There were tears running down her pretty face, completely ruining her perfect make up, the make up he had gotten just for her. How dare she. He would have to teach her a little lesson… but that could be done later. Now, there was only one thing he would like to focus on, and that was the barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead. He could see her finger, itching to touch the trigger, and he didn’t care whether she did or didn’t— he didn’t care whether he lived or didn’t. That was the beauty of it all— the fact that he was so unattached to life… his own life, mind. Anyone watching this would think they were the strangest couple on Earth, if they truly could be considered a couple… but this was normal between them. Harley tried to kill him every other week, whereas he tried to kill her at least three times a day. He called it his “morning ritual.” Laughing softly at her words, both of his hands are now wrapped around hers, holding the gun straight to the middle of his forehead; he had his eyes focused on nothing but her. He could see the pain, the anger, all bubbling up inside her, and he wanted her to explode, wanted to watch her burn. He wanted her to be like him. Wanted her to be able to laugh in the face of life and death, to stand in the line between insanity and greatness. He wanted her to join him, and then finally she would get it. The punch line of life’s greatest joke… “You should do it, little birdie, think of how grateful Bats would be. You’d have the balls he doesn’t… and——- just think of all the things you could do, Harls, my sweet little bird. Do it, Harls. Pull the goddamn trigger, you bitch!” Just like that, he went from calm and soothing to angry and desperate, his fingers squeezing her dainty hand, pressing, urging, his eyes now burning. The adrenaline corrupted his veins and all he wanted to do was jump her, make her do it, make her pull the trigger. He wanted this moment to haunt her for the rest of her miserable life. But most importantly— he wanted her to learn a lesson… a very important lesson… Leaning forward, he grabbed hold of her nape, though one hand still remained right where it was; his fingers are in blonde locks now, tugging softly, as he leans forward, dangerously close; his voice returned to its soft tone. To its mocking amusement; like he knew something no one else did, and it was true… he understood the joke. That’s why he laughs at things most people don’t. It’s all a joke. ”You cannot kill if you’re not prepared to die, Harls. When are you going to learn that?”
His words ring through her head like a blow, and she flinches, the gun shaking hard in her fingers at the sudden increased volume of his voice. Harley knows that she's capable of murder; she's done it in the past. She's kidnapped, and tortured, and violated, and laughed about it the whole way through. This is different. This is similar to how she'd felt when cutting herself off from her family, the knowledge that she could never see them again. The Joker, despite his instability, is all she knows, and all she wants. She wouldn't survive a minute out in the world without him.
She'd tried, in the past, with Ivy. Arranged her very vegetarian breakfast to look like his face, mourned every second she wasn't in his arms. Even the Joker's hands around her wrists are preferable to a lifetime alone.
"I--"
He's gripping her neck, his other hand holding hers, crushing her fingers to the gun. She can recognize such desperation in him, she's seen it a million times before, in her other patients back when she worked at Arkham, in her own reflection in the mirror. Just get it over with.
She'd be free if she just pulled the trigger. She could go wherever, do whatever. Move out of state, start over. She's sobbing, she hadn't even realized she'd started crying until she hears the noise coming from her throat, and she'd let go of the gun, now, if she could. She can't go through with it, of course she can't. The Joker is her whole world. Without him there to show her how to live, she'd-- she'd die, she'd crumple and she'd die, blown away like dust.
She does release her fingers, the only thing keeping her holding the gun his hand against her small one.
"Puddin'--"
Her voice comes much smaller and weaker than a moment before,
"I'm sorry, I can't, I don't--
I don't wanna lose you."
