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A Bushel and a Peck	By : wanderingselkie Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 3230 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own anything under DC comics - I also own no parts or covers of the song 'A Bushel and a Peck'. I make no money off of this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
Harley was deeply, hopelessly in love.
He was her everything, and his rejection hurt.
She wanted to make him feel better.
Harley got out of the shower and re-applied her grease-paint, pulled her hair into ragged pigtails and practiced a cheery smile.
Even to her, it looked fake.
She was going to be perfect. She was going to be a good girl, and she was going to make him happy again.
She walked to the kitchen and thought of what she could to.
Rifling through the cupboards, she found eggs, cream, and some old bisquick.
Probably still good.
Harley started to make pancakes, threw in some chocolate chips she found under the fridge as an after-thought, and began to hum to herself as she whipped cream.
Soon, the smell had permeated the hideout.
The Joker poked his head around the kitchen door.
"Harl?"
"Yes, Mistah J?"
"Are those pancakes?"
"Yessir!"
"Are they ready?!"
"Comin' right up, boss!!"
She flipped two of the pancakes onto a (mostly) clean plate and gave them whipped cream eyes, a strawberry nose, and a banana smile.
She set them down in front of him, and backed off quick.
"Harl, how delightful! You're such a good little housewife."
Harley basked in his praise. Her puddin' loved her again.
"Well? Go make yourself useful!"
"Yes, Mistah J."
As she flounced off, she couldn't help but wonder when he would swing the other way. As it turned out, it wasn't that far off.
Him and the goons had gone out to pull another stupid heist, something to do with chattery teeth (which she was terrified of, so she made an excuse to stay home) and when he came back, he was furious.
He walked into the room and stormed past her, not noticing her except to send a bone-chilling glare in her direction.
She timidly followed a few seconds after he had passed.
A door slammed somewhere in the house.
No doubt his study. And she wasn't allowed in there.
Harley had to stay awake while he was in there. If he came out and found her sleeping while he was in a bad mood, it would be bad news. Really, really bad news.
She sat down and began to think of things to pace the time.
She counted the bricks in the wall she had counted probably a hundred times (there were twenty-seven that touched the door). She played with her socks. She braided and unbraided her hair.
Harley stifled a yawn.
It had been six hours.
Six whole hours. It was nearing two in the morning. Every once in a while she heard him scream in frustration and throw something, kick a chair, if she was listening hard enough, she could hear him crumpling and ripping paper. She was sitting directly outside his door. Waiting for him, because she knew that when he came out he'd need her to be there.
She did know he had two sides. Sometimes when he slapped her she knew it was just play. Other times, she knew he could kill her if she so much as moved the wrong way while he was near his gun.
He never did, though. She trusted him.
Her sweetheart, her love, her puddin...
"HARLEY!!!!!!!!!"
Oh shit. Oh, shit. She had fallen asleep. Sitting outside his door, with her knees drawn up to her chest, she had fallen asleep.
"Yes, boss?"
"Stand up NOW."
She stood quickly, ignoring the head rush and the blackness at the edges of her vision.
"Come."
He turned and walked away, and she followed. She knew where they were going. The old, abandoned carnival room. It had sawhorses, and power tools, and rope. She was in trouble. She was going to get it for sure.
She was right. He walked into the hall and she trailed behind him nervously, but promptly. He could kill. And she already had a strike against her. She did NOT want this to be her last day. Although, death by his hands would be an honor... Especially if it was his hands that did the killing... To die with his hands wrapped around her throat - bliss.
He whirled suddenly.
She stopped short and almost bumped into him.
"You know what you did."
She gulped, nodded.
"Bend over that bench."
She did as she was told.
She felt the cold blade of a knife sliding under the edge of her shorts, ripping the cloth, ripping the waistband until they slid off and her lacy black thong was exposed to the air. He cut that too.
"Don't move. Don't cry. Don't talk."
She didn't even nod.
"Good girl..."
He smoothed his hand over her face and she leaned into his caress. And he slapped her.
"Do. Not. Move."
She trembled and held as still as she could, her breath coming in pants.
She heard the crack of sound that preceeded a whip. He had been favoring the whip lately. Probably because it did the most damage. And somehow, she knew that this could be the death of her. So she held still.
Crack.
Pain.
Crack.
Pain.
Crack.
She started to squirm - she couldn't help it. She bucked up and tried to twist away from the whip.
The Joker (that was what she thought of him in these moods. The Joker (capital T and all). Not her puddin', not Mista J, no, during times like this, he was The Joker - the villain that terrorized Gotham and had no qualms about killing) took a rope and tied her hands to the corners of the sawhorse, and her ankles to the legs. She couldn't move now.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
She lost count. She only noticed with the blood began to slide down her sides, her legs, to puddle on the floor. She noticed his intake of air as the first welt opened. She knew he liked to make her bleed. She noticed when his strikes got harder, more punishing, faster. She noticed the blackness returning to the edge of her vision.
She must have had 20 lashes now.
And he wasn't stopping.
She felt dizzy. Sick.
She didn't scream.
She deserved this. She had disappointed him, and this was what she got for being bad. She could have stayed up, he wouldn't have been in there for much longer. She didn't deserve all the good that he had brought into her life. If he wanted to do this to her, he could. She deserved it.
Tunnel vision had returned. Her field of view narrowed to a line directly in front of her.
Each strike had turned from being fire on her back to being needles to just numbness. She didn't feel it at all. A quick glance at her fingers showed that they were ghostly white. A glance at the floor revealed it slick with blood. Her blood.
He kept going.
She didn't know what his ends were, but apparently these were the means to justify it.
He stopped.
He stopped?
She shivered, uncontrollably.
She didn't know what was next.
Her back, ass, thighs, were a bloody mess. She felt like he had flayed the skin practically off her.
She didn't move. She didn't talk. Didn't think. She hung over the sawhorse, trembling all over. Her hands blue from tight ropes and hyperventilation, her breath coming in wheezing gasps.
Harley was terrified.
The Joker's hand entered her vision and she flinched. He wrapped a long-fingered hand around her throat and squeezed. She didn't struggle, didn't cry out.
She welcomed the blackness it brought.
- 4
- 5
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A Bushel and a Peck