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Harleen knows that most people assume her favorite kind of ice cream is something crazy, one of those off-the-wall trendy flavors that rate articles online. Something with crickets in it, or hot enough to burn your mouth off. The ones who don’t think that—but do think they know something about her despite never having met her—assume that she goes for themes. Superman-flavored, maybe. Or peppermint kinds, since those are usually red and white. Maybe some of the fruity ones, or maybe Halloween-themed ones that have swirls of green and purple.
She’s not sure if Batman’s ever put any thought into it. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing he’d care about unless she was robbing an ice cream parlor. As far as the Joker’s concerned, she’ll like whatever’s convenient for her to like. That’s how he feels about everything else, no reason to change it for ice cream.
Red’s the first one to ask her in a long time, and the first one in even longer who doesn't laugh at her answer. It’s one of those weird random questions that seems more like her kind than Red’s—the kind of thing that you’ll ask someone to distract them, make them say what kind of question is that while you’re taking advantage of their confusion. Or the kind of thing you ask when you’re getting to know someone, as if how you like to give yourself brain freeze means something.
It’s also the kind of thing, Harleen acknowledges as she stares at the ice cream cone in front of her, black speckles in the white cream that’s just starting melt, that you might ask if you’re getting someone ice cream.