2014.04.15 - Joker and Harley Hijinx: Love Hurts

It has been hours. The Joker has been simply sitting within one of his private safehouses, legs perfectly crossed and settled on a crate of his toys. A number of dangerous items are littered around, leaning against the walls. He faces one glazed window, light of the evening streets barely filtering in. There is one dead henchman upon the ground, foot keeping the door ajar; someone who came to ask him something. He doesn't remember what it is. And it was not even much of a humorous kill; a single razor playing card stuck deep within the jugular. Three of diamonds. Dismissive.
Nobody has dared intrude on him since. His expression a statue, slowly shuffling the deck of thin metal cards with razor edges. Unseen, his mind is a whirlwind. The distracted Batman. The peculiar arrival of the Talon. Confirming the Court of Owls from the Riddler. He is unsure how to react to it all...
And in that state, he is as dangerous as he can be.
Although he has a purple test tube settled on the edge of the window before him. A prank, yes. Trying to distract himself by having fun in New York City. But he still feels off. Like a gravity in his madness, pulling him back where he doesn't wish it.
Somewhere... excessively lethal.
The henchmen all got the idea pretty quickly that there was an invisible 'keep out' sign hanging above the Joker's private sanctuary. They mill about just outside spreading whispered concerns back and forth when Harley jaunts into the safehouse with her hair bobbing with each skip. Noting the general atmosphere of discontent she cannot help but wonder what exactly resides behind door number one. On the best of days she'd rush in through the door and tackle her 'puddin' into a luv hug of luv.
The rain cloud of violence has this whole, let's go do something else, thing going on. She can smell it. She can also see it in the hench person's faces. So when she walks up and they all look at her in unison with 'oh thank god she's here' eyes, it's like a deer caught in headlights. "Uh... heya.. why are you lookin' at m-" hands wrap around her arms and legs, "Hey! You put me down right this second!"
Flail as she might, she's still tossed into the room and huffs on the ground indignantly. Her red and black jester cap tilted at a jaunting angle over her left eye, both of which are staring at the menacing image of the Joker sitting on his throne of violence.
"Heya Mistah J..." Weak smile, on her butt. "You look like you need a big'ol hug." This could go either way.
The door creaks open wildly, and a moment later the corpse is drawn out to allow it to shut completely. It's a small affair. Twenty by twenty feet. Harley knows the Joker's moods better than anyone alive, even the Batman. Her first impulse is probably to try to pull open the door to get back out, but the ruthless goons are having none of it and pinning the handle shut.
Only the metallic rasp of the cards is heard, slowly repeated, not yet acknowledging her presence. She's been away from town for a bit; last she saw Joker, he was the same as always. What could have happened in only a few weeks...?
Harley's mouth opens to say something else, but she gets that inkling along her spine that suggests that maybe it would be a better time for keeping her trap shut. Maybe, in fact, it's the best time for getting the hell right out of dodge! She goes for the door only to find it held shut and as hard as she tugs, the combined might of the men on the other end are keeping her pinned in with the menacing persona shuffling those very glimmy pretty cards in very pretty fingers.
She leans in against it and growl whispers against the locked portal, "Let me the fuck out of here..." She rarely swears, usually has a general jovial nature about herself that is almost infectious, but she knows dangerous and, maybe most importantly, she knows the Joker. While she hopes, and that's a big hope, that he wont kill her... she's learned that there are far worse things than dying when it comes to the Clown Prince.
"I swear to god I'll rip y-.." BANG! She kicks the door and winces, then turns to glance at the Harlequin over her shoulder, sheepish grin in tow. First and foremost, she fixes her headwear as to be presentable. If he's going to kill her, she's not going to look like no common rag-a-muffin, that's for damn sure...
"Heya puddin'... rough night at the office?" Weak. So weak. Tip toeing towards him cautiously, like he's an aligator with it's mouth open.
The bang of kicking the door causes the Joker to jump. She glances at him as he shifts, like a gargoyle slowly coming to lift. Arms extend, elbows popping, neck snapping with a twist. Slowly he unfurls his legs, gentle clack of fine loafers upon the cracked concrete of the building.
"Harley." he says, tone... absent. No smile. No frown. Expression neutral. Neutral is one of the worst things that can be seen on him. That means his mind is focused like a laser on something, every second rolling a dice where the wrong number popping up is fatal. "Where've you been..."
The majority of the deck is in one hand, but the other has five fanned out, listlessly clutched between closed fingers.
No good can come of this. That's the very first thing that comes to mind as Joker unfurrows from the throne of dangerous toys and starts her way. Harley, glutton for punishment that she may be, is not stupid. Crazy, certainly, but not stupid. While her instincts are all telling her to run, she holds out hope that a little love can win over the savage beast and instead starts walking ever so cautiously in his direction. Already ducking her head incase he tries to embed one of those playing cards in her throat.
"There was this art exibit in Los Angeles..." She starts out meakly, slinking ever closer until she can coyly wrap her arms around his midsection. "Long story short, I totally invested in art. Aren't your proud?"
He probably isn't, but she's hugging him now. WHich is nomore safe than when she was standing several feet away, which is probably very much less safe, in fact. "Missed you." In a tiny voice.
When Harley motions to hug towards the Joker, the hand with the fanned cards slashes out. She'd dodge; there's really no other choice. Otherwise her throat will be ripped open, with decidedly fatal results. Unnaturally swift, no body language to read, avoiding at least a nick might be difficult. "I'm in a bad mood." he states direly afterwards, as if this was not readily apparent. "Someone is messing with the Batman. Normally I wouldn't mind... everyone wants a piece... but he was /ignoring me./" The hiss that follows is dangerous, and followed by another pair of slashes, advancing on Harley with an aggression born from needing an outlet. "How dare he?! How dare he, after everything we've done, all our grand games together, stand face to face with me... DISTRACTED?!" At the last, all five cards are hurled in tandem, whirling through the air in a spiral towards Harley. This isn't a first, of course. When he's like this, it takes a lot of experience to not end up like the goon she saw propping open the door. But when *this* dark... well. Can she even remember a time?
Stupid, Harley, so stupid. She's no sooner reaching out to hug him that she's having to dodge thrown razor cards. The first one just barely doesn't end her miserable life. It leaves a long trail of blood along her throat when it slices cleanly through her suit and draws out a pained yelp. The second she dances away from with a quick cartwheel, handspring, and vaults back out of the way of the third. Flipping quickly over the fourth, then fifth, only to be stopped in her tracks when five cards hit the wall infront of her in an outlining pattern that acts as a startling reminder of just how much love can immitate a battlefield.
Fuck you Pat Benetar, fuck you very much.
She's not necessarily crying, but it's hard not to be completely gripped by an unearthly fear at just how aggressively he's pouring his anger out on her. It's a steadfast mind for not showing him how scared she is and risking some rising temperment in his fury that keeps her from breaking down into a puddle.
"He's gettin' old, mistah J!" She shouts out in a squeaky voice. Turning to regard him with wide eyes, already patting the air. "Which isn't any excuse!!" Quick retreat, smart move Harley. "Jus' that, you know... impotence an' all.. maybe we should send him some levitra? You know, preformance issues..." Wringing her hands together hopefully.
Slowly Joker begins to stride towards Harley, strange and lurching motions. Flickers of light flash over him like a strobe, each flash of blackness revealing him closer. Somewhere amidst it all a flourish has manifested a butterfly knife in his hand, acrobatic whirl placing it in a reverse grip. But he pauses at the joke. A faint twitch to his face as if to grin, falter to his form as a flash of the Joker she knows returns. Like in slow motion he approaches again, attempting to strike out and grasp his better half by the throat. "We're BOTH getting old." he allows, bringing up the knife. Moving to trace it along the flesh of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood. "Maybe he's worn by now. Maybe he's burned out." The knife strikes out, sinking halfway to the hilt and impaling one pigtail. "...Maybe I should shut the circus down, and just finish things..." Another flicker on his face, before eyes return manic. Tightening the grip of his assaulting hand on her throat. "Hmm? Slaughter the Bat-Family? Turn Gotham into a warzone? Kill everyone inside it? Some epic duel atop flaming wreckage, before we both finally fall?!"
Harley dangles from the end of the Joker's hand with a look of genuine concern creeping into her eyes as oxygen becomes a distant memory with the tightening of his grip. Her hands wrap around his wrist, nails digging into flesh nearly to the bone as she sputters helplessly to draw in a breath, only to have it quickly gasped back out when the knife slides across her face.
'Think Harley.' The inner, intelligent, woman tries to negociate the dangerous terrain that is the Joker's mood. Both feet come up to plant firmly in the center of his chest and push off with her back supported by the wall, but she has nowhere to go even if it 'does' give her space. She falls straight to the floor with a humph... and sucks in gasping breaths that are starved for oxygen while holding herself up with both hands. Shes' staring at him, feet coming up beneath herself quickly, ready to spring away if she has to continue defensively defending herself from her beau. "I mean, killin'em all would be fun, sure..." She says in a hoarse voice, "But then what? It's jus' 'ovah'.. then, the papers paint the dork knight as a hero and you're jus' villified.. forever known, not for your brilliance and flare for the dramatics, but jus' the man who died with the Batman."
She's stretching it, she knows it, but what else is there? "This seems like a 'remind him why he shouldn't be over lookin' you moment' puddin'! Heck, I'm even seein' a montage."
The Joker staggers backwards, fingers loosening enough for Harley to thump to the floor. He does come in for a brutal kick, but Harley in the midst of acrobatics is hard for him to pin down, hurling boxes and a porcelein penguin at Harley. If he catches her, she's probably dead. That's another reason she got thrown in here. When he's just doing a temper-tantrum like this, she's capable of AVOIDING him. No guns, no Smilex, no explosives, just 'dear god don't let him grab you'.
But then, Suddenly Joker stops, holding a large crate overhead. The bottom, cracked, spills tons of rubber duckies on his head, falling to the ground in a cascade of squeaks. He just lets it drop beside, before kneading at his temples.
"Harley... after all this time... do you think I'm doing this for fame...?!" His eyes snap open. He moves towards Harley, a feint to cause her to jump towards another box. To instead kick it and ruin her landing, attempting to snatch and yank her down to the ground in order to straddle her. "What makes you think... I care about anything BUT the Batman?! Our souls are linked!! Neither of us may die while the other lives!! But he's getting old. Slow. Losing his /touch/. He's not the man I remember... after the theatre... it's like our spark was snuffed out..."
Hands would move to her throat again, almost gently. "Even the brightest candle burns out. But you're right. I'd make it the greatest fireworks ever seen. When we fall, he would be remembered as a hero... but I would be remembered as the man who /killed/ him, and a MILLION others. All those I killed, all those I maimed, are all to join the choir of angels who ask him, from his chains in hell..."
"Why?!" He'd yank Harley to thump her down. "Why, Batman?!" Another thump. "WHY DID YOU NEVER STOP HIM?!"
Harley knows this moment is different. She's seen him angry, in the middle of a tiss that ends in a few scars dotting her body and a little bit of her psychi destroyed, but never has she seen him like this. There's no dramatics to it, he's not playing with her... As his hands wrap around her throat and begin to squeeze the life out, her own hands wrap around his wrists trying to pull them away, and she realizes intimately that she's seeing the man 'behind' the makeup.
Before, she's always scared of him, there's never a moment of her crazy, upsidedown relationship with the Clown Prince that she's not terrified. That's why it works: because she's afraid of him and she understands him enough to know everyone should be... Now, she doesn't know what to think. As the oxygen is cut off from her brain and her vision goes a little blurry beneath the weight of his palms pressing in against her trachea, all she can think about is how pathetic she must look. Laying there gagging with her face all made up like a clown in skimpy clothes...
"Harleen Quinzel, this is your life!" The internal monologue says to her as her vision fades just a little to blackness. "A young promising doctor! Twisted into a psychopath and killed on the floor of a warehouse by a madman!"
She growls up at him like Bud or Lou and throws every bit of strength behind her left fist against the right side of his jaw. If it knocks him off of her, she jumps to her feet and swings her right foot into a kick like Paley going for a goal. "YOU WHINEY LITTLE BITCH!" She screams at him and dives on his back. "Stop actin' like one of his little bat-kids butt hurt cus he's not givin' you a hug..." She's furious, tugging at her hair until the pigtails are completely down, partially covering the tear streaked makeup under her eyes. "Mistah J, /remind/ him.. he ain't scared nomore... so let's up the ante on his bat-ass.. Let's find where he sleeps an' leave'em a tv dinner."
This is also a first. Harley has always been submissive, to nearly the death. Because attacking the Joker? Well. That's a death sentence. She's barely allowed to talk out of turn without something potentially fatal thrown at her. The blow to his face catches him completely off-guard, and he's kicked right in the ribs, letting out a 'hrk!' noise before collapsing on the ground face-first. He just lays there, not defending himself for long moments. A painful cough, turning into a muted giggle. But it's not normal. Not the return of the unhinged man that she knows. "You... you're right. It's all... become so by the book now. We've been... doing it so long... Maybe the joke's not funny anymore...?"
He moves to grasp Harley by the ankle, before his joybuzzer would go off. A horrendous CRACK of electricity intending to course through her, and the Joker by proxy, giggling as he makes the attempt.
Harley isn't even sure where the strength came from and it's gone almost as quickly as it surfaced. Her eyes haven't suddenly gone all terrified again, now she's just considering exactly what the implications of her disobedience might be... She's breathing heavy as he lays there giggling psychotically, blood oozing steadily from the fresh slash across her jaw and tears rolling down her cheeks in a steady stream of unbriddled anger mixed with a healthy helping of hopelessness.
If the Joker's unhinged, what does she HAVE?! Sure, she's been out on her own before, but she always knew he was out there, just waiting for the moment when they make up. If he's gone, if he's really really gone... she's going to have a lot of figuring her shit out to do.
"It doesn't have to be tha' way pud-BRRRAAAAAAAAAAAGFH"
His hand wraps around her ankle and sends electricity rolling up through her body like ol' sparky down at blackgate. Every muscle goes rigid, control of the simplest of functions fail. Her eyes roll back in her skull and saliva and blood are spit out as she drops backwards and hits the floor with a loud, resounding, 'crack' when her skull meets concrete.
The Joker didn't receive the brunt of it, and is oddly resistant to such things due to his warped genetics. Twitching, he slowly picks himself up back to his feet once more, panting heavily. Blood coming from his own lip, he slowly retrieves the dropped switchblade from the floor, and then manoeuvres back to Harley. This time dropping a knee across her chest and the other her arm, preventing any leverage from her awkward position.
"I don't need anyone." he states, voice solemn. "Nobody... nobody but the Batman. Without him... I've got nothing. Nothing..."
Slowly he raises the knife, moving to shift Harley's chin away. In all her time with this broken man, all those years, she has never once seen him hesitate. He would kill so quick, fast, and impulsively that sometimes he seemed to genuinely regret it.
Which makes the failure of the guillotine to fall just as unusual as everything else.
"...!!" Suddenly the Joker drops the knife to the ground, grasping his face. "...I..." He has strange, flashing visions of a warm face smiling at him in a kitchen. "...Don't... want to kill you... right now..." It comes out like something broken.
Shifting off, he folds over Harley, gripping her by the lap. Weeping. Open, broken weeping. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." he hiccups out. "If you think the game should go on... that it's still funny... I guess that's enough for now...!!"
Harley is sweating, frothy drool bubbling out of her mouth mixed with blood, and her eyes are only now rolling out of her skull. In her own mind she's waiting patiently for the fall of the blade with every muscle still twitching from the curent run through it only moments before. Her hair mats to her face stuck to blood and bile, but the knife never comes. Instead she hears distant words of apology, remorse, in her ears it's so far away she isn't even sure if it's the Joker or the Reaper come to collect.
When the Clown pulls her up into his lap she just lays there. Her face slides down his purple suit, tugging her mouth open against the vest beneath the jacket. She's like an heroin addict who just ODed... All four limbs held out straight and twisted in odd angles as the twitch slowly dies and leaves her a lump of flesh and leather on a madman's lap.
When she finally moves of her own accord it's one hand. Painfully slow, it rises up until it's right at the front of his face only for her to pinch his nose between her index knuckle and thumb. The sound that comes out of her is half bloody gurgle and half whimper of sore lungs, "Huaaaanngk..." Bloody tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, she just honked his nose.
"Shhh, shhh. It's okay, Harley... I saved you. I saved you from the lunacy of reality. You get me. You get the joke... nobody else ever *has*..." he murmurs into her ear, as if completely oblivious -- or perhaps not even caring -- if she's cognizant of his words. But then she does the 'honk', and his lips twitch upwards once more. Digging around in his pocket, he pulls out a needle, and suddenly sinks it into Harley's neck. After pressing down, he flicks it away. In seconds, Harley would be as high as a kite, all pain and sorrow lost to a world of magical hallucination.
Afterwards he gently, carefully places her down on the ground, using the pile of yellow rubber duckies to keep her head up. He adjusts his tie, wiping away the blood, and smooths his hair back. Slowly, slowly, the grin returns to his face. The lurking spectre of the monster deep aside has once more been swallowed by madness.
"Well. The game must go on!" the Joker coos. He goes to grasp the small test tube of purple liquid, tucking it into a front pocket. A moment later, he kicks the door. The goons outside all disperse, eyes wide, having no clue what happened within.
After a few moments, visible relief. "C'mon boys. Honey's gonna sleep awhile. I've got a kitty to catch...!"
Harley is riding on cloud nine, grinning despite the absurd amount of pain she was in only a few seconds ago. Her head rests on the ducky's, blissfully unaware of the world around her until... until that door opens.
Suddenly there's not enough pain or drugs in the world that can keep her down.
The clownette is on her feet so fast nobody could have ever known she was moments ago electricuted nearly to death. That she's probably got broken ribs and a wicked new scar on her cheek.
She stares at the goons on the otherside of the doorway with their wide, stupid eyes... Joker's knife glinting in her hand as she ambles forward towards them at a lurch. Blood oozes out of her mouth, hair swings and sticks to her face, but as they stare at her wondering how in the name of 'god' she's actually moving at all, she's closed the distance on one of them. The biggest one of them. The one who called her a 'bitch' after throwing her in the room.
The knife slides inbetween his ribs about thirteen times, jabbing at his heart, lung, kidney. She's got a death grip on the back of his neck the whole time her fist slams against the side of his body, shoving that knife all the way to the hilt in his side until the only sound is a sucking sick slap of leather glove against bloody death.
The knife hangs like a gory black object of terrible retribution.. Face covered in blood that is both her's, Joker's, and splatters from a very dead goon. She heaves a sigh... then grins at the rest. A sloppy, drug induced grin as she turns back into the room and ambles back to the duckies where she collapses like a puppet with her strings cut.
The Joker simply stands there, grinning, when Harley shifts past him. As if a pause button had been hit for her entire presence. The gang members have no idea what happened to her, but the gurgled yells of the man she brutally assaults cause the remainder to stiffen. Of course nobody intrudes, says a word, letting the terror in their eyes paint vivid pictures. The hapless brute collapses twitching, hissing out bubbled breaths, while the others simply look on in horror.
Once Harley is back to cuddle her duckies, the Joker adjusts his lapels. "...Well?" he repeats, voice as cold and sharp as the dagger remaining lodged in the dying man's ribs. "What are you WAITING for?"
And then, everyone begins to move.
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