He shifts over, on to his side, and sees her, lying there, sprawled out. He can see her face by the soft light of the moon, filtering through the window of the motel they've holed up in for the night.
She's a heavy sleeper, and though he never would admit to it, he envy's that about her.
He never can sleep.
When he does, its restless, plagued by visions of a life he isn't sure was ever real, emotions in his waking hours he'd convinced himself he was incapable of.
Tonight's been no different.
He watches as her chest rises and falls in an even and steady pattern. She looks peaceful. Content. He wonders why. He treats her badly. He treats everyone badly. Including himself.
She should hate him.
But she doesn't.
He moves to sit up and pushes himself from the mattress. The bed bounces slightly and the springs squeak when he stands, but she doesn't stir. Heavy sleeper.
He steps quietly across the carpet, to the small bathroom, flipping the switch when he gets there. The bright, artificial light fills his eyes and he squints in reflex, though it doesn't really bother him. He closes the door and moves to the sink, starring in to the filth ridden mirror above it. His reflection stares back. His hair is a jumble of thick curls, his face drawn and gaunt. He has a black eye, though that's the extent of his injuries. He touches it. It's sore. He doesn't flinch.
Turning on the faucet, he bends over and cups water in his large hands, splashing it on to his face.
His mind goes back to the girl in the bed.
She's afraid of him. He's made sure of that.
She thinks she loves him. But she doesn't. She's addicted. Obsessed. Intoxicated by the feeling of power he gives her.
How could anyone ever love him?
He presses a palm against the glass.
She's false in her understanding. Not deceitful. Just false. He's told her the truth, explained in great detail the world through his eyes. She nods and tells him he's a genius, says she was blind before, but now she gets it. She doesn't. But she believes she does. And she's addicted to that too. To the feeling that she's privy to some great secrete between them.
He looks down.
No. She doesn't understand. She never could. He always knew that.
Only he knows. He's the only other person who does.
But he refuses it. Fights it.
It hurts. That he won't acknowledge what's shared between them. The unique relation. The unique understanding.
Maybe he doesn't understand.
Maybe he's really the only one.
He won't admit that either.
A woman's face flashes in his mind. The image is vivid, clear. It's the same woman who always comes. She's beautiful. He can hear her voice, a sweet voice. She's talking to someone. She's telling whoever it is that she loves them, she's proud of them.
Is it him?
No. It couldn't be.
She smiles and he can feel it. His heart flutters and races. Her hand reaches out, cupping someone's face, and suddenly he can feel the warmth of a palm against his cheek. It is him. His skin burns with the intensity of it and his eyes close.
"I love you Jack. I love you. No matter what happens, as long as we have each other, we'll be alright. I promise you. Okay?"
He nods, taking her hand in his own, bending it towards his lips. He kisses it.
She smiles again. He smiles back.
"I love you."
"I… I'd be so lost without you. I'd be so alone. I've got nothing else. Nothing else in this world."
"I'll always be here Jack."
He looks up and notices the mirrors cracked, a split and fractured line running up from where his hand is pressed. He pulls it away, and little shards fall to the sink, and then he sees the blood trickling down his palm. He didn't feel it. Didn't hear it.
That's what happens. When the woman comes. It's like blacking out.
He looks up at his reflection. There's tears running down his face. He wipes them away.
He turns, and there she is, standing in the door way, starring at him with that concerned look.
"Are you alright? Why are ya cryin'?"
He blinks and says nothing for nearly a minute.
"Go back to bed Harley."
"But, yer hand? You hurt yourself." She protests.
"Go back to bed." He says simply, clenching his fist, digging his own nails in to the wound, blood seeping out more quickly.
She looks bemused at what he's doing before bringing her eyes back to his.
"Now." He says, his voice heavy with warning.
She knows enough not to argue.
"Y-yes Mistah J." She turns slowly, back out in to the room.
The Joker looks to himself again. His image is splintered, cracked. He's frowning.
"You lied." He whispers at the mirror. "You didn't stay. You left me alone. With nothing…. Nothing. Everything's nothing…"
He pushes away, off the sink, moving for the door, turning one more time to look at the broken glass.
"And now the world's dead…"
He flips off the switch, heading back towards bed.