A/N: I know the prologue wasn't much, so hopefully this chapter is a little more satisfying.
Okay, so this story started as a oneshot idea but it kind of grew out of control as I was writing it. It should be roughly 6 chapters long but don't count on that because I love making work for myself.
As always, reviews are more than welcome and thank you so much for reading.
Disclaimer:- I don't own any of the characters, in fact I own nothing… nada
Veneer
Compliance is nothing but a short respite in the mind of the insane. By the time the arrests were made, Harley was already backing out of her statement, insisting that the information she slipped to Gordon was fake, that it was a trap. She began screaming when nobody would listen.
Harley was exempt from the trail which saw her beloved puddin' fall from savage grace. Instead she rattled the walls of her confinement, howling for hours on end. It was only her exhaustion which forced her to eventually give out in the end.
The next morning came too quickly as she's roughly jostled awake; the frigid metal of the cuffs being fastened around her wrists enough to jolt her into full consciousness. She's hoisted up by both her arms and dragged from her room. A shot of pain pulses throughout the left side of her body, her left arm still encased in a paster cast. She grits her teeth in discomfort as the glaring artificial light of the hallway burns into her vision.
Suddenly she turns again, becoming wild as she kicks, claws and screams in her restraints. Her foot jars out and strikes the kneecap of the guard to her right, bringing him down beside her. She lurches out, flashing her teeth in an attempt to bite him but is halted abruptly when someone yanks on the cast of her left arm. The squeal of a wounded animal forces itself past Harley's lips and she's immobilised in white-hot agony.
"Enough Harleen!" Jim Gordon's face came into view as he crouches down beside her, his grip still unrelenting on her arm.
"I lied! I lied! It was me! Ya let my puddin' go! Take me instead!" Her eyes frantic, scared even, as her sentences are delivered in between sobs, her words jumbling together.
"It's already done." Gordon sighs, rising back to his feet. "You're going home."
The man to her right brushes himself off and regains his balance. She's soon hoisted back up as the men continue to lead her forward.
"I ain't got a home!" She meekly protested, as aggression dwindled down to fear. Fear which grounded itself in her stomach, releasing the sting of bile in her throat which in turn caused her eyes to water. "He was my home."
Gordan says nothing, keeping his eyes fixed forward. A guard at the end of the hallway clocks their impending arrival and turns to unlatch a set of heavy duty doors. The room beyond them is reminiscent of a hospital waiting room, however lacking the heavy chemical odour. The furniture, walls and even the carpet were all coloured in drab hues of grey. There were no fixtures on the walls save for an off-white clock which hadn't read the correct time since it was first installed.
And there, standing in the dead centre of the soulless room was a familiar sight. A tall man, with a head of dark hair, broad shoulders and a strong jaw standing impatiently, dressed in an immaculate black suit that fits him in all the right places and screams wealth. His dark eyes cast downwards, distracted by the glaring light of his phone.
"Mr Wayne." Gordon broke the silence, catching the attention of the man, who immediately pockets his device and extends his hand out to the commissioner. His lips curve into a pleasant smile which fails to reach his eyes.
Behind them, Harley's demeanour instantly shifts, straightening up her back and puffing out her chest she jaunts out her chin and grins, tonguing her teeth. With tears still damp on her cheeks, a low hum of laughter forms in her throat. So it transpires that her long walk of freedom is to be lead by the same man who had taken so much pleasure in throwing her behind bars over and over again? The irony of this whole charade certainly wasn't lost on her.
Bruce's gaze finally moves from Gordon to Harley, their eyes meeting for what must be the thousandth time in the most unfamiliar of settings.
"Hi"
If there was one thing Bruce had discovered about Harley Quinn over the past few years it was that inconsistency ran deep within her. She exists through episodes, a hundred different women all occupying the same 6 by 8 cell. As a result, her moral compass swings in every direction but north. Every action is met by a randomized series of reactions. In the simplest of terms, she's unpredictable, dangerously so.
Moments ago she had been rendered almost childlike, sobbing and whining, yet now she stood with her back arched like a territorial tomcat. Both feet firmly on the floor and her hands still bound in restraints as she refused to take her eyes from Bruce, even when his attention turned from her to the paperwork Gordon presented to him.
"The terms of parole for one, Harleen Quinzel." The commissioner starts as he flips through the hefty file. "For the first six months of parole she will be under house arrest; and may only leave your premises when accompanied by either yourself or a guardian of your designation."
Harley resists the urge buck her leg out as some snivelling lackey bends down to attach an ankle monitor to her right leg. The thick black strap is a harsh contrast to her pale skin.
"This ain't exactly my colour." She hisses at the nameless employee as they unlock her handcuffs before quickly retreating away.
"A federal judge has granted her immunity from all cases involving the Joker in exchange for her assistance in the apprehension of him, however, she is not exempt from future cases. If she violates her parole or commit's any further offences, she will be arrested promptly." Gordon continues to flick through the paperwork, pointing out spaces which require a signature. He briefly looks back to the young women behind them as she drags her baby blues over them both.
Everything about Bruce Wayne is so calm, so cool, so… censored. And I makes her sick to her stomach. A man walking around in such a finely crafted human mask. A man who gets his thrills from the darkest of nights, from the bruises on his chest and the broken skin on his knuckles; not from hiding in stuffy conference rooms pretending to be interested in figures and finance. At least she embraced exactly what she was instead of cowering behind a persona of normality.
"If you don't mind me asking, Mr Wayne, I just can't get my head around why you would voluntarily take on something like this." Gordon starts as Bruce finishes signing the final sheet and clicking the pen closed before handing it back.
"Figured it's time I start giving back to the community." He answers, the same dead smile playing on his face as a formality rather than a friendly gesture.
"By aiding a woman who's terrorised this city for the past three years? The same woman who's defaced thousands of dollars worth of your own property?" Harley audibly scoffs behind him.
"Everyone deserves a second chance, commissioner." Bruce answers, his voice not deviating from the same default tone it always carried. Perfectly rehearsed. That composed veneer he wears refusing to faulter. "Anything else?"
"That's it, you're free to go." Gordon remained baffled, unsure as to whether the man was just plain witless or playing it that way. He gave up the fight; if Bruce Wayne was willing to take such an ill advised venture into philanthropy, who was he to stop him?
"Thank you." The billionaire replied, handing the file back over to Gordon before reaching to shake his hand. Bruce then turned back to Harley, looking right through her, his expression frustratingly stoic as he gestures towards the exit.
"The car's waiting."
His hand runs briefly down her arm before gripping her wrist. Her pale skin feels instantly flushed and raw in his grasp as he clutches her tighter than the cuffs ever had. She flashes him the smallest of smiles, relishing in the slip of his façade. He notices but fails to react. Her grin falls. Without a second to spare he pulls on her arm, leading her along beside him. There is haste in his steps and force in his grip, but Harley knows all too well that this is a mere fraction of his strength.
"Goodbye, commissioner." She hums as she glances back to see Gordon sighing heavily in surrender before removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
The interior of the car produced an odour of cleanliness which was enough to overwhelm the senses upon entry. The smell alone was nauseating to Harley. Well, that and the sunlight, which despite the tinted windows, seemed to be seeping in profusely. Her adverse reaction to the natural light causes her to question just how long she had spent in solitary confinement.
After a short exchange with his driver, Bruce clambers in after her. He is quick to set the black leather armrest as a barrier between them. His phone once again finds it's way into his palm. Harley turns away from him, glaring out of the window as the city passes by.
It only takes a few moments for her to tire of the sight, for her to crave some form of confrontation. She makes a big show of clearing her throat. A tiny growl of frustration escapes her lips as she turns to see Bruce's attention still solely focused on the device in his hand.
She tries again, louder. And again, until she nearly induces a coughing fit. It is only then that the man beside her chooses to acknowledge her cry for attention.
"Something you want to say?" His eyes still fixated on the phone.
"I know why you came to pick me up." She sings, tilting her head and flicking her fingers across the armrest.
"Is that so?" Bruce finally lifts his head, giving Harley the reaction she desperately craved. She grins wildly in response.
"Yeah."
"Then tell me." He leans in a little, causing her eyes to widen. The beginnings of a power struggle are forming. She likes this game. She smiles wider, mirroring him by tilting herself closer.
"You're afraid that I'll go runnin' my mouth off, telling everybody just what it is you like to do in yer spare time." Her voice is considerably lower, barely above a whisper.
Both of them become still for a moment, unflinching, until Harley notices something she can't recognise in Bruce's dark eyes. She backs away and lets her expression drop, perplexed.
He inevitably turns away from her again and back to the phone in his hand.
"You're right, that's the reason." He speaks into the air ahead of him rather than to her.
"No I'm not." She protests, but it's futile, she's already lost him.
Before their exchange can progress, the car slows, gradually coming to a halt. Harley can only marvel at the grandeur of Wayne Manor and the extensive grounds surrounding her. It certainly was a much grander sight in daylight.
Through her window, she watches as an ageing man garbed in a suit not too dissimilar to Bruce's approaches them. His dark hair is peppered with whips of white and grey and his face is long and tired; but his features remain oddly charming and kind. The man reaches for the car door and offers his hand for Harley to take.
"Alfred will get you settled in. I've got to get back to work." Bruce speaks up as she climbs out of the car. She turns back to reply but realises that it's useless. Feeling lost, she slams the door shut and watches as the car drives away.
Alfred takes her hand gently into his palm as he escorts her to the house and it strikes a sorrowful chord when she can't actually remember the last time anyone showed her a genuine act of kindness.