Chapter Nine

let's tessellate

Bite chunks out of me
You're a shark and I'm swimming
My heart still thumps as I bleed
And all your friends come sniffing

-Alt-J, Tessellate

After several long minutes of the two of us just lazily leaning into one another, he lifted his chin from my head. After a beat, I heard him sniff, then, suddenly: "Did you do something to your hair?"

Oddly enough, it was that abrupt, halfway-baffled question that finally got me. I laughed, tilting my head back to see him frowning down at me. "They don't exactly provide dye at the asylum, as you well know. I figured that since I had to do something about my roots anyway, I might as well try something new." When his frown didn't disappear, I faltered, dropping my eyes for just a moment before meeting his gaze again and asking timidly, "Is it okay?"

His expression cleared suddenly, as if he was waking from a daydream, and he gave me a quick, roguish smile. "Perfect," he said emphatically. I beamed at him, and then the van stopped and the driver killed the engine. "Ahh," he said, detaching my hand from his neck almost as an afterthought and knocking my legs off of his before standing up. I was quick to follow, but in the few minutes spent sitting there with him I'd forgotten about my tender soles—I winced as I put pressure on a particularly deep cut and grabbed his arm instinctively for balance.

The Joker frowned and glanced down at my bloodied feet as the back doors were thrown open and immediately 'tsked' at me. "Oh, no, Harley—we can't have you tracking blood all over the nice new hideout, can we?"

If I didn't already feel as if I'd been profoundly needy enough for one day, I might have humorously shot back that blood on the hideout floors was and always would be the least of our worries, but as it was, I didn't see myself in a position to argue, at least till I'd recovered somewhat from the turmoil of the night. I was biting my lip, looking down at my bloodied feet and wishing I'd thought to put my boots back on after my shower, so I didn't see the Joker move. Next thing I knew, I was being swept up, and I gave a brief yelp of surprise before locking an arm around his shoulders—it had been a while, but I still remembered his tendency to drop unsuspecting girlfriends just for shits and giggles.

He appeared to have no intention of doing it then, though, jumping from the back of the van, keeping his balance perfectly, and starting briskly towards the house as soon as we were on solid ground, me cradled effortlessly against his chest.

This isn't affection or altruism, you know, muttered that nervous little voice in the back of my head. He's doing this for the henchmen's benefit. He must need them to respect you, or at least your connection to him.

And again, I ignored it. My feet stung, I was back in my boyfriend's arms—literally—which is where I'd wanted to be for months, and I wasn't going to let the little part of my mind that was always trying to assign motive to his every little action ruin it for me. I leaned my head against his shoulder and enjoyed feeling weightless for once.

The henchmen who had driven the van beat us to the building, opening the door and then stepping aside, and the Joker ignored them as he passed into the house with me. He said nothing to anyone as he crossed through the crowded rec room, and I played the part I imagined I was supposed to play, legs dangling, barely taking notice of my surroundings (and certainly none of the henchmen pretending not to stare and obviously wondering just what the hell had happened that resulted in the scene they were seeing) and absorbed completely by him.

Well. Almost completely. I did spot Ace right before we reached the staircase, staring with a hint of a scowl, and if I'd felt he warranted such attention, I'd have gloated at him. As it was, I just narrowed my eyes slightly, then the Joker took us upstairs.

Back in his room, he planted one knee on the mattress and let me drop, ducking out from under my arm and rising again before I could reach for him. I followed him questioningly with my eyes, but he just halfway glanced over his shoulder as he crossed the room to his desk and said, casually but with unmistakable steel in his voice: "Go to sleep, Harley. We've got a lot to do, but it'll wait till tomorrow."

I don't exactly feel like sleeping, I thought, but even as the rebellious idea crossed my mind, I realized how genuinely tired I was. I'd been awake since seven o'clock in the morning; it was now probably two o'clock the next night, and it had been one hell of a day.

I curled up, noting as I dragged my feet towards me that the Joker apparently didn't give a shit about our sheets (because he couldn't give two shits about bloodstains and his excuse about the floor was bullshit) and resolving to wash them out myself the next day. I turned on my side, facing the desk, where he'd taken a seat, his profile to me and lit by the single lit lamp in the room. Pillowing my head on my hand, I watched him until my eyes grew much too heavy to hold open and sleep dragged me under.

Sometime later, I opened my eyes and it was dark. I would have thought that I'd be a bit more confused as to my surroundings after not waking up in the Asylum for the first time in months, but even in the dark, I could feel the thick mattress beneath me, smell the smells I associated with freedom, and I knew exactly where I was.

I felt the mattress shift beside me and knew why I'd awoken—he'd finally switched off the light and joined me. At some point I'd rolled over to the other side of the bed, my side, facing the wall with my back to him, and I stayed there as he settled in, suddenly too nervous to do something as simple as roll over and curl up against him.

Defenses down, still partially asleep, all I could think was you have no right to touch him; if he wanted you close he'd have pulled you to him already—oh, but I wanted to, suddenly feeling every second I'd spent apart from him as acutely as if I was still locked up. He lay next to me, completely still, and I hated myself for my inability to just roll over, but the few inches between us felt like miles.

The mattress suddenly trembled as he shifted his weight. A second later, I felt the barest touch at my shoulder—barely there, possibly even a ghost conjured by wishful thinking, but it was enough to break through my uncertainty and cowardice. As immediately as if he'd yanked at me, I turned over until I was nestled against his bare side, then decided that wasn't good enough. In one more quick, fluid move, I was atop him, gripping at his waist with my thighs, clinging to his shoulders, and pressing my chest hard against his, needing the closeness.

His fingertips dragged roughly along my hips before catching in the hem of my shirt, and obligingly, I yielded for just a moment, sitting up just long enough for him to drag the shirt over my head and away from my arms, then I was pushing back against him, every inch of my skin on fire in response to the direct contact with him after much too long.

His hands continued their path upwards, tracing along my sides and leaving trails of electric sensation in their wake, landing on the heavy scar tissue in the shape of diamonds on both of my arms and pressing into it almost convulsively for a second, fingernails cutting, then the bruising fingers stretched out, gripped my upper arms hard, and his body beneath me surged, prompting a surprised little yelp from me as I suddenly found myself on my back, being borne down into the mattress by his weight.

Before I could do anything, his mouth was on mine, his hands on my shoulders, thumbs digging against either side of my clavicle and his elbows pressed hard into the insides of mine. Every inch of me was being covered, leaned on, or dug into by some part of him, and as his teeth cut against my lower lip, I suddenly got the distinct impression that he was trying to devour me, to absorb me.

I responded. With an adrenaline-fueled surge of strength, I ripped my arms out from beneath the weight of his bony elbows—and immediately locked them around his shoulders, simultaneously freeing my legs and wrapping them around his waist. I tightened my muscles and made use of gravity to pull him as closely against me as was perhaps humanly possible, kissing him back with a ferocity that I could feel made him grin for a half-second. I put in a Herculean effort, pressing and pulling our bodies together as if with enough force I could just meld with him in the dark, would never have to be away from him ever again, until the self-inflicted pressure on my chest made me break away from his mouth and turn my head to gasp for breath.

He took advantage of the freshly-exposed skin, pressing his nose against my neck just about the shoulder and setting the nerve endings on fire with the touch before delivering a mean bite that made me stop breathing for a moment, despite my desperate need for air.

He was suddenly leaning back, encountering temporary resistance in the form of my grip on his shoulders, but he'd always been stronger, and his last three months of activity compared to my wasting away at Arkham made it no contest. He broke my grip, and I let my arms fall open, feeling the emptiness as his weight lifted from my torso. I could breathe again, but I craved his touch so badly that the loss of contact scarcely seemed worth it.

Perched on his forearms, he looked down on me, tilting his head slightly as he watched me take heaving, much-needed breaths. After a few seconds of just watching me recover, he flashed me a grin that would have frightened me if I wasn't pretty sure what it meant. "Welcome back, Harley," he said, then pounced again.

That was the last thing either of us said for quite a while.

After staying awake half the night on top of the loaded day I'd had before it, I was planning to sleep well into the afternoon, catching up on my rest and recovering some before starting the potentially complicated process of re-integrating myself into the operation.

The Joker had other ideas.

I didn't know how long I'd been asleep when something heavy fell onto the mattress beside me, but even before I cracked an eye open to see what it was, I could tell I hadn't slept nearly long enough.

The "something heavy" turned out to be the Joker, stretched out on his side next to me, and even as I registered that he looked practically happy—reason enough to be wary—he was crooning at me: "Wakey, wakey, Harley!" I immediately started glowering at him, but given that only half of my face was visible, the other half safely buried in the pillow, it probably didn't have much effect. He certainly didn't seem to think so, since he went on talking: "It's a big day today, lots to do. Time to get up." Then, he actually leaned forward and pressed his mouth against my cheek, making a noisy "mwah" unforgivably close to my ear.

In response, I hid my entire face in the pillow, partly to hide the dumb smile that crept over my face at the mark of affection but mostly because I was stupid-tired, and grumbled, "You're the one that kept me up, you can deal with me catching up on my sleep before we do anything"—although it probably sounded more like "Mmph mph mmmph mmph mphhh." I felt him sit up beside me, and when he didn't say anything for a moment, I started to worry just a little bit.

I should have worried more. A second later, and something disgustingly warm and wet was poking into my ear.

I reeled up from the bed as if he'd just dumped a bucket of cold water on me—which, I was willing to admit, probably would have been preferable—and turned a furious glare at him (by that point, wisely, he was halfway across the room, unfortunately out of my immediate range). "Did you just give me a wet willy?" I shrieked.

His only response was a howling, teeth-baring cackle that nearly drowned out my outrage. "Ugh, ugh, ugh," I growled as I seized the sheets and tried to clean the inside of my ear, as if I could get rid of that repulsive feeling.

The Joker recovered before I did, and, still chuckling a little, made his way to the door. He paused just before leaving the room, turning and adding as an afterthought, "You go back to sleep, and I'm throwing you on the floor and turning the mattress over on top of you. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled mutinously, but it was enough for him. He turned and left the room, and I sighed and stopped kidding myself—the effects of the wet willy were far more psychological than physical; I wasn't going to be able to recover just by scrubbing at my ear with the sheets. I resigned myself to the fact that I was apparently up for the day, and with that acceptance, a large to-do list immediately popped into my head.

First, I stripped the sheets off of the bed and padded towards the closed door on the opposite side of the room, which I correctly surmised was a bathroom. I showered first, making use of the bare minimum of toiletries that furnished the room (i.e. a bar of soap) even while making an exasperated mental note to go out and buy at least some shampoo. Afterwards, I took the sheets, found all of the little blood spots and smears from my no-longer-bleeding feet, and used the sink, the soap, and elbow grease to scrub them out. I hung the sheets over the shower rod and then returned to the bedroom.

There, I ran into a problem. During my brief search of the area the night before, I hadn't discovered any of my clothes, and I hadn't thought to ask the Joker about them before they disappeared. After a moment spent looking around, my gaze fell on an unfolded pile of his clothes shoved off to the side, and I shrugged. In a pinch…

I found a white-and-lavender patterned shirt that smelled clean and buttoned it on. Given that he was so much taller than me and wore his shirts neatly tucked in, the hem fell nearly to my knees, and I glanced over at my discarded, too-long jeans for a moment before deciding against putting them on underneath. There were multiple benefits to going out among the henchmen in just the shirt. Primarily, it would be useful in helping me distinguish between the smart henchmen and the idiots who let their eyes linger for a beat too long. Nearly as importantly, though, my appearance would serve as a statement of joint femininity and dominance to the henchmen—simply put, it would make it abundantly clear that I was both a woman and was not subject to any of their bullshit, a message I thought was important to send, especially if Ace's attitude indicated the general pattern of thought among them.

Plus, I'd take any excuse I could find to not have to wear pants.

Decision made, I exited the room into the lazily buzzing hive of the hideout. There was a very specific atmosphere hanging over the place—I picked up on it as I moseyed down the broken staircase. There was excitement and energy, but it was restrained—the movements below were quiet and far between.

I emerged in the kitchen area, looking through to the rec room to see that the number of henchman had diminished by roughly two-thirds—Ace was among those absent, much to my relief. The remaining guys were stretched out on chairs, couches, and the floor, clustered quietly around a fuzzy TV. I got the distinct impression that they were waiting for something, which only strengthened my suspicion that today was significant.

The only visible henchman who wasn't watching TV was George, who was sitting at the table in the kitchen, turned away from the entry I'd just come through, newspaper open in front of him. I stood uncertainly just inside the doorway, feeling the natural urge to go over and sit with him instead of in the living room with the group of true strangers. I immediately decided against acting on the impulse, reminding myself of my resolution to avoid playing favorites and risk getting too close to any of the henchmen.

And then I decided to void that decision, because I knew a thing or two about self-fulfilling prophecies and if I decided to actively avoid George on the basis that I might like him too much, it would certainly have more of an effect on my brain than casually hanging out with him from time to time. I crossed the kitchen, remembering that I'd spotted some cereal during my search of the cabinets the night before. Someone had taken it upon themselves to buy a huge box of Lucky Charms. I was optimistic, but not truly impressed until I opened the battered old fridge and found a gallon of milk that was actually fresh.

"Someone's on the ball," I murmured approvingly.

George's paper rattled, and I glanced over my shoulder at him, part of me hoping that he'd be staring at my largely-exposed legs, therefore giving me an excuse to dislike him, but he just turned the page of the paper and resumed reading. I checked the time—it was shortly after noon, meaning I'd gotten about six hours asleep (not enough, given how much had happened within the previous twenty-four hours)—then took my cereal over to the table, curling up in the chair to his right before glancing again into the rec room to see what the guys were watching.

It was Mary Poppins—the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious scene, to be precise. After a second spent trying to smother a smile at the sight of this big, rough-looking, tattooed bunch of adult men lounging around and watching Julie Andrews, I called over to them: "Not to ruin the fun, guys, but you might want to change the channel."

Most of them looked over at me. Most of them looked taken-aback. Several stared (not at my face) several others looked abruptly back at the television, and two looked me in the eye. One of these, a large black guy, about thirty years old with tattoos visible on his arms, asked "Oh, yeah? Why's that?" His tone was challenging, but not hostile.

"Hey, it's completely your decision, but I don't think the Joker likes Julie Andrews," I told him frankly.

A few of the other guys who had looked away from me were looking back. Assured of their attention, I went on: "About five months ago, we were staying in this… old burned out club. We had a TV but it was busted-up and the reception is shitty, so we only got one channel, and one day that channel was playing The Sound of Music. So the guys start watching, because what the hell, right? And they were getting pretty into it, but then the Joker comes back from running some errand. He walks in, takes one look at Julie Andrews singing 'I Have Confidence,' and shoots the TV. Twice."

Most of them looked skeptical. George, without looking up from his paper, snorted. I shrugged. "You guys do what you want, but if you want to keep the TV… maybe find something that doesn't feature Julie Andrews. Unless it's the Love to Laugh scene from this movie, but no promises."

There was some murmuring, the guy who'd addressed me said "Thanks for the heads-up," and after a minute, Dumb and Dumber was playing.

"Oh, yeah," I said, half into my cereal bowl. "Way better." From what little evidence I had, I surmised that the Joker, if not directly fond of Jim Carrey (although I had my suspicions), was at the very least willing to put up with him.

After watching the scene where Lloyd and Harry eat some ill-advised hot peppers, I sneaked a glance at George. He appeared unruffled, both by me and the delightful idiocy blaring from the television, and seemed entirely focused on his paper. Not for the first time, I wondered what he was doing here—he certainly wasn't cut from the same cloth as the rest of the guys, and he didn't seem too interested in trying to bond with or buddy up to them, either.

Which reminded me. "Thanks for last night, by the way."

The paper folded at the corner, revealing a single, inexpressive blue eye. "For calling Ace off," I clarified, then frowned, adding, "Though… I guess for providing me with a car, too." My frown deepened as I realized that the car had been left parked on a street outside of Pam's place, and I silently prayed he wouldn't ask me about it.

He didn't, nor did he acknowledge my thanks. Instead, he directed his gaze towards my cereal, and as he turned a page, he said in a gravelly monotone, "You know that stuff's just sugar and weevils, right?"

I glanced down at my bowl—the dye on the marshmallows had dyed the milk a murky purple, and the remaining cereal had gone soggy. Which was how I liked it, but still… "Weevils?"

"Bugs get in the machinery, he said, eyes trailed on the paper again. "Get ground up and blended in with all the rest of it."

"You're making that up."

I saw the barest twitch of a smile lifting the left corner of his mouth, the only indicator that he was enjoying this conversation even just a little bit. "Check the box if you don't believe me. Two grams of protein per serving. You think that protein's comin' from, what, the wheat or the corn syrup?"

I looked dubiously at him, glanced down at my bowl, then surreptitiously pushed the bowl a few inches away from me. George had been staring at his paper the whole time, but I swore I saw that slight lift to his mouth that could have been a smile grow more pronounced.

A door opened in the front of the house. I recognized the Joker's footsteps even before I read the new, universal tenseness in the atmosphere, then he came scuffing into the room, followed by a big henchman carrying a huge wooden crate. He glanced around, seeming not to notice that all of the henchmen were on alert, watching him, awaiting instruction, and his eyes finally landed on me. He pointed. "You. Follow us."

I was slipping out of my chair before he even finished the order, and he led the procession up the steps—first, the Joker, taking the cracked stairs two at a time, then the big henchman, awkwardly wrangling the crate, and lastly, me, trotting along to bring up the rear. The Joker led us all the way to his bedroom, and by the time I cleared the doorway, the henchman was setting the crate on the ground with a relieved sigh.

"Olaf, out. Harley, stay."

The henchman's name is Olaf? I didn't say anything, instead studying him as he wiped his forehead on the back of his forearm, and by the time he passed me on the way out, I'd decided that it fit him.

The Joker took no notice of him, was reaching up to the jutting ledge above the big blacked-out window, so I took it upon myself to close the door behind Olaf. When I turned back, J had retrieved a crowbar from the ledge, and I discreetly put my back to the corner and watched him carefully.

He didn't seem to notice. He took the crowbar to the hinges of the crate and wedged them out of the splintered wood, making quick work of the lid. By then, reassured that the crowbar wasn't meant for me, I'd drifted forward curiously, and as he pried the top from the crate, I peeked inside—and laughed aloud out of sheer delight.

"I knew it!" I crowed, bumping him aside so I could dig out the open boxes holding pounds upon pounds of my clothing and personal effects.

He tossed the crowbar carelessly aside, and as it clanged loudly to the floor, he ran a hand over his rumpled hair, smoothing it out of his face. "Boxed 'em up when we moved hideouts. They were stored at a unit in, uh, West Chelsea. We keep it as… more permanent space."

I found my favorite revolver padded in with my carelessly-packed skirts and, scooping it up, I flitted over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thank you!"

He grimaced and detangled himself from my arms. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbled rapidly. "Look, you've got some time to settle in, but not much. Big game's about to start."

I paused, letting a favored pair of jeans fall from my hands back into the crate. Here it is, said that annoyingly fearful voice in the back of my head, the reason you're not still rotting in Arkham. "Big game," I repeated questioningly.

He regarded me, lips drawn pensively together, then he adjusted the lapels of his coat, starting across the room. "Um—yeah. I mean—I mean, I don't know," he admitted, seating himself on the bed facing me, "but, uh, some things have happened while you were inside. Interesting things."

I braced my hands on the top of the crate and leaned into them. "You gonna fill me in, or am I flying into this blind?"

He actually pulled his gleaming pocket watch from his vest and checked the time before he bothered to respond to my [rhetorical] question. "I can spare a few minutes to fill you in, suuure."

I let out a short huff, half-amused and half-annoyed, and was promptly disregarded as he rested his elbows atop his knees and leaned forward to address me: "You caught up on your Criminal Empires in Gotham history and current affairs?"

"I'm at least three months out of date, and most of what I know, I learned from either you or the news, so you tell me."

"So much for the Arkham rumor mill," he muttered with a resigned sigh and head-shake. "Well—we'll keep it simple, just cover the last two years. So: Carmine Falcone, if not totally uncontested, was at least the most unquestionably powerful. That is, till he lost his marbles—ah, for real, doll, not like you and me," he added helpfully. I snorted and skirted around the crate, going to settle on the floor between his legs—if we were talking about things that happened two years ago, I should probably get comfortable.

The Joker moved in unison with me, sitting up straighter and pulling his elbows back so I could drape one arm over his knee, and one hand dropped absently to my head, gripping it from behind and tilting it backwards so that my face was turned up to his. Peering down at me, eyes gleaming, he continued the history lesson: "His, ah, retirement prompted a… mad scramble for power, all the little mob families practically trampling each other to snatch up as many pieces of his operation as they could; it was all kind of… hilarious, really."

"This was right as you were coming up?" I asked, mostly to confirm the shaky timeline I'd pieced together during my time with him.

In response, he tightened his fingers painfully in my hair, and as I inhaled with a hiss at the sudden pain, he said, "Teacher says save questions for the end, got it?" I nodded even though the movement put even more strain on my scalp, because I knew that to say anything else at this point was to invite more pain. He nodded back, a touch of mocking to the motion, and went on.

"So. Carmine's gone. Power's divided all over the city, but the majority of it ends up in the hands of three men. You've got Maroni—slick Italian, traditionalist, lot of support because, well, this is the mafia. Then there was Gambol, the fight-your-way-from-the-gutter type, got where he with brute force and a lot of elbow grease… waste of energy and boring, if you ask me, but hey. Different strokes. Last—the Chechen. Just the Chechen. He was from—well, guess."

A tap at the back of my head signaled that it would be okay to speak, so I obliged: "Well, if I had to take a stab at it, I'd say Chechnya."

"And people say high school geography is a waste of time," he said with exaggerated enthusiasm, and I giggled out loud, then reminded myself that I was supposed to be listening. I bit down on his knee to suppress my laughter, and he gave no sign of objecting—didn't react at all, really, aside from slightly tightening his grip on my hair and clearing his throat.

"Anyway. Just as soon as we're getting somewhere, as soon as clear battle lines are being drawn, these guys up and decide to… band together. Common enemy, you see. So, me being the, uh, charitable guy I am, I offered my unique talents to them—they give me their money, and I kill the Batman."

He paused there, made a face, and twirled his free hand in the air as if hunting for the perfect phrasing. After a second, he shrugged twitchily and gave up. "Well. One thing led to another, and before you know it… uh, Gambol and the Chechen are… unfortunately out of the game, and wouldn't you know it, Maroni got himself in a car accident that nearly killed him." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "He was in no shape to run the city, that was for sure. This was… mmm, a little less than a year ago."

Right around the time you were being committed to Arkham, I thought, narrowing my eyes ever-so-slightly at him. He definitely wasn't telling me the whole story, but I wasn't going to interrupt again.

"As you can imagine, ever since then, things have been a little… mm… chaotic. With no strong—or willing—candidate for the criminal throne, so to speak, Gotham's criminal underworld has just been staggering along the best it can." He fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, and I saw it go distant as he murmured, with no tone except perhaps one of slight interest: "Until recently."

I sat up a bit straighter, brow furrowing slightly in worry. What happened recently? I was dying to ask, and when he just continued to stare at the wall for another moment, I nearly did. Fortunately, he snapped out of it before I found out just what he'd do if I asked another question against instruction.

Returning his eyes to me, he asked a question. "Have you ever heard of Oswald Cobblepot?"

I frowned deeper. "Oswald… no."

"Yeah," he said resignedly, and slowly worked his fingers out of my hair. "Neither has anyone else." Both hands freed again, he reached down to grab my upper arms and lifted me to my feet, pulling me closer to stand between his knees before going on. "But he's been slowly accumulating turf over the past few months, he's put together a very respectable outfit, all things considered, and he's invited us for cocktails a little later today."

That last one took a second to process. Once it got through, surprise made me say the first thing to cross my mind without regard for the potential consequences: "You're planning on going?"

Fortunately, apparently it was the perfect time for Q&A. J rubbed my upper arms briskly, lingering on the fabric covering the diamond scars for a moment before looking mischievously up at me. "We're planning on going," he corrected me.

It struck me that I was not wearing much in the way of clothing and that I was standing intimately close to him, so the fact that I dismissed that tempting realization right away bore testament to how seriously I was taking the Cobblepot thing. Frowning down at him, I said, "You can't see any way in which this little date could go horribly wrong?"

"Oh, about a dozen," he assured me.

"So you do realize that if Cobblepot's looking to be criminal kingpin, you, as Gotham's resident terror threat and general baddest of the bad guys, are standing in the way of that goal and the easiest way for him to get around that is to kill you?"

"Absolutely."

"Yet you're still planning to meet with him?"

"We're still planning to meet with him." He tsked at me. "Harley, sometimes I feel like you just don't listen."

I frowned, the precise phrasing he'd been using finally sinking through. "Wait. You said he invited us? Like, asked me in particular?"

"Now she's getting it."

"When'd you get this invitation?"

He watched me, head slightly tilted, measuring my reaction as he said deliberately, "Last night. Minutes before I got back to the hideout."

I blinked. "I'd only been out of the asylum for like, an hour at that point. I'm willing to be not even the cops knew; how did…?"

"That's one of the many reasons I've accepted Oswald's invitation. He's clearly well-sourced, and he's paying attention—uh, specifically to us. I'd like to know why."

I shook my head, but if the Joker had already thought things through and was comfortable with the idea, then I'd accompany him, however reluctantly. "Okay," I sighed, making sure that my tone conveyed the fact that I thought this was a bad idea.

He cocked his head and flashed me a grin. "Any more questions?"

I studied him for a second, then, conscious that the tiny smile growing on my face was going to give me away any second, I blurted, "What, exactly, was the extent of your involvement in the deaths of Maroni, Gambol, and the Chechen?"

"Ah, ah, ah!" he, said, springing to his feet and planting an index finger against my lips. "First—Maroni's not dead yet, and second—let's agree that the shrink talk belongs back at Arkham, hmm?"

"You took them all down, didn't you," I said against his finger, now openly grinning.

I was looking straight into his eyes, so I could see the amusement forming without his permission just before he ducked his head, pretending that he'd been planning all along to pick up my hand and press his mouth against the inside of my wrist. By the time he pulled back, the smile was nowhere to be seen. "Pick something to wear," he instructed me. "Something a little, er, dressier than usual—this is a social call, not business, after all—but something that'll go with your usual makeup. Got it?"

"My boyfriend's the toughest, scariest guy in the whole city," I said in lieu of answer, still grinning at him. His mouth twitched, and, apparently realizing that I wasn't going to let it go, he reached out, grabbed my shoulders, and physically turned me around.

"Go."

I went.

A/N - Mm-hmm, damn straight I wasn't going to miss the opportunity to get Harley laid for the first time in months, poor woman. And henchman hangouts! Call me a sap, but I like writing everyone getting along, no matter how short-lived it might turn out to be.

Not much in the way of author's notes today, except to boast that I spelled supercalifragilisticexpialidocious right on the first attempt. Totally booked with brother's wedding stuff, trying to hurry and get this out to you guys before I lose any semblance of all free time, heh. On that note, sorry if the responses are a little stilted or disorganized! Concentration is not a thing that's happening very well right now for me, so that's my bad.

...anyone ready to meet Oswald? We're gonna hang out with him some next chapter. Finally, the ball's rolling. I'll update as soon as I've had some time to recover from this whole shitstorm, in the meantime let me know what you think! Thanks for reading and reviewing, guys. You keep me sane.