Title: Remade, But Still Real
Summary: Sequel to Not So Overlooked. He didn't want her to be lonely, but she didn't expect to see him again after that small lunch. Let us focus on characterization and not color, but action; no romance, but the beginning of friendship.
Disclaimer: I don't make any money off of this and please don't sue me.
Warnings: Angst, fluff, Harley's freedom, Bruce not being a complete paranoid ass, etc.
Dedication: To fan boy for rongo for badgering me to get a move on this and give its elder something to preen over. And for the reviews, I can't forget those, certainly not.
-:-
Maybe we like the pain. Maybe we're wired that way. Because without it, I don't know; maybe we just wouldn't feel real. What's that saying? Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop.
-Grey's Anatomy.
The Lark. There is a spinning sensation that she hasn't felt in a such a long time, save for adrenaline in her system put there purely for the help and case of survival. To be free from Joker—Jack—is to be really lonely. It's numb and terrifying, but it's a start for giving up the crime thing.
The swan dive. Walking and quietly counting all of the steps that lead down the staircase from the Arkham housing unit, Harley inhaled deeply the scent of the asylum. The only job she could get in the city—and perhaps anywhere in the world at this point, maybe for years, maybe forever—was offered to her by a silently guilty Leland and an ambivalent head of staff.
The canary. Her new job mostly revolved around lending advice and consultation to and for the other doctors of Arkham that treated the Rogues gallery. It was a horrible feeling to talk about her friends like they weren't in charge of their own free will, like they were children from Mars, rather than human beings that had a few eccentric quirks. She didn't agree with the other doctors about them being themselves, but she did, however, agree that they shouldn't be so violent. That was the only reason that she had said yes to Leland, with a big boundary line.
The Peacock. She would not talk to Joker. Not under any circumstances. She was in massive shock when she found out he had dragged himself out of Metropolis harbor and back to Gotham after the incident with Superman and Lex and that smiling jet-plane-thing; she was adamant that she would rather move far away—across the ocean if she had to—than ever speak to the man again.
Chicken Hen. Leland understood, in spite of the other doctors saying that Harley was probably the only one who could treat him—a false fact Harley would chew on until she could talk to Bats without being manhandled; there was no problem in his head, she had checked, it was in his blood in toxins and that near death slithering under his skin and making him white and green and violent and that memory of that poor woman wide with an unborn with her name engraved on the inside of the wedding ring Harley had only ever seen Joker wear once in their years together when he had gotten mean and depressed and absent minded—and had left the little blonde alone about the white skein engineered clown.
Nesting. Now, clear of the gates and the complex and the sounds of the non-Rogue inmates' screams and delirium, Harley found her little red classic in the staffs' car port. After the night long shift, it was time for her to go home and collapse in bed.
Pick, scurry, hold. Unfortunately for her, there was nothing in her cupboards and fridge for when she woke up later. A trip to the market was her first stop, perhaps for an hour or two—even if she did look like a fancy escort; eyes baggy and mascara a little smeared from her conversation/session with Professor Crane, jacket taken off and thrown away from earlier in her shift when one of the patients from the other end of the asylum had broken free of a guard and tried to use her for something; he'd ripped the jacket arm off and she hit a nerve in his neck as hard as she could, the guard looked shocked when she stepped over him and went back to lunch—and then she could go home and sleep like a heroin addict who had ridden the wave and just dreamt.
Rev up. Her car didn't make that awful coughing noise it did when she drove it for Joker, not now that she had taken it to a mechanic—yes, he was underworld, but he was nice and gave her a discount since she was bringing him simple pleasures in treating her cherry red beauty—and she smiled when the engine turned over with the simple prod of her fingers against the key. She pulled out of the parking lot and turned on the radio.
No longer beating, but most definitely beaten. The open market is her favorite place to go so early in the morning, even if she is basically asleep on her feet at this point. The vegetables, people, fresh bread and such were to die for, but not nearly so much as the meat laid out before customers by various patrons—no Styrofoam and no clear plastic weighing them down. She hated actually having to get meat in supermarkets, on account of the meat; when she was little she had nightmares about the dead flesh moving like Guinea pigs or beating like they were alive under the clear wrap and couldn't stand to eat meat for most of her childhood because of it.
No blood. Pulling on one of the plastic gloves from the dispenser put up by her favorite vendor, the blonde psychotherapist opened a sort of pumpkin colored paper bag the bushy bearded vendor handed to her, smiling, and started lightly plucking up some cut meat. It all felt like skin under the gloves and, in turn, made a sound like wet feet hitting mud puddles when she put them in the bag.
Not quite a smoker.
"Miss Quinzel, is that you?"
Nerves in shambles. Flinching at the closeness of the voice, Harley found her head positioned to the side and found the rather dashing billionaire playboy she had lunch with a few months ago walking up behind her from the vendor she knew was notorious for over pricing items and smelled heavily of Aqua Velva that made her want to gag every time she passed him. Mr. Wayne had one arm holding a paper bag jostling with produce and looked at least nearly as bad as herself, with baggy eyes and what appeared to be…either a lot of dust or flour on his black Armani—yes, she could tell; she was an ex-Rogue but the zero fashion sense thing went to Red—long sleeve button-up.
Skin cream and a type of leather. Once he stopped next to her—thank God the vendor hadn't made to touch him and draw him over to look at the food offered—she relaxed slightly, going back to picking out her meat, but giving him a pleasant smile, though not quite reaching her eyes, or anywhere near her ears, lipstick long gone since she started working at Arkham again—there was no reason to wear it as she was quite through with men for the time being—and simply pink to make her seem a wallflower.
"Mr. Wayne, I never thought I'd live to see an aristocrat such as yourself here in the open market."
Crinkled paper, the scent of apples. He moved the bag to his hip, observing her as she finished off counting her decided bunch, paid and moved onto another stall, pausing in pace one to see that he was going to follow; which he did.
"Well, I've been here a couple of times, though today I just felt like stretching my legs," his reply is polite and he has to draw a yawn back into his throat like the head of a dragon, his teeth showing just before he puts a hand over them and his mouth, stifling, "Work has been terrible. How about you?"
Pears and oranges brought together in brown cartons like special chocolates. Harley shrugs, her shoulder a little cramped from when the inmate tried to hurt her and instead just made her shoulder and arm hit a wall that would leave her bruised, causing her to cringe. She doesn't notice a quietly dark look he throws over her appearance as she pulls out a paper bag from the stall and starts looking over the green and October mindful fruits, "I just got off shift myself. I intend to get shopping out of the way and then hopefully stay half dead in a coma until later tomorrow."
A mar of a frown, though perfectly understood out of the corner of the eye. "I heard you were back working at Arkham."
Three pears, seven oranges and one of the small bushels of purple grapes hiding behind the rest of the fruit as though they're ashamed to be seen, or too proud to be put with the others. The blonde folds the top of the paper bag like it's a purse and asks the vendor for a stapler, only just answering Bruce as the stapler slaps hard to bend the metal clip to hold the bag closed.
"It was the only work that I could get," she said, honest and unknowingly allowing the vendor to keep a dollar extra as she moves away and back towards where she left her car across the way of the park the open mark stood like a small city across from open country in a Gothic fairy story, "Though I must confess I often go home trying to talk myself out off stepping through a plate glass window."
Worry. Bruce can completely and utterly hear the depression now in her voice like fog over a mire in a Sherlock Holmes book—the most famous one—and follows after her, gently touching her arm to slow her long stride down as they cross the grass. He does this solely out of curiosity as a billionaire playboy trying to be polite, of course.
"Is it so bad? I can't think that the doctors would be so—"
"Oh, no," she corrects, slowing down to a more leisurely, though somewhat somber pace, "Not the doctors. They think I'm useful enough to get insight on the other Rogues…but, it's just…"
Insight through years of observation and his own somber brooding.
"You feel like you're betraying them."
"I am."
No words, just a pinch in the gut like a kick from a mule. They slow their walk to a crawl at that. What could he possibly say that wouldn't be foolish and too suspect here? In all fairness, even if they had lunch that one time, Bruce Waynetechnically didn't know Harley—as a human being or an agent of chaos.
Luck even in distress. She saved him the trouble of working his brain too hard by bracing her arm out, stopping them both. He was so caught up in thought that he didn't notice an entire pack of at least twenty mothers marching on their way past them to get to the open market—in the back of his head, he had to question why Gotham could even have an open market, but shoved that away for later—with carriages of at least one newborn each. Some had two and Bruce could not help but blush at the sight of five of the mothers showing signs of being pregnant again. Harley managed a small smile as she looked at each of the tiny, squirming bundles of ultra soft flesh and not so soft shrieking and Bruce took the opportunity to finally come up with something to say.
"You're not betraying them," he sounded sure, though he didn't really feel like it as they continued on, his blue—there was a name for such a blue in a selection for house paint at some department stores—eyes finally spotting her red classic sitting peacefully under the shade of a tree, protected from the sun bleaching its color, "You're trying to live. As well, I suspect, you're trying to help them live. They are your…friends, after all, right?"
Blue, blue, like the millions of bright blue eyes on Broadway's 'Cats'during the scene between Growltiger and Griddlebone, before the assault on the ship. They finally come to a stop at her car, and Bruce can't help but…not blush, but gawk like an idiot…as he finds her staring directly at him. Not at the top of his head, not at a spot on his cheek, not at a piece of his clothing—he made a mental note to make this happen more often; to make sure she would look at someone and not be afraid she would be hurt like before—but directly at his blue eyes. Somewhere, out in the universe, he is sure one of the gods he has angered is very humored and making notes about this.
Sunbeam in the dark funnel of a blown over storm. After another few moments of her just looking at him, she flashes a smile—one that doesn't make him frown on instinct—and, out of nowhere, taps the very tip of his nose with her finger like they're both playground school children.
"That's right. How very insightful of you, Mr. Wayne. Thank you."
Blink and twitch and it's over. He cannot help but let his mouth drop a little as she puts her groceries in the back of her car—he will ignore the brazen scratches and paw prints; if the hyenas are with her, he doesn't want to know, they're most likely better off with her than being clinically depressed at the zoo, anyway—and opens the driver's door, just before pausing.
His palm, her handwriting. Taking a pen out of the jockey box on the passenger's side—he will ignore that it is magenta and will turn baby girl pink later—the blonde psychotherapist lightly scrawls a number and, he can assume, an address from the beginning of his thumb to the inside of his wrist. It tickles and he is tempted to twitch.
He knows the district. A city block of crappy apartments, but he knows some of the ones with this number are at least decent, and the number—huh, numbers—are of a cell phone and a ground line.
"If you want to have lunch again, my days off Saturday, Sunday and every other Wednesday. Call if you like. Or don't."
Yellow hair out of the bun she usually wears for work dusts the back of her headrest. He cannot and will not, for the time being, allow a small smile to go away as she starts up her car and as she drives down the hill they're on, he calls, like the playboy he presents himself to be.
"I'm a gentleman, of course I'll call."
The wave of her hand is the last thing he sees as she disappears into traffic.