Little Things

Good Little Kitten

TW: Domestic abuse, possible battered wife syndrome

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Harley shifted uncomfortably in her seat, just itching to stand and move around. Her outfit was too tight and made her skin crawl beneath that set of vinyl shorts she wore. They continuously crept further upward, as if they too wanted to escape what touched them underneath.

But she was going to be obedient today. Harley was going to be so obedient today and it was going to be a great day because of it. So, like the good little kitten she was, she ever so calmly remained seated in her Pudding's lap. He kept his vice-like grip on her thigh, occasionally giving her a squeeze. And every single time she wanted to flinch. But flinching wasn't good kitty behavior.

The night before, Pudding came home in a rage and in her desperate act to cheer him up she accidentally said the Very Bad Word. Harley found herself staying awake as long as she could, throwing up and constantly checking for bleeding. You see, concussions weren't the worst punishment she'd received recently, so he really did love her again. He didn't use the coffee table, only the floor. In total, her lip was busted and the back of her scalp was cracked, so it was a good night. She was able to stay awake this time.

So today she had be a very good kitty.

Her Pudding sat in the Mayor's chair, patiently waiting for the Bad Man to find him. Croc and Scarecrow were invited and stood around the room, not quite as patient as their current commanding officer. The Killer Croc always terrified her, and so in one way she really was glad to be so close to her Puddin. However, the appearance of Dr. Jonathan Crane, or his counterpart because she couldn't tell unless they talked, confused her. Many times she heard one of them say that they wouldn't set foot within twenty meters of the Joker if he had the choice. Now, there was always a chance that he did not in fact have a choice in the matter of being there today, but he was smart enough to find a way out of it if possible.

With her back to her lover, she was free look around and even make eye contact with anyone else in the room. Several times she caught the eye of the ex-doctor, or she thought so anyway; he had goggles on. She couldn't help but feel he was only there to check up on her health, which would mean he had put his life in jepoardy just to see her. He wouldn't even get the chance to talk to her or get close enough to even whisper a word of advice.

Whichever one of them was in control couldn't have been happy about the condition she was in. Harley's bottom lip was swollen and a dark purple-red hue, and she found that she couldn't even close her mouth without emense pain so she left it open. Her left eye was red and veiny from the blows to the back of her head. And her vision was overall blurry, but nobody knew that but her. She wished that she could tell him all her symptoms and he would make it all better, but good kitties only speak when spoken to. And she was a good kitten today.

"He's coming," her Puddin whispered to himself quite suddenly. "He's here. I can smell it." With a sudden burst of energy he not-so-carefully removed her from his lap in anticipation of his favorite part of the game. In response to this, the Scarecrow adjusted his gas mask; he was nervous.

"Hold your breath, Croc," he demanded, not even bothering to tell the Anarchist before flipping a switch on the strap of his backpack. There was a faint hissing sound and Harleen quickly remembered what that meant. She could play it safe and hold her breath as long as she could, which wouldn't be very long anyway, or she could risk her sanity and just inhale the drug and hope it isn't the really bad stuff. Either way, she was going to get a whiff of it.

There was the sound of angry footsteps on the roof, then the top floor, then the second, inching toward the the first floor where the four of them lie waiting. The Joker was nearly jumping in excitement, clearly not giving a flying shit about the Doctor's mystery drug in the air. Harley wasn't stupid, she knew exactly what was going to go wrong and how he would be defeated yet again. But her Puddin found so much pleasure in this routine of capture and release, so she couldn't ever seem to find the heart to tell him how to win.

She looked around for her friend, her eyes already fogging over from whatever he put in the air, but saw he had gone and left her behind. Just as those shapes and figures started appearing in the corner of her vision, she realized his real plan. Arkham had a well-equipped medical wing.

For as much as the Scarecrow liked to claim he felt no emotions, she saw in him quite a few. He was a real sweet guy when he felt like it. He knew he couldn't help her but he damn well knew who could.