Harleen was armed with a mallet and a screwdriver, and she too, had now been at the safe and trying to crack it. It had been days since their drunken antics, days since the funeral, and there had been no sign since of a re-occurrence on both parts. It was all work and no play, as the Joker grew more and more frustrated with the uncrackable crate. Harleen drew a sleeve across her forehead, sweltering in the heat that beamed through the high windows of the warehouse.

If she was going to be staying, she may as well be useful, and after further decorating her little corner of the building, had set her sights on the useless, irretrievable loot. Keeping busy was Harleen's way of avoiding despair, and though she cried into her rough mattress every night before she slept, she faced each new day with a desperate bravery. The Joker appeared pleased with her acceptance and involvement, but currently glared from beneath the shade of a ridiculous sun hat, staring down with impatience at the task at hand.

Unlike his men, who had been back and forth with many attempts on opening the safe, the Joker instead, had not lifted a single pale finger. One harsh kick against the metal, followed by slurs, swears and a tantrum did not count. He slammed a cold bottle of Pepsi upon the safe instead, an ungracious offering to Harleen Quinzel.

"Thanks," she leant back to take a sip, parched by the heat. And squinting through the sunlight, scoffed at the brightly coloured swim shorts, the mismatched Hawaiian shirt and stupid floral hat that the Joker dressed in. He may have been a criminal, but this was a crime all of it's own. There was simply no excuse for the odd coloured socks-and-sandals fiasco he was currently sporting. It was undeniable now, the man was absolutely insane.

There was, however, something endearing about the Joker dressed up like a divorced father of five, that Harleen couldn't help but smile up at him from her seat before the safe. Despite the red split of a smile, a bone-white face, and the vibrant emerald hair, that was indeed, exactly how he looked. And there was something Harleen found comforting, something cute, about his image. Regardless of all that had been said and done between them, her fear of him, glaring or not, was waning thin as the days passed. It was hard, after all, to cower before a man in sandals.

"Fuck this," The Joker hissed agitated by both the heat and his own impatience, and charged off and away from her, shoes clack-clack-clacking as he stormed off in a huff. Harleen laughed, and turned back to her work, trying to chisel away at the elaborate and advanced locking devise.

There was a burning curiosity as she wiggled the screwdriver, tapping the end with the mallet. Carefully, somewhat precisely. A little excitement at the prospect of goodies inside. She'd cracked a few locks in her youth with bobby pins (granted, mostly her own home when she'd forgotten her keys after school) and there was something thrilling about this blatant theft she couldn't deny. What was inside? Who had the Joker stolen it from? She imagined all manner of handguns, of ammo boxes, money. Lots of money. There was an odd kind of glamour to the Joker's work that was surprisingly, undeniably alluring. The glamour of her life, before, had been different – it had been false and acted. But this, with her hands working till they ached, was very real. The stolen goods, whatever they were, were real, and the thrill was just as real too.

Her breath hitched in her chest as the screwdriver slipped and clicked against the inner bolt, and Harleen steadily inched the bar aside until the lock was opened. She swelled with pride to know she'd done it. "Mister J!" she called out, eyes wide and eager. "I got it open!" But before she could pry the safe, and rummage through it's contents, a low rumbling pulled her away. The sound of a struggling, whining engine. Tires crunching through the layers of dust. A horn blared, a high and irritating honking.

"MOVE IT OR LOSE IT!" yelled The Joker, from the cramped seat inside a one-man forklift. He was wild eyed, wildly dressed, knees up to his chin as he urged the machine onward, a manic glee spread across his features. Harleen had to throw herself aside to avoid an instant and unpleasant impaling. What the fuck was he doin'?!

And Harleen turned in enough time to watch the safe crushed and mangled against the wall by the incoming vehicle. Metal tearing metal, screeching and scraping along the concrete. The Joker bloodied his nose upon impact with the wheel of his ride. His legs and arms curled up and inward like a swatted spider. Money had burst out of the safe, and floated gently like feathers around them. The rest of the loot was scattered and pouring from the sharp and shattered metal.

Harleen hurried to the Joker's side, and helped him to untangle himself from the wreckage. He hooked an arm about her neck, and smiled with bloody nose and teeth at her, as she pulled him from the tight and tattered carriage. "See what I did there, Harls?" he laughed, opening his free hand to grasp limply at the falling dollars. "If you need something done, you got to do it yourself!" Harleen's brow furrowed at his words, but just hadn't the heart to tell him the safe had already been opened. Opened by her.

"That was real clever of you Mister J–" she replied, a little lackluster. But the Joker was too distracted to note the sarcasm in her tone. And slamming his stupid, sweaty brimmed hat upon her head, hurried over to his open prize. Prized wide open. Harleen sighed a lengthy sigh, and joined him by the collision.


Joker wasn't as interested in the scattered money as he knew what else resided in the safe, and clawing through the jagged holes, pulled out four hefty stacks of notes, two solid, heavy glowing gold bars, a handful of small and sparkling diamonds, and last but not least, the creme de la creme, a ruby the size of his fist. Harleen gasped at his side, eyes large and lustful at the impressive gathering of wealth. One of The Penguin's more generous reserves.

"Well, damn," she whispered, and she inched closer, their shoulders bumped and he turned to her quickly, a smile from ear to ear.

There was a great deal of garish gore and grievances in Joker's lifestyle, that were lavishly rewarded with exceptional gain. He could see from her expression, the way she stared unblinking at the ruby, that the misery of the previous week was far from her mind in this moment. And the glint from the jewel caught in her eyes.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, and Joker handed her the precious gem for a better view.

"It is," he said, just as quietly – and wasn't quite sure whether he was referencing to the ruby in the palm of her hand, or the delicate face that was admiring it. She was oblivious to his gaze, and felt as though he was looking at her for the very first time. She was just as much a dazzling dream, under his hat and glowing, as she had been on stage and lit up like a fairy in the night.

"Well since you've come into some cash–" she started, with the same energy and enthusiasm she'd shown him the time they'd shared breakfast, "I've got an idea!"

She thrust the ruby back into his hands, and hurried off towards Floyd, who was lounging on a scrapped sofa, flipping through colourful cartoons. Joker watched with a curiousness, her bubbly behaviour and animated expressions, as erratic and jovial as the television program behind her. "I need to borrow your phone!" He knew there was a creeping fondness for her growing in the pit of his heart. Something he needed to squash before it's inevitable escalation.

And she skipped back, phone in hand, grinning broadly and shuffled up next to him, offering Joker full view of the screen.

www.gothamcitymall.com

She typed with long, gold fingernails, a tup tup tupping of the screen as she hurriedly and excitedly searched for brands upon brands of brilliant suits, shiny shoes, and sparkling accessories. She'd clearly had a lot of practice. "You need some new clothes," she told him, matter of factly, eyeing him over for size before adding item after item into the virtual basket.

He laughed, slightly offended, but mostly bemused by her statement, "What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?!"

His Harley Quinn scoffed, and she pointed to the hat upon her head, rolling her eyes "Quit jokin' around would ya'"

For once in his life, he hadn't actually been joking. But the fine suits, nice pants and big bold belt buckles caught his eye, and he too was suddenly also engrossed in the online shopping. Pointing to the clothing that most caught his eye. She was annoying, yes, and far too emotional for his refined tastes. But from her picks for his wardrobe, she certainly understood style and what it took to make a statement. He'd seen that from her at least. There were a few things to appreciate about Miss Quinzel. He could appreciate quite a bit, in fact.

Once Joker had finally got the hang of working the website, they both moved to sit at his tiny wooden table, him phone in hand, and Harleen, a cigarette propped up in her mouth, feet up and relaxed, counting what Joker was willing and waiting to spend. The final purchase he made however, while Harleen was distracted, wasn't a purchase he had made for himself.