Author's: Another one-shot from me! God, I am so obsessed with this couple. Also, Sad Clown Boyfriend is 100% what I'm here for. For everyone who read and reviewed my earlier stories, thank you! Your feedback means everything to me and I'm thrilled and excited about the response.

The Usual Disclaimer: This is based on Harley's and Joker's relationship as portrayed in Suicide Squad, which is quite different from the original portrayal in a number of ways. Based on Margot Robbie's Harley Quinn and Jared Leto's Joker.

You can find the playlist for this fanfic on my tumblr Crystallinee-waters, tagged Abstinence.

PART I:
My Abstinence

Well I'm not a zombie
But I feel like one today
Self induced comatose, chemical daze
I'm insane
Well, I can feel it in my bones
Coursing through my veins
When did I become so cold?

.

Abstinence.

No one had warned him about it, that tearing withdrawal. He never thought it would be grinding his bones the way it did. It made his mind and body crumble until he was nothing more than a shell, containing all the pent-up violence that threatened to overflow. Just like a mine, the slightest touch was all it took, a breath, and he would explode.

Abstinence for everything that she was, her body and soul.

He had never depended on anyone for anything, he didn't need anyone. He was the Joker. The one and only. Henchmen, humans, just like expensive Italian sport cars, were easily replaceable. Everything in this world was floating, gone with the pull of a trigger.

And now... what a pathetic display, he would have laughed if only he hadn't lost his smile. He was a mess, hollow like a bombed building. He couldn't remember the last time he slept. Days, weeks even, he couldn't see straight anymore. He couldn't remember when his starving body was nourished with anything else than vodka.

She had been gone for so long. And no matter whom he threatened, whom he called, whom he slammed against the wall with the promise of breaking their necks and cutting their faces up, no one could tell him where she was. She had just vanished off the face of the earth.

And he was suffering; no point in denying. He was the embodied form of aching. Pain.

It was… painful. He never minded physical pain, it had become a permanent part of existing, and he used to turn all mental pain into physical. But now, this pain was chasing him into a corner, trapping him.

He had tried. He had gone out on wild sprees to distract himself. But driving through a crowd and see the bodies rolling off the streets, breaking into fancy parties and unloading ten machine guns, creating chaos and leaving a burning city behind, was only so fun. He had grown tired, losing his energy. There was no one there to celebrate his victory with him, there was no one there to appreciate the heists. No one who came running to him with a vexing laugh and devoted smile.

Suddenly the world, the part of it that moved in the darker circles, could see him, stripped of his smile, a Joker in pain. A Joker who made no jokes. To the rest of the world, he had just disappeared, gone into hiding - except for when he was out searching, leaving a trail of bodies behind.

He had grown tired of the distractions, he was only sitting there, gun in hand, like a pacifier to a kid, staring down into the floor, head swinging back and forth, grinding his teeth, grasping the gun tighter.

Where. Is. She.

The henchman was staring into the black hole of a gun muzzle. The Joker's eyes were that of a wild beast, an unstoppable force of nature, ready to strike, ready to kill. An addict gasping for the next dose, baring his veins desperately, he found his voice and it was reduced to a dark, throaty snarl.

"Where is she?"

He threw his head back slowly, gasping for air, as Jonny Frost informed him of Harley's whereabouts. He hissed the orders in reply, to ready the cars and get the weapons.

He was a fool, with weaknesses, and those weaknesses were exposed like a bared throat, begging for someone to slice it up. How … disgusting. It made his stomach twist and turn, but maybe that was only the result of living off of nothing next to alcohol.

He couldn't go on with anything anymore, not the business and clients, not the clubs he owned, not even taunting and provoking Batsy. He couldn't do anything without her in the equation anymore, and that sickened him.

Oh yes, the Joker, The Clown Prince, the most dangerous man in Gotham City, was reduced to a sobbing, laughing mess on the floor. He had known it all along, since the realized he couldn't leave her in the acid bath, he would come for her.

He would always come for her, no matter what part of hell she had been tucked away in. No matter how far Batman and the law tried to keep her out of his reach, out of his grip, he would find her and bring her back. It was a promise to himself just as much as her.

He used to think that she was an utter fool, so pathetic, for falling for his sweet talk and for letting him use her like a tool in his plans only to end up strapped to a table with electrical cords slammed to each side of her head – but of course, her blind infatuation wasn't the stupidest thing around, no.

He had let himself fall for the blond woman with pouting lips and eyes that were filled with determination, begging him for validation, long before she even threw her entire, prestigious life in the trash and dove right into a vat of boiling chemicals for him. He had been the one who was completely overturned by the weight and depth of his desire, his obsession, his need.

Yes, no matter how sick and twisted it was, he needed her.

He wanted her in his arms and the thought itched. He wanted to feel the smell of her skin, her soft hair, hell, it was driving him up the walls, down the drains. Nothing could stop it; his brain was spinning, screaming for it, the fix. He reminisced about all the times he had counted on her death, left her to die but changed his mind. It was as if his body instinctively knew not to get rid of her; it could feel the pull.

He heard the low growl coming from himself, the laugh overtaking, turning into dry sobs that shook his body. Breathing harshly, trying to ease the discomfort tightening in his chest, he let himself fall back to the floor. He rested in the middle of his circle of deadly toys.

Underneath it all, he was a man that was so insanely desperate after months of separation that he couldn't stand another second in his own skin. His meltdown was overtaking him completely, changing him, just like the chemicals once did.

It brought him a small promise of joy; how he would turn this world down now, rip it apart inch by inch, in his pursuit for her. He would annihilate the ground those fuckers walked on, those who took her away. He would exterminate everyone who had ever been in touch with them. He would burn this whole city down. He would cause such such a massive destruction that it would be forever burned into the survivor's retinas. Bullets, blood and bodies everywhere – his laughter turned high pitched. He could daydream about walking into a place and wildly firing a machine gun into a mass of people, but now he had a goal.

It energized his burnt-out brain; he was suddenly more awake than ever. Maybe it was an effect of his brain being fried into a pudding during electroshock "therapy" back at Arkham, but he could imagine her there, lying beside him and whispering into his ear, like she did to calm him down.

He could practically feel her hot breath on his neck. He moved his head from side to side. She was gone, his mind was naughty and acted without his permission. But she was alive, she must be, or he would let hell loose on her. He would not allow her to die, even if she begged him to.

The pursuit would begin. A plan to follow, something to control and organize. Back to business.

Oh, Harley. The little minx had not only bound herself to him in blood and dirt; she had bound him to her just as tight.

Now, who's the fool, Doctor?

The Joker felt the wet stains on his cheeks as he kept on laughing.

.

.

When he had his goal, he could focus. Back were the gold chains and leather jackets – he had an appearance to keep up, even if he cared less than before. His hair was slicked back and smoothed out again, gone was the drawn-on smile. He would dress up for her even later, in his best suit.

The Joker had no time for laughs however, not yet. It was time for business.

Nothing felt so thrilling, so close to a thrill, to be out on the streets again and have someone begging for mercy while he threatened their family members and shot down their kids.

Violence, blood, chaos. It made the blood rush through his veins again.

But nothing, nothing, could compare to the sweet rush that flooded him the moment she was walking through the bullet rain to the helicopter. Breathing heavily as he saw her approach, he noticed that the air was filling his lungs again.

Yes, that was laughter and joy.

But then she was gone again.

.

.

He carried her in his arms into their house. He wasn't sure if he could trust his brain anymore, after all, she had been haunting him constantly. He swore, if she ever died before him, she would terrorize him to the end of time.

Still, his hallucinations usually didn't last this long. Her soft body was so close to him, to his heart. Her scent filled him up and he decided it was real after all. Her arms were thrown around his neck, refusing to let him go.

He put her down on their bed, surprised over the sudden tenderness that had come over him. If he already wasn't insane, he would assume he was losing it. He most certainly had entered another level of madness lately, considering he had broken into the strictest high-security prison in the world, customized swat uniform and all, done what would be impossible for anyone but him.

Not to mention the hijacked helicopter and bomb manufacturing center intrusion. With all the energy he had put down into this, he could have owned Gotham ten times over and wiped the floor with Batsy.

She was tired after the long drive from the prison, and closed her eyes with a happy smile on her face, mumbling something about her Puddin'. Her hair was messy and she still wore the prison clothes, but surprisingly enough she didn't seem to care about that at all.

"Welcome back, baby", he muttered darkly and, after removing the last piece of uniform and changing to more comfortable clothes, he lay down beside her. She snuggled into his chest and his arms wrapped around her, tightly. Finally.

His grip tightened even more, she couldn't get away even if she had wanted to. He closed his eyes and smelled her hair – her scent wasn't as sugary sweet as usual considering she wore no perfume. There was a clear tinge of something unfamiliar, cheap prison soap, and he growled with annoyance.

She giggled faintly against his neck before nestling her head against his collarbone, placing a soft kiss on the tattoo. He breathed deeply through his teeth; soon enough she'd be back smelling like usual, intoxicating, but only for him. His heartbeat felt steadier, calmer than before, it seemed to adjust to her even breathing.

One of his hands moved up to her face while his other arm still kept her in a hard grip. He let his hand run over her face, the tip of his fingers traced her jaw, her chin, moving up to her cheekbones, the tip of her nose, gently outlining the sockets of her eyes, applying a little pressure.

Long after she had fallen asleep, peacefully curled up against his chest, he remained unmoving, staring at the ceiling. He felt so eerily calm, it was terrific.

She was not going to leave his side ever again.