Joker jammed his foot on the gas pedal as soon as the truck could clear the door. He clutched the wheel desperately digging his fingers into the leather. They needed to go faster. They were going to get caught at this rate. He heard a distant siren. They needed to relocate. Joker never stayed in one place for too long. The abandoned factory was too familiar. He needed a change of scenery.
Harley looked over at him cautiously. The anger was evident in everything from the tension in his shoulders to the way his jaw was set in place. She swallowed a lump in her throat, not brave enough to speak a word. He was going to fly into a tantrum before too long. Maybe she could try to calm him down. Was there anything that could calm him down?
He thought quickly. Images flying through his head much faster than words ever could. The old housing projects in the inner city. That would be the place. It had a bed and every thing he needed. Plus, it would be a great location for terrorizing Gotham's lovely municipal government. It had been a long time since they had a laugh. He chuckled to himself but it came out much louder than he meant it to be. He then remembered she was in the truck. He felt his green hair stand up on end.
She saw his muscles tense even further under the purple suit. Unlike many other people in Gotham, Harley didn't let body language go unnoticed. As a psychologist, it was very beneficial, not only to know how a patient was truly feeling, but also to protect yourself from possible outrage. At this moment, she would say Joker had gone past the typical level of anger. A ragged breath escaped her lips as she flexed her hand without thinking. It hurt so much...
He drove too fast down the narrow Gotham streets. They arrived within five minutes to the new hideout. It was a dark, dismal place. His favorite kind. The old government housing projects had turned into slums. They were supposed to eliminate the poor and downtrodden of Gotham but only aided the growth. After the stupid city leaders had seen the problems that came with the projects, they shut it down. Joker gave it a year and made sure the place was deserted before he set up camp. The rusty, barbed wire gates stopped most people. Joker had taken one floor of the apartment building and torn down most of the interior walls. He liked big open spaces. There wasn't much room to hide and he could see everything around him.
Harley waited for the engine to die down before slipping gracefully out of the passenger seat. As soon as she could, she took in a few deep breaths of dirty city air. Breathing properly had been a problem since Ivy set off that horrible alarm. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness and what she saw filled her with a mix of emotions she couldn't quite comprehend. Anyone with half a brain would be able to realize what these old slums had once been. The government had created puppet houses for the impoverished lower class of Gotham. They had never been real houses, made out of false dreams, lead-based paint, and termite-infested wood. They were just mockeries of the rich life. Come to think of it, it was even more despicable to taunt Gotham with such buildings. They were only fake versions, glimpses of the things the rich had. What better way to break the morale of the poor? She shivered, eyes watering, "Why're we here?"
"Because we needed to move. I can't stay in one place for more than a few weeks. You should know that, Harley," he snarled the words. He slammed the truck door so hard the glass wobbled, almost shattering. He walked toward the building. The old door had a cleverly disguised padlock on it. He pulled out a huge rings of keys from his back pocket. Which was the one to this door? He started trying them. One by one he shoved them into the keyhole. His hands shaking with the effort of pretend patience. He was sick of pretending. Pretending to be better than he really was. What is better anyway? To the Joker, good depends on the eye of the beholder.
Her feet pitter-pattered on the group as she walked up behind him. She really should have known that. It was completely obvious. There were cracks in his facade, and she could see right through them. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but not just physically. At this moment, there was something deep inside of him that needed help. She wanted to help, but fear held her back. Oddly, she was reminded of her first day in kindergarten. It was a beautiful new world, but ominous and strange at the same time.
He felt her presence. She was invading his space, his life, his mind. He had thought he already was insane. How could he go any crazier? He whirled around and grabbed her before she could retreat. His fingers snapped around her fragile little wrists like chains. Why was she still here? Why did she stay? Was he still just her patient? Did she feel obligated to treat him...to make him better? He hated that word viciously. Better. Best. Good. He was never better and he could never be well, whole... normal.
He wanted to shake her out of her silly delusion. Delusion of happiness. Idyllic happiness was such a disease.
Harley let out a pathetic whimper as his skin and bone fingers crushed her wounded hand. She looked up at him, eyes wide. Her heart rate had nearly tripled in the last millisecond. How had he moved so quickly? There was an anger in him that she couldn't define. Definitions. They're funny things. They're only words. Words are not all that powerful in the end. Are words even adequate?
He couldn't decide. Joker couldn't decide whether he wished she would go away or stay. It was as if two parts of himself were being pulled in two different directions. He shoved her away. She made him so confused, so angry. He usually was able to make the quick and logical decision. But, there was no logic where she was involved. He didn't have a quick answer. He wanted to rip all his hair out. He turned back toward the door and shoved in another key. Click. The right one.
Thank God she didn't trip. There wasn't anything around to fall on but barbed wire. That wouldn't have made the situation any better. She carefully walked behind him, this time leaving a foot or so between them. The inside of the run down "home" was dark. Her mind created moving shadows, tricking her eyes and sending a spike of fear straight through her body. She held the bag out to Joker, still standing fairly far back, "Um...I got the papyrus, Puddin."
He stopped. His fists clenched. "You what?" he said quietly, his voice sounded dead. The surroundings of the building were grim. He hadn't been here in a long, long time. Hopefully, there weren't rats. Usually, he had some henchmen check up on his places to make sure they were still habitable but probably those that had been loyal to him had moved on to someone else when he was in Arkham. He needed to hire a new gang.
"I g-got the Papyrus..." She repeated, her voice still very quiet. Harley looked over at him through the darkness, trying to discern any signs of emotion, be it anger or happiness. She didn't like not being able to see his face much. It told her so much.
He stepped toward her unable to help himself. "Did you get all of it?" he said louder. He was interested now. How would she have been able to get it? He was with her the whole time. Poison Ivy had obviously distracted her.
"I-I d-don't know..." She grimaced at the stutter in her voice. It was horrible. Harley held out the duffel bag with her good hand, trying to keep herself from flinching away a bit. Hopefully she got most, if not all, of it. Then he would be happy right?
He grabbed the bag from her. Maybe everything wouldn't be so ruined after all. The show could go on, right? He fumbled with the zipper in his haste to pull it open. There should be seven pieces of the papyrus. He started counting. It wouldn't be worth anything if he didn't have all the pieces together. One, two, three, four... Joker's hand searched around the bottom of the bag. There was nothing but the plastic. He felt his anger hit him again. So hot and blinding that he felt choked by it. "It's not all here," he said the words mechanically.
Harley looked at him, horror evident in her shimmering eyes. "I'm so-sorry Puddin'. I meant to get it, but there wasn't time, because Ivy pulled the alarm." She held up her hand, the blood finally drying. "I had to punch the glass to get the papyrus out..."
"I asked you to do one thing, Harley!" he yelled. His arms were shaking with the effort of holding back. "You can't even do one thing right. Why are you such a disappointment?" he asked the question in a serious voice. He pushed her back away from him. Stupid girl. He didn't have any use for someone like her. He should get rid of her.
Harley walked forward a bit, holding her arms out in front of him, "I'm sorry, Puddin'. It's not really my fault though. I tried my hardest." She tried to keep her tone free of fear and her look serious instead of panic-stricken. He wasn't going to bully her! They should have an equal relationship.
Something inside him snapped. "If you had tried your hardest, you would have gotten it all," he growled. He couldn't keep it locked up anymore. His anger was too all-consuming. His nails dug so far into the palm of his hands, he could feel the blood dripping from the cuts.
"I couldn't have! Ivy distracted me..." Her voice had risen to a higher level now. There was an edge of panic there. "At least I managed to get something." She regretted saying that the second it left her mouth.
He hit her. The sound of it gave him a nice feeling. Why fight the impulse? He had never been one to deny what he really wanted. She deserved it. She had failed him. He didn't treat failure lightly. It was usually a death sentence. He felt his fingers tighten around her neck. "At least you got something?" he mocked her pathetic voice. He could have gotten the papyrus all by himself. He would have killed Poison Ivy so she couldn't be a bitch to the rest of mankind forever. He had trusted Harley. He hated how she made him feel. He hated how he didn't feel himself around her. He didn't want to trust anyone. He didn't need to trust anyone. He hit her again. The violence of it made his adrenaline rush.
A shrill little scream escaped her lips despite the fact that she had clenched her jaw as tightly as possible. His hand stung her face, leaving future bruises. The hot tears boiled down her cheeks. She wanted to scream and never stop. Didn't he love her? Yes, he had to. Then why was he hitting her? Was there any logic? Then again, was there logic in anything after all?