Chapter Seventeen

Cookie, I think you're tame.
-The Pixies, Tame

As soon as they returned to their temporary home, Harley vanished into the Joker's room. He watched her go with impatience, though he made no move to stop her, and once she was gone, he turned to his men in exasperation.

"Ya know, I really don't get broads," he grumbled, dragging out a chair and flipping it around so he could straddle it, pillowing his chin on the folded arms laid out on the back.

His men looked warily at him. Most of them were bright enough to understand that a conversation with the Joker could have many, many different results—sometimes he'd say something to make you rethink your entire life, sometimes he'd kill you, sometimes he'd pretend like he was going to kill you only to turn it all into some kind of joke at the last second… he was a hard man to predict, and it didn't help that his responses always seemed to be mocking exaggerations, not to be trusted.

However, some of the men absolutely yearned for his approval, and were willing to take risks if they thought there was any chance of earning it. One of these men spoke up now. "Whatchyu talkin' about, boss?"

The Joker's eyes flicked up irritably to him and then back to the tabletop. "She's been pouting the whole way home," he said discontentedly. "Like someone just killed, err, her puppy. I haven't killed any puppies lately, so…" He lifted his head and spread his hands wide, not appearing to notice the blood drying on the slick surface of the leather. "What gives?"

The original speaker exchanged looks with another man, who then ventured forth to ask, "She killed the senator, yeah?"

The Joker nodded slowly. "Not exactly how I planned it, but… whaddya gonna do; you gotta allow for some improvisation. Bottom line, the job got done."

"Well, has she ever killed anyone before?"

Slowly, watching the man like an owl might watch a rodent creeping along the ground, the Joker shook his head. "No, no. Nooo—little Harley, she's an innocent." He pronounced the word in a way that fully communicated his suspicion of the term, but his meaning was clear enough.

"Then that's it," the first man said, sounding a bit relieved. "It's her first kill. I'm surprised she didn't puke. I did the first time I killed a guy. It's always a shocker, boss."

The Joker tilted his head sharply to the side, observing. "Is it, now?" he asked softly, rhetorically. The first guy nodded, failing to see that an answer was not required.

"Uh-huh. I mean, guys, we suck it up, but broads are kind of weird—they need attention, reassurance, unless they're really crazy, and she doesn't strike me as all that crazy."

"Crazy," the Joker repeated.

The first guy watched him, unsure, as his boss got up from the chair and came loping over to him. The Joker took his helpful henchman's chin in his gloved hand, squeezing his face almost affectionately. "Well, thanks. You've been a big help, ehm, Timmy."

"Tommy," the guy said.

The Joker tilted his head again. "Timmy. Don't correct me."

There was a blur of movement, a white-hot pain. Tommy fell to the floor, squalling as his eyes fell on the short-bladed knife that was now lodged in his upper thigh. The Joker paid no attention, instead striding purposefully to his room and closing the door behind him.

As soon as we returned, I retreated to the Joker's room without breaking my silence. I didn't bother to turn on the lights, going straight to the corner of the left wall that wasn't occupied by the bed. Once there, I sank down, drew my knees up to my chest, hugged them, and thought hard about what I had just done.

Most people apparently threw up. I didn't need to puke; didn't feel sick—it was weird, and I questioned it. What's wrong with me?

It didn't help that a snarky voice in my brain chimed in with you're just wondering that now?

I couldn't have been sitting there any longer than ten minutes before the door was jerked open and J strode in, slamming the door shut behind him. He looked around and his eyes fell on me. He stood there in the faded light for a second, arms crossed as he stared at me, and then the corners of his mouth twisted downward and he loped over.

I flinched back—he didn't look happy; I apparently had displeased him somehow, though I had no idea what I'd done, exactly. Maybe I hadn't been meant to shoot that guy whose face was horribly familiar, that guy who I was trying hard not to realize was Senator Jordan himself.

J reached me and then stooped down swiftly, jerkily gathering me up in his arms before straightening up again. My arms instinctively closed around his neck—once again, I didn't trust him not to drop me, but I didn't struggle. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but I was beyond fighting him at this point.

He carried me to the bathroom, kicked the door wider open, and took us both inside. He dropped one arm out from beneath my legs, letting me stand on my own as he turned on the shower, though he kept one arm firmly around my back. A soon as the water came spurting out through the shower head, he reached down, picked me up again, and then, without ceremony, he ducked his head out from the circle of my arms and threw me into the bathtub beneath the running stream.

Ow.

Falling hard about four feet into a rock-hard bathtub was not a pleasant experience. Falling underneath a freezing stream of water was even less pleasant. I lay there for a second, stunned, and the Joker took the opportunity to discard his coat and gloves, throwing them out of the cramped bathroom before closing the door and prowling back to the tub, where he stood up straight with his hands on his hips. He looked… displeased.

I understood the sentiment completely.

I struggled upright then, furiously pushing my wet hair out of my face and perching on my knees as I regained my voice. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded. "Seriously, J, you'd better tell me now, because I'm done wondering what your problem is!"

He cocked his head violently to the side. "What's wrong with me?" he repeated incredulously, his voice high, disbelieving. "I was just about to ask you the same question."

I glared at him, temporarily immune to the fear I should have felt. All I could feel was deep, dark anger, erupting from a deep part of my mind and soul, anger directed entirely towards him. I sat there under the stream of water and glared. "What are you talking about?"

"Well… let's see," he hissed benignly, sidestepping in front of the toilet and taking a seat on the closed lid, facing me. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and he steepled his hands, pressing his fingertips together as he cocked his head back to stare malevolently back at me. "This…" He pursed his lips—"this pouting, this coming back here and hiding after a job well done. Is this going to be a usual occurrence, or… what? Cause, honestly, Harley, I don't think things are gonna work for long if you go into a little—" He waved his hand vaguely here—"emotional frenzy every time you kill somebody."

"Emotional frenzy?" I repeated, not exactly believing my ears.

"Yeah," he answered briefly, keeping wary eyes on me.

"Is that what you think this is?" I demanded loudly, bringing my hands up to grip the side of the tub so tightly that I felt the blood struggle to circulate through my hands, felt my knuckles going white.

He gave a quick, exasperated sigh and leaned forward a little more, moving his face within a foot of mine, still clear of the ice cold shower. "Harley. I'm not exactly in the habit of… uh, coddling people. Ya know? So, if it's not what I think it is, then you'd better tell me what it is… now."

I stared at him incredulously. For so long, he had seemed to know everything, even the most private thoughts in my head. For him to miss something so huge at this crucial moment was almost too much for me to believe. Still, as long as he maintained that he didn't know what I was freaking out about, I didn't see the harm in spelling it out for him. After all, he'd asked.

"I didn't feel sick," I said, my voice suddenly quiet again—my throat had clenched up and I felt like I was choking, so it was all I could do to speak. "I didn't feel sick, I didn't feel guilty when I pulled that trigger—I didn't feel anything. I didn't feel anything and I still don't feel anything. That's not normal, J—that's not normal." My voice was steadily rising, past that strangling lump in my throat till I was nearly screeching.

"I didn't feel anything, J, I didn't feel anything! It's not normal! What the fuck did you do to me?!"

I had a second to take in his stare, which could have been incredulous, confused, amused, or all three (your guess is as good as mine), before he rose from his seat. I struggled to my feet as he stepped into the tub, and as he ducked into the stream of water I lunged at him.

I went for his face, claws outstretched, suddenly silent as I tried to scratch off that paint, clear it all away and make him human, because if he was human, maybe I could be, too. If he could feel guilt, then I would be able to, and maybe I could shake off this numbness, this apathy towards humanity outside of him and myself.

He deflected the blows easily, grabbing me by the wrists and wrestling my hands down. I wasn't giving up yet—I jerked back sharply, weakening his grip, and then pushed my fists forward again, beating on his shoulders, his chest—anything that could do some sort of damage, though admittedly a chest shot wasn't nearly as satisfying as a good punch to the face would be.

I was crying and I hated myself for it. I fought back my tears, channeling the energy used for crying into feral grunts that matched my attempts to hit him. I got several good shots in before he realized that his efforts to defend himself weren't working and decided to try a new tactic. He stopped blocking abruptly, and I experienced just a second of bemusement before my face was forced into his chest, his arms locked around me and pinning my arms down as he crushed me against him.

"I hate you," I shrieked, my cries muffled into his soaked shirt as I struggled to get my arms free and push myself away from him. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hateyou, I hateyou, Ihateyou, IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou…"

The words of the steady mantra blurred together, faded into steady, choking sobs. Before long, I couldn't even speak—I was just crying, sobbing hard into the drenched fabric covering that thin, harshly-cut chest at my cheek. Somewhere along the way I'd managed to free my arms enough to lock them around his back, pulling him to me so tightly that it was a wonder that he could even breathe.

After a moment, I became conscious that I wasn't the only one making noise. His arms were tight around me, true, but I was certain that he had a hand wrapped in my hair, and his chin was resting on the top of my head as he quietly hissed, "Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh…" It was quiet, almost soothing, and there was a funny rhythm to his sibilant utterances. Fascinated despite myself, I quieted down and just listened to him. Picking up on the change in my mood, realizing that I was no longer hysterical and panicked, he changed tempo, keeping his chin anchored to the top of my head, keeping his arms around me in the semi-embrace, semi-restraint:

"Hush, now. I wantchya to know that I'm proud of you, li'l HarleyQuinn." The words were barely audible above the sound of running water and our heavy breathing, but they were there. "I wantchya to know… not ninety-nine men outta a hundred would be able to do what you did out there, and, well… I'm surprised. Surprised and proud. Ya did a good job. You did what you needed to do. It was a job… well… done."

At the conclusion of this little pep talk, I wanted to feel cynical, I really did. I wanted to realize that he was saying all this to shut me up and make me easy to manage, that he didn't really mean a word of it, that he was just saying it all for his own gain. I wanted to, I wanted to so badly, but I couldn't. All I was aware of was the explosion of feeling in my chest at the praise, the sudden rush of euphoria that actually made me dizzy.

I pulled back then, just a little, leaving my arms around him, and he let me, sensing that I wasn't about to launch another attack. I tipped back my head and just looked at him. He was eyeing me patiently, looking at me as though I was a volatile but fascinating experiment whose next move even he couldn't predict. I realized right away that I loved that look. I loved feeling like I was an unpredictable element in the life of the most unpredictable man in the country.

But still… I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure if I actually was a part of his life or whether I was just another game to him, something to be broken and then thoughtlessly discarded. I still didn't know whether this whole thing had been worth sacrificing everything I'd worked for, everything I'd wanted.

It was time to find out.

I released his waist, only to fit my arms snugly around his neck, tilting my head up and standing on tiptoe. I pressed the tip of my nose against his, doubtless taking some of the runny greasepaint for myself. I brought my eyes up, looking straight into his—first into the left, and then to the right.

They weren't black from this angle and this close up. No, they were a very dark brown, framed with thin lashes that were dripping black water. They still burned, so dark I couldn't even make out my own reflection in them, and he narrowed them a little, curious at this new development.

I took a breath. I'd been putting this off for way too long.

Shutting my eyes, I pushed myself up to the very tips of my toes and pressed my mouth hard against his.

For a very long moment, I got no response whatsoever from him, but I refused to let myself care. This moment was mine, not ours. It was about time I took something from him; he'd been taking from me for months now. One little kiss was hardly much to ask for in return for the psychological and physical battery I'd taken from him.

Then, his mouth moved under mine; his arms tightened around me and he pulled my body flush against his, lifting me almost off my feet. Encouraged, I pressed my tongue softly to the corner of his mouth, and he responded.

His lips were as soft as I had imagined, his own tongue wet and serpentine, tempting and teasing. He tasted… stale, like the cigarette he'd had in the van on the way back from the senator job, and there was a deeper, fainter taste beneath that—almost like rot. I searched for the disgust and couldn't find it. It was as essentially him as his smell or his look, perfectly right in its disturbing wrongness. Instead of reviling me, the taste excited me, as everything about him did.

He was good at it, but that was hardly a surprise—he was too much of a narcissist to be incompetent at anything he undertook. Testing a theory I'd been rolling around in my mind ever since the day we'd first touched one another, I drew his bottom lip into my mouth, catching softly it between my teeth.

I felt an obscene, purring sense of satisfaction as a tremor racked his tall, thin frame—I was pressed so tightly to him that I could feel the shudder as though it were my own, and a smile rose unbidden to my mouth. Oh, he likes that.

I bit down again, harder. He trembled again for a split second before tightening his arms around me and, without breaking contact, twisting around, shoving my back so hard into the wall that it nearly knocked the wind out of me. Encouraged, I kept biting harder and harder as his hands started to wander up and down, testing, exploring me almost mechanically.

I drew back when I tasted blood, startled. I hadn't meant to break his skin; I'd just gotten a little… carried away. He came away, staring me in the face, searching for something as he bent slightly down and rested his hands on the wall above my shoulders.

The steady water pressure had proved a match for even the waterproof greasepaint by now—there were still traces here and there, running in faded, vertical stripes down his face, not even close to masking the skin that was showing through everywhere now. The red of his lips had been smeared and more flesh tone showed through. The sight of his mostly-naked face was unexpectedly arousing.

"I'm—I'm sorry," I gasped, the taste of his blood still fresh in my mouth, prompting the apology. "I didn't mean—"

"Shhh," he hissed, and attacked me again.

His lip was bleeding heavily—I could taste it. Feeling the walls of his mouth close in on my tongue, I realized that I could feel the backs of the scars, ragged, a little dryer than the rest of his mouth—addictive in the inconsistency. I could see why he spent so much time running his tongue along them.

He pulled my top lip into his mouth, sucking so hard on it that I could feel it bruising, felt the exact electric second when the blood vessels broke beneath the skin. I'd never been kissed like this before, kissed so hard and so brutally that I was frightened and turned on at the same time.

My breath hitched, and hearing it, he pulled back and then pressed his body roughly against mine, drawing back again almost instantly. He reached back, peeled my hands from around his neck, and forced them against the wall, pinning them down, rendering me completely powerless.

I pushed my lower half away from the wall and against him, trying to communicate that I needed to touch him, that I didn't want to be pinned back like this. Tauntingly, teasing me, he swung back, away from me, and I whimpered against him.

He was making a point—he was running this party, not me. He made this very clear within the next second, when he pulled back from me entirely, and then ducked in again, kissing lightly, almost as though he was nipping, daring me to kiss back—but when I tried to respond, he jerked away again, just out of reach. He did this twice more before I caught on, and then I whined in protest.

"J, please," I whispered against his mouth next time he ducked in.

He didn't relent. He continued the teasing assault until I pretended to lose interest. Then he slammed into me, mouth and body, demanding a response. I obeyed, defeated, submitting my will to him. I was effectively handing over the reins, signaling you are in control.

It was what he had been waiting for. The moment I stopped fighting, he picked me up again, his hands digging into my hips, bruising them further, and as he lifted me I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. I turned my attention to the spot below his ear, nipping teasingly against the skin. Possibly for the first time, I was grateful that I was so small, so easily carried. This way, I didn't have to stop for a moment.

He stepped haphazardly from the tub, his vision temporarily cleared as I worked my way down to his neck, pausing before I sank my teeth in, biting as hard as I could. A strangled noise escaped him, he exhaled sharply, and he stumbled out of the bathroom, carrying me with him and leaving the water running in the room behind us.

I woke up suddenly and realized three things.

First, it was night again—the blueish streetlamp was shining in through the filthy window.

Second, J, who had been at my back when I had fallen asleep, was nowhere to be found.

Third, my headache had disappeared, but I seemed to be sore everywhere else.

I groaned softly as I rolled onto my back, taking a quick inventory of my body. It had been a long time, but that wasn't the only source of my discomfort—the whole affair had been violent, in every sense of the word. There had been an undercurrent of viciousness throughout the whole process—there was nothing generous about it; whatever we'd given, we'd given so that we could take in return. It was angry, it was sadistic, it was hostile—and it was the most gratifying experience I'd ever had. Not just physical gratification, though that had certainly more than lived up to my expectations. No—so much of it had been his sheer physical closeness, the adrenaline rush that came from the understanding that no one got this, that the Joker only drew this close to people in order to kill or destroy, that he could still turn on me… and the chemical rush when I finally grasped the fact that for all his violence, for all the bruises and scrapes and wrenched joints, killing me was not the thought taking precedence in his mind.

Let me tell you, that was better than sex. Or, in this case, an extremely effective enhancement.

After we'd exhausted ourselves—or more accurately, after he'd exhausted me—we'd lain there, him pulling me so tight against him that I could barely breathe. When the ringing had subsided from my ears, I realized that he was whispering, crooning, singing in my ear, talking about everything and nothing all at once and putting his own distinct slant on every word. Any form of response wasn't necessary; all that was required of me was to lay there and listen, so I had. I lay there against him and listened as he dripped mercury into my ear for hours, and I eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

I realized now that I couldn't remember much of what he'd been saying, just that it was all pure venom, words that before now I would have thought were wicked and cruel—and which now made perfect sense.

I stretched and winced as I felt my various injuries protest. I could feel several large bite marks on the side of my neck, sore spots on my scalp where he'd knotted his fingers, bruises on my hips and thighs where he'd gripped too tightly, some scratch marks on my back, sore wrists and shoulders from violently twisted arms—all in addition to the bruised top lip that tingled and felt swollen. I regretted nothing. I wanted a repeat—more than one repeat, as a matter of fact. Talk about a rush.

The events of the previous twenty-four hours had convinced me that I'd found something that proved I had a reason to stay, a reason to abandon my guns at Arkham and come instead to work for the Joker. I knew what I would be called. I knew that I would now face scorn and contempt, from J's men as well as the speculative public, once they realized what was going on—but I was willing to brave it. In fact, let them make their assumptions. Underestimation can only work in your favor, and will only shock them more when you blow their smarmy faces to bits.

I had spent too long feeling helpless, feeling scared of the "bad people" in the world. I wanted to work to become a creature to be feared, similar to the man I was beginning to realize had become my mentor, an effective right hand but just as lethal in my own right. I wasn't sure, but I was willing to bet that J would help me, would take pride in such a transformation.

I slipped out of the bed, dragging the sheet with me, and crept over to the door, which I locked. Then I spun around and started to search for my clothes.

My pants were crumpled up at the bottom of the bed, and I shook them out, establishing that they were still damp, but dry enough to wear. My shirt, on the other hand, which had been flung towards the opposite wall, was bundled in a soggy lump. It was a little too wet and a little too funky-smelling to wear, so I looked around for an alternative.

I found one of the Joker's shirts, a button-down that was made of the most hideous shade of yellow paisley I had ever seen in my life. Only you, J. Still, it was dry and smelled pretty clean, so I slipped it on and buttoned it up. I realized then that the shower was still running in the bathroom.

I rolled my eyes, went in, and turned off the water. I didn't believe J would be worried about the bill—hell, I wasn't sure there would even be a bill. I still wasn't clear on the utilities arrangement for this place.

I spun around, turned on the light, and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Slowly, I gathered my hair up in a hand and twisted my head this way and that, looking at my throat.

It was carnage. There were two full-formed bite marks on either side of my neck, pink bleeding into red bleeding into dark, dark purple-brown, small indentations where his teeth had been. There were still more marks where he hadn't gotten a mouthful, just had pulled and torn and sucked. I looked like I'd been attacked by a wild animal.

Quickly, I hoisted up the hem of my shirt, looking carefully at my hips. They had gotten the same treatment, bruised thoroughly, though the purple filled out the shape of fingers rather than teeth.

I slowly lowered the shirt and then stared at myself in the mirror. I was wearing no makeup, but I thought I looked good despite that. There was a pretty flush of pink to my cheeks and no circles beneath my eyes, which popped out as blue as always. My hair was a mess, but my skin looked healthy and I looked well-rested… well-rested and happy.

I looked better than I had in months. Huh. Guess this really is right for me.