a smile.

"Aight," he shrugged, "well I brought this for you, just in case." He presented her with a fork and she tentatively accepted it. He turned to Jack and ruffled his sandy locks.

"Behave yourself, pig," he snickered facetiously.

"Have fun jacking off in the back," he retorted. Tony jutted his thumb at Jack and shook his head.

"This guy's a clown," he smirked at Harley before walking off. She shook her head in amusement and set her fork down.

Jack hunched over the table and began stabbing at the meal with carnal intensity, shoveling the pasta into his mouth. The loud smacks of his chewing were so uncouth that she raised her eyebrows. He glanced back at her and she couldn't help but laugh: tomato sauce sloppily stained his mouth and a dribble of red spit ran down his chin.

"What?" he asked, mid-chew. "It's really good." He pushed the plate toward her and she stared down at it. After a moment, she daintily picked up a single string and nibbled at the end. He watched her carefully as she furrowed her brow.

"This is really good," she exclaimed, turning to him with big excited eyes.

"I know," he beamed.

"Like, really good."

"I know."

He leaned over to shovel another bite before reaching for her fork.

"How do you confuse a blonde?" he mused before swallowing his food. She glanced at him wearily and shrugged.

"Paint yourself green and throw forks at her," he snickered and chucked the fork into her lap. She glanced at it, then up at him, utterly confused. She blinked for several seconds in a stupor until he saw a flicker of recognition flash through her puzzled eyes. As she finally registered the punchline, she lit up into a giggle and picked up her fork.

"That's pretty good," she laughed as she stabbed her fork into the plate.

She stayed giggling for the rest of the night, as he spewed joke after joke. He was hilarious. He spun vivid narratives for her and all kinds of hysterical witticisms. He was peculiar, that was for sure, but she didn't mind. She listened to him talk all night, like he was some philosopher or comedian or just another fucked up kid in a diner. He, in turn, reveled in her reactions, which turned into a continual cycle of mutual benefit: her laughter fueled his jokes, just as he fueled her laughter. She didn't make it home before the sunrise, just as she predicted, not because she was half-dead somewhere in an alley, but because she was very much alive.

I can't take credit for that anti-joke at the end. It's pretty awesome, though.

Thanks for reading. Please leave some feedback if you can :)