For Harley, rain was never a good thing. Rain turned her hair curly. Rain, for some inexplicable reason, made her apartment smell like feet. And in the movies, rain was the signal that something was about to go wrong. It was with minimal surprise then, that just before Harley was about to leave for work Monday morning—after a lazy weekend of binge eating and procrastination—that violent barking broke out behind her apartment.

What? The thought was a moan. What could you possibly want this time?

The might-as-well-be-sub-zero temperatures Harley had been dreading had finally hit Gotham a week before, and her two friends of the canine variety were taking it hard. The blanket and pillows she had provided for them now lived permanently in the corner of the little alley, yet she sometimes still woke to whimpering at night. She had even tried to coax them inside at one point, but was unsuccessful. Dopey had appeared willing enough, but Grumpy had stayed curled obstinately in the corner, shivering miserably. The larger dog sat back down once he realized his friend was staying put; apparently, whatever they did, they did as a pair.

Listening to the racket they were now making, Harley wondered if it was worth going to check on them. They would be fine, right? She had caved in and bought some proper dog food recently, and had left a couple of bowls worth out for them this morning, so it wasn't like they'd be going hungry. But their barking was loud and aggressive and Harley had moved past the point of hoping they would just shut up. Groaning, she pulled herself onto the counter and peered through the window.

The glass was painted with raindrops, the pretty tear shapes running their tracks down her window and making it difficult to see. Preparing herself for the onslaught of cold and wet her face was about to receive, Harley slid the glass open. Squinting, she popped her head out and looked around. On the hard, wet ground, Grumpy lay still and prone. Beside him, Dopey ran in nervous circles, barking and jumping. Alarmed, Harley crawled out onto the metal of the dumpster.

"Hey, hey," she soothed. "Dopey, what is it? Is something wrong with Grumpy?" Dopey's head snapped around as he barked at her, and Harley couldn't tell if it was a help us bark, or a go away bark. Taking her chances, she slid closer to them.

"It's okay. What, what is it?"

He ran in another frantic circle. Finally, he sidled up to Grumpy, and Harley gasped. The side of Grumpy's stomach was matted with rainwater and blood. It oozed out of a two-inch gash. Grumpy's breaths were shallow, and a sound of alarm left Harley at the sight.

Her thoughts flew threw her brain in rapid succession.

What do I do?

I have work in half an hour—

What if he dies?

I'm in enough trouble as it is with Arkham right now.

Who cares? Help him!

Making up her mind, Harley jumped off the dumpster (an impressive feat in three-inch heels), and approached the two of them cautiously. Dopey's head swung between her and Grumpy, while Grumpy watched, eyelids drooping. When the bigger dog let her pass without any drama, Harley thanked her lucky stars he hadn't been the one bleeding on the floor.

Harley knelt a foot from the injured dog and inspected the cut. It was messy and torn instead of clean and straight; not a knife wound, then. Wire of some sort? Dopey came up beside her and nudged her arm timidly. Taking a deep breath, Harley brought a hand to his head and scratched behind his ears.

"He'll be fine," she murmured, although she was only trying to convince herself.

The rain down beat on them, and Harley's white blouse stuck to her skin in wet clumps. Rainwater splashed on her glasses, and she shoved them up to rest on her head. What was she supposed to do? Just pick him up and take him to the vet? Call for an animal ambulance? Did they even exist?

Flustered and worried, Harley made a split decision. She turned to Dopey, and although she knew he couldn't understand what she was talking about, said, "I'll be back—I'll grab my keys and then we'll take him to the vet, okay?"

Vaulting onto the bin, the blonde climbed back inside, stopping only to scoop up her bag and grab some chicken out of the fridge. Harley sprinted out the door and to her car, dumping her things on the passenger seat and running back to the alley. Dopey yipped at her reappearance, and Grumpy raised his head lazily in response, placing it back down when he saw it was just her. Seemed like he finally tolerated her presence—the real question was if he would let her touch him.

Shredded chicken pieces clutched in her hand, Harley reached out to him experimentally. Dopey popped his head over her shoulder, but Harley brushed him off lightly. She was going to need all the chicken she could find to bribe Grumpy into doing what she wanted. The injured dog sniffed at her hand before shoving his muzzle into it and the food disappeared within seconds. His tongue was warm and moist against her fingers.

Okay, good, she thought, that's a good start.

As he licked her hand, Harley brought her other arm to rest on his back.

"Good boy," she murmured. "We're going in the car now to get you fixed up."

The dog tensed and a warning rumbled through his chest before Dopey whined at him. The growl died down and Grumpy lowered his head in what she could only take as surrender. A small pearl of worry eased from her chest. Giving him a little more chicken to munch on, Harley slid her other beneath him and gathered him to her as gently as she could manage.

Harley, this is ridiculous!

You can't carry him—he's pretty much as big as you.

You're just going to make it worse.

Oh, shut up, okay? I'm desperate.

It was a good thing Harley lifted weights, because it felt like Grumpy needed to go on a diet. Grunting from the strain, Harley carried him to the car as Dopey followed close on her heels, then dived inside. Leaving a copious amount of chicken easily within Grumpy's reach, the young woman hit the back of her head on the car roof when she saw the bright blood glazed across her clothing. That was a lot of blood for a two-inch cut. That meant it was deep.

"That's…that is not good." She muttered to herself. He was losing blood faster than she had thought. An idea struck as Harley's eyes landed on her bag. Rifling through it, she found some nail scissors and used them to cut a wide strip off the bottom of her shirt. Next, cutting a similar sized strip off her skirt, Harley balled the piece of fabric up and pressed it against the oozing cut, attempting to staunch the blood flow. Grumpy snapped at her but she snapped right back. His foul temperament wasn't going to stop her this time. "Eat your chicken," she growled at him, as she circled the other piece of fabric across his stomach and tied each end together in a makeshift tourniquet.

See? Her medical degree hadn't been for nothing.

Slamming the car door behind her in a rush, Harley jumped into the driver's seat and stamped on the accelerator. She drove like a mad woman, running red lights and breaking speed limits, and arriving at the veterinary clinic in record time.

Leaving the two dogs in the car, she ran inside, all but smacking into the reception desk in her haste. "My—my dog," she panted, "He's in the car. He's been cut and he's bleeding and—" The freckled receptionist had looked horrified at Harley's state of dress (her clothes looked like she had taken a chain saw to them, and blood splatters covered the visible portion of her stomach), but was propelled into action by her words.

The receptionist ran into the surgery and came back not thirty seconds later with a stocky middle-aged man, and a short-haired, curvy, brunette woman holding a muzzle.

Oh, that's good, Harley thought distantly. She's going to need it.

Harley raced them out to the car where the woman Harley had learnt was Doctor Anderson managed to secure the muzzle on Grumpy only after injecting him with a sedative. Harley held Dopey back as they watched his friend be carried inside the surgery.


Harley was left out in the waiting room with Dopey, an elderly man, and his young grandson who was holding a rabbit. Dopey licked his chops every time he looked at it. Without his friend to warn him off, the Doberman was quite the touchy-feely thing. He would burrow his head into Harley's lap and then subtly shift two minutes later like if he did it slowly enough, she wouldn't realise he was practically sitting on her. When his weight grew too much for her legs—he was even heavier than Grumpy—Harley slid him off gently, but kept his head in her lap. She wondered how long it had been since the two dogs had received any kind of human touch. Much too long, probably.

She had made a brief phone call to the asylum, informing the apathetic administrator she wouldn't make it in that morning, and would need to move all appointments to the afternoon. Her morning's absence meant she would either have to stay late to make up for it, or else go in on the weekend to finish up her various forms and filing.

Late night or weekend? Harley pondered.

Definitely late night.

Arkham won't be there that way.

No chance of running into you-know-who either.

The last thought swirled an array of mixed feelings inside her. What she did to the Joker the last time she'd seen him…suffice it to say, her name appeared in the dictionary under the word 'unprofessional'. She had been ruminating on it over the weekend. Yes, he had done something awful to her. Yes, he deserved what she did. But—and this was the thing Harley seemed cursed to lose sight of—he was mentally ill. He was sick.

The Joker had been reacting to feelings Harley assumed he had no experience with; attraction, desire, vulnerability. And instead of trying to help him like she should of, like any type of doctor should of, she had just exacerbated the situation. She was a silly, silly girl. And even though deep down she knew it was what the Joker wanted, how he desired her to act, she felt—

Doctor Anderson walked out of the surgery room, followed by a younger man. "Good news," she said, smiling. "Your boy will be sore for a while, but he'll be just fine."

Knee wobbling relief shot through Harley as she stood. "Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you so much?"

"Our pleasure," Anderson said, bending down to scratch Dopey's head. "This is my assistant, by the way. Doctor Richmond." She gestured to the short male behind her.

Harley nodded in greeting and held her hand out for Doctor Richmond to shake. "I'm Harley," she said simply.

"Well, Harley, that was a nasty gash." The middle-aged doctor explained, "It looks like he got caught on something and opened himself up trying to wrench free. Barbed wire, perhaps, or something similar. Were you there when it happened?"

Harley shook her head.

"Believe it or not, this kind of wound isn't all that uncommon. I'm impressed you got that tourniquet on him; saved us from having to undergo a blood transfusion." Anderson eyed Harley's blood spattered skimpy outfit, amusement plain on her face. It didn't escape the blonde's notice that Richmond was checking out more than her outfit.

"Yeah," she replied, "he wasn't too happy about it."

"Hm," the older woman sounded in agreement, "which is why I'm so surprised you managed it. That's an incredibly well-trained dog you have." She eyed Dopey. "Make that two, actually. Where were they trained?"

"Where were they trained?" Harley repeated stupidly. Grumpy, an obedient dog? Not in a million years. "Um," she began brilliantly. "They were trained at…my sister's. In Brooklyn. Yep."

"Your sister owns a puppy school?" Doctor Anderson asked, eyes lighting. "What's it called?"

"Um," Harley stuttered again. "Uh, it's not my sister's puppy school. That's…what it's called. My Sister's Puppy School."

At Anderson's confused expression, Harley blurted the first thing that came to mind, "It's a dog training institution catered for women who have dogs, y'know? There's this membership deal they have, and—and wine evenings where you can take your dog to socialise, and so you can just hang out with your, uh, sisters. That's…what the name means." Please, somebody kill her before she could open her mouth again.

"Well," Anderson replied dubiously, "that sounds very nice."

"Mmhmm," Harley agreed weakly. "Lots of fun."

"Good."

Awkward pause.

Anderson asked, "What are their names?"

Harley opened her mouth, but then shut it with an audible click.

Their names?

I can't tell her I call them Grumpy and Dopey—that'd look so bad.

Harley's eyes darted furiously across the room to where an array of ads and pamphlets were stuck to the wall, desperate for any form of inspiration.

A dog walking flier—

Local theatre show—

Lawn mowing service—

No, that one!

A bright red poster tucked into the corner of the overflowing noticeboard depicted a couple of brightly dressed, smiling puppets. Two convenient names were printed on the top in bold red letters.

"Their names are Punch and...Judy."

The assistant, silent until now, raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "You named a male Doberman Judy?" He glanced up at the poster. "After the puppet show?"

Harley tongued her back molar and laughed off-pitch. "Yep. I just love the, uh, the puppet show." Her nose was going to start growing soon with all the lies she'd told in the past five minutes. She'd never heard of 'Punch and Judy' in her life.

"Right," he drew out.

Doctor Anderson cleared her throat. "And which one is this fine boy?" She asked, referring to Dopey who was now sitting awkwardly on Harley's foot.

"Oh," Harley said, eyeing the dog affectionately. "Him? He's Punch."It may have been petty, but she thought calling Grumpy, 'Judy', was a fabulous form of revenge for the many times he had snarled at her.

Anderson cleared her throat, "Well, Judy is still unconscious, but once we've moved him out of the surgical room you'll be welcome to see him. This boy, too," he said scratching Dopey—no, Punch's—chin. "He looks like he's missing his friend." He did, too. His earthy eyes were sad and nervous.

"He'll be fine once he sees Judy," Harley said, scratching behind his ears and trying not to smirk. Oh, Grumpy's new name was never going to get old. The two doctors left them soon after that, promising to come back once they'd cleaned up a little, so they could visit Judy. The little boy and his rabbit were called in soon after, the grandfather trailing slowly behind, and then it was only Harley and Punch left in the waiting room.

"Punch and Judy," Harley murmured, a smile engulfing her face as she studied the poster. "I like it."


Harley collapsed into the driver's seat, leaning her head back on the headrest tiredly. At Doctor Anderson's behest, Harley left Judy at the surgery so the doctors could keep an eye on him for the night. As Punch refused to be separated from his friend, they had allowed him a little spot next to Judy's with a dog bed and water bowl. Harley was to pick them both up the following day. Whether she wanted it or not, these dogs were fast becoming hers; they had been for the past month, she supposed, but it was real now. The thought simultaneously thrilled and terrified her.

They would cost her money—had cost her money—and they would need dog food, chew toys, matching dog coats, not to mention the enormous veterinary bill she was going to receive. Just thinking about it made her shudder. Harley's apartment didn't allow pets, which was a line she had already crossed with the goldfish she had impulsively bought, lonely during her two week's absence from work. But a couple of dogs? How was she going to handle that?

Harley sighed. It didn't matter right now; she would figure it out. What she needed to do was get to work. She had a set of clothes there she could change into—one never knew when a patient would spit, or pee, or projectile vomit—and her lab coat buttoned up would provide sufficient cover for her bare thighs and stomach in the meantime.

Starting the engine of her little car, the young woman turned the radio on and played around with the channel until an eighties pop song blared through the speakers. Sick to death of being stressed and upset, Harley freed her curling hair of its ponytail, and belted her heart out the entire way to work.


Having reached the safety of her office with only a couple of perturbed glances thrown her way (she couldn't blame anyone—'drowned rat' would be a compliment right about now), Harley grabbed a set of new clothes from the cupboard. The metal pressed studs littered down her coat opened with a snap, and Harley kicked her tall blue heels across the floor. Pulling her damp and bloodstained top over her head, she threw it straight into the rubbish, already feeling cleaner having been stripped of it. The skirt came off next, and Harley had just picked up her clean blouse—a pretty lilac thing with lacy sleeves—when the door swung open.

Harley shrieked, short and high-pitched, and clutched her clean blouse in front of her. "Get out!" She yelled. "Out, out, out." Each word was punctuated by a psychology textbook hurled at the door.

Monroe gaped at her before his brain seemed to catch up with the situation. He hugged his torso in a futile defence against her book throwing. "Sorry—I just, uh, I just wanted to…"

Harley, despite the fact it gave the man an ample view of her red lingerie covered derriere, bent at the waist to pick up her particularly pointy shoe and then flung it at him, aiming for his head.
It wacked him solidly in the temple and he lifted a hand to cover his face.

"Sorry—I'm sorry," he cried and hastily shut the door.

"Knock next time, you jerk." Harley screamed and threw her other shoe at the door for good measure. She stood in the middle of her office, half naked and panting furiously, holding her now wrinkled shirt with trembling hands.

The scene replayed in her head—Monroe's yelps of pain as the books met their marks, the bruise that would develop from her shoe to his face—and her shoulders began to shake. Sitting heavily on the side of her desk, Harley snorted and giggled until her chuckles had turned into full on belly laughter. Clutching her stomach with one arm and slapping her thigh with the other, Harley laughed and laughed until tears started running down her cheeks in salty lines.

Did you see his face?

He looked like he was going to wet himself, he was so scared—

Maybe this means he'll knock the next time he enters somebody's office.

Yeah. What was he doing, anyway?

The thought sobered Harley and her laughter died down as curiosity took its place. She dressed quickly, chuckling again when she had to retrieve her high heels from the doorway, and then opened the door to poke her head out into the corridor. The blonde smirked at the empty space; she had really scared him off then.

Good.

Smoothing her hair down and settling her glasses into place, Harley went to work. Phone calls, files, progress reports, and appointments—it wasn't until hours later that she had done enough work to warrant going home. It was an unavoidable fact that she'd have to stay late several nights this week due to the morning's fiasco, but tonight wasn't going to be one of those nights.

As she walked down the quiet halls of the asylum, an unwise thought lodged itself in her brain. The Joker was no longer kept in the underground facilities and it wasn't atypical for a patient's previous doctor to drop in for a quick visit every once in a while, provided the split had been a congenial one.

Wait, no. That made it sound like they were divorced.

Anyway, the point was that last time she had seen him, she had humiliated him in front of a room full of people, said people—herself included—now probably on his list of who-to-kill if he ever managed to leave the asylum. Harley imagined the people set out in his head like a shopping list:

Peas (frozen)

Orderly (stabbed)

Eggs (free-range)

Crane (shot)

Grape soda (diet)

Harley (strangled)

Guilty to say, it was the last thought that really spurred her into damage control. Taking the wooden stairs up two at a time, Harley powerwalked to the high-security levels where violent patients were housed. A convenient necessity to treating the Joker was that her ID card still allowed her clearance, a little fact she had neglected to bring to Arkham's attention in their previous meeting. She swiped it at the entrance and the little light turned green in admittance.

She felt like such a rebel.

It was late enough that Harley only passed two other people on her way to the cell blocks, both nurses, both completely uninterested in her. Each room was eight by ten feet in size and had stark white walls—padded ones for the self-destructive patients. Each small space was filled with a bed, toilet and sink, all visible thanks to the thick glass built into each metal door.

After minutes of scouring the halls for his cell, Harley finally bit the bullet and asked a passing nurse which one was the Joker's. The willowy woman looked over her shoulder before answering, like Harley couldn't possibly be talking to her, before saying guardedly, "The Joker? He's not housed with the violent patients. His doctor put him in the main cell blocks, I think."

Harley rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Of course, he did."

A tight 'thank you' and Harley was running back down the stairs.

Should have thrown my shoe harder.

Yeah, might have taken out an eye that way.

Down in the cell blocks that housed the majority of patients—the ones thought of as relatively harmless—Harley flipped through the clipboard of cell numbers hanging on the wall. Her hands stopped when she came across Crane's name and number.

Cell 0363

Huh. She hadn't known her friend had been placed in this division. There was nothing surprising or odd about it, but the thought just made her pause. Shooing the thought away she flicked through the pages until she found the Joker's number.

Cell 0801

Memorising the number, she made her way down the corridor, heels clacking hard on the smooth floor. Eventually, Harley stumbled through the correct hallway; these cells were almost as far away from the central building as they could possibly be.

0601

0701

0801

Ah-hah! Finally.

Striding up to the door to peer through, Harley blinked at what she saw. The Joker, tube of lipstick securely in hand, was drawing on the white plaster of the walls. The depth of his concentration was reflected by the fact he hadn't notice the sound of her approach. Several pictures already graced the wall: four small diamond shapes fit together to make a larger diamond; thick, curvy words layered on top of each other that she couldn't quite make out properly; and dozens of scribbled 'HAHA's. Watching him finish an elaborate letter 'J', Harley knocked on the door.

Quick as a snake, the Joker's head snapped to the entryway, a dark expression having settled on his face at the interruption. Though, when he saw who it was, his mood quickly changed. Dropping the lipstick and sauntering towards her, he rubbed his hands together excitedly. The Joker touched his forehead to the window of glass and smiled, shoulders rising to his ears.

"Ah-ha. Ha. Ha."

Oh, there it was again. The creepy laugh. She looked at him glumly and berated herself that now she was here, she had no idea what to say. And really, what was she doing here? Trying to make peace and get some closure? Looking for answers? A part of her worried that he wanted this; that this was an extension of the feelings she had experienced before he attacker her, the countertransference. Another part—the louder part— said it wasn't. It told her she was in control, and it was a good, responsible thing to talk to him now, to share her thoughts with him.

Listening to that voice, and shrugging off the self-doubt, Harley said softly, "Hi, Mistah Jay."

"Hmm," he purred, "Harley." The thick glass muffled it somewhat, but holy mackerel, he had a nice voice. Made her feel all tingly. "What's a—a good girl like you, doin' in a place like this?"

Harley cracked a slight smile. "You invited me remember? First time we met."

The Joker squinted at her and tongued his teeth. Cocking his head so the skin of his forehead—pressed against the glass—twisted and stretched, he mock-whispered, "You wanna come in? Got me a nice, new, shiny crib I'm just dying to show you."

Harley glanced behind him at the hard bed and metal toilet. "I don't know," she said, scratching her head, "it looks pretty standard to me. I like your pictures, though."

He ignored the compliment. "Oh. No, no, no. Harley-girl thinks her Mistah Jay is cheap. That he got nothin' to offer except the…the standard. I guess," he sung, eyes rolled to the highest corner of their sockets. "I guess that makes Harley-girl wrong."

"Uh-huh," she drew out. "Anyway. I just wanted to—wait, are those real?"

He was wearing earrings—pink gems set in silver. Their glimmer was near blinding in the sterile light of his room and each brilliant rock was the size of Harley's thumbnail. Her jaw was somewhere down at her feet as she laid a hand on the cool metal of the door to steady herself.

"You—they're—they're diamonds, they're freaking real pink diamonds."

He tapped his index on the glass between them. "Shh," he hushed. "Quiet, now snookums. Don't want someone overhearing, do we?"

She shook her head absently, eyes stuck on his earrings. "How…how are you wearing those?"

The Joker brought his fingers to an earring. "Y'see, I stabbed this itty-bitty hole in my ear…"

"No." Harley said, shock turning to frustration. "You know what I mean, Mistah Jay. How did you get them here, in the asylum?"

They would have cost him a small fortune—well, small for him. And there's no way she had ever seen him wear them before; she would have remembered. He giggled once, high and delighted, and lifted his face an inch from the glass. Lipstick residue remained on the bottom half, swirled red and greasy. The Joker watched her eagerly, anticipation building.

"How?" She asked heatedly again. "Are you blackmailing people to help you? Paying them off?" A thought occurred to her. "Is it Doctor Monroe? Is that why he lets you do whatever you want?"

He lifted his brows. "No-o-o."

"No? Then who gave them to you?"

The Joker hummed to himself and licked his lips. Abruptly, he slammed both hands on either side of the glass and gazed at her from beneath heavy-lids. "Tell ya what, cupcake. How'd you like these pretty little rocks? All you gotta say is pretty little please and they're all yours. Go on, say it. Say it, say it."

Harley levelled him with a look. "I don't want your earrings."

Well, she did. And she was going to have to confiscate them, anyway, him not being allowed jewellery and all. But still.

He breathed in deeply through his nose, and cooed, "But I wanna give 'em to you—give you something twinkly. All you gotta do is say it."

Was he trying to distract her from her questioning? It wasn't going to work. "No," she replied. "Who gave them to you?"

He clenched his hands into fists, before springing them open and running them through his hair. Green strands fell stubbornly across his forehead. He brought a hand up and pointed at her damningly. "Now you gotta say it twice as pretty next time."

What?

What does he mean—

Harley slapped a hand over her mouth and squeaked in protest as the Joker took a hold of one earring and tore it from his ear. The skin of his earlobe ripped, and blood swelled out to run in lazy tracks down his neck. He showed no sign of pain as he reached for the other ear.

"Wait," Harley shouted, pressing closer to the door. "Stop. What are you doing?"

He cocked his head towards her, giving a clear view of his bloodied side. He murmured sweetly, "Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty. C'mon Harley-girl, you know what comes next."

His hand lifted to the other ear again, and Harley blurted, "Please."

The Joker bit his bottom lip and looked at her expectantly.

"Please," she said again, "Mistah Jay, I love your earrings. Pretty please can I have them?"

He tongued his teeth thoughtfully.

"Maybe," he purred. "But you gotta promise you'll wear them. I wanna see them on you. Every. Single. Day."

Harley nodded. "Yes," she said softly, "I promise."

"Good girl."

Calmly, he took the other one off, and then knelt to the slit in the door used to pass things in and out of the room, like food trays and such. The slit could only be raised on Harley's side, and so, hesitantly, the young woman lifted it up. His soft fingers met hers beneath the door, and she found herself wondering what his expression looked like behind the metal that was separating them.

Was he looking dangerous?

Smug?

Happy?

Warm skin glided across hers as the Joker dropped the earrings into her open hand. Two of his fingertips traced up her middle finger lightly as he drew away, and a shiver ran through Harley's arm. She pulled her hand out and properly inspected the diamonds resting in her palm. Simple, round and elegant, they were women's earrings, no doubt about that. The Joker, it seemed, had a preternatural talent of making anything look good on him.

One was slightly blood spattered, and Harley mused that she had been exposed to an unusual amount of the red fluid for a typical Monday. She stood up to where the Joker was already looking through the glass at her.

"Thank you," she said, reeling from the fact she had a couple of pink diamonds held casually in her hand. "They're gorgeous."

He made a low sound in the back of his throat. "Put them on. Wear them. Show me how—how gorgeous they are."

Harley looked down the hall to where there was both a hand sanitizer and wet wipe dispenser. "Just hang on a second." She half ran to the machines and quickly set to work, wiping the earring clean of any blood, not wanting to risk infection.

Walking back, Harley took the small, gold hoops she was wearing out of her ears and replaced them with the diamonds, the weight settling comfortably in her ears. She pulled her hair back from her face, and cleared her throat. He stared at her, mouth slightly parted.

A little uncomfortable under his scrutiny—more so than she ever had been—Harley fought the urge to squirm. After long moments of silence, The Joker crooked his finger at her and leaned in close to the glass. She did the same. Their combined breath fogged up the bottom of the window. "Don't," he said measuredly, the words harsh and biting, "ever take them off." There was no compromise in his penetrating eyes.

But I'll have to shower.

And sleep.

What if they don't match my outfit?

Instead of voicing the thoughts she knew the Joker wouldn't like, Harley just nodded.

"Okay."

And just when Harley had turned around to leave, the Joker called out, "Oh, and Harley." She stepped back to face him.

"Come back and see me again, won't you."

"Yes," she answered, and then smiled slyly. "I still owe you those bat shorts, remember? And I want some answers. So, yes. I'll be back."


Harley's excuse for why she had accepted the earrings didn't form until much later than it should have. Patients at Arkham aren't allowed this type of jewellery in their possessionplus, it'll be easier to find out which shop they were bought from this way, she would think to herself. And then they can tell me just who bought them. Mystery solved, and all that. But the young doctor knew the real reason she had accepted his gift so easily.

Partly it was because the Joker was going to hurt himself if she didn't, and no doctor should stand by and watch their patient do that. But him doing that—Harley suspected he experienced a kind of sick pleasure from the pain—had just let her admit to herself that it was all right to take them. And so, she did.

Because she wanted them.

Because it was him giving them to her.

And because she knew it would make him happy.


Thanks so much for reading!