Previously: Harley chops off Reeves' finger so he's out of the way when she meets Hamilton Hill, who she suspects may be the big boss. The Joker and Crane have kidnapped Commissioner Akins for Roman Sionis, who they believe gave them the job on behalf of the big boss.
Theme: Charlotte Adigery - 'Patinepat'
The Pantomime
8.
Frost was happy. When he picked Harley up from the Iceberg Lounge, she was smiling and chatty on the drive back to her safe house.
"You happy, doc?" he asked, catching her eye in the rearview mirror, seeing she had red lipstick smeared from cheek to cheek. That was how the Joker did his warpaint—she usually just smeared hers around her mouth a little—and Frost wondered if she'd done it on purpose. Either way, it made him very happy.
"For now," she sighed, shooting him a grin.
When he dropped her off, the silver BMW that had been tailing them all night parked down the street. But once Harley disappeared inside and Frost pulled away, he saw it edge closer, parking right outside her door. Jesus. He shook his head and turned back to the freeway, checking his mirrors regularly to make sure he didn't have anyone on his back as he drove Downtown.
Frost pulled into a twenty-four-hour parking lot a few blocks from where they'd picked up the police commissioner that afternoon. He grabbed a ticket from the machine and parked, then crossed the lot where the old wood-paneled station wagon was waiting, its giant backend half-sticking out of the parking spot.
Frost slid behind the wheel, nodding silently to Dr Crane, who was in the passenger seat with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling. The Joker was lounging across the back seat, his knees bent, his warpaint smeared, a smirk dancing on his red lips telling Frost he'd been successfully taunting Crane again. Then in the back, there was muffled shuffling and whining as the police commissioner made himself known.
"Ready to go, boss?" Frost asked the Joker who chuckled throatily and flicked a zippo open and closed against his thigh.
"How'd she do?" he asked gruffly.
"She seemed in a real good mood, boss," Frost smiled, pulling the station wagon out of the lot as the Joker gave a satisfied chuckle.
"What does that mean?" Crane snapped, turning to glare at the Joker in the back where he was firing off a text.
"I can't read her mind, can I?" the Joker drawled back, a hint of a suggestion that maybe he could in his tone.
Frost tried not to chuckle—people didn't realize the Joker was actually funny—as he headed for the drop off point near the harbor. They stopped to let Crane out a block early, but only after a lot of complaining and hissing about his role. He was nervous, no good with a gun or on his own without muscle to help him. One on one in a controlled situation, Dr Crane was definitely someone you didn't want to get on the wrong side of. But out in the open, like they were tonight, he had to be real specific about how he played the situation.
They pulled into the alley where they'd agreed to meet the men Sionis sent to pick up the Commissioner, staying in the car until a black BMW pulled in behind them.
"Black beamer, boss," Frost announced. "Just like the big boss's pals."
"Mmm," the Joker agreed as he pushed open the car door. "That's an astute observation, Frost."
The men in the beamer got out too, everyone playing by the usual rules of engines running, headlights on, weapons away as they met at the back of the station wagon.
"Evenin', boys," the Joker drawled, his black eyes rolling over the two thugs like he was memorizing them.
Frost thought they looked like Russians who'd recently come up in the world. Yuri's boys always used to wear denim and leathers or tracksuits, always scuffed up and a little crummy looking just like their boss. Looking at these two, you could tell they'd once worked for Yuri—they had that cocky Russian swagger down—but they were wearing nice suits and shiny shoes, their faces clean-cut, their hair clipped short and neat. Someone had dressed them up that way, it was obvious. Intentional.
"Joker-man," one of them smirked, his voice heavily accented. "The boss want us tell you... thank you, for such timely work."
"The boss, huh?" the Joker hummed as Frost opened the back of the station wagon and stepped aside for the Russians. "That'd be uh, Mr Sionis?"
"Mr Sionis is very important businessman," the Russian said stiffly, not giving anything away. "The boss respects him very much."
"Oh, I bet he does," the Joker shot back slyly. "Hope ya don't mind we uh… had a little fun with the Commissioner first."
"So long as he is not broken, I am sure we will not mind," the Russian's face twisted into a smile that didn't come naturally. Frost suspected he'd been instructed to smile, be polite.
The Russians moved the wiggling, grunting police commissioner from the station wagon to the trunk of their car while the Joker and Frost watched impassively. The Joker lit a cigarette and leaned against the car, by all appearances completely indifferent as one of the Russians slammed their beamer's trunk closed and the other spread his arms wide, giving them another tight smile.
"So... we thank you... again," he said, looking pinched as his partner sent them a wary look and climbed behind the wheel. "Good night."
Frost and the Joker took a few cautious steps back as the Russian turned to leave, when a dark figure wearing a mask made of burlap and rope slipped between the two cars, blocking his path. There was a hiss as the Scarecrow sprayed the Russian in the face with fear toxin, followed by coughing and gasping that quickly morphed into screams. The screams escalated when the Scarecrow pulled a taser, glinting electric blue in the dark alley, and jabbed the Russian in the side, making him howl as his body convulsed.
The Russian's partner jumped out of the car with his gun drawn while Frost and the Joker dove into the station wagon for cover, the Joker shouting blithely about not wanting to go crazy like Carmine Falcone.
The Scarecrow turned on the second Russian, holding up his screaming partner by his jacket as he raised his arm. That was enough to make the second Russian dart back into the car, apparently giving up on his friend as he reversed out of the alley and screeched away into the night.
Dr Crane dropped the screaming Russian and ripped off the Scarecrow mask, panting and sweaty as he raked a hand through his dark hair.
"See, I told ya you could do it," the Joker drawled, strolling up behind Crane and slapping him on the back hard enough to make him lose his footing. "And whaddya know, these guys do know the big boss after all."
"Shut up," Crane snapped, throwing the taser down beside the babbling Russian and turning to stomp back to the station wagon.
"You really got a way with these girlie weapons, Jonny," the Joker taunted him, kicking the taser away before he squatted down to lift the still-screaming Russian under the armpits while Frost took his ankles.
"You happy, boss?" Frost asked once they'd thrown the Russian in the back and slammed the door shut.
"I'm always happy, Frost," the Joker countered, pointing to his scars. "Haven't you noticed? I'm always smiling."
Frost chuckled, knowing the Joker well enough by now to know that meant he was
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Lucy had been chanting the curse in her head ever since she was informed two of her bouncers were shot dead, and Arthur Reeves was down a finger. All thanks to that duplicitous bitch Harley Quinn.
FUCK.
Mario and Alberto were essentially useless, so Lucy immediately jumped into crisis mode on her own, organizing her men to dispose of the bouncers' bodies, paying off potential witnesses, and spiriting Reeves to Gotham City Hospital quickly and quietly before fending off the GCPD. It was stressful, sure, but manageable.
No, Lucy was in a blind panic because Arthur Reeves was Roman's oldest friend, his most trusted confidant, his most loyal employee. And Lucy let him be maimed by Harley Quinn. Now she had to face Roman, a thought that sent ice-cold terror spreading through her entire body.
It was coming up to 5 AM when Lucy and Victor stepped into the Flatiron Building's private elevator to the penthouse, the sun only just about to rise. Lucy caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored glass and winced; she was pale with dark circles under her eyes, her lips bloodless, the stress of the evening manifesting itself on her face.
"You want a little pick me up?" Victor offered drily, a shitty smirk playing around the corners of his mouth.
"No," Lucy muttered.
Circe was waiting for them in the penthouse's foyer, smiling dreamily as she held the heavy front door open for them. She looked like she'd fallen straight out of Valley of the Dolls in a pale pink nightie and matching silk robe, her feet outfitted in low-heeled, feathered slippers that looked uncomfortable.
While Victor loitered in the foyer, Circe led Lucy through the kitchen and breakfast area into a living room. It was decorated in warm, earthy tones and geometric prints, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows filling the space with dewy morning light.
Roman was sitting on a long, olive-green sofa, his bare feet kicked up and crossed at the ankle, a slim silver laptop open in his lap holding his attention when Circe deposited Lucy in front of him.
"What is it with these Saudis," Roman sighed, closing the laptop and looking up at Lucy, his expression hard to read. "Don't get caught killing journalists for the Washington Post." He shrugged as if this was obvious. "It's that easy."
Lucy twisted her fingers together nervously, uncertain how she should respond, and eventually settling on heartfelt repentance.
"I'm... um, I'm so sorry, boss," she gushed, clasping her hands together. "I don't know what I was thinkin'. I shoudda known letting Harley into the club was a bad idea after the Joker attack yesterday… I just… I didn't think about how him kidnapping the Commissioner might mean—"
"Oh, Lucy, no," Roman laughed gently and held up his hand to stop her rambling. "I set that up. Harley and the Joker kidnapped Akins for me." He smiled patiently.
Lucy's eyebrows knit together as she tried to keep up. "I… what do you mean, boss?"
"Commissioner Akins was a loose end I needed tying up," Roman explained, still smiling. "I must admit, they work remarkably fast. I only met with them the night before last to arrange this."
"You met with Harley and the Joker?" Lucy asked uneasily. But Roman didn't seem to think that warranted a response.
"Tonight I'll speak to our group about Harley," Roman gestured for Lucy to sit on the couch. "I'm sure you can imagine who won't be thrilled about the prospect of bringing her on board, so I need you to back me up."
"Sure, boss," Lucy agreed eagerly. "You know I'll always back ya up."
Roman got to his feet and wandered over to the living room's large window, looking out over the city.
"She's a natural leader," he mused. "She has this cold… intensity that's just..." He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "It's gripping, is what it is, and it's impossible not to be affected by it."
Lucy watched Roman talk, the fear that had paralyzed her all night melting into something much more unimpressed.
"How did you arrange a meeting with them, boss?" Lucy asked warily. "Sounds pretty dangerous."
"Arthur set it up," Roman explained, turning away from the window to offer her a smile.
Lucy's eyes widened.
"So you just…threw Reeves under the bus?" she asked, struggling to keep her temper in check. "Just like that?"
Roman tipped his head to the side, eying Lucy curiously like he didn't understand something.
"You don't approve of my methods?" he asked, walking back to her, and Lucy rose to her feet, not wanting to cower in his shadow.
She folded her arms over her chest and shook her head. "No, boss. I don't approve."
Roman raised his eyebrows, and then he laughed quietly, without humor.
"You… are judging me?" he asked softly, and when Lucy opened her mouth to tell him she was advising him, his hand flew up and closed around her throat, his palm pressing against her windpipe.
Lucy choked, too surprised to do anything but stagger forward as Roman yanked her close so their faces were centimeters apart, his hand tightening on her throat.
"You would do well to remember where you would be without me, Lucy," Roman advised her coldly, calmly. "You are worthless without me. I am the only reason you aren't dancing at the fucking Cheetah Bar again." He used his grip on her neck to shake her until her teeth rattled, and she was gasping for air. "Arthur is loyal and knows his place, whereas you might benefit from some time at the plant."
Lucy shook her head furiously, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. Then finally, Roman released her neck and shoved her back down on the couch.
He sighed and planted his fists on his hips as he watched Lucy cough and sputter, trying to catch her breath while she palmed her sore throat.
"Are we going to have a problem tonight, Lucy?" Roman asked her mildly, and Lucy shook her head furtively.
"No, boss, no, we ain't got a problem," she croaked.
It seemed to appease Roman, his brow easing out of its unhappy furrow, his full lips spreading into a gentle smile as he sat on the couch beside her.
"Isn't this nicer?" he asked her softly, laying his hand on Lucy's shoulder and meeting her eye. "Do you know how much you mean to me, Lucy? How special you are?"
Lucy monitored her expression very carefully as she considered her response. She was far too familiar with the alternating violence and affection that came with abuse, she'd had it her whole life, and she knew Roman calling her special was just more of that.
Then she remembered what Harley said to her the first night she came to the Iceberg Lounge alone.
You're smarter than you pretend to be, and you have good instincts.
That makes you dangerous.
And unlike Roman, Lucy believed her.
"No one's ever said anythin' like that to me before," Lucy lied, her voice watery as she offered Roman a bashful smile. "Not even Penguin."
Roman sighed happily, his eyes drifting over Lucy like she was something precious, but a thing nonetheless.
He looked up as Circe and Victor arrived from the breakfast area, both of them waiting silently for instructions.
They couldn't have been more different. Circe was beautiful and glamorous in pink silk and feathers, while Victor was severe and remorseless, his skin stark white against his black-on-black suiting, his eyes hollow. But seeing them side by side made it impossible to ignore how similar their vacant expressions were. Blank slates for Roman to inscribe his will upon.
It was a strong reminder that you didn't want to be on the receiving end of a 'talk' with Roman Sionis.
Dinah got back to the Manor just after dawn, having spent the entire night combing the city for leads by herself.
Then, around midnight, the police scanners started blowing up because Harley Quinn had been seen at the Iceberg Lounge. People in the line outside called the cops, saying there had been gunshots, and that Harley appeared armed with a gun and covered in blood. But the club's management insisted it must have been a mistake, everything was fine, and they refused to let the police inside.
Dinah had investigated all of this alone because Vicki showed up at the manor unannounced the night before, apparently impulsively deciding she needed to spend some time with Bruce. He obliged her, of course, even though they had the Joker and Harley Quinn officially on the loose, not some small-time criminal or a crooked cop. They were the only threat that mattered, and Dinah had been waiting for this day to come.
So needless to say, she was a little bit peeved that when their greatest foes returned to Gotham, Bruce opted to stay home with Vicki instead of finding and stopping them.
Dinah sighed heavily as she poured out a cup of coffee, exhausted but knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep.
"Morning," Vicki greeted Dinah cheerfully. "Ooh, can I grab some of that?"
"Sure," Dinah offered her a strained smile and returned to the kitchen table. Her laptop sat open there, a paused video of Harley giving a lecture about psychopaths on the screen. It had been circulating for a few weeks, the view count already over fifty million in that short span of time.
Dinah stared at Vicki's back as she poured herself a cup of coffee, and waited for her to turn around. Then she tapped the play button, and Harley's voice filled the room.
"Imagine stripping away everything that makes you human - your capacity for empathy, your ability to love and nurture and connect, to be accountable to yourself and society. Psychopaths are not capable of those things, and they don't even realize they're missing them."
Vicki immediately froze, obviously recognizing Harley's voice, something most people would not be able to do, at least not as quickly as she did.
"What is that?" Vicki demanded, sounding uneasy as she turned around.
"Harley Quinn before she was Harley Quinn," Dinah explained, pausing the video. "Someone uploaded it a few weeks ago."
"Someone has good timing," Vicki observed, looking vaguely sick, and perhaps guilty too.
"You used to write about her a lot," Dinah pointed out mildly. "Why do you think they kidnapped Commissioner Akins?"
"Why are you so interested in Harley Quinn?" Vicki countered.
"I'm taking Psych 101 online," Dinah shrugged. "I think it's interesting that someone so smart and accomplished who's also an expert on psychopaths got brainwashed into falling in love with the Joker." She lifted an eyebrow at Vicki, watching her face closely. "That's what you wrote, right?"
"Well," Vicki shifted uncomfortably. "The people in her life thought she'd been brainwashed or manipulated but… that could have been wishful thinking on their part. They also said she was a loner, so maybe they didn't really know her as well as they thought."
"What do you think happened?" Dinah asked, narrowing her eyes.
"I think…" Vicki looked into her coffee cup, frowning. "I think she was probably a bad person before she met him, but he let the clown out of the box, so to speak. He gave her a license to stop hiding who she really was."
Dinah stared at Vicki, knowing then that Harley had told her her story. Maybe Harley treated Vicki like a friend, confusing her and manipulating her, just like she did to Dinah. But it was also possible that Vicki still knew Harley. That she might be able to point Dinah in Harley's direction.
"But wildly speculating on why Harley Quinn does what she does isn't my job anymore," Vicki added pointedly. "I just interview businessmen and politicians these days."
"Sure," Dinah nodded, tapping the video back on. Harley's voice filled the room again, making Vicki wince.
"Psychopaths don't have brakes like the rest of us, so they're capable of anything. They have no boundaries... They have no limits. Nothing can stop them."
It seemed like Hamilton Hill was always on television. Harley watched him speak and give interviews as she worked out in Samantha's living room, struggling to decide if she was being unfair to him by assuming he wasn't capable of awful things just because outwardly, he seemed so boring.
The only thing for it was to look him in the eye to get a real sense of him. His campaign was holding a fundraiser that evening at Wayne Hall, the kind of event where you got time with the candidate depending on how much money you spent.
That meant Harley needed to make a call to a certain minion she had very little patience for.
"What do you want," Lonnie demanded by way of greeting when she called his burner.
"Hi Lonnie," Harley rolled her eyes. "I need you to take care of a couple of things for me."
"What?" he snapped petulantly. In the background, she could hear the pew!-pew!-pew! of the video game he was playing.
"Hamilton Hill is hosting a closed-door fundraiser tonight," Harley explained, exasperated. "I need to be on the guest list and I need a black Amex."
"Uh huh," Lonnie muttered unhappily, the video game sounds replaced with computer keys clacking noisily. "I got the card, just need to press a name on it. Marge Kuntz, right?"
He chuckled at his little joke.
"Peaches Kane," Harley replied drolly. "But you should know I think Marge Kuntz is really funny."
"Fine," Lonnie scoffed. "Peaches Kane is on the guest list. How am I gonna get you this card?"
"How about you get off your ass and drive it over here?" Harley scoffed, rolling her eyes.
"J says I can't leave the honeymoon suite," Lonnie snapped moodily.
"Then I'll send Frost," Harley bit back.
"Whatever," he muttered, hanging up on her.
Harley showered and got ready for the fundraiser, choosing one of the few suits Samantha owned—black with high-waisted trousers and a Le Smoking jacket. Samantha had hung a very tiny, strapless bodice with the suit like she'd intended to wear it together, so Harley threw it on too, trusting Samantha's fashion sense far more than her own. With her platinum hair wavy around her shoulders, a flick of black eyeliner and some extremely pointy heels, her disguise was ready to go.
But there was one more necessary detail. Harley dug a switchblade out of the canvas duffel bag leftover from Honduras and turned the small knife over in her hands thoughtfully, trying to decide where to carry it. Her clutch was too obvious if she had to open it in front of fellow fundraiser attendees, but the way things had been going the last few days, she wanted to be armed with more than a stiletto heel just in case. In the end, she found some black electrical tape and created a small pocket for it to lay flat between her breasts beneath the bodice, ready for her should she need to defend herself or murder someone. Or both.
Frost had just let her know he'd picked up the Amex from Lonnie and was on his way when she got a text from the Joker.
Need you. Warehouse now.
Harley hummed dubiously, wondering what the hell that could mean. She was a little annoyed at being summoned, her presence demanded, but it was annoyingly satisfying to be needed too.
Fine, she wrote back, her curiosity piqued as she tried to imagine what he and Crane had been getting up to in the wake of kidnapping the police commissioner. What they may have learned.
Now she just needed to figure out how to get there without her babysitters noticing.
It took about twelve hours for the fear toxin to wear off the Russian, during which time Crane employed some tried and tested methods to retrieve information, none of which were successful. The Joker shouldered his way in several times, laughing hysterically at the reaction his painted face got from the Russian.
"Torture isn't a, uh... one-way street, Jonny," the Joker pointed out when Crane accused him of not taking it seriously. "It's a conversation... how'm I supposed to have a chat with this guy when he's high as a kite, huh?"
Crane grumbled and stomped over to the air mattress to get some sleep after too-many hours awake. When he woke up it was to a meaty slap and some light taunting from the other side of the loft where the Russian was tied up, spitting indignantly as the Joker prowled around him, apparently deeming him sober enough to torture.
Curious, Crane stood back and watched, his arms folded. While he'd been sleeping, the Joker had set up what could only be called a torture station. A series of knives were lined up on one of the lab tables alongside a power drill, a hammer, and strangely, a vegetable peeler. Crane noticed a baseball bat leaning against the wall too. The Joker had removed his jacket, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat and the sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows, his tie draped casually around his neck.
"Oh, hey," the Joker smirked at Crane over his shoulder. "Come to join in?"
"I'll just observe, thank you," Crane shot back snidely. He was intrigued but he would never admit it.
The Joker spent a full hour talking to the Russian, feigning friendliness, which in itself was unnervingly sinister. After an hour, it was clear from the Russian's face that he thought the Joker was unhinged, capable of anything, and that he had no breaks. All of that was already well-known to the entire city, but up close, one-on-one, it was a potent reminder.
"So," the Joker huffed, hopping off the stool and swinging his arms and shoulders like he was loosening up. Then he spread his arms wide, grinning at the Russian, whose eyes widened. "Let's get started, huh?"
He pulled back his fist and jabbed the Russian in the face, quick and sharp and hard, splitting the Russian's lip as he yelped in surprise at the sudden onslaught.
"What happened to never start with the head," Crane deadpanned.
The Joker shot Crane a look that was more than a little threatening, but somehow debilitatingly patronizing too.
"I've got a method, Jonny," he explained drily. Then he turned back to the Russian, delivering a left-hook to the Russian's ear that made him cry out as his head snapped to the side. "Keep quiet if yer gonna watch," he added with another jab, pulling a moan out of their victim.
"I suppose you consider yourself a professional," Crane observed caustically.
"Best in the business, Jonny," the Joker shot back, getting in a torso shot that had the Russian gasping.
Crane watched silently for the hours that followed, wherein the Joker continued to talk at the Russian, filling him in on what they were after but not asking questions as he intermittently punched him in the face and torso.
After a short break to let the Russian recover, the questions started, along with much more brutal shows of physical violence. The Joker started with the power drill, then backed down to the vegetable peeler, then ratcheted back up to the hammer.
Psychologically, it was quite impressive what he was doing. Almost building up a twisted form of trust, never showing anger or frustration. Just professional interest to let the Russian know this was a transactional situation, even if the Joker was capable of just about anything. The entire process was light-hearted, interspersed with little jokes and occasionally, that shrill, horrible laugh, another tool in his arsenal.
However, none of it actually worked.
The Russian didn't talk. He pleaded with them, he promised them he would do whatever they wanted, but he didn't tell them his boss's name, or even why he wouldn't. The Joker tried to get around it with more psychological tricks, and Crane even made some suggestions that he took on board, but it was no good.
"Maybe there's been some kind of conditioning," Crane mused watching the Russian sob and swoon over a recently amputated finger. "Prolonged torture can warp the mind in fascinating ways."
"Mmm," the Joker prodded the scar splitting his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Nah," he announced.
"What makes you say that?" Crane asked warily.
"That's a whole lotta effort for a meathead like him," the Joker flapped his hand at the howling man. "Noo nono no, this... this is...'' He wrinkled his nose, his face souring. "Loyalty."
He grabbed a burner phone out of his trouser pocket and fired off a quick text then shoved it back, not checking the phone when it beeped with a reply.
Then he started up with the questions and the occasional punch again, never exerting himself. It was almost like he was winding down...
Crane soon realized why, and who he had messaged.
The loft's sliding door slammed open and Harleen strode in, looking annoyed as her heels snapped across the floorboards. She was wearing a black suit, a single button holding the jacket closed, by all appearances wearing very little beneath. Crane turned around to look at the Joker, who was rocking back on his heels, his hands in his pockets, a small, smug smile dancing on his lips as she stormed up to him.
"Who's this?" she demanded, looking at the Russian.
"The big boss sent him to pick up the commish," the Joker explained, unfazed that she was annoyed with him. "But he ain't talkin'." He shot her a knowing look. "Are those enough facts for you?"
"Hill and Reeves work for the big boss," Harleen agreed moodily. "You can't get him to talk?"
"It seems the master-torturer here can't get past basic loyalty," Crane informed her drily. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How did you get down here if the boss is having you followed?"
"With extreme caution and many detours," Harleen shot back. "And now I'm going to be late for this fundraiser—my best shot at getting facetime with Hill."
"Well," the Joker shrugged helplessly, fighting back a smug grin. "If you can get a name outta this guy, maybe you won't have to."
"Wait, she's going to get the name out of him?" Crane shot Harleen a dubious look, but she just rolled her eyes as if she found his lack of faith in her predictable, making Crane bristle.
"Fine," she sighed, kicking off her high heels then shrugging out of her suit jacket, beneath which she wore a small, strapless top. It emphasized her slender arms and graceful shoulders, and when she moved, a sliver of her waist was visible between her top and her suit trousers.
Crane rolled his eyes. He preferred her when she used her brain to get what she wanted out of men.
"I'm thinkin' a quick round of good cop bad cop," the Joker drawled, watching Harleen pad barefoot over to the wall to pick up the as-of-yet-unused baseball bat resting there.
"What's his name?" Harleen asked, spinning the bat in her hand like a batter winding up as she squared off with the Russian.
"Sven," the Joker purred, cocking his head to the side, a smile playing at his mouth like he was settling in to watch something riveting.
Crane frowned and looked between them, unsure what to expect.
"Sven, huh," Harleen mused, eyeing the drooping Russian critically. Then she lifted her leg and kicked him in the chest, hard, using the force of her entire body to send the chair flying back.
Sven landed on the ground, groaning loudly, and Harleen lept on top of him. She swung the baseball bat at his knees with a CRACK!, pulling a wail of pain out of him before she started beating his flailing legs mercilessly with wide, vicious swings.
Unlike the Joker, Harleen beat Sven with all the rage of a wrathful siren, her face contorting as she panted and bared her teeth, fully exerting herself while Sven wailed and moaned on the floor under her assault.
It was startling and frightening, and very, very unexpected seeing her devolve into what could only be described as a hurricane of violence. Crane watched wide-eyed, trying to reconcile the woman he knew with this snarling creature who was quite obviously taking out her own frustration on poor Sven.
Crane turned to look at the Joker, who was rocking back on his heels like he was struggling to stand still while he watched her. His eyes were hooded and his head tipped back, his tongue snaking out to swipe over his bottom lip.
God, this was like foreplay for them.
Harleen stepped back, panting as she brushed her hair over her shoulder, then tossed the bat aside. She dropped to her knees beside Sven, launching into girlish pleading for him to stay awake, stay alive, that she couldn't lose him, saying his name repeatedly and begging him to look at her. She was reassuring him that if he told her—just her—the boss's name, they could go home together and she would take care of him. That was all she wanted.
Crane made a face and looked at the Joker to ask him if this had worked before, but the Joker held a paint-smeared finger to his lips, shushing Crane before he went back to watching Harleen plead with the Russian.
After a few minutes, she switched back to the snarling siren again, producing a switchblade from her bodice and flicking it open with a swick! She stabbed Sven over and over again, her face composed in ice-cold indifference as the short blade sank into Sven's chest and stomach and arms, making him scream like he was horrified by what was happening to him.
The Joker slid one hand behind his neck, his red lips pressed together, watching her 'work' like he was on the edge of his seat.
She dropped the knife and bent over Sven again, picking up the begging and pleading. And this time he replied. He was talking, telling her he couldn't tell her, that the boss made him promise, that he'd seen what the boss did to people when they talked, or even if they didn't talk. He was more frightened of her than the big boss, Crane realized, watching her hop to her feet and pick up the baseball bat again.
She started beating Sven again, breaking his arm, his kneecaps, stomping on his chest where she'd stabbed him.
The Joker sighed happily.
Harleen dropped the baseball bat, letting it rattle across the floorboards as she breezed up to the torture station and picked up the power drill. Crane watched her catch the Joker's eye, their expressions mutually impassive, though the Joker's melted into a dreamy smile again when she turned her back on him and strode back to Sven. She set the power drill to the side and slipped back into girlish pleading again, and Sven once again tried to explain, sobbing horrifically, that he couldn't tell her what she needed to know.
Harley sat back on her heels, sighing in frustration as she picked up the power drill and thumbed the button experimentally, watching the bit spin and make a noisy grinding sound. Then she grabbed Sven by the bloodied collar of his formerly pristine shirt, holding the power drill up to his face as she switched tactics. She swore and spit at him, demanding he tell her the boss's name, threatening him very creatively, holding the drill up to his face and turning it on a centimeter away from his eyeball. Following that she went for his nose, shoving the drill up one nostril and getting in his face.
Then she stopped, her shoulders freezing as Sven whimpered something in her ear. She sat back and looked at the Joker, who tried to smother a delighted smirk.
She turned back to Sven, frowning briefly, then turned on the drill and shoved the bit up his nose into his skull.
There was an awful shriek, a CRACK, and a splatter.
Harleen stood up, leaving the drill sticking out of Sven's face. She clicked her tongue unhappily as she frowned down at the blood spray covering her chest and neck, then looked up at the Joker, her expression grim.
"What?" he asked warily, the lovesick smile on his face fading.
Harleen shot Crane a wary look, obviously thinking he couldn't be trusted before she turned to the Joker.
"Black Mask," she said, a line forming between her eyebrows. "He said his boss's name is Black Mask."
"That's not a name," Crane sneered.
"It is if it's the only name his men know him by," Harleen snapped, gesturing to the Joker to make her point. Then she rolled her shoulders back, looking concerned. "Sly said the man who shook him down was wearing a black mask."
"Sly?" Crane asked, but neither of them bothered to fill him in.
"Hmm," the Joker palmed his jacket for his cigarettes, squinting at Sven as he popped a one between his lips and lit it with the silver zippo. "So, the big boss wears a mask," he exhaled a stream of smoke. "Wonder who he's hiding from."
"Masks aren't always for hiding," Harleen caught the Joker's eye, something unspoken passing between them. "They give you power too."
Then she shook her head, sighing impatiently as she bent down to pick up her knife. "I need to get to this fundraiser, and I need to not be covered in blood."
The Joker grabbed the crusty towel smeared with paint and blood he'd been using to clean himself up with over the course of the day and tossed it to her. Harleen caught it easily, wiping Sven's blood from her neck and the knife, then folded it closed and slipped it back in her bodice.
"Alright, I have to go," she announced, shrugging her jacket back on and stepping into her heels as she eyeballed the Joker warily. "I'll let you know if Hill has any black masks on hand."
"Peachy," he drawled lazily.
Harleen held his gaze ba moment longer, then fastened the button on her jacket and turned to leave.
Crane watched the Joker watch her walk away, his head tipping to the side as he stared at her ass, humming happily under his breath.
"My God," Crane sneered once Harleen had slammed the loft door shut again.
"What?" the Joker chuckled, doing a poor job of feigning innocence.
"Are you aroused after all of that?" Crane demanded incredulously, making the Joker giggle quietly like he was genuinely amused.
Then he sighed and waved a hand at the door Harleen had just exited through. "Are you telling me you're not?"
"Shockingly, no," Crane replied drolly. "I do not find psychotic acts of violence arousing."
"Nahhhh," the Joker raked his hair off his face as he smoked thoughtfully. "She's like a force of nature coming right for you… no breaks, no limits." He closed his eyes and pretended to shiver. "Mmm…"
"A force of nature," Crane's lip curled. "I think you are confusing psychosis for passion."
"Uh huh," the Joker flashed Crane a patronizing smirk. "Maybe you're just a little too uh… repressed to understand how it translates into more grown-up situations."
Crane shifted uncomfortably, disliking the conversation.
"I thought you found her disappointing," he countered pettily. "Besides, she didn't seem very happy to see you."
The Joker shrugged helplessly, looking a little dreamy again.
Frost was waiting for Harley in front of the warehouse with the town car. It had taken some very specific evasive driving to get down there—including hopping in and out of a pair of cabs—before they lost the silver BMW tailing them—the same one from the night before. But when it came to evasive driving, Frost was remarkably efficient. Harley suspected it was that former military career turning its head.
She was late for the fundraiser and she smelled like blood, but it had been a very productive detour. Now they had a name. Black Mask. A name as mysterious as the boss himself. It reminded her of the night at the Iceberg Lounge, convinced she'd seen him there in Lucy's stupid birdcage, his face a blurred hallucination brought on by the blue poppy.
From Sven's lack of candor, it was clear Black Mask had a firm grip on his men and their loyalty. Maybe not real conditioning, like what Harley suspected had happened to Victor, his turnabout from sick predator to goofy bodyguard too startling to be attributed to loyalty alone. Lucy's comment about the boss 'having a chat with him' made even more sense if that was the case.
"What time should I pick ya up, doc?" Frost asked as Harley climbed out of the town car in front of Wayne Hall.
"It depends on who's here and how it goes," Harley replied. "Stick close by, get some food or something."
"You got it, doc," Frost nodded, then glanced in his rearview mirror before he looked at her again. "No tail yet."
Harley nodded uncertainty, hoping her babysitters had dropped the ball and didn't know she was at the fundraiser, which meant Hill wouldn't know she was coming. Reeves would have been able to spot her, but he'd more than likely spent the day getting his finger reattached, not checking the guest list.
Harley strode up the front steps of Wayne Hall where a red carpet had been laid out, but she'd missed the reporters and wealthy people posing for pictures. In the reception area there was a long table, a woman with a clipboard waiting there for the stragglers.
"Hello," Harley drawled, affecting a trans-atlantic accent as she plastered on a smile. "Peaches Kane."
"Good evening, Ms Kane," the woman beamed, checking her clipboard then picking up a credit card reader. "And how much would you like to donate tonight?"
Harley feigned thoughtfulness as she plucked the black AMEX out of her clutch and handed it over.
"Let's make it fifty thousand," she smiled at the woman, whose eyes widened.
"Oh, I see," she stuttered, typing the figure into the card reader and swiping the AMEX, then handing it back to Harley. "Dinner is about to start, but with a donation that size Mr Hill will want to meet you."
"I have time now," Harley smiled, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
"I'll just check, ma'am," the woman nodded eagerly before she disappeared down a hallway.
Harley rocked back on her heels as she waited, her mind drifting back to the warehouse. She couldn't decide if the Joker intentionally failed to get a name out of Sven because he wanted to see her do it. She'd been a little bit annoyed at being summoned, but not as much as she'd pretended for Crane's sake, knowing it would keep him happy to see them bickering even though they'd come to at least a tentative truce, the almost-flirtatious texting from the night before confusing matters.
There was one little cog in the works. The same one that was always there. The ridiculously strong physical attraction that was constantly lingering between her and the Joker. And the way he looked at her while she'd tortured Sven had been...
Like he was thinking about fucking her. Very creatively.
Harley's imagination could fill in the rest.
She sighed and looked around, hoping for a distraction. Now was hardly the time to be thinking about him that way, not when they had much bigger problems on their hands and were supposed to be separated. It was a distraction.
The woman returned, beaming at Harley again. "This way, Ms Kane."
Harley followed her down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. The back of the building was dusty and unused, the furniture and carpet leftovers from another era. It seemed Wayne Hall had only recently re-opened, probably one of Hill's projects to clean up Downtown for the sake of gentrification.
The ground floor was a large circular room that looked in better condition, with a stage and a velvet curtain, the floors recently buffered wood and the chandeliers sparkling. The upper levels were lined with box seats yet to be freshened up, all of them looking down on the main floor where the wealthy were mingling and settling down in anticipation of Hamilton Hill's Make Gotham Great Again speech.
Harley was taken to a large reception room behind the box seats on the upper level, a cob-web-ridden chandelier hanging above and two dusty old bars flanking the room. There were a pair of brand new leather sofas facing each other with a Persian carpet between them, and a gilded bar cart packed with an ice bucket and crystal cut decanters.
Hill was waiting for her beside the bar cart.
"Ms Kane," he greeted her, spreading his arms wide as he smiled, apparently not remembering her from the Tobacconist's Club. Unless he was hiding it—the boss would have hid it. "How can I thank you for your very gracious donation? A drink, perhaps? Champagne?"
"Whiskey if you have it," Harley smiled back at him, applying a transatlantic accent again, the kind no one used anymore. The big boss would be smart enough to pick up on that. Hill took it in stride.
"Very well," he grinned, pouring them each a drink as Harley took a seat, crossing her legs as she accepted the drink. "We have a few Kanes here tonight," Hill continued. "Relations of yours?"
"Distantly related. My family is from London," Harley improvised, still smiling.
"Ah, I see," Hill nodded. "Now, I don't have as much time as I would like to speak to you, but normally when someone I don't know donates a sum like that, I have to assume it's to get face time with me."
"You're correct, Mr Hill," Harley replied breezily. "I work for a philanthropic group encouraging public servants to invest in green energy to combat the climate crisis," she said, repeating one of Pam's lines verbatim.
"Ahh, I see," Hill chuckled, hunkering forward and offering her a smirk. "You're old money, aren't you."
"I don't see how that's relevant," Harley smiled.
"Of course it is," Hill countered boorishly. "Philanthropy is the work of those who don't need to work. You see, the problem with climate change alarmists is they don't take the economy into consideration. And you, who don't have to work or worry about the economy, you're especially immune to those consequences."
"Well that's ridiculous," Harley pictured how Pam would react. "There's plenty of money to be made in green energy. There are market-based solutions to the climate crisis."
"Not as much money as there is in oil, my dear," Hill countered gently, trying not to patronize a woman who just handed over fifty grand.
"I suppose you advise your clients similarly," Harley offered him a pinched smile, letting him know she was offended.
"I don't discuss my clients," he replied smoothly. "Airtight NDAs are a necessary evil in the consulting world."
As is buddying up to dictators and terrorists, Harley thought wryly.
"And I am not here to discuss your clients or your business dealings," she explained with a pretty smile. "Only to discuss how you might... inspire people and encourage awareness as Mayor of Gotham."
"Inspire people?" Hill raised his eyebrows, intrigued.
"Superficial gestures that make it difficult for your liberal opponents to find fault," Harley improvised, remembering one especially virulent rant from Pam. She offered him a sympathetic smile. "We all know how public opinion is changing on the issue."
"My dear, you have a bit of a politician about you!" Hill laughed boorishly, impressed. "You're not wrong— meaningless gestures frequently improve a man's public image."
That was the moment Harley knew. This man was not concerned with running the city from top to bottom. He wasn't interested in holding the reigns of power while hiding behind the scenes. He was greedy and vain, and only interested in having his ego massaged. He had a black belt in bullshit, but not the ruthlessness Black Mask had shown himself capable of.
Harley almost stood up to leave, having gotten what she came for, but then Hill checked his watch.
"Listen, Ms Kane, I would love to discuss this further with you, but it's time to give my speech," he set his drink aside and stood, and Harley did the same. "I'm afraid my campaign manager isn't here this evening - a medical emergency."
"Aw," Harley cooed sympathetically.
"But why don't you give my secretary a call," he handed her a card. "And we'll get something set up before the election. I have a rally coming up in a few days, maybe I can squeeze something in for you."
"Wonderful," Harley smiled at him, her face aching as she shook his hand. "I look forward to it."
"Enjoy your night," Hill simpered.
Harley turned around, the smile dropping off her face as she walked away.
She considered her next move. Part of her wanted to run back to the safe house to scratch Hill's name off the murder board, but she was in the fundraiser now, she might as well poke around and see who else was there.
They'd put her at a table right in front of the stage, sitting next to her was no less than Bobby Kane. He was already drunk as he leaned on his fist and ogled Harley.
"Kane, huh," he slurred, obviously not remembering despite the many times they'd been in the same room together. "Are we like cousins or what?"
"Martha Wayne was my mother's cousin," Harley bullshitted.
"Martha Wayne was my mother's cousin too," Bobby waggled his eyebrows as if being distant relations was sexy.
Harley rolled her eyes and grabbed a glass of water as she looked around the room, wondering if she'd spot Roman and his weird fiance Circe, or anyone else interesting. But she didn't. Disappointed, she tucked into the free steak dinner, figuring she may as well take advantage of the opportunity for sustenance.
Hill appeared on stage just as dessert was winding down, wearing one of his red Make Gotham Great Again caps and throwing up Nixon-style peace signs to claps from the trust fund brigade, some of them more enthusiastic than others. The house lights dimmed, and Harley folded her arms as she watched Hill spout his usual bullshit. Her mind drifted back to the Joker and the way he'd looked at her earlier, knowing instinctively what he'd been thinking about doing to her.
Probably quite slowly and deliberately.
But never, ever gently.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Very, very unhelpful.
Then about halfway into Hill's speech, the stage lights suddenly snapped off, submerging the room in darkness. The trust fund brigade started chattering nervously as Hill tried to reassure them from the stage that it was probably a technical malfunction.
Then his mic cut out, and a new voice started speaking over the sound system.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," the disembodied voice purred around them. "How about a riddle?"
Harley's eyes widened in disbelief as she sat up straight.
No fucking way.
The Riddler.
There was a throaty chuckle through the room's speakers, and people started to panic as they realized what was happening.
"I'll shrink your mind, and rip out your tongue
I'm a clown's paramour and incite chaos for fun...
Who am I?"
Harley jumped to her feet, grabbing the steak knife off her plate. She spun around in a full circle as she searched for the Riddler among the panicking guests, bracing herself.
"Don't worry, folks…" he growled. "I'll give you the answer this time..."
Suddenly a spotlight from the rafters snapped on. It rotated forward onto the crowd, landing squarely on Harley, blinding her and illuminating her for the whole room to see.
"A Harlequin," the Riddler hissed, his voice echoing around them.
Harley froze, her eyes darting between the faces staring back at her. She could feel the whole room staring at her, her flimsy disguise stripped away as the Riddler revealed her to them. A woman screamed and a few men shouted about stopping her, and then a body jumped in front of her, a camera flashing as someone tried to take her picture, throwing Harley into action.
She grabbed the camera and yanked the photographer forward, stabbing him in the shoulder with the steak knife and kneeing him in the balls. She ripped the camera off him and threw it on the ground, stomping on it with her heel.
The sound of a mic dropping ricocheted around the room—the Riddler was making a run for it.
With a frustrated growl, Harley bolted for the stage, vaulting onto it and shoving a stunned-looking Hill aside as she sprinted for the curtain— in part to escape the prying eyes of the trust fund brigade, but more because she needed to get to the Riddler. He was no Black Mask. He was no Joker. But he was here, presenting himself to her.
Harley burst into the backstage area, which was dusty and cob-webbed like the upper floors of the Hall, old props and curtains lying forgotten in piles. She looked around frantically then darted through an open door into a hallway lined with dressing rooms, all of their lights on. At the end of the hallway was a fire exit, but it was closed—he was still there.
Harley crept down the hallway, listening carefully over the blood rushing in her ears. She passed one dressing room, her eyes sweeping it and finding it empty before she moved onto the next. Her heart was thumping wildly, sending adrenaline rushing through her veins, heightening her senses, and making her light on her toes, making her body vibrate with excitement that almost bordered on erotic.
Finally.
She got to the second dressing room, but before she could peer inside, a man wearing a white dinner jacket and a bowler hat came barrelling out, slamming Harley up against the opposite wall.
He was tall, much taller than she was, even in heels. And he had his hands around her throat before she could get to the knife in her bodice. Harley scowled as she looked up at his face, a solid black rectangle around his eyes and the bridge of his nose obscuring his identity.
This was the reason she'd come back to Gotham. This was the moment she'd been waiting for.
She headbutted him, making the Riddler grunt as he stumbled back, putting enough space between them that Harley could kick him in the chest, throwing him across the hallway. He hit the wall hard, gasping as his hand flew to his chest, and Harley launched herself at him, ripping the switchblade out of her bodice and flicking it open. She grabbed a handful of the Riddler's dinner jacket and held the knife to his throat but he caught her wrist before she could cut him, baring his teeth.
His teeth were straight and pearly white.
He was stronger than he looked, surprising Harley as he forced her arm back, pushing the knife away from his neck. Harley went for his knee before he could get the upper hand, making his leg give out. She punched him in the eye as he started to fall, then kicked him in the chest again, sending him sprawling back on the floor.
She jumped on top of him, sitting on his chest and preparing to slash his throat, but he backhanded her before she could attack. Her head snapped to the side as pain exploded across the bottom half of her face, and she dropped the knife. Before she could recover, the Riddler flipped her onto her back like a wrestler.
Then his hands around her throat again, crushing her windpipe while she struggled and bucked against him.
Harley clawed at his hands and the sleeves of his white dinner jacket, growing light-headed from an excess of endocrine and lack of oxygen. She opened her mouth to protest, her lips moving wordlessly as she stared into the Riddler's blackened eyes, feeling herself start to lose consciousness.
Growing desperate, she groped the floor around her, searching for something to save herself. Her hand closed around the handle of her knife, triumph giving her a burst of strength. She swung the short blade at the Riddler's side, baring her teeth and stabbing him twice.
He yelped, an unexpectedly feminine sound, and lurched sideways,, landing on the floor beside her.
Harley sucked in a deep, painful breath, oxygen flooding her brain as she started to cough and sputter. She felt weak and sluggish, trapped on her back like a turtle while the Riddler struggled to his feet. He had to use the wall to keep himself upright as he staggered forward a few steps, trying and failing to yank the knife out of his side as a scarlet stain rapidly spread across his dinner jacket.
Harley rolled onto her stomach, taking deep wheezing breaths through her aching throat as she forced herself up to her hands and knees. She crawled forward a few inches while the Riddler stumbled toward the fire exit, limping and clutching his side, finally getting the knife out and throwing it down just as he shoved the door open and fell out into the alley.
Harley managed to get to her feet, clutching her throat as she limped after him. She fell against the wall and started to slip down just as the fire door slammed shut. It took her two tries to get back up to her feet before she threw her full weight on the fire door only to find the alley outside was empty, the Riddler long gone.
She panted weakly, her head spinning. Then police sirens started wailing nearby, coming to rescue the trust fund brigade, spurring Harley to swoop down and grab her knife before she hobbled out into the alley.
She spotted a pile of white at one end. The Riddler's bloodied dinner jacket. He'd ditched it so he wouldn't draw attention. Harley grabbed the jacket and lurched out onto the street, knowing she couldn't stick around to wait for Frost to pick her up.
She held her chin up, breathing deeply through her nose, and forcing herself to walk normally. Blend in. It was 10 PM and she was Downtown, but where she stood she could see the Crowne Building only six blocks north. She pulled the burner out of her clutch as she pushed herself forward and called the Joker.
"Well fancy that," he purred into the phone.
"I need to get into the honeymoon suite," Harley croaked, her voice strained as she staggered up the street.
"Where are you?" he snapped, his voice low and impatient.
"Close," Harley gasped, realizing he was at the honeymoon suite with Lonnie.
She hung up and shoved the phone back in her clutch, doubling her pace as she held the Riddler's jacket close.
The Falcone penthouse was palatial, but it was no longer the ice-queen-palace Sofia Falcone and her fat husband Vito turned it into during their tenure there. Instead of glass and chrome there was mango wood and soft furnishings. Instead of stiff, uncomfortably chic couches, there were Bauhaus designs, both practical and beautiful. Instead of cold white marble, there was Scandinavian-style warmth.
Circe redecorated the penthouse for Roman when Mario and Alberto rejected it. Too many bad memories from childhood, Mario admitted, while Alberto smoked in disdainful silence as he always did. Historically, it made more sense for Roman to live there.
Tonight the penthouse smelled like the chocolate-chip cookies Circe was baking, warm and delicious. Reeves sat on a comfortable stool in the kitchen, holding his hand aloft as he'd been doing for almost twenty-four hours since Harley Quinn cut off his finger. He hadn't slept, his handsome face haggard with dark circles under his eyes, his suit rumpled and bloodstained, his tie hanging loose as he stared miserably at Circe bustling around the kitchen in her apron and slippers.
No pain killers, Roman instructed, so Reeves had turned them down throughout the entire painful process of having his finger reattached. He felt like he was dying.
Roman was sitting on the stool across from him, his elbow planted on the bar as he listened to Reeves recount what happened at the Iceberg Lounge the night before.
"You really thought she was going to sleep with you?" Roman asked, looking amused.
Reeves swallowed thickly. "You said if the opportunity came up I should take it and tell you what it was like."
"Well, yeah, but..." Roman smiled and shook his head, holding his hands up. "It doesn't matter. What happened next?"
"She was angry I told you about her," Reeves said shakily, staring at his bandaged hand. "She held a knife to my throat."
"Sure," Roman nodded. "Very on-brand for her."
"And then," Reeves inhaled sharply, the pain of his missing finger making him dizzy when he thought about what came next. "And then she… cut off my finger… she grabbed my face and shoved it in my mouth."
Roman's large eyes widened, his smile growing.
"Seriously?" He laughed, looking both incredulous and delighted. "I mean, you hear that threat thrown around, 'I'll cut 'X' off and feed it to you', but people don't really do it."
Reeves nodded, feeling sick. "She also said, if we fuck with her…" He met Roman's eye. "We'll regret it."
Roman groaned and threw both hands over his heart, clutching his shirt as he spun around on the stool. When he turned back to Reeves he was smiling contentedly, rubbing his chest like his heart was aching.
"God, she's perfect," he chuckled, grinning.
"But, Roman," Reeves sputtered. "She knows about me now. What about Helen and the baby? What if she—"
"Arthur, I gave you Helen," Roman pointed out, raising a knowing eyebrow. "And by extension, I gave you that fetus too. If Harley kills them," he shrugged helplessly. "That's the price we pay."
Reeves' broad shoulders trembled but he nodded weakly.
Roman hopped off his stool and started pacing, rubbing one hand over his sharp jaw.
"She had to know you would tell me this," he decided, wagging a finger at Reeves but not looking at him. "She's telling me I don't know what she's capable of… And, hell, I believe her."
Reeves fought back a sniffle, not following.
"God," Roman sighed indulgently. "You know, Arthur, I did not see this coming." He bit his lip, shaking his head. "I have to have her," he shrugged as if it was inevitable.
When he looked to Reeves for feedback, Reeves could only nod nervously, not sure what else he could say. This was uncharted territory. He had been Roman's proxy for years, ever since they were boys in prep school together, and he had always been rewarded for performing as instructed. This time, his instructions had been to charm and entertain a bored Harley Quinn. To gather information and make her more amenable to being recruited, as he'd done for Roman many times before.
But this was different. This was more dangerous than anything they'd done yet. But Reeves had never seen Roman happier.
And Arthur Reeves lived to make his best and oldest friend happy.
"I can't have any distractions or… complications," Roman decided, opening a drawer and retrieving a pistol with a suppressor already attached. "I need her by my side if we're going to expand beyond this hell hole of a city."
Circe pulled her baking tray of cookies out of the oven, beaming sweetly as she presented them to Roman.
Roman sighed reluctantly, his eyes rolling over Circe before he raised the pistol and shot her twice in the chest—zip!-zip!
Circe's eyes widened but she didn't scream. She staggered back against the oven, the cookies tumbling out of her hands as twin blossoms of blood bloomed scarlet on her white apron. She released a small, surprised pant before her legs gave out, and she slid down the mango-wood shelving to the floor.
Reeves stared at the spot where Circe had been standing, too shocked to do or say anything as Roman slapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze.
"There, now if Harley kills Helen, we can grieve together," he smiled down at Reeves, and Reeves could only nod weakly, feeling like he was about to vomit.
"You know why I need her, don't you, Arthur?" Roman asked, fixing Reeves with a pointed look. "You understand what it'll do for our work?"
Reeves nodded weakly.
"It's going to be a nightmare convincing John," Roman added thoughtfully, before shrugging. "But I can respect him for wanting to be cautious."
Roman's phone started to ring.
"Hamilton, how did it go?" he answered jovially.
From where he was sitting, Reeves could hear Hamilton Hill blustering on the other end of the line, sounding furious. Roman looked amused, and then delighted, and then mildly displeased as Hill raged in his ear before shifting back to amused again.
"Look at it this way, they've given you more ammunition for the freaks in masks rhetoric," he placated. "I'll have a word with security to find out what happened, but I think this is a win for us, Hamilton."
Roman tucked his phone away once he'd finished placating Hill, then turned to grin at Reeves, his deep-set eyes shining.
"Harley was at the fundraiser," he beamed. "She sat down with Hill to talk about electric buses and solar panels. He had no idea it was her," Roman laughed incredulously before he pointed at Reeves' finger. "That wasn't just a message, that was to get you out of the way so she could talk to Hill."
Reeves paled, realizing this meant he'd failed.
"Harley played you, Arthur," Roman continued cheerfully. "I think she deserves what she took from you."
Reeves bit down on his tongue so he wouldn't scream as Roman unwrapped the bandages around his hand. He pinched the tip of Reeves' recently reattached finger, and snapped the digit off, ignoring Reeves' pained whining. Then he walked over to the kitchen sink, and dropped it down the garbage disposal, flipping the switch at the wall for a few seconds before turning back around to give Reeves another patient smile.
"Go get that fixed up, Arthur," he directed, pointing at Reeves' mutilated hand as he stepped over Circe's body and picked up a cookie, considering it carefully. "I have to go deal with Ed now," he frowned and took a bite of the cookie, his eyes rolling up in his head as he hummed happily.
Reeves started to climb off the stool, clutching his hand to his chest.
"Do you think Harley can bake?" Roman asked suddenly, frowning at the half-eaten cookie. Then he laughed quietly. "Probably not, but I'm sure we can fix that too."
A/N: ooooooooooh shit.
That last scene gives me chills and I freaking wrote it…
So... what a chapter, right? We have: J drooling over Harley in torture mode. We have Ed vs Harley even if she doesn't know it. We have Roman being as creepy as humanly possible, including this intensely unsettling dynamic with Reeves.
I want there to be this tension between Harley and Roman that comes down to control but isn't sexual/romantic. We'll see if that lands, haha.
Quite a lot got revealed in that one scene with Reeves... :D
Um, head over to tumblr if you'd like a clue as to what really happened to Victor. I'm knit-wear-it.
Next: Harley and J get a lead on the Riddler, and we find out more about Ed's 'motivation'.
Please review! I love this chapter, and I'm really looking forward to hearing from you guys on it :)