"I clutched your arms like stairway railings.

And you clutched my brain and eased my ailing."

- Halsey, Is There Somewhere

Back in the penthouse above Smile and Grin, Joker used to sleep like a baby. The ground-shaking bass that his strippers would gyrate to, the whirring sirens of the city. The occasional gunshot and bar fight when the atmosphere was hot. Bodies dropping, glass shattering. It was all a beautiful, chaotic lullaby that had him out like a light.

Not at Arkham. Aside from the occasional, manic shrieks from the other inmates, it was silent as the grave. He could easily hear a pin drop from down the hall, and his ears never stopped ringing.

At first, Joker didn't mind. It had been a while since he could enjoy his own company and lounge in solitude. Seclusion had its perks. But forty-eight hours of mind-numbing, excruciating peace later — that could drive a man mad.

In this godforsaken hellhole that he kept being thrown into, he hardly slept.

Joker would hate to admit it, but the lack of life in Arkham was truly punishing him. They had upped their game on security and after being tased and beaten daily, not to mention the current fractures in his arm — it was hard to stay motivated. Brooding was a distant memory. How depressing.

It had been an ordinary morning for him. Some chit-chat with Steven, a good boy who was severely underpaid. An attempt at meditation, see also: bullshit. Then a scrumptious piece of stale, molding toast and warm well-water to wash it all down.

Fortunately, good ol' Stevie had snuck in a pack of playing cards the week before to keep him occupied. When he finally breaks out of this dump, he'd make sure that the kid was rewarded. Maybe even offer him a job, if he bulked up. Some of his henchmen would be retiring soon. Had to keep them young, dependable. Fresh meat. A broken hip and bad knees would be detrimental during a heist, or a robbery.

Enter Harleen Quinzel, damsel in distress, breaking all of the rules.

Joker couldn't believe his damn eyes when she came running to him. Well, he could understand it. He was devastatingly handsome, after all. Who could resist such an exquisite face? It wasn't easy, being so irresistible.

But the way Harleen clung onto him, as if they were much closer, as if he hadn't strangled the life out of her a week ago — it weirded him out. He valued his personal space and she had forced herself into it.

Besides, she was educated, well-mannered, and just look at her face, what a dame. With all of these combined, the girl should be drowning in men and attention.

Nothing else mattered, however, when she muttered words so sweet, he could get a toothache:

I killed him.

Joker knew there was a reason why he kept her alive.

Instead of the sexual awakening provided abruptly by the little minx, Joker focused on her lapse of judgement. The blackmail he now possessed gave him a sizable power trip, but if he ever hoped to leave Arkham without getting beaten to a pulp, he'd need to twist Harleen's vulnerable psyche while he still had the chance.

The first step, he knew, was giving into what Harleen needed most: guidance. He had never been particularly affectionate, the thought made him gag, but it had to be done.

This was her very first kill. And through his years of wisdom, he would help her through it.

Still, curiosity took precedence.

"How did you do it?" Joker urged softly, when he had come down from Cloud Nine.

Harleen swallowed heavily, knowing that everything would become very real if she continued to admit it out loud.

"I saw that he was still breathin', on the floor. Just knocked out, ya know? But all I could think about was some other woman on top of my future husband, and I… snapped."

"You had every right to be upset, Harls," Joker said calmly, trying to sweet-talk her into confessing. He patted her back. "Go on."

"So I took one of the throw pillows and I…" Harleen closed her eyes, still battling with herself. "I suffocated him. I put it over his face until his body stopped…" She shuddered. "Convulsing."

Joker licked his lips and let himself imagine it. It was homicidal music to his ears, coming from her. Such a pretty face, succumbing to rage and ending a life. What a treat.

She had started to cry again, body wracking with sobs, horrified with herself.

He stepped into action. "Do you want me to help ya, Doc?" Of course she would. "Want me to make it all…" He let his fingers dance playfully in the air. "…go away."

Harleen looked up with shining blue eyes and Joker felt himself get hard. Not the time, J. Later, maybe.

"Would you?" she whimpered pathetically, "I don't know what to do. I can't go to jail. But he's still… just layin' there in my apartment."

Joker leaned back to study her, strategizing. It felt good.

"Was there blood?" he asked darkly. Please let there be blood.

Harleen furrowed her brows, looking down. "No, I… I don't think so."

Damn.

Taking her chin in his hand, Joker forced her to look up at him. "You have two options, toots. A: chop up the bastard and throw little doggie bags of limbs into the ocean. Happy Halloween!"

Joker laughed. He was personally fond of that one. Harleen looked appalled.

He sighed at her reaction. "B: make it look like an accident."

Her eyes lit up at this idea, just a bit, her voice still shaking. "Okay. B. That one."

"Final answer?" Joker gave her a metallic grin.

Harleen, an absolute mess, let out a huff of breath and closed her eyes. "Yeah. Let's call it that."

In that moment, Joker knew there was a third answer in his demented little game show.

C: Dump the broad, take the keys, and get the hell out.

He rubbed at his neck, rolling it around, and briefly considered it. To flee or not to flee.

But said broad was weeping in his lap, essentially at his mercy, and...

It would have to wait.

With her heels in hand, Harleen stepped into Steven's office and gave him an apologetic smile. He didn't deserve all of this crazy. Then again, he signed up for it, didn't he?

"Thank you, Steven, for your cooperation," she told him gently, like a mother would, sliding the ring of keys across the desk.

He scratched at the back of his head, unable to wipe the apprehension off of his face. "No problem, ma'am," he mumbled. "But, uh…"

Harleen leaned forward with wet lashes, alarmed. "What is it?"

Steven turned his monitor around and pointed weakly to the security footage of Harleen scampering down the confinement hall and looking a little too intimate with a psychopathic clown.

She felt faint. "Steven, get rid of that," she ordered.

The boy winced and fidgeted in his seat. "I don't have an account to override the system, ma'am," he explained meekly, "I've been trying but the firewall is impossible to get over."

Despite the situation, Harleen felt her heart swell. The kid had been trying to keep them safe without even being told to. But she couldn't possibly make up some convoluted explanation for her actions, so her fear continued to grow.

How could she have been so careless?

"Are you sure there isn't any way to erase that footage?" she pressed desperately, eyes glued to the screen. Is that really what she looked like from behind?

Steven shrugged quietly, adjusting his thin glasses. "It's either figure out the access code, or destroy the machine before it reaches main security. But that would be —"

Before he could finish, Harleen had lifted the computer and thrown it hard to the ground.

"Ma'am! What are you doing?!" Steven squeaked, backing away, startled.

With wild eyes, Harleen looked around until she spotted a security baton hung above the file cabinet. Bingo.

Weapon in hand, Harleen proceeded to go ape shit on the modem.

Panicking and wanting to create some distance between the psychiatrist and himself, Steven lept out of his chair to close and lock the office door. He pressed his back against it and watched the massacre unfold with big eyes.

Harleen felt a strange, tingling sensation in her palms, wielding this baton. She liked it more than she would care to admit.

A couple of minutes later, the machine was unidentifiable in its ruins, and Harleen let the baton fall to the ground. Blowing some hair out of her eyes, she smoothed out her skirt and nodded, rolling her shoulders.

"There we go. All gone." Casually, she slipped on her heels and pulled her hair into a sleek bun before approaching the door. "Thank you, Steven. You're a real sweetheart." Harleen picked up her coat and purse, kissed him on the forehead, and left.

Weary, Steven looked up at the clock. Only 10:00 AM. He let his face fall into his hands and shook his head. Why didn't he go into business like the rest of his friends?

The rest of the day seemed to move at a snail's pace for Harleen. Every tick of the clock was hammering into her skull like a dull blade, waiting for it to crack.

But rushing out of the building would have been suspicious, so she kept herself busy with writing case summaries and responding to trivial messages from Arkham's interns. Ever since she had taken on Joker, every undergraduate under the sun viewed Harleen as their own personal mentor, and it was exhausting.

Little did Harleen know, Arkham had sent all of them her way. He considered it deserved punishment for disrespecting him and his position at the asylum. Like hell would she get away with raising her voice at him, back at the infirmary.

In the lull between calls, she popped another Vicodin and went over Joker's instructions for the hundredth time in her head:

Purchase gloves. Clean up the scene. Move the body to the bathroom. Plant the empty bottle of sleeping pills. Immediately after, report his death.

The story was simple. A sad man who had fallen into the hands of suicide. With how upset Harleen would make herself look, nobody would ask why out of respect. After a few months, everything would be back to normal.

Everything would be fine.

It was half past four when Arkham entered her office, unannounced.

Jumping out of her skin, Harleen started typing away gibberish on her laptop, trying to look busy as she nudged the prescription bottle into one of the open drawers with her elbow.

She smiled and looked up. "Afternoon, Doctor Arkham."

Arkham looked at her, tight-lipped and extended his hand with his palm up.

"Oh! Yes, the progress report, sorry," Harleen rushed out, ruffling through her stack of files. He had requested an update on Joker, and maybe she had fabricated some of the information, but most of it was true. True-ish.

Handing over the document, Harleen bit her lip and watched as Arkham scanned the few pages. His expression was frustratingly unreadable.

Finally, Arkham cleared his throat, nodded, and turned to leave. "Get back to work."

She let out a sigh of relief and sank back into her chair. That was much better than Harleen expected. One week down, two to go.

With her hand shaking like a leaf, Harleen found it nearly impossible to unlock her apartment door. She left scratches all over the door knob from the tip of her key and the gloves felt like anvils in her purse.

She did not want to see his body again. It would be so much easier if she woke up, right about now, from this really vivid nightmare. To have Brandon propose to her over their morning coffee, coat pocket void of slutty underwear. They would discuss baby names.

"You were supposed to marry me!" Harleen had screamed that morning, pressing the pillow over his face with incredible force. His body had twitched violently as she straddled him. "You. Ruined. Everything!"

Finally, she managed to operate like a normal human being and opened the door.

Swiftly locking it behind her, Harleen placed her keys on the nearby table and pulled the package of latex gloves out of her bag. She was sweating bullets.

The phone rang and she nearly pissed her pants.

Clumsily, Harleen made her way over to the landline and picked it up with trembling fingers. What if it was the police? She couldn't be somebody's bitch. She wouldn't survive.

"H-Hello?"

"Don't got time for your mother no more? I birthed you, yaknow. Why haven't you called?"

Her mom. Just her mom.

Harleen leaned heavily against the wall, staring at her bedroom door. "Sorry, Mom. Work has been nuts." Ba-dum chh. Joker would have been proud. Her voice wavered. "It's nothin' personal."

"Well, I ain't happy." Her mother sighed. "I miss you. Haven't seen you in weeks. There's only so many jigsaw puzzles I can do by myself. You find the corners much faster than me."

Frowning, Harleen felt a pang in her chest. That used to be their thing, before Brandon moved in.

"I know. I'm sorry, Mom. You know I miss you." But as guilty as she felt, this really wasn't the time to talk.

She had a dead body on her bedroom floor.

"Can I call you back in a few minutes?" Harleen begged, her voice choked and high. She winced, trying to cover that up. "I really have to… pee. I drank too much coffee."

Laughing loudly, her mother conceded. "Fine. Don't make a mess, crazy girl."

Harleen chuckled weakly and rubbed at her face, "Thanks. Talk to you soon." Click.

If she didn't do this soon, she was going to pass out and then they'd both look dead.

Five steps forward. Five deep breaths. Five numbers.

"Five… four… three… two…" Harleen whimpered. "One."

With her eyes closed, she pushed open the door and once she had the courage — oh.

No vase. No emptied drawer and pile of clothes. No damp blankets. No thong.

No dead boyfriend.

Just a single rose against her neatly placed pillows, and a note that read:

Nice place.

-J

Thank you all for your reviews, favorites, and follows. I love you all and you feed my inspiration.

Dedicated especially to wraysford, DonnaJossee, and xXMoonheartXx. My beautiful sweet summer children.