Author's Note: Huge shout-outs and thanks to Gladrial10 for her fabulous help in proof-reading. Writing Mistah J is an intimidating experience and it's comforting to have someone act as consultant! Thanks bay bay! And if you haven't already, ya'll should go read her fics!

---

He was annoyed when he woke up the next day to find himself still alone in bed. He had expected to wake up to find her curling herself around him, like a little fuzzy caterpillar on a leaf. But, no. She clearly wanted to play it tough.

At least he wasn't cold though.

Harley had found him flannel pajamas in different shades of striped purple. She'd bought him green socks as well, and a couple of pairs of dark trousers (he always had to have his custom-made and dyed, they never did do the styles and colours he really liked for the hoi polloi) as well as a few cotton shirts in shades of green and orange. The shirts weren't too bad. Still, cotton. He hoped this little farce wasn't going to take too long.

But even though Harley had obviously spent a great deal of time and care picking out things he would find bearable to wear, she marched in with a determined little tilt to her chin. Waw. He'd grinned at her from where he had been sitting innocently on the couch, watching her DVD of Singin' in the Rain (he loved Donald O'Connor in that film, and Jean Hagen was seriously hilarious), and batted green-lashed eyes. Her step faltered just a little.

Of course, he had put her laptop carefully back where he had found it. Quite precisely. He didn't mind her knowing he'd been through her drawers (and he was going to have to ask her about the surprising amount of outrageous lingerie he'd discovered, in addition to a dozen or so pairs of stiletto-heeled stripper shoes), but there were a few cards he was going to hold close to his chest for a little while.

As soon as she'd given him a pair of pajamas, he'd ripped them out of the plastic packet and divested his long body of her little set. Once again she'd blushed and turned away quickly, but he'd noticed her sweep a quick glance up and down him and he took his time dressing, unable to help preening a little.

While he was occupied doing that, she took the paper bags of groceries over to her absurd pink kitchen (she had a pink egg whisk! And people said he was crazy!) and began to unpack them.

His eyes had lit up as he watched her pull out packets of lollies, tubs of ice-cream, tubes of cookie dough and other yummies. Best of all was the box with the red foil cursive script: Betty's House of Pies. He had wondered which one of his favourites she'd gotten him and resolved to pretend that whichever it was, it was the one he wanted even though he was sure it wouldn't be. Sweeten her up.

The silence coming from her had been odd.

At first he couldn't figure out why it was so unusually peaceful being so near her. Then he'd realised she was keeping her lips pressed tight together. In the past she'd always been yammering away at him, or humming, or singing, or chirping, or sighing, or whining or making some sort of noise guaranteed to drive him somewhat nuts.

Her silence was… well… disquieting.

She'd quietly unpacked the groceries and then set about getting him dinner while Donald O'Connor sang Make 'Em Laugh in the background (completely brilliant the way he kept upping the stakes in that scene…) He slumped forward, resting his chin on the back of the couch and watched her interestedly as she went about putting a potful of water on the stove and opening a tin of tomatoes. She concertedly did not look at him.

It was most ungratifying.

"Ouch!" he yelped suddenly and made a grab for his leg, realised he went for the wrong one and quickly corrected himself just as Harley looked at him with ill-concealed anxiety.

"What is it?" her voice wavered and he drew another imaginary score on his side of the board.

"Nothing," he dismissed it with a wave of his hand, rubbing his knee carefully with the other. "Nothing at all. Just a little twinge."

She'd come around from behind the bench and had raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure? Ya need a pain killer?"

"No, no, please, Baby, I don't want to bother you." He tossed his hair backwards and turned his face from her, the very picture of martyrdom, keeping just enough of a wince to make her worry.

She was silent for a long moment. Then she finally said:

"You don't have to play these tricks on me, Joker."

Ooh, the game had just got interesting. Joker was impressed. He hadn't expected sane Harley to be shrewd Harley.

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you weren't ignoring me." He let the full brunt of his frustration show, dropping the honeyed tones he'd been keeping. Why didn't she want to talk to him? He was pretty sure the last time he'd seen her he hadn't so much as backhanded her, or left her to Batman, or even shouted at her for a few hours (or minutes, whatever).

"I'm cookin' the dinner," she stomped back around the bench and dumped a load of pasta into the boiling water, pouting. "Ya can stay here another night, Mis - Joker, but tomorrow mornin' you gotta go."

He had to grip the sofa cushions to stop himself from lurching over the bench and shoving her face first into the bubbling pot. He gnashed his teeth and rolled his eyes at the air for a moment before easing himself back into an ingratiating smile.

"But, Pooh, where am I going to go?"

She slammed the tomato tin back down onto the bench and swept a handful of mushrooms into the sauce. "Ya got lotsa places! What are you talkin' about? There's plenty of holes you can go crawl into - why'd you have to come to mine?"

"I already told you, I missed you." He had to catch himself. That had come out more like a growl than a placation. Sheesh, what did she want? He sugar-coated his voice again. "C'mon Harley baby, let's work this out."

She stood up straight, rested her hands on the bench and lifted her little chin into the sky. "My name is Amanda." She said primly.

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

Harley looked indignant, of course, but her chin wobbled. Just a little tighter…

"All I want to do is sit down with my girlfriend and work things out," he said in as reasonable tone of voice as he could muster and Harley tightened her little hands into little fists.

"I'm not your girlfriend anymore." She said firmly and his eyes boggled slightly.

"Since when?" He said disbelievingly.

"Since three years ago!" She screamed, actually screamed, suddenly losing her composure, stomping her foot and flinging her arms out to the sides. He felt a bit bewildered. Is that why she was so upset? Best get to the bottom of this…

"Baby, what are you talking about? I never dumped you." He cajoled. It was true. He never actually dumped her, he just… controlled her with strategic abandonment now and then. She shot him a glare full of rage and pain.

"You vanished!" she spat accusingly. He sat back against the couch cushions.

"Did I?" He queried. Had he? "Well, maybe I did."

She was silent for another moment, her eyes fixed on the bench beneath her fingertips, and when she spoke her voice was low and dark with something broken. "I thought you were dead."

"Maybe I was." He mused, scratching his chin and she glanced up at him again. He pressed on. "But c'mon, Pumpkin Pie. Daddy's back and everything can go back to normal." Hopefully this was all it was going to take. He was finding this whole debacle very tiresome. He thought he'd done very well to have a real "relationship" conversation with his dame, but he really felt they'd covered the basics and should move on.

But, no. Not his Harley. Sigh.

"The only reason you came here is because your knee is busted and you think I'm gonna wait on you hand and foot!" She said accusingly, her eyes fixed off to the side, unnaturally bright.

He lifted his hands up in confusion. Yeah? So? The gesture said. After all, isn't that the way it had always gone before? He always thought she liked that. And he liked it too. That's why they were so good together.

Harley gave a little scream and turned back to the stove, lifting the pot off it and pouring its contents rapidly into the colander sitting on the sink. He heard her stifle a sob. Good heavens, why was she making such a drama out of this? And furthermore, what was she cooking? She'd always been a lousy cook. Why couldn't she just have got Chinese delivered or something? He worried about his stomach for a few seconds then debated how to move forward. He could kill her, there was always that option.

But it'd been so long since he last saw her and he felt like playing with her first. If she ever got over this little tantrum, that is. It was very quickly becoming extremely boring. He could get up, slap some obedience and obsequience into her. But that was - well. It was very crude, wasn't it. It was really more a Killer Croc kinda thing. No, he'd employ a little more delicacy for now.

He assumed a deeply wounded look and placed a hand upon his chest.

"Oh, Pooh, you don't really think I'm just here to take advantage of you, do you?"

"No." she snapped, her back to him as she dumped the pasta into two plates and shovelled the sauce on top and he felt his brows lift. "I know you are."

Then she whirled around again and folded her arms, pouting at him.

"And you have to go tomorrow. I have a new life now. A new career. And - and a new boyfriend." She blurted out and he felt his features settle into a long, nasty smile. What a little liar.

"Do you?" he hissed, and she faltered, before nodding determinedly.

"Yes. I do. And he'll be here tomorrow night. We're going out. It'll be our six-month anniversary."

"Oooh, how sweet!" he clasped his hands beneath his chin and fluttered his eyes at her, grinning hugely. "And what are you going to give Guy for his present? A taste of your special cream pie?"

She had gone white and stepped back from the kitchen bench.

"Ho-how did - did - " she stammered and he swivelled his body around on the couch, lifting his legs up onto it and folding his arms behind his head.

"Oh, I know all about you and dear, dumb Guy, Honey Cakes." He sneered. "Including the fact that Guy has been left somewhat - hrm - hungry? Is that accurate? That's not like you, Harley-Pie. In fact, if I recall correctly you were always a little too keen to share a slice. What's happened?"

Tears were rolling down her red cheeks by then, but she was silent about it, jerking open the cutlery drawer and withdrawing utensils, slamming the bowls onto a tray. He watched her through narrowed eyes. There was something very childlike about her when she cried. Like he'd taken her favourite toy off her and was holding it high above her head while she strained to reach. He couldn't help but enjoy it.

He decided the hell with it all. He might as well enjoy the ride. The very fact she was still fetching his dinner (which he hoped would be edible) indicated it was only a matter of time… time…

Time! He pouted. Time, what was it good for? Time was only good for a countdown. Or to measure the distance between the premiere and the grand finale. Or assessing how long it would be between him kicking off one of his little capers to dear old Bats showing up. Right then, time was serving no useful purpose and he sorely resented its lingering, like a redheaded stepchild, between him and his little pet.

Couldn't Harley do something about it? Isn't that what she was good for? Doing things that made his life more comfortable? Ah, but that's what it was all about, wasn't it? Trying to cajole Harley into doing something about it.

There was something very wrong with the whole scenario, Joker realised. He should've just dumped the boiling water on her. He should've just hit her, long enough and hard enough until she realised which way was up and who was Boss. For that matter, she was right: there were lots of places he could go. Why didn't he?

Now where was that sugar spoon? Maybe he should just shove it down her throat after all.

As she placed the tray with his food on it onto his lap, a couple of tears landed with a splash on his hand. He lifted it to his lips and licked them off, savouring their taste. Mmmm. Rich and full-bodied with piquant flavours of broken heart and just the merest hint of agony, he thought to himself and wondered if he should share the wit with Harley. He opened his mouth to do so, but she'd left the room.

He shrugged and sat back up, about to take a few mouthfuls of his sloppy meal, when Harley came storming back into the room, panting heavily, clearly very distressed.

"Ya went through my things?" she gasped and he stared at her.

"Did you really think I wouldn't?" He enquired with equal incredulity and it deflated her shock. He lifted a hand, making a delicate gesture with his long fingers. "I wanted to see if you had any mementos of me lying around. That's not unreasonable, is it?" He sniffed and pouted. "I was very hurt not to find anything, Harley."

He saw it then. She placed a hand just below her hip, almost on her crotch. She did it reflexively, as though checking if something was there. Bingo, he thought. Heh.

She wiped her face with the back of one hand and stared at him mournfully. "Why are you here?"

Her voice was so little and broken he had to bite back the smile. Instead he put his meal down on the coffee table, stood and walked over to her. She took a step backwards, her forehead creasing, strands of wet blonde hair clinging to her cheek, but he reached out and took her shoulders in his hands and squeezed gently.

"You know why." He intoned softly, his purple gaze boring into hers. And the words were unspoken between them: You belong to me. You're mine. He felt like her eyes were soft wet puddles his were stomping in, punching through their thin veneer to the gooiness of her brain below like bullets. She chewed her lower lip and he wanted to bend over and join in, nibble into it and through it. Not yet, not yet he told himself. Patience. It's not going to be that much longer.

It couldn't be much longer.

Because if it was, then he was going to have start asking himself why he hadn't just shot her in the face yet.

And he never liked having that conversation with himself.

"I need to eat, Harley." He reminded her gently, squeezing her shoulders a little tighter. "And so do you."

And when they'd finished, he'd gone into her bedroom and shut the door. He felt her staring after him as he'd gone and knew she'd be sitting there for a while, staring glumly down the hall, and wondering why he hadn't kept trying to bamboozle her. The thought made him chuckle. There was always tomorrow.

And tomorrow had come and he was still in her bed alone, and it looked like he had another day's work ahead of him and he was annoyed.

---

In the beginning it was mostly to keep her satisfied and quiet. The damn woman was insatiable! He had to find the balance though. If he gave her what she wanted once at breakfast, she'd be back for more come lunchtime and if he acquiesced then, bedtime would have those grabby little fingers toying with the waistband of his pajama bottoms. So it was a delicate enterprise, finding the mix between knowing when to give in and when to knock her away so that she would pester him as little as possible.

He experimented with keeping her hungry all the time but as it turned out it made her harder to control, as well. A satisfied Harley was a docile Harley and a docile Harley was bearably useful. It didn't take much, after all, though he really couldn't understand what people's fixation on it was. He found so much grander pleasure in so many other things. He would have to show Harley how to do that. He could see the potential in her to do so. She'd gotten off sucking a loaded machine gun for him once. That had been kinda hot, actually. And it demonstrated this daffy skirt had plenty in her still be to shaped and moulded. He could look forward to that.

But before he really figured out how to play No Man's Land, there had been lots and lots of long, drawn out, boring periods. Since screwing was a rather pleasant experience, it had perhaps happened a little bit more than he really intended. If he gagged Harley and tied her up so she couldn't move or talk, looped a belt around her waist to hang onto and shut his eyes he could just pretend he was fucking a hole in the wall. He never felt desire for anyone or anything after all, not in this coarse, common, pedestrian sort of way. He was just killing time. More like masturbation really.

He could still feel her getting off, though. It was very distracting. It reminded him he was doing something that might be considered an exchange of desire with another human being.

But then, Joker knew there was still some things that bound him to the mortal world. His ability to bleed, was one. And to piss and shit and vomit.

And another was this - this - irritating, aggravating little itch that would flare up every now and again. Not too often, mind. But occasionally, and usually with the first light of day. Most of the time he was able to ignore it and move onto important things, but sometimes it was really very insistent. If he was right in the middle of a caper he generally found it could be satiated quite sufficiently by whatever it was he was doing. But in Arkham, in the middle of the night, with absolutely nothing else to do - it could get very demanding.

But on the whole he could smother it. It was more a tickle really.

But then, when Harley entered the scene - suddenly that itch began scratching with alarming regularity and ever increasing insistence. It was, in its nature, very much like Harley herself, demanding, insistent and indefatigable, so that he began to think the itch and Harley were, in actuality, one and the same. Which made him wonder if he'd actually, at some point, turned the itch into Harley and she was the embodiment of all that distracted him.

Beyond No Man's Land, he thought there wouldn't be any reason to overindulge her, except enough to keep her quiet. But he'd unexpectedly discovered sex was a rather wonderful way of exploring her devotion to him. It was just so important to her, and she became increasingly malleable and accommodating during the act and eventually he got swept up in the experimentation of it. Harley was such a wholesome little thing, with her little blonde pigtails and big blue eyes, but all she really wanted was to make him happy and she'd do any nasty little thing he requested in order to do so.

It was yummy, how much she'd give to him, positively gratifying to see how much pleasure and ecstasy she gained from giving into his will. How she moaned when she bled and purred when he hit her, or squeezed her or scratched and bit her.

He could push and push and push and she'd go further and further, her eyes rolling back in her head with bliss, her muscles tightening around him as he pushed the breath from her throat, leaving behind a delicious necklace of purple bruises.

And she made the most lovely little squeaks.

It was intoxicating, after a while.

It became more and more interesting, especially as he moved on from mere physical brutality into toying with her mind more and more. She didn't flinch from him. Her heart beat frantically beneath the palm of his hand, he saw the sheen of fear in her eyes, and yet she gave of herself so willingly. She took pleasure in it, pleasure in seeing him gratified. She delighted in his mischief.

How far would she go?

He couldn't always resist trying to find out. He'd gotten so used to people terrified of him. Of running from him. Of screaming at the sight of him. Of moving quickly away from him. Of flinching from his touch, or even just the raising of a finger. Of doing whatever they could to avoid his attention. He loved it, there was no question in that. In fact, he was practically in love with it. It was so delicious to have that much power over people, to walk into a room and smell the fear, like arousal, on the air. The quivering bodies, the strangled gasps, the way people's foreheads creased and their mouths dropped open into little o's, the choked cries of 'Oh my God!'

But it was different with Harley. It always had been. She was afraid of him, but that fear drew her to him, rather than away. She was completely in his thrall, and delighted to be so. From the very first time he'd laid his hands on her throat at Arkham, she'd been aching for his touch. The power he had over her was an entirely different kind and he hadn't experienced its like before. She was a masochist like no other because this was edge play without the eventual limit.

He didn't even have to restrain her. She lay there, no matter how much what he was doing hurt, and let him do it, opening herself to him, becoming more and more delirious with bliss and love the more it hurt, the further he went. Swearing herself, her undying love, her utter devotion.

It was like a reflection, really, seeing his power over her in this way. So in that fashion he transformed the aggravating itch into something more deliciously bearable. And from there it became blissful.

He preferred being able to see her face. It was like feasting on her, watching the myriad expressions flicker over her features, knowing it was he that caused them all. He insisted she keep her eyes open, and what he saw in their depths made him want to devour her whole. It delighted him. Thrilled him. Made him feel such deep satisfaction with his own brilliance and power that he felt a little frenzied (haha). It was especially delicious if she was crying, or he was choking her, or she was saying something especially shameful and humiliating ('don't make me kill her puddin'!', 'but you would, wouldn't you if I really wanted you to?', 'yes, yes I would, but please don't make me!', 'say it again baby', 'I'd kill her for you, if you really wanted me to…')

But then, and this was absolutely the worst, most horrendous of all things to realise, sometimes he did it just because - because it just. Felt. Good.

It was a disturbing thought, an unsettling acknowledgement. But then, if Joker had lived his life by any credo, wasn't it - if it feels good, DO IT?

Worse still, as the years passed, this became more and more the reason for doing it. And it began to happen more and more frequently.

Of course, he'd tried to deal with the problem rationally.

But she'd survived.

The little brat. She'd survived.

It became a necessity to deliberately spend time away from her. Once or twice he'd given the cops an anonymous tip-off when she'd gone out to do an errand for him, and other times he just 'forgot' to tell her where he'd moved the hideout, or to open her cell on the way out of Arkham.

She was too damn clingy anyway, it would build character for her to spend some time alone.

And once he was out there with all of Gotham his stage, stretched out before him like the promise of a never-ending tomorrow, he usually forgot about her.

---

No one phoned and left messages for her. There were none on her answering machine.

He got her laptop out again and checked her bookmarks. There was a forum there, for women who had survived abusive relationships. He'd snickered as he brought the page up. Her account was logged in. He began to go through her private messages.

So many sad stories, so many the same. It was positively monotonous, in fact, just how many of the women she had exchanged messages with sang a similar tune. He clucked his tongue and shook his head at the mind-numbing stupidity of the great unwashed. The ultimate pointlessness of their faith and trust in each other.

Harley had left the house sometime earlier in a tiny pair of pink shorts with paw prints on either bottom cheek and a little pink crop top with the word 'JOCK' printed across the bosom. Going to training, she'd said, nervous and not looking at him. She wouldn't be too long.

She'd already been gone far too long. But as he clicked into her forum inbox, he came up with a way to amuse himself.

There was an unread message in the list. From someone with the username nolongeravictim.

Oh honey, Joker thought to himself as he opened it up, no such thing, in this wretched life.

The message read:

Mandy, I need your advice. Stu came over last night. He brought flowers. He said he's sorry. He cried, Mandy, he actually cried. He got down on his knees and wept and begged me to forgive him. He said he'd never do it again. I don't know what to do! It's been so hard since he's been gone. And he was so sweet. He said he's in therapy now. Got a steady job again. I don't know, though, I mean… I was in hospital a week last time. But I think I still love him.

I could tell he really meant it.

Mandy, what should I do?

- xxx bett

Joker cracked his knuckles and hit Reply.

Bett. Sorry it's taken me a while to respond. I had to really give a lot of thought to this issue so I could be sure I was giving you the right advice.

My gut tells me you should give him another chance. If he actually cried, then he's clearly ready to change. If he's got a steady job he's probably not drinking anymore, right? (an educated guess on Joker's part) Or at least not as much. And with your love and support I'm sure he'll kick it altogether. From everything you've told me it really sounds like you two were meant to be together. And obviously he's realised that.

Go call him, sweetie. I'll support you.

Your loving friend always,

Mandy

Joker was giggling insanely as he hit Send.

He was careful to uncheck the Save to Outbox box.

There was another message there that Harley hadn't responded to. His eyes lit up when he read this one.

Mandy, I don't know what to do!! I'm still trying to work things out with Jonathon but he's just so insanely jealous! The other day I just said a friendly hello to the mailman and the next thing I know Jonathon is screaming at me that I'm a slut and a tramp. He didn't hit me but he broke my mother's antique spode teapot while he was slamming around the kitchen. He said it was an accident but he knew how much it meant to me. And I got so scared. I mean he just got so angry. It just seemed like such a little thing… but maybe I was giving off the wrong impression? I'm worried about the kids. You got any advice?

Unfortunately this lovely young lady, username midnightdreams, had not signed her name. Joker tapped his lip thoughtfully for a moment but decided it was too good to pass up and hit Reply anyway.

Relationships are about compromise, you know? He's making an effort to change and if you really want things to work out, maybe you should too? It's up to you sweetie, of course, and I'm here for you no matter what you decide, but maybe it isn't the right time to go around flirting with other men. I know it can be tempting sometimes to want to make your fella feel a bit jealous but you're both at such a vulnerable time in your relationship – can you blame him for getting angry? Really? Wouldn't you get angry if you caught him checking out some other dame? If anything, him getting so mad proves how much he loves you and how invested he is in the relationship.

Why would he hurt the kiddies when he's got you for a punching bag - -

Oops! Getting a bit carried away there. Joker deleted the last line and decided to finish it there.

Love you always, Mandy

Aw!

Harley would be so proud of him! He was being so productive!

Just a few minutes more, then he'd go and find something else to play with.

Her outbox yielded far more interesting results than her email had.

To be honest, Kathy, I have a little bit of an issue identifying myself as a victim, ya know? I mean, that's what the Doctors all told me, that I was sucked in and manipulated and fell prey to Stockholm Syndrome, that I suffered from Hybristophilia. Fancy way of saying I was used and abused.

And I'm not saying our relationship wasn't messed up, that it wasn't seriously unhealthy… I guess I'm just saying… it wasn't like I didn't know what was goin' on. Like I didn't enjoy it.

Ya know?

Makes me feel real bad, to be posting here, sometimes. Making out like I'm one of you gals, who really were subjected to non-consensual violence and abuse and total scumbags, who really have suffered so much… feel like I'm cheating you all, in a way. Like I don't belong.

But I don't know where else I do belong.

I got more fulfilment and satisfaction out of our messed-up relationship than I got out of anything else in my life. Even as… as UNfulfilling and UNsatisfying as it was. It… it felt more real, more joyous, more all-encompassing than anything else I've ever known. And it was addictive.

Ya know?

I was looking up some BDSM communities the other day, trying to find out if anyone there could say anything similar, find someone to relate to, but it just didn't feel right. I don't know a whole lot about that scene, but I know that I guess the basic principals are the same… except, with us, it was REAL. It wasn't this… this… negotiated, calculated, totally self-aware, self-conscious, little played out piece of theatre.

It was for real. It was for life. For death. All the way.

I know that sounds scary. And I guess it was.

But God. It felt so wonderful, too.

But it ruined my life. I mean, I had everything before it happened. A fantastic career, snazzy salary, respect, a 401 k… I had it all. And I gave it all up. I became a slave for him… there was nothing left of me.

Now I'm trying to put it all back together and it's just so darned hard.

Sometimes I wish he'd just come back and take it all away again. Life was so much simpler.

You wanted the truth? Well, that's it Kathy. That's the truth.

He felt positively giddy. Harley couldn't have written him a better love letter if she'd tried. And she had tried in the past. Why hadn't she just written him something like this? It really took him back to the first heady days they had together, at Arkham, when she was so determined and he was so delirious. She wanted to unlock his mind and he wanted to unravel hers. It had all been so exciting. Reading this little missive to the bruised and battered Kathy brought it all back, reminded him of the glorious sensation of anticipation he'd felt before heading into sessions with her, having spent the night prior carefully determining exactly which button he'd push that day, which little vulnerability to press upon…

He sighed happily and pressed a hand against his chest, where his heart thudded beneath his jim-jams. His little Harley-Girl.

He leapt up from the couch and spun around in her little pink living room, chuckling merrily to himself. Happy days were here again! La la la laaaa… He went over to the brass pole fixed into the ceiling and the floor in the centre of the room and swung around it. He wondered what it was for. Maybe it was a piece of extremely post-modernistic art? He would ask Harley about it later.

He danced over to her fridge and pulled out the cake box. She'd gotten one of Betty's fabulous Carmine Coconut Creams, which really was one of his absolute most favourites, so he hadn't needed to pretend when she'd presented it. She'd even been doing a few cooking classes and though she'd never be a great cook she'd improved from godawful to edible.

He had taken a tentative mouthful of the pasta, ready to swallow without chewing so as to avoid his tastebuds becoming too saturated, but then had thrown his arms up in the air, quite delighted to find the food, if not delicious, then not absolutely disgusting. Then he had began shovelling food into his mouth quickly. And although they hadn't exchanged a word during the meal, (for which he was intensely grateful, maybe after all these years she was finally beginning to get it) Harley had watched him, all too clearly gratified, for a few moments before catching herself and beginning her own meal.

He balanced the Betty box in one hand and scooped mouthfuls out of the pie with the fingers of his other, keeping the fridge door propped open with one leg and examined the contents. Much improved over the day before. There was leftover pasta in the fridge there, but there was no way he was eating it a second time. It had been bearable, but he wasn't going to push his luck. That made him think – hrm, better not let her cook a second time tonight. Now if he could just… just think back… focus his thoughts (hat trick holiday… why didn't he win the Oscar, philistines… a thousand dead that had been like honeyed wine… banana split down the trousers… when the moon hits the sky like a ) ah, yes! Not long after he'd first arrived, there had been a knock at the door and Harley had desperately pushed him into the bedroom. He'd been more than a little miffed at the interruption and had felt about for his gun but the intruder had left before he'd located it and then it had turned out to be pizza anyway, which was okay because he was hungry.

Pizza… Harley lived on top of a pizza restaurant. He wanted Chinese right then, but he could definitely work with a pizza restaurant. They were right in the heart of Little Italy. Probably a nice, traditional little Italian family. Yeah, he could definitely work with that.

He began to snicker into his pie and slammed the fridge door shut.

He made his way through the living room and passed by the brass pole again, moved out into the hall, caught sight of a pair of thigh high black boots with clear stiletto heels jumbled by the linen closet doors and made the connection between the two.

Harley was a stripper!

He had to stop and lean against the wall, he laughed so hard. Really, next to being His, well, HIS, he couldn't really think of a more suitable career for her.

He went into her bedroom and began rifling through her cupboard again, until he found a pale pink bustier and matching set of knickers, patterned in green leaves and strawberries. Cute. He pulled a few more things haphazardly out of the pile of lingerie, as though he'd been searching for something unrelated, and made sure to leave the strawberry set strewn on top.

He'd gotten over the irritation he'd felt when Harley hadn't immediately fallen to her knees in front of him, swearing herself all over again. He'd seen enough – more than enough – to adequately convince him his inevitable triumph was just around the corner. He was looking forward to it, keenly. After all the work she'd put into making this new life of hers, of striving so hard to be normal, to find an ordinary and peaceful existence, he had a very real feeling that pushing her over the edge again would allow him to take her to all new heights of madness and depravity. Losing so much would make her feel she no longer had anything more to lose. It made him tingle deliriously to think of what potential he could unlock in her…

Sure, sure. She was on edge. Sure, sure, he could just scare her into submission. Sure, sure, he didn't like to wait. But then… then she would glance at him with those impossibly big, beseeching baby blues, all awash with hurt and confusion and the desperate suffocating of love and he just felt his heart melt. Why be crude when he could be brutal?

It would be so much more fun to slowly pull her apart. To watch her hard fought for sanity twist and untwine. Sure it might take a little while (time, time, always the enemy!) but… oh it would be so delicious.

She'd done so good, turning her life around. But it was a house of cards. Sure, he could send it scattering with one sweep of the hand. Or he could just carefully remove one here and there letting the whole thing come tumbling gracefully down. You big softie he scolded himself. You just can't help yourself can you!

Voices came from beyond the bedroom window. He darted over to it, peeking around the frame. Harley was in the alleyway below, flushed and sweating from her practice (stripper practice?) talking to a fat, moustachioed cliché who loitered at the backdoor of the pizza restaurant.

"Bella", the Super Mario was saying, "You lookin' good! There's somethin' different about you!" and he stood back and surveyed her thoughtfully. Harley became nervous under his scrutiny.

"Different? I don't know how you mean." And she glanced edgily up at her bedroom window. Joker rolled his eyes. She couldn't see him. But subtlety had never been her strong point.

"Yeah," Super Mario was continuing, "You seem… hrm… how to say… you seem happier. Yes, happier. You a lovely girl, bella, but there was always somethin' a little… sad… about you, you know?"

Harley said nothing, just stood there in her sweaty workout gear with her hands behind hr back, her features drawn downwards in anxiety. Super Mario chuckled.

"But you no look so happy when you frown like that! Smile, bella! What's happened? You finally got a man?"

Behind the pink curtains, Joker smiled.

Harley twirled a strand of loose hair around one finger, chewed her lower lip. Joker could just imagine the turmoil churning inside of her. After all the show she'd made of how she didn't want him around, a virtual stranger had noticed a lift in her demeanour.

It excited him.

Quick as a whippet, Joker ducked back into the living room, put her laptop back in its place, then dashed down to the bathroom and turned the shower on full pelt. He divested himself of his pajamas and hopped under the hot stream, pouring a handful of strawberry body wash into his hands and lathering it up. He began to croon, the Gene Kelly ballad from the classic film he liked so much, Singin' in the Rain:

You were meant for me

And I was meant for you

Nature patterned you

And when she was done

You were all the sweet things

Rolled up in one

You're like a plaintive melody

That never lets me free

But I'm content

The angels must have sent you

And they meant you just for me...

But I'm content

The angels must have sent you

And they meant you just for me...

He couldn't hear much over the shower and his singing, but he sensed Harley's presence in the apartment, outside the door. Listening to him. Listening to him singing a cheesy old ballad. Imagining him covered in soapy, hot water…

"Come in and join me, Pooh!" he sang out cheerily and could positively envision the way she jumped.

"I-I'll wait." Her voice was small and tinny beyond the door.

"But Baby, you'll be all hot and sweaty after your training…I'm sure you're uncomfortable…"

There was a pause, then a soft click as she opened the door. He had the shower curtain drawn, of course. She couldn't see him. He couldn't see her. Just the outline of her little figure beyond the soft pink of the plastic curtain. She hovered there, beyond it, as steam billowed around him, obscuring her shadow. He thought of her, damp and red from her work out, knocked sidewards by Super Mario's unexpected observation, the headiness of his all too real presence so close to her after all this time (three years, she claimed, how had they gotten away?).

The tension was so deliciously piqued he unexpectedly got a hard-on.

He looked down at himself, surprised. And in the time he waited instead of saying something to coax her in, she had a change of heart and quickly left the bathroom, shutting the door crisply behind her.

He felt a flicker of annoyance but then threw back his head and laughed, warm water gusting into his mouth and pattering on his eyelids. Soon, darling, soon, he told himself.

Soon.