"Cause I've done some things

that I can't speak.

And I've tried to wash you away,

but you just wont leave.

I'm begging you to keep on haunting me."

- Halsey, Haunting

Warning: This chapter contains mature content.

By some miracle, the sun was out on Monday morning. Through the blinds in her bedroom came welcomed beams of light. For once, Gotham was no longer under bleak, rainy shadows. It was bliss. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, Harleen rolled over in crisp white sheets and brushed some hair from her face. She hummed to herself, contented.

Consequently, the man lying beside her shifted closer and rubbed his cheek against her bare shoulder. It felt scratchy from stubble, but the sleepy little kiss pressed to her skin made Harleen smile.

"Did I wake you?" she murmured, resting her cheek against her palm. Her other hand lifted to run through her boyfriend's brown curls.

He mumbled something incoherent in response, still mostly asleep, and rolled over.

Harleen chuckled and slipped out of bed. He had gotten home much later than she did and at 8:15 in the morning, he was still understandably out of it.

Brandon had moved into her apartment six months ago and things were… decent. She cooked, he cleaned. Wednesday was movie night. Sometimes his friends stopped by for drinks. They were thinking about getting a dog. Her mother even liked him.

He wasn't particularly exciting to be around, but he was safe. And down the line, they would get married and have babies.

She found security in a nice man. This was what she wanted.

Stepping out of the shower, Harleen carefully ruffled her wet hair with a towel, avoiding the healing stitches, and slipped on her robe. The birds were chirping away outside, and she laughed. She couldn't remember a morning this cheerful and normal in months.

Maybe Batman was on vacation. The guy brought gloom wherever he went.

As coffee brewed, Harleen decided to straighten up. She didn't like to come home to a dirty house. It seemed as though Brandon had stumbled right into bed after work, what with his clothes strewn all over the living room and hallway, and she shook her head in amusement. Men.

After gathering his work shirt and slacks into a laundry basket, she lifted his jacket off of the couch to hang it up, and stopped short.

A piece of lacy, red fabric had fallen from his pocket onto the floor. Setting the laundry basket on the counter, Harleen bent down to pick it up and paled when she turned it over in her hands. It was a thong that definitely did not belong to her.

Heart pounding, she scrunched up the undergarment in her fist and paced. This was a gift. It had to be a gift from Brandon, for her. Something to spice up the average, missionary, five-minute sex they had once a week.

But there wasn't any price tag. And with closer inspection they looked… used.

Mortified and disgusted, Harleen got herself a glass of water, burst into the bedroom, and sloshed it in Brandon's face.

Startled from the cold, he yelped and sat up, wiping water from his eyes. "Gah! What are you doing?"

Harleen chucked the thong at him, and it landed in his lap.

"The hell is this, Brandon?" she demanded, gesturing at it. Her boyfriend froze and her heart sank.

Panicked, Brandon met her eyes. "Harleen, this isn't what it looks like."

"I can't believe you." Tears were already blurring her vision. She had always been an angry crier.

He got out of bed and Harleen backed away from him, fuming. "Don't you dare come near me."

With water still dripping down his face, Brandon followed her into the kitchen, pulling on a pair of pants and tripping a little. "They aren't mine! You've got it all wrong!"

"They ain't yours?" Harleen repeated, incredulous, and threw up her hands, "Then why did I find them in ya goddamn jacket?"

Already failing at his own argument, Brandon stepped towards her and whined, "You gotta understand, you… you're gone, all the time, Q! I never see you!" He let out a frustrated yell. "What was I supposed to do?"

Harleen saw red. "Screw you, Brandon. Screw. You." She stormed back into the bedroom, and Brandon chased after her.

"What are you doing?"

She yanked a drawer from her dresser and emptied it onto the floor. A pile of his clothes gathered at her feet. "What does it look like? I'm kicking you out, you piece of trash!"

Slicking back his wet hair, Brandon carefully stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Sweetheart, just breath for a sec—"

Harleen slapped him hard across the face but he didn't budge, only wrapping his arms further around her once he shook off the pain.

"Get. Off. Me." she gritted out, struggling in his arms. Brandon started to kiss down her neck.

"Let me make it up to you," he breathed hotly below her ear. "C'mon, let me fix this."

His grip was strong and Harleen couldn't wiggle out of it. Sickeningly, she felt him grow hard against her thigh.

"Brandon, stop it!" she shrieked, beating at his chest with her fists. He pulled away but only to kiss her fiercely, pushing her down onto the bed.

Calloused fingers had started to undo her robe.

Frightened now and trapped, Harleen reached over to the nightstand and grappled blindly, until her hand wrapped around a large vase holding tulips.

His hand was trailing down between her legs. "You're so beautiful, Q…"

With one final, infuriated yell, Harleen smashed the vase over his head, and he fell heavily to the floor with a resounding, terrible thud.

Parked in the employee lot at Arkham, Harleen stared at her steering wheel with damp hair and puffy eyes. She didn't notice the sun, this time. She didn't hear the birds, or feel the pain from her stitches. It was the weird, hazy mixture of coffee and Vicodin that kept her from completely losing it.

Was it possible to feel everything and nothing at once?

Once nine o'clock came around, Harleen dabbed at her eyes with a wrinkled tissue and took a long, tremulous breath. She had to go inside. She'd clock in late and she couldn't be late.

Rent was due next week.

With flushed cheeks, Harleen made her way through security, flashing her ID and quickly tucking her top into her skirt. One of the guards sneezed into his elbow and she flinched hard, earning her an alarmed stare.

"Uh, sorry, ma'am." He sniffled. "Allergies. Not used to weather like this."

Harleen gave him a tight smile and wordlessly moved along. The other guard mumbled something under his breath about dumb blondes, but she didn't trust herself to speak without throwing up.

She kept her head down on her way to her office and, as a result, ran headfirst into Arkham, knocking her to the ground.

"Christ, Quinzel, watch it." He grumbled, eying her as he helped Harleen to her feet. "Forgot your glasses?"

Having broken into a cold sweat, she nodded shakily, breathless. "Sorry, sir, yes. Left them at home." A forced laugh. "Silly me."

"Well, wake up. Wouldn't want to bump into a patient." He raised a thick, greying eyebrow. "They may not be as understanding."

Apologizing again, Harleen stepped around him and power-walked down to the elevator. Once the doors were closed, she sank to the ground and fought off a panic attack.

It would be easy to call the police and explain that it had been self defense. That Brandon was forcing himself on her and it had to be done. That wasn't a lie.

But it wasn't the truth, either.

Holding back a scream, Harleen slammed her hand against the button for Floor 6.

"Where are the keys?"

Harleen was trembling hard, her lab coat and purse discarded on the floor of the Confinement Office.

Steven, lanky and pubescent, stared up at her from his desk with wide, brown eyes.

"Uh — I'm not supposed — you'd need a warrant, ma'am—"

During his stammering, Harleen had spotted the ring of keys on the wall behind him and she moved around his desk, snatching them off the hook

"Doctor Quinzel, you aren't allowed—!"

Disregarding his existence, she slammed the door on the way out.

On the days when therapy didn't take place, Joker was held in an ordinary cell. Just a crappy, dark room sealed with a thick, steel door at the end of a long corridor of other crazies. No glass and conversation, just shadows and silence.

Taking off her wretched heels, Harleen sprinted around the corner and caught the attention of the two heavily armored guards. Shit.

"Patient 0745 escaped," she panted, pointing desperately behind her. "They need—They need back up immediately, gentleman." Her blue eyes were wild with worry as she lied. "There's children in visitation, and you know how he is with kids —"

"Shit," the guard grunted, visibly upset. He motioned for his partner to follow him as they raced for the stairs.

Once they were out of sight, Harleen bolted the length of the hall, high on adrenaline and anxiety, and her hair was wild as it blew behind her.

The sign on the cell was crooked and yellowing.

NAME UNKNOWN

0801

This was it. There was no turning back now.

Without pretense, Harleen jammed the key into the lock and twisted it, pushing the door open to reveal a lounging Joker who was lazily shuffling playing cards.

His eyes were cast downward, not paying attention. "Give me a minute, Steven. I've finally got the hang of it with this despicable cast."

A soft, feminine sob that was not definitely Steven's answered him back.

Joker looked up immediately and squinted in disbelief. "Doc?" A pause, then quietly to himself, "Am I hallucinating again? 'Cause I've gotta say, this is a bad trip."

Harleen closed the door behind her, locked it, and bawled, "Mr. J, I messed up." She hiccuped and shook her head, distraught. "I messed up real bad."

Setting down his cards, Joker addressed her seriously and beckoned her to his cot.

"C'mere, Harls, come tell Daddy all about it."

Harls. Joker smiled inwardly. Huh. Now that felt good on his tongue.

Surrendering and hysterical, Harleen all but ran to him, falling into his arms.

"I-I didn't mean to, I'm not a bad person, I swear, but I was so angry—" She sobbed into his shoulder and Joker ran pale fingers patiently through her wavy hair.

This was the most entertainment he'd had in months. Hands-on HBO.

"Now, now, calm down," he cooed, "Let's start from the beginning, shall we?"

Harleen took a deep, ragged breath in hopes to settle herself.

Joker gave her a gentle pat on the head. "Good girl."

"My—my boyfriend, he cheated on me," Harleen choked out, "I found some other girl's panties in his coat." A fresh wave of tears followed.

Staring at the wall above her head, Joker frowned.

Really? This was why she broke into his cell? How boring. At least she was a warm body.

"Then he was comin' onto me, ya know like, gettin' physical. But I didn't want any part of that, 'cause of what had just happened," she continued, shoulders shaking.

Joker ran a hand down her back and sighed, hoping she would be done soon.

"And that's when I did it." Harleen had grown quiet. Very quiet.

Joker's gaze shot up in realization, and he had to bite back a moan.

Oh, naughty, naughty girl. His felt his body buzz with excitement.

"What did you do, Harleen?"

"I hit him over the head. With a vase." She stopped, clearly struggling.

Joker let his eyes roll back, relishing the moment. Christ, this was too good to be true.

"Then what?" he coaxed lowly, a hungry growl. Say it… Say it…

He could feel Harleen's pulse hammer against his own chest.

And then, finally, quietly, but oh so sweet,

"I killed him."

Not a cannon sub-plot, and a little out of character for Harleen, but don't worry. Everything has its purpose. Nothing will be rushed. Just you wait. ;) Thank you all again for reading and reviewing. Will update soon.