A/N: Thank you all for the favs and follows! Holy crap that is overwhelming. Hopefully this story can live up to your expectations. Anyways, this is going to be as close to Suicide Squad/BvS canon as possible. Since we don't know that much about Jared Leto's Joker or Harley's past I'll be taking some creative liberty with that. Anyways, here we go~


ii ; espresso

1 year previous

Espresso was not something to be taken lightly. The smell. The essential quirky mug. How it warmed the hands. Or, the unexplainable ability it had to ease pain. Especially after a long night of finishing off a box of wine… single handily. Harleen Quinzel could appreciate the simple pleasures in life. Complicated ones were usually too hard to come by.

And expensive. She was, after all, a budding college student. Studying day and night… professor after professor… angry wife after angry wife.

She sipped the hot drink, wincing at the sharp pain in her head as the steam fogged her glasses.

It wasn't like she was lazy, or something. She hardly had time to write essays, study for tests, or spend hours in the library looking up dusty books by "Doctors" who always seemed to blame the mother. With a studio apartment to pay for, and the occasional spending spree, Harleen found herself working a less than blue-collar job. Though it usually landed her in trouble, the abundant tips were well worth the occasional brush with danger.

She wasn't some lofty city girl, after all. She was from a rough borough. A little scrap of apartments and 7-Elevens that looked over the water. Yet, those streets were a dream compared to the slums of Gotham. At least they taught her how to carry a switchblade and watch her back.

Besides the threat of thieves and gangsters at her front door, she often faced an unnerving trouble; the opposite gender. Somehow, the stress of her latest fling had landed a box of Franzia White Zinfandel on her doorstep.

Boys were lower than flees, she recalled her favorite musical stating. Frenchie was a smart girl. The only guy a girl can trust is her daddy, and ain't that the truth…

A hurried slew of knocks on her door disrupted her cherished hung-over morning routine and threw her thoughts from her mind.

"Harleen!" the voice called as she knocked, rattling her various chains and locks, "I know you're home!"

Harleen groaned at the voice. She knew exactly who it was.

"Not now, Chic. I gotta get ready for class."

"Class my fuckin ass, bitch," the voice retorted, "listen, we need to talk."

Harleen unlocked her padlocks and opened the door to reveal a woman who looked as if she had stepped out of a 90's music video. Brown lipstick, hoop earrings, and bright pink fuzzy slippers included. She also appeared a bit less than pleased.

"You alone?" she asked raising a thin, well-drawn brow.

"Chic," Harleen muttered, "I'm not exactly in the mood for some tough mama love, right now, kay?"

"Well that's too bad, girl. 'Cause you know I ain't here for this shit."

She said raising her phone to her message app. Harleen made a pained expression.

"Oh fuck me…" she moaned.

"Yeah, I'm surprised you didn't try that on one me," said the woman making her way into the apartment. "You be texting my ass like I'm your one true love or some shit."

"I'm sorry, I was… uh… super intoxicated."

"Oh, I know. That's why I'm here," she said making herself comfortable on a kitchen stool.

Harleen put a hand on her hip looking to her friend. They met at the club they work at. Chic is the best dancer the strip joint fronts. And, she has an ass that would make a Kardashian sweat, Harleen frequently mused. Of course, Harleen habitually clarified she herself was no stripper. She was a well-paid waitress. Very well paid.

"It was Mark… Brad… and Anthony… again," Harleen said raising fingers to keep count.

"Damn, Cleopatra. That better be a guy's first, middle, and last name."

Harleen smiled, "Nope. All different. All over the age of fifty-five, and all married."

Chic shook her head disapprovingly, "Shit, if I knew I coulda got A's in school by fuckin, my ass would be a gotdamn brain surgeon."

"It's not so easy, believe me. Men are simple but you gotta scope out the right idiot. Too smart and you're expelled, too dumb and they say no."

"Listen, girl. You're too good for them, and too smart for your own good."

"Awe, you're just saying that shit," said Harleen taking a class from her cupboard to fill with orange juice for Chic.

"No," she said as if the notion was absurd, "you know I wouldn't compliment a bitch if she was my damn twin."

Harleen giggled before rolling her eyes, "Sure."

"I'm saying that shit because it's true. Believe me, it's why Tia hates my guts. Because I talk so many good girls out of dancing at The Gin. But only when I see something in them."

"You'd never talk me outta 5k a month."

"Well you ain't doing 5 dollar hummers under the table, neither."

"True."

"And you don't dance full time. If ya did, well, it would be different situation completely. Us shore born girls look out for each other, right?"

Chic took a sip of the juice, her lipstick leaving a mark on the edge.

Harleen leaned over the table, examining her sharp French tip manicure.

"Shore born, tattered and torn, meaner than a Texas longhorn" she sang to herself.

"I know you ain't happy like this. And that's not happening while I'm sitting in your kitchen calling you my friend," Chic pointed out.

"You're being dramatic, I was drunk. You can't take that stuff seriously."

"Is that why you told me you'd kill yourself if you didn't become famous?"

Harleen looked away, quickly deciding to play off the idea, "I was just joking around! Jeez!"

"Yeah, and I'm going back to Puerto Rico with my new sugar daddy, Harvey Dent."

"You take me too seriously."

"And then you went on for an hour comparing the hypothetical dick sizes of Superman and Batman."

"Well you're welcome for those visuals."

Chic looked to her friend questioning if she were serious.

"I'm telling you, Batman's chode ain't got nothing on whatever that Superman's got stuffed in that suit. Could you imagine?"

"Well shit, thanks to you I don't," said Chic eyeing her friend. "Did you ever realize if you studied instead this crap you wouldn't have to screw to get by?"

"I could get by without screwin'. I just need to be the best. That way, I'll get offered a big case sociopath… who knows what notoriety that would bring. Maybe a book deal!"

"Valedictorian and stripper all in one, only in motherfuckin Gotham."

"Not a stripper, a dancer. Besides, I could do it."

"In your wildest dreams," she laughed.

Harleen frowned as her friend laughed to herself, "Clean up your act. Get a real job. Forget about The Gin and Bare It. Forget about old white dick."

"Hey, it may not be conventional, but I'm sure as hell getting exactly what I want."

"Oh really? Tell my phone bill that."

Chic got up taking the glass of juice with her.

"Headed to work?" asked Harleen watching her leave.

"Not tonight, got my mom's stupid surprise party."

"You're telling her you're quitting dancing then?" asked Harleen with a smirk.

Chic laughed dryly, "Bout the only damn thing that would surprise that crazy bitch."

She reached for the rusted doorknob when she remembered something.

"Hey, I printed this out for you. Just some interesting job opportunities."

Chic handed her a folded paper to from her pocket. Harleen looked back to her, annoyed by her pushiness.

"Chic."

"Hear me out, Harleen. Ain't no Bruce Waynes ever came out of the club scene. You'll never make a difference shaking it for the ogling creeps there," she said opening the door, "There's an internship on there that sounds right up your alley."

"Oh yeah? What's that?" she asked looking over the paper before her eyes fell on something that made her heart skip a beat.

Chic smiled, "It's at Arkham Asylum. You'd be rubbin elbows with the best this city has to offer."

Harleen looked back to her friend's knowing smile.

"Sounds like it would make a damn good read to me," she said before shutting the door behind her.