She doesn't know what she will do without him.
Every day is both a blessing and a curse - one day more than she ever expects, but one day where she has to watch him deteriorate a little bit more. Where she has to help him do one more thing than she did yesterday. And it's not that she minds helping him - God knows that she would do everything for him if he asked. No, what breaks her heart is seeing her proud, fiercely independent Joker stumble over the most simple of tasks. What absolutely destroys her is hearing him ask for help.
He never comes out and says it directly. But a coded plea is still a plea, and when the Joker says "Damn it, Harley, you didn't tie the laces on my spats properly this morning!", Harley hears "I can't retie my own shoelaces". When he rolls his eyes and tells her "I need you to go get the cure from the Iceman's lab", she knows it's because he does not have the strength to go himself.
In the quiet moments where they are alone - no barking henchmen or visits from certain flying rodents - and the Joker isn't plotting or making phone calls to said rodents, they sit together in relative silence. He rests his head in her lap while she hums him little nonsense songs, because she cannot for the life of her think of anything to say. Everything sounds like a lie or a platitude, and her Joker has very little patience for either.
She plays with his hair and pretends not to notice that it has begun to fall out in little clumps, and he studies her face like he's trying to remember it. There is no longer any whiteness to his eyes; it's been replaced with a bleary redness. No more sharp glances: everything is tempered by the fact that those once-beautiful and piercing green eyes no longer seem to focus.
He is dying. If Harley were in charge, this fact would never be mentioned; they would play house until the bitter end, and perhaps it would be a cruel and temporary comfort, but it would be a comfort.
That is not the Joker's way, however. He is dying, and he is determined to laugh his way to the gallows. If Harley had a nickel for every joke he's made in the past few weeks that ended with a punchline about his imminent demise, she'd be able to bioengineer the damn curse herself. As it is, she gains nothing - but the punchlines do feel like actual punches. Each is a devastating blow to the naive worldview of a younger Harley, one that said that she and the Joker would be together forever.
Harley could just kill her younger self for thinking anything so naive. So childish. But mostly, so deeply and incredibly stupid. If she's learned anything from her years with the Joker, it's that there's no such thing as forever, and that plans for the future are a foolish exercise in Gotham, especially when they concern someone like her Mistah J.
He dozes in her lap and she runs her fingers, very delicately, across his face. She's afraid to wake him, but she is all too aware that she is running out of time to touch him.
"What are you doing, Pooh?" His eyes do not open. His lips barely move. If it wasn't so obviously his voice, Harley would find herself wondering if he'd even spoken at all.
She stammers, wondering how to describe actions she barely understands herself. "I, uh… I jus' wanted t' touch ya, Puddin'!" It is a weak explanation, but it's close to the truth, and it will have to do.
It is not enough to do for the Joker. "You just. Wanted. To touch me." he repeats flatly, the last word trailing off into a ghoulish giggle. "Don't lie to me, Harley-girl, it would be insulting even if you were any good at it." His gloved hand comes up to catch her wrist, but his grip lacks violence. It's as if he's doing it to prove that she really is there. "You're mourning me and I'm not even dead yet. Have the courtesy to wait until I croak before you start blubbering on me."
A sniffle escapes Harley before she can stop it. Tears prick treacherously at her eyes, and at this noise, Joker finally opens his own. "And here come the waterworks," he grumbles, before guiding her hand gently back to rest upon his cheek. "Go on, then. Commit me to muscle memory while you still can."
Her fingers twitch upon his face; she bites her lip to steady herself. Alright. Touch him. Tell him with your hands what you can't with your words. Slowly, she cups his cheek as her other hand comes up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. "How is it yer still so handsome?" she whispers, eyes wet but not leaking. She leans in to brush her lips gently against his own, and he bites. Not hard - a tease, like he would've in the old days.
"When you start out with devilishly good looks, you have more to lose than anyone else does. I'm on death's door and I'm still the most attractive supervillain in Gotham - though I can't say much for my competition, yeesh. The runner-up is Nygma, and he looks like he lives at the Apple Store."
A burst of giggles from Harley. "Oh, Puddin'," she says, and a tear slips from her lashes. Softer now: "...Oh, Puddin'."
She's not ready to lose him, and yet she finds herself preparing in whatever way she can.
She's not ready to lose him, and soon she will have to be.