It was the second time Harleen had been ushered out of the warehouse, accompanied by the Joker, who was adamant in telling her she needed a breath of fresh air, save she goes crazy (his words, not hers.) The Joker had a lot of experience with creeping cabin fever, she supposed. Not to mention a whole lotta experience with crazy. And though hesitant at first – their last trip having ended with dumping a body – the Joker's jovial and encouraging tone, the whispered promise of a gift, a gift she'd like, had her trotting along with merriment to his car.

It was nice to be outside, in the cool night air, the final glimpse of the sunset having bled the sky mauve. To hear the sound of the waves gently lapping, and in the distance, heard the buzz of a waking city. Somewhere, out there, amongst the hustle and bustle of urban life, was Peyton Riley, parading upon a pedestal that had been destined for Harleen Quinzel. She gave a lengthy sigh and watched the darkening horizon.

"Ready to head out kid?"

The Joker was dressed to impress for their evening, Harleen noticed with a smile, and he pulled her, distractedly, from her pondering. Having eagerly, ecstatically arranged and contemplated outfit after outfit, he had sought Harleen's approval. Her online shopping had proved to be a hit with the clown prince, and he had picked from the many, many packages, a velour, purple tracksuit. Holographic, thick-tongued sneakers, and a single gold chain that hung at his stark chest.

"You look good," she'd said, offering words of encouragement after every change and alteration of costume. Harleen had never seen the Joker beam wider. And he did, in fact, look good. She shook her head of any more thoughts of that.

Claus was sat waiting for them at the wheel of a scratched and dented porshe. The giant albino, dressed for his role as chauffeur (hat included) was cramped up in the tiny chair, and had to inch further forward still, to allow room for the Joker's gangly legs. This time, the Joker decided to join Harleen in the back of the car, despite the little room they had. The way they all squeezed inside, it felt more like a clown car than that of a convertible.

A sudden nervousness crept over Harleen, of them sharing a more intimate space together. Despite him not having threatened her for a while, the Joker was still daunting, deadly, and up close, was even more so. The brilliance of his smile was as dangerous as his savage nature and as much as he was mad, he was equally as magnetising. Harleen shifted in her seat, hands at her knees and fumbling.

She caught herself, many a time, simply staring at the Joker, unawares as he watched from tinted windows, the steep towers and high rises that grew around them as they cruised towards the city. He was expressionless, eyes flitting the streets, the many faces and colours, deep in thought. What was he thinking about? As maniacal as he was, had been, Harleen couldn't see it in him then. What could possibly be going on in that head of his? Did she dare to wonder?

"There –" The Joker jammed his finger to the glass as they slowed in the busy traffic, so suddenly that it startled Harleen, and she squinted out towards what had grabbed his attention, his smile still wavering in the corner of her eyeline.

Clearly, Harleen had been too busy studying him to notice where they'd been headed, and recognised the location instantly. Theatre upon theatre, show upon show. Flurries of couples arm in arm wandered up and down the strip, ready for their night of entertainment. The white and red strobes burned brilliantly against the night, hoping to attract eager eyes. Smiles white, people dressed in their best, chattering silently, animatedly, happily, enjoying all that the Gotham streets had to offer them. And there – installed in bulbs above the entrance of a grand old building was a name that turned Harleen's stomach over.
Peyton Riley stars in…

Her show. Peyton Riley starring in her show. Whatever small elation Harleen had felt, for being out of the warehouse and onto the night, shattered. It stung. Her eyes stung. And she swallowed hard, hands trembling in her lap. "Why are you showing me this?" her voice was far smaller and more wavering than she'd hoped and Harleen glared to keep back the tears that threatened to fall.

The Joker's grin faltered, and he tilted his head curiously, raising a brow, "are you crying?"

"No!" She bought her fists up to her eyes and rubbed them roughly, "I'm not!"

The Joker looked to the name up in lights (the wrong name!) and back to Harleen. "Are you pissed off?"

Well, obviously! She wasn't brave enough to retort – and feeling vulnerable, mostly hurt, simply turned away to her own window, to watch the passersbys unknowingly walk alongside the Joker's car and his hostage inside. To watch the world, from the outside looking in, how the city, her show, those people – none of it, nobody, had altered at all in her absence. Was this another one of the Joker's statements? "Is this my gift?" she wondered aloud, with a sinking and terrible sadness.

"What?"

She jolted as his fingers found her wrist, and Harleen fidgeted under his unblinking pale gaze. He didn't look angry at her question, but bewildered perhaps? He laughed and she flinched at the brashness of it. "Of course this isn't your gift!" he squeezed her arm. "I just thought you'd wanna see!"

See what exactly? Her life, her dream, stolen by the one person she had competed with constantly? The person who existed only to prove that Harleen Quinzel would never, ever, be good enough. Was he tryin' to be funny? "I get the feelin' you don't take girls out too much do ya Mister J?"

The graze of his hand was pulled away as quickly as it had crept up to her, and the Joker looked suddenly, genuinely, offended. His lips turned downwards, and he grimaced. "I'll have you know –" he pointed, and pointed, and pointed. "I'll have you know – they can't keep their claws off of me!" The Joker squeaked forward to reach the shoulder of his massive driver, both of them so squashed that only the thick leather seat separated the two. "Tell her Claus!"

Surprise, surprise! Claus said nothing.

"Sure," Harleen's eyes rolled, and she folded her arms, thoroughly unimpressed. If anyone was to be sitting in this car looking offended – it should be her, and not the Joker with his total lack of tact and empathy. "I'm sure they can't keep away," she huffed, "when you're holdin' 'em prisoner that is."

Apparently the Joker had another sight to show Harleen before the night was done and they drove the rest of the journey in awkward silence (save a few offended mutterings from the clown.) And though she still anticipated how the evening would end for her, Harleen refused to look in the Joker's direction. Instead, she stuck to staring intently out into the darkness, at the bright windows, tail lights and flashing signs. She could feel his eyes upon her, but did not once allow her hurt to overcome, and give him the satisfaction that he had somehow affected her. Harleen chewed at her lip to distract from crying, and sniffled to herself in the far corner of the car.

They drifted further and further from the loud, well lit parts of town, and through the underpasses, along backstreets. Here, the narrow roads were alight with orange and red hues, from small fires, street lights and less savoury attractions. These were far from the types of shows Harleen had offered a budding crowd, and women lingered corners popping gum, waiting patiently in the damp dark for their next client to cruise by flashing cash.

Harleen's eyebrow raised, and her nose crinkled. Harleen was no prude, but disliked the lack of glamour, the lack of class (lack of gorgeous clothes, jewellery, style) – not to mention the severe lack of hygiene! She hadn't fucked a pompous director in order to find herself dragged in these parts of town. She hadn't tapped her feet sore for it, nor sparkled sweetly before a loving crowd, to be bought this side of the city and have it called a gift. She finally turned to the Joker, who was busy on his cell. "Where are we going?" she asked, unable to disguise the frustration in her tone.

He looked up from his game of snake, "my place," he said plainly.

Harleen choked, "y–you're place?!"

Claus turned the corner and mounted the curb with a bump, knocking an unsuspecting Harleen up from her seat and half into Joker's lap. Her eyes snapped up to his, flashing both with a fury and alarm, and she yelled out angrily, "watch the road will ya?!" quickly withdrawing her arms from the cushion of his thighs. Joker watched, as surprised as she was, as Harleen threw herself back to other side of the ride. He was sure he'd seen her pale face flush, but it could have just as much been the reflection of the red neons, of all the GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS and XXX HERE. He could tell Harleen was fuming now, and her anger was no less than endearing. Regardless, Joker didn't have time to tease her further – as his club wound into view from the windscreen.

"Voila!" he told her, clicking his fingers, as they creeped into the tiny carpark out back, a big red flashing smile flickering, buzzing and sparking above the dingy block of dark and crumbling brick. GRIN N BARE IT – or what it should have been, if the ARE didn't hang awkwardly and unlit below.

"Grin n' bit?"

He cringed at her reading the damaged sign, and pinched the bridge of his nose with disdain.

"You live here?" Harleen sounded surprised – humoured, in fact.

Joker scoffed. What kind of man did Harleen take him for? Hadn't he proved, with his fashion, his intellect, his obvious, undeniable charm, that he would live someplace a little more upmarket than a battered nightclub?

"This is where I run a lot of my operations," Joker told her, as the car came to a halt. "It's a work in progress. Your gift is inside."

They each got out of the car – Joker taking Harleen's arm tightly in his grip, save she decided to make a run for it. He quickly came to realise how his hold on her was absolutely unnecessary. The location itself proved an escape deterant – and instead Harleen inched closer and closer against him, for safety away from the other unpleasant noises and activities unfolding around them. He smiled as she jumped at each angry shout, each sound of a bottle thrown, until she was practically in his arms and buried against his chest.

Unfortunately, the deterant only lasted until they reached the back door, where she suddenly stalled and jerked his arm. "I don't wanna go inside– please – I don't wanna go."

"I can't drag your present out here Harls," he reasoned, and tugged her gently. To his disappointment, she started shaking and blubbering. Oh no! Not again!

"You're gonna kill me inside aren't ya' this is where you bring people to kill them!? Please – don't – I don't wanna die here, please – it smells and it's ugly, and – and – and–"

"Jesus, Harls, relax, if I was gonna kill you, you'd know about it."

It seemed to help somewhat, slightly, and Harleen whimpered, "you mean it?"

"When I kill you, I'll let you know, I promise," and he sighed. He just wanted to get her inside, give her the present he'd been excited about ever since he'd got his men to track it down. "Chin up." Joker prompted her face forward with a finger, lifting her jaw and smiling.

It took a few moments of instructed breathing to get Harleen to enter the building, but eventually Joker won her over. It was that, or a loud bang from somewhere outside, that had her rushing, squealing through the open door. Whatever works! Joker shrugged.

Inside was dimly lit, and difficult to navigate, and Harleen latched onto Joker so tight he was sure she was crushing his ribcage. It wasn't dark for aesthetic reasons – not at all, he wasn't Crane – he was simply cheap when it came to responsible things, and couldn't remember the last time he'd had the bulbs cleaned, or changed. He probably should have thought of that before bringing her along. Still, it wasn't as though the nightclub was in any usable state – acting currently as hang out for him and his men, both for downtime and work time. He hadn't had the money (until Penguin's safe) to get it off the ground and open for business as he wanted.

They made their way to the bar, where a few of Joker's lackeys loitered, drinking, darts, and drowning their sorrows under the light of old, swinging lamps. It was smoggy inside, of stale cigars and the musty smell of spilt beer. He probably should have got the boys to clean before he'd dragged her this way. But he'd been too eager, too eager to show her what he'd purchased. He hoped she'd overlook the mess and instead see the potential.

He looked down to her pinned to his side, eyes wide and lower lip trembling, she held onto the back of his purple bomber with vice-like fists, as she took in her gloomy surroundings. This was far from what Miss Quinzel was used to, no doubt and as she surveyed her setting, his men surveyed them back. Joker noted the confusion, the shock in their expressions, to see Joker accompanied by a woman, wrapped so tight around his waist he was finding it a little hard to breathe.

"Loosen up a little–" he told her, laughing lightly as he tried to pry her tiny hands apart. Not in front of the boys.

They walked into the main area, the large, open floor plan front of house, guiding Harleen to where her present was situated, beside the large marble bar, well stocked with all manner of beverages. It stood around 5' tall, dark and quiet, round-edged and ominous beneath reams and reams of multicoloured ribbon, tied off with one big red bow.

"Go on, open it!"

Predictably, Harleen was hesitant, and lingered by the object, flicking the tag that read in bold, black scrawl Harley Quinn, let's call this your rehearsal, J. She looked back at him, gold fingernails grazing the edges of the label. And then to the red bow, pulling loose the knot that held it all together. She winced, as though expecting it to go BANG – and when it didn't, began work on the individual ribbons. Having revealed only a small portion of the mysterious present, it was though a coin had dropped, and after seeing the glass front, Harleen began tearing at the elaborate wrapping with some haste.

She stripped from the top and centre, until a vintage jukebox was revealed to the room, and Joker, leaning casually at his bar, noticed her eyes widen and a small, fleeting moment of glee flashed across her soft face.

"There's some good tracks on this one Harls! Picked it out myself," Joker told her proudly, and clicked obnoxiously at the thug-playing-barman. "Give the girl some money would ya'?!"

A handful of pocket change was thrust across the bar, and Harleen hurried to pick it up. She struggled, for an adorable moment, to pick the coins from the surface, and cursed quietly to herself and her plastic nails. With an open palm she brushed the shrapnel into her hand, and turned back to her jukebox excitedly. She was quick to plug it in, and immediately the lights lit up her ecstatic expression. Green, and red and white and humming, it thrummed to life and drew attention from all eyes in the room. Much like it's new owner. And Harleen clapped her hands, tiny hops on the spot, "it's amazin' Mista' J," she squeaked.