The Joker's hand was cool around Harleys as he pulled her into the awaiting van. Frosty was in the driver's seat, and as soon as the Joker had slammed the door behind them, he floored the accelerator. Harley's head smacked back against the dividing glass and she scowled.

"Hiya, Frosty," she said dryly, rubbing her scalp. The Joker side-eyed her, mouth quirking up. His lipstick was smudged, stretching across his cheek and up his nose. His hair was sticking up in places and falling across his face in others, brushing his temple. A smug kind of satisfaction was emanating off him and Harley guessed she looked equally as frazzled.

"Hello," Frosty replied, subdued. "Where to, Boss?"

"Ace Chemicals, Frosty my boy." The Joker slapped his hand down on Frosty's shoulder and squeezed. "We're going for a di-p."

Frosty flinched, but nodded, and started tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. Harley raised her eyebrows, chewing on her lip — she could taste the Joker there, so she bit down harder — and wondered what he was so jittery about. The Joker wouldn't hurt Frosty, not unless he did something really stupid.

Like crash the car, one of the voices supplied.

Or leave the business to become a plumber.

What about wearing the colour beige?

Or, the most sensible voice said, the one that was becoming louder, maybe The Joker doesn't need a reason to hurt him. Maybe he'll just do it because he wants to.

Harley squinted at that, frowning as they turned out of the warehouse district, away from the dock. She liked the mist that surrounded the place — reminded her of Halloween and chocolate. Her stomach rumbled at the thought. "You got any chocolate?" she asked.

The Joker tongued one of his back teeth, reaching into his trouser pockets. He hummed, a noise from deep within his chest, and pulled out a pair of tweezers, tossing them onto her lap. "Chocolate," he muttered, "she wants the good stuff, the — the cavities and dancing sprinkles." He pulled a pamphlet for an aged-care facility from his other pocket. "Can't live with 'em, throw 'em to the wayside." He tapped her on the nose with it. "But not before you're in the will. Get that-uh old time inheritance."

Harley saluted him. "Yessir."

The Joker's eye twitched and he kicked his heel up onto the dashboard. "Good girl, Harley. You know what Daddy gives to good girls?"

Harley grinned. "Chocolate?"

The Joker covered his mouth with his smiling hand, and with the other, pulled a red lollypop from his sock. "Chocolate."

"A lollipop!" Harley plucked it from his fingers and kissed him on the cheek.

"Ah-ah-aah," he said, lowering his leg from the dashboard and replacing it with his hand — caging her in. "Don't think you're gettin' off easy for that little trip you decided to take or for the fun you had with the dynami-te. That stuff ain't cheap, kid."

Harley pouted and tore off the wrapper. "Well, you shoulda let me leave when I wanted to instead of drugging me. Do you know how long I've been in this dress for? And now Johnny's gonna think I'm a bad friend for leaving him to die." She sucked on the lollipop. "Dynamite might be not be cheap, Mistah Jay, but neither am I."

There was a moment where the only sound in the van was the quiet hum of the engine and Frosty still tapping his thumb against the wheel. Harley rolled her eyes and pulled the lollypop from her mouth with a pop. "I'm just sayin', Mistah Jay. You gotta treat your valuable stuff well and your valuable people better. You drug me, I dynamite you — see? We're even-steven."

He pursed his lips, gaze calculating. Harley could see the words forming on his tongue — the way he hesitated as if he didn't already know exactly what he was going to say. She didn't want to hear it. She was tired and sore, and now that the adrenaline of seeing him — arguing with him, kissing him — was fading, the last thing she wanted to do was fight about it.

The Joker opened his mouth and Harley kissed him.

He wasn't expecting it — he made a noise in the back of his throat, a half-confused, half-pleased growl that sent sparks down to her toes. Harley laughed into his mouth as he pushed her up against the window, fingers carding painfully through her hair. Their torsos were touching, their legs tangled. Harley pulled back to breath and the Joker swept his tongue up her cheek, lapping up their mingled saliva.

"Mistah Jay," Harley said between breaths, trying not to laugh. "Mistah Jay, it tickles."

"Again," he breathed. "Again, again, again." He clasped her knee and hitched her leg around his waist. "Good little doctor. So — so bendy."

Distraction successful! Yay for me! Harley gave herself a mental high five.

Harley's leg — the one wrapped around the Joker — brushed against Frosty's arm and the van swerved suddenly. "Sorry, Frosty," she said, putting the lollipop back in her mouth and grinning up at the Joker. His eyes were black, his cheeks slightly flushed. Harley rolled the lollipop around in her mouth, before trailing a finger across the Joker's lips, down his chin and across his throat. When she reached his chest, he shuddered. She dug her nail in and a puff of air left him.

"Oh no, Mistah Jay." Harley tried to keep a straight face. "Now you look like the hungry one."

"Well-uh," he purred, eyes a little glazed, "you are here, all nice and warm and—deee-licious."

She gave her lollipop one final suck, popped it out of her mouth with a little flourish and offered it to him. He bit down on it, and Harley heard the crack of the hard candy, felt it from where she still held the stem. The Joker crunched twice and swallowed.

"That," he said, "was no chocolate."

Harley went to answer, but her toes brushing against Frosty's arm distracted her. She glanced over the Joker's shoulder and he frowned, turning around to follow her gaze.

The Joker's jaw clenched. "You keep tippity-tappin' that thumb and I'm gonna rip it off. Ya got that, Frosty?"

Frosty cleared his throat and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Yes, Boss."

A thump sounded from the back of the van, behind the tinted dividing glass. Harley tilted her head back and tried to see through it. "What was that?" she asked.

The Joker muttered something unintelligible and roughly drew her to him.

Well, if he's happy to ignore it—

No, Harley! Who's in the back of the van?

I don't know, but I kinda wish we were back there with them. My back hurts.

Harley snorted. "Hellooo," she called and knocked on the glass. "Is anyone in there?" Someone moaned and Harley blinked in surprise. "Huh. Mistah Jay, I think you got a stowaway."

"They're uh — too busy to take your call right now, bubblegum. Tied up with a lotta other things." The Joker raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

"You're not traffickin' people are you, Mistah Jay? Because killing them is one thing, but traffickin' is a whole other kettle of birds." Harley frowned. "Kettle of worms? Kettle of fish? Kettle of — well, you know what I mean."

"No, no, no-o-o," the Joker said, shaking his head. "They wanted the back. Had to pull 'em out of the driver's seat 'cause this is Frosty's van, ain't it Frosty? And I told them, I said-uh, no."

Harley thought about that for a second. "Welp, doesn't make sense to me, but whatever. You givin' them a ride someplace?"

"The ride comes later," he said. He smacked his open palm against the glass and shouted, "The ride of your lives, am I right, boys?"

Something clattered in the back and the Joker laughed, face splitting wide in a grin that made Harley's heartrate quicken. She averted her eyes and saw what she had missed earlier — Crane's blood trailing down her body where the Joker had touched her. She felt her face. Her fingers came away pink.

Lipstick or blood?

Harley sat up, her good mood deflating. Her stomach began to churn. The Joker wedged himself close to her, making a show of putting on her seatbelt and wrapping his arm across her shoulders. Harley exhaled slowly. She suddenly had a bad feeling about all this.


The drive to wherever-they-were-going took a really, really long time. They passed by Upper East Side — where the Joker had found Harley at the restaurant — and over a bunch of bridges that led through to another impoverished side of the city. Harley was nearly asleep by the time they pulled over, and was only awake because of the occasional sound coming from the back.

The Joker told Frosty to wait for them, before grabbing Harley by the elbow and pulling her to the massive structure — Ace Chemicals. Harley rubbed at her eyes, trying not to stumble at the pace he'd set. It was dark out, which didn't help.

They climbed a set of dirty metal stairs, up and up, until they were overlooking Gotham City. Harley leaned over the railing, appreciating the moonlight shining over the water and the way the cloud of pollution made the city lights appear a wispy silver. Behind her, the Joker shot the lock on the door. Harley grimaced, first at the deafening gunshot, then again as the door squealed on its hinges.

"Watch where you're goin'," The Joker said, returning his gun to its holster. "They don't announce lost kids in this place."

Harley stepped inside, scrunching her nose. The smell was bitter and caustic, burning up her nostrils. It was warm, but it wasn't until the Joker pulled down on something that turned on all the lights that she realised why. She halted mid-step.

Five more paces and she would have fallen over the ledge into a vat of chemicals. There were ten that she could count, all huge, cylindrical structures full of viscous, bubbling liquid.

What had the Joker said? That they were going for a dip?

Harley's bad feeling was beginning to make total sense.

"Um," she started, trying to hide the wobble in her voice. "Strange place for a date, Mistah Jay. I mean, I'm a girl with sensitive skin and who knows what the fumes are doin' to us right now. Did I ever mention I can't swim? Because I think maybe I should have mentioned I can't swim."

The Joker clicked his tongue, wagging a finger at her. "No take backs," he sung. "You and I always knew we were gonna land ourselves her one day. Just because you-uh — well, you got a little trigger happy with the timeline, don't mean the event ain't happenin'."

The air left Harley's lungs in a rush. She felt a little dizzy.

The Joker rubbed his hands together and came to a stand beside her, looking out at the vats. "This. . .this is the idea, Harley-girl — the joke. The whole shebang." He clapped slowly, once, twice, then raised his arms. "This is the cure to sanity. This is me. But so-o-on," he said, "soon it'll be us. You and me, baby." He cupped Harley's cheeks, thumbing the soft skin beneath her eyes.

Harley swallowed. "I don't know. I really like you, Mistah Jay, but this is like — like having the honeymoon before the wedding. Doesn't really make sense, y'know?"

"Oh-ho, trust me, baby." He turned from her and pulled his guns out to place them on the rail. His voice was deeper than normal, burning with layers of emotion. "You'll know when we're on the honeymoon."

Harley stayed quiet, watching him. The Joker sighed heavily. "C'mon, Quinzel. Let your Mistah Jay look after you." He started forward and she backed up a step, legs hitting the side railing. The Joker paused, watching her intently. He licked his lips. "Better be careful, Doc. You-uh, look like you're tryin' leave. But ol' Harley-girl wouldn't ever try to leave Mistah Jay on purpose, now, would she? Ha-a-arley."

Harley frowned. Something about this conversation was familiar.

Think, Harley, think.

A small room. Hiding under the table. Fear. A syringe.

She was bruised for weeks afterwards.

He's baiting you! a voice hollered. He's hurt you before and he's getting ready to do it again!

She saw herself — the her from weeks ago, the doctor — writing notes at a desk. Holding a file with the Joker's name blazoned across it. Rifling through medications. Measuring the perfect dose. "You're my patient," Harley murmured, staring at nothing. She didn't know where the words were coming from. They weren't from her. "This is unethical."

A medical chart. A little cell.

The Joker grunted. "Doc-tor, now, there ain't anything unethical about love."

Harley met his gaze. His eyes were wide, his expression blank.

Don't believe him, Harley.

What? You mean. . .not at all?

What do you know about him? He basically kidnapped you, drugged you, almost killed Crane and is now trying to drown you in a vat of acid.

The chemical smell was making her fuzzy, teasing dark edges at her vision. Harley clenched her hands into fists. "You beat Crane and I — I watched."

The Joker took her by the shoulders, fingers digging into the back of her neck. "Ooh, no, Doctor's comin' back. Should have upped the voltage."

The was a ball of fury growing in her chest, one she didn't entirely understand. It grew and grew until she was shaking, suffocating on it.

Let me out, the cold, clinical voice said. It was the same one that had been warning her away from the Joker this whole time. I know why you're angry at him. Let me out.

Harley took a deep breath, grasping the Joker's shirt to steady herself. She shut her eyes, and whispered, "All yours, Doctor."


Memories flooded her. Drowned her.

Their first session together, the poker games, the jokes. Their subsequent sessions when he'd opened up to her. The time he'd gotten free of the cuffs and backhanded her. Their almost-friendship bordering on something far more dangerous and obscene. Seeing him as she was now, in her wealth of twisted thoughts, she knew she'd never had a chance. The Joker's personality was the negative to her positive, the crazy to her sane. He loved breaking minds and she loved fixing them.

Her fate had been decided the moment they first met — but then, so had his.

The man she had met in that first session was more likely to try and kill off an obsession than to nurture it. Harley was a weakness. He was breaking her mind, yes, but only to build her up as a strength. Whether that strength would be utilised as a pawn or a queen. . .she had yet to figure that out. Harley opened her eyes, feeling more like her old self than she had in days. She remembered now. She felt overwhelmed. And she was angry.

"You gave me shock therapy," she breathed. Her vision was clearer now, the pain of the chemicals giving her clarity. "You found me that night at the asylum, dying from Crane's toxin, and you gave me shock therapy."

He could have caused her a serious brain injury — could have even killed her. He had no way of knowing how her mind would have reacted with both the toxin and electricity trying to mould it. He'd gambled with her life, with her sanity.

The Joker looked at her, studying almost, as if curious. "Ye-e-eah," he said slowly, voice dark.

Harley blinked. And then she grabbed him by the neck and threw him onto his back.

"You —" she seethed, straddling him, holding his arms down with her legs. "Do you know what you've done to me?" She slammed his head against the grated flooring. He laughed, staying pliable beneath her. It made her livid. "I hear voices," she shouted, slamming his head down again, hard enough that his hair began to mat with blood. "I'm a psychiatrist, Mistah Jay — what kind of psychiatrist hears voices?"

One with a dissociative personality disorder produced as a coping mechanism for extreme trauma, one of the voices said.

Harley screamed and wrapped her hands around the Joker's neck. He was still smiling, but his laugh had turned into a wheeze. His eyes held a watery sheen. Harley knew they weren't tears of remorse — nowhere close. He was enjoying this.

Her transformation was everything he'd been hoping for.

Harley swallowed, blinking her own tears away. "These," she said, flexing her fingers on the sides of his neck, "are your carotid arteries. And this"—she pushed her thumb into the middle of his throat— "is your trachea. Do you know what'll happen if I apply too much pressure, Mistah Jay? If you're lucky you'll only pass out. If you're unlucky, a blood clot will form and you'll have a stroke."

The Joker mouthed something, his gaze faraway. His cheeks were flushed again. Just like when he kissed her.

It's not fun, is it? Harley wanted to shout. It's not a joke when people play with your brain. But she recognised the hypocrisy in the words. She had been trying to rifle around in his brain for weeks.

Harley collapsed into him, moving her hands to clutch at his shirt and resting her face in the crook of his neck. She couldn't stop the sob, even if she wanted to. "You meanie, Mistah Jay." She pounded him on the chest, right where she could feel the erratic beat of his heart. "I ain't done nothin' nasty to you, and now. . ." She sniffed. "Now I don't get a choice, do I?" Harley cried into the fabric of his shirt, uncaring when he managed to free his arms and wrap them around her back. For the first few seconds she expected pain, maybe death, but all he did was tap a rhythm into her skin. Played her ribs like a piano.

"Mmm," he hummed after minutes had passed and her tears had yet to die down. "Shh, now, Harley Quinn. Shh." His voice was raspy. Harley could feel it vibrate through her own body. "Don't cry, baby. Daddy likes the mean streak — couldn't-uh, be his li'l monster without it."

Harley cried even harder at that, and what started as tears of grief and helplessness soon became a purge. She didn't have any other choice — couldn't go back to her old life, not after shooting Batman, blowing up the Joker's hideaway and . . . everything else. Besides, the Joker would chase her if she ran — would lock her up probably and play with her until she was the version of herself that suited him best.

She didn't blame him for it. She knew his kind of pathology better than anyone, even if she didn't entirely understand it yet. Neither of them were going to make it out of this unscathed, but it would be her choice.

The Joker was right. She did love him. But she was damn well going to make him work for it.

Harley sat up and wiped her face. "You really want me to jump in there?" she asked.

The Joker's pupils dilated — in desire or a concussion? — and his mouth parted slightly. Slowly, he nodded.

Harley's breath hitched. She stood and offered him her hand. The slide of his skin against hers felt sinful.

"Well then," she said on a sigh. She untucked his shirt, before smoothing her hands up and across the soft skin of his back. "You first."

Harley pushed them both over the edge.

She saw the flash of his smile, heard the creaking bones of his laughter and then — pain.

Everything burned.

The chemicals flooded her sinuses and forced their way down her throat. The rush of it tore through her until it was branding itself down to her marrow, down to her very soul. Raw energy crackled through her body.

It hurt, but she felt incredible. She felt alive — euphoric. Invincible, even.

Was this how the Joker felt all the time?

A hand wrapped around her arm and she broke the surface. Harley coughed, trying to take in everything at once. Her dress was disintegrating, making spirals of navy in the green sludge. Where the Joker touched her, she felt like an exposed nerve.

"Mistah Jay," she said, when she could breath again, and not for any real reason. Her voice sounded the same but different, somehow. The timbre was richer, almost lilting. The Joker's shirt had been burned through in enough places that she could run the backs of her fingers across the grin that stretched form hip to hip.

He was a beautiful man.

"Baby," he said, pushing their foreheads together. "You and me — we're gonna own this city."

Harley drew pictures on his skin, little lines of chemical that she knew would hurt for days. "Hmm. Only if you say please."

He inhaled deeply, taking her in, and whispered, "Pretty, pretty, pretty."

Harley smiled and nuzzled behind his ear. She felt . . . new. Reborn, almost. Not Doctor Quinzel, and certainly not the Harley that had been running loose these last few days. More like a mixture of both, but with more of him inside her. She liked it. Powerful, was what she felt.

Harley smoothed the Joker's hair back, laughing at the mess. "Your hair looks like the puddin' gramps used to make when I won a tournament. Stuff could kill ya, but we ate it." The memory was a sudden pulse, there and then gone, but it seemed important. "But you wouldn't do that to me, would ya, Mistah Jay? I can do whatever I want with you?"

"O-o-o-h, I dunno 'bout that, pumpkin. A little bit of killing never did anyone any harm." He pulled back, gaze catching on her bare abdomen and shoulders. Somehow her bra had stayed in one piece, though Harley wasn't sure why. Even her bandages had fallen apart.

Harley cocked an eyebrow. "See somethin' you like there, Mistah? You know it's rude to stare." A beat of loaded silence passed and Harley placed her hands on her hips. "What am I gonna do with you next time if you're so easily distracted?"

Truthfully that was the opposite of what she considered the Joker. It wasn't that he was easily distracted, but that he was hyper focused in what he did. His plans were too consistently — meticulously — laid out for the kind of attention deficit diagnosis that world-renowned psychiatrists had labelled him with before. The joker was always paying attention, just on multiple things at once. On the surface it appeared to be ADHD combined with sociopathy and a borderline personality disorder, but dig a little deeper, and that didn't add up. He was impulsive and would lose himself in the moment, but he was in control of his mind; whatever impulses he had were of his own choice to carry out.

It occurred to Harley that maybe the Joker was the sanest man she'd ever met. Maybe that's what made him so crazy.

"Next time," the Joker muttered, "already wants another go at the ol' dive."

Harley smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. She felt him shudder when her chest met his, fabric scraping across sensitive skin. "Well, don't you?"

"Next time," he said, shoulders rising with each breath, "will only happen if it's a skinny di-p."

Harley laughed. She could agree to that.


Holy moly, it's been a while! If you're reading this, then all I can say is thank you so much for sticking around. Thank you for all those who reached out with reviews and PMs - it's because of you that I've been able to continue this story.

Hope you enjoyed it and stay tuned for next time!