Well, here's the next part. 0-0 H'yah, I'm tired. School's been eating me alive, and I've been trying to eat Nik whenever I get the chance. Heheh. -- laughs devilishly -- How I love my Greek godling. :3

Dedicated, as per almost always, to J-Horror Fan 4-Ever, and her story Can't Get You Outta My Head.

Go. Read it now. It much pwneth my poor Lucky Charms jingle story.

And no, I am not anti-environmentalist. This is Dante; she's pretty much anti-anything, on any given day. Just because she's dead and doesn't give a flying fuck (hmm... interesting position... I wonder... -- fox ears pop up -- ) about what anybody thinks anymore, if she ever did. This is Dante we're talking about. -- grins sheepishly --

As always, feel free not to take this seriously, kick your feet back, and enjoy.

Disclaimer: All things copyrighted are obviously not owned by me. I own simply Dante (well... she owns me, really, but it's all semantics) and the interactions therein.

... -- snickers -- Harley Quinn. Ahh... If Dante ever gets through the computer screen, I am dead in horrific and horrible ways. XD

-- deviantly,

RW

Finally.

All of the suffering... all of the pain... all of the tears... drifting... just... out of... reach...

It was finally over.

I took her hand and guided her into the warm light...

“Dante, you're snoring. Shut up.”

I fell off the couch onto the floor, my dignity and butt bruised. Glaring up at him, I rubbed my butt, which I was sure was going to bruise horribly. Stupid sexy insane psychologist. Nyaah.

I stuck my tongue out at him, while he clicked his tongue at me condescendingly. I considered teaching the little skinny-ass punk a lesson, but decided that his ass looked much nicer on his lean body than in pieces all over the carpet.

Groggily, I shook my head, trying to clear the memories away. It was hard, sometimes; the lives overlapped and intersected, and time slipped away like sake upon a grave...

Time has no meaning when you're dead.

Please understand what exactly that means. Try imagining time as not A-B-C as we see it when we're alive, but understand that sometimes it's R-A-3-T etc. The past affects the future, and the future affects the past. Yeah. Non-linear time. Ain't it grand?

Ha. Ha. Fucking. Ha.

Muttering about needing fresh air (with a pointed look at Jonathan's latest failed attempts at not horribly burning... whatever that charred substance was), I admit freely that I was looking for something... interesting. Which in my case usually means something incredibly violent. Hey, whatever floats your boat...

I wanted to—to—beat somebody. I felt aggressive, tight, on-edge. The Joker was supposedly still in Arkham, but considering the security in that place was riddled with more holes than a college frat boy's sock, I had my doubts. Harvey's wedding was just a little over a week away, and I wouldn't breathe again until they were on their honeymoon in Metropolis. Let Superfr—er, Superman deal with the Wonder Twins for awhile. He'll be screaming for kryptonite by the end of the two weeks.

So there I was, minding my own business, when I see her.

Yeah. The redhead with enough curves to make any woman feel inadequate.

She was busy berating somebody over how their products damaged the environment blah blah blah. More environmentalist crap. I'm not anti-green, really. Hell, I've seen for myself how the planet was pre-Industrial Revolution, how good ol' Earth manages to survive for another coupla eons, but that's as far as I've ventured. Any time people go through a Nekkid is Natural phase, ohohohohhh no. Nononononono. There are some people that I would love to see naked. Most people do not qualify for that. Most people cause me to seriously consider setting my eyes on fire.

“Look, as much as I mostly approve of random violence against stupid people, lady, seriously—he's almost dead. Stop kicking him.”

Raising an elegant eyebrow at me, she looked down her nose at me... literally. Damn my incredible shortness.

“And you are...?” she inquired in a husky drawl.

“Bored, mostly,” I shrugged.

Apparently, that amused her, because she had a good laugh. This, of course, mildly annoyed me and slightly pissed me off. I hate people laughing at something when I don't get the joke. Or when I am it, and I don't know why.

Basically, I just hate people.

Funny thing, for being a guardian angel.

Deal.

“Well, whatever are two bored women to do?” she asked, eyes glinting amusedly.

I raised an eyebrow in response. Oookkaaaay... what exactly did GA and Poison Ivy do together when we're both aggravated and bored?

“What did you have in mind?” I asked warily.

After all, I'm still on vacation. I have a whole lifespan to relax and... play... and I don't intend to let little miss Red fucking Riding Hood poison me for kicks.

“A little mayhem, a little justice against corporations that are killing off a rare and endangered flower native only to Gotham to make an alcoholic beverage for the rich...”

Oookkaaaaay... So we're going to blow up things and beat up people over some flowers...

See what I mean about environmentalists?

“Um... sure... I guess. What, standard bash-and-trash?” I inquired casually.

She grinned at me, and I couldn't help being reminded of a Venus fly-trap's smile. Wide and toothy. Not very flattering at all, but she managed to pull it off without looking like she was having trouble expelling waste matter.

“Haha. I like your sense of humour, Ragdoll.”

I choked on absolutely nothing, gasping at the nickname. Okay, okay, so I haven't exactly had time to keep up with whatever fashion trends were around. I'd mostly nicked my clothes from used clothing stores because most of my money had to go towards keeping the Joker in the hospital, mental or otherwise. Still, the insinuation pissed me off royally.

“Or should I say, Harley Quinn?”

... what the fuck?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demanded angrily.

“Well, word on the street is...” she stretched languidly, “... is that you and the Joker are in a lover's spat that's exploding out all over Gotham,” she shrugged innocently.

Twitch.

Twitch.

“I. AM. GOING. TO. MURDER. WHO. EVER. STARTED. THAT. RUMOR,” I grit my teeth, utterly enraged. I cannot tell you the depths of my fury.

The motherfucker was going to be eviscerated.

“I can't tell you who started it, but there's a running bet as to who goes crawling back to who. So far, it's about evenly matched,” Poison Ivy chuckled huskily.

“The. Joker. And. I. Fucking. HATE. EACH. OTHER. WITH. A. DEPTH. THAT. IS. FUCKING. UNKNOWN,” I screeched like the banshee I am.

Poison Ivy shook her head, laughing softly. The red tresses glinted, and now I officially hated her too because honestly, shoot the messenger is a phrase for a fucking reason.

Was I jealous? Noooo... not a bit...

Twitch.

“If your little epileptic fit is over, I can tell you that the name Ragdoll is due to your... association... with the former Dr. Crane,” she sighed long-sufferingly.

Ohh lady, you don't even know suffering yet...

“Jonathan?” I blinked. “Well, okay then. But I'm seriously going to hunt down the person who had the fucking bright idea that the Joker and I have anything other than deep and abiding hate between us and hang him with his own intestines. While they are still attached to his body,” I informed her with dark cheer.

She applauded.

“I hate the man myself,” she grinned toothily again, “so I fully support your endeavors in shortening his lifespan. Myself, men like Bruce Wayne catch my eye.”

Oh, I'll bet they did. Tall, dark, broody, and filthy fucking rich. Lotta poison shit you could buy with that, little miss Red.

Irony, how I love thee.

I'd give my right kidney to see her try it. Assuming, of course, that I still had it. Some days, I wasn't sure.

“So, how about an alliance? As far as I can tell, beyond your strange overprotection of Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes aside, I cannot find a single instance of anything heroic you've done, besides coincidental occurrences resulting from your battles with the Joker. And you obviously have no problem with Dr. Crane.”

“Well, that's because the man is dead sexy,” I shrugged.

She blinked.

“I... suppose that's as valid a reason as any. At least you're not attracted to the Joker.”

I shuddered.

“Excuse me, I have to introduce the insides of my stomach to the toilet. I believe they're about to become very good friends,” I muttered, only half-joking.

Honestly. The thought is downright nauseating.

“Considering that you're certainly not the heroine that everybody seems to believe you are—that, or a psychotic lover on the breaks with the Joker, or Scarecrow's lover—why not join forces?”

“I never pretended to be a hero,” I shrugged, “and I certainly never wanted the people of Gotham to see me as that. I simply do what has to be done. Me? I'm on vacation. I have no further agenda than that.”

Which was a complete lie, of course. I certainly did have an agenda, most notably keeping a rather sharp eye (and sharper aim) on one Harvey Dent and his expectant bride-to-be/carrier-of-his-spawn, and cheerfully beating the shit out of the Joker (and unfortunately having the shit beaten out of me), and hopefully, with some luck, seducing the quite delectable Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Apparently, I'm a better liar than I thought, or she sucks at knowing when people lie.

Or she doesn't give a rat's ass.

“Does this mean we have an accord?” she held out a slim, pale hand.

I just looked at it.

“Nope. Not a bit. But thanks for the offer,” I called over my shoulder as I walked off.

No thank-you. Not to sound like some emo angst-addled vigilante (one in a fucking bat costume was enough for even Gotham aka the mental institution of the universe) but I work alone. It's just something that you get used to when being a dead guardian angel: you're used to working unseen in the shadows.

Well... I was like that before I died too. I liked doing things myself. It ensured that the chance that they were going to be fucked up much smaller.

What can I say? I'm pragmatic. People, on the whole, are incredibly stupid.

I could hear her muttering incredulously to herself, but I ignored her. Actually, I felt much more cheerful now that all of my need for violence was directed towards the poor fool who'd stared the whole Harley Quinn fiasco.

I had absolutely no pity for the fate I was about the inflict upon him.

Mwuahahaha. Let the hunt begin.

I dragged myself through the door, collapsing next to Jonathan on his beige couch. (I still need to introduce that man to color.) Utterly exhausted, I curled up next to him, snuggling up.

He regarded me in aghast horror.

“... why do you smell like primal terror?” he demanded silkily, voice deepening.

Ahh. So Scarecrow was coming out to play.

Fun times. Fun times.

“Oh, I had to deal with a gossip,” I replied darkly, smiling widely. “And I had to teach him just how wrong it was to spread nasty rumours about nice people. Unfortunately he was quite dense and a slow learner, so I had to resort to harder measures.”

Jonathan gave a wide, sly grin, all deviousness. His blue eyes shone with excitement for the first time since I'd known him.

“Did he scream? Did he cry? Did he soil himself?” he demanded hungrily.

I gave him a slow, burning grin in return.

I'm not a nice person. Yes, I'm a guardian angel, and yes, my primary goal in afterlife is to make sure my charges are protected from two-bit whackjobs like the Joker, but I am not a nice person.

Just to be clear.

“Oh, he screamed and he screamed, until his vocal cords just simply wore out. He cried so hard that he couldn't breathe. He just gasped and choked. The poor man begged in the end, said he had a family, but he hurt them because of the pills and the mistress. He beat them, so I figured that I was doing them a favor. They'll find him in his own garage, hanging from a noose.”

“What,” Jonathan giggled, “is it made of?”

“His own intestines. They're still attached, I think.”

He let out a loud, sniggering sort of laugh, the kind that would make you think of somebody crying except that there is zero sentiment in it. It's an insane sort of laugh, the kind that's all silky smooth at first until you realized that you've just walked on razorblades.

I like that about my Dr. Crane. Elegance and refinement hide the madness that lies just below the polished surface.

I leaned close against him, letting the faint heat of him sooth me into a faint sleep. Dozing for a bit, I woke up with a start when he stood up, damn near falling off the couch again.

“F'ckoo,” I muttered incoherently.

Sighing, I watched as he tried on the tuxedo.

“Honestly, Dante. A navy tuxedo?” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Midnight blue,” I corrected. “And it brings out your eyes. Stop preening, you little metrosexual bastard, you know you like it.”

He gave me a smirk, admiring his reflection. Which was odd, considering that the man had absolutely horrible self-image and even worse self-esteem. Probably I was rubbing off on him.

Yay me!

Silently, we watched each other in companionable silence.

Poor Gotham. I was Dante, Ragdoll, and, yes, Harley fucking Quinn now.

I'm still on vacation. Let Bruce get off his rich tight ass and give a damn.

... I need a drink.