It took him a bit longer than he had expected to get out of the bathroom because he got caught up admiring himself. He was really very irritated by the broken crown, and hoped Harley had the number of the fellow who always did them for him on hand. His bruise had shrunk and was no longer so ripe nor so purple, which meant he couldn't really play the wounded angle with Harley so much, but the handsome rogue would probably work just as well. The swelling around his knee had gone down substantially and the pain had receded to a dull twinge if he moved it too quick. That was something of a relief - the amount of time it had taken to heal in the past had been absolutely maddening. It seemed he really just had jarred it a little this time.

His jaw was also becoming somewhat stubbled, which he really couldn't stand. Facial hair was so… gauche.

Then he'd noticed that Harley had left him a little gift on the toilet seat. A small paper bag filled with an electric razor, some deodorant, hair pomade and aftershave.

Gawd, why was she even bothering to continue this charade of distancing herself from him? She was still anticipating his needs and desires. And not doing too badly either.

He'd very cheerily attended to his toilet, then slung a fluffy hot pink towel about his waist and wandered down to the living room, humming happily to himself.

Harley was standing in the kitchen with the Betty's pie box in her hands, looking at its contents with dismay.

"Mistah J, you ruined the pie!" she said in mournful accusation and he placed a wounded hand upon his breast. Whatever was she talking about? She proffered the open box towards him and he saw what was left of the Coconut Cream had great big Joker-hand sized chunks randomly scooped out of it. Oh yeah. He giggled and raised his hands to Harley who puffed out a sight in frustration.

"It's still good, Harley. Eat it." He made his voice a little more forceful than he'd so far been using with her and something flickered over her face in response. An expression of almost sensual compliance. She lifted the box just a little towards her face but then caught herself, placed it down upon the bench and sighed. Never mind. He'd push her face down into it later.

"Didja use up all the hot water?" she queried him resignedly as she passed by on her way to the bathroom.

"Well, you're about to find out, aren't you Punkin?" he retorted cheekily and thought he might've seen her hide an exasperated little smile.

Something was… different. How, he wasn't sure, but it was. It was just a matter of sifting through everything that had taken place since she got back and putting his finger on it precisely. There were many who believed Joker didn't pay much attention to the world around him, unless it was directly and immediately of significance to him. That he was so narcissistic nothing passed within his sphere of consciousness unless it was about him.

In fact, Joker absorbed everything. Every sound, sight, smell and sensation the world had on offer. It's just he didn't notice it unless it was going to prove immediately useful to him. In truth he filed everything away. Everything. Then he dredged it back up when it could be useful. But sometimes it could take a while until he found exactly what it was he needed to.

One of his doctors had once claimed it was the reason behind his insanity. That he literally couldn't deal with the amount of information he absorbed. Indeed, she'd claimed it wasn't insanity at all - but a sort of "super sanity". Which sounded ridiculous, but had given him some amusement at Arkham springing about the common room and striking heroic poses whilst declaring that no one was to fear, because he was there with his awesome powers of SUPER SANITY to deliver them all.

He'd then 'confiscated' Harv's coin, citing 'over-reliance on a superficial and entirely symbolic decision maker standing in for true autonomy of thought'; thrown Scarface across the room and slapped Arnold Wesker across the head whilst screaming it's a freaking puppet!; then sat Hatter down in a corner, took both his hands in his own and said in a gentle voice: "I've gotta give it you straight, my friend. Jon-Benet? Completely. Out. Of. Your. League."; whilst in the background Two-Face was subdued by a pack of guards and Scarface yelled from a corner that Ventriloquist was to MOIDER THE GUM.

He'd had his common room privileges taken away for a month after that.

Dr. Ruth noticed because she watched him and watched the way he looked at people. That's why certain things were apparent to her that seemed inexplicable to others. Like how he'd known that Dr. Bartholomew would have a history of playground name callings relating to a condition he had that caused his skin to flake based on the fact that Bartholomew wore long sleeve shirts and high-collars even in the most wretched heat of summer, and was constantly tugging at them to ensure as much flesh as possible was covered.

He'd very much enjoyed killing Dr. Ruth, no less because she knew he would.

Eventually.

She hadn't even been surprised when he showed up on her doorstep that night.

He'd liked that.

She'd tried so hard not to scream. 'I knew you'd come' she'd said, lighting a cigarette. So nonchalant.

But she'd screamed. They all screamed, in the end. He did so enjoy it.

Ah. He had it. She'd called him Mistah J. Oooh, they were getting close now. He rubbed his hands together gleefully just as Harley emerged from the hallway, pulling damp hair away from her neck. She was in a pair of baby doll pajamas and had fixed her hair into her old, familiar ponytails. She looked so wholesome and cute and it made him hungry.

"You shouldn't have to cook again tonight, Pooh," he said in a sugary voice. "How about we get something delivered? Chinese?" He'd had water dumplings on his mind all afternoon.

She'd shrugged, flickered her eyes over him and away again. "Sure," she said. She seemed distracted. He looked down at himself.

He was sitting on her couch still wrapped in just the towel. He was pretty sure he'd done that deliberately, as well. Titillate her a little. She'd always swooned over his long, lean muscularity.

He patted the sofa cushions next to him. "Come sit down and tell me about your day."

The sacrifices he made for his art! He hoped it wouldn't be too crushingly boring.

She hesitated a little but then acquiesced, even daring to look at his face and offer him a little smile. Gently, gently…

She shrugged, scooped her legs up beneath her.

"Amy's being such a tyrant. She's the Captain - didja know I'm on the Gotham Knights Cheerleading Squad?"

He didn't, and he didn't care, but he heard the little hint of pride in her voice when she said it and responded accordingly.

"You are? Cupcake, that's wonderful! What a clever girl you are!"

She blushed a little. Aw. He let his eyes rake up and down her body a little roguishly and the colour on her cheeks deepened.

"And, if I'm not mistaken, you're doing other forms of entertainment as well," his voice was low with insinuation, and he let his gaze slide sidewards to the pole.

She giggled, ponytails bobbing and squirmed a little. "Oh, that. Well, I don't take my clothes off or nothin'. It's more just - like - stunts and acrobatics and stuff. It takes a lotta skill."

Yeah, like the audience of oglers cared. "I'm sure it does. Perhaps you should demonstrate for me a little later on." Like he could possibly be titillated by such a thing. People were so common.

She gulped and lowered her gaze bashfully, twisting one shoulder up, practically shucking. "Heh. Maybe later."

Her cheeks were scarlet and it was too adorable for words. He stared at her probingly, a soft grin on his face and after a moment she raised her eyes to his.

He immediately let his gaze rove downwards, gleefully obscene and undressing her with his eyes. She squirmed a little more, but otherwise didn't move and after lingering on her breasts for a moment (he was far more interested in the rapid rising and falling of her ribcage as her breathing increased, but she wouldn't know that), let them drop lower to her crotch.

She did it again. Her hand flickered to the spot just below her left hipbone.

He lurched forward across the couch and made a grab for her, pinning her back against the armrest with one hand, the other going for her crotch. She gasped, taken completely off guard, and lifted a leg reflexively to block him, but his agile fingers had already probed into the waistband of her pajama shorts, located a tight folded square of paper and withdrawn it. He released her, and leant back, but she stayed where she was, blinking at him for a moment in confusion. He didn't look at her but absorbed the energy she was giving off, the strange arrestedness of her pose. She seemed… disappointed… and he realised she thought he'd been going to use some sort of physical force on her.

And she'd wanted him to.

Heh. He'd use that later.

But for now he was more interested in the little square of paper.

He began to unfold it and she sprang back into action, leaping forward to try and wrest it from his fingers.

"That's mine, Mistah J, give it back!" she squealed, distressed. Her brows were all knitted and she was grinding her teeth together as they wrestled. He lifted a hand to her face and pushed her back.

"Oooh, keeping love letters in your knickers, Harleykins!" he teased playfully and stood up.

Her eyes were wet as she stood up too, stomping one foot and clenching her fists by her side, looking up at him desperately.

"Please." She entreated him, but he already had the paper open, and when he saw what was on it he wanted to crow.

It was him. A photo of him. A mugshot. Not one of his best but still pretty damn gorgeous, clearly printed off of a website. It bore the scars of many, many foldings and unfoldings and had clearly been carried around a great deal. He grinned at it for a moment and then leered at his distressed little pet, who was doing her best not to cry, staring at him with a wounded, betrayed expression.

"I was only keeping it there so you wouldn't find it and get the wrong idea." She said defensively and he reached over and patted her gently on the head.

"Of course you were."

---

Joker passed a lot of his time in Arkham gently destroying the minds of the doctors who tried to treat him. This was of varying degrees of difficulty and intrigue. Sometimes it was altogether too simple, and other times it was altogether too common (seriously, how many times could someone's deepest, darkest shame be a date rape, or childhood obesity? It certainly demonstrated the lack of creativity on the parts of the rest of the population that was for sure. God, did the world even really appreciate the favour he did it?) One especially triumphant coup had been a Doctor who'd actually succeeded in getting him signed up for a lobotomy. Joker had worked his influences, got his hands on some paralysing sedatives and pulled a bit of a gypsy switch with some skin bleach and hair dye. When the incident had been discovered - Doctor Lewis now sat and drooled in the Asylum's minimum security wing - the very notion of submitting Joker for any sort of extreme therapy was never spoken of again.

But then little Dr. Quinzel had shown up.

At first he thought she was going to be just another run of the mill little know-it-all with delusions of grandeur.

She was very pretty, he could see that though it didn't affect him much, and she thought she was much smarter than she was although she wasn't entirely stupid. She was also naive and there was a touch of vulnerability and wilfulness about her. She had something she wanted to prove, this one.

She was ambitious - a first year intern, she was already pushing for sessions with the hardcore set - his wing, and on some level he'd admired the moxie although on a greater level he thought she had a lot of nerve and definitely deserved what he had in store for her.

Of course, then he hadn't been entirely sure what he had in store for her, but he was a whiz with improvisation.

It wasn't hard to dissect her. She was a jock - practically Olympic level, he discovered - and she was blonde, and very pretty and had the misfortune of possessing a helium-filled voice she worked hard to keep lower in register.

"No one takes me seriously."

She was flaky and easily distracted and, he suspected, slightly dyslexic. She was also poor at expressing herself, particularly in the written word (lending credence to the dyslexic theory). He wondered how she'd gotten the grades she was rumoured to have, and thought he could probably guess.

"No one has any faith in me."

She was lonely. Heads turned to look at her wherever she went and she played on it, used it and at the same time resented it because she couldn't trust anyone and their motivations. Her parents did not phone and she did not have any photos on her desk.

"No one loves me."

Although she excelled at gymnastics, was charming, attractive, intelligent and friendly; people seemed not to expect a whole lot from her. Maybe it was the flakiness, or even the fact of her wholesome prettiness, or her effusive and airy nature, but she was often overlooked, if not outright forgotten in terms of what she was capable of contributing.

"No one respects me."

She was very self-aware and didn't hesitate to resort to various manipulative measures with men and women both. She mixed and matched shades of seduction, charm, cuteness and perky friendliness to obtain whatever it was she wanted.

"Everyone underestimates me."

She wore severe but stylish suits and stayed for hours after her day finished, forcing herself to read articles she didn't understand. She worked on her gymnastics every single day, coming straight to work from the gym. She filled notebooks with copious amounts of research. She shamelessly flirted with superior doctors and found a way to get a meeting with every visiting expert she could.

"I'll show them."

Yes, all in all he liked Dr. Quinzel a whole lot and looked forward to a few probing sessions with her.

He'd really just wanted to break her apart, send her screaming back home to Mommy and Daddy, letting her Doctorate certificate gather dust in the spare bedroom, working days at a restaurant and going to beauty school by night. He didn't think it would take very long - once confronted with her own overwhelming hopelessness, she was sure to crumble.

But something had happened along the way.

He was very clued into people's body language, the little nuances and gestures they made. It was how he was so often able to get the drop on one of the stuporheroes, and hold his own in a fight with those who far outweighed him. And within a couple of sessions he was very aware that Dr. Quinzel was intimidated by him, frightened of him, entranced by him… and very aroused by him.

Joker got a reasonable amount of very odd fanmail from women all over the country and, indeed, the world. He'd encountered more than one woman - and man, for that matter - out there who found him absolutely captivating - and who could blame them! - and quite openly lusted after him. That's not so say it happened a lot, or that he expected it – oh no, he expected people to scream when they saw him and they usually obliged – but now and then he unearthed a worm. He found it mildly diverting if he was out for a night on the town, and it gave him the opportunity to add a few extra smiles to his collection. He didn't mind indulging them for a little while until he grew bored and did whatever he had to rid himself of the hangers-on. So the concept of being desired by a pretty girl was by no means an alien one to him, even if is wasn't usual.

But it had never happened with a doctor before.

It took things in a whole new direction. He was quite pleased, truthfully. It certainly changed up the old routine. And he was a whiz with improv.

But when she confessed that she loved him, he'd been flabbergasted.

It had been so long since he'd even experienced that emotion - that of being flabbergasted - he wasn't even entirely sure what it was at first, except that dear little Dr Quinzel had roused it and that bothered him. A daffy little thing like that was not supposed to have that sort of impact on him. She wasn't supposed to have any sort of impact on him.

Of course, all sorts of loonies and freaks had sworn devotion and love to him in the past. But they were crazy.

This one - she really meant it. With every fibre and nerve of her being.

She adored him, completely and absolutely. He liked that.

So once he'd gotten over the initial shock, he went with it.

And she proved herself very useful after that. She helped him escape several times and more than once he'd appeared on her doorstep, as much for the giggle he got out of her reaction as for a place to hide where he'd never be suspected.

She was always so thrilled, so delighted and yet so horrified and resisting as well.

And back then it had been easy to convince her they could not cross their professional boundaries - it could be detrimental to his recovery, giving too much of his vulnerable soul away in the physical sense. Of course, he'd loosened her up with a few make-out and heavy petting sessions in Arkham, but that had been necessary for the game. Just as it was necessary then to let her squirm in her jim-jams while thinking of him lying in the next room, driving herself crazy with desire.

She was an awful cook but she tried very hard, and somehow that made it funnier.

Then, she'd been busted and, quite frankly, he'd forgotten all about her. It was bothersome he no longer had her ripe little mind to toy with during therapy but he had become accustomed to losing doctors.

Nonetheless, he'd felt a tug towards her the very first time he'd laid eyes on her.

He didn't like to dwell on that too much, the reality of that tug.

And then - ha, ha - then how everything had changed.

Almost impossible to believe, how things had changed.

No Man's Land had set her free and she'd bound herself to his side from that day forth.

He'd been so happily and gloriously alone for so long it had required quite an adjustment period. Especially since she was so - so grabby. He liked being desired, but he wasn't sure how he felt about this constant rubbing and petting and groping and squeezing and caressing.

People generally tried not to get close enough to so much as brush the sleeve of his coat. He was used to that reaction. He liked that reaction.

But Harley… brushing the sleeve of his coat was never enough. No, she had to push the coat off his shoulders and undo his necktie and pop the buttons off his shirt and run her tongue down his neck and pull his nipples between her teeth. She didn't flinch when he got close, in fact she usually wiggled to get a bit closer still. When he sat down she'd squirm onto his lap, rubbing her butt into his groin and slinging her arms around his neck and nibble his earlobe.

Indeed, for a little while he'd wondered if he'd bitten off more than he could chew with this one. The Harley Quinn thing was definitely a turn up for the books, and while he loved her new look, she seemed to think it eroded altogether whatever boundaries were left between them.

Of course, he'd eventually come to see her as his girlfriend. And eroded those boundaries himself. But, in the beginning, it was all very uncomfortable.

But, one, twice, three times a master of spontaneous performance, he'd figured out how to make the most of it as time passed.

And then it was kinda nice. Someone to share in his fun. She maybe didn't really 'get it', but she tried. And she generally found him and all his various antics incredibly amusing and was more than delighted to play a little part in them if it helped. Or if he just wanted her to.

Yes, he might, it was conceivable, within the realm of possibility, say that, in her own very meagre, inadequate and humble way, she understood him.

She had become a very different sort of audience for him. One that was always admiring, always supportive and always cheering. She laughed just as hard when he blew up a schoolbus as when he used a handbuzzer on one of his goons. She even laughed when he tripped her so she went face first into the brickwall. He appreciated a dame who could take a joke.

And none of the cretins he was obliged to surround himself with were so keen to participate. They were all terrified of him, of course, and were generally unimaginative and uninspired. They just wanted to keep their mouths shut and do their job and go as unnoticed as possible. Indeed, he had learned it was better to never fill them in too much - even hired muscle could have queasy stomachs and changes of heart. It really did make a difference to have a loyal companion who fully appreciated his genius and vision.

Yes. He had fun with Harley.

He'd come out of his playroom one day in high spirits, cackling to himself and doing a little soft-shoe shuffle, his slippers leaving bloody prints behind him, a long, low moan in the room he'd just left cut off as the door clicked shut, to find Harley sitting mournfully in the centre of the bed he'd started inexplicably finding her in. Her long face and pouting little mouth was a downer and he clapped his hands sharply at her.

"Come on, Harley why the long face, Baby Cakes?" he demanded. Her face was bloody and her body bruised and he wondered how that had happened. But he was in too good a mood to let her gloominess get him down and he decided to cheer her up.

"Come on, come on," he cried, leaping onto the bed beside her and yanking her up onto her feet. He gripped her hands tight between his own and began jumping up and down.

It hadn't taken her long to perk up and together they whooped and cheered and jumped up and down on the bed, the springs creaking noisily beneath them.

He'd bent at the waist and snatched up a pillow and began pummelling her with it, and she'd shrieked in delight and got one of her own and they'd ruthlessly battled, battered and bashed each other with the pillows. Eventually, one ripped and goosefeathers went scattering everywhere about them, like soft, kissing rain. He'd been laughing so hard he had a cramp in his side and she was giggling in joy and squealed ecstatically when he'd pounced on her and began a tickle war. She fought back admirably, wriggling out of his grip and getting her own quick moving hands digging into his sides and just around under his arms where he was really ticklish and he'd shrieked with laughter and kicked at the air and together they'd rolled over and over on the bed, each trying to out do the other with the bed rocking dangerously and goosefeathers floating down all around them.

Finally he'd rolled on top of her and come to a stop and she lay beneath him panting and he'd looked down at her with a quiet smile and stroked her cheek. She was adorable, with her hair all sticking out of her ponytails, and feather fronds stuck to her eyelashes, still giggling a little with the tremors left behind by his dexterous tickling fingers.

"Can we get a jumping castle, Mistah J?" she asked him and he'd grinned wider and ran his hand over her hair.

"What a brilliant idea!" He said approvingly and she beamed proudly.

He cupped her cheek again and she pressed her face into his palm and smiled at him adoringly. She was really very cute. He pushed his hand back further so his fingertips curved around the back of her head, kneading gently there and she shut her eyes in enjoyment.

Abruptly he shoved her face first into the pillows.

She struggled, but only weakly. He held her down until she passed out, then rolled her limp body over and tucked her into the bed, arranging her pajamas neatly and bringing the sheets right up to her chin. He propped her on her side to ensure her throat was clear and smoothed her hair off her face. He dropped a kiss on her cheek and nuzzled at her ear, then got up and went to finish the activity he'd left behind in his playroom.

---

He'd diffused the situation by scrunching the picture into a ball and tossing it into a corner of the room, by the television and suggesting they order the food.

She'd been mortified and humiliated, but he was willing to let it go for the time being. He thought she should at least be glad about that.

But caught out and flustered like that, she needed a little direction to make her feel secure again so he'd suggested banana splits, because he loved banana splits and really wanted one.

She always did make the very best banana splits. He supposed because there was no actual cooking involved. He sat there spooning up gigantic mouthfuls of ice cream, banana, nuts, topping and sprinkles while Harley carefully, painstakingly massaged every muscle in his foot. He hadn't quite anticipated the last part but he'd figured there wouldn't be any harm in rolling up the legs of his pajamas so she could at least see his poor swollen knee and feel bad about wanting him to leave. And she'd asked about it and he'd shrugged, appropriately stoic, and said it still twinged a little bit and she'd hesitated and said, well maybe she could rub it a little.

And somehow his knee had turned into his calf which had turned into his foot. And while he enjoyed luscious spoonfuls of ripe banana, strawberry ice-cream and caramel topping, Harley was sitting there devoutly working her hands over his foot with a slightly vacant, glazed look on her face. It was also unmistakeably edged with bliss. Heh.

He scooped up a spoonful of icecream and topping and flicked it at her. It landed on her cheek and her expression changed abruptly to one of astonishment. He began to laugh.

Snapped out of her adoring reverie Harley did not look quite like she knew how to react for several seconds. Then her lip wobbled. She tried to cover it up by twisting her brows into a frown but before she could react with any further indignation he lurched forward, closing the space between them and licked the sticky mess off her cheek.

"Why, Harley", he purred, "Your suffering tastes as sweet as it looks."

He scooped up two fingerfuls of icecream and slathered it down her neck and just below the collar of her pajama top. Then he bent his head to lick it up, digging his fingers into her sides as he did so. She squealed and began to struggle, but her humour had changed to delight and she giggled as he tickled her.

He tore her pajama top open, buttons flying out over the room, and observed with no small delight that beneath her pajamas she was wearing the little strawberry-patterned set he'd laid out for her earlier. He lifted the hem of it and upended the bowl of ice-cream onto her belly, then pinned her down at the shoulders and leered into her face.

"I'm going to eat you all up, Harley!" he threatened and then continued to tickle her, nipping at her stomach and slurping up long tonguefuls of banana split. She squeaked again and struggled.

"No, Mistah J!" she shrieked, tears of laughter running down her face, "You can't eat me!"

"I can and I will!" He carolled back and gnawed on her arms, on the swell of her breast, on her stomach. He held her slim wrists in one of his hands and wrenched her arms above her head and began tickling one armpit with his free hand. She screamed and twisted frantically from side to side, her body convulsed with laughter and he lifted his knee and pushed it firmly into her hip, keeping her still.

Then he suddenly stopped.

She opened her eyes and peeked at him in trepidation, not sure what was coming next, what more agonising tortures he had in store for her.

He loomed above her, her wrists grasped in one hand, his knee pressing down into her belly and his smile dark and shadowed with the living room light blocked by his head. He grinned at her for several seconds so that she became uneasy, uncertain, then lifted his free hand to the space between her breasts, where the thin gauze of her lacy top had become stained with chocolate topping and ice-cream, and gently tugged it down a little. Not far. Just enough to expose the scar tissue there. A long thin line between her breasts, raised and pink against her creamy skin.

Her lip was slack and her eyes wide as she stared up at him, shivering at his finger traced that scar. Below his knee, below her abdominals, below her guts, he felt her pelvic muscles violently clench. Mmmm.

Then he abruptly hauled her upwards by her wrists, and she gasped but did not resist.

"Sweets for the sweet!" He hissed, then stood up on the couch and bent her over the kitchen bench directly behind them, pushing her face first into the Coconut Cream pie that still sat there.

He released her, stepped off the couch onto the carpet, pointed a finger at her and let his delighted laughter rattle the apartment.

To be continued…