Disclaimer: I do not work for DC Comics, but come on, I totally could…but I don't. Sniffle sniffle.

X.x.x.x.X

Waking up without Harley next to him was both a blessing and a curse. Sure, that meant that he could actually sleep without her trying to spoon him, but it also gave him chills. Where could she be, and what kind of mayhem was she getting into without him? She could get sent back to Arkham, or taken advantage of, or…'Not that I care,' he'd tell himself, and roll over onto one of her fuzzy, cackling babies. The Joker knew he couldn't get back to sleep. That was another thing about her that he hated (or loved, but he'd never say so) about his moll: She drove him crazy when she was around, but when she wasn't he-could he possibly?-worried about her. 'Not worried,' he'd tell himself bitterly, lighting a cigarette and inhaled too much smoke. 'Harl's not that bright. She could be tricked into telling the police, or even-ugh-Batty of our hideout,' he'd think, wheezing as the smoke invaded his lungs and he got up, looking for something to wash it down.

He found gin, and an empty apartment. Calling out her name, along with some derogatory slurs, and some profanities, all he heard was the scuttling of mice on the carpet of clothing and pizza boxes, and the whines of the hyenas, wanting to be let out, away from the rattrap. The Joker kicked one; he couldn't which, and grunted in satisfaction as it let out a startled yelp. It scampered away, into the kitchen where it could hide, while eating crumbs from stolen muffins. The Clown Prince of Crime was indifferent to the hyena's feelings, was indifferent to everything except one thing: a certain former criminal psychologist, five foot three bottle blonde. And it drove him even crazier than he normally was.

Smash. A shade-less lamp was hurtled out the window, where it would hit an innocent pedestrian.

Crack. The bottle of gin was flung at the TV, putting yet another fissure in it, the spilled contents and glass falling to the floor. The hyena that wasn't in hiding timidly crept forward, to lick up the alcohol, and get bits of the bottle in its tongue.

Thump. The "pet" was kicked, same spot as his brother, and sent to retreat underneath the three-legged couch, to lick its wounds.

"If you think you got it bad, wait 'til the bitch walks in!" The Joker cackled, half angry, half manic. He drove a fist through the wall, to match the rest of the holes. Before long, the rattrap was even worse, with everything in shambles, two very scares "babies" and a madman who couldn't admit why he was so upset.

The door-now standing on one hinge-opened, a confused blonde in cutoffs and a tight baby doll shirt standing with her head cocked. She was holding a large brown paper bag, slung in one arm, and in the other, her beloved popgun. The Joker, still shaking, was sure whether to beat the sense out of her, or sigh in relief that she was ok. He just stood there, seething, heart racing in a way he couldn't explain. Finally, Harley stepped in, over the broken chair, looking around in amazement.

"What's wrong Mr.J? Did ya not want bagels for breakfast?"

X.x.x.x.X

I basically have been meaning to write this for months, although I really only had the first sentence to work with. I love the last line, it makes it kind of fluffy.