tears of an angel jokerxharley

cause this house don't feel like home

OMG I'm so sorry for not updating this in forever! Please dont kill me! But here is the new chapter, I hope you all enjoy it. I'll try and get the next chapter up for you soon! Let me know what you think! 

This chapter is from The Joker view point, as a few of you have asked for more chapters from his view! Let me know if you liked it/I did an okay job of capturing his voice and how I can improve! Lots of love as always xx

Harley slept way into the afternoon, occasionally waking in a delirious pain-filed panic, clutching at her stomach and sobbing hysterically. He grabbed her arms firmly so she wouldn't scratch herself and held her against him, running his fingers through her hair. Soon enough she relaxed, exhaustion taking over as she fell back into an uneasy rest.

The Joker couldn't sleep, he could still smell the bleach on his hands. It permeated his skin, violating his entire being. He growled softly. He wanted to hit something. How dare she be hurt? How dare they? How dare they! He needed someone to blame, someone to be the centre of his wrath, to torture, to butcher, to tear apart. This couldn't just happen. It couldn't be an accident or just the way things are, and it certainly couldn't have been Harley's fault.

Despite the amount of things he blamed her for, the mess in the kitchen, the creases in his shirts, she could never be truly to blame for much of his suffering. She was the only tether to sanity he had. An anchor of sorts, a way to pull him back to himself after a rage, a night of drinking, a particular heated kill. Her body warmth, her scent, the way her fingers traced over his skin never failed to bring him home and remember who he was.

He thought it, the child, could be an anchor too. Give him something to strive for. He was going to give it the world. The whole world. And he and Harley could watch. See their creation thrive and blossom. It would have purpose, all this killing and power. His mindless fun would finally have had purpose. But it had been stripped away, nothing left but the stain on the bathroom mat. There was nothing anymore. It was nothing.

He got up, tucking a pillow under Harley to replace his body. He didn't want to wake her, not yet. Quietly he slipped into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He stripped, stepping under the scorching water. The heat felt good, working to ease some of the knots in his shoulders. He stood still, not thinking or feeling. Just standing. He would just forget. It would be as if it never happened. He and Harley would go back to the way they were. It would all be forgotten.

It wasn't because he cared, he didn't. She would benefit from this, not him. He didn't want a child anyway. This was all Harley. He ignored the pang in his chest at the plan. He wasn't hurting. Not at all. He dried himself off and dressed. It was getting cooler and the crisp air caused him to shiver. Upon opening the door he saw Harley looking sleepily up at him. There were fresh tear tracks down her cheeks. He outstretched a hand to him, asking silently for him to come to her. He could never refuse.

She grabbed onto his shirt tightly, the cotton stretching under her grip as she pulled herself onto his lap and he cradled her, leaning down to kiss her temple.

"Don't go away" she said softly, tracing patterns on his knee. "I get scared when you go away"

He nodded, not caring if she could see him.

"I won't" he reaffirmed, looking blankly at the wall in front of him. He needed to keep himself together. For her. Yes, for her.

Maybe his desire for her to sleep was for his benefit, so he didn't have to look at her face, to hear her quiet noises of pain as she tried to get comfortable, to hear the whimpers of despair as she remembered why it hurt at all. He couldn't do it.

He got up, moving her huddled form onto the bed.

"Have a shower Harley, I'll go make breakfast."

She whimpered, looking up at him as he walked out of the room. He could feel her eyes on him but he didn't turn around. He would be back to her in an instant if he saw those eyes. He walked downstairs to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of whisky. Harley hated it when he drank like this. But he needed to be numb. He was tired of all these feeling. He took a large swig from the bottle, sighing as the liquid ran down the back of his throat. The burn was satisfying. He could hear the shower upstairs. He would have to tell her, he needed to get this under control.

She came in after a while, clothed in a large shirt, her arms wrapped around herself. Her damp hair hung in her face. Her eyes were still red. She wasn't fooling anyone.

"Puddin?" she asked softly, spotting the bottle in his hand. He put it on the counter, not caring about being quiet. She flinched at the harsh noise.

"Its finished" he said firmly.

Her eyes flicked up to his, her brow furrowing a little in confusion. Sweet baby, she didn't understand.

"The bottle? Puddin there's plenty le-"

"The baby. This. It's finished. Its gone"

He saw the blood drain from her face, her eyes widening and her jaw slackening. She couldn't believe it. She was a statue, absorbing his words. He took another swig, he needed to feel the burn, to remind himself that her expression meant nothing to him. Her pain was nothing.

"What?" she breathed "What?"

He didn't answer, turning away from her. Don't look, don't look he reminded himself.

"That was our baby..."

The hurt and betrayal was evident in her voice. He could tell she was shaking. Don't look, dont look.

"Was Harley. It was. Its nothing now. Don't mention it again."

"Puddin! That was our baby!" she screamed, slamming her hands down on the bench.

He turned on her quickly, his face contorting in rage.

"Harley! Enough! You hear me! I wont have you talking about it again! It's dead!"

Her mouth was open. Tears ran down her cheeks freely. He wanted to apologise, but the words were foreign on his tongue. She pushed past him, a sob catching in her throat. He smelled her shampoo as she ran past him and heard her heavy footsteps up the stairs. He didn't even flinch as the bedroom door slammed.

He finished the bottle, letting the glass slip through his fingers and smash on the floor. He felt nothing as he walked through the shards to his office.

This was good.