Hey guys, this is my first fic so please bear with me. I read somewhere that The Joker's look in TDK was heavily inspired by Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious… and we all know who Sid's other half is (cough… Nancy). Boom, inspiration.

Other influences include The Killing Joke, Joker (graphic novel), Arkham Asylum/City video games and B:TAS. This Joker looks like Heath Ledger/Azzarello Joker and acts 85% HL and 15% Mark Hamill. Gotham City is primarily Nolanverse but creeps into Arkham City territory.

Normal font indicates present day and italics indicate the past (10 years ago - this will remain constant)

DC owns everything.

I want you to know
He's not coming back
Look into my eyes
I'm not coming back
-Knives Out, Radiohead

Harley nestled into her office chair and began furiously fidgeting. She'd been gripped by nausea all morning and had barely kept down a cup of black coffee after spewing up her first three. Her hands began to shake and she had to drop the file that she had studied all throughout the night. She'd managed about two hours of sleep and Aaron Cash had even pointed out her visible exhaustion at the Arkham Island checkpoint.

"Aww, Doc, you work too hard," he'd chided and she'd responded with a strained chuckle.

The entire island was abuzz with frenzied activity. It had completely transformed within a week from a melancholy, sluggish outpost for Gotham's criminally insane into a bustling, alert fortress. Security guards, orderlies and doctors were all rustling about and the hushed whispers of gossip fluttered through the air. The excitement even permeated the bleak walls of the asylum and infected some of the more coherent inmates. They gossiped amongst themselves in the recreation rooms and cafeteria, murmuring about the shift in the underbelly politics of Crime Alley, the heightened security at Arkham and, of course, about him.

She'd hurried past the swirling rumors, past the I-heard-he's and the nah-but-Joe-told-me's and crashed straight into Dr. Jonathan Crane. She had been so startled that she nearly vomited on him, possibly because she'd had a sizeable crush on him since he was her Psychopharmacology T.A. her junior year of college, or maybe it was the fact that The Joker's photograph was now staring up at her.

A week ago, Jeremiah Arkham had assigned her to be The Joker's psychiatrist. She had begged, cried, implored, with every fiber of her being, to be taken off the case. For one, she was entirely inexperienced. She'd recently entered the sixth month of her internship at Arkham Asylum and had finished medical school less than a year ago. Secondly, something stirred in her every time she saw him on a television screen, and she wasn't exactly sure what that was. She was sure, however, that she did not want to be alone in a room with him. Her superior in turn pleaded with her; apparently The Joker had personally demanded her as his psychiatrist. He would refuse to speak, to open his mouth at all, unless she provided his treatment. Jeremiah Arkham, in a decision hidden from the prying eye of the media, had defied protocol and assigned an intern to the criminal mastermind known as The Joker. The corrupt warden merely assumed that his beautiful, young intern could get the monster initially talking, and then he would subsequently send in the best experts the entire country had to offer. The Joker would be cured, under his administration, and he would enjoy an excellent legacy, unlimited government funding and, most likely, a bid for Governor.

Harley was merely a political pawn and she knew it.

The most she'd wrenched out of him was to allow her to conduct unrecorded sessions. She had absolutely refused to utilize a tape recorder and even threatened to quit her job over the issue. Not willing to let go of his potential glory, he had conceded.

A searing pain flashed through her skull; she hadn't slept for an entire week. Arkham Asylum granted their newest patient the standard seven days for transition before beginning any psychiatric evaluation. As she looked down at the file, at his scarred, painted face, a slew of memories slammed through her head. She remembered the paralysis that he had inflicted upon the city and the utter fear that gripped Gothamites every time they turned on a television. Yet she remembered more than that. Much, much more than that. She would have wondered why The Joker had demanded her as his psychiatrist, but she already knew the reason.

Suddenly, the door flew open and two guards dragged him in. They shoved him down onto her brown bolted chaise before glancing up at her.

"Hi, Doctor Quinzel," Frank Boles grinned at her. She returned a weak smile.

"Hi Frank. Hi Brendan," she nodded. They sheepishly tipped their hats at her and shuffled out the door, leaving the two alone. She silently wished unspeakable fates upon Jeremiah Arkham, as he had effectively chucked her into the gladiator pit, unarmed, and sealed the damn gate.

She could feel the lion's heated stare boring into her and finally decided to meet his gaze.

"Well helllllllloooooo," he crooned, grinned wickedly. Her stomach clenched and she forced herself to swallow the dry lump in her throat.

He was a bit taller, she noted, perhaps by an inch or two. His face had aged considerably as well. He looked… haggard. Dark, purple circles clung underneath his black eyes and he'd developed new creases along his forehead. He squinted, deepening the laugh lines crinkled around his weary eyes. His skin was drained and dull, and it was clear that he'd been neglecting personal hygiene for some time now. He ran a tongue over his yellowed teeth, and as his shoulder twitched, a dark lock of green grease-painted hair fell onto his forehead. His tics had worsened considerably. His right knee jiggled at a steady agitated pace, bouncing his cuffed hands. He looked like a nightmare. Further, he looked like a nightmare undergoing the seventh day of withdrawal symptoms.

Years of cocaine, insomnia and madness would do that to a man.

"You don't look happy to see me," he interrupted. He had twisted his scarred mouth into a mock pout.

The scars. They'd healed thoroughly, yet without his signature makeup, they appeared raw and swollen. He periodically flicked his tongue out to assuage the infection, she was sure, but she'd need to get him on an antibiotic as soon as possible.

And a detox routine.

"Good afternoon, Mister Joker," she smiled politely. He drew his brows together and stared at her in childish disbelief.

"Mister Joker? What's… uh, with the formalities, Harl?"

She raised a hand to clear her throat. "If you would please, call me Doctor Quinzel," she gestured. He stared at her dubiously and shook his head.

"What?"

"It's to maintain professionalism in our doctor-patient relationship," she attempted a weak smile.

"Doctor…Patient…Relationship?" he spat.

"It is my understanding, Mister Joker, that you personally requested me as your psychiatrist. Now, this goes against protocol, as normally we would have you evaluated by a multitude of professionals before assigning you a permanent psychiatrist, but I was told you were… insistent."

He exploded into laughter.

"Fuck, how long has it been? You must be rusty, Harl. I understand… I understand. Daddy hasn't been around to fine-tune his gal. Want me to rev you up? You've got some kinks that I can definitely shake out."

He winked and her face reddened. "That's extremely inappropriate," she scoffed. "Please do not speak to me in that way."

"I mean, I'm sure a shmuck or two has taken a ride, but we both know that I'm the only one who can really work a Harley," he grinned darkly.

"Please stop," she demanded feebly.

"Harley? Harrrrrley? Harleeeeyyyyyyyy," he whined loudly.

"Stop –"

"Harrrrrlllleeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy y –"

"It's Dr. Quinzel," she finally snapped.

"Fuck you, Doc. I want Harley," he snarled, snapping forward. A dark rage clouded his eyes and she shifted uneasily in her chair. She briefly jotted:

Mood swings have worsened exponentially

"She's right here," she relented with a sigh.

"No. No. No no no no no no. I want her. I want her. I want Harley. I want my Harley. I want her," he wailed. He began stomping his feet against the ground in a tantrum. She stared at him in disbelief.

"I'm right here," she repeated, "I'm here. I am your Doctor, Mister Joker. Do you understand? We do not have a personal… relationship."

He stared at her incredulously before declaring, "Harley… We have fucked in every… meaning… of… the… word."

Ten Years Ago

Fifty pairs of eyes shot up to drink her in. In response, she idly smoothed out her black dress, naïve to the predatory leers prying at her full hips. Or perhaps, she was keenly aware and simply chose to ignore her audience. She strode confidently down her tarnished catwalk, her crown of tousled golden hair bouncing lightly. A myriad of stares scanned her dress, which was about an inch too short, down to her scuffed burgundy Docs. Several boys toward the front of the bus whistled at her, pushing out their letterman jacket-clad chests at the new piece of meat. She ignored their vulgar catcalls and continued forth, passing by several venomous female leers before deciding on the only open seat toward the back right corner of the bus.

Mutedly, she noted the passing scenes of Gotham's urban decay from her chipped bus window and pondered if she could ever consider such a place to be home. She'd moved from Brooklyn in June and had festered all summer in a foreign, unforgiving city. Today was the first day of school - the first peer-to-peer interaction she would have - all within the walls of the adolescent cesspit known as Gotham High. Other than busting her ass waitressing at the Iceberg Lounge all summer, she'd hardly had social interactions with the people of Gotham. Instead of saving her money she'd been blowing it on hour-long trains back into New York. It's not that she exactly had an abundance of friends there either, but she missed it. She missed Brooklyn.

The bagels, the bodegas (not "delis"), the attitude. Yiddish was practically a second language to her. Not only because her mother was Jewish, but because it was a quintessential part of life in Brooklyn. And she couldn't understand for the life of her why stoops didn't exist in Gotham.

Half the mob practically originated in Bensonhurst… She'd been getting free meals at the best Italian joints in town since she was fifteen – a gratuitous and permanent result of a brief fling or two with a couple of mob princes. Though it wasn't exactly paradise (the Feds referred to it as Crooklyn), it was home. It had made her. Her accent, her charm, her toughness. She knew exactly how to charm a mob boss and had the bodega guy on the block calling her "boss."

She knew what it was to love a city, though she knew perfectly well that a city didn't have to love you back.

She stared out into Gotham's abyss and crinkled her nose. It had an insidious media reputation, and though she'd suspected that the Lounge had its share of mob connections, she had yet to see the city's true underbelly. All she knew, at this point, was that this city hated her. And she hated it right back.

At this, she popped her headphones in and blasted the volume.

Immediately, she felt someone tap her left shoulder. She turned around, only to be greeted by an empty seat. Puzzled, she turned back around and suddenly froze: there was now someone sitting next to her, sluggishly waving a flexed hand in her face. She pulled out an ear bud just in time to catch him croon,

"Hellllllooooo…"

She blinked several times before forcing out, "hi."

"Whatcha listening to, toots?" The stranger leaned in, peering directly into her large, baby blue eyes. He was grinning wildly.

She stared back into a set of muddy brown ones. A mop of loose sandy brown waves crept past his ears, the ends of which were beginning to curl slightly at the base of his neck. He had a handsome, masculine face that was complemented by a strong jawline. Yet there was something unnerving about his wide grin, the way that the corners of his lips pulled upward violently, stretching across his entire face and framing a set of complete, glinting teeth. Harley fought the sudden urge to trace her finger over them.

Instead, she forced herself to pick at the hem of her dress before coyly replying, "Killing Joke."

His eyes immediately lit up. The murky fog glazing his irises lifted, leaving behind a mischievous gleam. "I love them," he purred.

His grin widened, stretching further across his face. The deep laugh lines around his dark eyes creased and she became nearly concerned that his face would split in two.

"You do?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. A smile began to dance at her lips; his grin was certainly infectious. Suddenly, he grabbed the dangling headphone and popped it in his ear. He began bobbing his head and mouthing the lyrics, which invoked an impressed grin out of his new acquaintance.

A cacophony of post-punk raucous blasted their eardrums, filling the silence left between them. They sat contentedly, two strangers, alone together in an obscure musical world.

Several minutes passed before he nudged her bare knee with his.

"What goes plop, plop, fizz, fizz?" he turned to stare at her expectantly.

She looked back at him and chewed her lip thoughtfully. It had sounded like the most important question in the world… one that she didn't know the answer to.

She conceded with a shrug.

"Twins in an acid bath," he shouted gleefully. The corners of his mouth stretched into a glinting grin.

She stared at him for a moment with wide, unblinking eyes. The silence between them began thickening ostensibly, despite Killing Joke raging in their ears. Yet suddenly, a genuine beam engulfed her face and a tinny giggle escaped her throat. She clasped her hand over her mouth, attempting to stifle her titters. They erupted from her lips, evolving into a raucous, shrill cackle and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her tiny body began to tremble with ugly, metallic laughter.

He stared at her, shocked. His ears began ringing at the jarring volume and surrounding seats turned to glare at her.

What a laugh. What a laugh. He was marveling.

"That's horrible," she sputtered. "I don't know why I'm laughing. That's horrible."

She threw her head back to freely cackle, and that's when he noticed the faded purple splotches on her neck, formerly hidden by a curtain of hair. An inkling of curiosity trickled through his conscience.

Suddenly, the bus lurched to a stop and people began rising to lumber off. Harley had sputtered out the last of her giggles and started to stand as well, but her seatmate pulled her back down by the wrist. She stared at him quizzically and he leaned in close to her face. She could count all of his laugh lines - a plethora of creases from years and years of smiles. He seemed so happy.

"What's your name, dollface?" he purred.

She smiled simply. "Harley."

"Like the motorcycle?" he grinned.

"Like the motorcycle," she nodded. There was a pause before adding, "What's yours?"

"Jack."

"Jack the joker," she giggled.

"That's me," he beamed.

"Hellllllllllooooo…" he waved a flexed hand. "You there, kiddo?"

She shook herself from the memory and returned his expectant gaze.

"Oh! Oh yes. Yes, I apologize," she smiled sheepishly. He arched a brow.

"Lost you for a bit, there, Harl. Where'd you run off to in that fucked up head of yours?" he tilted his head in feigned curiosity. She ignored the question and picked up her pencil, poising it.

"I thought that maybe we'd like to discuss some of the things you've done," she gestured at him.

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?" he grinned deviously. "I thought that's the first question shrinks ask. You're clearly not very good at this, baby. That's okay… That's what happens when you cheat…and…or…sleep your way through med school."

"That's quite presumptuous of you," she issued coldly.

"Oh, but you were never that bright! It's the only reasonable explanation… Though I'm certainly not a man of reason. What would I know?" he giggled darkly. She glared at him silently.

"You can fool all of these people… But you can't… fool… me," he drawled.

"I'm not fooling anyone," she scowled.

"Don't lie. Don't… lie… to me. I know you better than you know your sad self. How about I tell Jerry about all the times that we got fucked up together? Like the time we did all that blow in the bathroom stall at the Grin and Bare It? And you were so tweaked out that you punched me for…quote…flirting with the bartender." He started to laugh hysterically.

"Hello," he leaned one way, speaking to himself. "Can I get a -"

"And BAM!" he shouted, jerking suddenly to the other side. He shrieked in laughter and shook his head. "Or… or… that time we stole that bottle of champagne from the Iceberg Lounge? That was what… like a hundred grand? A hundred grand! Ha! Hahaha! I thought Cobblepot was going to kill you! And that was your idea, by the way. I merely did your evil bidding."

She lowered her eyes to her notepad and shifted uncomfortably.

"You were a riot! An absolute riot!" He cackled.

"I'm not like that anymore," she pressed in a hard tone. He stopped laughing abruptly.

"Oh I know," he sneered. "But what are you now? Hm? A Doctor? A respect-able member… of… society? You probably pay all of your bills. And donate to charity. And you help out at the soup kitchen. And children and the elderly love you, and cats love you, and flea-infested rats love you, because everything and everyone fucking loves you."

"Stop – "

"I'm also sure you have a perfect boyfriend, who visits your perfect apartment, where you have perfect sex for two minutes, but then after you touch yourself to a guy like Bruce Wayne. Oh, and then after that, you cry, because your life is so goddamn sad." He twisted his face into a mock pout.

"Are you done?" she asked flatly.

"Or… do you touch yourself to me?" he giggled. "You know, I hear that dames love a bad boy."

"That's enough," she snapped and a dribble of spit flew out from her bottom lip.

"Okay," he smiled darkly, "since you're the big shot here… What would you like to talk about, toots?"

She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself.

"Well, Mister Joker," she cleared her throat. "How do you feel about what you've done over these past couple of months? Certainly your nihilistic philosophy has had great influence on your actions."

"Nihilistic?" he arched a brow. "You think I'm a nihilist?" he grinned wildly and began cackling.

"Sure," she nodded. "Life is a black joke to you. There's no purpose."

"Oh, but there is," he interjected flatly. "Sure, there's no moral purpose… Morality…doesn't…exist -"

"So then you admit that you're a moral nihilist," she interrupted. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Don't give me that Nietzsche bullshit. There… is… a purpose. Would you like to know what that is?"

"Please."

"We live in a…civilized society, correct? We have, for thousands of years, constructed this idea of…order. Civil obedience. Now, you see, society cannot live without crime. If society didn't have crime, it would create it. And here's…why… Deviance is… the measure by which civilized people create boundaries. They look at my actions and think… well, he's an animal. He's not one of us. But what happens when the chips are down? How civilized are they then? Where do you draw the line between me and anyone else? You see… order is so…inconsistent. Now that's a paradox, you say. How can order be inconsistent when it's inherently stable?

"Because it can quickly unravel," she offered.

"Exactly," he pointed at her. "But you know what's constant? Hmm? It's…chaos. It can never devolve or disappear altogether. You can…never…eliminate it entirely. Chaos is all around us. It's civil disobedience in society. It's nonlinear regression in physical and mathematical modeling. The Greeks said that chaos preceded the creation of the universe… That the gods and cosmos were born from chaos. Chaos is the true foundation of reality. You see… I'm an agent of chaos. It is life's truest constant. And it's my duty to help distribute it.

"How long have you been a proponent of Greek mythology?" she asked before scrawling down:

chaos theory?

"For as long as I can remember."

"Greek mythology does happen to be imaginative -"

"You don't understand…my reality," he snapped. "You don't understand the truth about the world… So you call me… crazy. Because I don't fit within your paradigm. You people… You people have no idea. The joke's on you. And none of you understand the punchline."

"Please help me understand," she begged.

"God, your altruism makes me sick," he sneered. "It's always made me sick. What you don't understand is… that… there is no good in people. We're only as good as the world allows us to be… And what has the world done for you? Hmm?

"It's done plenty for me. I'm happy."

"No you're not. No…you're…not," he paused. "Would you like to know the difference between me and… humanity?"

An aching, charged silence filled the room, and she heard her heart thundering in her ears as he finally said,

"One bad day."

A lingering pause followed.

"Plenty of people have bad days," she finally offered.

"What was your bad day?" he snapped angrily. "Hmm? You chip a nail or something? Spill some red wine on your favorite dress?"

"You know I've had bad days," she whispered sadly, more to herself than anyone.

He suddenly sprang up and lunged across the table, tackling her out of her chair and pinning her underneath him. He wrapped his fingers firmly around her neck and she sputtered for air, attempting to muster a scream.

"Shshshshshsh," he assuaged, lowering his face down to hers. She struggled underneath him, squirming and clawing at his hands. "Now… don't even think about screaming," he exhaled hotly against her lips. She stared into his deadened coal eyes and finally surrendered, going limp underneath his weight. He loosened his grip slightly and grinned.

"Good girl," he cooed. He watched the tears leak down her terrified face and rattled her neck slightly.

"Do… you… know… how many times… I've thought about… killing you?" he smiled darkly and glowered into her watery eyes. "How many…ways… I've thought about doing it? Ha! I'd dream about it if I could!" he cried out and shook her harder. Her ragdoll head lolled against the floor and she clenched her eyes shut.

"Just do it," she squeaked.

"Not yet," he muttered, "I want to know something first."

She could feel him breathing against her as she struggled to breathe herself. Her eyes began to roll around in her head as darkness crept into her vision. His voice sounded so far away, like they were underwater…

"Was this how envisioned it?" he sneered. "When you rode off into the sunset on your high horse, and you somehow… Somehow managed to earn a couple pieces of embossed paper… Did you think that you were going to make a difference to the world? That you were going to change lives and be this deliverance of redemption for society's downtrodden? I'm sure that you did…"

He stared into her pallid face and realized that she was beginning to slip away. He loosened his grip on her and she immediately began coughing for air. As she regained a sliver of coherence, she stared at him and quickly unraveled into a sobbing fit. A combination of snot, tears, and smudged mascara streamed down her face and he spat out a guffaw; she was never a pretty crier.

"After all these years… You still never switched to waterproof," he chuckled. He released a hand from her throat and smeared her makeup around liberally, finger-painting like a child. His long fingers rubbed against her soft skin, almost in a rough caress. He worked on his canvas for a moment and finally stopped to inspect his handiwork; mascara streaks stained her pink cheeks and her eyes were almost entirely enveloped in black. He was pleased.

She opened her eyes to meet his demented gaze and he was grinning madly.

"Can you just get it over with?" she whispered. He arched a brow.

"Do you want to die?" he narrowed his eyes.

"No! No… It's just… I-I just always knew that it would be y-you," she squeaked.

"What?"

"I always knew that you would have to kill me," she sniffed, "e-ever since you c-came back. B-b-ecause I-I'm y-your last l-link to h-h-h -"

"Spit it out," he snapped impatiently.

"H-humanity," she sputtered.

His vision went red and he imagined bashing her head into the floor until blood leaked out her ears. He imagined every fragment of her shattered skull rattling around in her head. He imagined her blue eyes, her blue fucking eyes, the bluest eyes in the fucking world, popping out. He imagined stabbing them with her pencil, over and over and over until they were no longer. He imagined the glorious smile that he carved into her face using her car keys. And finally, he imagined walking away and laughing as if he had never laughed before.

But he didn't do any of these things. He didn't do any of these things, and he wasn't entirely sure as to why. Instead, he got off of her and stared down at her. She began coughing uncontrollably and he sneered. She was pathetic. She was so pathetic that she didn't even deserve death. She revolted him in every possible, so much so that he couldn't even bear to be in the same room as her. With that, he reached under her desk to press the emergency security button and lumbered back to chaise before plopping down.

He listened to her hacking for a moment longer and ground his teeth together to block out the sound. Seconds later, three security guards busted through the door and wrenched him to his feet. He began laughing maniacally.

"Shut up, clown!" one guard barked. Another ran over to Harley and pulled her to her feet.

"Doctor! Doctor, are you alright?" he shouted. She began heaving heavily and nearly collapsed into his arms. He held her up dutifully and scanned her streaked face. Her neck had turned a ghastly combination of blue and purple and he winced.

"Well, boys, reunited at last," the Joker cackled.

"Shut the fuck up," the guards snarled, shoving him out the door. His proverbial laughter bounced off the hallway walls and lingered in the room, ringing in her ears, haunting her.

She felt the bile bubble in her throat, the clench in her gut that twisted daggers into her sides. Her head fell into the guard's shoulder and she choked out a sob. She wept, and wept, and wept. She wept until nothing came out anymore. No tears, no sounds, no anguish. She had wept herself numb.

Her world had been silent for so long. Because he had left it. Or rather, she had left him. She should have known that he would come blazing back into her life, leaving a wake of destruction and agonizing memories. She had spent years and years precariously constructing the fortress of her new life and he had merely waltzed through the front gate. All with a laugh.

"'Ow old did yuh say you were again, sweetheart?" The squat man inquired. She had to admit that the distinct Cockney accent still managed to throw her off slightly; she'd grown accustomed to the thick, sluggish speech that graced the mouths of Gothamites and New Yorkers.

"Seventeen," she responded sweetly, pulling her lips into a charming smile.

The balding man chuckled and leaned forward to adjust the monocle perched on his left eye. "Seventeen, eh? You certainly dun look seventeen…" he mused, ogling her carefully.

It was true. Save for her youthful face, Harley had already developed the full curves of a woman – curves that happened to be showcased gratuitously in her black waitressing dress. It also helped that she'd swiped some crimson lipstick on… The tips weren't exactly chump change at the Lounge, but she'd become masterful at securing several hundred dollars in just a night if she worked her cards right.

Her red mouth had twisted itself into a dangerous smile.

"Is that a problem, Mr. Cobblepot?" she asked innocently. Oswald Cobblepot chuckled lightly in response.

"Of course not, my birdie. It's good fuh business…" he twittered, reaching up to adjust her black bowtie. He patted her shoulder briefly before turning to waddle off.

"I love Ozzy, but you should have seen what he made us wear a year back," a voice whispered in her ear. It belonged to Raven, one of the other waitresses. She was precariously balancing a large tray littered with empty martini and wine glasses.

"Tell me about it," Lark, the hostess, approached and rolled her eyes.

"We looked like Playboy Bunnies. Corset, tights… the works," she sighed, flipping her blonde hair back. Raven nodded and gestured to her tray.

"It's like we're asking them to try something," she made a face.

"I don't really mind," Harley shrugged. "All of these schmucks are rolling in cash. We look good, they get drunk, and they throw us their extra money. It's a great formula."

"You're preaching to the choir. How else do you think I'm paying my college tuition? Anyway, Table 17. All you," Lark pointed to her and then the table situated near the large penguin ice statue. Harley glanced toward the center of the room where a small group of men sat. She began walking toward them, her black heels clacking loudly against the hard cold floor.

"Welcome to the Iceberg Lounge," she smiled warmly, approaching the table.

"Can I start you gentlemen off with something to drink?"

She glanced at the four men expectantly. They were dressed exceptionally well, even for the Lounge. Suddenly, the man sitting closest to her gingerly removed his black fedora and rested it on the edge of the table. He briefly adjusted the fleur-de-lis cufflink on his black Armani suit and looked up at her with familiar murky eyes.

A chilling grin spread across his face.

"Well hello there," he purred with the faintest tinge of a Southern drawl. His aging blonde hair was slicked back carefully, though he lifted a hand to smooth down a single disobedient lock above his ear. Harley was paralyzed by déjà vu; she had seen this face before.

Jack.

She stared back into the eyes that had been passed down to him and flashed her best million-dollar smile.

"Good evening, Sir. Can I start you off with something to drink? Perhaps you'd like to browse our excellent cigar selection?"

"Hmmm…" he drew out carefully, roving his dark eyes over her body. "I'd like to have you served on a plate." He winked at her and his Cheshire cat grin stretched wider across his face. The table burst into laughter and she forced a strained chuckle.

"I'm afraid that I'm not on the menu," she countered lightheartedly. He chuckled openly.

"Tell me, sweetheart, where's a cute accent like that from?"

"Brooklyn," she beamed proudly. Before he could open his mouth to speak, a theatrical voice interrupted them.

"Sorry I'm late," a familiar voice announced.

Harley watched as Jack slid into the seat next to the grinning man. He shook off his black suit jacket and sloppily draped it onto the back of his chair. After rolling the sleeves of his light purple shirt up to the crooks of his elbows, he fumbled for the glass of water in front of him. He slammed the drink back and licked the right corner of his mouth before setting the glass down with a thud.

"You can't even show up to fucking dinner on time, you little shit," the man next to him growled.

Jack glanced at him with disinterest before turning his attention to their waitress. When he met Harley's stare, he froze. They gawked at one another silently, and she noticed the dead glaze in his dark eyes. The way his shoulder occasionally twitched. His clenched jaw. He sniffed loudly, flaring a raw nostril and giving him away.

He was coked out of his mind.

Suddenly, a crass guffaw exploded from one of the men. "Check it out fellas, looks like Jacky Boy is in love," he cried, slapping the table.

"He fuckin' wishes! Too bad he gets to go home to his hand tonight!" Another howled. The men chortled loudly, though he continued to stare at her silently.

"Can I offer anyone a drink?" she abruptly interjected. The laughter began to die down as the men fired off their orders.

"A Manhattan."

"Same."

"Gin and tonic."

She obediently jotted the drinks down, only pausing to glance up at Jack.

"And for you?" she smiled warmly. He gazed at her vacantly before wiping the back of his hand across his nose.

"Um," he sniffed loudly, "scotch and soda."

His father smiled. Hers fell.

"Can I see some ID, please?" she asked sweetly. Her large doe eyes swam with apology; she knew for an absolute fact that he was underage. He shrugged languidly and rummaged through his black slacks before brandishing his ID. She was slightly shocked that he managed to present her with anything at all but examined his fake nonetheless.

The photo was him smiling goofily at the camera. Gotham resident. 21 years old. Organ donor. She swallowed a giggle at the last tidbit because, despite the fact that she'd only known him for a week, she knew that was utter bullshit.

She handed it back to him and chirped, "Thank you, Sir."

He winked at her.

"And for you?" she turned to his father.

"I'll have a Johnnie Blue on the rocks, sweetheart. Make it a double," he declared. She nodded obediently and noted his order.

"Though are you sure there's nothing like you on the drink list? I would just love to lap you up," he grinned.

She smiled sweetly before holding out her fingers, counting them off. "I can offer you Johnnie, Jack, Jim, or Dom, and from the looks of it, you've already selected Mister Walker from our list."

Jack scoffed loudly and tossed back his glass. He began to crunch noisily on an ice cube.

The man to his left laughed raucously. "I like you, sweetheart… You know… you remind me of Betty Grable. The gal with the million-dollar legs. Boy, was she a knockout," he mused loudly, "I mean, literally. My old man had her tattooed right here," he tapped at his forearm. "It was some great ink, I'm tellin' you. A proper pin-up. Great tits, great legs, a big beautiful smile. One helluva knockout. You know why?"

Harley shook her head.

"She was the last thing I saw every time my old man started walloping me for being a disrespectful little shit," he leered at Jack venomously.

His son glanced at him blankly before fishing out another ice cube and popping it into his mouth. He chewed it deafeningly, mouth open, water dribbling down his chin.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Harley interjected meekly. Jack's father snapped his attention back to her and chuckled.

"Oh don't be sweetheart. It's nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Now… how about that drink?"

An hour and ocean of whiskey later, Harley returned to the raucous table wielding dessert menus. "How's everyone doing?" she chirped cheerfully. The men were rip-roaring drunk, save for Jack, who was silently picking at his New York strip steak. An obvious consequence of his high.

"Sweetheart!" Jack's father slurred languidly and beckoned for her.

"Sir," she smiled politely, "can I offer you our dessert menu?"

She took a step forward and presented it carefully in front of her petite body. He swatted it away and latched his fingers around her wrist, jerking her forward in one fluid motion. Before she could react, he had grabbed her hips and planted her firmly on his thigh, holding her underneath a vice grip. A deep shade of crimson flushed her round cheeks and a chorus of laughter thundered in her ears. She squirmed underneath his grasp, desperately aware of his hot, heavy breath lingering at her neck.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he purred. She jerked her chin up and caught Jack's stare. An unidentified emotion flashed across his black eyes before they resumed their standard, vacant glaze.

"I said, Look. At. Me," his father barked and she reluctantly met his hungry leer.

"Now, you have been an absolute gem," he cooed, his Cheshire cat grin returning. "Nothing short of an angel." Suddenly, his hand grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks hard between his fingers.

"And that's why I'd like to give you this," he brandished a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his jacket lapel and carefully tucked it into her cleavage. "As a token of our gratitude."

She glanced down at her tip and hot tears began to sting her eyes. "Thank you," she strained through clenched teeth.

"Oh no," he chuckled, "thank you." He suddenly let get of her face and placed a hand just below her hip, snapping the string of her thong through her dress. Her cheeks deepened in color and she hung her head shamefully.

"Stop it," Jack growled quietly. His father swiveled his head to him.

"What the fuck did you say to me?" he spat, bewildered. Jack's black eyes narrowed and the right corner of his mouth curled into a snarl.

"You heard me."

Suddenly, his father shoved the petite blonde off his lap and she crumpled to the ground.

His fist connected with Jack's jaw in a lightning motion. Harley watched in horror as his head snapped back, spraying droplets of scarlet blood into the air. The gold class ring on his father's right hand had shredded through the flesh of his lip. Jack's own hand instinctively flew to clutch his face and she watched as his shoulders began to shudder violently. He snapped his head up, akin to that of a Jack-in-the-box. The corners of his mouth were split into a vicious grin, stretching across his face to reveal all thirty-two of his bloodied teeth. A disquieting darkness clouded his coal eyes as his tongue flicked out to slowly lick the blood from the corner of his lip. He looked utterly demonic.

But it was not the smile that betrayed his humanity. It was the laugh. That laugh. It was a harrowing, blood-curdling laugh; the kind that kept one up at night and violated the mind in a way that was irreversible. It was a raw, wicked noise that garishly ripped from his throat. Yet the distorted noise escaping him twisted itself into a screaming cackle, one that began to attract the attention of surrounding tables. Harley felt herself shudder… there was no joy in this laugh.

"What's so funny?" his father bellowed. Jack continued to scream in laughter.

"Do it again," he cackled gleefully. "Come on, I want you to do it. Do it again. Hit me."

His nefarious grin spread.

"Hit me," he barked darkly. His father raised his fist once more but before it sprung, a distinct Cockney accent stopped him.

"Get out of my establishment you worthless tit," Oswald Cobblebot snarled. The entire table turned their attention to the squat Englishman.

"Why is it that every single one'a you mobstas thinks that you can take a dump whereva? That's right, boy, yuh shittin' in my turf right now. Eatin' my food, drinkin' my liquor, touchin' one uh my birds. Shittin' all ova yuhself. Didn't Falcone teach you any betta? Keep yuh personal business behind closed doors. Now get the fuck out uh here before I lose more customers, you bloody pillock."

Despite his squat stature, the balding man was a bundle of absolute wrath; he had effectively rendered the men speechless. He turned to Harley and firmly stood her up.

"O'right love, it's o'right," he cooed, smoothing out her shoulders. In her heels, she had to look down dishonorably at her stubby boss.

"Why don't you go on back an' wash up. Hm? Yuh feathas ah lookin' a bit ruffled."

Harley was shaking violently by the time she burst through the door to the "Employees Only" backroom. She began heaving rapidly and clutched at her stomach, desperate to cleanse the lingering filth that threatened to pilfer her bones. Her quivering fingers angrily fished the bill out of her cleavage and crumpled it before chucking it to the ground. Boiling tears clung to her eyes and she furiously smoothed out her dress, trying desperately, so desperately, to keep herself together.

"Harley," that voice rang out quietly. She paused; she knew that voice. Even after a week, she knew that voice. That peculiar inflection he used with certain words, almost as if he caressed each syllable lovingly in his mouth before it drawled out his lips.

She spun around vehemently and balled her wet fists, knuckles turning stark white. They drank one another in for a moment. Dried flecks of blood decorated the left side of his face and she duly noticed the raw fissure of a split lip at the corner of his mouth. He watched her carefully as she raised a quivering hand to smooth down a section of her disheveled hair.

"What?" she finally snapped. "What do you want?"

He blinked at her languidly. Vacantly.

"You're high," she seethed between clenched teeth. "You're coked out of your mind."

He cocked his head and lazily shrugged his shoulders, much like an impetuous child who didn't understand the consequences of his actions. He started toward her.

"Don't get near me," she fumed, glaring up at him with burning eyes. He ignored her and continued to advance.

"What? Come to cop a feel just like Daddy?" she snarled, stopping him in his tracks.

"Which Daddy?" he sneered darkly. "Mine or yours?"

Her face froze, paling to an ashen shade before erupting into a reddened rage.

"What the fuck did you say to me?" she screeched.

In a flash, his fingers wrapped around her slender throat and slammed her head into the back of the wall. A searing pain exploded at the back of her skull and her blurred eyes desperately tried to refocus his face. He pressed his nose to hers, baring his bloodied teeth.

"Now, listen to me," he growled quietly. You don't get to talk to me that way."

"Fuck you," she hissed venomously and his grip tightened.

"Someone has an attitude problem," he jeered, glaring into her narrowed eyes. "Makes… sense. I'm clearly not the first person to do this."

He pressed his fingertips harder against her skin and she began to choke. She sputtered for air, gasping and wheezing against his vice grip. Suddenly, her right fist connected with his split lip. He released her throat, reeling backwards from the clout.

"And I'm clearly not the first person to do that," she hollered.

He was clutching his cheek, doubled over in laughter. Fresh blood trickled through his long fingers as he gasped for air.

"Hahaha! Haha! Ha! Hoooooo! Watch out, ladies and gentlemen! This kitten can bite!" he whooped, snapping upright and gesturing at her theatrically. The proverbial grin plastered on his face grew as she firmly placed her hands on her hips.

"I'm not laughing," she snapped.

"Oh, I know," he chuckled, "but why aren't you?" His grin grew wider and he was suddenly in her face again, cupping her cheeks in his hands. "Why aren't you laughing?"

He pressed her forehead down to hers, glowering into her baby blue eyes. She returned the glare and he could feel her shaky breath on his lips. It smelled faintly of mint and coffee. After a moment, he noticed something soften in her eyes. They had lost their militant glaze, and now, staring back at him, were a pair of large blue orbs rife with emotion. He faltered for a moment, startled by the sudden transformation. Suddenly, she choked on a small sob before burying her face into his shoulder. Within seconds she had unraveled and was now quaking violently, screeching out muffled sobs into his light purple shirt. He stood frozen in shock, completely unable to process the situation before him. Yet after a moment, he held his hands up and stared down at her, annoyed.

Who the fuck was this crazy broad? She was going to ruin his shirt.

She began clutching at it, balling the fabric up into her hands. She pressed her small body against his, wailing loudly. His own tensed as he stared down at the hysterical blonde. He had surpassed uncomfortable in every meaning of the word. A painful moment passed before his chest eased ever so slightly.

"Uh… It's… uh, okay," he finally muttered, awkwardly patting a hand against her back. His attempt backfired; she cried harder and clenched his shirt, pulling him into her. Goddammit.

Her hysteria was continuing to escalate until he sighed loudly.

"Jesus, Harley. I get clocked in the face twice and you don't see me having a goddamn meltdown," he snapped.

She pulled away from him and craned her neck up to meet his gaze. Her mascara had streaked resplendently down her cheeks and she raised a hand to wipe her tears, unintentionally smudging her makeup further.

"Sorry," she sniffed. She hung her head shamefully and rubbed at her kohl-smeared eyelids, muttering a garbled string of expletives all the while. Unbeknownst to her, her little show had enraptured him with fascination.

He watched her for a moment, head inclined, interest piqued. Her irritated, watery eyes avoided him as she continued to exacerbate her smudged makeup in such a way that was almost hilarious. Finally, he reached a hand out to catch her chin and tenderly turned it toward him. He gently tweaked her face, inspecting her. They were watching one another carefully. Curiously.

Her messy raccoon eyes made her natural ones pop jarringly. They were startling, both in size and shade. Yet he found it strangely appealing. He also noted the straight, taut line of her mouth and frowned.

No, no, no. That wouldn't do. No. Too serious.

Silently, he lifted his thumb and gently brushed it along her bottom lip, softly smearing her red lipstick up past the corner of her mouth. He curved the smear upwards, stopping just below her cheekbone. He inspected his handiwork and nodded. She stared back at him and suddenly realized that she had stopped breathing. As she exhaled shakily, his fingertips skirted up her cheek.

By the time he realized it, he was slowly combing them through her thick hair. So silky. So blonde. She was so blonde. So… stupid. Brash. Broken. Pathetic.

So serious. So serious.

"Jack," she mumbled, interrupting his train of thought, "I… I'm sorry for punching you. I shouldn't have done that. Your father… I…"

He narrowed his eyes and grabbed a fistful of her hair. He tugged it back, jerking her chin up toward him. His six foot two frame towered over her and he lowered his face down to hers, stopping inches from her mouth. Her lips parted ever so slightly, perhaps out of fear. Or perhaps desire.

"Harley," he drawled slowly, "I'm going to tell you something so you better listen very carefully." She stared up into his dark, lidded eyes and shivered.

"Never apologize for anything that you do," he whispered, tickling her lips with his breath.

He abruptly released her hair and turned around to pick up the crumpled bill on the ground. He pressed it into the palm of her hand and she wordlessly accepted it. As she watched him leave, she felt a wave of relief overcome her. Yet the moment it passed, she was left with an aching, hollow sadness. Out of nowhere, she started to giggle, for no reason at all, and didn't stop. Couldn't stop. It evolved into a sidesplitting laugh and she had to double over to support herself. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed until she couldn't feel a thing. She had laughed herself numb.

Thanks so much for even checking this out. Leave a review if you can! Also, I'd like to highlight a couple of things:

-Jack is not the Joker… yet. His storyline will ultimately culminate in his devolution (or evolution - take your pick) into our beloved Mistah J

-Young Harley is pretty bold – she went through a d/evolution as well to become Dr. Quinzel... But seriously, does anyone remember that BTAS episode where she beats Mistah J up with a police baton? The girl has spunk.

-At no point has Harley been Harley Quinn…yet