NINE

"Harley!" She cringes at the exclamation of her own name. "You came. I'm touched." She sits across from him and keeps her lips sealed together. As usual. "What? No, 'We need to talk about what happened Mister Joker'?"

"I would like to pretend that yesterday as a whole didn't happen at all, okay Mister J?"

"Mister J! I like that. I like it." She glares. "Come on, I know you wanna talk. Come on, talk." When she stays silent, he reiterates his point:"Talk!"

Harley sighs loudly and looks down at the book in her lap. Psychotherapy: Level Two. "What do you hope to accomplish in your life, Mister Joker?"

He groans and rolls his eyes dramatically. "Don't start talking like a shrink. You're not, Harley." She glowers at him again. What's this? True hatred? But she doesn't hate him. No. The hate is directed at something deeper than just him himself. "I'm just dying to know: what's your last name?"

And she throws back her chair in such an aggressive motion; it almost causes Joker to jump. Blonde hair bounces with her movements as she paces back and forth. Like a grandfather clock's dial. Never, ever, ever has the doctor gotten up from her seat during a session. "You just never give up, do you? You finally get your answer, and now you want more." Joker raises an eyebrow. "It's Quinzel, okay. Harleen Quinzel. Ha, ha, ha. Yes, I know my parents punished me with a cruel, cruel name. Harlequin. I get it."

Joker only looks up at her. Stone silent. "But I don't get it…"

"You're kidding me, right?"

"You thought I was going to kill you."

No. No, no, no, no, no – he wasn't going to start. He couldn't start. She wouldn't be able to handle it.

"Do you want to die?"

She can't do it. She turns away from him and leans against the tiled wall. "No."

"I'm not convinced." He's taunting her. She knows it. And she's going to let him do it too.

She turns on her heel and glares at him, directly into his deep, dark eyes. "No," she repeats with a force that rattles the table's shaky legs.

"Well then… did you know I was going to kiss you?"

An uncomfortable tingle flows through her body at the word kiss. "Certainly not."

"Why did you let me, then?"

She laughs so quietly, Joker thinks she might be sobbing. "I may be a psychiatrist, Mister J, but I will be the first to admit I don't have all the answers." She shuffles her feet. "Honestly, I don't know why I let you."

It's ridiculous how often she tries to lie to herself. "I think I know," he says in a sing-song tone. "You–" Joker circles his fingers (or what little amount his restraints will allow), "you get bored easily. And you know what they say." He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. "Only the boring get bored."

A single snort of annoyance escapes Harley. "Is that your answer then, Mister J? Because I'm boring: that's why I let you do… whatever you were going to do?"

"It's not a bad thing," Joker assures her. "In fact, I admire you, for seeking out such radical ways to keep yourself entertained." Leaning against the wall once more, she glowers at him. "Harley." The way he says her name makes her stomach turn in a nauseous movement and tickle in absurd delight. "I can see that you're trying to spice up your life, which makes you so much less boring."

She debates whether or not to reply. Would it just encourage him? Wasn't that what she was here to do? Right now, she isn't so sure anymore. She keeps her stance against the wall and says, "Variety is the spice of life."

"There we go."

Underneath all the bitter frustration and bitter anger, all the sadness and boredom of her small, uneventful life, Harley is curious. And curiosity, after all, is the only cure for boredom. But what could cure curiosity? She intends to find out.

All four goon guards stand armed and (for once) attentive along the back wall of the cozy little room. She says, "I need you guys to leave." When a second has passed and they haven't moved, she says, "We need to be alone."

"We–" Hank looks up and down the line of goons, "we can't leave you alone. We have orders."

Joker watches Harley's eyelashes, as they bat too close to Hanky Panky's face. "Everything will be fine. Trust me. We need to be alone right now. Just the two of us." She has an incredible talent to persuade with her eyes. "Trust me," she says again. "I've got it all under control." The corners of Joker's mouth twinge. Control! "I've made it this far without a scratch, haven't I?" she whispers. Because Joker can't hear her from across at twenty square foot room. The goony guards leave with one last persuasive reassurance in the woman's blue, blue eyes.

"Do you really believe that you've got it all under control?" Harley walks over to him as he continues to question her assertions. "Do you really know that everything will be fine – under control – a-okay?" She is standing right next to him, not sitting in her usual spot where she belongs. "Or were you just saying all that to get them outta here?"

Her bottom lip disappears inside her mouth as she mulls over the question. "I don't know anything for sure, Mister J." She dips down, so close to his face that the tips of their noses touch. "I don't even know what the hell is going on with me."

Joker giggles delightedly. "Oh, I think I do!"

"Really?" she whispers as her eyes fall on his incredibly full lips. "Would you mind informing me then?"

But instead Joker catches her in the kiss. Without the use of hands, he somehow manages to pull her down on top of him, so he can search deeper inside her. Eager, hungry, and somehow tender, all Joker wants to do is explore. And Harley, being lost, emotionally energetic, and ready for change grants his longing.

Deeper, deeper, deeper the kiss goes, until the bumps on their tongues are entirely familiar to each other and Joker can't take it anymore. He needs to get out of this Godforsaken jacket. He needs to fully appreciate her for all of her talents. He needs to have her fully (and when Joker wants something, oh, he gets it).

He starts to wrestle with the buckles and clips, biting and nipping while he goes. Excitement builds and Harley can taste it in her own blood. Joker howls into the hollow of her throat, frustrated. He can't get it off. For once in his life, he can't get it off.

"J."

"Just give me a minute," he grunts. All he needs to do is dislocate one measly little arm and he'll be home free.

"Mister J." His eyes are dark and nothing but lust. "I think that should do it for today."

His cheeks twitch and he can't decide whether he wants to smile or not. "What's my diagnosis, Doc?" His voice is thick with laughter.

"I'll let you know as soon as I figure out what mine is," she whispers into his ear.

"Oh, how far we've come, Harley Quinn."

Again, thank you all for the wonderful, wonderful feedback. It does my heart good, it does. Please continue to leave your thoughts on this story. Thanks for taking the time to read and I apologize for the somewhat long wait.