My therapist said not to see you no more, she says you're like a disease without any cure...

Faint echoes of a song Harley vaguely remembers, associates with the blur and heat of summers long gone by, and giggles. Sprawled across someone's overstuffed tacky couch wearing someone's pajamas, hers maybe, now anyways. It's hot, sweltering, not like summer more like fire, burning and curling everything. He's gone but he'll come back he didn't leave a note, no message but the ones carved into her skin, etched deep into her psyche. There is no such thing as abandoned, Harley knows. It's all part of the plan, everything at once purposeless and purposeful, she's part of the plan, he's part of the plan, the people who lived here were part of the plan.

The TV glows and chatters, idly she throws a slipper at it, discontented, imagining its glow contributes to the oppressive heat of the day, so strange for Gotham City. A goofy grin crosses her face, imagining what her man thinks of this uncharacteristic weather, imagines him giggling at the city acting contrary to nature, boiling them all like lobsters in a pot. The loopy lovey grin on her face fades as she remembers he hates extremes and caprice in the weather, the only time he's frustrated by chaos. His makeup, his clothing, none of it is suited to the heat and OH, he won't be happy to come home (if he remembers where home is) to the sticky heat in the house. Galvanized by this thought, Harley flies off the couch and darts upstairs, rummaging wildly through the closets for anything suitable to this heat, horrible and close like the suits she used to wear.

Black shorts and an ugly red paisley mens' shirt are the best she can find, losing interest halfway through her search, more focused on making her puddin' comfortable when he comes back. Ripping the sleeves from the shirt she ties it up, feels sweat bead on her exposed midriff as she skips down the stairs.

He's gone to the wrong house twice already, irrationally angry to find them empty, or occupied by people who aren't Harley and who certainly weren't prepared to greet him with a cool glass of something and giggle like a schoolgirl on laughing gas at how his day (days?) went. Leaving destruction in his wake- smashed glass, smashed bodies, bloody blond hair so familiar only in wrong ways.

The heat beats down on him, pulses with his heartbeat (busie old foole, unruly sunne!) greasepaint and blood drip in his eyes, in his mouth, drools down the corner of his lips when he tries to spit and remembers too late that he can't anymore, all the can'ts circle in his brain like vultures, savages dancing to the rhythm of sun and heartbeat, so unholy his teeth grit and the awful itch starts up fiercer than before, (Can't spit, can't kiss, can't chew properly, slow like a baby helpless, weak, fucking sun, houses and stupid yappy dogs, hate those, blond women who aren't Harley or maybe are Harley just Harley if they'd never met, 2.5 kids, nice house cold dumb life, where the fuck is she?) The prospect of multiple Harleys confuses him, how's he supposed to find the right one?

His tongue darts out, probes at his scars, tasting air like he can find her the way snakes do. There's a house on the corner (last house on the left) that looks familiar but he stops on the doorstep, sun finally setting, red blood glow on everything and a small worried voice- its in his head, he realizes, a soft quiet worry about what will happen if its another Not-Harley.

The thought's a chill, brings him back to himself. What does it matter to him if its another Stepford wife rather than Harley? Who cares? No one cares, least of all him, and to prove it he flings the door open violently, it crashes into the ugly rose painted mirror and swings back at him before he shoulders his way through. It's cold, beautifully cold, he licks his lips, flexes his hands as if to caress the air. There's a whirring in the air, quiet humming of a human kind over top, slightly off tune punctuated by words. Whoever's in this house is cool and happy, cooing over a blender, maybe waiting for soemone to come home. He wonders if the person they're expecting is him, if he'll turn the corner and find her there ready to pay attention to him like she should have been doing two houses ago.

Around the corner quietly, knife in hand in case it isn't Harley or in case it is Harley, he's not sure. He'll figure it out when he gets there, play it by ear. Whoever it is hasn't noticed him yet, he notices that she's wearing possibly the most hideous shirt he's ever seen in an ugly, meaty shade of red, and paisley to boot. Drooping platinum pigtails, the whirr of the blender, she turns around and grins. A look of absolutely exquisite pleasure crosses her face, clean of greasepaint but still his Harley.

"Hiya puddin'! How was your day?" She turns around to pull a glass off the counter, filling it with strawberry pink slush and plopping an absurdly twisty straw into the concoction. "Have a drink!"

She flutters around him and soon enough he's sitting on the counter with his shirtsleeves rolled up, sipping at the sweet drink, simmering anger still but so cool and relaxed. Harley's zipping around the house and its so much fun to watch other people work harder than yourself. He almost can't remember why he's angry until she brings him a cool washcloth "For the greasepaint, s'everywhere, puddin'!" Cool water runs down his arm, and he dumps the icy drink on her head, hopping off the counter to backhand her into the kitchen table. He wouldn't be a mess if she'd been where he left her, he'd had to go searching for her and now look! A dripping, melty mess was his reward! She whimpers something, an apology or a protest, but the luminous blue eyes stare up at him in confusion. He can see it, the "But puddin'!" waiting to whine out from her bloodied lips (annoying, he hadn't hit her hard, she was doing it to bother him) before she slumps, stands, and spits blood in the sink, melting pink whatever it was making sticky pink tracks down her face and neck, dripping from her pigtails and disappearing down her shirt.

Sudden revulsion wracks his body and he nearly heaves. All the sweat and blood and grime and paint coating him, seeping into his skin and clothes, leaching in through the scars on his face. Hyper aware of all the dirt, another flash of panic, the memory of infection and pus, white hot disgusting pain. He licks his lips, tastes the weird fruity wax red lipstick and calms down, leaves Harley licking a finger and rubbing at a sticky spot on her nose.

Cold water, hot water, lukewarm, back to scalding hot, rinsing it all off, everywhere smelling of weird green soap, soap the mint green of Arkham's walls, candy bright shampoo and conditioner smeared on the tiled wall, a rainbow of colours smelling chemically floral. Fake fruit like in old ladies' homes, bowls of wax fruit dusty and age bleached that he wasn't supposed to touch, surreal and subtly wrong. He shakes his head, water flying and swears at Harley. He's pretty sure that weird thought was her fault, her and that pink fake fruit drink and the faint fruity smell of her hair even before he added the drink to it.

(First real Joker/Harley fic, it's a bit of a mishmash of TAS Joker and Dark Knight Joker, con-crit always always appreciated!)