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It had started as something, Joker knows, despite what her newer therapists have tried to claim. She had manipulated Harley to an extent, she wouldn’t deny that, but it had started as something more.
It had started out simple enough— Harleen Quinzel had walked into Joker’s cell and settled down, eyes blazing and chin lifted. Defiant and confident, like she knew exactly what would happen and had everything she needed to make sure it would. Like every other Therapist that had come through that door and thought they would be the one to understand her, to fix her.
But then it had gotten much more complicated because— Joker hadn’t even had to try to stir up interest like she normally did; it came naturally. Joker found herself immediately looking at the new woman, eyes following her across the room, unable to even feign disinterest like she usually would. Because Joker found her intriguing. And see, that was the thing. That was the snag in the line, the catalyst that had eventually led them to where they are now. Because there was only one who had before naturally stirred Joker’s intrigue, only one who she had thought was worth her attention, only one that could understand. Only one person in this entire grayscale world that felt like her, that felt real. The only one that allowed her to feel anything.
Until Harleen had smiled at her, tapped her pen on her clipboard and said, “The cameras are off. I don’t like my patients' sessions being recorded without explicit permission, so I cut the wires. Now… Joker, is it? What would you like to talk about?” And Joker felt something. A flicker at best, but something. And everything had changed.
The moments had only continued to stack up after that. Flicker after flicker after flicker. Harleen listening to her in a way that conveyed an understanding of Joker in a way no other had; Harleen yelling at her supervisors about their treatment of the inmates; Harleen throwing her clipboard away when Joker asked her to; Harleen whispering, even though the wires were cut, that this city was different, that she could feel it in the air and the river. That the difference wasn’t scary though, even though it felt like there were always eyes on her. That the difference was comforting. That it made Gotham feel like Home.
Flicker after flicker.
And the biggest moment, the one that turned the flicker into a fire, when an inferno started burning into her chest and mind, the one Joker returned to so often that she could draw it perfectly, that she could explain what happened without a thought: Harleen had locked the door behind her, turned to Joker, eyes raging, and slapped her.
The explosion in Joker’s chest had shattered her in a way she’d never felt before, a noise leaving her without notice as she stared, stock still, and eyes wide and locked on Harleen, who was still fuming, the anger rolling off her in waves as she paced the cell, and it had taken forever for Joker to zone back in, to be able to pull her focus from the shaking of her bones and the warmth emanating from the impact, from the feeling.
“I can’t believe you! I mean, I work so hard to get you privileges, I work so hard to convince my supervisors that you’re trying. That we’re getting somewhere. And then when they let you out for once you immediately cause problems, now we’re back at point one, Joker, and I—” Harleen had ranted, her heels clicking against the ground and sounding to the beat of Joker’s steadily rising heart rate, and Joker hadn’t known what exactly she was feeling, but it felt strong, as strong as some of her most pivotal moments— of acid baths and thrown fists, of batarangs and explosive nights— and before she’d been able to stop it, before she’d even been able to realize it was happening—
Her eyes blurred with tears, heartbeat so hard it might’ve cracked a rib, and Harleen had froze when their eyes locked.
Harleen had stayed that way for a moment, surprised and unsure, the first time Joker had seen her that way, before she’d curled herself around Joker, rubbing a hand across her arm and giving her an encouraging smile. “Ok. Didn’t even know ya— you could cry.” Neither had Joker. Harleen had been the first to evoke that reaction; it was a mystery. It was addicting. “But progress. This is progress, Jay.”
Neither of them had brought up the nickname, but it became a staple of their conversations. Then the next nickname was proposed: Harley Quinn. And from there, things spiraled quickly.
Joker had kept Harley at her side, and it had felt. She didn’t care how much Harley complained about the accommodations, or how others started to try and target Harley to hurt her, or how Harley practically hung off her side constantly without a break, or how much Harley asked her to explain how she felt, because with her around Joker could feel things. Snapping words and broken vases and knives chucked at walls nearby, that shattering exciting pain could swell in her chest and overtake her mind over and over and over again.
She could feel.
Until something shifted again. And this shift is one thing that Joker can’t quite pin down.
Harley stopped fighting back, her words started to lose their bite, Joker was the only one throwing knives and breaking vases. Harley seemed to shrink into herself. Leaving a chasm between them and a hole in Joker’s chest. Because the feelings were still there, but the best one, the one she had been pulling from Harley since that first time, was being refused. Harley was refusing to break and remake her, and it set Joker off like never before, it made her doubt herself like nothing ever had before. But she was certain she could get Her Harley back.
The fights got more violent, but they were always one-sided. Joker screamed at Harley until her throat hurt, would use the worst insults she could think of, would bring up her family and her degree and her mental health and anything she could think of, and Harley would stare, doe eyed and eyes red rimmed, and say nothing.
It had started as something, Joker knows, but now it’s this. A blank faced Harley Quinn staring at a fuming Joker, those long precious feelings lost and unkindling their relationship.
And as Joker looks at her, looks at the blankness there and the sadness underneath, she finds that there’s no gut punch, no flicker, no feeling. Joker turns to the door, and ignores her calls to come back, that they can fix this if they really try.
It’s not worth it anymore. If it ever was, she doesn’t know. She’ll go find her Bat, and have him imbue her with enough feelings to burst. And she’ll forget the now lost sharpness of the woman behind her, she’ll forget the way Harley’s eyes had narrowed with such force that Joker’s legs had shaken with her excitement. She’ll forget the new feelings that she’d never felt before, and the way Harley had held her through it all.
She’ll forget how exciting it can be.
She’ll forget how much it feels to be with Harley.
Joker will forget it all.
And she’ll make sure it becomes nothing.