The Rabbit Hole
4.
Theme: Christian Löffler - 'Beirut'
Dinah -
Helena was perkier than Dinah had seen her in days. After their dinner with Bruce and Miranda, she conceded that Bruce wasn't as horrible as he could be (for a billionaire). She spent the entire twenty-minute cab ride from Midtown to their neighborhood rehashing their conversation, her tongue loosened from the wine at dinner.
Dinah laid her head on Helena's shoulder and held her hand, happy that she was happy but still worried about what happened on date night. They needed to talk about it, but she could feel herself resisting. She didn't want to upset Helena when she was feeling so good about her work.
Also, Dinah couldn't stop thinking about Bruce. He seemed to have given up on life, and he was completely and utterly alone with Alfred gone. Being worried about someone you care about is something you're supposed to share with your partner, but Helena was utterly oblivious to Dinah's relationship with Bruce. There was so much she didn't know.
And anything Dinah did do to try to help Bruce would have to remain a secret from her.
Too wired to sleep, she stayed up late working again, making her way through the other half wheel of blue Stilton to comfort herself.
Unlike her personal life, Dinah could do something about work. She hunched over her work laptop in the kitchen, painstakingly combing through the Wonderland files and making notes in her pocketbook. Thus far, she'd been searching for a needle in a haystack, but thanks to Bruce, she knew what she was looking for. Evidence would give them a reason to track down Jenna Duffy, aka the Carpenter, aka Jervis Tetch's preferred weapons dealer with connections inside the Commission.
The next morning, Dinah woke up late to find the bed empty beside her. Her temples throbbed from sleeping poorly, and she found it impossible to focus when she did her morning meditation. It usually calmed her, made her feel balanced, but all it seemed to do was frustrate her that morning, her mind too distracted.
Remembering Montoya's repeated complaints about her uniform, Dinah picked out a dove gray Zara suit that had served her well at the gallery in LA, and her favorite motorcycle boots, made of soft black leather with silver buckles. She added a row of small gold hoops and charms to each ear, and instead of tying her hair back like she usually did for work, she braided a section at the front and left the rest loose. Deciding a fresh-faced no makeup look didn't do her any favors, she applied her usual smudge of black eyeliner and mascara. Then she threaded a brown leather holster through her belt loops before unlocking the gun safe in the closet, grabbing the Ruger the GCPD issued her, tucking it snuggly in the holster, and fastening the button over it.
It felt weird to leave the house for work dressed like herself instead of in the uniform that announced her presence as a police officer, like elements of her life were blending. She thought about Jim Gordon and how he lost his wife and kids because he couldn't separate his work from his personal life but shook the thought off quickly. That was not the direction her life was going. She was not Jim Gordon.
She met Montoya for a late breakfast at Ed's, an old-fashioned chrome diner Downtown. It was close to Montoya's apartment and her preferred breakfast spot when she was hungover, as was obviously the case today. Dinah found her at a booth up against the back wall, away from the windows, looking surly with a pair of aviator sunglasses covering her eyes. Her brown suit was rumpled and her shirt was misbuttoned like she'd slept in her clothes.
"Hey," Dinah greeted her, shrugging out of her coat and tossing it on the red vinyl seat.
"You're late," Montoya drawled. Her sunglasses slid down her nose as she examined Dinah's suit and hair, but she didn't complain, which Dinah took as approval.
"I was up late," Dinah explained, waving down a waitress to order coffee and a full breakfast.
"That ain't the excuse you think it is, Lance," Montoya pointed out drily.
Dinah waited for the waitress to move out of hearing distance before she opened her pocketbook to the pages of notes she'd scribbled out the night before. She leaned over the table toward Montoya, who had tucked her sunglasses into her breast pocket, close at hand if the diner's fluorescent lights got too much for her.
"I think we should re-examine Jenna Duffy," Dinah said.
"Duffy," Montoya's eyes narrowed. "You mean the Carpenter? She wasn't even charged."
"Not because of lack of evidence," Dinah explained. "The Carpenter is referenced in one of every six messages sent to or from other members of the Wonderland gang," she read from her pocketbook. "Duffy was part of Tetch's inner circle, but DeCarlo willfully ignored that line of evidence."
"And you've got a theory as to why?" Montoya raised an eyebrow.
"Duffy was arrested in the same raid that brought in the Unicorn and the Tweeds. But she gave no statement and was released uncharged." Dinah shot Montoya a knowing look. "Almost like she had friends in high places to step in and protect her."
Montoya sat back and folded her arms over her chest, reluctantly impressed.
"So DeCarlo glosses over Duffy to keep the Commission happy," she nodded. "Nice work, Lance. Though I question your sanity if you think going after Duffy is a good idea knowing she's got pals inside the mob."
"We just need Duffy to flip on Tetch," Dinah insisted. "Tetch has nothing to do with the mob. Why would they protect him?"
Montoya's eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "So you want to work with the mob to catch Tetch?"
"No," Dinah faltered, frowning. "No, we just press Duffy to flip on Tetch."
"Dinah," Montoya hunched forward, her face grim. "Duffy has the mob's protection. That's why DeCarlo never brought her in. You gotta go through the Commission to get to her."
"Well," Dinah struggled to reframe what she was proposing. "Well, how is this different from getting little fish to snitch on big fish? Does that count as working with the mob?"
"Because in that situation, you hold the power," Montoya explained, more patiently. "You're the one saying, I'm gonna throw you in fucking prison for fifty years if you don't snitch. What you're suggesting? You wanna appeal to the mob's sense of right and wrong regarding Tetch. We got no power. It'll be a fuckin' miracle if they don't want something in return for access to Duffy."
Dinah ran her tongue over the back of her teeth. Montoya was right. There were channels they had to go through as Gotham police officers. They couldn't just push Duffy up against a brick wall and intimidate her into spilling on Tetch. Dinah realized that for this to work, she would have to negotiate with the mob to get the job done, and it was startling to know she wasn't more repelled by the idea — working with bad people to catch a worse person.
Tetch posed a clear and present danger — being creative, being flexible was necessary to take him down.
"Alright," Dinah looked at Montoya, feeling something nervous but excited in her throat. "So we work with the Commission to catch Tetch. Fine."
"Shit," Montoya folded her arms, looking impressed. "You know this is never gonna fly with DeCarlo."
"Then we do it ourselves," Dinah shrugged. "That's the only way to get anything done," she added, thinking about Bruce.
"I'm surprised you're willing to get your hands dirty, Lance," Montoya observed as their waitress returned with a plate piled high with greasy breakfast food and more coffee. "That doesn't sound like your style."
"Yeah," Dinah pressed her lips together. She thought about how she saw the world when she was younger when she was Black Canary, uncompromising in her ideas of good and evil, right and wrong. It was a simplistic, unrealistic view of a more complicated world. "Yeah, I'm surprised, too," she admitted.
Montoya's cell phone began to ring in her coat pocket.
"Montoya," she answered briskly. She helped herself to a sausage link off Dinah's plate while Dinah made a start on her home fries, only looking up when Montoya dropped the sausage link abruptly.
"Shit," she sighed, scrubbing a hand over her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I understand. Thanks for letting me know, Bob."
Dinah watched Montoya's face carefully as she set her phone down, her expression suddenly strained, guarded even. She didn't look at Dinah for a few long seconds, and when she finally did, the look in her eye made a knot of dread form in the pit of Dinah's stomach.
"What's wrong?" she asked warily.
Montoya sighed like she was bracing herself.
"Pino Bertinelli's body was found in Robinson Park this morning," she explained woodenly. "He was shot in the head at close range… I'm so sorry, Dinah."
Dinah stared at Montoya without saying anything, finding it hard to accept what she was hearing. That Pino was dead. That he'd been shot in the head execution-style, his body dumped where it would be easily found—leaving a message. That was a professional killing. A mob killing. Any rookie could piece it together, especially once they learned the victim was Franco Bertinelli's son.
Dinah cleared her throat as anxiety ballooned in her chest, filling her up until it was suffocating in its intensity. She coached herself to take a step back from her feelings, to give herself some space from her thoughts as they shot off in all different directions without her permission.
But it did little good.
She found herself picturing Pino's body at the crime scene—how the park would have looked at dawn when an early morning jogger found him. It was always the same story. A jogger always found them. She wanted to ask who'd been assigned to the case and what they knew so far, what forensic evidence they'd found, and what leads they were tracking down.
But this hadn't happened to a stranger's family. This was happening to Dinah's family. To Helena.
Helena.
Losing a brother was hard enough—losing the last member of her family to another violent murder would reignite every past trauma, bringing every ounce of grief back to the surface.
Helena put her family up on a pedestal. She would see herself as being completely alone, even with Dinah beside her.
This would crush her.
"You alright, Lance?" Montoya looked concerned, her eyebrows pinching together.
Dinah didn't reply. She realized she was holding her breath and let out a loud, weird sigh, feeling like she'd forgotten how to breathe.
Helena.
And Dinah realized she didn't have the faintest idea what she was supposed to do.
The Joker -
It was a long, boring night and then a long, boring day, and the Joker was disgustingly well-rested because of it.
After Harley finished her business at the Iceberg Lounge, they headed back to Lonnie's to make a plan of action. By J's understanding, it was only a matter of time before the Killer Moth used his phone in a way that would allow them to track him. So, with little else to do but wait, he and Harley caught up on some shuteye in the honeymoon suite's bedroom —Lonnie's bedroom.
"This is gross," Harley sighed, ripping all of Lonnie's bedding off before she flipped the mattress.
The Joker snuck out to roll a cigarette with Lonnie's tobacco while she got on with it, but he only had time to smoke half of it.
They crashed out almost immediately and slept hard until the morning, at which point the Joker awoke to Harley and Lonnie bickering about the effectiveness of this waiting plan.
He slyly shared a cigarette with Frost while she was distracted.
Sick of being in the honeymoon suite, they decided to take the waiting game on the road and headed down to the parking garage where a black electrical van was waiting.
Frost drove them around for a while before they settled on staking out the bridges on the East River, giving them the tactical advantage to head east or west to wherever Walker turned up. Two henchpeople were standing by with their vans full of well-armed clowns, Squooshy and Derp, both apparently up to the task of driving like fucking maniacs when the time was right.
They staked out the Midtown bridge until Lonnie began whining about being hungry. The Joker typically didn't remember when he last ate —it was useless information to hang on to— but Lonnie's complaining made him realize there was a hollow feeling in his stomach. Frost picked up sandwiches filled with fried, cheesy, eggy things, which Harley wrinkled her nose as she complained about getting an ulcer.
They made another detour, this time to the Tailor's shop downtown to grab a new suit. The Joker exchanged the black wool overcoat he'd been wearing for the freshly-cut violet one, throwing it on over his black blending-in clothes with some welcome events forthcoming on the horizon.
Back at the bridge, Harley and Lonnie bickered. The Joker and Frost smoked in silence. Squooshy and Derp delivered updates via radio.
The Waiting Game. It was a necessary evil and one the Joker typically preferred to spend in bed with Harley, but that wasn't an option today.
J eyeballed her across the van from his spot on the floor, his legs flung out in front of him. She was arguing with Lonnie again. He was in the passenger seat, and she was standing over his shoulder, snapping away. The Joker admired the shell of her ear where it stuck out quite compellingly between panels of greasy silvery-blonde hair. Then she turned to shoot him an exasperated look, one cool blue eye flashing above one sharp cheekbone. He offered her a lazy smirk in return, and some of the frustration melted from her face, her lips twitching before she whipped back around to scream at Lonnie.
It started getting dark around four in the afternoon, mid-December's idea of a joke, and that was right about when Harley pulled the brown paper bag containing three pots of greasepaint from the depths of her coat.
They painted their faces without mirrors—just globs of warpaint smeared where it seemed best to smear it.
Sitting around in the back of the van, they discussed what Walker could have stolen from Daggett industries. Daggett did business with all sorts of nasty people, and their R&D department could be making all manner of horrible instruments. Walker could have stolen any of it.
"You know what I don't understand," Harley said. "Walker's a terrible thief. Then he carries off a job like this? And he steals something that suddenly makes him valuable to Ed? I don't buy it."
"Maybe he had a little help," Frost suggested, sliding the van's door open a crack so he could dispose of another cigarette butt.
The Joker watched longingly as the last wisps of smoke disappeared into the night and took a sulky drag off the e-cigarette, which had started blinking red at him, indicating fuck-knew-what.
They lapsed into silence for a while, then Lonnie and Harley engaged in another round of bickering, and once Harley got the last word in—as she always did—Lonnie spun around to direct his attention to the laptop, the back of his neck turning red.
And then… finally.
"Woah, woah, woah, you guys, he just showed up!" Lonnie announced, his fingers racing across the keyboard.
Harley and the Joker exchanged an eager look, both of them sitting up straighter.
Finally.
Frost started the van and Lonnie grabbed a handheld radio to talk to Squooshy and Derp. "Yo, Walker's in Chinatown. 86th and Milton, on his way to Charles. Let's fucking go, people!"
There were affirmative radio-squawks from the clowns as Frost pulled the van into a squealing U-turn, turning them east.
J traded places with Harley to loom over Lonnie's shoulder and get a look at the map on the laptop. A blue dot that stood for Walker's location rapidly moved north through Chinatown, almost perpendicular to them. He ripped the radio out of Lonnie's hand.
"Alright, kiddos," He growled into the receiver, his eyes darting between the dimly-lit street ahead and Lonnie's screen. "Let's rack em' up."
Harley shrugged off her red-and-white coat and raked her hair off her face, resolved and focused behind her warpaint, which looked funny against her boring black turtleneck and jeans. She checked the ammunition on her modified automatic, slamming the magazine back in place before tucking it away, then moved on to the revolver holstered at her side. She gave the chamber a quick spin, counting the bullets, then tightened the straps on her holster and squared her shoulders, ready to get to work.
She'd performed that same song and dance before they left Lonnie's, a little routine that helped her get in the mood or 'organizing her thoughts,' as she'd call it.
Organizing her thoughts to wreak chaos and destruction, the Joker thought wryly.
"We're comin' up behind him, boss," Derp announced through the radio. "That's one ugly car."
The dot on the screen was just a block away, so the Joker shoved the radio back to Lonnie, letting him take over so he could join Harley.
She had a hand braced on the ceiling to keep her balance as they took a hard left, pulling into position to line up a pincer movement that would cut Walker off. Lonnie shouted directions into the radio, trying to be heard over the squealing tires and revving engine while Frost kept them on track, his eyes darting between the road and Lonnie's computer to help him navigate.
Satisfied they would be intercepting Walker soon, the Joker took a purposeful step toward Harley and looped an arm around her back. She smirked and leaned into him, keeping her hand planted on the ceiling as the van swayed perilously.
"Ready to get some answers?" she asked, her eyes glittering behind the black paint.
"Mm… I wanna know what toys Walker took," the Joker waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh.
Harley rose on her tiptoes, leaning in for a smooch when something on the road ahead caught her eye.
"There he is!" Lonnie screeched.
The Joker looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows raising when he spotted what looked like a bulky silver spaceship on wheels. It went tearing across the intersection ahead of them, prompting Frost to whip the wheel hard to the left, sending them careening after the spaceship car until they were nearly alongside it.
Harley ripped the van's sliding door open to hang her head out and get a better look.
"What is that thing!" she shouted.
"It's a Tesla Cybertruck!" Lonnie grinned, looking delighted.
"What!" Harley snapped, bewildered.
The Joker joined her at the open door, the icy wind stinging his painted face as the mismatched buildings of Chinatown raced past outside. He hung his head and torso out of the side of the van and took a few experimental shots at the spaceship truck. The bullets glanced off it, so Harley tried her hand. She fired a few rounds of automatic gunfire, leaving a row of dents in the metal and forcing the Tesla to take a sudden left turn. They went careening after it, Frost managing to keep the van straight while the Tesla's less skilled driver fishtailed wildly, giving them an opening to draw closer.
"We gotta get him to turn left again!" Lonnie shouted as Frost pulled up alongside it, keeping pace with the smaller but stronger car.
It was no Tumbler, but it was bulletproof and plenty fast, its inspiration so obvious.
The Joker chuckled to himself and joined Harley in shooting indiscriminately at the Tesla. He upgraded to a shotgun out of curiosity, just to see what kind of damage it would do. The heavy shells didn't perforate the metal but seemed to unnerve the driver. He turned left again at his first opportunity, down a narrow residential street as they edged out of Chinatown and into the Cauldron.
"Alright, Squooshy, cut this fucker off!" Lonnie shouted into the radio above the din of gunfire.
An overworked engine roared up ahead, and a black electrical van that matched theirs raced into the road. Squooshy slammed on the breaks so their van screeched to a stop, cutting the Tesla off. Its driver wasn't quite ballsy enough to crash into Squooshy's van like a battering ram, skidding to a halt just shy of it.
Frost hit the brakes, and behind them, Derp's van squealed into a controlled sideways drift, the tires screeching as it rocked to a stop, blocking the exit behind them.
Harley and the Joker looked at each other, shrugged, and started shooting from their position in the van.
Squooshy and Derp jumped out of their vehicles with groups of clowns in tow, joining in the firefight to let Killer Moth know it was time to come out and play.
Then a silver panel covering the back half of the Tesla retracted in an especially spaceship-y kind of way. There was a metallic whine as a robotic arm unfolded from the truck bed—a cannon pointing straight at Squooshy's approaching crew.
It launched a grenade at them, and the Joker was very amused to see Squooshy lift their clown mask to watch the grenade land at their feet, their eyes widening a split second before it exploded in an earsplitting blast.
There were screams, and a severed arm went soaring through the air, coasting on a wave of flames.
The Joker doubled over laughing, spurring Harley to tackle him in time to take cover from the blast. He howled and writhed on the floor while she sat on top of him, pounding her fist into his shoulder as the van rocked violently from the explosion.
The sound of the robotic arm whining again made them both look, Harley craning her head around while the Joker braced himself on his elbows to watch. Derp and their crew were swarming the Tesla from behind when the cannon swiveled toward them, spewing out a fireball that engulfed the clowns.
Lonnie had taken cover in the back with them, his eyes widening as a clown staggered past, on fire and screaming.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" he yelped. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"
"Shut up!" Harley snapped at him, clambering to her feet. She swayed unsteadily for a moment and ejected her gun's empty magazine, then slammed in a new one before the first had even hit the floor.
She took aim at the Tesla, doing a remarkable job of ignoring the spectacle of the flaming clowns, but before she could start shooting, the car's door opened and the driver popped out, their hands raised in surrender.
They were wearing black body armor with purple details and a shapeless helmet that looked like a trash can with two purple diamonds around the eye holes. Two antennae were sprouting from the top of the helmet — a clunky, moth-like version of the Batman's cowl.
The Joker started laughing again.
How could he not?
Helena -
Not again.
Not again.
Not again.
Please, not again.
The words pulsed through Helena's brain with each beat of her heart.
Her heart, which was breaking. Again.
Not again.
It was all so familiar despite the years that had passed. First, her mother. Then her father.
Now her brother, Pino, too.
Not again.
She couldn't believe it was happening again, and yet now that it was, it seemed so obvious. Inevitable.
She felt drained. Empty. Like her soul had been sucked out of her body. Again. She was a husk, trying to comprehend the world without another person she loved in it. Again. To never see Pino's face, to hear his laugh, to be near him and experience the world with him in the most simplistic of ways — through beer and memes and the knowledge that they both had their mother's eyes.
Those eyes were gone forever.
Helena was alone with these eyes.
Not again.
Please, no, not again.
The lights in the morgue were blinding as she stared down at Pino's body on the silver tray. They'd pulled him out of the wall — out of the refrigerator that would keep his body from rotting just a little bit longer. His skin was gray. The bullet hole just above his left eyebrow had been cleaned. His eyelashes were dark fans against his peach-fuzzed cheeks, and he was so still, so empty. A husk, just like Helena.
"That's him," she murmured, her eyes aching.
Beside her, Dinah squeezed her hand, hard like she wanted to remind Helena of something. Across from them was Bob the Mortician, calm and quiet and used to scenes of grief like this. And Montoya beside him, looking twitchy as she sipped from a silver flask without bothering to hide it. Helena was waiting for her to offer it to her, but she didn't.
Dinah squeezed Helena's hand again.
She'd known the moment Dinah pulled up outside Wayne Tower that something was wrong. That Montoya gave her the Buick to pick Helena up was off, but it was the look on Dinah's face that did it. She had this haunted look, haggard and sad, the same one she wore when their friend Caleb killed himself. She'd explained that Pino had been murdered. She'd held Helena's hand tight, rubbing tears from her own eyes with her knuckles as she sniffled through it.
Helena hadn't cried yet. Pino being killed by the mob was just so obvious, so ironic and stupid and sad and pointless.
There was a lingering quiver in her chest, a slight tremble in her throat and behind her eyes. She kept willing the tears to come. The big heaving sobs would have brought some relief because they meant she would feel something beyond this gaping emptiness. They would come eventually, and it would bring momentary relief, but once the tears passed and she was too tired to cry anymore, the dead people she loved still wouldn't come back to her.
She knew this from experience.
There was no negotiating with death.
There was no end to it.
Staring at Pino's body without Pino inside became exhausting. She was searching for something that wasn't there. She turned away, her eyes aching beneath the lights, her heart beating sluggishly in her throat. The silver refrigerators and tiled floors looked clear and glossy, high definition, but she felt as though there was a haze dulling her other senses. Her feet didn't touch the ground as she moved. She didn't feel the chill in the air. She didn't hear Dinah say her name or feel her take her hand and guide her toward the exit. Up some stairs. More bright lights. Montoya's voice, worried and slightly slurred.
Is she okay?
I think she may be in shock.
You wanna take my car to get her home?
No, we'll call an Uber… you should get one too, Renee.
Helena touched her father's cross through her blouse, so exhausted she thought she might collapse. Dinah had her by the elbow, one hand on her lower back to guide her out onto the street where it was freezing, and the dirty snow was crunchy underfoot, and cars were honking irritably at each other. But it all passed over Helena. It all just felt heavy. So heavy and impossible.
Dinah helped her into a silver car waiting for them at the curb, and the Uber driver looked over his shoulder to squint at Helena as she slid onto the backseat. She stared back at him hard and didn't look away when he glanced at Dinah uneasily.
She ain't gonna be sick, is she?
Dinah slammed her door shut and whipped out her badge, using a low, authoritative voice Helena had never heard her use before. She instructed him to drive them to their destination without saying another word, and he hastily spun around and put his car in gear.
Helena slumped back against her seat as Dinah tucked her badge away, her face pained. All her empathy and compassion and talk about balance and generosity and harmony and blah blah blah blah blah. Helena could see Dinah reaching into that well of emotional intelligence now, trying to find the balanced approach to Helena's grief when there was nothing balanced at all about the situation. Where was the balance? Where? Why did Helena have to go through this, again and again? Was her pain balancing the scales for someone else who never had to know the anguish and emptiness of loss?
Dinah was trying to hold her hand, but she shook her off and slid sideways to lean against the door, pressing her forehead to the cold window. She watched Gotham pass by in all its hellish glory.
Downtown. Midtown. Uptown.
Gotham was the reason everyone she loved was dead.
She felt that wobble return, a steady vibration that broke through the emptiness. It was anger, abstract and vague, directionless, but she clung to it.
When her mother died, Helena mourned her smell. She'd mourned her touch and her comfort and her softness. She'd been too young to truly understand what happened, only that her mother was gone and that she missed her.
With her father, she'd mourned his strength. He'd been a rock of a man, solid and unyielding but kind and full of love. She mourned how much her father loved her. He'd loved her with every ounce of strength he possessed, and she ached for it every day.
Now, with Pino, it was too soon to tell. There was just the gaping hole where her memories of Pino swirled around her mother and father. All of it blended into one unfair, agonizing whirlpool of grief—spinning faster and faster until Helena had to put her head in her hands to push it away before it drowned her.
Dinah rubbed her back and said, it'll be okay.
But it wouldn't. That was one thing Helena knew for sure. And as horrible as it was, it was a certainty. Her family was dead. They would not be coming back, and the people that killed them would never pay a price.
There was balance for you. Helena suffered while the Falcones and Harley Quinn thrived.
But why?
Dinah let them into the apartment and guided Helena over to the couch. She sat down beside her and pressed her lips together, looking uncertain, then smoothed Helena's hair back from her face, tucking a dark lock behind her ear.
"I'm going to get you some water," she said. "Do you want… one of those pills?"
She meant diazepam, prescribed for the panic attacks that occasionally plagued Helena. Dinah didn't like her taking them; she was judgy about it, wanted her to cope with mindfulness and fucking yoga instead of medication. So if she was suggesting the pills as an answer, Helena knew she must have really looked like shit. Her insides showing on her outside.
She shook her head distractedly and slumped back into the couch cushions, thinking. Thinking about why, which was impossible to answer. There was no why, not a reasonable or fair explanation Helena would accept in any case.
But there was a how.
And there was a who.
When Dinah returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, Helena's eyes slanted toward her. She saw a flicker of unease across Dinah's face like she knew what was coming.
"Was it Mandragora?" Helena asked quietly.
Dinah set the water on the coffee table before she sat —or rather perched— on the edge of the couch, like she was preparing to take flight at any minute.
"I'm not sure," she admitted.
"What do you know?" Helena pressed, and Dinah closed her eyes like she was trying to center herself. Probably dipping into that fucking well of patience and calm.
"He was found this morning," she said eventually, meeting Helena's eye. "In Robinson Park. By a jogger."
Helena narrowed her eyes. "When did you find out?"
"Around lunchtime," Dinah said softly.
"Lunchtime?" Helena snapped. That vague anger was back, sharp and quick even if its target was still blurry, unknown. "So you waited, what? Five or six hours to tell me?"
"I wanted to find out what I could first," Dinah explained uneasily. "To get the facts."
"And what did you find?" Helena demanded. Dinah pressed her lips together, her eyes drifting toward the paintings on the wall. So Helena moved in front of her, forcing her to meet her gaze. "Dinah?"
"Not much," she admitted. "There's no weapon, no usable physical evidence, and Pino was…." She closed her eyes. "Was known to move in certain circles," she said, reluctantly, like she thought these words would hurt Helena.
But they didn't hurt. Helena didn't live in a fantasy land —she knew where she came from.
No, that didn't hurt her. But it really pissed her off.
"So you're telling me," she seethed, her blood leaping in her throat. "You're telling me my brother was more 'known' to the GCPD than Stevan Mandragora? One of the biggest mobsters in town? Is that what you're telling me?"
Dinah looked at her, all sadness and sympathy and pity too. "Helena…"
"Because the cops are on Mandragora's payroll, right?" Helena spat. "Just admit it. You know it's true."
"Yes," Dinah nodded. "It's probably true that the officers assigned to Pino's case destroyed evidence or even helped."
Helena's teeth ground together. She shook her head in disgust.
"So you won't do anything," she sneered, that sharp spike of anger cutting clean and deep, giving her something to hook her fingers onto so she wouldn't sink back into the haze. "Pino's dead, and no one will do anything about it."
"I can look into it some more," Dinah offered weakly. "I—"
"Don't lie to me!" Helena cut her off harshly, jumping to her feet. "You know you can't do anything! They'll bury this, and if you look too closely, they'll bury you too."
Dinah's hand balled into a fist on her thigh, and she sighed, fitful, frustrated, and ultimately helpless.
Helpless. She was a cop who was supposed to save people's lives and lock up criminals, and she felt helpless.
"No one ever pays a price in this city," Helena seethed. "No one ever gets justice. Pino is fucking dead, and all of you cops are complicit for not standing up to those… monsters."
Dinah didn't say anything.
"You won't do anything, the courts won't do anything, hell the fucking Batman won't even do anything!" Helena started pacing. Her blood was pounding through her entire body, hot and gushing, making her feel alive instead of cold and dead.
Dinah watched uneasily until her phone beeped with a message, and Helena spun back around in time to catch Dinah tap the screen to get a look. She looked up at Helena, guilt in her eyes, and her phone beeped twice more.
"Well? Officer Lance?" Helena spat at her. "Don't you need to race out there to save someone? So long as they aren't on the mob's black list, of course, right? Right? Why are you staring at me like that! Check your fucking phone, Dinah!"
Looking pained, Dinah checked her phone quickly before tucking it away.
"Well? What did it say?" Helena demanded.
"Montoya got a tip on Tetch, but she wants me to stay with you," Dinah explained quietly.
Helena scoffed. "Oh, no. I'm not going to be the reason you aren't there to catch him. Just go."
"Helena," Dinah said firmly, rising to her feet. "I am not leaving you right now."
"I don't give a fuck what you want, Dinah," Helena bit back. She started pacing again, aimless, the angry blood propelling her forward. "Go."
"I don't—"Dinah started, but Helena cut her off.
"I want to be alone," she shot Dinah a dirty look. "I can't stand to be around a fucking cop right now."
Dinah's lips parted, and her eyes widened, shocked, hurt. It twinged something at the nape of Helena's neck, but it was easy to ignore.
"Go," she said again, her dark eyes flashing. "I'm serious. Leave."
Dinah hesitated, looking as if she might leave, then hanging back, then taking a step toward the door, then hanging back again.
Helena refused to look at her, her thoughts turning to Mandragora again and then what Thorne had told her. How he'd implored her to ask Pino to back off. She listened to Dinah put her coat on and quietly close the front door behind her, and goosebumps suddenly rose on Helena's arms and up her neck. It was exhausting being so frustrated and powerless —she couldn't bear it. She closed her eyes, and she prayed for the relief of tears to come.
But they didn't, so she turned back to anger, which she could dig her fingers into, to make her strong, to give her a purpose.
Dinah may have resigned herself to the nature of Gotham.
But Helena hadn't.
Harley -
The Tesla's driver popped out, their hands raised in surrender. Harley might have shot him anyway, but she was too distracted by the suit and helmet, which looked like a trash compactor with antennae— a blatant attempt to replicate the Batman's cowl.
It was immediately clear to Harley they were dealing with another copycat.
"Oh my god —oh my God!" Walker's voice was muffled behind the bulky helmet as he rounded the hood of the Tesla. He squeezed past the blown-out remains of Squooshy's van with his hands held up. "Holy shit! It is so good to meet you guys!"
The Joker stopped laughing, and Harley's face soured even further.
She vastly preferred people trying to kill her to people stupid or sycophantic enough to be excited to meet her.
Walker started to lower his hands, rambling in his excitement. "I mean, I was hoping you'd get in touch, but I didn't think—"
Harley raised her gun and fired at least twenty rounds without blinking. Some hit the Tesla, but the rest hit Walker square in the chest, stopping him in his tracks and ricocheting off of him.
The suit was bulletproof.
"Ugh... man," he groaned, planting his hands on his hips and bending over like he was trying to catch his breath. He rubbed his chest as if Harley had done little more than hit him with a fly swatter instead of twenty rounds of lead.
Harley looked at the Joker, who was staring at Walker curiously, taking in the suit with a keen eye.
"Phew, that kinda hurt!" Walker laughed, and the Moth-helmet abruptly folded back on itself with a series of metallic clinks!, retracting into the neck of the suit and revealing the man beneath.
Drury Walker, the same face from the mugshot of the shitty criminal who'd been arrested for jay-walking, and now he'd allowed himself to get cornered by the Joker and Harley Quinn because he couldn't resist Instagram. He was about Harley's age, with bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows and matching hair, his wide mouth and fleshy lips surrounded by a close-cropped but scruffy beard.
He grinned and raised a gloved hand in greeting. "Come on, guys, we're all on the same team here."
"Are we?" Harley snapped. She strode straight up to him, pointing her gun in his face as she backed him up against his silver space-car—or perhaps, his Mothmobile.
"Where's Ed?" she demanded. "What's he planning?"
"Ooohhhh, so that's what this is about," Walker nodded sagely, unfazed by the gun pressed to his forehead. "And here I was hoping you wanted to work together. What a dummy, right?"
Harley narrowed her eyes as the Joker wandered up behind her, and she saw Walker's eyes shoot over her shoulder toward him—but he didn't show fear or trepidation. He just winced performatively.
"Oof. You two are like Double-Stuf Oreos, aren't ya? Two for the price of one, and double delicious."
"Shut up," Harley hissed.
"C'mon, Harl," the Joker drawled, lowering his chin to her shoulder so Walker had to look at them both. "Killer Moth is just a chatty guy. You love it when they're chatty."
Instead of finding them intimidating, Walker ate up the attention, grinning so his fleshy lips pulled back to reveal a set of big, horsey teeth.
"How'd you find me?" he asked cheerfully. "I figured if you wanted to hang out you'd like, take over GCN to get me a message. Or maybe write it in fire out front of City Hall, ya know?"
"I'm going to ask you one more time," Harley sneered, leaning in close. She could smell his beard. There was food in it. "And then I'm going to put a bullet in your head if you don't give me a straight answer." Finally, there was a satisfying flash of sobriety in his eyes. "Where is Ed and what is he planning?"
Walker surprised her.
"What are we planning," he corrected her smugly, shooting the Joker a knowing grin. "We're gonna kill the Batman."
Harley felt the Joker tense at her back. She narrowed her eyes, bemused. "What?"
"Kill the Batman," Walker enthused, clearly enjoying himself. "I mean, he's the only thing standing in our way, right? I know the cops and politicians say all the rogues get locked up by DeCarlo and his task force, but everyone knows it's really the Bat. How much easier would life be without him?"
"Easy is boring," the Joker growled.
"See, my man, I think you're making life harder for yourself with that mentality," Walker frowned like he was genuinely concerned for the Joker. "That's what I told Ed. Why choose the difficult road where you lose when you could choose joy and win?"
"And you want us to believe Ed fell for that shit?" Harley raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"Fell for it?" Walker sighed fitfully like he felt bad for Harley. "Look, I think both of you need to take a step back from the Batman and, like, reflect. Just think what it'd be like if he were out of the picture. He's a symbol of hope. Destroying hope? That's like Villainy 101."
Harley couldn't come up with a valid retort to that, and the smell of Walker's beard was making her stomach roll. She lowered her gun and took a step back, letting the Joker take her place.
He rolled his head in a circle, the bones cracking disconcertingly before he moved in close.
"Now how…. exactly…" He got in Walker's personal space. "Are you two kiddos planning on killing the Batman," he cocked his head to the side, widening his dark eyes meaningfully. "Hmmm?"
"Look man, I respect you, but I don't want to get in between you guys and the Riddler." Walker had the balls to clap a friendly hand on the Joker's shoulder and smile as he looked him right in the eye. "Just think of me as a neutral buddy for you both to come to when you need some assistance."
"Ed came to you asking for help to kill the Batman?" Harley demanded incredulously.
"Well, not quite," Walker rolled his eyes up, thinking hard. "It was kind of a joint decision between a few of us. I think Ed just feels like it's time for the Bat to go, you know? Like he's at the end of his rope with him."
At the end of his rope. Harley's teeth ground together as she pictured Ed at the end of his rope, and she didn't like it. Ed at the end of his rope could be impulsive and short-sighted. Like teaming up with this idiot to kill the Batman.
Stupid fucking Ed.
Frustrated, she pulled back her fist and punched Walker in the face to relieve some tension.
"Hey! Woah! What's with all the aggression?" he whined, rubbing his cheek. "I'm just here to help."
Harley spun away with a huff, storming back to the van and pacing in a circle while she listened to the Joker and Walker talk.
"She havin' a rough night?" Walker asked, full of sympathy.
There was a howl of pain that made Harley turn toward them, a smile growing on her reddened lips when she saw the Joker had Walker by his bushy hair, a knife angled into the corner of his mouth.
"Now," the Joker purred, turning the blade thoughtfully, deliberately. "Why don't you tell us about where you got this suit?" He hummed again before Walker could respond. "Lemme guess…Daggett... Industries."
"What can I say," Walker shrugged, smiling despite the knife in his face. "I figured if I'm gonna take on the Bat, I need a little something to make me competitive. This thing makes me virtually indestructible."
The Joker drew Walker's wide mouth out to the side with the blade, revealing his molars. "Ya sure about that?"
"You may have a point," Walker conceded, unfazed.
Harley sighed, feeling like they weren't making much progress. She looked around the street they were on. It was primarily old housing projects, most of which looked ready for demolition. There would still be some people living in them, and after the grenade and the flame thrower, someone was sure to call the cops, and the Batman would pick it up like he always did. Then they'd have to get the fuck out of there fast without the answers they needed.
She joined the Joker, and he withdrew the blade from Walker's mouth, sensing she was trying another angle.
"How did you know Dagget had a suit like this?" Harley asked. "Did you see the list?"
"Nope, but a friend of mine did," he explained, remarkably forthright. "She was looking for something else Daggett's R&D was working on, and she needed some muscle. So I helped her out, and this was my payment."
"Someone helped you steal this?" Harley asked.
"Yeah."
"Who?"
"Ooh," Walker winced apologetically. "She really wouldn't want me to say. Ed's one thing, I know you guys have a history. But uh, yeah, she'd genuinely kill me for talking to you about her. Sorry."
Harley narrowed her eyes. A female thief who was able to break into Daggett Industries and scared the shit out of Walker. Interesting.
"And does she also want the Batman dead?" Harley pressed. "Is she part of your little team?"
"I think so," Walker shrugged helplessly. "She's kinda hard to get a read on." He shot the Joker a knowing look. "Moody. Hates dudes. You know the type."
"And how are you planning on killing the Batman?" Harley pushed.
Walker sighed and closed his eyes like he was praying. "I can't tell you. I'm sorry, Harley. I'm not a squealer."
So they had a plan. A real plan. Harley took a step back, allowing the Joker to swoop in again, the knife pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he prepared to threaten this essential information—how they were planning on killing the Batman—out of Walker.
But before he could, Walker's suit made a WHIRRR sound, and three miniature rockets appeared over his left shoulder, pointing straight at the Joker, who released a low, irritated growl.
Harley froze, too, her blood leaping in anger that they were being held up by Killer Moth just because he managed to get his hands on this copycat suit.
"Sorry, dudes," Walker shrugged as his suit's helmet unfolded with a few robotic clinks! until it covered his entire face once more. He reached for the tool belt slung around his hips—it was purple—and grabbed a grappling hook gun. He shot it at the project block looming above them, and it caught the side of the building with a CLANK. Then he was flying off the street, at which point Harley noticed he was wearing a long, flowing purple cape.
"This was cool, though!" he called down to them, his voice getting further away as he was flung through the air, the cape billowing behind him. "Let's do it again sometime!"
Harley released a frustrated breath and turned to look at the Joker, who had a sour look on his face she was sure matched her own.
Then the police sirens started up, and Lonnie started whining about how it was time to go.
Helena -
Helena paced around the loft, her thoughts an erratic jumble of anger, pain, grief, and outrage as she tried to decide what to do. She needed to do something, if only so she wouldn't feel so helpless.
She kept coming back to a hard truth she didn't want to accept — a reality that made her want to rip her skin off. That she could have stepped in and stopped this by talking to Pino like Thorne begged her to, but she'd refused because she didn't want to dirty her lily-white hands. She'd thought she was better than Pino, better than her father. And now Pino was lying in a refrigerator with a hole in his head.
There was no balance — only cruelty and greed and lust for power. That was the truth of the world, and that everyone so readily accepted it made anger churn inside her like molten lava until she was hyper and restless and couldn't do anything but pace. She felt like she might crack in half. She felt so helpless. Useless. Powerless. She was suffocating. She was pacing and gasping to get a breath, and she was so hot she had to get out of there. She put on her boots and ski jacket and bolted out into the snow.
The freezing air helped. It seemed to calm her down as she walked south without a destination in mind, passing through the nicer neighborhoods of the Upper Westside, the pristine townhouses, and cafes with their tables pulled inside for the night. Eventually, she found herself on the main drag south of the park, a wide boulevard lined with noisy bars and clubs. She turned south again at her first opportunity, needing to get away from the noise, and some three blocks later, as if her feet were taking her there of their own accord, Helena found herself standing across the street from the Iceberg Lounge.
It was a fat two-story red brick building that wouldn't have looked like a nightclub if not for the line of well-dressed people looping around the block, twittering to each other like excited birds.
The Iceberg Lounge was the club where business was done, where the game was played. Carmine Falcone's favorite watering hole where he'd held court. Where the Falcones still held court, no doubt.
She started walking again, losing track of what direction she was going, her thoughts shifting from anger back to the weightless haze of grief, which was absolutely worse. Painful. Hollow.
She remembered what her father said when her mother died — find a purpose. When she was twelve, that meant studying hard at her new school, winning prizes for sports, and doing what would have made her mother proud. Now she was an adult — to find a purpose in her grief meant she needed to act, especially when her failure to act as Thorne advised directly led to Pino's death.
She needed to do something.
And Helena knew what her father would do.
She stopped outside a late-night deli, taking note of its name before she drew her phone from her coat pocket.
Thorne answered on the third ring,
"I need to talk to you," Helena said before he could greet her. "In person. Now."
Thorne hesitated on the other end of the line. He was in front of other people, she realized.
"I understand, of course," he said. "And where were you thinking?"
"Arthur's Deli. Uptown." Helena said numbly. "Come now."
She hung up and strode into the deli, unsure if by turning to a Falcone confidant for help, she was essentially sealing her death warrant, or even Dinah's.
But her father wouldn't have let Pino's death be in vain.
Her father wouldn't have let Pino die at all.
She ordered a sandwich and sat at a small, greasy table near the back, leaving the sandwich untouched as she stared at a splotch on the wall. A weird buzzing sound filled her ears as she repeatedly replayed the evening when Thorne begged her to speak to Pino, and she'd refused to get her hands dirty because she was a coward. Because she wasn't willing to sacrifice her precious goodness to save her brother's life.
Thorne appeared, his big belly and white hair unmistakable as he plodded into the deli and caught her eye.
Hadn't it just been seconds since they spoke? How was he there already?
Helena checked her phone. Over an hour had passed.
Before she had time to worry if she was losing her mind, Thorne was squeezing his fat bottom into the chair across from her, his saggy face composed in a concerned frown.
"Hello, Helena," he greeted her cautiously.
"Was it Mandragora?" Helena demanded quietly, her cheeks flushing.
Thorne's jowls wobbled against his starched shirt collar like they were as unhappy as he was. And he nodded slowly, making Helena take a deep, shaky breath as she caught his eye, knowing what she had to do.
It was suddenly so clear.
"You know what my father would want," she said. "Mandragora has to pay."
They were words Helena would have never expected to come out of her mouth, words requesting something she could never have imagined wanting until that day. But they gave her comfort now, and instead of fearing this desire for vengeance, for justice, she felt soothed by the knowledge it was what her father would want too.
This is how he would act instead of allowing himself to be powerless.
"Helena," Thorne said gently. "You know how close I was with Franco and how I care for you and Pino, but I…" he sighed heavily. "I work for the Falcone family, and to betray them and their allies would risk my family's safety... I cannot help you with this."
Helena's eyes narrowed. Her hand on the sticky table curled into a fist.
"If you cared about Pino," she said quietly, feeling like her father was speaking through her. "You would want him to have justice."
Thorne rubbed a hand over his face, thinking, and eventually, he nodded and leaned forward, his belly pressing against the sticky linoleum, his face deadly serious.
"Your father had other allies loyal to him when he died," he said, his gaze intent. "I cannot help you get justice for your family, but the Sullivans might."
"The Sullivans?" The name was familiar, like an amorphous memory that wouldn't take shape.
"Molly Sullivan," Thorne explained, glancing past her shoulder at the men behind the deli counter. "You can find her at a bar in the Cauldron called Grin & Bare It." He hesitated, then plowed ahead. "She has ample reason to want justice too."
Helena's heart began to pound as she realized what she was about to do.
Hire someone to kill on her behalf.
She felt a fizzle of fear race through her now that it was happening and she was taking these steps…
But she pushed the fear away. She would be strong, unyielding like her father.
Now it was her turn to play the game. The last Bertinelli. The only one left alive to do this.
She nodded immediately to show she understood, and Thorne laid his hand over hers, his expression grave.
"Be careful, Helena," he advised, getting to his feet. "And good luck."
Dinah -
Though Dinah felt terrible leaving Helena alone, grieving and angry, she knew she wasn't ready—or didn't want—to be comforted by her. At least not yet. She wanted to be alone, and since Dinah couldn't give her anything else, she gave her that.
She felt helpless, especially because Helena was right. Pino would not receive justice from the police or the courts. Dinah understood the anger directed at her, a police officer, a proxy for those who would do nothing because of fear and greed. That didn't mean it didn't hurt. "I can't stand to be around a fucking cop right now." What could she say to that? Nothing.
And it did not escape Dinah that she and Montoya had been discussing working with the mob to catch Tetch mere seconds before they got the news.
Truthfully, she still hadn't ruled it out. The mob was a pervasive presence in Gotham, impossible to avoid. And Tetch was a dangerous man who murdered children.
She called Bruce as she walked to the metro —if anyone could give her guidance on this, it was him. But he didn't answer. It occurred to her he was probably spelunking and wouldn't have his phone on him. Or maybe he was ignoring her.
Please call me back, she texted him. It's personal, she added, for good measure.
At the MCU, Dinah was relieved to see Montoya had sobered up since they parted at the morgue. Her desk in the bullpen was covered in empty coffee cups and a take-out container of something fried and greasy. She was cranky about Dinah not staying home with Helena until Dinah explained they'd had a fight. That made Montoya's eyebrows raise. They didn't usually talk about their personal lives.
They went for coffee and pie at Ed's, and Dinah told Montoya about Helena. How they met, about Helena's past, her family, how much she worried for her. Montoya listened, and then she told Dinah about her last girlfriend, a decade earlier back in Bludhaven. She explained she'd transferred to Gotham to be near her mother, who had Parkinson's and refused to have a nurse. She lived around the corner from Montoya in a house she'd been in fifty years and refused to leave despite the rampant crime in the area.
It felt good to share. In college and LA, Dinah and Helena had plenty of friends. In Gotham, there wasn't much time or opportunity for that.
It was nearly one in the morning when they finally got around to discussing how they were going to play the Duffy lead. They were both reluctant to go there with Pino's death at the hands of the mob hanging over to them like a ghost. Montoya had an idea, one she was pretty sure Dinah wasn't going to like. Detective Harvey Bullock owed her a favor. He was in deep with the Falcones, and he might be able to set something up with Duffy, off the books.
"What kind of favor did you do for him?" Dinah asked, and Montoya shot her a pointed look.
"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that," she drawled. "Bullock owes me."
"Bullock," Dinah's eyebrows knit together. The name sparked a memory. She'd seen him around the station and knew his name, but she'd never had a reason to give him a second thought. But now, in the context of getting him to pull some strings… she knew she'd heard of him before.
She just couldn't place where.
Or when.
Harley -
Harley was grumpy.
Not pissed off, not upset, not just annoyed, but grumpy after that half-useful encounter with Walker.
His stolen suit was a step up from the Batman's body armor, and Harley judged Walker to be thoroughly undeserving of it. He'd also been far too chummy for her liking.
And he hadn't given them much to work with, either —only that Ed wanted to kill the Batman and seemed to have an actual plan for doing so.
Also, Walker's argument about killing the Batman to destroy hope was niggling at Harley philosophically.
As much as she loved a plan, it was freeing to accept there was no ultimate goal in her work with the Joker. There was no bar to pass, no ceiling to reach, no line to cross where they'd hang up their hats and call it a day —if anything, the goal was to keep playing the game for as long as possible.
The Batman was as much a part of that game as Gotham itself. He was a symbol of the lies people told themselves about their goodness, about their civilization. And he repeatedly gave Harley and the Joker opportunities to prove their point to Gotham and the world.
It was a contentious dance between the violence of human nature, which Harley and the Joker represented, and the delusional idealism of morality, which the Batman championed with his rules. Hope didn't factor into it — or at least Harley hadn't thought it did. But now that Walker put the idea in her head, she imagined what a Gotham demoralized past the point of no return would look like. A Gotham where there was no Batman and no hope.
And she questioned what her purpose in such a world would be.
It was late by the time Frost dropped them off at a rarely-used safehouse Uptown. It was an old, abandoned townhouse on a run-down street in an otherwise affluent area less than five blocks away from Lee Thompkins' apartment. They primarily used it as a place to stockpile cash, weapons, and anything else they didn't want to lug from safehouse-to-safehouse. It was decorated in the outlandish Hollywood Regency style of the mid-twentieth century, which, as far as Harley could tell, was the last time someone lived there. The overwhelming decor made her feel like their ghost was looming whenever she stepped inside.
Wrapped up in her thoughts about Walker and the Batman, she hardly noticed the Joker behind her as she fumbled with the keys. Just as she got them in the lock, he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. The door opened a fraction, and Harley turned to look at him over her shoulder.
He was eyeing her curiously, examining her face for clues to what she was thinking. Harley turned in his arms, her hands rising to curl around the lapels of his violet overcoat. She tugged his head down so she could press her lips against his, seeking out some sense of reassurance in his touch. He hummed throatily, sneaking a hand inside her coat and under the back of her sweater, kissing her lazily, like they had nothing but time. He pushed her back against the door, which creaked open under her weight, and nudged her back over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him without his lips leaving hers.
Harley deepened the kiss, letting her tongue tangle with his as they staggered across the safehouse's large, cobweb-ridden foyer. She couldn't remember the last time they'd been together — time had passed in a blur for her recently— and she suddenly felt starved, ravenous, like she'd gone years without him.
She squeezed her hands between them to fumble with his belt, parting the leather from the buckle, which jangled noisily in the empty foyer. He kept backing her up, and just as she managed to get the button and the zip of his jeans undone, she hit the stairs. She stumbled, her feet slipping out from under her, making her heart leap. Instead of catching her, the Joker let her fall, so she ended up sprawled out on the staircase. He pitched forward over her, pressing himself against her as he kissed her again.
The carpeted edges of the stairs dug into Harley's back and shoulder blades, but she didn't care. She pawed at him and kissed him hungrily, only stopping to breathe when he shifted to the side to make short work of the button and zip on her jeans. Their breath mingled together, loud and raspy, impatient as he tugged the stiff denim down her thighs until they were just below her knees. Harley crossed her ankles and let her legs butterfly open as wide as possible, her heart pounding as cold air suddenly hit her bare, sensitive flesh, already warm with her arousal.
The Joker turned his head to the side and ripped off his glove with his teeth. He caught her eye in the darkness, his gaze intense as he slid his hand between her legs. The cold pad of his thumb grazed her clit, making Harley gasp and twitch up off the stairs, the sensation sending a shock of pleasure through her. His fingers were freezing, and he stared down at her as they slicked over her, warming them both up until she was burning hot and soaking wet. Harley threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling it tight and moaning when he didn't stop, his eyes dark and piercing as he watched her react to his touch, her hips bucking when he teased her slick entrance.
Harley pulled his mouth down to hers, the pleasure coiling in her lower abdomen making her desperate. Their lips slid together messily, his heavy breath mixing with hers as he stroked her into a frenzy, and not for the first time Harley felt he was taking as much pleasure in touching her as he'd take from her touch.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, and she yanked his head back so she could look him in the eye. Her palms slid down his face to cup his scarred cheeks, the intensity of his eyes making her feel tethered to him, connected to him. Like she was part of him. Like she'd found a lost piece of herself, even if he was beside her every day.
She dug her nails into his face, needing more from him, and his eyes dipped closed as he released a low growl of satisfaction. He pulled his hand from between her legs abruptly, his breath harsh as he struggled with his jeans, shoving them down far enough to free his hard cock.
Harley's body throbbed in anticipation as he positioned himself at her entrance and then squeezed inside, sliding into her slick body deeper and deeper until they were fully connected. Harley sobbed and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close as he started to fuck her with rough strokes, his breath hot on her cheek. His fingers dug into the soft skin at her hips like he was trying to rip through her, like he wanted to open her up so he could burrow in deeper.
Harley's head fell back against the stairs, soft sounds of pleasure escaping her throat as she groped the Joker's back through his clothes. She gasped weakly as her climax began to build, delicious threads of warmth spreading from her core through her stomach as his cock plunged inside her. She tried to hold herself back, her face crumpling with the effort not to cum. There would always be an end, and she could feel hers rushing toward her, like white lighting zipping through her body, but also something dark and inevitable lurking in her peripheral vision. Something she couldn't escape.
"Harley," J rasped in her ear, rough and urgent, almost pleading with her.
Harley screwed her eyes shut and clung to him, crying out when an orgasm swept over her like liquid sunlight, blinding in its intensity. She gave in to it, letting herself tumble through the heady ripples of sensation coursing through her body. It blanked out the creeping darkness so there was only the Joker, inside her and wrapped around her so she could almost believe they were permanently fused together.
The Joker, chaotic and terrifying and hers.
He was hers.
Clinging to him and gasping his name as he drove into her, Harley refused to let this end.
She refused.
A/N: This chapter gives me whiplash, but that's gonna happen when you have two stories cruising alongside each other... destined to collide.
Poor Helena. This chapter is fucking gut-wrenching for her. It seems obvious now, but didn't realize ho much i'd end up exploring grief as a theme brought her into this story. It's a theme that's ended up spreading to all the other characters in different ways. Super fun, right? Haha.
Then at the same time, you have Harley & J and co meeting Killer Moth, which is just so stupid and lol. But clearly, Harley knows the stupid lolz aren't going to last forever. Our girl's instincts are rarely wrong.
And hey, smut in chapter 4! That's a record for not blue balling you guys.
Next week: Dinah and Montoya do some off-the-books detective work. Lee is adorable. We finally meet the Sirens and Harley kicks the ever-living shit out of them. I really hope the readers they've been named for don't mind...
Please review (seriously, please) and as always, thank you for reading!