They'd been back and forth from Grin n' Bare It for a little over a week and it had remained unsaid whether Harleen had accepted the Joker's proposal to get the building into better shape or not. Yet, there she was, directing his various henchmen in painting, taking old furniture to scrap, browsing new furniture, choosing from the many patterned rolls of wallpaper, once there and amongst the work, she hadn't been able to resist adding her touch to the place. She'd thrown on a heavy leather apron (courtesy of J) to protect her velvet skirt and starch white tee, and had taken to delightfully tearing down the many hideous circus and clown posters that had been plastered previously to the walls. She was eager and enthusiastic to rid his club of it's serious case of ugly - all the while, the Joker surveyed her efforts from a distance with a twinkling smile on his face.

The jukebox was in constant use, and played crisp music to the men busying themselves with decoration, it was it's own messy musical and Harleen stood back to appreciate the gradual transformations. They'd stripped out the old, tired chairs and cushions, replaced all the dark and dingy wood with sleek and shiny chrome. Velvet, furs and satin upholstered the stools and booths, all reds and greens and golds. Zebra-print wallpaper took up half of the walls, and covered completely the nicotine-stained paint of before. Harleen had been somewhat surprised at how much the Joker wanted, and was excited for this change. She figured, from his appearance prior to her intervention - and from the warehouse and then the club - that he simply didn't care much about his image. It was the Joker after all, the man more often seen covered in soot, clothes torn, singed or splattered with blood and shaking with rage, hysterics - or both. Harleen assumed it didn't really matter how he presented himself, he was still the criminal king of Gotham city regardless of how he dressed or decorated. That said, it was even stranger, surreal for Harleen to witness this very same man mulling over colour schemes and carpet samples perched upon a brand-spanking-new, pink chaise lounge.

"Harley!" The Joker's sharp voice snapped Harleen from her senses and she realised he must have caught her staring at him. Again. "Don't just stand there, you're making the joint look untidy," he laughed at his own joke. "Come over here and sit with me!"

Harleen couldn't help but smile at the Joker patting insistently at the seat beside him, and obeyed his request without question, though leaving a little safe space between the two of them, just in case. The Joker didn't seem to care (or even notice) either way, and pulled an old, fraying purple gym bag from underneath, dumping it casually into her lap. Harleen jolted at the weight of it hitting her thighs. "What's that?" she asked - raising her hands away from it the moment she spotted the brown stains of old blood. "Ew!" She squirmed, now pinned to the seat by it - thankful to still be wearing his hideous apron.

The Joker ignored her dramatics and she caught the briefest glimpse of him rolling his eyes and sighing. "Hey-" she whined at his reaction, after all, she could hardly be blamed for it. How had he expected her to react? Oh, Mister J - I wonder what's inside, oh, I'm so excited! I can't wait to get my hands all over this filthy thing! Her eyes narrowed at the clown suspiciously.

"Don't worry about that," The Joker told her quickly, licking the edge of the carpet sample to then scrub vigorously at the stains on the bag - "it's nothing to worry about." Right, blood - nothing to worry about. Harleen frowned, puzzled - but mostly squeamish. Her lip curled at him attempting to clean it - and just as he was about to bring the little swatch of carpet back to his mouth and try again, she grabbed at his wrist and stopped him.

"It's fine!" she said shrilly - "I think you got it all!"

His brow twitched in a brief show of confusion, but the Joker complied, and smiling warmly at her then, he stood. "C'mon Harls, bring the gear, I've got something to show you!"

Maybe she should have let him continue his gross attempt at removing the blood, since it was she who was to drag the bag wherever he wanted. Harleen cringed the moment she pulled on the handle and stood to join him. It was heavier than she expected it to be, tripping, Harleen struggled to pull it forward, hooking the strap over her shoulder to try and distribute some of the weight and panting. "Is it far?" she squeaked - complaining in rapid grumbles under her breath. Why couldn't he carry it?!

The Joker ignored her question - and all of her other, increasingly loud complaints, whistling as they took two staircases and up into the attic extension of the nightclub. These back rooms and floors had yet to be repaired or redecorated, and Harleen had to step with extra caution, over splintered wood and lumps of fallen plaster. "Where are we goin'?!" she asked again, careful not to plummet to her death down the narrow flight of stairs.

"My office! Or what will be my office," The Joker announced proudly, and he stopped at the door without warning. Harleen slammed into his back and swayed dangerously on her feet, having to grip tightly at his waist to avoid losing her footing and tumbling downward.

"I know it's exciting!" the Joker beamed, laughing - mistaking her action of desperation for something else. Harleen sighed. "But you've not seen nothin' yet!"

Harleen was distracted from her disdain as soon as they entered, to fall upon the decor of the Joker's office. She realised then, in the time he'd been absent downstairs, he must have been working on his own private space above them. Harleen's anger subsided with surprise, and she admired his own handiwork. There were cabinets full of various drinks, pretty and unique bottles lined the shelves inside, displayed like expensive cologne rather than somethin' just to get smashed on. He had a wardrobe, a desk - all stained in black - a plush red carpet and leopard-print paper he'd took to adding to since they were marked and littered with splashed paint from his own hand, of smiley faces, J's and toothy grins. This paint was illuminated by a black light above the door, and even the accidental speckles and splatter that marred the rich woodwork looked good.

"I like it!" she exclaimed her encouragement, heaving the bag up and onto his desk to relieve herself of it finally.

"That's not all!" The Joker replied, obviously pleased at her approval, and drew Harleen's attention to a covered canvas on the wall. A white sheet had been stuffed at the corners to hold it in place and protect it. Harleen's curiosity was piqued. "It's for you," he told her, and Harleen was already buzzing with hidden excitement at the thought of another gift from J. The jukebox had been one of the most wonderful and well-thought out presents she'd ever received, so she had high hopes for this other.

She hurried over and took a fistful of the cover, stripping it off to be assaulted by an image of pink, and blonde and deep, deep red. Harleen's stomach writhed in an ebbing rage at the poster in front of her. A spread of Peyton Riley, half nude, her delicately tipped red nails covered the tips of her breasts as she pushed them together, a vibrant pout, with matching vibrant lace panties - all Harleen could see, was red. "The fuck is this!?" her voice broke in her anger, smarting at the painful pang of unpleasant and sickening jealousy. And it wasn't the jealousy she'd grown used to when around Peyton Riley. It was intense and nauseating to know even the Joker, HER captor, had this harlot hung up on his office wall. "Is this some kind of sick joke?!" Harleen snapped, pulling her face from Peyton's generous assets to glare at him. If so, it wasn't remotely funny.

"Nope!" he said simply, which only infuriated her further. "It's better!" and he giggled as he headed to the other side of his desk, pushing the bag she'd dumped towards her. "Open up!" The Joker was far too happy for Harleen to deal with right now, and she swallowed hard on tears that welled in her throat. Why did he do this? She unzipped the bag with little enthusiasm, sure to find some other insulting and humiliating gift - but quickly discovered the bag was bursting full of knives and other various sharp instruments. Scalpels, switchblades, steak knives, serrated, barbed, even a pizza cutter and potato peeler were among the collection.

"You've tried your hand at the guns, so why not knives?" The Joker asked, and pointed to the Peyton poster, grinning. "Tadaa! Target practice. Or as I like to call it, motivation." Was he on her side in this?

Somehow, his words made the situation a little brighter, and Harleen sniffled through a smile, watching patiently as the Joker began to pull out and arrange a handful of the weapons (a butter knife too?) on the desk. He hummed along to himself as he quietly worked, until he was satisfied with the selection and display. His hands flitted to the blades and handles, as though tempted to take one for himself. Instead, he found Harleen, and had her pick from them in his place.

Harleen was about as good as throwing knives as she was good at shooting. Her aim wasn't great - and it took many, many, many attempts before she'd even landed a single blade. It hadn't sunk into the poster, but had given Riley's chest a little nick, right about where her heart would be. The Joker, despite her disastrous practice session, had been nothing but encouraging. Sometimes, a little too encouraging - when he'd donned a high and girlish mocking voice - what she was supposed to believe was Peyton, as he'd teased superiority. "Oh, Harleeeeeeen - aren't I fabulous? As you can see I'm practically mourning your absence!" Surprisingly, his ridiculous antics actually helped and it wasn't long before Harleen was giggling at his over-the-top play-acting. It was almost endearing.

But they grew tired of the game, of the near-misses and close-calls, the Joker led Harleen back down to the club, where they settled at the huge bonfire his men had lit in the car-park, burning all the scrap and damaged interior they'd dragged from the building to make way for the new. The smell of molten plastic seared her lungs, but Claus, with a tray of hot chocolate, was quick to distract them from their choking. Mug in hand, Harleen stood before the consuming flames alongside the Joker, warmed both on the outside and in. His thugs joined them, chatting quietly amongst themselves, passing roasted (most likely now toxic marshmallows) and drinking deep from cups of cocoa.


They sat on a tire together, one of the last remaining items left for his thugs to burn, and the flames lit up her face and flickered in her shining eyes, cheeks flushed pink against the heat of the blaze. Little lips at the rim of her mug and smiling to herself at the burning debris. He watched her at his shoulder, eyes fluttering with tiredness - occasionally jolting as her nose dipped into the cream, and rubbing it furiously. Joker smiled. He was beginning to like Harley, and like her a lot. His chest felt warm, but was that the fire? She was annoying, sensitive, emotional, sure but Joker couldn't help but appreciate, since coming to know, the very raw and very realness of her character. Gotham would have loved her, had he given them the chance - and Harley would have gotten the love that she so desperately wanted in return. There's still time for that, he thought. "C'mon, Harls, let's go home."

Joker said quick and curt goodbyes to his men, leaving them to carry on with work at Grin N Bare It into the night. Joker, typically, would have stayed, been sleepless, and suffered for it in the days to come, but couldn't. He had a little harlequin to take home and put to bed, her eyes heavy with the nagging need to sleep, he guided her gently into the passenger seat of his car, carefully tugging the cup from her hands and returning it to Claus for safekeeping.

"Bye, guys!" Harley waved out the window at the remaining goons, and they waved right back at her, "see ya' later!"

Joker hopped behind the wheel, and was quick to get the car on the road, he pulled out of the car-park and onto the neon street, all bright, from the strip of clubs, arcades and liquor stores, reds and orange and deep royal blues, bouncing off the damp cobblestones and lighting their way home. He caught Harley watching from her window, the world pass them by, a blur of multicolour madness. East Gotham had its charms, and this was certainly one of them. The moon was just as bright, and hung in the sky beside the vibrant yellow bat signal, illuminating the clouds. Gotham truly came alive at night, when the Bat came a-hunting - and Joker sensed the quiet hum of life, it lingered thickly in the cool air.

Harley's breathing grew heavy, and Joker flitted his gaze across to the blonde in his company. Her head was propped up by the window, a breeze blowing the hair off her face as she slept. The sights, colours and sounds had lulled her into dreams, and Joker felt himself relax at her softly snoring. It had been a long time since he'd just sat back and cruised slow through the city he loved. For so long now, he'd played chase-me with the Bat, so consumed with their games that he had grown distant to Gotham itself. He would never, could never, feel like a stranger here - but he did feel a little strange , nonetheless.

Joker turned to Harley once more, just to check - and pulled her skirt down to cover her thighs. She was cool to his touch and he recoiled quickly at the slightest brush of her skin. His abdomen clenched as she shifted in her slumber, and spoke to him quietly in gibberish.

! ! !

A blast, loud as a gun at his ear, sent Joker, the car and all of it's contents rocketing forward and firing off down the street, spinning and skidding, burning rubber billowed steam as he slammed a foot on the brakes. He flew into a lamppost, the impact tore through the bonnet and ripped his ride in two. Pain exploded, blinding, behind his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his teeth, as he violently headbutted the wheel. Fuck - He was deafened, ears buzzing, sight scattered, a high ringing droned in his head like Arkham's alarms, and he groaned through the pain that twanged at various parts of his body.

As his mind sought clarity, Joker came to realise the high screech in his ear was no alarm at all. It was Harley, and she was screaming, and screaming, and screaming. And it just didn't stop. He could barely move his neck, a mouth full of blood he couldn't even taste. He reached out to her, choking and felt her hands grab at his roughly. Her screaming stopped and she spoke at him so frantically, he lost track of her words. "Please - please wake up! Mista' J please - you have ta' wake up!"

Joker smiled through spit at her as she came into view. He heard the click of his seatbelt, and her presence at his side and shoving. He could feel her fingers squeezing his palm, over and over. "Stay with me!" Harley told him, voice high and shaky. "You gotta get up! Quick!" She was crying. Well, typical. He scoffed through the blood that dribbled from his nose and lips.

"There are people comin' over! I think they hit us!"

Harley's announcement had the hairs on his aching neck stand on end - and he fluttered - forced himself - into full consciousness. He ignored the radiating pains that riddled his limbs, and sat forward, flinching, to stare out the shattered windscreen and onto the street. Harley was right. There were people. Five of them - five of the False Facer fucks and their leader, lingered by his own car he'd totalled in ramming them off of the road. Black Mask and his men were mocking in their approach. All chuckling behind cheap, plastic disguises - all except for one, whose varnished mask was a work of art, a skull carved so smooth and skillfully, it was like staring down death itself.

With strength derived from shock and adrenaline, Joker was able to grab Harley and drag her crying from the crushed scrap of his car. Both of them stumbled from the wreck, battered and bruised. Harley steadied him, clinging tightly to his waist and holding him on two feet, clawing at the back of his jacket, frantic and frightened. "I'm scared -" her voice was tiny.

"Well, well, well, what'dya know?!" Sionis laughed, his voice rough as gravel. "We caught ourselves a clown and his cocotte! I'll have to charge Oswald extra for that."

This was bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. So, Black Mask too, was after the bounty Penguin had put out. And with being Black Mask, he hadn't wasted any time in chasing down the prince to claim his prize. Joker eyed up the competition, cautious. They were outnumbered - outgunned - and the False Facers descended on the couple, brandishing screwdrivers and bonesaws from leather jackets and puffer coats. Things were looking bleak. "A tad theatrical for you, Roman -" spoke Joker, laugh high, his throat tight, "but still, so wooden! Needs some work!"

"That's it Joker," Sionis drawled, "get your laughs in now, get 'em in before I get a hold of ya'..."

"Promises, promises!"

Harley squeaked as they stepped forward, sharp, rusted weapons extended and ready to strike. Joker clung to her with one arm, and withdrew his gun with the other, pointing in turn, at each colourful, cooky cold face to settle his aim on Sionis.

"Lucky fer you, Penguin's payin' more for ya' left alive - said nothin' about the girl though -" he couldn't see Black Mask's expression, but could hear the sadistic smile stretch his features. "I'm sure he won't mind ya' comin' back with a few scratches, hm? Get 'em -"

Joker popped the trigger on the first to advance. Plastic caved with the bullet and shattered, blood, shards and brittle bone, teeth broke and littered where the body fell, head blown wide open. Harley screamed and fell back, she let go of him in the shock of his shot and stumbled into the arms of one of Roman's men. With his eyes on the men ahead, and unable to get a clean hit on Harley's attacker - Joker's gun jumped from mask to mask. Fuck! He couldn't risk it, the man whose hands roved over Harley - and she screamed madly in his hungry hold. But she tossed and turned away, grabbed her heel from her foot and swung with all her desperate might. It pierced through her captive's cheek, thrust into his mouth, and caught on the join of his lips, hanging. Ha! That's my girl!

In the chaos that ensued and distracted, Joker was able to shoot down two more of Black Mask's men, leaving only one other to tackle, and then on to Sionis himself. But as Black Mask advanced, a wrench tightly balled in his fist, he dived for Harley instead.

"You LIL' BITCH!" he hollered, furious.

Joker hadn't anticipated this move and held on his fire - watching, stomach writhing, as the skull-faced fuck tackled Harley to the ground, his arm raised high for a devastating, deadly blow. No! Joker stumbled forward, "don't -" heard a whipping at his ear - and the wrench flew from Sionis' hand to clatter at the curb. Joker laughed, loudly, hysterically, as he turned to face their saviour. Tall ears, hulking shadow, broad, black and brooding. "HA! HA! HA! HA! Batman!? Oh, am I happy to see you ."