Harley was slowly going crazy. She could feel it.
Not that she'd been the poster child for sanity before or anything, but the madness was creeping into her head to take up residence and she could actually feel its presence there.
It was the twentieth day of her hospital stay and Harley's cabin fever had risen to--if you'll pardon an atrocious pun--a fever pitch.
Being stuck in a bed with two broken legs in traction on its own was no fun, but factor in the depression, morning sickness and various aches and pains, and it was bordering on cruel and unusual punishment. The only respite she got was when she was sleeping, and slumber wasn't forthcoming without the aid of medication.
Harley spent much of her days remembering her dreams from nights gone past and wishing she could spend all her time in that wonderfully soft, beautiful world that her cracked mind had concocted.
She closed her eyes and could see the purple that covered everything, could feel the warm embrace that wrapped around her comfortingly.
Not even a month had passed and already, Harley was idealizing the Joker completely...forgetting every horrible thing he'd ever done to her and replacing them with things that never were.
Inside her head, the Joker was given personality traits that he hadn't possessed when he was alive, and events that had never happened became as real as the events that had actually occurred.
The spot in her mind which used to house all the memories of him shoving her, slapping her or pushing her out of windows, was quickly filling up with memories of Valentine's Day presents, kisses under the mistletoe, and birthdays that she would never forget.
Ironic that the reason she would never forget them was because they never actually happened...
Something that was contributing to her sudden idealization of her deceased lover was the constant media coverage about 'The Followers'. It made her heart swell that her Puddin' had disciples who were carrying on his work. Those purple, red and black arm bands made her feel a sort of maternal pride that had nothing to do with her pregnancy. She may have been Mister J.'s first number one fan, but she was the mother of a movement.
The disaffected youth of Gotham, tired of their lives under the iron rule of the Batman and his costumed cronies, were walking in the Joker's footsteps, standing for chaos, anarchy and the punk 'Fuck The Man' mentality. It was a mass rebellion in brilliant flashes of royal purple, red and black.
There was an explosion at Arkham Asylum which had left Batman to round up the escaped inmates (the number of which was phenomenal, the damage had been so severe) and the resulting disorganization and destruction was something that the Joker would have positively relished.
The best part, though--the absolute best part--was that one of the news crews had shown one of the crumbling walls of Arkham before it had exploded: standing out in stark contrast to the gothic gray architecture was a bright flash of neon green spray paint which proclaimed 'Joker Was Here'.
Harley thought it to be the most beautiful thing she'd ever laid eyes on.
Happy though she was about the changing landscape that was Gotham society's criminal hierarchy, she was very careful to conceal her joy in the presence of all but the select few who seemed sympathetic to the members of the movement. Her therapist--a tiny German woman who lauded Jung as the end-all, be-all of psychology--was under the impression that Harley was making great progress when it came to forgetting the Joker. The doctor with the dimples, who smiled at her every time he came to check on her, never would have connected the mysterious Miss Smith with the missing Harley Quinn because she was so good at seeming totally indifferent to the newscasts that were constantly playing in the background. Most of the nurses, too, were completely fooled, and only one was allowed to see the way her face lit up when he casually discussed the local goings on in Gotham.
"Miss Smith?"
Harley shook herself away from the image of Arkham burning and turned her head to look at the nurse who had entered the room to her left. His name escaped her at the moment but she knew his face. Deep flashing green eyes, a strongly set jaw and black curls that almost reminded her of her beloved Mister J. His smile wasn't as broad...nice though it was, but it was the large rubber bands on his wrist--purple, red and black--that made her open up to him. This was a man to be trusted, certainly.
"Have you seen it?" Harley asked, nodding her head at the television screen across the room.
"Miss Smith, I don't think anyone in Gotham hasn't seen it," he answered as he stepped up to her bedside and checked her IV. "It was quite an...ahem…impressive display."
"I'll bet," Harley said dreamily as the morphine drip was refreshed.
He smiled at her indulgently as he finished increasing her dosage. "I heard that Batman had to call in all the Gotham capes to help get the inmates under control--Nightwing, Batgirl, even the Creeper was called in. Feeling better, Miss Smith?"
"That's nice. It's all nice," she murmured, feeling the effects almost immediately. The pleasant sense of rightness washed over her, warming her from the top of her head to the tips of her toenails. "And don't call me Miss Smith."
The nurse tilted his head at her curiously as he took her pulse. "Why not?"
"S'not my name," she slurred sleepily.
"It's what your charts say," he replied, carefully placing her arm back down on the mattress.
"S'not my name," she replied, heavy-eyed but still insistent.
"Then what should I call you?" He asked conversationally, pulling her blankets up over her still bruised body.
She sighed and her eyes slipped shut as she slid seamlessly back into her plum colored dream world. "Harley...everybody calls me...Harley."
The nurse reached over and hit the remote control to turn off the television. The room was plunged into darkness instantly, nothing but the beeping of the heart rate monitor breaking up the quiet.
He brushed an errant strand of hair from her forehead and looked at her from beneath half closed lids. He leaned close to her, close enough for her to smell his cologne--a heady, masculine scent that was so strong it invaded her morphine dream--and whispered, "I know, little harlequin...I know."