AN: Late but here you go. There's a freaking flood where I live. So, it's a mess and most of the time it's blackout.
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[1 Week Later – Fawcett City – John Mason's Apartment]
The sun filtered weakly through a cracked window in John's apartment, doing its best to brighten a place that had made peace with the shadows. Dust floated lazily through the air. The coffee pot burbled like it was trying to die with dignity. Somewhere under the couch, a sock was actively growing mold.
And in the middle of it all…
Harley Quinn.
On the floor. Wearing a mismatched pair of John's sweatpants and a tank top that said "Guns N' Mental Breakdowns." She was cross-legged, hair in wild pigtails, no makeup, and entirely absorbed in yelling at a cartoon on the old box TV.
"NO, NO, NO, you stupid duck! You don't make deals with the weasel mob! They'll double-cross you and eat your breadsticks! GOD!"
She hurled a pillow across the room. It hit the fridge and slid down with a pitiful flop.
John, standing in the kitchen in a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, didn't even flinch. He sipped his coffee, eyes heavy with the thousand-yard stare of a man who hadn't had his own bathroom mirror to himself in a week.
"Is this gonna be your whole morning?" he asked.
Harley turned dramatically, eyes wide, clutching her imaginary pearls.
"Excuse you, my whole morning started with existential dread and a cold Pop-Tart, so maybe let me process my feelings through cartoon violence, huh?"
John looked at the empty box of Pop-Tarts in the trash.
"You ate six."
"I had feelings six times."
He walked over and opened the fridge. Harley watched him like a raccoon sizing up a dumpster.
"Don't even think about it," she warned.
"What?"
"That last yogurt cup. It's mine. I wrote my name on it in eyeliner."
He looked. Sure enough, there was a smudged "H" on the foil lid in what might've been mascara. Or blood.
"You mooch everything else. You don't get to claim dairy rights."
"It's cherry vanilla. I'd die for cherry vanilla."
"You'll survive."
"You don't know that," she pouted. "My bones are delicate."
"You got thrown through a window and landed in a dumpster. You're not delicate."
Harley paused. "Okay, first of all... rude. Second, dumpsters are softer than people think. Third, I fell on top of you. It was a soft landing. You saved my ass. So, you must know how delicate I am."
She did a little pose, arms out like a gymnast who just made an extra flip and landed on her coach.
John shut the fridge.
"There's nothing in here. You ate everything. How the hell do you keep your body in shape?"
"You could've shopped yesterday," she said, now chewing on the TV remote. "Instead, you spent three hours at that creepy thrift bookstore buying another depressing novel about lonely cowboys."
"They were samurai."
"Same thing. Tragic loners with swords and no emotional vocabulary."
He poured more coffee and stared at her over the rim of the mug.
"You're still here."
"Yup! Like mold, only cuter," she said brightly. "And guess what?"
John didn't ask.
"I washed the dishes! Sort of! Well, I rinsed two of them. The rest are soaking."
"In what? Beer?"
"...Possibly."
He walked to the tiny table and sat down, opening the newspaper.
Harley rolled across the floor like a log and popped up next to him, chin on the table.
"You ever think maybe this is fate?"
"Fate?"
"Me. You. Our lives colliding like two trash barges in the harbor of destiny?"
John didn't look up. "No."
Harley leaned closer. "You snore, by the way."
"I don't."
"You do! It's not loud. Just... tragic. Like the sound of a man haunted by all the groceries he never bought."
John sighed through his nose.
"You want to keep crashing here," he said slowly, "you need to get a job."
Harley snorted so hard it turned into a full laugh. She fell off her chair and landed in a pile of mismatched socks. "A job? You want me, Harley freaking Quinn, PhD, chaos connoisseur, two-time Arkham escape champion, to work retail?!"
John took a sip of coffee. "I was thinking something less… customer-facing."
"Ooh, like robbing an ATM!" she said, popping back up. "Perfect. I'll crack open a few tonight, just a couple, to renovate this place and maybe buy a new toaster. The one from the billboard poster in the gas station."
"No."
"No, what?"
"No ATM robbery."
"Ugh! You are such a buzzkill, y'know that?" she said, slopping down dramatically on the floor, again. "Like Batman, but with less money and more moral constipation."
John didn't respond. He just took another sip of coffee like it was aspirin for the conversation.
Harley propped her feet up on the table.
"Listen," she said with wild sincerity. "I got a plan. I knock over, say, four ATMs. Maybe five. Depends on how giddy I feel after the first one. Then we ditch this dingy apartment, yeah?"
John didn't look up.
"I'm talkin' a nice place. Like a real home. Fireplace. Fridge with an ice maker. Bath towels that match."
"You're gonna commit multiple felonies for better bath towels?"
"And curtains," she added proudly. "Then, once we've stacked enough green, I'll get plastic surgery. Boom. New face, new name, no more bounty posters!"
"You're already hard to track."
"Exactly! But now I'll be unrecognizable and hot."
"You're already..." John paused, realized where she was steering the conversation, and backpedaled. "That's not the point."
Harley kept going, undeterred.
"Then, we leave the country. Somewhere warm. Quiet. Maybe Argentina. Maybe a farm. No more cops, no more Joker, no more Task Force X breathing down our necks."
She went back up on the chair again and leaned in close now, eyes wide with a kind of chaotic sparkle that could light a city or burn it down.
"We settle in. Live normal. Get married. Have kids. You name the first one. I name the second. We raise 'em right. Teach 'em to steal responsibly. Get two pet hyenas, a couple of dogs, maybe a cat. Grow some potatoes. I'll wear overalls. You'll chop wood shirtless."
She took a breath, dreamy now. "We'll have pie. I'll learn to bake. You'll teach me how to use a shotgun without dislocatin' my shoulder again."
John just stared at her, unblinking.
"You done?"
Harley grinned.
"Not even close. But go ahead, dream killer. Tell me it's not romantic."
"It's not romantic."
"Oh, come on! How is that not the most romantic thing you've ever heard?"
John pointed at her. "Robbing five ATMs, committing fraud, surgically altering your face, and dragging me to rural Argentina to raise chaos-spawn hyenas, dogs, and cats and then children... It is not romance."
Harley looked mock-wounded. "You say that now. But you wait. Once you're chopping wood with your shirt off while I'm yelling about burnt pie crust, you'll think back to this moment and weep with gratitude."
He rubbed his temples.
"You need a real job."
"And I need a waffle iron," she said with a shrug. "We don't always get what we want."
John stood, mug in hand, and walked to the sink.
"I'll talk to Tony. See if he needs help at the pizzeria."
Harley wrinkled her nose. "You want me to work for pizza guy?"
"You already eat for free. Might as well earn it."
Harley gasped. "Are you… pimping me out for marinara?"
He raised one eyebrow.
She smiled slowly. "I like it. Spicy."
"Jesus Christ," John muttered, rinsing his mug.
Harley leaned back in her chair, arms behind her head, eyes drifting up to the ceiling.
"…But seriously. If we ever do move to Argentina, I want a goat. I'll name her Barbara."
"I'm calling Waller and telling her where you are."
"You'd miss me."
"…Unfortunately."
Harley grinned.
"Then it's settled. We're roommates with unspoken sexual tension and potential for mild war crimes. Like a sitcom. Only messier."
John just muttered under his breath and walked toward the door.
"Where you going?" she called.
"To talk to Tony."
Harley pointed finger guns at him. "Tell him I'm a hard worker, good with knives, and only mildly unpredictable on Wednesdays."
John paused in the doorway.
"And Harley?"
"Yeah?"
"No robbing ATMs."
"...Fine. I'll rob a vending machine. You never said vending machines."
He shut the door behind him with a sigh. Through the wall, he could hear her giggling like a lunatic.
He was already regretting it.
But it was too late.
The chaos had a key now.
[Noon]
The sky was a dull gray, like it was thinking about raining again but hadn't fully committed. Humidity clung to the air. The sidewalks shimmered faintly with old puddles and smudged gum stains.
Harley Quinn pulled her red hoodie over her head and locked the door to John's apartment with a little hum on her lips and a twirl of the key. She tucked it into the hidden pocket inside her sweatpants, the ones she swore she'd return but had absolutely no intention of giving back. They were comfy. Dangerous people didn't give up comfy pants.
She glanced both ways down the street. Nobody. No Task Force X. No Joker goons. No ninjas. No flaming hyenas.
So far, so good.
"Stay safe, apartment full of tragic male energy," she whispered before skipping down the steps like a sugar-fueled assassin.
She had no plan.
Correction: She had three plans, and all of them were stupid. But in her world, stupid usually meant fun.
Plan A: Find food. John's fridge was a sad, echoing cavern. A black hole where nutrition went to die.
Plan B: Acquire some cash. Not robbery per se. More like reallocation of funds.
Plan C: Revisit some old enemies. Namely, her ex. The one who had two kneecaps a week ago and probably swore revenge while applying butt bandages.
Harley grinned as she bounced down the street.
"Time to pay mama's bills, puddin'."
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