A Fairly Honorable Defeat

11. Harley Harley Harley Quin

"Please don't hurt me! Please, please, please don't hurt me!" The young redheaded girl huddled on the floor sobbed desperately. She was absolutely stunning—big blue eyes, pretty heart shaped face with a nose that turned up just the right amount and full lips—they'd been painted crimson but the lipstick was now speared across her face. Her eye shadow was halfway down her cheeks from the tears she'd been crying for the last hour. But still, Harley thought she was still gorgeous even with raccoon eyes and smeared lipstick.

Harley wanted to say, "I'm sorry, I don't want to be here either." Or, "If I could let you go I would—but then I don't think I would make it out the door." Or even, "I know this seems bad now, but hopefully he'll be in a good mood and it won't get that much worse." She had class in the morning—her fourth year at medical school and instead of being home with her head in a book she was—here.

"Please don't hurt me—why are they doing this to me?" The redhead continued to sob openly. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape making movement virtually impossible.

With a sigh, Harley looked away from the young girl. They were probably the same age. They were probably very similar in a lot of ways. Except right now the redhead was a duct taped kidnap victim and Harley was sitting on a stool near the door with a very big gun in her hand—she'd been given the charge of watching the victim. One of a several charges she'd been given lately.

At first there were a few similar to the one where she kept look out. Then in only the last few months they'd grown more and more dangerous until without realizing it, Harley was suddenly fully submerged in Gotham's underbelly with her unnamed boyfriend. As for being dangerous for her physical well being—well—everyone seemed afraid of him, most likely because of the scars. The thugs that were frequently around seemed to almost respect her for being with him.

Only recently did she understand where he'd go all those nights.

One day, after a grueling thirteen hours at the hospital shadowing a very patronizing doctor with the rest of her class—one of their hands on days she'd come home to a very normal scene. He was out on the fire escape on his mobile and the television had the news going. She wasn't really in any kind of a mood to deal with his lately very twitchy and unkind temperament, so she unloaded the groceries and poured a glass of wine to calm her nerves.

By the end of the glass of wine he'd slipped back inside, smiling happily. He'd clearly just had a shower because his hair was plastered to his forehead—which Harley found incredibly cute. As usual, so long as she looked from his velvety green eyes and upward he was still as handsome as he'd ever been. The scars—well she'd gotten used to them after a few months. Along with the scars came the twitchy temperament but that was easily avoided so long as she remained quiet when he was in a noticeably bad mood.

The small signs of affection were still there every now and then. Like just then. He came up and wrapped his arms around her, still grinning manically. She didn't like the way it pulled at his scars so she just pressed her face into his shirt and sighed, "I've had the longest day," she moaned.

"Hmmm," he hummed, clearly not interested, "Look, Harley, you're coming out with me again tonight."

She froze, realizing the hug was to butter her up, not a sign of affection. He felt her go rigid and squeezed her tighter, "Oh come on, don't be such a—a—ahm, well, don't be like that."

Harley knew saying no would be an absolute mistake and he might disappear again. Every little argument they had ended in his disappearing for a week or so, leaving Harley in a state of panic that he might have been killed or hurt—or worse, so angry with her that he never came back. So she prayed it wouldn't be too much of a job and went along with him out the fire escape and down the metal frame. Harley wasn't sure why they didn't just use the front door but again, she wasn't willing to start an argument.

A silver van was waiting just under the fire escape and he hoped off the last bit of fire escape easily—the van's door slid open as soon as his feet hit the pavement. He held his arms out to her but Harley hesitated.

"I'm not going to drop you, honey." He said, making a face. "Don't' you trust me?"

Harley hopped off the fire escape and he caught her easily then chucked her into the van before climbing in after her. The door slid shut and they took off down the ally way towards main street. It was only then that Harley looked around at the other men in the van with them, and the fact that half of them were looking at her with something akin to hunger in their eyes. She shrank closer to her lover and he looked down at her curiously.

"Who's the bird?" The muscled young man in the passenger seat asked callously, "She's awfully clean looking for a prozzie." The other men in the car snickered at this.

"Excuse me!" Harley couldn't stop herself from snapping, "They think I'm a prostitute."

Before she even had the word 'prostitute' out of her mouth there was a loud zipping sound she'd now come to recognize as a gun with a silencer going off. The man in the passenger seat slumped forward and a bullet hole formed in the windscreen. Harley's eyes widened and she found herself momentarily incapable of speech.

"Anyone else?" he said jovially.

"So I take it, she's your lady then, Joker?" said a young boy in the back—he couldn't have been more than 18 though he was twirling a gun in his hand as if he'd been handling one for years.

Harley looked up at him, focusing on the green eyes, "Joker?" she mouthed and he shrugged back but slung an arm around her shoulders.

Her job had been to play look out. She couldn't understand why it was taking so many people to pull off one job so to speak but it quickly became clear when they pulled up outside the city courthouse. Harley was instructed to stay outside and stop anyone from going in—a gun was placed in her hand and she felt sick at the feeling of the cold metal in her palm. She was supposed to stop people either by her natural charm or the heavy gun.

"How do I hide this—I don't even have my bag—" she hissed at him as the others tripped quietly up the steps to the courthouse.

"Tuck it in your trousers," he said impatiently, stuffing the nose of the gun down the back of her jeans.

"This is absurd," she muttered when he'd finished.

He crossed his arms and pursed his lips, about to break into a sour mood—she quickly spread her lips into a wide fake smile that she hoped was silly enough to sweeten up his mood at least a little bit. It worked—he cackled quietly, ruffled her hair and planted a kiss on her lips.

"Go get 'em tiger," she heard herself say, irony steeping her words. He found this amusing as well and tried to hold back giggling all the way up the steps to the courthouse.

Only one person tried to enter but she managed to stave them off without having to pull out the gun. Harley didn't think there was any way she was capable of that anyway. She knew she wouldn't be able to kill anyone—ever—she would just never do it—but as for pulling out a gun threateningly. Well, maybe if there were no bullets. But still, she wouldn't want to frighten someone like that. Especially not someone innocent who had no that idea if they did go up those steps they'd be in a world of pain.

The guys came running down the steps and she was grabbed and thrown into the van again just as it pulled up to the curb. They all climbed inside, sweating and panting from the run down. The young man who was so comfortable with his gun was now in the passenger seat—he turned to look at them. "You are one sick fuck Joker."

He shrugged and Harley watched him warily out of the corner of her eye. She decided she would ask when they got home—but when they got there—entering via the front door at Harley's insistence—he simple held his hands up. "Don't ask me any questions." He said firmly.

"Okay, don't drag me along on any more adventures," she sighed back, moving into the kitchen to make dinner. She poured another large glass of wine and he came up behind her, pushing her into the stove so the knobs pressed into her spine painfully. "Hey!"

"Stop," he ordered, his eyes darkening. She noticed his pupils were completely dilated, only a thin ring of green showing at the edge. "You don't want to know about it. I ah—I know you don't want to know about it. So just don't ask. Especially don't ask why they have started calling me—ugh— the Joker."

"Okay, you're right." she agreed. It was true. She didn't want to know. He was holding her wrist so tightly she thought he might break it but she refrained from saying anything other than. "Would you like ratatouille or lasagna—I could go either way, really."

He searched her eyes for a minute, trying to find something there to understand her in the slightest. Why she would say that—drop the inquisition so quickly and move on to the domestic role she'd carved out for herself in their little safe haven. Poor Harley, he thought. So unsure of who she was, only that she was his.

Rather than replying he released her wrist, turned on his heel and went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Harley shut her eyes and decided to order pizza. She had another long day at the hospital the next day and needed to catch up on her reading—she only hoped his mood would improve before they went to bed. And it did, he came out of the bedroom eventually and ignored the pizza on the kitchen counter. Instead he sat on the arm of the sofa, looking over her shoulder at her reading.

He started playing with her hair—distracting Harley from her work but she tried to ignore him. His hand—long white fingers that she'd always thought looked like those of pianist—slid down her face, stroking her jaw softly, then slowly down her throat until his hand was flat over her heart. "Harlequin," his voice came out raspy and she looked up, unable to concentrate on her work at all while he was touching her so softly.

"Yes, darling?" she gazed up at him, hoping he would lean down and kiss her gently. And he did—except it was gently or lovingly, it was rough and vicious—biting her lips and dragging his tongue over her throat. Harley didn't mind this kind of kissing. It made her head spin so when he slid onto the couch next to her, covering her body with his and moving his hands over her—grabbing and twisting her small frame—she forgot her work completely—the papers of her medical journal spread out underneath them, fluttering to the floor.

She would read them later—she always did—somehow she always caught up—but in that moment it was clear she'd done something right. So she kissed his scars and let him undress her, and she sighed happily that he wasn't angry with her anymore. Her Joker.

X

Harley's mind muddled over that night while she watched the redhead continue to cry helplessly. That had been one of the first nights she'd been introduced to Gotham's underworld. A few weeks later, though he'd promised he wouldn't ask her to again, she had been placed in a fire escape high up in downtown Gotham with a pair of binoculars, a walkie-talkie and an even bigger gun. She was told to let them know when a certain man with dark hair—roughly in his late thirties and wearing a navy blue suit—would climb out of his stretch limo and enter the Roosevelt Hotel.

She had managed to bring a medical journal with her as well as a thermos of black coffee to keep her going while she kept watch. The man came out, she told him over the walkie talkie, then sat back reading up on Eletctorconvulsive therapy and deinstitutionalization whilst sipping her coffee until he came to get her.

Over and over again, he promised it would be the last time and every single time he'd ask her again. Now, sitting in the dirty, smelly basement of some old apartment complex Harley was keeping watch over this sad little redhead. She once again had a text book in hand, irritated that the light was so dim in the basement that she could barely make out the pictures of lobotomies performed earlier in the century.

It wasn't that she wanted the redhead to die; it was just that she only had three months left until she was Dr. Harleen Quinzel and her year long internship at Arkham would begin in early July. She had a meeting with the head of the asylum, Dr. Jonathan Crane the next day and knowing she would only be getting a few hours sleep, Harley rationalized that at the very least she could pretend to sound intelligent.

He stormed in then, his eyes painted up with two black circles—she knew it was to look scary and the redhead backed up into a wall, clearly terrified. With a sideways glance at Harley, indicating she should leave, she quickly escaped from the room and lurked out in the smelly hallway, still trying to read her text book. A thug walked past and noticed her peering closely at the page.

"What're ya reading Harley?"

She was none to pleased that some of them knew her name. The Joker's girlfriend who apparently—and she didn't know where this notion came from—was just as ruthless as he was, but she could play mind games, almost better than him. Give Harley a bad look and either she or the Joker would shoot you before you could apologize.

Harley held up the text book but was pretty sure he was illiterate—he nodded anyway. "Big words, you are a smart one, aren't ya."

"Indeed," she mumbled.

The door to the room burst open and he—the Joker—her lover—whatever he was these days slid out dramatically, his fingers fluttering in a way that could only be called jazz hands. Harley stared at him and was suddenly very afraid of him, as she hadn't been in years. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the knife twirling in his hands and the sheer glee at what he'd just done—murdered a young woman. Maybe it was the scars or the big black raccoon eyes he'd painted on. Whatever it was Harley swallowed heavily and pressed herself into the grimy wall, backing away from him.

And he saw it.

His black eyes changed suddenly—no more joy at a job well done—now there was anger there. "Oh—oh what was that Harley."

The thug could see a domestic dispute coming on and made a quick exit up the stairwell.

"Nothing," she said with confidence. She held up her book, "Just reading."

"Oh, okay." He was on top of her before she had a chance to blink, the knife held to her throat. "I'm sorry, I just thought I saw you—ahm—back away from me—are you disgusted? Disturbed maybe? Perhaps you don't love me anymore."

Harley tried to look bewildered, "What are you talking about sweets, I'm just waiting to go home with—"

The knife clattered to the floor and suddenly pain exploded through her left cheek as he drew back a fist and decked her—hard. Harley's mouth opened and closed a few times—her expression warring between fury, shock and of course, fear as she held her cheek. "What did you—"

He hit her again, this time knocking her to the floor. Rather than cowering she quickly scrambled up, "Stop it!" she snapped, her mind a muddle of physical pain and now a kind of overwhelming emotional quicksand. Tears started to form but she held them back, keeping her mouth in a straight line.

"So you're afraid of me," he took a few steps backwards. "And here I thought you didn't care about the scars."

"I don't!" she exclaimed, taking a few strides towards him. She wasn't sure why but despite the pain in her face all she wanted was to reassure him—take away the doubt and replace it with love. "Darling, please." She pleaded, her face an open and honest show of sadness—at his dilemma, not at hers.

He seemed to calm down, looking at the floor and picking up his knife, slipping it in the pocket of his trousers. He licked his lips and scars and didn't say anything for a long time while she took his hand and massaged his arm. A glance up at the bruise slowly forming on her face and he winced. "Oh, Harley Harley Harley Quin I'm—"

She touched his lips. "Don't be sorry and don't be not sorry. Let's just go home."

He nodded his consent and they escaped the smelly dirty basement.

The next morning Harley woke up naked other than a pair of her black cotton knickers. They were only a little bit sexy but he didn't really care about things like that so she didn't bother. He was lying next to her, breathing softly into the pillow, his black eye make up rubbing into the white fabric. She stared at him for a moment, wondering what was happening, watching the scars twitch with his breathing.

She started to get up— clinical practice at the hospital waiting for no one. A quick look in the mirror showed a horrific blue bruise blooming on her left cheek and small finger print sized bruises all over her body. Harley sighed and just prayed she had enough make up to cover up at least some of them. And maybe she'd say she got mugged—that might explain her face. Fell down the stairs was too obvious. Maybe just 'My boyfriend did it for the first time'. Hopefully no one would ask at all.

"Ooh—uh—that's vicious," his sleep voice came from behind her, gravelly and nasal. "Poor Harley Harley Harley Quin."

She chanced a look at him in the mirror and turned around, "Don't worry darling, I know you were just—emotionally stressed."

He stared at her with blank eyes, the smeared make up on his chin and in his hair line. "Right," was all he said, then gestured for her to come back to bed. She did, but only for a few hesitant kisses and a bit of a group as his fingers traced the bruises from the night before. "I like this look on you—it suits you, Harley."

She snorted and started getting ready for work.

X

Note: Well, thank you to the couple people who are reading this, it makes me super duper happy when you leave me such kind reviews. I know I've been churning these out like a mad woman. Drop me a review to let me know how you think its going so far. I'm not straying too far, am I?