Previously: The Riddler attacks Harley at Hamilton Hill's fundraiser. Harley and the Joker are slowly mending fences as they try to find the big boss.
Theme: Iggy Pop - 'Nightclubbing'
The Pantomime
9.
By the time Harley reached the Crowne Building, the stinging pain that came with each breath had subsided, or more likely, she was getting used to it. After being shot, stabbed, having her fingernails ripped off, limbs sprained, and many, many beatings from Black Canary, a bruised throat wasn't something to cry about. But it still felt like an alarmingly close call, and that stuck with her.
She headed for the Crowne Building's underground parking lot, where the building's residents kept their Ferrari's and their Lamborghinis. Remarkably, there was never a guard on duty to protect these outlandish treasures.
Coughing and wheezing, Harley wound her way through the ostentatious cars to the far end of the garage and around a sharp corner where an elevator in a mahogany frame stood out of sight. She pressed the call button and looked up into the CCTV camera pointing down at her. The doors dinged open almost immediately, and she stepped inside, leaning against the gold-painted railing as she exhaled a painful sigh of relief.
After shooting up about forty floors, the elevator opened into the honeymoon suite. It was a large apartment or a small penthouse depending on how you wanted to classify it, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Gotham's iconic skyline. It was originally built as a pied-a-terre for rich men cheating on their wives, with its private elevator tucked discreetly in the building's parking garage. But it had since been co-opted by Lonnie Machin under the Joker's direction, a safe house only their inner circle knew about. That inner circle was rapidly shrinking now that Bruno and Marty were dead, though somehow Frost had managed to worm into their small group of late.
The Joker was leaning against the wall beside the elevator, wearing the same black suit he'd had on all week with a clean button-down shirt, his tie knotted but hanging loose. Harley looked up at him as she stepped out of the elevator, taking note that he'd recently had a shower, his hair damp, and not a trace of paint or blood on him. He'd obviously ditched Crane soon after she left the warehouse.
He frowned and prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he examined Harley's neck, then lifted a hand to brush his thumb over her bottom lip, making her pulse leap as he showed her the streak of blood he'd wiped away. She hadn't even noticed the tender area at the corner of her mouth where the Riddler backhanded her.
Harley pushed past J, confused instead of comforted by the intimate gesture. She kicked off her shoes and dropped the Riddler's dinner jacket and her clutch, then stomped into the honeymoon suite's living room, which as per usual, was a complete mess.
Lonnie was sitting at his desk with three monitors facing him, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in his lap. The flat-screen TV over his head was showing the news, flashing police lights and people in formal wear looking horrified outside Wayne Hall. Hamilton Hill was front and center, giving reporters his spiel about freaks in masks.
"What up, Marge," Lonnie greeted her, spinning in his chair as he shoved a handful of chips in his mouth. "There goes flying under the radar, huh."
Harley scowled at him on her way to the bathroom. "You are so lucky you're useful," she snapped.
Lonnie scoffed and muttered something about her being a "tired-ass showgirl" as Harley slammed the bathroom door.
Like the rest of the honeymoon suite, the bathroom was an unholy mess, with cherubs painted on the ceiling, one of which had a bullet hole in its belly. Harley shucked her jacket and examined herself in the mirror, sighing at the magenta-colored bruises blossoming around her throat. They would be purple before morning. The corner of her mouth was swelling up too, already turning dark pink.
"Fuck," she muttered, turning the faucet on and splashing cold water on her face. Bruises on her neck and face were definitely going to get noticed.
The bathroom door opened, and the Joker slipped in, catching Harley's eye in the mirror. Harley looked away first, focusing on her injuries, but hyper-aware of him creeping up behind her. He stopped about an inch shy of her, then laid his hand on her bare shoulder, his thumb swiping over the tendon where her shoulder met her neck, making Harley stiffen.
She wasn't sure if she was still pissed off at him or just too stressed out to deal with him, though he clearly was making an effort to expand their truce, and maybe even fix things between them. But Harley was resisting. Because she was a stubborn ass, and right now, being stubborn was something to cling to when everything else was spinning out of control.
Harley sighed unhappily, and the Joker released her shoulder, swinging back to lean against the wall. He grabbed his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, pulling one out of the pack with his teeth while Harley watched in the mirror.
"So," he said around the cigarette, lighting it with the zippo. "What happened?" He exhaled a cloud of smoke and lifted an eyebrow as Harley turned to face him.
"Well, Hill isn't the big boss, and he didn't know who I was," she started, her eyes lingering on the lighter as he tucked it back in his jacket. "Reeves was in the hospital all day because I cut his finger off last night," she added, making the Joker chuckle throatily. "Frost shook our tail before we got to the fundraiser, so no one knew I was going." Her face soured. "Whoever the Riddler is... he must have been there already."
"No one interesting catch your eye?" the Joker asked slyly.
"Trust fund brigade, waiters, bartenders..." Harley made a face. "No one obvious."
Then she remembered the dinner jacket. She raced out of the bathroom, back into the foyer where the blood-stained garment was lying on the floor. Harley held it up triumphantly as the Joker wandered up behind her, one hand tucked in his front pocket as he smoked silently and watched her search the jacket.
"Yves Saint Lauren," she read the label and looked up at him, prompting J to make a face like she was crazy to ask him.
"French fashion house," Lonnie filled in in his best know-it-all voice. "Super fucking expensive. That jacket probably cost a couple grand."
"How the hell do you know that?" Harley asked, bewildered.
"Cause J asked me to look into the Riddler, and he always wears super expensive shit," Lonnie shot her a dirty look. "Gucci at the Contemporary Art Gallery last week, Christian Dior at the Flughelheim, Prada at the GMMA. Every time he's caught on camera, it's something different. The dude's a fashion whore."
"So... not a bartender," the Joker drawled while Harley poked through the jacket's pockets. She found a credit card receipt covered in splotches of blood, but she could still make out a name and the last four digits of a credit card number.
"E Nygma," she read the name, frowning. Then looked up at the Joker. "Enigma?"
"Is that seriously a credit card receipt?" Lonnie demanded, holding out his tattooed hand expectantly. Harley hesitated before passing it to him, and Lonnie immediately spun back around to his computer, looking between the receipt and the monitor as he typed furiously.
"Can you get something from that?" Harley asked dubiously.
"Weird ass name and part of his credit card number?" Lonnie scoffed. "MasterCard's backend security is basic as shit. It shouldn't take too long to get a billing address."
He struck a key, making rows of code start streaming across the monitor screen, then looked up at the Joker hopefully, like a dog waiting for praise after doing a trick.
"Wanna hear about Hill and Sionis?" he asked eagerly.
The Joker made a flippant gesture for Lonnie to continue while Harley leaned against one of the white sofas, bracing her hands behind her.
"Hill is all over the fucking place," Lonnie started. "I mean google alone, his socials, his kids' socials. Did you know his daughter is on the new season of Made in the Diamond District? They're just out there for the world to see."
"We already know that," Harley snapped. "You couldn't come up with something better than a google search?"
"If you would just hold your fucking horses, Harley, I'm getting to it," Lonnie scowled. "I hacked Hill Consulting, and yeah, there is a shitton of shady stuff on their books. All of it's technically legal, all of it quiet under NDAs." He struck a few keys on his laptop. "Yemen, Saudi Arabia, China, the Congo, Russia. Hill's making a mint advising wannabe-dictators and authoritarian regimes."
"Doesn't that make them foreign agents?" Harley asked.
"Nah, it makes them capitalists," Lonnie sneered. "They advise all the big dogs here in Gotham too: Crowne, Kane, Elliott, Dagget. Wayne, too, up until about three years ago when Bruce Wayne came back and bought up all their stock to put his own CEO in place."
"We already know that too," Harley complained.
Lonnie sputtered indignantly.
"Fine, how about this," he tried again."Sionis is on their books as a senior advisor, makes four-hundred-grand a year plus bonuses according to their HR department, but otherwise, he's a ghost. No emails to or from him, no mention of him on any of their accounts, no nothing," Lonnie shrugged. "I found a social security number and a tax ID for him, but his address is in fucking Monaco. Pays all his taxes here, too. But that dude had himself electronically scrubbed. Professionally."
"What does that mean?" Harley frowned.
"Means he doesn't want anyone to know anything about him," Lonnie explained. "But if he's some top earner dealing with all that dark dictator shit, no fucking wonder. It's not that unusual for these millionaire douchebags to keep a light presence online."
Harley exhaled through her teeth, frustrated.
"So you're telling me… all you've found is an abundance of evidence that these men are nothing more than morally bankrupt but squeaky clean businessmen who just happen to socialize with mobsters?"
Lonnie huffed unhappily but didn't say anything.
"I guess this means I'm going back to the fucking Iceberg Lounge," Harley complained bitterly.
She ran her fingers over her throat, pressing the tender area as she tried to make a plan—any plan— and realized she had no idea what her next move should be.
"You don't know anything, we don't know anything, Crane doesn't know anything," Harley threw her hands up. "We're all in the fucking dark, and all we know is they want something from us, and we don't even fucking know what that is or who they are or what they're even CAPABLE OF!"
Her voice rose a few octaves, the adrenaline rolling through her since her encounter with the Riddler spiking fresh as an unfamiliar fissure of fear raced up her spine. Harley stomped into the kitchen, needing to get away from Lonnie and the Joker, who were staring at her like she'd grown a second head.
But the Joker followed her, and once they were out of Lonnie's line of sight, he grabbed her arm and whipped her around, nearly pulling it out of the socket.
"Stop," he snapped impatiently, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him. His fingers dug into the tender corner of her mouth, but instead of making her flinch, it helped ground her, helped her focus on him. "You don't know shit, and yer letting it drive you crazy," he told her harshly. "Get over it and do something."
Harley stared back at him, the intensity of his dark eyes making her feel like he was staring into her soul. And he was so close, closer than he'd been in weeks. She could smell him, not just the heavy layer of tobacco smoke constantly hovering, but that musky gunpowder-y smell that was him too.
She nodded against his hand, but he didn't let her go, his eyes glued to her face, not finding her acquiescence good enough. Harley closed her eyes and took a deep, aching breath, willing herself to calm down, and when she opened her eyes, he was still close, and still staring at her intently, and still smelling like him. She nodded again, more resolutely this time, and he released her face, stepping away.
J raked a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead as he sighed like a man overworked, then loped back out to the living room.
Harley followed him, feeling rudderless and exhausted.
The Joker was standing beside Lonnie, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed as Lonnie chatted happily. He looked up when Harley stepped into the living room, raising an eyebrow at her.
"We got an address for E Nygma," the Joker said shortly, twisting his head to the side so he was looking at her out of one eye. "Wanna go get some answers?"
Harley chewed on her lip anxiously and nodded in agreement.
"Ouch!" Ed squealed, glaring at the nurse stitching his stab wound. "You did that on purpose!" He accused her, but she just ignored him, going about her task of snipping the thread and applying bandages.
The basement bar—aka the Vanderbilt Bar— of the Tobacconist's Club was usually dimly lit and hazy—very old school—but for the sake of Ed's medical emergency, the house lights were turned all the way up, glaring bright.
He would have thought all that light would ruin the effect of Black Mask's, well, mask, but he was just as gloomy and spooky in fluorescent as he was in candlelight. Right now, he was behind the basement's small bar, watching the nurse patch Ed up.
"I think the Percocet's wearing off," Ed complained as she stood and removed her purple latex gloves, ignoring him. "Can I get like three more?"
"Edward," Black Mask said, drawing Ed's irate gaze. Ed dropped the camp whiny patient schtick, already growing bored with it as he settled for staring sourly at his benefactor.
Unlike the Batman and Black Canary, Black Mask disguised his voice using a voice modifier like the teenage serial killers in Scream. Actually, there was a lot about him that reminded Ed of the killers in that movie. Namely that he was a pretentious dick. Ed narrowed his eyes, picturing Billy Loomis behind the Black Mask.
Once the nurse was gone, Black Mask braced his elbows on the bar. "What happened tonight?" he asked calmly.
"Um, I did what you asked," Ed snapped, bored with Black Mask and his whole... vibe. "You said make a scene and don't kill anyone, that's what I did." Ed stood up and planted his fists on his hips, ignoring the stinging pain in his side where Harley Quinn stabbed him with a short blade. Twice. "And PS, I haven't gotten paid yet," he added caustically.
Black Mask pulled an iPhone out of his pocket and tapped the screen a few times, then put it away. Ed felt his phone beep with a notification in his pocket. Money, he thought happily.
"Tell me what happened," Black Mask said, his synthetic voice vibrating, low but calm.
"I saw Harley walking around the fundraiser," Ed shrugged, easing himself onto a barstool and fighting back a wince. "I thought, hey, there's a good angle to make Hamilton Hill look good." He shot Black Mask a smirk, imagining the man beneath —whoever he was, possibly Billy Loomis from Scream— expressing shock or maybe even awe. "Oh, that's right, BM," Ed lifted his chin triumphantly. "Almost every job I've done for you has panned out well for Hill in the media. I've figured you out! You want Hill to be Mayor!"
There was a pause before Black Mask nodded. "You are correct," he confirmed. "What happened next?"
Ed's face darkened, his triumphant moment ripped away so quickly. Well F you, BM, he thought bitterly.
"Nothing," he lied, huffing impatiently. "I gave a good samaritan an opening to take out Harley Quinn, and she took off running."
"You've met her before?" Black Mask asked, cocking his head to the side. "At the Iceberg Lounge?"
"Yeah, she comes by sometimes," Ed shrugged carelessly, playing dumb. "I danced with her a few times, served her drinks. Miss Lucy likes me to talk to the customers. That's why I'm her favorite." He rolled his eyes. Miss Lucy had become so boring too.
"What do you think of Harley?" Black Mask asked, his voice soft.
"She's hot and scary," Ed shrugged, still playing dumb. "What's not to like?"
There was a lot... a lot more to Harley Quinn than hot and scary, and Ed really truly believed they'd shared a few moments where she saw there was more to him too. Like... she understood him in some deep kismet way without even knowing who he really was, which just made it even better.
Ed had always liked her vibe when she was caught on camera or taking over the news stations, but it wasn't until he met her in person that he really understood.
And now that he knew what a sassy little so-and-so she was in real life, he hadn't been able to resist the opportunity to call her out… though he hadn't quite thought it all the way through. Not well enough to prepare for her chasing him down with a knife. Ed was good in a fight, and he was strong, so he'd figured it'd be easy enough to immobilize her with some light, friendly breathplay. But…
Oof. Boy, she hadn't liked that.
"Scary?" Black Mask asked. Maybe he was raising an eyebrow under that mask.
"I mean, you did see Mayor Garcia get his head blown off on live television last year, right?" Ed narrowed his eyes. "Why are you so interested in her?"
"I believe you summed it up quite succinctly, Edward," Black Mask replied smoothly.
"Mmhmm." Ed sensed there was much more to that little nugget of interest. He decided to poke around. "And what about her boyfriend?"
"The Joker will not be a problem for long," Black Mask explained, sounding a little peeved.
Oh, how very interesting.
"Cool," Ed drawled, pretending not to care. "I think they're breaking up anyway. That's what Miss Lucy says."
"I am aware of Lucy's conversations with Harley," Black Mask agreed. "As I said, he won't be a problem for much longer."
Ed sighed and looked around the bar, searching for something interesting to inspire him. He was always searching for that cosmic little something.
His eyes settled on the orange prescription pill bottle of Percocet on the bar top. Mmm... good enough.
"Are you ever gonna tell me who you really are?" Ed asked coyly, batting his eyelashes as he leaned across the bar. He snatched up the pill bottle, sighing dreamily. "Who's the man behind the mask? Come on, we're friends, aren't we BM?"
"Good night, Edward," Black Mask gestured to the elevator. "Enjoy your money."
Ed rolled his eyes again and limped off his stool, popping a couple more Percocet as he stepped into the elevator.
The billing address for the credit card was on the east side of Uptown in a crummy, yet-to-be-gentrified neighborhood. It was a massive red brick apartment block from the 1930s, taking up an entire city block and stretching up twenty floors, its occupants a collection of artist-types and low-income families.
There was no doorman, and at 2 AM it, was easy enough to slip in unnoticed through the front door. When they found the apartment on the third floor, the Joker knocked to see if anyone was home, then fished out a set of lock picks. He squatted down in front of the keyhole while Harley kept watch, a gun with a suppressor hidden behind her back in case of company.
The door swung in, and the Joker rose to his feet, glancing back at Harley before he stepped into the apartment's small entryway, keeping the lights off as Harley joined him, pulling the door partially closed behind her.
She turned on the flashlight function on Pam's phone, letting the beam bounce over a small spindly table covered in cactuses and mail. The Joker flipped through the mail, all bills and boring things for E Nygma. Nothing interesting.
They turned a corner to find a tiny studio apartment, and the Joker let out a low whistle as Harley's flashlight bounced around the room. Six clothing rails were taking up most of the space, packed to bursting with clothes. Clothes were falling out of dry-cleaning plastic wrap and garment bags. Clothes slung haphazardly over an unmade sofa bed, clothes draped across a small vanity. And the shoeboxes—a tower of shoeboxes taking up an entire wall, spilling onto the counter of a small kitchenette. The paintings were there too—the huge Jackson Pollock work leaning against the pile of shoeboxes, the de Kooning work on display in the kitchenette.
This person was a collector, Harley realized.
She wondered if he collected people too.
They started poking around, and Harley quickly found the white Gucci suit. It was the one the Riddler wore at his last gallery heist, but it was also the one from the first image she'd seen of him, beaming for his audience of victims.
"Jackpot," she murmured, pulling the suit off the rack and holding it up for the Joker to see. "I'm taking this," she announced.
"Cute," the Joker drawled. "So uh, whaddya ya make of this, doc?"
Harley palmed the clothes, looking at labels—Dolce and Gabbana, Tom Ford, Celine, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton, Versace, Chanel. Harley even recognized some of these names.
"Well, there's definitely an urge to collect," she started slowly. "We know he craves attention, so this will be part of that... maybe using money to fill a void... or maybe he just likes nice things and has cash to burn." She shrugged and shot the Joker a smirk. "I'm a little rusty."
He chuckled throatily, but it quickly turned into a long, intrigued hum.
"Come getta look at his," he said, peering at a painting balanced on the vanity table.
It was the Francis Bacon painting, 'Figure with Meat', depicting a screaming face between two halves of a butchered cow. Harley joined the Joker, standing beside him as they examined the painting together. Harley cocked her head to the side, drinking in the smears of brown and red— they reminded her of blood, violence, and she felt oddly drawn to it.
"It kinda looks like your face," the Joker observed mildly, making Harley snort as she looked up at him, fighting back a grin.
"Are you calling me ugly?" she demanded, watching a sly smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, no," he purred, his eyes sweeping over her. "Just rotten."
Harley laughed, blushing a little, which was ridiculous.
The Joker lifted a hand to touch her hair, toying with a few silvery waves at her shoulder, and Harley looked up at him from under her eyelashes.
"You like it?" she asked, and he nodded slowly, winding a lock of her hair around his index finger.
"You know I like everything," he said throatily, meeting her eye.
Harley took a deep breath, which was less painful now, and looked away, feeling confused and sad and aroused, but mostly stubborn. So stubborn. The Joker let his hand drop away from her hair.
"Yer still mad about Crane," he observed flatly.
Harley looked up at him. "You lied to me," she said quietly.
"I hid it from you," he countered immediately, his face darkening.
"What's the difference?" Harley shook her head.
"Uh, a lot," the Joker scoffed, his jaw twitching. "I was trynna, ya know, keep us alive." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Crane's a pussy, but he's gonna fuck us over, and he woulda done it sooner if you got involved."
Harley bit her bottom lip, realizing this was his way of saying he was trying to protect her, and the sentiment made her feel...
Great.
"I mean, look at you," he flapped his hand at her. "You're going crazy because you don't know what's goin' on with the big boss. You always have to know everything. If I told you I was workin' with the Scarecrow, nothing woulda stopped you getting involved."
He was right, and Harley sighed loudly, running a hand over her hair before she looked up at him again.
"But I also listen to you," she insisted. "If you tell me I'm making a bad move, I'll listen to you." She offered him a small smile. "That's why I keep you around. To watch my back."
His face relaxed a fraction, and he looked off to the side, chewing his scarred bottom lip before he met her eye.
"You were supposed to, ya know," he wiggled his fingers and made a face like he was searching for the right word. "Ya know, trust me."
Harley's eyes widened, struggling to accept that they were having this conversation. They didn't talk about their feelings. They didn't negotiate or compromise. They relied on their connection to keep the peace instead of words. Usually, if they weren't happy with each other, they just gave each other space or fucked it out. Usually, they understood each other implicitly. But it seemed Gotham had a way of mutating that connection, making it blurry and less clean.
"I do trust you," she promised him.
One scarred corner of his mouth slid up in a roguish smirk, and after a beat, he lifted his hand to touch her hair again. His fingers wound into the soft waves at the side of her face like he felt more entitled to touch her now.
"I don't lie to you, Harl," he promised her, his voice low. "That'd be like lying to myself, and what's the fucking point in doing that?"
Harley pressed her lips together, her pulse leaping happily as she tried to decide if she was moving too fast or should just do what she wanted. The latter won out as it always should, and she grabbed the Joker's tie, yanking him toward her until he had her pressed her up against the vanity table, his hand tightening in her hair. They shared a lingering look before Harley tipped her head back, and he started to lean down to kiss her when the front door swung open, and they both froze.
"Mr Nygma?" a frail, accented voice asked. "Mr Nygma, your front door is open..."
Harley pulled the suppressed gun and looked up at the Joker. They had another silent exchange, contemplating the merits of killing the Riddler's elderly concerned neighbor. Eventually, J shook his head and loped toward the window over the sofa bed, ducking out onto the fire escape. Harley grabbed the Gucci suit and followed him, and they made a quick escape out into the night.
It was a weird night.
Dinah lingered on a fire escape in the alley behind Wayne Hall, waiting for the beat cops to disperse so she could talk to Essen and Montoya. Bruce was following a lead for the Riddler, but he'd already checked in to say it was a dead end. Everything felt like a dead end, but Dinah tried not to think that way as she lowered herself into the alley, sticking to the shadows until the beat cops left.
"Have you found anything?" Dinah asked, making both women spin around.
"Do you always sneak up like that?" Montoya demanded, though she looked amused.
"Harley got in under a pseudonym," Essen explained. "Peaches Kane. It sounds like she came so she could speak to Hamilton Hill."
"About solar panels and electric buses," Montoya added drily.
"And the Riddler?" Dinah frowned.
"No idea," Montoya shrugged. "But he wanted to ruin Harley's night."
"There are far too many maybes on what could be going on there," Essen sighed.
"And we got more problems on that front," Montoya drawled, exchanging a look with Essen, who nodded her approval.
"It seems we no longer have Harley Quinn and the Joker's prints and DNA profiles on our system," she explained, her mouth puckering unhappily. "We've got the tech guys looking into it, but someone hacked our server a few weeks back."
"What else did they take?" Dinah frowned.
"Jonathan Crane's personal files," Montoya raised a knowing eyebrow.
"Jonathan Crane?" Dinah was so surprised she used her normal voice. "The Scarecrow?"
"Exactly," Essen said darkly. "Which begs the question, if this hacker is working for the Joker, why is he stealing things for Jonathan Crane."
"Because they're having a bad guy team up," Montoya drawled. "Harley and Crane were both Arkham doctors before they went rogue."
"Crane's not dangerous on his own," Dinah said softly, remembering what both Harley and Bruce told her about the former director of Arkham Asylum. "He latches onto powerful people. It would make sense for him to work with Harley and the Joker."
"What did I tell you," Montoya sighed. "Bad guy team up."
"Can anyone think of a reason why Jonathan Crane would want to abduct Janice Porter or Commissioner Akins?" Essen asked rhetorically, receiving silence from Dinah and Montoya. "Exactly," she agreed.
"So we've got the Joker, Harley Quinn, the Scarecrow and the Riddler," Montoya ticked them off on her fingers. "We got a disappeared DA and a disappeared Police Commissioner and absolutely no answers. And we're supposed to believe Gotham's the safest it's ever been."
"What are you saying?" Essen frowned.
"I'm saying there's a conspiracy," Montoya shrugged. "I'm saying all these freaks aren't coming out of the woodwork for no reason, and there's something bigger going on than the usual bad-guy-business of chaos and destruction."
"You're right," Dinah agreed, foreboding tickling the back of her neck. "I'll look into it."
Harley caught a cab from a random corner Uptown, leaving the Joker with a great deal going unsaid between them. It felt like they were tip-toeing around something. Maybe sex, maybe feelings, Harley didn't know. But when she got in the taxi, she felt like she'd left part of herself standing on that street corner with him.
Shit.
When she got back to Samantha's apartment, she spent hours sitting in front of her murder board, adding an index card for the Riddler / E Nygma though she had no idea how he tied into the larger plot.
She tried to sleep, but it wasn't real sleep; it was sleep obsessed with the Riddler and Black Mask. She wondered if this was what it was like for the Batman. Did he lay up at night seeing the Joker disappear in and out of the room? A fraction of a moment away from being corporeal, a split second away from being an entity he could destroy?
Without sleep as a viable option, Harley turned to cardio. She pulled on Samantha's sneakers and jogged around the block, unsurprised to find a dark blue BMW waiting for her outside the safe house, two men indiscreetly watching from the front seat.
She showered and stared at her murder board again, still not finding any answers. She peaked out the window as afternoon approached, seeing the BMW still loitering there. With few other options, she went jogging again until she grew bored of it. She reorganized the toiletries in Samantha's bathroom then moved onto the kitchen to do the same with her pantry. Who the hell stocked up on this much nutritional yeast, anyway?
Harley wasn't entirely sure how she would get answers from the Iceberg Lounge when two night's earlier, she'd maimed one man and killed two others in the club's backroom. But as midnight drew closer, she was desperate to get out of the house and almost hoping she'd find herself in the middle of an altercation by the end of the night.
She'd long-since run out of patience with blending in, so she pulled on the same trousers and bodice she'd worn the night before, then threw the Riddler's white blazer on top, rolling up the sleeves to her elbows. When she checked herself out in a full-length mirror, eyeballing the shoulder pads, she couldn't help but chuckle.
She had to give the Riddler credit. He had big taste.
Less good looking were the bruises around her neck, which had turned black and blue overnight as she'd expected. There was one good way to explain them away, and people would be all too eager to believe the Joker tried to kill her.
Fuck them, Harley thought as she stepped into a pair of vermillion heels and shook out her hair. Fuck all of them.
Frost picked her up around midnight, by which point Harley had come up with a game plan.
"How you feelin', doc?" Frost asked, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. "You let me know if you need anything, okay?" he added earnestly, making Harley laugh.
"I will," she promised.
Everything was the same at the Iceberg Lounge. The line around the block. The throbbing music. The swelling dance floor full of people high on BO. The only things that ever changed were superficial, the style of music, the outfits, the decor.
Despite her desire for some violence, Harley was determined to get something useful out of this excursion, hoping she would never have to come back unless it was to blow the club halfway to hell.
Ed was behind the bar as he always was. Tonight he had a sparkly blue lightning bolt painted across his face, his hair coiffed into an elaborate rockabilly spiral. He was looking more subdued than usual, and when Harley caught his eye, he didn't react with his usual camp bluster, he just stared at her blankly across the room, watching her move through the crowd toward the birdcage.
Victor held up his arm when Harley tried to walk into the VIP area, barring her path.
"No can do, Harley," he shrugged helplessly.
Harley spotted Lucy sitting with Mario and Alberto, all of them talking with their heads together, looking sober for a change. Lucy wore what Harley could only assume was the height of glam rock, a flared red jumpsuit she'd paired with sparkly pink platform boots, her hair teased and shellacked into a tower that reminded Harley of a cockatoo.
When Lucy saw Harley standing there, she exchanged a look with Mario, who quickly shuffled out of the birdcage through the old kitchen doors, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"I think Lucy wants to talk to me," Harley told Victor, taking stock of him quickly.
The delusional psychopath who'd tortured her had been killed off, only a hairless puppet remaining—an empty vessel.
"What happened to you?" she demanded impulsively.
"Me?" Victor's vacant eyes widened, a dopey smile on his bloodless lips. "I've always been this way, Harley. Maybe it's you who's changed."
Harley eyed him warily, knowing instinctively that he was parroting a line he'd been fed. A line from Black Mask?
"We'll see about that," she replied cautiously, turning her attention to Lucy when she appeared behind Victor, her mouth puckering unhappily. "Hey, Lucy," Harley grinned.
"Whaddya doing back here, Harley?" Lucy demanded coldly. "Ya can't just cut off one of my customer's fingers and expect me to invite you back in with open arms."
"Reeves got handsy with me, Lucy, what was I supposed to do?" Harley sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
Lucy spotted the bruises on her neck then, her green eyes narrowing suspiciously. Harley dropped the bravado, looking off to the side, playing vulnerable.
"Look, Lucy, I need to talk to you," she said, angling for earnest.
Lucy pursed her glossy lips as she searched Harley's face. She obviously did not trust her, but she still nodded and gestured for Harley to join her, and Victor obediently stepped aside to let her pass.
Harley lowered herself onto the magenta chaise lounge, keeping her expression neutral as Lucy eyeballed the violent marks covering her throat.
"Who did that to you?" she demanded, meeting Harley's eye.
"Who did you think?" Harley shot back drily.
Lucy's eyebrows rose. "Seriously? The Joker did that to you?"
"I'm not here to gossip about him," Harley countered indignantly. "I'm here for a job."
"Ha!" Lucy scoffed, right in Harley's face. Her lip curled as she shook her head. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me. I'm getting deja vu over here. You think I forgot what you did to Penguin? Huh?"
"I'm not asking you to trust me," Harley countered patiently. "You're the one who reached out to me about the Janice Porter job. I just need some cash to get me back on my feet."
Lucy kept shaking her head, looking disgusted. She opened her mouth to protest when Victor cleared his throat. He had a finger pressed to his earpiece as he bent down to tell Lucy something. She fumed silently for a moment, her pink lips pressing together in a furious line as she glared at Harley.
"Just so we're clear, I think you're full of shit," she snapped. "I don't care if your boyfriend beats ya up, and I don't care if you're desperate for cash. You're a fuckin' snake, Harley Quinn, and I think it's crazy the boss wants anything to do with ya."
She rose to her feet, making Harley's eyes widen, primarily due to the remarkable show of backbone, but also because Lucy was openly telling Harley that her boss had taken an interest.
"But he's got his reasons," she continued, her pretty face souring like she smelled something offensive. "And an associate of ours would like to present you with an opportunity."
Ed arrived with a tray of drinks just as Harley got to her feet, triumph and suspicion warring inside her over who this new associate could be and what opportunity they were about to present her with.
Lucy gestured to the old kitchen doors, indicating the associate was waiting on the other side.
"Dry gin martinis?" Ed offered, sounding less than his usual cheerful self.
Harley turned to grab a drink, deciding a martini glass's broken stem would be a good enough weapon should things get dicey with the associate.
Ed forced a smile, showing off a set of pearly white teeth as she picked up a drink. Then his eyes darted down to her stolen white blazer, his nostrils suddenly flaring.
He looked pale beneath the sparkling blue lightning bolt like he was sick or hadn't slept, and then Harley noticed that his left eye was swollen, a layer of meticulously applied makeup covering a bruise under the orbital bone.
Harley remembered punching the Riddler just before they'd tussled on the floor. She remembered thinking Ed was hiding something. She remembered all those bad 'jokes' of Ed's that weren't jokes—they were riddles.
E Nygma.
Genuine shock swept over Harley, nearly making her mouth fall open that the Riddler could have been right under her nose this whole time. There was only one way to be sure, so Harley lunged forward, her hand clapping down on Ed's side, digging her fingers into the place where the two stab wounds would be.
Ed swallowed a cry of pain, his eyes bulging as he lurched away from her, the tray of drinks crashing to the floor. He staggered to the side, catching himself on the magenta couch, seething at Harley. She stared back at him, not sure what to do, or even sure what she wanted to do. Did she kill him? Did she kidnap him? Did she tell Lucy her favorite bartender was, in fact, the Riddler? She didn't know.
"Harley," Lucy snapped impatiently, forcing Harley to turn around.
Ultimately, she knew this associate would be more useful than another fight with the Riddler, so she shot Ed one last dangerous look, letting him know it wasn't over between them, then followed Lucy out of the birdcage and into the old kitchens.
The music from the club made the kitchen walls vibrate, and Harley used the sound to cover the SNAP when she broke off the stem of her martini glass, tucking the jagged piece of crystal in her jacket pocket. Then as they headed for the back door, she slipped her burner out of her clutch and fired off a quick text to Frost—Back alley. Now.
There were two handsome bouncers standing guard outside, and a black Jaguar idling in the alley, a driver waiting at attention beside its backdoor.
Harley wrapped her hand around the glass stem in her pocket, eyeballing the driver warily as he opened the door for her.
Lucy shot her a nasty smirk then flounced back inside the club, leaving Harley with little choice but to kill everyone or get in the car. She tried to meet the driver's eye, but he looked away, obviously nervous. Either because he knew who she was or she wasn't doing a great job of hiding that she was a tightly wound spring, needing very little to set her off in a big, hot, messy way.
Harley took a deep breath to compose herself and ducked into the car, quickly realizing that the associate waiting there would not be attacking her anytime soon.
He was on the later side of middle age, with a full head of graying hair neatly clipped and swept to the side. His suit was well cut but not ostentatious, his tie undecorative, his watch practical, his wedding band slim. But just like all the other wealthy men Harley had met, he radiated entitlement.
"So, you're what all the fuss is about," he wrinkled his nose like he didn't want to be there, or maybe he'd been forced into this meeting.
"Who are you?" Harley asked, squinting at him curiously.
"My name is John Dagget," he said sourly, making Harley's eyebrows raise. "And what should I call you?"
"Whatever you want," she replied calmly, sizing up John Daggett of Daggett Industries, she could only assume.
John Daggett, an associate of Black Mask, it would seem.
"Well, I won't be calling you 'doctor' since they've revoked your PhD. What a waste," he scoffed and looked out the window. "All that hard work and ambition, all that talent and drive, and you just threw it away."
"What exactly do you want, Mr Daggett?" Harley narrowed her eyes, unsure what to make of this very entitled man opining on her former career and the choices she'd made since—judging her instead of fearing her. But more importantly, knowing more about her than most. To call her talented, ambitious, driven—he would have had to look into her past. He would have to be interested.
"I wanted to meet you," he explained, meeting her eye for the first time. "To make sure you're not insane."
"I don't see how that's any of your business," Harley shot back.
Daggett chuckled bitterly, again making her think he didn't want to be there, that someone been forced him into this. It made her wonder how he fit into Black Mask's operation—a billionaire businessman reluctantly inviting Harley Quinn into his Jaguar to ask her about her mental health.
"When I make an investment, I like to know what I'm actually investing in," he informed her briskly. "If that investment is criminally insane, I might be hesitant to agree."
"An investment?" Harley's eyebrows knitted together.
Daggett didn't reply directly. He sighed like he was under duress and shot her a withering look.
"I take it that strangulation is a regular threat in your line of work," he snapped, looking at her neck. "Maybe you ought to think about a change."
Harley ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to find the words Daggett needed to hear to reveal more details about this investment to her.
"I'm making some... changes in my personal life," she said carefully, meeting Daggett's eye. "My former partner wasn't happy about it."
"Changes in your personal life," Daggett raised an eyebrow. "Well, that certainly sounds like something a sane person would do."
"Tell me what you want, Daggett," Harley demanded, tired of playing games.
"It isn't what I want," Daggett replied drily. "It's what the group wants."
Harley didn't say anything to that, too surprised by the added layer of a group, not just a boss. Had she had it wrong this whole time? Was it some kind of council?
"Come to the Tobacconist's Club tomorrow night," he instructed. "Ten o'clock."
Harley squeezed the glass stem in her pocket, considering the ways she could use it to get a better answer out of Daggett right then, right there, instead of yet another adventure in bullshit. In the end, she pushed her door open without a word, neither agreeing or disagreeing to his proposal, and stepped out into the humid alley.
Daggett's driver ducked back into the front seat, and the Jaguar swiftly pulled away, leaving Harley staring after it, her mind racing.
A town car pulled up right beside her as the bumper of Daggett's car disappeared around the corner. She glanced at the two handsome bouncers guarding the club's back entrance, then opened the town car's door and slipped inside.
The Joker was lounging on the other side of the backseat, waiting for her.
Harley slammed the door and collapsed into the seat, her eyes closing.
"That good, huh?" he asked as Frost pulled out of the alley, turning in the opposite direction of Daggett's car.
"Well," Harley said slowly, trying to organize her thoughts. "That was billionaire businessman John Daggett. Lucy said he's an associate of Black Mask."
She looked at the Joker, who raised one amused eyebrow, taking this news in stride.
"He wanted to meet me," Harley continued grimly. "To make sure I'm not insane before he agrees to make an investment in me."
"An... investment?" the Joker squinted at her owlishly.
"Whatever the fuck that means," Harley sighed, pushing her hair off her face and closing her eyes. "He wants me to go to the Tobacconist's Club tomorrow night to find out more... and... it sounded like..."
Frost pulled onto the freeway as Harley struggled to articulate what Daggett told her, putting it in context with the rest of what they knew.
"He said this investment wasn't up to him, but up to a group." She looked at the Joker uncertainly. "I think I'm going to meet... the group."
He raked a hand through his hair, thinking over what she'd said, his jaw twitching as he thought.
"There's something else," Harley sighed, shooting him an ironic little smile. "I know who the Riddler is."
"Oh yeah?" he cocked an eyebrow at her.
"He's a bartender named Ed," Harley scowled. "He's Lucy's favorite, and he was right under my nose this whole time."
"How'd ya figure that out?"
"Poked him in the ribs where I stabbed him last night," Harley admitted moodily, getting a quiet chuckle.
"Wanna go back and shoot the place up?" J offered her a roguish smirk that she returned faintly. "Grab this Ed guy and beat his brains in?"
"No," Harley sighed. "Lucy is pissed enough as it is, and I need to fly low before this meeting tomorrow night. Besides," she shrugged. "If Ed has any sense, he'll be long gone by now."
"You get the feeling he's got any sense?" the Joker asked wryly.
"Mmm," Harley made a face. "He's very..." She searched for the right word. "Well, he's exactly what you'd expect. Attention seeking, flamboyant. But to be honest, right now, I couldn't care less about him."
The Joker hummed in agreement.
"How's Crane?" Harley asked tentatively, to which the Joker grunted, sounding annoyed.
"At the warehouse," he caught Harley's eye, smirking slyly. "I got him convinced the Batman's obsessed with tracking him down. He's too chickenshit to leave on his own."
Harley threw her head back and laughed. "That's hilarious."
"He's psyching himself to get out of there," the Joker predicted. "It's just a matter of time."
They sat in silence for the rest of the short drive to Otisberg, each of them deep in thought. For the first time in weeks, Harley knew she and the Joker were in lockstep. It was comforting considering how little else she knew. She could feel that sense of closeness she'd been missing so desperately mending, knitting back together, maybe thanks in part to their conversation the night before. Talking about their feelings.
When Frost pulled up outside Samantha's apartment, Harley didn't move to get out of the car, not quite ready to part from the Joker yet. Frost seemed to pick up on it.
"I'm gonna have a quick smoke, boss," he said, leaving the car running as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Harley glanced at the Joker, who was sucking on the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There were so many confusing plates around them spinning, and she realized then that the only thing that made sense was being with him. Harley didn't care about Crane or the show they were putting on for the people stalking them. She didn't care about the investment Daggett and Black Mask wanted to make in her. She only wanted the Joker.
She slid across the backseat so she was sitting thigh to thigh with him, looking up at him in the dim glow of the reading light in the front seat. He slowly turned to look down at her, almost like he was surprised to see her there. Maybe he was surprised after how stubborn she'd been while he'd made small gestures, keeping her in the loop—trying to explain himself.
His eyes darted around her face, understanding what she felt as she reached up to push a flop of greasy green-tinged hair off his forehead.
Harley closed her eyes and tipped her head back, inviting him to kiss her. After a moment, he lowered his mouth to hers, his fingers threading into her hair at the side of her face as their lips slid together, indulging in being physically connected again.
Harley slipped her tongue in his mouth to touch his softly, relishing the familiar taste of him. She felt him inhale sharply as he twisted toward her, drawing his knee up on the seat between them. He deepened the kiss when Harley tugged on his hair, the hot pressure of his tongue against hers making her toes curl.
She leaned back across the backseat, pulling him with her, and he shifted so he could hover over her with one knee planted between her legs. His hand curled around her waist, squeezing her hard as his mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, then down to her neck, his tongue flicking over a sensitive bruise there.
Harley felt him take a deep breath as he rubbed his nose against her tender throat, breathing her in as his hand roamed up and down her side, his fingers digging into her like he was trying to pull her apart.
Her heart leaping, Harley pulled his face back up to hers, pushing her tongue into his mouth more urgently as he tugged her bodice down, freeing one of her small breasts. Her knees locked around his thigh, and though she hadn't meant for this to turn into that, she ground her pelvis against his leg. He ducked down to pull her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, making Harley pant quietly as heat flooded her belly. She rubbed up against his thigh again, feeling his cock getting hard against her hip as their breathing turned heavy. He made a throaty, satisfied sound and pressed his leg forward against her core, encouraging her to squirm against him as he kissed her deeply and palmed her breast.
Frost knocked on the driver's side window, and the Joker froze above Harley as her eyes snapped open. She stared up at him in the partial darkness, the urge to invite him upstairs unbearably intense even though they weren't supposed to be seeing each other. He licked his lips, and his jaw twitched, then he pulled back with a loud, frustrated sigh through his nose. Harley pulled her top up and sat up too, pushing her hair off her face just as Frost slid back behind the wheel. But she wasn't annoyed at him. They were being watched, and he couldn't stand outside the car while they fooled around in the backseat when their babysitters knew she was in there.
Harley took a deep breath and looked at the Joker, who was staring straight ahead, obviously as physically frustrated as was.
"Bye," she murmured, pushing her door open.
He tipped his head toward her, an ironic smirk on his lips.
"Text me," he said, making Harley laugh quietly before she got out of the car.
Harley knew she was being watched as she crossed the street and climbed the stairs to Samantha's apartment, but for the moment, she was feeling too alive to care. She was feeling…
Electrified.
Like she'd spent the past month dying inside, and her heart had just been jump-started back to life.
A/N: Only 9 chapters for a real kiss! And not a bad one, right?
More importantly… they talked about their feelings! Communication! Personal growth! All the heart eyes! In character... that's for you to decide.
But also… Ed and Roman gossiping! Ed's thoughts about Harley are one of my favorite things in this fic. Ed is all of us when it comes to Harley.
Ed's building is inspired by London Terrace in Chelsea, but a dirtier 1970s/80s New York version because it's Gotham. If that's of interest at all.
Next: Harley meets Black Mask, and Vicki investigates Daggett Industries.
I got a Lonnie mood board up on Tumblr if you're interested.
Please comment or review! Even just a squeal of delight that our favourite terrorists had a little smooch and a fumble. They do a bit more than that next week.
xo