"Is there a, uh—a Doc-tor Quin-zel in the house?"

One part of Harley flailed about internally, a heady combination of excitement, surprise and nerves. The other part unhelpfully pointed out that at least she now knew her full name.

A different voice spoke up, shaky with fear. "Now," the man cleared his throat, "I don't know what you're—" Another gunshot sounded, shrieks and intakes of breath accompanying it, as well as a body thumping the ground. Harley lifted the table cloth a smidgen, peeking out. Blood was splattered across the wooden floor, its source the man that had dared to speak up. The man—the fat man that had glared at her—was splayed awkwardly on his back, red liquid bubbling up from the hole in his forehead. Harley felt all sympathy disappear immediately; fat man hadn't been very nice. Her eyes ran over the room quickly from the blown in doors to the cowering people hiding behind tables and chairs until they finally landed on what she was searching for.

With his back to her, a green haired man, surrounded by four other men clad in suits, stood in the centre of the room, dressed in a now blood splattered tuxedo, white bow tie and black tailcoat included. Twin decorative black and gold guns were held loosely, comfortably in his hands, like they were an extension of himself.

The Joker, Harley realized with a jolt.

Is he, uh, here for dinner then, or…?

His weekly killing spree?

No, wait...he was—he was talking about me.

Harley smacked her palm into her forehead. What was she still doing under the stupid table, then? She crawled under the fabric and into the open about to make her presence known when yet another shot rang out. Harley's eyes darted to the staff doorway where Micky, no doubt coming to see what all the commotion was about, had had his guts freshly splattered against the walls. Harley's mouth dropped open, horrified.

"Look, the fat guy I get, but did you have to kill Micky?" She gestured towards the waiter, "He was turning out to be a real nice guy."

The Joker whirled around so fast, Harley was impressed he stayed steady on his feet. She would have complimented him on the graceful twirl, but she found herself unable to move when his eyes met hers. Eyes that Harley intuitively knew to be blue now appeared black, pupils so dilated she could barely make out the icy colour surrounding them. Shadows encircled the skin around his eyes, the dark colour bleeding into purple and blue until becoming the unnatural white of his cheekbone.

The force of his complete attention sent tingles down her spine and raised the hair on the back of her neck, as though it was his hands roaming over her face, her waist, her legs, instead of just his gaze. It was assessing, heated and predatory. And, Harley decided, she really liked it.

He's lost weight, one of the voices inside her head remarked, its tone crestfallen. Has he not been eating?

His cheek bones seemed a little sharp, his eyes a little gaunt. She doubted anyone else could see it, what with their trembling in fear and all, but she thought he looked…drained. Tired. Desperate.

The Joker ran his tongue slowly, languidly, across his metal capped teeth and smoothed his already slick hair back with a white gloved hand. Rolling his neck, he inhaled deeply, his eyes perusing her body again, snagging this time on the pink and blue of her hair. The Joker stilled at the sight, his head bent to the side. Like he was in his own little world, the restaurant empty of anyone but himself, he muttered breathlessly, "She got it, got it, got it—sucked the cotton candy and swallowed the bubble-gum, kissed the barber on the way out."

Translation, anyone? Harley asked the voices.

There was a strange silence, bordering on reverent, until one piped up quietly, "He likes our hair."

Oh. Well, that was nice of him. Maybe she should say something nice about his? 'You remind me of a watermelon', or 'That colour matches your serial killer smile.' She tapped her chin. Could they be taken as insults? It was so hard to tell sometimes. Her ruminating was cut off by the squeaking of the staff door hinges from where her waiter friend hadn't had time to shut it properly.

Oh, right, she remembered, mad about Micky.

Recovering first from the thrall they both seemed to have been in, Harley looked at him expectantly.

"Well?"

He clicked his mouth shut with a snap and squinted at her, stretching his neck out and rolling his shoulders until a sly smile slunk across his face. Micky's corpse jolted as another of the Joker's bullets was embedded in its stomach.

"Hey," she snapped. "Stop shooting the dead people—you already killed them once, so now it's just rude." She suddenly noticed the mess of her dessert on the table and sucked in a breath. "And you got freakin' shrapnel in my pie!"

The Joker held up two placating hands, splaying his fingers and letting both guns dangle from his thumbs through the trigger guards. "Harley," he cooed at her. "Cupcake, sweet cheeks—sweetheart. It's so—so good to see you."

The young woman glared at him, cocking a hip against the table and crossing her arms.

What is he doing here?

How'd he find me, anyway?

Wish Batsy was with me.

"Now, a little birdie told me that someone's been a naughty, naughty, girl." He tutted at her, "Pumpkin had no fun at the Sick House, s'that it?"

"I didn't know it was a hospital, okay? And I—oi, what little bird?"

It was then Harley properly looked at the men behind the Joker and the dots were able to connect. She pointed excitedly, "Hey, it's Mistah Beard Man!" Although his expression didn't change, Beardy abruptly looked like a deer in the headlights. The Joker turned his head slowly to where she pointing, and his hand twitched on one of his guns before he shook his head as though visibly dislodging a thought.

"Frosty," he barked, and the stoic looking man's jaw clenched.

He cleared his throat.

"Yeah, boss?"

The Joker bared his teeth at the man—Frosty—in a sickly-sweet mock of a smile. His tone was one a parent used when dismissing their child from an embarrassing situation they'd caused, and considering how to properly punish them for it later. The green haired man, apparently, did not like attention being taken away from him.

You mean your attention.

Well. Maybe.

"Go-uh, have a time out in the van. Eat some strawberries, drink some arsenic"—he waved his hand— "no, no, no, some absinthe. Go. Leave. Go, go, go." The man was out the open doorway not two seconds later, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his face. The other three men accompanying the Joker stared into space, apathetic and detached.

Um…maybe I shouldn't have said anything.

"And all you people," he called out, spinning around to address his hostages, always the ringmaster to his circus. "Well-ah, yo-o-o-u are all in for a very special night tonigh-t."

Harley huffed quietly and picked up her pie, flicking pieces of door and window out of the meringue. Grabbing her spoon out of the raspberry ice-cream that resembled melted brains (she had a reference point now, thanks to the fat guy), she took a tentative bite, smoothing it gently across her tongue in case she'd missed any stray pieces.

Huh. S'not bad.

"But let's make this quick," the madman continued, "gotta get this outta the way before the 'ol Bat arrives. Now, Harley."

She glanced up at him.

"C'mere, baby. Come to daddy. Come on, come on, come on."

The customers, who surrounded the two of them in huddles, flicked their wide eyes from the Joker to her like they were meerkats performing on the discovery channel. Harley would have found it funny to watch if she wasn't so cheesed off.

She looked out past where the large doors had been and into the street where there were a number of other small restaurants and shops. There were a couple of people looking out of their windows, some filming with cell phones, others talking on them. Harley, feigning disinterest and spitefully wanting to antagonize the Joker a little after he'd barged in on her dinner, didn't look at him as she spoke.

"No, thank you." Her words were prim but vague, like she was in an old period drama, declining a dance offer given by an unwanted suitor instead of a man armed and dangerous. A giggle bubbled up inside her, but she popped that bubble before it could escape.

Ooo, this is gonna be good.

The Joker's face crumpled in mock disappointment and he placed a hand over his heart as though having been dealt a fatal blow. "Harley, Harley, Harley. I ain't askin'."

The Joker gestured to one of the men behind him who then walked over to their unwilling audience and dragged a middle-aged woman in a black dress by the arm back over to his boss. A glint of anticipation in his eye, the Joker placed a hand on the blubbering woman's shoulder and drew his gun lightly, almost fondly, across her temple and down her cheek.

"Now," he said to Harley, ignoring the woman's pleads, "we're gonna play an itsy-bitsy game called-ah, 'Do What I Tell You, o-o-or it's Family Reunion Time with the Dead Relatives'.

Harley blinked. That's a terrible name.

Instead of voicing this, she took another bite of pie.

Sweet lemony goodness, I take it back. This thing is amazing.

Her quiet moan caught the beginning of the Joker's next words.

"So. Harley-girl. Doll face. Apple of my eye. What's it gonna be?"

Harley sucked her spoon clean before pausing to tilt her head pensively. Quirking her mouth thoughtfully, she asked, "Well, what if she's got no dead relatives? I mean, yeah, everyone has some, but maybe she's never met them, and so it wouldn't really be a reunion, y'know? O-o-or," she considered, "maybe one of her relatives recently died and you'd only be doing her a favour if you killed her. Both circumstances kinda defeat the purpose of the game, right?" Silence met her carefully laid out reasoning and Harley shrugged, "You should at least ask her."

The Joker squinted at her and swiped his tongue across his lips, looking between his hostage and Harley like he'd missed something. Twice he opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again just as quickly, unwilling for the words to escape. Harley hid a smile behind another mouthful of pie. Perplexed was a good look on the Joker.

Clearing his throat purposefully, he slid his guns back in the holsters under his coat. Straightening his bow tie, he then clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "New game," he announced. "And you know what? I like this one better."

Harley flicked her hair behind her back and wondered vaguely if she'd make it home in time for a late fashion show she had seen advertised on the T.V. earlier. She suspected not, since the man before her seemed to enjoy listening to himself talk so much. Harley sighed. Yeah, it was good to see him—weird circumstances and death threats not withstanding—but the timing was just inconvenient. The blonde huffed and started making her way over to him with her dessert.

"Look, Mistah Jay, I'm sure it's a great game, but I'm kinda busy, y'know? There's this fashion thing on T.V. soon and I bought popcorn to watch it with, and I gotta tuck the boys into their doggy beds cause they're useless at home by themselves and—"

"Soda," the Joker said the word like it was an epiphany, clenching his fists open and closed in eagerness before running his fingers through his hair.

Harley made a face. "Huh?"

"So-o-o-da. And—and little gingerbread girls. Toffy apple and caramel and grapes."

Harley's shoulders slumped in exasperation. He wasn't listening to a word she was saying. "What, are we making a grocery list now? That's not a game."

His laugh came out a little breathless. "Peaches, Harley-girl. Walnuts and milk and gravy. Ya never host a party without 'em."

Harley thought for a moment and then shook her head. "Nope, still don't get it."

The Joker raised his eyebrows and smacked the middle-aged woman crying next to him encouragingly on the back. "You know. A little—little get-together back at my place. To watch the, uh,"—he turned to his hostage— "what was it?"

She swallowed convulsively and whispered, "A, um, fash—fashion show?"

He smacked his temple lightly. "To watch the fashion show."

Harley looked between them. "What…really?"

"Uh-huh."

Hands on her hips, she asked, "How big is your T.V?"

The Joker rolled his neck, pressed his lips together and spread his arms out to show her a size.

That…that's pretty big.

"And you have all that stuff? The soda and the caramel and whatever?"

"Oh, with teensy sprinkles on top."

Harley's face brightened. "Okay! Just gimme a second though, yeah?"

Making her way across the room, she knelt next to her dead friend, pinching the fabric of his apron between her fingers to wipe at some blood on the corner of his mouth.

"So long, Micky. You have fun up in Heaven, y'hear me? Well—if you believe in that sort of thing, anyway." She sucked in a breath, "Anyway. I…"

The Joker made an impatient noise behind her, "Honey-Pie."

"Okay, okay, I'm coming. Spoilsport." She muttered the last bit under her breath. Folding the apron back neatly into place, she got back on her feet and brushed off her knees. Frustrated, she flung her hands out, "See? I'm up. Where are we—ow."

"Light it up, boys," The Joker yelled gleefully, taking her elbow—her sore, bruised, scab marked elbow—in a tight grip and leading her roughly outside to the most ostentatious car Harley could swear she'd ever seen. It was a reddish, pinkish, purplish colour, low to the ground and practically glistening it was so clean. The hub caps were a shiny gold, matching the colour of the intricate paintwork that ran down the side of the doors. The pearl white plates at the front and back of the car read 'JOKER'.

"Nice ride," she breathed.

The Joker interrupted her ogling by wrenching the passenger door open and stalking towards her, only to grasp her shoulders and push her down forcefully into the awaiting white leather seat. Strands of her hair got caught around his cufflinks (Golden letter J's, she noted with interested) and Harley let out a chorus of 'ow, ow, ow,' when he ripped his arms away without a thought for her scalp. She turned to level him with an angry pout.

"Ain't got time to dilly-dally," he sung and slammed her door shut before swaggering around the car to take his seat next to her. The car smelt new, a mixture of leather, air fresher and a mechanic's garage. Lifting his middle finger to his mouth, the Joker pinched the white material of his glove between his teeth, pulled it off, and then did the same with his other hand, revealing white, coarsely painted nails underneath. Harley thought they were real pretty, but he probably should have chosen a shade that didn't quite match his skin colour so well; it made his fingers look kind of creepy.

Discarding the gloves carelessly to the side, he muttered something under his breath, gliding his now bare hands lovingly across the steering wheel and pressing a button on the door that locked them inside.

"What?"

He snapped his neck to the side to face her and raised his eyebrows, almost excitedly. "Buckle up, Baby. S'gonna be a bumpy ride."

Harley rolled her eyes and ignored him—it wasn't like he was wearing a seatbelt—and crossed her arms over her chest. This was not how she planned her evening to turn out. The Joker grinned and chuckled darkly, putting the car in gear and pressing down on the accelerator. Hard.

Much to her shame, Harley squealed in surprise as her head hit the back of her headrest when they shot down the road faster than a bullet, tires screeching. She gripped the armrests like her life depended on it (which it quite possibly did) and hunched her shoulders in protectively. Cars ran into shops and houses in their rushed attempts to dodge them, and a symphony of smashed glass and hissing motors followed in their wake. The Joker, taking his eyes off the road for what had to have been a full five seconds, laughed at her, the noise coming out of his throat long and scratchy, like a bow being pulled painfully slow across a violin.

She made a nasty face and stuck her tongue out at him, but his hand shot out, surprising her, and he pinched her tongue between his thumb and forefinger, steering just as easily one-handed. His middle finger ran down the centre of her tongue and Harley snapped her hand up to his wrist, but instead of letting go, the Joker's fingers tightened painfully.

The young woman made a high-pitched sound that was meant to sound angry, when all it came out like was a wimper. Flicking his eyes languidly between her and the road, the Joker murmured softly, "Careful, baby, careful. Don't go stickin' this round the bend where it don't belong. Too easy to—uh, misplace."

Ow, ow, ow.

Okay, yep, whatever, just let go now.

"Reggo," Harley spoke around his fingers, "'at 'urts."

He put on an innocent face, looking out the windscreen at the road again. "You say somethin', baby? That mangy old cat got your tongue?" He giggled. "Does it? Does it?"

No, but a soon to be fingerless man does.

Because really…why was she letting him treat her like this?

Faster than even the infamous Joker could follow, Harley tightened her grip on his wrist and pulled, just…not in the direction he was expecting. Two of his fingers entered her mouth completely as she wrenched his hand closer to her face, his thumb and remaining fingers splayed out either side of her mouth, almost like they were cupping her cheeks. She tried not to gag as his middle finger hit the back of her throat, had the brief satisfaction of seeing the Joker's eyes widen, and feel the car swerve wildly off course before she bit down angrily.

Harley was expecting a grunt for her effort. Maybe a yelp if she were lucky—some noise of pain that signified she'd taught him not to mess with her. The deep, gravely groan that started deep in his chest and swelled up out of his throat was not what she was anticipating.

Barrelling down an inner-city street at what had to be eighty miles per hour, the Joker's jaw hung slack as he blinked slowly, his eyes dangerously glazed and hazy. He inhaled a loud and stuttering breath. Shifted in his chair absently.

What is he—

He—he likes this?

So not what I was aiming for.

She loosened the grip of her teeth on his fingers, which was apparently the wrong thing to do. The King of Crime whined and shoved his two fingers deeper into her mouth, simultaneously stepping even harder on the gas. Harley did choke this time when both fingers hit the back of her throat, and tore his hand away, leaning against the door and coughing hard into her elbow.

When she managed to calm her lungs down, the blonde turned to her driver and smacked his arm as hard as she could.

"That hurt," she shouted.

The Joker, a small flush having risen in his cheeks, giggled again.

"You, you—you tease. Sure, she's angry, then excited, then…then she can't stand it. But s'okay, baby. I know what'll calm that ever lovin' gooseberry farm for ya." He clicked his fingers, "It's missing, it's missing—what's missing?" His fist slammed down on the dashboard until a sharp laugh wracked his frame. "Oh, I remember. Mood music."

Harley snuggled back into her seat trying to get as much space between her and the Joker as possible, clenching her teeth together and all but draping herself over the car door. With his words running through her head, she expected the Joker's hand to reach for the stereo, so was a little confused when she ending up half in his lap after he swerved the car violently, aiming for a group of swaggering boys crossing the road. Their shrieks rang out, audible through even the thick glass of the windows and the revving of the engine, and the Joker hooted with laughter as he hit two of them, sending them flying.

"Aaah," he mocked their screams, laughing uncontrollably every few seconds. "Sounds even better when you-uh—wait, wait, whaddya say?" He was grinning, smacking syncopated rhythms out on the back of the steering wheel. "When you—you 'up the volume.'." The Joker stabbed his finger into another button on the door and the sunroof opened above them, gusting in the cold night air and making the sounds of Gotham City grow louder, more intense. Horns were honking, dog barking, sirens sounding in the distance. All the noise mixed together, sounds born from anger, crime and danger seemed to epitomize the Joker far more than a simple song on the radio could.

Harley cocked her head and watched him from the corner of her eye.

Mood music, huh?

For some reason, probably to do with the chaotic way the night had already run, it seemed appropriate.

Far behind them, what seemed like an explosion sounded, and Harley climbed up on her seat to pop her head out of the sunroof. She was back in her down a second later, shouting with renewed vigour.

"What the hell, Mistah Jay! Did you just blow up that restaurant?"

The man leaned back in his seat, shrugging nonchalantly. "Harley, Harley, Harley. I was right here. Why'd you even think that?"

Harley scoffed. That was rich—and she was an idiot.

She seethed, "You don't actually have any of that stuff you said, do ya." It wasn't a question.

Still, he deigned to answer, "Sure I do, Pumpkin. We got toast and, u-u-uh, pineapple and eggs."

"You didn't even say any of those things earlier!" Harley hit her head back against the headrest. "Please tell me you at least have a T.V."

"Oh, we got cable, and everything."

Oh, joy.

She was never going to catch that fashion program, was she? And, not only was she never going to eat another delectable dessert from that restaurant again, but a perfectly good bag of pop-corn was sitting on her kitchen bench, going to waste.

It's cool, Harls. Just means you get to eat it later.

Yeah, unless the boys get to it first.

The thought made her turn cold with guilt. Her babies! They'd been so happy to see her when she got home, and now they might think he had gone and left them again. She was a terrible mum.

Another of the Joker startling laughs jerked her attention to him, and he sung, "I spy with my little eye, somethin' beginning with, mmm, B."

Oh, great, another game.

"Oh, I don't know," she huffed, "is it 'bald-brow', cause there's at least one of those in here."

His eyes rolled to the corner of their sockets as he gave her a puzzled side-glance. Oh, come on, did she have to explain everything?

"'Bald-brow'," she repeated. "Ya got no eyebrows, so ya forehead's bald. Get it?"

He hummed faintly and smoothed a thumb over the area to which she was referring, otherwise unmoved by her explanation. "Wrong," he drew out, and then pointed out her window. Following the direction of his finger, she flinched as something big and black smacked heavily onto her side of the car, causing the wheels to bounce.

"Oh, we have a winner!" The Joker announced, and withdrew one of his embellished guns from its holster. The car squealed and veered as he lifted his arm and shot through the open sunroof at whatever had latched onto them. And whatever—actually, whoever— it was, it was freaky looking. A dark mask shaped in what looked to be an animal's face and a…a cape? Wow.

This guy needed to get out more.

He was gripping the sides of the car in an attempt not to slide off, his constant motion meaning each of the Joker's bullets barely even grazed him. Harley was content to watch in shocked befuddlement until the psycho mask wearing caped weirdo managed to get a decent grip on top of the car and plunged his muscular arm—oh my gosh, check out those biceps—inside it, latching onto her shoulder, and half pulling her out.

Harley shrieked.

She tried to twist out of his grip, but the guy must have eaten solid steel for breakfast, because he wasn't budging. Air rushed into her face as her head cleared the roof, and hair whipped around her face painfully. Below her, the Joker swore and twisted the wheel avoiding being crushed by an oncoming truck. They were in a much less populated area now, the lighting from each streetlamp casting sinister shadows on the man that had so rudely extracted her half out of a moving vehicle.

Oh, screw this.

Reaching down into the car as far as she could, Harley flailed her arm around until it made contact with her goal. The Joker tensed as she ran a hand blindly down his shoulder and across his chest where she took a firm hold of the second gun he had hidden beneath his Jacket. The gangster's delight was a palpable thing that soaked into her as he understood her intent. She heard his laugh even over the rushing of the wind.

Cocking the ornate weapon and bringing it shakily to the masked man's chest, she fired.

His grunt was lost to her as he rolled off the car and onto the awaiting road, and Harley fired the gun again just for good measure. And then again because it was actually kind of fun. Something yanked on the bottom of her dress and she collapsed in a sore heap on the leather of her chair. The Joker, beside her, was in hysterics, slapping his mirth out on the dashboard, his shoulders shaking. His hoots and giggles—so wild and full—were contagious, and Harley was soon laughing with equal abandon.

When compared, it was a rather uneventful drive after that.

I am so sorry for how long this has taken me to upload.

I was ready to upload it a little while ago, but we've been having a whole heap of internet problems, so this is the first chance I've gotten. I hope having the Joker back made up for it, though! Hopefully you enjoyed it :)

Thank you for all the follows/favourites/reviews. Every single one makes me happy and excited.

Please don't be scared to tell me what you think, and I'll see you next time :D