Theme: Blanck Mass - 'John Doe's Carnival of Errors'
The Harlequin
25.
After his Batman-induced beating, the cops left Ed alone in the interrogation room for hours and hours and hours. It was more than a little insulting to think the cops just forgot about him, but Ed reassured himself they were busy with the riots still ripping Gotham apart.
He tried to plot an escape, but the awful dampness started to sneak in, and multiple concussions were making him too lazy and depressed to scheme properly. And then there was the threat of Blackgate or Arkham looming—one of them would be in his future if he didn't figure something out soon.
But as always, it was the boredom that did the most damage. Pervasive, overwhelming, painful, the boredom made Ed want to rip his own guts out or pry his fingernails off just for the sake of having something interesting happen. He searched for little slivers of something to inspire him, pacing around the interrogation room, inspecting the mirrored glass, going through his pockets—anything was better than this. But there was nothing, and this time, he didn't even have Lee to keep him company and help him through it.
Harley and J would come for him, Ed reassured himself, over and over again. As far as he was aware, the squad was still in formation. Surely they all had to decide together that it was over?
They had to come.
Eventually, two fat beat cops slapped a pair of handcuffs on Ed and dragged him back to a holding area. The sun had risen, and the number of occupants in the cells had dwindled, the police weeding out the vegans and liberals from the anarchists associated with Alexandra Kosov and the Joker. Boring.
But then something finally happened. The cops stopped Ed in front of a holding cell, one of them fisting a handful of his ruined Prada shirt while the other unlocked the cell. Ed's eyes widened when he saw who was already curled up inside, beaten bloody and smelling of smoke, and probably in need of an Emergency Room, to be fully honest.
Jonathan Crane, aka the Scarecrow.
Excitement zipped around Ed's chest as he fantasized about Crane being an escape plan.
Harley would totally plant a bomb in Crane's gut to help Ed escape.
That would be so Harley.
Ed glanced over his shoulder at the beat cops trundling away as if they hadn't just put him in a cell with a fellow known rogue. Although, frankly, as far as rogues went, Crane needed a lot of work. Yeah, he was in the Batman's bad books, but only just barely. And yeah, Crane had a mask and all, that had to count for something, Ed guessed. But still, he was just kinda… lame.
And he totally screwed over Harley and J.
Then again… Ed supposed he had too.
But there was obviously a huge difference.
Crane was sitting on the floor in the corner, his arms folded on his knees, looking resigned like he'd already accepted his fate of being returned to Arkham.
"Well, well," Ed cooed flirtatiously, edging closer. "If it isn't the Scarecrow."
Crane looked up, his eyes narrowing. One of them was bruised and swollen, and the other had a burst blood vessel, which was actually really really ugly, not the lovely pale baby blues Ed felt himself get a little lost in when they met in the Sionis crypt.
"You," Crane spat bitterly.
"Me," Ed grinned, basking in the attention. "Sooo, you seen Harley Quinn or the Joker lately?"
Crane scowled at him, revealing a chipped tooth. Yeesh.
"How about Black Mask?" Ed pressed, raising an eyebrow. "You seen Roman around lately…" he flashed Crane a rakish smirk, doing his best impression of the Joker. "Jonny-boy?"
That seemed to hit a nerve because Crane's nostrils flared indignantly as he struggled to his feet. He actually had a pretty decent suit on, but it was trashed to hell, and he could hardly stand, so the whole effect was a little meh.
"Who beat you up?" Ed continued conversationally, and when Crane just glowered at him, Ed gasped happily, throwing a hand over his heart. "Aww, did Harley beat you up?"
"Stop it," Crane spat, lowering himself onto a bench.
"So, what happened?" Ed tried again. "See, the last thing I remember is being at Roman's penthouse before BC knocked me out, then I woke up here." He sighed and shrugged helplessly. "The life of a supervillain, amiright?"
"I am not speaking to you, Riddler," Crane snapped, shooting Ed a glare through his ugly bloodshot eye. Then he turned his head away, determined to ignore Ed.
Well, that wasn't going to do.
Ed rolled his shoulders back, swinging his arms to warm up as he glanced over his shoulder, checking for cops. But it was all clear.
In three long strides, Ed was towering over Crane, who looked up sharply, panic flashing across his beat-up face. Ed ducked down and grabbed Crane by the front of his suit jacket, hauling him up off the bench. Crane yelped as Ed swung him around and slammed him up against the cell's bars, holding him there easily.
"Hiya," Ed purred, waggling his eyebrows as Crane panted hard through his nose, his lip curling. "So, now that it's just us girls," Ed offered him a cheeky wink. "Why don't you tell me where Harley and J are."
"I don't know," Crane said through gritted teeth.
"Boo," Ed's bottom lip popped out performatively. He pulled Crane away from the bars and slammed him back up against them again, making him groan as his head cracked against the metal. "I'm gonna need you to be a little more forthcoming, Jonny."
"I said, I don't know," Crane hissed.
"Why don't you start with what you do know," Ed suggested patiently, raising his eyebrows.
Crane looked off to the side, huffing indignantly before he turned back to Ed.
"You know they were just using you, don't you," he sneered. "They needed you, and now they don't. They aren't coming to save you."
Ed's face darkened, Crane's words hitting just a little too close to home. Not to mention… he really didn't appreciate the suggestion that he needed saving.
Just a little assistance was all Ed required.
But in the meantime, he didn't need to listen to this reject patronize him.
"Hmm," Ed ran his fingers down the torn lapel of Crane's blazer, examining the fabric before he met Crane's bloodshot eyes again. "You know what I think… Jonny?"
Crane's eyes widened, a very satisfying flicker of fear flashing across his face.
"I think… you're a little out of your league," Ed said softly. He released Crane's jacket in favor of wrapping both hands around his throat, his grip tightening as he held him up against the cell bars, choking him. "Don't worry, Jonny," Ed offered a saccharine smile as Crane gagged and pawed at Ed's hands. "Just a little light breathplay between friends. All the boys say I'm real good at it. I promise."
He waited until Crane's eyes rolled back in his head before letting go, his body sliding to the floor, unconscious and with a probably bruised trachea, but not dead.
Ed sighed fitfully and raked a hand through his limp hair, uncertainty about how this would all play out prickling at the back of his neck.
Everything was black.
Roman sucked in a shuddering breath as he struggled back to consciousness. He was on his back and his arms were tied beneath him, his shoulders straining, his mutilated fingers digging into his spine. His ankles were bound too, his lips fused with sticky tape. The tape was wrapped tight around his entire head multiple times, covering his eyes, his mouth, cutting into his cheeks, making him claustrophobic. The pressure on his swollen eye was a persistent agony, like his eyeball was about to be pushed into his skull.
Roman's first thought was that they'd buried him alive, and he started to panic in earnest, bucking and thrashing until his feet connected with something solid and carpeted.
Not a coffin.
The trunk of a car.
Roman breathed deeply through his nose, trying to calm his racing pulse. The immediate fear of being buried alive began to subside, but pain and weakness crept in to replace it, and they were almost worse. His face was in agony, his brain pounding against his skull, the hole in his gut an acute, never-ending ache that made him feel like he was dying.
After being beaten by Harley at the penthouse, Roman needed an oxycontin and a few lines of cocaine to get him back on his feet. Those had long since faded from his system, leaving him excruciatingly aware of his injuries. As the adrenaline that came with panic began to recede too, he was left limp and weak, panting in the darkness, alone.
A key scratched in the lock, and Roman's breathing grew louder, more erratic, as he listened to the trunk creak open, a seagull's cry telling him he was somewhere near the water.
Blind and mute, he tried to cry out, to communicate. But he wasn't capable of anything more than a pathetic whine, the tape wrapped around his head silencing him completely.
"Up ya get, BM," a deep baritone rumbled.
A large pair of arms scooped Roman up, holding him like he was little more than a child. He was too weak to fight, so he let the large arms carry him, trembling and telling himself he was saving his strength for what would come next.
He was carried up several flights of stairs, more gulls screeching at each other in the distance, and when a sliding steel door clanged open, Roman realized he was at the warehouse in the Narrows, the Joker's high pitched giggle confirming it.
Fear and rage raced through Roman's veins, making his heart pound and his lungs constrict as he was unceremoniously dropped on the floor. He groaned against the tape covering his mouth and struggled to sit up, panting frantically through his nose while voices spoke around him.
"Oh my fucking god," a woman groaned indulgently. "I could kiss you, Frost. This pizza is amazing."
"The Narrows ain't known for its food, Pammy," the baritone, Frost, replied affably. "But they got some good pizza joints down this way."
The Joker giggled again, and this time he was joined by Harley Quinn's cheerful, tinkling laughter, making Roman's teeth grind together.
"Cut his blindfold off, will you, Frost?" Harley asked sweetly. "And check him."
"You got it, doc," Frost agreed.
"Don't feel like you gotta be gentle, either," the Joker added drily, making Harley snicker.
A strong hand grabbed Roman's chin, holding him in place despite his weak attempts to wrench away. He yelped when a knife nicked his cheekbone, slicing through the tape covering the top half of his head. The tape peeled away, and blinding sunshine hit Roman square in the face, making his eyelids flutter as he tried to adjust to the light after so long in the dark.
Frost was big and orange with a bleached-blonde ponytail, and he checked Roman's pockets ungently, as instructed. Roman swayed weakly as Frost palmed his suit jacket, finding the silver Zippo tucked in his breast pocket. The lighter Roman stole from the Joker the night of the Wayne Foundation dinner, a souvenir to remind him of his victory.
"Hey, boss," Frost twisted around, holding the Zippo up. "You lose something?"
Roman blinked hard, his vision solidifying around the edges as Harley strode up to him. She was bruised and bloodied, sporting an ugly black eye, one of her cheekbones swollen up unnaturally, her forehead split open. She should have been ugly, but her blue eyes were dancing and she was beaming. She was happy.
She took the lighter off Frost, sparing Roman half a look before she turned and swayed back to the Joker, who was leaning against a structural pole, looking just as destroyed and cheerful as Harley.
"Look what I found," she sang, waving the lighter at him.
The Joker chuckled throatily, his tongue prodding his scarred bottom lip as he pushed away from the pole. He swept Harley up as she threw her arms around his neck, and they kissed each other like something out of an old Hollywood movie. The Joker's hand slipped into Harley's hair, and she made a soft, happy sound when he deepened the kiss, tugging her closer.
Roman scowled. They were taunting him.
"Oh my god, please stop," a woman with red hair complained. She was sitting on the green Chesterfield armchair with her legs kicked up, eating a slice of pizza. She wore a blood-spattered camisole with an EMT's jumpsuit bunched up around her waist, her left arm bandaged, and her feet bare. Other than the blood, she looked completely out of place among this group, but she seemed to have enough authority to make Harley pull away from the Joker.
He held out his hand, and Harley made a show of depositing the lighter in his palm. Then they shared a smirk and she twisted away, grinning while the Joker lit a cigarette and pitched back to lean against the structural pole.
He was settling in to watch, Roman realized.
"Oh, Roman," Harley sighed, swaying up to him, smirking. "Who could have seen everything ending like this?"
Roman scowled at her, and she flashed him a smile before ducking down to pull a knife from her dirty white boots, making his eyes narrow.
"Now, it did occur to me that putting a bullet in your head would be easiest, but that's a little too sudden," Harley continued cheerfully, gesturing with the knife as she drew closer. "This should be a personal moment for you. You know, so it really sinks in."
The Joker gave a rattly chuckle, exhaling a plume of smoke as he watched.
"Besides, look what you did to poor Anarky," Harley pointed to the dark green couch where someone was curled up under an unzipped sleeping bag, a blonde head poking out at the top.
Roman's eyes darted between Harley and Lonnie, already knowing where she was going with this.
"I think Anarky deserves a little something for his troubles," Harley continued, her smirk turning wicked as she stood over Roman. "Don't you?"
Roman glared up at her, seething behind the duct tape covering the bottom half of his face.
Harley dropped into a sumo squat in front of him, cocking her head to the side as she searched his battered face, then lifted the knife, waving it between his eyes.
"You know, underneath it all," she sighed, examining the knife's tip before she met his eye again. "I think deep down, you know you want this too."
She offered him a sunny smile, then stabbed him in the shoulder, her eyes glittering as she used both hands to shove the blade in deeper until it was buried to the hilt.
Roman groaned raggedly, brokenly, his head falling back against the wall behind him as pain washed over him anew.
Harley grabbed a handful of his curling black hair, yanking him forward and leaning in close to whisper in his ear.
"Wanna know a secret?" she hissed, making Roman twitch violently. "I don't really like Lonnie…" she chuckled. "Believe it or not… that was for Black Canary."
She twisted the knife until he moaned, then she pulled back to smirk at him again.
"See, I'm not really a flaying kind of girl," she admitted breezily. "But I do like… symmetry."
Roman panted through his nose as he stared at her, the blade embedded in his shoulder distracting as he tried to predict her next move.
"You didn't take anything from me, Roman," Harley explained. "But you're an entitled dick, and you did take something from Samantha."
Roman's eyes widened, searching her face frantically, which she seemed to delight in, her eyes dancing wickedly.
"The difference between us is I don't need a torture chamber or a bunch of money to take something from you," she offered him a smile that was almost pretty, see-sawing between darkness and light. "Here, let me show you…"
She dove forward to grab Roman's head with both hands, shoving him back against the wall. Roman tried to wiggle free, squealing as Harley angled one thumb in front of his eye, then thrust the digit into the socket. He screamed against the tape, feeling her thumb wiggle around for one horrifying moment before she ripped his eyeball out of his skull, the optic nerve snapping.
Blood poured down Roman's face as he howled and writhed, his body convulsing helplessly, entirely at her mercy.
Harley straightened up and dropped the remains of his eyeball on the floor by her feet. Then she folded her arms and stood over him, waiting.
Roman tipped his head back to peer up at her through his one remaining eye, sobbing and whining, drained and shaking pathetically as he again tried to anticipate her next move. Would she take him apart piece by piece? Removing parts of him by hand until there was nothing left?
She smiled ruefully. "Hey, Pam, come here."
The woman on the armchair dropped her pizza crust in a grease-stained box and hopped to her feet, wiping her fingers on the legs of her jumpsuit as she padded barefoot over to them. She stopped at Harley's elbow and squinted down at Roman curiously.
"This is Pam," Harley explained, jerking her thumb at the woman.
Roman's remaining eye darted between them nervously, trying to follow what was happening.
Harley clasped her hands together girlishly and bent forward, her smirk growing.
"Some people call Pam… Poison Ivy," she explained, waggling her eyebrows.
Roman's heart was already thundering wildly, but it began to race like it was trying to escape his chest now. He stared up at the woman, Pam—Poison Ivy—remembering the tall tales and myths he'd heard from the Lucky Hand and Gotham's other thugs. He fell back against the wall, pressing himself against it, hyperventilating.
"Should we take his gag off?" Harley wondered.
"Why?" the woman sneered. "Why does he deserve to speak?"
Harley beamed and grabbed the woman's hand. They exchanged a look, both of them smiling, then Harley turned without so much as a backward glance at Roman and flounced across the loft to the Joker, who smirked and tossed his cigarette away.
"C'mere, Puddin'," he drawled, opening his arms wide for her, outrageously smug.
Roman watched, bewildered, as Harley punched the Joker on the shoulder, calling him an asshole and laughing when he grabbed her and lifted her off her feet. He kissed her, and she issued a few stubborn complaints against his lips but wound herself around him all the same, her arms tangling together behind his neck, giving into him.
"So," the woman spoke up, drawing Roman's attention back to her. "I hear you like to torture women." She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "And then you like to make them your slaves."
Roman began to tremble violently, his jealousy melting away as genuine terror took hold.
The woman lowered herself to her knees and sat back on her heels, pulling a gold chain from under her camisole and showing him a small green bottle hanging from the necklace.
"This is a kind of lubrication I normally use when I do this," she explained, letting the light catch the glass before she tucked it away. "When I didn't, things got a little bit… painful."
The Joker started to cackle, but Harley shushed him.
"Let's be honest, you don't deserve lube, do you, Roman?" the woman sneered, her green eyes rolling over him, disgusted. "Here's some advice I'm sure you've given women before..."
She lifted her hand, and Roman shrank back against the wall, his eye glued to her palm as it hovered in front of his face, then lowered to his neck.
"Why don't you just lay back…" Her green eyes seemed to turn electric as her lips curled into a cruel smirk. "And take it."
The woman slapped her hand around Roman's throat, and the moment her skin touched his, a rush of euphoria sucked Roman away from reality, carrying him into a weightless space where neither light nor sound existed.
A tidal wave of conflicting emotions crashed over him, confusing and impossible to decipher as they swirled around him like a raging hurricane. They invaded his body, sweeping in through his eyes and his nose and his mouth, flooding his lungs and bloating his belly, expanding every fatty cavity until he was poised to explode like a force-fed duck ready for slaughter.
"Roman Sionis," the woman's voice cut through the storm, clear, calm, and strong. "What you think you know, and what you think you believe… those things are about to change."
Love, hate, fear, desire, melancholy, the purest joy—they were baffling, terrifying, glorious. They were pulling him in different directions, ripping him apart, screaming his name, and demanding his attention like a torrent of squawking crows.
They wanted him to live for this woman, to belong to her, to be what she needed him to be.
He lived for no one. Only for her.
"You will feel what Samantha felt," the woman hissed. "And you will feel that every moment of every day of the rest of your fucking life until your piece of shit rapist corpse is rotting in the back lot of Arkham Asylum."
She wanted him to suffer, so he would suffer.
She believed eternal torment was all he deserved, so he deserved it.
Pain, anguish, horror, humiliation, he deserved it all.
Then Circe was there, but she was Samantha again, her blonde hair glowing with the force of her rage as she flew at him. She was crushing his skull with her bare hands, she was flaying the flesh from his bones and amputating limbs from his body, she was shoveling out his organs, and she was eating him alive.
"This is who you are now, Roman Sionis,"
It was Samantha, it was Circe, it was Harley Quinn, it was his mother. It was Poison Ivy.
"Never forget me."
The night of the Janus Plastics Plant fire cost the occupants of Wayne Manor dearly. Dinah didn't leave her room for four full days, and for the first time in a year, Bruce truly realized just how young she was. Eighteen years old, and he'd treated her like an adult capable of coping with horrors no adult should have to face.
Pulling her out of the burning factory and seeing the haunted look in her eyes… it rattled him. Made him feel irresponsible and misguided.
Dinah came out of her room on the fourth day, looking drawn and resigned as she joined Bruce in the sitting room. Once again, he felt out of his element. Unsure how to navigate a teenage girl's feelings, and not even entirely sure what happened between her and Harley at the factory. All he could do was wait for her to speak.
"I can't stay in Gotham," Dinah said at length, drawing her legs up beneath her on the loveseat. "Harley knows who I am now, and she's too…" She swallowed thickly. "I can't."
"Alright," Bruce agreed soberly. "I think that's probably best too."
"She made me feel like I betrayed her," Dinah explained, her face turning red, maybe with shame. "She said she cared about me."
Bruce pressed his lips together, uncertain of how to respond. It sounded like emotional manipulation, cruel and calculating. The kind of manipulation a cold-blooded killer with no conscience would find second nature.
"She's a psychopath," Dinah continued dully, catching Bruce's eye like she knew what he was thinking. "But she believes she can care about people, and in her own way… she does." She sighed heavily, looking resigned. "It's just dark and twisted... like you're a toy that belongs to her, not a person with feelings."
There was a long stretch of silence as Bruce reflected on Dinah's words, sensing she'd done little else but sit in her room thinking about Harley for the last four days, and this was the conclusion she'd come to.
He cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. To say what he should have said long, long ago.
"I know you've always felt… personally responsible for her," Bruce said delicately. "But you aren't, and that isn't any way to live your life."
Dinah could have called him a hypocrite, as she so often did. And she'd be right, as she so often was. But this time, she didn't.
"Vicki said I have to forgive myself," Dinah rolled her eyes. "I don't even know what I have to forgive myself for anymore, or if I just hate Harley for being the first person to, you know," she closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "The first person to see me."
"Dinah," Bruce hunkered forward, forcing her to meet his eye. "You don't have to forgive yourself for how she made you feel."
"I know that." Dinah pressed her lips together and shook her head like she was coming to some inevitable conclusion. "I can't do this anymore, Bruce."
"Alright," Bruce agreed softly, his brow furrowing.
A long silence stretched between them, one Bruce had no idea how to fill, but Dinah didn't seem inclined to either. So he tried a different tact.
"We should look forward, not backward," he suggested, bracing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. "I don't want you to feel like I'm pushing this, but… maybe we look at college as an option?"
Dinah looked up at him sharply, bewildered. "College?"
"College is where people find themselves," Bruce shrugged.
His experience at Princeton had been nothing but one long, painful slog that he eventually abandoned, but maybe it would be different for her.
"It's where you figure out who you are, what you want to do, where you get a sense of independence."
Dinah looked uncertain.
"It would get you out of Gotham, and maybe give you some direction," Bruce coaxed. "Help you figure out what you want to do next. And it would be completely different from all of this."
"Princeton?" Dinah made a face. "How am I supposed to go to Princeton with people like…" She winced. "Well, with people like you."
Bruce laughed weakly. "It won't only be spoiled rich kids."
She shot him a dubious look.
"Okay, it mostly will be," Bruce conceded. "But not all of them. You'll make friends. It'll be hard but," he shrugged and gestured between them. "Remember how hard this was at the beginning?"
Dinah nodded slowly, agreeing, in theory at least.
Later that afternoon, Bruce called Princeton to suggest they may need a new library, and perhaps the university would be interested in acquiring a Matisse from the Wayne Family's collection. Several million dollars and a Matisse later, Dinah was accepted into Princeton University's freshman class, which would be starting its Fall quarter in just two weeks.
A few days later, Alfred drove Bruce down to Arkham Asylum, where Roman Sionis had been institutionalized. A diagnosis was still in the works, the doctors and specialists baffled over a healthy thirty-three year-old-man flipping from successful businessman to psychotic lunatic within a matter of days.
There was more to that story. There was everything Vicki told Bruce about Roman's dealings with the mob, with Daggett Shipping and the blue poppies, with the new mayor Hamilton Hill, and with Roman's missing fiancee, Samantha Pierce.
But Vicki wasn't taking Bruce's calls, and she wasn't writing about Roman's bad behavior or that of his co-conspirators either. She wouldn't testify because doing so would incriminate herself for colluding with Harley Quinn, for which Bruce determined Vicki felt decidedly less heartbroken than Dinah.
It had been a mistake getting involved with her, one Bruce deeply regretted. Being with Vicki had been like a brief vacation from reality, one that distracted him from the paranoia plaguing Dinah and Roman's city-wide takeover. Guilt dogged his conscience, rivaling but not quite reaching what he'd felt after Rachel and Harvey's deaths.
Bruce swore to himself he would not allow this to happen again. He would not become complacent or behave so carelessly.
The only person who could corroborate Vicki's story, the only person willing to testify against Roman, was the Riddler. They didn't have a real name for him, and he was hardly a reliable witness. A histrionic sociopath with ADHD, the court psychologist determined at the country prison. Definitely a candidate for Arkham, not Blackgate.
The Riddler refused to give up Harley Quinn and the Joker, and he kept mum about Mayor Hill's role in the conspiracy too. Nothing he claimed about Roman could be corroborated, not until one night when the GCPD received a tip about a body found near the Harbor. Dental records identified the corpse as Samantha Pierce. The body was missing its tongue, and there were other signs of mutilation indicating she'd been horrifically tortured.
The MCU wouldn't be able to pin all of Roman's crimes on him, and they might not have been able to indict Hill, but they would get justice for Samantha Pierce. Roman would be tried for her murder, though at present, he was mentally unfit to stand trial.
That was what brought Bruce to Arkham on that rainy afternoon. He needed to see what happened to Roman for himself.
"Mr Wayne," Arkham's new director greeted him with a smile, his voice an odd warble. "How wonderful of you to visit."
"Thank you for seeing me, Dr Strange," Bruce offered Hugo Strange a pinched smile. "How are you finding Arkham?"
"Oh, it's only been three days now," Strange explained good-naturedly as they walked toward the infirmary on the ground floor. "Dr Leland was very eager to get back to academia. I think she finds work here… slightly macabre."
"Macabre." Bruce had to laugh. "Joan Leland may have a point."
"Perhaps," Strange chuckled. "We're starting a new project next week. Something to get the inmates moving and outdoors. A new greenhouse."
They stopped in front of the infirmary, and Strange sighed melodramatically.
"I should warn you," he admitted. "Mr Sionis is heavily sedated. His condition is… extreme."
"Do you have any idea what happened to him?" Bruce frowned. "Could it be Jonathan Crane's fear toxin?"
"There were trace amounts of cocaine and opioids in his system, but no sign of fear toxin," Strange explained, glancing at Bruce over the tops of his circular blue glasses. "But if he did to Samantha Pierce what he's accused of, perhaps Mr Sionis was not as sane as he appeared."
Strange pushed the infirmary door open and gestured for Bruce to enter, stepping back into the corridor to give him some privacy with his old school friend.
Roman was in a hospital bed near the window, rain trickling down glass covered in steel bars, quantifying his incarceration even if he wasn't aware of it. Half of his face was wrapped in thick gauze, and he wore orange hospital scrubs, identifying him as an inmate.
Bruce rubbed his hand over his jaw thoughtfully as he examined Roman's wounds, the heartbeat monitor beeping steadily beside him.
Roman's left eye had been removed. He'd been stabbed in the shoulder and the stomach, and he was missing three and a half fingers from his right hand.
Harley Quinn.
This was her vengeance. It was as obvious as if she'd carved her name into his forehead.
"Samantha," Roman panted, his eye wide-open, horrified but unseeing. "Samantha."
Bruce sighed and pressed his lips together, uncertain of what he was witnessing.
But something told him he would eventually find out.
Lee worked the late shift again, which was really just a long day shift that stretched into the night. The Narrows clinic was always too busy, too understaffed, and too underfunded. It was frustrating, but it only made her more dedicated— if she didn't look after these people, then who would?
It had been almost a week since Ed was arrested and Harley escaped police custody, the Joker as elusive as ever. Lee kept an eye on the newspapers, headlines catching her eye in passing as fellow commuters read their copies of the Gotham Globe on the metro. Headlines like "WHO IS THE RIDDLER? MASKED TERRORIST FINALLY CAUGHT BY THE BATMAN" or "RIDDLER'S CRIME SPREE COMES TO AN END — WILL IT BE ARKHAM OR BLACKGATE?" or "COMMISSIONER GROGAN CALLS VIRAL HARLEY QUINN VIDEO 'A HOAX.'"
Lee saw that viral video of Harley being dragged out of the back of a police cruiser, unconscious and bleeding. It was shaky cell phone footage, but it still made Lee's pulse leap anxiously. She just hoped wherever Harley was now, she was safe.
It sounded like Ed would be committed to Arkham, which Lee supposed wasn't the worst thing that could happen to him. He could be dead. But she remembered how hard it was for him being chained up in the bathtub… it was just cruel to put Ed behind bars.
It was well after midnight when Lee got home, sighing as she unlocked her front door, and wondering if the leftover frittata she'd saved for dinner would be as squidgy as she expected it to be.
But when she stepped over the threshold, she immediately froze. A lamp in the living room was on, and someone was shuffling around in the kitchen. The refrigerator door creaked open, and they cleared their throat, making their presence known.
Lee swallowed thickly, her mind racing, but instead of doing the logical thing—turning and fleeing for her life—she stepped into her apartment and pushed the door shut behind her.
Her heart was pounding as she took a few shaky steps down the hall to her kitchen, nervous, excited, scared, but not at all surprised to find the Joker waiting there for her.
He was wearing a striking three-piece suit of violet and emerald, the one Lee always saw in the papers, his trademark. His face was painted in smears of red, white, and black, twisting an imperfect but handsome face into something gruesome. He was almost unrecognizable from the man whose life she saved, the man who spent hours in her window, chain-smoking and glowering, frustrated by the captivity of his physical weakness. The man who ate Lee's food and flirted with her to keep her supplicant and made love to his partner in Lee's bed.
He was frowning at the contents of the refrigerator, looking disappointed, maybe due to the lack of red meat he'd become accustomed to finding in there. Or perhaps he was looking for the green juice, an idea that nearly made Lee laugh. She took a deep breath to stop herself, and he looked up at her sharply.
His eyes were unsettling, glittering with dark humor like he knew what she was thinking—like maybe he could read her mind. There was a spark of familiarity too, an inside joke. Lee knew him, she realized, and at that moment, the mysticism of the Joker fused with the man she'd saved, compelling her, frightening her, exciting her, making her question everything.
"Dr Thomkins," the Joker purred, pushing the refrigerator door shut. "How's tricks… hmm?"
Lee struggled to find her voice, having to fight past the excited beating of her heart.
"Tricks are fine," she croaked, making the Joker smirk faintly.
He took a few swaying steps backward to lean against the stove, then folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side.
"You've been very quiet," he observed, raising an eyebrow.
Lee took an unsteady step into the kitchen, feeling like she was joining a tiger in its cage.
"I don't have anything to say," she insisted.
"Ohhh, we both know that's not true, doc," the Joker chuckled, looking amused as Lee took another hesitant step toward him.
"How is Harley?" she asked, a little meekly, but sincere. "I saw the video and she looked… hurt."
The Joker chuckled again, tonging the scar splitting his bottom lip. He looked off to the side, considering something, then those dark eyes rolled right back to Lee.
"Don't you worry. Harley's just fine," he reassured Lee in a patronizing sing-song. "But uh, I got this ear thing." He wrinkled his nose and knocked on the side of his head with his fist. "It just won't stop ringing."
Lee's eyes widened as she realized why he was there.
For medical attention.
Some of the tension eased from her body as she edged closer to him.
"Do you want me to… to take a look?" she asked, and he shot her a pointed look suggesting she already knew the answer to that.
He pushed away from the counter and pivoted to the side with a dramatic little flourish, ducking down so his left ear was in Lee's field of vision.
Her hands were mercifully steady as she brushed a few greasy locks of sandy hair back to get a look at his ear, which was reddened like he'd been poking at it.
"How long has it been ringing?" she asked.
"Oh, about a week," he drawled, staring straight ahead as Lee prodded his ear. "Had a little run-in with the Batman."
"Did it bleed?" Lee asked, taking the fact that she was treating a Batman-related injury in stride. "Was there any fluid?
"Yep," the Joker smacked his lips like he was getting bored. "Lotsa blood. Lots of fluid."
Lee snapped her fingers beside his ear. "Can you hear that through the ringing?"
"Uh huh." Then he wrinkled his nose and shrugged one shoulder. "Kinda."
Lee fought back a smile. Always the reluctant patient.
"I think you've probably perforated your eardrum," she explained, watching him bounce back up to his full height, rocking his head from side to side. "It could mend itself, or you could have some permanent hearing damage. Either way, the ringing should stop soon. If it doesn't in the next week, come back and see me."
The Joker tongued the inside of his cheek thoughtfully as he listened to her advice, her open invitation prompting him to shoot her a smug, rather charming smirk that made Lee feel a bit flustered.
"You should take antibiotics too," she added. "Just in case."
"Just in case," he rolled his eyes, nodding.
Lee's lips spread into a smile as she realized why he was really there.
"Did Harley force you to come to see me?" she asked, narrowing her eyes and envisioning an argument where Harley worried the ear ringing was something worse, and nagged him to go see Lee, just in case. He would have resisted but ultimately agreed, mostly to get her off his back, but also because the ringing was starting to get to him, and he was a pragmatist underneath it all.
The Joker gave a throatily little chuckle and reached up to tweak Lee's nose, startling her.
"Aww," he cooed, a little bit sinister, a little bit affectionate. "You know us so well."
Lee felt a deep, satisfying shiver of pleasure at that statement because it was true.
"What about Ed?" she asked, more quietly, knowing she was speaking out of turn. "Will you help him?"
The Joker narrowed his eyes to a squint, observing Lee curiously for a moment.
"Is that what you want?" he lifted one eyebrow. "The Riddler running free."
He was trying to get her to question her choices, make her look at the whole ugly picture, and rattle her philosophically for being so comfortable with them. But Lee wasn't interested in any of that.
She shrugged helplessly. "Life just seems more interesting with the Riddler in it."
"Mm," the Joker nodded slowly, looking pleased. "It sure does."
Pam tugged a blender down from one of Samantha's kitchen cupboards, smirking as she set it on the counter beside Harley's elbow.
"I can't believe you never used this thing," Pam laughed. "This is top of the fucking line."
Harley shot Pam a bemused look. "Do I look like a person who would use a blender?"
"You can make smoothies with it," Pam shrugged. She grabbed a bottle of tequila and flashed Harley a grin as she poured out a few healthy measures. "Or frozen margaritas. It has a fancy ice function."
Since Pam was sticking around in Gotham, she'd decided to take over the lease on Samantha's apartment—now Pam's apartment—and they'd spent the morning shuffling around belongings so she could move in properly.
It had been just over a week since the Janus Plastics Plant fire, during which time Harley had done a hearty amount of sleeping and recuperating after that evening's battle royale. She still had healing cuts and bruises, and her knuckles were mending slowly, which made simple tasks hard, especially when she was down three fingernails. But it was all worth it considering how the night ended: with Roman in a state of permanent torment after a little alone time with Pam.
Now he was a resident at Arkham Asylum, where he would live out his days experiencing near-constant paranoid delusions of Samantha Pierce ripping him limb for limb.
Long-term torture he could never escape.
Much more appropriate than death.
Pam tossed some ice and Jose Quarvo margarita mix in with the tequila, then slapped the blender on. There was a deafening grinding sound—the fancy ice function, Harley had to assume—prompting Pam to triumphantly mouth, "YAS!" as she pointed at the slushy green liquid whipping around, making Harley laugh helplessly.
"So," Harley smirked as Pam sloshed the margaritas into a pair of glasses and pushed one toward her. "How the hell did you convince Strange to build you a greenhouse?"
"Easy," Pam shrugged. "I told him what I wanted to grow in it."
In a fortunate turn of events, Hugo Strange—Roman's chemist, the psychiatrist responsible for Blue Orchid—had been hired by Arkham's board to replace Joan Leland. He'd been at a loose end once Ed put a bullet in John Daggett's head, thus ending Strange's shady research gig at Daggett Industries.
Strange was announced as Arkham's new director the day after the Janus fire, and Pam had a word with him later that afternoon.
Apparently, they made a deal.
Pam wanted his access to the blue poppies.
Strange wanted access to her.
"You told him what you wanted to grow?" Harley lifted a dubious eyebrow.
"He's fascinated by me," Pam fluttered her fingers, imitating Strange's weird inflection. "He wants to keep me happy. We're gonna turn the whole basement into a research facility, too."
"Seriously?" Harley laughed. "What are you going to research?"
"'Uh, the shit we grow, me, any inmates we may try our toys on," Pam shrugged, swigging more of her margarita. "Whatever we want. He's a weirdo, but we clicked like, instantly."
"Right," Harley narrowed her eyes. "You clicked."
Pam shot her an annoyed look.
"I promise, I kept my hands to myself. Strange is doing everything of his own free will," she insisted. "I'm doing things Harley Quinn-style this time."
"What the hell does that mean?" Harley laughed.
"You know," Pam grinned. "A little charm, a little philosophy, a little sedition. Look how much Frost loves you guys, huh? And that's real. It's not coerced."
Harley could feel a stupid grin growing on her lips, Pam's words endlessly reassuring to her. It felt like she'd turned a page or learned something about herself. Maybe it was dealing with Roman and his lack of interest in consent, making Pam question her interest in the matter.
Whatever it was, Harley was relieved.
"Aren't you a little weirded out by him studying you, though?" Harley wrinkled her nose.
"I'm studying me too," Pam countered. "I'm not his experiment." She set her glass on the counter, her face turning thoughtful as she stared down at her open palm. "Maybe I can figure out how this works." She looked up at Harley. "You know, cellularly. Not just theories."
"I hope you can," Harley beamed. "And I'm glad you're back."
"You big softie," Pam smirked, sloshing more frozen margaritas in their glasses. "So," she continued, more cautiously as she raised her glass to her lips. "Have you thought any more about the Dinah thing?"
Harley sighed miserably, her shoulders immediately slumping.
A few days earlier, she'd plucked up the energy to tell Pam that Black Canary was, in fact, Dinah, and everything that happened at the Janus Plant. Pam had been shocked and personally offended, calling Dinah a traitor and huffing indignantly about loyalty. That quickly transformed into flustered frustration when she realized the Batman likely knew everything Dinah did about her abilities—not much, but enough.
Pam ranted and raged and paced around Samantha's living room while Harley watched from the couch, her shoulders tense as she remembered those anxious, nervous breakdowns Pam used to be prone to. But there was none of that, just well-deserved outrage at Dinah's betrayal and a lot of creative cursing, eventually ending with Pam grabbing a bottle of tequila and falling on the couch beside Harley, drained and sulky.
They hadn't decided what the right course of action was then, and Harley still didn't know now. Thinking about her fight with Dinah at the plant made her feel queasy, reminding her too much of the day she went hunting for Victor after he murdered Roxy. These were different feelings, more bitter, but with a similar emptiness, a sense of loss.
The difference was Roxy had been taken.
Dinah had chosen to dedicate her life to putting Harley behind bars.
But for reasons Harley wasn't inclined to examine, she'd still saved Dinah's life. Again.
"You deserve to be more pissed off than you are," Pam observed.
"Mmph." Harley held her glass out for more margaritas, which Pam readily supplied.
"She was always so quiet and judgey," Pam continued, getting indignant again. "Ungrateful little twat."
Harley ran a hand through her hair. "I don't know what to do."
She actually meant she didn't know what she wanted to do.
"I honestly don't think we're gonna have to do anything," Pam leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the counter. "You know who she is. She knows who the Batman is. There is zero chance she's sticking around after that."
"That would be nice of her," Harley grumbled moodily.
"What's J think about it?" Pam asked, making Harley roll her eyes.
"He went uhhhh." She made a series of funny faces to imitate the Joker, wrinkling her nose, narrowing her eyes to a suspicious squint, and twisting her head from side to side, making Pam laugh. "He doesn't give a shit," Harley shrugged. "He said see you how you feel when you see her."
"Helpful and insightful as always," Pam scoffed, full of her usual virulent disdain for the Joker.
The two of them seemed to have settled on some kind of a truce that consisted of passive-aggressive jibes and a lot of sneering eye-rolling. That was good enough for Harley. The Joker was suspicious of Pam and her abilities, and judged her to be a 'cheating, scheming, predictable goodie-two-shoes.' Pam found the Joker to be an 'obnoxious, nihilistic man-child fuckboy', his personal brand of charm decidedly not up her street.
"Speaking of people you need to do things about," Pam tried to fight back a sneaky smirk. "What's going on with Ed? The papers say he's being transferred to Arkham tomorrow."
"Ed," Harley groaned, rolling her eyes. "Bullock called me earlier. They're actually moving him later today."
"I like Ed," Pam announced, and when Harley raised a skeptical eyebrow, she added. "We had a few hours to kill at Lee's, and we got along great. He's hilarious."
"He's unbearably annoying," Harley corrected her flatly.
"Did Bullock say anything else about him?" Pam asked.
"Only that he hasn't said a word about any of us," Harley admitted, wrinkling her nose. "He gave them everything on Roman, but not us. Not you either."
"But you're not going to do anything?" Pam lowered her chin.
"Hey, if you like Ed so much, why don't you get Strange to let him out?" Harley scoffed.
"Seriously?" Pam raised her eyebrows. "Strange has been at Arkham for like, four days. He can't just lose the Riddler his first week. He'd have to wait a few months at least."
"I don't know if Ed could handle a few months at Arkham," Harley winced, picturing Ed in D Wing. "He's right on the brink of psychosis already. The boredom may drive him insane."
The washer/dryer unit in the laundry closet beeped then, letting them know a load was done.
"What about Vicki? What's going on with her?" Pam circled the kitchen counter to throw open the dryer, pulling out a wad of sheets.
"I sent her a thank you card the other day," Harley smirked, jumping off her stool. "She's not talking. She'd just incriminate herself."
"Good," Pam held the sheets out to Harley. "Here you go, your fresh sheets."
Harley thanked her and dropped them in an oversized suitcase sitting open on the floor. It was stuffed full of Samantha's belongings, things Harley determined would be useful or make good disguises… including more than a few pairs of boots.
"Does your place have in-unit laundry?" Pam asked, settling back behind the kitchen counter and downing the rest of her margarita.
Harley shot her a knowing look. "It's not a place, it's a safe house, and there's not just one of them."
"Okay," Pam rolled her eyes. "Do any of your safe houses have in-unit laundry?"
"We can't all not be wanted by the police," Harley replied, fighting back a smirk.
"Hey, you have no idea what it took to get Pamela Isley scrubbed so Lillian Green, upstanding activist and fundraiser, was legit," Pam scoffed. "Maybe if you didn't intentionally plaster your face all over the media, you wouldn't constantly be on the run."
"Nah," Harley grinned, stretching her arms over her head. "It's way more fun to frolic in the daylight than hide in the shadows."
"Just because you're a wanted terrorist doesn't mean you can't do laundry," Pam insisted. "Or learn to cook."
"I don't have time to cook," Harley made a face. "Take out is easier."
"Yeah, and you're thirty, but probably have the cholesterol of a sixty-year-old man," Pam shot her another pointed look. "Not to mention all that second-hand smoke you inhale."
"Eh," Harley shrugged, grinning. "It makes him happy."
Pam rolled her eyes.
Harley dragged the heavy suitcase through the twisting brick corridors leading to the safe house in Burnley Arms, her mind on Ed as she pulled the loose brick free from the wall beside the door and plucked out the key.
The Joker was pacing in the bedroom with a phone glued to his ear, shirtless and barefoot in a new pair of purple trousers. Harley rolled the suitcase into the bedroom, drawing his attention when she let it drop on the floor. He wandered over to squint at her curiously before ambling away and flopping down on the bed; talking to Frost, Harley assumed.
She grabbed the freshly-laundered sheets out of the suitcase, taking a minute to smell them. It was almost a guarantee they were going to be covered in some combination of cigarette ash, gunpowder, sex, and take out within twenty-four hours, so she would enjoy them while she could.
Maybe Pam did make a good case for finding a safe house with in-unit laundry.
When she gestured for the Joker to move so she could put the sheets on the bed, he offered her a dubious look and looked away, stubbornly refusing to move. So Harley worked around him, shoving his shoulder relentlessly until he shuffled a few inches sideways so she could finish the task.
When he was off the phone, he shot her an amused look. "You are so… weird."
"Really? I'm weird?" Harley folded her arms, standing in front of him. "How's Frost?"
"Still nursing Lonnie back to health," the Joker rolled his eyes. He had zero sympathy for Lonnie, who had been starved, tortured, had his tattoos flayed off, and been kept in a dog cage for a solid week, but still managed to remain loyal. "After his traumatic experience."
"That's all he's been doing?" Harley frowned, thinking babysitting Lonnie sounded a little below Frost's usually very capable MO.
"Nah, he's got his ear to the ground," the Joker sniffed, his tongue slipping out to graze over his bottom lip. "Alexandra Kosov and Sweetie split up," he waggled his eyebrows wickedly and reached for Harley's waist to pull her closer. "Sounds like Sweetie's got all the Odessa gossip."
Harley grinned and climbed into his lap, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.
"Mmm," his hands skated up her legs and over the curve of her ass. "Ya know who's being moved to Arkham today, dontcha?"
He lifted a knowing eyebrow, and Harley's mouth puckered as she laced her fingers together behind his neck, playing with a few clean, curling locks there.
"Bullock called me earlier," she admitted, distracted by his roaming hands. "Ed hasn't said a word about us."
"Oh, really," the Joker purred, smirking. "And are you feelin' a little… sympathetic for dear Eddie?"
"No," Harley lied, making the Joker's smirk grow. "Are you?" she demanded incredulously.
He sighed like he was deeply afflicted, rolling his eyes out to the side before meeting hers again.
"I just think he's got… potential," he shrugged evasively. "Eddie's real good at getting people all… aflutter."
Harley could read through the lines easily enough.
"You want to break Ed out?" she demanded. "Are you serious?"
"Now I didn't say that," the Joker countered, playing coy, which was all the confirmation Harley needed to know he did.
She narrowed her eyes. "You've already got it planned, haven't you."
He shrugged again, still playing innocent, making Harley laugh.
It was true. Ed did have potential. And he did get people all aflutter. And Harley didn't want to see him in Arkham. It just felt like… a waste.
"He's going to fuck with us again," she predicted.
"Well," the Joker flashed her a rakish smirk. "Look how well that worked out for everyone else who's tried it."
Harley's face split into a grin and she shoved him back on the bed before pitching forward over him. Her mouth connected with his neck as she threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling it tight as she licked a tendon at his throat and bit him lightly.
"How much time do we have?" she asked, running her lips up his jaw to his ear, pulling on his lobe with her teeth.
The Joker's hands tightened on her waist, squeezing her tight before he flipped her onto her back, making Harley's breath catch when he rolled on top of her. He snatched up both of her wrists and pinned them to the bed above her head while he settled between her legs, his weight on top of her sending excitement spinning through her belly.
"Hmm," he squinted down at her curiously. "Enough time to play a game."
"A game?" Harley raised an eyebrow, pretending not to be interested.
"Mm hmm," he ducked down to press his mouth against her ear, his breath in her hair making Harley shiver. "Why don't we see how loud we can get you to scream… daddy."
Harley's eyes snapped open as the Joker pulled back to smirk down at her, smug as hell.
"No way," she scoffed, narrowing her eyes stubbornly. "I will never call you daddy."
"You've said that before," he sing-songed, looking deeply amused. "You always cave for daddy."
"Never," Harley hissed, fighting back a grin.
"C'mon," he coaxed, offering her a caddish smirk. "We can get you some ah… pigtails. Make you all cute when you're begging me to spank you."
Harley gasped indignantly, though she was struggling not to laugh. His grip on her arms relaxed, and she used the opportunity to lock her knees around his hips and flip him onto his back so she was sitting on his stomach. He let her pin his arms to the bed above his head, mirroring how he'd been holding her down a moment earlier.
"I will never wear pigtails," she leaned in closer to nudge his nose with hers. "Not even for you."
"Ya sure about that, puddin'?" the Joker raised a knowing eyebrow, and Harley chuckled before lowering her lips to his, letting them linger as she raked her nails down his chest the way he liked.
"You are going to have to try very… very hard to convince me," she murmured, smiling when he cleared his throat and squirmed beneath her. "Now, why don't you be a good boy and take your pants off."
The Joker flipped Harley back over so quickly she shrieked in surprise, the bed squeaking reluctantly around them. He braced one hand beside her head and ducked down to kiss her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as his free hand snuck under her top to curl around her ribs.
"You taste like tequila," he mumbled, his hands tightening on her.
"Frozen margaritas," Harley explained breathlessly. "Pam's obsessed with this blender she found, and—"
The Joker pulled away from her abruptly, his eyes widening so incredulously Harley had to laugh.
"So, that's how it's gonna be from now on, huh?" he huffed, feigning indignation. "Frozen margaritas."
"Don't worry, you're still my favorite," Harley reassured him. She reached between them to unbuckle his belt, smiling up at him. "I'm all yours."
"Mmm," his mouth twitched up on one side, pleased about being the favorite.
"How much time have we got," Harley asked, spreading her legs a little wider when he nudged them apart, her pulse leaping when he flicked apart the button and zip of her jeans.
"Hmm… if I had to guess…" He shifted to the side to squeeze his hand inside her jeans. "Just enough time to make you beg." His voice lowered to a huskier register as his fingers drifted over her. "How's that sound, hmm?"
"Oh," Harley sighed, her eyes closing. "Oh, that sounds really good."
Ed found it slightly comforting to know his transfer from county prison to Arkham Asylum required an armored truck and four police cruisers to escort him. It was as close as you could get to the red carpet treatment as a felon, and after the week Ed just had at the county prison, his ego needed it.
He hadn't quite accepted that this was the end of the line, though each of his progressively more desperate attempts to escape had thus far been thwarted, dragging his mood down through the dirt. One of the more challenging things to accept was that Harley and J were leaving him to rot. Ed thought about what Crane said at the MCU—that they'd been using him, a thought that blackened his mood so severely he could feel himself tipping toward that dark, damp place, which he'd managed to avoid for months and months now. The black hole was always chasing at his heels, even worse than boredom.
To make himself feel better Ed plotted out a few abhorrent ideas for getting Harley and J back for leaving him in there. Tragically, he had plenty of those up his sleeve and plenty more for how to give Gotham a purpose once he was footloose and fancy-free again. But plots for actually freeing himself were sadly far and few between.
Maybe Ed did need a stay at Arkham. A 'rest' as they would have called it in the olden days. Maybe they'd give him some good drugs and some therapy, and it wouldn't be so bad. He could ride out the dampness and rise like a Phoenix from the ashes once it passed.
No, no. All Ed needed was an opportunity to arise, one he could reach out and snatch.
He sat in the back of the armored truck, pouting as they drew closer to Arkham, depression clawing at his back. From what he could tell, they were passing through Downtown, heading south toward the Narrows Bridge. He sighed and bounced his shackled hands, wondering if the Arkham jumpsuits would be a similar burnt-apricot color like the county prison uniforms or if they'd be more toward the pumpkin-spice end of the orange color spectrum.
An engine revved outside, the sound muffled through the armored car's thick steel. Ed hardly paid it any attention until it came again, louder and closer this time, followed by screeching tires and the pop!-pop!-pop!-pop!-pop! of automatic gunfire.
Ed's eyes widened, the little hairs at the back of his neck standing on end as he sat up straight.
For the first time in a week, that little wiggle of finding something interesting broke free from Ed's damp black mood.
This was the opportunity.
He was nearly thrown to the floor when the armored truck's driver laid his foot down on the gas, the cruisers escorting them turning on their sirens. They took off like a shot, the heavy vehicle swerving dangerously as the driver took a sharp left turn that forced Ed to grab the wall so he didn't go tumbling to the floor.
Without a window to see what was going on outside, he had to strain his ears to hear above the truck's heavy rattling and the sirens wailing. They took a right turn before speeding up again, and Ed could hear the driver shouting into a radio, panicking.
Then there were a series of crashes; metal crunching and more tires squealing followed by a rattle of bullets striking the side of the armored truck, leaving indents in the wall behind Ed's head.
The armored truck came to a sudden, rocking stop, and the shouting driver fell silent.
Cause he was dead! Ed realized gleefully.
His heart was in his throat, his eyes wide as he listened to voices shouting outside, and then a torrential rain of gunfire being exchanged. Ed bounced his feet anxiously, nearly squealing with joy that something was finally happening.
When the shooting abruptly stopped, he jumped to his feet, trying to breathe deeply to prepare himself. This may not be some benevolent person here to free him. This could be a bad person.
"Deep breaths, deep breaths," Ed coached himself before giving in to the urge to squeal outright, waving his chained fists triumphantly.
A loud buzzing started up outside the truck, and a huge buzz-saw appeared through the doors' seam. The saw cut through the locking mechanism, and the doors swung open, revealing Harley Quinn in bubblegum pink Dior and flat thigh-high boots, her hands planted on her hips, a smirk on her red lips. The Joker was behind her in violent violet, looking as sexy and chaotic as he always did, a pair of bolt cutters tucked under his arm.
"Hey, Ed," Harley smirked, sassy as anything.
"You guys!" Ed sang, throwing his hands over his heart before he jumped out of the truck. He looked around the alley they were in. A smashed up bullet-ridden electrical van at one end, a few bashed-in cop cars with cracked windshields at the other, ten dead cops between them. "You did all of this for me? Awww!"
Ed went in for a hug, but Harley held a hand up to stop him, fighting back a smile like she didn't want to like Ed but couldn't help herself.
Oh, fine, if that was going to be the dynamic, Ed could live with it.
"Hands up, Eddie," the Joker grunted, raising the bolt cutters to free Ed.
Before Ed could get another word out, Harley threw a set of keys at him, and he caught them just shy of hitting him in the face.
"Squad rules are over, Ed," she informed him, still trying not to smile as she hiked her thumb at the battered van. "Take that thing and find a safe house."
"That thing?" Ed looked between the van and Harley's painted face. "A safe house?"
"You're on the run now, Eddie," the Joker offered Ed a sly smirk that was so stone-cold-killer-slash-eye-candy-sex-machine Ed could hardly stand it. "You got the pigs and the Batman after you… and we're comin' for you next."
"What!" Ed yelped indignantly. "What does that mean?"
"One week," Harley held up her index finger. "We're giving you a head start."
A cruiser with the cracked windshield pulled forward suddenly, the passenger door swinging open to reveal Frost behind the wheel.
"So that's how it's gonna now be, huh," Ed huffed, pretending to be hurt when he was really thrilled. "We're not friends anymore."
It was even better—they were frenemies.
"Uh-huh," Harley said flatly, seeing right through the performance. The Joker jumped into the passenger seat of the cruiser, and she backed up to join him. "Oh, and Lee's neutral territory. We'll know if you stay with her."
"Well, where am I supposed to go!" Ed pouted, flapping his arms as he watched Harley slide into the Joker's lap, his arm curling around her waist before she slammed the door shut.
The Joker hung his head out the window, flashing Ed a wicked grin. "Improvise."
Ed couldn't keep the act up any longer. His face split into a delighted grin as Frost pulled the cruiser away.
"That dress looks amazing with those boots!" Ed called after them, and he was thrilled when Harley stuck her hand out the window to give him the middle finger.
Then Frost hit the gas, and they took off out of the alley, their sirens turning on a few seconds later as they made their escape.
Ed looked around the alley again, excitement racing through him so fiercely he felt like he might just take flight. Focus, focus, he told himself, running toward the driver's door of the battered van and throwing himself behind the wheel.
Where was he supposed to go? What was he supposed to do next?
Ed decided to take J's advice. Improvise.
It was a whole new world for Edward Nygma, evil genius, fashion icon, and celebrity-criminal-provocateur, aka the Riddler.
And now it was time to have some fun of his own.
A/N: How's that for a happy ending!
Harley & J's whole mood is how I wanted to finish the Harlequin, but I forced myself to make it more restrained. Not this time! This time they're cute as shit.
I am outrageously proud of this fic, for all its flaws and extended sub plots. So many of you seemed to connect with Roman & Ed which is the highest compliment. The process of writing, editing and posting the Pantomime has been far more emotionally and intellectually draining than the Harlequin, no doubt because of lockdown too. But it's also been far more rewarding in many ways. Thank you to everyone who has religiously reviewed every week - your feedback and insight helped make this story a better read for all of us.
Next: the epilogue - wrapping up stories and what comes next…
If you've yet to review now is the time to come out of the lurker closet! ;)
xo