The Imperfect Art of Madness (Jerome/Harleen)

Chapter One - Beautiful

If Harleen had realized how quickly the day was going to go to hell she would have worn a different sweater.

The purple fuzz didn't suit her, not really, it was too light, too fussy. She'd rather die in something more stylish, her red wrap-over shirt with the black capris maybe, or the grey tartan skirt with knee socks.

Something that said something about her.

It seemed highly unfair that death should come for her on laundry day, in the ugly purple sweater she'd gotten for her birthday and the blue jeans with the hole she kept forgetting to throw away. Hell, her cheerleader uniform would have been better than this, at least that way she'd get a plum spot on the obituary page.

"Stoooop screaming!" The ringleader flicked his hand, a tiny gesture that sent the masked men swinging their guns around wildly as he worked his way around the room. Taunting and teasing the students in turn, sharp questions, mocking looks.

And she was wearing that fucking sweater just asking to be abused.

She was disconnecting from reality, she'd heard that happened sometimes in times of deep stress. It had been in one of her stolen psychology textbooks maybe. She had half a dozen of them all stashed under her bed with half the contents of the drug store makeup counter, ready and waiting for the day she made it to Gotham U. Safe and sound from prying eyes.

Not that her mother pried of course, that would involve caring enough to look.

"What's your name then lil' lady?"

Oh hell. It was her turn.

The maniac eyed her up and down theatrically, his jaunty smile made monstrous by the thick scar tissue at either side. Eyes catching, crinkling,even as she tried to hide the worst of her outfit behind her folded arms. The last thing she needed was fashion tips from an Arkham escapee. Aginger Arkham escapee.

Jerome Valeska.

She recognized him from the news, the mad man who'd escaped death, destruction, and the worst kept Asylum in the country. Again. She always kept tabs on the killer of the week, for research. This one had been one of the Maniax hadn't he? They'd tried to burn down a bus full of cheerleaders once, she remembered it well... they'd won the competition that day without breaking a sweat.

Go Tigers.

"Harleen," she forced herself to answer, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. It was like looking into in an abyss and finding something sharp toothed smiling back.

Her would-be clinical diagnosis? He was fucking nuts.

It was funny really, he would be the perfect subject for her personal essay if she didn't end up dead and buried before she could even get the first line down. Her chest ached, fear licking at the underside of her skin as he leant in so close she could feel him breathing.

He smelt like cheap soap and gunpowder.

" Harl-een," he twisted the name on his tongue, something exotic and just a little bit contemptible about it when he said it, "that's a stupid name."

"Sorry, Jerome," she bit back for the same reason she'd intentionally stuck her back handspring and broken her arm on the day of Olympic qualifiers. The same reason she was no longer Sharon Quinzel's special little girl.

She hated having her control taken from her.

The consequence back then hadn't been so dire though. A lack of motherly love and a big ugly surgery scar weren't the same as painful death.