The Rabbit Hole
02.
Theme: Rio Jeno - "You Were So Beautiful"
Jonathan -
Jonathan Crane awoke slowly, the gray flagstones above him solidifying as he blinked away sleep. Five years, three months, and eighteen days —that was how much time had passed since he was readmitted to Arkham Asylum. The ceiling of his cell remained unchanged in that time, though the details were growing blurrier as he became more short-sighted with age. Still, he could have drawn those cracks in the ceiling from memory; they were familiar, comforting in their consistency.
Jonathan cleared his throat of sleep and reached for his glasses on the bedside table.
"Alexa," he said, sitting up. "Play The Mental Illness Happy Hour, episode 541."
"Good Morning, Dr Crane," the AI voice greeted him cheerfully. "Playing The Mental Illness Happy Hour Episode 541."
As Dr Gregory Kushnick's voice began to murmur about narcissistic partners, Jonathan pushed aside the heavy duvet and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He toed on a pair of cashmere-lined slippers and stood to do a short series of stretches to wake himself up, then shrugged on his dressing gown and padded over to his desk, which sat beneath a small, barred window looking over Arkham's greenhouse and gardens.
There was a knock on the cell door as he opened his laptop.
"Come in," Jonathan called over his shoulder.
The locking bolts slammed back with a CLANG, and the door swung open, revealing Rosa, the asylum's head nurse in her usual pale pink scrubs, a lilac cardigan draped over her shoulders to keep away the cold. She carried a silver tray outfitted with a cafetiere and a plate covered with a warming lid.
"Good morning, Dr Crane," Rosa beamed, letting the cell door slam shut behind her.
"Good morning, Rosa," Jonathan replied distractedly, his attention on the work before him.
Rosa set the tray beside his elbow and poured a cup of coffee from the cafetiere, then removed the warming lid to reveal an omelet topped with smoked salmon and caviar. The white plate beneath bore the crest of the catering company that provided all of Crane's meals per his instructions and desires.
"Thank you, Rosa," he offered her a tight smile, which she correctly interpreted as her cue to leave him to his work.
Also on t0 tray was a paper cup containing a collection of pills. Jonathan eyeballed the medication, making sure it was his requested prescription. Satisfied, he lifted the cup to his lips just as the cell door slammed shut behind him, the locking bolts crashing back into place with a CLANG.
His breakfast was excellent, as it always was. It had taken time to find a caterer who could provide quality and variety, a necessity when one lived and worked in the same space with little else in the way of variation. The good food and trappings of his cell — especially the Persian carpets to cover the cold stone floors—were all luxuries Crane enjoyed, but as always, his satisfaction ultimately came down to his work. And there was plenty of interesting work to be done at Arkham, which he now had free reign over under its latest director, Dr Hugo Strange.
After an hour of examining blood work and reviewing case files, Jonathan turned to a lacquered wardrobe squeezed into the corner of his cell. He selected a blue shirt, navy sweater vest, and a brown wool suit perfectly tailored to his size.
"Alexa," he called, considering his sock drawer. "Will Dr Strange be in the lab this morning?"
"Checking Dr Strange's schedule," the AI voice chirped. "Dr Strange has a meeting with the board this morning. He is scheduled to be in the lab at 11.15 AM."
"Very good," Jonathan nodded. He preferred to get some alone time in the lab in the morning.
Alexa reverted to the podcast while he selected a pair of argyle socks, then stepped into a pair of well-shined Oxfords before standing to shrug on his lab coat.
After packing up his laptop and collecting his keycard and phone, he swiped himself out of his cell and pulled the door shut behind him, the locking bolts as loud as ever. He strode purposefully through B-Wing toward the rickety basement elevator, a path he could have navigated in his sleep by now.
This first level of the basement was where they used to keep the inmates in need of solitary confinement. The walls were made of crumbling brick and mortar inlaid with iron, and the floor was damp uneven stone. Previously, the elevator would go to a lower level where Crane conducted his original research on the Blue Poppy, but that entrance had since been filled with cement.
Now to reach the lower levels of Arkham, one needed to walk down the row of empty, solitary cells, the last of which appeared no different from the others. Jonathan swiped his card again, and the door swung open to reveal a modern stainless steel elevator standing out against the rocky wall. He pulled the cell door shut behind him and typed a code into a keypad, prompting the elevator doors to ding! open cheerfully.
The first time he took this trip, almost five years earlier, he'd been wearing an orange jumpsuit with his hands cuffed together. It was some six months after he'd returned to Arkham, spending most of that time in a deep depression over his circumstances. That first trip to the basement was the first occasion he met Dr Hugo Strange. It was also the first time he was properly introduced to Dr Pamela Isley, who had convinced Strange they needed his expertise on the Blue Poppy.
The elevator doors opened onto a long white hallway with glass walls. Arkham's underground lab had initially consisted of a single room with rudimentary facilities. Now, five years later, it was a sprawling complex of laboratories, examination rooms, and cells to keep the inmates undergoing or recuperating from testing.
In addition to their backgrounds in psychiatry and psychology, Strange and Crane were both talented biochemists. Pamela held a Ph.D. in organic chemistry, and together, they three were a veritable powerhouse of knowledge and ingenuity. In the five years that had passed, they had made countless breakthroughs, especially around the exotic flora terpenoids Pamela was so fond of working with.
Jonathan unlocked his office, which he naturally felt more at home in than his cell. The room was packed with books, journals, research documents, as well as a few personal trinkets on display; a vintage ECT machine, an old Phrenology device to measure the human skull, a Theremin perched on the coffee table beside a black leather sofa. He was teaching himself to play in his spare time and had become quite good at it.
He'd taken up bee-keeping as well. It began as a research venture but evolved into a more personal passion.
It was remarkable what one could achieve when not burdened by the outside world.
He fetched himself a cup of coffee before returning to his office to prepare for the day ahead, only lifting his head when a Pamela appeared outside his office. She flashed him a warm smile through the glass and knocked twice before pushing the door open.
Unlike her colleagues, she preferred more casual attire when she was working in the lab. Today she wore dark blue skinny jeans and a pistachio-colored sweater, her feet outfitted in a pair of practical hiking boots to deal with the pervasive snow. Her padded Barbour jacket was practical too, its waxy olive green exterior shiny under the fluorescence lights. Pamela was nothing if not practical.
"Hey, Jon," she smirked, leaning a shoulder against the door. "I had a feeling you'd be down early."
They'd been on a first name basis for some time, but it had been a long, odd road to get there. Once Strange explained and Pamela subsequently showed Jonathan what she could do, he'd quickly realized she was "Poison Ivy," the mysterious being whispered about by Gotham's thugs. He was well aware of her close personal friendship with Harleen Quinzel, whom he had not quite forgiven for ruining his life… twice. But Pamela was genuinely remarkable, and Jonathan was willing to let her social life slide. He might even say they had become friends.
He certainly didn't allow anyone else to call him 'Jon.'
"How was Moscow?" he asked.
"Productive," Pamela beamed. "Any developments while I've been away?"
"This year's Pulchra Mortre has come into bloom," he explained. "The soil you sent on from Cairo is ready for the Anubis Rose once you've collected the sample."
"I'll have it by the end of the week," Pamela promised, smiling. "How are your bees?"
Jonathan smiled back at her. "Very well, thank you."
"It's amazing you've kept those guys going all these years." Her smile became a little bitter. "At least something good came out of all that research."
Jonathan's brow knit together as he read the disappointment on her face.
Beyond the Blue Poppy, their early research involved analyzing Pamela's abilities — both their origin and methodology. They'd made significant headway during the first six months, discovering that she produced pheromones. These organic chemicals allowed her to communicate with other members of her species, just like a honey bee communicates with its hive. The pheromones were in her blood, in her saliva, in her sweat. Her perspiration delivered a chemical command straight to a person's nervous system when she touched them. They'd begun studying the bees alongside her for context.
But the human mind is far more complex than a bee's simple nervous system, and the data they compiled was so convoluted that even the Fugaku supercomputer in Japan could not break it down. Their other projects took precedence, and their goals for understanding Pamela's abilities fell by the wayside.
"We can always pick up where we left off," Jonathan pointed out. "Re-examine the data?"
"No," Pamela forced a smile. "No, I think we all agreed we hit a brick wall with that shit."
"That shit makes you unique, Pamela," he countered, frowning. "Don't denigrate yourself."
"Wow, Jon," Pamela raised an eyebrow, her smirk back. "Since when are you such a softie?"
Jonathan blushed.
"Anyway, I've got a meeting in town at nine," she stepped back out in the hall, offering him another smile and a short wave. "I'll see you soon, Jon."
"I look forward to it, Pamela," he replied, finding himself smiling broadly.
He cleared his throat and looked away, and when he lifted his head, Pamela was gone.
Harley -
The bedroom was overly warm when Harley woke up late that afternoon, sweaty with the bedsheets tangled around her legs. Her brain was fuzzy from sleeping so deeply for so long, her vision blurry as she looked sideways to see Joker sleeping on his stomach beside her. He'd abandoned his shirt during the night, his strong back rising and falling with each wheezy breath.
Harley sighed and looked up at the paper lantern dangling above her, a cheap solution to cover the bare bulb swinging from the ceiling. As she examined the ridges of the lantern, she replayed the events leading up to the night before. Details she'd missed that should have been obvious, information she should have seen slipping through the cracks.
Now, after wasting a week on Tetch, they were on the backfoot and Ed was at least a few steps ahead. They had no idea what he was planning.
She felt like she was losing, and Harley hated to lose.
Especially when she wasn't one-hundred percent sure Ed wasn't out to kill her.
Harley got up, too warm to put clothes on beyond a pair of black cotton underwear and a ribbed tank top, and made a pot of coffee. She sat alone at the kitchen table, debating Ed's emotional state with herself. She rubbed her thumb between her eyebrows, absentmindedly smoothing the lines there until she realized what she was doing, and slapped her hand down on the table. She decided some physical exertion was needed to keep her distracted and keep her in fighting shape now that she might have one more person — one very capable person — wanting her dead.
The Joker was still unconscious when Harley lowered herself to the rug beside the bed to stretch before launching into a series of low-impact exercises to work up a sweat. Eventually, he grunted and rolled over to squint down at her, looking confused when he discovered her sitting in a V with her arms and legs in the air, her bare legs scissoring in quick, precise moments as she exhaled sharply through pursed lips.
"Uh," the Joker rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye, still blurry with sleep. "What are you doing?"
"Pilates," Harley huffed, not looking at him, focusing on her form. "There's coffee in the kitchen."
"Uh-huh," he grunted.
A lighter clicked to life and Harley's head snapped toward him as he took a long drag off a newly lit cigarette. She dropped her feet to the carpet, her eyes narrowing.
"You have got to stop smoking," she insisted, to which he just rolled his eyes and muttered something indecipherable before sliding off the bed. He made sure to blow a plume of smoke in Harley's direction, making her scowl as he loped around her into the bathroom.
"Asshole," Harley muttered, rolling onto her stomach to do push-ups once she heard the shower squeal on.
She was entering her late thirties, but Harley was in the best shape of her life. It was a life on the run that kept her lean and strong out of necessity. Street fights were generally something to be avoided, but as their confrontations with the Batman became more frequent, she'd had to adapt and become a better fighter, unwilling to rely on blind luck to keep herself out of prison.
The Bat had been after them for seven years now, and while he'd managed to lock J up once, no one had ever taken Harley Quinn down. But lately, Harley had been dwelling on the fact that someday, she would run out of lives. It was inevitable — she was only human. Maybe it wouldn't happen anytime soon, maybe it would take another fifty years, but it would happen one day. But for a few weeks now, she'd had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn't know what it meant yet, only that something was coming. Her instincts were rarely wrong.
This thought brought her back to Ed, making her feel pouty and malcontent. If he were intent on killing her, she'd have to kill him first. She didn't want to kill Ed. Pam would get upset if she killed Ed— she had her secret side friendship with him. And Lee. Lee was a beneficial shared resource who'd saved both Harley and the Joker's lives and patched them up more times than they could count. Lee would be devastated if Ed died, and she wouldn't be nearly so friendly or generous as she currently was.
Stupid Ed.
There was a loud, aggrieved sigh, and Harley looked up to see the Joker leaning against the door to the bathroom. He crossed his arms over his chest as he watched her work out, his hair wet and clean and tucked behind his ears, his face bare of all traces of greasepaint. Instead of the rumpled purple suit pants he'd been wearing all week, he'd changed into a pair of black jeans and a gray button-down shirt, the clothes he wore to blend in.
"Is someone feeling a little, ah, frustrated," he drawled, pushing away from the door.
Harley shot him an unamused look as he stood over her. He was intentionally winding her up, and after seven years, he'd gotten infuriatingly good at it.
Before Harley could come up with a decent retort, he swooped down and grabbed her by the elbows, hauling her to her feet.
"Hey!" she snapped when he shoved her down on the bed, where she landed with a bounce and a scowl.
He was on top of her a second later, pressing her into the bed as he fisted a handful of her sweaty hair and looked her straight in the eye. The teasing was gone from his face now, replaced with something dark and intense that made Harley's pulse flutter in her neck. Her irritation evaporated almost instantly, his weight on top of her sending arousal spinning through her belly.
"Now, now," he purred, smoothing Harley's hair off her face. "Does Doctor Quinzel need a little taste of her own, uh… medicine?"
He ran his hand down her arm to play with the hem of her top, which was flimsy and had ridden up over her flat belly. Harley closed her eyes as he traced the line of her ribcage, her body arching off the bed when he abruptly slid his hand between her thighs, cupping her through her panties.
She sighed happily when he ground the heel of his hand against her and pulled her hair lightly.
Then Harley's phone started to ring.
She ignored it, throwing her arms around the Joker's neck and kissing him hungrily.
He made a low, satisfied sound deep in his throat, sending desire rippling through her, and she started to fumble with the button on his pants when a second phone started ringing on the other side of the room.
Not the usual jingle of their encrypted smartphones, but the loud whining of a burner. A specific burner linked to a particular person. A person whose call they didn't want to miss.
"Shit," Harley huffed. She turned her head to the side to glare at the phone on the dresser.
"Fuck him," the Joker huffed against her throat, but Harley batted him away.
"It might be about Ed," she pointed out moodily, her body going limp on the bed.
The Joker pulled back to squint at her, and they engaged in a silent contest of wills — work versus finishing what they'd barely even started.
Harley won, and the Joker clambered off her with a frustrated snarl. He staggered over to the dresser, grabbing the ringing and vibrating phone.
"What," he barked.
Harley took a deep breath to clear her head before she sat up to snatch her ringing iPhone off the bedside table, scoffing when she saw who was calling. Detective Harvey Bullock.
She stormed out of the bedroom and stabbed at the answer button.
"What is it, Harvey?" she demanded irritably.
"Woah!" Bullock blustered. "Look, I got something on the Tetch case for ya—"
"Too late," Harley snapped. "He's full of shit and doesn't know anything about Ed."
"Wait, you found him? You found Tetch?" Bullock started getting excited. "What happened? What did ya do to him? Where is he?"
"I don't know." Harley sighed and leaned against the wall. "The Bat showed up and we made a break for it. I guess Tetch got away if he's not with you."
"Harley," Bullock groaned. "You had that freak, and you just let him go? We've been trying to catch him for over a year. He kills kids."
"I don't care," Harley scoffed. "And why do you give a shit? Since when are you on DeCarlo's team?"
"Oh, excuse me for wantin' to see a pedo locked up," Bullock huffed. "Tetch ain't high profile enough for DeCarlo right now. He passed the case onto Montoya and her rookie."
"Montoya," Harley tried to put a face to the name but drew a blank.
"She got a lead last night," Bullock continued. "The boys are hunting down a Tetch associate called Moe Blum."
"Blum?" Harley's mouth twitched up on one side. "Uh, we kinda killed Blum last night."
"Harley—" Bullock sounded aghast, but Harley cut him off again, in no mood to play police consultant.
"Look, I'm sure Montoya or the Batman or someone will stop Tetch," she reassured him impatiently. "All I care about is the Riddler. You hear anything about him or his Sirens, you call me immediately. Understand?"
"Yeah, yeah," Bullock grumbled. "Also, you should—"
Harley hung up on him when the Joker appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, prodding the scar splitting his bottom lip with his tongue as he tossed the burner in the air and caught it again rhythmically. He had a freshly lit cigarette dangling from the first two fingers of his left hand, which Harley chose to ignore for the moment.
"What did he say?" she demanded.
"He's got news about Eddie," the Joker waggled his eyebrows. "Says we should come now."
Harley felt torn between pumping her fist in the air triumphantly — a new avenue had opened up to them, a fresh opportunity — and kicking the wall in frustration over being summoned. Instead, she shoved the Joker out of the way to get back in the bedroom, ignoring his knowing smirk when she hurried to shuffle into a stiff pair of black Levis and a turtleneck for blending in.
"So that's it huh," he taunted her slyly. "The Calculator says jump, and you say how high."
Harley grabbed a heavy red and white houndstooth-print coat off the floor and shrugged it on, hiding her smile as she pretended to ignore him.
He could try to rile her up all he wanted.
It was easy to let it go when there was winning to be done.
The Joker -
The Calculator was how those 'in the know' referred to Noah Kuttler, the most well-informed citizen in Gotham. He had a... preternatural talent for knowing things others didn't, and he was cunning enough to play all sides without putting himself in harm's way. Every move he made was strategic. Each teeny-tiny piece of information he revealed was part of a larger game.
And it drove Harley…. crazy. She felt like a pawn in the Calculator's game, which was hilarious. Harley Quinn could never be a pawn. Everyone who'd tried it was dead or in Arkham, a reputation that served her well. Kuttler was an intelligent guy — he wouldn't dare try it. The Joker didn't mind. He had a good read on him. And despite her reservations, Harley couldn't deny how effective Kuttler was either.
If the past was anything to go by, they were finally about to get some legitimate information on what good old Eddie was planning.
They grabbed the beat-up Honda Civic they'd stashed around the corner from the safe house, the Joker batting snow off the windshield while Harley climbed behind the wheel and cranked up the heating. He fell into the passenger seat with a lazy little flourish and popped a cigarette between his lips, lighting it with one hand and pulling the creaky car door shut with the other.
Harley shot him an irritated look as she put the car in gear.
"Really?" she demanded.
The Joker sighed out a cloud of smoke and stared out the front windscreen, fighting back a smirk as he pretended to ignore her.
"I swear to God," Harley grumbled, navigating the car out of the alley onto a slushy downtown street, clipping a stop sign on her way. "Next time you can't keep up because your lungs are full of tar, I'm leaving you behind."
"Yeah, yeah," the Joker drawled, exhaling another stream of smoke.
She'd been on this anti-smoking kick for a while, but she was increasingly ramping up her nagging. They intentionally put themselves in near-death situations almost every day—shit, they were in a near-death situation right that second with her behind the wheel, blind as a bat—and she was worried about a bit of smoking? The nagging didn't bother him, possibly because he'd become acclimatizing to it over the years, just as he'd gotten used to Harley's near-constant presence at his side.
They headed for the Eastside's Meatpacking District, a neighborhood that'd had a renaissance among young arty types. Its abandoned warehouses had been converted into lofts while hip bars and coffee shops sprung up on every corner. The mob's fingerprints were all over it. They controlled Gotham's real estate market, labor unions, and hospitality industries, just like they controlled everything else. Lucy, aka Donna Falcone, even convinced the state government to legalize marijuana, allowing the Commission to wiggle in and take a cut just like they did in every other industry.
It was tempting to step in and blow it all to hell.
But the mob was so... boring compared to what else Gotham had to offer these days.
Harley pulled into a free space outside a cannabis cafe called The Higher Leaf. It looked inconspicuous enough, flanked by a vegan bakery and a vintage store on a street of recently renovated red brick buildings with wrought iron details. Harley made a wry comment about the irony of opening a vegan bakery in a building where pigs used to be slaughtered, making the Joker chuckle as he pulled the cafe's door open.
It was a small, cozy little space, the walls decorated in different prints of brightly colored wallpaper and mirrors in various shapes and sizes. A collection of repurposed school desks operated as the cafe's tables, overstuffed armchairs, and squashy-looking couches making up the seating. The only patrons were a group of twenty-somethings sharing a joint in the corner and a couple gazing into each other's eyes over mismatched china cups of tea.
They were all oblivious to who had just walked in—to what was happening right under their noses.
Running a hipster weed-cafe seemed both outrageously stupid and fantastically genius as a cover, and it suited Noah Kuttler. He was operating an espresso machine behind the cafe's plexiglass counter, beneath which pots full of fat green cannabis buds sat on display. Kuttler was a tall, good-looking guy, his head shaved and his skin a rich chocolate brown, only the gray of his goatee giving away his middle-age.
He looked up when the door's bell chimed, a pleased smirk spreading across his face.
"Ann," he greeted Harley warmly, his eyes lighting up. "Et mon amie, George."
Harley and the Joker exchanged a look, and the Joker struggled not to cackle outright at the pissy glower on her face. Instead, he settled for tugging down his scarf to reveal his scars for anyone inclined to look as he sidled up to the counter.
"Noah," J purred, bracing an elbow on the plexiglass case. "How's it hangin', buddy?"
"It's hangin' good, Monsieur Smiley," Kuttler smirked. "You sound much happier than an hour ago, no?" He pretended to check his watch and laughed. "Merde, you got here fast, eh?"
"We've got plans tonight," Harley announced impatiently. "So let's make this quick."
"What a lovely coat, Madame Smiley," Kuttler observed slyly, eyeing the oversized white and red houndstooth pattern. "A Sofia Falcone design, no?"
"Who could have guessed the Calculator reads Vogue," Harley sneered.
"No, ma chérie," Kuttler laughed softly. "But your good friend Madame Falcone visited the younger Madame Falcone last month, no?" He folded his arms over his broad chest, looking smug. "I hear she always brings you clothes on her visits. A very amusing anecdote, I think."
The Joker watched out of the corner of his eye as Harley visibly struggled to control herself, her jaw working as her eyes settled on the cash register. Ah, the Joker knew that look. It was the one she got whenever she saw an opportunity to inflict some good old-fashioned blunt force trauma.
"So, Calculator, whaddya got for us, hmm?" He jumped in before she could leap over the counter and kill him. "I sure hope it's good since we uh, rushed right down here for ya…."
He ran a gloved finger over the plexiglass case and lifted his dark eyes to Kuttler, whose smile dimmed.
"You have not been quiet in your search for Edward," he pointed out, more soberly. "You are aware he and his Sirens are plotting something, no?"
"I hope we didn't come all the way over here for you to tell us what we already know," Harley snapped.
Kuttler chuckled softly like he found her amusing. The Joker had to agree but kept it to himself.
"My informants say Edward is gathering a group of... like-minded individuals," Kuttler explained. "Though, I wonder why you are not included among them, Madame Smiley," he added slyly.
"A group of like-minded people?" Harley made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "You mean like… a team?"
Kuttler flashed them a grin. "Indeed."
Harley folded her arms over her chest and fixed Kuttler with an impenetrable stare, one that made him lift his chin like he was trying to cover his nerves. "Who's on this team? How many of them are there?"
"There are at least three," Kuttler replied, eyeing her appraisingly. "But I have only one name to share today."
Harley and the Joker exchanged another look, silently judging the situation.
Harley wanted to kill Kuttler.
The Joker wanted to be patient and wait for a better moment.
Patience wasn't Harley's strong suit.
Oh, the Joker was well aware of that.
If this got Harley killed, she would come back and haunt J for the rest of his life.
Deal.
They turned to face Kuttler in unison.
"And uh, who might that be, hmm?" the Joker asked, his eyes narrowing.
"A thief named Drury Walker" Kuttler leaned forward, lowering his voice for dramatic effect. "They call him... the Killer Moth."
Harley wrinkled her nose. "Who?"
"The Killer Moth," Kuttler repeated, shrugging. "He claims to be a vigilante for Rogues, to protect you from the Batman."
Harley muttered something downright evil under her breath while the Joker's eyes rolled back in his head happily.
"Who else?" Harley demanded, huffing. "One guy we've never heard of? Who else, huh? Julian Day? Victor Zsasz? Jervis Tetch? Is he actually working with Tetch after all?"
"No," Kuttler shook his head. "I have my suspicions about a second thief. But I have been unable to confirm her name."
He planted his hands on the plexiglass counter, offering them another shrug and a genial smile to convey that was all he had for them or at least all he was willing to reveal.
Harley looked up at the Joker, and he silently convinced her not to kill Kuttler again before they agreed it was time to go.
J turned and strode out of the cafe without a word of farewell, but Harley hung back, possibly to deliver a creative threat about how easy it would be to rip Kuttler's eyeballs out of his head.
On the snowy street in front of the shop, the Joker lit a cigarette and waited beside the car, yawning as he smoked and considered what Ed courting criminals to make a dream team meant. Maybe he would try to kill them.
The cafe's bell chimed again as Harley stomped out the door, a small plastic package in her gloved hand. She shoved it at him unceremoniously on her way past.
"Uh?" the Joker squinted down at it, then at Harley over the roof of the car. "What is this?"
"Vaping," Harley rolled her eyes as she unlocked the car and opened her door. "You inhale water vapor instead of smoke, so you don't get lung cancer and die on me," she added.
The Joker fought back a smirk as he tucked the vape-thing into his coat and ducked into the car beside her.
She was so funny.
Helena -
Miranda Tate's office was on the eighteenth floor of Wayne Tower, and unlike many members of Wayne's board of directors, Miranda was in nearly every day. Though she had infinite resources, Miranda ran a tight ship with only Helena, her assistant, on the payroll. Her responsibilities were wide-ranging and included organizing Miranda's schedule, liaising with the other assistants and secretaries at Wayne, hiring PR teams and other consultants, and researching projects and foundations Miranda was interested in investing in.
Miranda was a slight woman, willowy with a heart-shaped face and full lips, her auburn hair styled to fall in thick curls around her shoulders. By Helena's estimation, Miranda was wildly intelligent, down to earth, exceedingly kind, and most importantly, relentless in her pursuit of a better world, making her the perfect mentor.
She'd taken the job because of the energy project, but Miranda was now the primary reason Helena considered this her dream role.
"You're here late," Miranda observed, leaning her hip against Helena's desk and smiling down at her. "I thought it was date night?"
"Dinah said she'll let me know when she's heading home," Helena explained, not sounding incredibly hopeful. "Her schedule is so erratic right now. It's hard for her to make promises."
"That must be hard," Miranda made a sympathetic face. "And you're very worried about Dr Pavel's paper, too."
"Pavel has to be a quack," Helena insisted, shaking her head. "Wayne has to see that."
"It will all work out for the best," Miranda reassured her. "Perhaps you should get to know Bruce better. We could all have dinner together."
"Absolutely," Helena agreed eagerly. "Isn't he reclusive, though?"
"Just a little camera shy," Miranda smiled, picking up the lone framed photograph on Helena's desk.
The photo was of Helena and Dinah, both beaming with Aperol Spritzes in hand while the sunset on Italy's Amalfi coast behind them. It was from two summers earlier when Dinah's hair was still halfway down her back. She'd chopped it to her shoulders when she decided to become a cop.
"You should bring Dinah," Miranda suggested slyly, setting the photo down. "You're not hiding me from her, are you, Helena?"
"I'm sure she'll say she can try,'" Helena replied flatly, when something occurred to her. "Actually… she already knows Bruce Wayne."
Miranda laughed, but she didn't look surprised. "Is that so?"
"He handpicked her for the Wayne Foundation scholarship," Helena explained. "Maybe he'll listen to her if he doesn't listen to us."
"How about tomorrow night?" Miranda smiled. "I'll make sure Bruce is there. Just ask Dinah to do her best. We can't ask too much of her."
Miranda left soon after that, and miraculously, Dinah texted to let Helena know she was on her way home, prompting Helena to rush to pack up her laptop and close the office. She shrugged on her pea coat and arranged a black beret over her hair, feeling a shiver of excitement about their first date night in a long, long time.
Sex was one thing — she and Dinah had plenty of sex —but spending quality time together, going out to eat or see friends... that had been in short supply recently.
Not that they had many friends in Gotham, a stark departure from their life in LA.
Outside, the snow was falling faster than pedestrians could kick it away. Midtown was always decorated festively in bows and bobbles for the holiday season, one of a handful of good memories Helena still had of her childhood in Gotham. The giant Christmas tree outside City Hall, Christmas Eve mass at St Margaret's Cathedral, carriage rides in Robinson park when Pino was still small enough to sit on her lap. Those were the good memories before her mother's murder. Before she was old enough to understand what her family did for a living.
As she headed for the Metro, she passed a long black town car parked at the curb, a driver standing at attention beside the back door.
"Miss Bertinelli?"
Helena turned at the sound of her name, her lips pursing when she saw the driver had opened the car's door for her.
Thorne.
She knew it was him in the back of that car. This heavy-handedness was just like her father's old friend and associate, Rupert Thorne.
He'd been trying to get in touch for almost two weeks, and Helena had more than enough reasons to refuse to engage him. What he did for a living, who he represented, the memories she associated with him —they were the diametric opposite to happy carriage rides with her family.
"No, thank you," she said coldly.
Then Thorne hung his head out of the car and caught her eye. He was a fat man with a thick head of white hair, his heavy jowls currently tucked beneath a tartan scarf.
"Helena," he implored her, his voice an authoritative but polite rumble. "Please."
Helena ground the worn stiletto heel of her boot into the snowy pavement. She considered refusing, just turning and stomping away. She was supposed to be on her way home for date night, which was actually going to happen for once. She wasn't supposed to be getting into the back of a car with a mob lawyer.
But maybe if she gave him five minutes of her time now, she could be done with him forever.
She shook her head, her jaw tensing as she slid into the car, which was overly warm and made her start to sweat immediately.
Thorne took up half of the spacious backseat, and his belly was more prominent than Helena remembered it. He'd been a close friend and advisor to her father, even when the political winds turned against the Bertinelli's. When her father died, Thorne had been the one to fly to Europe to tell her what happened while her legal guardians, second cousins she had no relationship with, didn't bother to get in touch.
Thorne was the one to organize her allowance and tuition from the trust left to her, he was the one to co-sign whatever needed co-signing, and he was the one who showed up when she needed help, even if she hadn't asked for it. When she turned twenty-one, he turned the trust over to her and asked if there was anything else he could do.
Helena accepted the money but otherwise ignored him.
"What do you want?" she snapped, shifting uncomfortably.
"You have been ignoring me," Thorne replied calmly. "I understand why, but I must speak to you."
"Well, here I am," Helena rolled her eyes. "Speak."
There was a prolonged silence in which Thorne eyed her warily while Helena stared straight ahead, hating herself for behaving like an irritable child when she was a grown woman.
"Have you heard from Pino recently?" he asked.
"He sent me a meme about cats this morning," Helena replied drily.
"And beyond memes," Thorne pressed. "Do you know what he's been up to?"
"No, and I don't want to know," Helena shot him a meaningful look. "My girlfriend is a cop, Rupert. A good cop."
"I am aware," Thorne nodded. "I hear she and her partner Detective Montoya have the good sense not to stir up trouble. But should that change and I have to step in, I promise I will."
Helena turned to stare at him, stunned. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"You are not naive, Helena. You know exactly what I mean." Thorne countered blithely. "But that is irrelevant. I am here to speak to you about Pino."
"Rupert," Helena ran a hand over her eyes, but he pressed on.
"Your brother is making political moves that will not end well for him," he said, more gravely. "He thinks he is honoring your father, but he is putting himself in danger. I urge you to speak to him."
"We don't talk about— about his work," Helena protested. "I don't know anything about it, and I don't want to know."
"I understand," Thorne placated her. "You need not involve yourself, just council your brother to take a step back from his current path. If it helps, tell him to do it for your sake, so you aren't put in this position again."
"No," Helena shook her head. "I can't get involved."
"I always have yours and Pino's best interest at heart, Helena," Thorne insisted. "Even if you wish it were not the case, I have always been there when you needed me… like your incident with that young man, John Berry."
Helena swung around to glare at Thorne, resentment racing through her veins.
"That was over two years ago, and I didn't ask for your help," she spat. "You just showed up."
"You nearly killed him, Helena," Thorne countered gently. "Had I not stepped in, you would have been charged with assault. You would have gone to prison, your life ruined. Your father would never have allowed it."
Helena's jaw worked as she struggled to find a retort. She hated that he was right. That stepping in and making bad things 'go away' was how her father had operated and what he would have wanted. It was a privilege to wield that kind of power, but power was not easy to hold onto, and when you lost it, as Franco Bertinelli did, you paid the price with your life.
And the lives of the people you loved, too.
"You've always worked for the Falcone's," Helena said moodily. "Why do you care about us?"
"Your father was my friend," Thorne replied soberly. "Alliances in Gotham are ever-changing, but my friendship and loyalty to your family remain."
Helena exhaled through clenched teeth, trying to center herself.
"I can't get involved with whatever Pino's doing," she insisted. "That isn't my world."
"But it is your world, Helena. It is who your family is. It is who you are," Thorne pushed back. "You need not embroil yourself in the business, but you must play the game when necessary."
"The game is the business, Rupert," Helena sighed.
Thorne pressed his fleshy lips together. He seemed to be holding something back, and Helena prayed he would. She prayed he wouldn't keep pushing her and just let her go and deal with Pino himself.
"Mandragora has returned from Chicago," Thorne said softly. "Lucy Falcone invited him to join the Commission."
Mandragora. The man responsible for Helena's mother's murder. The reason Helena was sent to boarding school —to keep her out of harm's way while a blood feud raged back in Gotham. In the end, Franco Bertinelli won, and Mandragora escaped to Chicago with his tail between his legs, but only after they'd all paid a terrible price.
Helena's eyes closed as rage swept through her, making her fingertips crackle like live wires. The pointlessness of all that death and the loss of everything she knew and loved was all because Mandragora wanted to take her father's place in Gotham's hierarchy.
That was the game. It was business and blood.
"Yeah, well," Helena muttered bitterly, feeling helpless once again. "Harley Quinn's in Gotham too, and I can't do anything about her either."
Thorne's face softened, and Helena found herself vividly reliving the day he flew to Switzerland to tell her what happened. He told her that her father had been hunted, tortured, and murdered by a woman who painted her face like a clown and desired nothing but chaos. Helena remembered the emptiness she'd felt as Thorne handed her her father's cross, the helplessness, the anger. And every time the news announced that Harley Quinn had done something horrific — which she'd done many times in the seven years since she first appeared — Helena would stare at that painted, smirking face on the front of newspapers, and wonder if anyone would ever stop her.
Would she ever pay a price?
"Harley Quinn cannot be reasoned or negotiated with," Thorne said gently. "And she cannot be killed."
Helena scoffed, disgusted. "You talk about her like she's super-human."
"You have been gone a long time, Helena," Thorne replied soberly. "The Commission's official stance is not to intervene with Harley Quinn, the Joker, the Riddler, the Calendar Killer, or any of their ilk to avoid unnecessary bloodshed."
"Because you're cowards," Helena spat, making Thorne sigh.
"Perhaps Ms Lance may be able to do something as a police officer," he suggested, prompting Helena to shoot him a dubious look. "Would she not want to avenge your father's death and rid the city of a terrorist?"
Helena wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling cold even though her clothes were sticking to her skin with sweat.
"Dinah doesn't know," she admitted quietly.
"She doesn't know?" Thorne squinted at her. "She doesn't know Harley Quinn killed your father?"
"It was bad enough telling her why my mother was killed and who my family is," Helena explained bitterly. "I didn't want her to think we were involved with masked freaks too."
"I see," Thorne said softly, with a note of disapproval that made Helena bristle.
"Look, I don't want to talk about Harley Quinn, I don't want to think about her, I don't want to know anything about her, and I don't want to know anything about Lucy Falcone or Mandragora either."
She began wrestling with the door handle, needing to get away.
"Helena, please," Throne entreated her. "Please speak to Pino. Tell him to take a step back. If he continues—"
"I don't want to know!" Helena kicked the door open, shooting Thorne one last glare over her shoulder. "Leave me out of it. That's it, don't contact me again. Goodbye."
She climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut behind her, then stormed off down the street toward the Metro.
Harley -
Harley dropped the Joker off at Frost's place downtown, nagging him to eat something that wasn't pizza before she headed north to Otisberg to meet Pam.
Otisberg was a nice, middle-class neighborhood with well-manicured gardens and freshly painted houses. Pam lived in a cute condo complex amid all this domesticity, a one-bedroom that was previously a safe house for Harley, and before that belonged to Roman Sionis' brainwashed fiance, Samantha Pierce, aka Circe.
Last Harley heard, Roman was still experiencing near-constant delusions of Samantha ripping him limb to limb, a thought that always brought a smile to her face.
That little blip with Roman shook Harley's confidence in a way she'd never experienced before. He'd been an adversary she genuinely feared, someone who made her feel vulnerable, weak. But Harley came out of that ordeal stronger than ever, and no one—no one—had made her feel that way since.
She trotted up the steps to Pam's condo and knocked twice, listening to Pam bang around inside before the door flew open.
"Happy belated Hanukkah!" she greeted Harley with a grin, holding up a magnum-sized bottle of Prosecco.
She wore a chunky-knit sweater with a Scandi-pattern around the collar and dark blue skinny jeans, her feet swaddled in a pair of tan house shoes with a fluffy lining and her long red hair tied up in a messy knot. She looked cozy and relaxed, and Harley immediately felt some tension leave her shoulders as Pam dragged her over the threshold for a hug.
Pam had redecorated the apartment as soon as she moved in, swapping out Samantha's shabby-chic furniture for a more bohemian style and replacing the prints of Audry Hepburn with abstract paintings, some of which Ed had blatantly stolen for her. Predictably, there was a wealth of different plant species perched on all available surfaces, though in one corner, Pam had set up a frosted fake Christmas tree, which she'd decorated in pink lights and tinsel.
"I got you some Latkes from the Kosher deli," she grinned, popping the cork on the Prosecco and pouring out two fizzing glasses. "To help you celebrate your Jewish heritage."
"You know I'm not really Jewish, right?" Harley reminded her, accepting a glass before she collapsed on the couch, a teal sectional decorated with cushions and throws in earthy tones and African patterns.
"I said heritage," Pam grabbed a greasy box off the counter. "Your parents were Jewish."
"Religion is a ridiculous concept," Harley countered, eyeing the box of latkes greedily.
Pam flopped down beside her and dropped the box on the couch between them, the pink lights of the Christmas tree making her red hair glow. Harley quickly nabbed a fried potato treat, her stomach suddenly feeling more hollow than she'd realized.
"So, what's been going on?" Pam asked mildly. "You guys have been pretty quiet."
"The usual," Harley sighed and rubbed the wrinkles between her eyebrows absentmindedly. "The Batman's stalking us, and Ed's a pain in the ass."
"Exciting," Pam observed, sipping her Prosecco. "How's the fuck boy?"
Harley snorted into her drink. "I'm trying to get him to quit smoking," she admitted.
"Oh yeah? How's that going?"
"Bad," Harley sighed. "You haven't heard from Ed, have you?" She gestured to an obviously stolen piece of art on the wall. "Since you're best friends and all."
"We get drinks sometimes," Pam corrected her drily. "But no, I haven't heard from him in at least a month."
"But you'd tell me if you did, right?" Harley pressed
"Of course I would," Pam frowned. "I'm always on your side, Harley. No matter what."
"Good," Harley grinned, pleased that she was the favorite. "Tell me about this heist — we're robbing someone's coffin?"
"It's not like we're grave-robbing," Pam rolled her eyes. "We're going to peek inside a sarcophagus and take a few samples. I just need you to get me in and out safely."
"That'll be easy," Harley stretched her arms over her head. "I'll get the museum blueprints and the guards' schedules. We'll knock out the CCTV, I'll pick off the guards, and you crack open the coffin—sarcophagus—to get what you need. In and out."
"Perfect," Pam beamed, topping up both their glasses with bubbles. "Here's to a successful heist."
Harley laughed and clinked her glass against Pam's before settling back into the couch with another latke, her hand drifting to her forehead again.
"Okay, what are you doing?" Pam narrowed her eyes.
"What?" Harley asked, defensive, lowering her hand to her thigh.
"This," Pam rubbed at the space between her eyebrows. "Have you got a headache? Look, I know you don't want to admit to yourself that you need glasses, but if you're squinting so much you're getting headaches, you should—"
"No," Harley cut Pam off with a sigh. With anyone else, including the Joker, Harley would never, ever, ever admit to what she was about to reveal to Pam. "No, I just noticed last night I'm getting…" she gestured to her forehead. "Wrinkles."
Pam searched Harley's face for a moment, bemused, then threw her head back and laughed at the ceiling.
"Thanks," Harley said drily, sipping her drink while Pam cackled like she'd never heard something so funny in all her life.
"I'm sorry, it's just," Pam shook her head, wiping tears from her eyes. "It's just funny because it's you."
"Fantastic," Harley deadpanned. She drained the rest of her Prosecco and reached for another latke.
"Aw," Pam's face softened. "Want me to fix it for you?"
"What?" Harley mumbled around a mouthful of fried potato. She swallowed and cleared her throat. "What do you mean, fix it?"
"A little something we drummed up in the lab," Pam grinned. "It's a plant-derived terpenoid-blend you inject into the facial muscles to relax them," she explained cheerfully.
Harley's eyes widened in alarm. "What?"
The last time Pam had injected herself with a "plant-derived terpenoid-blend" she'd developed her abilities. That on its own wasn't a bad thing, but she eventually became more interested in her abilities than her well-being, resulting in a reckless desire for power that nearly drove her insane.
"I didn't test it on myself," Pam rolled her eyes. "That's what we use the inmates for. Ed calls it Faux-tox." She smirked, looking pleased with herself. "His face is full of this shit. It's totally safe."
"Faux-tox," Harley rolled her shoulders back, shaking off her unease. "So that's what you guys are working on now? Anti-aging plant toxins?"
"It isn't all glamorous eco-terrorism and botanical espionage," Pam drawled. "And they're terpenoids, naturally occurring organic chemicals like in herbal teas or magic mushrooms, not toxins."
"Like how the Blue Poppy makes fear toxin and BO?" Harley asked warily.
"Yes." Pam grabbed the remote from the coffee table, turning to Harley. "So, just to be clear, you'd rather talk about organic chemistry instead of turning off your brain for a few hours to watch movies?"
Harley pursed her lips. Time spent on Pam's couch had become something of a necessity to balance out the rest of her life. She didn't particularly care what they watched, but voluntarily doing nothing for a few hours helped her decompress.
"There's a new season of Real Housewives of Metropolis," Harley said slyly.
Pam shot her a dubious look. "That shit will rot your brain."
"I disagree," Harley smirked. "It's an intimate portrait of our worst impulses as human beings, which are wholly universal and honest."
"Humans are the worst," Pam conceded, making Harley laugh. "That doesn't mean it's not still terrible."
Harley shrugged and settled back into the couch. "Fine. It's the latke-dealer's choice."
Pam chuckled and topped up their glasses with more fizzing bubbles before choosing a movie, something nostalgic from the 1940s starring Dames and Broads with mid-Atlantic drawls, curled pageboy haircuts, and brassy attitudes, and also far more sympathetic to human nature than Pam was.
Dinah -
After many, many hours of reviewing the Rogue Task Force's files on the Wonderland Gang, the sex-trafficking ring Jervis Tetch got his start in, Montoya insisted Dinah "go home to her woman" as it was unlikely they'd make any breakthroughs that evening. She was right, and Dinah was craving some alone-time with Helena, but she was reluctant to leave. She'd finally started to feel like they were making headway when they hit another brick wall.
Moe Blum, the Tetch-associate Freddi Two-Fingers pointed them toward, was already dead, his body turning up just that morning.
So, there went that lead.
Dinah took the metro home, reviewing the notes she'd made in her pocketbook, hoping something would jump out at her if she stared long enough.
She sighed and ran a hand over her face as the Metro arrived Uptown.
She really needed a date night.
Once home, she changed out of her uniform into a blue turtleneck and black high-waisted jeans. She took hair out of the high bun on top of her head, letting it fall in uneven, kinky waves to her shoulders. She penciled in her eyebrows and applied a few coats of mascara and a smudge of black liner, then put on her earrings—a collection of small gold hoops and vintage charms running up both her ears. After a generous spraying of dry shampoo, she parted her hair on the side and tried to tame it with her fingers, her eyes lingering on the scar near her hairline where she got cracked across the head with a cast-iron skillet.
Like the ugly scar on her upper arm, it used to bother her every time she looked in the mirror. Now she hardly noticed them.
She'd never explained either scar in detail to Helena, these violent marks from Black Mask and Harley Quinn, only that they were the product of living in Gotham.
Just as Dinah was stepping into a pair of well-worn motorcycle boots, Helena arrived home. She threw her gym bag down on the couch a little too aggressively and offered Dinah a pinched smile before kissing her.
Dinah looped her arms around Helena's neck before she could pull away. "What's wrong?"
"Just," she shrugged Dinah off, not meeting her eye. "Just the physicist thing. I'm okay, just hungry."
Frustrated-With-Work Helena was a Helena Dinah was well acquainted with, and food plus venting about the state of the world frequently helped knock her out of these bad moods. So Dinah took Helena's hand and offered her a sympathetic smile.
"Wanna go to that new vegan place before Drea's?" she suggested, and Helena nodded, obviously distracted.
All through dinner, she was reticent, not ranting about the Russian physicist or Wayne's PR team's incompetence or even gushing about how wonderful Miranda was. Instead, she left the conversation up to Dinah, which, unfortunately, meant talking about Rogues and pedophiles. Not ideal dinner conversation.
Then she was distracted at the gallery, a tiny hole-in-the-wall style space with white-washed floors and walls. Art was one of the early things they bonded over. In her first year at Princeton, Dinah slowly eased into the idea that art wasn't frivolous, that it could be breathtakingly honest in a way people weren't always capable of being. With her European boarding school pedigree Helena could have given a guided tour of the Louvre in Paris or the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, in the local language no less. It was intimidating and sexy and exciting, as so many things about Helena were.
Dinah was expecting some of that passionate chatter at this exhibition, which Helena had been so eager to see. Instead, she just silently stared at the paintings of half-naked women with neon nipples wrestling.
Luckily, the gallery owner joined them.
And she had wine.
"Leftover from the opening last week," Drea winked, handing paper cups of red to each of them. "How are you guys? How's work?"
"Di's hunting down a pedophile and I have to convince a billionaire I know more about nuclear fusion than a nuclear physicist," Helena said drily. "So pretty good."
Dinah shot her a bewildered look.
"Wow," Drea laughed. "So, what do you think? The opening was wild. The artist's partner did some spoken word poetry. She's the blonde in most of these paintings."
A paper cup of wine later, and Helena managed to open up a bit, and for a good half an hour, they chatted easily with Drea and re-examined the exhibition. But once outside on the snowy street, Helena almost immediately slumped back into her sullen mood. Even the black beret perched on her glossy dark hair looked sad.
"Hey," Dinah stopped her, grabbing both her hands. "What is going on? You seem really depressed."
"It's nothing," Helena tried to pull away, but Dinah pulled her back.
"Helena," she said, her expression grim. She was hiding something, something unrelated to work. "Tell me."
Helena's jaw worked as she stared determinedly at the shuttered shop behind Dinah. She seemed to come to some kind of decision, but she was still visibly tense, her body strung tight like a bow.
"I'm just," she faltered and forced herself to look at Dinah, who nodded encouragingly. "There's a guy who used to work for my father," she said quietly. "He's been trying to get in touch with me.
Dinah tried to keep her expression neutral. She had many thoughts about Helena's father, none of them especially sympathetic. Of course, she didn't judge Helena for the sins of her family, but Dinah had been exposed to the real-world repercussions of organized crime. As a kid on the streets, as Black Canary, and now as a police officer. Franco Bertinelli helped build this system, and it ultimately got him killed. Everyone suffered because of his selfish choices, including Helena and the rest of her family.
But Helena loved her father deeply. She wore his cross around her neck every day. She mourned him, and Dinah couldn't fault her for that. She'd always known they would have to face these ghosts of Helena's past if they returned to Gotham.
She just wasn't sure how they were supposed to deal with them yet.
So Dinah did the best she could at the moment and settled for cracking a smile as she pulled Helena closer, trying to lighten the mood.
"Want me to sic Montoya on this guy?" she smirked. "She'd do it. Just ruffle him up and give him a little scare."
Helena shot Dinah a dubious look, a reluctant smile playing around the corners of her mouth.
"You know she calls you my woman," Dinah continued, grinning. "I think we need to set her up. Get her a girlfriend or a date at least."
"I would be terrified for whoever we set Renee up with," Helena snorted. "I bet she's an animal in the sack."
"God, don't say that," Dinah groaned, making Helena laugh more openly this time.
"You know I'm right," she smirked.
Dinah shook her head, smiling. "I'm freezing. Want to get a drink at Queenie's?"
"Yes," Helena agreed immediately and threw an arm over Dinah's shoulders.
Queenie's was a dive bar that put on drag nights of the gender-fluid variety. Despite the sticky floors and rickety tables, not to mention the always out-of-order toilets and neon beer signs, Queenie always dressed and painted herself like she was about to put on a show. Tonight she wore a bubblegum pink wig and a matching rhinestone-encrusted bodysuit, and her face fully painted though one of her fake eyelashes was half-falling off.
"Ohhh, hello, fishy ladies!" she squawked when Helena and Dinah slid onto a pair of barstools.
Queenie pointed to each of them in turn with a dramatic flourish. "Lemme guess. A couple of beers, for my two favorite queers," she chanted, making Helena and Dinah chuckle.
Everything got easier after that, with Queenie telling them insane stories that couldn't be true, flapping her hands and squawking as she insisted they have a second round of drinks. Helena held Dinah's hand under the bar, absentmindedly stroking the ring on her index finger. They discussed the exhibition at Drea's and the new crockpot Helena wanted to buy, and a film showing at the cinema down the road they would see on their next date night, promising each other they would happen every week, and sealing it with a kiss.
"Oh! I completely forgot," Helena threw her hands up. "Miranda wants us all to go out to dinner tomorrow if you can make it."
"That'll be nice," Dinah took a swig of beer. "And probably very fancy."
"It's a little bit work-related," Helena admitted. "Bruce Wayne will be there. We're trying to butter him up before Pavlov's paper comes out."
Dinah took another longer sip of her beer so Helena wouldn't see her react. Panic followed by guilt followed by panic again as she realized this would mean disappointing Helena by weaseling out of dinner or lying about her relationship with Bruce for an entire evening. Helena thought he was little more than the person who signed her tuition cheques, not someone she'd lived with for a year and at one point considered family. Still did, really. Family she didn't see enough.
"Do I really need to be there?" Dinah asked warily.
"Yeah!" Helena enthused. "Miranda wants to meet you, and you've met Wayne before. Maybe you can soften him up for us."
"Yeah." Dinah couldn't think of anything to get out of it aside from work, which was already putting a strain on their relationship. So she settled for a weak, "I'll try to be there."
"I'm hungry again," Helena announced cheerfully. "Falafel then home?"
"Deal," Dinah nodded, smiling, though she already imagined various scenarios for how this could all go horrifically wrong.
She could always tell the truth, try and explain everything…
But it had been too long. A secret this deep couldn't come out. It had to stay buried, protected.
Dinah was aware she was the quiet one as they walked home, hand-in-hand, and she tried her best to smile and pretend nothing was wrong, which was a lie too. They stopped at a Turkish take-out place called En Iyi Shawarma for falafel and hummus to soak up the beer, and while they waited for their food, Helena draped an arm over Dinah's shoulders and rested her cheek on her hair.
"I'm tired," she sighed, prompting Dinah to loop an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.
"Me too," she said, thinking about Bruce.
Then, once they'd ordered and paid, Dinah noticed a group of three men who'd already been served, chuckling to each other, and staring at them.
Dinah's arm instinctively tightened around Helena's waist.
"Thanks, İlayda," Helena grinned, accepting a box of food from the tall brunette behind the counter. "Hey, you switched to paper from styrofoam!"
"It's cheaper," İlayda tucked her thumbs in her grease-stained apron and smirked. "And now you can't complain every time you come here."
"Progress!" Helena beamed, throwing her arm over Dinah's shoulders again and guiding her out of the shop.
"Hey there," one of the men smirked as they walked past. "How are you ladies doing?"
Helena's face immediately darkened, but Dinah nudged her forward.
"Just go," she muttered.
They made it less than ten steps before the three men followed them out.
"Hey! Hey, we're talkin' to you!" one called after them. "What's wrong, you dykes can't be nice?"
"Ignore them," Dinah hissed, feeling Helena begin to pull away from her.
"Hey! Why don't ya kiss each other, huh?" one of the other men called after them. "C'mon, we're nice guys! Why can't you girls be nice?"
"Fuck off!" Helena snapped over her shoulder.
Dinah kept urging her forward, but the men kept following them.
"Kiss each other!"
"Bet I got something she can't give you, sweetheart!"
"C'mon, just kiss each other and we'll leave ya alone!"
And so on.
They made it about thirty feet when Helena shrugged Dinah off and swung around to face them.
"I said fuck off, you pathetic piece of shit," she spat, which just made them laugh as they edged closer.
"You got a naughty mouth, baby-girl."
"Why don't you put it to good use!"
"I bet the blonde gets good use out of it."
"Oh yeah, every night!"
They were just feet away now. Dinah pulled on Helena's arm, trying to get her to move, but she'd planted her feet, seething as the men drew closer. They were stocky with thick necks, more than likely mob enforcers from the cut of their suits. They stank of whisky. Dinah could smell it.
"Why don't ya kiss her, huh? You're gonna fuck later anyway, ain't ya?"
Helena moved too fast for Dinah to stop her. She lurched forward and punched the closest one square in the face.
"Fuck off," she spat again.
She started to turn away, but another one of the men lunged for her.
"You fuckin' bitch!"
He went to grab her hair, but Helena pivoted back to face him and broke his nose before he could touch her. In three quick moves, she immobilized him and flipped him flat on his back, leaving him gasping and bleeding in the snow, Helena's beret.
Everything went south from there. The two remaining men charged forward, spitting indignantly. Dinah stopped the one closest to her, first with a warning hand flat on his chest, then a knee to his groin when he didn't take the hint. He doubled over, gasping while Helena immobilized the third man with a series of double-punches to his chest and his throat, making him gag and stagger back, his eyes bulging.
Dinah grabbed Helena's hand, determined to make her run instead of engaging them further. Her cheeks were pink and eyes wild, and she'd lost her beret.
But the first man had struggled to his feet by then, his broken nose gushing blood.
He had a gun in his hand, and he was pointing it at Helena.
"Fuckin' dykes!"
Dinah and Helena exchanged a quick look.
They used to train together religiously, martial arts ere another passion they bonded over early on. Dinah was out of practice with less time to train, but Helena trained every morning, though as far as Dinah was aware, she'd never encountered any actual danger where her physical well-being was at risk, let alone a gun.
However, Dinah had quite a bit of experience with having guns pointed at her head.
She reacted instinctively, kicking the gun out of the man's hand then swinging around to tackle the other two before they could get her from behind. Without handcuffs to bind them, she went for the weak spots to put them out of commission —the throat, groin, knees, diaphragm, though she stopped short of breaking anything or pulling anything out of the socket, or even knocking them unconscious.
When they were on the ground, moaning and no longer a threat, she spun around to see Helena had the man who'd pointed the gun at her up against the wall, ruthlessly beating him with her gloved fist.
Then she swooped down and grabbed his discarded gun, shoving him back up against the wall and holding the gun to his throat.
"Are we fuckin' dykes now!" she snapped, forcing his head back.
He started begging her to stop, his voice cracking.
"Helena!" Dinah rushed up behind her and grabbed her arm. "Stop!"
Helena was breathing hard, her shoulders rising and falling sharply, her rage palatable. She shoved Dinah away before viciously pistol-whipping the man across his battered face. His head cracked to the side, and he collapsed to the concrete, unconscious.
Dinah stared down at his bloodied face, stunned, then up at Helena when she threw the gun down beside him. She shook her dark hair out of her eyes —they were blazing, her mouth composed in an ugly scowl. She looked like she was holding herself back. She looked like she wanted to do more.
And a memory flashed before Dinah's mind's eye. One she hadn't thought of in so long.
Of Harley. That day she went hunting for Victor Zsasz when her rage and lust for violence were as visceral as Helena's was now.
Dinah took an involuntary step back, horrified by that train of thought.
A few strained seconds passed, during which Dinah was too shellshocked to do or say anything, and then finally Helena turned away.
"Let's go home," she said quietly.
Dinah nodded numbly, glancing back at the bleeding, groaning men in the snow, uncertain what had just happened and unsure what she was supposed to do next.
A/N: Oooooh, Helena. You got some rage. I hope no one found the homophobia & gaslighting too upsetting. It makes me cringe to re-read it.
I ended up feeling quite guilty about Crane by the end of the Pantomime. He was just screwed no matter what he did, so I tried to make it up to him here, and he feels more like a Jonathan to me now.
Next: Harley & J look into Killer Moth. Helena & Dinah have dinner with Bruce. Pam learns something she wishes she didn't.
Please review! I want to hear from ALL of you.