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She's just an innocent psychiatrist. Someone to talk to, someone that takes careful notes as a patient drones on in the recliner to the left. Her coat is an unblemished white, blonde hair gathered into a neat knot at her head, stray pieces escaping.
She's just an innocent psychiatrist, neat and clean and orderly, until he comes along and changes it. Changes the way of things until chaos seems like order.
Where has she been all her life?
"Would you die for me?" Joker drawls in that quiet, passive way of his, and she can't get enough.
"Yes."
Blonde hair a tangle down her shoulders, coat a wrinkled white. Glasses perched neatly across the bridge of her nose, black-rimmed, not aiding in seeing in the slightest.
"No, no, that's too easy," he snaps, frustration evident. "Let me, let me ask-"
They stand above bubbling vats of toxic liquid, churning with rancid substance. It's ugly, rotten, poisonous. Harley can relate.
"Would you live for me?"
"Yes," she breathes, and then Harley is falling, falling into it, over the gate.
She waits there. For a day. For a year. For a certain eternity. But there's nothing she wouldn't do for her Joker, her puddin.
He jumps in after, and they kiss in the vile yellow, mouths colliding with rage and passion and a dark intensity that Harleen Quinzel never would've carried. Only Harley Quinn. Just her. Only her.
He laughs, and they pull closer. She is invincible with him, under him, in him.
Gunshots, and then men in uniforms raid her security cell. The kind she hates.
They wave big fancy guns around, bulletproof chestplates strapped over their torsos (as if that would actually protect them from her wrath), flipping up cover shields. She stands, makeup perfect, jewelry secure, hair in wispy pigtails.
Her favorite shirt. Her favorite man enters, disguised, but Harley spots the Joker nametag. She's a clever girl, after all.
She saved the world, and what does she get in return? Thrown back into her old cell. With an espresso machine, but still in the old cell. Oh, boy, is she happy to see him.
He rips off the helmet, and there is the familiar verdant hair, pale face, red lips like priceless rubies. "Puddin!" she squeals, and they are reunited at long last.
Harley would live for him. Oh, boy, would she live for him.