Stuck On You

I stack my problems up in a row and quickly topple them away, the Domino affect, as I addictively stride to my escape. I need this session more than Mr. J does. I choke a little less the closer I get. My stressful sucking down of the air converts to a giddy gasp. My pale and overwhelmed features, tired from the paranoia, hastily fill with rosy tint. Perhaps my Puddin' will want to practice the actions from our last visit. . .

Vivid images of Clown-on-Quinn burst through my cranium creatively. Dark, sidistic funhouse fantasies that seem more sexy than disturbing the more I think about them. My saliva growths thick and frothy just as my hand touches the handle of our session room. It's so cooling on my hand that burns up quickly with the rest of my waiting body. These waiting dark urges that need to be fulfilled.

The door swings free, much lighter than any other time I've approached our getaway. "Mistah J, I-" My sentence is cut short. The rest of the words dance on my tongue before I stealthily catch them.

"Mr. J?" Zack asks. He sits alone. The room suddenly seems so small and my vision is foggy. This is a hallucination. Yeah- one of Scarecrow's tricks. . . The white room grows an aging grey and I feel as if I'm dangling my feet above the ground on a swing set. "Cute nickname."

It's not a dream.

Quick, Harley. Think fast. "The Joker is his only alias. . . I improvised."

The undercover guard smiles a knowing grin before gesturing to a chair across from him. The one Mr. J sits in. "Please." I follow as instructed and sit in the chair so perfectly parallel from his own, I have to shift a bit to feel comfortable looking at him. Puddin's shackles are uncomfortable underneath my own unrestrained arms to I fold them in my lap. Zack immediately takes notice in this. He casually laughs as if we were just getting coffee together. As if I wasn't being targeted. "Oh, there won't be much use for those today." The playful jokes sharply cut and I see the true Zack in his eyes. It's intimidating and dark in there, I try to look away. He can spot my guilt, I know it. "Right?"

I swallow an oversized knot in my throat. It doesn't budge. "Right," I squeak. I cough enough to speak to the security guard. "What's goin' on?"

His grin spreads and I know I shouldn't have opened my mouth. "I'm afraid your Mr. J will be delayed until further notice. I just need to ask you a few questions."

"'Bout what?" I can tell I asked too quickly, nearly cutting him off. He writes a little bit down on a piece of paper before answering me.

"This." Masculine fingers pry out a stack of folded-over, printed papers and slide them my way. It's the most recent media on the prison break. "What do you know about the bust?" It sounded more like a statement than a question.

"Nothing-"

"Bullshit." Zack uncrossed his arms and leans forward, hands on the table. "I know you're connected to this, Quinn. I don't know how yet, but when I do- it's going to stick to you like fucking glue. Now I'm going to ask again. What the hell do you know about this."

"I'm just Red's- I mean Pam's, psychiatrist. And only for a few days!" I insist. I milk the innocent, over-the-top blues. "We barely made any progress!"

"You think I'm a fucking idiot- you made progress with the Joker. But you couldn't get through to Isely?"

"Hey," I say, introducing my over done cleavage to the table. "Wasn't as hard as you think."

"I think we all know the Joker isn't that easy, he's after more than that and you know it." His lips push forward in frustration, almost touching his nose. "Since when has the Joker showed any sort of affection let alone sexual attraction to anyone or anything. He was trying to manipulate you."

His words crawl within my most darkest being, rattling a cage I didn't know I had. I ball my fists under the table, where he can't see. I try and suppress my rage to protect me and Mr. J's secret. "No he's not. You just can't handle that you might be wrong about him."

Zack's eyes light with realization and almost sort of chuckles with awe. His mouth hangs open and half curls in a smile. "And it's working. My God. . ." He eases back in his chair, folding his arms. "I mean you're pissed and everything!"

"No," I lie.

He chuckles. "Really? Cause your jaw is quite tight," he says, pointing at my clench. "Wow. . . You actually think he cares about you. That's amazing."

"Shut up!" I scream at him. His eyes widen as well as his grin with surprise. I quickly cover up as best I can at this point. "No I don't."

Zack shakes in his chair. This was just a big joke to him. "Look. Just fuckin tell me what you did. You're going to get caught eventually," he states. "Just get it over with."

"I didn't do anything." "Really? You didn't?" His face grows grim. He stands from his chair and hustles to my side. He rips free a page from within the newspaper. A familiar face stares emotionless from the paper. "That why you had to get rid of a pesky security guard?"

"Dan's. . . Missing?" I ask, genuinely bewildered, reading the bold print above his face.

"You kill him? Hand him over to the Joker's men maybe?" He leans in close to my face. I hold my breath, afraid to even move. "Where is he?"

Honestly if I knew, I was obligated to tell him. But I had no idea. "I-" I look into his eyes, so hopefully he will see I am telling the truth. "I got no idea, I swear!"

The guard squints suspiciously through me. "Alright. . ." He says. He trots back over to his chair and plops down, frustrated. "This asylum is more fucked up than I thought." He sits in silence, staring at the end of the table. His clocks and gears grinding, searching so hard. I kinda feel bad for the guy. Finally his eyes meet mine once more. "You might think you're off the hook for now," he warns. "But I know exactly what tapes are missing, Quinn. And believe me- I'm going to find out why."

He leaps from his chair and makes his way towards the door. His blaming eye not once leaving me, until finally he disappears behind the loud buzz of the door.

"I know. . ." I whisper.

The Rat

I wonder what Mr. J would do in a situation like my own. He certainly wouldn't panic. . . If anything he would accept it and intentionally make it worse. Laughing all the way.

Hmmm. . . "Or Jack White?" I say aloud to no one but myself. The tv glows but remains mute as I sit in the corner of my couch, hands clutching feet. My knees dig through my chin but I don't really notice much. Why am I always caught up in this whole Hurry-Up-And-Wait game?

A pad of paper and and pen sit idly by on the coffee table. Housing the notes of my failure. Marking down how much I've done- how much they know. How much longer I have. What I might do about it. That section seems to be blank so far.

Releasing the pressure from my chin, I unfold and retrieve the organized events. I slip silently into a "Puddin' state of mind" and begin to doodle the perfect dream. I thoughtlessly twirl on pigtail as I sketch.

It isn't until I finish up that I realize I'm sporting a Joker-esk grin. I look at Harley Quinn on the page and her smile feels identical to the one I model now. Both of her hands clutch an arm of her favorite clown, a leg dramatically raised behind her. She is painted with a black and red Harlequin latex suit, decorated with clusters of black and red diamonds. An adorable matching jester hat to top it off. "Hmmm," I wonder aloud. I blacken the area around her eyes, with a pen, creating a domino mask.

It was almost perfect. I just need one more detail.

Satisfaction uprises from the pit of my stomach. The gun Mr. J holds is almost perfectly aligned with the dot I draw in the Bat's forehead. Flawless.

I leave the fantasy on my coffee table before lounging about on my couch for the night. My plan is to engorge snack after snack and lose myself into a good show. I had Dexter in mind but sadly, it never goes that way.

Instead I find myself trapped in a maze of thought and anxiety as the TV mumble the weather report. That costume. A monumental sea of red and black fabric. Mr. J's purple sleeved arm within my grasp. And the Bat. Dead.

". . . if she doesn't show her face to me within the hour-" I timely unwind from my mind's shackles.

"Please! No!" Gotham's most loved news anchor cries. His voice echoes around the area he's held captive. The edge of the screen barely gives me clues to where they might be.

The camera zoomes out enough for me to see the perpatrators. Enormous, rich ivory holds Jack Ryder up in binds. The pale Red head and the man with the accent, much larger than I remember him, stand on either side. Pebbles of sweat roll off of Ryder's chin and disappear onto the burly vines. I can see his temple throb over television just from my couch. The vines tighten up over his torso, his professional mask growing red and quickly shading to a purple, close to that of Mr. J's suit. "Please! Let me go! I'm just the reporter, I don't know anything!"

"Shut up!" Bane rasps. His thick tongue lashes along his teeth. His enlarged head, masked and hooked to large yellow tubing, faces me and millions of others once again. "Harley Quinn- you're time is ticking." His hard-lined mouth upturns, showing off an unkept row of teeth. A shot of Ivy's plants curl up the side of the screen before the camera fusses a bit and the program goes blank.

I stare wide-eyed, jaw slacking, at my television screen a moment or several before finally shutting it off. A drum solo sounds off within my chest. My throat slowly clogs. So this is how it all ends. . . In the hands of Bane and Ivy and Jack Ryder, the news guy. Not to mention over TV.

Frantically I tare a page from my notebook. There are only two people who can help me in a crisis like this.

My hand shakes from the manipulative ultimatum. I can't possibly let that poor man die for the things I've gotten myself into. I may be crazy. . . But am I that insane? To let a TV reporter suffer from an undoubtedly slow and agonizing, torturous death?. . .

A voice that's grown so strong lately tells me I would. I would let just one, mediocre man take the fall if it meant saving my sweet clown prince from a timing punishment of solitude and therapy. Because I know that when he escapes for the hundredth time, he'll come find me. And we'll be together.

You can't think about that yet, Harley tells me, our eyes quickly averting from the paper of the dastardly red and black henchwench and to the shaky handwriting. I leave it ontop of the notebook after closing it's contents.

"Jack White- SOS!" I peer around my house suspiciously, wondering if he's watching. Waiting for the moment to retrieve the note after my presence is off and making yet another deal with a demon.

A/N: Hey BMAN fans! Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I'm glad I still have dedicated readers, you guys are the best. The batman fan base is like my family. Anyways- what do you guys think so far? How will it finally end? Who do you think Harley will turn to for help now? The final showdown is happening soon guys, sit tight! I'll try and update sooner. Give me feedback on what you think! Possibly some ideas, tips, or even just theories you have! Much appreciated, thank you for your continued support!