Some nights Jonathan starts awake to a stinging back and the taste of blood on his gums. Beneath him, Harleen – hair tousled, face puffed, eyes wide and liquid – is clawing at his shoulders, stifling little sobs. Bruises ring her neck and forearms, teeth imprints mar her chest.
He's cold and dripping, and chokes on his apologies.
She pulls him close, kisses his split lip.
"Don't stop now," she whimpers and rocks against him, encouraging and needy.
His body doesn't snap as quickly as his mind does – Scarecrow's perverse joy at overpowering her still lingers, mocking him to give in again.