Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

HARLEY

It’s a night like any other, the first time Harley lays eyes on her. Killer curves, pale-green skin, and gorgeous green eyes to match. She almost glows beneath the technicolored lights.

She’s dressed all fancy, too—sheer white blouse and black slacks; wild, fiery-red hair pulled up into a neat ponytail at the crown of her skull. Harley can’t help wondering if it’s even half as soft as it looks.

Her presence is powerful. No two ways about it.

Harley’s up on stage, working the crowd, when the gorgeous lady enters.

She's strong, silent, and powerful as she strides across the floor, and maybe it's par for the course, but Harley'll be the first to admit that she herself paints a pretty salacious picture in comparison. She might as well be naked, for all the modesty of her current dress: black lingerie, platform heels, a thick leather collar, and nothing else.

It stings but changes nothing, and Harley keeps dancing. In the meantime, her thoughts race. Something about this lady—whoever she is is—feels different.

She doesn’t seem to have any security dogging her around, for starters. That alone means one of two things, especially considering whose nightclub she’s strutting around like she owns it: she’s either damn powerful or just plain stupid.

Harley wonders if Mistah J will have her get friendly with the Green Lady, too. It’s a preoccupying thought as she continues her dance, hips grinding in time with the bass-heavy beat playing over the speakers. Tiny droplets of hard-earned sweat plaster bleached-blonde flyaways to the nape of her neck; fake lashes seem to weigh heavier upon her eyelids with every passing moment.

She holds her next twirl a split second too long in order to catch a glimpse of what’s happening on the floor. She sees a handful of drunken patrons, a blur of multicolored light, and Green Lady sliding casually into Mistah J’s booth in the back like it’s nothing.

It seems like only a handful of moments pass before—

“Harley!” Mistah J’s nasally voice cleaves through the thumping noise.

That’s her cue.

She descends from the stage, apprehension churning steadily in her gut.

She pastes a blinding smile across her powdered face as she draws near, coming to stand prettily right beside her Puddin' on his side of the booth.

She has to force herself not to shrivel as numerous pairs of eyes turn to appraise her, ogling her without a hint of shame.

Green Lady’s looking at her, too, she notes out of her periphery—but not at her body. In fact, her eyes never seem to stray from Harley’s face.

She notes it, ‘cause of course she does, but she hesitates to give the lady too much credit.

“Harley, darling, meet Ms. Pamela Isley,” Puddin’ announces without turning to address her. His voice is all slow and lazy, feigning indifference, but Harley’s gotten damn good at reading the subtext.

“Doctor,” the Green Lady corrects smoothly.

She's playing a dangerous game here, whether she knows it or not. Harley can’t help but wonder if she’s got some sort’a death wish.

“Forgive me,” Mistah J defers, his tone wrought with insincerity.

Green Lady merely nods, the ghost of an indulgent smile tracing her lips.

“Doctor Pamela Isley,” he stresses, turning to appraise Harley with an unsettling grin, “is a very powerful woman.”

“Harley likes powerful women,” he continues on. His gaze bores into Green Doctor Lady’s even as he addresses Harley. “Don’t you, doll face?”

“I do, Puddin’,” she readily agrees, injecting a sultry note into her honeyed tone for maximum effect.

She knows where he’s going with this. She knows how to play the part.

And yet, when Doctor Lady curves her painted lips and meets Harley’s gaze with her own, it’s nothing short of electric. “Is that so?”

Harley doesn’t have to feign the heated blush that warms her cheeks, then, nor the way her breath catches in her throat. “Y-Yes, Ma’am.”

“‘Ma’am,’” she repeats languidly, as if trying it out on her tongue. “Hm. I like the sound of that.”

— —

Five minutes later finds them headed to the backrooms at Mistah J’s behest. Harley leads the way through a dimly lit hallway, its interior ripe with the musky scent of stale booze and cheap perfume—and from there, into a private room. There’s a slight tremor in her hands as she shuts the door behind them and secures the deadbolt.

The redheaded woman makes herself comfortable in the lone chair in the center of the room. Her expression is bland, unreadable. There’s but a slight furrow between her brows that might indicate annoyance, or perhaps an intense thoughtfulness… or maybe nothing at all.

It’s daunting, to say the least.

In this line of work, a lot of things are. It doesn’t matter. It’s like dancing, now—a familiar two-step. She stalks forward with a hell of a lot more confidence than she feels, then makes to kneel—

“No,” Pretty Green Doctor Lady speaks suddenly, halting Harley’s movements.

Harley blinks owlishly up at her.

“On my lap,” Green Lady tells her simply. Her lips move hypnotically to form the words, such that Harley initially struggles to grasp their meaning. “Straddle me."

Harley does. She settles into position as smoothly as she can atop Pretty Green Doctor Lady’s thighs, warm and strong beneath her own. Her arms loop their way around her shoulders, hands clasped behind the nape of her neck.

Pretty Green Doctor Lady smells nice, she notes—real nice, like berries and pinewood and evergreen forests.

“You’re real pretty, Ma’am,” Harley murmurs out. She fights the urge to squirm as warm palms settle above either hip.

“And you are quite polite,” Green Lady remarks smoothly, the thinly-veiled compliment rolling off her tongue like it’s nothing. Harley shivers as it washes over her, has to clench her thighs in order to refrain from grinding down in response. Fuck.

(Whatever, alright? A little praise kink never hurt anybody.)

“You like that, don’t you? When I tell you how polite you are, how good,” Green Lady continues on, voice rich with molten sovereignty.

Harley doesn’t have a chance at stopping herself this time. Her hips buck quite suddenly of their own accord, grinding her most sensitive parts into Green Lady’s thigh. It tears a whimper from her lips before she can think to stifle it.

“Tell me, Harley, do you sleep with Joker’s clientele because it excites you, or because he wills it?”

A huff tumbles past her lips before she can think better of it. What kind’a question is that? “A-All of the above?"

“Don’t lie to me,” Green Lady warns. Her grip tightens around Harley's waist until she's forced to still.

Harley bites her lower lip, silently willing her brain to catch up. She’s all outta sorts. Green Lady’s grip is firm, grounding, but the unease beneath her skin grips her harder.

She settles for something of a deflection, though she’s not sure it’s all that good. “Why d’ya ask when I get the feeling you already know the answer?” Green Lady brow twitches at that, and Harley scrambles to tack on a hasty “Ma’am?”

“Because I want to hear it from you.”

Harley frowns. The situation is rapidly spiraling out of her control. She makes a show of squirming futilely against Green Lady’s iron grip, batting her lashes provocatively up at her. “Haven’t we done enough talkin’ already?” she whines, pouting. “Aren’t’ya gonna touch me?”

“Answer my question, and I’ll consider it,” Green Lady quips back. She punctuates her repartee with an offhanded flex of her thigh such that the muscle presses just right up into Harley’s panty-covered sex.

Harley bites her lip hard to choke down a whine. “Jesus,” she breathes, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and exhilaration and want. “You really do have some kind’a death wish, huh?”

It’s a last-ditch attempt at a warning, not that Green Lady seems to give a damn.

Instead, she cocks a single brow, eyes boring intently into Harley’s. “Is that a ‘yes,’ you’ll cooperate, or a 'no,’ you won’t?”

Harley swallows hard, her flushed skin tingling. “Y-Yes, I’ll cooperate… Ma’am.”

“Good girl.”

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

“I get friendly with whoever my Puddin’ says, whenever he says,” Harley admits. It comes off sounding quite a bit less matter-of-fact than she’d like.

Green Lady’s grip shifts. One arm curls securely around Harley's waist, pulling her closer even as the other wanders. Knuckles graze the too-pale flesh just beneath her sternum, a tickling sensation straying lower and lower… Harley inhales sharply when it passes her navel, thin fingers beginning to trace idle feather-light patterns just above the flimsy waistband of her thong.

All the while, Green Lady's quirking a single immaculately-groomed brow up at Harley, bemusement splayed clearly across her regal features.

She looks almost… expectant, even, which—

Shit.

“Ma’am,” Harley hastily adds, cheeks hot.

Green Lady’s lips curl into a lazy (but approving) smirk. “Now, answer me this—why do you obey him?” she questions then, her gaze turning expectant, the indulgence fading from her features to instead favor something that mimics genuine concern far too closely for Harley’s comforts. And still, that idle touch persists. "Certainly not out of respect, or some misguided sense of loyalty. It’s something else, isn’t it?”

Harley lets out a breath of air through her nostrils in a show of what she prays is perceived as amusement, like it’s funny. (It ain't.)

“Maybe I’m just a rich man’s whore,” she manages to bite out with a helluva lot more sugary sweetness than she feels—though the last word especially feels like a fuckin’ dagger between her ribs.

The effect is immediate. Green Lady’s delicate fingers still against Harley’s skin, her elegant features hardening into something like righteous consternation.

“Do not degrade yourself,” she orders. Her voice is a low rumble, the aggressive “I’m-not-fucking-around-anymore” kind that has Harley subconsciously wiggling her hips desperately in a bid for more… more pressure, more friction, more anything, really. “Not unless I tell you to.”

Well. Isn’t that a stimulating thought. “I-I’m sorry, Ma’am. Real sorry. I… It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Green Lady acquiesces. Her grip loosens marginally, though it’s still easily tight enough to keep her more or less trapped for the moment.

She wills her heart to stop pounding in her chest as the gentle pad of Green Lady's finger is traded for the telltale bluntness of a trimmed nail gliding dangerously at the skin beneath her navel, almost—though not quite—firmly enough to leave a mark. (But God, how Harley wishes it would.)

“Now, why don’t we try this again, hm? What does the Joker have on you, Harley? What are you doing this for?”

“It ain’t ‘what,’” Harley starts out, shaky and uncertain. All pretense is rapidly deteriorating now, the coyness she fancies armor falling to the ground at her feet. In its absence, her skin feels raw—the kind of raw that comes from scrubbing furiously at the same patch of slippery skin beneath the shower, tearing through layers of flesh in a desperate bid to feel clean once more. “It’s ‘who’ … Ma’am.”

Green Lady quirks an immaculately shaped brow at that, like Harley’s only marginally piqued her interest—though the renewed glimmer in her gaze betrays her intrigue. “Do tell.”

“I… " Harley trails off uncertainly, struggling to find the words. Her brain is a cluttered mess on good days, but it’s a fucking nightmare right now. Her thoughts hurtle at breakneck speed beyond here, beyond Green Lady and the night club and even Mistah J, because none of them hold a candle to thoughts of him.

When she finally speaks, it’s like a flood, a rush of riverwater through a breaking dam—a force of fuckin’ nature: “I have a kid, okay?” she utters the words in a hurry, like they’re dangerous—because she knows that nothing will ever be the same afterwards. Nothing. “I have a kid.”

— —

It went like this, the story of Harley and Mistah J—and the little daredevil that swelled inside her:

Dr. Harleen Quinzel got a case back in Gotham, her bosses tellin’ her to report to Arkham Asylum first thing in the morning after the weekend was over. She’d dealt with patients at Arkham before—Helzinger, Minerva, Nygma, Burr. By all accounts, the assignment seemed pretty straightforward, even if the details a bit murky.

Well, maybe ‘a bit murky’ was undersellin’ it somewhat.

The guy’s file was thin—real thin. As in, like, “three freakin’ sheets of paper” thin.

The first was a police report from the GCPD for the charming indictment of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. The vague write-up had been submitted by one Det. Roman Cavallo and co-signed by another GCPD detective—likely his partner, if she’d had to guess. Not to mention, the corrupt officer’s chicken-scratch handwriting was absolutely atrocious.

The second: a decidedly more official-looking (but just as incomplete) court order from the dockets of Judge Bam Bam herself. Therein, details of the defendant’s sentencing were stipulated in serifed black ink: life without parole in Arkham Asylum for the brutal slayings of 13 innocents, as well as hundreds of yet unproven allegations of murder.

Last of all, a sloppily filled-out copy of the routine paperwork completed upon a patient’s arrival at Arkham, a digital facsimile of which was waiting for Dr. Quinzel in her inbox. This particular document was complete with the signatures of Judge Bam Bam and Police Commissioner Jim Gordon, both of whom were made to sign off in order to approve the patient’s transfer.

None included a date of birth, last name, social security number, home address, nor a record of any relatives and/or associates (living or otherwise). The police report for aggravated assault categorized him as a John Doe, with little else save for a vague description of the man’s appearance included within the formal indictment; the court order referred to him simply as “the Defendant, who is widely known under the appellation of 'the Joker.’” In the case of Arkham’s intake form, the line whereupon which the patient’s name would typically be scrawled was left blank entirely, the patient signature a messily-doodled “J” followed by a cartoon-ish depiction of a court jester with X-es for eyes and a grin stretched from ear-to-ear.

Dr. Harleen didn’t typically do cases at Arkham anymore, but this guy… well. This guy was different. He was a freakin’ ghost, for starters, and that was really just the tip of the iceberg.

So, by the time Monday morning rolled around following a quiet weekend spent shut away in her cozy apartment poring over Arkham archival data along with her newest patient’s most recent psych evals, Dr. Harleen Quinzel went to work.

And, well… most everyone knows exactly how that went.

There was just… something about him. Harley knew it then, and she damn well knows it now. It was something about his insanity; the way it seemed to fill every room he was in with a coercive presence, the kind that strained against the restrictive walls and curled around the base of Harley’s spine and pushed its way down her throat, under her skin. The closest thing she thinks she could reckon it to was that one time she took a hit off a friend’s pipe in university, how the burning smoke expanded inside her virginal lungs until she was hacking and coughing so freakin’ hard she was sure it would kill her.

But with the Joker, it didn’t feel nearly so bad. There was no burning sensation, either—just an exhilarating, floaty feeling blooming steadily in the back of her skull, the kind that made her wanna smile and giggle and laugh like everything was funny, even the stuff that very clearly wasn't.

That time spent drowning in one man’s delirium, she felt the high her friend was tryin’ to show her that night. She wouldn’t go back. How could she?

She got to understandin’ why people abuse painkillers and snort lines of cocaine and shoot themselves up with fentanyl-laced heroin like they aren’t afraid to die. For a little while there, with matching bleached-white skin at the side of her Puddin’, breaking the rules and terrorizing Gotham and overall stirrin’ up more than enough trouble to give ole Batsy a nagging headache every week like clockwork… she really wasn’t afraid to die. Not like everyone else. Not like she used to be.

She didn’t even realize anything was goin’ on until a good six or seven weeks into the pregnancy. She wasn’t quite sure how she missed it, either; that little fucker that sprouted in her tummy, siphoning her food and manic energy like a bloodsucking leech. Though, no matter how many mean names she called it in her head, or how many times she cursed her Puddin’s name for havin’ the nerve to do her like that, she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it.

And it ain’t like she was being stupid—well, maybe a little. But it’s not like it was completely unreasonable of her to think that the chemicals did a number on her reproductive organs, ‘cause it certainly fucked with everything else, therefore making her exempt from worrying about a potential pregnancy whenever she and Mistah J got their freak on.

The docs at Arkham called it a miracle, but it didn’t feel anything close to a miracle when Mistah J dropped her like a sack of hot potatoes the second he found out about the baby. It didn’t feel heaven-sent when the morning sickness got bad and she got mega-bloated like a beached whale and she’d hysterically cry herself to sleep every single night ‘cause she knew damn well she couldn’t give the kid the kinda life they deserved, not with Mistah J and certainly not alone like she was.

All she knew then was that things were different. She was different, ‘cause she wasn’t alone any longer, and that seemed to make the prospect of dying a hell of a lot more terrifying day by day than it’d ever been to start with.

Elijah Nadir Quinzel was born on a Tuesday in the wee hours of the morning after giving Harley 8 hours of absolute hell in labor up at Gotham City General under the watchful eye of Dr. Faye Somers. Harley doesn’t remember all that much from that day, but she does remember being kind of a bitch to Dr. Faye in the delivery room, kicking and screaming and cussing the pretty brown-eyed woman out every time she told Harley to “Give us one final push, okay?” as if she hadn’t been saying the same goddamned thing for the last three.

And then he came, the little fucker kickin’ and screamin' and cryin’ in the nurses’ arms, covered in disgusting bloodied pregnancy juice and scrunching his tiny little nose in distress. Spirited kid, even from the start. He wailed like a banshee that day, jerking his little mini fists around and wiggling about as if he had any right to be throwin’ a fit while Harley was literally gettin’ her lady parts rearranged and sewn back up on the table just moments after he'd ripped her open.

When his crying (finally) died down a little, the nurses cleaned off his chubby little body, and Harley got to hold him in her arms for the very first time.

It was one of the most tragically poignant things she’d ever experienced in her life.

She doesn’t tell Green Lady all of that, but she tells her enough—enough to make her understand.

She doesn’t tell her about the telltale glimmer of madness she’s terrified she’ll start to see in Eli’s round hazel-green eyes—a sure sign that he really is his daddy’s son. She doesn’t tell her about that time she lost him at the fair for the seven longest minutes of her whole entire life and she fucking screamed to the heavens in the middle of the crowd like her world was ending because in that moment, it really did feel as though it might’ve been. She doesn’t tell her about every sleepless night her body racked itself with shuddering sobs that she stifled into the dirtied mattress underneath so as not wake Eli beside her, grief and loneliness and agony stealing the very breath from her lungs until she thought the pain of her broken heart might kill her.

Harley’s never told anybody about those things before. Most days she’s pretty darn sure she never will.

But what she does say, Green Lady listens. Like, truly listens. She keeps eye contact and slowly nods her head and just freakin’ listens as if she really gives a damn about what Harley’s got to say.

And, when Harley’s done, when she’s asking her if she understands now, Green Lady smiles at her. There’s a furrow between her brows, and a sadness in her eyes that twists Harley’s chest up in knots, but—she fucking smiles.

“You’re a very impressive girl, Harley,” Green Lady muses, her words ripe with an evocative sincerity that has heat rising to Harley’s face.

“Y-You think so? Ma’am?” Harley manages to stammer out. (Harley never stammers.) The fiery blush in her cheeks is hot beneath her skin, and the persistent ache between her thighs isn’t faring any better.

“I know so,” she replies smoothly, a thoughtful look in her eye. “I’m going to tell you a secret now, darling—one I expect that you to keep.”

Harley finds herself nodding her head immediately in acquiesce before she can think better of it. “I-I will, Ma’am. Promise.”

“Good,” Green Lady permits, leaning in until they’re close, close enough that Harley’s hot pants mingle with her measured breathing.

The dingy backroom fades into irrelevance around them until all Harley knows is impossibly green eyes and fiery-red hair and that pollen-heavy scent of her filling Harley’s nostrils. It intoxicates her. She intoxicates her like drugs and alcohol and even Mistah J’s pungent breed of lunacy never could.

And then she's whispering her truth all quiet-like against Harley’s lips, so quiet her words are nearly lost beneath the faraway thumping of music blaring from the foyer. “I’m going to kill the Joker. And you're going to help me.”

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

Her body reacts before she can, recoiling violently and clambering down off of Green Lady the moment she’s proposed her absolutely bonkers scheme. And the strangest part? Green Lady lets her.

A minute ago she couldn’t move an inch with the woman’s strong arms keeping her steady, but now… Now, she’s broken free without a bit of trouble, free to back away like her life depends on it.

And the whole time, Green Lady just fuckin' sits there, all perfect-looking and endlessly composed. There isn’t an ounce of tension in her posture—legs comfortably askew, green hands beginning to fiddle with the stiff cuffs of her dress shirt. By all accounts, she seems entirely unbothered by the way things are unfolding, how Harley’s sort of flippin’ her shit right now.

It’s pure adrenaline that’s fueling her now. She couldn’t stop it if she tried.

“Are you fuckin’ crazy ?” Harley hisses out incredulously.

The drywall is cool against her shoulder blades. The throbbing ache between her legs has abated sharply in favor of an all-too-familiar coldness that seeps through her veins like liquid frostbite. She has to suppress a full-bodied shudder as it nears her heart.

“I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘crazy.’"

“Tell me this is your sick idea of a joke,” Harley insists next, very near the point of outright begging. “Tell me it’s a joke.”

Green Lady’s lips twitch. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Y-You—" Harley sputters, cheeks flushing in earnest. “No, y—you can’t do this!"

Green Lady frowns, methodically rolling one cuff up just beneath her left elbow before calmly starting on the other. White-hot arousal pools low in Harley's gut beneath a sea of burning anger. She resents it. She loves it.

“I assure you, Harley,” she practically purrs, "I can.”

“No,” Harley objects hotly, frustration compressing her lungs. “You can’t. You’re gonna get yourself killed. And if you think for a second I’m gonna help you on this suicide mission of yours—‘cause that’s what it is, a suicide mission—you got whole nother thing comin’.”

“Aw,” Green Lady mocks a discontented pout, false empathy lacing her resonant tone like a deadly poison, the kind Harley knows will kill her in a second if she’s not careful. “What happened to my obedient little girl?” she taunts, and Harley hates the renewed pang of arousal she feels amidst the righteous indignation stirring uproariously in her gut. "I could’ve sworn she was here just a second ago… "

“That ain’t funny.”

Green Lady quirks a single brow up at Harley.

“I did not mean it in jest, angel.”

“Don’t call me that,” Harley snaps, though the quip lacks any true venom.

If the way Green Lady’s lips twitch, threatening a smirk, is any indication; she knows it, too.

“Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it.”

Harley clenches her jaw and folds her arms indignantly beneath her chest. (If she’s disappointed by the way Green Lady’s shadowy gaze doesn’t so much as flicker down to her boobs for even a second, she does her damndest not to show it.) “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t think that’s for you to decide, now, is it?”

Harley lets out a quiet huff. Her head falls back against the wall with a quiet thump even as hooded eyes remain trained upon Green Lady where she sits. She’s unlike anyone Harley’s ever met before.

A moment passes in silence.

“I just don’t get it,” Harley hears herself murmur out, her voice scarcely audible over the muffled bass filtering tacitly through the drywall.

Green Lady tilts her head. “Get what?”

“Why you’d wanna go up against Mistah J. He’s… well, he’s Mistah J.”

“You’re afraid of him,” Green Lady says. (It’s not a question.)

Harley gives a shallow nod, the movement slightly stilted and awkward with her head still pressed up against the wall. “I don’t for the life of me know why you ain’t.”

“He hurts you,” Green Lady observes next, subverting Harley’s unspoken question entirely. “And he threatens the livelihood of your child in order to ensure you remain compliant."

“It’s not so bad,” Harley mumbles weakly. (The lie leaves a sour taste on her tongue.) She tightens her grip around herself until she’s very nearly (and visibly, at that) attempting to curl into herself, to hide beneath her very skin until it all passes by.

Green Lady purses her lips slightly—the first discernible sign since they’ve spoken that any of this is negatively affecting her.

“I thought I told you not to lie to me,” Green Lady chastises. Her tone is gentle, but the unmistakable reprimand it carries lands like a physical blow.

Harley’s cheeks flush. “‘M sorry… Ma’am.”

“You need not apologize, sweet girl—not to anyone, and certainly not to me.”

Harley’s gaze darts instinctively to the ground, littered with a myriad of questionable-looking stains. “What if I wanted to?”

“Well, then I certainly have no objections to that,” Green Lady muses, sounding indubitably pleased. (A not-so-small part of Harley positively preens at the sound of it.) “Just so long as you know it’s not required.”

“I do.” She can hardly conceal the note of earnestness from her tone as she darts her gaze back up to meet Green Lady’s gaze for the teeniest of seconds before once again casting them downwards. “Ma’am.”

“You truly are a marvel,” Green Lady murmurs aloud then, seemingly more to herself than to Harley. The casual praise has Harley instinctually clenching her thighs together. “I will not betray your trust to the Joker. All that you’ve told me will remain between us.”

Harley’s sure her face is quite nearly in danger of bursting into fuckin’ flames. It’s a pleasant surprise when she manages to raise her chin and meet Green Lady’s lofty gaze once more. “But… Why you tellin’ me all this in the first place then, if you know I can't help ya?”

“‘Can’t’ and ‘won’t’ are two very different things,” Green Lady corrects.

“Tushy.”

“‘Touché.'”

“Whatever."

Green Lady chuckles at that, low and rich. It sends a shiver down Harley’s spine.

“And, as for why I’m telling you… I’d like to present you with all the facts before you make a decision, one way or another.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Come home with me. One night. I will not expect any favors from you, sexual or otherwise,” Green Lady intones moderately, like her words aren’t enough to leave Harley’s head spinning in their wake. “I simply wish to show you my intentions, and my… qualifications… for the task at hand.”

Gooseflesh rises all up and down Harley’s exposed arms despite the warmth of the stuffy backroom. “‘Qualifications’?”

“One night. That is all I ask.”

Harley blinks owlishly, struggling to understand. “I mean, that ain’t really up to me, Ma’am, ‘cause Mistah J—"

“If you reject the offer, I will not solicit the Joker to grant me your company for the night. This decision is yours and yours alone; I will not take it from you.”

Harley snorts inelegantly at that before she can stop herself, brows raised. “You really are some kind'a crazy, aren’t ya?”

Green Lady’s lips curl into a genuine grin at that, all warm and gentle. “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

— —

Minutes later, and they’re still in the backroom. Green Lady hasn’t moved an inch, still seated comfortably atop the single chair in the centre of the room. Harley, meanwhile, leans herself as nonchalantly as she can manage against the drywall.

Patience has never been her strong suit, but she waits quietly for Green Lady to break the silence between them. She’s spoken out of turn quite enough for one night.

Green Lady glances at an expensive-looking watch around her left wrist. “It was 11:42 when we came back here, and it’s 12:07 now,” she muses. “How long do these… appointments of yours typically last, Harley?”

Harley sighs soundlessly to herself, hating the way her chest aches for Green Lady to call her something other than “Harley”— to feel treasured and compliant and good like before.

She’s sure she’s only lost in thought for a moment, maybe two, but the expectant look on Green Lady’s face is leading her to believe it was longer.

She clears her throat. “I mean, I—Well, it kinda depends, y’know,” she fumbles, trying to make up for her lapse. “‘Cause most of the men aren’t exactly Olympic athletes—"

Both of Green Lady’s perfectly-shaped brows begin to creep towards her hairline.

“—I mean, not that you needed t’know that, I just—Well, the gals usually take longer, ‘cause, you know… "

Green Lady’s lips twitch, hooded eyes bright with something like genuine amusement. “Yes, indeed,” she drawls. "I think that I do.”

“—Not that I’m, like, assumin’ anything, like, with you, ya' know, but I just—"

“Harley,” Green Lady interjects smoothly, a wry grin dimpling her cheeks. "Just give me a number—in minutes, preferably.”

Harley gulps down the rest of her ramblings, barely aware of herself even as she stutters out, “M-Maybe 30 minutes for a lady? Tops?”

Green Lady simply nods in reply, as if that answer satisfies her. “So, we have," she pauses to glance at her watch once more, “exactly four minutes.”

She stands from the chair and rises swiftly to her full height, then. It renders her perhaps an inch (maybe less) above Harley—which is saying something, considering Harley’s bragging six-inch heels while Green Lady’s wearing a pair of shiny black dress shoes that can’t be giving her more than a half inch on top of her normal stature.

Harley swallows thickly. She doesn’t dare move as Green Lady approaches, closing the short distance between them in a matter of seconds until they’re close—close enough that the fabric of her blouse grazes the swells of Harley’s covered breasts on every breath.

Harley can feel every breath she takes, every exhale that ghosts hotly over her lips. The forest-y scent of her fills Harley’s nostrils, permeating each of her senses like the sweetest perfume.

“You look far too collected for someone that’s meant to have spent the last twenty minutes entirely at my wicked mercy,” Green Lady breathes out. She leans in ever-so-slightly, allowing their open-mouthed lips to touch for a split second before pulling back.

A keening whine escapes Harley at the loss, though Green Lady seems to pay it no mind. She brings one hand up to take Harley’s jaw in a firm grip, the other curling around her waist to pull her close. Her proximity is something profound, her embrace so warm and secure and safe around her that Harley finds herself practically melting into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn’t want to keep her distance right now. She doesn’t want to retreat into her own mind until she’s floating—up, up, up into the sky; too high and too far to feel any of the awful things happening to her body back on the ground.

No, she wants to be here for this, for Dr. Pamela Isley and her intoxicating scent and the way she treats Harley like she’s worth a little (or a lot) more than her Puddin’ always said, like maybe she’s a person rather than just a set of holes to fuck… like maybe there’s more to this whole “life” thing than fucking a different jackass every night for the chance to visit Eli under Mistah J’s bug-eyed supervision.

And that? That’s just about the scariest thought she’s had in a long fuckin’ time.

Still, Harley is nothin’ if not quick on her feet, and a second later sees her firing back with a sultry, “Maybe you should do somethin’ about it, then… Ma’am.”

Green Lady chuckles. “Oh, I plan to.”

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

Things happen pretty damn quick after that.

Green Lady ravishes Harley like Harley’s oxygen and she’s desperate for air, leaving her gasping in the wake of it: blood-red lipstick smudged across her chin, lips glistening and swollen, lungs burning in a desperate bid to catch her breath.

And, amidst all that, Green Lady looks fuckin’ perfect somehow. The only sign of their previous… activities is a small smear at the corner of her reddish lips, that which she remedies swiftly with a deft swipe of her thumb.

Then she’s procuring a silken pocket square from nowhere, extending it out to a wide-eyed Harley who’s still panting for breath against the wall.

“Here,” she proffers, ever the gentlewoman. “Use this.”

“N-No,” Harley manages to stammer out before she can think to stop it, heartbeat thudding against her ribs—

Shit. “No” shouldn’t be in her vocabulary.

Fuck.

Green Lady frowns. “'No’?”

Double fuck.

“Well,” Harley begins, suddenly feeling rather lightheaded for all the wrong reasons. "I-I’m s’posed to have spent the last thirty minutes letting you do whatever you want to me, r-right? And since you’re one ‘a Mistah J’s guys, you ain’t supposed to care what I look like when we’re finished.”

The next exchange passes in something of a blur, even as Harley can’t help thinking it’s something like a miracle that Green Lady hasn’t backhanded her to Mars yet for bein’ so fucking insubordinate and stupid.

And it gets worse, if you can believe it.

“Fair enough.” Green Lady pointedly withdraws the pocket square, an unreadable emotion flickering across her face as she tucks it back into her breast pocket. “But I’m not, you know.”

“Not what?”

“One of the Joker’s… associates.” She spits out the last word through gritted teeth like it’s poison, like she’s fighting tooth and nail not to replace it with something more crude. Harley thinks she likes her all the more for that.

Cue the worst of it: “I’d like to believe you, Ma’am,” Harley hears herself say from beneath a sea of numb, unable to make herself just stop, Goddammit. “But trust don’t come that easy.” (At this point, she feels like just flinging herself off the nearest cliff.)

“Well, then. I look forward to earning yours,” Green Lady entreats without a second’s hesitation (as if it’s normal, as if their entire exchange from the past thirty seconds has been normal). Then she’s offering her hand out to Harley, a mischievous grin dimpling her cheeks. “Shall we?”

— —

It’s a quick journey back to the foyer, then.

Green Lady keeps Harley close in an overtly possessive grip as they make their way down the cramped corridor, steering her through a sea of structurally-suspect-looking black-painted tables and towards the front of the establishment.

Mistah J’s there lounging brashly on the upholstery with the rest of his associates, a decidedly insane look plastered upon his clownish features.

Green Lady’s grasp on her is tight, nearly hard enough to bruise as they draw near. Harley welcomes it.

“Doctor Isley!” he calls grandly once they’ve arrived at the lavish booth, spreading his hands in a grand gesture of welcome (or something like it, at least) even as his coal-black eyes rake invasively over every inch of Harley’s half-limp figure. Eventually, they come to settle upon her face, no doubt taking gleeful note of the conspicuously smeared makeup and blissed-out expression she’s donning.

“Joker,” Green Lady acknowledges, her voice brittle yet modest. She betrays no hint of her collusion with Harley, nor the humanity she’d demonstrated towards her the second the two of them had been left alone.

“I see you enjoyed your time with my plaything,” he croons with a crooked grin that dimples his scarred cheeks, dark irises boring into Green Lady’s. “She’s a talented little minx, isn’t she?” His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip. “Good with her tongue.”

Green Lady’s perfectly-manicured nails dig into the exposed flesh above her hipbone for a second or two at that, but the sensation is gone as quickly as it’s come. She isn’t above admitting she wants more of it.

“Yes, she is quite lovely,” Green Lady muses steadily out, chin held high and intent green-eyed gaze boring down into Mistah J’s. “Her… capabilities have rather drawn my interest.”

“Oh?” her Puddin’ plays the self-cast role of pleasantly surprised pimp to a fuckin’ T: all raised brows (what’s left of ‘em, anyhow) and expertly-subdued interest glimmering in his gaze.

“I’d like to have her for the night—at your discretion, of course,” she graciously defers, though there’s something dangerously akin to a challenge coloring her silken tone that has Harley’s frayed nerves standing on end. “Name your price.”

Mistah J’s shit-eating grin widens until Harley thinks his whole face might split in two. Her stomach feels like it’s tying itself into sickening knots. “Gladly.”

— —

“Did he buy it?” Green Lady questions, her expression plain and unreadable.

They’ve settled across from one another on plush black leather seats that smell like evergreen forests and rich people inside an expensive black town car that’d been idling by the curb when the two of them had finally made their escape. Green Lady had rushed ahead to open the door for Harley like some knight out of a fairy tale, ushering her inside with a gentle hand at the small of her back.

Harley raises her brows, one leg crossed tightly over another in an attempt to quell the arousal lingering between her thighs. “You’re askin’ me?”

Green Lady quirks a single brow wordlessly back at Harley, stern gaze narrowing.

“Ma’am,” Harley hastily adds, feeling a flush color her cheeks.

“Mm,” she hums, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. (And if that makes Harley’s gaze dart down to her mouth and stay there for a second or two longer than necessary—whatever, alright? She’s only human.) “Now, answer the question, sweetheart.”

Harley feels her thighs clench together of their own accord. It’s the perfect mix of condescending and provocative, and by the way Green Lady’s lips curl into a knowing smirk even as Harley fights tooth and nail to conceal the effect it has on her, she knows it, too.

“I—Yeah,” she manages, all too mindful of the breathless quality to her tone. “Yeah, he bought it, Miss.”

She clamps her mouth shut after that. It doesn’t matter that there’s something she’s been dying to say niggling at the back of her mind, crawling its way up her throat, begging to be released. No. Not on her watch. Not while she’s still holding onto what precious little remains of her control by the skin of her fucking teeth.

… Which pretty much works until it doesn’t, AKA until Green Lady uses her super powers of perception to read Harley’s freakin' mind.

“What is it?” she asks, tone earnest and level.

Harley fights the urge to curse like a sailor beneath her breath out of sheer frustration, because Jesus Christ—can she catch a fuckin’ break?

“Hm?” she hums, batting her eyelids at Green Lady as the city lights blur together in her periphery—the very picture of innocence.

Green Lady’s smirk widens at that, like it’s funny.

“Tell me what’s on your mind. And don’t make me ask again.”

Harley swallows thickly. “I just… You paid a lotta money for me, Miss.”

Green Lady tilts her head at that, green eyes twinkling with something like bemusement. “I did,” she confirms in that sultry voice of hers, as though it’s of little consequence.

“No one’s ever paid that much for me before, Ma’am,” she continues quietly, willing her voice not to tremble as anxiety fills her lungs. "Not for a weekend, and certainly not for a measly night.”

“Are you asking me if I regret it?”

“No. Miss.”

“Are you asking me if what I expect of you—or, perhaps more accurately what I do not expect—has changed?”

“I… I don’t think so, Ma’am.”

“We will not have sex tonight, Harley. I will not force myself on you."

“I—I know that. I-I think. I just… " Harley shakes her head to clear her cluttered thoughts. “I just don’t get it, Miss.”

Green Lady’s brows furrow at Harley’s admission, full lips pouting to form an adorable frown. “Get what?”

“Why you’d pay him all that, Miss. I thought… I thought you didn’t like him much.”

“I find him positively abhorrent, Harley,” Green Lady corrects sharply, her voice turning cold and hard and dangerous. “The exorbitant price I paid was not for his benefit, but rather for yours.”

Harley blinks owlishly back up at her, and somehow she can’t stop the next words from flying out of her mouth before she has a chance to vet them: “I find that hard to believe, Ma’am.”

At this point, Harley’s beginning to wonder if Doctor Pamela Isley isn’t the only one with a death wish—because apparently, something once dormant within her seems absolutely determined to ensure she can’t possibly get out of this unharmed, much less un-dead.

“I know, darling girl,” Green Lady replies simply instead of exploding into a fit of unfettered rage like Harley expects her to. No; instead, she’s the very picture of tranquility and poise, calm and collected in a fashion that’s so profoundly unlike anything Harley’s ever seen before—not from any of Mistah J’s clientele and most certainly not from the man himself. “I know.”

The remainder of the car ride passes in relative silence. Harley fidgets absentmindedly in her seat as the city lights of Gotham whip past like shooting stars in her periphery, setting Green Lady's lone figure alight in split-second-long flashes of exposure. It provides a spectacle that manages to hold Harley’s hyperactive attentions like even the goofiest and most irreverent cartoons on the telly never could.

It’s like art, watching her; and the whole time, Green Lady just lets her.

Christ, but Harley hasn’t the faintest clue what her angle could be. What she’s doing all this for.

Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe it’s exactly that bad.

Either way, it’s telling on its own that Green Lady’s been so mysterious about it up ’til now. Harley's terrified that this could end really fuckin’ poorly—and not just for her.

She didn’t much care for life, before. She didn’t much care for anything until Eli came along, until she looked her baby boy in those adorable blue-green eyes for the very first time and she knew right then and there beyond a shadow of a doubt that things wouldn’t ever be the same.

They weren’t—aren’t, because she used to have nothing but now she stands to lose everything, and maybe she damn well deserves it, but Eli doesn’t.

No. He deserves better, and Harley doesn’t fuckin’ care how many bridges she has to burn in order to give that to him.

She just wonders where Green Lady fits into all of this… if Harley’s gonna have to burn her, too.

She hates that even the thought of torching this bridge between the two of them—flimsy and painfully young as it may be—has her insides churning with unease, like maybe there’s some part of her that already knows she won’t be burning shit where Green Lady is concerned.

It’s nauseating.

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

20(ish) minutes later, the shiny town car pulls past a fancy-looking apartment building in the quieter part of Gotham city proper.

The driver hangs a right and turns smoothly into the adjoining parking garage.

There’s at least five levels in the concrete structure, and it’s about half-stocked with a sea of sleek multicolored cars that are each easily worth more than Harley makes in a week.

Well. Except this week, that is, ‘cause with the tidy sum of cold hard cash Green Lady paid to have Harley tonight, she thinks she could pay through the next five years at Eli’s ridiculously priced elementary school, easy. Fuck a cherry-red Lamborghini.

It’s dark in the car’s interior as Harley gapes out the tinted window, enraptured by the attractive assortment of vehicles they're cruising past beneath bright lights overhead.

She feels Green Lady’s gaze on her, a constant—but not entirely unwelcome—weight. She wonders briefly what she thinks of her, the half-naked whore in her car with bleach-white skin and pornographic tattoos and a moon-eyed fascination with every shiny thing that crosses her path.

Somehow, Harley doubts it’s anything good… if she’s lucky, Green Lady’s just starin’ at her tits or something.

They get three levels up before the car rolls to a stop just feet from a set of polished double doors—an elevator.

Green Lady gets out without a word—though, not before reaching out to pluck a heap of black fabric lying next to Harley. If she notices the way Harley’s entire body tenses in response to the sudden movement, she doesn’t comment on it.

Then, she’s murmuring out a quiet “Stay here, sweetling,” over her shoulder as she exits, slamming the door shut behind her.

Harley listens intently to the click, click, click of her heels as she circles ‘round the trunk of the car and over to Harley’s door. She opens it without flourish, stepping gracefully to the side with a single hand outstretched.

“Come,” she orders simply, her tone modest but uncompromising.

Harley does, murmuring a demure “Yes, Miss” as she clasps the proffered hand lightly in her own and steps out of the idling car. Her legs tremble like she’s just run a marathon, whether from nerves or just exhaustion, she isn’t sure.

She scarcely takes note of the way her hand slips from Green Lady’s; head spinning, legs aching, stomach churning with nausea.

For better or worse, Green Lady immediately takes note of Harley’s predicament, sidling up beside her and curling an arm round her waist to keep her upright. Her legs wobble, black spots cloud the edges of her vision, and the soles of her feet ache something awful from dancing in heels all night.

“Harley?” she questions, a vaguely panicked edge to her tone.

Her voice sounds tinny, Harley notes. Far away, like Harley’s here but she’s not and she’s so confused because her slow, stupid brain can’t seem to figure out whether that feels safer or just the opposite.

“Harley? Talk to me.”

She wants to tell Green Lady that it’s okay, that she’s just havin’ another of her spells that she gets sometimes when she stands up a little too quick or takes a turn ‘round the pole a little too fast… that she’s just a bit of an airhead, but it’s temporary—she swears it on everything she’s got. Her mouth ain’t really workin’, though, so she just tries to enjoy it while she can. And fuck her entire life, but enjoy it, she does. Just lets herself go boneless against Green Lady’s warm body, melting into that strong embrace like she trusts it to keep her safe for now. (Weirdly enough, she thinks she kinda does.)

She doesn’t mind if Green Lady starts kissing up her neck and puttin’ her fingers down Harley’s thong and grinding herself against Harley’s exposed thigh like Harley ain't nothing more than a glorified sex doll, like it doesn’t matter that she isn’t awake to feel one way or another how Green Lady’s touchin' and tweakin’ and using her body like she owns it.

After all—she really does own Harley, doesn’t she? For tonight, at least.

Harley wonders if she’d actually kinda like that, with her. The not knowing, the perversion of it, the way she’d wake up sore between the thighs with bruises on her neck and dried cum smeared across her body with absolutely no recollection of how any of it happened.

She didn’t like it much in the past, to be clear. Actually, she kinda hated it. Hated waking up all groggy and achey, dried sperm across her tits, cunt red and raw from some intense measure of abuse she couldn’t for the life of her remember…

Time passed, and she still didn’t much care for it; though, simultaneously, she came to realize that it was actually sorta better sometimes to be conked out rather than not while Mistah J’s clients had their fun with her. After all, it wasn’t like she had any say about what they did to her in the first place. Wasn’t it just better overall to forget? Or—not forget, she supposed, because forgetting implies that there was anything to remember to begin with.

Yes. Better just not to know at all, she’d decided.

But now… well. Now, things feel like they might just be different this time, even if Harley’s probably a damned fool for thinking so.

She’ll digress. Remember how she said these spells only lasted a minute or two?

Sure enough, she comes out on the other end with all her wits about her and renewed arousal flaring between her thighs. A worried-looking pair of green eyes and frowning red-painted lips loom over her, a silken voice coaxing her back to reality.

“Harley? Talk to me, please,” she implores.

“‘Mokay, Miss,” she manages to slur out, basking in the warmth of Green Lady’s figure pressed flush against her own, the feather-light stroke of fingers tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear.

Green Lady breathes out something that sounds half like a defeated sigh and half like a relieved chuckle, her warm breath ghosting gently across Harley’s nose. (It kind of tickles.) “I think you and I have drastically different understandings of the term ‘okay,’ sweet thing."

Harley just grins lazily up at her. “You don’t gotta worry,” she hums, head buzzing pleasantly. “I’m peachy.”

Green Lady heaves another sigh.

— —

The elevator is fancy as hell. The interior is all shiny silver metal offset by matte-black strips running horizontal around the carriage. The floor is polished white marble infused with wisps of grey, reflective enough that Harley can see herself if she squints for a second or two. The buttons are pretty, too—all black, shiny and deep with a neatly-painted white letter on each of ‘em.

(There’s half a fingerprint on one of them, the button labeled “29”… Harley likes that. It makes the place seem less frigid… more human.)

The buttons are organized in an uber-neat 4x8 array, topped with one on the top labeled “P,” which Harley had made a point to press super carefully—and super quietly. As soon as she hits it, its circumference lights up all bright and white.

Definitely LEDs.

She wonders briefly what it’d look like if she just went and pressed all the buttons, made ‘em light up like firecrackers. It’d be real pretty, she thinks.

She knows better than to test that theory.

Green Lady stands tall as ever with a steadying hand at Harley’s lower back and another holding a phone to her ear. She talks quickly into the speaker while Harley bites her lip anxiously and watches the glowing white number above the doors go from 3, to 4, to 5… She doesn’t listen in on Green Lady’s phone call (much), just gazes at the numbers and lets her mind wander.

She thinks about Eli, how it was his ninth birthday just weeks ago and he’s getting so big. His oddly-shaped little head now reaches well past Harley’s waist. He’s already so much smarter than Harley’s ever been; whipping through two-digit multiplication, analog time problems, and even long division like it’s nothing.

He loves to read, too—something Harley knows damn well he didn’t get from her, let alone from Mistah J.

He’s reading Percy Jackson now, and Harry Potter, too. Last time they got to visit, Eli begged her to read the second book in the Lightning Bolt series aloud.

Harley ain’t never been much of a reader, but she stared real hard at every page and traced her finger carefully beneath each line to make sure she didn’t skip anything. She even did different voices for Percy and Annabeth and everyone else, all of which Eli seemed to like well enough, if the little giggles and squeals and gasps he made were any indication.

They were halfway through the part about Scylla and Charybdis when Mistah J yanked her away.

Eli cried—sobbed, really—when she left, big fat tears streaming down freckled cheeks, tiny little hands reaching desperately for her even as one of Mistah J’s lackeys easily held him back by the collar of his T-shirt. Mistah J himself dragged Harley forcefully out of the small apartment space with a knife to her throat and vitriol on his lips.

As soon as the door shut behind her and Mistah J, Harley was sobbing too, all messy and wet and uncontrollable even as Mistah J shoved her down the hall and into the elevator with a few choice words.

She didn’t stop wailing no matter how much Mistah J yelled at her—and boy, did he yell.

She’s pulled from her thoughts of Eli—and Mistah J and every last fucked-up piece of that can of worms—by the elevator doors sliding open. Green Lady leads Harley out into a minimalist corridor without so much as a word.

There’s nothing but silence, save for their out-of-sync footfalls, as Green Lady guides her over to—

Woah.

Harley makes an effort to disguise her bewilderment at…. whatever the fuck she’s lookin’ at right now.

… Which is a set of double doors, she thinks—but not your everyday bachelor-pad “I-have-more-money-than-you-and-I-know-it” typa’ deal. Nah, these are… plants?

Well, perhaps more accurately, they’re wooden. The doors comprise a gargantuan tree trunk, the wood a flavorful russet-brown hue, its crimps and creases inlaid with nebulous veins of glistening platinum-silver.

There are no roots to be seen, no vessel to hold this fuckin’ giant of a seedling. Instead, the marble flooring fits all too perfectly round the base of the massive trunk, concealing its roots from view.

It appears, too, that much the same can be said for its crown and adjoining branches. Of course, not all span well past the ceiling and up to some unknown—though undoubtedly staggering—height. No, there are a handful of pronged identically-colored branches—each bearing blossoms of a magnificent indigo shade—extending down from the enormous trunk.

It looks almost as if… as if the very building itself were built around the plant. Nevermind that colossal, thriving trees like this were practically unheard-of in a place so urban and polluted as Gotham.

“Holy shit,” she breathes out. “This is… Holy shit.”

Seemingly on cue, a curious thing begins to happen. A large circular groove appears across the trunk-carven doors. As Harley watches, the circle begins to turn counterclockwise. One full rotation, then another… and then another.

As soon as the third and final revolution is complete, many things happen at once:

The thin veins of silver seem to melt, trickling down the surface of the wooden trunk. They seep with a purpose, lulling and flowing towards the juncture between the stem of the massive plant and the marble floors, seeping through invisible cracks and disappearing from sight entirely without a trace.

Simultaneously, the meter-long sphere depressing the wooden doors begins to almost… disband.

Perhaps that’s not the right word for it.

It’s like, where there was once solid wood, there now becomes an ever-thinning opulence of plant-like tendrils withdrawing into the woodwork. They leave a circular hole in their wake through which Harley’s disbelieving eyes glimpse what appears to be a grandiose and spacious gallery further up ahead… presumably where this Green Lady (whoever the fuck she is, other than someone way above Harley’s pay grade) resides.

Before she can manage to utter out another word, the transformative change persists, all too easily stunning her back into an uncharacteristic silence. The circle begins to expand. Tendrils form from solid wood, then continue to recede as if governed by some magical force on high, waning and waning and waning until all that remains of the trunk is a circle-shaped doorway composed entirely of cinnamon-brown coils.

Its quaint appearance reminds Harley very much of those Hobbit homes in the Shire with the perfectly circular doorways and lively greenery all around. (Her mother had adored J.R.R. Tolkien, reading the Lord of the Rings to Harley before bed almost every night until she died.)

And through this magnificent archway, the one that brings a tentative smile to her face for reasons she’s not yet prepared to share, Harley can see…

Jesus.

The first thing she notices is water—a wide sparkling pool of it just through the arched doorway, peppered with lily pads and clumps of algae. It’s parted down the middle by a bridge of wooden tree tendrils and well-packed dirt. Multicolored blossoms and beauteous leafy curiosities line the well-trodden path along either side.

The next thing she takes notice of is the sunlight—radiant beams of golden amber shining through floor-to-ceiling windows all around, reflecting off the water's fluid surface, causing Harley’s eyes to strain wherever she chances a look.

And lastly, at the other end of the bridge, some 30 feet (~9 meters) across… a rectangular landing dock of marble houses a winding spiral staircase (made completely from vines) leading up to… somewhere. The second level of the penthouse? The roof, maybe?

“Welcome to my home, Harley,” Green Lady intones, her tone measured and saturated with unwavering neutrality. "I hope you’ll make yourself comfortable here.”

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

Green Lady doesn’t wait for Harley to muster up a response.

Instead, she strides through the circular entryway without a moment’s haste, bypassing its wondrously earthy curvature as if it isn’t one of the single most magnificent fuckin’ things Harley’s ever seen in her entire life.

“Follow me, Harley,” she calls over her shoulder as she ventures down the path. Her gait is soundless atop well-trodden dirt and russet-brown tree tendrils spanning several paces ahead.

Harley nearly trips over her own feet multiple times in her haste to obey... which would be pretty fuckin’ unfortunate, considering the heels and the unevenness of the “bridge” beneath her, making falling face-first into the algae-dotted waters on either side a very real concern.

Steeling herself, she wills her legs not to tremble (much) and follows cautiously after Green Lady. All the while, she has to make a very conscientious effort not to blurt out every last burning question on her mind.

The moderate yet unwavering behavior Green Lady has exhibited up until now notwithstanding, one thing’s become alarmingly apparent since their arrival: Green Lady—whoever the fuck she is—not only has an utterly obscene amount of money, but a metric fuck-ton of power to go right along with it.

Something’s telling Harley that it’s more than just guns and ammunition and an army of loyal mobsters willing to die for her at the slightest inclination. Something’s telling her it’s probably more to do with that preternaturally green-ish tinge to her sweet-smelling skin—a peculiar hue on its own, so reminiscent of evergreen forests and poison ivy alike; a flourishing spring, and septic contagion.

She’s different than Mistah J. She’s more special somehow, and Harley ain’t just sayin’ that because she’s super attractive and seems to ooze dominance from every pore and commands Harley around in a way that actually makes her want to listen and obey rather than scoff and bash her brains in like every other greasy asshole in Mistah J’s employ.

Well. Maybe that’s a part of it.

It isn’t long before Green Lady’s crossed the bridge and stands waiting patiently at the other end, a vine-ensnared dock of polished marble.

Blushing profusely (even as she wills herself to stop being so fuckin’ weird, dammit, because she hasn’t “blushed” since a lifetime ago), Harley makes a conscious effort to quicken her pace.

She strides past various blooming technicolored biennials with a hell of a lot more confidence than she feels, nerves fluttering in her stomach, anxiety constricting her airway.

And at the end of it, there’s Green Lady: standing with a single hand outstretched, waiting patiently for Harley to approach.

Patient. She’s always so fucking patient, and Harley has trouble deciding whether she finds it charming or just downright infuriating. (Probably some convoluted mix of the two.)

“Tell me honestly, dear—what do you think of my… accommodations thus far?” Green Lady questions lightly. A tinge of unprecedented uncertainty bleeds into her measured tone, giving Harley pause. "I know they’re a little… unorthodox.”

“I… “ Harley trails off uselessly, struggling to find the words. She takes Green Lady’s proffered hand, readily allowing the woman to guide her from the bridge onto grey-veined marble flooring. “I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, Miss.”

The slightest hint of a flush appears across her green-ish cheeks. She looks almost… embarrassed. “Again, I know it’s not exactly conventional—"

“No, I—it’s freakin’ gorgeous," Harley rushes to clarify, genuine elation loosening her tongue. “Ma’am, I… Walking through here just now felt like… like a dream. It’s amazing."

Green Lady arches a single brow at that.

Harley blushes, resisting the urge to redirect her gaze down towards her feet.

Speaking out of turn. Again.

She really needs to quit it with that.

“Harley? What’s on your mind?”

Harley blinks, taken aback. Is this a test? “I—I interrupted, Ma’am, I am so so so sorry, I promise it’ll never happen again, I—"

“How did the Joker punish you for speaking out of turn?” Green Lady interjects, lips pressed into a thin line.

Harley's blood turns to ice. “Those nights, I slept on the floor,” she replies, forcing a shrug like it’s no big deal. It’s not the whole truth, either. “And if he was feeling really mean, he'd take away my next upcoming visitation with Eli, too.”

Green Lady’s ensuing response is quick, sharp—devoid of compromise. “Death is too kind for him.”

Harley affords her a quiet sigh. “He’s powerful, and he owns me. As long as my usefulness outweighs the trouble of botherin' to keep me on his leash, I get to live another day.”

“That’s not living,” Green Lady argues.

Harley is hard-pressed to disagree.

“It ain't about me, Miss. It ain't been about me for a long time—since the day I found out I was pregnant with Eli.”

A spark of righteous anger flashes in Green Lady’s gaze, followed swiftly by a flicker of genuine curiosity. “Does that ever anger you?” she asks.

“It used to,” she admits, retracting her hand from Green Lady’s and wincing internally when the woman lets her go without a fight. “Sometimes it still does, though I think I’m always more angry with myself than anybody else. At the end of the day, though, it ain’t productive to get all broody or throw a tantrum about it, ya know? Like I said: it ain’t about me anymore.”

Green Lady is quiet for a protracted moment. Eventually, she says, “It’s still your life, Harley."

“I don’t wanna argue with you, Miss, but I’m not so sure that’s true,” Harley replies even as the sheer measure of raw honesty she’s willfully offering seems to gut her from the inside out. It wells inside her until it’s overwhelming, spilling over her skin and branding itself into her very flesh, leaving every last nerve ending open and vulnerable and stinging painfully like a salted wound.

And still, Green Lady presses. Gently, of course, but inflexibly; kindly enough to allow a rebuttal, but intently enough to discourage it. “Do you want not to argue with me because there’s a part of you that agrees with me, because you don’t agree but prefer to avoid confrontation, or because you fear I’ll punish you for daring to speak against me?"

Harley gulps, the corners of her lips twitching into a rueful smile. “All of the above?”

“Do you enjoy wine?”

Huh? “I… Yes, Miss, I do,” she answers readily, tamping down on her bafflement.

“What’s your favorite kind?”

“I ain't exactly what you’d call well-versed in wines, Miss, but I never say no to Moscato.”

Green Lady grins widely in response to that. It's the kind of smile that doesn’t match the ever-present tension between them, but it’s warm and genuine and makes Harley’s stomach explode with butterflies. That’s enough. “Moscato it is.”

— —

Three glasses of wine and an alarming measure of candid dialogue later finds a buzzed (and just bordering on tipsy) Harley up on the second floor of the lavish greenhouse-apartment. She sits cross-legged upon spotless white covers of a king-sized bed that feels like a cloud, talking about the stupidest things with a larger-than-life woman who doesn’t seem quite so scary anymore.

For better or for worse, Green Lady's kept her word—the one about them not necessarily doing the dirty tonight. Her distance, too.

While she’d insisted that Harley sit on the bed, ostensibly in the interest of her comfort, she hadn’t made a single move to join her there.

Rather, she’d gone about pulling a wooden chair up to the foot of the bed, then taken a seat.

And still, that’s where she’s remained for the better part of an hour—or, at least what Harley thinks is probably close to an hour. Christ, if it ain’t confounding.

Regardless, she sips chilled Moscato from a crystalline-clear wine glass, consciously makes an effort to ease the tension from her taut shoulders, and allows herself to engage in an easy stream of back-and-forth dialogue with Green Lady that (miraculously) requires very little on her part beyond a receptive attitude and the occasional bout of honesty.

“If you could live anywhere in the world—and, for the sake of the question, let’s pretend that money and working and whatever else wouldn’t pose an issue—where would you pick?” Green Lady questions. There’s a subtle flush darkening her olive-tinged cheeks, Harley notices. She can’t help but find it rather lovely.

“Estonia, Miss."

Green Lady arches a single brow. “That was fast.”

Harley shrugs, feeling her face flood with renewed heat beneath Green Lady’s scrutiny. “I been there a handful of times, always with Mistah J—Joker,” she hastens to correct herself, not missing the spark of hostility that flashes in eyes of gorgeous green at the mention of her owner. “He always kept me close, and had me doin’ some things I regret, but… nothing could take away what that place meant to me. What it still means to me.”

She stops herself then, ducking her head. “Sorry, Miss… I, um. I ramble sometimes, or so people tell me.”

“You needn’t apologize, Harley,” Green Lady immediately reassures her. “Not for sharing pieces of yourself with me, and far more of them than I’ve earned, at that.”

“Earned.”

A peculiar choice of words.

As if she needs to “earn” anything where this is concerned, like it’s she who owes kindness unto Harley rather than the other way around.

“You don’t owe me anythin’, Ma'am,” Harley remarks carefully after a moment, spine tingling. “You forked over a hell of a lot of dough to buy me for the night, remember?”

Green Lady’s lips twitch with something like humor even as her green-eyed gaze turns doleful. “No matter what you believe, the price I paid for your company tonight does not indenture you to me. If at any point you wish to leave, simply say the word. I’ll prepare you a bag with a suitable sum of cash, food and amenities. From there, my driver will take you anywhere you ask, at no personal expense of your own. I promise you that.”

Harley resists the urge to scoff, the alcohol dulling her inhibitions until it’s all she can do not to say, "Yeah, right.”

“And what about in the morning,” she asks instead, "when Mist—Joker expects me back? Miss?”

“Whether you choose to return yourself at that time is up to you. Not me.”

“You’d get in trouble with Joker, big time,” Harley points out, staunchly unconvinced.

“So would you.”

Harley feels a spark of amusement eddy in her chest at that. There’s a rather macabre humor to be found in the bleakness of her situation with regards to Mistah J, in the precious naivety of Green Lady for believing she might be immune to it… to him.

“I’m always in trouble with Mistah J,” she drawls with a crooked grin that suggests it’s funnier than it is. “That ain’t new to me, Miss. What I don’t get is why you’d risk it in the first place.”

“He’s a sadistic monster.”

Harley snorts at that. “Agreed, Miss. All the more reason why you don’t go outta your way to piss him off. Hell, I don’t even know how you’re still alive right now.”

Green Lady tilts her head slightly, looking intrigued. “Why is that, kitten?”

Harley clears her throat awkwardly as a renewed flush rises to her cheeks. (And damn her, but the way Green Lady’s impossibly green eyes sparkle with amusement tells Harley that she knows exactly the effect her words are having.)

“You corrected him,” she manages through a dizzying combination of potent arousal, burning curiosity, and wine-induced tipsiness. “When he didn’t call you ‘Doctor.’ He’s had people executed for less. But… not you.”

Green Lady’s lips quirk upward at the edges like she knows something that Harley doesn’t. “But not me.”

Harley knocks back the rest of her drink before leaning forth to offer Green Lady the empty glass. She’s always had a clumsy habit of breaking things (mostly not on purpose), especially the important and expensive stuff.

Green Lady takes it, setting it atop the sleek wooden desk behind her. Every movement she makes, every slight twitch in her posture is slow, deliberate.

It’s a minute or two before either of them speaks.

“You’re safe here, Harley,” Green Lady says. “I know it’s difficult to take my words at face value, but whether you believe me or not, I can and will protect you. Today, tomorrow, and beyond that, if you’ll allow it.”

There it is again: a choice. Or, at least, the illusion of one.

“Ya keep doing that,” Harley mumbles out before she can think to stop herself, better instincts clouded beneath a haze of intoxication.

Green Lady doesn’t miss a beat. “Doing what?”

“Giving me choices.”

“You don’t believe that I mean them?”

Harley heaves a quiet sigh. “I… I don’t know, Miss.”

Green Lady chuckles at that, genuine and unrestrained. And maybe Harley’s a damned fool for thinkin’ it, but it might just be one of the best things she’s ever heard. “That’s quite alright. Trust takes time.”

“Trust is dangerous, Ma’am,” Harley admits, fiddling anxiously with her fingers in her lap. "And trustin' me? It ain’t worth much, I’ll tell you that right now.”

The effect is immediate. The kindly benevolence in Green Lady’s eyes hardens to that of cold indignation. Her jaw visibly clenches; her posture turns stiff where she sits.

“Belittle yourself again, and we will have to revisit the ‘discipline’ issue,” Green Lady snarls through gritted teeth. Harley can’t help the full-bodied shudder that works its way down her spine as a result. “Is that understood?”

“Y-Yes, Ma’am. U-Understood."

Green Lady’s eyes flash with something that appears likened unto satisfaction, and Harley feels herself throb between her thighs. “Good girl.”

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

It’s a couple hours (and another glass of chilled Moscato) later before Harley finally works up the nerve to ask, “Why’re you doin’ all this, Miss?”

If Green Lady is at all irked by Harley’s bluntness, she doesn’t let on. Instead, she’s all sincere indulgence and immeasurable poise: leaning forward in her chair to fix Harley with an appraising look, forearms rested on either of her knees.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, darling,” she remarks smartly, though there’s an unmistakable note of apology in her silken tone that Harley hates herself for daring to think might be genuine.

“You haven’t touched me, Miss,” Harley points out quietly before she can lose her nerve, cheeks flushed from something more than just the wine. “And you haven’t… haven’t had me touch you.”

“You mean, I haven’t forced myself on you.”

Harley pointedly lowers her gaze, shame coloring her cheeks. “… Yes, Miss.”

“Eyes on me, pretty girl.” Harley lifts her chin, repressing a full-bodied shudder as she meets Green Lady’s intent gaze. “I can understand that you have no reason to believe me when I tell you I won’t—that I wouldn’t. It… " Green Lady trails off in a rare show of speechlessness, her elegant expression hardening with resolve. “Simply the thought of subjecting you to that is utterly reprehensible.”

Harley nods distractedly in answer, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. There’s something else about all this that’s bugging her, and heaven help her but she hasn’t the faintest fuckin’ clue how to go about asking it. (Or if she even wants to.) “But you don’t, um… "

Green Lady doesn’t push as she trails off, just sits patiently in wait for Harley to gather her thoughts. (It’s as touching as it is confusing.)

“…. I just thought, you know, that… " Harley stammers out, feeling her cheeks flood with renewed heat under Green Lady’s unfaltering consideration. (She’s well aware she isn’t making a lick of sense right now, but being aware of it and being able to amend it are two entirely different things.) “… ‘cause what happened in the backroom…. "

“We kissed,” Green Lady supplies simply, lips quirking upwards at the edges.

Harley nods jerkily at that. “But you haven’t touched me… "

“Oh, Harley,” Green Lady laments with something like fond exasperation (though there’s an undercurrent of acidity to her tone that practically screams 'danger’). A crease forms between her perfect brows that Harley aches to smooth away. “You think that because I haven’t forced myself on you, that I don’t want you?”

Harley ducks her head bashfully, staring hard down at the snowy-white duvet as she feels her blush worsen tenfold. “Well, I….”

“Eyes on me,” Green Lady reminds her, and Harley hastens to obey. “Good. I won’t remind you again, kitten. Is that understood?”

Harley flushes anew at the pet name (which is quickly becoming one of her all-time favorites), squirming to re-distribute her weight as a renewed gush of arousal threatens to stain the duvet beneath her. (God, that would be so fuckin’ embarrassing, Harley bemoans herself.) “U-Understood, Miss.”

“Very good,” she purrs, and Harley has to bite her lower lip hard to stifle a paltry whimper from escaping her.

She needs to get up off this bed, now.

“Um, I—Miss?” she squeaks timidly, cheeks flaming with sweet humiliation even as she struggles to hold Green Lady’s gaze.

Green Lady’s slight grin widens, her gaze taking on a knowing and almost cruel glint. “Yes, Harley dear?"

Harley shifts, feeling her cunt clench beneath the soaked-through crotch of her thong. “Can I, um… Am I allowed to get up? I… I-I think I’d like to stand.”

Green Lady simply quirks a brow. “And why is that?”

Harley clenches her jaw. “I… I’d just like to stand, is all. I-If that’s okay, Miss.”

Green Lady hums, tsking like she’s disappointed. “You’re free to do whatever you like, love,” she answers graciously, though there’s a hint of disillusionment that lingers on her features. A split second later, Harley finds out why: “But I thought I told you not to lie to me.”

Harley, who up until this point had been just mid-way through scrambling off the side of the mattress, freezes on the spot. On hands and knees atop the duvet, lips parted with bafflement, cool air fanning over the flimsy scrap of wet fabric between her thighs in the most maddening of ways.

Fuck.

“I’m no mind-reader, but I do have a certain… knack for being able to tell when a person is lying,” Green Lady muses, waving a hand dismissively through the air as if it’s of little consequence. “Though I’ll admit you’re rather adept at it. I’m impressed.”

Harley gulps, not daring to move. “I… " What the hell, she thinks. “I’m wet, Miss. I… I didn’t want to stain your nice bedding.”

Something almost predatory flits across Green Lady’s gaze as her knowing grin widens to reveal a perfect row of straight white teeth—a stark contrast to the juniper-green of her lips.

“See—that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

At this rate, Harley fears her face is in danger of, quite literally, bursting into flames. “N-No, Miss.”

“So, now that that’s out in the open, I suppose we have some options,” Green Lady muses. “Tell me, Harley—what do you need right now?"

Harley blinks, her lower back beginning to ache from the effort of holding herself still. “W-What?”

“Well, every time I’ve offered you clothing to wear, you’ve politely declined, but the sentiment remains,” she offers without a moment’s hesitation. “If you’d like to run a bath, or have a shower, you’re more than welcome to.” She pauses then, smirking. “And if you’d like a moment alone to… take care of yourself,” Harley’s eyes widen at the implication, “I’d be more than happy to accede. Just say the word, darling—whatever you need."

A sudden rush of daring fills her gut—the kind that has her lips curving into a sultry smirk and her next words coming out drenched in a bawdy confidence she doesn’t quite feel: “I think I like option three, Ma'am,” she drawls, "though I don’t quite see why it means you gotta leave me all on my lonesome.”

Green Lady’s gaze turns from heated to smoldering, her jaw clenching tight—so tight it almost looks painful. “Think carefully about what you’re saying,” she warns, her tone cold and sharp like weathered steel. “I don’t much like to be teased.”

Harley likes this. It’s easy—familiar. (And hot.) “It ain’t teasing if I deliver, though, right?”

Green Lady’s eyes are dark—a shade of green so deep it looks almost black, even in the light. “Come here, kitten.”

Suppressing a full-bodied shiver, Harley crawls over to the side of the bed, then comes to stand beside it on weakened legs that feel like Jell-O. Green Lady’s sharp gaze threatens to burn straight through her as she makes a careful approach to face her head-on, a burning question on the tip of her tongue.

“Ask,” Green Lady says simply.

Harley wonders briefly if she was lying earlier about not being a mind-reader.

“I… I want to kneel for you,” she manages shyly, fighting the urge to shift from foot to foot under Green Lady’s reserved scrutiny. "Can—May I? Miss?”

Green Lady chuckles, low and gentle, juniper-green lips curved into an indulgent smile as she lifts her chin to appraise Harley. “My, my. Such a polite and well-mannered kitten.” Harley flushes, feeling her cunt clench reflexively at the praise (and the pet name, because Jesus Christ ). “Of course you can, beautiful.”

Her flush spreads to the tips of her ears as she drops demurely to a kneel between Green Lady’s spread legs—close enough that she could lean and nuzzle her cheek against her knee, if she so desires. (And she really, really does.)

“T-Thank you, Miss,” she murmurs, mindful to keep her gaze on Green Lady's.

“I should be thanking you, Harley,” Green Lady counters swiftly, a note of sobriety entering her genial tone. "Submission in all its forms is a gift—nothing less.”

Harley just blinks at that, not quite knowing what to say.

Luckily, Green Lady saves her from having to form a coherent response. “Now, you were honest with me. I owe you some reciprocity on that front. Earlier, you were unsure about whether or not my interest in you is sincere. You asked why I hadn’t yet touched you, or requested that you touch me.”

Harley nods shallowly at that, cheeks aflame.

“I’m going to tell you about the moments we shared in the nightclub—my thoughts, reactions, feelings. Is that alright with you?”

Harley blinks, slightly taken aback. Still, she’s nothing if not quick on her feet. “Y-Yes, Ma’am—of course.”

“When I first saw you, you were onstage, dancing. I couldn’t stop watching you. Your movements… they were effortless, elegant.”

“Your makeup was thick and smeared, but it didn’t do a thing to hide your beauty. And your body… " Green Lady lets out a long exhale at that, shaking her head with a self-deprecating grin. “I want so badly to say that I didn’t ogle you like some hare-brained pervert, but I did. I did, and I had half a mind to smack myself for it, especially knowing what I know now.”

‘Knowing what I know now,’ Harley repeats in her head, even as some dumb, giddy part of her can’t help but preen at the fact that Green Lady just outright admitted to ‘ogling ’ her at the nightclub. What’s she mean by that?

Her confusion must be splayed clear across her features, because Green Lady is quick to clarify. “Dancing onstage isn’t something you do by choice, is it?”

Harley’s immediate impulse is to downplay it. “It ain’t so bad,” she shrugs. "I like dancin'!" Green Lady gives her a pointed look, brows raised, and Harley heaves a quiet sigh. “But… no,” she admits. "No, it ain’t really a choice."

“Exactly.” Green Lady nods at that, a sad look in her gaze before continuing on: “And then… Well. Then, I took a seat, and he called you over.” Her face hardens as she relays the last part, green hands clenched into white-knuckled fists atop either knee. “He was pretentious. He treated you like property, and for that alone, I wanted to make him bleed.”

"He introduced us, and you.. " she trails off, her expression softening into one that almost borders on reverence. “You blushed so prettily when you spoke to me for the very first time.” Harley squirms, clenching her thighs together. It’ll be a miracle if she gets through this without dripping onto the carpet.

"You took me to a room near the back of the club. I told myself I wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t ask anything of you. But then, you moved to kneel between my feet, so earnest and perfect, and my resolve broke. I wanted—needed—you closer. And later… later, I had you pinned up against the wall—kissing those beautiful lips, tasting heaven in your mouth like I had any right to it… to you. I owe you an apology for that.”

Harley vigorously shakes her head at that, silently begging Green Lady to see the truth in her eyes when she says, “I wanted it, Miss. All of it.”

“But even if you hadn’t, you’d have let me, yes?”

Harley bites her lower lip, brows furrowed. “… Yes, Miss.” God, this honesty thing sucks.

“My actions… they robbed you of choice, and that was wrong of me,” she condemns herself reproachfully, and Harley is entirely at a loss. She doesn’t know what to feel, what to think; it’s all so foreign to her, this… apology. “I’m very sorry, Harley. I need you to know that. Okay?”

“I… Okay.”

Green Lady’s expression clears somewhat, though a trace of stubborn guilt remains. “Now, that in mind—I’d like to ask you something, and I’d very much appreciate it if you answered honestly. Is that understood?”

Harley nods, grateful for this far simpler line of questioning. “Yes, Miss."

“Earlier, did you entertain the idea of putting on a show for me because you felt indebted to me, or because you genuinely wanted to?”

Harley’s breath catches in her throat. “I… That’s… No one’s ever asked me that before, Miss."

Something steely and almost dangerous flits across her gaze, but it’s come and gone far too quickly for Harley to dwell on it for very long. “They should have.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, then, and Harley realizes (somewhat belatedly) that Green Lady is still waiting on her response.

She takes another second to gather her thoughts, hands fiddling anxiously in her lap. “And to answer your question, Miss, I… I don’t know.”

Green Lady nods, an unreadable expression gracing her regal features.

Harley feels her body tense in anticipation of… well, of what, she doesn’t quite know, but past experience tells her it won’t be pretty. A backhanded blow to the face, a virulent slew of hateful words, a strong grip squeezing tightly around her throat until the world turns black.

“I give you my word that nothing further will transpire between the two of us until you can tell me beyond a shadow of a doubt that you want it. Anything we do, we do together. Do you understand?”

Speechless, she manages a jerky nod. Her brain is a whirlwind—Green Lady’s gentle promises and Mistah J’s harsh words and a billion other hopelessly vast emotions she doesn’t dare try and name warring violently within her head, threatening to overwhelm her.

Green Lady’s lips quirk into the beginnings of a smile. “Thank you, kitten,” she praises, and Harley can’t help but bask in it, feeling that warm fuzzy sensation in her chest grow and grow and grow until all the rest of it is white noise. “You’ve done very well."

— —

Dawn breaks across an indigo sky, streaks of watermelon-pink decorating the heavens, a molten amber-yellow sun peeking out over the cityscape horizon.

They watch it together—Green Lady resting back against the sturdy trunk of an honest-to-God cherry blossom tree sprouting from the roof, Harley curled snugly in her arms.

Her damp hair smells of spearmint and eucalyptus (because of course Green Lady’s shampoos would be made of… green stuff). One of Green Lady’s oversized T-shirts swallows her small frame, its pale green cotton stamped with an abstract depiction of a beautiful citrus tree, circular splotches of yellow hanging from every bough. The plaid green-and-grey boxer briefs sagging low on her hips are Green Lady’s, too.

They smell like her—like pinewood and fresh berries and evergreen forests. Harley likes that.

What’s more, she can feel herself beginning to associate those particular scents (Green Lady’s scents) with warmth and peace and security—which is fuckin' terrifying, to say the least.

She doesn’t get things like ‘warmth’ and ‘peace’ and ‘security.’ There’s a thick leather collar around her throat to remind her of that. (Funnily enough, she’d all but forgotten it until now.)

There’s a lingering ache in her jaw and a familiar sting between her thighs and violet handprint-shaped bruises above either hip to ensure that no matter how much time she spends forgetting in strong arms and lush greenery on every side, it won’t last.

Most of all, there’s grief in her bones and an ache spread all across her battered body and a gaping hole in her chest where Eli used to live. They make damn sure she can’t forget what a lifetime of weakness has taught her, what years of good intentions and bloodied fists and heartache have proven: that she isn’t made for sunrises, and nostalgia, and pretty women with smooth green skin and fiery-red hair and gorgeous bright-green eyes that glitter like emeralds in the gentle light of breaking dawn.

She’s beginning to resent that with a vengeance.

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

Just past seven sees Green Lady cooking breakfast in her super nice kitchen despite Harley’s half-hearted protests that she really, really didn’t have to: scrambled eggs and sausage (beef, not pork) and hash browns… so many hash browns.

Green Lady’s dressed in casual wear: a pair of pale green jogger sweats and a large grey cotton T-shirt bearing an assortment of cartoonish potted plants surrounding the words ‘PLANT DADDY’ emblazoned in bold black font across the chest. It's silly, and whimsical, and so fucking dorky—a stark contrast to the uber-fancy business-formal attire she’d donned just hours before. Harley loves it.

She’s not sure if it’s the domesticity of the moment, or a direct byproduct of an entire night spent being treated like an equal instead of… less than. Maybe it’s just good old-fashioned sleep deprivation finally catching up to her in the midst of this shitstorm. Either way, she’s feeling somewhat emboldened—enough so that she doesn’t see why not to ask the one thing she’s been dying to know since their very first meeting in the club.

“Hey, Miss?”

Green Lady doesn’t look up from the sizzling pan. “Yes, kitten?”

Harley feels herself flush at the pet name, and she has to resist the urge to squirm in her seat. Definitely her favorite. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Of course, Harley,” she reassures, glancing over her shoulder to flash Harley an encouraging look.

She swallows thickly, speculating the most polite way to go about phrasing it even as the inquiry seems to burn her tongue the longer she holds it back. In typical Harley fashion, she lasts about three seconds before blurting out, “Why is your skin green?” like an idiot.

She thinks it’s a miracle when Green Lady turns away from the stove to face her and the look on her face is indulgent rather than murderous. If anything, she looks almost… amused.

“I’m surprised it took you so long to ask,” she banters wryly, sharp green eyes seeming to almost glow in the morning sunlight.

Harley shrugs under Green Lady’s teasing consideration, a pink flush coloring her cheeks. “I’m freaky pale like a ghost, and it ain’t just a Jewish thing. I know I don’t much appreciate it when people I don’t know ask me why my skin’s so funny-lookin’. It’s none of their damn business.” She pauses, then adds, “And this ain’t my business either. I know that. I’m just… curious, I guess?”

Quiet falls between them as Green Lady seems to inspect her for a long moment, a contemplative look in her eye. Eventually, she breaks into a smile, and Harley releases the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

“You’re quite right, darling. They aren’t entitled to an explanation for why your skin is chalk-white and mine is plant-green; it isn't their business to know in the first place. That said, I don’t mind it being yours.” She winks, then says, “One moment” as she turns to inspect the sausages cooking in the pan.

A second later, she turns back to Harley with a slightly faraway look in her eye. “Some time ago, I was a college student. I’d always been fascinated by plant-life, so it was little surprise to anyone who knew me that I chose botany and toxicology as my specialties.”

"One of my professors… " she trails off there, something unreadable flitting across her gaze. It looks remarkably akin to sadness, maybe even anger… or perhaps some combination of the two. “Jason Woodrue. He was a man of remarkable intellect; I’d found his thesis on instilling immunity to perennial toxicity in the human body to be fascinating, and went out of my way after the very first lecture to tell him as much.”

"He was very kind when we first spoke. He humored all my questions, and even posed a few of his own for me to consider. It quickly became clear to me that he shared my passion for botany and toxicology in spades. Over a matter of months, we built a strong rapport. I often found myself staying long after-hours to discuss the finer points of his thesis further with him, along with conducting the occasional extra-curricular experiment of my own under his supervision.”

A quick over-the-shoulder glance at the stove seems to tell Green Lady the sausages are done. She moves the pan off the heat, cutting the burner off with a swift movement before turning back to face Harley.

There’s that saddened distance in her gaze again, a furrow in her brow, lips pressed thinly together. It’s more than enough to make Harley regret asking to begin with.

“Miss, I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have asked,” Harley begins, brows stitched together, pleading wordlessly for Green Lady to forgive her. “You don’t have'ta—"

“It’s quite alright, Harley,” Green Lady assures her with a gentle smile, though the sadness in her eyes lingers. “I want to share this piece of myself with you.”

Harley bites her lip, not entirely convinced. Still, she knows better than to push. “Okay, Miss,” she concedes quietly. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Green Lady says, flashing Harley a warm and genuine smile that brings more heat to her blushing cheeks. A split second later, it fades in favor of a thoughtful, almost somber expression, and Harley yearns to see that contented look once more.

“Anyway, college-age me really respected Woodrue—looked up to him, even. And it wasn’t entirely unfounded, because he was a kind and gentle man up until the day he wasn’t. He… " Green Lady pauses, lips pursed in thought as if contemplating how best to go about verbalizing this next part.

“He took advantage of me, kidnapped me, and began experimenting on me,” she states calmly—too calmly.

Quite suddenly, Harley finds that her stomach really ain’t in the mood for breakfast anymore.

“After a particularly toxic injection of deadly nightshade spliced with his own handcrafted antiserum, I ended up in the hospital for just over six months. Woodrue fled long before I was coherent enough to give his name to the police, while I was left with a drastically changed physiology” —she gestures vaguely up and down her fern-green body— "and… strange abilities.”

Harley swallows, her mouth suddenly feeling rather dry. “‘Abilities’?”

“You see that plant on the counter?” Green Lady asks, nodding to a mini lime-green sprout rooted in a small pot of darkened soil to Harley’s right.

Harley furrows her brow but nods, looking curiously between Green Lady and the plant in question.

“Hand it to me, will you?”

Confusion eddying in her chest, Harley does.

Green Lady holds the pot in one hand, then carefully scoops out the mini sprout, roots and all, along with a handful of soil in the other. Setting the pot aside, she regards the drooping green weed in her palm coolly for a second before—

Wait. Did the tiny little plant just twitch ?

Harley squints at it.

Another twitch.

She squints at it a little harder.

It wiggles—fuckin’ wiggles.

What—

Quite suddenly, as if spurred by some unseen force, the little sapling begins to grow—up, up, up, sprouting shoots and leaves from its rapidly thickening stem and tan-colored roots that protrude from the small lump of soil in Green Lady’s palm like something Harley can’t even begin to try and explain… like magic.

“Holy shit,” Harley breathes out, lips parted in shock. “You just… "

“Plants… respond to me, as best as I can explain it—ever since the experiments,” Green Lady explains calmly, though there’s a hint of nervousness in her gaze as she monitors Harley’s reaction. “I can grow them in a matter of seconds and, if I concentrate hard enough, employ them to do my bidding.”

She falls silent then, which Harley takes to mean she’s finished explaining for now, eyeing Harley cautiously all the while.

Harley, for her part, is just wondering if it’s possible for her jaw to unhinge itself purely out of excitement and awe.

“That is so cool!” she’s squealing shrilly before she can stop herself, practically bouncing in her seat with giddiness. “Oh, my God—you’re amazing ! I mean, that probably don’t mean much comin’ from me, ‘cause I once bought a little mini cactus to keep me company back at the apartment and it was dead by the end of the month, but— Sorry, I’m ramblin', but ya just made that mini sprout thing grow in two seconds flat and I’m— That was so cool !”

Green Lady cycles through a myriad of expressions as Harley babbles—trepidation, shock, confusion. Finally, she seems to settle on something like gratified relief: a genuine smile curving her lips, eyes alight with consummate warmth.

“I’m glad you think so, kitten,” she remarks dryly, a note of doubt lingering in her silken tone.

Harley nods along with that, feigning thoughtfulness. Really, she’s preoccupied with thinking up a way to get that uneasy look out of Green Lady’s pretty eyes, stat. “D’ya think you could resurrect that mini cactus I killed?”

Green Lady snorts at that—a genuine, entirely unrefined sound that warms Harley from the inside out. “No, kitten, I’m afraid your mini cactus is too far gone,” she quips back, and the look on her regal features is warm, contented, devoid of any earlier misgivings.

Mission accomplished, Harley thinks smugly to herself even as she pouts for dramatic effect. “Phooey."

— —

Breakfast is amazing. Green Lady is an incredible cook, and Harley makes it a point to tell her as much.

She brushes it off with an adorable hint of bashfulness, citing that it’s “almost impossible” to mess up eggs and sausage and hash browns, but Harley ain’t fooled.

Harley scarfs down everything on her plate in a matter of minutes even as Green Lady sips lazily at an Irish-green smoothie in a tall glass. Evidently she’s a fervid vegan, which seems sorta on-the-nose, considering everything.

“So,” Green Lady begins, swirling her green smoothie languidly in one hand. “I don’t mean to ruin the mood—and it truly is a wonderful mood,” she pauses, smirking, and Harley feels herself flush, "but I’d like us to talk about our… options from here on out.”

Harley frowns at that, dutifully sipping her water. Evidently, Green Lady’s real big on hydration. “Options?”

“I still plan to kill the Joker,” she states plainly like she’s discussing the day's weather rather than murdering the most powerful man in Gotham.

Just like that, all the air feels like it’s being sucked from Harley’s lungs.

She swallows hard, setting her water aside as her stomach churns with nausea. “… Right.”

“I could certainly use your help in this, but I won’t by any means require it of you,” Green Lady assures her, and Harley has the insane urge to burst out laughing. “Helping you is my top priority—you and your child.”

Harley stills at that. “Eli?” she questions suspiciously, uncaring of the acerbity that enters her tone at the mention of him. “What do ya want with him?”

Green Lady says nothing for a moment, just inspects Harley with an indecipherable look in her eye. “Nothing,” she answers eventually, taking her time to utter each syllable as if choosing her words carefully. “But he is not safe in the Joker’s hands. He belongs with his mother.”

“And what would you gain from that?” Harley demands with an impudence she wouldn’t dare employ if the subject matter were literally anything else—but it’s not ‘anything else.' It’s Eli, the very center of her entire fuckin’ world, and she can more than justify mouthing off on his account.

Green Lady doesn’t miss a beat: “It would free you from the Joker’s control.”

“Ya didn’t answer the question,” Harley protests emphatically, willing herself to keep her tone even. “I asked you what you’d gain.”

Green Lady cocks her head to the side, fixing Harley with an expression that somehow manages to appear bemused and wistful all in one. “Is it truly so hard for you to fathom that I might find your company enjoyable, and would seek an outcome that would allow me to revel in it more often?”

Harley frowns, jaw clenched. “All due respect, Miss, but it’s exactly that hard for me to fathom it. You’re powerful and rich and charming, and I’m—"

“I would think very carefully about your next words if I were you, kitten,” Green Lady interjects curtly, a warning flashing in her gaze. “You remember our talk about debasing yourself, don’t you?”

Harley promptly gulps down every, ahem, colorful descriptor she’d had in mind, feeling a pinkish flush heat her cheeks. “Y-Yes, Miss.”

Green Lady’s eyes spark with something like approval at Harley’s hasty show of deference, lips curling into the faintest trace of a smirk. The mere sight of it sends a full-bodied shiver down Harley’s spine. “And what did we agree upon?”

Harley feels her heated blush worsen tenfold. She feels like a scolded child sitting here: doing her very best to maintain eye contact, trying not to squirm, cheeks aflame beneath the crushing weight of her own impudence.

“Not to do it, Miss,” she mumbles out sullenly.

“Very good, kitten,” Green Lady lauds, sounding pleased. “Now, let’s try this again, shall we?”

Harley maintains her silence, willing her full-fledged blush to recede. (It doesn’t.) After what feels like at least a solid minute of Green Lady just looking at her rather than talking, brows raised, Harley realizes what she’s waiting for: verbal confirmation.

“Y-Yes, Ma’am."

Green Lady winks at her—a subtle, provocative gesture, and Harley knows she’s done the right thing. “You don’t have to trust me, Harley. I know better than to ask for something so tremendous.” She pauses, then, pursing her lips. “But should you agree to help me, no part of the plan will be hidden from you. Whatever the monetary cost to have you alongside me for as long as I require to enact this plan, I will pay it.”

“That’s… " Harley trails off, forgetting her earlier frustration entirely in favor of complete and utter awe at the fuckin’ bonkers intention she’s proposing. “I can’t ask you to do that, Miss. That’s… That’s so much money… I don’t—"

“You aren't asking,” Green Lady counters smoothly. “I’m offering.”

“I… Right,” Harley breathes out, struggling to wrap her brain around what’s happening right now—the sheer enormity of what they’re discussing, what it could mean for her. For Eli. “How long are you thinkin' this plan of yours'll take?”

Green Lady shrugs, sipping noncommittally at her smoothie. “Three days? A week, at most,” she confirms after a moment’s thought. “It all depends on how long it takes us to find your child and any others he may be detaining. Once they’re safe, I’ll be free to move on the Joker.”

“And you’re gonna… kill him,” Harley finishes numbly, a billion indescribable emotions churning viciously in her chest.

“Yes,” Green Lady agrees. “If all goes well.”

Harley nods shallowly. When she finally speaks, it’s like she’s hearing herself from miles away—tinny and distorted… distant. “Okay.” She doesn’t sound like herself. Hell, she doesn’t feel like herself, but somehow she knows that the answer she’s giving here is hers and hers alone—raw and vulnerable and honest as it gets, even if the burn of it is like acid on her tongue. “I’m in.”

Please don’t make me regret this, Miss.

— —

“Please, Miss.”

“No.”

Harley pointedly fights the urge to stomp her feet in a child-like show of frustration. “Miss, he-he’ll be suspicious if I don’t show up with any marks—"

“I will not lay a harmful hand on you, kitten,” Green Lady scowls. Were it any other situation, that alone would have Harley folding to her will in a snap, collapsing like a flimsy house of cards… But, this ain’t any other situation.

Harley will be damned if she throws her hat (and by extension, Eli’s) into the proverbial ring for this cuckoo-crazy plan to kill Mistah J, only to have it wrecked before they can even begin all because Green Lady won’t woman up and smack her around a little bit.

“Miss, ya don’t understand. He’ll check me for marks, have me tell him the stories behind the more painful ones; it’s a game he likes to play,” Harley prattles out, wincing internally as her words make Green Lady visibly fume with anger. “Right now, I don’t have any for him to see !”

“You’re asking me to… " Green Lady trails off, her voice trembling with rage, green hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, “to hurt you, after I expressly vowed to protect you.”

“This is protecting me, Miss, even if it don’t feel like it,” Harley insists staunchly, refusing to waver. “This way, Mistah J doesn’t get suspicious. This way, he’ll let you buy me again. He… " She pauses, gathering her nerve and willing her voice not to tremble. Sharing this won’t be easy for her, and it sure as hell won’t be easy on Green Lady to hear, but it’s important. This is important, and Green Lady needs to know that.

"He likes to send me off to the especially cruel ones—hell, even gives ‘em discounts sometimes,” she says, hating the legitimacy of her words, the acrid way it tastes on her tongue—not like unto that of a lie, but something far worse: an ugly truth. "He never looks twice when I come back covered in bruises, but he don’t trust a person that treats me well—someone without a dark side. Do you get it now?”

“This is insane,” Green Lady whispers, sounding utterly defeated in a way that cuts Harley straight to her core. “I don’t… "

“Hey, it’s okay,” Harley assures her, stepping into Green Lady’s space and feeling her own heart break for the glassy look in her pretty green eyes.

Her movements are slow, deliberate so as not to startle her. She takes one of Green Lady’s clenched fists in her hands, smiles gently at the way it immediately loosens in her palms.

Then, she’s bringing it up to curl around her throat just a hair beneath her jawline and a smidgen aloft the thick black leather of her collar. She presses Green Lady’s palm against her own windpipe, employing enough pressure to hinder the air flow without cutting it off completely, and leans willfully into it with the most reassuring grin she can manage.

“It’s… okay… Miss,” she gasps out breathlessly, smiling broadly with what little energy remains when she feels Green Lady’s grip tighten of its own accord. Satisfied, Harley lets her hands fall limply to her sides while a hand she almost trusts squeezes a painful bruise into her throat, heat quickly rushing to her face, her head going all fuzzy from oxygen deprivation. “I… want ya… to.”

The last things she can recall: A red-rimmed pair of blindingly beautiful green eyes. Wet tears streaking down kelly-green cheekbones cut from glass. A tear-choked (a-ha, she made a pun) voice that sounds sorta familiar whispering something like “Please forgive me, kitten”…

Then it all goes black.

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

They spend about an hour in total battering Harley’s body into submission—and at her own behest, no less… Talk about there being a first time for everything, huh?

She only passes out twice, which she thinks is pretty damn good considering the significantly condensed timeline they’re working with here: One hour for gettin’ the absolute cheese beaten outta her, a couple more to let the bruising settle into brilliant violet and indigo hues on her ghost-pale skin, then back to Mistah J in time to get “inspected” well before her weekly 2:00pm with ole’ Two-Face.

It also doesn’t help that, as it turns out, Green Lady really hasn’t been fronting all this time about havin’ a conscience—truly some Jiminy-Cricket-level bullshit.

Don’t get Harley wrong. Under any other circumstance, she’d be heaving a massive sigh of relief upon realizing that.

But as it is, they don’t have time for good intentions and moral compasses and Jiminy Cricket bullshit. Harley just needs a very painful, very visible ass-whoopin’, like, yesterday.

She doesn’t have time for “talking things through” (Harley can’t remember the last time she ever did that) or coming up with a “safe word” (whatever the hell that’s supposed to be) or “checking in” after every hit (fucking DMV-ass “traffic light system”).

Still, it ain’t like she can DIY bleeding bite marks all up and down her throat or someone else’s noticeably larger hands bruising her upper thighs or overlapping red stripes all up and down her back from the harsh bite of a leather belt.

There are a couple things she can do on her own, however, and once it’s become abundantly clear to Green Lady’s plants and God and everybody that it’s hurting her more than she can say to make Harley bleed… well, Harley womans the fuck up and does it herself.

Logically, she knows that complaining about the fact that Green Lady won’t beat bruises into her skin is… well, it ain’t fair. It ain’t fair of her to act like Green Lady’s the bad guy for not jumping at the opportunity to hit her like she stole somethin' with no concern for her comfort or safety.

She knows that.

But it’s just… Shit. She can’t play therapist and punching bag at the same time.

Sure, she’s good at multi-tasking (better than most), but she ain’t that good.

During the first parts, she could manage it: arching into the pain rather than away like she wasn’t hurtin'; flashing a crooked grin up at Green Lady even directly on the heels of every blood-curdling scream that tore its way through her battered windpipe like a thousand knives dipped in acid; telling her “It’s okay, Miss” over and over and over again like a broken fuckin’ record even as she felt herself drenching her own cheeks in tears.

But once it started to hurt—like, really, well and truly hurt… well. It was a hell of a lot harder to be so brave then.

By the end of it, she's crying—sobbing into Green Lady’s dorky-as-hell 'PLANT DADDY’ T-shirt while curled up in her warm lap like a fucking child, damn near hyperventilating with the overwhelming pain of it.

Which is… unusual, to say the very least, ‘cause this—the trembling, the sobbing, the gasping for air through heaving lungs—this part, she does alone. She always does this part alone, typically in the wee hours of morning when Mistah J has finally fucked off to God knows where and the hole in her chest where Eli used to live aches a hundred times worse than anything else she’s ever known and there’s no one around to see her shatter beneath the fucking boundless measure of her own heartbreak.

Either way, she manages to regain control of herself and caps the emotional… episode off at what she estimates to be the ten-minute mark (give or take a couple minutes). It’s 12:09pm, according to the slim gold-plated watch on Green Lady’s wrist… which means one thing and one thing only: time for Harley to go back.

She really, really doesn’t want to.

— —

The 45-minute ride back is long. Quiet.

Green Lady protests vehemently when Harley tries to tell her she has to go alone, that Mistah J will be suspicious if Green Lady is caught looking like someone who cares enough to escort Joker’s whore back safe and sound.

Her opposition on that particular front dies out pretty damn quick once Harley offers up the only other plausible alternatives.

She recognizes the middle-aged white guy with grey hair and bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows sitting behind the wheel—Green Lady’s same driver from the ride over.

He wasn’t particularly chatty then, and he isn’t now. At the moment, Harley can’t help but find that more comforting than anything else.

She’s a big talker, sure (or at least, she used to be)—but not with an older man she doesn’t trust, and certainly not considering the state she’s in.

Cool gusts of well-conditioned air ghosting across her battered skin makes her shudder upon the expensive black-leather upholstery. A traitorous thought enters her stream of consciousness before she can think to stop it: that she wishes she could have Green Lady’s warm blazer draped over her shoulders, or—even better, that oversized T-shirt that was so soft against her skin.

“Shut up,” she angrily hisses to herself, trembling fists clenched tightly in her lap.

If Driver Man thinks anything at all about his sole passenger talking to herself in the backseat of his expensive car, he doesn’t let on.

The rest of the way, she busies herself with taking a mental inventory of her bodily damage:

Her left cheek, swollen and sore and red all over from hitting herself hard enough to draw tears.

Bright-pink impact marks with blue-ish bruising beginning to bloom all up and down her back.

And the list goes on.

Last of it all, a swollen puncture wound—unmistakably from that of a medicinal-grade syringe—rimmed with irritated pinkish skin at the base of her neck. Evidently, Green Lady’s saliva is poisonous. Deadly poisonous. Her touch, too, after prolonged exposure.

According to Green Lady, the only reason she’d survived their five-minute make-out sesh in the nightclub backroom was by way of a potent anti-toxin injected into Green Lady’s bloodstream a couple hours beforehand—the kind that would kill her in a larger dose, but instead simply worked to temporarily neutralize her body’s natural toxins for a short time.

Apparently, injecting herself with the anti-toxin was something of a routine before any outing that would bring her in direct contact with humans.

It also caused her a great deal of pain to weather the anti-toxin’s effects, as Harley had discovered after a solid five minutes of intense probing.

So, Harley politely refused Green Lady’s offer to brew up another dose of anti-toxin to keep her alive while she got her ass beat, particularly as another round of doubly-intense probing revealed an alternative solution:

An antidote Green Lady had concocted just hours ago as Harley slept, steeped with Harley’s mortal genetic make-up in mind—one that would render her immune to Green Lady’s natural bodily toxins.

Predictably, Green Lady had fervently objected, insisting she’d created the elixir solely as a contingency to be utilized should Harley choose of her own free will to be involved with her in the future.

It took some time, but Harley wore her down… eventually.

But anyway. Where was she?

Right! Inventory.

All in all, the assortment of injuries paints a fairly convincing picture, though she knows better than to think it’ll be enough on its own.

No, she’s gotta sell this… and she plans to.

— —

Two-Face is called Two-Face for a reason—though, Harley’s pretty sure she’s the only one who calls him that. One moment he’s Harvey Dent, highly-decorated defense attorney with neatly-trimmed hair and a charming white-toothed grin and blue eyes that sparkle like ocean waves beneath the afternoon sun… and the next, he’s something else. Someone else, rather.

His eyes go all cold; his boyish grin turns pained grimace; his touch becomes bruising rather than gentle.

There’s a not-so-small part of Harley—the ex-psychologist part—that finds his dual personality rather fascinating, even when it hurts.

In her head, she calls him—that side of him—Mistah H. Not terribly creative, she knows, but he’s the only one that possesses a similar kind of manic unpredictability unto that of Mistah J’s, and thus she thinks it fitting to call that side of him something congruous.

Anyway, her weekly sessions almost always see her dealin’ with good ole’ Mistah H. Today’s is no exception.

She thinks that the sessions are one of the only times Mistah H can come out to play without any real consequence, ‘cause Harvey keeps him on a pretty tight leash everywhere else. Being the most famous defense attorney in Gotham means life in the public eye, which means little room (if any at all) for slipping. As a direct consequence, Mistah H doesn’t get out much. It also means Mistah H is always even more angry and embittered than he would be to begin with, which means bad fucking news for Harley.

She always meets him at his fancy mansion out near the suburbs. Mistah J bought her a couple super expensive outfits just for her weekly meetings with Two-Face, ‘cause if anyone asks (and they have in the past), Harvey’ll tell the cameras that the lady he sees every Tuesday at 2:00pm on the dot is his therapist… and therapists don’t dress like cheap whores.

So, she always dons this fancy Balenciaga trench coat and a shawl to cover her dip-dyed hair, shiny black heels with red bottoms and a pair of big designer shades to obscure most of her face from view. Plus, she carries a big purse stuffed with files and scribbled-on papers to make her look important, and she only ever stays 90 minutes (at most)… which is probably already pushing it, considering the therapeutic hour is exactly 50 minutes, but whatever.

Harley never does the asking. It ain’t her job, anyhow.

It’s all the same today.

She’s a little battered, a bit more bruised than usual—but the rest of it is all the same: fancy getup, complete with cherry-red lipstick and a generous spritz of rich-person perfume. She hitches a ride with one of Mistah J’s many high-level goons—Louie if she can find him, ‘cause he’s the nicest (though this time she’s not so lucky)—and gets there with at least a couple minutes to spare.

Harvey himself always comes to let her in rather than the live-in maid, a lovely middle-aged lady by the name of Céleste; because it ain’t a secret that Harley comes to his swanky mansion every Tuesday for 90 minutes like clockwork, but what goes down as soon as they’re behind closed doors… well, that part definitely is.

No, Céleste gets sent home early on Tuesdays (her only day of the week off), and Harley finds herself left alone in Two-Face’s enormous three-storied mansion… well alone, that is, save for Harvey Dent himself and his significantly less-personable counterpart, Mistah H.

He looks nice today, Harley notes, which he always does—if not a little (or a lot) on-edge:

Immaculately-pressed baby blue dress shirt tucked into grey slacks, held up with a shiny belt around his trim waist—all William Fioravanti, of course, with red tie around his neck and polished brown loafers laced tightly up on either foot.

The scent of him is subtle, elegant—juniper berries and patchouli, his favorite cologne.

Harley can’t help wishing he smelled more like fresh berries, like pinewood and evergreen forests. Like Green Lady.

She forcibly shoves that thought out of her head before she can dwell on it for too long.

“Miss Quinzel,” he greets, flashing her a warm smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. All at once, she knows who she’s talking to: Harvey Dent. Gotham’s white knight; champion to the criminally accused; king of the courtroom. “Please, come in.”

She does, ducking her head bashfully and giving that shy little-girl smile she knows he likes. Gives him her coat when he asks for it, accepts his offer of a drink (which she usually declines) because she knows she can’t do this sober.

She knows she can’t even play pretend at being his with the memory of Green Lady’s touch and praise and bite burning painfully over every inch of her flesh like a new tattoo—a brand on her skin which stipulates that Harley is hers, that she can’t belong to anyone else, that this is wrong.

He returns with two sparkling glass tumblers and a bottle of Grey Goose in hand, then pours a couple shots into each with a steady hand.

“How you been, Harvey?” Harley asks once he’s finished pouring and offers her a glass (which she graciously accepts), careful to enunciate her words all clear and concise—no trace of that 'trashy’ (Mistah J’s words) Gotham born-and-bred accent she’d let slip with Green Lady mere hours before.

She watches him down the vodka in a single gulp even as she cautiously sips her own.

The burn is pleasant on her tongue, she finds. Grounding.

“Stressed,” he growls out eventually, gruff and short.

Well, hello there, Mistah H. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He grins wolfishly as he sets his glass aside, something cold and dangerous flitting through rapidly darkening eyes of cobalt-blue.

“Yes, indeed,” he muses with a chuckle that ghosts across Harley’s skin like a knife’s edge, large fingers already beginning to fiddle with the shiny silver belt buckle at his waist. (Harley resists the urge to shudder—and not in the good way. ) “Now get on your fucking knees.”

— —

Mistah J is the very picture of madness as Louie and AJ manhandle her into place just across from him in his favorite booth. His green hair is frizzy and wild, slick with too much gel; dried blood spatters his ghost-pale complexion, the way it does when he’s blown someone’s brains out at close-range; bright-red lipstick smears glistening lips, his pointy tongue flickering out intermittently as if to taste it.

“Harley!” he greets with a flourish, coal-black eyes alight with manic excitement and a curious kind of glee at the sight of her. Harley knows far better than to believe it means anything less than trouble where she’s concerned. “You look positively debauched, my dear.”

Harley clenches her jaw, feigning a pleasantly neutral expression. “Thank you, Mistah J.”

His manic grin widens. “And! It would seem you’ve garnered something of a suitor.” Green Lady, Harley’s brain supplies hopefully even as she chides herself for being so ridiculously transparent.

“Miss Pamela Isley—" Doctor, Harley mentally corrects him, “—has purchased your company through the weekend.”

Harley feels her heart skip a beat at that even as Mistah J lets loose a truly brainsick cackle, spewing droplets of spit onto the drink-littered table before him.

The sound of it chills her to the bone.

"I knew those whorish lips were good for something,” he chortles, clearly relishing this opportunity to further degrade her. “You’re going to beg her to fuck you in the ass, Harley girl. I want her to make you cry because it’s so rough and it’s hurting you so bad—will you do that for me? For your daddy?”

It’s almost amusing that he even bothers giving her the illusion of a choice. Almost.

“Anythin' for you, Puddin’,” she acquiesces sweetly, allowing a slight purse of her lips (to ensure he thinks her repulsed) even as her thighs clench beneath the table of their own accord at the thought of Green Lady taking her there—all whispered praise and firm hands pulling her bruised cheeks apart and that deliciously painful stretch threatening to split her in two—

“There’s a good pet,” he sighs out with mock reverence even as one pale hand disappears off the tabletop to not-so-subtly massage his own crotch, a glazed-over look that Harley recognizes all too well entering his gaze. “Now, let’s put that mouth to good use, hm? Miss Isley’s driver will be here within the hour.”

— —

Chapter Text

HARLEY

Driver Man picks her up at 5:00 on the dot.

Outside, it's gloomy and grey, but there’s a bit of color to be found amidst overcast skies—a splash of auspicious yellow here, a streak of burning crimson there.

Harley hates herself for thinking it might be some kinda omen, an assurance of changing tides—a promise of something better.

He doesn’t get out when she nears the curb, doesn’t flash her a smile or a wave or any outward sign of even marginally fond recognition, doesn’t make a single move to open the door like Green Lady probably would. Harley didn’t expect him to. She thinks it’d be awkward if he did.

Instead, it’s quiet as she clambers inside without bothering to hide a wince as the movement jostles her injuries. There’s only silence as they peel smoothly away from the curb, and Harley is grateful for it.

She doesn’t feel whole right now: the acrid taste of Mistah J’s too-salty cum staining her tongue, another man’s stale ejaculate soaking its way through her panties, a million stinging hurts plaguing her overburdened body that feel more like deserved retribution than unwarranted abuse.

Still, she’s alone in an expensive black car with Driver Man—who thus far has notably given absolutely no indication that he desires even the barest degree of companionship from the likes of her. She’s on her way to a pretty, polite lady with green skin and greener eyes and a touch that’s inexplicably gentle on her battered skin despite a hundred reasons it doesn’t have to be.

Things could certainly be worse.

— —

“Miss, may I please have a shower?” is the first thing she says once they’re together. The words she’d practiced repeatedly on the ride over fall from her lips with a practiced (read: feigned) ease that vividly betrays the anxiety roiling in her gut.

Green Lady watches her carefully—likely inspecting the fresh angry reddened marks upon her skin, the haunted look upon her worn-out features, the stiff and uncomfortable way she holds herself in the wake of violent use.

“Of course, darling,” she grants eventually, though she sounds troubled—to say the very least. "You never have to ask.”

“And, um… " Harley trails off, mentally debating whether or not to say— “Will you help me? Miss?”

Green Lady’s florid green eyes narrow, an unreadable expression upon her angular features.

Harley finds herself struggling to hold her gaze.

“Are you certain?”

Harley swallows thickly, then gives a jerky nod. “Y-Yes, Miss. Please.”

Green Lady’s expression immediately softens. “Very well, kitten. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

— —

Green Lady’s grand suite bathroom is much like the rest of the extravagant penthouse—a magnificent blend of wealth-evident minimalism and flourishing greenery.

A sizable bathtub sunken into a rectangular block of gleaming ivory porcelain in one corner; a mega-fancy shower space just beside it composed of polished grey granite and equipped with multiple shiny silver shower heads; lime-green vinery peeking through every mortar-filled crevice. Two his-and-hers sinks are carved into a large rectangular slab of Italian marble, resting atop a substantial growth of snow-white four-petalled blossoms on sturdy wooden boughs. Twin oval-shaped mirrors held in place by a twisting amalgamation of leafy-green vinery just above either sink. Across from the vanity—one of them classy East Asian toilets, all its little buttons labeled with Japanese characters.

“Woah,” Harley mutters her breath, jaw slack and eyes wide with wonder.

Green Lady chuckles from beside her. “You showered here just last night, kitten.”

“I was a little tipsy.”

“Fair enough,” Green Lady concedes. “Now, guide me through what you’d like to do here.”

Harley blinks, more than a little confused by the question. “Hm?”

“I know you requested a shower, but are you feeling up to it? Would you prefer a bath instead?” Green Lady turns an entirely non-judgmental gaze upon her, brow creased, green hands tucked comfortably into the pockets of her grey sweats. “Are you still comfortable with my being here?”

Jesus. Harley fights the inane urge to snicker. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

— —

IVY

Harley returns in a bra-and-thong set of lacey white lingerie that would likely have her drooling on sight under literally any other circumstance. As it is, her ghostly-pale body is covered with dozens of fresh cuts and angry-looking marks: reddened handprints and mottled bruising and a profoundly noticeable stiffness to her posture.

To make matters even more dire, the first thing out of Harley's mouth is a far too politely-worded appeal for a shower. It’s perhaps something Ivy might have considered progress, what with it being the very first time she’d been bold enough to ask for something, were it not for the utterly beaten nature of the young woman’s countenance as she did so. She’d been meek and painfully timid as if dreading a swift repudiation in response. Expecting one, even.

Of course, Ivy cedes her request. What else is there for her to do?

Harley leaves her clear six-inch heels by the foot of the bridge at Ivy’s behest, and Ivy keeps pace with her stride for stride as they near the bathroom. She’s learned rather quickly over the course of their time together that positioning herself at Harley’s unprotected back was a surefire way to render her upset.

Upon arrival, they exchange a pleasantry or two, and Ivy is pleasantly surprised when Harley sees fit to poke a little fun at her, more or less unprompted.

Then Harley is stripping herself quickly, efficiently. All too soon, the cogent revulsion and anger Ivy harbors in spades for anyone and everyone that had ever seen fit to lay a harmful hand upon Harley Quinn comes flooding back to the surface.

Her hands curl into white-knuckled fists in her pockets, her jaw clenches tightly enough to border on painful, and her heartbeat thuds deafeningly in her ears. It’s been a decade (at least) since she’s felt this measure of untapped rage pooling low in her gut; the kind that burns like liquid fire beneath her skin and claws at the tattered edges of her admittedly limited self-restraint, urging her to lash out voraciously at those responsible until there’s nothing (and no one) left for her to punish.

In an effort to regain what precious little remains of her depleted composure, she busies herself with starting up the shower. Not too hot, not too cold… not too high on the water pressure. From the way Harley’s standing, Ivy fears a particularly strong gust of wind could topple her over given the chance.

“Okay, I think this should be good, but feel free to adjust the temperature as you see fit,” Ivy tells her in a flat voice that she can only pray does well enough to hide how unthinkably furious she is on Harley’s behalf. “Just rinse off for as long as you’d like, and I’ll start on preparing your bath. Does that sound okay, little one?”

“You worry too much,” Harley teases again, her voice gravelly with hurt. Still, there’s an unmistakable note of vulnerability in her next words: “That sounds perfect, Miss.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

Focusing on drawing a eucalyptus-spearmint-scented bubble bath turns out to be… challenging. Her hand shakes as she pours the syrupy mint-green solution into steaming-hot water, Harley’s pained whimpers filling the heavy silence.

She thinks she loses track of time then, and maybe pours a little too much bubble bath soap in the water while she’s at it. It seems like only half a second later that a dripping pale hand lands gently upon her shoulder and a hoarse voice tentatively says, “Miss?”

Ivy swallows thickly, setting the bottle aside and rising to her feet. “Your bath is ready.”

“What’s wrong, Miss?”

Ivy’s resolve falters at the doe-eyed curiosity splayed plainly across Harley’s features. “You don’t deserve this brutality, kitten,” she manages eventually, willing herself to keep her gaze fixed upon Harley’s face rather than straying further downwards. “You never have.”

Harley shrugs, the ghost of a self-deprecating grin curving her still-bleeding lips. It’s simultaneously the most beautiful and tragic thing Ivy’s ever seen. “It’s nothing I ain’t used to, Ma’am.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” she retorts, acerbity lacing her embittered tone.

“Hate to break it to ya, Miss, but it ain’t about what’s ‘right,’” Harley counters, somehow managing to sound amused and doleful all at once. “At least, not for me. For me, it’s about surviving, and making sure Eli does, too. That’s all.”

“And what about you? What about what you want?” Ivy questions, knowing she might sound peevish but ultimately uncaring, her sudsy hands clenching themselves into fists at her sides.

Harley gives another noncommittal shrug. “I can’t afford to think about that, Miss.”

“And after?”

She frowns. “After what?”

“After you’re free.”

“‘Free’?” Harley’s bruised lips twitch, taunting something dangerously reminiscent of a smile. They look rather ambrosial right now, even beneath the harsh artificial light overhead—full and pouty, a violent wine-red split marring the lower of the two. “I can’t afford to think about that, either, Miss.”

“Why not?”

“Hope is a dangerous thing,” Harley recites, perfunctory and almost mechanical—like a mantra, a chant, something she’s reiterated to herself a thousand times before.

Ivy feels a crease forming between her brows. “Perhaps… Though I’d like to think it’s worth the trouble anyhow.” She doesn’t add ‘that you’re worth the trouble,’ though she desperately wishes to.

“You know, Miss—there is a such thing as too much trouble,” Harley counters, a knowing (and almost teasing) glint in her eye.

“That’s not for you to decide, though, is it?”

They’ve dropped all pretense now. Ivy can see it in the way Harley’s bloodied lower lip trembles, the mirth that fades all too rapidly from her motley features in favor of a doleful vapidity that cleaves its way straight to Ivy’s very core without a trace of gentility. It seems to gut her from the inside out like a jagged blade.

“I’m nothing but trouble, Miss,” Harley whispers out eventually, glassy gaze lowering from Ivy’s face down to her throat like she’s ashamed. “I don’t know how to make ya get that.”

She’s not sure what possesses her, but she steps forth until their bodies are flush against one another—faces a hair’s breadth apart, Harley’s damp skin steadfastly soaking its way through Ivy's T-shirt and joggers.

It takes everything she has not to growl at the feeling: Harley’s pert pebbled nipples pressed against her, her lithe body racked with shivers, full lips slightly parted, flush and crimson and begging for Ivy’s kiss.

She lifts her hand, grips Harley’s chin—grazes Harley’s swollen lower lip with her thumb, taking care to avoid the bleeding split. “I get it just fine, kitten. Do you?"

Harley’s breath audibly hitches. Her pupils dilate until only the thinnest sliver of green remains, and Ivy knows she has her.

“I do, I… P-Please, Miss.”

“‘Please' what? Use your words.”

“I… "

Ivy smirks. She presses the pad of her thumb a little harder into the mulberry-purple bruising mottling Harley's lower lip and is rewarded a second later when she lets loose a quiet whimper. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I want you, Miss. I know I ain’t supposed to, but I—"

“And why aren’t you 'supposed to,’ angel?”

Harley’s cheeks, already splotched with darling hues of pink, glow a lustrous crimson. Though whether it’s at the term of endearment or the subject matter (or a combination of the two), Ivy doesn’t know. “Mista—Joker says it’s better that I don’t, Miss.”

“And why is that?” Her inflection is cooler this time—barbed with acid. She derives no pleasure in the way it makes Harley’s slender body tremble against her own.

“‘Cause then that really makes me a—" Harley stops herself there with a sharp intake of breath, clearly recalling Ivy’s rather pronounced dislike for self-degradation, “… a you-know-what, Miss.”

She withdraws her thumb from Harley’s glossy lower lip, though keeps her hold on the woman’s bruised chin steady.

Gaze narrowed, she makes sure to look Harley directly in the eye when she says, “Tell me, Harley. If I told you that I want you, that being in your mere presence excites me beyond words can say, that it’s taking everything within me not to pin you against the nearest wall and have my wicked way with you… would you think me depraved? Perverted? Whoreish ?”

Harley’s reactions are like filmic art laid bare—shock, arousal, awe, and (last but not least) righteous consternation. Here one second, and gone the next.

Ivy absorbs them all with rapt diligence, drinks in each and every detail like a woman starved, cataloguing and storing them somewhere far back in her thoughts where no one else will ever reach.

“N-No, Miss, never,” Harley negates hastily, sounding by all accounts rather out of breath.

“Good. Then I expect you’ll hold yourself in the same regard. Is that understood?”

Harley gives a jerky nod, swallowing thickly.

Ivy watches the bob of her bruised throat just over the thick leather of her collar with morbid fascination. It’s inexorably spellbinding—because when it comes to Harley, she’s learned that just about everything is—even as she feels her stomach churn coarsely at the knowledge that she’s the one responsible for the sickening purple tinge to her once-pale skin.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I… I understand, Miss.”

“Good girl,” Ivy praises gently, releasing Harley’s chin and allowing her hand to fall limply at her side. Harley inhales a shuddering breath, and Ivy aches to steal it from her. “Now, hop in the bath before it gets cold. Would you like me to go or stay?”

Harley’s crimson flush deepens. “S-Stay, please… if that’s alright, Ma'am.”

Ivy smiles. “Of course.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

Chapter Text

HARLEY

The bathwater smells incredible—eucalyptus spearmint peppered with hints of Green Lady: fresh berries and pinewood and evergreens in the forest. There’s a good four inches (~10 cm) of foamy bubbles atop the water, frothy white foam colored with the faintest tinge of crocodile green, and Harley… well. Harley is quite positive she's never seen something so magnificent in her entire life.

Slipping into it is like hell—a thousand knives dipped in poison, tearing at every inch of her battered skin, reviving the acrid memory behind every bleeding cut with a startling clarity that slices her right to the bone.

Still, it is something truly heaven-sent all the same.

The water is that perfect temperature between hot and warm (though it favors the former). The bubbles are like fluffy clouds as she cups them in her hands, forms them into sloppy shapes before they pop, blows them off her palms over the lip of the tub only to see them fall short of their intended target (Green Lady, of course) sitting just feet away with an amused expression.

“Enjoying yourself, are we?” she asks, and while the query itself is snide, the delivery is anything but. Her tone is gentle and knowing… safe.

“It’s been a long time since I had a bubble bath, Miss.”

“You can have one every night you’re here, if you’d like.”

Harley feels herself smile. “Just one is more than enough for me, Miss.”

“Well, you’ll have to let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” Harley says with a cheeky grin, like it’s a joke. (It isn’t.)

Green Lady hums pensively. “Where did you grow up, Harley?”

Harley blinks at the abrupt change in topic but takes it in stride. “Gotham born and raised, Miss. I’m boring like that.” The beginnings of a frown curve Green Lady’s lips, and Harley hurries to shift the attention. "Can I ask where you grew up?”

“You never have to ask permission, sweetling,” Green Lady assures her, like the perfect chivalrous gentle-woman she is. (Harley aches to believe her.) “I grew up in Washington state, just outside Seattle.”

“Ooh! The Needle!”

Green Lady chuckles, twinkling green eyes looking down on Harley with a truly intoxicating measure of warmth. “Yes, the Space Needle is easily the most sought-after attraction there.”

“Have you ever been?”

Green Lady nods. “Many times.”

“That’s so cool,” Harley sighs dreamily. “I wish Gotham had somethin’ like that.”

“Well, that’s what planes are for.”

Harley frowns up at her. “Huh?”

“If I’m not mistaken, Seattle is no more than three or four hours from here by plane—the blink of an eye, really, in the grand scheme of things.”

Harley feels her shoulders tense at that, but fights not to let her discomfort show. “I’m not much one for travelin’, Miss.”

“Because of the Joker?” Green Lady asks evenly without missing a beat, a single brow raised.

Harley feels something unpleasant twist in her stomach. “Maybe,” she admits quietly, head bowed, pale cheeks flushed. She doesn’t think she can handle looking Green Lady in the eye right now. “It’s been years since I left Gotham without him."

“Well, I suppose we’ll see if we can’t change that, hm?”

At the note of profound gentleness in her tone, Harley chances a glance upwards.

Green Lady’s jaw is set and her eyes are eerily calm, trained on Harley with a kind of quiet sincerity that cuts straight to her core like a hot blade through melting butter.

There’s a lot she isn’t saying, but it hits Harley like a sack of fucking bricks all the same—the unspoken promise Green Lady’s been repeating like a broken record since the night they met: that she'll go after the Joker, that she’ll fight for Harley’s freedom… that she’ll fight for Harley, period.

This time, Harley’s can’t quite stop herself from believing that it might just be true.

— —

Harley tucks her feet beneath her legs, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “So, you wanna poison him."

Green Lady’s lips quirk upward at her lackluster tone. “Yes.”

“And you wanna do it personally.”

“Yes.”

“By yourself.”

“Mm.”

“To his face.”

“That’s correct.”

Harley squints over at her. “Please tell me this is your own shitty way of tryin' to make a joke.”

Green Lady’s rebuttal is swift, curt. “Watch your tongue, kitten.” Her measured tone is a warning all its own, and Harley feels herself shudder in place where she sits cross-legged atop the couch cushions. “I’ve been remarkably lenient up until now, but even the patience of a saint can run dry.”

Harley tilts her head slightly, watching Green Lady with renewed interest even as she feels a powerful blush warm her cheeks. “Are you the saint in this scenario, Ma’am?”

Green Lady’s lips curve into a smirk, and she leans back in her seat (a plush green armchair sitting just opposite the sofa) as if mollified. (Harley would be a fool to take it at face value.) “In only the loosest sense, darling girl.”

“So ya ain’t religious or anything?” Green Lady cocks a single brow, bemused and warning all in one, and Harley hastens to tack on a “Ma’am” to the tail end of her query.

“My parents certainly liked to fancy themselves Christians,” she muses dryly, the corner of her lip twitching to form a bitter smile.

Harley doesn’t return it, just sits quietly in wait.

“Though it’s quite incredible how promptly the good grace of a God-fearing Christian expires when their only daughter returns home a freak of nature.” Distance settles in her gaze, and every word is detached; tragically devoid of feeling. “‘God has forsaken you,’ my mother said. She was crying. And my father… well, the way he’d tell it, God had forsaken me long before I stumbled my way into Woodrue’s septic orbit… Probably right around the time I first came out to them at the tender age of 12.”

“That’s early, Miss,” Harley comments weakly, unsure of what else to say.

She’s familiar with tragedy, of course; to some extent, she’ll admit there’s grown some level of comfort to be found in it as the years pass and Eli gets older and nothing ever seems to change for the better. It’s a cold comfort, admittedly, but it’s a comfort nonetheless, and Harley will take them where she can.

Still, it’s vastly different when the tragedy is not her own. It’s different when she’s not the one ripping herself open and tearing her own guts out for a world that never gave a fuck about her to begin with. It’s troublesome to be the one bearing witness rather than the train wreck everyone's gawking at.

It’s both familiar to her and not, and she isn’t quite sure what to do in the wake of that realization. Sure, it makes her a little better equipped than most, as she knows enough to avoid offering up pretty-faced platitudes and hollow words of comfort as if they’ll fix the sordid brokenness that cleaves the both of them at their very cores. (They won’t.) But regardless, she’s unprepared.

Green Lady’s face is stony, her eyes awash in bitter melancholy, and the weight of what she’s said hangs heavy between them like rainclouds.

Bracing all the while for a retaliatory blow, Harley slips off the edge of the sofa, crosses the short distance between them, and climbs into Green Lady’s lap.

Green Lady’s body is rigid beneath her own as Harley wordlessly straddles her hips, looping both arms loosely around her neck.

“Harley,” Green Lady utters, a question clear in her measured tone.

Harley leans in until Green Lady's forehead rests against her own, squirming for a moment or two to get comfortable. She makes damn sure to hold her unreadable gaze (even if it makes her a little cross-eyed in the process) when she whispers, “Your parents sound like mega assholes.”

She looks taken aback for a moment before a small (but genuine) smile curves her dark green lips and she’s huffing out a breathless chuckle. “They were.” Her hands come up to rest gently on Harley’s hips.

“Do ya miss them?”

Green Lady pauses, hesitating for the briefest of moments. “Sometimes."

“It ain’t a bad thing, Ma’am—missin’ them,” Harley assures her gently, though she didn’t ask.

“Perhaps someday I’ll believe that, sweet girl.”

“Don’t worry,” Harley chirps, leaning a little further in to nuzzle Green Lady’s nose playfully with her own. “I’ll keep remindin’ ya."

Green Lady chuckles roughly at that, her thumbs tracing circles into Harley’s hips through the thin fabric of her tee. “I would love nothing more.”

— —

Harley shyly asks if she can borrow a phone, and Green Lady acquiesces without hesitance. She takes out her personal phone—a sleek, black device with a spotless touch screen—and thumbs the home button to unlock it, then hands it over. And, after gently informing Harley that the passcode is ‘1128,' she even gets up and leaves the room to give her privacy despite Harley’s weak insistence that she really doesn’t have to.

Her background is a gorgeous photo of the cherry blossom tree on the rooftop at sunrise (or sunset—it’s not like Harley can tell the difference). It’s a little pinker than the breaking dawn they witnessed together on that very first night, the orange-ish hues a little more vibrant. But beautiful. Still beautiful.

Harley keys in a number she knows by heart, tucks her knees up to her chest while she listens to the dial tone with bated breath.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she murmurs quietly, anxiety curling in her chest. “C'mon, pick up, please—”

“Whoever this is, you’ve got exactly 10 seconds to give me one good reason to stay on the line or I’m hanging up the phone.”

Harley feels herself huff out a breathless laugh despite herself. It strains her bruised throat like a bitch. “Damn, Kitty. Claws away, alright? It’s just me.”

“Harley?”

“What, is there some other broad I don’t know about callin’ ya ‘Kitty’ when I ain’t around?”

She can practically hear Selina rolling her eyes over the phone. “You know I hate that nickname.”

“But you love me,” Harley counters jokingly (though it comes out sounding far more uncertain than she’d like).

Selina—bless her—seems to sense this. “That I do, Harls,” she reassures her in an uncharacteristic show of mildness. Harley feels the fist of anxiety in her chest unfurl, warmth seeping into her lungs. God, how she's missed this. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

— —

IVY

She leaves Harley in the living room and retreats off toward the kitchen, a small list of self-assigned chores already forming in her restless mind.

First, delegating a good 40% of her active concentration over toward the small Cicuta perennial blossoming in a brick-red planter pot on the rooftop. It’s become more subconscious than anything else—growing the leaves and shoots and vines that oftentimes feel more a part of her than her own flesh and blood, even from afar. Still, this one is particularly important (even if Ivy would argue they all are).

This plant will bring about the Joker’s demise—a swift and painful one at that, provided all goes according to plan.

Second—research. Her laptop sits atop the counter, and she pries it open with careful hands. Meanwhile, a vine snakes down from the ceiling, cheap burner phone in tow. It presses the compact device gently into her awaiting palm, and Pam very nearly finds herself murmuring out a “Thank you” before she remembers that the vines are merely extensions of herself—inanimate, non-sentient extensions of herself, at that.

She types ‘gotham the joker club owner’ into the Google search bar with one hand while the other flips open the phone. She taps the ‘Enter’ key and watches a wealth of less-than-savory search results in underlined blue font load onto a new page (1 of 33, she finds after a quick scroll to the very bottom). Her thoughts race as she scans each one, tabbing open those that look the most important (read: alarming).

Her thumb taps anxiously at the burner phone’s keypad as her mind works, mentally arranging the numerous calls she’ll need to be making over the next hour in order of most to least important.

A stifled giggle carrying over from the next room briefly draws her attention—a sound of pure unadulterated joy from an individual with every reason in the world to be anything but joyful. It warms Ivy from the inside out.

She could get used to this.

🜃 🜃 🜃

It gets late all too quickly, and before Ivy knows it, it’s half past midnight.

She’s accustomed to getting little sleep herself, often turning in around 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning and waking promptly at 6:30 like clockwork… but she knows that it’s the farthest thing from healthy. Not to mention—her capacity for minimal amounts of rest is something inhuman, a behavioral pattern she observed only after Woodrue’s cursed experiments.

The hand-crafted serum Ivy injected her with aside, Harley is still very much human. Perhaps slightly less so than before (something she presumes they’ll be needing to have a conversation about sometime in the near future); and yet, the fact remains that Harley requires a great deal more everyday maintenance than Ivy herself. Food, rest, etc.

Not to mention, she’s injured. That makes each and every one of those amenities doubly important, at least.

And besides… Busying herself with taking care of Harley distracts (at least somewhat) from the crushing guilt that weighs heavily upon her shoulders, knowing she’s one of the sole causes for Harley’s battered state.

It’s not much, but it’s something, and at this point, Ivy will take what she can get… even if every shift and pained whimper Harley inadvertently lets out while she sleeps is more than enough to have Ivy’s gut boiling over with a murderous rage that threatens to consume her, body and soul.

She wonders if she would mind, at this point, letting the white-hot fury she feels swallow her whole.

It’d certainly hurt a hell of a lot less than this.

🜃 🜃 🜃

Chapter Text

HARLEY

“So you’re still with Pamela Isley, then?”

Harley curls her feet up under her, nodding before she remembers that Selina can’t see her. “Yea. Her place is… crazy nice.”

“I’d imagine it is,” Selina agrees, sounding bored. “Her net worth is somewhere in the hundred millions.”

“Oh. Ya know her or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Selina hedges neatly.

“Kitty,” Harley admonishes. “Tell me ya didn’t spy on her.”

“I vet all your ‘clients,’” Selina says dismissively with a disdainful emphasis on the word ‘clients.’ “I know your Puddin’ certainly wouldn’t bother doing it himself.”

Harley ducks her head bashfully at the jab even as warmth blooms in her chest. “I appreciate that, ‘Lina.”

“You’d better, ‘cause I’m pretty awesome.” Harley rolls her eyes affectionately. She can practically see the haughty smirk Selina’s wearing right about now. “So, what’s she like?”

“She’s… nice. I’m—”

“She’d better be,” Selina mutters, a clear warning in her tone. “Or I’ll make her disappear."

“Ya gotta stop threatenin’ Mistah J’s clients, Kitty.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Yeah… ” Harley sighs. “Anyways, she’s kinda every guy and gal’s wet dream—all elegant and poised; ya know the type. Super into trees and plants and stuff like that.”

“You can say that again. She donates tens of thousands of dollars to various die-hard environmentalist groups all throughout the States on a monthly basis.”

“Selina,” Harley admonishes again, using her full name this time to let her know she means business. (Not that Selina ever listens either way.) “Ya hacked her finances, too?”

“Obviously,” Selina states. “That’s where a good 70% of shady shit goes down.”

“I think she’s a good person, ‘Lina.”

“Well, I know that now.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Harley snorts, but leaves it alone. After a beat or two of quiet, she does a quick sweep of her surroundings to ensure Green Lady isn’t around to hear her say, “Are you alone right now?”

“Yeah.” There’s a hint of suspicion in her lowered tone. “Why?”

Harley lets out a slow breath, deciding to just bite the proverbial bullet. “Green L—Pamela wants to kill Mistah J. Like, actually kill him.”

Silence on the other end (though it only lasts a solid half of a second) before, “Well, it’s about time. Would she like an accomplice?”

“Kittyyyy,” Harley whines. “I’m being serious.”

“I am, too.”

“What if he kills her?”

“The way things have been going, it’s a miracle he hasn’t killed you.”

“What about Eli?”

“We get him out,” Selina says simply. She makes it sound so easy.

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“It’s probably better that I don’t tell you,” Selina replies blandly. Wonderful—cryptic as ever.

“Pam offered to help with that, too. Eli, I mean. Evidently she’s got a plan.”

“Well, why didn’t you lead with that? We can pool our efforts.”

“Selina.”

“You know what, you’re right. Isley’s still an unknown variable,” Selina muses pensively. "I’ll fly solo on this one. We both know I work better alone, anyways.”

“That sounds dangerous.” Before Selina can object, she adds, “For Eli.”

“It’s dangerous how he’s living now.”

Harley bites her lip. She can’t argue that.

“When’s she going through with the hit?”

Harley shrugs, an anxious feeling curling in her chest. “Less than a week from now, I think.”

“Damn. You can’t be any more specific than that?”

“Not yet.”

“Pity,” Selina laments, though she doesn’t truly sound all that vexed. “No matter. I’ll figure something out.”

Harley sighs. “I can’t talk ya outta this, can I?”

“Nope.”

Harley nods, pinching the bridge of her nose. She’d expected as much. “Just… be careful, 'kay?”

“Always. You too, babygirl."

— —

SELINA

She doesn’t comment on it, but Harley’s voice sounds significantly perkier over the phone than Selina is used to.

It’s wonderful to hear, of course, but almost cautionary, too.

She’s spent… what, three days with this Dr. Pamela Isley? Less?

Selina loves Harley to death, but her obsessive personality has a nasty habit of getting her into serious trouble. Case in point: the Joker.

Selina remembers the first couple years of their relationship, the beginning of her pregnancy with Eli. She endured a litany of less-than-reassuring reassurances from a manically happy Harley every time she tried to broach the subject of her beloved Puddin’, and learned quite early on that Harley (for all her schooling and wits) had the tendency to be unapologetically blind (and deaf, apparently) when it came to the Joker.

It wasn’t until the third year, wherein which Eli turned two, that things fell apart. Harley spent the night passed out on Selina’s front stoop (though she didn’t know it at the time) with two broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a shivering Eli sleeping fitfully in her arms. Selina didn’t find her ’til the morning, and the sight she stumbled upon around 10:00am is one she doubts she’ll be forgetting so long as she lives.

Harley was passed out, even paler than usual (which was certainly saying something)—almost corpse-like, really. She laid facing Selina, her body curved strategically so as to nest Eli neatly in between the door and her sprawled limbs—no chance of the little one wandering off, that way. (At least, not without rousing her.)

Her ratty grey T-shirt was soaked through with blood, and there was a metal straw protruding from her chest just above the neckline. (Selina would later discover she’d stabbed it into her chest by herself in order to relieve excess air from her chest cavity, which helped with her collapsed lung… somehow. Whatever. Selina didn’t go to med school, alright?)

Eli was bundled up in his favorite blanket—a yellow one with little cartoonish ducks on it. It was stained in a few places with blood (Harley’s), but otherwise, it looked to be in pretty decent shape.

Selina cancelled all her plans for that day in a heartbeat, texted for Bruce to swing by, and had him whisk them to the nearest hospital.

And so it continued—month after month, year after year.

By the time Eli turned four, even a love-blind Harley couldn’t maintain her deluded state of mind any longer.

Selina’s just glad she saw sense before the Joker could (to her knowledge) ever hurt Eli—well, beyond the neglectful tendencies and blatant lack of accountability, that is.

Point being: Harley doesn’t need another heartbreak, especially not right now.

She’ll have to keep an eye on Pamela Isley from here on out. Anyone who plots to kill a man of the Joker’s caliber is either dangerous or insane, and Selina has no love for either.

Her timing is fortuitous, however… provided she does truly intend to follow through with her audacious plan to kill the Joker.

It’s the perfect disturbance—whether it proves successful or not—that would allow for Selina to locate and secure Eli without sparking a major conflict in the Gotham underground. (Or getting herself killed, though she tries not to think about that too much.)

Selina sighs and sets her wine glass aside, thoughts racing. A quick glance at the stovetop tells her it’s 11:51—almost midnight.

Late, though she doesn’t plan on sleeping.

She has some calls to make, a kid to find, and a certain knife-hurling villain's late-night fight club to attend.

/// /// ///

HARLEY

Harley awakens slowly, star-fished face-down on a surface that feels more cloud than mattress, the scent of buttermilk tickling her nostrils. She lets out a quiet groan into the bedsheets, every muscle in her body stiff and hurting.

Her bones weigh heavy like lead, there’s a pounding in her skull that might just border on ‘concussion’ territory, and that sensitive place between her thighs stings like an open wound.

It’s the morning after the storm, and Harley knows that this is just about the worst it’ll get—pain-wise. It’s always the morning after that hurts the worst, bleeds into the day, and finally dulls to a lesser (but still very much painful) throb at night. The next day will be better; the day after that, even better. Harley’s been through it enough times to know that this isn’t even a fraction of as bad as it can get.

Still, it hits her like a fucking freight train all the same.

Maybe it’s the stark contrast of the literal cloud she spent all night sleeping on, or the scent wafting all around that smells suspiciously like pancakes (her favorite ), or the way it seems like Green Lady’s been spoiling her for absolutely no good reason ever since the very first night they met.

Either way, it’s hitting her in tidal waves of agonizing sensation that make her body go rigid beneath its torturous onslaught.

Green Lady let her shower last night—even drew her a bath with a whole bunch of bubbles.

And yet, Harley feels dirty. Used.

The sheets are laden with Green Lady’s forest-y scent. Harley burrows her face in them and inhales generously in a last-ditch effort to blur the edges of her anguish.

It takes the edge off (a bit), but there’s that all-too-familiar soreness between her legs and the phantom sensation of warm fluids leaking from her sex—a sickening combination of blood, semen, and the small amount of natural lubricant her body managed to provide in an effort to minimize lasting damage. It’s not there anymore, of course, long since washed down the gleaming silver drain of Green Lady’s fancy-ass shower… and yet, the phantom awareness of it remains.

Moving to push herself up from bed seems to strain every muscle to the point of breaking and tearing it anew. It sends shocks of dizzying pain coursing throughout her body, but with each jolt comes a hint of relief on its heels… the kind that comes from stretching sore muscles after hours of inactivity.

It almost makes her nostalgic for her collegiate gymnast days—the sharp pain of overuse, the pleasant burn of a good stretch… miscellaneous aches and pains thrumming throughout her body at any given moment like they belong there. (After a while, it kind of started to feel like they did.)

It’s almost funny, that that hasn’t changed. It’s been years since she hit the floor, did a choreographed honest-to-God routine in front of flashing lights and solemn-faced judges and hordes of hushed spectators—and yet, her bones still ache with the weight of something far beyond her years.

She supposes it’s comforting, albeit in a morbid sort of way.

Slipping off the bed and onto her feet is a challenge. She’s quick on her feet, sure, but she’s still dinged up pretty good, and that makes the whole thing a hell of a lot more difficult. The flats of her feet against the lacquered hardwood feel hundreds of miles away as she sways, blackness clouding her vision.

She thrusts out her arms, windmills them around a little bit—manages a tired (but ultimately proud) grin when she finally stills herself in place.

Next, she takes stock of her clothes situation.

Simple black lace panties and an oversized V-neck tee made of super soft cotton that feels like heaven against her bruised skin. Both Green Lady’s, both super mega comfy. The same thing she was wearing when she fell asleep last night.

Still, she knows that that doesn’t mean much. There’s no real way for her to check if Green Lady got handsy with her while she was knocked out (which is really what the whole 'taking stock’ thing is for in the first place); and yet, she’s conflicted to note that it doesn’t much bother her either way.

Not because she thinks that something happened—but rather, because she’s almost certain nothing did.

She makes a mental note to start being more skeptical when it comes to Green Lady.

— —

IVY

Ivy will admit that the fragrant smell of buttermilk pancakes sizzling on the griddle isn’t entirely unpleasant. She has no intention of eating them, of course, but it’s a somewhat intriguing revelation to have all the same.

She'd ordered a bottle of Maple syrup, as well—some big-name company from the state of Vermont claiming to be the most popular brand for over ten years running, or… something to that effect.

Ivy couldn’t care less, really; she just hopes Harley finds it suitable.

It’s something like half past 10:00 by the time a yawning Harley pads her way into the kitchen—late, but not unexpected in any sense.

What she hadn’t expected, however, is the utterly precious sight she makes (bruised and battered as she may be)—bleary-eyed and bare-faced; wearing only a thin T-shirt of Ivy’s, a skimpy pair of black lace panties, and nothing else.

A pair of pert, pebbled nipples poke through the sheer grey fabric; the low V-cut of the tee is damn near falling off one shoulder, baring the hollow of her left collarbone. Ivy can just make out the words ‘Daddy's lil Monster’ tattooed in looping cursive ink above the drooping neckline.

Ivy imagines the body art is likely an accolade to her beloved Joker, which makes a torrid spark of acidic jealousy flare in her gut. It shouldn’t be there, she knows. She shouldn’t be jealous. She has no right to be, because Harley is not hers to claim—not anyone’s to claim. But it’s there just the same, bitter and hot, refusing to be ignored.

“Um… Miss?” Harley’s uncertain voice yanks her back to the present.

She’s standing there, one hip braced against the granite countertop, an adorable expression of confusion on her pretty features.

“Did I do somethin’ wrong?” she questions hesitantly.

That jolts Ivy into a response. “No, kitten, of course not,” she assures her, doing her very best to inject some modicum of authority into her tone. She’s rewarded by the beginnings of a pinkish blush dusting Harley’s bleach-white cheeks, a slight widening of those pretty blue eyes as they take her in. “You just… You look rather lovely, is all.”

Harley blinks owlishly, cheeks reddening. “Uh….” She bashfully ducks her head, begins shifting from foot to foot in place—all the while dutifully avoiding eye contact. “That’s, um… T-Thanks, Miss, that—that’s real nice of you to say.”

“I mean it.”

Harley visibly tenses at that. “O-Okay."

Ivy frowns. “Look at me, Harley.”

Her cheeks are visibly aflame, her heated blush reaching the tip of either ear—but, she obeys. Lifts her chin meekly to look up at Ivy with big, uncertain doe eyes; something so unfathomably raw and vulnerable laid bare for Ivy (and Ivy alone) to witness on her face.

Ivy feels a spark of unmistakable arousal zip down her spine at the sight of it. “You are an incredibly beautiful woman,” she says slowly, not in at all shying away from the measure of sincerity apparent in every word. “You know that, don’t you?"

Harley gapes back at her like a deer in the headlights. “I-If you say so, Miss. I—Thank you.”

“You don’t have to believe me right now, sweetling. I just hope that some day you might."

Harley visibly blanches, clearly at a loss, but eventually manages a shallow nod.

Ivy jerks her head over toward the stove, where puddles of pancake batter sizzle atop the griddle. “Do pancakes sound alright for breakfast?”

Harley’s lips pull upwards into a small, bashful grin. “Definitely, Miss,” she acquiesces, and Ivy can tell she means it.

“Good. Have a seat, kitten. They’ll be ready in 10.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

“So, I’ve been in touch with some associates… They’re currently working to locate your son and any others the Joker may be detaining. I’ve offered them a hefty sum of money for the information, so I presume I’ll be hearing from them sometime soon.” Ivy informs Harley calmly.

Harley nods eagerly—though, from the way she’s voraciously working her way through the stack of pancakes Ivy plated for her is any indication, she’s not really listening.

Ivy takes a sip from her green smoothie, giving a nod to Harley’s half-eaten plate. “How are they? Not too bland, I hope?”

Harley takes a moment to swallow her food before responding. (Thankfully.) “‘Bland’?!” she repeats, visibly blanching. “These are fuckin’ amazing, Miss. And—with the syrup plus the homemade butter?” Harley devours another bite and lets out a muffled groan, pale eyelids fluttering shut. “I think I just came.”

Ivy raises a single brow, schooling her features into one of amused indifference even as a familiar jolt between her thighs has her resisting the urge to squirm.

Harley flushes bright red and clamps her free hand over her mouth, apparently having only just realized what she said.

The room is quiet as Harley chews and gulps down her pancakes with haste.

“I, um—" Harley clears her throat awkwardly, cheeks aglow. “I just meant… They’re, um… They're really good, Ma'am.”

“Are you sure?” Ivy questions, a teasing smirk curving her lips. “I can provide you another pair of underwear if necessary.”

Harley mock-glares, swollen pink lips pushed out to form an adorable pout. “You’re evil.”

“Oh, angel, you have no idea."

Harley bites her lower lip, a strangled sound dying in her throat.

Ivy indulges in another sip of her smoothie.

“You’re doing that on purpose, Miss,” Harley manages eventually, trying and failing to sound sufficiently reproachful.

“Guilty as charged—though in my defense, you’re far too precious not to tease.” Another sip of her smoothie. “How was your phone call?”

Harley’s eyes widen. “G-Good,” she squeaks out before shoveling another forkful of pancakes into her mouth and promptly falling silent.

“I’m glad.” Ivy nods, sipping noncommittally at her smoothie. Meanwhile, her mind wanders to the short list of things she’s yet to do for the day—extract toxins from the Cicuta, contact Tatsu Yamashiro (former head of the Yakuza criminal syndicate in Gotham and a long-time business associate of Ivy's) concerning a Joker-related matter…

“You’re not gonna ask me who it was?” Harley's question comes seemingly out of the blue, a decidedly suspicious expression on her pretty features.

Ivy shrugs. “It’s none of my business. You deleted the record from my list of recent calls, yes?”

Harley ducks her head, clearly abashed. “Y-Yes, Miss.”

“Smart.” Ivy strokes a finger idly along the side of the half-full glass in her hand, gathering the condensation on her fingertip. “That’s what I’d do.”

“You can trust them,” Harley promises, eyes wide. “The person I was talking to—you can trust them. I promise.”

Ivy narrows her gaze. “What did I say, Harley? About the call?”

Harley crosses her ankles beneath the table, swinging them back and forth underneath her chair. “That it’s none’a your business, Miss.”

“Precisely. I’m not overly fond of repeating myself, kitten.”

Harley’s shoulders hunch. “Sorry, Miss.”

“It’s quite alright,” Ivy assures her with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now, finish your food. We have much to do today.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

Chapter Text

SELINA

“Selina Kyle,” Veronica Sinclair (better known to the majority of Gotham’s underground simply as ‘Roulette’) purrs. She’s nothing short of a vision standing there at the end of the catwalk in a red evening gown and shiny black Louboutins, flashing that red-lipped smirk her way and winking like she knows something the rest of them don't. It grates on Selina in ways she can’t explain. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Veronica Sinclair,” Selina greets in kind, resolutely willing herself not to falter beneath the weight of Veronica's lecherous scrutiny. “Can we talk in private?” She shifts her gaze pointedly over to the two broad-shouldered men in suits flanking her on either side.

Veronica shrugs, making a dismissive gesture with her hands.

The two men share a brief look with one another behind Veronica’s back, then promptly retreat into the shadows.

“So? You’ve finally got me all alone. Tell me—what’s on your mind?” Veronica advances on her like prey, hips swaying sensuously from side to side. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a proper chat.”

“Well, I try my best to keep my hands relatively clean when it comes to the Joker and his… affiliates."

Veronica chuckles at that, like Selina’s just said something particularly funny. “You say that, and yet your girl Harley’s more tangled up with the likes of him than anyone.”

Selina smirks, as if she’s entertained. (She isn’t.) “That’s different, and we both know it."

“Perhaps,” Veronica deflects arbitrarily. “Though I don’t quite see why it matters. Beating a dead horse and all that, as it were.”

“Maybe not quite so dead.”

“Oh?” Veronica raises a single brow, intrigued. “Do tell.”

Selina shakes her head. “Not here.” Lets her gaze dart pointedly down to a drunken couple stumbling toward the fight on the floor below. “It isn’t safe.”

Veronica regards her silently for a long moment. “Paranoid.”

“I prefer ‘cautious.’”

Veronica’s pouty red-lipped smirk flattens into a thin line, and something like genuine annoyance flares in her gaze. Interesting. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

/// /// ///

HARLEY

Green Lady easily waves off Harley’s tentative (but earnest) offer to bus and wash her own dishes after breakfast. A tangle of vines slithers down from the ceiling a half-second later to cart the empty dish ware out of the way, and Harley figures by that point, it’s rather pointless to argue.

“So, uh… “ She reflexively pulls her bruised knees up to her chest, arms around her shins—then, at Green Lady’s pointed look, promptly corrects herself: legs beneath the table, bare feet flat on the floor. "What exactly do we gotta do today, Miss?”

“Well, first, I’ve arranged for an… associate of Penguin’s to come by… ”

At the perfunctory mention of Oswald, Harley feels herself tense. She bites down hard on her tongue in an effort to stifle the pained whimper that works its way up her throat.

“... and then, I’ve also—” Green Lady stops herself. “Kitten?” she questions, her voice taking on that gentle tone she only ever seems to use when she’s worried about something. (More specifically, about Harley.)

Coppery blood explodes across her tongue. The familiar taste is a grounding balm on her frayed nerves. “Yes, Miss?”

“Was it something I said?”

Harley forces a noncommittal shrug. “No, Miss.” At Green Lady’s dubious look, she adds, “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Was it my mention of Penguin?” Green Lady presses, brows stitched together with concern.

Harley’s skin prickles with frustration—the kind she’d never dare to voice aloud in front of… well, anyone, really. “It’s fine, Miss.”

“Harley, if you’re at all uncomfortable, I’d much prefer it if you—”

“I said, it’s fuckin’ fine,” Harley blurts out finally, feeling something snap in her chest. “Alright?!”

Silence.

Oh, fuck. Harley’s eyes widen, her body freezing where she sits. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Green Lady doesn’t look mad, but Harley knows better than to think that means she isn’t.

After a silence that feels like hours to Harley but is probably only seconds, Green Lady chuckles. She chuckles, low and genuine, unpainted green lips curled into the beginnings of a smile.

“Unexpected,” she remarks, her silken tone wrought with mirth. Harley feels her cheeks flare with warmth. “Are you quite finished?”

— —

IVY

It’s a surprise, to be sure, when Harley finally snaps and talks back for the very first time.

Judging by the wide-eyed and utterly flabbergasted expression on Harley’s face, she feels the same.

Inevitably, Ivy’s initial response is of two minds. On the one hand, she can’t help the stab of righteous indignation she feels at Harley’s impudence—no matter how justified.

On the other, there’s a measure of pride that blooms unbidden in her chest at the knowledge that Harley dared to loosen her tongue in Ivy’s presence, even if only for a second.

Still, the fact remains that this is a pivotal moment. Harley has spoken out of turn for the very first time, and from the absolute terror splayed across her features, she’s expecting swift (and brutal) retribution for it.

Thus, Ivy’s response to this is crucial. It’ll set the tone for the progression of their dynamic moving forward, and she knows far better than to take that lightly.

The situation is a delicate one (understatement), and although her heart is in the right place, she’s never been particularly known for her level-headedness in the heat of conflict.

That in mind, she chooses her next words carefully. “Kitten, I want you to go up to my bedroom.” At the mere mention of a bedroom, all the blood seems to drain from Harley’s ghastly-pale face. Ivy internally curses herself for being so tactless with her words.

“Nothing will happen. I will not force myself on you as some twisted form of ‘punishment,’” she explains as patiently as she’s able, feeling her temples throb with the telltale beginnings of a headache. “I simply would like you to wait for me there. When I’m finished, I’ll come up and we’ll talk about this. Does that sound okay?”

Harley immediately nods, pigtails bouncing. She looks absolutely terrified. “Y-Yes, Miss.”

Ivy resists the urge to heave a sigh. “Thank you. You may go on up now.”

“Okay,” Harley stands from her seat, head bowed in shame. But instead of turning to leave, she lingers, shifting from foot to foot like a scolded child. “‘M real sorry, Miss.”

A tiny smile tugs at Ivy’s lips. “Go on, kitten. We’ll talk in a bit.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

HARLEY

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she chides herself relentlessly as she trudges up the spiral staircase. Her feet feel like they’re encased in cinder blocks, but she’s careful not to drag them. How could you be so fuckin’ stupid?

The staircase leads directly out into the master suite, and Harley has to resist the urge to flop herself face-down onto the duvet.

She doesn’t deserve a bed right now. Joker would argue that she doesn’t deserve a bed, period, (and Harley would probably be inclined to agree), but that’s neither here nor there.

No, she’s got other things to worry about as she sinks to her knees at the foot of the master bed, hands tucked neatly in her lap, head bowed—the very picture of quiet-mannered subservience.

Namely: What in the fuckin’ world possessed her to back-talk Green Lady like that.

On the one hand, the shit that went down with Penguin was… nightmarish. Cold, ruthless, utterly singular in nature. She’d known Oswald was disordered, but unhinged enough to turn down three days of abusing her body without reservation or consequence? That was unprecedented, even for him.

Sure, he had that thing with Nygma, but the two of them had always been on-and-off at best. Furthermore, he’d never been shy about his preferences when it came to the bedroom. Male, female, anywhere in between… It didn’t matter. As long as they were alive and kicking and mostly human, they were fair game.

And, yea, it wasn’t like he got absolutely nothing out of keeping Harley frozen in a block of ice (courtesy of Victor Fries, that delusional love-sick moron). It wasn’t like Harley didn’t know that serving as the alluring centerpiece for his precious Ice Lounge—literally frozen in place day after day—provided Penguin with an ego boost beyond measure.

At the end of it, that’s all it was, right? A glorified power trip. He didn’t care about the nerve damage or the long-term side effects or the absolute hell it wreaked on Harley’s already severely compromised mental state.

Harley likes to think she’s gotten pretty damn good at reading people, and doing it well. After all, you gotta be to get both an MD and a PhD in psychiatry and psychology, respectively. But, that? That was a radical deviation from his behavioral predilections, even for one as ostensibly nihilistic as Oswald.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t blame herself.

In fact, she absolutely does. She’s stupid, stupid, stupid; she always has been. Impulsive, weak, incorrigibly naive.

Even now, after everything, she’s still here doing the same old thing, dancing to the same worn-out beat… Making the same mistakes.

She supposes she couldn’t have expected any better, but it stings just the same.

She can only pray that Green Lady won’t punish her too harshly for it.

— —

IVY

Ivy takes her time clearing the table. Cleans, rinses, dries the dishes. By the time she gets to wiping down the table, a plan of action is forming in her mind.

It’s almost a surprise that Frank—an oversized Venus flytrap with red stems, a big attitude, and an even bigger mouth—chooses that exact moment to get carted in. (Then again, he always did have a penchant for drama.) The person doing the carting in question? Some poor sucker in a tattered suit with glazed-over eyes and drool dribbling down his chin—probably hit with a little too heavy a dose of Ivy’s natural philotoxins.

“Ivy-licious!” he bellows in lieu of greeting. The poor man holding him doesn’t so much as flinch at the sheer volume of his booming voice, nor does he so much as stumble on his way in. Impressive, especially considering Frank boasts about 6’8” (~2 meters), roots and all, and the large clay pot in which he’s planted is the farthest thing from light. “Have I got some good-ass news for you!”

“Frank,” Ivy groans, pinching the bridge of her nose, “now is really not the time—”

“So you don’t wanna hear about where Joker’s got the little rugrat posted up?”

Ivy’s head whips around at a speed that might’ve been comical were it not for the urgency of the situation at hand. “What?”

“You heard me!” Frank retorts, and Ivy has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she watches as the zombie of a man places Frank atop the counter, then bows his head respectfully and makes to leave. Ivy doesn’t stop him. “So, get this—I was thinkin’: Where you gonna hide a snot-nosed little brat with an endless capacity for screaming and pooping? And then, I was like—”

“Hold on.” Ivy raises a finger, eyeing Frank carefully. His beady, red, flowered pupils eye her intently in return. “Is he safe?”

“If that’s your way of asking whether I ate him—”

“Is. He. Safe?” Ivy growls, glaring him down.

“Yeah, yeah. Jesus. The slimy little troll is just fine, holed up in some shithole on the outskirts of Old Gotham,” Frank informs her, sounding by all accounts rather put out. “But I’d suggest not going in guns blazing until later tonight at the earliest.”

Ivy narrows her gaze. “Why’s that?”

“Little rendezvous happening two streets over—Zsasz, Crane, Fries. Sionis, too.”

“Fuck,” Ivy curses. “What the hell are those low-lifes doing in Old Gotham?”

“Do I look like their fuckin’ mother? I don’t know! And either way, I am not making another trip over there.”

Ivy arches a brow. “No?”

“Plant-killer everywhere.” Now, that gives Ivy pause. “Vinegar, salt, herbicide up the wazoo. In other words, someone did their fuckin’ homework!”

“But, how… Fuck ! How do they know ?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Frank asserts. “But I ain’t going.”

“No one asked you to.” Ivy huffs out a sigh, her skin crawling with tension. “This changes things,” she murmurs, beginning to pace back and forth. “I need to rethink everything.”

“You ask me, this kid’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask,” Ivy snaps, already turning to exit the kitchen. She and Harley need to talk about this, at length. “I’ll be right back, Frank. Don’t go anywhere!”

“Oh, fuck you, woman! You know damn well I can’t move on my own!”

🜃 🜃 🜃

SELINA

Selina swings her legs over the edge of the bed, peeling away the dampened sheet from her sweat-slick thigh with a wince. Her abdominal muscles scream in protest as she forces herself to sit upright, but she dutifully ignores it.

After all, she’s nothing if not adaptable.

The well-conditioned air is chilly against her bare skin as she rises to her feet.

“Leaving so soon?” comes a velvety-smooth voice from the bed. It makes the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.

Resisting the urge to heave a sigh, Selina turns on her heel to face Veronica head-on.

There she lies, sensual as ever, the corner of one bed sheet draped across her tawny hips and a shit-eating grin curving kiss-swollen lips. All in all, she looks positively debauched—bedraggled hair, angry red bite marks littered all up and down her throat, blood-red lipstick smeared every which way around her mouth. And yet somehow, in spite of it all, she still manages to look like the cat that caught the freaking canary.

Which is irritating, to say the least.

“What, you getting attached to me already?” Selina quips back insouciantly, plucking her catsuit up from where it sits in a wrinkled pile on the floor. “Where’s my thong?”

“Which one?” Veronica inquires, her satiny tone ripe with poorly-feigned innocence.

Selina turns to fix her with a hard glare. (It does absolutely nothing to curb the self-righteous smirk splitting her infuriatingly proportional features in two.) “I don’t have time for games right now, Roulette.”

“‘Roulette’? Ouch. Just minutes ago, it was ‘Ronnie.’”

Christ. “We’re not friends, Veronica,” Selina counters bitterly, yanking the legs of her latex suit up over her trembling limbs.

“That’s true.” Veronica heaves a dramatic sigh, slipping off the edge of the bed and rising to her feet. She doesn’t feign modesty by attempting to cover herself, and Selina doesn’t expect her to.

“Wow. Did you really just admit to me being right?”

Veronica tilts her head to one side, assessing Selina with critical eyes. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Look, let’s get back on point,” Selina reiterates, wriggling either arm into the sleeves of her suit with a huff. “We’re square, right?”

Veronica arches a brow, lips pursed like she’s trying hard not to laugh. “Is that a gay joke?”

“Shut up.” In one fluid motion, Selina yanks the zipper of her suit closed. “Just—you’ll hold up your end of the deal, yes?”

“I always do.”

/// /// ///

Chapter Text

HARLEY

Harley is numb. Her chest feels tight, heat prickles beneath her skin. Restlessness balloons in her chest, hot air leaving her in heaving gasps. She’s panicking. That’s what this is.

She’s overwhelmed and panicking and she doesn’t know how to stop it.

Hot flashes pulse in her chest even as pangs of Oswald’s icy memory trickle down her spine, chilling her to the bone. The world is tilting and she’s fucked up, again, and—

Green Lady’s words play in her head like a broken record, a never-ending feedback loop. “Your son has been located… He’s safe, but we can’t get him.... We have to wait… Your son… located… safe… have to wait… Your son.”

Eli. Her baby boy. Her world.

“Harley. Harley, I need you to listen to me.” Green Lady’s stern words cleave through the noise. She’s doing that thing with her voice—over-enunciating all her syllables, lowering her register, injecting that note of severity into her tone that tells Harley she’d do well to listen here.

Despite herself, Harley can’t help but tune into it.

“Focus on me, babydoll. Only me,” she urges, gentle and firm. It’s all Harley can do to keep from crumpling as Green Lady’s familiar figure gradually comes back into focus, crouched before her on the floor. “I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen.”

Harley shivers as another cold flash hits her square in the chest, compressing her lungs from the outside in. Her ribs ache, her hands begin to tremble from the cold, but something is different this time.

Green Lady is there, too.

“My name is Pamela. Pamela Isley. Some people call me ‘Ivy.’ You’re Harley Quinn. We’re at my penthouse. It’s about half past noon.” Her lips are dark, juniper green; hypnotic when they move. “Frank is downstairs. He’s… an asshole, to be perfectly honest. He’s rude, obnoxious, swears like a sailor. But we’re… friends. He’s probably one of the only people in my life I’d classify as such. I’d love for you to meet him.”

Harley inhales deeply. Not as a response to anything Green Lady’s said, but simply because her lungs are burning and her breath is caught in her throat and she thinks she’ll pass out at any moment if she doesn’t take in some oxygen, stat.

“He also eats people, which I’ll be the first to acknowledge is somewhat… strange. Regardless, I think you'd quite like him.”

Despite herself, Harley manages a jerky nod. “Frank… Sure, Miss,” she wheezes, cold sweat dotting her flushed cheeks. “Whatever you want.”

The come down is a bit of a blur. She isn’t sure how much time passes, but the fog in her head begins to clear, the persistent ache in her chest steadfastly dwindles. Sweat trickles down the sides of her temples, her body racks itself with the occasional shiver… but she comes back to herself (mostly), and that’s what matters.

As she does, Green Lady is still talking. Frivolous things (though not entirely devoid of meaning, in any sense). Just… words. Facts. Chatter, like they’re old friends.

“... I suppose the name ‘Ivy’ appeals to me because it’s almost paradoxical in nature. It isn’t quite what it seems.” Her figure sharpens in Harley’s vision. She’s sitting on the floor, too, cross-legged in front of Harley. No joggers, just boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt. She looks a lot less intimidating like that. “People think ‘poison ivy’ when they hear it, when in reality, poison ivy isn’t a true ivy plant at all. I imagine you’d probably have something to say about how that reflects back on me. You know, from a psychological perspective.”

Now, that draws Harley’s attention. “You—” A psychological perspective. “How do you—?”

“Your name came up in my research over the past couple days,” she says, studying Harley intently. “You never told me you were a doctor.”

“I’m not.” Harley hugs herself, sitting back on her haunches. Her knees ache. “Not anymore.”

“Harley, you have an MD and a PhD,” Green Lady—Ivy (should Harley call her Ivy?)—presses gently. “I read your thesis on criminal insanity driven by acute hormone imbalances, particularly those characteristic of chemical love. It was… fascinating.”

Harley feels her cheeks get hot. “It took me forever to finish.”

Green Lady… Ivy… nods indulgently. “I’m sure it did. It was very well-written.”

If her face gets any hotter, it’ll burst into flames. She desperately needs to change the subject. “Miss… Should I call you Ivy now?”

Green Lady arches a brow. “As opposed to Pamela?”

“Well, not exactly… I just been callin’ ya ‘Green Lady’ in my head,” Harley admits, more than a little bit sheepish. “I like the name ‘Ivy,’ though. It’s pretty. Like you.” At the latter admission, she snaps her jaw shut. She really needs to work on that filter.

“That’s sweet of you to say, angel. And yes, I do tend to prefer ‘Ivy’ when it comes to my personal life.” The broad grin she sends Harley’s way is like sunlight on a perfect summer’s day—warm, dazzling, radiant. “How are you feeling now? Better?”

“Yes, Miss.” Harley nods, fighting not to squirm as a bead of sweat creeps down along the dip in her spine. “I’m… I’m sorry. I panicked.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Harley. You’ve been through quite a lot.”

Harley nods again, though she hardly knows why. She can’t focus on anything. “Wh-Where is he? Where is my son?”

“Old Gotham. I don’t know exactly where, but Frank can tell us.”

“We need to get him back,” Harley utters out numbly. Her mouth feels dry; her eyes burn with unshed tears. “Miss, please, I—I need to get him back.”

Green L—Ivy nods, like she understands. Harley doubts that she does. “Do you remember what I said earlier? About waiting?”

Harley hums, trying to think back. “It’s… It’s too dangerous now. Joker’s guys are down there, too.”

“Very good.” Despite everything, the simple praise warms Harley’s heart. “Now, would you like to talk about your little… outburst downstairs in the meantime, or would you prefer to do that later?”

Harley shivers. “N-Now, please.”

“Are you sure?” A crease forms between Ivy’s brows. “I can put on a Netflix show, or perhaps a movie while we wait. I know your mind isn’t entirely present right now.”

“No, it is, Miss,” Harley corrects Ivy before she can think to stop herself. “That’s the problem. I’m here, and… I need things that make sense.” A tear traces down her cheek, hot and wet; the truth tumbles from her lips in a rush. “I do something bad, I get punished. I need that. I need you to show me that my actions have consequences, even now. Especially now. Okay?”

Ivy studies her for a long moment. Eventually, she nods. “Okay.”

— —

SELINA

She stops by one of her safe houses (or safe apartments, as it were) scattered throughout the city. She takes a quick shower, hastily scrubs away the lipstick stains and dried sweat and lingering remnants of Veronica’s touch.

Her phone screen lights up with two texts—one from Bruce, one from an unsaved (but familiar) number. Eiko Hasigawa. Heiress to the Hasigawa Family syndicate in Gotham city—Yakuza. Selina ignores the one from Bruce for the moment, and thumbs open the other.

She and Eiko have never been terribly close, so it’s unsurprising that the contents of the text are scant:

13:42
From: +1 (212) 808-0017
+1 (212) 314-9334. Good luck.

She blows out a long breath, steeling herself, then clicks the number. It rings once, twice… thrice. She sighs, deposits it atop her bedside table with the speaker on, then turns to begin digging through the nearby dresser.

She’s managed to turn up a Glock, garrote wire, and three kunai throwing knives (Eiko’s) by the time someone finally picks up.

(Fine, so maybe she and Eiko are closer than Selina originally let on.)

“Hello?” It’s a low, rumbling voice. Familiar. (Unfortunately.) All at once, Selina knows exactly with whom she’s speaking. “Who’s this? How’d you get this number?”

She sighs, coiling the garrote wire around her wrist and striding back over to retrieve the phone. “Hello, Daddy.”

Things go quiet on the other end for a long moment, until, eventually: “... Selina?”

Selina clenches her jaw, tosses the unloaded Glock onto the bed and continues rummaging through the bottom drawer in search of bullets and a mag. “What, you got another street rat daughter I don’t know about?”

“Selina, I—”

“Save it,” Selina snaps then sighs, cross with herself for letting him get under her skin. She grabs the phone, turns the speaker off, holds it up against her ear. “Look, Pops, I didn’t call to fight. I assume you spoke to Eiko?”

He grunts. “Nice girl. Are you and her, uh… ” he trails off awkwardly, leaves the question unspoken.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Ah,” he says, like her non-answer is answer enough. It just makes her hate him all the more. “Well, I like her, for what it’s worth.”

Selina pointedly resists the urge to sink a throwing knife into the nearest wall. “Do you have an address for me, or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it. It wasn’t easy, mind you.”

“Dad,” she warns.

“My daughter, all business.” He chuckles. “Alright. You got a pen and paper to write this down?”

Selina’s a step ahead of him—pulling out the top drawer of her bedside table, snatching up a dull pencil and a stack of purple sticky notes. “Yeah.”

“‘907 East Bleaker Road.’ You got that?”

East Bleaker… That’s in Old Gotham. Interesting.

“Yeah.” Selina nods, setting down her pencil. “And you’re sure the kid’s there?”

“Had one of my most trusted guys scope it out earlier today,” he confirms. Good, Selina thinks. Eli’s safe. “Listen, ‘Lina, I—”

Click!

Selina hangs up, tosses her phone back onto the bed. “Fuck you,” she says aloud.

The empty room doesn’t answer.

/// /// ///

HARLEY

Harley’s jaw damn near hits the floor when Ivy tells her exactly what her “punishment” will entail.

“Wh—Y—Excu—” she sputters. “Excuse me?!”

“What’s the matter?” Ivy just arches a single brow in something like a challenge. “Cat got your tongue?”

Harley’s cheeks flush with heat. “This… This is a joke, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“But—That’s not—”

“Not what, Harley?”

“That’s not a punishment !”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not ! It’s… It’s gardening!”

Ivy purses her lips, poorly suppressing a vainglorious smirk. “Plant care is an important skill.”

“It’s a chore, not a punishment, Miss.”

“The two aren’t entirely unrelated,” Ivy points out gently. “Tell me, Harley: do you enjoy pulling weeds in your spare time?”

Harley pointedly resists the urge to roll her eyes. “No, Miss, I don’t.”

“Precisely,” Ivy remarks, looking for all the world as if she’s enjoying this far more than she should be. “Punishments are punishments because they’re unpleasant—something that you wouldn’t otherwise want to do.”

Harley ponders that for a moment. “Punishments should hurt, Miss,” she murmurs out eventually. “They leave bruises and make you bleed.”

“Sometimes, but not always.” Ivy’s green eyes flicker with something dark—here one second, gone the next. “Who taught you that, sweetling?”

Harley bows her head in shame, only for Ivy to stop her mid-motion; guide her swiftly back up with a finger beneath her chin until she meets her intent gaze once more. “... Joker. Ma’am.”

“When an unruly child misbehaves, you put them in time-out. You make them do chores, maybe ground them from certain activities. No bruising or bleeding involved, and yet, each of them are punishments in their own right, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harley hesitates, but nods.

Ivy’s stony expression softens somewhat. Her gaze seems to bore straight through Harley. “Your body is battered enough as it is, darling. I’ve never been one to partake in violence for violence’s sake, and I don’t intend to start now. Do you understand me?”

Immediately, Harley nods.

“Good girl,” Ivy lauds warmly with a crooked smirk. Harley feels her cunt clench. “And besides, if it’s pain you’re after, I can promise that even an hour spent weeding will make your body ache in ways you’ve never known before.”

— —

VERONICA

Veronica Sinclair sits alone at a table for two in an empty restaurant, sipping a glass of Chardonnay and waiting for the phone to ring.

Fortunately, she doesn’t have to wait for very long.

Buzz-buzz!

The disposable cell (one she’d purchased specifically for this job) vibrates beside an empty plate.

She sets the wine glass down, answers the phone.

“Is it done?” she asks.

“Yeah, boss. C-4 lining the back wall, and a couple Claymores at the exits in case any of ‘em try duckin’ out early—just like you said.”

Veronica nods in approval, absentmindedly smudging the imprint of her lipstick along the rim of the glass with her thumb. “Good. Time?”

“Six minutes, starting…” She hears a telltale beep over the line. “... Now.”

With that, she hangs up—shutting the cell with a satisfying click. Uses her knife to pry open the plastic casing, extracts the SIM card, drops it into what’s left of her wine with a satisfying plink.

She better not live to regret this.

♠ ♠ ♠

ZSASZ

Victor Zsasz huffs, kicking his feet up onto the table and leveling his companions with a hard stare. “Look, gentlemen… Not that this isn’t fun and all, but I don’t really like any of you. Are we about done here?”

Victor—the other Victor, Victor Fries—silently stares him down. He doesn’t say anything (shocker), but the slight tilt of his head and the crazed look in his milky-white eyes tells Zsasz it’s not for lack of wanting.

Crane—minus the ratty burlap Scarecrow hood, which sits neatly folded on the wooden tabletop—smiles, like he finds the whole thing particularly amusing.

Lawton leans back in his chair and continues polishing his pistol, giving absolutely no indication that he’s heard anything that’s been said for the past twenty minutes.

Penguin heaves a sigh, like he couldn’t care less either way.

Bane just glares.

“Now, Victor,” Roman chides fondly, ever the eccentric. “Let’s try to be more cordial, hm? We’re all friends here.” He grins his broad, winning smile around the table, surveying them each in turn through round, rose-tinted glasses.

No one returns it.

“Personally, I fail to see the point in all this,” Bane warbles, irritation coming off of his bulky figure in waves. “Why do we care about some philanthropist bitch in a fancy suit?”

“A philanthropist bitch who can control plants,” Penguin corrects.

“Allegedly,” Crane adds, pushing square-ish glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “We don’t know that for sure.”

“It is a rather bold claim…” Roman agrees.

“It’s Gotham!” Penguin exclaims, green eyes alight with delirium. “Nothing is impossible. We should know that better than anyone.”

“Ah, so I suppose we have you to thank, Oswald, for the way this entire building reeks of plant killer,” Roman remarks with a tight grin. “Positively putrid. Well done.”

Penguin scowls. “Better safe than dead, don’t you think?”

“You don’t think you’re being just a teensy bit dramatic here?”

“You’re wearing monogrammed gloves,” Penguin deadpans.

Roman nods, leaning back in his seat and grinning cockily as if he’s just been afforded an especially flattering compliment. “They’re custom-made, too,” he brags, holding them up for inspection. “Crocodile leather.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Are you ladies done over there?”

“Fuck you, Lawton.”

Zsasz rolls his eyes, but he’s not paying much attention to their petty bickering. Instead, he’s plucking a cigarette from the pack on the tabletop and feeling around in his pocket for the Zippo lighter he never leaves home without. He’s dying for a smoke.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Crane tells him, an almost amused twinkle in his eye.

Zsasz clenches his jaw in frustration, glowering at Crane across the tabletop. “Why’s that, Johnny?”

Crane holds up a finger, makes a show of sniffing the air. Drama queen. “You smell that?”

“It smells like vinegar,” Zsasz says through gritted teeth.

“And that rancid weed killer,” Roman adds.

“Did you take chemistry in high school, Victor?” Crane inquires, calmly holding Zsasz’s narrowed gaze.

“Let’s pretend I didn’t.”

“Well, where you smell vinegar, I smell acetic acid. You see, household vinegar is 5% acetic acid—hence the similar scents. Additionally, most popular herbicides include the active ingredient glyphosate.”

“Get to the point, Crane,” Bane growls.

“Acetic acid is both flammable and highly corrosive, while glyphosate produces highly combustible hydrogen gas.”

Roman frowns. “Huh?”

“He’s saying if you light up, the room goes ‘boom,’” Lawton supplies without looking up from his precious handgun. He sounds bored. Zsasz doesn’t blame him.

Crane nods. “In layman’s terms, yes.”

“Sanctimonious bastard,” Zsasz grumbles. Still, he tosses the cigarette and pockets the lighter without any further argument. He’s in no mood to be the epicenter of a five-alarm fire. “Let’s just get this over with, so I can go out and have a smoke.”

“Well, first thing’s first—we need to find a way to either confirm or deny this woman’s supposed… abilities.”

“What does it matter either way?” Lawton asks. “Isn’t she doin’ business with Jay recently, same as all of you?”

“It may make Joker exempt from any backlash,” Fries interjects evenly. “I can’t say the same for the rest of us.”

“What do we know about her, anyway?” Bane warbles, bushy brows furrowed in thought.

“Dr. Pamela Isley. PhD in botany. She’s rich, not from around here,” Crane offers up with a shrug. “Rumor has it, she’s taken quite the interest in Joker’s Harley.”

Lawton visibly tenses. “Harley? The hell does she want with Harley?”

Interesting.

Roman dismissively waves a single gloved hand, like he doesn’t care. The pulsing vein in his temple says otherwise. “Who cares? It’s probably some stupid feminist thing.”

“Or,” Penguin begins, eyes narrowed, “they’re plotting something.”

Zsasz snorts. “You’re paranoid, Ozzie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Whatev—”

“Paranoid or not, Pamela Isley could cause problems. For all of us,” Crane interjects in a measured tone. Zsasz grins. He can tell where this is going. “I think it’d be in our best collective interest to remove her from the equation.”

Fries frowns. “That seems rather… extreme.”

“And who wants to volunteer for that?” Lawton questions, his tone ripe with derision. “‘Cause I’ll tell you right now, it ain’t gonna be me.”

Trigger-happy as he may be, Zsasz finds himself nodding along with that. He’s not stupid enough to mess around in Joker’s sandbox. “I’m gonna be honest, I’m not really feelin’ it either.”

“And why’s that?” Crane asks. “Because she’s in business with Joker?”

Lawton leans forward, fixing Crane with a heavy-browed glare. “Joker doesn’t give a damn about anything or anyone. He’d slaughter us all for twenty bucks and a mediocre blowjob.”

“Not to mention, he has the means to do it,” Bane adds helpfully.

“Do you really wanna take that chance?”

Crane swallows, indecision flitting across his angular features. “Well—”

FWOOM! All of a sudden, the room erupts in a flash of blinding white and fiery orange. Raw heat singes the hairs on Zsasz’s arms; debris flies this way and that; deafening white noise rings shrilly in his ears.

The last thing Zsasz sees before it all goes dark is a rogue brick flying full-speed directly at his nose.

𝐗 𝐗 𝐗

Chapter Text

SELINA

Getting to Old Gotham is the easy part. She hotwires an absolute beauty of a chopper parked a couple blocks down from her flat. Laced rims, carbon-fiber bodywork, spotless cherry-red paint-job save for a couple minor scrapes along the back end. Last but not least, Harley-Davidson manufactured, with the brand to prove it.

Harley would love it.

It purrs like a kitten and rides like a fucking dream, taking her 0-60 in ten seconds flat. She sticks to backroads and alleys when main streets can be avoided, and does her best to ignore the rancid stench of vinegar and chemical acid that hits her like a freight train the minute she crosses over from the Diamond District into Old Gotham proper.

It’s a different atmosphere there—a different world. Abandoned storefronts, shattered glass on the pavement. All the doom and gloom so characteristic of their beloved city intensified a thousand fold in a deranged little poverty-stricken time capsule of the place they used to be.

It makes her ache for home—a foolish thought. She has no home.

Cantor (a dreary road just two streets down from Bleaker) is as far as she dares venture on the bike before stashing it under a tarp in an abandoned carport nearby.

Next, she pulls up maps for the region on her phone. She needs to be smart about this—recon first, then drop in from above. No going in blind, no ringing the doorbell.

Best-case scenario, she’s outnumbered something like five to one. Worst-case scenario?

Well. She can’t afford to think about that.

Five minutes later sees her vaulting one rooftop to another, brisk afternoon breeze stinging her cheeks and murder on her mind. The chemical stench is better from up high—far less concentrated.

Her chest burns, her legs ache, sweat beads at the nape of her neck.

Two more jumps. The first is easy—the shortest she’s encountered yet. The execution isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t have to be. She sails through the air—legs tucked beneath her, arms folded into her chest. She feels a little twinge in her ankle as she touches down on the other side, but she ignores it.

She’s already scanning the next rooftop up ahead as she darts across the uneven landing. It’s slightly elevated—a foot higher than where she’s at, maybe. She’ll have to adjust the height of her leap accordingly. A quick peek over the edge tells her it’s a solid 20 feet (~6 meters) across.

Who needs an alley 20 feet wide?

She blows out a long, slow breath as she retreats, backpedaling until she’s back on the other side of the rooftop, the rubber heel of her boot teasing the edge. As something of an afterthought, she pats along her thighs and waist to ensure she’s still got all the weapons she came with—kunai throwing knives, Glock, a couple flashbangs. The garrote wire bites at the bare skin of her wrist, the cell phone warms itself between her tits, her trusty night-vision goggles rest snugly along her hairline.

“Here goes nothing,” she mutters, then takes off at a dead sprint for the other side before she can question herself any further.

She accelerates like a bullet but still doesn’t reach top speed before she’s there, pushing up and off the ledge, solid ground behind her and nothing at her feet. It’s a bit like flying, for a moment. Time slows. Old Gotham fades into irrelevance around her.

But the moment passes and it ends, as all things do. Ç’est la vie.

Awareness snaps through her like a whip—the chill of the air, the throbbing ache in her muscles, the twenty-story drop below her. All at once, it feels less like flying and more like falling—falling forward, sure, but falling nonetheless.

She’s never been a fan of falling. Eiko had laughed when Selina told her that, all perfect white teeth and red-painted lips and playful mirth twinkling in her pretty brown eyes.

“But don’t cats always land on their feet?” she’d asked, brows raised, kiss-swollen lips pushed out to form a perfect pout—the very picture of mild-mannered innocence, even despite the smudged lipstick and angry pink bite-marks lining her throat.

Selina had simply rolled her eyes. “Cute,” she’d remarked dryly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and rising to her feet to begin searching for her discarded clothing. She couldn’t bear the weight of Eiko’s quiet regard, the gentle way she looked at Selina like she could see everything—the fear, the pain… the love; everything Selina could never bring herself to say aloud.

She’d yanked her panties on, and was working on clipping her bra when Eiko spoke up again.

“It’s not just the physical aspect, is it?” she’d asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Selina’s hands trembled, but she clenched her jaw and willed herself to focus on finding the rest of her clothes. “Is that why you won’t even look at me right now?”

God help her, but that hurt worse than any fall she’d ever weathered.

Well, Eiko or not, she’s looking now. In fact, she can’t stop looking.

The brick of the building hurtling towards her, the way she’s sinking into air like it’s quicksand. The impact of her torso against the side of the building is absolutely brutal. Crack! goes at least one of her ribs, expelling all the breath from her lungs in a choked-out rush. Her boots scrabble against worn-down brick, but her grip on the elevated ledge is firm, and she knows that this is as bad as it gets. She’s home free if she can manage this. (Provided she doesn’t slip, that is.)

Pulling herself up is excruciating. Every muscle in her arm screams in protest, tendons searing with a white-hot burn that’ll give her hell come tomorrow morning. She really should start doing pull-ups. Her ribs ache, her heartbeat hammers painfully in her chest.

But she is bigger than this pain… stronger. She’s always had to be. A death grip on the ledge keeps her steady while she swings one leg up and over, wedges her knee against the solid concrete and carefully guides the rest of her weight to follow.

She rolls over and onto her back less than a foot from the ledge, staring up at overcast skies and heaving for breath. Her Glock digs into her lower back, her ribs throb with every breath, and the concrete is cold like ice beneath her—but she is alive, and that is what matters.

Fucking 20-foot wide alleyways.

/// /// ///

HARLEY

Whatever Harley said before about pulling weeds, it’s become all too clear over the last half-hour that, much like all things where Ivy’s concerned, this deceptively simple task is not at all what it seems.

For starters, Ivy hadn’t been lying when she’d said that weeding would make Harley ache in ways she’s never known before. Here she is, kneeling in a bed of moistened dirt on the rooftop, yanking at horsenettle weeds beneath a sweltering mid-afternoon sun, shoulders on fire with an ache beyond her years.

Ivy left a little while ago, citing a meeting with someone named ‘Tatsu.’ A couple minutes after that, a tangle of vines had carted up a potted plant the size of an NBA post player to keep her company, or… something. It looked like one of those Venus flytrap plants Harley saw when her 3rd-grade class took a field trip to the Gotham City Geodesic Dome, except bigger. A lot bigger.

It also had these two red stems topped with twin flower-like blossoms that acted less like flowers and more like eyes. Seeing eyes.

Oh, and this—it spoke, too.

“Aw, hell no!” it bemoaned loudly as the vines set it down alongside a gaping Harley. “I did not ask for a fuckin’ roommate!”

All at once, the dots had connected in Harley’s mind. “Frank… an asshole,” Ivy had said. “He’s rude… obnoxious… swears like a sailor. But we’re… friends.”

Harley had turned to Frank with a crooked grin, dusting off her gloved hands and eyeing her new companion with interest. “Hiya, Frank!” she’d chirped. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Harley. Pleased to meet’cha!”

He’d hesitated momentarily as if sizing her up, until, “Well, aren’t you just sweet as fuckin’ pie.” Sarcasm and insincerity overlaid his words, but they’d made Harley giggle nonetheless. “What’d Ivy do, kidnap you?”

Harley had felt her cheeks heat at the mere mention of Ivy. “Naw, Miss Ivy’s been real sweet to me,” Harley told Frank honestly. “She says you’re her friend.”

“Ha! That’ll be the day,” Frank exclaimed, flashing a fanged grin down at her. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here, pulling weeds on a fuckin’ Tuesday.”

“Oh.” Harley looked down at the horsenettle weeds dotting the soil, cheeks burning. “I just gotta do this punishment stuff ‘cause I back-talked her.”

“Uh-huh,” Frank had said, sounding bored. Harley hadn’t been sure he’d even heard her. “So what’s that make me, then? Your babysitter?”

Seeing an opportunity, Harley perked up. “What about a friend?” she’d asked, craning her neck to give him a hopeful look.

“Fuck no.”

“Oh.” She shrugged, wrapping her gloved hands around an especially large horsenettle and pulling. “Worth a try.”

Fast-forward about ten minutes after that, Frank is leaned comfortably up against the lone cherry-blossom tree while Harley’s still knelt in the dirt pulling weeds, every muscle in her upper body on fire.

She’s got socks and a pair of athletic shoes (Ivy’s) on instead of going barefoot. They’re a little big on her, and with how much she’s sweating, she’s more than a little worried about having stinky feet by the end, but it’s nice all the same. It makes her feel like a person, and heaven knows that that feeling’s been in short supply for the past seven years.

Her knees ache from kneeling for so long, but she doesn’t mind nearly as much as she usually does. Here, kneeling doesn’t mean a cock to suck or a cunt to lick or rough hands slapping her while she’s down. Here, kneeling is just earthy soil and cute little plants and a bunch of stubborn-as-hell weeds that Ivy’s relying on Harley to pull. It’s… safe.

Still, safe doesn’t always mean comfortable, and the sweat that’s starting to soak through Ivy’s “PLANT DADDY” T-shirt is evidence of that.

She already feels guilty enough about the socks and shoes. Mind made up, she drops a couple lopsided horsenettles into the bucket, peels off her gloves and carefully balances them over the lid.

Frank whoops loudly as she strips the T-shirt off and bundles it up in one hand, leaving her in tiny grey shorts and a sports bra (both Ivy’s) and little else. She ignores him. Instead, she gets to her feet, brushes off her knees, then runs over to drop it in clean grass by the cherry blossom tree before quickly scurrying back to her post.

She wants to do a really good job here, make Ivy proud.

She thinks the rest of it might start falling into place if she can just manage to do that.

— —

SELINA

The sun’s about a half-hour from touching the horizon as Selina peers over the ledge, sights set on a run-down apartment building just across the street. 907 East Bleaker. It’s a relatively short structure, no more than six stories high.

Levels five and six are structurally suspect at best, dark singe marks painting the pale grey stone an ugly black. Less than ideal considering they’re harboring a nine-year-old kid in a fire-weakened structure, but at the very least, it’ll make for less ground to cover.

She’s just begun mapping out her offensive when she hears it—boots on the stairs. Muffled, but unmistakable. It’s coming from behind her.

She whirls around just in time to see someone bursting through the roof-access door and out onto the landing. He’s a relatively short man with hunched shoulders and a noticeable limp wearing a pinstriped suit that looks straight out of Beetlejuice. Oh, and he’s got an SMG levelled straight at Selina’s chest.

“I got her, boss!” he calls over his shoulder in an obnoxious Gothamite accent. His eyes are bloodshot, crazed, trained on Selina like she’ll vanish the second he takes them off her. “Rooftop!”

More boots on the stairs—one, two, maybe three guys.

“Look, as much as I’d love to do… whatever the hell this is,” she begins, “I’m a little busy at the moment.” Her hand begins to creep behind her back, reaching down towards the Glock in her waistband. “Let’s take a raincheck, shall we?”

The last of his troupe come busting through the roof-access door just moments after: two men in matching Beetlejuice suits, one slight and greasy-looking, the other—

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck.

An ugly, hulking mass of a man with lumpy slate-grey features like cracked stone and fingers each as thick as bratwurst sausages. His small, beady eyes glow a lurid red beneath the prominent jut of a non-existent unibrow. He makes Waylon Jones look clean-shaven in comparison.

“Selina Kyle,” Louis ‘Bone’ Ferryman greets, crusty lips pulled into a twisted grin. His voice sounds like rocks in a garbage disposal—just as Selina remembers it. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not nearly long enough,” Selina snaps. Her hand curls around the grip of the pistol, pointer finger teasing the trigger. It does little to ease the ice in her veins. “The hell do you want, Bone?”

“Aww, that’s no way to treat an old acquaintance,” he rumbles. “Where are your manners, little girl?”

Selina feels something snap in her chest. In a flash, the gun is torn from her waistband and she’s aimed it directly at his stupid cracked-stone forehead, hammer pulled back, pointer finger itching to pull the trigger.

“I’ll give you fifteen seconds to answer the goddamned question,” she snarls, heartbeat thundering in her chest, ribs smarting like a bitch.

“Now, now,” he drawls, hands up in a mocking show of surrender. As if on cue, the goons flanking him on either side snap to attention, twin barrels of two identical semi-automatics staring her down. “Is it that time of month again?”

“Ten.”

The moment she shoots, she’s done like last night’s dinner. She knows that, but she really doesn’t care.

“No, you’re not still mad about the Lola MacIntire thing, are you?” he prattles on, unhurried, as if she doesn’t currently have a Glock leveled at his forehead. “C’mon, sweetheart—that was business, not personal.”

“‘Not personal,’ my ass,” Selina scoffs, forgetting entirely about the count as rage wells inside her. A sob works its way up in her throat, and she forcefully swallows it back down. “You came after her because you wanted me.”

Bone spreads his hands, not a single hint of apology in his lecherous gaze. “You mess with my things, I mess with yours. That’s business.”

“She isn’t a ‘thing,’ you freakazoid brute !” Wasn’t, a voice in her head corrects. The gun trembles in her hand. “She was my friend.”

“She was scum,” Bone corrects matter-of-factly. “Nothing more than a menopausal blonde bimbo with saggy tits and a nasty habit of sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.”

Red clouds her vision. “She was my friend,” she reiterates, her voice trembling with rage, unshed tears burning her eyes. It’s everything she can do to keep herself from losing her cool. “And you—”

“What? Freed you from her? You’re welc—”

“You SLAUGHTERED her!” Selina roars, hot tears streaking down her cheeks. With the way her finger’s twitching on the trigger, it’s a miracle that bullets aren’t flying right now.

“Foolish girl.” He rolls his eyes, heaving a sigh and shaking his head like he’s genuinely disappointed in her. “What did I tell you? Your attachments would ruin you.”

Selina damn near chokes on her own sobs, grief and despair tearing a hole in her chest. “She was a good person. I was better for knowing her.” She never told anyone that. Not Eiko, not Bruce. Not even Harley. “You didn’t have to kill her.”

Bone opens his mouth as if to speak, mirth in his eyes. For better or for worse (likely the former), something happens before he gets the chance.

FWOOM!

A deafening blast sounds from two streets down, making Selina stumble forward. She steadies herself just in time to whip around and catch the tail-end of the explosion: fire and smoke and debris erupting skyward in a blazing inferno, nearby buildings going up in flames. It’s less than two blocks east off their location, which Selina would like to chalk down to a deeply unfortunate coincidence… but, alas.

In her line of work, coincidences were like three dollar bills—nonexistent.

“God fucking dammit,” she curses to herself as tall flames lick a roaring trail through the dilapidated streets of Old Gotham, spreading rapidly from the blast site outwards. They’re not confined to the blast radius, it seems, because she supposes a normal explosion would’ve just been too much to ask for.

Fire surges ever nearer, mapping a trail headed straight for Bleaker Road. Eli. Selina feels her heart constrict in her chest.

Fuck, this day just got a whole lot more complicated.

/// /// ///

HARLEY

She’s wrestling with a particularly stubborn sprout, both hands yanking its thick green stem with all her might, when—

BOOM!

A distant blast (the kind bombs make) sounds, reverberating throughout the city. It has Harley immediately snapping her head up and looking wildly around for the source, her work forgotten at her feet.

“What the fuck was that?” Frank calls from his shady spot beneath the cherry blossom tree.

“I don’t know.” Harley frowns, itching her cheek. She thinks she probably smears some dirt there on accident, but it’s the least of her worries as she rises to her feet, surveying all of Gotham around them for a hint of trouble.

For better or for worse, she finds it a half a second later. Flames rise from some run-down sector near the City Hall District, black smoke billowing up into gloomy grey clouds.

“There!” she points with a gloved finger, glancing back at Frank to make sure he’s paying attention. “Ya see that? Where’s it comin’ from?”

Frank’s flower-eyes narrow slightly like he’s deep in thought. “Oh, shit!” he exclaims finally. “That’s Old Gotham!”

Her stomach drops. Eli. “What?”

“Who would wanna burn down that shithole?” Frank wonders aloud, but Harley isn’t listening. She couldn’t be further away.

Old Gotham just exploded, and from the looks of it, they’ve been watering their plants with gasoline, because the fire is spreading like nothing she’s ever seen before.

She should be there.

She needs to be there.

She walks over the garden bed like a zombie until she’s at the edge of the rooftop, peers over the side. Tangled vines blanket the apartment building, from the very top floor (Ivy’s penthouse) all the way down to street level.

“Harley?” Frank speaks up. His voice sounds distant, faraway. “Girl, get the fuck away from there! The hell do you think you’re doing?”

She doesn’t think. She doesn’t have time to think.

She crouches down, grabs a thick vine just along the edge of the landing. Here goes nothing. Swings herself over the side, legs flailing to find a foothold until—

There. The sole of her sneaker catches on a lumpy but stable root, bearing her weight without trouble.

“Harley, you fucking dumbass!” Frank roars from the rooftop.

Harley ignores him. Cool air blows against her side, warm sweat trickles down her back. The vines give a little with every shift and step, groaning as they take her weight, but they don’t break. They won’t, so long as she moves quickly.

“Don’t look down,” she murmurs as she lowers herself, feels around with her other foot until she finds a sturdy creeper to support the rest of her weight. Wearing the gardening gloves is a trade-off—less grip, but solid protection from thorns and splinters that could otherwise compromise her holds. They’ll stay, she decides. For now.

It’s like rock climbing, she tells herself, lowering one gloved hand to curl around another knotted vine. Except… backwards, and on the side of a building. Without a harness.

Despite herself, she grins. She’s always been an exceptional rock-climber.

— —

Chapter Text

VERONICA

The blast in Old Gotham reverberates all throughout the city. Hell, Veronica hears it all the way over in East Side.

Not what she paid for.

“Fuck,” she curses, tosses her napkin down onto a half-full plate. She really isn’t hungry anymore.

She’s gotta disappear, yesterday.

Fucking incompetent low-level goons.

♠ ♠ ♠

FLOYD

Floyd wakes to black smoke, fire all around, and an absolutely killer headache. There’s a deafening white noise in his ears, the kind that comes after he fucked around and got a little too close to an explosion—a big one, at that.

He’s on his back, his bottom half trapped beneath a hefty-looking chunk of concrete. There’s a throbbing ache in his left knee, and his other ankle is stuck twisted at a weird-ass angle, but the fact that he can feel any of that at all is a good sign.

A thin layer of grey ash blankets his shooting hand up to the forearm. He can feel it searing his flesh, but the burn will be minor and it’s cooling by the second. His favorite pistol lies just out of reach, coated with a dusty-looking layer of grey; though, he figures it wouldn’t do much good if he could reach it. No shooting his way out of this one.

The old family-run Chinese joint wherein which they’d met is half blown to hell, walls blackened with singe marks, flames engulfing what precious little of it managed to stay unburnt this long. Floyd looks up and sees a sky on fire through a gaping hole in one corner of what used to be the ceiling.

By some miracle, his upper half is largely unburdened. The round table’s slanted off-balance and digging into his chest, but a prompt twist and shove takes care of that with relatively little trouble.

And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a bit of rebar sticking out from a pile of detritus directly to his left. He has to strain a bit to reach it, but he manages. Gets a solid grip around the end, yanks hard with all his might. The pile of concrete shifts as he manages to pull it free, a mini avalanche of dust and concrete chunks raining down on him.

He thinks he hears someone groan in response nearby, but he doesn’t care. Fries, Crane, Zsasz, Sionis, Penguin… Assholes.

He turns his head to hack out a couple coughs as cinders breach his lungs, scraping his throat raw from the inside out.

Soon enough, though, the dust settles once more, and he’s left with a mangled length of rebar, a weighty chunk of concrete crushing his thighs, and a chemical fire all around that’ll have him out and dead in minutes if he doesn’t free himself in time.

Depending on how overboard Penguin went with the chemical weed killer (and it’s lookin’ like he went pretty damn far overboard), all of Old Gotham will be up in flames come nightfall. Which is gonna be a problem, not only for everyone unlucky enough to be living here, but something more important—someone more important: the kid. Harley’s kid.

Fuck.

Looks like he’s got his work cut out for him.

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

HARLEY

She’s about thirty levels down (with still another twenty to go, if she has to guesstimate) by the time it starts to get scary. She ditched the gloves ten floors back after her grip slipped and damn near sent her careening headfirst to go splat on the pavement.

Her arms shake from the strain of holding herself aloft, hot sweat dribbles down her neck and back in a constant stream. Pain spreads through her muscles like wildfire, and every step seems to wound her something awful.

Not to mention, her body’s still the farthest thing from healed. Salty sweat burns like rubbing alcohol as it trickles into the bloodied bite marks along her throat. The stretch and strain of her constant movement tears the scabs on her back wide open until she can’t tell whether the rivulets leaking down her spine are perspiration or blood.

The split in her lower lip ripped open about ten floors ago, dribbling blood down her chin and making every instinctive swipe of the tongue along her lips hurt like a bitch.

She rushes herself to move faster and faster as she gets further down, making slipping and falling a very real concern. But she also knows that going slow and steady will only further sap her already depleted energy, and she’d very much like to get as close to ground level as she can before her arms give out.

The toes of her (Ivy’s) sneakers are brushing up against the first-floor windows when it happens. Her arms go numb (though they’re still trembling enough to make her entire body shudder), and she knows her grip around the vines is slipping by the second.

Here goes nothing. She glances over her shoulder at slabs of pavement, lowers herself a little further on the vines, and drops.

Her legs are already bent when her feet hit the pavement, but the sheer force of the impact jolts all the way up to the crown of her head regardless. She also miscalculated her drop just a little, because a second later, residual momentum is pitching her face directly forward.

She just barely gets her hands there in time to keep herself from face-planting, which saves her money-maker the road rash—though she can’t say the same for the rest of her.

“Fuck!” she curses as both knees mash themselves into the pavement and gravel digs its way into her palms.

That’s gonna leave a fuckin’ mark.

She just manages to shift her weight, then shove herself up and back—

“Oof!” she groans as she falls back ass-first onto the pavement, head spinning.

A distant police siren plays in her ears, and she shakes her head to make it go away. It doesn’t. In fact, it actually seems to be getting... louder?

A second later, a GCPD cruiser pulls up to the curb with a deafening screech. Its lights flash, its siren blares, and Harley’s head pounds.

The driver’s side door opens, and a boy in blue steps out of the cruiser—short brown hair, wispy mustache, bushy brows creased in concern.

He runs over. “Ma’am, are you alright?” he asks, crouching down to her level. He smells like Old Spice and cigarettes. “Do you need help?”

Harley licks her lips, then winces at the stab of pain that follows. She feels like screaming, yelling horrible things at this man to make him and his stupid cruiser shut up, but she holds her tongue. She’s gotten real good at that.

Instead, she eyes the policeman, his gun, the police cruiser idling behind him on the street. All at once, a plan takes shape amidst her scattered thoughts.

“Ma’am?” the officer asks again, hands held up and out as if to show that he’s not a threat, that he won’t hurt her.

She shakes her head vigorously, summoning tears to splash down either of her bruised cheeks. “Y-Yes, officer, p-please help me,” she sobs pathetically, hugging her shivering body and looking up at him with big, desperate, puppy-dog eyes.

“Oh—I—Yes, of course, Miss,” the officer stammers, practically falling over himself in his haste to get his arms around her and help her up. “Here, c’mon, you’re safe now...”

Her fingers curl around the grip of his Glock as he pulls her to her feet, whispering meaningless platitudes to her all the while. She buries her face into his shoulder and does another hiccup-y sob for good measure even as her lips stretch into a wide grin.

Like taking candy from a baby.

— —

SELINA

You know, one would think that a massive explosion rocking Old Gotham just two streets down (never mind the roaring flames that followed) would be enough to justify putting a metaphorical pin in whatever Bone wanted with her for the moment… at the very least, a brief time-out.

No such luck.

The moment they’ve all got their wits about them, Selina gets an approximately two-second long headstart to swing herself over the rooftop and out of sight before scores of bullets start spraying the air. In her haste to avoid being in the line of fire, she damn near takes a spill down onto the pavement twelve stories below. Luckily, though, years of expertise kicks in, and she’s able to grip the ledge of the rooftop with both hands before getting to work kicking the shit out of the twelfth-floor window.

She probably looks pretty damn stupid hanging off the side of a building, boots slamming against the glass, legs flailing about like a hysterical child who didn’t get their way, but she’s got other things to worry about.

She estimates she’s got about three seconds before the goons sprint over to the edge of the rooftop and continue shooting over the side, so she’s gotta get this window business sorted out, stat.

Crack goes the window below (finally), and her subsequent kick shatters the glass completely with a resounding Crash!

In a perfect world, she’d like an extra second or two to kick her boot along the top of the window frame, take care of any residual glass shards before swinging herself inside. She’d also have appreciated an extra second or two on top of that to push off the brick a couple times, build up her momentum to take the leap… but, alas.

If wishes were horses…

It’s a little awkward, but she’s handled worse. She keeps her grip on the ledge tight, surges forward with her feet, trusts the rest of her body to follow after. Her lower back hits the bottom of the window pane hard enough to expel all the air from her lungs in a rush, and she can feel the residual shards of glass tearing through her suit and skin as she yanks herself inside—which hurts like a bitch, obviously, but she’s a big girl. She can handle it.

And not a second too soon, it seems, as a volley of bullets sprays the pavement twelve stories down behind her. Hopping down from the window, she doesn’t bother to assess the damage to her suit or the trickle of blood she can feel running down her spine. There’s no time.

She’s landed in a storage room, it seems—hardwood floors, cardboard boxes, an old upright piano sitting in one corner. All are blanketed in a thick layer of dust, as if nobody’s been there for a very long time.

Shaking that thought off, she darts over to the door on soundless feet, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.

Undoes the deadbolt with a click, carefully eases open the door, slips out into the hallway beyond.

All the while, she can hear muffled arguing from the rooftop above, and she knows it’s just a matter of time before Bone and the Wonder Twins are tearing back down the stairs to have another go at her.

As far as she can tell, there’s no elevator to be seen. Unfortunate, but she isn’t sure she’d trust it enough to use if there were one. There’s a stairwell access door at the other end of the hall, though, and she makes her way toward that with pursed lips.

Twelve floors down, Old Gotham burning, Bone and his SMG-toting goons hot on her heels. Oh, and nine-year-old Eli across the street.

Time to get those daily steps in.

/// /// ///

HARLEY

Okay, Harley will be the first to say that she’s kind of a shitty driver.

She actually isn’t licensed to drive at all, anywhere, let alone Gotham, but… details. Who needs ‘em?

It takes her a bit of deliberation to figure out that the skinny pedal on the right is for gas, and the hamburger-style one on the left is for braking. She gets lucky with the parking brake, ‘cause Officer What’s-His-Name didn’t bother engaging it before jumping out of the car to help her, so she doesn’t need to worry about that at all.

From there, it’s pretty simple. Shift the PRNDL from the P (‘Park’) to the D (‘Drive’), slam two feet on the gas, and they’re off to the races.

Officer Do-Gooder is handcuffed in the trunk sporting no shirt and a killer headache while Harley tears through the streets wearing his button-down police uniform, Glock sitting in the cupholder.

There’s also a cup of shitty gas station coffee (lukewarm), but Harley takes a single sip and damn near yaks everywhere ‘cause turns out, he takes it black. Gross.

There’s a fancy-looking screen mounted on the dash with a little walkie-talkie-type thing mounted on the side, but Harley ignores it for the most part.

All that’s left for her to do is follow the rising smoke from Old Gotham, avoid hitting too many pedestrians along the way, and pray she’ll get there in time.

— —

TATSU

Tatsu frowns and leans further back in her seat, gaze narrowed on Dr. Pamela Isley (a tentative—and powerful—ally since her unheralded arrival in Gotham city a month prior). “You do not know the magnitude of what you ask.”

Pamela, to her credit, remains impassive—though the slight tick in her jaw betrays the situation’s urgency. “Joker is an institution in Gotham. The city has become his in everything but name,” she concedes.

Tatsu arches a single brow. She’s played this game many times before. “But?”

“But he is far from infallible; and his reach, while bordering on absolute, is deeply unbalanced.”

“Joker thrives on imbalance,” Tatsu points out, neither disagreeing nor agreeing.

“And that’s precisely the problem, no?” Pamela asks. “One moment.” She brandishes a smart phone from the inside pocket of her blazer, takes a quick glance at the time before promptly storing it away once more. She seems preoccupied, Tatsu notes. She has since they started. “It’s a simple maxim of being, a universal scientific law which dictates that balance in all things is foreordained… inevitable.”

“I wasn’t exactly a star student in school, but I believe Joker is that which would be referred to as something of an anomaly,” Tatsu counters evenly, regarding Pamela carefully over the tabletop. “Gotham changed irrevocably when he rose to power—in part due to the power vacuum his late predecessor left behind, but largely because his will was stronger than that of those which came before him. He’s thwarted this ubiquitous rationale for the better part of the last decade, and done so to the utmost extremes.”

“And yet, the fact remains that nothing lasts forever. His reign will end, as all things do.”

Frustration prickles beneath her skin. It’s only years of discipline that keeps it in check. “Dr. Isley, there is a saying in my culture… Nito o oumono wa itto o mo ezu.”

“What does it mean?”

“‘One who chases after two hares will not catch even one.’”

Pamela is quiet for a short time, until: “You think me unwise to provoke the Joker.” The temerity underlying her words implies that she does not much care either way.

“You are still tender-footed in this city. There are many things you have yet to learn.”

“I’m afraid I’m rather out of time for gathering wisdom.”

Tatsu nods, like that’s entirely reasonable. (It isn’t.) “Would this have anything to do with the Joker’s… painted lady?”

“Of course it does,” Pamela snaps. “It has everything to do with her.”

Her blunt honesty is refreshing. Her short fuse, however, reveals a notable lack of discipline. “Do you know of a woman named Amanda Waller?”

“High-ranking government officiant, an administrative force particularly as it concerns enhanced individuals.” Pamela frowns, leaning forward in her seat. For the very first time since they’d begun, Tatsu can feel that she has Pamela’s full undivided attention. “As far as I can gather, A.R.G.U.S. is the one holding her leash.”

Tatsu feels her lips twitch, threatening a smile. “Someone did their homework.”

“What does she have to do with Harley?” Pamela inquires impatiently.

“Task Force X. Ever heard of it?”

“Let’s assume I haven’t.”

“‘The worst of the worst.’ A team of very dangerous people hand-picked by Amanda Waller herself to fight the uglier battles before they can take American lives. Harley… is one of eight distinguished individuals who have been selected for this initiative. Officially, they are Task Force X—headed up by Colonel Rick Flag.”

Pamela just stares, her dark gaze quickly bordering on murderous. “And unofficially?”

“The ‘Suicide Squad.’”

“Because loss of life is acceptable when it comes to vagrants, freaks, and scoundrels.”

“Something like that. The way Waller sees it, they’re… expendable. What’s more, they won’t shy away from unconventional methods when push comes to shove.”

“You almost sound as though you endorse this… ‘Suicide Squad’ initiative.” Pamela practically spits each word out, distaste coloring each syllable.

“I don’t,” Tatsu negates with a shrug. “But I know better than to throw myself in front of a moving train solely because I don’t like where it’s headed.”

“Easy to say when you have no skin in the game,” Pamela points out, her intonation wrought with reproof.

Tatsu resists the urge to snort inelegantly. If only she knew. “I suppose you’re right. And yet, the reality of the situation is that inevitably, Waller’s agenda will directly counteract that of Joker’s.”

“Is she enhanced?”

“No… not she’s ever let that curb her ambition.”

“You think she’ll trump Joker.”

“I think she’ll rattle him,” Tatsu corrects. “In many ways, that warrants even more cause for concern. The fallout of this is… unpredictable, to say the very least.”

“All the more reason to make my move beforehand, no?”

Tatsu pointedly resists the urge to groan. “You’ve already drawn enough attention to yourself as is,” she asserts as evenly as she can. “Your… abilities may not be public knowledge in any sense of the phrase, but at the rate you’re going, that won’t last. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Pamela says, nodding. “I just don’t care.”

Tatsu bites back a sigh. Stubborn woman. “In that case, it would behoove you to—”

BOOM!

The rest of her sentence is swallowed up in a deafening roar as a considerable blast shakes the penthouse.

Tatsu and Pamela are both thrown to the floor, chairs crashing after them. It’s only years of training that allows Tatsu to catch herself before getting hit with a face full of marble.

“Fuck,” Pamela curses from somewhere to Tatsu’s left, but she’s far more concerned with locating the source of the blast. As far as she can tell, it’d come from the entrance to Pamela’s stately abode—a massive tree trunk inlaid with circular door-shaped grooves and molten silver.

Shrieking white noise overlays everything as Tatsu rises to her feet—the roaring fire, the muffled shouts, the pop-pop-pop of semi-automatic gunfire.

She draws her katana—Soultaker—from its sheath without haste, drawing an instinctual comfort from the trapped souls that whisper to her from within the blade.

Smoke pours through tiny cracks in the gargantuan trunk that constitutes the entrance to the loft. The wood visibly shudders beneath the strain as another deafening eruption sounds.

FWOOM!

More gunfire, a flaming burst of dust and wood and debris from the front door. Tatsu drops into a roll, intent on reaching cover. She finds it a second later, back pressed up against a marble column just a stone’s throw from the swampy reservoir in the foyer.

Tatsu sniffs the air, then immediately regrets it. Everything reeks of smoke. “You have a plan?” she calls out, catching a flurry of movement as Isley’s green figure ducks behind the kitchen counter.

“Rooftop!” Isley calls back. More gunfire.

‘Rooftop’? Is she trying to get us cornered?

Tatsu chances a peek around the column. Orange flames engulf the colossal tree trunk; plumes of grey smoke rise steadily from the burning wood. As she watches, another resounding blast splinters a substantial portion of the trunk clean in two with an ear-splitting snap.

The timber parts in a sea of fire to reveal a crew of armed men wearing all-black garb and matching white masks—thick painted brows and toothy red-lipped grins hovering in a mist of ashen smoke. Joker’s men.

“Looks like time’s up,” Tatsu grumbles, then turns and pulls herself flush up against the column once more.

Isley peeks over the countertop, making direct eye contact with Tatsu. Then, she promptly takes off and disappears down a nearby hallway. “Follow me!”

Tatsu growls, glancing over her shoulder to the approaching men then back to the hallway through which Isley had vanished.

The choice is clear, even if she doesn’t much like it.

She pushes off the wall and takes off after Isley at a dead sprint.

〇 〇 〇

Chapter Text

FLOYD

If Old Gotham was a wasteland before, it’s a damn hellscape now.

Fire everywhere, smoke in the air. The smell of it alone is enough to make his gut churn with nausea.

Still… Just another day in the life, right?

He yanks up the collar of his polo, uses it to cover his nose and mouth as he sprints through the wreckage, SIG MPX in hand. There’s a suppressor in his jean pocket—at least that’s something. He screws it on the barrel as he books it through a gauntlet of burning vehicles. Not for the first time, he takes a second to bemoan the fact that he hadn’t been wearing his tac suit during the blast.

It’s almost funny. He wears it most all the time where business is involved, and the one day he decides not to… Well. Life sure has a confounded sense of humor.

He knows where Joker’s been keeping Harley’s little boy—an old run-down apartment building on Bleaker Road. Hell, he spent a couple shifts covering the place while the little dude slept.

He’s not proud of it, ‘course, but he’d figured it was one way to ensure the kid’s safety until he could think of something better.

So much for that.

Old Gotham’s on fire, some asshole blew up a meeting of Joker’s guys (which yes, unfortunately includes him), and… well. People are gonna be dead after this, and if Floyd doesn’t get there fast enough, that’ll include Eli.

Nah. Fuck that.

He’ll get there in time. He has to.

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

It’s slower going than he’d like, hauling ass over to that shithole Joker rented on Bleaker.

‘Course, it probably doesn’t help that he stops to make a call along the way, but that’s unavoidable. After all, somebody’s gotta let Harley know what’s going on, even if it means she’ll probably be running head-first into the firefight faster than Floyd can say, “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.”

Still, besides that, it ain’t exactly a straight shot.

Floyd damn near breaks his leg toting some lady and her teenage daughter down three flights of stairs through an apartment building on fire. Singes some of his damn beard off, too.

He gets a pretty serious burn on one side of his neck clearing out an old folks’ home a block east. Two ladies are passed out from smoke inhalation by the time he’s got everyone out across the street on a relatively non-fire-y section of sidewalk. He runs back in afterwards, borrows the landline inside to call the GCPD, gives ‘em the address to find the old geezers.

Lastly, he manages to corral this Siberian Husky roaming the streets, smoke rising from his singed hindquarters. He pries off the rusted-over outlet from a nearby fire hydrant with another handy piece of rebar, fiddles and pokes at it until it’s spewing water. Then he takes the furry guy’s leash, ties it around the base. Surrounded by water, barking like mad… Floyd figures he’ll be alright until help comes.

Fuck his bleeding heart.

The familiar sound of gunfire filters through the roar of chemical fire as he turns the corner, sets eyes on a familiar street blown half to hell. Eli.

He checks over his SMG, twists the suppressor a little to make sure it hasn’t come loose. And then… well. Then, he runs into the fire.

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

ONYX

She’s trailing after her mark on a rented (read: stolen) bike when she gets the call.

Second phone, no ringtone. Floyd.

She heaves a sigh but manages to steer with one hand while the other wedges its way up into her helmet, taps the Bluetooth earpiece.

“Your girl just stole a police cruiser,” she says in lieu of greeting, not bothering to hide the note of begrudging approval from her tone. Her lips twitch as the girl in question hops a curb, mows over a nearby bike rack with several clangs! and the telltale groan of metal giving way beneath considerable force. “She can’t drive for shit. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“A police cruiser?” Floyd repeats. His voice sounds strained. “The fuck is Harley doing?”

“She’s angling for Old Gotham, far as I can tell,” Onyx reports, eyeing the plumes of black smoke in the sky, cool wind whipping against her cheeks. “Never pegged her as the type to run into the fire rather than away from it.”

“You’d be surprised,” Floyd answers, sounding caught somewhere between pride and annoyance.

“Yeah, yeah.” Onyx rolls her eyes, swerves around an illegally parked Mazda, still hot on Harley’s trail. “Now, what’s up? You never call out of the blue, not unless something’s up with Harley. Far as I can tell, she’s fine, if not a little scraped up. Where are you?”

“Old Gotham.”

“Ah. Joker business?”

“Something like that,” he relents. He sounds exhausted… Though, from the way flames are eating Old Gotham like wildfire up ahead, she doesn’t much blame him. “Look, I need you to keep following Harley—make sure she gets here safe.”

She snorts. “Isn’t that what I always do? Follow your girl, make sure she doesn’t get herself killed?”

“She doesn’t know where she’s going.” He doesn’t add, ‘And she’s not my girl,’ though she knows he wants to.

“Well, she’s sure driving like she does.”

“907 East Bleaker Road. I want the both of you to meet me there. You got that?”

“I’ll drag her ass there if I have to.”

“That ain’t funny.”

“Good thing it’s not a joke.”

“Just… take care of it, Nyx. Alright?”

“Aw. Good talking to you, too.”

She shuts the phone with a click, pockets it and stomps on the gas. It would seem she’s got a runaway stripper to babysit.

⼑ ⼑ ⼑

SELINA

She makes it down to street level with little trouble—that is, if you don’t count Bone and his goons thundering down the stairs two floors behind her as ‘trouble’.

The roaring flames have reached Bleaker, sending blackened smoke billowing up into gloomy skies overhead. Selina gets a concentrated whiff of it and immediately wrinkles her nose. Definitely a chemical fire.

From there, it’s a bit of a crapshoot—only one viable option. Book it across the street without an inch of cover in sight, hope she makes it over and into the apartment building without getting shot first. No time to lie in wait or set a trap.

If she hesitates, she’s dead. If she doesn’t, there’s a distinct possibility she’ll still be dead regardless.

Either way, she’s gotta try. For Eli and Harley, if nothing else.

With that final thought, she bursts out onto the street. Reloads her Glock, palms a throwing knife, then takes off at a dead sprint.

Here goes nothing.

/// /// ///

FLOYD

Just as he’s making his approach past a series of burning buildings (mostly abandoned, thankfully), he sees it: a familiar figure darting across the street. Black cat-suit, night-vision goggles, cheekbones cut from glass. Damn fast, too. No whip in sight, but then again, Floyd’s not sporting any of his calling cards either.

Catwoman. Or… Selina, though she’d probably kick him in the balls if he ever called her that to her face.

Not an enemy by any stretch of the imagination, but not exactly an ally, either.

Regardless, Floyd doesn’t exactly get a moment to decide how he’s gonna handle it. Almost as soon as he spots Selina, a trio of armed goons in matching pinstriped suits stumble out of a building just opposite the apartment. They’re packing heat, too.

A closer look tells him it’s more trouble than he originally thought—two ugly ass dudes who read more like henchmen than anything else flanking the big man in the middle. A massive, hulking, unit of a man who looks like he’s made of cracked stone. Glowing red eyes, bulging muscles that’d put even Batman’s to shame.

Yeah, Floyd knows the guy—Bone. Mob boss, professional asshole… just an overall unpleasant guy to be around. Never had the pleasure of meeting him face-to-face, but Floyd’s heard more than enough about him in years past to know the guy’s bad news. (Then again, aren’t they all, himself included?)

To Selina’s credit, she’s not by any means caught unawares. A couple strides from the sidewalk, she twists to hurl a knife behind her—nails the string bean on the left in the chest, doesn’t linger to watch him crumple.

Right on the heels of that comes a dented silver canister—thin, relatively small, bounces right off of Bone’s barrel chest with a little plink as he levels his Spectre SMG. Kinda looks like a flashb—

BANG!

It erupts in a wispy cloud of pale-white smoke at Gigantor’s feet, blinding Bone and his goons (including the downed one writhing on the pavement) in a thunderous 180-decibel roar. They don’t drop the guns (unfortunate), but Bone and his remaining henchman stumble back, eyes screwed shut, roaring into nothing.

Still, doesn’t discount the fact that flashbangs are a temporary fix—five, ten seconds at most. Bone and his other goon are still packing heat, and by the looks of things, they’re out for blood.

He estimates Selina’s got about two seconds tops before the two of them start hip-firing at random, and frisky or not, he doesn’t like those odds for her.

Floyd huffs out a sigh, kneels himself over a crack in the pavement… takes aim.

Two targets, a full mag, smoke in his lungs.

He’s never been one to miss, and he doesn’t intend to start now.

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

SELINA

She nails String Bean with one of Eiko’s throwing knives right in the sternum, hears him drop like a sack of bricks on the pavement with a startled yelp. Chucks a flashbang over her shoulder a second later, hears it go off with a bang before Bone and his remaining goon can get back to shooting.

Still, she knows it only buys her another second or two at most, because Bone’s never been one for precision work.

The first-floor window she’s gunning for is a good five strides away (not to mention it’s closed ), and the bullets are gonna start flying at any second, which means she’s pretty much done for unless Bone and Goon #2 suddenly forget which way is up.

Well. Stranger things have happened, no?

She’s just hopped up onto the pavement when—

Chk-chk! Semi-automatic gunfire—suppressed. Purely on instinct, she drops into a crouch, her ribs creaking and throbbing at the sudden move. A high-pitched squeal comes from somewhere behind her, and another body drops… Goon #2.

She whirls around just in time, handgun at the ready, to see a dark fist-sized pellet stick itself to one of Bone’s gigantic quads as he sprays the air with bullets. What the—

FWOOM!

She turns, barely bringing both arms up in time to cover her head as the heat of an explosion surges over her like a tidal wave. The blast wave hits her like a sucker punch to the gut a half a second later, throwing her back off her feet and into the air.

She hits the pavement hard, shoulder-first with a strangled “Oof!” that steals the remaining breath from her burning lungs in a punched-out rush.

She rolls over just in time to glimpse the aftermath: Bone in a crumpled heap on the other side of the street, downed goons flanking him on either side, blackened singe marks marring the pavement all around.

Who—?

“Hey!” A man jogs his way over, comes to loom over her where she’s sprawled back ass-first on the pavement. He looks… familiar somehow. Bald head, singed beard, tawny-brown skin. His eyes are squinted, filled with concern as they take her in. “You a’ight?”

She groans, props herself up on her elbows to get a good look at him… catches sight of the SMG in his hands with a suppressor screwed on the barrel, a safety ring (likely from that of a grenade) hanging from one of his bruised knuckles. All of a sudden, it clicks.
Lawton.

Her head pounds, black spots dance in her vision. Everything reeks of smoke. “I had that,” she grumbles, looking up to fix him with her best glare.

He snorts, offers her his free hand even as he scans their surroundings. “Never doubted you for a second.”

She rolls her eyes but accepts the invitation, lets him pull her up to her feet. Her head spins, her legs feel like Jell-O, and heaven knows the continued hits she’s weathered aren’t exactly doing wonders for her cracked ribs—but she’s got a job to do, and fuck it all, but she damn well intends to get it done.

“The hell you doing here, Lawton?”

He shrugs, retracts his hand to brandish a fresh mag from his leather jacket and reload. “Same as you, I reckon. Someone’s gotta pull Harley’s little guy outta the fire.”

Selina rolls her eyes but otherwise doesn’t argue. He may be one of Joker’s hired guns, but his affection for Harley is genuine—always has been. A glance back down the street tells her they’ve got maybe two minutes to get the kid out before the whole building goes up in flames.

No time for idle chit-chat. No time for a fist-fight, either.

“Fine,” she grumbles, slipping out another knife and creeping towards the entrance—a simple wooden door with a brass knocker. Locked, of course. She lifts her Glock, takes out the bolt with a BANG. Kicks in the door, spares another quick glance down the street to gauge the fire’s progress. 115 seconds. “Cover me,” she tells Lawton, before promptly vanishing inside.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

/// /// ///

HARLEY

It’s nearing something like 5:00 in the evening. The molten sun is starting its descent in a sky that can’t seem to decide between cloudy, partly sunny, and billowing with blackened smoke.

She loses the passenger’s side mirror in a close-call with the business end of a garbage truck on the outskirts of Old Gotham, but the cruiser’s in one piece and she hasn’t hit anyone yet, so she takes it as a win.

She also found out how to switch the loud-as-hell siren off, so it isn’t screaming in her ears like it was before. Double win.

Detective Do-Gooder’s button-down uni is at least three sizes too big on her, and it smells just like him (Old Spice and stale cigarettes and man sweat), but she figures it’s better than nothing. Plus, it’s still got the shiny police-man badge pinned to the breast, which she thinks is pretty neat. All she’s missing is the hat and a nightstick.

She’s just crossed over into Old Gotham proper, flanked by burning buildings on either side, when it happens.

Some helmeted asshole zooms past her on a motorbike, turns directly into her path, and slides to a screeching halt—directly in front of her fuckin’ car! Well, not exactly hers, but she still stole it fair and square, so what the fuck ?!

“Oh, shit !” Harley shrieks, slams both feet on what she prays is the brake pedal. The car lurches, there’s a hair-raising screech of rubber against asphalt, and the cruiser just manages to squeal to a stop before making contact with the other (asshole) driver.

Harley’s halfway out the door by the time Mr. Fast & Furious dismounts, yanking off his helmet to reveal—

Oh. Mr. Fast & Furious isn’t a ‘Mr.’ at all. It—She—is a beautiful Black lady with intense cat-like eyes and non-existent hair.

And this, too—she’s stalking towards Harley with a purpose, glaring her down like she’s out for blood. The various guns strapped to her hip, thighs and ankle alongside the knife she’s spinning in one hand like she damn well knows how to use it also doesn’t bode well for Harley.

Harley ducks, lunges back into the car, then reappears levelling Officer Helps-a-Lot’s Glock directly at the pretty (intimidating) lady’s face. She doesn’t flinch.

“That’s far enough,” Harley snaps when the woman is just a couple feet away, heartbeat hammering against her bruised ribcage.

She concedes, halting where she stands, though she seems more amused than anything else. Her sharp manicured nails drum idly atop the hood of the cruiser as she tilts her head, appraising Harley with cool, assessing brown eyes.

Harley grips the gun a little tighter, wills her voice not to tremble when she asks, “Who the hell are you?”

— —

IVY

She makes it to the roof, Tatsu hot on her heels, then stumbles out onto the lawn and searches wildly about for a sign of Harley… only to find that she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, what the fuck?” she curses under her breath even as another explosion from downstairs rocks the building, causing her to stumble on her feet.

“Ivy! Finally!” Frank exclaims from where he’s leaned up against the trunk of the cherry blossom tree. There’s a bundled-up wad of fabric sitting just next to him on the lawn that looks suspiciously like the T-shirt she’d lent Harley for her chores. “Who the fuck is blowin’ up our crib?”

‘Our’?!

“Frank, where the fuck is Harley?” Ivy snaps, running over to the edge of the roof and peering over the side. Nothing. She whirls around, fixes Frank with a heavy-browed glower. “Frank.”

“She saw the flames in Old Gotham, got to climbing!” Frank shouts back, heated indignation in his tone. “I told her ass to stay here—”

“Wh—?” Frustration swells in her chest, white-hot needles pricking along her spine. Moreover: “Old Gotham ?!”

“It’s on fire!” Frank exclaims shrilly, flower-eye limbs flailing about. “Didn’t you hear the big-ass explosion?”

Ivy turns to glance over her shoulder, has to choke back a scream at the sight of coal-black smoke drifting into the skies… Sure enough, from Old Gotham. Are you fucking—

Another explosion rocks the building, damn near pitching Ivy face-first to the ground… which would be a shame, especially as it seems Harley had done a damn good job of weeding out all that horsenettle from the garden beds.

Harley.

“Isley!” Tatsu yells. Ivy whips back around to see her hauling Frank up with one arm while she brandishes her whispering sword with the other. Impressive, considering Frank’s the farthest thing from light. “We need to go now !”

“Fuck!” Ivy curses to no one in particular, hands fisting at clumps of her own tousled hair until her scalp burns.

“ISLEY!” Tatsu roars.

“Yeah, okay! I get it!” she yells back, leaning to peer over the edge of the roof once more. “C’mon.” She gestures over for Tatsu to follow, vision blurred with red around the edges. “Over the side of the roof, let’s go.”

“The side of the roof ?” Frank repeats. “Oh, fuck no—!”

Another explosion followed by the deafening crunch! of building collapsing a couple floors down.

“NOW!” Ivy roars.

No one lodges any further complaints after that.

🜃 🜃 🜃

Chapter Text

JOKER

A pull of whiskey straight from the bottle burns a warm trail down his gullet. It’s not hot enough. It doesn’t hurt enough. He chucks the bottle somewhere behind him, hears it shatter against the tile.

He looks up, catches sight of a jester’s likeness in the cracked mirror—ghost-pale features, gaunt eye sockets stained with black, lips the color of freshly-spilt blood grinning from ear to ear.

A snicker rises in his throat. He swallows it before it can turn into a cackle.

“Hey, boss!” comes the slurred voice of some nameless pea-brained jackass who should damn well know better than to speak unless spoken to.

Jay catches the idiot’s eye in the cracked mirror, licks his lips, spits a combination of saliva and blood into the sink.

He’s got a revolver tucked in the waistband of his slacks and five more bullets.

A shot through the idiot’s eye blows his socket and makes it four.

He steps over the body, all careful-like so as not to get any blood on his good shoes. “Someone clean this joker up,” he sneers, then snorts. Joker.

Joker.

Three other idiots are in the lounge of the apartment, guns at the ready, nervous looks on their powdered faces. They all jolt into action the moment he gives the order.

Scared little pups. They can live. For now.

One of them’s looking at him a little funny. That deer in the headlights look, like he’s got something to say but he’s scared shitless to say it.

The other two keep exchanging glances with each other, like they know what he’s about to say, and they’re shitting their pants about it, too.

Jay sighs, cocks his revolver, and takes aim—right at the head.

Are you supposed to shoot a deer in the head?

Eh. Dead is dead.

“What is it, Jimbo?” Jay asks in a sing-song tone, lips pursed with annoyance. “Don’t make me ask again.”

“I-It’s, um, H-Harley,” he sputters, perspiration trickling from his temple. Gross.

BANG! Jimbo crumples to the floor, blood oozing from a neat bullet hole between his bushy brows.

Three bullets.

He cocks the gun once more, aims it at the lankier one.

“Eenie.”

Turns it on the fat one. “Meenie.”

String bean. “Miney.”

Back to Fatso. “Mo.” He keeps it there. He likes the way Fatso squirms with the barrel pointed his way. “What about Harley, hm? And be quick about it. My patience is wearing thin.”

“She’s g-going to Old Gotham, Sir.”

“What ?!” Jay roars, takes a step closer and keeps the gun pointed at the crease in Fatso’s brow. “Why ?!”

The other one—String Bean—chimes in this time. “It’s s-sort of… on fire?”

Jay turns the gun on him. “Was that a question, String Bean? Or a statement?”

String Bean audibly gulps. “A statement, M-Mister Joker Sir.”

Jay lowers the gun, feels hysteria crawl up into his throat until it’s all he can do not to cackle aloud. “FUCK!” he screams to no one in particular.

BANG! BANG! Two bodies drop—one right after the other. The second thud is notably louder than the first.

One bullet left. And he knows just who to save it for.

Time to go chase down a runaway whore.

🃏 🃏 🃏 🃏 🃏

ONYX

She has spirit, Floyd’s Harley. (That, and a good amount of choice body art, too.)

Dip-dyed platinum-blonde pigtails, a too-large police uniform shirt left unbuttoned and slipping off her pale shoulders, a determined gleam in her eye.

Black heart on her cheek; the word ‘ROTTEN’ along her jawline; ‘Daddy’s Lil Monster’ in large, looping script beneath her left collarbone.

Charming.

The fact that she’s currently got a Glock leveled at Onyx’s head is significantly less so, but she’ll take what she can get.

Honestly, Onyx is rather impressed that Harley’s still standing. The girl looks like she got into a no-holds-barred wrestle with Hulk Hogan and miraculously lived to tell the tale—then, on her way back home, proceeded to get curb-stomped by an angry mob.

Whatever. She’s alive; that’s what matters.

“That’s far enough,” she says, successfully stopping Onyx in her tracks. There’s a desperate, almost feral gleam in her eye… not unlike that of a cornered animal. “Who the hell are you?”

“Onyx Adams,” Onyx answers honestly. “And you’re Harley Quinn.”

Harley eyes her warily up and down for a moment. “Look, lady, I really don’t have time for this. Did I sleep with ya or somethin’?”

Onyx has to bite back a chuckle. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Oh.” Harley frowns, seeming stumped. “Then whaddaya want?”

“We have a mutual friend—Floyd Lawton.”

A crease forms between her brows, suspicion flaring in her narrowed gaze. “Floyd never mentioned ya.”

Onyx doesn’t bother feigning offense. They’re out of time for pleasantries. “We’re old friends,” she explains levelly. “He has me follow you sometimes, make sure you’re doing okay.”

“Yeah?” Harley asks, sounding very much like she wants to call ‘Bullshit.’ Onyx can’t blame her. “Prove it.”

“You dress like a bougie therapist for our beloved district attorney. Tetch always pumps you full of drugs, dresses you up all nice and pretty like a doll because he’s a fuckin’ limp-dicked pervert.”

Harley huffs out an incredulous laugh at that even as the haunted look in her eye betrays her unease.

“Almost killed him for that alone, never mind how Joker treats you, like you’re his property or something…” Onyx shakes her head in disgust, remembering the pure anger that bloomed inside her chest that day—hot and molten. “Floyd said I couldn’t, ‘cause Joker had your kid. I don’t much like kids myself, but they’re innocents. Your kid is innocent. He doesn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire of Joker’s one-man pissing contest.”

Harley lowers the gun, an awed look on her face. “His name is Eli,” she says quietly after a moment.

At that, Onyx has to bite back a sigh. Even after all she’s been through, this girl still trusts too damn easy. “That’s a wonderful name,” she says instead. “I think Floyd found him. He gave me an address in Old Gotham, told me to take you there. Will you let me?”

Harley eyes her carefully for a long minute. Then, she breaks into a tentative grin. “Sure!” She shoves the gun in the waistband of her shorts, prances around the door of the police cruiser, slams it shut behind her without flourish. “Can I drive?”

Onyx snorts, tosses her the helmet. “In your dreams, Blondie.”

⼑ ⼑ ⼑

FLOYD

By the time they find the poor kid sobbing in apartment 3B, they’ve downed five bodies, many of whom Floyd knew personally.

Floyd does the honors of kicking in the door, even if Selina seems less than pleased with his initiative. Whatever. She can be pissed about it all she wants.

Floyd’s noticed at least three shallow gashes running down her back, not to mention some serious deep-tissue bruising around her pelvis. In all likelihood, she’s boasting one or two cracked ribs, too, judging by the slight wheeze that tapers off every breath and the almost gingerly way she’s moving about.

If he can save her any further injury, he’ll do it.

The moment they lay eyes upon a sniffling Eli flanked by two idiots in matching green pantsuits and Joker makeup, all bets are off. Floyd’s got Idiot #1’s head in the sights of his SIG MPX, Selina’s leveling her Glock at Idiot #2. The only thing that’s keeping him from painting the walls with brain matter is the terrified look on Eli’s tear-streaked face.

It’s a stand-off. Should they shoot and traumatize the kid for life, or play this out?

Fortunately, Tweedledee and Tweedle-dumber make the decision for them.

They exchange wide-eyed glances with one another over Eli’s pretty blonde head, look back down the barrel of each gun trained upon them, and seem to make a split-second decision on the spot.

Before Floyd can down them, too, they’re tossing their SMGs aside and scurrying forth, squeezing past Selina and Floyd in the tiny doorway, all the while mumbling something to themselves about “not getting paid enough for this.”

Floyd doesn’t relax his vigilance until he hears their footfalls echoing from the stairwell.

Huh. That was… unexpectedly nice.

Hot smoke fills Floyd’s lungs, making every breath he takes hurt like a bitch.

It’s a miracle the kid hasn’t passed out from smoke inhalation yet.

When he turns to Selina, she’s already looking right back at him with that same determination splayed across her pretty, soot-streaked features.

All at once, they’re on the same page.

They need to get the kid out of here, fast.

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

IVY

It’s a bumpy ride, getting down—and even that is likely understating it.

They’re in a cradle of thickening vines—Tatsu, Frank, then Ivy, in that order. It’s almost canoe-shaped, Ivy notes dazedly.

Bullets pepper the air all around, and the plants… the plants. So many of them are dying—whether by bullets, fire, or explosives they fall. Ivy feels every single one like a sucker punch to the gut—crushing physical blows that squeeze all the breath from her lungs.

Frank’s obnoxious, loud-mouthed commentary isn’t exactly helping, either.

“Fuck—Shit—Jesus, Ivy, can’t you get us outta here a little faster?”

“Shut up, Frank,” Ivy growls—not that it does any good.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Carrot Top,” Frank spews back immediately, righteous indignation coloring his shrill tone. Their cradle shudders violently as a fresh round of bullets sprays the air, shattering what precious little remains of Ivy’s dwindling focus. “Excuse me for not being happy-go-fucking-lucky about the fact that we’re all currently plummeting to our deaths!”

Tatsu turns back, shoots the potted plant a hard glare before settling on Ivy. Her short, shoulder-length black hair whips this way and that in the harsh winds. “Can you shut him up?”

“Lady, I will eat you!”

Ivy ignores them. They’re fifteen floors up, still—sailing down from the cityscape through open air in a canoe-shaped amalgamation of vines as hails of bullets and fiery explosions decimate everything in their wake. She’s got better things to focus on.

Namely—getting them down without dying. (And Harley. Where the fuck is Harley?)

🜃 🜃 🜃

TATSU

Tatsu somersaults out the cradle of vines just moments before they touch solid ground, lands in a bent-legged crouch on a cracked slab of sidewalk pavement. The top two floors of the lavish high-rise that Pamela once called home are last week’s news—engulfed in flames, shuddering with a seemingly never-ending procession of explosives from the interior.

She ignores the gargantuan Venus flytrap plant exclaiming, “Gah-damn!” before turning to Pamela to say, “Did you see that, Ives? This lady’s a whole somersaulting gymnastics buff.” And then, “Hey, lady!” (This part is directed at yours truly.) “Where you think you’re goin’?”

Tatsu ignores him.

She’s sprinting over to the building’s awning-covered entrance, sword in tow. After all, it stands to reason that since Joker’s men chose to bomb the front doorstep rather than taking a more covert approach, they’ll be coming down and out through the front doors as well.

It’s lacking in creativity, to be sure (foolish, even), but it’s convenient enough for Tatsu’s purposes, and that’s what matters.

She jogs up to one of eight Romanesque columns flanking the red-carpeted entryway, conceals herself behind its stone figure as she takes stock of her surroundings.

Rubber-necking civilians piling up on all the nearby sidewalks? Check.

Sirens in the distance? Check.

Pamela and her sailor-mouthed plant friend ducking for cover somewhere across the street? … Well, shit.

The row boat-shaped vine transport sits quiescent on the sidewalk where they’d first touched down, empty and lifeless.

Pamela and Frank… Damn it.

Where did they go?

Footsteps at her back—gentle, erratic, untrained. On their heels, a strange, almost slithering gait.

She whirls around just in time to see—

“Mother of God, you are fast,” the Venus flytrap exclaims boisterously from behind a frustrated-looking Pamela as the pair come up to greet her. He’s grown… legs, in only the loosest sense of the word. Twin vines support him on either side like a pair of snake-like feet, holding him aloft. Interesting. She hadn’t known he could walk on his own. “Where did you say you were from again?”

It’s a testament to her considerable self-discipline that Tatsu does not facepalm right there and there. Instead, she turns to Pamela, who’s sidled up to join her shoulder-to-shoulder behind the smooth column.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she questions flatly, allowing the faintest hint of malice to seep into her lowered tone.

Pamela shrugs, hazards a peek around the column. Presumably seeing nothing that would warrant any immediate concern, she turns back to shoot Tatsu a bemused look. “Call me sentimental.”

Tatsu doesn’t roll her eyes at that, but it’s a close thing. Instead, she inhales deeply to center herself—once… twice.

She turns, steals another glimpse around the column. Nothing.

She estimates another sixty seconds, maybe less, before Joker’s men reach the ground floor and start shooting.

Tatsu tightens her grip around the hilt of her katana, feels the whispering words of souls long dead enveloping her body in a haze of war and bloodshed.

The telltale roar of a turbine engine from overhead shatters her meditative abstraction… Her eyes snap open as the rhythmic beat of helicopter blades slicing elevated air at breakneck speed fills her ears.

The Venus flytrap cranes to escape the shade of the entryway’s awning, glaring up into gloomy skies overhead with his flowered red eyes. “Now, who the fuck—?”

“What do you see, Frank?” Pamela questions, her hardened tone imbued with the faintest tinge of mounting apprehension.

The Venus flytrap—Frank—squints, straining. “Black, nondescript…” he reports. “It ain’t the cops; that’s for damn sure!”

A sinking feeling in Tatsu’s gut.

Well. It looks as though the cavalry’s come a bit sooner than expected.

Not only that, first-responders are closing in. The wail of emergency sirens—police, firefighters, EMTs—no longer so distant; now just a hair short of deafening. Maybe two blocks down, if Tatsu had to guess.

She clenches her jaw, takes a moment to feel around for the syringe in her pocket—still there.

Time to improvise.

〇 〇 〇

Chapter Text

TATSU

They don’t have to wait much longer until Joker’s men crash the lobby spraying bullets—maybe twenty seconds or so. Just as Tatsu estimated.

She slips a flashbang grenade from her hip, waits for a few of them to burst through the entrance doors, and chucks it side-armed past the three morons leading the pack. It sails between Idiot #1 and #2’s hips, clattering onto the marble floors of the grand lobby with a series of metallic clangs before—

BANG!

A cloud of pale fog erupts amidst a horde of armed goons, making them stumble and drop their guns, screaming profanity and clutching desperately at their ears as white noise overwhelms their senses.

The discordant shriek from the grenade reaches Tatsu even where she stands, causing her to flinch, but she’s quick to push it aside in favor of calculating her best moment to strike.

The moment the foremost trio register the shrieks of their comrades, then turn to assess the situation, Tatsu is on the move.

Sprinting over, dropping into a roll around Idiot #3. In a flash, she’s up in a crouch and slashing his hamstring through a baggy pair of camo pants, causing him to crumple with a quiet groan.

Idiot #2 and #1 take notice of her then, eyes widening almost comically through the slits of their Joker masks. She counts a full one-Mississippi second before recognition seems to dawn on them, and they’re scrambling to bring their guns around to shoot her.

She almost snorts. Amateurs.

Idiot #2 loses his hand before he can even get to a decent hip-firing position, and Idiot #1—

She’s about to slice him in the jugular, feel his soul enter her bloodied blade, but Frank gets there first.

In one massive movement, he’s consumed Idiot #1 whole—literally. Gun, helmet, and all. Tatsu watches in abject horror, at a complete loss for words as the man’s panicked squawk is swallowed up by Frank’s massive lips closing down on his victim.

Frank chews once, twice, and Tatsu can hear the sickening squelch of teeth tearing flesh. Then, he audibly gulps—once, twice, three times. There’s a deafening grumble like rocks in the garbage disposal as the considerable mass in Frank’s maw slides down his throat to go down, down, headed towards… well, Tatsu’s not sure exactly where.

It’s not like Frank has a stomach anywhere to be seen.

With that done, Frank shivers in visible delight, then lets out a contented sigh. “Tasty.”

Pamela sidles up to join Tatsu where she stands, affording the plant a sharp nod. “Nice one, Frank.”

What the f—?

Tatsu’s spared from dwelling on that little tidbit any further as a couple stragglers (these ones largely unaffected by the flashbang) stumble out, guns at the ready.

She settles down into a fighting stance, mentally tracking her best course of attack. Green vines curl around the doors, wrangling disoriented men from the inside and throwing them back out onto the street.

Frank slithers forward, fangs bared in delight.

Tatsu almost smiles. Almost.

Just another day in the life.

〇 〇 〇

HARLEY

Onyx takes a hard screeching right onto a small, derelict street… Bleaker, if the drooping sign at the street corner is anything to go by.

Black smoke fills the air. Harley’s eyes water even from under the helmet as the fumes enter her lungs, making her chest burn until it aches to breathe.

She holds Onyx’s waist a little tighter as they zip down the street, roaring flames engulf run-down buildings on either side.

And there, a couple buildings down, stumbling out onto the cracked sidewalk from a burning apartment building… is that Selina? And Floyd, too?

And Eli ?

Tears stream down either of Harley’s cheeks at the sight of his little golden-blonde head of hair tucked securely into Selina’s neck; her lungs ache with the effort of heaving in a fresh breath of air that’ll make this feel real.

She barely registers Onyx sliding to a screeching halt at the curb, because she’s already vaulting herself up off the motorcycle, ripping off the helmet and letting it fall to the tarmac with a dull thunk!

She thinks Floyd says something, then, or maybe Selina does, but right now, she really can’t find it in herself to care.

She bounds up onto the sidewalk in a flash, fucking books it straight for her little boy, who’s all dazed and sleepy in Selina’s arms.

God, he’s so fuckin’ adorable.

Selina hands him over without a fuss, and when Eli’s droopy blue eyes widen at the sight of her and he opens his lanky little arms to hug her tight and yells, “Mommy!” in a hoarse, cracked voice from all the smoke, Harley fears her heart might just beat right out of her chest with the unadulterated love she feels for him in this moment.

Harley’s arms are tight around his little torso—maybe a little too tight—but she needs this right now. She needs his pert, button nose nuzzling against the crook of her neck, the scent of him—smoke and stale cigarettes and something that’s entirely unique to Eli and Eli alone—invading her nostrils.

So many nights spent apart from her little boy, her fucking world—the best, most precious piece of her, no matter which way you slice it.

“Mommy, you’re squeezing me too tight,” Eli complains petulantly in her ear, his tiny voice a little more strained than it was before.

Harley manages a teary laugh that sounds more like a sob than anything else, but dutifully loosens her hold (just a little bit) all the same. “Sorry, baby,” she apologizes hoarsely, turning to bury her nose in his disheveled hair so she can breathe him in. “Mommy’s just really, really happy to see you.”

Eli giggles, a pure sound of youthful delight that warms Harley down to the marrow of her bones. “‘M happy to see you too, Ma.”

Then he pulls back a little to give her a quick once-over, and Harley (though she’s loath to let him part from her for even a moment) lets him—albeit with a not-insignificant amount of hesitance.

As he takes in her battered appearance, a small crease forms between his blonde eyebrows and his little pink lips push out to form an adorable pout. “Mommy, you’re hurt!” he exclaims, concern filling his wide blue-eyed gaze.

Harley chuckles, pulls him in for another hug. The warmth of his squirming body against her own is intoxicating, and God, she never wants to let him go. “It’s alright, baby. I promise,” she soothes, determined truth underscoring every word. She can’t even feel the bruises or the cuts or the pain anymore. All she knows is Eli: his squeaky voice; his impossibly soft hair tickling her cheek; his clean, little kid smell filling her nostrils. “Mommy’s alright.”

Over his shoulder, she finally spares a glance to Selina then Floyd and back again, mouthing a teary-eyed ‘Thank you.’

Selina smiles, wiping a tear from her soot-streaked cheek. Floyd just gives a curt nod, but there’s a sheen of moisture in his brown, almond-shaped eyes that betrays his nostalgia.

She makes a mental note to tease him about it later.

Then she turns to Onyx, who’s leaned up against her motorcycle with crossed arms and a gentle smirk. She mouths a ‘Thank you’ over to her, too, but she’s quick to dismiss it with a wave of her gloved hand.

It’s kind of a perfect moment, there—for a minute or two, at least.

The district still burns around them, blackened smoke fills Harley’s lungs, and she knows that they can’t linger here… But oh, how she wishes they could.

It’s far from perfect; the edges of it burnt into an ugly black with heartache and grief beyond her years… and yet, in spite of all that grief—or, perhaps because of it—the burgeoning happiness in her chest seems to grow all the greater.

Well, she should know by now that shit like this—warm, fuzzy, well and truly happy shit—never lasts.

She barely sees the recognition and alarm settle into Floyd’s eyes as he fixes his gaze on something (or someone ) in the near distance. There’s an ear-splitting squeal of tires on asphalt from the other end of the street—all the warning she gets before shit hits the fan.

Harley barely has time to get down and collapse shoulder-first onto the pavement, shielding Eli with her body as a projectile whistles through the smoke-blackened air overhead and—

FWOOM!

It (whatever it is) explodes the flame-engulfed apartment building at their backs in a deafening explosion, sending chunks of debris flying.

A concussive wave of heat follows quickly on the heels of the blast, searing likely second-degree burns into the nape of Harley’s neck and the backs of her thighs. The force of it pushing down on her is more than enough to have her grinding her teeth something awful to keep herself from collapsing and squishing Eli, scraping the scabbed-over skin of her own knees and elbows off against the pavement as it ripples over her.

She thinks she hears Eli scream and burst into tears cradled against her chest, but she can’t be sure. Her ears are ringing with white noise; the world is sideways; her knees and elbows sting like a bitch, and she’s probably bleeding onto the pavement like nobody’s business.

Another projectile whizzing overhead—FWOOM!—deafens her all over again, sends out another concussive blast that seems to sear her skin right down to the fuckin’ bone. She looks up just in time to see the apartment building shudder, its top two floors (already blackened with significant fire damage) beginning to collapse in on itself.

She scrambles to her feet with a groan, backpedals unsteadily from the shuddering apartment building with a sobbing Eli clutched to her chest. If it takes another blast, it’s going down for sure.

Floyd and Selina are stumbling to their feet, clutching their ears and aiming their guns in two different directions… not that they’ll likely catch sight of their attacker through all this brown-ish dust and black smoke that surrounds them in a dense, eye-watering cloud.

Onyx is out cold, slumped down in an awkward position against her parked motorcycle near the curb. No visible wounds, but that won’t last unless she gets her ass up and hightails it outta here, now.

After a moment’s deliberation, Harley bites back a curse and knees down in front of her, shaking her by the shoulder in an attempt to rouse her.

“Onyx?” Her voice is hoarse, gravelly… It hurts like a bitch just to whisper, but she forces herself to push through it. “Onyx!” she says, louder this time, then chokes and lurches to the side, hacks up a glob of her own blood mixed with saliva onto the pavement.

Eli’s bordering on hysterical now, wetting the base of her neck with his tears, and God, but she hates herself for putting him in this situation.

In the distance, there’s the roar of an engine from high up overhead… the chop-chop-chop of helicopter blades. It sounds as if it’s closing in on Old Gotham… though for what reason, Harley can’t for the life of her tell. The whole district will be black and burnt by nightfall.

Regardless, she can’t think on it for very long.

A brainsick cackle reverberates down the street, growing ever nearer with the squeal of rubber on asphalt. Harley’s blood runs cold.

Is she just imagining that?

She has to be. Right?

She takes a deep breath to steel herself (even if it stings her smoke-filled lungs something awful), then winds up and slaps Onyx across the face.

SMACK!

Onyx comes alive with a full-bodied flinch, gloved fists snapping up to a defensive position, a throwing knife—Where the fuck did she pull that from?—clenched tightly in one hand.

Her dark gaze is glossy, unfocused, but Harley gives her umber-brown cheek a couple lighter slaps until it fixes on her. “C’mon, lady, c’mon back,” she pleads. “You gotta get up, please.”

“Harley?” Onyx croaks, dark eyes already scanning their surroundings, brow furrowed in pain and confusion. There’s a patch of angry red forming above her collarbone that Harley will bet is likely a developing burn from the heat of the blast. “What—?”

“No time to explain, Baldy,” Harley snaps, employing the insensitive nickname in an effort to piss her off enough that she’ll jolt into action. The affronted look that flits across her face is evidence that it’s working. “Get up, now.”

A large vehicle comes shrieking through the dust, then, squealing to a cacophonous halt just a hundred feet from where Harley’s stuck coaching Onyx back to the land of the living.

She thinks she stands and offers a hand down to her fallen compatriot; feels Onyx take the proffered hand and leverage Harley’s balance to pull herself up to her feet. She barely registers it.

The car…

It’s black, the paint job dented and scratched in various places; an SUV with a large metal grille guard (streaked with blood, like it recently ran over a pedestrian) to match. It’s got huge wheels and obnoxious LED headlights that strain Harley’s eyes when she chances a look, but that’s not the disturbing part.

No, that comes in the form of a familiar green-haired clown wearing a bright-red Cheshire cat grin that leaks blood down his pale chin. He’s visible from the waist up where he’s stuck himself up through the sunroof, a whole R-P-fucking-G balanced on his suit-clad shoulder.

So, that’s what caused the ear-splitting explosions.

In her periphery, Harley sees Floyd and Selina and Onyx snap to attention wearing matching glares, guns leveled at Joker’s chest and head. Joker’s maniacal grin doesn’t falter.

“Harley Quinn!” he roars with melodramatic vigor, one arm spread even as the other secures the RPG over his shoulder. Still, it doesn’t appear as though he’s posed to loose another missile, so Floyd and Selina and Onyx hold their fire. For now. “There’s my runaway harlot!”

Harley suppresses a flinch, cradles Eli’s head a little closer to her chest and turns to shoot her tormentor a hard glare. She hopes it comes off as more intimidating than it feels. “Whaddaya want, Mistah J?”

“Awww, that’s no way to treat your Puddin’, Harley girl,” Joker laments obnoxiously, sprawling a ghost-pale hand across his lapel with an exaggerated frown—feigning offense. “I’m willing to forgive all this…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand and scrunching his nose in distaste, “childish silliness of yours if you come quietly.”

At that, he throws his head back, chest heaving as a screaming cackle escapes him. “‘Come quietly,’” he repeats—almost mocking himself, his words strained with crazed laughter. “When have you ever done that?”

Harley fights the urge to roll her eyes. She’s not at all sure what compels her to say it, but a second later, the words are escaping her before she can think to stop them: “Not like you would know.”

It’s sullen—childish, even. A low blow, and not a particularly good comeback as comebacks go, but Harley’s proud of it all the same.

She never dared to speak out of turn, much less retort with something snappy. But now, with Eli in her arms, his wonderful kid-ish scent in her nose, his tears warm and wet against her neck…

She doesn’t care anymore. Sure, old habits die hard. Even now, talking back feels like tearing flayed skin from her bleeding flesh, but her shackles are gone, and she’s inclined to believe that that’s all that truly matters—no matter how bad it hurts.

Joker’s face twists into a snarl, but it’s come and gone in a split-second—replaced by a mask of pleasant surprise as another brainsick laugh bubbles up in his throat.

Control. He has to appear in control. That’s all that’s ever mattered with him. Textbook narcissism and histrionic personality disorder. Harley could write a whole ‘nother thesis on his twisted psychology at this point.

Idly, Harley notes the roar of an engine, the chk-chk-chk of helicopter blades closing in from the heavens. It sounds as though it’s headed straight for them.

Harley prays that isn’t the case. She’s got enough on her plate as it is.

“Oh-ho!” Joker exclaims, his high-pitched tone choked with artificial glee. Another crowing chortle. “Someone’s feeling bold.”

“It’s over, Joker,” Floyd interjects, then, stepping in front of Harley to shield her (and Eli) from Joker’s aim. The barrel of his gun is steady despite his injuries, trained at Joker’s forehead—a perfect hit. They don’t call him ‘Deadshot’ for nothin’. “We got the kid, and Harley ain’t goin’ back to your sorry ass. Ever.”

As he speaks, Onyx and Selina are quick to join up—flanking Floyd’s tall bulky figure on either side, guns at the ready.

Joker heaves a hyperbolic sigh, rolling his eyes. “See, this is what I get for trying to be nice!” he turns to exclaim to no one in particular, agitation rising in his tone. “Well.” He steadies the RPG, takes aim down the iron sights. “You leave me no choice, Puddin’.”

The nickname hits like a physical blow, but Harley does not flinch away. She knows Onyx, Floyd, and Selina’s fingers are teasing their triggers… and when they pump him full of lead, she wants to see it.

“Don’t do it, man,” Floyd warns even as his shoulders tense and he cranes his neck to better line up the shot. It was probably already dead-on to begin with, but he’s a perfectionist like that. “You’re outnumbered. You can’t win here.”

Joker pauses, throws back his head and screeches like that’s the funniest joke he’s heard in some time. “You stole something of mine, Floyd-y,” he reasons, letting his cold gaze land on Harley. It seems to bore straight through her, but she does not look away. She won’t. “If I can’t have her…” He takes aim, squinting with one eye down the sights. “No one can.”

Things seem to happen in slow motion, then.

Floyd’s shoulders tense, Onyx cracks her neck, and then…

And then.

Something falls from the sky with a shrill, high-pitched whistle, headed straight for the asphalt. Thin, cylindrical, pointy grey metal; its back end fitted with little black blades…

Is that a missile—?

FWOOOOM!

Harley barely has time to turn and shield Eli from the blow, then bend her arms and knees in time to catch her on the pavement (again ) as the concussive blast wave hurls her face-first down. The impact tears all the skin—whatever’s left of it, anyhow—from her knees and elbows; a wave of heat seems to burn her flesh from the outside in.

Offhandedly, she takes a moment to wonder if this is how it feels to die by fire.

Eli wails, the ground shudders, and everything fades to black.

— —

TATSU

It takes some time (maybe five, ten minutes or so), but eventually, they’ve cleared all of Joker’s men. Blood stains the columns and the glass of the double-door entrance; crumpled bodies litter the asphalt at their backs; Frank’s sucking on a bloodied, radial bone that still has bits of flesh attached to it like it’s a lollipop.

But, dare she say it; they’ve done… well.

A quick glance over to Old Gotham shows smoke, fire, and a black helicopter hovering in the darkening skies. As Tatsu watches, it looses a missile straight down that shudders the entire district.

Time’s up.

She stalks up behind Isley, who’s tugging at the bulletproof vest of a dead goon… brandishes a sleek, black device a moment later—a phone.

Too bad she won’t have time to examine it any further.

In a second, Tatsu’s got the syringe in one hand and she’s on top of her, jamming it into the pale-green flesh of her neck and pressing until it’s all gone.

Isley barely has time to tense up and let out a hissed curse before she’s crumpling to her knees, collapsing face-first over the corpse of the masked goon.

The movement must have snapped Frank from his post-meal haze, because a second later, and, “Hey, lady! What the fuck did you just do?!”

Tatsu rolls her eyes, pulls a miniaturized tranq-dart pistol from her bra. (Her back-up in case the syringe didn’t work with Isley’s enhanced genetic make-up.)

She shoots him in his giant, bulbous, frog-like chin—once, twice, three times.

He doesn’t get in another word before he’s out cold, folding on the spot like a house of cards. His stem curves obscenely, his disproportionately large head sinking to the red-carpeted floor with a gentle thud!

Then, she snatches the phone Isley had been examining from her loosened grasp, punches in a number she (regrettably) has come to know by heart.

Two rings… then three. Tatsu eyes her unconscious charges warily as she waits.

Another ring.

Click! Someone picks up.

“Yes?” comes a familiar voice on the other end.

“It’s Tatsu,” she says flatly. “I need an extraction.”

“Address?”

She squints over at the golden plaque beside the double-door entrance, then glances back at the street corners. She rattles it off.

“Understood. Stay right where you are.”

Tatsu clenches her jaw, resentment prickling beneath her skin. Nevertheless, her voice is carefully devoid of emotion when she answers, “Yes, Ma’am.”

〇 〇 〇

Chapter Text

AMANDA

Amanda Waller steps off the jet and out onto a private airfield in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana. The skies are pitch-black overhead; night has long since fallen.

Still, the lampposts shed bright white light on the airfield, illuminating everything from the blackened tire marks on the asphalt to the thick greenery crowding the borders on every side.

In the near distance, the blocky silhouette of Belle Reve Federal Penitentiary looms—guard towers lit at every post, cameras trained on every inch of the somber facility, the communal prison yard desolate save for the occasional two-man patrol… all this behind miles of electrical fence topped with gleaming spools of barbed wire.

Her heels click on the tarmac and the rhythmic thud of the Colonel’s bootsteps are perfectly in time with her own—a steady metronome for the melody of pure elation eclipsing her thoughts.

Years of planning; endless meetings spent kissing the asses of egotistic geriatric white men who hold positions of considerable power they’ve done absolutely nothing to earn… all that blood, sweat, and tears, finally culminating to bear fruit.

Lord, she feels giddy just thinking about it.

Focus, she scolds herself. You’re not there yet.

A couple hundred feet down from the jet, a helicopter has touched down neatly in a painted-white circle atop the tarmac. Recently, too, by the looks of it.

The pilot dismounts, pries open the back doors to reveal…

It’s only years of hard-earned discipline that keeps Amanda Waller from clapping her hands together and squealing with delight like a little white kid on Christmas morning.

Three stretchers come rolling out, one right after another.

It must’ve been a tight fit in the chopper, Amanda thinks to herself.

On the first—a tall, Black man with broad shoulders and a featherweight boxer’s build. A considerable beard lines his jaw, soot streaks his swarthy features, and his typically heavy-browed expression is lax—peaceful in his drug-induced sleep.

On the next—a thin, shapely woman with wild curls of brown hair; pouty lips; and a black latex catsuit clinging to every curve like a second skin. Her features, too (pretty as they may be), are grimy and soiled; striped with blackened ash. Selina Kyle. Something of a last-minute decision on Amanda’s part, but upon seeing her now, she certainly doesn’t regret it. She, too, is out cold even despite the intensity of the LEDs overhead, thanks to the IV filled with sedatives attached to her gurney.

And, last but not least—two figures are curled up around each other on the last bed: a willowy ghost-pale young woman with girlish platinum-blonde pigtails (the edges dip-dyed blue and pink, respectively), full lips that bleed from a split in the lower of the two, and angry-looking bruises littering nearly every inch of exposed flesh all across her lithe body.

Snuggled up into her side, snoring peacefully into her neck—a young, exhausted-looking little blonde boy with a bit of soot smeared across his plump cheek, thin eyelids swollen and pink from crying. He whimpers in his sleep, then; and, as if Harley senses it—even knocked unconscious as she is—her thin, blood-streaked arm tightens around the boy and tucks him closer.

Harley Quinn, and her… nephew? Adoptive ward? Son ?

Now, wouldn’t that be something.

Psychiatrist-turned-maniacal-delinquent, a mother.

She makes a mental note to order a full DNA work-up, stat. Perhaps the child truly is his mother’s son.

She and the Colonel pause to let them by, returning each armed escort’s nod with a curt one of her own.

She turns to the Colonel. “ETA on Tatsu and Isley?”

The Colonel doesn’t blink. “Already here, Ma’am,” he drawls in that nasally, accented tone of his. It grates on Amanda’s nerves. “They’re waitin’ for us inside.”

She nods. “Good.”

Then, without a word, they fall into line, making their way directly into the jaws of a place Harley Quinn and her band of cavorting misfits will never, ever escape from.

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛