Think I'll miss you forever
Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky
Later's better than never
Even if you're gone, I'm gonna drive

Summertime Sadness / Lana Del Rey

WEEKS LATER

Time dragged on with Pam gone. I went to work in a daze, treating patients with numb eyes, and pin-and-needles in my throat. I walked in the right clothes, making the right faces, and doing what I was meant to do, but I felt empty. Hollow. Jack made my dinners, often having to force me to eat, before I showered alone, and went to sleep. Jack would hold my hand, or stroke my hair some nights, and I would let him because it made no difference. I felt as though my body was encased in bubble wrap. I knew logically that I was disassociating, but I didn't care. The emptiness was better than the alternative, whenever I thought about Red, or… him.

Eddie had been off the map, bringing my phone back two days later, with only the news that rather than Racing Through the audio clip had said Jason Woodrue. Which made sense, as the man was found dead in her hotel room along with her belongings, and a large puddle of her blood. What Ed had been curious about was why her speech seems slurred in the cleaned-up and enhanced recording. Upon hearing it, I recognized the sound immediately. Her nose had been broken. He hadn't liked that information, leaving quickly, promising again that this wouldn't take long now. He had it. He had said. I wasn't sure. A large part of me thought she was dead. I hoped I was wrong. But I didn't have much of that.

But tonight I had to put on a face. I didn't want to. I wanted to lie in bed and cry, but I needed to go to the Ball. And I had to look stunning. I couldn't bring myself to wear white, so I called Jervis, who searched my closet and helped me decide on a simple black velvet dress from my youth.

Now all that was left was putting on makeup. I looked washed out. Pale. I had lost weight since Pam left, and it was roundness that my face needed to look its best. Brushing my first layer of primer on, I tilted my head, leaning close to my vanity. When it was tacky, I lifted the tube again, applying another small amount to my hand, and warming it with the brush. I always enjoyed make-up. It was the most literal part of who I am. I didn't like what was beneath, so I put something on top. Simple. I knew some would be wearing masks to the occasion, but I decided against it, knowing that it would rub at the make-up, potentially even reddening my skin, which meant the mask would be forced to stay on until I made it home.

I worked slowly, enjoying the process. The transformation, where first I disappeared under a thick coat of paint, only to be carved back into existence with brushes and sponges- topping it off with the spray that brought the Doll in the mirror to life, and melting the make-up together. I had gone subtly dark, enough to match the look, and perhaps intrigue, but none of the mess associated. A berry lip and my crease shadowed black, but mostly neutral. I also ensured to blush and contour my cheeks to hide any traces of my grief. I brushed my hair but decided for once to let the waves breathe, unable to bother with them.

Jack hadn't wanted to go tonight. I didn't either. But I convinced him that it would be good publicity. I had been 'too distraught' to make public appearances on GCN, and this would help keep the public on my side. I needed to remain sympathetic during this time, the moment I lost the public appeal, I can bet my ass Jerimiah would throw me under the bus for everything the clown had been doing. He had been active over the last weeks, though I couldn't bring myself to watch the footage or follow the rampage. Even the thought of him stung, but I didn't show it, applying yet another layer of mascara before applying my perfume.

"My defense is that I cannot be beholden to people with bad taste." he eyed me. "And I can already tell you do, just by your perfume."

I blinked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"You should be." He nodded. "You smell like an old woman's handbag. It's irritating my sinuses."

I grunted at the memory, shaking my head as I applied the overpriced cough-juice, and slipped the bottle into my drawer. At the bottom of the drawer, my candy dish sat. As I often did after finishing my make-up, I popped one of the Lemonheads into my mouth and two into my clutch before slipping on my heels and meeting Jack in the hall.

He looked concerned but smiled as I emerged. "I know this is gonna be a stressful night," he sighed, taking my arm, "But I am gonna do what I can to help, okay?"

I nodded and hoped it would be enough.

Looking around the Lux ballroom of Wayne Manor, something my father had always said returned to me—more money than they knew what to do with. It was in warm tones as if trying to convince us a place like this could ever feel cozy. The men were all either old farts telling stories of the good old days, or Finance Douches in their mid-thirties who wanted to talk about how well their investment— snore.

The women were worse. Either snooty old hags who made it clear with just their eyes that new money wasn't welcome here, or women so young it felt inappropriate to call them so, more girls than anything. I wondered, blithely which of Gotham's Premier escort services was having such a good night in sales.

I sipped the champagne I held in a delicate grip that belied my frustration with the entire event. The night had gone exactly how I assumed. Jack was a godsend, of course, handling the boring conversation, whereas I mostly only stood, and looked pretty. My cheeks twitched from the smile I kept plastered across my numb face. I worked hard to keep my 'active-listening' eyes working despite the fact that I was not there at all. All I wanted was a goddamn cigarette. No smoking in the penthouse of course. I may end up vaping yet.

I wandered away from Jack and his current hostage, making my way to a table of canapes. Eying them, I was displeased with the selection of mostly fish, olives, or some poor goose bastard's liver.

I sniffed, lifting one of them at random. Fucking rich people, man. What is it with them and the liver? Iron-y bullshit.

"Hello, Harley," I jumped, head turning to see Bruce Wayne less than a foot from me, with a happy expression, not quite masking the concern in his eyes. "How are you enjoying the Party?"

I'm not, this place sucks and your friends are stuffy old assholes. "It's amazing," I smiled, letting my eyes crinkle as though it were genuine. "I feel like a princess in this dress."

"Jack seems to be having a lovely time as well," He smiled over at him, before glancing back at me, eyebrow hiking.

"Bruce, I am not having this conversation again." I sighed. "He's harmless, some would say too harmless," I slid by him, but he stopped me with a light touch on my arm. Part of me wanted to be angry at the hand, but looking up to see only concern in his eyes softened me considerably.

"Harley, come on, it's me." He said, looking down at me, "I feel like every time I've seen you, you've had more bruises. There is still a cut on your jaw." Bruce muttered.

"I told you, I had an accident."

"Harley-"

"Bruce, leave it, really."

"I'm not gonna leave it, Harley," He shook his head, "Not when I can see that you're in trouble." You have no idea how right you are, I thought, but I only smiled at him, keeping my eyes clear.

"I. am. Fine." I laughed, "Do I look like I'm in trouble?" I shook my head.

"No, but only because you're good at hiding it."

"Bruce—"

"Listen—" He stopped, blinking at me, mouth a hard line before he shook his head. "Just remember, if you need help. I'm here."

"Harley?" Jack spoke from behind me, and I turned, to see that his eyes were on Bruce's hand, eyebrows coming together. Bruce's eyes locked onto his face and I internally groaned. Fine, make yourself look like a piece of shit to the richest man in the world, see what I care.

"Jack," I called, smiling still, and his eyes shifted to mine, a small smile crossing his face. "Can we dance?" I stepped forward, "I'll talk to you later, Bruce."

"Jack took my arm, leading me to where people were dancing. He led me in a slow dance. He was good, though he was stiffer than I would prefer in a dance partner, all technique, no spirit. No sense of rhythm. Every step was measured. I could practically hear him counting in his head.

"Are you having a good time?" He asked, smiling down at me, and I shrugged. "We'll leave soon," He assured, winking conspiratorially, "I think I'm feeling rather sick,"

I chuckled, "You're being ridiculous. I can handle this."

"Shouldn't have to though," He sighed.

"Maybe not, but I do, just another of life's little cruelties," I smiled winningly, and he chuckled.

"That's pretty bleak."

"That's life," I muttered without meaning to.

"I don't think so," He smiled, brushing my hair over my shoulder. "I think life is kind of—"

Screaming and the sounds of gunfire interrupted the sentence, and without looking, on instinct, I began dragging Jack through the half-frozen crowd, away from the sounds of chaos.

"What—"

"Shut the fuck up and keep your head down, that was a gun." I hissed, jerking my heels off so that my head was lower in the crowd, and I was able to drag him more effectively.

"Where are you taking us?" Jack whispered down at me, "The exit is that way!"

"We worry about getting out after we are out of the gunman's range, dumbass," I muttered but he heard me. I drug him through a small, nearly invisible door, and into a hallway meant for Butlers, and released him to walk quickly beside me.

"How did you know this was here?" He asked, breath coming in huffs.

I really don't have time to reassure you right now. "I didn't. But plenty of these old houses have Butler Doors. Didn't want the poors dirting the floors of their nice hallways."

"Do you know where we're going?"

"'Away from the guns' is my main objective right now, but if you have a better idea, please take over." I sighed, running my hands through my hair, before reaching down to hike up the long dress and continue marching forward.

"'Away from the guns' sounds good." He nodded dumbly, walking after me with wide eyes.

Finally, after a million turnarounds, and peaking through doors, only to find more obscure rooms in the massive building that I was beginning to think maybe should have stayed burnt down, we made it to an exit. Out a side door, into a garden, where I threw myself into a hedge immediately, only to straighten, and clear my throat, when I noticed the police surrounding the Venue.

The two of us were rushed and brought to the edge of the perimeter, where Commissioner James Gordon stood. I groaned under my breath, Fuck. I'm never going to make it home.

He was there for me. There was no doubt in my mind. The moment I had seen the bald deadman, wearing a clown nose, I knew who had been at that damn party, and why. Bastard. Gordon said that the clown had not been present at the event, but I knew he was wrong.

Jack had wrapped his jacket around me, and an officer had given me a pair of tennis shoes. I said nothing about the clown, not wanting to make my evening any longer. As far as they knew he had attacked the party for the same reason he attacks everything. The three F's.

I glared down at my hands as Ryder drove me home. He was a wreck but also tried to be supportive of me. He had babbled at first, thanking me for saving him, and trembling as he hugged me. It honestly made my stomach turn, but it gave me a good parameter of how I should be acting. So I jumped on that, trembling convincingly in his arms while Gordon asked his questions, seeming far less suspicious, and far more sympathetic than last I had seen him. It's the Jack Ryder Effect. No one can resist liking this asshole. I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering how it came so naturally. The blanket of charm he was always swathed in. Even when he was traumatized, and terrified, everyone is all over his dick. Why? How?

It wasn't fucking fair. I wished I could siphon out that charm, the way my father had taught me to with gasoline. Steal it from him, and drink it in myself. I wondered if it would warm me, or just leave a foul taste in my mouth.

When we made it to my apartment he stopped at my door, looking at me with nervous eyes. Fuck. He doesn't want to sleep alone. Meaning I can't sleep alone.

I made my face nervous, aiming for the fear I had established with Gordon earlier. "Jack, I," I blinked back tears, swallowing. "Will you stay? After everything—"

"I was thinking the same thing," he smiled gently. "Let's get inside, and I'll make you something to eat before bed."

Shit. "Jack I'm not sure—"

"Harley. Don't argue tonight, please." He pleaded. "Just eat something, okay? I don't want you wasting away on me. I'll make it light if you want." He tucked a bit of hair behind my ear, and I looked at him, incredibly confused.

"Aren't you exhausted? Why do you want to cook?"

He chucked, "Because, Harley, I like you." He kissed my cheek, and I smiled as though I understood, though I did not.

I opened the door, and he slipped inside, quickly taking off his blazer and tie, and untucking the shirt before kissing me lightly and heading to the kitchen. I decided to do one better, and at least put on comfortable clothes, though I was unable to find the energy to wash my face. I slipped on a pair of spandex bike-shorts that freed up my legs, and an oversized crewneck in cherry red.

I heard a light clang in the kitchen, and I called out to Jack, asking if he was okay, and got no reply. If he's bashed in his goddamn head in my kitchen I'm gonna lose my fucking mind. Already resigning myself to a trip to the Emergency Room, I jogged back down the hall, making sure I had on my very best concerned face. And then. Nothing.

She hadn't been there. She was meant to be there. J had been betting on her being there. He left quickly, before even the Bat arrived, not wanting to be caught before he followed through on the plan.

It took work. He hoped she would appreciate it. After she's done kissing my ass. He glared at the road shoulders hunched as he leaned on the wheel, irritated again. He had tried not to be angry. He really did. But watching Ryder show up at her fucking apartment every fucking night since she attempted to end their game had begun to prickle him. He hadn't been angry about the violence at all. But the things she had said…

It didn't matter. The blue Camry was making excellent time. He made it to her apartment, possibly before the police even made it to the Wayne Event. In the parking lot, seeing that her car was absent, he settled in to wait, hoping she would be in soon.

And wait he did. He was nodding off by the time her car entered the lot, the two of them heading inside. Dressed to the nines. So they had been at the Wayne Party? He chuckled to himself as he realized she had given him the slip. He had wanted Ryder's death to be public, but beggars and birds in bushes and all that.

Making his way up the fire escape was easy, hopping over to her balcony, and standing in the dark as her front door opened, she watched the other man with a tired expression as he made himself comfortable, leaning down to peck her lips, making J roll his eyes, and walked to the kitchen.

He removed the screws from the handle with a pocket knife quickly, sliding into the room, before closing the door behind him. The Bat would be on his ass. He needed to take care of this fast, sadly. He wanted to enjoy killing Ryder, but he would have to settle for letting him bleed out on the kitchen floor. In the Kitchen, he had his back turned, pulling small bottles from a cabinet overhead. That wouldn't do. J wanted to see his eyes.

"Hey," He made his voice friendly, but the other man spun in shock, mouth opening in a silent scream as J's blade slid cleanly through his shirt, and delicately sliced through to what he believed based on the light acetous smell must have been Jack's gallbladder. A shame. Bile soaks into and ruins meat so quickly, he joked to himself, as Ryder's breath left his body in a quiet rasp, and J slid the knife through his soon-to-be corpse in a light stroke to the left, careful to feel that the protective muscles of his gut we relieved of duty, but attempted not to knick another organ, wanting his death to linger. He leaned close to the man, who seemed to be unable to move, possibly entering shock.

"Remember me, Jackie?" He whispered and Ryder's eyes only got wider trembling in his skull, as boiling blood spilled down his body and into the floor. "Been wanting to do that since Halloween," He muttered, dropping the man to the floor, and turning away before turning back to spit at the thing in the floor, shaking his head.

Considering his next move carefully, J lifted a pan from the stove, dropping it to the floor.

"Jack? Are you okay?"

J clenched his jaw at the concern in her voice but did not speak. He heard her quick steps towards him and he decided to cut the argument from the scene, lifting the pan.

The moment she stepped into the kitchen he swung, and she crumpled to the floor.

"Harley…" Jack gasped, his voice a whisper, as he sweat and attempted to force his spilling guts back into his body, gasping in pain.

J turned, eyes widening at the voice. "Still hanging on, Jackie?"

"Don't hurt–-"

J snorted, squatting near the man with a too-friendly smile. "Jackie-boy. I'm gonna -uh do whatever the hell I want. Up to and including your little girlfriend."

"No." He shook his head, eyes closing in a new wave of pain, and J giggled.

"No? No?" He laughed, reaching out to ruffle the dying man's hair. "Aw, poor Jackie. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride."

"Please-"

"Oh Jackie, you should be thanking me, really. I mean, what's a good boy like you doing running around with a girl like that? You could- uh- hurt yourself," J chuckled.

He stood, turning and hauling the still-unconscious blonde over his shoulder, before lighting a cigarette, and making his way back outside. J placed her into the passenger seat carefully, buckling her in, before glancing at the backseat, ensuring that he had brought everything. Most of it was sent with Johnny and Schiff hours before, who were still waiting for them there. He started the car, eager to get the road trip started. J grinned down at her sleeping form.

You're gonna be so pissed.

AN: Hi! I still don't have traffic Stats, so Idk if anyone is even reading this, but if you are pls let me know what you think! Comments/reviews are the highlights of my day, even if I'm not good at responding. Sour Candies is close to being over now, I'm hoping to finish before Christmas, adding this here so you can bully me if I miss my deadline. XD