Hey, lovies, I'm back! Except not really, that was an absolute lie. This is merely a oneshot. Oneshot does not mean story, nor continuation of any other fic. Just. Oneshot. But yall can still get excited about it if you want to. This here eight page wonder is written for Concolor44's 'No shirt, no shoes, no problem' story. Which, as a sidenote, is absolutely amazing. So do yourself a decency and go check it out. Pretty nifty stuff right there. And for all of you who are too lazy to, I'll give you the general premise on which this oneshot is built: there is a nice little restaraunt in Jump City owned by this man named Benny. The place is a no fighting zone. It doesn't matter who goes there, nobody it stirring up a comotion. This oneshot entails an exchange of Gotham City's two favorite sidekicks.
Disclaimer: Were I to own any of the below material then I'd be yelling it from the windows. Whoop-de-doo-dah! I have money!...does anybody even read these things?...
And now, without further ado, I give you the late night, the dreary, the criminally insane SECOND FIDDLE IN THE SCHEME OF LIFE. Thank you, ladies and gents.
Despite what the abundance of glitzy costumes may lead one to believe, the business of heroism is not a pretty one. Rewarding, yes, if you are the type of person who can sit back after a long night of scraping the city clean of its lovely plague of felons and only focus on how you just made the streets that much safer. In other words, an optimist. If you are both a hero and an optimist, you have found the perfect profession. Good job. You'll die happy and satisfied.
Robin had the hero thing down cold. He would plow through the murky streets of Jump City, not matter the time, to give criminals something ten times more threatening than a cop with a tazer. But when he finally got home, sometimes so early in the morning that he found Raven in the ops room welcoming the day, he could not focus on how happy the citizens would be to know that one rapist or arsonist or drug lord had finally been locked up. He couldn't thank his lucky stars that he was still alive, that he'd helped heal the streets. Not even laying down next to his loving—not to mention smoking hot—girlfriend, having her turn over while half-asleep and murmur things to him in Tameranean, could lift his spirits. Nope. Robin was a pessimist.
So, logically, once midnight rolled its loathsome head around to stare him in the face, Robin realized that he'd been out tracking down an elusive gang since eight that evening, and he'd been taking care of monetary and economic priorities since five. He didn't even bother doing the math; exact number figures would probably make him bang his head against any nearby solid surface enough times to induce an even heavier migraine. He was done dealing with Jump's screwed up justice system, done chugging stale coffee and pouring over investigative reports, done threatening semi-stoned gang associates into spilling their secrets. There was nothing left that the police couldn't handle on their own, right? They could manage another six hours without his assistance, couldn't they? Well, they better, because he wasn't sticking around to help out.
One last problem, though: while solving these huge problems, there wasn't much time for food. Handfuls of too-hard almonds and M&Ms from shallow dishes on receptionist desks were not substantial for anybody, especially the Boy Wonder. He was feeling shaky and lightheaded from lack of anything resembling nutrients. But where could he go? Titan's Tower, he knew as a fact, was fresh out of edibles; Beast Boy had been tasked with shopping earlier, which meant that on the rare chance he did go out, everything would be vegan. Then what diner would be open at midnight, ready to serve a hero without any fuss, and would be at least partially respectable? (Sorry, Micky D's, that rules out you; no heartburn in a bun tonight.)
Benny's. Starfire had mentioned it several times to him, bragging about their amazing food selection, their friendly costumer service, and their neutral ground policy. She had often tried to talk him into going out with her, but he had always been too busy, too tired, too stressed, or just not hungry. Why not now, then? According to Starfire's directions, he'd even pass it on his way back home.
Five minutes later found Robin pushing the door open. A tiny brass bell jingled from above, alerting the almost entirely empty building of his arrival. There was a more heavyset man situated behind the bar, wiping of the counter; probably Benny himself. A woman with bright red nails and a splotchy apron was sitting at the barstool, talking with the man. Finally, off to the corner, was a scarily familiar face. Her blond hair was wet and ratty, the left side of her face looked like it had recently taken some substantial damage, and drippy remnants of black and white makeup had dribbled off her chin and down her neck, splaying out weirdly over her collarbones. She looked up the moment Robin walked in, bright blue eyes bursting with paranoia and recognition.
Robin shuddered slightly but shrugged the feeling off. He was the city's protector; a bad case of anxiety was in the job description. This lady was probably just some girl in a bad situation, judging by the bruises and scrapes covering her temple and cheek, undoubtedly harmless. Maybe he'd even talk to her to see if she needed help.
"What can I do for yah?" The woman with the apron slid off the barstool and sauntered over to him, pulling out a dilapidated notepad on the way. She walked with the gait of somebody who had seen it all.
"Well, if you're not getting ready to close up or anything…" Robin said, a tad uncomfortable. He didn't mean to intrude; he didn't want to be a hindrance to these people, no matter how hungry he was.
"Don't sweat it, hun. Now what do yah want?" She led him over to a smallish table, pulling out the metal and plastic-covered-foam chair for him. "Anything particular, or can I get yah a menu?"
"Menu, please."
With a nod, she sashayed off. Robin was starting to like her more and more; she wasn't exactly graceful—her swagger was that of a drunken pixie—but she had character. And even though she could definitely play the slightly concerned, maternal role, he could tell she wouldn't hesitate to stand up for herself.
"Is it really you? The Robin?" It wasn't the sudden appearance of the blond woman that startled him; no, it was her voice. That high-pitched Jersey snicker that always made her sound sarcastic, even on the rare occasion that she wasn't. Robin hadn't heard that voice at all for the last few years, but back when he was in Gotham, living it large with everybody's favorite millionaire-turned-vigilante, it was an almost weekly occurrence. Coupled with the shrewd blue eyes and the washed out makeup, there was no mistaking this woman.
Every muscle in his body tensed the moment he realized exactly what sort of company he was in. Oh, yes, he knew that this was strictly peaceful property, that there were to be no fights, regardless of whose arch-nemesis was present that day. Nevertheless, if years of being Batman's apprentice had taught him anything, it would be that if somebody is even vaguely allied with the Joker, you punch their lights out pronto. No questions asked.
The only thing that prevented Robin from acting on his frayed instincts and pinning the leering Harley Quinn to the wall by her throat was Benny's casual but gruff cough. He just kept wiping the crumbs and liquid stains off the bar, watching the two sidekicks regard each other.
"What are you doing here?" Robin asked her. She grinned a terribly wolfish contortion of the face and pulled up another tacky chair to sit across from him, setting her Shirley Temple down on the pockmarked wood. After a few moments of silence, she lapsed into cradling her chin between her lacerated palms.
"Ah, yah know, this, that, an' the other. Even us villains gotta go on break sometime, am I right?" Her tongue shot out and captured the red straw, sucking up the soda and making the glistening ice clink together.
Under any circumstances, Robin would not have fallen for that lie, and especially not now. Her abused appearance, the odd hour, the chaotic look of the hunted plastered clearly on her too pale face…something was off. Well, with Harley, something was always off, but this time it was more than the fact that she was clinically insane. She was twitchy and finicky on top of her normal psychosis.
"We both know you're lying. How about you—" Robin began in a low, threatening tone, but was cut off once the waitress reappeared. She plopped a laminated menu down in front of his face.
"Here yah go, sweetie. Just holler when yah need something." Showing no sign of worrying about what the two might do, she left as quickly as she'd arrived.
They watched her glide back to Benny before looking each other in the face again.
"Quinn, don't bother lying. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." Robin growled, glaring at her.
"Me? Lying to you?" Harley rolled her eyes and swirled her straw around some more. "Puh-lease, bird boy, I'd appreciate a bit of trust. And, please, yah can call me Harley."
For a second, Robin honestly considered asking her if she was serious. Then he decided that there was no point, because she would answer yes and there would be yet another lie floating above them.
"Just tell me…Harley…what's going on? Why are you so far from Gotham? Why Jump? Why no be back plotting your next scheme with Joker?" Robin opened the menu, perusing the options. There wasn't anything unusual to have, nothing that any other dinky little café wouldn't offer. The menu did have humor to it, though; the course description for eggs and toast read: Listen, must this topic really be exaggerated? There are two eggs, and there are two slices of toast. Tell us how you want them prepared. It's that easy. He might have smiled, if he had been here any other time with any other person.
Looking up, he saw Harley's cheery expression had wilted away. She was chewing on the sugary maraschino cherry from her drink, twiddling the stem between her fingers. This was the closest Robin had ever seen her to being torn over something. Or taking something seriously at all, for that matter.
"Okay, Robin, if yah must know…well, the shit really hit the fan over in Gotham this time. So I'm at our base, right? Just relaxing, cuz me an' Mistah J ain't doing nothing tonight. Then he calls in an' says he's gonna go out runnin' errands, tells me to just hold down the fort. So I does. An' two hours later, there's people out on the streets celebrating cuz Joker's bein' carted off to Arkham by the Bat an' I don't know what to do!" Harley flicked the cherry stem across the room so her fingers would be free to slam down on the tabletop at the end of her tirade. She was breathing slightly faster and sniffling, often wiping at her eyes. Robin had no idea what to do. "So I decide to run outta town, cuz what else can I do? I open the front door with all my worldly possessions in a suitcase an' the cops is there! Normally they'd be all courteous an' shit an' read me my Miranda Rights an' be all nice about it, but no, not this time. They ain't kind to people like me an' Mistah J. They tells me to come out with my hands up an' get in the car. So I tells them to go to Hell an' shoots at them. This one big guy comes up and gets me in the face with his nightstick a couple of times, but I get away. An' I run for all I'm worth, steal a car and get outta Gotham. But I still don't know whadda do!" She finished off with a wail. Her whole body deflated, making her slump down on the table and heaving an absolutely defeated sigh.
Robin looked around, trying to figure out what was happening. Neither Benny nor the waitress seemed to have noticed Harley's mouthy mental breakdown. There was nowhere and nobody he could turn to for help—let the records show that Robin may know how to fight, but he cannot supply emotional support to save his life. He settled for awkwardly flagging down the waitress, saying he was ready to order as Harley sniffled pitifully across from him.
"What'll it be?" The waitress asked, causing Robin to realize he didn't know what he wanted yet.
"Uhm…your pulled pork sandwich and a medium coke?" He offered, scanning the menu wildly for anything. The waitress jotted it down even though Benny was already shuffling off to the kitchen. Then she turned to Harley.
"Can I get yah a refill, hun? Or perhaps a box of tissues?" Her tone was gentler, her hand on Harley's shoulder.
"Both would be nice." Harley said, pushing herself up. She wiped her eyes with a paper napkin, brushed her gnarled hair out of her face and straightened her back, looking Robin right in the eye again.
Too much time passed in almost complete silence, only the orchestral havoc of the city and Benny's knives dicing up pork and bread reaching the two young patron's ears. Harley swirled her straw around in the crystalline ice. Robin looked out at the oddly clean window into the night (or was it early morning?) around them. Not a word was spoken until the waitress returned with the sandwich, the drinks, and the tissues. All were received gratefully.
"So…" Robin began, getting unnerved. He paused under the guise of eating his sandwich to think up a good question. "How'd you hear of this place?"
Harley shrugged, sipping her Shirley Temple. "Eh, I was talkin' with Pammy…I mean, Ivy a while back. She comes here a lot when she wants a taste o' normality. Since I'm the one craving normal now, I decided there wasn't anywhere else to go. Kinda hoped to run into her, just for a familiar face, but ah, who'm I kiddin'? It's almost one a.m. at a crummy li'l diner. Only crazies an' ravers is out this late."
Robin processed her words with a mouth full of seasoned meat and thick sourdough. The food was to ensure he didn't yell out something along the lines of 'WHAT? Poison Ivy comes here too? Who else am I missing?' Benny's sounded like quite the popular Gotham villain safe house the more he heard about it. It did make sense, though; a place where you wouldn't get the government called on you, where people wouldn't judge you…perhaps even supervillains, who held entire cities hostage with bombs of lunacy, were people. Who would have guessed?
"You and Ivy talk much?" Robin asked after swallowing. He hadn't the slightest clue how to conduct casual small talk, and Harley obviously didn't either, so she took the bait.
"Not too much. We chat every now an' then, since we're practically the only two gals in Gotham. I do favors for her sometimes, she does stuff for me. We have a mutual relationship, I guess yah could say. She gets mad at me a lot, though, says I'm a klutz and a tease." Harley shrugged. "What about you? What's it like in the life of the Boy Blunder?"
Choosing to ignore the jab with courtesy that would make Alfred smile, Robin answered truthfully. "I've been working my ass off. There's just something about you criminals that doesn't let you realize that once we put you in jail, you should just stay there because we won't hesitate to do it again. In Gotham, the police know how to handle almost everything, and the few things they can't do, Batman can. In Jump, though, the police are helpless. They're being controlled by gangs and drug runners, they're about as corrupt as you are, and most of them can only shoot their intended target half the time. It's hopeless; the Titans are cleaning up messes that the police force should be able to." Robin noted that it felt good to rant about something. Emotions weren't exactly his forte, or even within his comfort zone, so he rarely allowed himself to pick apart everything wrong with whatever came to mind. Now, though, he was putting his problems on the table for a psychotic clown girl to see…well, she was once a psychiatrist. That must amount to something.
"Sometimes I miss Gotham." He started again after several moments of Harley nodding absentmindedly. "Over there, things are more intense, but they're also just…I don't know…familiar, maybe? Like, you know whatever's coming is going to be the worst thing you've seen all day, but you don't care. You're ready. In Jump, the criminals have no order at all. As in, even less than you and Joker."
"Huh, listen, kiddo: in Gotham, you'll always be in the fame-shadow of a grown man who dresses like a flying rodent at night. Here, though, you can be your own person. Sometimes I think I'd like that." Harley intervened. She sounded both wistful and snarky at the same time.
"You mean you're tired of the Joker?" Robin raised a brow. From his earliest days of crime fighting, whenever he heard somebody talk about Joker, the first person he thought of was Harley Quinn. Anybody talked of Harley Quinn? He thought of the Joker. Those two had been spreading their own twisted strain of mayhem and murder for longer than anybody cared to remember.
"God knows I love the man! I don't go a day without thinking of him. I bust him out every time they lock him up. Hell, do yah know how many bones I've broken in fights to make him the top dog of Gotham? Half of 'em, I bet, an' he breaks the other half when I screw up! But sometimes he just drives me crazier than I already am. He's always yanking me around on these weird little adventures of his an' then he gets caught an' I have nowhere to go. I don't know how much more I can take." The earlier distraught persona was shining through again, showcasing a woman who had given everything for some sweet, insane indulgences with a man who wore more makeup than your average runway model. Perhaps she was learning that there were several other things she could have used her college degree for. Too late now, though; once one gets their name mussed up with sinister villain aliases, there's not even a fast food joint desperate enough in the world that will hire.
"Sounds like nothing's really changed, has it?" Robin leaned forward a bit. If he was hearing this correctly, the Gotham of his youth was still the same Gotham. With such a high concentration of disturbed individuals, he knew he shouldn't be surprised. He'd only been gone six or seven years, after all. No matter how big an effort the city put forth to save itself, there would always be another flame-spewing umbrella, black leather bullwhip, and/or censer dripping with hallucinating gases around the next corner. That's just how Gotham was.
"Nope, not a thing. We're still doing everything from jaywalking to holdin' the Chief of Police hostage in a meat locker." Harley gave a crazy little smile at these ideas, but her eyes stayed blank. Robin tried to inconspicuously scoot his chair back.
There really wasn't a thing in the world to say to that. During their conversation, she'd somehow managed to lull him into a calm state, making him temporarily not think about the fact that she was wanted in just about every city, and many didn't care if she was dead or alive. Now, with that little jolt back to reality, Robin was starting to understand what he had to do. Sure, Benny's was a neutral haven, but there were no restrictions on the neighboring streets. The moment they were outside, Robin was going to have Harley cuffed to a street lamp and the police careening through town to get to them. She belonged in Arkham with her darling, not rampant on the streets of Jump City.
Say what you will about her mental state of being, but Harley was still a perceptive little thing. She must have noticed Robin's slight posture and expression change, how he looked at her with slightly too much scrutiny. Stretching her arms above her head, causing the ragged old shirt she was wearing to flash a peek of her bruised tummy, she heaved another sigh. "Aw, lookit the time. I got places to be still tonight, can't stay around yapping forever, yah know. Truly sorry, bird brain, but I gotta go." She pulled her sleeve up and checked her wrist for a watch that wasn't there. One uncaring shrug later and she was on her feet, limping toward the door. "I'll tell Bats yah said hi."
The little brass bell jingled as she stumbled out into the frosty night. Robin watched her, overcome with a strange urge to just stay in his seat and finish his surprisingly delicious sandwich. But no. Heroes aren't allowed niceties such as that. He was going to have to go out and turn her in.
Laying a ten dollar bill down next to his half-eaten sandwich, Robin said, "Keep the change." Benny and the waitress both nodded, but fixed him with an accusatory look that made him feel guiltier than he had a right to. Not meeting their eyes, Robin quickly exited.
Harley was already on the street corner, paused, probably considering which way she should go. As he drew closer, he could hear her chanting "eenie-meenie-miny-moe, catch a tiger by his toe…" under her breath. The moment his steel-toed boots clunked onto the sidewalk, her head snapped up. She knew what was coming.
"Aw, seriously? Yah really gonna turn me in?"
"You're a wanted criminal. I'm just doing my job." Robin took a pair of handcuffs out from one of his many belt compartments. Harley tensed, rolling her shoulders. "Listen, you're already hurt, I'm tired. Neither of us wants a fight. How about you just—"
"Eh, nope! Correction: you don't wanna fight. I couldn't care less. Who knows? Maybe it'll help blow off some steam or something." Robin couldn't form a rebuke before her dirty sneaker slammed into his face. As annoyingly flamboyant as her clown attire was, at least it was cleaner than her civilian clothes.
It wasn't a fair fight, and Robin at least knew that. So maybe Harley had snuck in the first blow. Robin knew he would still win; not only was she tired and stressed out, but she was already beaten up and without any support or gadgets. Maybe he had been out all day, working without stop, but since when had that ever cost him a skirmish?
Harley swung her arm back to punch him in the gut, but Robin easily grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back. She gave a tiny hiss of pain when he wrenched it the wrong way, recovering by flinging her head back to catch him in the nose. As if the dull throbbing wasn't enough, he let go out of surprise. She flipped away, rounded, and ran at him again. All he had to do was stick his leg up and brace himself against a car parked behind them; it was too easy. In no time, Harley was curled on the ground, gasping for air. Robin brought his foot down between her shoulder blades, pinning her.
"Now, about those handcuffs…" He muttered, securing one around her wrist. With a muffled cry, she pushed herself up with more strength he'd imagine her to posses, making him trip off the curb and partially fall onto the car's trunk. Almost too quick to see, she jumped up behind him, wrapped her legs around his chest, and brought the chain of the cuffs around his neck. He only had a moment to brace himself before she yanked backwards.
Robin had a strict moral code, and that entailed having an instinctive aversion to hurting a girl. He didn't know where it had come from, and both Starfire and Raven had called him out on being sexist for believing that, but he couldn't shake it. He especially didn't like hurting a previously injured girl; that just felt wrong. But, well, he also really enjoyed being able to breathe. Most people do. So with a choice of being strangled and causing a bit more pain, he would have to go with the latter. Thus, Harley soon found herself punched in her already abused face, followed with an elbow to the chest and being roughly flung, once again, onto the cold sidewalk, this time on her back. Above her stood Robin, once just a goofy kid in a hilarious costume, now an honest to God threat. Damn, but this was not her night.
She was handcuffed and remained on the ground, either out of defeat or lack of energy. Robin was on the phone with the police, telling them he had Harley Quinn all ready for pickup. As he ended the call, Harley whispered, "You're a real bastard, yah know that, donchya? Good-fer-nothin', do-gooder, mama's boy, stinky little brown-nose, pole up your ass vigilante, dumb as fuck an' three times as ugly…" She continued her insults even after the police arrived, and they stayed with Robin for the rest of the night.
Up in Benny's, the two witnesses watched the reason that they usually tried to close much earlier in the night. Benny rubbed his brow once, twice, and three times, just for good measure. Kids these days, they gave him a headache. The waitress reclined as much as she could on the barstool, crossing her legs and jiggling her ankle to whatever fuzzed-out 70s melody was circulating her head. They stayed that way as the battered woman cried for her Mistah J and screeched obscenities at the hero, the cops, and even the Republican Party. They stayed that way as the red and blue flashing lights faded into the city, as the young hero finally got back on his motorcycle and revved it up, his going home long overdue. Finally, the waitress broke the silence.
"Hmm. Yah think you could extend your no fighting zone out to the curb? It'd do wonders, I tell you."
Benny just shrugged, pondering an idea that wasn't entirely foreign, continuing to clean the big mugs that had been spotless for the last three hours. Somewhere far away, but just within their hearing range, a dog fight broke out. And the diner was peaceful once again.