Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

you're pretty when you cry

I didn't want to hurt you, but you're pretty when you cry.
-VAST, Pretty When You Cry

Before I could question what he meant by that, he grabbed a handful of my hair and slammed my head into the side of the van. My head swam and my vision went black for a second or two, but I didn't lose consciousness—after those first initial moments, every sense rushed back to me in a dizzying wave. He held me there, pressed into the wall, as he crouched over me, so close I could smell him—sweat, a chemical smell, underscored by smoke.

"Now," he said softly, his breath hot in my ear as his voice dropped into an eerie growl, "what are you really doing here?"

I was dazed, but I managed to blink some of it away, pressing my hands against the wall of the van in an effort to get out of the strained, uncomfortable position. I was crouched over anyway because of the low roof, but that added to having my face pushed hard into a metal wall? Not comfortable. "Augh," I snarled. "I told you."

With another sudden movement, he grabbed me by both arms and flung me into the other side of the van, following me closely to plant one hand on either side of my head, ducking down and getting right in my face. "Ohhh, I see," he breathed. "So ya just left your promising career to come chasing after little old me, is that it?"

"Yes," I snapped angrily. What was so hard to understand?

He tsked at me. "C'mon, Harley," he rasped. "We've discussed this. You're a schemer. How would it benefit you... to be here with me?"

"If you didn't believe I would listen, then what was the point of lecturing me during all those sessions?" I snarled. "You must have known you would have made an impact. Or do you have so little faith in your own powers of persuasion?"

His hands closed in, fingers wrapping around my throat and tightening. I flailed out in self-defense, feeling both of my fists connect hard with the solid flesh of his torso, but he just whooped and laughed in my face and tightened his grip further, pinching and bruising my throat.

He might just have decided to rid himself of the trouble and kill me right there, but just after I started panicking, the van took a sharp turn that sent us tumbling to the floor. He landed heavily on my arm, and as I cried out in pain he flipped over, covering my body with his, effectively pinning me down. He was heavier than I thought he would be.

"Persuade me," he taunted, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could look at my face. "Make me believe you."

I got the wild impulse to just throw caution away, to lean up and satisfy my curiosity about whether that mouth of his was really as soft as it looked once and for all. Something held me back, though—something told me that it wasn't the right move to make, not yet. He'd probably see it as just a woman using whatever tools she had at her disposal to make sure she got her way.

Trying to make out with the guy wasn't going to convince him that I was genuine.

I relaxed beneath him, pouring all of my energy into the heat of my glare. "Okay. How about this: even if I was coming to you with the intention of... I don't know, betraying you, turning you into the police or luring you back to Arkham—"

"Well, you said it, not me," he interjected sarcastically. I hoped that my glare conveyed the sentiment shut up! as strongly as I hoped it did.

"—do you really think it'd set you back? I mean, at all? When you inevitably found out, you'd kill me, and I'm not interested in dying right now. Who's the more dangerous force in this equation—you, or Arkham's crack team of psychotherapists? Assuming I'm reasonably intelligent, who do you think I'm going to side with?"