Authors Note: Ladies, gents, and non-binary people, welcome to 1000 ways to die!

I just want to say I'm really excited about this fic- Jailbait was a story about Harley giving in to Joker, and in a slightly abstract sense, 1000 ways to die is a story about Joker giving in to Harley (in his own, violent way of course). This is my attempt to document the development of their relationship outside of Arkham and Harley's transition from a delinquent psychiatrist to a villain in her own right.

Next order of business, I have some serious warnings about this chapter. Theres a pretty long and fairly insensitive discussion of suicide, so if you think that will be triggering for you, you may want to avoid reading this. This chapter is also fairly violent and quite rough emotionally- although I think it ends on a high note, but still proceed with caution if you think that will disturb you.

So yeah, strap in kids, its gonna be a bumpy ride!

Thank you to everyone who read jailbait, your views and reviews are what kept me going through the four re-writes I did for this chapter- honestly, I was close to giving up entirely. I obviously didn't though, and thats at least 70% because I didn't want to let you guys down, so this is dedicated to you guys. I hope you enjoy it and don't be afraid to let me know what you think!

Xoxo, Sewer Angel

Chapter 1: Excessive or pathological constriction or compression of the trachea and associated structures

"There's um, there's a suit in the back seat- I know it's not right, I just… I thought it would be better than the jumpsuit."

His nose crinkles and his mouth jerks to the side as if he'd been about to say something but thought better. Finally his eyes narrow, and he keeps them almost suspiciously pinned on me as he reaches back to grab the grocery bag I'd filled for him. I stare intently at the road because I don't want to see him react, and now I feel embarrassed for even trying. Of course I wouldn't be able to procure anything suitable, it was ridiculous of me to-

"Hmf." He riffles through the offerings, but if I'm not mistaken he seems just a little surprised- pleasantly so. I swell with the accomplishment, and think rather self-importantly that his goons would never have done such a good job. And they certainly wouldn't have looked half as good doing it.

I almost run us off the road when I hear the zipper on his jumpsuit going down.

I didn't think he was going to change here! I don't dare look directly at him as he uncovers all the white skin under the top half of his jumpsuit. The only sound in the car is a very loud gulp that comes from me. You'd think I'd never seen a naked man before- he's not even fully naked!

Oh my god, well don't think about that, Harls, that's not going to help your driving.

"The pants might be a bit short." I blurt. "I couldn't find anything with tails, and the shoes- I'm sorry the colors aren't right, I had to settle for black, but the bow-tie- " I'm babbling, I know. I can't stop because he's wrestling off the last vestiges of his uniform and I definitely need to not think about that, I definitely need to not drive into oncoming traffic.

"Are you going to keep doing that?" He interjects, somehow having maneuvered one leg over his head above the dashboard, obscuring half of the windshield with the slacks he's trying to tug on.

"What?" my voice cracks and I wince, but he doesn't seem to care or notice, pausing with his pants halfway up his legs so he can flap his hands around in the air near my head. "All this... lip smacking."

"Consider em' sealed boss!" I make a gesture like I'm locking my lips and throwing away the key. I note that he preens almost imperceptibly at the title, so I tuck it away for later use and we drive on to the sounds of his quick-change.

"Right." He barks abruptly and I lurch, barely managing to avoid a swerve.

"Wha-"

"Turn right!" He growls, leaning back in his seat with a purse of his lips and a look of utter vexation. "Head for the narrows, I'll direct you from there." With that he falls ominously silent, turning to face the passenger side window. I nod tightly, finding every muscle twisted tense under the weight of his souring mood. I think I'll keep my mouth shut for now. Maybe he's hungry- and I'm the idiot who forgot to bring snacks, goddamnit. I knew I forgot something! It just had to be snacks didn't it? He clearly wasn't expecting a change of clothes, might not have noticed it if I hadn't brought his attention to it, but food- god, he must be starving!

"Left on Lester." He mutters, gesturing vaguely. I let myself fall into the sound of his voice as he snaps commands; always having me turn at the last minute in what I'm quite sure is a bid to keep me on my toes. It's soothing though, the way he drills me. It keeps me from thinking too much.

Finally, I pull into the parking lot of the very neon and ever so seedy 'Final Resting Place' motel, which by name alone has got to be one of his properties. He directs me to the last spot, then pulls out a phone I don't recognize, one that was most likely taken from a guard. He dials a number, and when someone picks up he just starts speaking Japanese- at least I think it's Japanese- how would I know?

As far as I can tell his accent is perfect, and though I can't understand a word he's saying, his tone of voice is very pleasant and he seems quite relaxed. Moments later an elderly Asian woman comes marching out of the main building and J swings open the passenger side door, slamming it behind him and chuckling when I jump in reaction. He sticks his hands into his too-short pant pockets and strides over to the woman, who, to my utter shock, greets him with a great big hug. He pats her once on the head, looking unmoved but unlikely to kill her, and she releases him. I sit motionless and gaping in the drivers seat as they begin what appears to be a comfortable chatter with occasional and apparently reprimanding finger wags on her part.

Honestly, what the fuck is going on?

Suddenly her eyes switch to me, and all I want is to hide under the dashboard but I feel like I'm pinned in place. Her wrinkled, papery skin crinkles as her mouth stretches into what might honestly be the world's second scariest smile and I shiver unintentionally. She says something that makes him laugh, and I feel a twinge of jealousy that dilutes my uncertainty enough to twist my mouth into a sneer. She's already looking away though, so I pout uselessly because who the fuck does this grandma think she is? I'm supposed to be the one that makes him laugh; I'm supposed to be the special one! I grit my teeth so hard my jaw creaks, barely suppressing the urge to chuck one of my knives at her head as she hands over a key and walks away with her lips still flapping.

A strange sort of outrage claws up my throat and I glance back to J, hoping in vain that he'll pull out his gun. To my horror he just rolls his eyes, kicking out a leg and spinning away to face the motel. He heads for the last room on the row and he doesn't even look back at me once. A reflexive panic wells up and I throw open the drivers side door, scrambling out of the car and nearly falling flat on my face in my frantic rush to join him. My heart thuds with the fresh fear that my worth might have stayed at Arkham with my job, and my vision blurs around the corners. I urgently want to find him some food but I'm being throttled by the thought that he's forgotten me- he stabs the key into the lock and twists it.

"How do you know that woman?" I know I shouldn't have asked, but I can't think of anything else to say because he's got his hand on the doorknob. He turns slowly, revealing a forebodingly pleasant smile. It makes his eyes twinkle alluringly, which is adorable even though it makes me feel a bit like I'm about to get pied in the face with something considerably more noxious than coconut cream.

"I killed her husband." He explains with an air of exaggerated nonchalance, fanning a hand out palm up. "Old pro at corpse disposal." He bends abruptly and his face is inches from mine, fully animated and overwhelming. "Reduce, re-use, re-cycle you know, very efficient. Makes great pork dumplings too." He smacks his lips with a particularly wolfish grin that has my head spinning, and then he takes a sliding step to the side as he throws the door open behind him. "Beauty before lunacy" He says and he's already laughing.

I know it's stupid but my answering giggle is automatic as I step forward, and I don't look away from his smirk until the door slams back into my face. I stumble with a squawk, tripping over the leg he's conveniently stuck out behind me, and I land on my ass just in time to see him step over my legs and slam the door behind him. My butt hurts a little less when I fail to pick out the sound of the lock clicking behind him, and I've got my grin back by the time I've pulled myself to my feet. At least he's expecting me to join him- or he wouldn't mind if I did. I'm filled with a buoyant excitement as I run over to the vending machine and pump it full of my change, and the feeling doesn't fade any as I strut back with candy-laden arms. I shift the offering carefully into the crook of one arm, and I open the door.

"No dallying!" I nearly drop everything. He's standing in front of the mirror in the room's small bathroom, surreptitiously checking himself out. "I haven't got all day- time is money, money is hot lead, and hot lead is for Batman, lets get a move on." He snaps his fingers and I falter in the open doorway, awkwardly clutching my snack haul. I have absolutely no idea what task I'm supposedly shirking- he sighs, rolling his eyes as points at his head. "I won't tolerate this phaeomelanic nonsense any longer."

I have no idea what he just said, but at least I think I know what I'm supposed to be doing. I grin sheepishly because I'm utterly honoured to be allowed to do his hair, and I close the door behind me before grabbing the chair from the rickety desk by the window. I drag it into the bathroom, setting it in front of the mirror and then, triumphantly, I hand him the snacks- well actually he takes them, but I was going to give them to him anyway. He folds himself into his plastic seat like it's a throne, crossing his legs and digging into a bag of sour patch kids as I wrap a towel around his shoulders. My hands hover anxiously for a moment as I try not to look at him in the mirror- I have to admit I'm having trouble focusing right now.

He watches with faint amusement when I finally begin to section his hair, painting it with the caustic white goo and then smoothing it down. I'm glad for the task because his stare is unnerving and otherwise I would be thinking about how I just busted a mass murderer out of a high security correctional facility. About how he could decide to kill me at any point and it would be so goddamn easy- but mostly about how that doesn't bother me as much as it should.

Lets be honest, it never has.

It takes a sharp yank on one of my pigtails to actually stop the tirade of anxious thought, and I look to his reflection with what I latently realize is the dopiest, most stupidly love-struck smile. He rolls his eyes at me and I squirm.

"It's very rude to ogle me like that- I'm more than a piece of meat, you know." He purrs, and I stand at attention behind him.

"Sorry Mistah J." I go back to my work, failing to tuck away my grin. He snickers, picking at his bare nails. His foot has been tapping this whole time but now it's starting to speed up. I do too, rushing to coat the rest of his hair because he's obviously getting impatient- he jumps to his feet and he's left the bathroom so fast that I almost think he's teleported to the main room. I follow him out just in time to see him snatch the remote and throw himself onto the bed. He's muttering something rhythmic as I near.

"ShowmetheBatShowmetheBatShowmethe-" As if on cue the news station blares into pixelated view on the very elderly Tv that sits on the squat cabinet across from the bed, and Summer Gleeson appears onscreen.

"- the Batman was sighted on Arkham grounds shortly after Isley breached her containment facility. " The screen cuts away to an aerial view of the courtyard that used to serve as a rec area for the north wing- or what's left of it. The center of the grassy expanse has been torn, a great gash parting the ground and bleeding plant life. Thick green vine pours out of the crack and lashes forward at a small inky figure.

"The vigilante appears to have been using some sort small explosives to incapacitate Isley's plants, "

The inkblot hero is executing a whirling floor routine, moving out of the way by inches each time one of those mammoth vines swings in his direction. But then he lets one of them hit him, right across the stomach, and he holds on. He lets the thing whip him around a bit, and then he drops to the ground and rolls away. Seconds later the vine explodes and the bottom half hits the ground hard in a rash of flame, nearly crushing the Bat. I shift nervously because somewhere in that knot of emerald and flame, Ivy is mourning the loss of a child. The ground shakes, but Bats just keeps moving and he takes out another two large tendrils in quick succession. Ivy is pulling back- she still isn't visible but her verdured beasts are retreating into the ruins of her subterranean cell and Bats is still pushing forward, hacking and slashing with a batarang.

"Atta boy Batsy! Slice n' dice-" I glance at J to find him perched on the end of the bed with his fists balled up on the tops of his thighs. He stares in rapt attention at his arch nemesis, and his toothy grin is somehow both livid and overjoyed. The tiny knight on screen is at the edge of the chasm when something dark and clawed reaches up to drag him down into it.

"Crocky!" Exclaims the clown with considerable delight, stomping his bare feet on the carpeted floor.

"Batman had nearly subdued Isley when he was attacked by Waylon Jones, A.K.A Killer Crock, who had occupied the neighbouring cell."

Suddenly the plants surge forward and Ivy appears for the first time, resplendent in living armor, her scarlet hair streaming in the wind as she marches away with her host threading through the earth behind her. "Isley escaped during Jones's attack, and has not been sighted since, although local plant life continues to attack the asylum." As Ivy nears the tree line, every branch and leaf in the vicinity reaches out to her, and she disappears into their arms.

"Your new breast friend is awfully showy, Harls." He cuts me a withering glare out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, but she ain't got your style." I sound a bit out of breath, and I am, because I'm looking straight at him and he's all sharp bone and stark contrast. He sneers, then he turns back to the TV muttering about brown-nosing harpies.

When I look back, the camera has tracked over to the rift in the yard in time to capture the Bat as he drags himself up, hauling a tied and unconscious Crock up behind him.

"Jones was quickly subdued and has been taken into custody. Jones's cell was likely breached during Isley's break out, which destroyed a large portion of the north wing, including the compound's main generator." The feed switches back to Summer, who purposefully clasps her hands before she speaks again. "Security feeds from inside the asylum have been shut down, as the compound is currently running on backup generators. However, we have received reports that several other high-profile inmates have escaped, most notably the Joker." His most recent intake photo comes on screen and my hands move to clap of their own accord. He really does look absolutely dashing, even with the awful bruising. He doesn't acknowledge me directly, but he does tip his chin up with a lazy sort of grin.

"Sources from inside the asylum spotted the mass murderer with a female accomplice, and later saw him abducting the Asylum's new warden, Agnes Brieve, who barely survived the encounter and is currently in surgery. The Joker is believed to have left the premises after torturing Brieve, and has not been seen since. Police commissioner Gordon released the following statement."

The commissioner appears, looking exceptionally harried. His white hair is ruffled and his skin looks papery from lack of sleep.

"I can confirm that the Joker has escaped from Arkham custody-" A rash of jumbled shouts break out from the sea of reporters in front of him, and he sighs, holding up a hand. "-And the GCPD is currently on high alert- we are doing absolutely everything to track down that *bleep* clown and put him back where he belongs."

"Ooh, Jimbo always has the cutest nicknames for me." J sighs, clasping his hands over his heart, and I accidentally let out an unattractive snort.

"What about the girl?" Shouts someone lost to the crowd, and Gordon wipes a hand over his face before propping it against his podium.

"We currently have no information about her identity or her whereabouts, but we are considering her an accomplice to the Joker and we will be treating her as a high risk individual."

"Aw, look at that- babies first steps." He snickers and I know it's meant to be rude, but I can't help preening. I got a certificate when I became a doctor, didn't I? I think I deserve one for this- after all; I'm high risk now. The feed cuts back to summer, who details known deaths and captures. Most of the big catches are thanks to the Bat of course- he is kind of spectacular if you ignore the fact that he's completely annoying.

An off-hand glance at the clock reminds me of the bleach in J's hair, and I start forward without thinking before halting awkwardly.

"Uh- Boss? Its probly' about time to wash your-" He stands in a blink and walks right past me without a single glance, so I abandon the sentence to follow him into the bathroom.

He unbuttons his shirt as he walks, shedding it next to the tub as he kneels in front of it. Clean, Y-shaped cuts run up beneath his collarbones and down his ridged abdomen between the crests of his hipbones- he turns to dunk his head under the bathtub faucet. In this brief reprieve I manage to tear myself away, whirling around to the sink with my heart hammering against my ribs. I take a few deep breaths before forcing myself to move, plugging in the tiny motel blow dryer.

I hear the tub faucet turn off and I startle, busying myself by opening and mixing the jar of green dye. He towels off his hair, taking his seat in front of the mirror, and steeling myself, I turn to face him. I keep my lower lip pinched tight between my teeth as I dry and paint his now only faintly brassy hair because I'm afraid I'll say something stupid, and I'm sweating, and I can't stop looking at his chest- that is definitely an autopsy scar.

What the fu-

"Staring again." He snaps. "Stop it."

I glue my eyes to my hands with a nervous giggle, deciding to suppress any worries I might have about possible autopsies because he's ok, and he's here. And if someone did that to him I will find out eventually and I will rip their intestines out through their mouths. That puts a real smile on my face, and my nerves slow their rattle, releasing the cage of tense muscle that was compressing my ribcage. I do my job in silence, still feeling that tension he's been brewing- it crackles in the air now, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. I finish nervously, setting a timer on my phone and cleaning up the dye as the quiet sinks in. It seeps under my skin and makes me fidget as I lean back against the counter to stare at the tiled floor. I search desperately for something witty to say, something to turn his mood and make him talk to me again but nothing good comes up so I'm left just standing here for thirty-minutes. I am painfully aware of his every sigh and grumble, each tap of his foot and every minute shift of his weight. I swear to god I don't move or breath at all until the alarm goes off.

I open my mouth to tell him it's time to wash, but he's already moving for the tub so I freeze again, eyes on his back as he crouches to wet his hair. When the water runs clear he turns off the tap, cracking his neck as he stands to flip his hair back. Slowly, he reaches for his towel, draping it over his head and rubbing it around for a bit before tossing it into the bathtub. When he faces me, he's smiling but his pupils are pinpricks, and the effect is predatory.

"You know Harley," he takes a step forward with a hand in his pocket and a lazy smile on his face, and my breath hitches. It could be casual if it didn't put us in such close proximity- if he weren't shirtless, and damp, and frankly if he weren't him- but it is not casual. "A fella might think you're up to something…" He has backed me against the counter and I gasp when his chest brushes mine, craning my neck to see his face. His eyes are still wild and it terrifies me, but I can't look away because he's like a goddamn hypnotist. The firm warmth of him holds me immobile and the smell of him coils around my mind to make me senseless- at least until I feel his hand on my my entire existence has narrowed down to that one point of contact, to the odd smoothness of his fingertips and the jarring cold of them- I don't bother to try breathing.

"Hiding all these treats." The word is just as sharp as the click that follows it, and then he's holding my thigh holster up for perusal. He slides the third knife from the top out of its slot, draping the holster over his shoulder, and the blade instantly looks more comfortable in his hand than it did in mine. I bite my lip at the memory of all the terrible, beautiful things I've seen him do with a scalpel.

There is a moment of rigid stillness, and then we're in motion.

Harsh white light glints off the raised knife, and I wrap my arms around him seconds before he opens a thin line across the ridge of my cheekbone. There's the initial shock, the confused neural silence just after the skin splits, and then the fibers start to scream. Fuzzy endorphin warmth drowns me and my knees wobble precariously, so I tighten my arms around his waist and I press my leaking cheek to his chest.

Distantly I'm aware that he's gone statue-still, but I'm really too inebriated to worry about that. I worry even less about the sharp thing that presses against the flesh under my chin, tipping my face up. The world warps pleasantly when he comes into view, all amplified colour and an unfocused halo of fluorescent light settling on his damp hair. He looks absolutely surreal, and all of those hazy-tingle cut-nerve chemicals start pumping in one direction. It's pure libido when I lean up on tiptoes, and I look him straight in the eye despite the furious flush that scorches my face.

"Y'know I got other treats too, Mistah J," My voice sounds foreign and slurred and his brows push all the way down before one of them slowly arches like he's asking if I'm sure I want to be so audacious. Then, so quickly that I question whether it's actually happened, he closes the distance between us. I'm begging for a kiss but he gives me the pressure of a knife's tip and his searing breath on the hypersensitive skin of my lacerated cheek. He inhales and I sway forward like he's breathing me in because I think he might be, and I'm lost to the nearness of him when he finally speaks.

"Harley Quinn..." The sound of my name filtered by his smile is more exhilarating than any proper noun should be. The pointed push of steel deserts my skin and seconds later it plunges into the vinyl countertop between my middle and ring fingers, pushing out a startled yelp that dissolves into a giggle. He laughs too, and it sounds easy pouring straight into my ear. I feel like a particle of gunpowder drifting for an open flame and I'm sure it's going to happen this time; he's finally going to-

"Did you actually think I wanted you?" His tone is so light, so matter of fact that it takes a second for the ice to spike my stomach, but then colour drains from my world and hard knot ties itself in my throat. "Harleen Quinzel." He pronounces it with bitter mockery, pulling away to watch me crumble. "People always thought your treats looked tasty, didn't they? Tasty enough to ignore whatever inane nonsense is coming out of your mouth. Is that how you got them to pretend to take you seriously- handing out cookies?"

I falter- I'm not sure where he's going with this but it isn't exactly a new accusation. I didn't have to lift my skirt for grades, but if a bit of cleavage could help me get a grant I wasn't going to wear a turtleneck- of course that changed after university, I some how thought it meant I deserved it less, but I know that's bullshit now. I wouldn't have deserved it any less if had fucked my way through, because I used what I had at my disposal. I was resourceful.

"Well, yeah but usually I only had to put em' on display." I shrug, and I find myself with a small smile pushing back the sting behind my eyes. He smiles now too but it's not the good kind- it's terrifyingly predacious and it prickles across my skin.

"And proud, too, aren't you? Proud that you got through to me, proud of your little breakout. Do you think that counts for something?" My heart pounds faster with every derisive syllable.

"I-" He cuts me off with a brutal glance.

"You think you're different, that's why you came to me. You think you were made for me because you're a pathological masochist with an unstable personality and a broken moral compass. Gee, I wonder why- it couldn't be that daddy made you feel like the dirt you are-"

"I don't give a fuck about him, I dealt with that." The sound of my own voice and the sudden stab of hurt shock me. I expect fury for my interruption but he only grins, planting his hands on the countertop on either side of me to box me in.

"Sure ya did, kiddo." He chuckles. "You're absolutely fine even though he skipped in and out of your life like an anorexic boxer- And what a wonderful role model he was, using you and your mother for… what was it, whore money? Booze? Gambling? Doesn't matter. That's why you're here- because you're oh so fine." He taps the tip of my nose with his index finger, and suddenly I'm eight years old, watching my father walk out the door with my piggy bank under his arm. He tells me it'll be our secret, and he calls me princess like he's giving me a gift instead of the other way around. Then he's just gone, and I sit at the bottom of the stairs in the dark, feeling like less than nothing.

"Daddy issues, Harley. That's all you are." A pained gasp escapes me and he pauses, watching gleefully as the first tears push forward. "You're a pathetic fucking cry for help, and there are a million of you. A million lost children who want approval from people who'll never give it to them." I turn my eyes down because I just can't look at him, I can't- He grabs my jaw and forces face up again.

"There was an 'artist' a few years ago who thought I was her muse-" He sneers. "She thought she was different, just-like-you. I made her feel different, I made her feel special…" He tips his head to the side, scars coiling as the corners of his mouth stretch out. "And I fucked her." The weight of that statement sinks in and I feel like my whole body is crushing inward. "She needed it to trust me, and trust… well, it's just so important, isn't it?" He giggles, and each note pokes a hole in my chest, deflating my lungs. "Then I killed her. Just like I'm going to kill you, and I'll forget your name like I forgot hers." He singsongs and my chest is heaving now, I can't feel anything but the ache of his awful words and I think I'm about to fall apart.

"I'll even do it the same way, I'll wrap my hands around your throat and I'll squeeze until your face turns purple and ugly," His grin is curdling into something wrathful and horrifying, voice rushing into a hiss. "Until the blood vessels pop in your eyes and you finally stop. Maybe I'll even forget that there were two of you!" He looks particularly pleased by the idea, baring white dagger teeth. "You'll just blend together until everything is nicely averaged out." He grins again, a real one. "You know, come to think of it," He quirks an eyebrow, tapping his chin in mock reflection. "I don't even know how many of them there were before her!" He giggles, and a sob finally bursts forward from my throat, cutting his laughter. My eyes squeeze shut reflexively at the outburst and the shame, the embarrassment, the utter heartbreak pour through me so aggressively I think I might choke on them. Still, when he cups my bloodied cheek I press into the warmth of his palm.

"Oh pooh," He sighs, and the utterance is filled with all the begrudging affection I thought I had won. It's a parody now, a heartless analogue and it always has been- its everything I want and everything I'll never have and I'm not even angry; I'm just grateful for this final reprise. "Don't feel too bad about it, you were at least a little bit different." Somehow even now, despite the horrible ache that has paralyzed my lungs and larynx, I feel a thrum of hope in my chest. The knot in my throat loosens, and my tears slow as he lulls me into a cruel sense of calm.

"You want to know why?" He knows that his touch is comforting- he must, because he moves his hand to my throat so he can revive the ache. "Because you were easy." He whispers. "You were happy to shatter, so I'm not going to fuck you." He laughs, cold and dry. It's a taunt as he tightens his grip, blocking off my airway so everything burns. "I don't have to! You were desperate enough to trust me without it."

Trust.

That word alone is the worst thing he's said, its worse than anything even he could think of to do my body, because suddenly I'm standing in his old cell and he's pressing a Taser into my palm. He's asking if I trust him, and I do, I trust him even though I say I don't. I love him, even though I won't admit it. He must have known back then that he was going to kill me. If I could breathe I might laugh at the foreshadowing, but all I can think about is the fact that I still trust him, and this feeling is stronger than the pain of his fingers crushing the arteries in my neck.I don't trust him not to kill me; that would be ridiculous. I never really did, it's not that trivial. I trust him to do the right thing and he always does- he only ever does what he wants. Right now, he wants to end me.

My vision spins and tunnels as my panicked lungs thrash against my ribs but it's nothing like the realization that I can't say sorry. Because I did think I was different. I thought I got under his skin, that he was starting to like me there- god I was so arrogant. I thought I deserved him, I did, but not because I thought I needed to be punished- I thought I was good enough to make him happy, that I deserved to be gratified by his happiness, by his anger and his intellect and his violence. Everything falls down and I sag in his grip, not bothering to try and hide the pain on my face or the tears rolling through my thick makeup as the pressure builds in my skull. Through the blur of salt water and the blood backing up to cloud the corners of my retina, I see his vicious grin, and even as his rejection rips through me like a spray of bullets, I think he's beautiful.

I strain to see that smile until I go completely blind, nothing but fireworks on a black background, the roaring in my ears and the hammering of my heart. I know it's selfish, I know it isn't fair but I just need one more second with it and I'll be ready. It's so strangely easy to reach up that I almost don't believe I've really done it, but then my fingers meet rippled scar tissue, and that is the last thing I feel before I fall away into absolutely nothing…

Then the universe explodes.

Air forces itself down my throat and I feel like I'm drowning in reverse, everything is shredded and raw and unbelievably alive. Bright flares burst violently in the darkness and I'm falling as the room bleeds in around me. I don't feel anything more than a vague thump when my body hits the floor because the crushing ache in my throat is deafening, and distantly, I realize that I'm staring at a pair of pale feet. I focus on them to pull away from the hurt, studying thin toes and bony ankles, a long scar crawling diagonally up a lean calf… at some point my chest has stops heaving and sound starts to bleed back in.

He's yelling but I can't grasp a single word- he stopped. He didn't kill me.

I roll onto my back because it's all I can manage but I need to look at him. His face is a livid blur and I'm absolutely lost, reeling and floundering as my heart fights to correct my blood pressure- why did he stop? For a split second I feel irrationally awful for whatever I did to interrupt him but then I remember: he only ever does what he wants.

There's a rhythmic rattling hiss layering his acetic voice now, something coarse and rasping, and it isn't until I taste blood that I realize it's my laughter. I didn't ruin it; nothing stopped him!

He just didn't really want to kill me.

A wild rush of lightness and heat fills my body, and a deluge of agonizing giggles push up from my belly. This is absolutely ridiculous. I'm cackling and coughing and it hurts but I can't stop. Tears are beginning to pour down my cheeks when he grabs my face, and my eyes snap open to see him blurred and overexposed.

"Something funny? Hmm?" He's crouching over me, his face is inches away and his features are terrifyingly still- I shut my stupid mouth, but not without considerable effort. It's just that he doesn't know why he didn't kill me. He'd never admit to wanting me around- not even to himself, and now is not the time to laugh again- his eyes are ominously wide, and to be honest he looks like he's about to throw a tantrum. That's ok thought, I'm going to comfort him, I'm his psychiatrist. Yeah I might have had a couple hiccups- but it's still my job, and I'm damn good at it!

"Oh, Mistah J, I ain't laughin' at you! It's just…" I bite my lip. "I think I'm immortal." I can't help but crack a smile as his eyes flash from manic rage to rare confusion before settling for something oddly in the middle, and I realize belatedly that the bruising ache in my throat and lungs has disappeared because I'm floating on him again.

"Y'know, I tried to overdose on sleeping pills once? 'Cept I ain't too good at swallowing pills, so I just kept puking 'em up- my mom found me passed out with my head in the toilet." I sigh into a bashful smile, like I've just confessed to having accidentally entered the men's washroom. He releases my jaw, planting his hands on the floor. Conveniently, and ever so casually, he drops his knees down to pin my wrists as his head tips sharply to the side.

"Why in gods name would you choose pills if you knew you couldn't swallow them?" I'm beaming now and his eyebrows pinch together as he shakes his head, sitting back on his heels. "Honestly Harley, the real question is why you didn't just drown yourself in the toilet."

"No for serious, Mistah J!" I giggle and he rolls his eyes. "That was only the first try! Jumped off a' Gotham bridge after that, I was aiming for the shallow bit on the west side but I missed an' all I got was hypothermia. Then another time, I tried to hang myself cause it seemed more reliable, but the rope came loose an' I smacked my head on the bathtub, so I had to get stitches." I finish my soliloquy with vehemently wide eyes and he narrows his in response.

"Did you tie the noose properly?" It's clear that he wouldn't at all be surprised if I had tried to hang myself with liquorice lace- lets go with that.

"Yeah-huh!" I stick out my lower lip childishly. "I found a real useful page on Wikipedia."

"Harley..." He's raised one hand and he's got it draped over his eyes in apparent exasperation, but a muscle jumps in his cheek to reveal a dimple. "You used Wikipedia to research suicide techniques? You-" he snorts, his hand falling away to reveal eyes that spark with startled humor. "Wikipedia?"By the end of the word he's lost it. He's got his head tipped back and the laughter is ripping out of him, filling me and soothing every ache until I feel like I'm soaring on the sound of him, and it is absolute bliss. Still suffering little bursts of wild giggles, he glances down at me and I put on a pout.

"Good girls don't make sour faces." He scolds but he's still grinning, and even though my hands are going numb under his knees I can't hold my grimace. "Don't get me wrong, its an F for execution but I'll give you at least a C for slapstick, so that's somethin' slugger." He chucks me on the chin, giving me a wink that comes close to making me lose consciousness again before he leans back, taking on a stoic expression.

"But in all seriousness, death is an art, Harley- simply put, any dingbat can do it but it takes a savant to make it special. Perfecting other people's deaths is something I've always excelled at, but my own death, needless to say, has been infinitely more illusive than yours." His expression becomes stern, like he's daring me to challenge that- as if I ever would. His eyes switch from mine to the wash of blood and tears on my cheek.

"Most deaths are a pale croak and a long silence, but when I kill, I make it special- When I kill, I immortalize. I bleed angels and beggars and kings, and I hang them up to dry because I won't remember them, but someone will. The act of death is the fun part- the kicking and screaming, choking on bile and trying to pull your brother down with you, that's humanity. Death as an adjective is less fun- the big sleep, the proverbial final rest- its not rest, its purgatory, it is everlasting silence, so why not go out with a bang? It's the last thing you'll ever hear. For that matter, why not go out with a bang and a shockwave and a nuclear meltdown- why not leave the world branded behind you. That's my problem, see? I've done bombs, and gases, contaminated seafood and weaponized viruses- knives, guns and hands are old hat. So I get creative, I crush people, I burn them, I boil them, I hit them with cars and trucks, I've beheaded several people with a helicopter- it isn't that I'll be running out of ideas anytime soon, it's just that my death should be bigger. Sometimes I wonder if I'm too selfless, you know? Giving away all the good finales." He sighs, dropping his chin into his hand and making his lower lip push out. "How do I top myself- what could possibly be the Joker's last laugh?"

"Maybe you should be immortal too." He looks somewhat surprised to find me still here, even though he's sitting squarely on my stomach. He stares quite blankly for a moment and then his mouth quirks into an odd little half-grin.

"Yeah I'll keep that one on the back-burner, kid. Now, as I was saying before you interrupted me, I could do the Rasputin thing and evade a million murders only to bite it for something innocuous like hypothermia. I suppose it does have a sort of cheeky wit, but I've already evaded a million murders so it doesn't seem like something to strive for." His brow furrows. "King Edward II of England died by having a red-hot iron shoved up his poop-hole, the man who invented Segways drove one off a cliff, and then there's Ronald Opus." He shakes his head. " Y'know he had daddy issues too? You two could have been pals." He chuckles, punching me 'playfully' in the shoulder with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary, then he props his elbows on his thighs and settles in. I officially can't feel my hands.

"See, Ronnie's daddy was an angry drunk, a real stinker, and his favourite act was to take his unloaded shotgun off the wall and fire it at mommy's head. Of course, mommy was no saint either- the bitch was going to cut Ronnie off, and he couldn't have that could he? Imagine- her very own son!" He adjures, pressing a hand to his chest with the most scandalized expression. "The obvious solution was to get rid of her and milk daddy for the cash instead, but ol' Ron was lazy. He didn't want to get his hands dirty, so he popped a bullet in that habitually unloaded shotgun, and he waited for pops to make his entrance. And he waited… but pops didn't show, so Ronnie figured hey, why not jump out the fucking window. My cow of a mother is still alive and my pickled father has failed me yet again, goodbye cruel world… " The speech is sarcastically impassioned, and I watch with rapt attention, keeping utterly still and completely silent.

"So Ronald jumped, not having noticed that there was as a safety net just below the eighth floor- luckily for him though, daddy came home and grabbed old faithful, just like he always did. Lucky for Ronnie, daddy fired drunkenly at mommy, and the bullet went right out the open window just as Ron-Ron was falling past." He pauses, eyes glassy and grin lopsided. "It's just so beautiful-" He laughs high and light, and I soar with it. "You can't orchestrate that kind of ending for yourself, that's entropy- or usually you can't. But sometimes entropy gives birth to absolute perfection, and you can just see it, it's so obvious and it's right in front of you but you can't reach it because it keeps pulling away. It started you, it has to finish you." His voice has dropped into a strange monotone that sends shivers down my back, and his eyes are unfocused under a heavy he blinks, and it's like nothings happened.

He goes on to detail the death of a man who sold himself to a cannibal, so I let his voice bath me in warmth. He tells me about David Phyall, who cut his own head off with a chainsaw because he was angry that his flat was being demolished, and Gina Lalapola, a stripper who suffocated inside a cake she was supposed to pop out of. He talks and laughs, and his hands dance so hypnotically above me that I find myself drifting. I am warm, and happy, and exactly where I'm supposed to be, and at some point, I fall asleep.

A violent shiver wracks my body, and I wake to darkness and panic.

The first thing I sleep is that I'm in my apartment, that I've just had an episode and he's still in Arkham- I leap to my feet and shuffle stiffly, but with great purpose toward the dim glow that filters through the bathroom door. At first I see the room in shadow, but then I make out his long body draped in blankets and my whole body relaxes. His feet are poking out at the bottom as he sprawls face down across the mattress, and his hair is tufted out to partially obscure rapidly twitching eyelids.

I feel like I'm melting and I fall in love all over again, right on the spot because every time I see him he's new and vibrant, and perfect, and he wants me- he just isn't ready to understand that yet. And that's ok, I can be sensitive- he's a special kinda guy, y'know? I can wait for more as long as I can keep having this, because it has its own intimacy, it's in the tension that builds as he pushes me, and the rush of emotion when I let him. It's the rhythm of us as he gives and I take, and we balance each other perfectly. We do- even if he doesn't see it yet.

When I let him kill me I was vulnerable; he was when he brought me back.