She had been angry at him before. The times he belittled her, the times he ratted her out to the cops, and of course the times he tried to kill her. This time was different. It wasn’t even that he had left, or gotten caught. Harley may not have had his level of creative genius, but even she was smart enough to know that Joker could break out of Arkham in a matter of days with his hands tied behind his back and a blindfold on. That he had been gone for two years was a choice. That he had never attempted to contact her was a choice. Harley was angry that while she had suffered and wilted without him, he was as buoyant and strong as ever.
His approach had her flinching at first, certain that he was going to strike her. But that was the thing about his moods, there was no way of predicting him. He struck her when she thought she’d done good, he complimented her when she feared she had screwed up. It was enough to drive an insane woman to a state of existence that didn’t even have a name. Sometimes Harley dared to think that even he didn’t know how he was going to react to something until it was happening.
When he pulled her into a hug, she almost wished that he had hit her instead. It would have been easier to hold onto her anger that way. Instead her insides turned mushy and warm, and though she fought the desire, her arms had a mind of their own and clutched him close as she breathed in the scent of paint and gunpowder…his scent.
The sudden reconnecting of her feet with the ground was startling, but Harley immediately took a step backwards, having learned a long time ago that when he was done with a gesture of affection it was wisest to respect that and give him his space. But the point was that a gesture had been made, and the affect on her was only heightened as she watched him return their picture to the wall. He had to have missed her just a tiny bit, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he returned home…home to her…the moment he was free? Hadn’t he called out her name first and foremost?
Harley was caught hook, line, and sinker, the second he stooped to collect the broken fragment of her doll. She watched him with blue eyes that were suddenly misted over with tears, and her lower lip trembled as she fought to remain composed. When he addressed her she snapped to attention, giving him a watery smile and a wobbly “G-glue. Y-yes Mistah Doctah J, I can do that.” Turning, she made a quick bolt for the drawer that held the glue, practically skipping back to him like a dog bringing a stick back to their master.
Any sign of her anger was completely obliterated now, her expression attentive and obedient as she handed over the glue. With her hands behind her back, the small blonde rocked up and down on the balls of her feet, awaiting any further orders. A third party observer would have sighed and shook their head at the way the girl had so easily transitioned, but the truth was that Harley would never escape from it…from any of it. The truth was that she’d stopped being a person a very long time ago. He had carved her out of her own loneliness and desperation, turned her into a marionette on strings. And what was a marionette without someone to pull those strings? However much Harley might cry out for independence or a want for more self-motivated living, the bottom line was that she had been designed to need guidance, to follow orders and to put on a show. There was no more chance of her changing her nature than there was of Joker changing his.
