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The beach ain’t a bad place for a murder.
Harley Quinn’s out late tonight so she doesn’t bother with the tights, the facepaint, the jingly bells. It’s a red night, a bloodstains-on-the-good-panties night, so she wears sunglasses to hide her face and knee socks so no one looks at it. It’s no use going anywhere these days without all the pointing and screaming. Here comes the Joker’s girlfriend! Can’t have shit in Gotham.
The waterfront is packed with tourists at this hour, but the beach is empty. Harley sits with her back to the pier, the lights from the ancient carnival rides dappling the sand around her pink and red. She can hear screams of laughter, carried high into the clear night air. She can smell the cotton candy and Cracker Jacks.
The pain is nauseating.
It feels like clogged gears grinding up against each other somewhere behind her pelvis. The pain ties Harley’s stomach in knots, makes her sit a little scrunched up, a little bent forward. Two blonde pigtails bobbing in the sea breeze, two high-top chucks in black and red. One big towel that doesn’t do much to keep the sand from creeping into her cutoffs. Someone’s selling corndogs on the pier, and the smell makes her stomach grumble even though she knows she’ll never keep anything down. The thought of getting up, walking around, doing anything but sitting here and spilling out of herself into a dazed effusion of ouch makes Harley want to barf.
In front of her there’s nothing but dark waters and wide, empty beaches. The sun went down a while ago and the sand is already cold. There’s nothing more lonely, or more seductive, than a beach at night. Harley sways from side to side as she stares out at the water, watching the waves roll in, letting the repetitive motion distract herself from the cramps.
“You look like a bad dream,” says a voice.
A shadow falls across Harley. She doesn’t stop swaying, but she does remove her sunglasses as she smiles. “People usually tell me I look like Buffy Summers.”
“That’s funny,” says the voice, amused. The accent is very clean, very dry. “People tell me I look like Giles.”
The Scarecrow sits beside her, cross-legged, and picks at the peeling soles of his shoes. His tweed jacket is two sizes two small. Harley can see his thin wrists, and the knobby outline of his elbows poking at the patched sleeves. She hooks a finger under the noose around his neck- the knot is tightened up under the collar like a tie- and straightens it out for him “They lettin’ the doctors outta the madhouse these days?”
The Scarecrow smiles indulgently and lets her play with his shirt too. The lenses of his glasses reflect the light from the pier. “I’m surprised to see you alone. I thought you’d be out enjoying yourself on a night like tonight.”
“I come here to get outta my head.”
“So do I.”
“You’re lyin,” Harley says cheerfully. She punches him on the shoulder.
The Scarecrow rubs his shoulder with an exaggerated wince. “Fine, I’m lying. No one will find me here, and I assure you, they’ve tried. I’m afraid I’ve become rather unpopular.”
“Aw, don’t say that!” Harley rolls onto her back, kicking her feet in the air. The action makes her cramps even worse, but she smiles through it. “Everyone loves ya!”
“Sure,” He looks down at her with a bemused expression. “Just like they love you. The Joker’s girlfriend.”
“Not anymore,” Harley says sharply.
“That’s a shame. He was always a big hit at Arkham,” The Scarecrow’s smile, already unsettling, spreads a little wider. He reaches down and lazily pats the front of her shorts. Casual. Proprietary. “Does he know I got in there first?”
“Nah, no way,” Harley runs her tongue along her teeth. She’s thinking about the ice cream parlor on the boardwalk. Cherry coke and chocolate chip. “I like ya too much. Ow.”
“Is it your monthly cycle?”
“Why, am I leakin’?”
“Not a spot of red to be seen. But I can take your mind off it, if you’ll let me,” The Scarecrow's hand slips down to her thigh. His thumb plays with the ragged edge of her cutoffs. “Put a little fear in you and you’ll forget the pain entirely- I guarantee it.”
Harley eyes him sidelong. The first time the Scarecrow- Dr. Crane on the clock- had banged her was back in grad school, when she was clawing her way towards a PhD and didn’t care how many bored academics she had to suck off to get it. The Scarecrow had been younger then, but still a good ten or fifteen years her senior, and his brain was full of spiders and wheels the same way Harley’s was full of baseball cards and lollipops. It was more than enough to catch her attention, and when he finished, he used to slap her ass and send her on her way with the wet condom tucked into the palm of her hand.
She hadn’t even been crazy then. She just liked it.
Harley giggles at the memory and climbs to her feet, kicking aside the towel. “I ain’t in the business of fear, Docta’ Crane. I’m in it for the laughs.”
“Fear and delight go hand in hand, you know. It’s why comedians write such good horror movies,” The Scarecrow stands up and brushes the sand off his clothes. “What do you say, Ms. Quinn? Want to be my Final Girl, just for tonight?”
“Aw, shucks,” says Harley, rocking on her heels. “Why the hell not- for old time’s sake!”
Harley slings an arm around the Scarecrow’s crooked shoulders and kisses him on the cheek. He kisses her on the mouth, deep and wet like a head wound.
“C’mon,” she murmurs against his mouth. “Take me up to the boardwalk. Let me take a swing or two at the Test-ya-Strength, and afterwards ya can fill me up with all the poisons ya want and I’ll even say pretty please.”
“That,” says the Scarecrow, with an oily smile, “sounds like a marvelous idea.”