Author's Note: Based on Gotham City Sirens #20-21. Absolutely amazing, #21 in regards to the relationship between Joker and Harley. I highly recommend reading it if you haven't.

One-Shot

They never understood why she always went back. Why she chose uncertainty instead of stability, chaos instead of order. They never understood how she could continuously relapse; go back into a life of ill drudgery, a life tainted with death after proving she could do it a different way, her own way.

They never understood how she could stand the beatings, the insults, the self-loathing. How she could prefer a life of hiding, of stealing to get by. How she could stand having the blood of thousands on her hands.

They never understood what she saw in him, why she couldn't let go. Why that day, her heart filled with anger, her mind intent on revenge; that she couldn't pull the trigger, couldn't let him go.

She herself contemplated it at times when her sanity fought to break through. Her prison walls bleeding images of him. Of her. Of them.

They never understood why she allowed the abuse; how she could forget all the times he attempted to take her life, her soul, her entire being. They never understood how she gave herself to him time and again.

But they didn't have her memories, her dreams. They didn't understand the way in which he seeped into her pours, how every cell in her body belonged to him. How her memories of him, of those few and rare moments he gave her were enough to keep her going.

They only saw the bad, the bruises, the broken doll. They never saw her repaired, regrown, anew. They never did see the way he was with her when they were fully alone, when schemes and plans did not plague his mind.

Few moments he gave her, precious moments she treasured, she craved. In those moments she knew she was something more to him. They were rare, so rare sometimes recalling them is difficult, and sometimes in a more sober state, she wonders if they were just dreams

But she remembers them, the times he let his guard down. The times he held her, made love to her. Maybe even loved her. In those moments, she recalls every touch he offered, every praise he said, every tear he cried. She can still feel the way he grabs her arm, holds her hand above her head in a night of passion, of tenderness. She can still feel the warmth of his body as they rest. Those rare moments he manages to sleep.

They didn't understand he already had her life, her soul. In those moments, those moments that carried her to her next fix, her next addiction. They didn't understand that when those moments were too far in between, that was when she turned. That was when she started regaining their definition of sanity, of humanity. When she didn't have those moments, when he denied them to her. That was when she gained the ability to leave, but never to stay away. They didn't understand how the bruises and the attempts of her live were to make her stronger, to make her understand the morality of her being. They didn't understand that he knows she will survive, expects her to. And if she doesn't…

They never understood that he needed her, relied on her. And whether or not he'd ever admit it, in some strange way loved her.

It was those precious moments that kept her sane, her own way of understanding sanity.

As they coaxed her into therapy, into rehabilitation, they didn't understand that it didn't matter. That she would always go back to him, to her addiction.

They will never understand that the death of him must be by her hands, the only way to fully rid her of her dependence, of her lifeblood. The only way to detoxicate her system completely.

They will never understand how she loves him. How he infiltrates every fiber of her being.

They will never understand.