The Cobblepot Manor was perched on the very outskirts of the city, it's shining front doors faced the great beyond, opposed to the ever-growing Gotham skyline. Angular architecture lined with golds, creams and glass, it was an art deco statement piece with high windows and higher ceilings, it's lavishness hidden partially behind layers and levels of scaffolding. It was, after all, still in the process of restoration. Oswald, having grown so successful in recent years, had publicly announced this expensive side-project months ago. A personal passion, Cobblepot sought to renovate and rejuvenate his family heritage, starting with the family home. The manor before had been left to ruin, but Oswald had pulled it from the brink of bulldozing, throwing riches at builders upon builders, historians and architects, to bring it back to it's former glory. And as much as Joker hated to admit, it had worked. The tall, sharp and grandiose building looked as though it had been dipped in time, brass beamed sunlight back at their squinting eyes, as they hopped from the back of the van, one by one, to gather outside the grand gates of the premises.
Thanks to slow, steady city traffic, it had taken Joker and his men an hour to reach the manor, having sat together in silence, they'd each endured an awkward, windowless and wordless drive. He couldn't have stayed at the warehouse, even if he wanted to. He didn't want to. Not with Harley writhing on the table, while Crane roughly fingered her chest. Not with her weak struggles and screaming. He'd have killed Crane if he had stayed, had him by his skinny neck, a knife up in his ribcage, over and over and gasping - If she were going to die, he didn't want to be there. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to acknowledge it. Not at all. His hands had been tight and twisting fists in his lap for the journey. Nervous, hurting and seething with rage. Cobblepot was going to pay dearly for whatever losses Joker was expecting (and dreading). Black Mask, though having shot the bullet lodged close to Harley's heart, had been taken on by Batman, and beaten. Joker, instead, wanted to target the source of his problem, the one who'd put a price on the clown prince himself. The Penguin. And though lacking the resources to target the man directly - would TEAR DOWN his established order until he could TEAR OUT his throat with his teeth instead!
Joker stepped from the van, last of the six, to join them by the entrance of Cobblepot's estate. Claus, having been the designated driver and recruiter for this spontaneous and unexpected mission, stood tall and imposing amongst the mismatched band of miscreants. There was Happy, named for his complete and utter lack of joy from life, a greying, handsome ex-mobster, who'd met Joker years prior to exact vengeance on his family, having been betrayed and shunted from ever getting his hands on their substantial fortune. He'd been with Joker and served him ever since. Then, Nick - a fresh faced little fucker, part-time thug, part-time pizza delivery guy, liked the money, but loved the violence, was always unreliable, but relentless when in presence of his boss. Joker liked him a lot, he had more guts and more gall than he could contain. Yanos, not so much, but he was at least loyal, a baby-faced ladies man, an excellent shot, and smooth as silk. Lastly, joining the party, was Frog, a wide-mouthed, ugly, heavy lidded loser, who sought to impress, no matter how seedy or unsavoury the subject. He had his uses. His use for today was to unload the van of all it's fuel cans, and drag them up the gravel path to Cobblepot's front door.
Too hot for work to commence, and still in construction, the site was empty. Joker and his unusual entourage were able to stroll through the creaking gates and right up to manor without any issue. There was a stride in Joker's step as they approached, eager to smash through the expensive stained-glass windows of the double-front doors. It was going to be all too easy. The thought of stripping Cobblepot of his most prized project had him sneering. It didn't even the odds but Joker hoped it could sooth some of the rampant fury he felt, making him twitchy, tight, wound like a spring on a rusted nail. He went to put a hand through the glass, but winced. They were painfully swollen, knuckles barely distinguishable amidst a mottling of grazes, blood and massive bruising. Claus appeared to recognise his boss's desire instantly and took out the windows as though fisting through paper. Joker smiled, genuinely, wide-eyed at his most impressive specimen, little pins of glass stuck (gone entirely unnoticed by the brute mute) in Claus's forearm and solid bicep. "Why, thank you, you shouldn't have!" Claus said nothing as always - and kicked the doors inward.
Joker couldn't hide his eagerness to get inside the Cobblepot's mansion, and on announcing "ladies first!" hopped into the hall, hands clapping ecstatically despite the pain this caused. The interior was just as carefully reconstructed as it's shell. There was scaffolding on the inside for painters to rework the original patterns on the walls, the carpets had been remade to reflect the era of it's birth, the decoration - though currently sparse, was blatantly bespoke. The amount of money Penguin must have poured into this, only added to Joker's delight at the thought of demolishing it. But with such beauty to behold, he thought - absently - of Harley Quinn. She'd love this place, he knew. The golds, the glamour, reminded him of her stage, the first he'd seen of her, glimmering in the spotlight. The style, the sleekness, the elegance. He sighed and his anger ebbed in his chest. Joker would salvage something for her from all this - for when she woke up - if she would. Wake up.
Frog had finished bringing all the fuel cans into the lobby, skin glistened with sweat from his labour in the blazing heat of midafternoon. He drew a sleeve of his suit (no wonder he was melting!) across his forehead, and gleamed proudly. "S'all here, boss," he croaked - another reason for his nickname - his ridiculously harsh and broken voice.
Joker nodded, the small smile on his mouth twitching at the corners, "good."
There were specific ways in which to burn buildings. Fuel, obviously, was a necessity, to speed the process and ensure little to no complication of the fire taking. Then, where to start them. Since he had five men to help bring the building to the ground, he had to give enough time for them to leave with their skin, their selves intact. So, no explosions. Not today. Electrical wires were a good start - would pull fire through plaster and paste, and spread evenly. Gas pipes, though the most efficient way of wiping things off the map, wouldn't give them enough time to escape before the blaze was unbearable and ready to blow. He wanted nothing but ash left for Penguin to pot up, and needed a fire big enough for this to be possible.
"Chimneys, soot, old wood, old wiring, blankets, curtains - find it, soak it -" Joker grinned, "crack every window, let's air this place out…" His men smirked at his order, eyes flitting one another, they found enjoyment and excitement in Joker's weird work.
"Anythin' you say, J."
They spread out, splashing generous amounts of petrol onto freshly steamed carpets, over cushions, over bare wiring left for electricians. Wood was easy to reach and soak, thanks to workmen having stripped back the wallpaper to fix the rotting beams. The building, in the stages of its reinvention and improvement, had been left entirely vulnerable.
Joker laughed to himself as he took the stairs, eyes peeled for something to take back to Harley. He strode into each room, glancing shelves, mantles and sides for a gift. A thank you. A thank you for returning to his side and saving him from another long stint at Arkham Asylum. It still surprised him, the fact she'd sped back to his aid, and hurt when he thought of what had become of her because of it. There were always risks attached to Joker's lifestyle, he understood, his goons understood, even the Batman understood that life was fragile, and death fickle, when the clown prince came knocking. It was unfortunate (very unfortunate) for Harls, that she discovered that this way. He'd come to like her - had grown accustomed to her presence at the warehouse, at the club, in his car, with his guys, that it seemed a terrible shame for that to go away. Everything did, in the end.
Cobblepot's bedroom was obvious upon reaching it. The boudoir was huge, carved in white wood, a cream canopy of glittering net reached each of its corners. A giant, snarling head of a polar bear hung high above the headboard. Everything was fur, or bone, ivory, or skin. And the singular pole, central to the room, that gleamed from the ceiling to the floor - was certainly not in place with the rest of the household. Joker's nose crinkled. Whatever Penguin did in here, planned to do - Joker didn't want to know. Fuck, who would? He took to tearing out the drawers first, empty, empty, empty. Then the cupboards, some drink, some trinkets, some condoms - then the wardrobe, a suit, a suit, a different suit, suit, suit, suit - really? - suit, suit, suit - Ah! He paused at a glittering gold dress, he'd almost missed swiping through the monotony of Oswald's clothing. It was slight enough for Harley, encrusted with sparkling white gems from the thin straps at the shoulder, to the hem at the ankles. He pulled it from the hanger to consider it further. He had no idea…
"Good choice," spoke a voice that had Joker jolting, swivelling, gun pointing.
He sighed as he found Happy at the doorway, fuel can in hand, clearly ready and waiting to douse the master bedroom too. Joker stared blankly at him and his statement.
"Ha ha hah, what does it matter?" Joker asked, but folded the dress under his arm none-the-less, "she'll be wearing it in her coffin." He scoffed, laughed louder, higher and dragged a shaking hand through his hair. "Let's get this show started, shall we?" and he moved to let Happy rinse the room with gasoline, giggling maniacally at the sloshing liquid set to burn and burn and burn.
Harleen woke with her head in a bucket, heaving. Her throat was fire, her ribcage sung with pain at each and every retching motion. Her skin was unbearably hot, sweat and sick seemed to rise in waves from her body, and she spat up bile that burned up her insides. She groaned, cried, whined, felt hands at her forehead pushing the slick blonde from her bleary eyes. She wasn't dead - but perhaps - this was worse. Was she dying? Was it going to be slow and painful as this? She cried, heavy, hard sobs that triggered another vicious wave of purging. Her body had nothing left to give, no tears - no vomit. She was hollow. Harleen remembered the shot, how she'd never feared anything quite as much as that wound at her chest, bubbling blood. She'd remembered the Joker, bloodied and bruised, his face had been a smeared mess of spit, lipstick, and deep, deep red. He had been so hurt too - was he okay? She took the hand at her head and held it in a trembling grip. Her palms slipped but it took hers in return, a firmer, solid hold.
"Steady - steady -" said a voice she recognised - but it wasn't the Joker's, and her heart dipped so suddenly, she felt she might puke back up again.
It was Floyd. His red-nosed mask rested on his frizzy black hair like a hat, his amber eyes warm as she met with his gaze. The first she'd seen of him, he'd been dressed as a clown and tossing cold water up and into her face, now he roused her gently from the brink of death - so it felt. How completely and utterly fucked had her life gotten? Just as it had finally, for the first time, been looking on the up. She had been near to famous and now she wasn't even sure she was going to survive. Harleen laughed, laughed through tears that barely inched passed the edges of her eyelids. "Oh my fuckin' god -" she breathed, "I'm alive?"
Floyd, joined her in her laughter - breathing a lengthy sigh of relief. "Yeah, yeah, you are, thank fuck that you are." His hands enveloped her own, and squeezed it tight. "You ain't the slightest how fucked things would have gotten if - shit -" He seemed as thankful as she was that she'd awoken. It was flattering to think that they had cared? For whatever reason? As depraved as it was, it was undeniably satisfying. Real grief, for the real her. Harleen half-smiled, half-winced as she pulled herself away from the bucket to rest on her back, breathing shallow to save from the pangs in her lungs.
She'd been moved from the table-top and onto her mattress - only her mattress was now accompanied by a frame, and no longer sat on the cold, concrete floor. Taking a bullet for the Joker's sake seemed to have upped her bedding. The sheets had been cleaned, the mattress was covered, the pillows were plush, and new. "Is he okay?" Harleen asked, despite herself - despite knowing how inappropriate - how ridiculous it was to feel such concern for her captor. But she couldn't help her curiosity. Was desperate to know he was alright. They'd made it out together, she'd remembered the flitting fear in his features, something she'd never expected to see from the Joker. How he'd pressed his jacket at her bleeding and pleaded with his eyes at her. Don't you go dying on me. I'm not finished with you. Don't think you can just waltz up and take the easy way out! He'd slapped her cheek with the back of his fingers. Hey! Hey! Listen - to - ME! Her heart fluttered weakly at the quiet memory, still teetering in the aftermath of the drugs and adrenaline.
"The boss?" Floyd seemed pleased that she'd asked, and nodded. "Yeah, he's fine - angry as fuck, but fine. Don't worry about him, he gets shot at all the time!" He waved his hand nonchalant. To them, this was nothing. A scratch! She supposed that to his lackeys, having the Joker turn up black-and-blue was simply a part of their usual routine. It had upset her to see Batman bludgeoning the Joker. She'd only ever heard of his daring, dangerous heroism, she hadn't once thought about that enacted in real life. It had been as far from the handsome-man-swoops-in-to-save-his-endangered-dame as she could have possibly imagined. And it had been the Joker she'd saved, despite everything. It had been the right thing to do.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the darkening warehouse, spindly and crooked, it stepped out and into the light. For the briefest of moments she'd held her breath, hoping it was him - but instead, was met with a sack for a face and a creeping, dirty, thin, twitching of limbs. She screamed. Floyd leaped for his gun - sighed as he realised, and took a hold of her shoulder, whispering quietly. "It's alright, It's alright! It's just Scarecrow -"
Just Scarecrow...
"Just Scarecrow?!" she'd seen this awful face before, several years prior, followed by the proposal of evacuating the entire city. This face had threatened every single citizen, with a rasping voice across every network, every phone line, every radio station. That each and every one of them would die in the throes of true and terrible fear. He'd gassed East Gotham completely that day, having hospitalised people in their hundreds. She'd been lucky - and had been at an audition elsewhere, the nice part, where the rich went untouched and didn't even flinch for the poor. That she'd had to stay with a fellow auditionee that night, unable to return to her shoddy apartment. Hadn't been able to admit where she lived, and had fucked him as though she liked him to save the embarrassment. Harleen had remembered the news, the papers, the fear that lingered for weeks, even after the Batman had got him. "Ain't you that creepy terrorist guy?!" Harleen didn't know why she'd asked. He was. Unmistakably.
"I removed the bullet from your body, that's all you really need to know," his voice was soft and southern, it didn't suit the visage that set before her. He placed a box on her bed and said bullet rolled inside. "It was inches from your heart. It will take a while for you to heal fully."
Harleen looked down at the metal slug, the thick J scratched into its side was red with what could only be her blood. The man in the skull mask had been so intent on getting to the Joker, she swelled with a little pride to know she had stopped them. Lil' ol' Harleen Quinzel had stopped the mob in their attempted murder. "I knew I'd be good for somethin'!" she fisted the air, and winced at the sting of the intravenous. Ouch.
"Meat shields certainly have their uses," Scarecrow chuckled and she didn't like it, scowling. It wasn't like when the Joker jabbed. This was cold, callous and deliberately cruel.
"Hey! That's not what it was like!" It wasn't! At all! If they'd seen the Joker's face, they'd have known. It had been a mistake! An accident! And it had shocked him as much as it had her. She'd seen it in his eyes, the instant regret. The fright that had scared her too, more than the bleeding at her breast. How his smile had dropped and laughter had left him.
"I really don't care." And he didn't, it was made blatantly obvious that he didn't.
"Well you've saved a celebrity, how's that make ya' feel?" Harleen probed, despite the man's clear dismissal, and smiled with as much warmth as she could at him.
His eyes were void of humour, calculating, vacant, as he looked her over, redressed her leaking wound with gauze, more gauze and duct tape. Scarecrow worked quickly enough that she didn't get a chance to see the damage - and cringed at the tenderness there. It was red and raised at the edges of the tape, and sore to his briefest of touches.
"I don't know who you are," he replied blandly, busying himself with checking the drip at her right.
Like he didn't know. Harleen scoffed. "Don't ya' watch the news? I've been missin' fer weeks!" It was pitiful to admit, all that hard work in attempt to fit in, failed audition after failed audition, mindlessly fucking into a final role that would elevate her to fame and - and all for nought, nada, nothin'. To get exposure simply for being stolen from her one true moment, and known instead as the unfortunate missing person the Joker had nabbed off the stage. She sighed. "Ain't you at least heard of the show?!"
Scarecrow stared at her incredulously, as though stupefied by her simple question. "Are you feeling any pain - perhaps I can give you more sedative?" Clearly that was the creepy man's way of saying kindly, shut the fuck up.
Laughter ensued, loud and echoing laughter - of many. That had Floyd stand, Scarecrow turn, and Harley jolt - ouch - in her bed. It took seconds for her to realise, amongst the cacophony, that the Joker had returned and was very, very amused. As were his men, who howled alongside him, as they made their way into the building, a band of crazed individuals, covered head-to-toe in soot. The Joker was clutching at his sides, wielding an empty fuel can and stumbling in his struggle to stay afoot from all the cackling. His eyes watered, from smoke, or from laughter - she couldn't tell which. Harleen was desperate to leap up from her bed, and squeaked as the movement shot splintered pain through her limbs. She instead, smiled ear to ear. "You're back!"
Harleen's little voice cut the laughter dead, and the Joker immediately spotted her movement, and smiling from her cot they'd created for her. For a moment it seemed like he hadn't seen her at all, as though he didn't expect her, had forgotten he still held her hostage. There was a fleeting moment of shock that flashed on his sharp features, taken aback. That she was alive.
"Harley, baby!" He opened his arms as though announcing her presence, to his men, the warehouse, the world. Throwing a hand up and into his hair, he cracked a grin wider than she'd ever seen. Her heart hammered madly - though it ached, she felt weightless. She'd made it. They'd made it.
"You had me goin' Harls -" he waggled a finger at her as he approached, "you really had me going there -" and he bent down to press the tiniest kiss to her forehead, so small that she didn't even feel it's contact. He smelt like dirty fire, a bonfire burning plastics. His eyes were piercingly bright against the black smeared all over his face. His sleeves were charred and rough at her cheeks. He smiled down at her, his gaze unbreakable, as though it was first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. "That's my girl!"
A/N: Apologies that my updates on are so slow. The fanfiction is still in progress, I'll try to post more regularly on here if I can. Thanks for the eager comments and patience. Much love, L x
