A/N: My internet won't return until 4 September (thank Heathus for campus internet access). I'd also like to apologize in advance if this chapter isn't as well edited as the previous may have been - I had a bit of trouble making up my mind about certain editing choices. Meh.

I Live To See You Smile

by Shikhee

Chapter Six

Harleen's body processed sensations faster than her mind could identify their meaning: the cool, slick surface pushed against her mouth with longer extensions tapering off and tapping arrhythmically against her cheek could only mean there was a glove on the hand over her mouth. The potential hazard of this addition to his attire didn't immediately register in her brain, which was so logged down with exhaustion and the workings of Tylenol PM that it was a wonder she was able to keep her eyes open. Slowly her head fell to the side, her cheek mashing into the front of her right shoulder, as she watched him settle at her bedside into a rolling chair. It was a second-hand acquired piece of furniture, one she had wheeled back to her apartment from the side of the road several months back, and the stuffing frequently leaked out in tufts from the headrest from the slightest pressure. He was perched on the very edge of the seat, his body hunched as if ready to fold over, but there was a ferocity in his eyes and a tense, sharply defined determination etched into his expression that Harleen had no trouble seeing despite his make-up.

No, make-up shouldn't cover that much of a person's face: his was painted entirely white with creases of bare flesh showing through on his forehead and around his mouth. His mouth... as if it already wasn't hard enough to look at, as if it already wasn't painful enough to see, he had enhanced the scars and the discomfort they brought with the brightest crimson lipstick, quickly smeared across his lips and over the ridges of his scarred cheeks. His eyes seemed wider now that they were the only bright spots in the oil-black pits both had become, the edges trailing down his face in watery stains. His hair was different, too – even more greasy and unruly somehow, with the part of his scalp like a shock of white that paired one mass of frizzy, garishly green hair from the rest, fanning his face in mismatched waves. Harleen's heart caught and thudded back to life in rapid succession, the pressure of it swelling up to her throat. He was too close, much, much too close to her, but she could only move as if caught in a tight web. Her legs and arms were like lead as she writhed and pushed herself as far from him as her mattress and languor would allow.

He seemed amused by her progress, or her attempt at it, and tilted his head to watch as she fumbled to put any amount of distance between the two of them. Harleen kept her eyes focused on his hands that were positioned horizontally, his fingers pointing at her between his knees. His clothes were different now. They were a strange collection of colors, mostly dark and nicely tailored, certainly new and more expensive looking than the drab outfit he had on during their previous meeting. Harleen could barely remember what that was – only that his take on dressing sharply was disturbing. That he should put such thought into his appearance, and the obvious care it took to paint his face in such a way, horrified her. It was an exaggeration of a normal concern, an utter bastardization in fact, and at the same time it seemed so... human.

“How did you get here?” Harleen asked once she'd found her voice. It took her several minutes to pry it from the brambles that scratched at her throat and as a result she sounded hoarse, her vocal cords acting under enormous strain.

His face brightened instantly, his teeth bared beneath a wide smile. He slapped his hands together and rubbed them as if wringing something from his skin. “I'm so glad you asked!” He said, licking his lips as he leaned closer, eager and fully intent on sharing his story. “That care-taker of yours let me in.” He paused and leaned back in the chair, reflecting on his next words. “I didn't know you had a baby-sitter.”

If Harleen were a hopelessly naive person, she might mistake his tone for a cordial one. Instead his interest, his bright voice and leering grin, made her feel once again left out on a joke that only he understood.

Dina, she thought at once, her eyes widening as she tried to sit up straight or even throw herself off the bed. His eyebrows shot up at her sudden, wild movements and he waited until she finished thrashing before he resumed his gargoyle imitation stance.

“Are you finished?” He asked, smiling broadly.

“Where is she?” Harleen demanded, forcing herself to stare into his eyes, to meet the flat gaze that only seldom sparkled with something resembling life – again, just a bastardization of it, a madman's parroting.

His eyes expanded, mocking her expression. A real joker, Harleen grumbled to herself, fixing the name to him with bitter precision, thinking back to the joker card he had handed her with such care.

The Joker pushed his hands to the front of his green vest, tapping once on the fabric. “You're asking me? I've been right here – with you.”

Harleen gritted her teeth. “For how long?”

“Oh, a few hours. At least.” The Joker nodded as he spoke, reaching forward suddenly to snatch at a small bottle hidden between the knot of sheets and limbs. Harleen gasped and scrambled to pull her legs closer to her, determined to pull as much of herself out of his reach. He only grinned at her, his raspy chuckle building slowly to a full-on laugh as he held up the Tylenol PM bottle and shook it at her. “You've been out for quite a while, Harley. Completely oblivious.”

“What did you do to her?”

The Joker pursed his lips and looked thoughtful as he began to tap the bottle slowly, rocking it from side to side, in a slow progression up Harleen's leg and thigh, coming to rest with four steady taps at her hip. “Ididn't do anything,” he said at last, his voice a growl. “I just asked her for the key – it was easier than following her back here and bursting my way in.” He raised his eyes to Harleen's, holding her stare in a brief silence. “She'd just get in the way,” he said at last, as if he were taking great pains to explain an overly simple matter.

Harleen shivered and folded her arms over her chest, grateful for the shapeless bag of her own clothing. She ignored the tapping pill bottle against her hip and its slow migration over her stomach as best she could, gritting her teeth to stop from screaming or sobbing. “Will she be all right?”

The Joker shrugged. The movement was like a muscle twitch, an unconscious sign of irritation. “That depends on her.” The bottle came to a dead stop at her navel. Harleen sucked in her stomach. He began to hit the bottle harder this time, the taps and the rattling pills growing louder. “If she keeps hanging around I'm not sure she will be. After our, ah, little chat... she seemed to get the hint that she wasn't wanted here. I don't think she'll be bothering you anymore.”

“She's my friend,” Harleen spat in a snarl. The Joker's face was blank, uncaring and completely unresponsive to the word or to any possible emotional attachment it might have. Furious, Harleen's hand uncurled from beneath her arm and shoved the bottle aside. It clattered to the bed next to her. At once the Joker extended a hand to retrieve it, rising slightly from the chair as he did so, and placed a fist on Harleen's gut to steady himself. She was sure he didn't have to slam it down as hard as he did in order to balance himself – he simply wanted to, to prove a point. Point well taken, Harleen stayed very still as he reclaimed the bottle.

“You never told me whose idea it was to be on that corner,” he drawled, looking at Harleen from under his short, clumped lashes.

Harleen cleared her throat silently and adjusted herself beneath the sheets, sitting up a little straighter. “You never asked.”

“I'm asking now.” Still he continued to stare at her.

Reluctantly, biting her lip and twisting her face away from his eyes, from his stare, Harleen whispered, “... Hers.”

“Ahhh.”

He won that one. Harleen hung her head and slowly raked her eyes over her bedroom, looking for anything out of place, anything transformed to be suddenly lethal or bizarre – or anything slightly useful. Anything that could be used as a weapon was far out of reach for both her and the Joker, and she would have been relieved to think this if she didn't doubt he came equipped with a small arsenal tucked away in the folds of his jacket and pants. Her eyes hopped right over the Joker to rest at her bedside table to the dim light of the reading lamp and the neon green glow of the alarm clock as it ticked from four-fifteen to four-sixteen AM. So much for a normal sleeping schedule. So much for sleeping at all, if he was going to make a habit of these visits.

As Harleen grumbled silently, she frowned and studied the house key he had dangled over her face some time ago. It sat on the stand to the left of the alarm clock, the point of the key facing towards the window, and looked oddly stained from this angle. Glancing quickly at the Joker, seeing he was quite impassive and watching her with little concern, Harleen decided it was somewhat safe to investigate and so she slid the key closer to her, slipping it into her shaking palm and holding it to her face.

There was blood on it. Small streaks and flecks, but it was blood and it was drying. It had even flaked off in a few places.

Harleen’s stomach heaved as she met the Joker’s stare over the key’s ridges. He smiled at her again. It was then she finally had the courage to run.

She knew she wouldn’t get far – she didn’t want to run away so much as she wanted to get to the toilet before the warmth in her throat came pouring out her mouth. The Joker was on his feet and was striding only a half-step behind her. Harleen could feel the tips of his hands swiping for her, but she was faster and she was desperate. She slid to a halt and latched her hands on the frame of the bathroom door, propelling herself forward into the small tiled sanctuary, and had collided with porcelain and the much abused bathroom rug before he could recover from her sudden turn. In between her violent retches and heaves, Harleen cleared her sight of tears and sweat to see him perched on the brim of the bathtub, studying her carefully. His hands clapped together more than once, the leather groaning as they slid beneath the knot of his fingers, creating a bizarre accompaniment to Harleen disgorging the contents of her stomach. She had never regretted ingesting Senor Taco more than she had at that moment.

Perhaps he meant to pretend comforting her– or he simply wanted to antagonize her. That made much more sense, despite there being little rhyme or reason for it. Harleen bowed her head and found a cool spot on the floor to rest on, sliding her fingers over the handle to release the flush, as he took in a quick gasp of air and nodded, looking at her from the corners of his eyes. They were glistening now.

“It isn't that big of a loss, Harley,” the Joker said, pursing his lips. “Why should the police care about another missing pro? They've got more important things to deal with – the world has more important things to deal with.”

“Like you?” She groaned, staring up at him from her place of comfort on the floor.

His face split into a wide grin and he leaned over, running his hands down to his knees as he pinned his eyes to hers. “Why, Harley, I'm flattered.”

Harleen continued to stare at him. He grew bored with the contest after a short amount of time and amused himself instead by prodding her in the side with his shoe, pushing her further back. It didn’t hurt her – she didn’t feel the pain at least – and she responded only by curling her legs up towards her stomach and rounding her shoulders, breathing in carefully through her nose, letting the tense stream out from her parted mouth. The warmth in her throat faded, the bile sliding down back where it belonged, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She didn’t want to.

“I'm not going to tell anyone,” Harleen said at last, lifting her head from the floor to peer at him dead on.

The Joker was looking at the mirror across from them, the small glass arch that was cracked in the upper left corner. “I know you won't,” he said. It was remarkable how this simple response could seem like a threat.

“When will I see you again?” Harleen hid her face in her hands as she sat up, using the shielded moments to clean herself as best she could. “... So I'm prepared.”

“Eventually.”

It was all so simple – for him. Harleen envied him for this ease, this careless, maddening grace, the thoughtless skill that it took to ruin an entire world and whatever person belonged to it.