This has been sitting on my computer for ever and ever – mostly a series of snippets at the moment, which I might turn into a proper story if people like it. For now, make up your own mind as to what has come before, I'd love to hear what you think to my Nolanverse Joker and Harley.

I don't own any of these things. Obviously. I'm just borrowing them and occasionally allowing for gratuitous nudity from Heath Ledger's Joker.

;)

He twisted the knife in his fingers, catching the skin of his palm more than once but either he did not notice or he did not care. He stared down at the blade, turning it this way and that in the hope of finding some answers in the cold steel of it's countenance. He got nothing; just the bitterness of his own reflection.

His head cocked to the right; a door had been unlocked downstairs. He did not worry, for anyone untoward would not possess a key, nor the desire to use one. Footsteps on the flagstone, then another door. She did not come upstairs yet.

The knife begged once more for his attention. This one he could see clearly, for it was right there in his hand. It didn't seem right that this one should sit there, innocent, causing no pain, when another – though invisible – stabbed at his insides over and over. It tore through his gut, his heart and his head. It was unrelenting, but he could not see it. The knife in his hand seemed to weep. It wanted a piece of the action.

He turned it slowly in his hand, blade down, handle clasped tightly in his gloved fist. Then he brought it down fast. The little demon buried itself to the hilt in his tortured flesh, slicing a path through fabric, skin and taught muscle until it was defeated by bone. His fingers uncurled, leaving the knife quivering in his thigh. Or perhaps it was he that shivered so.

He watched it. He watched the blood too, but he felt no pain. It was nothing compared to the frenzied attacks of the invisible blade, but this one he could control; with this one he could watch his own blood pooling, staining the already dirtied cloth of his trousers and seeping away. Perhaps this madness of reality would seep away with it. He watched it drip to the floor, smearing the face of a distressed old woman pictured on the front page. Blood on her colourless cheeks.

Harley crept along the corridor and paused at the door to their room, hesitating more than just a little before she finally resolved to open the door. It was closed to, and she could see his silhouette perched on the bed outlined against the sunset, which flooded a carelessly open window.

She pushed the door with her finger, as though that would make it quieter. It creaked a little as it opened, and her footsteps were less than silent on the rotting floor boards. She edged closer, not quite daring to approach the bed.

"Is everything okay…?" she asked, carefully. She had to be careful wording questions when he was in a mood such as this; for he was clearly in a mood. Something was wrong – there had been photographs on the news and rumours she didn't know that she could believe. There was silence, so she tried a different approach; "Mr J… baby…?"

Still nothing. Nothing but the gentle sound of a dripping tap. She would have to find that tap later; it would drive her mad.

Very, very carefully, she took a couple of steps closer and crawled onto the bed. She would know soon enough if he wanted to be left alone; if he shrugged her off – or worse – she would leave him. Perhaps she should leave anyway, but out of weakness or compassion, she stayed. She would always stay.

Harley reached out with a delicate hand, and stroked a slender finger along his purple clad shoulder blade. Nothing. So far, so good. She was beginning to wonder if this whole situation could be resolved by her tender touch… followed by what was likely to be a particularly violent session of love making; and selfish too, on his part. If that was what it took to ease his pain, she would do it. Her hands snaked under the fabric of his coat; and then she saw it.

She'd seen a lot in her time, but the sight of her lover's favourite knife embedded in his own leg still shocked her. She withdrew her hands in an instant and almost fell over herself in her scramble to the ground at his feet, desperate to get a closer look.

"Oh baby… what have you done?" she mumbled, not expecting an answer. Her fingers itched to pull it straight out, but he stared at the handle so intently that she suspected she would probably die if she did. Instead, she bought herself some time and hurried to a bedside cabinet to retrieve a cloth, alcohol and some bandages. She always kept a stock with her, such was the nature of their relationship. Whether it was down to his doing or hers, she visited the chemist once a week to replenish an ever failing supply.

Harley knelt beside him, wondering how on earth she was going to get through to him – for he hadn't even acknowledged her presence. The knees of her jeans grew damp; his own blood was creeping from the newspaper and soaking her through. She felt sick, and reached down to dispose of the sodden scarlet rag. The paper tore in her fingers; this was a mistake.

Quick as a flash, he ripped the knife from his thigh. A trail of blood burst forth onto Harley's white t-shirt and splattered her skin. She didn't have time to care; the knife was under her jaw, it's point close to her ear.

"Don't touchthat," was all he said, his menacing glare now fixed on her. Harley swallowed heavily and nodded, holding up her hands to show that she really had put the paper down. He held the knife there for what seemed like an age, his breath felt harsh against her skin as it came in short, sharp bursts. She became aware, once again, of the dripping – though it came from no tap.

"Jack," she said, quietly and firmly, as she did her best to ignore the blade that dug into her throat. "You're bleeding. Let me take a look at it, that's all I want to do, I promise."

She knew exactly how to work him. She was the only person who'd ever spent enough time around him – alive – to have the chance to learn. He brought the knife down, but he didn't let it go. He held it in his hand as his arm fell limply to his side.

His right trouser leg was wet through. Harley tried her best to get a look at the wound but could barely even see the tear in the material. She thought for a moment about cutting it, but it would mean more hassle and yet more sharp implements, which she wasn't prepared to hand to him on a platter. Bracing herself, she sat back on her heels and regarded him with care.

"I can't see, you're gonna need to take your pants off."

Those eyes, those black sunken eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. Oh, how she longed for it to be another night – any other night– when those words would have been countered with a disgustingly outrageous declaration. When he would snigger at her, laugh and joke and play until suddenly it got serious, and all jokes were forgotten. Tonight though, he stared blankly with dead eyes. She hesitated, for this was unfamiliar territory even for them. Gingerly, she knelt in front of him and reached out to unbuckle his belt.

She watched him the whole time, for looking away would be a mistake akin to turning ones back on a cobra. No reaction when she unzipped his fly, nothing when she had to wriggle about to pull the waist band down from his waist and over his hips; it was only when she began to gently tease the fabric from the fresh wound above his knee that his expression changed. To Harley's surprise, his eyes clouded over in a way that was alike to that which she had observed in him many times before when she'd been in a similar position, though in better circumstances. Those times were about pleasure, today he wanted the pain; he needed the pain. That was all very well and good – she could understand that. She stopped being gentle and yanked his pants firmly over his knees, letting them drop to his ankles. It was a good move – some blood had dried, and the coarse fabric tore at the healing wound. Harley could swear she saw his eye lids flutter. She pulled off his boots roughly and tossed them aside, and afterwards rid him completely of the burden of his pants.

It was quite a sight. His left leg was pale and unspoiled, save for the few superficial scars that littered the skin here and there. His right leg was crimson right down to the toes. Harley noted that he regarded it with a kind of pride before she started to clean it up.

She got rid of the blood first, mainly because she couldn't stand to look at it. When most of it was gone she reached for the bottle of alcohol, but he put out a hand to stop her.

"Harley," he murmured, his hand clasped firmly around her wrist. She glanced up into his eyes and saw a thousand meanings. She loved the way he said her name; somehow he always put the intonation in the wrong place, but it sounded so right. She cleared her throat, and tested a theory.

"Baby, you gotta promise me you're not gonna lose it right now, because this is gonna hurt," she said, staring straight into his crazed eyes as she did so. As she expected, they lit up.

"I'm serious," she continued. "This stuff burns like a bitch." As if to emphasise her point, Harley reached purposefully for the used knife in his other hand. She lifted up his fist, which was still curled tightly around the handle, and let her own arm fall against it, slashing her delicate skin with expert ease. She watched his eyes narrow in interest as she poured a liberal amount of alcohol onto the bloodstained cloth and held it over her own wound. Her eyes closed tightly as she felt the familiar prickle under her skin and she couldn't help but take a quick hiss of breath when the new, clean pain seared through her body. When her eyes opened again, she saw her Joker watching her with hunger in his eyes. She let the cloth fall away, and her lover lifted her arm to his lips, pulling her up between his legs as he did so, and planted a lingering kiss over her self inflicted wound. Harley smiled a little; although he often hurt her, she knew it was because he was so addicted to making her better. She really was his pet, but this pet knew how to handle her master.

She took a little longer to clean the wound than she would normally have done, and made sure to hold the cloth down extra hard while she waited for the bleeding to cease. Finally, it did, and she was able to bind it tightly with her bandages. It was done.

As she had wound the bandages around his leg, his mind had wandered. She sat back and saw that his gaze was now fixed on the window; the sun had nearly set. Harley took a moment to take a closer look at the paper on the ground beside her, taking care not to touch it. She read the headline, and glanced back at him. So it was true, or some of it must be. He never asked her about her past, and she never asked about his. He'd told her as much as he wanted to; she wouldn't press him for information.

Harley pushed herself up onto her knees again, she settled herself on the ground between her lover's legs and brought her hands to his face.

"Hey," she said gently, her fingers in his hair and her thumbs making circles on his temples. "Why so serious, Mr J?" If anyone else said it, it meant instant death… if they were lucky. When Harley said it, it was different. Perhaps it was because she knew him so well. Perhaps it was because she alone knew the true story of where his scars came from. Or perhaps it was because after she said it, she would trace his scars with her mouth and kiss away the memory, always pulling away with red rosebud lips. His eyes closed, and she kissed both of them as well. He pulled her onto his lap, securing her legs around his waist. Harley knew she must be hurting him, and that thought gave her comfort. He wanted to hurt for the time being and she would help him for now, but her mind was set on making him better.

She could feel his mild desire, though it was usually alive for her this time of evening. Tonight was not the time though, she reasoned. He would have thrown her onto the bed and gotten on with it if it were. Instead, she buried her face in his neck and breathed in his scent. It was crisp as always, slightly minty, but today tarnished by the metallic stench of blood. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, and felt his arms snake up around her back. The knife was gone, probably into a pocket somewhere. His strong hands could splay across her shoulders from one side to the other, and she felt safe in his arms. How very strange it must seem to the outside world, that a young woman like her had only ever felt safe in the arms of a psychopath. But she understood him, and therefore she did not fear him. Much.

Harley eased his heavy purple coat from his shoulders, and began working on the buttons of his waistcoat. Eventually she managed to remove every offending item of clothing – save for his underwear – and when she was done she climbed off of his lap carefully, moving around to the other side of the bed to pull back their sheets. He sat there, unmoving, while she kicked off her own shoes, pulled off her jeans and peeled off her damp t-shirt. Clad in only her red and black bra and panties, she was finally able to coax him into bed.

He curled up on his side, and she made sure the quilt covered them both before draping herself around him as best she could. She wanted to hold him; she never got to do that, it was always the other way around. As he drifted into a troubled sleep she twirled his hair through her fingers and whispered a question.

"Baby," she murmured quietly. "Do you want me to kill the asshole?"

There was silence, and the room darkened. The last rays of the sun had finally died.

"No," came the muffled response. "I'll do it."

Harley nodded against his bare shoulder; "What do you want me to do?" she asked in the twilight. It took so long for him to answer that Harley thought he may just have fallen asleep.

"Jack…" she prompted, brushing her lips against his cold back, "what do you want me to do?"

"You're doing it," he replied, and said no more. Harley sighed. This, she could do.