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Street lamps steadily light her way down the road, heavy gray duffle bag with more than a few pins stabbed through it heavy on her shoulder and making the black bomber jacket rub stiffly into her shoulder.
Somebody once told Harleen (it was that long ago, when blonde was brown and grades mattered and Harley was Harleen) that everything worth anything was scary. Does that explain the shake in her arms, so strong she holds herself just to stop the shivers? Is this worth it?
Some part of her is dimly aware that yes, it is. The blood splattered on her face is for once not her own.
That’s weird too, the sticky liquid drying quickly on her pale skin, metallic taste clinging to her teeth, with no source of pain to follow it back to.
His blood.
The first time.
Certainly the last time, too, the heavy memory of his life twitching out of him one last time, each breath shorter and more stressed than the one before.
The blonde had stared at him for at least an hour, choking on his own tongue. God knows how many times she gagged around that thing, it seemed like a fair end.
Then, with trembling knees she’d stepped over the body on his bedroom floor and grabbed every bit of cash hidden in the nightstand, a few articles of clothing, and left.
It’s an old warehouse, condemned, and the thought they won’t find him until he’s so stiff and decomposed even the Bat won’t recognize that dying grin seems like a comfort right now.
But she’s alone and terrified, walking the streets with worn down converse on her cold feet.
Anything worth anything is scary.
No, she’s not scared of him. Never was. Never will be again.
Her lips turn up into a grin as she pictures red hair, green pajamas and potted plants. A body like a goddess, somewhere out there waiting for her.
Her heart skips a beat, and the horrible fear that her love won’t last forever strikes then.
J never scared her.
Her feelings, so powerful, for Pamela. The worry that one day, she’ll lose her.
That is scary.
So it must be worth it.