Chapter Three: Planting Seeds
"-not bad. Not bad at all." The familiar sound of Mr. J's rough voice pinged in her ears. "I guess quality is the real mark of the rich."
Slowly, Harley's eyes fluttered open, attempting to focus. She was groggy, feeling the effects of the drugs in her system. It took her a moment to remember why. The gunshot, Mr. J, the hospital, Thomas. With the memory, the pain came crawling back, settling itself inside, her oldest friend. She could barely contain the pleasure that accompanied it, her body wanting so much more. But she could feel the weakness inside. Too tired, too tender to move, or even lift her head.
"Indeed it is, sir," an unknown voice said, British accent. "Is that all, sir?"
A sound escaped her lips against her will and Mr. J's eyes swung towards her for a moment. Next to him stood the stiff figure of another gentlemen, formal suit, long hair tied back. Looked to be in his forties, regal but something subservient about him. Then his appearance clicked in her mind. It had been years but Geoffrey didn't look much older than she remembered. Thomas' butler. Which meant she was inside Thomas' home. The fog was beginning to clear her mind.
"Yeah, go away," Mr. J said to him, clapping the butler genially on his upper arm. Geoffrey winced at the gesture before scuttling off to his duties.
Stuffing some piece of food in his mouth, Mr. J walked over to her. She tried to smile at him. "Hey there, Mr. J."
He said nothing, chewing as he removed a sheet that lay over her body. Harley was completely naked under the sheet and the realization hit her that she didn't even know what day it was. Same night, next day? She could smell the coppery scent of blood, reeking from the bandage that Mr. J was scanning. Without a word, he scooped her up into his arms, eliciting a squeal of surprise from her. And he was walking her through a door. A bathroom. Suddenly, she felt how full her bladder was. Mr. J knew her needs too well.
He sat her down on the toilet and turned the other way as she did her business, staring at the large shower stall. "Should get us one of these."
The bathroom was a real work of art. The walls an antique green color, splashes of gold leaf design decorating the upper half. The shower stall that had Mr. J's attention was massive, enough for five people to fit in comfortably. Clear glass doors and a beautiful stone motif that made her agree with her lover. A jacuzzi hot tub adjoined it, smaller but two people could easily swim in it. Next to the elegant stand alone sink was a large armoire that likely held towels and other bathroom sundries.
When she finished, she attempted to stand up. Her legs were too weak to support herself, though, and she collapsed back down, relishing the pain that coursed through her. Mr. J turned, with an annoyed look. "Jeesh, Harley. I just got you patched up. You want to break your stitches so soon?"
"Sorry, Mr. J," she said, meekly, wrapping her arms around him as he lifted her up again.
"At least have the courtesy to let me break them."
It made her smile. "I'll be more careful."
Harley was better able to appreciate the bedroom the second time around. Muted yellows swept the room, the matching antique feel from the bathroom with gold script lining the tops of the walls. The ceiling was vaulted into a round, giving a circular feel to the room despite it's square shape. Another armoire against the wall with the door, a rich cherry wood. Matching nightstands on either side of the four poster bed. Walk in closet, bookcases, flat screen TV on the wall, the works. Only a princess was worthy of this room. And that, she was not, in any way.
Mr. J laid her back down in the soft bedding, covering her again like a child before touching her face gently. Even when injured before, he never treated her with any kindness. It was strange, out of character. And extremely suspicious. "What's going on?" she asked with narrowed eyes. "You're never this nice."
Mr. J gazed down at her, the intensity returning, melting her insides. "Can't a guy show some sympathy for his girl?" The dubious look on her face made him laugh. "You got me. I'm only here to verify that you aren't going to keel over and die. That would put a damper on my day, to say the least."
"Wait," Harley said, reading between the lines. "You're leaving me here?"
"You're useless to me right now. And I don't have the time to babysit you."
"I'm not useless," she defended. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
He almost snorted. "You're weak. You won't be able to eat for several days and you'll need constant medical attention. You think I'm going to give it to you? Or Doc? No," he said, with a sweep of his arm. "There is far too much to do to have your dead weight around my neck."
Her temper flared. "My dead weight? Oh, that's rich. May I remind you that your ass would be laying in this bed if it wasn't for me. And you'd probably be acting like a fucking child, wanting me to do everything for you."
His own anger flashed, his face suddenly within an inch of hers. Pain exploded through her body as his hand slipped under the covers, assaulting her wound with ferocity. A spasm ran from head to toe, pupils dilating with lust as she stared up at his fury. Her cries of delight and torment pulsated through the air. Harley found she wanted nothing more than to strip him naked so they could share the experience together. She snatched his hair with one hand, pulling Mr. J down into a fierce kiss, biting at his lower lip playfully.
A loud cough shattered her reverie and Mr. J broke away from her, looking over to the door. Thomas Elliot stood there, obviously trying to hide his revulsion. Harley lifted a hand to wave at him, as if he hadn't interrupted her blissful moment. His reaction amused her.
Mr. J looked back to her. "Now, Tommy-boy, here, as a professional, will look after you while you recover. He's ever so concerned for your well-being so try not to antagonize him. And no killing." He wagged a finger in her face. "Remember what we've been working on and be good."
"I will," she said, knowing she had no choice in the matter, laid up, unable to even work her legs properly. Her despair was undeniable.
He planted a kiss on her forehead and leaned down, his hot breath tickling her ear. Two words whispered from his painted lips. Two words that changed her miserable outlook on her situation. Two words that brought a smile to her lips, no longer bothered by his abandonment of her.
Mr. J winked at her before strolling over to the doctor. "You're a smart guy so I won't repeat the consequences should you decide to play hero."
"Harleen will be well cared for," Thomas said.
Mr. J nodded, brushing past him to exit out the door. No glance back to her, no indication of when he would return for his Harley. It wasn't the first time he left her on her own. It wouldn't be the last. But the small differences spoke volumes to her need for him. The air didn't carry his energy. The sheets were clean, no makeup stains or blood. And the only thing that smelled like him was the smeared red on her lips and forehead from his kisses. Her mind tried to linger on the remaining taste in her mouth, greasepaint and cigarettes. Soon, it would fade. It was all wrong. So wrong.
Her eyes met Thomas' as he moved to her side at the bed. "Thank you," she said, remembering Mr. J's parting whisper to her. "I know you don't want to help but I do appreciate it."
"I would have helped regardless of your boyfriend's threats," Thomas said. "May I take a look?" He nodded to her stomach.
"Of course, Dr. Elliot," she said.
He lowered the sheet down her nude form, exposing her upper body. Discreet, professional, he folded it at her bikini line, not that she cared. Normally, the sight of her scarred body would be the last thing anyone saw, but Mr. J gave tacit permission for this examination when he left her in Thomas' care. It was liberating to have someone else share in her secrets, even if he did not know the story behind her hundreds of scars as Mr. J did.
Thomas' trained eye went directly towards the bandaged area on her lower stomach, crimson oozing through the material due to Mr. J's rough treatment. He lifted the bandage carefully, frowning. "You've broken your stitches."
"I'd say blame the gentleman who just left, but it's not like I tried to stop him."
"I doubt you could," Thomas muttered.
"You'd be surprised what I'm capable of in regards to Mr. J."
"Mr. J," he repeated. "A play on the media's name for him?"
Harley merely smiled. She watched GCN frequently, really only because Mr. J had it on all the time and he went into a rage anytime she took the remote. After her revelation as Harley Quinn, reporters and experts alike questioned whether she knew the true identity of the Joker. They could never understand, just as Thomas could not, that it didn't matter who Mr. J was before he became the shining beacon of hope for Gotham. All that mattered was the moment and how it was expressed.
Thomas secured the bandage again before excusing himself to get his supplies. Immediately bored with the lack of stimulation, Harley glanced around. The remote for the TV sat on the nightstand next to the bed. Smiling to herself like a child about to do something naughty, she grabbed it and waited, half expecting to hear Mr. J's voice screaming at her to put it down. The thought passed and she turned on the TV, flipping immediately to GCN. A comfort.
"-destruction of three floors of Gotham Memorial. Police Commissioner Gordon has been unavailable for comment. In other news, there has been an increase in missing persons reports in the last two weeks-"
Boring. Harley rolled her eyes and switched channels, a giddy delight passing through her as there different images flickered on the screen. She finally settled on the Food Network, some competition show on deserts. The time on the info screen indicated she'd been out for around ten hours. Beyond the darkened curtains, the sun waited. Her stomach growled with hunger, but she knew she would be on a diet of I.V fluids for a few days, at least. Instead of dwelling on the situation, she turned her focus to her pain, enjoying the tiny bit of pleasure it gave her.
When he returned, Thomas dragged an I.V. cart behind him, a bag already attached. "Leftover from my mother," he said, no emotion. He never showed any emotion when talking about his late parents. Harley sensed they had a strained relationship.
"Which arm do you prefer?" he asked.
"Left."
He moved the cart to the other side of the bed, taking out the needle. Harley extended her inner arm to him, again revealing the line of scar tissue that went from wrist to elbow. The cool air that followed him into the room sent shivers up her body and she pulled the sheet back up to cover herself, leaving the arm exposed. "Did Mr. J leave me any clothes?"
"In the armoire. His underling brought a bag in."
Underling. An interesting term to refer to Doc. She would have to remember that for the future. "Oh, okay. Great."
Thomas paused for a moment, holding a rubber tightening strip in his hands, looking down at the hash marks that lined her upper arm. The newest had healed months ago. Mr. J insisted she stopped keeping track of her kills, if only because she'd run out of space on her arm. She would never tell him that she still mentally kept a record. For a time when she might need to remember. A time to mourn the lives taken by her hand.
"I'm sorry, I have to ask. How did you get these scars?" Thomas looked her in the eyes.
Harley looked away, saying nothing. Thomas sighed and continued. "I'm worried about you, Harleen."
"My name is Harley."
"Does it matter what I call you?"
"Not really," she said. "I just prefer Harley these days."
He wrapped the tightener around her upper arm, pulling it to assist with vein locations. "Fine, then. Harley it is. Seriously, though, I expected some damage from your, ah, relationship with the Joker, but not this."
Taking the needle from the I.V., he tapped, locating a vein. He uncapped the needle, placing it against her skin. She watched as it plunged into her skin, missing the vein. A gentle laughter sprung from her at his mistake, his face twisting into a frown. He tried again with no luck. She didn't mind the probing stabs. His failure was going to leave a new set of beautiful bruises up her arm.
"This is why nurses do this shit," she said. "When's the last time you did a tap?"
"Been awhile," he confessed.
"Give me the damn thing." She held her hand out. "I'll do it myself."
Thomas looked at her doubtfully before giving her insistent hand the needle. She closed her eyes, seeking the mental clarity that came with knowledge of her own body. An ability that came with so many years of pain, whether through the sweaty victory of gymnastics, or the crushing blows of her lover. The blood that rushed through her veins became visible in her mind, every inch, every beat of her heart. Everything inside her became clear. There it was, the perfect vein. With her eyes still shut, she pushed the needle in, feeling the tiny prick of pain and a sense of completion.
Harley opened her eyes to see Thomas gaping at her. "That was amazing. How did you do that?"
"Everyone has a gift," she said.
"I suppose so," he said, taping down the needle, releasing the tightener from her upper arm. She didn't watch as he finished the setup, instead focusing on the television, wishing she had one of the pretty cupcakes on the screen. His hands moved to the sheet again, pulling it down. "I have to redo your stitches."
"Sure you don't want me to do them?" She asked, winking. If there was one thing a surgeon could do better than anyone, it was stitches.
He gave her a sardonic smile before pulling a suture kit from his pocket. "Do you remember the time Anderson did his first stitching on a live subject?"
She laughed. "Wow. I'd almost forgotten. He was shaking so badly."
"Someone should have told him to unlock his knees."
"Yeah, passing out your first time is not a good sign for a doctor."
He laughed with her. "And the poor woman he was working on. I thought she was going to scream when he fainted."
This kinship she remembered. Her and Thomas. How many nights had they spend together in a lab, or running rounds at the hospital? They were always on the same shift, guiding and helping each other. He had more skill but she had better bedside manner. They had been a fantastic team for that year, and even before then in medical school. Late nights studying, coffee and conversation. At the time, he knew her better than anyone else, as much as she would allow. But the days of yore could never be recaptured.
Another needle in his grasp. She waved her hand. "I don't want an anesthetic."
"Are you sure?"
"I like the pain."
Thomas quirked an eyebrow at that but didn't comment. After prepping the site and the suture, he leaned down, removing the bloody bandage from her lower stomach. "I saw the video of you torturing Barbara Gordon. I saw the damage, up close, but seeing the video was different."
The suture needle pierced through her skin, a clean pain, sharp. "Your point?"
"I couldn't believe it was really you," he said, the thread following the needle a short distance. "Not the woman I knew. What did the Joker do to you to make you so..." He trailed off, looking for the right word.
"Fun?" Harley supplied the perfect word, laughing at the look of disgust on his face.
"You used to be so compassionate, always wanting to help."
The needle dug in a little harder, maybe his form of punishment. A tingle surged between her legs, but she did her best to ignore it, focusing on the conversation. "What do you want me to say, Thomas? People change. Mr. J may have been the catalyst but this fire burned in me long before him. You think because we spent some time together that you know everything about me?"
"I wouldn't presume," Thomas said. Another strike of the needle. The tugging of the thread.
"There are two types of people in this world," Harley continued. "Those who exist and those who live. Most people just exist, letting the world move around them. They are swept up by the tide, like tiny particles of sand. Their lives mean nothing. They don't contribute anything of lasting value. They are boring, dull."
She bit her lip to keep from moaning after another swipe of the needle. "And then there are those who live. They understand that life is short and not in the cliché way that assholes in Starbucks write about. No, they know, deep inside, that they have to do something, anything to stir up a change. Whether it be the next great piece of literature or shooting the commissioner's wife for all to see."
"That's completed demented."
"Is it really? Think about it. The most well-known names in history have always broken the barrier, looked to make a change, for good or evil, even if they would never see it in their lifetime. They strive to effect those who merely exist, stir them to actually live, even if it's on opposite sides. They have a vision."
"So it's about making history," he said.
"God, no. You're not listening. Legacy means nothing. Mr. J and I could die tomorrow, easily forgotten in a few years, but the fires he stoked while here will burn on. The ideas continue. And even if the idea should die, it won't matter, because we lived, not beholden to anyone's rules but our own. We danced and we played our games for the time we were on this planet. I won't be satisfied just letting the world turn around me. And even it's in a small way, I want to be the one turning the world."
Thomas finished his stitching. "The Joker really did a number on you."
She shrugged. "At least I'm living. Can you say the same?"
He didn't answer. He didn't have an answer for that question. No one ever could. Thomas finished his job and left the room without another word, leaving her alone with a needle in her arm and her thoughts. Harley chuckled to herself. She wasn't even sure she believed whatever it was she just said. But it sounded good. Also a little crazy. But that didn't matter.
It was just the start, the small tendril building while she had unlimited access to her old friend. He would think about what she said, dissect it in a scientific way. Dismiss it, but still, it would be there in the back of his mind. Did Thomas believe he existed? Or did he believe he lived? An infection that would break him slowly even as he fought it. Because deep down, everyone wants to be different than the rest of the sheep in the world.
Flipping off the TV, she closed her eyes, acutely aware of Mr. J's absence, and yet feeling his presence in the room. His two words. The two words that gave her purpose, alleviating the boredom that would have otherwise settled in by now. And instead, Harley began to plan. She felt his whisper again in her ear, the instructions that she would obey with the tenacity of a bulldog. Two words.
"Corrupt him."