Joker opened his eyes and found himself lying back in a desk chair. He blinked and turned his neck, stretching it until he heard a pop and then glanced at his surroundings. He was sitting behind a desk in a small office, lit by a single desk lamp.

He studied the features of the office and recognized it at once. It was Harley's.

He snorted in amusement and confusion as he sat up in the chair and brushed his hands against his uniform, only it wasn't his orange Arkham jumpsuit.

He looked down as his hand brushed the piece of chain he hung from his trousers, not a chain wallet or pocket watch. A nice piece of steel chain he could grab in a pinch and use against an adversary. Not as immediately deadly as a gun or knife, a piece of chain still carried a hell of a punch and was a fun way to get 'information.'

His fingers slid along the cold length of links and then he brushed his lap with both palms, feeling the fabric of his trousers beneath them. Dark, purple, pinstriped made to order by that seamstress on 88th. He touched the green vest and the collar of his purple hexagonal-patterned shirt and the blue fabric of his jacket. Then he slid his fingers down the lapels of his dark purple overcoat.

Marley specialized in vintage couture, or so her ad had professed. So he'd paid her a visit and then a few thousand dollars to make him this nice suit, something out of a forties gangster flick. The mob had laughed at him and his 'cheap purple suit' unknowingly laughing at themselves. Some people didn't truly appreciate parody.

The door opened and he looked up to see a short, lithe figure in a white lab coat enter and then close the door with a whisper behind her. She leaned her shoulders back against the wood and propped one foot in a low heel against it as she peered down over her black-rimmed glasses at him.

"Hi, Mista J," she said with a sultry smile that spread across her dark red lips.

He stared, struck dumb as she slipped a hand back and pulled off a headband and her hair fell into two pig tails. She took off her glasses and nibbled on one of the temples. She set them aside and slowly, but deliberately unbuttoned her lab jacket.

She shrugged the white article off and it fell to the floor around her feet and she placed a hand against the doorframe and stuck out a hip toward him.

"Take a look at your new, improved Harley Quinn." She said in a playful, girlish way. He shook his head incredulously.

She was dressed in the colors of Anarchy, the Red and the Black. A short dress with a very short skirt, like a cheerleader uniform with long sleeves fit her body in a way that gave someone a true appreciation for her dancer's body.

She sauntered over toward him and climbed onto and then across the desk. She braced her hands against the end and gracefully leaned toward him, her face inches from his.

"What's the matter, Mista J, don't you like it?" She said and pouted exaggeratedly, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

For a moment he stared, and then he grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her with ferocity. She made a moaning sound and then his hands were slipping under hers and around her back. He stood and she moved her knees across the desk until she was kneeling on it before him.

Their fingers dug into each other's backs through the fabric of their clothes as they opened their mouths and their tongues found each other. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him, she wrapped her legs around his waist.

They fell to the floor ungracefully and looked at each other with surprise. Then they laughed and Harley's hands were in his hair and they were kissing again. They made out like teenagers behind her desk, their hands clumsily exploring and groping each others bodies on top of their clothes. He felt her small breast, cupping it in one hand as he kissed and sucked on the skin below her ear. She moaned and slid a hand down his chest until she had him in her hand. He pulled away from her neck and breathed deeply against her ear before carefully removing her hand.

"Mista J?" She asked breathless. He sat up looked at her beneath him. She smiled and stood up.

"I know what's missing." She said cheerfully, pulling open a desk drawer.

He looked up at her quizzically and she motioned excitedly for him to get up. He stood and she pushed him back to the chair and sat on the desk before him, holding up a tube of greasepaint.

She opened it and happily began spreading the white paint on his face, her legs around his, her breath smelled like strawberries. He closed his eyes as her fingers danced, gently massaging the paint over his skin. He kept his eyes closed as her fingers traced his eyelids and when she was done he looked up at her. She brandished a tube of lipstick and giggled.

"Now for the finishing touch," she said and then began applying the lipstick.

She did so gently, not like he did. Her face set in the clinical seriousness he was used to as she decorated his lips and scars. When she had finished she capped the tube and grinned at him.

She looked at him appraisingly and then leaned close to him and kissed him gently. He raised a hand to her cheek and she pulled away slightly. She slid from the desk into his lap and slid a hand up his chest and around his neck. Her eyes fell to his tie, which she played with in her other hand.

"I'm gonna get you outta here" she said in a low voice and her blue eyes flicked up to meet his.

"I had hoped as much" he purred and ducked toward her and tried to kiss her. She planted her hand firmly against his chest and pushed him away.

"Ya know why?" She asked and he cocked his head and peered at her.

Women were tricky and leading questions like this one were always a trap. Before he could answer she spoke again.

"Not because we're playing a game, well, your game." She shook her head, her pig tails bobbing. "I have a game too."

"Is that right?" He leered at her and moved his head and inhaled her perfumed scent.

"Uh huh. Mine's a Con" she said conspiratorially.

"The one where you write a book about my dirty little secrets and make it big?" He said, sliding his hand over her thigh. She felt good against him, better than he had imagined in the fleeting fantasies he'd had about her.

"Huh-uh," she shook her head. "I'm playing the Long Con."

"Oh?" He licked her earlobe and felt her shudder against him.

"Do you remember what you said to me the first time we met?" She asked running her fingers over his tie and up the edge of his vest. He thought for a moment and drew a blank.

"Memories are funny things" she said. "Our own minds play worse tricks on us than other people can. You don't remember, do you?" Her clear blue eyes were on his again.

He had been pumped full of so many drug in the past year that sometimes he woke up and didn't remember why he was even in Arkham. It hadn't been until just recently that any memory came in to sharp focus, and even those he couldn't trust entirely.

He knew he'd attacked her. She'd come into the room prim and proper in her white coat and her hair in a bun and he'd wanted to tear her apart. He looked at the woman in his lap and slid a finger across her jaw line. Had he really hurt this pretty thing?

She wrapped her other arm around his neck and pulled herself up, her lips to his ear.

"You said, 'do you really care about these people, Doctor?'" She said in a mocking tone. "Hold still and this won't hurt." She laughed. "Maybe you'll even be one of the lucky ones and you'll live." She said with a growl.

She leaned back, supporting herself with her hands around his neck and giggled.

"It was a pretty good joke, Mista J." She said. He cocked his head and peered at her, confused.

"I'm gonna get you outta here, Mista J. Maybe not the way you imagined, though." She said and her lips brushed his again.