Chapter Two: Ritual and Mystery
Rituals were the foundation of the world. Since the ancient times, people fell into a routine that held significance to them, whether it be burying the dead, worshipping the gods, or the cycles of hunter and prey. It was quite beautiful, really, to think that such things had occurred for so many years. It was primal and yet the same rituals existed in the modern day. Archeologists had made significant discoveries as to the rituals of the ancestors, speculation only, but it connected the past to the future with similarities. Humans thrived on ritual. Even the chaotic humans.
For Harley, her ritual was something that brought calm to her raging emotions, bearing reverence and respect to her own personal savior. She never believed in God or religion but she believed in Mr. J with all her heart and soul. It seemed right to pay him homage, her golden idol, a middle finger to those that dared condemn her for being herself, claiming her to be evil. Harley scorned their simplicity, crying out to their god for their misfortune. Evil didn't truly exist. It was a concept devised by humans to explain all the bad shit that happened, or to sneer at their neighbors for being different.
One look at the world would reveal how idiotic the notions of good and evil were. Everyone and everything was gray. The necessity of hunger or survival could turn the most pious person into a killer. Animals didn't kill only for food. One look at a cat playing with a trapped mouse showed their cruelty. But the worst offenders were the hypocrites. Those that were viewed as righteous and yet, would fuck their neighbor's wife, steal from their employees, or have one mad day. Harvey Dent was the perfect example of this. His soul was revealed to be as gray as the rest of the lot. The white knight of Gotham. All it took was one accident. One loss in his life. And he was gone, pulled into the abyss of darkness. He wasn't evil. He wasn't good. Dent was simply just like everyone else.
"Harvey Dent Day," Mr. J muttered.
Harley looked up from her ritual in surprise, nearly dropping the object in her hands. Was he reading her mind again? No, it was a case of coincidence, she noted. Mr. J's eyes were fixed on the television, the usual background noise of GCN capturing his attention, not even so much as a glance towards her naked body. She stopped to watch the TV for a moment, getting the gist immediately. The mayor was continuing the city's worship of Harvey Dent. It had been nearly two years since the former district attorney tried to kill Jim Gordon's family and died in the ensuing battle that had Gotham calling for the Batman's head. The Dent Act was only a couple of days away from being signed into law, yet another result of the recent mafia violence due to Mr. J's plotting, and now it seemed the mayor wanted to commemorate Dent's death with an official city holiday. What a joke.
"Do you think that legislation would have even been considered if I didn't take out all those mafia heads?" Harley asked in an attempt to make conversation. "Is this our fault?"
Mr. J didn't look away from the television, sitting on the bed enraptured by the glowing images. "They were looking for an excuse." His makeup was still caked on his face, smeared from the night's events. Tiny speckles of blood lined the corners of his chin and neck, the last stain of Ana's existence. Harley had washed away her own evidence in the shower, dancing as the swirl of brown circled the drain. Even now, her wet blond locks still clung to her back, drops of water trickling down her nude body.
"Did you know this would happen?" Harley continued with her work, the motions bringing peace to her mind as she moved around their bedroom, careful not to block Mr. J's view of the TV. His green vest was in her hands and she brought it up to her nose, sniffing it. His scent filled her nostrils, sharp and smoky, but not foul. It didn't need to be cleaned yet. With a smile, she walked over to the closet and hung it next to his pale blue suit coat, making sure to run her hands down both sides to smooth out any wrinkles. Perfect.
Ritual. It had become rote to her in the past couple of months, ever since she returned after her crisis of faith. Her friend, Thomas Elliot, for all his flaws, had set her to her purpose. She found renewal after her time with him, coming back to Mr. J with true understanding of how the world turned. Before, it was all rhetoric. Now, she believed. It may have all been part of Mr. J's elaborate manipulation, but it worked for her nonetheless. And from that day forward, she needed a way to express that gratitude, even if it was unnoticed or unappreciated. Harley didn't do it for Mr. J. She did it for herself.
On the floor near the door, crumpled, was his purple trench coat. With loving care, she picked it up, noting the traces of her greasepaint along its shoulder. Folding it over her bare arms, she walked into the bathroom, turning on the faucet. After running a washcloth through the water and squeezing out the excess, she spread soap over the surface of the coat. And with careful swipes, she began the work of cleaning the coat, her mind shutting all other thoughts off. Her ritual.
"It was inevitable," Mr. J spoke, after a long pause. "Gotham's people need hope."
She didn't respond right away, her mind blank as she let the beauty of her ritual take control of her senses. Streaks of greasepaint stripped away from the purple material, leaving white stains on the washcloth. Caressing, careful, diligent, she watch as the soap peeled away the makeup. And a few moments later, satisfied with the blank slate of purple left behind, she shut off the water and took the trench coat over to the closet.
"Rather sentimental for you," she said, hanging the symbol of his greatness next to her own coat. The two pieces of clothing were a strange combination, colors so different, and yet they seemed to be a matching pair. Purple next to her black, red, and white. They belonged together. As she did before with the vest, she ran her hands down the sides of the coat, smoothing it out. Her hands only stopped at the pockets to remove the blades he kept inside, placing them gently on the dresser next to the television, before continuing their journey down the material's length.
"Sentimental, no, no, no," he said. "Hope is a good thing for us. Let the hope build, then shatter it."
Harley crossed back to the bathroom. "You tried that before. It was twisted around by the police and the people of Gotham never saw the truth of the ugliness."
"If at first you don't succeed..." Mr. J's eyes moved toward her.
She rolled her eyes as she grabbed a fresh, unsoiled washcloth. "You're not one for clichés, Mr. J." More water and soap. "Besides, Dent's dead and we failed at getting Gordon and family to admit what really happened. And instead of the chaos we wanted when we killed the mafia, we wound up with an even tighter leash, more strict order. Let's face it. Our only success has been killing people and blowing up buildings, which," she shrugged, "I suppose, that's something. But not one person, besides me, has seen the truth, yet."
With the washcloth in hand, she headed to the bed, expecting to see anger in his eyes at pointing out their shortcomings. But there was nothing but his usual dark stare boring into her. "Harley, Harley, Harley, you don't look at the big picture."
"Am I missing something?" she asked, sitting down next to him. Bringing the soapy cloth up to his face, she ran it along the contours of his skin, wiping away the greasepaint with easy strokes.
His hand reached up to grasp her wrist, stopping her mid-motion to grab her attention. "Think about it."
Then he released her hand, much to her surprise, continuing to allow her the privilege of washing his face. It was a rare occasion that she could do it freely. Usually, he'd smack her hand away with a glare and take care of it himself, if he felt like it. The days were gone that she'd admonish him for sleeping with the makeup on. She was indifferent to the smears of greasepaint on both of their pillows. But those moments when he'd let her touch him in such a way without reproach, they were heaven. Closing his eyes to wipe away the dark stains on his lids. Unable to get every bit of makeup, his newly opened eyes would be rimmed in thin black lines, a searing menace looking darkly back at her.
Mr. J said to think about the big picture but Harley didn't want to. She wanted to sink into her ritual, let her mind disappear into that space where nothing mattered. Where she wasn't constantly at war with herself. Sure, with Mr. J, her emotions were better controlled, his influence able to contain her ravaging needs. But there were still moments when the beast inside raged, screaming to be let loose and give in to all her wicked thoughts. Moments like this one allowed her to forget, to not be ruled by both the mental and physical scars. So, she stayed silent, letting him believe that she was deep in thought, while she was actually a blank slate. Tabula Rasa.
When the last of the makeup and blood was cleared away, she pulled the tie from around his neck, folding it and putting it on the nightstand. He was still wearing the rest of the outfit but she knew better than to try and strip him. He didn't like that. She didn't mind waiting until morning, as she could already smell the pungent odor that indicated the shirt needed to be thrown in the washer. And the pants had splotches of greasepaint on one of the legs. They would need more than hand-washing. Mr. J didn't care about the state of his clothing but she believed he was secretly grateful for the care she took with him. She was finished for the night and that made her feel better.
Tossing the washcloth over Mr. J's head into the bathroom where it landed with a splat, she laid back in her usual spot on the bed, hands behind her wet head. Glancing over at Mr. J, she was surprised to discover he was staring at her, scanning her nude form up and down. "What?" she asked.
"Which of your scars is your favorite, Harley?" he asked.
The question made her uneasy for some reason. There was a dark connotation behind it. But he didn't have the look of murder behind his eyes, so she let it go. "You know I don't pick favorites. They all stand out in their own way."
"Oh, but I know you have a favorite." One of his cold fingers traced the thin-lined scars under her breast. "One that stands above the rest."
Enjoying the feel of his touch, she sighed in contentment. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because this," his fingers moved down to the carved word on her stomach, "says you belong to me."
Harley glanced down to his hand, seeing his fingers splayed across the scars there. The word "MINE" was etched into her skin, a reminder of the night that she tried to take dominance from him. She had a matching scar on her back, another word, another horror. The memory of that night terrified her more than she'd ever admit out loud. At the time, she'd thought he was going to kill her. End the dance. But that wasn't why she was afraid. Every relationship had its end and she'd resigned herself long ago to the fact that Mr. J would be the one to kill her. Death was nothing. Living was the hard part. Living with someone who could take her weakness and bend it to his will, that was scary. The scars didn't matter. Pain didn't matter. Her life didn't matter. But what did matter to her was that one weakness. He knew how to truly hurt her like no one could. That night, he proved it, pushing her to the edge. Harley suspected that the scars left from that night were his personal favorites.
Her eyes told him of that fear as he dug his nails into her stomach, watching her reaction. "Not these then. So which?"
"It isn't important," she said, rolling onto her side, her back to him. "This is stupid."
Mr. J's hand gripped her shoulder, harshly, yanking her onto her back again. His lithe limbs moved quick as a snake as he straddled her, peering down into her face. "I asked you a question, Harley. You know I don't like evasion."
The fabric of his pants rubbed against her bare thighs in a delicious way. She quirked an eyebrow up at him, a devilish smile crossing her lips. "If I answer, will you have your way with me?"
He leaned down, his lips a hairsbreadth away from hers. "When don't I?"
She tried to close the short distance between them, wanting to feel his passion, but he pulled back anticipating her movement, a dark grin spreading over his lips. And patiently, he waited. Truthfully, she had never thought about it until now. But she should have expected the question at some point. Mr. J always seemed to have random thoughts that threw her for a loop.
After a few moments of pondering, she answered. "This one." She ran her fingers over the scar that circled her neck. "It was the beginning of my life."
The scar was self-inflicted, the result of her late college boyfriend's experimentation on her. To find the true instinctual id in an adult. She was too naïve to know better and let Guy do whatever he wanted to her, which led to his downfall and her craving for pain. He used her and enjoyed it, causing her body to mix signals and pain became ecstasy. Like Mr. J, he pushed her beyond her limits, causing her to cut her own throat in an attempt to seek the peak of pleasure. It was, perhaps, the greatest moment of her life. Unlike Mr. J, Guy couldn't handle the creature she became after, and he took his own life. She'd come to terms with that guilt during the past year, but she could never forget the man who made her.
"I thought so," Mr. J said, moving her hand aside to stroke her neck with his fingers.
She let out a frustrated grunt. "Then why did you ask if you already knew?"
"Had to see if you were lying to yourself." His fingers began to tighten around her throat. "It suits you, Harley. Always back to the beginning for you."
The dynamic in the room changed into something more predatory and sexually charged, as he squeezed her neck tightly, cutting off her air along with her sarcastic response. The corners of her lips turned up, giving herself into the moment. She always felt more alive when he choked her, life fading slowly. And as she had done many times in the past, she forced herself to go limp, allowing him the freedom to do with her body as he pleased. He wouldn't kill her. He would take her to the brink of death and let her ride the high as oxygen filled her lungs. It was one of the best sensations in the world. And something about the action of holding her life in his hands turned Mr. J on. She could feel his erection growing against her thigh as he leaned forward, placing more pressure against her throat.
Her vision began to swim, growing darker around the edges. A sign that she was close to passing out. The second sign came quickly as the hunger for oxygen filled her, and the sounds in the room muted out his heavy breathing. Most people at this stage would jerk around, fighting for their lives, bodies panicking. Hands on wrists, pulling, silently screaming. She had no screams but for her pleasure. And his. Heart beating loudly inside her eardrums. She was close to that dangerous edge.
He would see her reactions and stop, letting her get the air to live. He would see. He always saw. But as she gazed up at him through pinprick vision, she knew his look. The same look he gave her when he carved the "MINE" into her body. Death danced in his eyes. The hunger for murder. He was no longer playing around with her as she initially thought. He added a second hand to the mix, switching his grip, to highlight that this was real. He wanted to see her lifeless body before him.
How could she have missed it? Was that look there when he started choking her or did it just come on all of a sudden? The thoughts raced through her head at lightning speed as she attempted to force her weak limbs to fight. No reaction. There was nothing she could do to prevent it. Still, she always knew that their relationship would end as such. One of them would inevitably take out the other. Harley just always thought she would be the victor. And she couldn't blame him, really. Her last thoughts would not be to condemn him for doing something so raw, so natural. There was beauty to his actions that she could appreciate.
A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. There was so much more left to do. To see. And what would Mr. J do without her? They worked in tandem and no one could ever replicate the rhythm they had attained. He needed someone by his side that understood him, that could keep his secrets. She knew so many, his hidden self that only she was privy to. Whispers in the dark. Now, he would walk alone and that grieved her beyond measure.
Mr. J leaned down, hot breath at her ear. The last words she'd ever hear, diminished by her aural muting. Still, she heard them. A reflection of her own thoughts. "You're one of a kind, Harley."
As she lost consciousness, Harley could only think about how much this sucked.
The length of time it took to strangle someone to death could vary between thirty seconds and fifteen minutes. It depended on strength, knowledge of the human body, and patience. With his original grip, his intention was asphyxiation. Pressure against the larynx, not enough to crush. With her submissive nature to him and him alone, she complied, no fight in her, no struggle. It made it easier. When he brought the second hand up, he debated impacting her larynx and causing the quick death. Slow, though, would allow him more time to appreciate those final moments and his fingers dug into her arteries, cutting off the blood to her brain as well. Death could be patient.
Final words. Were they appropriate? Eyes fluttered, closed. His Harley, so peaceful in the sleep before death. Wet hair kissed the backs of his fingers as she had often done with her lips. The tear that had leaked out of the corner of her eye slid down the side of her face. Harley, too emotional for her own good. Did she cry for herself in the end? Weeping for the destructive path she had followed as it finally reached its conclusion? Or was she feeling that guilt again? Crying for the victims that she would now join in death. Her eyes wouldn't hold the answers anymore and for some reason, that bothered him. Everything about her was too easy to see, now that he had pierced her veil. But in death, she held one final secret. One last surprise. And he found that he desperately wanted to know what it was.
Fate, it seemed, wanted him to know that secret, his cell phone jingling in his pocket, calling him away from the deed. Sooner than he expected. He released his grip on Harley, watching as her body fought to breathe in air, no longer constricted by his hands. It was an automatic reflex, one that didn't wake her but gave her more time to be amongst the living. As he pulled out his phone and clicked to answer, he tilted his head to regard her still form.
"What?"
Oswald Cobblepot's voice rang spoke clearly. "We have a deal. What do you want in return." More demands, not questions. He was used to command.
Mr. J climbed off Harley and got off the bed, his feet landing on the floor with a dull thud. "Oh, Ozzie. I'm getting what I want by doing this. But since you mob types don't like something for nothing, how about we call it a favor to be owed later."
There was a pause before Cobblepot answered, his voice betraying the suspicion of Mr. J's motives. "Fine. You get Falcone to join me and I'll owe you."
Mr. J ended the call. Point made and neither wanted to share the latest gossip. Standing, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned to regard Harley once more. She was nexus of the plan. The one who would lure Falcone to the rest. As the man's former shrink, she could get inside his head and convince him of what needed to be done. And from word on the street, she was one of his favorites outside of the Falcone family. Mr. J still needed her and that infuriated him.
No, not because he needed her for the plan. But because she had pushed him into trying to kill her tonight. Stupid girl should have known better. Besides, the quiet death was not the way for Harley to go. She was a warrior and to die in her sleep like a senior was poor homage to her life of action. When she went out, the world had to be made aware. Blaze of glory and all that. He would need more time to prepare for a proper send off. But only after she did the job.
Confusion. Where was she? Harley blinked and looked around the dark, trying to figure out her location, her mind as groggy as her body. Her hands groped the bare air, her body chilled. She was naked. Panic nearly set in but she reminded herself to relax and think. She had been in this shadowy situation many times before. Waking up, not knowing where she was. Nothing new. After a few seconds, her mind began to clear and she recognized the shadows that were oh so threatening a moment ago. She was in their bedroom. Her head automatically turned to the side but there was no sign of Mr. J. Typical. He was always on the move.
And then she remembered. Sighing, partly in relief, partly in sorrow, Harley sat up. It had been a long time since she'd last been choked out, strangled, whatever he did. He must have cut the blood off to her brain in those final moments because she had felt no pain. And despite the murderous look in his eyes, he didn't kill her. Did she imagine it all? For a few minutes, she replayed those final moments over and over until she was sure it wasn't in her head. He was ready. And yet he didn't do it. Always the enigma. But she wasn't about to question her fortune. Besides, the mystery was what kept it all so exciting.
A cough racked her body, her throat dry. She needed something to drink and she'd be damned if she drank it out of the nasty bathroom tap. Even she had standards. Donning a red silk robe, Harley headed down the hallway, noting the second bedroom was open. Mr. J wasn't working, then. Just as well as she wasn't quite sure what his mood would be like after what just happened. When she reached the kitchen, she grabbed a soda from the fridge and chugged it, enjoying the gasping sensation that overtook her when she finally removed it from her mouth. Nothing like it in the world.
After grabbing a box of fruit snacks and another soda, she made her way to the living room where she found Doc lounging on the couch, eating from a bowl. Plopping down next to him, she poked him in the arm harshly. "Anything good on?"
"Infomercials," he responded with a wince, taking a bite from what seemed to be cereal.
She glanced to the clock to see it was just past four in the morning. "What are you doing up so late?" On a normal non-job night, everyone would be tucked in by now.
"Boss woke me up," Doc grumbled. "Said he needed me for something."
In the dim light of the television, she could see his upper body hunched over the bowl as he ate its contents slowly. Doc was built like a football player with his thick frame, taking up half the couch. He wasn't exactly fat. She'd seen him with his shirt off. He was just a large man, like a freight train. At times, he creeped her out. Not because he was as psychotic as her, in his own way, but because he had a sort of smarmy demeanor that reeked of insecurity and lies. He had the look of a high school date rapist when he grinned. That was, when he wasn't in a paranoid panic about something. Which was frequent with his schizoid condition.
"So," Harley said, casually. "Mr. J almost killed me tonight." She popped a fruit snack into her mouth.
Doc looked over at her, a smirk crossing his face. "What'd you do to provoke him?"
Chewing, she watched some guy on the TV demonstrate some kitchen appliance. "Nothing that I'm aware of."
Doc chuckled. "I'm sure your bright, shining presence alone was enough to set him off, Barbie." Sarcasm dripped from his words.
She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean, Doc. I know when I've fucked up. I know when he's pissed at something I did. But this came out of nowhere. Like one second, everything's fine. The next second, bam, he's changed."
"I'm not certain how I gave you the impression that I give a fuck, but I don't." Another mouthful of cereal. He was more surly than usual.
A sniff of the air revealed the cause. "Bailey's in your cereal, eh, Doc?" She snorted, standing up. "Stay classy there, you alcoholic son of a bitch."
She turned on her heel and headed back to the stairs, vaguely registering Doc's retort of "Yeah, why don't you go back upstairs and spread your legs for the boss, useless whore."
"Fucker," she muttered under her breath as she climbed the stairs. Harley didn't really care what he thought about her. Besides crime and Mr. J, they had little in common. There was never any real rivalry or hatred between them, despite their cruel words to one another. They weren't friends, either. They simply tolerated each other like any family would. And in a way, it was quite comfortable. She didn't have to pretend around him. She could bare her scars and he would say nothing. He never stared at her with lust and quite frankly, the idea of boning Doc revolted her. The line of thought gave her an idea, though. If she ever needed a sexual de-motivator, such as baseball, she could just think of Doc. Reaching the bedroom, she found herself giggling quietly at the idea. It would piss him off something fierce, if he ever found out. She'd make sure to save that gem for later.
Turning on the TV, she made herself comfortable in the bed, pillows stacked up behind her, her robe pooled onto the floor. GNN was still covering the Dent Act and the possibility of a Harvey Dent Day. Pure speculation on the likeliness of the holiday being approved as the mayor's office had yet to release an official statement. But the Dent Act had been filtering through the news channels for some time, and Harley was quite aware of its potential impact on the city. Its focus was on stamping out organized crime in the name of its namesake champion. Parole denied to those associated with the mafia, stricter penalties for the same, and so on. There would be no Arkham for those criminals, no matter how crazy they acted. And it was unlikely they had another Jonathan Crane waiting to create bogus psychological assessments to send them there.
As she thought about the consequences of the Dent Act, an idea began to form in her head. But it was quickly dimmed by the slamming of the front door. The dull ache that had been throbbing, in a most pleasant way, around her throat was singing for her Mr. J. At the same time, she wasn't sure which side of Mr. J would be walking through the bedroom door. Would it be her salvation or her murderer? In a way, they were one and the same, bleeding over into each other. Bleeding onto her. She should have grabbed a weapon, just in case, but she reminded herself that he didn't kill her earlier. He'd stopped himself. She was safe.
Voices chittered downstairs before the boots climbed the stairs, ever so closer. When his clean face appeared in the doorway, Mr. J broke into a grin upon seeing her, a jovial merriment twinkling in his eyes. He was wearing the remnants of his costume from earlier. No blood, no ash. Same marks as earlier. Mundane travels, this time. "Ah, good. You're awake."
"No thanks to you," she said, rubbing her neck gently to emphasize that she knew what he'd tried. Their eyes met and his smile dropped.
"All thanks to me, Harley." He said, stepping into the bathroom. He didn't bother closing the door as he lifted the toilet seat and unzipped to do his business. "I left you alive. Don't get all melodramatic."
Harley knew better than to ask why he did it. She'd never get a straight answer and deep down, she didn't think she really wanted to know. Instead, she pursued another avenue that was more important. "What stopped you?"
The sound of water on water trickled for another few seconds before he tucked himself away and flushed. "You did."
She watched as he unbuttoned and stripped off his shirt, tossing it on the floor as he approached the bed. Her mind craved the ritual but her heart wouldn't be in it. It was strange. Despite his actions, she didn't feel betrayed. Actually, she had tried to kill him first so in a way, it evened the score. But the ritual would feel empty in the dark of the bedroom. The gratitude had faded for the evening. Perhaps tomorrow. She watched as the slacks followed suit and wearing just his boxers, Mr. J climbed into the bed.
"And how, in my unconscious state, did I manage to do that?" Harley asked, turning on her side to face him.
He settled into his usual position, his back against the mattress, eyes staring up at the ceiling. "As the walls closed in, what was your last thought?"
She didn't answer right away. He gave her the key, a rarity. She'd have to remember it for the future, should he lose control again. Something he saw in her eyes before she passed out had stopped his actions. Wilted away the inner blood lust. Harley thought about those last moments, the things that circled her mind before the black. It didn't take long to suss out what he was looking for. She pondered telling him the truth or at least a partial truth. But would that signal the end? She could lie, but he would know and that never ended well. So, she settled for something she didn't do often.
With a smile, she traced a nail down his bare chest. "A girl's got to have some secrets, Mr. J," Harley said, coyly, before turning away from him to close her eyes.
She could feel his anger at her elusive reply. Yet, he wouldn't push, not yet. It was all part of the dance. And Mr. J was ever so patient. He had said earlier that she went back to the beginning. And in the beginning of their love story, there was the mystery. She speculated that he missed all the questions, all the enigmas that surrounded her. Harley had become an open book to him but she was still able to tear out a page and slip it into her bra. Eventually, Mr. J would worm his way back under her skin to learn that secret. As he always did and always would do.
But for now, she couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at having the upper hand, even if it would only be for a short time.
A/N: As I said, updates for this would be slower than my usual speed and this one took some time. I must have edited the last half ten times before deciding on an ending that I was happy with. Those who know me understand that I don't like to release material that I think is not my best. I'd rather wait a few extra weeks and perfect it, rather than put out something that isn't to my liking.
That being said, I hope you all enjoy. I had a request after the first chapter was released to write a timeline for the Exquisite Agony series as it can be confusing at times. If you're interested, send me a PM and I'll send it over to you.
Questions, comments, feedback? Leave a review! Cheers!