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"Jonny, I'm cold."
Harleen scuffles into the living room, hugged tightly into a comforter. Her voice is hoarse and every step an effort, as though she's dragging herself through jelly. It's a piteous sight.
"I'm running out of blankets," Jonathan says, glancing up from his book. He's already rounded up everything in the way of a heat source he could find.
"Can't you just turn on the heating or something?"
"In the middle of summer?"
"It doesn't matter what season the calendar says it is," Harleen groans as she sinks onto the sofa next to him. "It's still cold."
"Do you want some more tea?" he offers, less out of politeness than as a chance to get away.
"Ugh, any more of and it'll come seeping out of my ears. It's been seeping out of my nose enough..."
Drawing her bunny-slippered feet beneath her, she huddles into her comforter. There's ample space yet between them and still his heart rate is picking up. Harleen's presence does that to him. Her touchy-feely nature is a challenge to his reserve. He rarely knows how to handle her in good spirits, and now, in her vulnerable and needy state, he doesn't know how to handle himself. It's his own mind that gives him pause. Some part of it enjoys her suffering. Now and then, he catches himself contemplating ways of harming her. Nothing life-threatening – minor "accidents" like spilling hot water over her wrists or dropping plates on her toes and watching her cut herself on the ceramic shards. The image is oddly satisfying.
In a way, his care for her serves to appease the guilt he feels about it. Or should feel. He's no longer sure which. He can still hear Eddie chuckling about it when he confided in him. Ohoho, what's this? The aloof Jonathan Crane has feelings for a girl? And not just any feelings. Sadistic ones. My, my. Is she going to be safe or do I need to alert the authorities?
"Everything all right with you?" Harleen asks, head propped against the backrest and lolling to one side. "You look like you want to eat me." A weary smile carves its way up her cheeks. "Which, on a normal occasion I'd more than welcome."
Her amused huff degenerates into a coughing fit.
Jonathan imagines his jaw clenching around bits of skin until it breaks or she begs him to stop, whichever came first. She would curse and struggle, grabbing his hair hard enough to hurt but not enough to pull him away. It would result in more pain for her. The thought heats his skin to the point where it might blister and crack.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?"
Harleen whines, patting down the hairs that stick out like straw. "Please tell me you're not offering to take me there. I'm sore. I can't lie down for another second. Everything hurts."
"Do you want some aspirin?"
"Only if it's within grabbing distance of the couch."
"It's in the medicine cabinet. I'll go get it."
Placing his book onto the coffee table, he moves to rise, eager to escape, but she won't let him. She's caught his wrist, cool fingers curled around it loosely. It would take no more than a step to break free of her touch, yet he finds himself unable to take it.
"No. Just... stay. Please?"
Her tug is gentle, and he sits back down onto the previously unoccupied space between them as if without a will of his own. She clings to his arm, drawing it close, in a line down her front, shoulder against sternum, elbow clasped, forearm locked between her knees.
"You're so hot," she says, shuddering against him as her body thaws against his. For a moment, it's like she's trembling in fear. "A perfect radiator."
Once done quaking, she arranges her blanket around them, presumably to trap more of his body heat, and settles against his shoulder with a sigh.
"Much better," she says. Not for Jonathan, though. He feels constricted between the covers and Harleen clamping around his arm as though afraid he might shake her off. It seems like the tension that has gone out of her has now gripped him.
"Harley..."
"Relax, Jonny," she mumbles, barely able to pull apart the syllables. "'m not gonna bite you or anything."
"How long are you planning on staying like this?" he asks. Her choice of words is tugging at him strangely.
"Just a bit."
Resigning himself to a fate that will award him with a stiff neck for his trouble, he throws back the covers a little and picks up his book again. It's hard concentrating on the words when he visualizes what he might do to her. He could suffocate her until her eyes are filled with nothing but terror. He could light up her hair or peel off her skin. He could do all these things so easily, make her recoil at the mere thought of him, but... does he really want that?
For her to willingly expose herself like this, how much trust she must have in him. Or how reckless she must be. How careless. And here he is fantasizing about how to exploit the situation, how to feed the sick and twisted part of himself. He should be ashamed of himself, and yet he's not.
Harleen has nodded off and he is calm. Perhaps it comes from knowing she has no ulterior motives in getting so close to him, perhaps it comes from having conquered his urges. Or perhaps they don't respond to her semi-conscious state. It's as if she had pulled these feelings with her to sleep.
Whatever it is, he can settle into it. He rests his head against hers and feels no spark of annoyance when he notices she's drooling on his shoulder. Even the position of his arm no longer bothers him.
He is calm, he is in control, and he can deal with Harleen a while longer. Without harming her.