AN: Late. Big chapter. Hope you saved some powerstones.
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John walked to the alley, the rain soaking his hoodie and darkening the cement beneath his boots. He stopped just short of the dumpster, looking down at the soggy figure sitting with her back against the brick wall. Harley had her arms wrapped around her knees like a sad clown at the end of a party. Her pigtails drooped. Her makeup looked like a watercolor crime scene.
"You've been following me for ten blocks," John said, voice flat.
Harley didn't look up. She sniffled loudly.
"You have really loud boots, y'know that?"
He crossed his arms.
"And those dogs weren't helping."
Harley sniffed again and finally glanced up at him. Her eyeliner had merged with her tears into a kind of abstract sadness painting.
"You mad at me?" she asked, voice small.
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Because you kinda stomped away like you hated me and also pizza."
John stared at her. The rain continued to pour. He could've just walked away. He should've. Any rational person would've.
Instead, he sighed. Long and low. The sigh of a man who had accepted that chaos had moved in and brought glitter.
"Come inside," he said.
Her head shot up.
"For real?"
"Yes. But don't make a mess."
Harley's eyes lit up like someone had just offered her a pet hyena and a birthday cake in one go. She scrambled to her feet and saluted him.
"Yes, sir! No mess. Cross my heart and hope to avoid another grenade bath."
John turned and walked back toward the apartment. She bounced behind him like a soaked puppy with clown makeup.
"So," she said, practically skipping, "do you have snacks? I'm low on blood sugar. That tends to be when my worst decisions happen."
"Figures," John muttered.
She gasped dramatically. "Do you not have snacks? Because I swear, if I walk into a sad bachelor apartment with zero snacks, I will scream."
"You can scream outside."
"Fair."
They reached the door. John unlocked it and stepped inside. His place was small, bare, and dim. A couch that might've been stolen from a doctor's waiting room, a table with one chair, and a big box TV, in the OLED and holographic era. It didn't smell bad, but it didn't smell good either. Neutral. Like a man who survived on ramen and regret.
Harley stepped in and immediately kicked off her boots, leaving muddy clown-print socks on the tile. She spotted the couch, ran toward it, and flopped down like a toddler after recess.
"Oooh, squishy. This is the kind of couch you only find in murder documentaries or Craigslist ads with bad lighting."
John locked the door and kicked off his own boots.
"Told you not to make a mess. Get up, there's the bathroom," He pointed at the closed door on the right. "Take a bath. Use the body wash, not the soap. The towel's inside, and there's an old robe. Wear that."
Harley stared at him like he'd just handed her a key to Disney World and a bazooka at the same time.
"A bath?" she said, mouth slightly open.
John didn't respond. Just started peeling off his wet hoodie like this was just another Tuesday, which, for him, it probably was.
Harley pointed at the bathroom door. "Like, for me?"
"Do you see anyone else here?"
She blinked. "I mean… technically no, but emotionally, I'm carrying a lot of ghosts."
"Shower. Now."
"Yes, daddy!" She jumped down, her clothes making that awful shlorp sound of wet fabric peeling off pleather. She walked toward the bathroom like a defeated swamp rat. Halfway there, she turned back.
"So, is this one of those situations when, after bathing, when I open the cabinet, there won't be any towels. Then I'll peek out asking for a towel, and then you will bring me a towel, but instead of handing it over, you'll pull me out naked and... We'll have some wet fun? Like that movie, Staying on Top."
John narrowed his eyes, pointed his finger toward the door, "Bath. NOW!"
"Tehehehe!" Harley quickly went inside while laughing.
The door closed.
There was a loud clunk, followed by muffled humming, then the sound of something falling. A shampoo bottle? A shelf? A toothbrush cup?
"Don't come in here! That was on purpose!" she shouted from behind the door. "Ooohh! Lavender body wash and jasmine soap," She mumbled a bit too loudly.
John stood there for a moment. 'What did I just do?' His socks squished audibly, probably judging him for every life choice that led to this moment. He rubbed his temples, took one breath, and caught a whiff of himself.
"Ugh."
Rain, gunpowder, blood, and dumpster juice. The signature cologne of people with bad luck and worse timing.
He took off his shirt, already regretting offering Harley the only good towel. He rummaged in the closet and found a backup towel that smelled faintly of mothballs. Good enough. His eyes went toward the wet couch. He sighed again before wiping his body. After that he started cleaning up the wet spot.
The bathroom door opened 30 minutes later. A cloud of steam poured out from inside.
Harley stepped out wrapped in the robe, her hair wet and curling around her face like someone trying to cosplay a tired poodle. The robe dragged on the floor and covered her hands entirely, making her look like a depressed cultist.
"I feel like a soggy marshmallow. Ohhh! Wow~"
She stopped dead in the hallway like a cartoon character spotting a pie on a windowsill.
Her eyes locked onto John, who stood in the middle of the room, shirtless, still toweling off his wet hair. The dim kitchen light glinted off his chest like he was in a low-budget cologne commercial: damp, muscled, scars, and very much wrapped in nothing but a towel that looked like it had been stolen from a motel in 1986.
Her jaw dropped slightly.
"Hoooly abs," she whispered.
John didn't look at her. He was busy patting down the back of his neck with the raggedy towel and completely ignoring the wide-eyed, slightly trembling clown girl gawking at him.
"Is this what you look like under all that broody silence?" Harley muttered, inching forward like she was stalking a majestic, damp jungle cat. "You walk around with that 'don't talk to me or my trauma ever again' face, and meanwhile, you're smuggling two kegs and a roadmap to Sin City under that hoodie?"
John sighed. Loudly.
"Don't start."
"Oh, it's already started, sexy sad man," she said, clutching the robe tighter like she was afraid her ovaries might jump out and embarrass her. "You got muscles in places I didn't even know muscles had the right to live."
He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "You done?"
"Not even close. I've got material for days."
She pointed at his abs. "That one? That's the 'I carry trauma and possibly women from burning buildings' muscle."
Then his shoulders. "Those? That's 'I hug like I mean it and maybe accidentally crack a rib, but it's okay because I'll kiss it better' shoulders."
She pointed at his arms now. "And those are just rude. Like, call the cops rude. You could crush me with those. Politely."
"I could also throw you out the window."
"Ohhh, baby," she fanned herself with her sleeve. "We goin' full Fifty Shades or just skipping to the 'get outta my apartment' part?"
John didn't even respond. Just brushed past her. He disappeared into the bathroom with a door slam that was more annoyed than angry.
Harley stood in the hallway alone. She sighed, dramatically, like someone who'd just been denied a free cupcake and an emotional support boyfriend in one go.
"Rude," she whispered before running toward the couch and flopping down again. She took a deep breath and let it out like a balloon giving up. Her fingers tugged absently at the robe belt.
She muttered to herself.
"Y'know, Harley… you could've stayed home today. Could've had cereal. Could've murdered some creep with a crowbar. Could've watched reruns of That's So Raven and trauma-danced your feelings out."
She blinked at the ceiling.
"Instead, you followed a pizza delivery ninja through a hallway massacre, almost blew your butt off, and now you're sitting on a stranger's couch smelling like lavender and crying on the inside."
She looked toward the bathroom door again.
Water was running. Steam snuck out under the door like it was trying to escape the awkward tension.
Harley flopped onto her side.
"What am I doing here?" she said into the couch cushion.
The cushion didn't answer. Rude.
Her voice cracked a little.
"I mean, he's nice, sure. In that emotionally constipated, man-of-mystery, 'I saw war and now I sleep with one eye open' kinda way. But he doesn't smile. He doesn't talk. He looks like he eats nails and bathes in gasoline. And I'm just…"
She sat up slowly, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the robe.
"I'm just a walking meltdown in a robe and poor life decisions. Mr. J will now search for Harl and try to kill her. I should have shot his head instead of butt. But pufffffhehehe! Butt... Every time he tries to sit, he'll remember 'lil 'ol Harl."
A few minutes of arguing with the couch and herself...
She sat up, pulled the robe tighter, and glanced toward the bathroom. Steam was leaking out from under the door like a smoke machine on discount. She could hear him in there. The water. The occasional thud of a shampoo bottle hitting the wall. Maybe he was trying to scrub the regret off his soul.
She stood and wandered toward the kitchen like a raccoon who'd been kicked out of a rave. She opened the fridge. Inside was a half-empty bottle of mustard, two cans of beer, and something that might've been lasagna back in 1997.
"No snacks," she whispered in horror. "He's worse than I thought."
Then the bathroom door creaked open.
John stepped out, now in sweatpants and a black T-shirt. His hair was damp, his eyes tired, his skin steaming slightly from the hot shower.
Harley just stared.
"You clean up nice," she said softly, voice smaller now.
He raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, still kinda broody and unapproachable. But now with less garbage juice."
John ignored the compliment and walked past her to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, stared at the mustard like it had personally betrayed him, then shut it again.
"You hungry?" he asked.
Harley nodded, curling her fingers around the robe sleeves like a child in a borrowed blanket.
"There are two cup noodles in the cupboard," he said, walking toward the cupboard.
"You cookin' for me?" she asked, hopeful.
"I'm boiling water and pouring it in the premade cup. That's not cooking. That's surviving."
"Ohhh, sexy and modest. Be still, my tragic little heart."
..
..
[45 Minutes Earlier – Just After the Explosion]
The explosion had blown out a quarter of the top floor. Flames, smoke, and debris were scattered everywhere. Not to mention the heavy rain.
"This is bullshit!" Joker spat, slipping on the edge of a puddle. "She shot me! In the ass! That's crossing a line! Now, I won't be able to sit anymore. And my kneecap! That bitch! I won't be able to walk straight anymore. What would bats think? A cripple opponent?! No, no, no, no...."
The larger of the two goons, still clutching an SMG, shouted over the wind, "Boss, we gotta move! That blast lit up half the block!"
Joker staggered forward, eyes wild. "I'll kill her! I'll cut her open and fill her with fireworks! Heheheh! I'll put a laugh track in her lungs!"
They somehow managed to drag him down the stairs and were about to head toward their cars when a heavy THOOM echoed overhead. It was mechanical and rhythmic. One of the goons halted suddenly. "Uh… boss? Do you hear that?"
Joker paused. Eyes narrowed.
From above the building, something descended.
A black VTOL jet.
Silent at first. Then the sound surged: hover rotors, stealth thrusters, electromagnetic scanners flickering blue along its belly.
Task Force X had arrived.
Inside the cockpit, Amanda Waller's hologram stood with her arms crossed, looking down at the infrared display.
"Target confirmed. Joker. Two clowns with him. Bomb residue all over the rooftop. Signature matches stolen GCPD tech from six weeks ago."
She turned her head slightly.
"Flag."
Rick Flag, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, locked and loaded, gave a sharp nod.
"Copy. Deploying assets."
The VTOL's rear hatch opened.
Three figures leapt out.
Peacemaker: Helmet gleaming, automatic rifle ready.
Katana: Silent. Sword already in hand.
Bloodsport: Guns attached to his arms via magnetic armor, eyes scanning the drop.
They landed hard on the rooftop
Joker's eyes widened.
"Oh, shit."
The three landed in a triangle around him.
Peacemaker cracked his neck. "You're under arrest for violating at least seven federal ordinances, domestic terrorism, bringing me here in this shithole raining mess and being a total dick."
Joker looked around wildly.
"You government freaks again? What's next? Gonna throw me in another exploding collar daycare center?!"
He turned to run, but Bloodsport was faster. He fired a high-velocity net that wrapped Joker mid-limp.
Zzzzzzzt—Electric shock.
Joker screamed and collapsed, twitching.
The two goons raised their weapons.
Katana didn't even flinch. She moved at an inhumane speed.
Two slices and a second later, their heads rolled on the ground as blood spurted out of their severed neck like a fountain. Their bodies spasm on the wet ground, covered in blood and rain.
...
[Back at John's Apartment]
The rain had slowed. Just tapping now.
Inside John's apartment, things were quiet.
He sat on the floor against the wall, eating cup noodles. Harley sat cross-legged on the couch in the oversized robe, her hair wrapped in a towel like a cone of cotton candy. She slurped from her own cup, eyes locked on the TV.
It was tuned to a local news station.
"Breaking News: Massive explosion in downtown Fawcett City tonight. Authorities have no confirmed death toll, but multiple eyewitnesses claim it involved the Joker and his gang. Government agents were reportedly seen on site. Task Force X assets were deployed."
The camera cut to shaky cell phone footage of Peacemaker dragging Joker, electrocuted, growling, and drooling.
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