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“Harley!” his voice rasped.
She scurried to him in the half-gloom of the manager’s office. The air smelled of dust, dry wood, and sickness- his sickness. Since they’d taken up residence in the steel mill in Arkham City, she’d watched his health rapidly deteriorate. He was falling to pieces in front of her eyes, and nothing Harley did seemed to help.
“Yes, Puddin’?” she squeaked.
Her throat clenched when she looked at him in the dim of their new “home”. He sat slumped in his worn leather chair. The disease had ravaged his body. His skin, which had once been flawless white, was now covered in bright red blooms which festered and bled. Having no access to medical supplies, Harley had wrapped them as best she could, but despite her efforts, they never seemed to heal. He’d taken to using her grease paint, smeared on thickly, it almost masked his illness. His lips were permanently chapped, and no balm seemed to sooth them. When he smiled, they cracked. Now his kisses tasted of blood. His beautiful green hair, which was once thick and lustrous, was falling out in clumps. With every breath he took, there was an audible wheeze. He was plagued by a wracking cough that thundered through his gaunt frame and caused him to choke up clots of blood. Food had little appeal to him, and what he did eat, rarely stayed down. Always a thin man, he was now just flesh stretched tightly over bone.
“Be a doll and get this thing out of my arm, will you?”
He meant the blood transfusion needle. The machine which was replacing his blood daily was now a permanent fixture in their happy home, and her Puddin’ was hooked into it almost all the time. She obediently got down on her knees and slowly stripped back the tape that was holding the needle in place. He stared at her, unflinching and she gazed back into his once vivid green eyes, which now seemed dull with sickness. Even their whites had gone a jaundice shade of yellow. She worked the needle out as gently as possible. He blinked and tears pricked her eyes. She let them dart to the ground and prayed he wouldn’t notice her weakness.
It was taking its toll on her. Especially since there was no one with which she could share her pain. The henches didn’t know. Not really. Oh, certainly some of them suspected, but the vast majority of them thought his sickness was a gag. Or some sort of trap to draw in the Batman. The truth was, he could barely stand on his own. His cane, which was once a stylish prop, was now a necessary implement.
For a moment there was silence. Only the low humming of the machinery and the sound his labored breathing remained.
“Well?” He sounded impatient. Had she done something wrong? She followed his eyes to the spot where the needle once was and saw a small pool of blood forming in the joint of his arm.
“Oh!” She patted her pockets frantically and produced a single smiley face band-aid. She placed it gingerly over the wound. “Sorry, Mistah J!”
He raised his hand and she recoiled slightly, expecting a blow that never came. Instead, he simply sighed, boney fingers twining through her pigtails.
“Nincompoop.”
Upon contact her knees turned to jelly. She sat at his feet and relished this rare display of affection. Closing her eyes she allowed him smooth his hand through her hair, petting her like she was one of their dearly departed babies. Her heart swelled, grateful for this small comfort. She wondered if he found it comforting as well. Quite suddenly his hands felt unsteady and she noted, with a sob, that he was shaking.
“I think I’d like to lie down. Help Daddy to the bedroom.” His voice was so faint, it barley registered.
She regarded him with liquid eyes, “Yes, Daddy.”
A smile flickered across his face. He slung an arm around her carelessly and she helped him stand. He weighed so little now; he was really no burden at all. They made their way slowly to the bedroom, a windowless affair that could have once been a broom closet. The floor creaked as Joker sat down on the ruined mattress with a heavy thud.
Harley helped him with his shoes, and stripped him of his tattered, filthy suit. Even before he was sick, this had been their ritual. She’d helped him dress and undress. She’d quite enjoyed selecting suits for him to wear, and was flattered that he trusted her with such an important task. Now, of course, he had so little strength, he could barley dress himself without her. She’d kept up the ruse though; for the sake of his dignity.
From the broken dresser that they shared she unfolded his night clothes. They’d kept his Arkham issue pajamas for sleeping. Her Puddin’ thought they were funny. Having little access to water, they were still stained with the blood of the guards Harley had killed while rescuing him. Joker didn’t care. He said it gave them ‘character’.
She took great care in dressing him, trying her best not to brush his tender flesh. Though he’d often seemed impervious to pain –especially when dealing with The Batman- she knew he was uncomfortable at best and miserable at worst. When all was finished, he stretched his long body across the mattress and proceeded to burry himself under copious amounts of blankets. It was winter in Gotham and Arkham City was cold. Harley had begged, borrowed, and mostly stole to get enough blankets to keep her Puddin’ warm. She felt a certain sense of pride in knowing she had at least succeeded in that.
“Goodnight, Puddin’” , she said softy.
As she turned to leave she felt his hand catch her wrist.
“Mistah J?”
He stared at her then, his eyes were clouded and his breathing was heavy. He wanted her to stay. He’d never say so but she knew. His look was pained. Imploring.
“I think maybe I’ll get some shuteye too?” She faltered. He allowed his hand to caress hers for a brief moment before disappearing under the covers. Dutifully, she removed her shoes, pants, and corset, leaving only a matching set of black and red underwear. She crawled beneath the blankets, doing her best not to disturb him.
“It’s warmer this way”, he mumbled.
She nodded, snaking her arm around his waist. “Yes, Puddin’”.
Harley rested her head near the back of his neck and felt his hand twine with hers. She stared into the darkness and waited until his uneven breathing fell into the deep rhythm of sleep.
Perhaps it was true-what all the doctors said. He was dying. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.