Harleen didn't know how long she'd been asleep for, couldn't remember how many days it had been since the crash and the crude surgery. Harleen had woken in slithers from time to time, to voices and faces that had never been his , only to drift back into the dreamless dark, in waves of exhaustion, fever and fragility. Despite some brief disorientation, Harleen came to, with clarity, propping herself up on her elbows and wiping bleary eyes with some ferocity. The most lucid she'd felt in what had seemed like forever, Harleen sought familiarity in the warehouse, found that she was wrapped in clean linen upon her bed, and could spot the same faces she had come to know, and even like, throughout her time as the Joker's hostage. From the foggy pink of the sky, the hazy beams from high windows, Harleen could only assume it was dawn. Things were quiet in the warehouse, and still , save for a couple of the Joker's men lingering, smoking cigarettes, laughing and speaking in hushed voices amongst themselves. Armed to the teeth (and then some) they were clearly on guard duty, but busy instead with playing poker, as they had done with her the first night she'd met them. It bought a warmth to her weakened limbs and a smile to her sore face, that it didn't feel at all strange to have woken up to this setting. That the scene before her offered solace, something she wouldn't have had at hospital, or even at home . Having taken a bullet for the Joker, and having saved him from another beating off the Bat, Harleen had earned acceptance and a sense of belonging. All those years of yearning for her place among people, was this it presented to her now?

Was it crazy to admit she felt more at home amongst the Joker's crates of dynamite and demented thugs, than she had ever felt amongst her fellow actors and Gotham's glamorous elite? She glanced the warehouse floor, in hopes of a glimpse of him. Where was he? Pulling herself up and against plush pillows, Harleen's hand knocked a roughly wrapped parcel that had been positioned in her sleeping lap. In the same untidy scrawl that had been scribbled on the label for the jukebox, was written in sharpie over the crumpled brown paper, Good show, J, followed by a green heart with an arrow through its center. Harleen gathered the Joker had been pleased with her participation and opened the present eagerly. A gold and glittering dress fell onto her thighs, it's sequins and diamantes caught on the starchy linen of her bedsheets. It smelt of soot - and she recalled, the Joker having come to her, singed and smelling of fire . Some of it's seams had been burned black, but it simply added to it's charm. Harleen smiled to think of the Joker, manically parading through a blaze, her dress in hand. Who else would have given her a jukebox of show tunes sheloved , or a sparkling dress saved from deadly fire? The thoughtfulness was more than flattering and Harleen's little heart fluttered. How romantic.

Harleen flipped the covers, her legs mottled with the purples and greens of aged bruises, and wiggled her toes to the static of pins and needles that fizzed in her muscles and bones. She noted that the Joker's lackeys had removed her shirt and skirt, who knew when , and dressed her in what she could only assume where the Joker's down day clothes. Over her panties they'd pulled on a pair of his purple boxers, embroidered with gold J's all over. She giggled at the elaborate ridiculousness, as endearing and stupid as they looked. Who makes these? On top, they'd donned her a big baggy t-shirt, that she grinned ever wider at upon seeing the text across her chest. I SURVIVED THE JOKER in bold, black font. Just as she had told him she'd seen sold down by the subways. She squeaked.

Harleen went to hop from her cot, more eager than ever to find and thank Mistah' J for all of his gifts and thoughtfulness. Genuinely happy (andexcited ) to see him. She had so much to say - so thrilled that they had both survived, so antsy for what this spelt for them both, from here on out. Her feet touched the floor. But it wasn't the cold of concrete she had been expecting, had come to know from the warehouse floor. It was warm, warm, soft and squishy - and swore loudly as she stumbled over it's uneven surface.

"S-sorry!" Harleen stumbled all over the sleeping body at her feet, before realising fully what she was treading on and struggling to keep her balance. A mattress had been pushed beside her bed, covered by a sleeping bag, and wrapped tightly within was the Joker himself, waking unpleasantly, suddenly , to being stepped on. Repeatedly .

" Why ?" he croaked as Harleen accidentally crushed the air from his lungs, having hopped from his diaphragm to find solid ground.

"I'm sorry - I'm sorry !" It had been hard for Harleen to walk, since she hadn't stood in a while, her legs were weak , like jelly, and had trampled the Joker until she found her footing. He coughed and spluttered, moaning quietly as he sat, barely conscious he roused from the cocoon of his sleeping bag, blinking absently and clutching at his stomach. Her breath hitched, ankles buckled, and Harleen tumbled, arms out towards the man she'd suffered alongside, and had suffered so much for . Her knees met the mattress and she gathered him up, arms flung either side of his neck, she kissed him roughly, once , on the cheek. "I'm so sorry!" she announced loudly, grabbing at his shoulders and shaking him.

The Joker winced at her kiss, pulled back to watch her blankly. Her chest hurt to see the two fading black-and-blue eyes staring, a scabbed nick in his eyebrow, a thick strip of duct tape pressed over the bridge of his nose… He looked a sorry state, and in his sleepiness, even soft . There was a tiny, a terrible , slither of sadist joy Harleen hid behind a gentle smile, to love the littering of war wounds the Joker was sporting. The love of his vulnerability, she doubted many - if any - often got to see. In some twisted way, Harleen felt special. Finally.

He wiggled free from her hold, flicked her arms from his shoulders but reciprocated her smile, still. "Could have just asked me to move, Harls," he scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair to flatten the silly quiffs that stuck out like horns from the back of his head.

She laughed, felt light, and happy , wanted so much to hug him , but knew he would evade her reach if she tried again. "Thank you," Harleen spoke gingerly, her own hands at her wrists and rubbing. "Fer lookin' after me, and for the dress. That was real sweet of ya'."

The Joker eyed her curiously, confused , flitted the features of her face, calculating as he leaned forward, nose only inches from her own. "I owe you," he said, voice a low growl and spoken with conviction. He was unwavering, challenging , as though saving him had only proved to complicate their situation, whatever that was. It was clear, concise , the Joker wasn't used to owing anyone anything but Harleen Quinzel was his exception. She felt the hotness of his breath on her lips and he stole her own as he sucked in sharply. She couldn't tell whether it was anger that he looked at her with. Or something else entirely. He extended a hand that hovered at her cheek, he pressed a thumb against the corner of her mouth, pressed up to prompt the curve of a half-smile. His fingers at her lips had her trembling. He smiled, widely, forcefully and Harleen's heart hammered in it's cage against her ribs.

"I guess ya' do," she said quietly, unable to break away from his steely stare. Unable to pull away from his nail pressing against the softness of her small, bowed lips.

He snorted , snapped his hand from the graze at her cheek, struggled from his sleeping bag and stood abruptly. She watched as he dragged a sleeve across his mouth, taking the last of the red from his lips and chin, left over make-up from the day before. As though she had kissed him then, and he was removing any mark of it… Harleen found she could breath again once he'd bought them some distance, and exhaled loudly, chestaching from tenseness. His eyes had held that same tenacity as the first time he'd had her, sat in the chair and trembling at the end of his knife. But she'd been at the end of his fingers instead, and trembling still. Not from fear though. Not this time.

"Hungry?" he asked loudly, and Harleen jumped at his brash barking. He pointed to the dress on the bed, jabbing. "Get ready. We're going for breakfast!"


Harley's face had dropped the moment they'd turned into the car park of the dusty run-down diner, and she'd looked down at her slightly charred dress, expression etched with distress at the realisation of their destination. " Here?! " she asked incredulously, as though the mere suggestion was outlandish and outrageous . Joker frowned, in concentration, as he crawled the sports car, carefully does it , into the last remaining space. He realised, fully, Harley would have most likely been expecting breakfast tea at some swank hotel uptown, and not some dive of a diner fifteen minutes from their current location at the dockyard warehouses. But he liked this place, and needed, for now, to remain lowkey . Tiffany's diner - the local grease kitchen. The breakfast menu was good though - and he'd seen her munch her way through meals twice the size of her head, he was sure that Harley would appreciate the joint, once they were inside and ready to order.

"Dressed like this ?!" she continued, and looked about ready to cry. Oh, fuck no.

Joker turned to his dramatic acquaintance, and unblinking, asked, "why not?" From the glitter at her heels she'd worn on stage, to the dress he'd stolen from Penguin's manor, her hair a tangled mess from the week spent tossing and turning in bed, duct tape and bloodied gauze at her chest - she looked nothing less than raw and true. It was an altogether improved look from the picture he'd first seen of her, fresh faced and false on the front of the news. He leant over her lap, to retrieve the gun from his glove compartment - and caught the glimpse of shock, of excitement, that stalled the onset of tears and turned Harley Quinn coy instead.

" Ooh , do ya' think they do pancakes ?"

It was six in the morning, and the diner was packed. Full of tired looking workmen, shovelling what they could of fattening frying-pan-breakfasts before long and laborious days in the factories by the docks. At first, no one noticed them enter. Joker in a shitty purple rain mac and swim shorts, and Harley in her (only slightly) singed ball gown and heels. People didn't look for what they couldn't predict, and the world kept spinning until the waitress waltzed over to give them a table. Joker could see the cogs turning, as the waitress took in their clothes and then glanced across at his face. Her smile fell, her shoulder's sagged, and her fat lower lip started to tremble with terror. Of the realisation of Joker in their midsts. Unmistakable, murderous, Gotham's madman . "A booth please!" he asked, with a toothy smile that had the waitress paling further. "We don't mind waiting, do we Harls?"

"Not at all, Mistah' J," came Harley's reply, head already buried in a menu she'd snatched from the stand. He knew she would've liked it!

"A-absolutely, sir -" the waitress stammered, "right this way -"

Heads began to turn, at the clop-clop-clop of him dragging his flip flops over the diner's wooden floor. Harley in tow, head still buried in the menu. Poor girl hadn't eaten solids for a week, he didn't blame her for her enthusiasm. Joker eyed the patrons as he passed, one by one. Each of them, upon spotting his face - even make-up-less - had them gasping and turning back to their meals. Those that did notice, hurried to pay, but there were others too caught in discussion or stacks of pancakes, to realise the clown prince's presence therein.

They sat, and Harley finally dropped the menu to beam at him sweetly. "I can't pick! I want one of everythin ' they got -" she whispered, giggling, as though the thought was simply too scandalous to air aloud.

Joker grinned, and turned to the waitress, purring his request as she shook, horrified above her writing pad, "you heard the girl, one of everythingit'll be then!" And he flashed the gun in his lap to point at the woman's wavy thighs. "You let me and the lady dine in peace, I won't have to ruin your day , how about that?" He caught Harley's expression, wide-eyed with thrill at his words.

"Of course! Of course!" The waitress was tougher than she looked, and nodded frantically at Joker's threat, understood , eyes darting back and forth from his face to the gun. "Comin' right up!" She rushed to jot down their half-assed order, stumbled as she swivelled, sped over to her till and out of sight.

Joker smiled, pleased with the progress so far, and turned his attention back to Harley instead, who was people watching, quietly and content. She must have felt his eyes upon her, as she too pulled away from the bustle of the restaurant to meet with his eyeline. He threw his glock on the table and leaned back into the cheap, pink leather of the booth, stretching his long and lank limbs, he felt himself relax.

"Are ya' hungry? I'm starvin '. Their breakfast menu's so big - I can't wait to try it. Have ya' been here before? I can't wait to try the milkshakes! They do strawberry, banana, toffee, vanilla, raspberry, chocolate, even -"

"Harley." He wasn't used to much idle chatter. Sure, he had guys who wouldn't shut up , but more often than not he spent his personal time alone . It wasn't that he didn't have men to talk at, or people to engage with when he chose to, but Joker despite his entourage, despite his loyal lackeys, spent a great deal of time mulling on his own . If anyone was talking, it was usually him . Harley went quiet at the mere mention of her given name, and Joker smiled. She really was a sweet little thing to look at, sitting innocently opposite, all curious in the eyes, and tender at the mouth. The bruises on her face had almost healed, all that was left were faded purple rings above her cheekbones, barely visible through the blushing of her cheeks. And the gauze at her chest, that was bloodied but better, with each and every change of dressing, she was recovering well. Harley had made it through the worst of it , and the only way for her now, was up .

Joker had hung by her side the whole week-and-a-half she'd been unconscious. As much as he had wanted to go for the Penguin, again and again, striking whatever property he could get his hands on, Joker hadn't . The manor had burned, burned up like a beacon. He and his men had watched on the news from her bedside, toasting to each and every failed attempt at firefighters dousing the blaze. He'd been successful in erasing the Penguin's household heritage, and nothing had been left to recover. Harleen had slept through, at peace, though he'd done it for her - and had hoped , for a man who never hoped, that she would come back from this. He had, at times, lashed out at his men while she slept. Had punched Nick so hard he'd knocked out three of his back teeth. Had argued and bitched at Happy while cleaning his gun, Joker had been sure he was contemplating aiming and firing, so he'd pushed and he'd pushed until Happy shot through a window and stormed from the warehouse. If only she knew what she'd done to him.

Harley spinned the barrel of his gun, aimlessly, flicking it with a chipped gold fingernail, over and over. Her cheeks grew redder still as her tummy grumbled, and she giggled with embarrassment at her obvious hunger. How long had he been staring at her? "They're taking their sweet time ," he spoke, suspicious of his lack of waitress and leaning over the end of their booth to seek her out again.

"They are makin' everythin' on the menu Mistah' J, that's gonna take some time -" came Harley's little voice of reason.

But she was hungry. She'd suffered enough . "Hello?" Joker's voice was high and strained as he beckoned their scared waitress back over to their booth by the window. "How long is this going to take?" he asked, "I'm a very busy man ." Fingers twitching at his ringed fingers, finding it difficult to stifle the anger and impatience that burned just beneath the surface of his smile.

"You're in the line, sir," the waitress spoke, voice dipping and raising, legs twitching. "The restaurant is very busy also, I can speak to the -"

Joker reached for his gun and fired five shots, in quick succession, at the diner ceiling. Plaster fell like snow onto his and Harley's table, she both squealed and clapped at the show. Shocked but not remotely appalled . Instead, she seemed to enjoy it. Immediately, the seats began to empty, in one hurried, manic rush towards the door. The bell above the entrance ring-a-ding-a-ring'd for five minutes, until only Joker, Harley and the waitress were left front-of-house. Harley was still clapping, but stopped when she came to realise the awkward stillness.

"Oh." She coughed into her fist.

"Now how long ?" Joker growled, grin wide and smug, he couldn't resist asking again.