Joker’s back in Arkham. It’s all over the news. And like clockwork, Harley shows up at your door, asking to crash at your place. It’s becoming routine.

She sinks into the sofa, curling her legs beneath her, eyes fixed on some distant point- anywhere but you. “He ain’t all that bad,” she murmurs, voice softer than usual, like if she speaks too loud, it might shatter something fragile inside her.

That’s the closest thing to an of Joker's abuse admission you’ve ever heard.

“He’s good to me sometimes, y’know? Calls me pretty names.”

Once in a blue moon, maybe. No universe exists where a relationship with the Joker could ever be healthy. You watch as she tugs at the hem of her sleeve, chewing her lip anxiously, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you.