XII

He wasn't gone. Harley let out a slow, steady breath and gazed down at The Joker, sleeping next to her on his stomach, his fingers still holding onto the end of one of her blonde curls.

Twice in the night, she had dreamt that she woke up alone. But here he was. A little smile crept onto her face; her lips were sore from laughing and kissing him. For a glorious moment she was beyond contentment—she was blissfully happy, satisfied and still a little drunk on the memories of just a few hours ago. Then, she saw the time.

"(NAUGHTY!CENSOR)!" (Please feel free to mentally insert your favorite cuss.)

The Joker jerked awake as Harley flew from the bed and into the bathroom in a flesh coloured streak. Late for work. Forty minutes late. Harley caught sight of herself in the mirror and let out a yelp. She was covered in faded smudges of The Joker's makeup. It was all over her face and hands and arms and chest. She turned the sink on and sounds from within the apartment confirmed her worst fears in record time.

She swore again and darted back into the bedroom. The Joker was pulling his clothes on. Outside the bedroom there was barking and shouting, "Harleen Quinzel! This is Gotham Police, are you alright?"

"I'm fine! I just overslept!" she shouted, scrambling to put something on. With a panicked chill, she realised that the policewoman's voice was too close to be coming from the hallway—and then she remembered about finding the door open and the lock-

"-Your lock is broken," detective Montoya had entered the apartment.

They were both half-dressed—Harley scrambled into the hallway, still button up her blouse—trying to head the officers off, before they got to the bedroom. "-It's nothing! I mean… It's recent—nothing was taken-" she tried to shut the bedroom door behind her, but her hand slipped on the knob and she tripped, catching herself on the wall and holding what she hoped was a casual pose.

"-did you report the break-in?"

"Not yet. Are you really allowed to just walk on in?"

"I'm sorry," Monotya frowned, behind her two other officers had appeared with a couple of dogs. And guns.

Harley eyed the German Shepards anxiously—they were growling and sniffing the air.

"Under the circumstances… your patient being on the loose… there was cause for concern—what is all over you?"

That's when everything unraveled. Harley might have been able to explain the paint—but the dogs had suddenly gone nuts and the bedroom door was opened just enough for one of the officers to catch a glimpse of a purple figure attempting to climb out the bedroom window.

"FREEZE! RIGHT THERE!"

Guns were drawn, the attack command was shouted and the dogs bolted past Harley and into the bedroom. She collapsed onto the ground as they jostled her legs out from under her.

"NO!" She heard herself yell futilely. It was just a blurry few seconds before The Joker was next to her on the ground—hands cuffed behind his back. The officers were staring at them—Montoya was talking to the Commissioner on the phone.

"Well. Mistah J… That was some first date."

"Yeah. We should have gotten together sooner," he said so only she could hear.

Harley giggled nervously. She was somewhat aware that the sear of actually being caught (and what would happen next) was making her hysterical. "I've never been out with a guy from work before."

The Joker grinned and one of the officers snapped, "Quiet!"

"Doctor… if I may?" Gordon began his interrogation carefully—he had never dealt with a situation quite like this one before.

"Ya may," Harley examined her nails and gazed through heavy eyes with a haughty aura. She felt remarkably at peace, considering the mess around her. It was just one more piece of evidence to suggest that none of this was out of her control. It was what she wanted. Odd. Dangerous. Scandalous. And so right.

"I just can't understand it Dr. Quinzel. You're a bright, successful, lovely young woman. You've got everything going for you… why?" the Commissioner was much more sincere than Harley had been expecting. There was something almost likeable about the cop.

"Why, what? Why risk my career with a romantic relationship with my patient? It's not exactly a new story-"

"-why The Joker?!" the Commissioner specified, rubbing at his forehead with one hand, "What could the attraction possibly-"

"-you married, Commissioner Gordon? Jim? Mind if I call you Jim?"

"I'm married."

"Do you love her?"

"Very much."

"Well, I believe you, bub. And, I'd appreciate it if you'd take my word for it when I say I'm in love with Mistah J. It's just that simple."

"Did you help him escape?"

"Nope. I didn't have nothing to do with all that."

"He was out for a total of about… thirteen or fourteen hours, we think. Do you know if he went anywhere else, before coming to your apartment?"

"No. I got home around eleven, and Mistah J was waiting for me."

"…Alright." Gordon looked vaguely defeated, like Harley had just proved to him something he never wanted to know, "I knew a girl in High School, Sabrina. Cut thing. Smart too. She was on the drill team-"

"-Does this story have a moral?"

"You remind me of Sabrina."

"I gathered as much… What happened to this enchanting bird?" Harley feigned interest.

"She had a boyfriend. Alex. He was big and mean. Nobody understood what she saw in him-"

"-Did you ever ask miss thing?" Harley batted her eyelashes.

"I didn't get the chance. He was so protective of her. He didn't like other guys in the same room with his girl. But, she loved him—or so she insisted during the ten seconds I was able to talk to her—the day before he shoved her through a window."

"Did she leave him?"

"She died. The broken glass severed an artery in her leg and she bleed out."

"…That's an ugly story, Jim. And yeah, I'll admit that I'm a bit primitive biologically speaking; to fall for the biggest, baddest male in the tribe but that don't change a thing. I love him."

"He's a deranged, murderous, psychopath."

"I love him."

"He doesn't love you. He'll kill you. The second the though occurs to him." Gordon stood up and leaned across the table between them, "Harley. He's The Joker. A man without conscious—or even an identity-"

"-Don't talk about what you don't know!" She felt anger flare up inside of her chest, all she could remember was the desperate, lost expression she had seen in The Joker's eyes the day before, when he admitted that he couldn't remember who he was… except with her. "I'm done talkin', Jim. Can I go, or are you charging me with something?"

"The director at Arkham wanted me to tell you you're fired," said the Commissioner.

"Yeah. I figured."

"The best we can charge you with is harboring an escaped convict… I'm willing to drop all that, if you'll agree to get some help."

"See another shrink, you mean?" Harley laughed.

"Yes."

"…Could be fun to be on the other side for a bit." She shrugged, lacing her fingers through her blonde curls, and catching sight of a streak of red lipstick in her hair.

"Then you're free to go."

"Great!" Harley stood up with a swish of blonde, and a bouncy skip to the side of her chair. "Where's my puddin'? When can I see him?"

"You… want to see The Joker?"

"Sure. He's not my patient anymore. I wanna see him."

"Dr. Quinzel—The Joker is in lockdown at Arkham. No visitors."

Harley was quiet. She watched the Commissioner watch her. He was anxious. It made her feel funny that this total stranger—this enemy even, could seem to hold so much genuine concern for her? Why did she feel like he actually cared that she might get hurt? It wasn't the look that the other officers gave her. There was no disgust or morbid fascination.

"Right," Harley said, "I guess, that makes sense."

"Please, Doctor. Try and get well."

Fun Fact: Domicile is a really great word. In'it?

Song of the Chapter: HIM, (cover) "Wicked Game,". I'm getting onto a Finnish band kick… it might be Apocalyptica's tour that's doing it to me.