A/N - Time to revisit characterizations. Harley isn't Harley from the cartoons - she's been re-imagined for Nolanverse. My Joker may seem OOC for Nolan-verse, however, I think he molds himself to his audience and situation - how he acts depends on who he is with and what he wants from them. Because of that, and based on what he wants from Harley, there is an intimate scene between them towards the end of this chapter. I've italicized that section so you can more easily skip it, if it makes you uncomfortable. Also, in this chapter specifically Joker may seem more OOC because you're seeing him partly through her eyes.

The phone shook in her hand, thumb lingering over the green 'call' button. After leaving her office at lunchtime, she'd dragged her suitcases to her apartment and closed herself inside. She'd almost pushed the button twice, but something held her back. Staring at her thumb, she willed it to move – either push the button or move away from it. She didn't care so long as it stopped hovering over that button. With a simple push, she could call Bruce, catch a helicopter ride and hope Joker didn't bring any rocket launchers to the asylum. She could fly back to her gilded cage, the only place she'd felt safe in her entire life. Even the worst fight with Bruce was nothing compared to an easy day with Joker. She remembered so many nights sitting in the dark, waiting for Joker to arrive. She would sit in utter silence listening for the telltale click of the lock, and the way he opened the door. She could tell what kind of mood he was in with those two sounds alone, and she always listened carefully so she could be prepared. Volatility was so much a part of his nature that she had allowed herself none. Not back then. Bruce had changed things. For the first time in her life, she felt safe enough to throw a cup if she was angry with him, knowing he could duck out of the way and wouldn't throw it back. Of course, she'd never done such a thing because Bruce never deserved it. Well, he had, but he was always so contrite and apologetic that she was charmed out of throwing anything. In contrast, she cringed just imagining throwing a cup at Joker's head. He'd have ducked out of the way, too, laughed and then thrown a knife right back. She could picture it so vividly she could almost hear the dull thud of the knife landing in the wall just inches from her head. Joker wouldn't kill her over a cup, but she'd only get one warning. Hell, his way of inserting himself back into her life, of 'apologizing' after pretending to be dead, ended with her face slammed against a door and bruises on her arms.

So why couldn't she push the damned button?

He'd told her to choose, but she was lying to herself if she really believed she had a choice. Even if he truly let her choose, he was like the worst kind of drug, euphoric highs and hellish lows, without which she felt dead. Bruce had patched the need well, but he couldn't compare. No one could compare. It was too much to ask of addict to give up their drug when it was freely offered and calling to her. She stared down at her thumb again and realized she was shaking – the battle with herself taking a toll. One part of her mind screamed for her to call Bruce now, while she had a chance. Bruce could keep her safe, even from Joker. She didn't know how, but she knew he could. The other part of her mind stoically accepted that she wouldn't call Bruce - that she would wait for Joker to come to her again like he said he would. That part of her mind didn't scream or yell, confident it would prevail no matter how much she railed against it. With great effort, and a single tear, she moved her thumb away from the button and put the phone on the kitchen table. God help her, but she wanted Joker, and right now she hated herself for it.

Angry with herself, she took off her lab coat and flung it on the floor, tossing her security badge on the table next to her cell phone. She took her hair out of the messy bun and ran her fingers through it, letting it flow freely. Changing out of her work clothes, she threw on black and red yoga pants and t-shirt, then slipped off her dress shoes and put her jewelry back in the little case she carried with her. With no other way to expend her frustrated energy, she collected her things for several hours until she finally collapsed, exhausted. Her life was packed back up and ready to move – to where she didn't know. It wasn't even dark yet.

The slamming of her door followed by irreverent whistling brought her abruptly to consciousness. Quickly she rubbed her eyes and hauled herself upright, keeping an eye on the 'guard' that had come through the door. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself, which boded poorly for someone. He tossed the guard hat over his shoulder and started unbuttoning the shirt, occasionally looking up to flash a wild grin at her.

She couldn't help but trace the scars across his chest with her eyes. Although familiar, she'd forgotten just how many littered his body. Bullet wounds, bite marks, cuts, and scars she couldn't even identify made up his geography. Her own body was so different, a clear sign of the completely opposite life she'd lead... she had very few scars and none of them were from any kind of battle, unless losing to the sharp corner of her coffee table counted. By comparison, her skin was a clean slate, a flat, unmarked map... remarkable considering who she'd slept next to for years. Despite his affinity for knives, he'd have shot her, or tossed her off a building, before he cut her open. He could easily have killed her on a whim, or because she got in his way, but it would have been a quick death – not the lingering torture of his knife. He said knives were personal, emotional, and slow. Oh, sure, she knew if she'd ever pushed him far enough he'd have killed her that way too, but she'd never crossed him, and he wouldn't cut her just to cut her. She was his escape from from all that, at least before. Now he wanted to drag her along into the fray, and she wondered how long before her body looked like his. She shuddered at the idea, and when she looked up, she realized he'd been watching her for some time.

Casually, he flung the guard shirt to the floor and flopped down on the couch next to her, hands behind his head and legs stretched out before him. He hadn't broken his gaze however, and try as she might, neither could she.

"Something wrong, Harlequins?"

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out – she simply shook her head no, while he stared at her impassively. He raised a single finger and pointed it at her slowly. "Wanna try that again?"

Wincing, she forced out her thoughts. "I just forgot how many scars you have."

"Ah, getting sentimental on me?" In a flash, he grabbed her face with onehand, squeezing her cheeks painfully. "Or are you scared?"

Jerking her head out of his grasp, she stretched her cheeks to ease the tension. "You have more than I remembered, is all."

"I might have got one or two new ones along the way."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you did, how could you not?"

He grabbed her wrist and jerked her closer, forcing her to put a hand on his thigh to keep from ending up with her face in his lap. He tapped her on the forehead. "I saw you thinking… things. What were you really thinking about, hm?"

She looked away. "I was wondering if I was going to end up looking like you." He scowled at her and dropped her hand, pushing her back. "Worried about your pretty face?"

"No… Yes." She fluttered her arms in frustration. "I don't know what you want me to do. You want me to blow up buildings now, maybe terrorize some people? I don't know how to do that! You fight with Batman and hold your own, most of the time, but I wouldn't last half a second. And the people you 'work' with – I don't even want to think about what they might do." He scowled for a second longer and then started laughing at her, slapping his knees and shaking his head. She frowned. "I don't know what you think is so funny."

"You harlequins. You don't see it yet, but you will." He stopped laughing suddenly, and she instinctively tensed. He reached out and grabbed her again, this time pulling her to him more slowly. "Harls, do you trust me?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

She thought about all the times he'd jerked her around, literally as well as emotionally. Still, he'd never lied to her. He even had a plan for her when he faked his own death, even though he didn't see fit to tell her about it ahead of time. He sent Batman to her of all people, to pull her up out of the mess he knew he'd be leaving behind. Earlier, he was arrogant and aggressive, but he backed off before really hurting her. More importantly, he knew how to size people up. He wouldn't expect her to do something she couldn't do, and he probably knew what she was capable of better than she did. She felt a smile slowly growing.

"Yeah, I do."

"Good. Then shut up and quit worrying about it." He leaned back and eyed her appraisingly, and she looked away under the scrutiny. "We, ah, have to fix this problem you have."

She looked up at him, alarmed. "What problem?"

"This Bruce Wayne problem. I told you, you used to be so quiet, and I liked that about you Harls, I really did. Now, you're all full of these little anxieties."

She jerked her arms free and poked him in the chest. "It wasn't Bruce Wayne who did this to me, it was you! You're the one who went off and left me thinking you were dead."

"Could happen any time."

"I know that, but you went and turned everything upside down, and you're surprised?"

He shook his head. "It's what I do."

She glared at him, voice rising. " know that too, but not to me. You're not supposed to do it to me."

"Shh shh sssh. You landed with both feet on the ground, and in a millionaire's mansion." He threw his hands up in the air. "I thought you'd be happy I was taking you with me this time! Sheesh, you can't please some people."

He flashed a wicked grin, and she shook her head, trying to hold back a smile. She hated encouraging him, but couldn't help herself. "Fine. You win, as always. I won't say another word about how crazy this plan is."

He grabbed her arm and jerked her forward, slamming her into his chest. "It's not a plan, Harls. Its just the way things are – you belong with me."

Shakily, she met his darkened gaze. "I know.

"I don't think you do."

He grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her lips to his, raising them both off the couch. She wasn't aware of walking, too wrapped up in kissing him, touching him, until she bumped into the bed and fell backwards, him landing on top of her. His body felt like a furnace, and his touches left fiery trails in their wake. She was vaguely aware of an annoying separation between them, and she wriggled to remove her shirt. She wanted skin on skin, she wanted to feel the scars under her fingers and against her chest – she wanted him intimately close. He must have felt the same, because soon all the barriers were removed and she wound around him like a snake, arms and legs linking around his, pulling him closer. She relished the sound of his harsh breathing near her ear, and the way his chest tightened and heaved. She loved the way his wiry muscles rippled with effort as they surrounded her, and she loved the thin sheen of sweat that covered his body, and hers. This body surrounding hers, penetrating hers, was her whole world and she could loose everything else gladly as long as she didn't loose this… him.

"God, Harls…. I missed you."

She smiled against his cheek, knowing he wouldn't even remember speaking later. Only in these moments would he loose himself enough to not watch what he said. She rarely responded, never wanting to interrupt the connection, but she did capture his mouth in a passionate kiss, which seemed to fuel his fire even more. She felt the flare of her own fires building with his renewed efforts, and she lost her own consciousness – not knowing if she were speaking or moving, completely immersed in the sensations until she slid over the edge and went freefalling into the vast abyss of rhythmic pleasure. As she slowly floated back inside her body, she felt him tense and curse, shaking into his own oblivion, and she held on tightly. She didn't want to loose her grip.

Unfortunately, intimate moments were just that. He shoved himself onto his back away from her, panting and stretching. She knew, if she looked, his face would reflect the casual aggression he always showed afterwards. He never wanted her to feel too comfortable, or too close. He had to keep her at arms length most of the time, and she let him, knowing it was just his way. This time, however, he surprised her and gruffly jerked her over, tucking her into his side. She fit perfectly, and she didn't want to be anywhere else. For the first time she could remember, she fell asleep with his arm around her and didn't wake up alone until hours later, when his mad laughter from the living room brought her out of a rapidly disappearing dream. She smiled to herself and went back to sleep.

With a growl, he flipped the phone closed, cutting off Harley's pleasant voicemail asking him to leave a message, which he'd already heard three times. Tossing the phone into the passenger seat, he shifted gears and slid the tumbler around a corner. He'd been too late, always one step behind, never able to catch up with the man behind the robberies and murders. He was frustrated and tense. The crimes were escalating ever higher, starting with a bank job and ending, most recently, with an entire shipping yard on fire. The worst part was knowing it wasn't over yet – he was being strung along and he couldn't get ahead of it. He glanced at the phone. Harley. She'd been on his mind too much, especially now that she'd taken the insane offer from Jeremiah Arkham. He scowled. If given the opportunity, he could gladly wring the man's neck.

Still, he knew it was his own fault. All of it. His concentration was too scattered, pulled to the asylum, constantly wondering what was happening within its walls. Yet for all the time he spent worrying about Harley, he hadn't even been home much over the weekend when he could have seen her. That's when the shipyard fires had started and a riot on top of them. He let GCPD handle the riot, but he needed to investigate the fires before the detectives got their crime lab people involved. He couldn't focus on the cases, and he couldn't focus on Harley – everything was constantly just out of reach. He glanced at the clock, and with grim determination, slammed on the brakes and turned the tumbler around. He couldn't visit her as Bruce Wayne, who'd told Harley he was completely inundated with a big business deal, but Batman could do whatever he needed - and he needed to see Harley.