@puhddin sent: [cradle.] sender cradles receiver's throat in their hand, applying light pressure.
it's her hand on his neck that wakes him up. oh, fear never sleeps, but the scarecrow does, in a gotham tenement that his professor salary (barely) pays for. he stiffens at first, then consciously relaxes when he recognizes his attacker's silhouette against the neon-sign-illuminated night sky. his chin tilts up slightly, allowing her better access to his throat. harley's hand is cold against flushed skin. oh, he recognizes his old coworker, even now that she's changed her sense of style.
"harleen," jonathan says, as pleasantly as he ever does. her lipstick is a violent, delightful shade of red. he'd mistakenly assumed their little rendezvous (in a janitor's closet or an empty classroom or even his office once or twice) would end now that she's publicly declared herself harley quinn, a real gotham supervillain. and the joker's arm candy to boot. (how saccharine, how tooth-crackingly sweet. regurgitated cotton candy on the shoes of a crying child.)
jonathan always sleeps on his back, and harleen is now straddling his chest, one hand around his throat enough to limit his air supply, not enough to prevent him from talking entirely. "i see you found a new tailor," jonathan notes, eyes flicking down from her face to her somewhat cartoonish harlequin's get-up.
he's not surprised she knows where he lives; he'd never told her back when they worked together, but presumably she's got minions now that she's playing co-star to the clown prince of crime. how droll. "you'll have to apply a little more pressure than that if you want to kill me," jonathan patronizes. he covers her hand with his own, larger one, patiently demonstrating how to cut off his windpipe as if she's never killed before.
