Alright, kiddies! I was blown away by the reviews for "First", and it inspired me. Here is another lovely oneshot: The couple piece to "Her Flaw", from the perspective of Harley this time, reflecting on her man. It isn't as intense as any of my other pieces, but I am quite proud of this one. Also, my first piece that isn't rated M. Enjoy, and remember to review

He was her man, her monster, her personal god and devil all wrapped into a sublime body. His hair, his eyes, the scars he held: she loved him. He was her everything, every last inch of him. She craved his attention, his love, his touch – gentle or not – to the point it hurt. When he hurt, she hurt. When he laughed, she laughed with him.

When he cried, she cried, too. She could feel her life splintering when he cried. He'd bury it deep and let it stew for months, sometimes years, before one day, seemingly out of the blue, he broke down. He'd scream and shout and throw things, breaking anything in his path. On more than one occasion, she was the reason for his outburst, and was the outlet for them as well. And once the anger boiled up and over, he'd cry. He'd cry, angry with himself and everything around him, and continue to fight. He'd scream and punch and beat her silly, hot tears rolling down his face. He'd be embarrassed and disgusted with himself for it, but it always happened. And she was always there for him when it did.

He was everything to her. Her world rested somewhere deep inside of him. Buried beneath the anger and the hurt and the twisted, sick version of "love" they shared, she had settled her soul. He had a small part of her there that sometimes she worried he would try and dig back out. She worried she'd find him one day, after failing another heist, or after a month of rotting in a jail cell, his insides sprawled out across the floor, a rusty spoon in one hand, bleeding and croaking to her how it was all her fault for caring, for giving herself to him.

She knew she'd be his fall. She knew she was the reason he hit her, the reason he cried, the reason he didn't eat, or sleep, or talk. She worried herself sick over this man, no matter how much or how little affection he showed her.

She'd rush to him when he was stewing, pet his hair, coo in his ear, kiss his face and tell him he was lovely and strong and everything she could ever want.

Whenever his brow furrowed, she worried. She'd take his hand and pet it, smooth out his fingers, kiss the tips, press her face to the palm, tell him she loved him, that he was everything to her. He'd furrow deeper, and she'd know she was the fault for his troubles. No matter how many times she told him…

When he beat her, she knew it was her fault. She'd done something stupid and silly, like always. She'd welcome the bruises some nights, just for the feeling of his hand on her skin. He'd swing a fist at her, and she'd close her eyes, anticipating the lights that would soon blossom into her vision. She'd practically open her arms to it. He'd scream and pull her hair and call her every name under the sun, and to her, all she could feel…

…was his fingers running through her hair…

…how soft his knuckles felt before they crashed totally against her cheek…

…how deep his voice could growl her name…

…was how he cared enough to yell at her when she did something wrong…

He was glorious. Divine. He was godly to her. He was always poised, ready to strike at the drop of the hat, to murder her. It was a thrill to be around him. The way he slinked across a room: his strides wide and slow. He practically crawled like a panther. His muscles could be seen rippling beneath his clothes, his skin. She always pictured him stark naked, no matter what they were doing. She couldn't help but think of him that way. He was most threatening when he was naked, too. He seemed taller, and it was obvious just how much strength he had hidden beneath the surface when he was undressed.

He seemed stringy when he wore clothes, like they weren't ever truly made for him to wear. Without them, his frame was… beautiful. His shoulders swelled, his stomach seemed to stretch on forever, and his hip bones… She could always feel her ears turn red when she thought of that. He was like an anatomy book without clothes on. She could name his deltoids, his trapezius, his bicep and triceps and intercostals… The way they shivered beneath his skin when he moved. When he swung a bat at someone, she could see the way they flowed, even through his clothes. When he turned his head casually, she admired the muscles there.

The way he held his knife was even more unsettling. His fingers barely touched it. It seemed, at times, he might let it fall from his grip and clatter against the floor. But when he approached someone with it, when it really got up close to their eyes, they could see how well he knew it. He knew the balance, how it moved with him, and just how to place it to cut, scrape, fillet, or scare whoever was unlucky enough to be beneath it.

And the way he touched her was the best. How his mouth felt against hers when he kissed her: hot and wanting and needing and please-god-don't-let-this-end. She could feel his teeth just moments away from her lips, and she'd always be just a little fearful of how they bit her, no matter how familiar she became with them. How he would run his hands through her hair and look upon her in such a loving way just before he'd break her, beat her, cut her flesh. It was like he was marveling at the beauty he was about to ruin. She always remembered those looks in particular.

And when he seduced her…

She could feel her face growing hot just thinking of it.

He'd growl her name, touch her hand so gently, lure her in like a siren before drowning her (Which he did try once). He'd kiss at her bruises and tell her she was lovely. And he'd pin her down, bite her to see her bruise and bleed, twist her arm till she cried out, pull her hair, make her cry and beg for her life. He'd insult her and use her and hate her, choke her till she passed out. By the end of it, he'd be so angry with her he wouldn't talk to her for days. He'd throw things at her and scream at her for being a stupid whore.

He had such fire in him when he seduced her. She loved the thrill of his touch, how it hurt her and pleased her simultaneously. His affection was the most satisfying she had ever received in her life, and yet it left her feeling the loneliest.

She worried constantly about him, about how he was feeling, what he was thinking. He was too quiet. He would lay in bed for days on end, depressed, threatening to blow the entire building to smithereens. She'd lay next to him, silently playing with his hair, pressing kisses to his temple, telling him he was her world and please don't. She'd hold his hands and hide his knives and bring him soup and bury his guns behind the dresser and block the door when he tried to throw himself from the roof. She'd cry and plead and wrap her arms around his leg and knock him to the ground when he tried to kill himself.

She'd work herself into such a frenzy over it. She'd make herself sick at the thought. She could feel her heart breaking when he said such things. Such flippant, over the shoulder comments. Like his life was worth tossing out of the window of a moving car. Like he would float gently down to the cement sidewalk after being flung from the roof.

She closed her eyes tight then, squeezed him extra close, when she remembered these things…

She loved that he lounged in his suit pants with his suspenders pulled down, and that he rarely wore his shirt in these moments. He'd sit, on occasion, and admire things: a broken piece of glass, his switchblade, a bomb he was assembling. Her favorite thing he would admire was a headless stuffed bear. He'd smile at it mockingly, holding it up so it would be level with his gaze.

She never knew what he had against that bear.

But above all things, she loved him. She loved that he cared for her, because deep down she knew he truly did. He never knew exactly how to show it, but she knew. It was obvious to her he was fond of her, no matter how silly she was. She could feel it in her bones when she lay curled in his arms long after he fell asleep.

He let her stay there: That was love.

He let her pet his hair: That was love.

He allowed her to call the shots on occasion, even though he knew they'd fail: That was love.

And even more seldom, he would take her hand in his down, pat it gently, and give it back to her. That was truly love. It was pure and affectionate.

He was her man, and her monster. And she loved him either way he came.