Chapter Fifteen

I didn't want to hurt you, but you're pretty when you cry.
-VAST, Pretty When You Cry

Before I could question what he meant by that, he grabbed a handful of my hair and slammed my head into the side of the van. My head swam and my vision went black for a second or two, but I didn't lose consciousness—after those first initial moments, every sense rushed back to me in a dizzying wave. He held me there, pressed into the wall, as he crouched over me, so close I could smell him—sweat, a chemical smell, underscored by smoke.

"Now," he said softly, his breath hot in my ear as his voice dropped into an eerie growl, "what are you really doing here?"

I was dazed, but I managed to blink some of it away, pressing my hands against the wall of the van in an effort to get out of the strained, uncomfortable position. I was crouched over anyway because of the low roof, but that added to having my face pushed hard into a metal wall? Not comfortable. "Augh," I snarled. "I told you."

With another sudden movement, he grabbed me by both arms and flung me into the other side of the van, following me closely to plant one hand on either side of my head, ducking down and getting right in my face. "Ohhh, I see," he breathed. "So ya just left your promising career to come chasing after little old me, is that it?"

"Yes," I snapped angrily. What was so hard to understand?

He tsked at me. "C'mon, Harley," he rasped. "We've discussed this. You're a schemer. How would it benefit you… to be here with me?"

"If you didn't believe I would listen, then what was the point of lecturing me during all those sessions?" I snarled. "You must have known you would have made an impact. Or do you have so little faith in your own powers of persuasion?"

His hands closed in, fingers wrapping around my throat and tightening. I flailed out in self-defense, feeling both of my fists connect hard with the solid flesh of his torso, but he just whooped and laughed in my face and tightened his grip further, pinching and bruising my throat.

He might just have decided to rid himself of the trouble and kill me right there, but just after I started panicking, the van took a sharp turn that sent us tumbling to the floor. He landed heavily on my arm, and as I cried out in pain he flipped over, covering my body with his, effectively pinning me down. He was heavier than I thought he would be.

"Persuade me," he taunted, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could look at my face. "Make me believe you."

I got the wild impulse to just throw caution away, to lean up and satisfy my curiosity about whether that mouth of his was really as soft as it looked once and for all. Something held me back, though—something told me that it wasn't the right move to make, not yet. He'd probably see it as just a woman using whatever tools she had at her disposal to make sure she got her way.

Trying to make out with the guy wasn't going to convince him that I was genuine.

I relaxed beneath him, pouring all of my energy into the heat of my glare. "Okay. How about this: even if I was coming to you with the intention of… I don't know, betraying you, turning you into the police or luring you back to Arkham—"

"Well, you said it, not me," he interjected sarcastically. I hoped that my glare conveyed the sentiment shut up! as strongly as I hoped it did.

"—do you really think it'd set you back? I mean, at all? When you inevitably found out, you'd kill me, and I'm not interested in dying right now. Who's the more dangerous force in this equation—you, or Arkham's crack team of psychotherapists? Assuming I'm reasonably intelligent, who do you think I'm going to side with?"

He tucked his hands under his chin, looking impassively down at me. Had the expression on his face been coy, the move would have been very reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe, which is not an icon I'd ever imagined myself comparing him to. The thought made me want to giggle. Now is not the time.

"Mmm?" he questioned, signaling for me to go on. He hadn't tried to strangle me again. That was encouraging.

"So, I wasn't just getting to know you during those sessions—you were getting to know me as well. What'd you come away with? Am I really stupid enough to try and fight against you? And can you please get off of me? It's getting very hard to breathe!"

Actually, it was getting very hard to think, since his long, lean body was stretched out over mine and his knee was propped absently between my legs and it was stirring up all sorts of incredibly distracting ideas, but I didn't think now was the right time to mention that.

Harley, it's official. You're batshit insane—fantasizing about the guy who just tried to kill you. You shouldn't be turned on by that. Not healthy. I attributed it to the concussion I believe I'd received when he bashed my head into the side of the van.

His mouth curled up nastily on one side and he didn't budge. "What about that good world of yours?" he challenged me. "Are ya just giving up on it?"

I lifted my head close to his, getting in his face as much as I was able. "That world never existed," I spat. "You showed me that. The only way it can exist is if the world we inhabit now is torn apart, and you can do that."

He leaned in even more, nudging my nose with his almost absent-mindedly. "And the people?" he hissed. The delicate touch, at odds with the violent man himself, was distracting. At the same time, it kept me perfectly focused on my motives.

I looked into his left eye, and then his right, and said, "Fuck the people. I'm here for you."

He drew back, either pensive or surprised, and emboldened, I continued, dropping my head back to the floor and staring at the ceiling as I recited, "That's my motive, all right? I just met you; I'm not willing to give you up yet. I think you can shake things up, and to be honest, I'm tired of struggling to find meaning in life." I lifted my head again and looked him in the eye. "You promised me fun; I'm here to take you up on that."

I have no idea if this explanation satisfied him or not, but it must have struck some chord, because he got off of me, going over to the bench set in the opposite side of the van. I rolled over, got to my feet, and immediately wished I hadn't as a wave of dizziness hit me. I stumbled over to the bench and pulled myself onto it next to him, fighting nausea. I must have hit my head harder than I thought.

I looked over to see that he'd rummaged in his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He thumbed back the top, fit his lips around one, and drew it out, bringing his other hand up simultaneously to light it. He inhaled, and when he noticed me staring, took the cigarette from his mouth and held it out to me, offering.

I shook my head. "I don't smoke." He shrugged.

"Your loss," he said, returning the filter to his mouth.

"I didn't know you did, either," I ventured.

He gave me an exasperated look, and I half expected him to say, really, Harley? Instead, he gestured to himself, talking around the cigarette as though it wasn't even there. "Life expectancy for a guy like me is kinda low. Taking measures for the future—" he winked at me—"doesn't really make that much sense, does it?"

"No, I… I guess not." My mouth started watering, and I leaned forward and buried my head in my hands. Don't be sick. Don't throw up all over the floor of the car. Oh, Harley, please don't do this to yourself.

"Something wrong?" the Joker idly, just making conversation, not genuinely concerned.

"I… think I'm gonna be sick," I choked, trying to hold it back.

He sighed, and from the sound of that sigh would have you believe that he'd never dealt with such annoyance in his life. "Just… watch out for the shoes, wouldjya?" he snapped.

Oh, I'm sorry, I thought viciously. I just had my head slammed into the side of a van by a psychotic maniac who I've just decided to follow pretty much to the death. I'm sorry if I'm not feeling too hot.

It was my sanity, waving goodbye.

I focused hard on keeping my stomach under control, and after a few minutes the nausea faded slightly—enough so that I wasn't terrified of puking all over the van. It wasn't easy, especially with the back gradually filling up with thick, burning cigarette smoke.

The Joker, now that the business at hand had been dealt with, seemed perfectly content to lose himself in his own thoughts. He stared at the wall opposite, shoulders and fingers twitching sporadically as new ideas hit, his arm in almost constant motion, bringing the cigarette up to his mouth and down again. Up and down. Up and down. It was making me dizzy.

One flick of the thumb and the accumulated ash disintegrated, falling haphazardly to the floor of the van. Up again, and down again.

He finally finished and flicked the glowing butt into the wall, where the cherry shattered into a dozen little embers. Right about that time, the van lurched to a stop. The Joker got up, shaking his coat out behind him. He threw open the back doors, climbed out, and sang, "Welcome to our humble home."

I stood and pushed a hand against the side of the van for support. The dizziness was in full swing again, but the nausea receded a bit more, for which I was grateful. I stumbled to the back of the van and looked dubiously at the gap between the floor and the ground. It wasn't that far, but I didn't want to shake my head up anymore—the nausea might come back.

The Joker apparently got tired of waiting for me to make a decision, and impatiently hooked an arm around my waist, swinging me down from the van. I clung to his shoulders, not trusting him to not just drop me, but my fears were ungrounded—he didn't let me go again until I was firmly on my feet. The man lifted me like I weighed no more than a doll. It made me feel utterly powerless and utterly exhilarated at the same time.

Disconcerted at the thought, I looked away to see that the clowns had climbed out of the van and were staring at us, shoulders slightly hunched and frozen masks angled towards us. I got the idea that they hadn't expected me to live through the ride home.

The Joker shot them a malevolent look and stepped away from me. "This way, fellas," he hummed, walking towards the building that I was just now seeing. It was big, broken-up, and looked empty. There were boarded windows and the brick walls were chipped and covered in graffiti. It looked like a typical old project building in Crime Alley.

The two clowns went to unload the guns, and without their compatriot who had been left behind, they struggled to carry all the cases. I moved to help them without thinking, but the Joker, looking exasperated, caught me by the arm and dragged me back to his side, letting his arm slide down and pressing gloved fingertips into my hip.

With other guys, the move would be sweet, maybe a little possessive, but I had no such illusions here. It was a claim. By separating me from the clowns like this, by keeping his hands on me from the start, he was issuing a warning—I was his toy to play with until further notice. The guys would be foolish to mess with me and vice versa.

Charming, I thought, and the sad part was I was only being slightly sarcastic. He was isolating me, yes, but from the way these guys looked, it also had to be some form of protection—I didn't imagine that I would be comfortable alone in a room full of them.

Why do you over-think everything, Harley? I asked myself as he impatiently guided me into the building. It gets you into such horrible situations. Like the current one, for example.

Well… yeah, but I can't say I'm upset that I'm in the current situation.

I mean, think about it. You're at the side of the most exhilarating, most dangerous man you know—which should be scary and horrible, but in reality is just exciting. Admittedly he just smashed your head into the side of a van, but you've had worse from just a routine gone-wrong in gymnastics.

So basically, I'd graduated from self-inflicted injuries to injuries inflicted by others. I figured that, if not an improvement, it was at least a horizontal move. Or maybe that was the concussion talking.

More stairs inside. He steered me up, up and around, his face tilted upwards, watchful and blank for once. The dizziness was returning. I tried to distract myself; hearing a commotion further downstairs, I looked to see that the two clowns were struggling with the cases. I still wanted to help them, but from the Joker's firm, almost bruising grip on my waist, I knew that it was out of the question.

I imagined the building was condemned like the first one, but there was dim light on the stairwell and I could hear muffled noises from a floor or two up. I couldn't fathom him living side-by-side with average citizens—he was too recognizable at this point. Even without the makeup, Gotham as a whole was so frightened of him that people were liable to report anyone with significant facial scarring.

So, what, then? Maybe it was condemned. Maybe it had been, but someone had worked out a deal to keep it, at least temporarily, and piped in electricity and, presumably, water. Maybe this was where he stayed, a sort of headquarters. Not necessarily the center of operations, though. He probably had many places, spread throughout the city.

It wasn't a comforting thought. What if he changed his mind and just decided to ditch me here? I had no way of finding him again.

I pushed the idea out of my head as we surfaced on the fourth floor and he kicked the second door on the left impatiently in lieu of knocking. There came the sound of a brief scuffle inside, and then the door flew open. A young, dark-haired guy stood there, looking petrified.

The Joker didn't give him a second glance, just steered me inside past him. My shoulder knocked into the kid's, and I muttered a quick "Sorry" as we passed.

"Harley, the boys. Boys, Harley," the Joker chanted dutifully, releasing me as soon as we passed through the door and striding past a cluster of guys to the back of the room we found ourselves in, where two more men were working at a table.

Left alone, I took the opportunity to glance around. It was a big room, almost like a loft, but extended—I spotted several doors that presumably led to separate areas. It wasn't a pretty place—the floorboards were unfinished, stained, and had holes in places, and there were gaps in the plaster where the walls were simply bare brick. There was one big window at the opposite end of the room, but it was so smeared and dirty that it was basically opaque.

I looked back at the Joker. His head was bent over the table, matted hair falling into his face, which had taken on an uncharacteristic look of seriousness. "Plotting," I muttered almost inaudibly to myself, and shut my eyes as the nausea hit me again full-force.

I turned and stumbled away. I was given a wide berth—I figured the guys had all seen the Joker's possessive grip in the seconds before he had released me, and my guess was that not a single one of them was willing to risk his mood swings by questioning my presence there. Smart boys.

I went to the first door I could find, only to open it and find a closet full of explosives. C2 and sticks of dynamite were stacked up on one side, inches away from drums of gasoline piled on the other. I looked disbelievingly over my shoulder. Nobody seemed to be the slightest bit concerned by the fact that the contents of this closet alone could blow up all of Crime Alley.

I shut the door gingerly, resolving to cast it from my mind—if I had to worry about being blown up the entire time I was with the Joker, I might as well just resign myself to nerves-induced catatonia. I imagined bombs were a normal thing to have around the house with this guy, so I might as well trust that he knew how to keep them from going off at random.

I found my way to the next door, set at the very edge of the main room, which led to a short hallway. I followed the hall to the closest open door. The second I stepped into the room, I knew I'd found the place where he stayed.

There were clothes flung everywhere—vests, shirts, pants… I thought I spotted what looked like a sexy nurse outfit. My foot crunched on something, and I looked down to see that there were matches spilled all over the floor.

I wandered in a little further. There was a twin bed haphazardly shoved into the back left corner of the room, its blankets wadded up into a lump, with no pillows visible. There was a window, but unlike the window in the main room, which looked like it was filthy because everyone was too lazy to clean it, this one looked like someone had intentionally smeared it with dirt or soot, blacking it out. The sun backlit the black glass, dimly illuminating the room, but to attempt to see out through the window would be futile.

There was a desk pushed against the back wall with a ratty-looking swivel chair in front of it, but no other furniture. The surface of the desk was almost completely invisible, covered as it was by dozens and dozens of papers and about six empty coffee mugs scattered about, stained brown in the bottoms from the dregs.

I stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of the papers, looking them over. There was a front page to an issue of the Gotham Times, but apparently it wasn't there for educational purposes. He had gone over it in red ink, scratching out numerous, messy "Ha"s over various pictures and adding words in to several different articles to change the stories completely.

That was just the start. There were several fliers for companies that seemed completely unrelated to his undertaking, such as a pie shop and a cab company. These were desecrated as well. I found a to-do list that made absolutely no sense to me—it didn't help that his handwriting was spidery and messy to the point of incomprehensibility, and often so violent that it scratched right through the paper.

I saw a brownish stain on the top corner of one of the papers, looked closer, and realized that it was blood.

Whose?

I set the papers down, realizing vaguely as my mouth watered that I was about to throw up. There was a door to the right, and I opened it to find a compact but functional bathroom. I darted to the toilet.

It was almost a relief when I finally vomited—I'd been fighting nausea for at least a half-hour. Maybe this would calm my stomach down. I waited till everything had come up and I was certain I was out of danger, and then flushed the toilet, pushed myself to my feet, and went to the sink.

The water ran clear, at least, and I rinsed my mouth out as thoroughly as I could. Now that I wasn't focused on not throwing up, however, I realized that I was really, really, really tired. I leaned in to the small, frameless mirror hanging crookedly on the wall and checked my eyes. The pupils were the same size, which was a good sign—anything more than that would be indicative of worse trauma to the head than a mere concussion.

I stumbled back out, glancing around the room for some sign that I was being searched for. No one had made an appearance, so I dragged myself over to the bed and curled up on top of it.

Only for a minute, I told myself. I'll only let myself rest here for a minute, and then I'll get up and go out there and figure out what to do next.

You're full of shit, Harley. You know you're just going to go to sleep and forget about everything until you wake up to him smacking you in the face.

I know. I know, but I'm really tired. Sleep is definitely a priority right now. If I have to lie to myself to get it, then so be it.

Are you even paying attention to yourself? You never make sense anymore.

I know. Nice, isn't it? Good night.

It didn't take long for him to finish his business with the guys and realize that she was missing.

A quick prowl revealed that she had found his room and was curled up on his bed, out cold. He cocked his head and stared at her, several ideas and impulses racing through his head all at once. Patiently, he sorted them out.

There was a part of him that wanted to go over, bend quietly over her, smooth that hair away from her face, lean in close… and howl "Wake up!" in her ear. He chuckled softly as the thought hit him. It would be funny. Another part wanted to grab her up and dump her outside of his door. It was his bed, after all, and he wasn't in the habit of sharing it. Granted, he didn't use it much, but still… it was his.

He strolled over to the bed, looking down at her as he debated with himself. Her shirt had ridden up a bit further, exposing more smooth skin. He spotted an irregularity and squinted, bending over and lightly tugging the hem a few inches higher so he could get a look.

There was a smear of color on her hip, bluish-purple. He was able to make out the finger-shaped marks and realized that his grip on her earlier had, indeed, been bruising. The sight of the mark was oddly satisfying—exciting, even. Marked territory.

Mine.

Oh, and she was his. Little Harley was the type of girl who needed to be owned, and he was a much better candidate for it than that sniveling Stratford, or even the goody-two-shoes Wilson. He could actually show her some fun. He could make her dangerous, should he decide she was worth the effort.

For now, he was tolerating her. Testing her. He had no doubt that she was being as genuine as she could, that she really did think she wanted to stick around, to see what he could show her. But one bad day, one really bad day, could change all of that. People were fickle.

Hell, it was possible that she would run away screaming at her first sight of a dead kid. Time would test her devotion, and the Joker was a patient man when he wanted to be.

He decided against his first two impulses. He was tired, after all, and now that he was back here, a nap sounded like a pretty good idea. He had no plans until morning, and his eyes had been burning for a long time now.

He discarded his coat and shoes and unbuttoned his vest before stepping up onto the bed. She didn't stir, not even when he stooped and squeezed into the space between her in the wall, shoving her out to the very edge, nearly off the bed.

Huh. Out cold, indeed. He'd forgotten that little girls tended to break more easily than boys. He must have hit her head harder than he'd thought.

Oh, well. She'd get used to it.

He lay on his back, feeling every spot where they were in contact acutely, white-hot even through the clothes. It was uncomfortable; not something he was used to. He considered shoving her all the way off the bed, but eventually decided against it. He was a lot of things, but a hypocrite wasn't one of them. He made a habit of expanding other people's comfort zones, and his were no exception. With this in mind, then, he gamely worked his arm beneath her, the crook of his elbow providing a sort of makeshift pillow for her wounded head, and once he was settled he paused to take stock of himself.

The close contact felt very strange. It wasn't his habit to deal so closely with people… unless, of course, he was looming over them, imposing himself in the personal space that other people seemed to value so dearly in order to frighten, to intimidate. In those cases, the people in question were usually trying foolishly to fight him off—or at the very least, to draw back, to pull away from him. Having someone lie so taciturn and unresisting beside him was… very odd (and yeah, sure, she was unconscious, and so not in any position to even try fighting him off. Didn't make it any less strange for him).

He swallowed and gave a short, satisfied nod, feeling vaguely pleased with his ability to simply embrace the weirdness of it all. His eyes then flicked shut, and he lay like a corpse for the next few hours.