Note: I've been listening to that Chris Issak song 'Wicked Games' all night. You know, the one where in the video Helena Christianson is rolling around in sand being all sexy. It's the sexiest song of all time. Just. FYI.
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A Fairly Honorable Defeat
7. The Times
Looking back Harley knew when she'd made her mistake.
For the first year it started as once a month. Then twice a month. Then once a week.
Once a week she'd get him sitting out on the fire escape, sometimes with horrible stab wounds or bruised cheeks, other times with a shirt covered in blood and something she didn't recognize; something she later learned was brain matter. A lot of the time he was just exhausted and in need of a shower. She couldn't believe how he survived it—when he wasn't covered in blood it was always something else he had to struggle through.
But she asked no questions, just pulled him through the window and pushed him playfully into the shower. He would come out of the bathroom to find some kind of warm meal waiting for him and would appear vaguely annoyed. She thought he was pretending but later she realized it did actually annoy him to have someone look after him. It annoyed him until he realized how helpful her doting could be in the grand scheme of things. But that wasn't until much later.
What little they spoke to each other was usually of the philosophic nature as usual; most of their dialogue was communicated via little gestures and secret looks. And a lot of the time was spent rolling around in the white sheets of her bed where he was neither violent nor gentle. They developed a rhythm together— she understood his boundaries, certain questions not to ask and certain moods when she should remain quiet and simply play with the dirty blonde curls that fell across his forehead.
For her 23rd birthday she had a small party with a few girlfriends then returned home, happy and more than a little drunk and found a square velvet box sitting on her kitchen counter. She had shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the couch—it missed but she didn't notice, her curiosity peaked by the velvet box. There was something bad in there, she could tell. Something that was just as secretive as her relationship—or connection—or protection with him.
Harley picked up the soft box, just bigger than her hand and heavier than it looked. Pressing her lips together in silent anticipation she lifted the lid to find a stunning diamond necklace—larger than was in any way necessary or appropriate for any sort of occasion she could possibly wear it to. It was set in platinum and sparkled in the dim kitchen light, like something a queen should own—not a lowly medical student. Of course it was from him. Of course the next day there were headlines in the newspaper about Tiffany's being robbed.
Of course she turned around and he was there, standing awkwardly in the darkness, insecure and testy to see if she would approve. Harley set the necklace down on the counter, feeling a rush of affection—not that she had a stolen diamond necklace which was most likely worth hundreds of thousands of dollars—but that he had given her something. She threw her arms around his neck, ignoring the stiffness in his shoulders and tried to look into his deep green eyes.
"I love it," she whispered, pressing her face to his neck.
He coughed, "Really?" He seemed surprised. Perhaps he was expecting a telling off for her stolen present. "That's ah—good."
She forced his head down to look in her eyes. He'd started wearing a bit more eyeliner lately, now a thick line across his upper lid. "I love it." She said, trying to convey a secret meaning only to be disappointed when all he did was relax his shoulders rather than reply with some similar sentiment. She was sure he was feeling the same feelings as she was—how could he not? The way he touched her—rough hands sliding over her body, not quite so much worshiping as declaring his own property. She loved it. She loved being his secret just as she was his.
She forced him to kiss her and led him into the bedroom.
Once a week turned into twice then three times a week— then it seemed like whenever he wasn't out doing whatever he did he was with her. Rather than late night visits he'd get in around eight in the morning looking pale and exhausted and fall into bed next to her still wearing the dark blue skinny jeans and dirty sneakers.
Harley rolled over with her hands tucked under her head, watching him as he took a few deep breathes and rubbed his face into the pillow restlessly. She noticed a large silver gun with a silencer attached to the end still grasped in his left hand; it lay between them on her white sheets poignantly. When he noticed her looking down at it he tossed it carelessly over his shoulder so it landed on the floor a few feet away from the bed. In a quasi affectionate gesture he mustered the energy to pat her head with his dirty hand a few times and Harley giggled softly.
He smiled into the pillow and promptly fell fast asleep, his soft blonde hair which he'd started wearing a bit longer these days— covering his face. For an entire year they did this song and dance—and Harley was perfectly happy to play along—she didn't think she'd ever been as happy as she was when they stayed in bed all day saying very little other than an occasional sweet nothing to one another. Sometimes, he could be sweet and tender—but she didn't know if it was for her sake or if it was just an accident on his brain's part.
"I love you," she murmured against his cheek.
It was summer time and they'd been lounging in her bed all day, only getting up for toast and a quick shower together to wash off the sweat from hours of sex. Now Harley was wrapped around him again, her open window letting in a gentle breeze and bright sunshine glint on their freshly washed skin.
He looked up at her, wet hair plastered to his forehead. "You do?" he said, frowning.
"Mmm," Harley nodded, "I'm sorry."
He giggled. "Don't be sorry."
"Do you love me?" She asked tentatively, biting her lip because she knew this line of conversation could potentially ruin their lovely day.
He gave her a sharp look, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, Harley," he sighed. She half expected him to get up and leave or otherwise tell her off, but instead he stared at the ceiling looking conflicted as he chewed on his lips. At last he said quite softly, without looking at her. "I've grown quite fond of you." Then pulled a silly face.
Harley beamed at him, thrilled by his words. He looked over at her warily, and shook his head at the look of joy spread across her face. "Oh Harley," he said affectionately yet with irony—he pulled her close to him. "Whatever will I do with you."
"Whatever you want," she told him in earnest.
He grinned widely, wickedly, "I'm holding you to that, my dear."
Now in her third year at Med school Harley couldn't afford to miss a single lecture, so she'd reluctantly left him sleeping in her bed most mornings—or what she was slowly starting to think of as their bed. As far as she could tell he was living with her— he didn't seem to have anywhere else to sleep or eat—and he only ever left her side to go out 'to work' as he put it. "Got to go to work, honey bunny," he'd say casually with a cruel grin, knowing full well that she would assume this meant something horrible was about to happen to some other person out there.
One night Harley was milling around the kitchen making dinner while he sat at the kitchen table on the phone, speaking quietly so she couldn't hear. She diced an onion and pretended to be fully absorbed in the task while straining her ears to catch anything from his conversation.
"Thirty-second street—I don't really care—that's the going rate these days—" He let out a loud peel of cackling laughter that always made chills run down Harley's spine. Something about his laugh was unsettling, it was something she'd only recently noticed, that his laughter was changing. It was odd but she chalked it up to her own neurosis.
He sauntered into the kitchen watching her sauté onions and garlic on the stove. "What ya up to?" he asked, slinking over to her.
She smiled up at him and ignored the sudden twitch that ran through his shoulders, "Spaghetti Bolognaise."
"You know, Harley, I'll never understand why women bother to cook," he hopped up on the counter and examined his nails, then mimed buffing them on his shirt.
"Well, it's not just women who cook," she said, pretending to be offended.
He reached into the drawer next to his swinging legs and pulled out about ten take-out pamphlets. "So why do you have a collection of these little beauties?"
Harley gave him a withering look by way of response.
"Obviously it'd just be easier if we didn't have to eat at all," he mused, watching her add minced meat and tomatoes to the saucepan.
"Can you grab that spaghetti over there, please?" she asked sweetly.
"No." He jumped off the counter and pulled his vibrating mobile phone from his pocket. "What," he said gruffly, moving out of the kitchen and out of ear shot.
Harley grumbled to herself under her breath, annoyed with him for being obstinate again.
"Harley," his tone was rough again. She turned to look at him standing with his arms crossed in the doorway, looking mildly irritated but also relatively amused. Only he could convey both at once. For a moment she was sure he'd heard her say, "Bastard," under her breath but he only pursed his lips and said, "I have to go."
"Oh," she sighed, down cast. "Okay then."
"You're coming with me," he continued.
She jerked her gaze over to him, taken aback by the order. "I'm coming with you?" she repeated, her eyes wide with surprise.
He scoffed, "That's what I said isn't it."
"But—why?" She stuttered.
"I need you," he said, still gruff and cold, but the words themselves almost made Harley swoon. He needed her. He gestured to the stove, "Turn that off, take off the apron, we're going now."
Harley scrambled to do as he said as quickly as possible and followed him out of the apartment quietly— she was afraid to say anything lest he change his mind and tell her to stay at home. The fact that something horrible was about to happen to another person didn't cross her mind, she was solely focused on the fact that he needed her to come with him—not only that but she would get to have a taste of exactly what it was he did when he left her at night.
They got on the L train towards downtown Gotham and Harley spent the entire trip sitting in silence, her mind racing between what they could possibly be about to do, whether the bolognas sauce would be edible when they got home and if she got home too late would she be capable of going to her lecture in the morning. Looking over at him she noticed he was lost in thought as well, and would glance at her every couple of minutes warily, as if unsure if bringing her with him was wise.
They climbed out of the subway and he took her hand casually, linking their fingers as they walked down the relatively deserted streets of downtown Gotham. The only person they saw for three blocks was a woman wearing furs and carrying a small dog as she waited for her chauffer to open the door to the shiny black limousine stretched out before them. Harley could feel his distaste for the image and tried to muster the same level of disgust—the woman was just too nice looking though and she couldn't bring herself to hate her for having money.
As they walked past, the older woman looked down at their clasped hands and offered Harley a wide smile as if to say, 'Ah, young love.' Harley tried not to smile back but found herself beaming with pride none the less at being recognized as his girlfriend.
They came up to one of the absurdly mammoth skyscraper buildings in the financial district and he led her inside, still holding hands. The night security guard was asleep at his post so they breezed past into the elevator. He pressed the button for the twenty-seventh floor and yawned loudly.
"Tired?" she asked, the first thing she'd said since they left the apartment for their little adventure.
"A bit," he said conversationally, "I think I'll sleep in tomorrow. Have you got class?"
"At ten," she sighed sadly. She would have liked nothing more than to sleep in or just stay in bed all day with him.
He removed something from his pocket with a sharp flick and a glint of silver. "You should just blow it off and stay home with me Dr. Harlequin."
She grinned and looked over at him, that was one of his new pet names for her—a play on her name Harleen Quinzel. The grin promptly dropped off her face when she realized the shining silver thing he held in his hand was a jack knife about six inches long and dangerously sharp. He looked down at her, daring her to say something about the knife. Harley swallowed heavily, willing herself to not look surprised or frightened.
"You know I'd like nothing more, darling," she said sincerely, and found herself grinning stupidly—then she realized that the situation was actually remarkably funny and she let out a tiny giggle.
He looked incredibly pleased with this and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze and a kiss on the temple.
The elevator doors dinged open at the twenty-seventh floor and with a knife in one hand, and Harley's small white hand clutched in the other, he quietly moved down the hallway, almost cat like, checking the names on the doors with pursed lips. She noticed the slightly odd mannerisms such as hunching his shoulders and an unsteady gait, the lip smacking and the occasional unnecessary coughs became more pronounced. Finally he said, "Ah hah!" happily and told her to stay put.
"If anyone comes down this hallway you bang on the door, alright?" he told her seriously.
She nodded and he kissed her again before slipping silently into the office.
At first she could hear nothing other than the quick beating of her nervous heart. Harley still had no idea what was going on, but she got the feeling she was playing look out. That meant she was an accessory to—what, murder? Or perhaps just robbery—maybe even something less than that. He could just be looking for documents or something like that—her train of thought was cut off by a low wail that turned into a scream. Then the scream was cut off and only gurgling could be heard.
He was speaking and laughing over the gurgling and then there were several loud thumps and stomps—something heavy being dragged across carpet. Ten minutes went by where she could only hear him shuffling around the office until at last he emerged, tucking the jack knife in his pocket and wiping his bloodied hands on a dark green tie, a look of immense satisfaction spread across his face. Again, Harley tried not to look disturbed but it became even harder when she chanced a look into the office only to see a heavy figure swinging from the ceiling, the unmistakable sound of rope creaking and thick wet drops landing on the carpet.
Harley's insides went cold but she quickly shrugged it off, not wishing to disappoint him. She only prayed she didn't get asked along to any more of his little outings. They got back inside the elevator and he sighed happily. "Do you think that Spag Bol will be good if we heat it up?"
"Erm—should be—we can always order pizza if not," Harley made her voice as casual as possible and this seemed to make him even happier. He slid his arms around her waist and kissed her hard the entire elevator ride down. Harley melted into him, her conscience raging wildly in the back of her mind but her heart entirely pleased that she'd done a good job—whatever that job may have been.
With his arm still slung over her shoulders they walked across the lobby, but this time the security guard was awake and he jumped to his feet at seeing the blood splattering her boyfriend's faded jeans. "Hey—what are you--!"
Before the guard had a chance to respond a gun appeared from nowhere and he was shot once in the head. The sound the gun made when it went off made Harley jump and hold on to him tighter as the security guard slipped back in his seat, a bullet hole laid perfectly between his eyes leaking blood down his face. She shut her eyes, trying to block it out and let herself be taken home, her lover's strong arms holding her all the way. And somehow, that was enough to make the images fade and subdue her conscience.
By the time they got home Harley was calm and relaxed just like he was. "Are you still hungry?" she said over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen to finish their dinner. What an evening, she couldn't help thinking. Watch the five-o-clock news, start making dinner, kill two men, eat dinner and go to bed by ten o clock. This made her smile despite herself.
He came up behind her, "Not hungry for food," he mumbled against her ear. "You did so well tonight, little Harlequin."
She giggled and followed him into the bedroom, their dinner and the murder of two complete strangers already forgotten.
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Note: Ooh Hoo. Personally I think he'd be a great boyfriend! Leave me some reviews darlings.
