Bare bulbs buzzed and flickered, hot wires glowed against stark white skin. Her name, in lights, hovered above them, bold and brilliant, casting a spotlight down upon their silent waltz together. Hand in hand, they drew closer and closer, his breath at her neck and prickling. He pulled her into his arms and held onto her tightly, swoons and sighs left the audience though the auditorium was abandoned, derelict and torn asunder. A neon flashed and hummed, as his name too, hung swinging below her own, an illuminated squeaking scrawl that lit up the vibrancy of his green hair and his sharp, searching eyes, of what was a slinking silhouette of the Joker.

This theatre
proudly presentin'
HARLEY QUINN
and Mista' J

Their show. His and hers. Heat tickled Harleen's skin and rosied her glossy cheeks, as the Joker smiled down at her upon their stage, their dance. The warm glow of the lights softened his angular features and fuzzied the edges of all of his sharpness. He was handsome, and his hands were gentle with her own, his actions were calm and considerate, unlike the times he was maddened and manic, he was now so very careful with her, as though she might fall and shatter if he were to lead her too fervently. Fingers flitted her frame and the fitted curves of her costume. Harleen's skin was dewy, and her sequined dress sparkled with every dizzying twirl and turn. Delirious, she didn't - couldn't - remember this number from her production and stumbled, stepping on the Joker's shiny shoes unsure of her footing, she'd never been a dancer quite like Peyton Riley… The audience that was not there, muttered, giggled and laughed at her mishap, the familiar and unpleasant pang of humiliation set in. But the Joker too, chuckled at her clumsiness, against her ear and squeezing her waist lightly with the long palm of his hand - and suddenly, the embarrassment didn't hurt so much, in fact, it didn't hurt at all. The closer he was, beaming at her through the hot light, the more weightless she felt, and Harleen smiled too at her own mistake. Floating, she drew the Joker in, clutching at the shaven nape of his neck and leaning backward.

For once, for the very first time, Harleen didn't care about the invisible eyes upon her, the judging or the scrutiny, the whispers of a scandalised crowd. She didn't care about what they wanted to see from her, whether they loved her, or didn't. She didn't care about anything other than keeping that happy smile on the face of her dance partner, and she pulled up, chest to chest, to meet with his unwavering eyeline, her hands at his prominent cheeks and holding him steady. The Joker's expression altered to that of pleasant surprise, and her heart hammered in her ribcage at his heavy lids and open lips. She knew what was coming next - despite the lack of this scene in her script - and she accepted and anticipated it, a tingling thrill ran through her spine at the mere thought of their inevitable contact. Harleen's fingers trembled against his glistening, corpse-white face, and tiptoed to meet his mouth with hers, suddenly hungry and eager for him against her. But she stopped, barely an inch from the Joker, to see a thin line of blood leak from his nose, deep red that trickled down to the crimson cupid's bow of his lipstick.

"Oh?"

To Harleen's dismay, the Joker dropped her, his touch left her hips to press a finger against the dribbling of blood, accidentally smearing it further across the brightness of his face. His smile dissipated, pulling back his hand to examine the red at his fingertips, confused, bewildered, a high brow twitched with concern. Gasps hissed from the non-existent crowd, and Harleen too, found she followed suit. Her breath faltered in her chest and it ached at the hitching. "Are you okay - are you hurt?" To her horror the Joker said nothing, not even a quip to offer her, he dropped to one knee, panting and gasping, head down and shoulders shuddering, blood began to drool from his rasping mouth and onto the varnished stage floor.

"Oh my god! Mista' J?! What's happenin'?!" Her heart was thumping so hard in her panic it was painful, and she swept the hair from his eyes, felt his clammy pallid forehead, turned to the empty theatre and cried, "can someone help us!? Please!" More droplets of red splattered, up from his lungs in a hacking cough and Harleen stifled a cry as it flicked up her shins and smudged against the gloss of her skin-coloured tights. "Oh, baby," she whispered quietly to him as he struggled, "it's gonna be okay - it's gonna be okay - I promise -"

Screams erupted so sharp and so suddenly that Harleen was snapped from her care of the Joker and out to the proscenium, where a dark shape was moving through the shadows, between the rows and rows of seats, stepping forth, a huge and hulking, horned demon. No! Not now! She stood, shaking, despite herself, shielding the Joker from the glowing glare of the monster in their midst. "Can't you see he's injured?" she yelled out at it, voice echoing and echoing and echoing. "Don't come any closer!" Harleen stamped a heel against the woodwork, staring down at the ever-advancing Batman from the lip of the stage. "He's hurt - leave him alone -" her voice crackled at her demand, "please!"

Batman didn't respond, and didn't halter either. He took to the set of stairs by the wings and continued his deliberate, steady walk towards them. Bulbs flickered and burst from behind them - his presence bought a suffocating, ebbing, darkness, he donned a cloak that billowed and rippled out, swallowing everything that the Bat passed, until only the stage and the spotlight was left, encircling Harleen and the Joker within. Trapped or protected, Harleen couldn't tell. "Don't hurt him!" she snapped, and moved as he did, to shield the Joker from his bright, beaming eyes, like two searchlights swooping a great, dark lake. "LEAVE US ALONE!"

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha aaaaah -

Ha ha haaa ha ha HA HA HAHAHA HA HAAAA HA HA HA !

The laughter gurgled up from behind her, and Harleen felt the Joker's grip on her legs, jerking with each hacking, angry, crazed laugh that filled the complete, absolute abyss surrounding them. "Don't mind him, Harls," she heard him gag on his own spittle, "Batsy's just jealous." She turned to help the Joker to his feet, saw the deep, dark stains of blood against the orange of his open shirt, the spit and blood that stringed from his mouth to his chin and his tie. He was a state, and her chest clamped at the sight of his battering. The Joker swayed on his feet, eyes hazy and grin wide, twisted and swollen. "Ain't that right old pal?"

"What have you done to him?!"

Batman said nothing, not to Harleen, and not even to the Joker, who continued to splutter and laugh at her shoulder and sagging. She squeaked under his weight, desperate to protect him from the waiting blackness. The Batman was patient and persistent, biding his time, he slipped in and out of the void and Harleen knew he wouldn't leave without the man in her arms. I won't let you take him. I won't.

"Did you miss me? Well, ain't that sweet ." The Joker lunged from Harleen's support, taking darkness in his thrashing arms and hammering his fist against it's solid jaw, over and over, until one of it's glowing eyes sparked and fizzled out. He continued to rain down vicious punches, snarling and spitting at The Bat beneath him, laughing all the while through his sudden act of violence. "Miss me now?" he asked, again and again, until his fist was knuckle-bone against the teeth of his nemesis. "Do. you. miss. me. now?"

Harleen backed away from the brutality, breathing deep and hard against her hand, held over her open and trembling mouth. Her lungs splintered with pains that shot up through her back and between her ribs. Her body shook wildly, her eyes wide, too terrified for tears. It wasn't the Joker that frightened her, nor his gnashing teeth or blazing anger - but the Batman below, who, no matter how hard he was hit, would not - and did not - go down. Please, just stop! She begged silently for it to end. And the Joker, despite his upper hand, was visibly, blatantly worse off. Blood still trickled from his nose, dribbled from the corner of his mouth, his breath was ragged, he was ruined and writhing and wincing - but he persevered through immense pain because he was single-mindedly rabid atop Batman.

He was hurt and she was scared . She wanted nothing but his gentleness back, the softness, a kiss. Batman bought out the worst in the Joker, a raging, animalistic anger that he didn't need to tempt him further. If the Batman was gone, he could be the Joker Harleen liked, the one that made her laugh, bought her gifts and danced with her nicely, and watched her like she was the only person on earth that he saw. "Stop -" She backed up against a mass and turned abruptly, swivelled on her feet and into the bold bat symbol abreast the big, bad, Bat. He towered above her, seemingly untouched by the Joker though she had seen the Joker strip his knuckles raw in his ferociousness.

The Bat extended a hand, his deep voice bounced in her head as much as it bounced the walls of the auditorium. "Harleen Quinzel?" He didn't take her hand. Not this time. Instead, plunged his knuckle deep into her chest, pain erupted, winding her, her mind soared, buzzed and hummed in momentary madness, he stole the air from her lungs, and the thoughts from her mind and Harleen watched, mouth agape as he pulled back, her beating heart sat upon his palm and fluttered like the wings of a caged bird. She felt as though every weight in her body had been lifted, that she was nothing - empty - a bottomless pit of grief and despair - nothingness. She dropped to her knees, eyes on her heart and crying, screaming into the creeping darkness she could not escape, and watched in agony, as the Batman held her heart and crushed it in his fist.


Joker watched with an unbreakable gaze, the beads of sweat that swelled and ran down the pale, unusually gaunt face of Harley Quinn. Restrained by his men, she tossed and turned in throes of silent and terrible agony, vastly smaller, skinnier and more feeble than he'd ever seen her. Her limbs were littered in bruises and cuts from their crash, and the wound in her chest was wide and spouting deep, dark blood that had Joker's heart thudding and his head pounding. He'd seen many a horror in his life, of which rarely ever, ever phased him - hell, more often than not it was funny , but this, this was something he found himself completely and utterly unprepared for - and could not deny nor hide the stress that had his fists clenching, his anger rising, and a terrible, terrible sadness bubbling just below the surface. If she was to die on that steel table tonight, that was going to be the same unfortunate fate for everyone else in that room, he'd already promised himself of that .

He felt sick in his fury. Of the failure he anticipated and feared. Harley had, despite all her misgivings, successfully driven them back to the warehouse after saving him , amidst all of her crying and panicking, she had done him so proud . He'd kept as much pressure on the wound that he could have done - his jacket was ruined (and very worryingly, soaked through) by the time they'd smashed through the garage doors, and Joker had screamed madly for assistance. But Joker hadn't been able to keep the control in his voice when trying to comfort her, and Harley had noted every heightened, strained pitch with alarm. She had pressed him with desperation questions of dying, and she had pleaded with him - don't let this be it . Was she going to die?! "You're not going to die." He forbid it. He absolutely forbid it. "I'm not done with you." She had shrunk at his snapping, and had screamed as they drew out the table, he'd held her jaw in his hand and told her firmly, angrily, determined. "You're not . You hear me?"

Joker knew that she couldn't hear him. Not anymore. Harley was out , her mind wandered someplace else , traversing the levels of her pain threshold without the grim reality attached to it. Thanks to a concoction she'd breathed deep into her lungs on the arrival of none other than Jonathan Crane, who'd forced a bag to her face and tubed an entire canister of gas into it. It had deflated quickly, with her rapid, frightened, raggedbreaths, her eyes had lost their glimmer and Harley was gone . She clearly still felt - as she continued to cry out and struggle against his men, but she was no longer coherent . It wasn't a comfort. But, Joker had dialled and demanded that the stupid, sorrowful, sack-wearing Scarecrow needed to come and save her skin, " or he'd lose his own" - and Crane, as always, submitted to Joker's desperate demands, sensing the serious endangerment on his life, did he not do as he was told. They'd always said he was smart . And shit! He was the only doctor Joker knew, the only doctor Joker knew that wouldn't attempt to section him - or euthanize him at this stage (since Scarecrow himself required either or .) Crane was the only viable option, and he'd arrived within the hour donning a burlap sack, a briefcase in tow. His methods were questionable but Joker had very few options left in his arsenal, and even less time. The risk was too great - "Save her !"

"May I quickly remind you, I'm a psychiatrist , not a surgeon -" Crane had said, blanching as his eyes fell upon Harley held at the table, rolling up the sleeves of his dirty plaid shirt, pulling surgical gloves right up to his skinny elbows.

"You quacks are all the same!" Joker felt his skin boiling. "Just fix her -"

"She needs a hospital."

Jonathan Crane had an infuriatingly pompous attitude ( always! ) and prodded at and into the wound with a spindly finger, his mouth a thin line as he scrutinised the set-up before him. Suspicious of Joker's henchmen forcibly holding each of her limbs atop a commercial kitchen table, Crane surveyed the situation as though he had all the time in the world. His knuckle reached Harley's skin and she rocked upward, screaming. Joker could feel rage thumping through his veins, his head close to splitting in two, he knew that Crane was feeling for the bullet, but he didn't like it. Not one bit. "Don't test me," Joker warned, a low and guttural growl that forced, with a choke, from his mouth. Other days, he would have revelled in the way Scarecrow looked at people, like rats ready for dissection, but not today, and not with his Harley. "She dies, you die," he spoke, with firm and total conviction. It was a promise, to all of them, but especially him, and he flicked a blade against Crane's thin and sinewy neck to solidify his statement. "No place for mistakes today Johnny ."

Scarecrow gave a lengthy sigh, as though the knife at his throat was a mere inconvenience, rather than acting as that of a threat. Joker guessed he'd done this too often with Crane, that this type of interaction was now simply predictable, expected, a common occurrence. Joker seethed, teeth gritted tight. Oh, how he hated him and his slimy, softly-softly disposition.

"This will require some concentration ," Scarecrow said simply, the same bloodied finger he'd stuck in Harley, he used to gently move the blade away. Crane's ghostly eyes didn't waver behind his ragged mask, and Joker tossed the knife aside, slamming his fist against the steel. Pain shot up to his shoulder, sharp and hot like lightning, his knuckles already having been stripped from his fight with Batman, he hissed through his teeth. "FUCK! " He felt Crane jolt as the table rattled.

"You've done this before right?" Joker flicked his wrist to be rid of the sting, and Crane flinched. Ha!

"On myself," Scarecrow replied cautiously, and Joker couldn't help but scoff viciously - " good! Did you ever remove one of mine!? " - at his answer. If Crane wasn't so desperately needed, he'd give him some other wounds to perform self-surgery on! But Harley whimpered and drew Joker from his deathly glower. She was sweating profusely, her blonde bob stuck slick to her jawline, her skin a sallow white and shining with sweat. Her breaths were small and shallow, her fingernails scraping and palms slipping on the metal surface beneath.

"Get it done." Joker drew from his pocket a wad of cash - one of the bundles he'd gained from the Penguin's safe - watched intently as Scarecrow's eyes grew wide at the offer he slapped on the table. Crane might've not been a man motivated by money, but chemicals and pharmaceuticals did not come free.

"She worth some value, is she?" Crane's frayed head tilted at Harley's writhing with curiosity, a cold curiosity a scientist would give a rodent growing extra limbs.

Though Joker couldn't see his face, he could hear the smile in Scarecrow's voice. That smug skin crawling, softly spoken sack of shit! His stomach tensed and twisted, and his hands twitched at his temples though they longed to be putting Crane to the concrete. Joker laughed in his discomfort. "I'm not paying you to speak , Doc , I'm paying you to fuckin' work."

Joker didn't trust doctors , psychiatrists were useless and he certainly did not enjoy the company of Doctor Crane, but all things considered, the latter was the lesser of evils, for him at least. Again, Crane sighed and took to his briefcase, Joker watched all the while, unblinking, eyes aching . The case was full of intricate implements, real surgical tools that albeit a little rusted at the handles (and a tad dull) were at least clean and well kept.

"Hope you've had your tetanus, Harls!" he joked, but his lips were down-turned, and he felt sick through his low laughter.

Crane may have not been a surgeon but he was certainly precise . As Scarecrow carefully undone the remaining buttons of her shirt, he didn't once touch her skin as though the even her heat radiating repulsed him. Joker knew Jonathan to be prude, but now?! The poor girl was drenched in her own blood, eyes rolling, contorting - hardly wining, dining and ready for fucking. Jesus . "Get a grip," Joker snapped and tore open the rest of her top, her buttons pop -pop- popping off and onto the floor.

It was bad . So bad that Joker, nor his men, could hide their grave expressions once the wound was fully revealed to them. The bullet had torn a wide hole that sat between Harley's armpit and the flat of her breast, the skin was messy , ragged edges and dribbling generous amounts of claret. There was no wider exit wound, he knew that , the bullet was wriggling around somewhere in Harley's tiny torso. Close to all the vital parts, her lungs, her spine, her heart . Joker's throat was tight. The sickness - the burning, unbearable anger - rose to the point that he turned away from her, from the scene, from Scarecrow, from all of it. He grabbed the box TV from it's stand and tossed it, kicked the chair and watched it clatter, grabbed the strands and strands of fairy lights she'd taken time to stick up, and tore them down with fervent fury. If she was going to die - they'd be no need for her nonsense anyway! He'd liked the warehouse how it was! Hadn't he? Didn't he? Was she really going to die?

His henchman watched Joker's rampage in wise silence, Scarecrow upped the intake of Harley's gas and continued with his work, equally as quiet. Smart. Joker stood, shaking with a rage that burned beneath the skin, prickled at his neckline and ground his aching jaw. "Claus, you're with me. Get five guys, the van - now . I've got a sudden urge to clip the wings off a bird."