Author's Note:

Aren't people fun? I mean, really, rudeness is like the best part of getting reviews, don't ya think? Whatever.

So this is the next chapter. Sorry it's taken so damn long. I'm having issues with conflicting story lines. SO! It seems I must do the responsible thing and write down the outline for the rest of the story.

Please, pity me, as this will make me slightly sad.

Anyway, the next one should be up this weekend if the gods permit, so read and review, I guess.

Enjoy.

Willow

(Heath's Harley)

Tyler

The bitch was crazy.

He'd always known that. For one she was with a psychopathic clown! And there was the rub, wasn't it? She was all for the scarred freak and not for him.

Looking at her now, his stomach churned. He knew what they'd been up to and it killed him that the clown could fuck her whenever he wanted, while all Tyler could hope for was a kiss. A frustratingly platonic kiss.

"The orphanages are ruble." He said, watching Harley. She'd cringed when he mentioned them before and he just couldn't pass up an opportunity to show her just how wonderful The Jackoff really was.

"Oh!" the clown grinned, licking his lips, "Goody." He picked up his vest and shrugged it on. "Harley." He barked and she snapped to attention like a damn dog.

"Sir?"

"Clean yourself up." He clapped his hands excitedly, "Things to do, things to do." he grabbed his coat and knives, "Time to start the game."

When he left the silence was awkward, so Tyler cleared his throat. Harley wasn't moving. Instead she seemed to sink into herself. He watched her eyes go glassy with unshed tears and she hugged herself, sinking back onto the desk. When she sniffled, he had to fight not to tear off after the Joker. Instead he sighed as if irritated.

"Come on." She leaned into him while he made her stand. "Time to shower."

"I don't want to." She mumbled like an obstinate child. He arched a brow.

"I guess greasepaint's in this year."

She sniffled again, so he pulled her into the bathroom. Tyler could barely stand this pathetic thing she became when her "puddin' " was away. The way she took the tiniest criticism from him and rolled it over and over in her mind trying to find what it was she did wrong. How it had all been her fault (because he was surely not to blame) and how she could possibly make it up to him. Her eyes remained unfocused even when she looked up at him.

He turned on the shower and waited for steam. The bastard had trained her well.

"IT wasn't your fault." He spoke to the tile, unable to face her. As expected, she scoffed.

"You don't know what your talking about." She stripped slowly, hissing when she pulled off her shirt. The material peeled away from red smeared skin and he cursed.

"He popped your stitches."

When she nodded, Tyler kicked the cabinets. "Wonderful. You shower; I'll go get the med kit."

He left the bathroom with his heart pounding. First of all, she was naked in there, or would be soon. Second, she was hurt, and that made his blood boil. Why couldn't she see that freak for what he really was? It wasn't hard to guess why the clown had taken her in. Besides the ass he would undoubtedly score, she was innocent.

Well, not in the sence that she'd never commited a crime…like for example multiple homicide, but there was a deeper light in her. The Jackoff was using her as a shield. Tyler stormed into the kitchen area to grab the med kit, only to freeze. The Joker was pacing back and forth, with a frown and mumbling incoherently. When he noticed Tyler he stopped and licked his lips.

"Why's she taking so long?"

"You just told her to shower and her stitches-"

"I said to clean up, not take a fucking bath. Go get her."

The psyched out old bastard couldn't even remember what he'd been doing earlier. Great, this didn't portend well. He hurried back into their bedroom and banged on the door.

"He wants you gone like yesterday."

From inside the water shut off and she groaned, "Be right there." He didn't miss the waver in her voice, and knew she'd been crying. Oh, so help him, one of these days he'd kill the clown and show her how a real man could love a woman.

Harley Quinn

I didn't try to pretend I wasn't excited. It wouldn't have worked anyway. Instead, when I came out in my street clothes, I offered him a weak smile that he didn't notice anyway. The Joker gave hurried commands to the boys before grabbing my arm and leading me to the back of one of the many buses they sometimes used.

"Up you go." He slapped my ass and I jumped into the back, making a giggle I didn't feel. The Joker jumped in after me and closed to door, jumping over seat to stand behind the driver. The guy was a bigger fellow and visibly tensed when the clown gripped the back of his chair. Thankfully for him, the boss wasn't watching so he pulled out onto the street and sped onto the clogged streets.

As he stood there, I looked him over. There had always been something abut a man in a suit that turned me on. Strange that my one true love would ware one on principle.

"There's no excuse for an unsavory appearance." He told me once, "Just think, if you hadn't been as cute as you are, I might have blown all your fresh ideas all over the floor." At the time, it had equally excited and chilled me that he would discuss my death so casually. Now I could only wonder.

Did he really intend to dump me one day? I'd been told countless times that what we shared was little more they temporary amusement, at least on his part.

"He's using you, sweetheart, and the day you stop bein' useful and putting out he's gunna kill you like everyone else."

I shook from my downward spiral and forced my thought onto something more exciting. Like my outfit. I couldn't just wear whatever while my Puddin' rocked a three-piece and gloves. So here I sat in my own little costume.

I'd always loved corsets, and so mine was around my waist in strips of red and black vinyl. The bust was a cinched black netting that wrapped down my left arm but left the right bare. It was to expose my own scares, the one's he'd given me our first night together. My short skirt was slightly puffed like some gothic ballerina and done on black tooling with red strips of cloth sewn in. Then there were my torn red and black tights and my knee-high shit-kickers with buckles up the sides.

In the left boot was a long blade and in the right a roll of piano wire. Strapped to my thigh was a black 9mm handgun decorated in smiley face stickers and clowns. A gift from Mr. J after my parents, and speaking of which.

In a special strap on my belt hung the very hammer that had splashed their wicked thoughts all over the hardwood floor. My face was a mine of my angel's.

White greasepaint with black smeared diamond eyes, and bright red lips. I'd run my arm across them, smearing the lipstick across one cheek for effect and now looked ready to kill. Most of the guys were uneasy around me when I looked like this. They said it was like I'd put on another face and with it a personality. This was my killing uniform not to pt too fine a point on it. Here was where I deserved to be at The Joker's side.

"Oy, check out the scars." I didn't look up as most new guys went through this faze with the Joker. Even he ignored it most of the time.

"I've seen them, stupid, I've been here a month."

"No," the new guy hissed, "Hers."

This time I looked up and they immediately turned away as if nothing had been said. The new guy got a few light smacks while his buddy hissed to shut his mouth. When I looked away from them, The Joker was watching me in the rearview mirror. I smiled weakly and he began working his jaw, chewing on something that wasn't there.

My hand fluttered thoughtlessly to my right arm, fingers skimming the raised scar tissue that formed three diamonds in the flesh. Again I caught his eyes in the mirror, and took a slow breath.

"You keep telling me how much you love my scars. How they don't matter." He titled his head, looking at me from the corner of his eyes and licked his lips. I glanced around the room. It seemed so much bigger now that we were alone in it and yet too small to hide in. And that's what my gut told me to do right now. Hide, because that look he was giving me couldn't mean anything good.

"Well, they don't." Trying to show I wasn't afraid, I reached up and traced the gnarled line of his lower lip. "Why would they?"

He grabbed my wrist and pulled it away from his face, squeezing tightly until I had to clench my teeth to stop from groaning. He was stronger than he looked.

"You think my face was an acceptable sacrifice for the cause."

Easy, Harl, you're walking a mine-field.

"I think that if you can live with it, so can I."

He chuckled, apparently liking my answer. "And yours?"

My smile faded and fear curled around in my gut. "I...well."

He glanced down at the pack of smokes that had fallen from my bag onto the bed. Pulling one from the box, he looks it over and tsk's.

"A young thing like you and already you're smoking." I can only shrug, which makes him frown, suddenly serious, he makes me sit on the bed, hands fluttering about wildly as he speaks.

"No! It's just what they want. Don't you see. It's all for the money. That's all they care about is money."

"Well, not to point fingers, Mr. J, but you've robbed your share of banks."

There was a long moment of silence, then he titled his head, squatting down so that we were level. "What did you call me?"

Shit! Way to go Harl. You're a dead girl.

I pulled my zippo out of my pocket, absentmindedly lighting up a smoke. He watched me intently, eyes following the red glow of my cigarette. "Mr. J?" My voice was weak before I took a deep drag. He laughed suddenly.

"Hm. I li-ke tha-t" My heart beat again and I breathed a sigh of relief. "Now, back to you, pretty girl."

I couldn't help my blush and looked at the floor. He slipped the cigarette from my fingers and blew on the end, flaring the cherry. I watched it, wondering what he was doing, then he looked up at me.

"You know, you really shouldn't smoke these." He stood, dwarfing me, "It's not good for you."

Without warning, he grabbed my arm and yanked me onto my side by it. I yelped when he straddled me, then fought to get free as I realized what he was doing.

"No, please, stop." He shushed me calmly and pinned my arm, bringing the burning cigarette down onto my bicep. The second it touched, I cried out, which quickly melted into agonized screams. He used the cigarette like a marker, scolding me like a child when I struggled.

It hurt. God, it hurt, but I couldn't get away. Even if I did, what would happen? Would he kill me? Running would only make it worse right? Besides, in his mind, he was only showing that he was open to me. He was proving that my idolizing hadn't gone unnoticed.

Another scream shook me from my thoughts. I couldn't distract myself from the pain even if I tried, so I wouldn't. Tears, running down my cheeks, I bit down on my lip so hard I drew blood, but there were no longer screams. The Joker smiled, pausing to brush hair from my damp forehead.

"That's a good girl, sweets. Keep at it and you'll get a prize."

This was my initiation, he told me as he worked. Since I'd loved his scars so much, he'd given me some of my own.

The Joker narrowed his eyes in the mirror as he watched me and I stood. He tracked me like an animal, cautious as I approached. He knew I'd been reminiscing , and wanted to know why I was suddenly smiling at such unhappy memories.

When I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, he stiffened, if only for a moment. I rested my cheek against his shoulder, kissing the seam in his coat. "Thank you." I whispered, and he watched me in the rearview for a long moment, before extracting himself from my arms and turning around.

"For what?" he sounded skeptical still, eying me sideways the way he did when in deep thought.

"Everything." I answered, tracing the lapel of his coat with my forefinger. The fingerless glove made them look longer, almost as elegant as his hands. He looked down at it with a frown then back at me. And there it was, that tiny spark of heat I saw so sparingly. A smile curled my lips and he stepped forward, pushing me into the bus seat behind me. The leather creaked and I bit my lip.

From the last seat, Tyler watched with a sour expression, and crossed his arms. One hand curled wishfully around the butt of his gun.