"Gin!" exclaimed Harley, throwing down her cards triumphantly.
Jack swore loudly, throwing down his cards in frustration and grabbing one of the bottles of scotch had brought with him from his bag, taking a large gulp from it.
"Dammit, kid!" he snapped. "That's eight hands in a row!"
"Guess I'm just lucky," retorted Harley, smiling at him. She had no idea how long she had been in the cargo hold with him - the days had all blended together She didn't know how long it was until they docked, or if it was even daytime or nighttime right now. And she was still very angry with him, but sitting in sullen silence hadn't been a great way to pass the time, so she had finally asked Jack to teach her some card games. And she had turned out to be a natural at gin rummy, which had put her in a much better mood because she just kept winning. Well, that and the scotch, which Jack and she had been sharing to keep warm.
She took the bottle from him and took a gulp herself. "God, I got a feeling I'm gonna regret this in the morning," she said, making a face. "Or whatever time I wake up tomorrow. I'm not much of a drinker, but anything's better than freezing. Shame you couldn't have let me dress in some warm clothes before you kidnapped me."
"Would've spoiled the surprise!" chuckled Jack. "But if it's warm clothes you want, let's have a rummage around these crates."
"Why is France even importing clothes?" asked Harley. "Don't they make clothes there? Isn't it like the hub of fashion?"
"It's cheaper to ship 'em from China, through Gotham, to France," retorted Jack. "That way the companies only have to pay Chinese labor prices, which are pennies at best. They're practically slaves. And yet I bet some of your clothes are made in China."
"What's your point?" asked Harley.
"My point is everyone is complicit in crime and immorality, whether they know it or not," retorted Jack. "Everybody does bad things just by existing. So there's no need to judge those of us who make a profit by it so harshly."
Harley knew there was no use arguing with him, so she didn't. But she felt little compunction as she and Jack broke open the crates, rummaging around for something warm and decent-looking for Harley to wear.
"There you go," he said, tossing a black beret at her. "Most body heat is lost through the head. Get a nice hat on and you'll feel warm in no time."
"Think I'd prefer the sweater," said Harley, pulling out a red one.
"Why not both?" he asked. Harley nodded, bundling up in the sweater and then adjusting the beret on her head.
"Do I look French?" she asked.
"Sure," he said, shrugging. "Although hang on…"
He lit a cigarette and handed it to her. "There you go. Ain't that the stereotype?"
"Yeah," said Harley, holding it between her fingers. "Guess we'll get to see if it's true, though. Gotta say, never thought I'd be going to France anytime soon. I guess that's kinda a nice surprise, even if the circumstances of me going ain't very nice."
She inhaled from the cigarette and then choked, coughing on the smoke. Jack handed her the bottle of scotch to wash out the taste. "Do you speak French?" asked Harley, after she had recovered from her coughing fit.
Jack shook his head. "Nah, not a word. Should be fine, though – won't be casually going up to strangers to ask them directions to the guy I need to kill anyway!" he chuckled.
"Still, if you wanna not draw attention to yourself, you should at least try to blend in," retorted Harley.
"Do you speak French?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No more than I learned in French 101 my first year of college."
"That's still more than me," he said, puffing on his cigarette. "I'd like to hear you speak it, if you remember any of it."
"Aside from bonjour and merci, I really don't," said Harley. "I mean, I can do a comedy French accent…"
"So can I!" chuckled Jack. "But I bet yours is better than mine."
Harley shrugged, taking a drag on her cigarette and controlling her coughing this time. "Bonjour, Monsieur Napier," she said, in an exaggerated French accent. "And what brings you to la belle France this fine day?"
"Oh God, that's cute," he chuckled, beaming at her. "I'm here to kill a guy, toots."
"Kill?" repeated Harley in the accent, raising her eyebrows. "Ah, mais non! C'est bad, Monsieur Napier! Bad, bad, bad!"
"Yeah, well, I'm a bad man, toots," he murmured. "And don't you French girls like that?"
"Per'aps some do," retorted Harley. "But not women of taste, Monsieur Napier, as I so obviously am. As you can see by my clothes and sense of fashion," she said, gesturing to herself.
"Yeah, you're a classy dame," he agreed. "Sure you don't want a little taste of a bad boy?"
"As a French woman, I am not interested in boys," said Harley, tapping her cigarette out. "I am interested in men. And not criminal men – good, 'onest, decent gentlemen."
"You sure that's what you want?" he asked.
"Oui," retorted Harley, firmly.
"You positive?" he pressed, drawing closer to her.
"Oui," she repeated, smiling at him. But suddenly the game of pretend seemed strangely real – he was right there in front of her, his body close, his gorgeous eyes gazing down at her with real adoration and desire. She felt his hands steal around her body, and she flinched, but didn't draw away as he slowly tilted her face up to his.
And then he kissed her, and she responded instantly, every fiber in her body burning with a desperate need for him. Her rational mind was temporarily silenced by the alcohol, drowning her inhibitions, but it raised a feeble voice of protest as she gently pulled away.
"This…ain't such a good idea," she whispered, in her normal accent.
"I know," he murmured, gazing at her. "Tell me to stop."
He had seized her in his arms again, pressing kisses on her, and the last thing Harley wanted him to do was stop. She shut her eyes and her reason off and returned his kisses, enjoying the sensations of her body as Jack gently pressed her down on the floor. He was a criminal, and a murderer, but right now, she didn't care about any of that. He was the man she loved, and that was all that mattered.