The Rabbit Hole
9.
Theme: Sexwitch - "Ha Howa Ha Howa"
Pam —
Pam ripped off Crane's scarecrow mask, her heart beating wildly as the cloud of fear toxin began to dissipate.
Harley was flat on her back, her chest heaving, eyes wide as she stared up at the museum's domed ceiling. The masked woman scrambled off her, panting unevenly as she took in her surroundings, hallucinating under the fear gas's influence. Then she looked up at the ceiling too, and whatever she saw there made her eyes round in horror as she let out an ear-piercing scream.
Pam dropped to her knees beside Harley, fumbling in her coat for one of the injector-pens of antidote she'd developed at Arkham. She bit off the cap and spat it away, then pressed the pen to Harley's neck before the fear toxin could fully sweep her away.
But instead of falling limp and docile like the inmates at Arkham, Harley threw back her head and let out a manic shriek of laughter that echoed around the room, competing with the masked woman's terrified cries.
"Harls!" Pam grabbed Harley's face as she started writhing on the floor. "Harley. Harley!"
Harley's eyes flew open, glazed and wild as she sobbed out another helpless peel of laughter that made the cords in her neck stand out.
Pam reared back, her heart sinking as she watched Harley cackle like a madwoman.
Now, now, sugar, the voice tutted. That kinda attitude isn't productive.
"But I—" Pam gasped, feeling helpless..
Stand her up, the voice coached. And leave.
Pam did as the voice instructed, hauling Harley to her feet—a difficult task when she was nearly in convulsions— and looping an arm around her waist before urging her down the corridor they'd come in through.
Behind them, the masked woman continued to scream and gasp. She was a loose end that needed tying up, but the voice was right—they needed to leave. It was dangerous to stay.
Pam rarely put herself in situations where physical danger was a probability, and the museum heist had seemed as low-probability as it could get. The idea was to spend quality time with Harley, and Pam hadn't anticipated some masked person showing up and nearly blowing Harley's head off.
That was a close call, old gal, the voice agreed.
Pam was lousy with a gun and even louiser with her fists, but her power was usually enough to keep her safe.
Unless her attacker was covered head to toe, with only their eyes visible. Skin to skin contact was essential for Pam to make the connection. And Harley had nearly been killed because of that irritating technicality.
How about ya finally solve that problem for us, huh, sugar? the voice suggested drily, making Pam's lips tremble in frustration as she staggered back to the deliveries entrance, grappling with Harley every step of the way.
The voice had been relentless since she got back from Moscow. Invading her dreams and whispering in her ear until she'd almost grown used to it, accepted it even. Then she'd realize she was talking to a voice in her head and anxiety would zip through her, and the voice would chuckle knowingly.
Ed was the only one who'd noticed — Pam was sure he'd noticed that day at the taco bar, and she'd become desperate to speak to him ever since. Unlike Harley, Ed wouldn't panic or judge her. But he hadn't answered his phone in days, and left all of her texts on read.
With Harley cackling wildly in her ear, Pam kicked the museum's back door open, sending it crashing into the wall. Outside, it had started snowing again, thick flurries obscuring the night sky. Harley shook Pam off and dove into the snowstorm, squealing as she spun in a circle with her arms flung out wide.
Pam stopped and stared after her, helplessness seeping through her as she remembered the masked woman pressing the barrel of her gun to Harley's chin—yanking her head up so she could look Harley in the eye before she killed her…
And Pam had been utterly useless, with only fucking fear toxin to protect them. She was useless.
Well then, solve the gosh-darn problem, Dr Isley, the voice snapped.
"Shut UP!" Pam hissed, prompting Harley to swing around, beaming like the sun.
"Pammy-cakes!" she whooped. She thre her head back and shrieked with laughter, sounding far too much like her fucking boyfriend for Pam's liking.
She grabbed Harley's elbow and dragged her to the chain link fence. Harley wiggled and shrieked like an uncooperative toddler as Pam bundled her beneath the cut-away section and marched her down the street, and by the time she'd wrestled her into the passenger seat of the Chevrolet, she was sweating despite the freezing weather, her knit cap sticking to her forehead, her heart pounding in her temples.
She slammed the car door on Harley and pressed her back against it, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Fuck," she whispered.
Don't worry, doll, the voice chuckled. You didn't break her.
"Then why is she acting like this!" Pam huffed, looking over her shoulder to see Harley overcome by another laughing fit, rocking back and forth so violently the car shuddered.
It'll wear off, the voice insisted. She's just a little… weird. Remember the night we met her? How hard it was to control her?
"Of course I fucking do!" Pam spat, making the voice chuckle again.
Relax, sugar. It'll wear off. I promise.
"You promise," Pam scoffed.
She pushed away from the car and circled to the driver's side, slamming her fist against the hood to release some of the tension building inside her.
You need to relax, the voice advised as Pam slid behind the wheel and started the car.
"Stop!" Pam pleaded, flustered. "I can't deal with you and her."
'You' is a funny concept, don't ya think? The voice observed wryly.
"I said STOP!" Pam bellowed, banging her hand on the steering wheel, making the horn honk, sharp and loud.
"Ooooh," Harley's face softened into a sloppy grin. "Poison Ivy's in a baaaaaad mood."
The voice whooped in delight.
Lordy, our pal Harley's an insightful little—
Pam closed her eyes tight against the voice, focusing on her hands where they curled around the steering wheel. She focused on the groove of the stitching, the snag of her gloves against the fake leather, the curve of her palms around the familiar shape of the wheel. This was reality. Here in front of her. The voice wasn't real but she was.
When she opened her eyes, she was alone with Harley in the car beside her. The voice was gone.
Harley kicked off into a tuneless, slightly psychotic rendition of "All I Want For Christmas" and Pam pulled the Chevrolet away from the curb, frazzled. As she turned north, putting distance between them and the museum, she could feel Talia calling for her. It was like a dark spot in her peripheral vision. She brushed it off with a brutal jerk of her shoulder, making the car swerve recklessly across the snowy road.
More than once, Pam had fantasized about serving Talia up to Harley. A little white lie was all it would take to get Harley worked up enough to hurt Talia in some of the dark, twisted ways Pam knew she was capable of.
This fantasy was still racing through her mind, soothing her, as they reached Robinson Park, and Pam realized she didn't know where to take Harley.
"Harls," she grabbed Harley's shoulder to get her attention. "Harley, where should I take you?"
"To the moon, Pammy!"
Pam pressed her lips together and glared out at the road ahead.
Harley flopped back into her seat. "Why d'you think Frost calls you that, huh? And Ed too. Pammy… Pammy? Pammy-Pammy-Pammy-Pa—"
"Give me your phone," Pam snapped.
"Oooooooh!" Harley taunted, but handed her phone over. "So testy."
"Unlock it," Pam ordered, holding the screen out to her. "Harls, unlock it and call J."
Harley blew a raspberry. "Make me."
Beneath her gloves, Pam felt her hands get hot, the old physical manifestation of her power rising to the surface, urging her to use it. She already knew what it wanted, what it thought was the practical thing to do, but Pam refused to use her power on Harley. Not again. Not ever.
"Harley," Pam snapped, more forcefully, and Harley sighed but swiped the phone screen with a flourish, unlocking it.
Pam held it to her ear, her nerves fraying as she anticipated the voice on the other end.
He would blame Pam for Harley's state of mind.
And he would be infuriatingly correct for a change.
The Joker answered in a honeyed purr that made Pam want to vomit.
"Well, hello there, Puddin'. And uh—"
"It's me, J," Pam cut him off, nose wrinkling. "I'm bringing her home. I need directions."
There was a prolonged pause before he smacked his lips.
"Why don't you uh, put her on the phone, huh, Red?" His voice was thick with knowing disdain.
"She's a little… out of it," Pam explained uneasily. "I'll drop her off."
"Out-of-it," the Joker enunciated each consonant with a threatening snap of his tongue. "Whaddya mean by that, Red?"
"I mean she got hit with some fear toxin and she's acting drunk," Pam snapped. "Now where do you want me to drop her off?"
He released a low, threatening sound that made the hairs at the back of Pam's neck stand on end. She bared her teeth in a scowl, hating the unease he inspired in her.
"J?" she demanded irritably.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, making the phone fuzz, fucking with her. So she called him a few choice names until he finally barked an address and hung up on her.
Pam spun the Chevy toward the north-east side of the park, toward an older, more affluent neighbourhood populated by diplomats and old money. She could still feel Talia clawing for her attention, like an irritating pest niggling into the soft tissue at the back of her brain. She threw her head to the side to shake her off, hoping wherever Talia was, she went flying across the room.
The address was for an old, pre-war townhouse that looked run down and uncared for, the grass in the triangular front yard overgrown and weedy. Even the lamppost on the corner was out as if this particular street had been abandoned by the city.
Pam screeched to a stop at the curb and jumped out to help Harley.
"Pammy," she slurred happily. "It was a good heist, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," Pam agreed stiffly. "It was a good heist."
"Remember the grenade? Do you remember it, Pammy?"
"Yeah, I remember the grenade, Harls." Pam sighed, helping her up the brownstone's steep front stoop.
"I thought it was a real one! Did you know I thought it was a real one when I pulled the pin?"
Before Pam could reply, the house's front door banged open and the Joker appeared in the darkened doorway. He was wearing a lilac shirt, untucked and half-buttoned, revealing the tawny skin of his chest, and violet trousers with his suspenders hanging past his hips.
Pam had seen him without his warpaint enough times to not be shocked by the man beneath, and in any case he wasn't as surprisingly young as he used to be. The lines around his eyes and mouth grew longer and deeper every year, and when he didn't shave or sleep for a few days, he looked haggard. But at the moment he was clean-shaven and well rested, his hair sandy instead of green, and tied back neatly.
Prick.
She scowled as he took a drag off an e-cigarette.
"A little help, dickhead?"
His face remained dark and suspicious as he took two steps down and grabbed Harley by the elbow, yanking her up the rest of the way.
Harley didn't seem to notice or care that he treated her like a rag doll. She threw herself into his arms, rubbing her nose against his scarred cheek, purring like a contented kitten.
Pam's stomach turned as she and the Joker continued to glare at each other.
She would never understand this relationship.
That's because you're sane, sweetheart, the voice piped up.
"This ain't fuckin' fear toxin, Red," the Joker barked, his eyes cold, judgemental as he laid a steadying hand on Harley's back.
"I gave her the antidote," Pam snapped back.
"She didn't need it," he sneered.
Harley cupped his mutilated cheek, forcing him to look at her. Nothing in his gaze softened as Harley touched him more tenderly than he could possibly appreciate.
"Don't be mad, Jack," she said, softly but loud enough for Pam to hear it.
Pam's eyes widened. She stared at the Joker — Jack —no, he was the Joker. He didn't have a name like some kind of normal person with parents and feelings and—
Everyone's got a name, honey, the voice pointed out. Even the villains. Even me…
Pam took a step back, half-expecting him to throw Harley down the stairs for spilling his secret.
But he just shot Pam another dark, unreadable look and looped a ropy arm around Harley to haul her off her feet. Then he stepped back into the townhouse without another word, and slammed the door shut behind them.
Pam remained where she stood, stunned. Talia's incessant calling for her attention wasn't helping, and before she realized what she was doing, she'dy balled her hand into a fist and punched herself in the side of the head.
Pain exploded across her temple, her vision blackening as she gasped in surprise and lost her footing, nearly crashing down the townhouse steps.
She needed to lay down. She needed quiet. She needed solitude.
She needed Talia to shut the fuck up.
Pam staggered down the steps to the car and dove behind the wheel, slamming the keys into the ignition. The engine flooded as she laid her foot down on the gas and whipped the car into a U-turn, her thoughts a confused jumble of her own mind and the voice.
Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck.
Go left here, honey, you're driving like Mr Toad and there's always cops on Broadway.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Pam couldn't have said how she managed to get to the Diamond District alive, but soon enough she was speeding through the front gate of Miranda Tate's palatial townhouse. She screeched to a stop in the gravel driveway, and leapt out of the car, desperate to make Talia shut the hell up so she could get some peace and quiet.
She ripped off her gloves as she stormed up the steps and into the house, rage directly solely at Talia boiling in her veins.
She would shut Talia up permanently if she had to.
You're such a firecracker, the voice observed, amused. I love that about us.
Talia was waiting in the foyer when Pam burst over the threshold, her hand outstretched.
But before she could deliver an instruction — for Talia to slam her head against the wall, to throw herself down the stairs, to bite off her own tongue — a horrified scream down the hall made Pam freeze where she stood.
She blinked hard, struggling to accept what she was hearing. The scream petered out into frantic gasping as Talia closed the front door, saying something Pam didn't hear. Her attention was on the breathless, terrified sounds coming from the sitting room. She braced herself, then cautiously started down the hallway toward them.
The sitting room was decorated in pale grays and creams, the carpet plush and the paneled walls glossy. The light fixtures were all crystal, and a delicate silver coffee table sat between a pair of couches upholstered in dove-gray velvet.
And laying across one of those couches was none other than Miranda Tate's personal assistant, Helena Bertinelli.
Pam stared at Ms Bertinelli incredulously, numb with shock. She was wearing the same black, athletic clothes as the masked woman from the museum. Her face mask was gone now, and her hood had fallen back, revealing a lovely face and a long dark braid. Her eyes were glazed, and as she shuddered and cried out, it was all too clear she was under the influence of Crane's toxin.
Helena Bertinelli was the masked woman who'd nearly killed Harley.
Numbness gave way to anger, which swiftly boiled into a seething rage that crackled hot in Pam's fingertips. Her eyes narrowed to slits as she started forward, her hand outstretched, ready to teach Ms Bertinelli a lesson she wouldn't soon forget.
Wait, the voice ordered, sharp and no longer playful.
Pam stopped abruptly, her legs stiffening before she could take another step. Her heart leapt as she realized she hadn't decided to stop.
She swung sideways to stare at Talia, trying in vain to ignore the fluttering creep of panic spreading through her like a disease.
"What is the assistant doing here?" she hissed.
"You sent me to find her," Talia eyed Pam curiously. "Don't you remember, Mother... you said to bring her home."
Pam's eyes darted around Talia's face, goosebumps rising on her arms as she realized she wasn't the one who had sent Talia to find the masked woman but…
Oh, stop it, honey, the voice chuckled. You had your hands full with Harley and we had a mess to clean up at the museum. It just turned out to be a more interesting mess than we expected.
Pam's hands begin to tremble, her breath coming faster as the fluttering panic intensified, making it hard to think, to understand what was happening, to accept it.
The voice was commanding Talia without her consent.
Without her even realizing it.
Now don't be silly, sugar, the voice tisked. Let's give Ms Bertinelli the antidote and send her home. She's had a rough night. Look at the poor thing.
"She tried to kill Harley!" Pam bellowed.
But she could feel the panic start to fade, taking her anger away with it, like it was being siphoned out of her by an external force.
"She's dating Dinah!" Pam insisted. "She lives with Black Canary…."
This is an opportunity, the voice replied patiently. We could really make something of this, duckie.
Pam closed her eyes, her heartbeat slowing to a steady thump. She could see it—an opportunity. It was laid out before her in Helena Bertinelli, secret vigilante, unwittingly connected to Bruce Wayne via the woman she loved.
Helena Bertinelli could be useful if they played their cards right.
The tension began to leave her body, calm sweeping over her like a loving drug as she accepted that the voice was right.
The voice was the power.
The voice was her.
They were one and the same.
Pam fished out the second injector pen of antidote from her jacket and dropped into a squat beside Helena, examining her face. This was a face she would know well. Not yet, but soon…
She pressed the pen against Helena's neck, and her body immediately went limp, the fight against the fear toxin leaving her as she fell into a deep sleep.
Pam watched her sleep. She could still feel her resentment for this masked woman, this girl who almost killed Harley. It cut through the imposing calm, strong and sharp and real even if the power didn't share it. Her hands curled into fists as she focused on that resentment, a life preserver to drag her out of the mire where she wouldn't lose herself entirely
Like I said, honey, the voice chuckled good-naturedly. 'You' is a fascinating concept.
"STOP!" Pam howled in frustration. "Just stop it!"
She sat back on her heels and buried her face in her hands, breathing hard.
She expected the voice to reply, for the calm to sweep back in, but there was silence instead.
Pam lifted her head, letting the silence wash over her like a warm wave, and she nearly sighed in relief.
Then the buzzing started.
Muted voices whispering to her.
The fluttering panic returned in an instant, curling around her heart and rippling across her scalp, threatening to swallow her whole as the voices—hundreds and hundreds of voices—began to speak louder and louder.
Pam let out a sob of despair, throwing her hands over her ears.
Because she already knew what was coming next.
The Joker —
Harley didn't get drunk often, but when she did she got surly and mean. When her inhibitions were low she let the shit fly, even more cruel and cutting than she usually was. Or at least that was the Joker's experience. Maybe he just brought it out in her. But despite what Red claimed, this wasn't 'acting drunk' in his book.
The walls shook as he slammed the door in Red's face—she hadn't been looking so good, either—and readjusted his grip on Harley, who was clinging to his face with both hands, her smile dreamy.
"I missed you, J," she slurred with a lazy smirk. "I always miss you. D'ya know that? It's like—"
"Alright, alright," he cut her off impatiently.
He batted her hands away so he could get a better grip on her. She was like a limp noodle in his arms, weak and stupid as he dragged her down the hall, toward the dusty, gilded reception room where she'd viciously ordered him to get on his knees and beg just days before.
"J, J," she complained, staggering after him. "Jaaaaaack."
Her voice grew whiny and childish, and it made the Joker's skin crawl when she said his name like that. He knew she didn't think of him as Jack, that it was more like an old nickname compared to the moniker he'd been known by for well over a decade. Jack was something personal, something intimate just between them, something she called him when she was emotional or euphoric or, ya know, terrified he was gonna die.
Was he angry she blurted it out in front of Red?—nah.
Irritated?—you betcha, but not just because of the name thing.
Because this kooky bullshit wasn't her.
He let go of her waist in favor of taking her firmly by both arms and slamming her up against the wall, shaking some dust and plaster loose from the ceiling.
Her bottom lip popped out in a moody whine.
"Stop," he barked, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look him in the eye.
He held her there, with his hands and with his gaze, staring her down. She wiggled and huffed unhappily, but soon she settled in to stare back at him. Slowly, her eyes narrowed to a steely glare and her mouth shifted into a more familiar scowl, her shoulders squaring against the wall.
"Now isn't that better," he sneered, and thank fucking God, her lip curled in response as she tried to slap him away.
"Lemme go," she slurred, but he held onto her, searching her face as he tried to work out what was going on in that big weird brain.
Fear toxin had little effect on her—she didn't scare easy, so she could shake it off. But it still left her off kilter and woozy—"like coming down from mushrooms", she'd admitted quietly, that morning after they took out Black Mask. The Joker understood. He'd had a similar experience with Crane's laughing gas.
Who knew what part of her brain this antidote was tingling now. Neurology wasn't the Joker's area of expertise, but he was a firm believer that you could shake anything off with a little will-power.
So he was pleased to see her do just that—take a few deep breaths and shake it off like the champ she was.
He was so pleased, in fact, that when he let her go and she started sliding down the wall, head bobbing, blinking hard, he magnanimously caught her. He picked her up bridal style and she looped an arm around his neck, rubbing her forehead and wincing as he carried her into the sitting room.
J could have thrown her down on the couch, just to make a point, but he could tell she had something to say. So he turned and flopped down himself, still holding her against his chest. He kept an arm around her back to steady her as she straightened up and looked him in the eye uneasily, still not quite sober.
"Shit," she sighed.
"Mmm," the Joker agreed, widening his eyes. "I take it the uh, girls-night didn't go as planned."
She ground the heel of her hand into her eye then looked at his shoulder.
"Someone came to kill me," she explained quietly.
"People are always tryna kill you," he pointed out.
"No," she shook her head. "No, J, she was wearing a fucking mask and she almost..."
She shot him a loaded look, and he could infer the rest. And they almost finished the job.
His hands slid up her legs, his fingers digging into the black velvet of her jumpsuit while he waited for her to continue.
"It wasn't an assassin," she announced. "That was vigilante bullshit."
The Joker didn't say anything. She looked off to the side, thinking hard, thinking thoughts he couldn't read because they were hazy and disjointed and not written across her face the way they normally were, at least for him. But he saw her jaw tense and he felt her hands ball into fists at his shoulders, and he knew she was feeling all kinds of things.
"Maybe it was Dinah," she eventually scowled. "Maybe she finally grew some balls."
The Joker's eyebrows raised.
It has been over six years since Harley's little girl-gang disbanded. Five since Black Canary disappeared, and probably four and some change since Harley finally got around to telling him what happened with her former henchgirl the night of the Janus Plant fire, when she'd learned Black Canary and Dinah Drake were one in the same.
And Harley hadn't spoken a word about her little gal pal in all the time since.
The Joker remembered seeing the little bird unmasked, just once, trailing after Harley mid-murder spree.
Oh, Ms Canary had blood on her hands, and she knew it. The Joker would bet anything her running to the Batman had been that little bird's naive attempt to make amends for aiding and abetting the evil Harley Quinn.
Harley went back to thinking all her big, complex thoughts while the Joker squinted at her, trying to read her when something occurred to him.
"Maybe," he tucked an errant strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear. "Maybe you'd like that little bird to try and kill you, huh?"
"Don't call her that," Harley snapped, slapping his hand away, making the Joker's eyes narrow. "Roman called her that.".
Her face soured and she lifted her chin.
"Who is the Batman little bird…" she growled, doing an impression of Roman that was pretty on the nose. "I asked you a question, little bird,"
Her sneer faded, and her eyes grew distant, distracted.
The Joker tongued the scars inside his cheek, unsure what to make of all this. She'd hardly told him more than the facts about her dealings with Black Canary, never going into her feelings. That was more Red's territory. But it wasn't surprising. For all her cold-blooded ruthlessness, Harley had a deep well of feelings, far more than the Joker knew himself to be capable of, though she'd pulled more out of him than he'd thought possible.
"It wasn't her. The woman tonight was tall with dark eyes," Harley continued sullenly. "Besides, why the fuck would Dinah come back to Gotham, huh? Why would she come back to me?"
"Probably to kill ya," J pointed out blithely.
But Harley waved this idea off. "She's too good for that."
"Maybe she's the one selling the Batman out," He raised an eyebrow. "Scrappy little gal like that, tight on cash."
"No," Harley laughed bitterly, her face darkening. "No."
She stared hard at something — or nothing — over J's shoulder, her face twitching in a weird way he didn't recognise, and he got the distinct impression that her mind was far, far away, only vaguely aware of his presence.
And he didn't love that.
"Roman cut her open but she didn't talk," Harley croaked, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. "She didn't squeal on the Bat— just on me."
The Joker was alarmed to see her eyes grow glassy, and the next thing he knew there was a tear rolling down her cheek, something he'd never seen in all the years they'd been together. He'd seen huge explosions of feeling — sobbing and screaming in moments of heightened emotions like, oh, him almost dying. Yet here she was, shedding a lone tear for her little pal who'd turned around and betrayed her.
"I protected her," Harley huffed tearfully, making the Joker's eyes widen. "I protected her, but that wasn't enough for her."
Before J could even think about how to respond to that, Harley's eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed forward, head-butting him square in the face before going limp in his arms.
He cleared his throat and waited a beat, then gave her shoulders a hard shake to wake her, but she just started snoring aggressively into his neck. He let his head fall back against the couch, his tongue snaking over his bottom lip as he let out an annoyed sigh. Then he gathered her up in his arms, and carried her to bed.
Dinah —
Dinah was exhilarated —sleep-deprived, wired, and jittery but exhilarated.
The night before, She'd met Montoya at Tetch's hideout with the SWAT team nearby. Several very long hours of waiting followed, but Dinah didn't find stake-outs as demoralizing as she once did. Especially not after one finally paid off—Tetch showed up and they got him.
There was a car chase — Dinah was in charge of the radio while Montoya did the driving, like a bat out of hell or Cruella deVille or whatever metaphor you wanted to use. She was magnificent. The SWAT team was magnificent. Tetch took a bad turn with Montoya on his ass and he crashed into a lamppost and they got him —iD'd him, handcuffed him, threw him in the cruiser, then in lockup at the MCU where he'd be held for forty-eight hours while the DA decided if he'd be better suited to Blackgate or Arkham.
Tetch was a nasty looking man, exactly what you'd expect on the outside from someone so evil on the inside. Sickness and rot, milky eyes, sharp teeth, thinning yellow hair and a voice that would curdle milk.
But he would never hurt a child again.
This was what it felt like to stop a bad guy.
Dinah was proud. She was exhausted and exhilarated. She was ecstatic. But also really, really tired.
She tried calling Helena to tell her the good news but didn't get an answer. Figuring she was already at the gym for her morning workout, Dinah grabbed a few hours sleep on Montoya's couch instead of going all the way back uptown. When she woke, Montoya slyly informed her that they were both wanted for a press conference at City Hall. They would stand behind the Mayor and the DA while Commissioner Grogan announced to the media that the Mad Hatter was behind bears.
Still thoroughly sleep-deprived, Dinah raced uptown to change out of her slept-in suit into her blues, so caught up in the glory of catching the pedohile who'd been plaguing Gotham that she didn't notice Helena hadn't replied to a single text or missed call.
It was coming up to noon when she burst into the loft, expecting to find it empty.
But it wasn't. All the lights were on. An unknown pair of pumps sat on the floor beside the door, and an expensive black wool cloak hung from the hook beside Dinah's police parka and Helena's winter coat. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the counter beside a bowl of exotic fruit and a cooler with a high-end catering company's logo on the side. And the scent of jasmine-perfume hung heavy in the air.
Dinah hardly had a moment to compile the evidence when Miranda appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, solemn-faced and clutching a cashmere shawl tight around her shoulders.
"Oh," she offered a pinched smile. "There you are."
"Miranda," Dinah greeted her warily. "What are you doing here?"
Miranda eyed her curiously. "I think it's best you come see for yourself."
She turned back into the bedroom, and Dinah stared after her, disliking how she'd made herself at home. She speed walked across the living room to join her, leaving her coat on, her exhaustion momentarily at bay as her attention turned to Miranda and her decidedly suspicious behavior.
But that instinct evaporated as quickly as her exhilaration when she walked into the bedroom and found Helena, pale and sweaty, and unconscious in bed with a bruise on her temple.
Dinah's entire world zeroed in on Helena, like a camera closing in. Her stomach started doing terrified flip-flops as she watched Miranda perch on the bed and dab Helena's forehead with a cold cloth.
"What," Dinah faltered as guilt hit her like a brick to the side of the head, shocking her. "What happened?"
Her feet propelled her forward, and she would have sat where Miranda sat beside Helena, but she stood at the foot of the bed instead, feeling painfully far away.
"She called me last night," Miranda explained, glancing at Dinah. "I think she turned to me when she couldn't get through to you."
Dinah's hand impulsively went to her phone in the pocket of her coat.
"I didn't get a missed call," she said.
MIranda shrugged mildly, shooting Dinah another haughty look before she turned back to Helena.
"She had a bad fever and was hallucinating," she explained, her breathy voice full of compassion and care. "The doctor came and gave her a sedative. He said she may have had an infection. But it's passed now."
"An infection?" Dinah croaked, bewildered.
Helena was so pale she could have been dead if not for the steady rise and fall of her chest. Bruise-like semi-circles had formed beneath the dark fan of her eyelashes. A real bruise mottled her left temple, creeping out from her hairline.
"What happened to her head?" Dinah demanded.
Miranda set the washcloth in the bowl on the bedside table and stood up abruptly.
"She fell," she turned to face Dinah squarely. "That was how I found her. On the floor."
Dinah wasn't sure if she'd ever noticed how cold Miranda's eyes were before. They were wide and round and pretty like a doll's, a rich chocolate brown, all the qualities that would normally qualify as 'warm'. But there was no warmth in her eyes. Perhaps they only lacked warmth for Dinah, but her instincts said otherwise. There was something vacant about Miranda Tate's eyes..
Deja vu washed over Dinah, but she couldn't place its origin.
"But you're here now," Miranda continued, offering DInah a simpering smile as she stepped away from the bed. "I'm sure you can look after Helena... can't you?"
Dinah nodded quickly, shame sweeping over her like a crashing wave. Shame that she hadn't been there when Helena needed her. Shame that instead of staying home with Helena, she'd gone to work. Gone to find glory. That was all that exhilaration was, wasn't it? Basking in the glory?
"I'll see you soon, Dinah," Miranda promised in a brerathy purr, her cold eyes flashing before she breezed out of the room.
Dinah turned to stare down at Helena, not sure what she could do for her. She supposed being there when she woke up would have to be good enough.
She lowered herself to the bed, her eyes trained on Helena's pale face, and her heart broke for her; that she was in pain, that she was grieving, and that she was sick now too. And Dinah hadn't been there for any of it in the way she was supposed to be.
She pulled her phone from her pocket as she listened to MIranda let herself out, and she texted Montoya to let her know she wouldn't be able to make it to the press conference.
As her thumbs moved over the screen, she wondered how Miranda got into the apartment without keys, but brushed that question off. She had been there to help when Dinah hadn't, and that was what mattered.
Harley —
Harley's brain felt soggy, waterlogged and heavy like she'd been held underwater for too long. Her ribs hurt, and her chest really hurt, and her left hip hurt, and her cheek hurt, and her shoulders were aching like they were straining — like she was dangling from her wrists in a dark basement again.
Her pulse leaped as her eyes snapped open, and she discovered her face was buried in something soft and warm. She turned her head to the side, and her soggy brain schlepped against the inside of her skull as she sucked in a deep breath and looked around, trying to orientate herself.
She wasn't hanging — she was laying on her stomach in bed at the old townhouse uptown.
Laying there naked with her arms tied above her head to one of the canopy bed's four ornate bed posts.
"Well, well. Look who's finally up."
The Joker's nasal drawl drew her attention over her shoulder. With her wrists bound to the bedpost, she used them for leverage to wiggle up to her elbows, then rested her forehead against the carved mahogany, collecting herself before looking at the Joker.
He was lounging in an overstuffed armchair like a big lazy cat, shirtless and barefoot, and wearing purple trousers. He looked tired, but still better rested than he usually did.
Harley squinted at him curiously, trying to remember how she got there.
She remembered the museum.
Oh, shit, she remembered the masked woman.
Oh, fuck, she remembeered being on her back, the gun in her face, the dark, heavy-lashed eyes glaring at her as she begged… and then… nothing.
"What," she rasped, her throat dry and scratchy. "What happened?"
Instead of answering her question, the Joker hunkered forward and braced his elbows on his knees, fixing her with a penetrating look, the kind that was usually accompanied by a profound observation that made her question her perception of the world.
"Did you know," he cocked his head to the side. "That you snore."
"What?" Harley croaked, bewildered. She tugged on her restraints fruitlessly, and realized she was bound with a pair of her own tights. "Why the fuck am I tied to the bed?" She demanded, glaring at J. "What happened last night? How did I get back here? How—"
Then a memory swam to the surface of her soggy brain. The museum's domed ceiling, high above her. Hard, cold marble under her back. The room vibrating around her, reality shaking loose as a hallucination crept into her peripheral vision then shrank back again as she determinedly fought it off.
Crane's fear toxin. Pam used it to stop the masked woman from blowing her head off.
"Ohhhh, questions, questions," the Joker sat back and steepled his fingers. "Ya see, I had a uh, revelation last night. The way to get you to stop snoring is to roll ya onto your stomach." He made a rolling motion with his hands then gestured to the nylons tethering her to the bedpost. "And keep ya there."
"Did I tell you what happened?" she demanded.
He sighed and rolled his eyes like her questions were a terrible inconvenience.
"Turns out whatever antidote Red cooked up for Crane's spooky-gas makes you go loopy," he raked a flop of sandy hair off his forehead. "She dropped ya off."
Harley frowned at him. "Did I tell you what almost happened?"
"You mean about your close call?" He shrugged impassively, making Harley's eyes narrow.
"It was a really close call," she snapped, wiggling around to get more comfortable and smacking her cheek against the bedpost in the process. "Ah—fuck—I got the shit beaten out of me and I feel like—"
"Oh. Let's talk about feelings, huh?" the Joker jumped in gleefully. "Do you know what it's like to be dead tired… but you can't sleep because there's a goddamn chainsaw laying in bed beside ya? Huh?"
"I don't snore," Harley scowled.
The Joker gave a sharp back of laughter. "Oh, yes, ya do, Puddin'. I promise."
"I almost got my head blown off last night," Harley spat. "And you're worried about me snoring?"
"Oh, you almost," he shot her a knowing look. "How many times have we almost, huh? How many? And look at ya, you're fine."
Harley ground her teeth. He had a point, but that bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, the one she couldn't shake, was rapidly growing, evolving into dread. She had had close calls before. This was different. Every instinct she possessed told her this time was different.
She narrowed her eyes to an annoyed squint. "Untie me."
"Nah," the Joker rose to his feet, a rakish grin spreading across his face—the kind Harley sometimes found charming and sometimes made her want to kill him .
He dropped into a squat beside the bed so he was eye level with her, raising his eyebrows expectantly, his way of giving her an opening to talk, and Harley's irritation dissipated a fraction.
"I didn't just almost get shot," she said quietly. "Last night was different."
"Oh was it?" He drawled, unpersuaded.
"Yes," Harley pressed.
"Hmm," he cocked his head to the side, staring at her. "But you're alive, aren't ya?"
"For now," Harley shot back.
"Ah, for now," the Joker hummed, his eyes roving over her face. "It's only ever For Now, puddin'."
He was right. For now was all anyone had. But Harley was too close to seeing her number come up to find any solace in this universal fact. She closed her eyes and took a breath, willing away the bad feeling, the sense of dread.
Her eyes opened when the Joker traced a line from her elbow where it was planted on the bed up to her bare shoulder and then down the line of her shoulder blade, his eyes following the path of his hand before he looked at her face.
Harley was suddenly very aware of her nudity, her skin flushing.
She narrowed her eyes at him.
"I don't snore."
"Oh, you do," the Joker gestured to the tights tying her to the bed. "This really was a last resort."
Harley rolled her eyes, giving up on being annoyed.
"Fear toxin makes my brain feel like it's been through a meat grinder," she grumbled
"Mmm, you're all banged up," he agreed, his fingers drifting down her spine, his touch making her feel lighter, distracting her.
For now.
Harley glanced at him sideways, a reluctant smile fighting its way onto her lips.
"Mmm-hmm," he smirked back at her, his hand splaying out at the small of her back. "Ya know, you said some interesting things last night."
"Like what?"
"Oh, nothin… important," his palm skated over the curve of her ass, making her knees pinch together. "You're just always surprising me."
Harley looked up at him from under her eyelashes, suddenly feeling coy. "You never surprise me."
He teased the seam of her thighs with his fingertips and Harley struggled not to squirm.
"Oh, really?"
He spanked her then, hard enough to make her yelp. She arched her back, her elbows digging into the mattress as she laced her fingers together around the bedpost, blood rushing between her legs and to her cheeks.
The Joker's hand ghosted over the backs of her legs, deceptively light, and Harley closed her eyes, anticipation of being touched making her dizzy.
He leaned in to growl in her ear. "Why dontcha spread your legs for daddy like a good girl, hmm?"
His voice alone sent ripples of desire through Harley's body, and she used her grip on the bedpost to pull herself onto her knees, spreading her legs for him. She pressed her face into the bedding, sighing softly when he touched her, existing in For Now with him as he teased her body to life.
She released a heavy breath when he stood and moved behind her, the bed shifting under his weight as he settled in. His zipper lowered and she heard him spit in his hand, and she realized he was stroking himself as he looked at her.
His hand snuck between her legs from behind, tracing a fingertip over her before pushing inside her slick warmth, making her moan quietly, and then louder again when he pushed in deeper. He added a second finger and scissored them until she was shaking with pleasure, her feet flexing as a tremulous sound escaped her throat.
"You like that, huh?" He breathed, stroking himself while he worked on her.
"Yes," she gasped, and he picked up the pace, his fingers plunging and curling, making her wetter as warmth flooded her abdomen.
"Does it make you feel… alive?" He growled.
"Yes," she groaned, gripping the bedpost as she bobbed her hips back against his hand.
He inhaled sharply and a split second later Harley felt the hot spurt of him coming on the back of her thigh as he finished himself off, breathing noisily. Then she felt him move again, and the next thing she knew he was forcing her legs further apart, her knees nearly sliding out from under her when she felt his mouth on her, licking her and sliding his tongue inside her. She moaned at the sensation, languid warmth coiling in her lower abdomen, her core aching with pleasure.
It was decadent and slippery, and Harley came twice that way before the Joker let her go. She collapsed on her stomach, throbbing and warm as she tried to catch her breath. The tights tying her to the bedpost had stretched out, allowing her to roll onto her side and cross them over her head. She felt dazed, her eyes heavy as she watched the Joker kick off his pants and climb onto the bed, his cock rock hard and standing up.
He caught her eye as he stroked himself, and Harley's heart started to pound, her cheeks getting hot with nervous excitement as if it was the first time. Laying on her side with her hands bound above her head, she tucked her knees up as he grabbed her hip. He held her in place as he angled himself against her soaking slit, then slid all the way inside in a long glide, until hips were pressed flush against her, filling her completely.
Harley cried out breathlessly, her body squeezing and releasing his cock in a helpless flutter, desperate for friction. He held her down, his breath low and heavy as he made her wait, and when he finally started to fuck her, her whole body lit up in a racing blaze that pulsed through her veins.
She groaned as she felt another orgasm start to bloom at her core, so intense she trembled under its slow, steady build. An aching warmth spread down her thighs and up her torso to her throat, making her gasp and shudder as her climax expanded and then exploded like a dying star, head-spinning ecstasy flooding her brain and racing down her limbs.
The Joker growled something encouraging as she cried out and arched against her restraints, cresting on a wave as her body pulsed around him. She was still spinning through it when he grabbed her knee and opened her legs wide, rolling her onto her back so her arms tangled together over her head. Harley's chest was heaving, the strain in her arms a distant sensation as he held her knees apart and pushed his cock inside her again.
She thrust up to take him deeper, her mind a euphoric haze as he drove into her, over stimulating her crackling nerve endings until her knees trembling in his hands. She could feel it everywhere, in her belly and her breasts, her scalp and the base of her spine. She begged him not to stop, and he was relentless, growling breathless demands mixed with rough pleading, like he couldn't decide which he wanted more— to beg her or to ruin her.
Then he hauled one of her ankles over his shoulder and let her other leg fall limp on the bed, his hair in his eyes and as his thrusts became sharper. He was saying her name and she was singing his back, and he pitched forward over her, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit while his fingers splayed out against her abdomen, and Harley came unexpectedly hard with a surprised shout that rattled around the room, dragging him over the edge with her.
Her head fell back as she panted hard. She'd pulled the tights loose enough to uncross her arms at some point. She looked at the Joker, who was still on his knees in front of her, hanging onto her leg like he needed it to keep him upright, his shoulders rising and falling sharply. He lifted his head to look at her, and something intense and unspoken passed between them as they caught their breath. Then Harley cracked a smile, because he was clinging to her leg with both arms, like he was hugging a tree. He chuckled back at her, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip as he let her go and fell forward onto his hands, pulling himself up beside her, and collapsing on his side, spent.
"Untie me," Harley croaked, snorting when he looked at her like she was asking too much from him.
He pulled himself up again, and grabbed the tights, ripping them in half with his hands, making the muscles in his arms ripple before he fell back beside her again.
Harley sighed as her heart began to slow, rubbing the feeling back into her arms and wiggling her legs, and at some stage the Joker pulled himself up to grab his e-cigarette off the bedside table and sat up against the headboard to smoke. Harley closed her eyes, happy and exhausted, only opening them when he touched her hair—not stroking it so much as feeling it. Rubbing the soft blonde strands between his fingers like he wanted to remember it.
They stayed like that, in silence for a little while, just enjoying the quiet and each other's company, which was something Harley would have never thought them capable of until it happened, and then happened again and again. That was how it always was with them. She couldn't imagine being with him until she was. She couldn't imagine discussing her feelings with him until she did. She couldn't imagine six long years at his side, his partner and his confidant, and yet here she was.
Eventually she propped herself up on her elbow to look at him.
"Do I really snore?"
"Yep," he flashed her a grin. "And sometimes I really wanna strangle you for it."
Harley smiled sweetly at him. "I appreciate you for not doing that."
He shrugged like it was the least he could do.
His eyes drifted from her face down to her chest, and Harley looked down to see a splotchy blue bruise had formed over her heart.
She thought about the gun against her jaw as the masked woman stared down at her, with dark eyes like two angry black ferns.
"She really gotcha, huh?" the Joker observed, and Harley knew he didn't just mean the bruise.
"She did like a —" Harley thrust out the heel of her hand. "Like a Kung Fu punch. It knocked me off my feet."
"Mm," the Joker exhaled a plume of water vapour. "Sounds like Bullock's Bad Bat Lady."
"Yeah," Harley agreed sullenly. "She was fast. Well-trained. And she looked at me like— " She glanced at the Joker uneasily, and he raised his eyebrows. "Like she fucking hates me."
"Eh," he shrugged one shoulder impassively. "Some people in the uh, business find tapping into their anger makes em' better at the job."
Harley frowned, unconvinced. "Do you really think the Bad Bat Lady could be an assassin? Not a vigilante?"
"What's the difference if she's executing people?" He shot her a pointed look.
"Getting paid," Harley shrugged, and the Joker nodded solemnly.
"If she's not getting paid she's just a killer like anyone else," he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Even if she thinks she's a hero."
"Heros are supposed to give people hope," Harley said, remembering Walker's words. She made a face. "I don't know, killing me and mobsters is probably heroic in most people's books."
"Most people," the Joker rolled his eyes, and Harley had to agree. "First things first," he took a drag off the e-cigarette. "We find out who's paying her—if she's getting paid."
"We should talk to the Turk again," Harley mused. "Lucy said she's got Turkish assassins who aren't playing by the rules—killing members of the Commission and coming after me fills that quota."
"Mmm," the Joker agreed throatily.
"And if she's not getting paid?" Harley looked up at him warily. "If the Bad Bat Lady thinks she's a hero?"
"Well, that's when we get to have some fun," the Joker waggled his eyebrows suggestively, making her laugh.
It was still afternoon, and the sun wouldn't set for a few more hours. They would talk to the Turk then, but for now Harley climbed into the Joker's lap and kissed him, wanting to make the most of the time they had left together.
Helena —
At first, Helena couldn't tell if she was dreaming or awake. Light crept into her field of vision, fuzzy and not completely real. Her brain felt heavy, like her head was full of wet towels, or like she'd been deep sea-diving and came up too fast. All she could hear was a soft but shrill ringing, prompting her to reach up with a shaky hand to touch one of her ears. Pain made her gasp and flinch when she felt how sore it was.
"Helena!" DInah's voice cut through the ringing, frantic and afraid, not like Dinah at all. "Helena?"
Helena reached out to find her, and Dinah's hand clamped down around hers, squeezing her knuckles tight. They were sore too.
"How do you feel?"
"Mmph," Helena gestured to her face vaguely, struggling to open her eyes. "My head,"
"Miranda said you fell," Dinah said softly. "Do you remember what happened?"
Helena didn't remember falling, and the ringing in her ears grew louder as her sluggish brain began plucking the memories out, one by one. Oracle's messages. The museum. The grenade. The fight. And then a voice gasping, "Wait—!"
And then the nightmares—vicious black shapes peeling away from the museum's domed ceiling, swooping down toward her. Shadows intent on ripping out her soul and dragging her down to hell. Over and over in a loop until they stopped abruptly.
And then nothing.
Helena balled her hands into frustrated fists, including the one currently trapped in Dinah's vice-like grip.
"Helena?"
She forced her eyes open, finding Dinah sitting beside her, cross-legged, and anxious. They were in their bed at home, and Helena had no idea how she got there. A nervous flutter settled in her chest, like the frantic beat of a hummingbird's wings.
Had she been caught? Did Dinah know?
"What happened?" she croaked.
"Miranda said you had a fever," Dinah explained gently. "That you were hallucinating. You may have had an infection." she hesitated. "The doctor came and gave you a sedative."
Helena stared at her, utterly bewildered.
"Miranda was here?"
"I'm so sorry I wasn't home with you," Dinah's face crumpled and tears began to glitter in her eyes. Her mascara was smeared like she'd already cried. "I'm so sorry, Helena. I haven't been here at all. Miranda said you called her after you couldn't get through to me. I'm just — I don't want —I can't—"
"No, no, it's okay," Helena insisted, trying to keep up, to understand.
Somehow she got home and called Miranda? That seemed… far-fetched. And yet it was the only explanation available to her.
And Dinah was upset because she believed she'd done Helena a great wrong by leaving the night before, when her absence had actually helped immensely…
Helena tugged on their joined hands. "Come here, come on. I'm okay."
Dinah curled up next to her, her face red and twisting like she was fighting back a sob.
"It's okay, you had to go to work," Helena reassured her. She fumbled for something to say—something normal and not suspicious. "Did you get any new leads?"
Dinah forced a tremulous, bitter smile. "We got him."
"You got him?" Helena's eyes widened, and if she didn't feel so terrible she would have sat up and cheered. "You caught Tetch? Really?"
"Yeah," Dinah looked away. "But I should have been here."
"Dinah, please," Helena tugged Dinah back to her, pressing their foreheads together. "That's amazing news."
Dinah sighed, unconvinced, and pulled away. "Can I get you anything? Miranda brought fresh fruit—mango and I think maybe guava. There's some food too, gazpacho, I think..."
She sounded so painfully unsure of herself, it broke Helena's heart.
But it disgusted her, too.
She smiled reassuringly. "Gazpacho sounds great, and maybe some coffee?"
Dinah practically leapt out of bed, eager to tend to her.
Helena used the time alone to take stock of her injuries. Both her ringing ears were sore and the sides of her head tender from being punched. She made a note to remember that in hand-to-hand combat, Harley Quinn fought like a dirty boxer—one with a few karate moves up her sleeve. Next time, Helena would be ready.
Next time. An idea that sent a ripple of nervous excitement spreading across her shoulder blades.
Then there was the flash-bang grenade. The ear splitting blast had disoriented Helena, thrown off her center of gravity. While she staggered around in a helpless circle, Harley Quinn had come striding forward as if unaffected. Maybe she had earplugs in. Or maybe she just pushed past the pain and did what she had to.
Wherever she was now, Helena very much doubted she was laying around recuperating. She'd probably already moved on to whatever hellish plan she was carrying out next.
Resolved not to be weak, Helena pulled herself out of bed with a grunt of effort. She stood too fast, making her head swim as the ringing in her ears grew so loud she had to close her eyes against it. She took a deep breath, in and out, riding it out, then opened her eyes and wobbled out to the kitchen before Dinah could wait on her.
They got fluffy blankets and settled onto the couch together, drinking coffee and sharing food from the cooler Miranda sent over while they binge-watched old episodes of Friends, which was cheerful and comforting. Dinah explained how they'd caught Tetch, trying to make it sound like it wasn't as big of a deal as it was — it was a huge deal, Helena insisted — but Dinah shrugged and pointed out it was only a big deal because the GCPD was so corrupt and useless they never caught any actual criminals.
As the afternoon passed and Helena regained her strength, she reexamined what happened at the museum in excruciating detail. What she'd got wrong. What she'd gotten right. How bizarre it had been to come upon Harley Quinn chatting to her accomplice.
Helena hadn't been prepared to see her like that, casual, normal. Her accomplice spoke to her the way Monica spoke to Rachel on Friends, an affectionate eye roll at her shenanigans.
She hadn't been prepared to see Harley Quinn without her face painted either —that threw Helena off, too.
Next time she would be prepared.
As it grew dark outside, she heard her phone beep where it was sitting in the kitchen. She quietly got up to check Signal, the encrypted app Oracle instructed her to download so they could stay in touch.
WTF happened? No joy? Oracle's message read.
Helena bit her lip, frustrated but also determined.
It was close, she replied.
Was it, though?
Hold tight, Oracle replied, filling Helena with a sense of anticipation that was both frightening and thrilling.
She rejoined Dinah on the couch and sat through a few more episodes of Friends, distracted by Oracle's messages. They didn't put her on edge, just on guard. Purposeful. Ready.
She texted Oracle while Dinah took a call from work.
Can you find out what happened to HQ last night?
Give me ten, Oracle replied.
A few minutes later, Dinah returned to the couch, looking conflicted.
"What's up?" Helena shoved her phone between the couch cushions. "Was that Renee?"
"No," Dinah bounced her phone against her thigh. "That was her boss."
Helena's eyebrows raised. "Her boss?"
"Our Captain," Dinah explained uneasily. "The Police Commissioner wants to meet me. Tonight."
Helena shifted uncomfortably when her phone beeped between the couch cushions.
"Oh… well, is that… good?"
"Um," Dinah tucked a lock of dirty blonde hair behind her ear uneasily. "I mean, he's pretty high up in the GCPD, so…"
She shot Helena a loaded look. Crooked. Bent. In the mob's pocket. However you wanted to put it.
"Oh," Helena felt her phone vibrate twice more. "Why don't you call Renee? Get her take on things."
"That's a good idea," Dinah agreed, rising to her feet.
As she paced around the kitchen talking to Montoya, Helena whipped out her phone to read Oracle's messages.
Four guards were found dead at the museum this morning - no suspects.
Imma guess shit went sideways & u bailed.
But YAY YOU'RE ALIVE
I've cracked their phones — hold tight.
Helena huffed impatiently and tapped out a message.
What the hell does that mean?
Oracle's reply made her stomach do flip flops.
Means we can track the clowns. (WOOOO).
Helena stuffed her phone back between the seat cushions, feeling sick and exhilarated all at once.
Oracle was giving her another chance. Another crack at Harley Quinn.
She tried to calm down, to take a step back from the situation and read it with calm eyes. She still had no idea what happened to her the night before, or how she got home...
But she could do it. She knew she could do it. She needed to do it. Oracle knew she could too. Whoever they were, they had faith in her, bolstering her confidence.
Dinah flopped onto the couch beside her, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
"What'd Renee say?" Helena asked mildly.
"She thinks the Captain's going to put me on the Rogue Task Force," Dinah admitted. "I got an email from his assistant saying to be there at 8."
"Oh."
It was 7.15.
"Well," Helena made a sympathetic face as her phone vibrated again. "I guess if you don't have a choice…."
Dinah shot her an amused look. "Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah," Helena chirped. "I think that sedative knocked me out more than the fever did. I feel fine now."
Dinah stared at her hard. "I can't leave you here again."
Helena's phone beeped.
"Yes, you can," she insisted. "I'm just going to bed soon, anyway. "
"Are you sure?" Dinah looked unconvinced.
"Yes," Helena insisted.
It took a little more convincing, but Dinah eventually disappeared into the bedroom to change, and Helena returned to her conversation with Oracle.
We're in business, baby!.
The clowns are heading your way.
Upper Westside. Get ready.
Helena ran her hands through her hair nervously, listening to Dinah change in the bedroom.
She was being reckless. There was no doubt about it. Horribly reckless. More reckless than her father would ever approve of. More impulsive than he would ever approve of. Too emotional.
But her father was dead.
Dead because Harley Quinn tortured him and put a bullet in his head.
Besides, Helena had proved to herself the night before that she could handle Harley Quinn.
Dinah reappeared, dressed in her GCPD uniform, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail. Helena kissed her goodbye and wished her luck and promised to get some sleep, but once Dinah was out the door she raced to the bathroom to splash water on her face and plait her hair back, her hands remarkably steady.
She dressed in the purple lycra leggings she used for working out and a thermal shirt beneath a black hoodie, followed by a padded gilet to keep warm. She found a black face covering in the pocket of her usual winter coat and shoved her feet into a pair of black running shoes.
There wasn't time to go to Molly's, and she couldn't take the gun registered to her name either, so she rationalized that she wouldn't need one. She hadn't spent the past decade training in martial arts for nothing.
Besides, as Helena had learned the night before, Harley Quinn was a terrible shot.
Then Oracle texted her an address.
It was for the En Iyi Shawarma kebab shop around the corner.
Harley —
En Iyi Shawarma only had a thin trickle of customers when Harley and the Joker parked across the street from it. He had a full face of warpaint on, ghoulish in the passenger seat. Harley had made herself less conspicuous, drawing two thick lines of black paint across each of her eyelids and a slick of scarlet on her lips. She wore a black, long-sleeved dress with a pair of flat over-knee-boots in ox-blood-red leather, another gift from Sofia, which she was prepared to see on a billboard sometime soon. Her platinum hair was clean and parted down the middle, her split-ends brushing the collar of the red and white houndstooth-check coat.
They'd spent the afternoon and evening talking and napping and tying each other to the bed, leaving Harley floating in a state of easy euphoria. Eventually they'd gotten something to eat and cleaned up, and while the Joker gave himself a shave in the bathroom, Harley examined the sheets, which were torn and covered in greasepaint, and she realized she would only ever be able to keep a pair of sheets clean for a finite amount of time before they were destroyed beyond repair. Finished.
It was a stupid train of thought. Utterly ridiculous. But it brought back the bad feeling she been grappling with for weeks, and after having a gun shoved in her face the night before, she finally understood what that dread meant.
It meant she only had a finite amount of time left.
And the idea that she couldn't stop it, had no control over it, it made her heart sink to her stomach. Now she felt like she was walking a tightrope. One wrong step and she would fall into the abyss. Not a chaotic abyss, they kind she once feared and then delighted inc but an empty oblivion in which she ceased to exist.
She pulled herself back from the edge as the Joker walked into the room, his quip about her obsession with sheets helping to keep her in the present. For now.
For now they had a job to do.
Harley glanced at the Joker, who was straightening his green and purple flecked tie in the passenger seat. .
"Give me five minutes," she said, and pushed the squeaky car door open.
The Joker growled quietly, making Harley smile as she slammed the door and strode across the tree-lined street into El Shawarma.
She stepped into the narrow, brightly-lit shop and quickly turned the sign on the door to 'closed'. The Turk, a tall, pale young woman with black hair, was on her own behind the stainless steel counter, slicing portions of doner kebab with a saber-like knife. She stabbed the blade back into the sweaty column of meat once she was finished, and turned to pass a take out box to her waiting customer.
She spotted Harley just as her unsuspecting patron shuffled out into the snow, and her eyes immediately darted to the register where she kept her really big gun.
"Don't try it," Harley advised, pulling a revolver from the pocket of her coat. "I just want to talk."
"We already talked," the Turk sneered. "I told you everything I know about the Riddler and the auction."
"Yeah," Harkey agreed mildly, her eyes drifting to the knife embedded in the cone of meat, slowly rotating under hot lights. She looked at the girl again. "This time I want to talk about your operation."
The Turk's eyes widened, and as she took a step toward the register Harley pointed the revolver at her head, making her freeze.
Right on time, the bell jingled and the Joker ducked in, his painted face stark under the fluorescent lights.
"Mm," his eyes swept the scene. "What'd I miss?"
"Let's talk in the back," Harley gestured to the flaps of plastic leading to the back room. "Go on, you know how this works."
The Turk scowled but backed away from the register, her face tense as she edged out from behind the counter with her hands raised. She shuffled into the back room with Harley and the Joker on her heels, only looking at them once the door slammed shut.
"Are you alone tonight?" Harley asked.
"The boys don't start until ten," the Turk grumbled.
"The boys that wash dishes and also kill for money?" Harley raised her eyebrows expectantly.
The Turk's lips pinched together stubbornly.
The Joker stepped in, leaning in close until she shrank away, the remaining colour draining from her pale face
"And uh, how many boys have you got workin' for ya, hmm?"
"Eleven," she replied quietly.
"Eleven men. How many women?" Harley snapped.
The Turk shot her a bewildered look. "Just me."
Harley narrowed her eyes. She knew with absolute certainty that the Turk was not the masked woman from the night before—she was tall but lankier, not as athletic. Her eyes were brown, but lacked the heavy fringe of lashes. She didn't carry herself like a well-trained killer—maybe a sniper, but not an assassin capable of taking her down.
"Eleven men," the Joker continued when Harley didn't say anything. "That's not a small operation, pussycat."
"It is compared to the Commission," the Turk shot back.
He hummed, all-knowing, and placed two gloves fingers under her chin, tipping her head back when she tried to avoid his eyes.
"Not many women in the Commission, either," he purred, making her flinch.
"Lucy Falcone likes it that way," the Turk muttered. "She likes to be the only woman in charge."
"Is that so," the Joker glanced at Harley, who was staring at the Turk thoughtfully. "And are there any other… ladies you can think of who may have an issue with Donna Falcone?"
The Turk shrugged. "Molly Sullivan?"
"Molly Sullivan is old as shit," Harley snapped, growing impatient. "He means young female assassins. An actual assassin. Have you heard of anyone new in town, anyone like that?"
"I—" the Turk looked thoughtful. "No?"
"No?" Harley's eyes flashed dangerously. She pressed the barrel of her revolver to the Turk's temple, sneering. "Are you unsure?"
"No!" The Turk gasped, throwing her arms up. "I mean, maybe…"
"Maybe?" Harley huffed, pulling back the hammer.
"I mean, how young?" The Turk babbled. "What is young? Is forty-ish young?"
"Forty-ish?" Harley blinked hard and looked up at the Joker.
Before they could continue, the door leading into the back room crashed open with a BANG.
The plastic flaps slapped against each other noisily as Harley spun around, her eyes widening when she came face to face with the masked woman from the night before.
Her dark eyes were blazing with excitement, and she was wielding the long, saber-like kebab knife from the shopfront.
Harley stared at her in utter disbelief, too shocked to move as the masked woman lunged toward her.
A/N: ooooh Helena. Anyone like her better yet?
Pam got a lot of airtime in this chapter. She's been going through some stuff. I don't know how much of it makes sense but I look forward to your thoughts!
Please review or comment if you can. I just happened to get a notification about a comment today, which is what prompted me to post this. Funny old world.
Thanks to everyone still reading!
Katie x