The Rabbit Hole
3.
Theme: Swans - 'It's Coming, It's Real' (Youtube) (Spotify)
Pam -
Pam stepped out of the yellow cab onto a slushy Midtown street. She slammed the door and looked up, her head tipping back as she squinted at the top spire of Wayne Tower some sixty-four stories above her. The sun was bright that morning, and she smiled as it warmed her cold cheeks. She felt good. Fresh and well-rested after a night at the apartment in Otisburg.
She joined a wave of men and women dressed in shades of black and navy striding into the main lobby. Pam rarely came to Wayne Tower in person, preferring to do all of her business through Talia to avoid Bruce. It was always a possibility that he might recognize her from the night at the parking garage, and she didn't want to tempt fate.
So long as they were in the same city, Pam and Talia could communicate in a vague, hazy way from a distance. Pam could order Talia to do something or call her to her side, but they weren't psychically linked. She couldn't speak to Talia. And since she'd spent the night in Otisburg instead of Miranda Tate's townhouse, they hadn't had a chance to catch up on how she would approach Bruce Wayne when she met him for dinner that evening.
On the eighteenth floor, Miranda Tate had a corner office divided into two rooms; her personal office and an anterior room for an assistant and a few couches for meetings. The new assistant wasn't in yet when Pam arrived, finding Talia hanging up her long winter coat on a rack beside a potted fern that needed more love than it was currently getting.
Talia's eyes rounded as her attention zeroed in on Pam.
"Mother," she breathed. "I didn't know you were coming."
Pam's mouth flattened as she leaned against the assistant's desk, keeping her jacket on. She didn't want to be there too long.
She cocked her head to the side, eyeing Talia curiously and observing for the hundredth time that Talia was so different from the other drones. Pam couldn't explain it exactly. It wasn't hard to keep her in line, not like Harley had been the one time she used the power on her. In fact, in many ways, Talia was infinitely easy to control. But she was exhausting and just… weird. She reacted to Pam's influence in a way no other drone had before.
"How was Pavel last night?" Pam asked. "Is he settling in?"
"We are still finding suitable accommodation for him," Talia replied coyly.
"Suitable accommodation?" Pam raised an eyebrow. "Where is he?"
"The docks," Talia gave a little shrug.
Pam made an exasperated sound. "Put him up at the Ritz. We're not keeping him forever. Just long enough for a nervous breakdown to be plausible."
It was the best plan Pam could come up with for dealing with their Russian physicist problem without killing him outright. That would be suspicious, and suspicion invited scrutiny, and scrutiny meant having to wait to turn the reactor on or even losing it entirely. Discrediting him was the way to go. Making him out to be a crackpot in the middle of a personal crisis so no sane person would take him seriously. She'd already scrambled his brain and given him a script to speak, but she wanted to keep him close until the reactor was safely launched.
"Yes, Mother," Talia demurred. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure," Pam snapped, annoyed. "You need to find out what Bruce knows."
"Yes, Mother," Talia said again, her eyes dipping down. "And if he has heard about Pavel's paper?"
"Then we better make extra-fucking-sure Pavel's breakdown looks real and not like he's been kidnapped and tortured," Pam shot back.
She folded her arms and sighed, looking out the window when a framed photo on the assistant's desk caught her eye.
It was of two young women, a brunette with dark eyes fringed with heavy lashes, and a young woman with long blonde hair and a small, sweet face. They were both tanned and beaming for the camera, their arms wrapped around each other, young love glowing in their eyes as the sun set behind them.
Pam stared at the picture in disbelief, not quite able to accept what she was seeing. She snatched it up and brought it closer to her face, examining the familiar but different blonde's face.
It was Dinah.
Dinah, looking entirely unlike herself.
"Mother?" Talia asked uncertainly.
Pam's thoughts began to race, paranoia seeping into her bones. Her face darkened as she turned the photo toward Talia and jabbed a finger at the brunette.
"Who the fuck is this?" she hissed.
Dinah -
Dinah hardly slept.
When she and Helena arrived home from their date, she'd been at a loss for what to do. She was stunned, the image of Helena threatening a man with a gun repeatedly playing before her mind's eye. So she could do little more than nod in agreement when Helena mumbled about an early morning and disappeared into the bedroom without another word.
Dinah couldn't bring herself to join her, so she sat up late scouring the Wonderland case files on the GCPD's evidence cloud, listening to clips of interviews with witnesses, and reading through DNA analysis and the DAs notes. While she worked, she made her way through almost half a wheel of blue Stilton and a quarter block of pecorino—Helena said she could always tell when Dinah was upset because she drowned her sorrows in cheese.
When she tried to sleep, it refused to come. She must have slept at some point, but she was already wide-awake when Helena's alarm went off the following morning. Helena reached out to turn on the lamp on her bedside table, filling the room with just enough light that they could see each other. She laid back down and rolled over to face Dinah, tucking her hands under her cheek.
Dinah didn't know what to do aside from suggesting they talk. Maybe if Helena told her how she felt, she would understand or see the right path forward. But getting Helena to talk about her feelings, her sad feelings, was like pulling blood from a stone.
She reflected on her own feelings. Concern for Helena's well-being. Anxiety about the impulsive display of violence she saw the night before. Frustration that they'd been harassed and attacked, fetishized, and yet the consequences seemed to have fallen on them, the victims. Confusion about the fact that she couldn't decide if Helena would have killed that man if she hadn't stopped her.
No, of course she wouldn't have done that.
Dinah licked her lips, but before she could speak, Helana rolled on top of her, her hair falling around them in a dark curtain. She kissed Dinah very gently, her hands sneaking under her pajama top to stroke her stomach, making her shiver as their kiss deepened.
It felt like an apology and a distraction at once, neither of which would help them past this moment.
Helena pulled back to look down at her, her lips bee-stung, her dark eyes sad. She slipped her hand into Dinah's pajama bottoms and beneath the lace of her underwear, her fingers ghosting over her lightly. Dinah took a shaky breath, her eyes closing when Helena pressed two fingers against her clit, circling it softly. She couldn't decide if she should stop her. Pushing Helena away would put another rift between them. It would upset her when she was already struggling with her job and the ghost of her family and everything else that living in Gotham meant for them.
So Dinah gave Helena what she seemed to think she needed, kissing her deeply and making her feel good in the only way she knew how to anymore.
Harley -
When Harley got back to the safe house after midnight, a little drunk and very horny, she was dismayed to find the Joker wasn't there. He would be out with Frost 'sniffing around' as the two of them liked to call sneaking into gangs to eavesdrop or just outright threaten whoever needed threatening.
Harley passed out alone, and when she woke up the next afternoon, the Joker was naked and unconscious beside her. He was flat on his back with an arm slung behind his head, his steady wheezy breathing indicating he was in a deep and much-needed sleep. Harley's eyes were drawn to his cock, resting on his thigh, and she considered climbing on top of him to wake him up in the most pleasurable way she could think of, but ultimately decided he needed the sleep and rolled out of bed to shower.
She threw on an oversized tank top that fell to mid-thigh and shuffled through the Joker's black coat until she found the e-cigarette she'd stolen from Kuttler's cafe. After plugging it in to charge on the kitchen counter, she put on a pot of coffee and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, one of the only 'meals' she was capable of putting together on her own. She set herself up at the kitchen table with a laptop and portable wifi unit provided by Lonnie, which, like their phones, had come with strict instructions to only use technology that came directly from him. Then she got down to the business of figuring out who the fuck Drury Walker was, why Ed would be interested in him, and how they would track him down and make him talk.
But it was a fruitless search, turning up little more than social media profiles for a real estate agent named Drury Walker in Georgia and an investment banker named Drury Walker in Metropolis.
On the other hand, 'Killer Moth' led Harley down a rabbit hole of search results ranging from horror movies to the social habits of wasps. While no killer moths existed in nature, moths could be nasty little fuckers when their nests were disturbed, setting off alarm pheromones to let the other moths know it was time to go to war.
Interesting but unhelpful.
As the afternoon passed into evening and it grew dark, Harley made another sandwich for dinner. Like he could sense food preparation, the Joker appeared in the doorway to the kitchen seconds later, barefoot and bare-chested in blood-stained blue trousers that looked like they belonged to a recently-deceased cop, his hair sticking up in all directions.
Harley wordlessly offered him half of her sandwich as he passed her. He flopped into a chair at the table and inhaled the sandwich in three bites, then produced a wrinkled pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and loosened one with his teeth.
Harley impulsively spun around to slap them out of his hand, but the Joker was faster. He snatched her wrist out of the air before she could touch him, an amused smirk splitting his scarred mouth as he held her arm out to the side.
"Something wrong, Harl?" he taunted her, releasing her wrist when she shook him off.
"Let's be practical about this," Harley suggested, trying a different tactic. She grabbed the e-cigarette charging on the counter and held it up for him to see. "Just try it."
The Joker shot her a dubious look, and Harley shrugged helplessly, like she didn't care, and eventually he accepted it from her. He wrinkled his nose and examined the plastic cartridge before taking an experimental drag. His eyebrows pinched together thoughtfully as he exhaled a cloud of unscented vapor.
"Not as good as the real thing, puddin'," he drawled, flashing Harley a shitty little grin before taking another drag.
"But good enough?" Harley smirked. She slid into his lap so she was sitting sideways across his thighs, the rickety kitchen chair whining under their combined weight.
"Hmm," the Joker tipped his head back to look up at her through sleepy eyes, twirling the plastic cigarette between two fingers absentmindedly.
The moment Harley started leaning in to kiss him, a phone started ringing.
She reared back with a scowl, frustration boiling in her veins that every time they had a moment alone work came crashing in, demanding their attention. The Joker looked similarly displeased. He shifted around to get his phone out of his pocket with Harley still perched on his lap and answered it with a gruff bark.
Sighing, Harley braced her elbow on his shoulder and rested her cheek on her fist, watching his face as he exchanged a few sharp words with Lonnie. Her eyes drifted to the strong line of his jaw, where light stubble had grown in after a few days without shaving. She traced it with a fingertip, from his chin to his ear, then down the knotted line of a scar until she reached the corner of his mouth and gave him an impatient poke.
As soon as he hung up on Lonnie, she dove forward to kiss him, but it seemed he had other ideas.
"Ya know," he said as she tried to kiss him. "It uh, sounds like Walker's been very busy lately."
"Sure," Harley breathed, nipping at his bottom lip.
"And Lonnie knows how to find him," he added slyly, making Harley's eyes snap open.
"Really?" she demanded, taken aback. "Already?"
"Mm-hmm," the Joker waggled his eyebrows at her. "So you wanna—"
But Harley was already on her feet and heading toward the bedroom to get dressed before he could say another word.
Helena -
Helena was not in the mood for dinner at the Ritz, but she hardly had a choice. She had a job to do, and she intended to see it through, regardless of how black her mood was or how badly she'd fucked up.
Date night had been a disaster, one she knew she couldn't avoid discussing with Dinah forever. She knew Dinah was giving her leeway. First letting her dive into bed without a word the night before, and then that morning, she'd obviously wanted to talk, but she allowed Helena to distract her to make them both feel better instead.
But Helena had seen the look on Dinah's face the night before.
That horrified, shocked look. Like she was looking at a stranger.
No amount of morning sex would fix that.
She sent Dinah a text the moment she arrived at work, apologizing for ruining the night.
Dinah replied: I love and support you no matter what. Let's talk after dinner tonight.
It was supposed to be reassuring, especially because she was committing to dinner, but it just made Helena feel like a piece of shit.
She popped Tylonal for her knuckles, which were tender after repeatedly encountering that asshole's face, even through her gloves. She cleaned herself up in the lobby restroom of Wayne Tower before dinner, dabbing concealer on the dark circles under her eyes before examining herself in the mirror. Her make-up was neat, and her gray dress was stylish and flattering with a high, square neckline that highlighted the fine arch of her collarbones. Her dark hair was thick and sleek, bouncy as it tumbled past her shoulders.
She looked great except for her eyes. They were hollow. Vacant.
She pressed a hand over her heart, feeling her father's cross beneath her dress, praying for guidance and reassurance. She told herself she was an adult and could handle a discussion with Dinah. Dinah loved her. Helena would agree to go back to therapy for Dinah because she loved her with every fiber of her being, and if that meant swallowing her pride and going to therapy, so be it. She would do whatever it took to make it right.
And she would do whatever it took to convince Bruce Wayne that his investment in their energy project was secure.
And perhaps she could even find the balls to speak to Pino about… his work.
She and Miranda took a town car to the Ritz, which had undergone heavy renovations after a helicopter crashed into the side of the building some six years earlier. The dining room retained its garish Neptune's Palace theme, much to the delight of the trust fund brigade, which Helena did not consider herself to be part of despite having a trust fund herself.
Dinah arrived shortly after she and Miranda did, looking gorgeous and effortlessly cool in her skinny black suit and a pair of heeled mary-janes, her hair wavy from being in a ponytail all day. She wore a series of small gold hoops and trinkets on her ears and gold rings on half her fingers, and her eyes were smudged with black kohl on the upper lid, her lips pink. Her work uniform and shoes were stuffed in a beige tote bag over her shoulder.
Miranda fawned over Dinah while they waited for Wayne, and Dinah indulged her in stories about trips to Paris and Rome, sounding far more cultured than any cop Helena had ever met. Instead of talking about her actual job, Dinah spoke about the artists she'd discovered through her old gallery in Los Angeles and encouraged Miranda to visit Drea's Gallery uptown to see the neon nipple exhibition. She was charming and kept Miranda talking about herself like the excellent detective she was.
Then, thirty minutes late, Wayne finally arrived.
Helena was surprised to see how creaky he looked, shuffling across the dining room like an old man. He was still incredibly handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, muscular, his hair graying at the temples attractively. He couldn't have been older than forty, but there was something aging about him, not quite frail but... broken. Helena wondered if this premature aging was the cause of his reclusiveness or a product of it.
"Bruce," Miranda greeted him warmly, laying her hands on his shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks.
"Miranda," Wayne smiled and offered his hand to Helena. "And Ms Bertinelli. A pleasure as always."
"Good evening, Mr Wayne," Helena replied, her smile tight. Their encounters thus far had primarily consisted of him ignoring her while she took notes.
Wayne turned to Dinah next, and Helena was surprised to see she'd started fidgeting uneasily, struggling to maintain the gentle, at ease manner she'd presented for Miranda.
"Hello there, Dinah," he smiled like he was seeing an old friend. "Long time no see."
"Mr Wayne," Dinah stuck her hand out, her arm bolt stiff. "It's nice to see you again."
"Call me Bruce, please," he reminded her.
"Okay," Dinah shook his hand jerkily, like a glitching robot. "Bruce."
Wayne gave an awkward little laugh and gently disentangled his hand from Dinah's.
She cleared her throat and looked away.
Helena looked between them uncertainly, sensing there was something she was missing.
"Well, I'm starving," Wayne announced, taking his seat. "What are we drinking tonight?"
Thus ensued the usual dinner party small talk of wine and food and gossip, with the occasional interrupting of waiters and sommeliers. Helena did not fail to notice that Dinah was quieter around Wayne. She wasn't drinking - neither was Wayne, Helena realized - but she maintained a smile and light conversation for Miranda. She was remarkably good at compartmentalizing her feelings when she needed to, an ability Helena coveted.
A bottle of wine, oysters, and a salad course later, Helena managed to secure Wayne's full attention, updating him on the reactor and how it would revolutionize energy consumption. She was laying it on thick, giving him the complete environmental activist treatment with facts and figures about what they'd be able to achieve.
"You don't have to sell it to me, Ms Bertinelli," Wayne chuckled. "I have more than a little money on the line, and I'm not about to back out now."
"Of course," Helena agreed quickly. "I just want you to be as excited as we are when we finally turn it on."
"I assure you, Ms Bertinelli," Wayne offered her a strained smile. "I am looking forward to that day too."
His eyes were drawn to something behind her then, and when Helena looked over her shoulder, she spotted a tall, muscular man with reddish-blonde hair striding past unsteadily. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, and she was again struck by how big he was. Like his tuxedo was too small, and he was about to burst out of it.
"Tommy," Bruce called, standing and getting the man's attention
"Bruce?" The man slurred, blinking hard like he'd forgotten where he was.
He was drunk, Helena realized, her eyebrows raising as 'Tommy' zig-zagged up to their table.
"How're you doing, Tommy?" Wayne looked around the dining room, obviously concerned. "Who are you here with?"
"Uh, investors, you know how it is," Tommy attempted to joke, though he looked like he might vomit. He fumbled in his suit jacket, producing a pack of cigarettes. "Look uh, I'm just gonna…"
He trailed off and started to turn away but Wayne stopped him, grabbing his shoulder and saying something Helena couldn't hear. Tommy seemed to brush it off, giving Wayne a few friendly slaps on the back before he muttered a farewell and stumbled away, leaving Wayne staring after him.
"Poor Mr. Elliot," Miranda sighed as Wayne lowered himself back into his seat. "First, he lost his wife and his medical license, and now he's lost all his money."
"Thomas Elliot? Like Elliot Biotech?" Helena winced. "Yikes, that was a whole mess."
"What happened?" Dinah frowned.
"Mr Elliot made a bad investment," Miranda explained, her face the picture of sympathy. "He spent his family's fortune on his company, and now he has nothing."
"He believed in the work and wanted to do good things with it," Wayne interjected grimly.
"Well," Miranda demurred. "Perhaps if Mr Elliot were not also a drunk, he would have his medical career to fall back on."
"I don't find gossip especially interesting," Wayne forced a brittle smile.
"Nor do I," Miranda cooed, glancing at Helena. "But I admire anyone willing to do what they must to protect the things they love."
Helena's eyebrows rose a fraction, uncertain how she was supposed to interpret that.
Harley -
Frost picked Harley and J up from the safehouse and headed north to the Crowne Building in Midtown. They parked in the skyscraper's underground parking lot, populated by neon sports cars and hulking SUVs belonging to the millionaires and billionaires who called the Crowne Building home.
Of course, there was one resident who didn't fit the bill—Lonnie Machin, one of the Joker's most loyal and useful minions.
As per usual, the honeymoon suite in which Lonnie resided was a fucking mess, the stench of weed heavy in the air. It was a medium-sized apartment that had once been palatial — pink marble columns, plush carpet, floor-to-ceiling windows, crown molding, and painted ceilings —but now showed all the hallmarks of a recluse's lair. Lonnie rarely left the honeymoon suite unless he absolutely had to, and only ever under the Joker's orders.
The sofas in the living room had been pushed aside to make way for a trio of desks set up in a horseshoe. Their surfaces were covered in computers, monitors, laptops, and cables, along with innumerable fast-food wrappers, empty chip bags and ashtrays laden with joint ends.
Lonnie sat in a swivel chair in the middle of this elaborate workstation, his black hoodie covering his fair hair, a joint dangling from his thin lips while he typed out a rapid series of commands. The backs of his hands were covered in thick, shiny scar tissue where Roman Sionis flayed off the anarchist tattoos that had once decorated his body.
Lonnie endured a week of torture at the hands of Black Mask, but he kept his mouth shut the entire time.
His lack of interest in leaving the honeymoon suite started around then, and Harley suspected some lingering PTSD over that traumatizing incident, but her sympathy for him was limited.
"Tell us about Walker," she demanded by way of greeting, stomping across the living room with the Joker and Frost on her heels.
"Oh, nice to fuckin' see you too," Lonnie shot back. He glared up at Harley as she braced her hip against his desk, staring down at him expectantly.
Frost took a seat on the couch, lighting a cigarette and settling in to listen while the Joker walked the length of Lonnie's workstation. His eyes narrowed as he examined the mess of wires and empty packaging, eventually picking up a neon green fidget spinner and squinting at it curiously.
"Well?" Harley pressed, prompting Lonnie to grumble something malcontent as he swung back around to face his monitor.
"I hacked the GCPD's records," he explained, his fingers racing across the keyboard. "They've got plenty of arrests for Drury Walker going back years, but he sounds like a shitty criminal."
A mug shot flashed up on the screen—a man with bushy hair and caterpillar-like eyebrows, his wide mouth composed in a moody pout like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
"Public intoxication, petty theft, possession of marijuana, jay-walking," Lonnie read from the screen. "He did a year in Blackgate as an accomplice to armed robbery a couple of years back."
"Getaway driver," the Joker predicted drily.
"And he had a few racketeering charges swept under the rug after that," Lonnie swiveled around to offer them both a smirk. "Then a few months ago, he broke into Daggett Industries, and they really got their panties in a twist about whatever he took."
Lonnie grinned up at the Joker eagerly, apparently hoping this revelation would impress him. But the Joker just twisted his head to the side, squinting at Lonnie out of one eye.
"And?" he coaxed in a condescending sing-song. "What did he take?"
Harley pressed her lips together to hide her smile.
"Well… Daggett claimed nothing was stolen," Lonnie explained. "See, their R&D department got hacked this summer, and a list of all their nasty little developments was floating around the dark web for a few hours. Walker must have seen something they were working on that he liked before it got taken down."
"And did you see the list?" The Joker raised an eyebrow and Lonnie tried to compose his face into something innocent that was wholly unbelievable.
"I mean, the list was live for like a matter of hours…" he wheedled.
"Uh huh," Harley rolled her eyes. "So Walker could have stolen anything from a bomb to a cell phone for all you know."
"Cell phone's more dangerous than a bomb," Lonnie countered. "Philosophically speaking."
"And how about uh, Killer Moth?" the Joker pressed. "Whaddya got on him?"
"Nothing from the cops," Lonnie smirked. "And they have no other aliases for Walker."
"How is that helpful?" Harled scowled, making Lonnie huff indignantly.
"If you would let me finish," he scowled back at her. "The cops don't know anything about Killer Moth, but the media do even if they don't realize it. Walker's been sending fucking press releases to the Gotham Globe and GCN."
"Uh," the Joker raised one bemused eyebrow. "What?"
"J, this dude is offering fuckin' interviews to Good Morning Gotham," Lonnie beamed under the Joker's attention. "He wants a platform to announce his official role as a vigilante-protector of rogues. I hacked the Globe's Slack chat, and they think it's a fuckin' joke because he's so desperate for their attention."
"Mm," the Joker's nose wrinkled as he turned to Harley. "Who does that sound like?"
Harley hummed unhappily, eyeballing Walker's mugshot on the computer screen. If Ed recruited Walker, he had access to whatever Walker stole from Daggett. Maybe a bomb, maybe a cell phone, maybe something else that could kill them all.
"You said Walker had racketeering charges swept under the rug?" she asked.
"Mob shit, no doubt," Lonnie nodded, and Harley turned to Frost, who quickly rose to his feet.
"Go to the Iceberg Lounge," she instructed grimly. "Text me when Lucy shows up."
"You got it, doc," Frost nodded, spinning toward the elevator.
"So," the Joker purred, leaning against Lonnie's desk in Harley's place. "How do we track him down?"
"Easy," Lonnie tapped two keys and a web browser popped up. "Instagram."
"Instagram?" Harley frowned until she realized what she saw on Lonnie's screen. Her eyes widened.
It was an actual Instagram account for one WruryDalker, the profile picture a hairy hand throwing up a peace sign. It wasn't even private.
"It's a burner account Walker uses to follow interior design influencers," Lonnie explained, prompting Harley and the Joker to exchange a bewildered look. "He's got it on his phone and used it this morning. All we gotta do is wait for him to open the app again, and we can track the IP address."
"That sounds way too easy," Harley decided.
"Um, fuck you, it's not that easy," Lonnie huffed.
"If the FBI can do it, it's too easy," Harley snapped, turning away.
She ignored Lonnie's passive-aggressive jibe as she shrugged off her heavy coat and threw it over the back of the couch, then strode toward the bathroom. She needed a moment of quiet to organize her thoughts, to decide how the Calculator's information matched up with what Lonnie just told them and what that meant about what Ed was planning for her.
She closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, taking a deep breath before she planted her hands on the edge of the sink. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror, her glacial eyes bright and determined as she reminded herself this was Ed they were dealing with. Even if he was pissed off and genuinely considering killing her, it was still Ed. There was always room to maneuver with Ed.
The bathroom door opened, and J slipped inside, catching Harley's eye in the mirror as he pushed the door shut. He wandered up behind her and wrapped his hands around her upper arms, his fingers sharp through the thick sleeves of her turtleneck.
"Someone feelin' a little… out of control?"
"More like cautious," Harley said soberly.
"Cautious," he scoffed and rolled his eyes, his fingers flexing on her arms.
"Whatever Walker stole is going to make Ed a giant pain in the ass," Harley predicted.
"Oh, I'd take that bet," the Joker agreed enthusiastically. He ducked his head down to press his mouth against her ear. "Probably for the Bat-Man, too."
His breath in her hair made goosebumps race along her neck, and Harley felt a sudden crackle of attraction as she caught the Joker's eye in the mirror. But she fought it back, shrugging him off so she could turn and face him squarely.
"You know this time is going to be different," she said.
The Joker sighed loudly through his nose, his eyes skirting off to the side as he lifted both hands and dropped them firmly on her shoulders like he felt the need to ground her.
"You wanna go talk with... the doc?" he raised an appraising eyebrow. He meant Lee Thompkins, the doctor who had saved all of their lives. She represented a kind of neutral territory between them and Ed, the understanding that on some fundamental level, their rivalry was little more than an inside joke, and they weren't really out to kill each other.
Or at least they hadn't been.
Harley shook her head. "No. Not yet."
"Mmm," the Joker wound a lock of her hair around one long finger. "You think that would be cheating."
He gave her hair a not-so-gentle tug.
"Wouldn't it?" Harley asked, and when she looked up at him, that crackle of desire was back, fizzling in her blood. She decided to give in to it rather than fight it, tipping her head back and offering her mouth to him.
His fingers threaded into her hair as he kissed her, parting her lips when she slid her hands up his back beneath his jacket. The slide of his tongue made her heart pound, and she pressed her body flush against him, her mouth growing more demanding.
He lifted her by the waist, setting her on the edge of the sink so she could wrap her legs around him as he used his grip on her hair to tug her head back. A satisfied growl rattled in his throat as she pressed her hips up against him, his mouth leaving hers to slide up the exposed column of her neck.
He muttered something in her ear about tasting her, and Harley nodded distractedly, bracing her hands on the sink to steady herself while he flicked apart the button and zip on her jeans. She could hear herself breathing loudly, maybe loud enough for Lonnie to hear in the other room. But she couldn't find the will to care or be quiet as she lifted her hips so the Joker could tug the stiff black denim down her thighs.
He started lowering himself to his knees, his eyes black and hungry, making Harley's heart beat harder, when out in the living room, Lonnie started screaming.
"Shit! Shit! Fuck—SHIT!"
Harley and the Joker froze. They shared a bewildered look, and he swiftly rose to his feet and loped out of the bathroom to investigate. Harley jumped off the sink and stumbled around in a circle as she shimmied back into her jeans before staggering after him.
Out in the living room, Lonnie was scurrying around his desks, yanking cords free from power outlets while all the monitors fuzzed with error messages, windows opening and closing so rapidly they were a blur.
"What the fuck?" Harley demanded, her eyes widening as she watched a stream of green code start running vertically down the screen of Lonnie's main monitor and all six of the smaller screens flanking it.
Lonnie ripped an ethernet cable out of the wall, and the monitors went black.
"It's fine," he insisted, panting and nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, it's fine."
"That didn't look fine," Harley snapped. "What just happened?"
"It's just some fucking kid in fucking Cleveland," Lonnie snapped back at her. He fell into his chair and reached for a bag of weed.
"Some kid did that?" Harley's eyebrows raised.
"She's one of those k-pop gamer trolls who spends all day trying to piss people off," Lonnie insisted hotly, his neck flushing as he started rolling a new joint. "She calls herself Oracle, and she's been showing off all over the place. I tracked her location to Cleavland, but she must be plugged into a dark web with—"
"You know what," Harley held up her hand. "I don't need to know. Just take care of it and call us when you have a location for Walker."
The burner phone in her back pocket beeped, and she pulled it out to find a text from Frost.
"Lucy's at the Iceberg Lounge," she announced, turning to find the Joker already had his black coat on with the collar up, smoking the e-cigarette as he eyed Lonnie warily.
"Hmm," he said once Harley had grabbed her coat and followed him into the elevator. "Maybe Lonnie's met his match in this uh, Oracle."
"You know that's terrible for us if it's true," Harley pointed out, but the Joker just made a dismissive sound and waved her off.
And Harley had to agree—watching Lonnie get taken down a few pegs was always an enjoyable experience.
Besides, the idea that some teenager in Ohio who called herself Oracle could compromise their entire operation was laughable.
Dinah -
Dinner was awful. It was awkward and uncomfortable, and Dinah was in a constant state of agitation. She kept drinking water and taking trips to the bathroom, eager to get away from the table so she could refocus.
She considered herself to be an honest person. She was mindful about not telling white lies just because it was easy.
But sitting between Helena and Bruce, her life suddenly seemed to be made of nothing but lies.
And she was sick with worry for both of them.
Bruce, who was a constant niggle of concern in the back of her mind, was right here in front of her looking like he'd given up on life. And then Helena, who was struggling in a very different way, made Dinah feel completely helpless, at a loss to be what Helena needed her to be.
Miranda was intriguing and suspicious. She spoke with warmth, but she had the coldest eyes Dinah had ever seen. She was a woman with secrets, that much was obvious, but wealthy people often were. If Dinah's attention hadn't been strung so thinly between Helena and Bruce, she might have been more curious to find out what she could about Helena's beloved boss, but as it was she had enough on her plate.
Literally and figuratively speaking. She couldn't seem to get down more than a few mouthfuls of the rich food from each elaborate, truffle-laden course.
Finally, they wrapped up with dessert—Dinah opted for a cheese plate and inhaled the whole thing — and Miranda paid the bill. She and Helena spotted someone they knew at the other end of the dining room, a doner they were courting. Bruce took the opportunity to make his escape, doling out farewells before heading directly to the valet desk, a real-life version of the notoriously quick exits he made as the Batman.
"I'm going to get some air," Dinah told Helena. "I'll meet you outside."
"We'll be ten minutes. I just need to say hello to this guy," Helena smiled. She was in a better mood now. Apparently, she thought the night had been a success, and her mission to save the planet was back on track, which was something to be grateful for.
Dinah hurried to catch up with Bruce out front of the hotel. She found him waiting for his car, looking morose against a backdrop of the hotel's flags and upward spotlights.
"Hey," she said, joining him. "That was interesting."
"Mmm," Bruce seemed to agree. "Miranda can be a little…"
"Intense and relentless?" Dinah suggested, making Bruce snort. "Helena loves her. I'm going to hear how wonderful she is as soon as we get in the cab."
"You two are good together," Bruce observed. "I'm glad you found someone."
"You could find someone too," Dinah nudged him with her shoulder. "You don't have to spend the rest of your life with Alfred," she joked.
Bruce's face immediately fell, and he nodded slowly before finally meeting Dinah's eye. "Alfred's gone."
"What?" Dinah swung around to face him squarely, panic flaring in her chest. "What?"
"I mean, he left," Bruce corrected himself soberly. "He said he couldn't watch me kill myself for this city."
"When? How?" Dinah demanded, searching Bruce's face. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Dinah, you have your own life now," Bruce reminded her. "You don't need Alfred or me."
"I may not… I may not need you, Bruce," Dinah protested. "But I still — you're still. I still want to be there for you. I still care about you."
"I know," Bruce laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, just as he'd done to Thomas Elliot. It felt like a goodbye. "You should go back inside, so you don't have to explain this."
Dinah pressed her lips together and tried to think of a reason to make him stay, to make him feel needed.
"Is there anything you can tell me about the Wonderland Gang that isn't in DeCarlo's files?" she asked in a rush.
Bruce shot her a look like he was well aware of what she was trying to do.
"You and Montoya can catch Tetch without me," he insisted.
"I know you're focused on Julian Day," Dinah pressed. "But Tetch is a long-term threat, and Montoya and I are at a dead end. We need a fresh lead, Bruce."
Bruce sighed and glanced back at the hotel's gilded entrance, checking to make sure they weren't being watched before he turned back to Dinah.
"Jenna Duffy," he said. "Also known as The Carpenter. She was part of Tetch's inner circle, but I never managed to track her down."
"The Carpenter?" Dinah frowned. "She wasn't charged in DeCarlo's filings with City Hall."
"She's a well-connected arms dealer with friends in high places," Bruce explained. "DeCarlo chose to ignore the evidence against her when he brought his case to the DA."
"So, she's got the mob's protection," Dinah's face soured. "Which effectively gives Tetch their protection too."
"Duffy was in a relationship with Tetch's right-hand woman, Harriet Pratt," Bruce continued. "But after what Tetch put Pratt through, I wouldn't expect Duffy to have much love for him."
"Pratt's in Arkham," Dinah sighed. "We haven't been able to get access to her. Or anyone in Arkham. Strange says the inmates are too 'vulnerable' to be interviewed."
"Hugo Strange is hiding something," Bruce predicted darkly, making Dinah's eyes widen.
"Like what?" she asked, but Bruce shook his head.
"Don't get distracted. Focus on Tetch," he advised. "Harriet Pratt is an unreliable witness, but Duffy may be able to point you toward Tetch. Try to find her."
Bruce's car arrived then, and a younger man who was definitely not Alfred got out of the driver's seat to open the back door for Bruce.
"Are you… spelunking tonight?" Dinah asked, eyeing the new driver warily.
Bruce chuckled and touched Dinah's shoulder again.
"Always," he reassured her.
Dinah watched the car pull away, again marveling at how their positions had reversed. Now she was the one wishing it didn't have to be 'always' for Bruce, just as he'd once hoped for her.
The difference between them was Bruce saw himself as a lost cause—he expected Gotham to destroy him.
Dinah had plenty to live for.
Harley -
Despite the freezing weather, a line of festive-looking people dolled up in furs waiting to get into the Iceberg Lounge. Harley pulled into the alley behind the club, eyeballing the queuing patrons, middle-aged socialites rubbing elbows with their wealthy criminal counterparts. These weren't the young, party-monster types that flocked to the Iceberg Lounge when Lucy first took over. This was a more elite breed of monster, and Lucy provided them with an exclusive space to mingle.
"Just like Penguin used to do it," the Joker mused, echoing her thoughts perfectly.
"He had a lot of terrible ideas," Harley observed, parking beside a dumpster. "But this place was one of his better ones."
"Oooh, I just thought of somethin'," the Joker snickered, sliding down in his seat, his eyes still on the line of guests. "You think Red tests her toys out on old Ozzie?"
Harley laughed as she used the rearview mirror to apply a slick of crimson lipstick. "God, I hope so."
The Joker didn't have a relationship with Lucy Falcone, not like Harley did, so he remained in the car while she crossed the alley to square off with a pair of handsome bouncers guarding the club's back entrance, their arms crossed and shoulders up around their ears as they tried to stay warm. They looked up when Harley swept across the alley, her low-heeled boots crunching through the freshly fallen snow.
"Hiya," she offered them a red-lipped smile. "I'm here to speak with Mrs Falcone."
The bouncers exchanged a bemused look.
"Mrs Falcone is not expecting anyone this evening," one of them replied, trying to hide a shiver.
"Oh, I know," Harley chirped as she ever so casually pulled her red-and-white coat aside so he could see she was armed. "I'm an old friend, you see," she took a purposeful step toward them, her smile growing when recognition dawned on their handsome faces. "So why don't you go tell Lucy that Peaches Kane is here to see her, and we won't have any problems, hmm?"
The bouncers exchanged another, more anxious look. Then one of them —the more cowardly of the two, Harley estimated —dodged into the club, leaving his partner staring after him helplessly. Eventually, he turned back to face her, obviously nervous, and Harley waggled her eyebrows playfully, making his eyes widen.
The first bouncer returned, looking a little gray in the face, and gestured for Harley to step inside. She followed him through the kitchens, the jaunty howls of a brass band reverberating from the club's dancefloor. Briefly, Harley wondered if that godawful birdcage was still in there or if Lucy had ditched it along with her disco-loving DJ.
The bouncer knocked twice on the door of Lucy's office, and when Lucy screeched "yeah!" from the other side, he pushed it open for Harley to step through.
Her eyebrows rose as she looked around the office, which Lucy had decorated with pale pink wallpaper and zebra-print carpet, the old gothic fireplace replaced with white marble threaded with pink veins. But Penguin's mahogany desk remained, standing proudly in the middle of the room, and behind it sat a heavily pregnant Lucy Falcone.
She was still young and pretty, her dark hair elaborately styled and her lipstick glossy and pink. She wore massive diamonds in both ears and around her neck, and despite being pregnant, she'd squeezed herself into a skin-tight leopard print dress, which clung to every rounded curve of her body.
"Harley fuckin' Quinn," Lucy scowled.
She had to brace both hands on the desk to haul herself to her feet.
"Wow," Harley eyed the vast expanse of Lucy's leopard-print baby bump, lingering on the nubben of her belly button, which appeared to have turned inside-out under the stretch of pregnancy. "You are so pregnant."
"I hadn't noticed," Lucy snapped. "What the fuck do you want, huh?"
"Calm down," Harley rolled her eyes. "I'm just here for some information."
"And why would I share information with you?" Lucy demanded.
"You never know," Harley shrugged, playing coy. "Maybe I know something you don't."
Lucy laughed bitterly, her pink lips curling into a sneer. She leaned over her desk like she was about to deliver a cutting insult, and Harley's eyes widened, eager to hear what she had to say, but Lucy stopped short. Her eyebrows pinched together as her mouth fell open in a pained gasp, and she doubled over the desk with a sharp cry.
Harley took a cautious step back.
"Help me sit down!" Lucy gasped, scowling when Harley wrinkled her nose and kept her distance for fear of encountering something baby-related. "Fucking help me, and I'll tell you what I know!"
Harley reluctantly shuffled around the desk to take Lucy by both arms before lowering her into her chair. Lucy collapsed back bonelessly, breathing hard and sweating.
"You aren't about to, you know," Harley waved vaguely at Lucy's legs.
"No," Lucy sneered. She looked exhausted suddenly. "They call em' phantom contractions. I got another two weeks before..."
"Before you pop?" Harley suggested dryly.
Much to her surprise, Lucy chuckled feebly.
"Exactly," she shifted in her seat with a wince. "Now, what the fuck do you want again?"
"I'm looking for a thief called Drury Walker," Harley explained, deciding to play it straight. "He had a few racketeering charges covered up last year, so I assume he's done work for your people."
"Never heard of him," Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her hands drifting over her belly. "What are ya really lookin' for, huh?"
Harley leaned against the desk, taking a few seconds just to observe Lucy. She'd always liked Lucy, and she'd been thrilled to watch her embrace her more honest, violent impulses in the years since she'd taken the reins of organized crime in Gotham. Harley wouldn't take full credit for Lucy's evolution from henchwoman to Mafia Donna. Still, there was no doubt in her mind that she'd given Lucy a little push toward discovering just how dangerous and powerful she could be.
"I'm looking for Ed," Harley admitted. "He's planning something big, and we want to get ahead of him."
"Ed," Lucy scoffed weakly. "Listen, I can't deal with the Riddler right now. I got Turkish assassins who ain't playing by the rules. I got that freak Maxie Zeus moving in on Alexandra Kosov's turf. And I got certain extended family members fighting amongst themselves."
She pulled off a false eyelash and stared at it for a moment before shaking her head. "I'll keep an ear out for this Walker guy if you keep me in the loop on Ed."
As Lucy knew, Harley generally wasn't one for deals or favors, but it was better than nothing.
"Deal," she agreed.
Lucy sighed and folded her arms over her belly, apparently content with that arrangement.
"So, what about you? No baby clowns on the way?" She shot Harley a speculative look. "Your clock must really be ticking."
"God, no," Harley shuddered. The very idea of having something growing inside her like a parasite made her feel sick. She made a face and shook her head. "Bleh," she cringed, making Lucy snort.
There was a commotion in the kitchens then, voices shouting over each other and the sound of something crashing into the wall.
"Fuck," Lucy hissed.
Harley watched impassively as Lucy tried and failed to push herself to her feet three times, finally succeeding just as someone rapped on the door.
"Boss," Victor called through the thick wood. "They're here."
"Yeah, yeah, bring em' in," Lucy called back impatiently, catching Harley's eye as she steadied herself behind her desk. "I gotta deal with some real business now, so if you'll just—"
But before she could do or say anything further, the office door banged open, and two men stepped in. The first was tall and pudgy with milky eyes that reminded Harley of a rat. He had an impressive receding hairline, his remaining hair tied back in a scraggly gray ponytail. He dwarfed the smaller, scrappier-looking man at his side, who wore a sharply cut three-piece suit, his hair shellacked into a perfect square.
The smaller square-shaped one immediately clocked Harley, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Mr Mandragora," Lucy greeted the larger, rat-like man, plastering on a pinched smile. "Thanks for makin' it over so late. This is my old sorority sister," she gestured to Harley without looking at her. "Peaches Kane."
"Mrs Falcone," Mandragora replied coldly, ignoring Harley. "I hope I'm here to find out why you intervened with my men this evening."
"Your men?" Lucy waddled around the desk to square off with Mandragora, her pregnant body on full display in her skin-tight dress. "I think ya must be confused because your men belong to the Commission now. Just like the rest of us."
"We understand, Mrs Falcone," the smaller man insisted, shooting his boss an anxious look. "I'm sure ya had your reasons for bringing the little Bertinelli shit in alive. We're just real eager to hear 'em, ma'am."
"Of course you are, Johnny," Lucy cooed, patronizing him. "I mean shit, you don't get a name like Johnny Viper in Chicago for putting up with wiseguys, do ya?"
Victor strolled in then, carrying a roll of black garbage bags under his arm. He closed the door behind him.
Lucy turned to Mandragora, her smirk unwavering as Victor began unwinding bags from the roll and laying them out on the floor in front of the fireplace. Once he was done, he stood beside Lucy, laying his hand on one of the four pistols holstered at his side.
"Ya see, I want your boys to feel valued by the Commission," Lucy explained. "They need to know they're comin' up in the world. And considering how… fresh our working relationship is Mr Mandragora, I thought this would be a good opportunity to clear a few things up for all of ya."
"Clear what up?" Mandragora narrowed his milky eyes, which darted to the closed office door when another commotion kicked off in the kitchens.
The door banged open, and two handsome bouncers strode in, dragging a kid who couldn't have been older than twenty between them. He wore a cheap suit, his head shaved in a buzzcut, and he'd been beaten up, his face bruised and bloodied. Someone had gagged him with a rag and bound his wrists behind his back with zip ties. He howled and raged behind the gag as the bouncers made him kneel on the garbage bags.
"Ah, Pino," Lucy sighed, leaning against her desk. "We sent you plenty of messages, kiddo, but you just wouldn't listen, would ya?"
Pino raged at Lucy from behind his gag, his words too muffled to make out. But she just chuckled, her eyes sliding back to Mandragora. And even though she looked like a bedazzled beached whale in leopard skin and pink crocs, there was something about that meanness in Lucy's green eyes that sent a delighted little shiver up Harley's spine.
It was enough to make that big ugly man hesitate.
How fabulous.
"I value loyalty, see?" Lucy continued with a sneer. "Loyalty to the Commission."
She waved at the two bodyguards, prompting them to release Pino's shoulders and step away.
Pino sat back on his heels, finally noticing the garbage bags covering the floor around him. He looked up at Lucy, his large brown eyes turning desperate, and he made a pleading sound behind the gag when Victor drew one of his guns from its holster.
"And here's another thing you should know about me," Lucy's voice lowered as she took the gun from Victor, her eyes on Mandragora. "I don't like to wait. And I got no problem stepping in to take care of things myself."
She flipped the safety off the gun and Pino made another desperate, broken sound, tears streaming hot and sticky down his peach-fuzz cheeks. Lucy eyed him thoughtfully, her hand flexing on the gun grip. Then she inclined her head to Harley, who was standing back, watching with rapt attention.
"You know who that is?" Lucy asked him.
Pino shook his head, a sob catching in his throat.
"That's the woman who killed your father, Pino," Lucy explained softly, making both Harley and Pino's eyes widen.
Pino's nostrils flared in anger as his head snapped toward Harley, the loathing in his eyes so visceral she found it downright captivating. Then It all clicked into place for her, and she nearly laughed as she realized this was Franco Bertinelli's kid.
She remembered killing his father. She'd been ridding herself of an inconvenience at the time, the kind of death that wouldn't typically leave an impression. But Harley remembered Franco Bertinelli.
He'd been the first person she tortured and one of the first men she killed.
Talk about a blast from the past.
Mandragora and Johnny Viper were looking at her now, too, apparently well-aware of who'd killed Franco Bertinelli. Lucy used Harley's presence there to make a point — that she was the powerful one with the powerful friends, and she held all the cards. Including Harley Quinn.
Harley should have been annoyed, but as Lucy pressed the barrel of her gun to Pino Bertinelli's forehead, extolling some cruel parting words, Harley couldn't find any irritation that she was being used as a prop. In fact, she couldn't take her eyes off Lucy, impressed by how deftly she'd folded her into her power play with Mandragora.
An affectionate grin spread across Harley's face as she watched Lucy, pregnant and terrifying and wholly free to be herself, pull the trigger and put a bullet in Pino Bertinelli's head.
Wow, Harley thought.
This must be what people meant when they said pregnant women were radiant.
Pam -
They were in a field of wildflowers.
The air was sweet and pungent, and the sun was warm on their face.
Their eyes closed as they breathed in nature untainted — the world clean and supple as it was supposed to be.
They were here together, their mind as clear as the sky above. And they had no reason to lie to themselves.
This was freedom.
Had they always felt so constrained? So oppressed?
Yes, the wind whispered. It rustled through the wildflowers, loosening their petals. Yes, yes, yes.
A knock on the door woke Pam from her dream. Her eyes snapped open, and darted around nervously, confused about where she was. She was lying on a soft bed, and she could hear an expensive little car's engine rev as it sped down the street outside. She could smell the pine of the Christmas boughs decorating the hallways outside her room.
She wasn't in a field. She was in the master bedroom of Miranda Tate's lavish Diamond District townhouse, where she'd lived for more than three years now.
Clearing her throat, Pam sat up to check the time on her phone, the sense that she wasn't alone sticking with her.
Course you aren't alone, sugar, the voice chuckled. We're in this together.
There was another soft knock at the door.
"Yes," Pam snapped, her voice cracking.
Talia stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind her even though there was no one else in the house. She wore a fitted plum-colored dress and black patent leather Louboutins, a costume for her evening out with Bruce Wayne and Miranda Tate's assistant.
On Pam's silent instruction, Talia crossed the room and perched at the foot of the bed, gazing at her lovingly. Pam could feel her excitement —it was racing through her, barely contained. She was eager to please, and she came bearing good news.
"How'd it go?" Pam asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Mr Wayne is completely committed to the energy project," Talia beamed. "He is not aware of Dr Pavel's research. We do not need to worry about Bruce Wayne."
"Wow," Pam leaned back against the pillows, her eyebrows raising. "I would have expected the Batman's due diligence to be a little better than that."
"How lucky for us," Talia replied slyly. "That Mr Wayne is more concerned with Gotham's criminals than his investments."
"Mmm," Pam agreed, distracted by the power growing hot and impatient beneath her palms.
She wasn't sure when she'd started thinking of those physical signs and ques as coming from the power, her power. It was her, but it wasn't. It was part of her, fused forever with her, but separate.
Just like the voice.
Maybe it was the headiness of the dream, but she could taste the power's disappointment in her mouth, coating her tongue and sliding down her throat. She knew it wanted Bruce Wayne, but she pushed back against it as she always did.
Why are we hiding? the voice wanted to know. Aren't you tired of hiding, honey?
Pam closed her eyes, refocusing, and when she opened them again, Talia was staring at her intently, her attention rapt like she was waiting for something to happen. Like she was expecting something specific.
"And the other thing?" Pam asked mildly.
The 'other thing' was a footnote compared to Wayne's backing of the energy reactor, the project she'd devoted five years of her life to. But 'the other thing,' Dinah Drake's presence in Gotham, had the potential to be a big problem if not handled correctly.
Dinah, who knew what Pam's power could do and might even recognize a drone if she saw one.
Dinah, who knew Bruce Wayne was the Batman.
"Officer Lance was a delight to dine with this evening," Talia smirked. "She is very devoted to Helena but desperate to keep her past a secret."
"That'll blow up in her face," Pam predicted. "How was she with Wayne?"
"Awkward," Talia smiled dreamily. "You were right, Mother. Dinah is not a very good liar."
"She's definitely not as good as you," Pam agreed wryly. She shot Talia a curious look. "So? Is she here to take us down?"
"No," Talia offered Pam a serene smile. "I think she is just in love."
Pam pursed her lips.
There had been a few tense minutes that morning in Miranda Tate's office as Talia informed her that Dinah Lance was her assistant's live-in girlfriend, that she was a cop, and that they had moved to Gotham from LA when Helena was offered the assistant role three months earlier.
Pam's first impulse had been to call Harley, but she got as far as pulling out her phone before deciding Harley had enough on her plate. Also, Pam suspected Dinah's betrayal wasn't something Harley wanted to revisit anytime soon. It would force her to examine her feelings and actions, one of Harley's least favorite things to do.
More importantly, letting Harley anywhere near their work with the reactor would be messy. For both of them.
But that left Pam at a loose end. In some fucked up cosmic twist of fate, she had Black Canary getting way too close to her work. She had options. She could drone both Helena and Dinah to keep them in line, but the idea of controlling Dinah made something in her belly twist uneasily. And by Talia's account, Ms Bertinelli was wholly devoted to the energy reactor, and Pam was reluctant to turn a genuine ally into a drone. Pam preferred a feather's touch to heavy-handedness. If Dinah's reappearance was nothing but fate's idea of a bad joke, then perhaps leaving her alone was the best course of action.
"Are you angry with her, Mother?" Talia asked softly.
Pam didn't respond. Her feelings about Dinah were muddled. She wasn't angry, not like she remembered feeling when she first learned Dinah was Black Canary. Did she forgive Dinah for betraying them? Probably not. Forgiveness wasn't something Pam practiced often. But she knew her feelings well enough to pinpoint the conflict she felt, the sadness and disappointment. She'd sensed similar feelings in Harley on the rare occasions they spoke of Dinah — that she was a disappointment and even that she'd hurt Harley's feelings.
"Mother?" Talia pressed.
"I'm not angry," Pam sighed. "But Dinah has to know it's only a matter of time before Harley finds out she's back."
"Yet she returned anyway," Talia pointed out slyly.
Pam pulled her top lip between her teeth, thinking about the quiet, scrappy orphan who helped her and Harley rob banks and jewelry stores.
It was the first time Pam began to understand who she truly was.
What the power inside her could do.
And even if Dinah had betrayed them, she would always be part of that brief but special moment.
Once Talia left, Pam slid down the bed, so she was flat on her back, her arms limp at her sides. She stared up at the ceiling's elaborate crown molding, imagining a world in which she saved Dinah from Harley's wrath and another in which she helped Harley kill Dinah. She closed her eyes, and soon she was laying in the field of wildflowers again, the sun shining bright overhead. She exhaled slowly, her fingers curling into black soil beneath her, fertile and full of life. Full of possibility.
Why are we hiding?
The wildflowers shuddered on a warm breeze, their sturdy roots tethering them to the earth. Pam could feel the roots under her back, growing stronger, branching and re-branching until the ground around her began to tremble with the force of nature unleashed.
Ivy sprang from the earth, breaking free in blossoming green ropes as it twisted around Pam's wrists and ankles, climbed up her arms and legs, wrapped around her torso and her neck. The ivy drew her deep into the soil where she lay half-buried, bound to the earth like the flora around her.
Why are we hiding, sugar?
They were biding their time. Soon they would erupt from the earth with all the violence and vigor of life in springtime, and the world would be theirs to change.
A/N: Oh, Pam, Pam, Pam.
And poor Pino, but he had that coming from a mile off.
There was a name drop some of you might have caught. I have a mood board waiting for that person in my tumblr drafts, and they will show up again soon, though not in person.
Well, I hope you enjoyed that. Please review if you did and thank you for sticking with this fic. I know it's pretty cumbersome and not exactly light on its feet