Chapter Six: One Moment

Thomas did not come to see her later that night. Nor the next day. An I.V. bag was left inside the door every twelve hours, the assumption clear for her to administer her own therapy. Her experience had become boring, restless. And her phone call to Mr. J didn't afford her a chance to ask if she could come home. But Harley's strength was returning, enough to put aside the bed pan and use the bathroom instead. The mirror showed her weakness. Mr. J was right. Useless. Dark circles under her eyes, hair a mess. Her clothes hung a little looser, the signs of her I.V. diet. Purple bruises lined her neck from Thomas' hands, the center of her throat aching anytime she swallowed her water. And she smelled of infection, a sick body in her sick bed.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, welcoming the sunlight that accompanied the afternoon of her fourth day in captivity, she peeled back the bandages of her wound, grimacing at the oozing puss that formed around the hole in her body. She was not disgusted by the sight, merely worried that it would set back her recovery time. Apparently Thomas did not put antibiotics into the I.V. solution. She would need to rectify that problem immediately if she wanted to return to the arms of her lover any time soon.

Slowly, relishing the aches, the pains, that coursed through her body, Harley walked out of the bedroom for the first time, dragging the I.V. cart behind her. A grand hallway, wood paneling floor to ceiling, greeted her. The scent of old smoke and memory drifted into her nostrils, a rich history. Paintings hung on the wall, beautiful yet simple. Stiffness from her underused muscles was to be expected as she glided down the hallway, trying to remember her way around a mansion that she had only visited a couple of times. The view from her window had shown her to be on the top floor and Thomas' bedroom had to be on the same floor, logically. She was determined to find it.

"Miss, can I help you?"

She turned, surprised. Off her game, not hearing the stealthy approach of the butler. "Good afternoon Geoffrey."

"Is there something you need, miss?" His voice conveyed the perfection of fortitude, British accent shining through, yet he held a sadness in his eyes, reminiscent of an orphan, right down to the small spot of dirt under his eye. She had never thought of Geoffrey as being vulnerable before.

"Yes, actually." Harley leaned against the wall. "My wound is infected. I need some antibiotics. I was just going to find Thomas to ask him for some."

"I'll take care of it, miss. If you take this right, you'll find yourself in the lounge. Why don't you stay there and rest while I find Master Thomas?"

Harley nodded her thanks and followed his directions to find the large, open lounge, same wood paneling. Display cases lined the walls, treasures that only the Elliot family could appreciate. Large leather couches, loveseats, chairs in the center of the room, most of them facing a fireplace. Brown, bland, but still warm. This was a place of family gathering, to take tea or discuss world events. Harley hated it, instantly, imagining the cool distance between Thomas and his family. Above the fireplace, set on top a mantel was a large family portrait from Thomas' youth. His mother and father touching each one of his shoulders in a proper pose. Aristocratic. The child in the middle seemed unhappy, but perhaps her own skewed view put a different perspective on it.

She sat down on one of the couches, curling her legs under her sideways, the cart moving with her motions. The eyes of the parents in the painting seemed to follow her, judging, especially the mother. Nothing like her own, even though Harley never spoke to her anymore. Mostly because of the whole being a criminal thing, but also because her mother was too accepting. Too loving. Most children thrived on it. Harley resisted it at every turn, not wanting that closeness with family that others craved. It really made no sense to anyone, least of all to herself.

"Harleen," Thomas said from behind her.

She didn't turn, waiting for him to come into her line of sight, still watching the creepy, shaded eyes of his parents. "Thomas."

"Geoffrey says you need some antibiotics?"

"Yes."

He rounded the couch, sitting down on her right side. "Let me look."

She could smell the alcohol on his breath. Drowning his memories in fine whiskey as most men would when confronted with uncomfortable truths. Harley moved her clothing aside, allowing him to study the wound under the gauze. Thomas nodded, confirming what she told him and handed her a small bottle of unlabeled pills. "There are antibiotics in the bag but they obviously aren't strong enough. Take two pills a day, the full course."

Shifting her clothing back into place, she nodded. "Thank you."

As in on cue, Geoffrey came into the lounge with a tray of food, the smell intoxicating. He placed a glass of water on the side table next to her place on the couch, along with a bowl of soup. On the coffee table near Thomas, the rest of the tray was set down, more whiskey and some hearty stew. The drinker's meal. She looked at the soup next to her, raising her eyebrow in question.

"I'm moving you off the I.V. diet. Soft foods and liquids only for the next few days." Thomas took up his glass of whiskey. He wasn't drunk, not really, just the slightest sign of a buzz. "Your intestines are still healing so don't push it. I'll take the I.V. out when you're finished with lunch."

After taking the pills, Harley picked up the bowl of soup, piping hot, steam rising. Tomato, it seemed. She took a small spoonful and blew on it to help it cool faster. When Geoffrey left, she looked to her friend. "So are we going to talk about this or what?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Why not? Do you think I'm going to judge you?" Harley placed the spoon in her mouth, nearly moaning at the taste of real food. She had been so hungry and so patient. It was a wonder she didn't freak out and storm the kitchen. "Oh god, this is the best thing I've had in my mouth."

Mr. J would have had a witty reply. Thomas, however, did not. "I'll let Geoffrey know you approve of his cooking."

"In any case," she said, scooping up more soup. "I'm not the one to throw stones at what you did. I've done far worse in my time."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Boring," Harley said with a roll of her eyes. "I'd rather have that passion, that rage you showed before."

"I almost killed you." He looked away, ashamed, taking another gulp of his vile drink.

"Yeah, you did, and see how much I care? I don't. That kind of shit is foreplay to me."

His jaw dropped, turning back to look at her. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She couldn't help but smirk. "I'm living, Thomas. Enjoying each little sensation, emotion, touch." Harley swallowed more soup, still feeling the ache around her throat. "That's why I don't care that you choked me. There's something primal in that sort of intimacy, victim and killer. I've seen it time and time again and it never gets old, whether I'm the killer, or I'm the victim."

"That's simply revolting."

"You're a killer, just like me, and yet you have the audacity to throw stones?"

"I don't get a sick pleasure out of it."

Harley laughed. "Everyone gets off on it, in their own way, and I'm not talking about it in sexual way. Sometimes the thrill comes from the power over someone else. Or in your case, perhaps the power of taking control of your own destiny. Sure, you used some poor girl to get it done, but in the end, you wound up with what you wanted."

Mr. J, she knew, would not have approved of this line of conversation. He disdained the rich in their gilded towers of power, looking down at everyone. So many of them hid their dirty little secrets, many of them killers, thieves, extortionists. Hiding from their real selves. Thomas was another, just like the rest, disguising his reality with a pretty bow. She was pushing to find Thomas' button, his trigger, but in the end, it was forcing her to encourage the greed that inspired the deed. Not something Mr. J would like. Greed was pathetic, he'd say. Another mask to conceal the irrefutable truth of life, and the need to destroy. Everyone had it inside and only a rare few could accept it as Harley had.

"You can lie to the public, your friends, your clients, even yourself" she said, "but you can't lie to me. I see through it all. In that one moment of letting go, when you gave into that darkness inside of you, you knew what it was to finally live your life. That spark, that moment is what defines us. Most people shrink away but not you. You're special. Different. You're not like the rest of them."

Thomas sat, drinking, absorbing her words. Harley watched his reactions as she polished off the soup bowl. After a moment, he looked back to her. "You said you've been a victim."

"Who hasn't? It's just another state of being."

"How," he swallowed hard, "does that feel to you?"

She read between the lines. Thomas considered himself a victim of sorts. She smiled. "It depends on who you're a victim to. Sometimes it's willing, sometimes not. When you're willing, it can be satisfying for both parties. When you're not, it's harsh, real, but there is still a connection between you and your victimizer."

"What about the Joker?"

"What about him?"

"Are you his victim?"

Harley had to smile. "You've been listening to the news too much. They all assume that I was this fragile psychiatrist whose mind was warped by his insane conviction and charm. But in truth, I was trapped where I was and he was the only one who could see it. You remember me back then. All control and caution. All hiding something that I wasn't. I can't tell you the whole story, but Mr. J unlocked the part of myself that I had sequestered behind thick walls. I'm happy now."

Thomas put his glass down on the coffee table, leaning his arm against the back of the couch. He was entranced by the conversation. "What part of yourself?"

"This." Harley's hand waved down her body. "It's not about the scars but where they came from. You're not an idiot. You know they're old, from long before I met you. A time when chaos ruled by life and not in a good way."

"And somehow you stopped that chaos."

"Yes."

"Why?"

For a moment, she flashed back to Guy's body hanging from a beam in a dingy basement. His eyes opened, nothing staring back at her. She shuddered. "All actions have consequences, Thomas. We're not always prepared for the disaster we leave in the wake of destruction." She touched her chest, over her heart. "I wasn't, so I locked away the heart of me, leaving a shell of a woman behind."

"I liked that shell," Thomas said. "Compassionate, giving, rational."

"I haven't lost those parts of myself," she responded, trying desperately not to let any anger seep through. "They just don't hold the sway that they once did. Mr. J reopened my eyes to a world without boundaries, without prisons. I don't have to care about anything but the moment. It's true freedom."

"As a slave to his whims? I haven't seen you two interact much but what I have, it's seems like you're nothing but his prisoner."

Harley laughed. "I guess, to an outside eye, it would appear that way. He stops me when I can't stop myself. Unfortunately, my chaos needs some control, and I can't provide that for myself anymore. He does it for me so I don't go too far."

He shook his head. "I've seen and heard about the things you've done. How is that not too far?"

Setting her eyes on his, she lost her smile, thinking of all the things she wish she could do. "Everything that I've done is nothing," she sneered, "compared to what I am capable of. Mr. J prevents that side of me from unleashing my fury upon those who don't deserve it."

Thomas stood up, waving her to move over so he could sit on her left side. Carefully, he placed her left arm on his lap, preparing to removing the needle. "How is that freedom then? Don't you feel just as trapped by your boyfriend as you did by your former life?"

"Sometimes," Harley confessed. "But I need him because you don't want to see what would happen if his voice wasn't in my thoughts constantly." Her voice cracked slightly as he pulled the needle out, slapping a band aid over the tiny mark in her arm.

"I think you could handle it. You're a strong capable woman, Harleen."

The words spurred her to action, letting her emotions and her desires take full control. Ignoring the ache in her muscles, Harley twisted her body to straddle his legs, trapping Thomas between her and the couch. She pressed her arms behind him, against the back of the sofa, pressing her breasts against his chest in a show of feline grace. Startled by her action, Thomas sat still, looking up at her, seeing the lust in her eyes. She smiled down at him, moving her hips in small circles, enjoying the effect of his growing hardness beneath her. Leaning down slightly, she captured his lips, pressing hard. Not kissing, just skin touching skin. Harsh, brutal, assaulting him with her aggressive nature.

Pulling back, she laughed at the shocked expression on his face. "You see, without some form of control, I would devolve into nothing more than a series of impulses and instincts. I love the feel of it, wrapped up in my core, doing whatever I want. I could fuck you right now, make you scream out my name a dozen times, and then slit you," She touched his neck gently with a fingernail, tracing it down the line of Thomas' chest to his stomach, "from throat to navel. And I wouldn't care or mourn you in the least. I'd relish every moment and try to relive it in other victims. So tell me, dear, do you still think I could handle a life without Mr. J?"

Thomas continued to stay as still as her could beneath her. His unspoken terror was an elixir to her senses. "You made your point. Get off me."

She didn't. Instead, she moved her hand down further between them, tickling the edge of his belt line. No, Harley wanted to make another point, dig into his skull further. "As for you, you're in this moment, aren't you? Every second ticking by, you're not thinking about yesterday or tomorrow. You're thinking about right now. The instinctual self taking over, as I can feel." He hand drifted even lower, lightly grazing his involuntary erection, pulling a gasp from him. "Thing is, it's not about your hard-on, or your fear, or anything else. It's about the experience blossoming before you, whatever it may be. Right here, right now, in this one moment, you're truly alive."

She leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Think about when you killed your mother. Each second of the act forever burned into your memory. And ask yourself this. Have you ever felt a moment with such clarity as you did then?"

With sore muscles, she lifted herself off him, snatching the bottle of pills off the side table. With a smile to his stationary form, she turned, enjoying the heavy breaths that faded as her path took her out of the lounge. A little push every day. Thomas would crack. Yet, in the back of her mind, something he said nagged at her, little coils inside her head. A part of her knew he was right. Her claims of freedom were a lie. How could she ever truly be free if she was still trapped by Mr. J?

Several hours later, Harley's attention was captured by the television.

"Breaking news live here at GCN studios. There has been a breakout at Arkham Asylum. Three reported dead, dozens injured, and five inmates escaped, including the terrorist, Jonathan Crane, also known by the alias 'Scarecrow.'" A picture of the reserved psychiatrist flashed over the screen. "The people of Gotham will remember Jonathan Crane for the toxin he spread across half the city, inducing hallucinations, paranoia, and panic. Many lives were lost in this terrorist attack. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Do not approach him. Call the police if you have any information as to his whereabouts. The tip hotline number is below."

More pictures of escaped patients scrolled through the screen as the news reporter recounted their crimes. No one of note, except Crane. Harley had to smile. Her wish might finally come true.

An on-the-scene reporter came on screen. Arkham Asylum standing proud behind the coiffed woman, ablaze with police and ambulance lights. "We do not have any information as to the names of the deceased at this time. However, an inside source at Arkham told GCN that the Joker was seen on the premises and may have been responsible for the breakout. The same source also told us that Jonathan Crane was seen cutting the ears off several employees of the asylum, a gruesome act that I'm told is not normal for him."

Harley immediately muted the TV, picking up her phone to call Mr. J. Voicemail. A rarity. Too busy with the breakout? She shook her head. No, his plans wouldn't include something so small, unless he changed them without telling her. But why would he do that? He always wanted her assistance with anything big and he didn't know Arkham as well as she did. But the reports wouldn't lie. He'd been acting strange lately. First, the shooting at McDonalds, now this. Worry knotted her stomach.

After the beep, she spoke. "Hey. I'm watching GCN and it says you broke Crane out of Arkham. What the fuck? Call me."

The last bit of the report gnawed at her. Made her remember her reawakening. The blood, the muffled screams and frightened eyes. The ear in her hand, Crane's eyes wide with agony, tears spilling down his freckled cheeks. The sawing motion as skin and cartilage split and crimson poured onto her hands. Oh, Crane was sending her a message, wasn't he? Practically screaming that he remembered the hurt she inflicted on him. Vengeance for wrongs committed.

Crane was going to come after Harley while she was at her weakest. She discovered the thought created a tingle of excitement inside of her. Maybe this time, it would be a fair fight.

A/N: Questions, comments, feedback? Please review.