XI

Two working light fixtures and five broken ones nearly illuminated the path of dirty stairs up to Harley's apartment. She wasn't in any hurry to be alone in her cheap "home". She didn't even have a cat.

After leaving The Joker, Harley had taken nearly a full hour to get a proper hold on her emotions. She had gone back to her work and recorded her notes and written her thoughts down. No one at Arkham suspected that anything was wrong—Harley was usually one to stay late working—especially since she had begun her daily sessions with The Joker. It was almost eleven o'clock, and she was in the part of the city that really got morbid after dark.

A vibration from her pocket caught her attention. She stopped walking and paused to answer her cell, just a few doors away from her apartment. It was work.

"Hello?"

"Harley?" The director sounded frightened, "There's been an emergency declared… The Joker has escaped."

Her chest felt tight, "Oh." She said, searching her heart for the correct emotions.

"The Police are looking for him—but they're worried he might come looking for you. Do you feel like there's a risk?"

"No," she answered immediately, "No. He won't try to find me. He's obsessed with The Batman. He'll most likely direct his attention towards someone who can help him find Batman. I am safe." As she spoke, Harley walked cautiously towards her door. In the dim light of the hallway, she could just make out that the door was open a crack. "You don't need to worry about me." She stepped closer, her breath stolen from her when she saw that someone had broken the lock.

"…We don't know how long he's been out." The director's voice informed her, barely disguising a hint of panic, "You know, better than most… he'd unpredictable. Feral."

"He won't hurt me."

"Are you sure you're safe from him?"

Harley stared down at the broken lock on the door. "Yes," she said evenly, "Yes. I'm sure. I'll call if I think of anything that might help."

"Thank you… take care. Check in often with us, alright?"

"Alright. Bye."

What surprised Harley the most was the total lack of inner conflict. She knew he was waiting for her inside. She knew he was dangerous, and it never even occurred to her to run away, or tell the director or the police the truth. She couldn't turn him in now that he was free again. She had already crossed the line.

She pushed the broken door open and stepped inside. There was a light coming from the throat of the hallway. She shut the door behind her and let her purse slide from her shoulder. She thought about calling to him, but her throat was constricted to immobility. In spite of her conviction, she was afraid to see what would happen next.

Harley walked into the bedroom. The light was coming from her bathroom. He was standing in front of the mirror and she knew that this had not been his first stop; he was back in his original form; wearing his purple suit—the same one they had pulled off him when he come to Arkham.

He was back in his full make-up; applied with careful madness in streaks and smears of white, black and red. It was all creased from the lines of his skin and scars and coming off in light brushes against his greasy hair and the fabric of his purple collar.

"Alright, kid?" The voice sounded as light and kind as she had ever heard it.

"Mistah J," she momentarily let her fake 'doctor voice' slip away, "Oh… I can't…" she started to speak, but he cut her off.

"Why don't you… take a seat, Ms. Dr. Harley Quinn." He was advancing onto her, a switchblade appeared in his gloved hand.

Harley eyed the blade and felt an electric bolt kick her heart into a pace three times faster than it had already been beating. The Joker motioned to the edge of the bed with his knife.

She sat down, keeping her eyes upwards on his painted face. His eyes were so dark. There wasn't a hint of brown colour; just blackness. Some people (everyone but Harley) would have been incredibly disturbed to stare into them, but Harley had come to relish searching for secrets. There was something about him that comforted her.

She had to be the only dame in the city who felt safer in the same room as The Joker than she did anywhere else.

He knelt down in front of her—steadying himself with one hand on her knee. His switchblade was between his fingers—the cold metal against her warm skin conjured shivers. "Dr. Quinn, I know this is all very, beyond, the realms of professional protocol and propriety, and all of that… multiple-choice, apple-on-the-desk kinda life. But—I've never been a fan of rules…" he slid the edge of the blade against her leg.

Her panty-hoes split open and fell away from the white goose-bumped skin underneath. The Joker removed his gloves, "But, Harley, my love, we both know that you hate rules just as much as I do." He pulled her pumps off her feet and tossed them over his shoulder before he stuck his fingers under the soft, torn sheer and pulled it apart, "I don't know how you got through medical school, all the structure. You. Must have felt, everyday, like they were killing you, with small doses of academic venom." He paused for a minute and pointed to his neck-tie, "Go for it."

"Oh," she felt very light headed, but her instincts were starting to take over, she began to undo the knot on his tie while he moved on to destroy her skirt next, (her tights were now just a shredded pile of grey besides her pumps). He cut about an inch into the fabric of her skirt and then ripped it right in half in one swift, loud gesture.

"So, I'm proposing that you stop pretending. Lose the fake 'professional' way that you talk, uh… get rid of this," he took her Arkham ID badge and threw it with the rest of her ruined clothing. He started to cut the buttons off her blouse while she took his vest from off his chest, "Join the game going on in Gotham's undergroundcomingaboveground… deal in and sit down right next to me. I can promise you this much, Harlequin, it will never be boring and there will never be rules. For you. Or me."

For ounce in her life, Harley could think of nothing to say. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. The delicacy and restraint he had shown during their first stolen kiss in his cell at Arkham was gone. He was using the same frantic energy that went into his violence. His arms were crushing her into him. She could feel real urgency and passionate electricity through the conduit of his hard, coiled, sinewy body and immediately lost herself and her control and her life to lust.

He bit down on her lower lip and they both tasted metallic blood mixed with paint. Her hair had been forced out of its bun and was a mess of soft, blonde curls. He parted his teeth and pulled back, that scarred grin leered at her mischievously, before he took her face in both his hands and pressed his forehead into her forehead. She reached up and caught his wrists as he rubbed his face into hers, cheek-to-cheek and lips over hers he nuzzles at her eyes and nose until much of the paint had been moved from his face and onto her own.

The Joker pulled back to look at his work, her face was displayed a washed-out shadowy layer of paint just like his. Harley reached up with one finger to her cheek and came away with white paint, a smirk spreading towards her ears.

"Harley Quinn… I do have one condition."

"Really?"

"Yes. Promise me you'll still respect me in the morning."

Harley let out a joyous, wild gale of laughter that was soon eclipsed by The Joker's own wicked, feral laugh. She pulled him by the shoulders, dragging him down with her into the sheets and never once did she look back at her old life.

Fun Fact: I should have started writing this right after I saw the movie… but I waited over a month because I thought I was done with Fan Fiction.

Song of the Chapter: The Rasmus, "No Fear"