I don't own these characters, or D.C comics. I own Puddin Jr. that's it.
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"Hey Puddin! Guess what I got us?"
He really didn't care, not after almost killing Bats. He was about to push her aside, when she gave him her cutest, most child-in-a-candy-store grin she could muster up, and his heart grew-unwillingly-like the Grinch's. He held out his gloved hand, and was dragged across the room (it really wasn't more than a few steps, really.) and to the three-legged, leaning card table. With a bown. With a goldfish swimming around a miniature Arkham Asylum. That slightly disappointed him; he was expecting something exciting; a kinky sex toy, or Bats' head on one of their paper plates. But part of him melted (he didn't know why) and he put his hands on her beaming cheeks.
"It's perfect! What's its name?"
"Puddin Jr!"
That disgusted him beyond words, he grumbled, and went to take a shower. He was stripped down to nothing when he turned the knob, and a spurt of muddy water came out, oozing down his stark, opaque body. Harley entered, and promised to clean him up. She did, but not before touching him in ways he loved, but would never admit it.
The next day, Puddin Jr had an aquarium to swim around in, and plenty of "toys" to "play" with. It was stolen, she had gone out and gotten it from the swankiest pet store she could find. Harley actually refused to help him, the Clown Prince of Crime, with a robbery because they didn't have a baby sitter. When pointing out the hyenas never had one, she insisted that was different. So he went out, and almost got caught, because he didn't have his hench wench to throw a smoke bomb. His dislike for his "son" grew.
Than one day, it happened. In a drunken fury, Harley already asleep (or hiding, she already had enough bruises for one night) he knocked over the twenty gallon aquarium. One of the hyenas-Buddy, or Louis, whatever its name was-took one sniff and clamped down of Jr. That sobered him up immediately, and he sat down on the floor-all the chairs were one legged at this point-and he shushed for the boys to stop cackling. Picking shards of glass off the floor, he saw the funny side of the situation, but didn't laugh. Not one manic grin. The fish, that his harlequin had spent hours on, instead of him, was gone. So what? It had been a nuisance, spoiled as badly as a fish could be spoiled, and been the cause of Harley's absence on more than one mission. So, he should just tell her about it, and scream for her to stop bitching over a "stupid freakin' goldfish."
The next morning, Harley awoke to "Puddin Jr." swimming around in a thirty-gallon tank, with a mini Arkham, clocktower, and a Batman. With his head snapped off. Not even after the day the goldfish died, his insane partner-in-crime never knew his secret: That want out of the way to protect him. She would never know, and he would never admit, that he might actually care (just a little) about her.