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"C'mon, it'll be fun!" Harley chirps like the overexcited chipmunk that she is.
Croc just growls. He ain't down with the whole thing, since it's only gonna land them in more trouble than they're already in, but he's never been one for playing by the book either. And he's yet to meet the person who will tell Harley 'no.'
Only Waller gets to do that.
So he lets her drag him through the streets that are decorated festively with fairy lights and pumpkins lining the porches. Children are marching up and down the curbs, dressed up as witches with pointy hats, tattered capes, and brooms clutched in their tiny fists, or as mummies and wrapped up entirely with gauze, like a burn victim. There are astronauts and cowboys and princesses and superheroes like Batman, Superman, or Wonder Woman. Of course they'd have enough hangers-on willing to don their colors that replicas of their costumes would be available at any store that even remotely sells clothing.
But not only them. Surprisingly, some of the older kids are wearing costumes that might have been worn by Riddler, Two-Face, or even Harley. Croc growls at this, puzzled. The appeal of the superhero fashion seems obvious to him, but what's harder to understand is why anyone would flaunt their support of the criminal types this openly. In front of children, no less. Croc is not exactly fond of children – cruel little things, they can be – but for some reason he thinks they shouldn't be exposed to this so early in their impressionable lives.
Then again, why should he care? He's only ever seen so many children at the fairs, and they'd only ever laughed genuine laughter before they'd been to his cage – after that, they'd either shriek in terror and run away, or they would tease him mercilessly and cackle at his expense.
So far, none of that has happened.
"What did I tell ya," Harley says, hanging off his arm and swinging her little jack-o-lantern bag as they walk. "No one so much as blinks at you!
Those who do are wide-eyed with wonder, not fear. "Sick prosthetics, dude!" one pimply teenager tells him while giving him a thumbs-up.
Harley steers them from house to house to bag some candy, which she savors with gusto and insists he try as well. When she's not forcing candy wrappers in his face, she's twirling her little jack-o-lantern a little too cheerfuly, dropping sweets all over the place. It earns them a following of kids who snatch the candy from the streets almost as soon as it lands.
Everywhere they go, he's complimented on his "costume" – even if it gives the person answering the door a little start. Dogs approach him warily, but drop treats into Harley's bag anyway if they were trained to do so. (Harley nearly screeches his ears off when it happens. "Look at this good little doggo!" she'd say excitedly and squeeze his arm before asking the owner if she can pet the dog. "Who's a good boy? Yes, you're a good boy! Such a good boy! I wish I had treats to give you, you little angel." On their way back to the curb she'd sigh and lament, "Ah, I miss my babies." Croc doesn't ask her to elaborate. It would only earn him a gush of words he's not prepared to listen to. He's already been inundated with more than he can handle.)
Not once during their excursion does Croc hear a blood-curdling scream or someone warning him to "stay back, you freak, or I'll shoot!" If there are shrieks, they are shrieks of delight, and Croc is not even the one to have caused them. It's damn strange, to say the least, but Halloween is the season of the strange, and so Croc fits right in.
At the end of their walk, Harley is pleased with herself. Shs's filled her jack-o-lantern bag as well as her pockets to the brim (and snuck some candy into Croc's pockets besides) and she sits them down on a low wall and splits their loot. Croc doesn't even like sweets, they stick to his teeth, but he figures he can pawn them off to her later when she's run out and get something better in return.
He watches Harley create two even piles and lets her continued chatter about "her babies" and "Red" and "the pretty bird" wash over him. It provides some background noise that makes him feel less on edge. He's never understood how surface dwellers can be so at ease in all that open space. It's not like the safe enclosure of his sewers where he knows every wall and every bend – where he's at home. Where he's king.
Even the smells up here are wrong. The autumn night air nips him with the chill it carries and the undertone of rotting leaves lends it an earthy quality. Too earthy and dry for Croc's taste. He prefers the damp warmth of his home – even of his cell back in Belle Reve. At least there he's got real meals.
He's about to tell Harley they should head back before anyone notices they're missing when company arrives.
"Party's over, you two."
Flag appears in front of them just as Harley is trying to decide how many twizzlers are worth one jawbreaker. Edwards, Flag's second-in-command, nods at Croc in greeting. Croc growls in return. They're not in their uniforms, presumably because this is a residential area, but on this day they probably could openly carry their AKs and not draw any stares.
"You're coming with us."
"Aww, don't be such a party pooper," Harley complains. "At least let us stay out until the fireworks!"
"You're two months too early for fireworks, Quinn."
"It's never too early for fireworks!"
"Come on. Move it, you two," Flag orders, no-nonsense as usual. He's waving their bomb trigger thingie at them to comply. Croc doesn't like that one bit.
But he also doesn't be to be told twice. He gets up from his seat, but Harley is not done arguing.
"You're as bad as B-man," she laments.
"Batman would have taken you in the moment you set foot on main street. Just be glad that too many children were around who weren't scared of you. Otherwise we would have cut your little adventure short right away."
"Can't we stay a little longer? We ain't doin' anything! You can have half of his share," Harley says and points her thumb in Croc's direction. "He ain't eatin' all of that anyway."
Edwards takes a step forward, hand going for his concealed firearm, but Croc waves him off.
"C'mon, brat," he says, not wanting to make this ugly. "You had your fun. Let's go."
"Why are you so eager to head back all of a sudden? Didn't you have fun, too?" Croc only rumbles, not willing to answer. "Fine, be that way. But none of you is getting any of my candy."
She throws herself over her two piles as though they were in danger of getting snatched away from her.
Croc is surprised to find himself in a light mood as he trudges after Edwards and them. Before heading out, he wouldn't have believed the clown girl that it would be fun. Now he knows better than to question her.