TEN

At first, Harley honestly tries to keep her professional persona. She asks him questions, to keep him busy; to keep her mind focused. But each effort always fails. She can't bring herself to control what her lips do, what her hands do, what her mind does.

Each and every ill-fated try ends in the exchange of saliva. And eventually, after a good week of attempts on her part, Harley learns to accept it – go with the natural flow of things – and free fall into Joker's world. It's quite funny; she didn't even realize how tight his hold was on her until after she had let go.

Two weeks into the good doctor and psychopathic clown's affair (so to speak), Harley fully breaks away from Don. Because (truth be told) she never looked forward to seeing him, touching him, kissing him. Because every day she looked forward to another chance with her own Harlequin instead. And everyday, Joker can feel Harley's conscience and ethics slip away in each new kiss. And he loves it. He loves it for all it's worth.

"How could he have escaped?" Frequent escapes, she had written once. She knew, all along, that Joker wasn't about to let an asylum keep him from doing what he lives for. And Joker lives to live. She knew, all along, that he was going to escape some how, some way, some day. However, she did not know that he would be leaving any time soon. "I thought you had him under the highest security possible."

Jeremiah Arkham is not interested in answering the psychiatrist's questions. She isn't a priority to him. "Miss Quinzel, both Arkham Asylum and the Gotham Police are doing their best to try and detain… your patient." He can't bring himself to say the Joker. "I suggest you keep your distance from this investigation."

Harley suppresses the urge to hit him over the head with a very, very large mallet. "Mister Arkham, I could provide information about the patient that investigators might find helpful."

He isn't paying her any attention now; just signing papers and ignoring calls. "Mister Arkham!" Harley slams her fists on the cherry wood of his desk. Violence floods her mind like never before. "I can help get him back!"

Arkham's eyes smolder her. He throws down his pen. "This isn't about you, Quinzel!" She doesn't backtrack from his eruption. "Go the hell home, and for your own damn safety stay there! Get out of town, for all I care! Just get out of my office!" But Harley can't move from her spot. The urge to use a weapon more along the lines of a bazooka is sufficiently harder to suppress. "Quinzel," he says, warning her. "Go somewhere safe and stay hidden until we find him. That's an order." She stares and wonders if he has the authority to do that.

Wayne owned (of course) Gotham Suites is by far the swankiest hotel in the metropolis. Gold leaf molding and pure marble archways; this place isn't cheap. But Harley isn't planning to stay long, so why not make the most of her short getaway and go all out?

"Hello. I'm checking in." Harley is sure the clerk's nametag is made of gold as well.

"Your name, please?"

A name. She needs an alias. She needs a name that isn't Harleen Quinzel. But she can't hide her identity; not completely at least. "Harley Quinn."

The clerk doesn't think twice, slides the credit card, and hands her the keys. "Enjoy your stay, Miss Quinn."

She keeps her eyes on Gotham's skyline while holding a glass of vodka precariously between her fingers. Cars pass. Ferries pass. No explosions. No disturbances.

But Harley is abruptly disturbed by the sudden ring of the telephone. She eyes it suspiciously before daring the pick it up. "Hello," she answers pleasantly, fearlessly, knowingly.

"You didn't hide yourself very well, Harleen."

She takes a sip of the glass and tries to slow down her heartbeat. The vodka is too strong for her taste, but she swallows anyway. "What are you talking about? I wasn't trying to."

He laughs into the speaker so loudly, Harley has to pull it away from her ear. "Did you miss me?"

"Terribly."

"Admit it, you love me."

"Madly." And they both know this much is true.

"Are you ready to play some of my games, love?"

"Bring them on, Mister J."

And the line goes dead.

Well, I tried. I really did. I thought, so much is happening in this one, it's sure to be a long one. But it wasn't. At all. I'm sorry! I just - can't write long things... Short and sweet is suppose. I hope this one put something in your head. Something that you maybe wouldn't mind putting into a review...? Thanks for reading and so forth and so such.