Disclaimer: Any and all Batman characters are not mine. But a girl can dream…
Author's Note: This is a story I started awhile ago and just recently found again. It's a little odd, but then, isn't everything related to these two? Hope you enjoy, and please don't hesitate to give feedback.
"He broke my heart. Now I broke him."
The words were foreign to her, but they clung to her lips like dried blood, their bitter salt stinging her tongue. Her face remained neutral as she looked down at the corpse at her feet, blood pooling around the small wound in his chest. The bullet had pierced the aorta, slicing cleanly through the body and rendering him dead within seconds.
She was surprised to discover that one bullet had been enough. One measly bullet had killed the man who had terrorized Gotham City for so long, who had been Batman's greatest foe, who had been the love of her life…and her greatest torment.
She had done what no one else in the world had been able to do. She, Harley Quinn, had killed The Joker.
His green hair was matted with streaks of red like some grotesque Christmas tree strung with sporadic bursts of garland. The area around his wound was soaked completely through, his once bright, purple jacket reduced to a bloody canvas, painted sloppily by a crazed artist.
His face was the one thing that looked the same to her. His pale, chalky skin shone brightly against the crimson backdrop. The most perturbing sight, however, was his lips, as blood-red as the pool in which he lay, yet somehow managing to shine brighter than ever, highlighting his famous, trademark smile. It seemed, even in death, he was destined to get the joke.
Kneeling down, she laid the gun she had been holding down next to her and stared at the man at her feet. She brought her hand to his head and gently brushed his hair away from his face. A few drops of blood lingered on her fingers, but she merely brushed them off on her leg where they blended together perfectly with the black and red diamond pattern.
Bringing her lips to his, she bent over him and let her black lips mingle with his red, one last time.
Drawing away again, she got up, leaving the gun, and started walking away, further and further away, following a dim light leading her away…
Harley woke in a cold sweat, bolting up in her bed. Her heart thumped rapidly in her chest, her lungs expanding and contracting fiercely to keep up. She looked around at her surroundings. She was in their bedroom, the one they shared at their hideout. It looked pretty much the same, though the shadows dotting the room made it clear that it must be the middle of the night. Looking to the clock on the bedside table, she saw that it was nearly 3 a.m. Holding her breath, she glanced to the other side of the bed. Exhaling, she saw the figure of her beloved, still asleep. Her awakening must not have stirred him from his deep sleep. She felt a weight drop from her chest; it had only been a dream.
Still, she couldn't stop shaking; the dream had felt so real, so much more terrifying than anything she ever could have imagined seeing. Even the sight of dead civilians didn't cause Harley to tremble as much as the sight of her dead Puddin'.
Deciding she needed to calm her nerves, Harley silently crept from the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom that adjoined the room, softly closing the door. Instead of turning on the light, as she didn't want to wake her Puddin', she flipped on the little clown nightlight attached to the outlet. His red nose glowed faintly in the dim bathroom, but as long as The Joker didn't wake, Harley didn't mind the lack of light.
Carefully turniing on the tap, Harley made sure the water didn't hit the basin loudly as she gathered the water into her cupped hands and splashed it in her face. Turning off the tap, she grabbed a nearby towel and patted her dripping face.
As she wiped, Harley noticed her reflection in the mirror. The bruises around her eye and mouth were visible even in the weak light, the shadows of the room paired with her pale face making her seem ghoulish, almost spectral. Her fingers traced the purple area near her lip, images of earlier flooding her head. Withdrawing her hand, Harley shook her head and sighed.
She had deserved it.
Turning away from the mirror, she dropped the towel she'd been holding onto the toilet seat. A gleam of something caught her eye as it fell, and looking down at its crumbled form, Harley thought she saw something shiny peeking out from underneath it. Picking up the towel and tossing it aside, Harley saw what it had landed on. It was a revolver, silver and shiny, and most likely loaded. Her Puddin' must have left it there after their heist, his mind probably preoccupied with thoughts of how Batman had nearly caught up with them. He mustn't have realized where the gun had landed.
Gingerly wrapping her fingers around the barrel, Harley picked it up and turned it over a few times, the cool metal weighing heavily in her hands. The Joker sometimes threatened her with this gun, but she knew it was all for show. He would never actually shoot her with it.
No, why waste bullets when his bare hands were all he needed?
Wait, where had that thought come from? Harley didn't feel like that. She loved her Puddin', and he loved her, in his own way. She was probably just shaken from the dream, that's all. She could never think such things about The Joker.
Harley put the gun back on the toilet seat and turned to leave the bathroom, but before her hand could reach the doorknob, she twisted her head back around, staring at the gun. Taking a few steps, she snatched the gun and stepped out into the bedroom, the clown nightlight still casting a faint glow inside the bathroom. Harley looked at The Joker's sleeping form. Every so often, a faint chuckle would escape his lips. How she loved to look at him like this, so calm, so serene.
Stop, stop! Stop thinking like this! Harley put a hand to her head and closed her eyes. She couldn't shake the voice inside her head. Why wouldn't it go away?
Looking down at the gun still in her other hand, she knew what she had to do. Harley looked back at The Joker, still asleep and completely oblivious to her presence. It would be so easy to do. He'd never know until it was too late. But by then, it wouldn't matter, anyway.
Cocking the gun, Harley slowly raised it, never taking her eyes off of her Puddin'. He laughed again in his sleep, probably dreaming of blood and death, of screaming children and sobbing widows, or something equally as fun. Harley lifted the revolver, aimed it, and readied the shot.
Don't worry, Puddin', those dreams will come true.
One shot was all it took. She aimed for the head, and she didn't miss. From that distance, it was impossible to do so.
At the sound of the shot, his eyes flew open, but it was already too late. The blood flowed, faster and faster in pools of red, and Harley dropped to her knees, the gun falling from her fingers. The room spun out of control, colors twirling and distorting like images in funhouse mirrors, and all the sound that could be heard was the single, whispered word which fell, broken, from The Joker's lips. "Harley…?"
The clown girl, however, only stared, dead eyes upon The Joker's face, a blood-red smile frozen on her lips.
Looking down at the heap of a girl, blood-stained and lifeless on the floor, all that passed The Joker's lips was one word, over and over. "Harley…Harley…"
"HARRRLLEEEYYY!" The Joker bolted upright in his bed, sweat dripping down his face. He looked around the room, the same as in his dream, only now light was streaming in through the window. It was morning, or, more accurately, around noon. The Joker looked to Harley's side of the bed, only to find it empty. Looking to the floor, it, too, was empty. For some reason, he let out a breath that he hadn't even realized he was holding. Everything seemed—normal, though he still didn't know where Harley could be.
Right on cue, the door to the bedroom was thrown open, revealing a slightly out-of-breath Harley. Taking a minute to compose herself, she smiled, saying, "Sorry, Puddin'. I was downstairs when ya called. What's wrong?"
The Joker looked confused, and then realized he must have called out Harley's name when he woke up. Gathering his wits, The Joker replied, nonchalantly, "Oh, nothing, Pooh. Just go make me breakfast or something. I'm famished."
Smiling at her Puddin', Harley chirped, "Sure thing, Mistah J!" and turned to leave just as The Joker's voice pulled her back.
"Oh, and Harley?"
"Remind me never to eat falafels right before going to bed."
Looking puzzled, Harley shrugged, but replied, "Okay, Puddin'. Whateva you say." With that, she bounced out of the room and went downstairs to start preparing breakfast.
The Joker, meanwhile, rubbed his eyes and got out of bed, making his way toward the bathroom. Switching on the light, he made his way over to the toilet, but something stopped him in his tracks. There, lying on top of the toilet lid, was the revolver he had seen in his dream, the same one Harley had used to kill herself. He remembered that part, at least. Even though some parts were hazier than others, he could still recall the look in her eyes before she died, the blood surrounding her, and the fact that he had called out her name. That part, more than anything, had unnerved him.
Of course, maybe it was the fact that she had done it, instead of him. Sure, he could imagine hundreds of ways to end her life, and he'd tried, once or twice. Or three or four times. Or every other Thursday. But always, always, it had been him holding the gun, or the knife, or the rubber chicken filled with lead, not her. Something about seeing her take her own life, something just wasn't right. He didn't know what it was, but it just wasn't. For some unknown reason, it just didn't seem funny.
Picking up the gun, he looked at it for a moment and stepped out of the bathroom. Opening one of the dresser drawers that contained some of his clothes, The Joker shoved the gun into one of his socks and buried it underneath a pile of shirts.
The smell of bacon wafted up from the kitchen and filled The Joker's nose. He could hear Harley's off-key singing. She certainly was in a happy mood. Not that she wasn't usually. He could just imagine her bright, happy smile when he walked into the room, as wide and bubbly as it always was whenever he graced her with his presence.
Just like it was meant to be.
Closing the drawer, The Joker headed out of the room, stopping once to look back at the dresser. He'd have to remind himself to find a better hiding place later.
Just in case.