We walk in silence until the lights of the manor appear in the near-distance. At the sight of them, we both hurry faster, desperate for the security and warmth they promise.

I don't knock, instead just pushing the front door open and walking in. We follow the sound of voices until we end up in a room with a long table, lit only by a flickering fire which the others sit around.

"Hi." They jump into defence mode at the sound of my voice. Penguin is the first to speak.

"We thought you were dead."
"You look it," Barbara chimes in.
"We feel it too," Jerome saunters forward, still with a slight limp in his step. I follow him, only now letting myself take in my injuries. Bruises and scrapes, a general ache of pain that radiates throughout my body, and blood stains my clothes. Jerome isn't much better. In fact, he's probably worse.
"What happened?" Nygma asks.
"They caught up to us at my parents," I explain. "Chased us out of the city. We crashed." He nods. "Is that explanation satisfactory?" I snap at him.
"Pretty much, yes." He turns back to the rest of the group. "Back to our discussion." I sit on the table, ready to let someone else take the lead. Jerome stands next to me. "We need to regroup. Reach out to all our contacts – this is bigger than feuds and gang wars. Anyone you can think of, we need to get them here as soon as possible."

I don't speak. I'm barely listening. There's nothing for me to say. I don't know what I'm doing in this world – that much is clear. I'm just a lost little girl who can't get away from trouble. Just an idiot who was arrogant enough to think she could survive anything.

Jerome is speaking. I focus just enough to hear him say "–whatever we do, we need to make them regret messing with us."

I don't have a place here. I stand up silently and leave the room unnoticed, the planning continuing without a pause. The rest of the house is dark, quiet, perfect for wandering. The peace is eery. After the intensity of the last few days, it's almost uncomfortable to be safe. To be alone. Halfway up a flight of stairs is a window seat, perfect to curl up on. There are even curtains I can draw to hide away. I don't want to be found right now.

I'm not sure how late it is – after midnight, definitely. The moon is bright and high in the sky. No clouds. The house is surrounded by trees, completely cut off from the rest of the world, from the city lights of Gotham. But I'm sure we'll be going back soon. Or at least they will. All I want to do is sleep. I know I said this was my job to fix… But why? Why is it my job? What did I do that meant this is my responsibility?

I could have run. I didn't. But that doesn't mean I need to keep fighting.

Ill-fitting jeans. A cheap sweater. Clothes and hands stained with grass and dirt and blood. Where did I go? Where did the put together, professional, on her way to success Harleen go? Maybe this is the real me. Maybe the clothes and the money and education and the status were all just a ruse, a disguise, suppressing the chaos inside.

I guess I knew that. I let myself live that, in the night and the shadows when no one else could see.

And with Jerome. He tore it out of me, laid me bare and exposed, and I let him. I wanted him to. I was finally free.

I tried to run. Tried to hide. Tried to fill my role, play my part. And still reality caught up to me. I guess nature is inescapable.

Sitting still has made me realise just how much pain I'm in. My already fragile wrist feels like it could fall off at any moment – I hope I'm overreacting. A solid pulse aches behind my eyes and my forehead is sticky with dried blood. I should really get cleaned up. I can't hear anyone moving about so I step out from behind the curtains and go hunting for a bathroom. After three wrong doors and a dead-end, I find one, all white tile and harsh bright light, a stark contrast to the rest of the house. I splash my face with cold water, then scrub at my forehead until it's clear of blood. The scrape isn't as bad as it seemed. Doesn't even hurt. I wash my hands, and the worst of the stains from my clothes, and try to pull the tangles out of my hair. My reflection is still a mess, but at least I don't look like a corpse someone's just dug up.

Next stop is the kitchen.

Except someone is already there.

Barbara is standing at the counter, pouring vodka into a glass, her back turned. I freeze, planning on backing out of the door before she even notices me.

"You want one?" How did she? I shake my head, stepping fully into the room and lean on the island.
"No, I'm-"
"The answer to that question is yes." She's pulled out another glass already. "We all need it after today."
"Okay then." The glass, holding an inch of vodka, is out in front of me. I eye it, knowing I shouldn't, that we're not out of the woods yet. Fuck it. Picking it up I take a sip, wincing slightly at the fairly unfamiliar taste.
"Rich girl too used to champagne?" Barbara teases.
"Something like that." I sigh. She pouts in response; I can't tell if she's being serious.
"Don't get offended. It's a joke."
"I'm not offended. Just tired."
"Hmm, I wonder why?" She hums as she tops up my glass. "I guess your boyfriend can be quite exhausting to be around."
"He's not my boyfriend!" My head snaps up to glare at her, but she just laughs as though I'm a tiny puppy who's trying to be fierce.
"Maybe you should try telling him that. Or telling yourself." She gives me a pointed look.
"Jerome… I don't… We're not-"
"Ooh, "we"!" She's trying to get on my nerves. And succeeding.
"Just shut it, okay! There is no "we". I just… can't seem to get rid of him. He's like a persistent spot on the face of my life."
"A beautiful metaphor, Harleen. But maybe you should think about why you can't kill him." She saunters past me to the door, turning for her final statement. "It's not like you haven't had the opportunity. So what's holding you back?" And with that, she leaves. I down the rest of my glass, ignoring the burning, and drop it in the sink. It breaks.

She's wrong. Whatever she thinks, she's wrong. I haven't killed him because I'm not a murderer. Because I'd just be proving him right. It's not that I don't want to, or can't. I'm deciding not to. That's it. It's a choice.

I groan, pressing fists into my eyes, trying to get rid of the conflict and lies and confusion that won't leave me alone. When I take them away and blink, I see a reflection in the window standing behind me. Silently watching. Panicking, I grab a shard of glass and spin around, pointing it at whoever is there. It's Jerome. I lower my hand but don't drop the glass.

He smirks at the fear. "Someone's on edge."
"Who wouldn't be? We're being hunted." I snap at him. I don't want him anywhere near me. I can't trust myself. After sneaking through Gotham together, being chased out of the city, the moment against the tree… I'm too complacent. Too self-indulgent.
"Come on, no reason to get grumpy at me. This isn't my fault." He comes closer, standing beside me, one elbow resting on the counter. I refuse to look him in the eye.
"Kind of is. If I hadn't been in the hospital with you, I wouldn't be involved in any of this."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do!" I walk away from him, just a few steps but its enough. "They told me: I wasn't supposed to be there. A happy accident."
"Stop complaining. You're alive, your family is alive. I call this a win." Spinning around I stare at him in disbelief.
"My family is on the run, flying to another continent. I am a fugitive, stuck with a bunch of criminals. In what way is this a win?"
"Seriously, Harls. You need to stop pretending you're any different to the rest of us."
"I'm no criminal." He raises an eyebrow.
"Try telling that to the man you stabbed, or the one who's wallet you stole, or whoever the person was who's bike you stole." And so many more. So many "little" things over the years. So many "victimless" crimes. I shake my head. "You might not be fully-fledged yet, but you're well on your way. No stopping ya' now."

"Shut up!" I yell.
"Why?" His response is almost a growl. "Are you so scared of the truth? So scared of what you really are?"
"You're wrong. I'm a good person. I… I want to be good." I'm on the verge of tears but I can't let him see me cry.
"Goodness doesn't have anything to do with it. This is in your blood. In your bones." He's coming closer. Always closer. "Stop fighting it. Stop fighting me."
"You don't have anything to do with it." I stop backing away and step forward to meet him. "You think you're so important. That you're, what, the catalyst to who I really am?" Shaking my head, I laugh. "You're wrong. You mean nothing to me. You're a problem, an inconvenience. You're delusional. And when this is all over you will never see me again."

Suddenly I'm trapped with my back to the counter and Jerome's arms caging me in. His chest against mine and all I can think of is the look on his face when we were moments from death. He leans forward and dips his head to whisper in my ear.
"So this is nothing to you? You feel nothing?" My eyes flutter closed involuntarily as he brushes against me. "If you can tell me that this doesn't make your heart race, that you don't want this, then I'll leave you alone. You will never have to see me again." It's a lie. But that doesn't matter, because I know he can feel how fast my heart is beating against my ribs, he can feel the slight tremor running through my body. Do I really want him out of my life? To never see him again? The battle in my brain is dulled when his lips make contact with my neck. They're impossibly gentle – it barely feels like him. I let out a shaky breath to cover the moan that almost escaped. Give in… Just give in… His hand is on my waist. He smells like blood and dirt and smoke. His skin is warm.

But I can't. I shove him away, struggling to hide the reaction he already knows he got. He's smirking.

"Leave me alone. Just… just leave me alone!" I run out of the door, run away from the heat and the tension of the house and of Jerome and of my own weakness.

He doesn't follow me. Alone again. Shivering in the cold night air. I'm in the garden. It sprawls out of sight, paths winding through hedges and flowers and trees. It sounds like there's a stream nearby. I wander, trying not to let my thoughts consume me. I fail.

What do I really want?

I know the answer to that. But it scares me. I don't want to want it. I don't want to want him. I need to get him out of my system. Or I'll never get away. And I'll never want to.

Sighing, I drop down heavily onto a bench.

Everything is too much. All my thoughts and emotions are like a whirlwind.

At least my family are safe.

At least I hope they are.

It's too quiet. The air is still. Even the stream is almost inaudible. A branch behind me snaps.

I jump up too late.

Strong arms are wrapped around me, a needle pricking my neck. I scream behind the hand trapping my mouth shut. I flail and kick and bite at whatever I can find but lead quickly fills my limbs. I only manage one decent hit before my body completely shuts down and my mind begins to fade into sleep.