Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

cookie, I think you're tame

Cookie, I think you're tame.
-The Pixies, Tame

As soon as they returned to their temporary home, Harley vanished into the Joker's room. He watched her go with impatience, though he made no move to stop her, and once she was gone, he turned to his men in exasperation.

"Ya know, I really don't get broads," he grumbled, dragging out a chair and flipping it around so he could straddle it, pillowing his chin on the folded arms laid out on the back.

His men looked warily at him. Most of them were bright enough to understand that a conversation with the Joker could have many, many different results—sometimes he'd say something to make you rethink your entire life, sometimes he'd kill you, sometimes he'd pretend like he was going to kill you only to turn it all into some kind of joke at the last second... he was a hard man to predict, and it didn't help that his responses always seemed to be mocking exaggerations, not to be trusted.

However, some of the men absolutely yearned for his approval, and were willing to take risks if they thought there was any chance of earning it. One of these men spoke up now. "Whatchyu talkin' about, boss?"

The Joker's eyes flicked up irritably to him and then back to the tabletop. "She's been pouting the whole way home," he said discontentedly. "Like someone just killed, err, her puppy. I haven't killed any puppies lately, so..." He lifted his head and spread his hands wide, not appearing to notice the blood drying on the slick surface of the leather gloves. "What gives?"

The original speaker exchanged looks with another man, who then ventured forth to ask, "She killed the senator, yeah?"

The Joker nodded slowly. "Not exactly how I planned it, but... whaddya gonna do; you gotta allow for some improvisation. Bottom line, the job got done."

"Well, has she ever killed anyone before?"

Slowly, watching the man like an owl might watch a rodent creeping along the ground, the Joker shook his head. "No, no. Nooo—little Harley, she's an innocent." He pronounced the word in a way that fully communicated his suspicion of the term, but his meaning was clear enough.

"Then that's it," the first man said, sounding a bit relieved. "It's her first kill. I'm surprised she didn't puke. I did the first time I killed a guy. It's always a shocker, boss."

The Joker tilted his head sharply to the side, observing. "Is it, now?" he asked softly, rhetorically. The first guy nodded, failing to see that an answer was not required.

"Uh-huh. I mean, guys, we suck it up, but broads are kind of weird—they need attention, reassurance, unless they're really crazy, and she doesn't strike me as all that crazy."

"Crazy," the Joker repeated.

The first guy watched him, unsure, as his boss got up from the chair and came loping over to him. The Joker took his helpful henchman's chin in his gloved hand, squeezing his face almost affectionately. "Well, thanks. You've been a big help, ehm, Timmy."

"Tommy," the guy said.

The Joker tilted his head again. "Timmy. Don't correct me."

There was a blur of movement, a white-hot pain. Tommy fell to the floor, squalling as his eyes fell on the short-bladed knife that was now lodged in his upper thigh. The Joker paid no attention, instead striding purposefully to his room and closing the door behind him.

. . .

As soon as we returned, I retreated to the Joker's room without breaking my silence. I didn't bother to turn on the lights, going straight to the corner of the left wall that wasn't occupied by the bed. Once there, I sank down, drew my knees up to my chest, hugged them, and thought hard about what I had just done.