They'd finally loosened up on the Christmas light bondage, and Harleen had been granted some small freedoms ever since her emotional fireworks following the Peyton tape. She was unsure if that had been the reason for the change of plan, or if this was simply another part of the Joker's game, where she remained the unwilling pawn. Still, Harleen was now allowed to wander the entirety of the ground floor of the warehouse, and though she was, of course, on constant surveillance (and sometimes at knife or gunpoint) the Joker appeared to have authorised her a fair bit of leg room. It beat being bound to a chair none-the-less.

As the days flickered by and blended into the next, the raw fear of the Joker's announcement – the promise he'd kill her – ebbed away to a quiet paranoia. The less she saw of the clown and the less he acted on it, the less time she lingered on the thought of it.

Instead, Harleen spent most of her time on domestic chores, on sweeping, dusting, and along with the help of the Joker's men and their kleptomania, had managed to make herself a little sanctum of sorts. For though it was her prison, that did not mean it had to look like one. They'd used the battered stream of lights, that had once been her bonds, to wrap around a steel beam. They had then, under her instruction, dragged in a mattress to sit beneath the multicolour blinkers. They'd rolled out a tattered rug for her and supplied her with blankets stale with cigarette smoke. In payment, she'd given them the autographs they'd so wanted, and for Eric, she'd offered up her bra. Of which he was very grateful.

The Joker's guys worked in shifts around Harleen, bringing pizza, fast foods, and clothes, either from their girlfriends, wives or their own wardrobes. They'd managed to get a shower cubicle working for her use, and Harleen had been so grateful of this, she'd hugged the masked man tightly, whom had stood rigid and awkwardly, eyes averted despite her having already donned a towel.

Harleen wasn't alone here. In fact, she'd felt more alone back at her empty home in town, or in the busy city bars and restaurants, than she felt in this place. She was a little hurt by the implications in that. And though redecorating her patch in the dusty setting had helped to distract her from the horror which she currently lived, her mind would wander back to the life she'd had, the life she'd grasped for, before the Joker had shown up and pulled the red carpet out from under her feet.

It had been everything she'd wanted, hadn't it? The love, the adoration – yes, without question, that's what she had wanted. Still wanted. But the world in which it came from had been altogether different from what she'd hoped, what she'd dreamed it would be. The metaphorical knives she'd come to find in her back, were sharper than any of those in the Joker's possession, and their faces and smiles wilder and falser than that of his too.

The director had taken advantage of her desperation, when she'd first been proposed for the role – and had assured her that, by offering certain generosities, she would leap rungs on the ladder to success. Harleen, however, had not realised that those generosities had meant skirt hiked up to her chest, and bent over the leathers in his pop-up apartment. Nor fucked without end (or climax) at nameless motels whenever it suited.

She hadn't realised, either, how the wealthy elite pursuing the same craft would shun her, for her near-on-empty bank account, her modest background, her career naivety – even scrutinising her energetic, friendly and open demeanour, as they considered it inappropriate, and most off-putting of all, gave the common folk someone to relate to.

It did at times, bring a choking sadness, to think of how much she'd tried to find a familiar thread among them. That by sacrificing dignity and integrity – of which they had very little – she had only further distanced herself. That, despite all the effort, and later, the short cuts she'd taken, meant that no matter how much she tried to be like them and among them, her face would never, ever fit.

It was true – though it pained her to admit – the Joker was right about the people she had wanted to love her. Still wanted to love her. Was it so terrible though, to want to be loved and adored?

And even in it's darkest moments, she had longed for it. The fame and admiration. And Harleen knew that she couldn't stay, she couldn't stay and wait for the impending promise of death. With each and every dusted surface, swept floor, she closely monitored the patterns of her hulking guards, and decided firmly then, that she would find a means of getting free. That she would reclaim her throne, from Peyton Riley the false queen, and even from the clown prince of crime himself.

And with the Joker nowhere to be seen, Harleen decided, as soon as night fell and the men swapped their night shifts among themselves, she would make her move and escape.


It wasn't like Joker to do his funny business during the day, but it just so happened that in the more savoury, still-sunny hours in Gotham City, the Penguin's Iceberg Lounge was shut. And since he wasn't an intended paying customer, that was exactly how he wanted it. The shutters at the back of the building did very little to deter him, and Joker waved at the CCTV before approaching the security measures, along with two of his men. Claus, as standard, and his more theatrical masked-man Floyd (fuck Eric, after all.) The electric blue of neon lights buzzed on and off before them, confirming exactly what Joker wanted to see. Closed.

Thing was, with Penguin, is that he always had money. He was good with money – no, very good with money – and Joker was, well, not so much. He didn't tend to his books with as much care and precision as Penguin, and therefore often found, after satisfying and superficial splurges, he was once again counting change.

It didn't help matters (Joker's own ludicrous purchases aside) that the new celebrity hostage he was holding, happened to be eating them out of house and home. He had indeed raised a questioning eyebrow when he had witnessed Harleen Quinzel tuck into three pizzas in the space of only hours, and had made a passing pun "you're a real pizza work, you know that?"

Of which she'd replied very simply, very rudely "fuck you."

Eric had comforted Joker in that it was only to be expected, that the girl was clearly depressed. Depressed!? He'd got a good laugh out of that one. Not only had they been clothing her – and (constantly) feeding her, he'd been spending his last dollars on satiating her every whim. And so, he found himself outside the Iceberg Lounge, in much need of some serious cash, and knowing exactly where to find it.

He couldn't, after all, let the girl think he was broke. Appearances mattered, mattered a lot. The king of the city couldn't just let his hostage starve. What kind of crime lord would they take him for?

Joker watched as Claus applied the circular saw to the metal, and sparks dotted and burned tiny holes through his suit. It took an excruciating five minutes in plain sight before the sheet tore through and the three of them made entry. The alarm triggered, the sound of a hundred squawking birds – ("And they call me mad!") – which meant it wouldn't be long before Penguin's tuxedo-donning, guns-blazing henchmen were upon them.

The Iceberg Lounge was a large and lavish affair. Five floors, an ice bar, a gentleman's club and a museum, the place was a clash of old and new, class and crass. But they weren't here to sight-see, Joker had, in fact, much bigger fish to fry. And they moved on through the empty vicinity and down into the bowels of the building.

They needed to be fast, and Joker was quick to find the correct room. Speaking of fish, the massive shark tank, and the shark therein did happen to give it away, and Joker smirked upon breaking and entering into Penguin's old, misused office. That despite being old, and misused, still held a certain safe Joker had known and wanted for a while.

Claus, without needing direction, noiselessly lifted the massive safe from it's chains, and uprooted the entirety without even breaking a sweat. They didn't have time to open it of it's contents, and Claus carried it back out and into the hall with them.

From floors above, even over the racket of the screeching alarm, Joker could hear that Penguin's men had breached. And they hurried their way through to the cellar, both Floyd and Joker now leading with guns. The men were advancing quickly on them, both sufficient and speedy, the Penguin got the quality in which he paid for.

Despite the hurry, Joker stopped, suddenly, amongst the barrels and wine racks, inspired. Since Miss Quinzel was so depressed, Joker was certain a couple of bottles of the vintage good stuff would have her in lighter spirits! And he began to survey the stock as though browsing the aisles of a supermarket.

"I reckon she'd like the red, boss," said Floyd, as though reading Joker's mind. One thing Penguin didn't have, and something you couldn't buy – comradery.

"I think you're right," he replied, and picked from the shelves three bottles of Château La Mission – and one for luck, which he passed to Floyd to carry, since the workhorse Claus, was already stacked full.

And the three of them hurried through the labyrinth of corridors, of strange and odd antiquities, passed the curtained peepholes, until they made upon the side entrance, which Joker took great pleasure in shattering with a few joyous shots of his pistol.

The gunfire drew the attention of Penguin's men in pursuit and Joker and his cronies hurried their way back out into the lot and towards his car.

"Mind the leather–" Joker warned, but it was too late – and Claus threw the safe into the back seat, tearing through the cream interior, like a knife through butter.

It was fortunate for Claus that Joker didn't have time to rant about it, as Floyd flung himself into the drivers seat, and Joker last, leaped into shotgun.

The windshield shattered from a near deadly shot and Floyd slammed his feet to the floor to create as much distance as possible. Joker cringed with each popping sound of a bullet denting or grazing his car, and whined when the back window was taken out too– "I really liked this one!"

Floyd was too busy dodging traffic to assure him, and Claus was quietly setting up a sniper in the back seat.

It was dark by the time the chase subsided, as Penguin's men had continued to pursue them in black armored vans. The GCPD had managed to take out two of them, but hadn't been able to stop Joker's now entirely beat and battered lamboughini. Claus had helped tenfold, by taking out the enemy wheel after wheel. And they were all exhilarated and relieved when, with their loot still intact, drew up to the waters edge, the warehouse in sight. Another eventful day over.

But something was off as they pulled up to their current hideout, and Joker heard the echoes of shots rattling from inside. He was filled with anger – with dread – at the thought of his hideout being invaded, and even more so considering the content within. Floyd had to slam hard on the breaks as a flash of blonde darted out and in front of them. Joker's heart leapt up and into his throat.

Through the cracked glass, he saw her, clearly shocked and appalled to find Joker blocking her escape, yet again. And it all became clear to Joker then, as Harleen Quinzel stared at him, wildly, illuminated by the headlights and frozen in fear.

Joker's stomach writhed with a rage he could barely contain. "You're gonna wish he'd kept driving –" he muttered, to her, to himself, to the abyss, it didn't matter. And with a bottle of wine still in hand, wrenched open the door and out to greet her.

"Oh no you don't –" he grabbed her roughly, trembling and shaking from the bonnet. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

Her little mouth gaped, and she looked up at him in terror. She couldn't even find a voice in which to answer him. Joker sneered wickedly, taking a fistful of her hair and dragging her from his car.

"I give you a little space and this is how you thank me?"

She recoiled at his fury and cried out when his fist clenched even harder "please–"

Not this again.

With one solid kick, the door to the warehouse swung open and Joker was met with the sweaty, scared face of Eric, who, rifle in hand, was shaking just as much as Harleen.

"I didn't mean to – she just got away – I didn't know that –"

BANG!

In one fluid movement, Joker had pocketed the bottle of wine, and withdrawn his pistol, firing one single shot straight into Eric's head, smattering brain and skull up the stairwell.

Harleen erupted. She screamed and wailed within the ringing of the gunfire in his ears. She'd gone limp and far easier to guide, as he urged her roughly back into the room she had attempted to escape from.

Joker threw her down upon the chair he'd first had her tied to, and with a shaking hand poised the gun at her face. She cried so hard and so desperately at this, Joker felt nothing but anger – of loathing, as she begged silently for his mercy.

"You are pushing me princess," he warned, a low and guttural growl, his finger itching at the trigger.

"Don't do this – please – I don't wanna die – please –"

"Bring me two glasses," he barked at Floyd, who he spotted, along with Claus, dragging in the loot. And his masked henchman hurried off, without question.

Moments passed between Joker and Miss Quinzel, and his eyes burned into her distraught and desperate face. With the barrel still raised at her head, she sat unmoving, tears rolling and rolling.

"You've hurt my feelings, you know?" he told her, poking her forehead and prompting only more sobs from her. "I had a nice evening planned and you go and do this."

"I'm sorry! I'm so– so sorry M–Mister J–"

Floyd returned with two wine glasses as asked. Joker took one for himself and indicated with a nod of his head, that one was intended for Harleen.

"Take it," he told her, still at the end of his gun, and Harleen did without argument, her terrified expression now also etched with confusion.

"Be a good man and pour us a glass would you?" he asked Floyd, who pulled the wine bottle from Joker's pocket, pulled the cork with a knife and filled their glasses. Harleen's first, and then Joker's. "And make it a large one."

And Joker clinked the glass with his pistol, urging Harleen to "drink it." She flinched and hesitated. "Go on, drink it."

"Is it – it is poison?" her voice was tiny, and she hiccupped her question.

Joker's anger wavered despite himself. "No, it isn't poison." In fact, to prove to her it wasn't, he took his share and necked it.

Harleen, still crying quietly, drew up her own to her lips and took a long sip. She watched him from over the rim of the glass, sniffling. "It's good," she said timidly, draining to the very last drop.

"How'd you like another, Harls?"

"You– had me– at merlot–"

Ha! Joker smiled, the widest smile, and his gun finally fell away from Harleen's face and down to his side. "You heard the girl, fill us up!"