Harley was listening to the radio as she made breakfast, whistling along and dancing to the upbeat jazz tune as she flipped the pancakes. She knew Jack would be hungry when he got back this morning, and she wanted breakfast on the table for her puddin' when he returned. Although she wasn't the best cook, and she sighed as another of the pancakes landed on the floor instead of in the pan and splattered open, since she hadn't managed to cook the batter through.
"Honestly, Harley, this isn't that hard!" she muttered, bending down to clean up the mess. "But they're made with love, so I guess that's what's important."
Her next attempt was more successful, and she placed some sliced fruit onto the pancake to make it into a face, using two blueberries for eyes and a banana for its nice, big smile.
A knock sounded on the door and Harley frowned. "Did you forget your keys, pudd…" she began, opening it, but was surprised to see Crane and Tetch standing in the doorway.
"Oh…Professor Crane, Mr. Tetch, good morning," she said, adjusting her bathrobe to make sure she looked presentable. "Is Jack with you? How did the operation go last night?"
She saw their solemn, anxious faces, and her own face fell as cold dread began to creep over her heart. "What?" she asked, softly. "What is it? Where's Jack?"
"My dear Miss Quinzel, it breaks my heart to have to tell you this," murmured Tetch.
"Tell me…what?" stammered Harley, the dread tightening its grip on her heart.
"Mr. Napier, he…he…there was a fire at the factory and he…he fell…" stammered Tetch.
"He's gone, Miss Quinzel," said Crane, gently. "Mr. Napier is gone."
Harley stared at him, feeling her heart stop. She couldn't believe what she just heard, she couldn't accept it…she shook her head violently. "No," she gasped, her voice rising in panic. "No, no, no, that…that can't be true! He…he can't be gone! He's gotta be ok! Tell me he's ok!"
"Miss Quinzel…" began Tetch.
"Tell me he's ok!" she screamed, shutting her eyes as if that could make it go away, as if this was a bad dream and she would wake up any second, safe and warm in Jack's arms. "He can't be gone! He can't! He can't!"
She broke down sobbing and Crane rushed to embrace her, soothing her gently. At least, he did his best to soothe her, but nothing could calm her as she sobbed her heart out.
She didn't remember much after that – at some point Crane and Tetch left her. They were reluctant to do so, but she insisted. She needed to be alone.
Time passed after that, time dragged on as she sat, alone in her loneliness in Jack's apartment, everything about her surroundings a painful reminder of who and what she had lost – the love of her life.
The pain became too great at last, and she found herself grabbing what little things she had, shoving them into a bag, and then leaving the apartment. She hailed a cab which took her back to her own dingy little apartment in the slums of Gotham City. Those surroundings suited her heart – it was once more caged and miserable and broken, all alone forever.
Days passed. Weeks might have gone by, but Harley had no desire to live. She wanted to just curl up and die to be with Jack again, but something inside her, some fighting spirit, wouldn't let her give up. Her brain somehow managed to focus on mundane matters, like how she would live without Jack, not just emotionally, but practically. She needed to earn money somehow. And since she doubted she'd be welcome back in her old job at the diner, she needed a new one.
And that was how she found herself outside the Arkham Club one cold, miserable, rainy day. She knocked on the door, and the slit was opened.
"It's Harleen Quinzel," she murmured. "Jack's…doll. I…I dunno what the password is anymore, but I need to see Mr. Cobblepot."
The door opened. "Lo siento for your loss, Miss Quinzel," said Bane, gently. "Please come in."
"Thank you," murmured Harley, making her way into the dark club. Cobblepot was studying some receipts with a furrowed brow, but he looked up as Harley entered.
"My dear Miss Quinzel," he said, standing up and hurrying over to her. "Please accept my deepest condolences for your terrible loss."
"Thank you," repeated Harley.
"That accident was a horrible tragedy for everyone – you've no idea what it's cost my business," said Cobblepot. "But of course nothing compares to your personal tragedy. They must find that madman and lock him up somehow."
"Madman?" repeated Harley. "Who?"
Cobblepot looked puzzled. "Didn't they tell you? The Batman."
"Who's the Batman?" asked Harley. "Professor Crane and Mr. Tetch, they told me…it was an accident. Jack fell…"
"Oh…yes, he did," agreed Cobblepot. "But the fire was started by the Batman. He's some lunatic in a bat costume – he tried to stop the operation. Jack went after him and…that's when he fell."
"Who is he?" demanded Harley. "Who is this Batman? I'm gonna kill him for what he did to my puddin'!"
"Nobody knows, Miss Quinzel," replied Cobblepot. "He hasn't appeared again since the accident. But you didn't come to see me to talk about the Batman, did you?"
"No, I…I didn't," said Harley, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. She would focus on finding and avenging herself against this Batman later. "I wanted to ask you if you could give me a job, Mr. Cobblepot. You said I could audition, and…I just don't know where else to go, or what else to do."
"My dear, are you really up to performing?" asked Cobblepot, gently. "Singing in front of a crowd? You must be going through hell…"
"And I need to distract myself somehow," agreed Harley. "Please, Mr. Cobblepot. Let me audition."
He nodded slowly. "Whenever you're ready, Miss Quinzel," he said, gesturing to the stage.
Harley didn't remember what she sang – some slow, depressing tune to match her mood. But she didn't feel nervous – she didn't feel anything. And that seemed to work, because the instant she had finished her song, Cobblepot leapt to his feet, applauding.
"When can you start, my dear?" he asked.
"Whenever you want," she replied.
"I'll draw up a contract now – you can have Selina's slots," he continued. "I've been looking to replace her since her little Bruce Wayne incident. You'll need a stage name, though – all the ladies have them."
"I…I dunno what mine could be," said Harley.
Cobblepot puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. "Harleen Quinzel," he repeated. "Harley Quinzel. Harley Quin…"
He paused. "Harley Quinn," he repeated. "Like the clown character Harlequin. Got rather a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"Maybe. I don't feel much like smiling," murmured Harley.
"It can be an ironic name, since you'll probably be singing sad songs," replied Cobblepot. "Harley Quinn, the sad jester, the grim fool, the clown who lost her smile."
"That's because I lost my puddin', Mr. Cobblepot," whispered Harley, tears in her eyes. "He was my smile. He was my everything."
She wiped her eyes. "Excuse me, I'm…gonna go home before I break down again."
"Can you be here for seven tomorrow evening?" asked Cobblepot. "I'll schedule you in for then."
Harley nodded. "I'll be there, Mr. Cobblepot," she murmured, heading for the door.