Day Twelve
He stared down at her sleeping form, thinking, contemplating.
In ignorant slumber, her arm had snaked around his own, clinging to him as if he were no more than something soft and huggable like a teddy bear.
But he wasn't a teddy bear.
He was the Joker, the scarred, war-painted anarchist that reveled in chaos and mayhem.
In the beginning, he didn't know what he'd do exactly to Harleen Quinzel, or Harley as he called her. He had thought about keeping her long enough to reel in Batman and then quickly and mercifully shoot her. Then he had thought about maybe coaxing her into killing herself. But, in the end, those where the ideas of a schemer, and he was most decidedly not a schemer. It was better just to keep her here and see what would become of it.
He had never taken into account that he would become fond of her.
It was true, in the past week or so, he had found that he, the murderer of many, the agent of chaos, had actually developed some feelings for her. It made him sick. It made him want to puke. Feelings were not something to be proud of. Feelings were those warm, gooshy things inside of you that ate away at your strength until you were nothing but a neutered lapdog.
And yet, his feelings for Harley were there and going strong.
She was so needy! She'd taken to following him around like a puppy and here he was hours ago whispering lullabies into her ear. But that was one of the reasons why he enjoyed her. When she had started out weeks ago as his doctor in Arkham, she had been so determined, so eager to learn as much as she could in order to cure him. Now, all she wanted was his approval, his kindness and respect. After finally releasing the memories of her lost childhood, she wanted something to fill the gap, to make her finally smile again.
And he loved that about her. He loved her yearning to rediscover herself. It only made the idea that her true self was being suppressed all the more possible. And that was another thing he adored about her: her inner shadow. He had seen it a couple of times…that time when she had viciously lashed out on those three mugs on her third day here, her wild, uncontrolled voice the night she had gotten drunk, and the fierce energy she had shown when they had encountered Crane. Even though they were just bits and pieces, he'd shake with excitement whenever he got to see even the tiniest scrap of it. No doubt about it, somewhere in those gentle baby-blue eyes lurked the wild, untamed presence of Harley Quinn. He could only try to hold onto his anticipation for the day when he would bring her completely out. Harley would finally be free at last.
Next to him, one of Harley's eyes opened just a fraction of an inch. It stared sleepily at him in the darkness, making him lose himself briefly as he stared into those endless blue depths. Then it closed back down and she exhaled comfortably, snuggling deeper under the covers.
Yes, he'd admit it. He had become really fond of her. He wanted to hurt her, to punish her, to slice up her soft, peachy cheeks until she was just as scarred as he was, but he still couldn't let her go. She was not fully his yet, but he wanted her to be. He hungered for her body, relishing the day when she'd come to him and beg him to touch her. He wanted to keep her for his own, to take her under his wing and mold her into his equal. .Her.
And he hated himself for that!
Very gently, so as not to wake her, he shifted out of the bed and put on his coat. He couldn't stand being in here anymore. His head was hurting too much. He needed some time out. Cause some mischief, terrify a few folks, and perhaps find the Bat. He'd love a good fight with Batman right now. It would give him a sense of power, a sense of purpose.
Slinking out the door, he turned and gave her one last look. God, she was so desperately beautiful while she slept; her hair silver in the moonlight, the outline of her figure so perfectly proportioned and molded. So tragically beautiful, so hatefully affecting. Almost like…
…Jeanie…(?)
What was that? A memory? Someone else's? His head was hurting more now than before. Licking his lips, he turned and closed the door behind him.
"Sleep tight, my pet."
XxX
"Where do you think he went, Cutter?"
"I don't know. I told you before; he just decides to go off alone sometimes. Sometimes for the sake of killing something, sometimes to make a private statement to Gotham, and sometimes just to have his space."
"I hope he'll be alright," she said fretfully. "The radio said that there's a cold front moving in. He could get sick out there."
"Oh, he'll be okay," Poke assured her, giggling. "The boss is a fucking powerhouse. No cold front is going to stop him. Hey, Harley, you wanna play a game of Russian Roulette?" He waggled a tiny pistol at her.
"Not while I'm here she does," Cutter said protectively. "Don't go playing that game, Poke. The boss shouldn't have to come back to see that there's one less person alive here. With Len gone, he needs all the helpers he can get."
Poke giggled again, apparently tickled at something. "Yes, that's what we are…Joker's little helpers!" He roared in laughter. The cousins rolled their eyes.
"Don't mind him," Cutter told her. "Poke has his good days and he has his bad days. Sometimes you can have a straight conversation with him, and sometimes he's too batshit crazy to come out of his own little world."
"I feel kind of bad for him. Schizophrenia can be treated with proper medication, you know."
"Sure. But Poke refuses all forms of medication. And anyway, that medication doesn't account for his pyromania, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and his manic-depressive disorder."
"Wow," she sighed. "Mr. J picked the most colorful peacock at Arkham for recruitment."
"You can see why he hired him," Cutter said, nodding.
"What about the cousins? What's their story?"
"Oh. Well a while back, they were in trouble with Maroni's gang. The gang threatened Henshaw and held him at gun point. Rocco freaked out and then the boss appeared. Asked Rocco if he wanted him to save his cousin. Rocco said yes, and Henshaw survived. The only price was that they now had to work for the boss. So, well, here they are."
"Huh. Is he always that inviting? It seems he's taken all of you under his wing."
Cutter shrugged. "We're just the lucky ones. There were more of us last winter. But they're either dead or gone now."
"A shame."
"Yes," he sighed. "It is."
"Anyone want a piece of toast?" asked Rocco, holding up a slice.
"I will," said Poke. "Only if there's jam on it. Strawberry jam. That's the ticket." He gobbled it up, getting it all over his face. "Want some, Harley?"
She smiled and shook her head. "No thanks. I'm going to wait for Mr. J." She went over to the door.
"He won't be back for a while, Harley, I told you."
"I know. But…I don't know, I just got a bad feeling about it. Maybe I'm being silly."
"Maybe you are. Come sit back down." And she obliged him, sitting next to him and fidgeting nervously.
"Calm down. Mellow. There's no need to start freaking out."
She laughed, rubbing her forehead. "You're right. I know. I'm pretty ridiculous, aren't I?"
Cutter patted her on the shoulder. "Maybe just a bit. But it's alright. We're all pretty ridiculous. Even the boss. But that's what makes us who we are."
"But here's the funny thing. I know all about each of you, but I know nothing about him. What's his story? I can't trust anything he says about his scars; he just changes the story each time. So just who was he really? Who was he before all of this?"
Poke crunched loudly on his toast and the cousins squirmed uncomfortably.
"We don't really know, Harley," Cutter said. "We don't ask questions. But as far as I can tell, he probably had it rougher than all of us. He keeps it hidden very deeply inside of him. I've heard dozens of different scar stories, but never the real one. So whatever it is, I think he really just doesn't want to relive it through talking about it."
Her brow furrowed and she cocked her head in thought. Was Mr. J suffering from the effects of an abusive childhood? Was he a victim of bullying or an unjust circumstance? Had his family not cared for him as well? Or did he give himself the scars as a way to embrace the person he was inside?
"Here's what I think," Poke said. "The boss had a little shaving accident years ago. But instead of whining about it like boring other people do, he decided to go on a fucking brilliant crusade with it. He's that incredible."
"Oh, hush and eat your toast. Truth is, Harley, no one really knows. No one in all of Gotham. Don't go asking him. Something tells me that he'd kill you after he told you the truth."
Yeah. That's right. He could still kill me. I forgot. It had been a while since the idea that he'd end her life been brought up. After staying here with him for so long, it was only less than a minor trifle in her mind.
I've changed. I really have.
And she laughed.
XxX
Ten o'clock. How had she managed to survive a whole day with him being absent? The hours had lingered so slowly and so painfully that she had felt sick. This wasn't mildly troubling now, this was full-scale upsetting.
She paced back and forth like a restless cheetah at the zoo, her eyes darkened and full of worry.
Where is he? Did he abandon us here? Did he get captured? Damnit! Where did he go?
She bit her lip and clenched her fist.
I hate him! I hate him for going away like this! He could be hurt or killed or…damnit!
Poke and the cousins had gone out to search for him. Only an uneasy Cutter remained with her as she paced around the room.
"Where could he be, Cutter? Why haven't they found him yet?"
"Harley, calm down."
She whirled towards the door, glaring at it, almost accusing it. "He couldn't have gotten captured. He's the Joker! He's managed to evade the police all this time. Why should today be any different from the days before?" In frustration, she rammed her clenched fist into the wall, not caring how much it hurt. The agitation she felt was worse than the pain.
"Harley-"
And she whirled around and faced him, her eyes blazing like twin blue orbs, animalistic and frenzied. "We HAVE to find him, Cutter! We HAVE to! What will happen if he's not here? The Batman…he's out there. He'd kill Mr. J if he found him! I know he would!"
But Cutter said nothing and she trembled, both in panic and frustration.
"CUTTER, WHAT DO WE DOOOO?"
"You shut up," said Poke as he stepped through the doorway. "We found him."
She gasped and ran forward, almost knocking Cutter down in the process. Mr. J's war-paint was smeared and he was shaking. His breath was ragged, almost completely exhausted.
"What's wrong with him?"
"A fever, I think. Never thought you'd be right, Harley. You should've thought about that cold front before you went out, boss. You need rest."
Mr. J growled and shoved Poke and the cousins away from him, hobbling drunkenly towards the bedroom. "Shut the hell up, all of you. I don't know why you idiots had to go and freak out. I was only a few fucking blocks away when you found me." He stumbled and coughed, loud and raspy.
Harleen followed him, but slowly and timidly. He was sick, but he was in a foul mood. She'd have to watch herself.
"Harley," Cutter began. "Maybe you should…"
"No, let her come if she wants to. I don't care. Come along, Harley." He stumbled again and she reached out at him.
"Mr. J, you're very ill. You should go to bed."
"Well, aren't you so concerned?" there was a snarl in his voice, laced with venom. "So sweet." He let her drag him towards the bedroom and he collapsed onto the bed.
She felt his forehead and bit her lip. "You're pretty warm. What will I do if you get sick? You've been fretting over my fevers this whole time, yet I don't know what to do with yours." She felt useless, utterly useless. What kind of a doctor was she?
Well, not one that cures fevers. Oh, Harley, you bad, meaningless, useless, horrible thing!
Then he leaned forward, close enough to where their noses touched. "You do want me, don't you, Harley? Just a little? I can tell."
"Mr. J, you're really sick. I think you're delirious."
"I'm not sick, I feel great. I could chase the stars right now if I wanted to." He grinned at her, but she could see that he was getting worse. Dashing over towards the bathroom, she got a washcloth and cleaned his sweating, paint-smeared face, trying to do it as lightly as possible so as not to irk him.
"Maybe I can get the boys to find you some aspirin. Would aspirin work? Or Tylenol? I was never good at this. I know about medication for mental disorders, but not for sickness…"
"Stop whining," he growled, suddenly on his feet. "You do that so much don't you? So needy, so clingy. You're mother really did a fine job with you, Harley. She turned you into an insecure, childish brat."
She shook, tears in her eyes from his words. "Oh please, don't say that to me. Please lay back down. I'm sorry for being so inadequate. I want to help you. Oh, Mr. J, I'm so sorry!"
She fell to her knees at the bedside, her head bowed in shame. She hated herself, despised herself so much. She hated her mother more than anything though. She finally realized it now. Mr. J was right, it was her fault. Harleen was glad she was dead.
Yeah…I'm glad she's in the putrid, stinking earth where she belongs. Good riddance. It's what she deserves for making me like this…
And a wave of remorse swept through her and she wailed, knowing that she hadn't meant it.
Suddenly, Mr. J's warm hand was on her head, stroking and patting soothingly. "Don't cry, Jeannie. I'll get us out of the situation. When Junior's born, we'll be living like kings. I promise. Don't cry…"
She blinked at him, her eyes glazed over with confusion.
Jeannie? Who's that? Someone he knew once? Someone from his past?
"Mr. J? What did you mean by that? It's me. It's Harley. Remember?"
"I said Harley. Didn't I?"
"You called me Jeannie. Mr. J? You alright?"
She clung to his arm, desperate to find out what he had meant. Just who was this Jeannie person? What role had she played in his life? Did she even exist at all? Harleen was pretty positive that there weren't any other women in his life. Everyone in Gotham was too afraid of him. Heck, the only reason why she was here was because he'd kidnapped here. So if that was the case, who was this woman he had mentioned?
He shook off her grasp, suddenly enraged. "Stop pawing at me! You're not my mother! Don't paw at me!"
"It's just that, you're really sick…"
"Just go away and let me go to bed for crying out loud! Go on. Leave me. Why'd you even come in here anyway? Idiot."
She stood over him, her eyes welled with tears. Yet they did not fall. Instead, her eyes turned hard and firm. Her fists were clenched tightly, this time in determination.
"Now you listen to me. I'm not going away. I'm going to make sure that you get better. I'm not going to listen to you."
"Oh? Not even if I kill you."
"I don't care. You lie down right now and get some rest. That's an order."
"Since when do you give me orders?" he asked drowsily, resting his head on the pillow. "I'm the big bad kidnapper. You're the one who has to do what I say."
"Well not this time. I'm in charge for once. Lay down. That's it. Like that. Now go to sleep. I'm going to go check with the boys for some medicine. I don't know much about antibiotics, but I'll try to work something out. And if they can't find any, I'll damned well send them out in the cold to search for some."
"Harley, Harley, Harley," he crooned. "So strong all of the sudden. I don't know whether to love it or hate it. You truly are one-of-a-kind, my pet. My silly, funny little pet…"
He drifted off and shook as he slept, prompting her to make a run back into the living room for the boys.
"How is he?"
"Fever. Cutter, we need medicine for him. Anything you can get. Can you get some for me?"
"Yes. I'll get Poke and the cousins. We'll raid the nearest drugstore if we have to."
"I should come with you. I should see…"
"No. You stay here with him in case he needs you. Besides, we can't have you trying to escape, can we?"
"Cutter, are you serious? You don't really believe-"
"I don't. It was a joke. You just need to loosen up a bit. He'll be okay. I promise you."
"I hope so," she said softly. "I really hope so…"
XxX
"You can't join up with them, Jack. They're bad men, the lot of them. What if they get you killed?"
"Then they get me killed. And the money would go to you and the baby when it's born."
Memories.
"You're just the fellow we need. Your legs look like they're strong enough for this job. Just run fast as you can with the dough and there you go. Then you and that sweet pussy wife of yours are free to live wherever you like. You'll be rich, my man. All you have to do is…
Memories flooding over him. They came like waves, drowning him, washing over him until he felt he would die.
"Jeannie! Oh God, Jeannie! What did they do to you? You killed my wife, you bastards!"
"That's what you get for not following through. Too bad about the kid inside her. Just consider it a little bonus then."
"YOU BASTARDS! I'LL KILL YOU!"
A man, a desperate, troubled man with wild hair, running blindly at a whole group of thugs. They carried knives…knives that were as beautiful and shining as the moon. Knives that slice the man's face so smoothly and neatly.
"Aghhhh! OH GOD! Aghhhhhhhhhh!"
And laughing. Men laughing and pointing. A chorus of loud, raucous giggles that rip through the night like a gust of wind. Then rage. Nothing but crimson red haze and gushes of blood. In his mouth, the man can taste it. It is a new taste, an unfamiliar one, but he enjoys it. When he blinks, every last one of the laughers is dead at his feet. Then he starts laughing, getting the joke at last, finally pushing free of his weakling cocoon. And the beautiful, silver moon glows down on him with a radiant light, basking him with silver baptismal fire. And he laughs again.
He tossed through these dreams, not even sure if they were real. If they were, he didn't want any part of them. They meant nothing to him anymore. They were just scraps and bits of pathetic wastes that served no purpose in his head. And yet, why did he feel so miserable? Why did he feel his eyes moist and slick with tears? Surely he wasn't crying? How pitiful. How unlike him. He felt he would scream.
Then a hand, a gentle, soothing hand was cradling his head and drying his face.
"Poor, poor thing," a sweet, high-pitched little voice was saying. "Poor, poor Mr. J. Stop shaking…please…"
Harley. His pet, his little harlequin. He could recognize that timorous, ardent voice anywhere. Was the little girl-woman looking after him then? It was his job to look after her. It seemed the little minx had actually managed to nurse him a bit. He could feel a towel on his head and the inside of his mouth tasted bitter from medication. Looks like she was playing doctor after all. How delightfully cheesy. He wanted to strangle her and kiss her at the same time.
He squinted. Could he make out her face? It would really make him feel better if he could see that round, childish-looking face of hers gazing at him. It would give him something to laugh about. But instead, her face looked surprisingly collected and in-control. And yet, there was something very emotional to it. It was a mixture of so many different emotions all at once, like some exotic piece of artwork. Was it Harleen Quinzel staring down at him or was it Harley Quinn? His head hurt too much to care.
He felt her lay down next to him, apparently finally at enough ease to want to get some sleep. Then the click of a light being turned off. Then a hand, a trembling, timid little hand snaking shyly around his arm, just like the night before. He couldn't help but grin a little at that. The poor dear probably wanted him terribly, but didn't fully realize it. Her physical actions were beginning to demonstrate it all too well. But she still kept her distance from him, giving him his space in the bed while he wrestled with the fever. But all the while, she clung onto his arm like a drowning woman, not daring to let go. It was a very sweet expression, really.
Closing his eyes once more, he welcomed the cool blackness of deep slumber, away from memories, away from the streets he had aimlessly wandered up and down all day, and away from the fever that would hang around him until late morning the next day.
But not, strangely enough, away from that warm, tender grasp, wrapped around his arm nor those bright blue eyes that would watch him in the darkness for a very long time.