This Vow Part Ten
Author's Note: A little mistake in the previous update: that should have been session seven.
Surrender
Their dance begins in darkness.
Even so, she is steady, and she is sure. She reaches for his hand, and finds it easily. His other hand is on the small of her back, guiding her, leading her, and she puts her arm around his shoulder, grinning madly, and ready to follow in his footsteps.
He's dressed just like his old pictures in the papers, a tux, and bow tie, crisps, cleans lines, the stark black and white in contrast with his red lips, blue eyes, and green hair. He is grinning his manic grin, and she knows an answering smile is stretched from ear-to-ear on her own face. When he starts laughing, she does too; his mad glee is infectious, as always. Eventually, she realizes she is also dressed for the occasion: red and black in diamond patterns, the color and shape of a jester's costume. Her skin is pale like his, but more than that, she can feel his energy, their energy, crackling between them. They are laughing, they are dancing, and …
And the floor is sticky.
Don't look down, says a voice in her head.
Don't look down, says the music only they can hear.
Don't look down, says the Joker, her mister J, her puddin', her everything, and laughs until it sounds like screaming.
Red, she thinks, I'm wearing red. The blood won't show. Just dance around the bodies, just dance around the bodies, just dance around the bodies, just look at him forever, and never look down.
*Session Eight*
"I have a present for you."
Harley feels her heart thud in her chest. She tells herself she's sickened, she's scared, wondering what he has done for her, knowing it can't be good. But deep down, underneath her tired morals, she knows the true reason why her pulse races and why she trembles.
She's excited.
"Oh really?" Still, she arches a brow, doing her best to keep her voice cool and even.
"Mm-hm. Don't pretend you're not excited. You wanna guess what it is?"
"I think I can imagine," she whispers, taking her glasses off and leaning in.
"I certainly hope so." He leans in himself, and begins whispering in her ear. Dark words, describing darker deeds. The way he cut up the body of her stepfather, the way he carved him up like meat and left the pieces out to rot, because we're all just carrion in the end. He tells her of the package that will be waiting on her doorstep, a little memento for her to play with and destroy as she sees fit, a small token of his affection for his beautiful Harley Quinn.
When they pull back from each other, she is crying again.
"Are your horrified?" He asks.
"No," she whispers.
"Digusted?"
"No."
"Guilty?"
"No."
"Sad?"
"Only that I couldn't do it myself."
He smiles, slow and sure. "That's my girl."
When their lips meet again, it is not gentle. There is a hunger, an urgency that Harley has not allowed herself to experience for him, at least not outside of her dreams. If she can just dance around in the dark, if she can just step over the bodies to get to him, she cannot almost pretend it's alright to feel this way.
"I wish I could hold you," he says when they finally break apart.
This time, she does not stop herself. She walks over and tugs impatiently at the bonds of his strait jacket, eventually figuring out how to unfasten him. There is moment, as the garment slithers to the ground and he wriggles himself free, dancing and shaking the blood back into his muscles, laughing as the numbness recedes, looking like the glorious maniac he is, that Harley forgets to be afraid of him, and not just afraid of the version of herself he brings out.
Until his fingers close around her neck. Then, she remembers fear.
He doesn't squeeze. He sweeps his over the hollow of her throat, feeling her pulse coursing there, letting her know that she is vulnerable. She meets his gaze, his smirk, his blue, blue eyes, and feels the terror drain from her, feels herself sway towards him.
She smiles at him, and he brings her in for the kill.
"I had you going," he says between kisses.
"Not for a minute," she whispers, leaning her head back so his lips can trail down her neck.
"Mmm. Harley, come here, come here," he growls, and pulls her in closer so that they are pressed up against each other, as close as they can be, as close as she's dreamed….
She doesn't stop him when he rips of her shirt, doesn't stop him when he pushes her up against the wall, doesn't stop him when he lifts her up, hisses at her to hike up her skirt and "Show me that pretty kitty." She giggles madly, tugging at his patient's garb ineffectually, too giddy and too shaky to do much good. This is madness, madness, but she doesn't care, all she can do is let out a little scream of delight, because they are pure insanity, pure anarchy, pure chaos, pure –
"Did you hear that? He's killing her in there!"
"Dr. Quinzel? Are you alright?!"
The voices of the guards bring her crashing back down to reality – as does the sound of the door unlocking. The Joker, of course, just laughs, not caring if they are literally caught with their pants down, but crazy as her actions are, his Harley is not quiet there yet, and can only think of the personal and professional mortification to come. "Please," she whispers, "I'll be humiliated."
He gives her a dangerous look. "If I didn't know any better," he tuts, sliding her down from the wall, slipping her shirt back over her shoulders and deftly putting her back together, "I might think you're embarrassed to be seen with me."
His restraint surprises her, as does his consideration for her feelings. How can he be anything but sincere at this point? How can she doubt his insane devotion to her?
The door swings open as they are backing away from each other.
The guards scream at him to get down and then Tazer him, but she can hardly hear, because he's laughing all the while. She fights the mad, inappropriate urge to giggle again too, because really, how can you not? And how narrowly she escaped being found in the ultimate compromising position…
Harleen sinks to the floor as the guards take him, shaking as much from thwarted desire as anything else. The minutes tick by, and she feels strangely paralyzed. She puts her head in her hands, trying to drown out of the sounds of them beating him, hoping to wake up from this nightmare…
When she feels an arm around her, she nearly jumps out of her skin.
"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"Joan!" Relief floods her instantly. "I … I'm … I'm alright …"
She stumbles as Joan helps her to her feet. For a little while, she lets her mind go blissfully blank, listening to Joan mutter soothing words, letting the other woman half-carry her out of the room, but eventually, she has to focus on what the other woman is saying.
"The facility's on lockdown, and they're trying to get him sedated…"
"The meds never work…" Harley mumbles.
"Well they seem to be this time, or else he's just playing dead because he's tired of getting beat down…" The guilt comes sharply upon her then. "Harleen, how did he slip his restraints…"
"I …. I don't know."
"Well, Arkham wants to talk to you, of course. Don't worry, I won't let you face him alone." She's led Harleen to the bathroom. "You need to try and pull yourself together, splash some water on your face or something … do you want me to go in with you?"
Harleen takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "Actually I … could you get my glasses? We … I … left them in the room and … I'm blind as a bat without them." She gives a shrill little laugh at her own private joke, but if Joan finds this strange, she doesn't say anything. She simply agrees, squeezes Harleen's shoulder, and goes off to retrieve the eye wear, once she is convinced her friend is somewhat steady on her feet.
In the bathroom, Harleen practically puts her head under the faucet and begins giggling madly all over again. She slaps herself and giggles some more, almost hoping the hysterical laughter will not subside. But eventually it does. She is confronted with her own image in the mirror, a wet, wild-eyed blonde, her cheeks flushed, her hair in disarray.
My hair. He ran his fingers through it as we kissed. Hastily, she runs her fingers through the wayward tresses, smoothing things down, breathing deeply, trying to slow her erratic pulse. She told a bit of a fib to Joan; her vision isn't really that bad without her glasses, but she needed a moment alone from her well-meaning friend.
"What the hell am I gonna do?"
It doesn't seem remotely funny anymore. What had she been thinking? Arkham, he'll ask the same question Joan did – how did the Joker get out of his straitjacket? – and he won't be as trusting as Joan was. Yes, the Joker escaping or nearly escaping is a regular occurrence – but Arkham will be looking for someone to blame, as he always does, and this time, he might actually blame the right person…
She can't let him suspect her. She can't let him suspect that she's fallen for her patient. She'll be fired, and then she'll never see him again, her Mr. J., her everything, and Arkham will leak it to the papers, and she'll be a laughingstock, a punchline, a disgrace…
"Oh puddin'…what the hell are we gonna do?"