Chapter Six

joker, meet you on the other side

You can't miss me—I'm still alive
snake skin shoes; I'm pleading homicide
come on and feel this: I'm still alive
Joker, meet you on the other side

- Kasabian, Vlad the Impaler

I was off of the bunk in a second, but as I stepped towards him, he held out a hand. "One second," he said, then leaned out of view, only to re-emerge with a gym bag, which he tossed at me. "Change first."

I raised an eyebrow, but hey, if he thought I'd look less suspicious walking through the mental asylum in anything other than the orange jumpsuit, I wasn't going to question it. Besides—I was sick of the jumpsuit.

"I'll keep watch," he muttered and stepped out of view, and I set about dumping the contents of the gym bag to the floor. It was jeans, motorcycle boots, and a plain black t-shirt, all in my size, though the jeans looked a little long. I didn't care. The sight of civilian clothes confirmed my suspicions—this was a prison break—and I'd stripped down and put on the new clothes in less than a minute. I was kicking my jumpsuit under the bunk when the orderly peeked around the door frame.

"Okay. Let's go."

He didn't have to tell me twice. Without wasting a second, I strode briskly from my shitty little cell into the hallway beyond. As I swept past the orderly, he turned and fell into step beside me, keeping pace and taking my elbow. I didn't ask questions, and he didn't offer an explanation. He just steered me down the empty hall, head turning to and fro as he checked, over and over again, to ensure that we were alone.

"Word of advice," I said, my voice just above a whisper, "don't look so guilty."

He ignored me, pushing me towards the door that led to the stairs. I went willingly.

We climbed down two flights, the orderly looking over the railing every three seconds to make sure that no one else was entering from one of the doors below, and I wondered vaguely who exactly this guy was and why he was doing this, but figured that now was not the time to ask.

"Here," he said once we reached the second floor exit. I paused and glanced uncertainly at him—because I knew exactly where this hallway went. It led to the employee garage, which also happened to be the way I infiltrated the asylum in November the year before in order to bust the Joker out. At the time, it had sported little more security than a magnetic keycard-activated lock and cameras in the halls. They'd have to be crazier than the inmates not to have bulked it up by now.

"What?" demanded the orderly, irritated at my hesitation. "Come on!"

"Okay," I said with a shrug, "you're the mastermind." With that, I pushed through the door.

I was definitely right—there was new security in the form of a metal detector and a tall, young security guard to oversee it, as well as to oversee the comings and goings of the asylum employees. When my escort didn't falter, I determined to keep up the pace and look confident. If he wasn't worried, then neither was I.

As we approached, the security guard glanced over his shoulder and then stepped towards us. I half expected my escort to pull out a knife, to gut him here and there, and I was surprised when the guard spoke in an angry half-whisper: "Where have you been? You were supposed to have her down here an hour ago!"

My eyebrows shot up. I glanced at the orderly, wanting to see how he'd respond.

Furiously, as it turned out. "One of the doctors had an unscheduled in-cell session with her! I almost walked in on them—what was I supposed to do, tell them I was interrupting them cause the psycho was scheduled for a breakout?"

"I object to that," I remarked brightly. They both ignored me.

"Look, whatever, man. Just get her out, and fast."

"I am," hissed the orderly, taking my elbow again. He towed me towards the exit, and as we approached the security guard's station, I spotted the latter giving me the dirtiest look I'd seen since the first time I'd used the term "YOLO" in front of Jonathan (it was sarcasm, but the sarcasm lost some of its edge when I had to explain the meaning and subsequently weather the aforementioned dirty look).

I responded with a puzzled stare and a question. "What, did I kill your family, or something?"

I was unprepared when he actually made to lunge towards me, but before anything could develop, my orderly escort intervened, grabbing the guard by the shoulders and thrusting him back. "Easy, man! Come on. Let's just get this over with."

I was frowning as the orderly took my arm again, and I watched the guard until we were out in the garage and the door closed behind us, cutting him out of my view. I haven't killed anybody's family. I mean, definitely not kids. Maybe… I mentally went through the list of people I'd killed since I shot Senator Jordan last October. That list was short. I preferred to take things from people, to scare them—killing was generally reserved for the purpose of self-defense or to protect the Joker. I didn't typically get anything out of it. All told, I highly doubted that I'd killed any of the security guard's family members.

J might have, though. However, if that was the case, what was the guard doing busting me out?

Unless he's not busting you out. Unless J shot his wife or his brother or something and he's conspiring with this guy to get a little eye-for-an-eye revenge.

It was this thought that was circling around in my head when we reached what was presumably the orderly's car and he opened the trunk. I looked at him, looked at the trunk, and then looked back again.

"You're kidding."

He heaved a quick, bitter sigh. "You got a better idea for getting you out of here under their noses?"

I narrowed my eyes. When in doubt, just ask outright. They usually aren't expecting that. Bluntly, I asked, "You planning to get me out of here so you can kill me?"

He stared. "What? No."

"Cause the security guard in there definitely didn't like me much."

"Well, he wouldn't," snapped the orderly.

"Uh-huh, and why is that?"

"Look, I—we—really don't have time to stand around discussing this. Let me just say: if I wanted to kill you, I could do it in the asylum. So could Gus."

"Gus is the security guard?" I asked, eyes still narrowed speculatively.

"Yes. Now would you please—just get in the trunk?"

I maintained my suspicion for another second or two before acknowledging to myself that he had a point—and even if he didn't, I didn't exactly have a lot of options. It was either go back in the asylum or go with him and risk that he might have a grudge, and really, even if he was planning to try to kill me, after three months in that hellhole, I was willing to take my chances.

I climbed in the trunk. He closed it.

"Spacious," I muttered sarcastically to myself, then sat quiet and listened.

I felt the car shift as he got in, heard his door close. The engine turned over, and then we were moving—slowly, moving along for a minute or two, and then we stopped. I heard faint voices, one of them belonging to the orderly, the other unfamiliar, neither of which I could make out. Front exit security. I held my breath. If the orderly had a bad reputation, if he seemed even slightly distracted, they might search his car, especially after the breakouts the asylum had dealt with in the last year.

The voices hummed for a full minute, and then we started moving forward, and I breathed, then fought laughter at the understanding that for the first time in months, I was outside of the asylum walls. "Of course, at least the cell was bigger than a car trunk, but I guess I can't complain," I said softly to myself, feeling giddy.

From that point on, all I could do was wait, and I didn't have to do that for long. We were driving for maybe five minutes before the car stopped and the engine was turned off. Another minute, and the orderly was opening the trunk and reaching for me. I was only too glad to climb out, noting as I did that he didn't hold any weapons that I could see. We were in what looked like an industrial lot, torn barbed wire in the peripherals, but judging by the lack of lights in the surrounding buildings and the cracked state of the asphalt, business had been suspended for a while.

Then, I was so distracted by the sight of the sky that I couldn't give two shits where we were or whether my liberator actually wanted to kill me.

Yeah, it was a city sky, and it was a Gotham City sky at that, which meant that lights from the concentration of buildings reflected off of the considerable smog, obscuring the stars and dyeing the whole expanse a sort of dark red-brown instead of black or blue, but it was a sky I'd fallen in love with once I'd become part of the nightlife last winter, and I wouldn't trade it for all the country skies in the world. The sight of Gotham's polluted sky, more than anything, drove the point home: I'm out.

The orderly pulled me back to earth, grabbing my arm again. "Here," he said, gesturing past the car. "This way."

I glanced in the direction he'd indicated and saw a waiting van. Leaning against the side of the van was a solo figure—unfamiliar, hood up, hands in his front pockets. The orderly walked me to the front of his car and stopped, calling across the ten-foot space between us and the strangers. "She's here. You have them?"

The stranger let his hood fall back—and I felt a grin split my face when I saw the clown mask. I knew it. He appeared to look at me, then nodded, reaching behind him to bang twice on the wall of the van.

The back doors opened and yielded two more clowns, each one dragging a ziptied, duct-taped woman behind him. I could feel the orderly's hand trembling on my arm at the sight of them, and it clicked into place.

Of course. Abduct family members of asylum workers with access to the cells and exits. Say they're doomed if you don't spring who we say. Anyone worth a damn won't care if he's caught on camera or implicated after the fact; all he'll want is to get his family back safe. I felt my smile widen as I realized that we had a potentially permanent get out of jail free card here, and then I was being pushed forward by the orderly and realized that the clowns had sent the women, still tied, over towards us. It was clear that it was a sort of meet-in-the-middle situation, and I was only too happy to oblige, slipping out of the orderly's grip and walking steadily towards the van.

As I walked past the women, one of them shot me a filthy look. I didn't blame her. I'd probably be pretty pissed if I'd been kidnapped just to provide leverage. I put it out of my mind and was practically skipping by the time I reached the clowns at the van.

Before I could say anything, though, the hooded clown who'd been waiting for us called out lazily to the three civilians across the parking lot: "Remember, Rivera. You try to turn this around on us, we know where you live. We all know where you live." The voice was low, gravelly, and totally emotionless. I didn't recognize it.

The orderly didn't respond, other than shooting him a look of pure hatred. Then, he turned his attention to the former captives, helping them into the car and departing as quickly as possible.

The clown, his business with Rivera concluded, turned to me. "You want to hop in the back?" he asked, voice slightly muffled by his mask.

I froze momentarily at the thought of being shut up again so soon, but managed not to let it show, giving him a smile instead. "I'd much rather ride shotgun, if it's all the same to you. I've been cooped up for a while."

He shrugged, then pulled his mask off. I was right. I didn't recognize him. I'd remember this guy. Mainly because he was so… old. I mean, he wasn't exactly in need of a walker, but he was definitely older than our average henchman by about twenty years, was at least in his mid-fifties. His back was straight, though, and his blue eyes, though rather droopy, were clear—he looked like the sort of man who could handle himself, age notwithstanding. He didn't appear to notice me staring, shoving the mask in a back pocket and running his hand over his totally bald head. "You oughta tell that boyfriend of yours that these damn masks are a misery. Condensation starts gathering on the rubber, makes the whole thing feel like a rain forest. I'm George."

I took his offered hand gamely. "I'm Harley. And he's your boss, why don't you tell him?"

"I know exactly who you are," he said languidly, "which is why I said you should tell him. You're about ten times less likely to get shot for it."

I laughed and then stopped short, surprised at how good it felt to laugh from sheer amusement rather than anger or maliciousness for a change. Fighting a smile, I said, "Fair point."

"Yeah." He jerked his head, indicating the front of the van. "Now, if it's all the same to you, we just enacted a jail break, and on top of kidnapping, that carries some pretty severe penalties if caught, so…"

"Personally, I'm just dying to get thrown back into the asylum," I quipped, flashing him a grin. His response was the barest twitch of the lips, but given my strong sense that he was not a smiling sort of person, I marked the miniscule reaction as a compliment.

Got to watch it with this one, I thought as he turned away, indicating with a gesture that the other clowns should jump in the back. I could like him.

I shook my head as I climbed into the passenger seat. The night that landed me in Arkham had taught me a few things, not the least of which was that getting attached to henchmen was heartbreak waiting to happen. Almost none of them lasted long, a fact underscored by the fact that I was being collected by three complete strangers—at least, I assumed that if either of the two men who hadn't taken their clown masks off knew me, they would have said so.

I'd been gone for three months, and I was just now really realizing that I would probably be going back to a hideout full of strangers. The thought bothered me a little, but I worked hard to tamp it down—Javier had been my favorite, and I was determined that he would be the first and last. Henchmen were worker bees; I needed to remember that. Anyway, given George's apparent age, I wasn't holding out hope that there'd even be enough time to get attached to him. Even young men didn't last long in this game.

Besides, I told myself as George climbed into the seat beside me and started the engine, all you need is the Joker, and he will certainly be there. The reminder had me smiling again, refocused me, and I turned slightly, determining to avoid conversation and instead get myself into a healthier, more natural headspace in preparation for my return home. Not that Harleen Quinzel, Unwilling Prisoner didn't have its perks, but really, being so sullen, angry, and joyless all the time exhausted me. The entire time I'd been imprisoned, I'd been a defensive little ball of a person, and it served to protect me well enough, but it wasn't me. Not all of me, anyway. It was time to bring back the parts of me I'd tucked safely away.

Fortunately, George didn't seem any keener to talk than I was, so I was able to just lean slightly against the window and watch the city fly by. It wasn't long before I felt myself smiling uncontrollably. Staring out the window from a static point behind bars just couldn't compare. I'd missed being in the city, passing through dark industrial complexes, skirting shabby little neighborhoods and always being aware of the skyline beyond the immediacy of the brick and mortar.

Two years ago, I'd have looked pointedly at the cracked asphalt and creaky monorail stations before laughing at myself. In truth, I hadn't developed this love affair with the city until I met the Joker. He was the one who showed me the beauty and secrecy of shadowed alleyways, the million ways to escape from those who would see us caught—the infinite means by which we could turn the amalgam of asphalt, concrete, metal, and glass into the perfect playground. Before I met him, I could only make my way around the Narrows and parts of Midtown with any confidence.

Now, I could find my way in any part of the city.

It was this familiarity that made me so sure we were going to a hideout that would be completely unfamiliar to me. Before my time in Arkham, we'd been staked out in an old, long-defunct power plant near Chinatown. It wasn't a surprise that he'd switched places while I was inside; that plant had been condemned and was just a brief resting place at best.

At any rate, it was in southwest Gotham, and George was driving distinctly towards the East River. In no time it all, we'd crossed the river via Calvary Bridge and found ourselves in one of many industrial zones—and from the looks of it, it was designed like most of the others, with cracked brick apartment buildings scattered around, a halfhearted neighborhood of tiny houses popping up here and there to provide housing for factory workers and families. It wasn't hard to figure out roughly where we were headed.

Sure enough, George parked the van in a flat, sad-looking little lot that held several other vehicles and looked rather like an abandoned construction site that had been converted into parking space. Without being asked, he directed my attention across the street, to a rundown two-story brick building planted alone on the corner.

"Started squatting here about a week ago," he said in his gravelly, unhurried way. "Far as I can tell, this place housed workers for that factory—" there, he pointed to a large, flat building further down the street—"but sometime around New Year's the place closed down, moved to Robinson County. Workers followed. There's been a for lease sign up for months, but Boss tore it down when we moved in, and judging by the state of the place, I don't think the landlord stops by too often."

"Well, if he does pay us a surprise visit, I'm sure J would have no problem taking care of it," I murmured, peering at the building. I was no stranger to big buildings—the abandoned or neglected places tended to be the ones that were too hard for landlords to take care of without shelling out a lot of money or time—but this one was distinctly more… homey than our usual hideouts. It looked almost like a boarding house instead of an apartment building. I felt a flutter of excitement starting in my belly

He might be in there right now.

"Well, a lot of the factories around here are still functional," George said as he pushed his door open, and I followed suit, gladly stepping out into the open air again. "Place is pretty busy in the daytime, so the more recognizable among us usually save comings and goings for dark."

"Don't lounge around outside when the sun's out, got it."

"Dead at night, though. Even the people who live nearby don't step outside." He sniffed, scanning the street dispassionately. "Wonder why."

"Industrial spaces creep most people out, I think," I said, and as the other two clowns joined us, I took a slow breath. Time to get back into the swing of things.

To my relief, George took the lead—I didn't want to be the first person to walk into a houseful of heavily-armed men not used to the sight of me. I didn't exactly want to be the last, either, so I kept fairly close to George's heels as he led the way across the street and up the rickety porch steps to the door, which he struck once, forcefully.

A shutter flickered. After another second, I heard multiple locks being undone, and then the door swung open.

George entered silently. I followed, and as the stranger who'd opened the door to admit us stepped aside without a word, I saw recognition flicker in his eyes. I glanced away. I'd meet all the new guys in time—right now, there were more important things to do. Get a sense of the layout of the house, for instance. Find the Joker.

George led the way into a large central room that had been decked out with battered, mismatched furniture and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke—a recreational space for the guys, judging by the number of men clustered around the flimsy card table in the middle of the room. I paused briefly to see if I recognized any of them—I didn't—before stepping quietly out of the room to get a good look at the rest of the house.

I moved from room to room, noting that if the place had once been a house with normal furniture and typical homey rooms, it was far closer to a barracks now. A lot of rooms were just empty. One room had nothing in it but sleeping bags strewn all over the floor. One room had folding tables set up and lining the walls, their surfaces entirely covered with guns, boxes of ammunition stacked beneath them. Yet another room had drums of gasoline shoved in a corner, C4 explosives neatly stacked on a metal shelf unit, and varying chemicals separated according to type on yet another plastic table. "And they smoke in this house," I growled to myself between gritted teeth before closing the door, promising myself that I'd have a word with J about it later.

Near the back of the house was a barren room that yielded nothing but a staircase with at least one broken stair and three doors lining its walls—one out, one in, and one that opened to a downwards staircase leading to a darkened basement (I closed that door immediately without investigating further). I refrained from going upstairs, either, wanting to finish my exploration of the first floor before moving up.

The kitchen marked the completion of my circle—there was nothing to close it off; it opened up wide to connect to the main room again, easy access. In that kitchen area, I found an unpleasant surprise.

The petty, vicious little shitstain that met me there was called Ace, and out of all the henchmen we'd gone through, he was easily my least favorite. A juiced-up, strung-out white guy with ugly tattoos, he'd joined us at some point in January and had immediately made it clear that in his opinion, I was the Yoko Ono of the group and would inevitably bring the Joker's entire organization (if you could call it that) down. A couple of hard knocks, most from me but a notable few from a Joker annoyed by his passive-aggressive muttering, taught him to keep his mouth shut most of the time.

I could tell by the smirk he gave me as I entered the kitchen that those lessons had been all but forgotten, and I didn't even try to hide my groan at the sight of him. "Ugh. You're still alive? I was sure you'd die while I was away."

"Yeah, well, I was sure the Joker would wise up once you left and would leave you in the nuthouse. I guess you can't always get what you want."

I showed him my crossed fingers, then let my middle finger loose and flipped him off before turning around and leaving, his derisive laughter filling the kitchen behind me.

I doubled back to the staircase and went up to the second floor, skipping over the broken steps. It led to a long hallway, and after checking the first room and seeing nothing but more sleeping bags on the floor, I had a better idea of where I was going. The Joker always preferred to choose a room somewhat set apart from the henchmen. I went to the door at the very end of the hall and nudged it open.

No Joker. Although the excitement in my stomach flattened out into disappointment, I'd really been expecting it. If he hadn't had something to do, he'd have picked me up himself. If George was right and comings and goings were limited to night time, he'd have probably left as soon as the sun set.

However, this was his room, as was apparent from the clothing strewn about, the mattress on the ground, and the paper-covered desk shoved into the corner, and I couldn't think of a better place to hole up and wait for him to get back.

I realized as I went to the mattress that it actually had sheets covering it, and I felt myself smiling. That's something that had definitely changed since I'd started working and living with him; it was nice to see he was keeping the standards up even though I hadn't been around during the move. Heartened, I went over, nearly dropped backwards onto the mattress, and then thought better of it. Instead, I dropped to my knees and started searching under the pillows and wadded-up blanket.

I found a screwdriver, two folding knives that were definitely unfolded, and a pair of pinking shears. With a sigh that was born more of affection than annoyance, I removed them to the desktop. Then I dropped backwards onto the mattress.

The sheets smelled faintly of a mixture of fire smoke and sharp, caustic chemicals. A year ago I might have turned my nose up, but now I associated the smells with him, and I flipped over, curling my arms around the nearest pillow, burying my face into it, and breathing.

Scent is the sense that ties most directly into memory. I didn't realize it until that moment, but it was only then that I truly believed I was back home.

I lay there for a while, letting the sense of security wash over me, letting the smell of him fill me up. I felt warm, and happy, and if it had been up to me, I would have fallen asleep right then and there—it wasn't as if I'd been sleeping very well of late, after all. However, as tired as I felt, it would have to wait. My mind was racing with ideas, to-do lists, and excitement that I was going to get to see him again. There was no way I could sleep.

First off. It had been hard to tell in the prison jumpsuit, but now that I was in civilian clothes again, I was becoming aware of an uncomfortable truth—my frequent lack of appetite for prison food had taken a toll, and I guessed that I weighed about ten pounds less upon my escape from Arkham than I had when I'd been committed. Sure, I was aware that plenty of people would look scornfully at me, "Oh, boo-hoo, you're ten pounds skinnier, cry me a river," but those people wouldn't think of it as such a gift if they ever had to work with the Joker's crew. The stress of the job was bad enough, but if you were in less than peak physical condition, you could say goodbye to safe escapes. I was missing muscle and fat, and I needed both—the former for stamina, the latter for energy. I was going to have to both gain weight and get in shape again, and quickly.

Gaining weight shouldn't be a problem around here, what with the fact that our henchmen live off of pizza and hamburgers. Honestly, it was little wonder we lost as many henchmen as we did, what with their dietary habits. No, the challenge would come with putting muscle back on. I'd need to start a rigid workout routine more or less immediately.

Next, I rather reluctantly left the bed and went nosing around the room, looking for any of my stuff. I didn't find anything, which wasn't fun, but also wasn't altogether surprising—again, the man was scatterbrained. If he didn't remember to bring it along, if it wasn't stashed absentmindedly in a closet somewhere (the most likely option, I thought), then it would probably be back at the old hideout. Shouldn't be too hard to nip in and collect it; I'd have to ask him about it once he got back.

My search of the room did yield a mirror, though, and that mirror, in turn, yielded an unpleasant truth: I just looked much more like Harleen than like Harley Quinn. My dark roots had grown in, a full inch and a half, and without makeup or clothes that actually fit, I looked… little. Harmless.

I shook my head in annoyance at my reflection and scrambled around until I found a black beanie, the kind we all wore now and again on jobs, and I jammed it on my head to obscure the my roots until I could do something about them.

That was when I heard the footsteps coming down the hall.

He had a way of walking that I'd spent enough time around him to instantly recognize—very possibly intentionally terrifying, but not in a way that you'd suspect drew undue effort from his part. It was just the unhurriedness of it, sometimes even accompanied by the scraping of his shoes against floorboards if he was feeling particularly languid. Everyone else around him walked with a certain clip to their step, afraid of being caught off their game, whether they were on his side or not. Not him. He always took his time.

I bounded to the center of the room, feeling almost guilty for reasons I couldn't pinpoint—maybe I shouldn't have waited in his room, maybe I should have greeted him at the door when he first arrived back, maybe I shouldn't have been looking around in his stuff, it had been months, after all, what if he was still mad?

I shoved the worries into the back of my mind as hard as I could. Of course you're allowed to be in here, you shared his bed for months, and if he was still angry then he never would have had expended the effort to have you broken out of Arkham, and he definitely wouldn't have you brought back to the hideout if you weren't supposed to resume your old role.

All the same, I was aware that I was trembling. The prospect of seeing him again had me shaken up for more reasons than just those nagging doubts.

I think I'm going to explode. So much time spent avoiding the very thought of him, both for his protection and my own emotional defense, meant that the sense of familiarity I'd built with him, with the idea of him, was all but gone. My stomach was in knots and I felt the strange, impossible urge to just bolt.

Then, the door creaked open. He pushed it open slowly, probably made aware of someone's presence by the shadows caused by my movement and wanting to clear the room before just wandering in—an appropriate instinct for him. All the same, it took mere seconds before the view out into the hallway was clear and I could see him.

All of a sudden, it was hard to remember how to breathe.

He was dressed the way he dressed when he was anticipating being seen by anyone not part of the crew—heavy purple greatcoat over the immaculately-tailored three-piece purple-and-green suit. The usual makeup was on in full, though judging by the lack of streaks in it, judging by the fact that his green hair (brown at the roots—like me, he'd need to re-dye, though I'd wager on him putting it off for far longer than I would) was crisp and dry, he hadn't been doing anything that required too much exertion. He stood there in the hallway, tall, shoulders slightly hunched, taking up most of the doorframe due to the heavy coat, and he stared at me with sleepy eyes.

I found it difficult to stare back. I was out of practice holding his eyes, reading and withstanding the savagery lazily concealed in those contracted pupils. In a lot of ways, being around the Joker was like being around some huge, predatory animal—you had to know how to move around him, and even though on one level I knew that my fear was absurd, on another, I was scared that I had forgotten.

I wanted to run past him. I wanted to run to him, cling to him and never let go again. I wanted to turn around, make a mad dash for the bed and hide under the covers like a child hiding from monsters until he finally did something.

I did none of these things. I made myself be strong, hold eye contact, and wait for him to move.

Finally, he stepped into the room, moving towards me. He took another step, then another, and another, until he was standing directly in front of me and I could barely breathe—

—and then, he was sidestepping me, his shoulder barely brushing mine as he slipped his coat off. In the next second, the coat was in my arms, and he was heading for the desk, dropping into the chair with a long sigh.

I stared at the back of his head as he hunched over the desk, rustling through the papers that completely obscured the surface, and I was utterly bewildered. Whatever I'd been expecting, that wasn't it.

It's gotta be a joke, I thought. He always did have an entirely inappropriate sense of humor—typically funny to me, but when one was the butt of the joke, it changed things a little bit. Still, I wasn't set to ruin my long-anticipated return home by complaining, so I just set the coat down on the mattress and said, "Ha, ha, very funny. Hello to you, too."

"Mm," he grunted distractedly, and then: "Harley, put on a pot of coffee, wouldja? I'm beat."

I stood in the center of the room, staring at the back of his head, arms hanging loose, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's gotta be a bad joke, right? Not even he's this cruel.

He mumbled a quick "A-ha" as he found a laptop buried somewhere beneath all the paper, and with one purposeful move, he opened the screen and fired it up. He did not look at me.

It finally sunk in that this was not just his bizarre way of getting a laugh out of the whole situation. It finally sunk in that either my entire absence had gone mostly unnoticed, or that he was determined to pretend it hadn't happened at all.

And either way, it fucking hurt.

The feeling of not being able to breathe hadn't left, but now, it was borne of pain instead of anticipation or the vague fear that he might still be angry with me. Slowly, I lifted my arms and folded them tight across my middle, nodding slightly as my jaw tightened in suddenly-angry resolution.

All right, fine. If that's the way he wants it. I don't exactly feel like hanging around in an explosion risk zone with a bunch of smelly henchdudes that I don't even know, anyway. I've got more important things to do.

"Fair enough, Mr. J," I muttered as I bent over and performed a quick search of the pockets in his coat. Bingo. I emerged quickly with a wad of bills, which I shoved into my back pocket. A quick glance in the Joker's direction revealed that he hadn't so much as turned his head. I straightened up and forced some lightness into my voice, unwilling to let on how much his dismissal had hurt and angered me. "I'll go see what they've got in the kitchen." Swiftly, not sure I'd be able to keep from stalking over and thwacking him in the back of the head before I took my leave, I twisted around and walked out the door, trying to pretend I didn't hear his insulting half-grunt of distracted acknowledgement.


A/N - Please don't kill me—it wasn't my decision, I swear, it was Joker's. He wouldn't let me do anything else. That said, y'all say it with me: what a COMPLETE and TOTAL DICK.

I am SO sorry it's been so long since the last update; I've been massively overstressed with work/family issues so I haven't had the time to work on it until now. Forgive me, please! I'll be making every effort to update at least once a week in the future.

I think everyone should know that George is modeled heavily after Mike from Breaking Bad. That was a decision I made to relieve my own (strong, numerous) feelings about Mike/therapy because after the show ended I started going through Mike withdrawals so I had to find some way to obliquely kind of bring him into a space where I could write about him. If you've seen the show, you'll know what I'm talking about—if you haven't seen the show, you should, because it is a modern marvel and Mike is my heart.

I thought I should clarify, since a few people commented on it—despite Harley's accusations, J wasn't scared of the baby, nor was he nervous or like… in any way intimidated by it. He reacted that way because I imagine his feelings towards babies these days can basically be summed up by "Ew." Which… I have a vague feeling, based on absolutely nothing (except perhaps the fact that Heath Ledger himself had a child), that the Joker was a father at one point, so his repulsion also might have something to do with the Joker tending to completely divorce Joker from… whoever he was before. Don't want to get too much into it because there's going to be a discussion of his [lack of] backstory later (don't worry, I'm not going to try to give him one, one of my absolute favorite things about Ledger's Joker is the total lack of history or information about who he USED to be) so we'll discuss it then. :)

Additional bonus feature of sorts (which is code for "narratively it won't naturally come about for it to be addressed in the story/Harley's so comfortable with her suspicions of Wilson that she won't pursue them, so I'm telling you now"): the recordings of the Joker's voice? That's all J. He's got an orderly and a guard in his pocket, time for the breakout isn't quite right, so in the meantime he figures he might as well fuck with his girlfriend some/make her suspect her sanity/make her suspect her doctors/make sure he's at the forefront of her mind, just 'cause he can. I repeat: the guy's a dick.

I posted responses to Panda and Emma's reviews on the blog, since I know ff dot net gets a little iffy when you do review responses in the chapter, so y'all go check that out. I'm going to be traveling and visiting a friend next week but hopefully I'll be able to update regardless. In the meantime, thank you all for the encouragement and patience. You guys rock.