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If Harley hears one more complaint about Section 8, cheating boyfriends, or the lateness of public transportation, she's gonna tear out someone's eyeb—no, she can't think that way. She swore to better herself, to become a model citizen, or... at least to no longer do bad things and get into trouble. And that included suppressing those bloodthirsty thoughts.
Though really, Harley has every reason to be annoyed. If only (those who pass for) model citizens didn't complain so much, Harley would have a much easier time maintaining a positive attitude. She has to deal with enough negativity during her day job – as a social worker, no less! What do they think she went to med school for? To apply band-aids to rowdy teenagers? That's so insulting! – she doesn't need any more of it on her way home.
What she needs are soundproof walls, because the chatter and the jostling and the armpit odours are offending her overwrought nerves and if she doesn't get out of here soon, she's gonna pop a vessel. Which she needs to avoid, of course, because when Harley goes into rage mode she's not gonna stop short of murder and mayhem.
And that wouldn't do. She needs to show everyone she can be good, too! Especially that Wayne guy.
She cranks up the volume on her mp3-player. Pink fluffy unicorns dispel some of her violent mood, but are unable to magically alter the situation. The ride is still jerky, elbows still jab her ribs, and she's still thrown around like a buoy in a storm. Whenever they round a corner, Harley feels like she's pole-dancing. Without the seats blocking the way, she would have revolved around the bar she's gripping.
Seriously, where did that bus driver learn to drive? Did she win her licence in the lottery? Harley's brother was more careful than that, and he'd accumulated enough speeding tickets to pave the entire Bowery with.
At the next stop, more people get on, and Harley makes the mistake of relying on their collective poise to keep her upright should she stumble. She releases the pole and rummages for her cell phone, craving some lolcats to cheer her up.
The bus driver chooses that exact moment to hit the brakes and while Harley loses her footing, time seems to simultaneously speed up and slow down. Her ear buds drop to the floor and as she snatches at them, her cell phone slips from her grasp, hitting the chest of the man in front of her, who, suddenly woken from his stupor tries to catch it one-handedly, but to no avail. It thuds in front of his scuffed dress shoes.
With a horrified "Eep!" she bends to pick it up and to reel in her ear buds before anyone can step on them and make Harley really angry. Her first instinct is to curse the driver (which she does in her head), the second to check if her phone is broken, because if it is, someone's gotta pay. It took her months to scrape together enough money to buy it fair and square.
Only when she rights herself does she notice that – whoops – she's landed on someone's lap and that the correct thing to do in this situation, as she's learned, is to apologize to the person she is inconveniencing (even if it wasn't her fault!).
"I'm sorry, I didn't—" Wait. She knows that chin. And that nose. And the hair. She lights up. Finally a friendly face among the sea of uncaring strangers. "Hiya, Professor Crane!"
The man, who has since been pointedly ignoring the figure in his lap, startles at having been addressed. "Oh. Good evening, child."
"Fancy meeting you here. Did they also release you," she glances around and drops her voice to a whisper, "or did you break out again?"
"I doubt I'd be using public transportation if I were on the run."
"Of course you wouldn't," Harley agrees and slips her phone into her handbag without having checked for damage. "There are faster and less crowded ways to travel."
"Indeed."
"Does that mean you're healed, too?"
Crane ducks his head. "I'd rather not—"
"Discuss this where anyone can hear? Sure. Sorry. How about we go eat somewhere and catch up? I'm starving!"
"I don't—"
"My treat!"
"I can't possibly—"
"Your treat then."
Crane sighs, acknowledging that there is no shaking the force that is Harley Quinn. "Very well. That sounds acceptable."
"Whoopie!" Harley cheers and throws her free arm around him to squeeze him into a half-hug. "You're a great friend, you know that, Professor Crane?"
He startles again. "F-friend?"
"Yup. You've always been kind to me at Arkham, let me cry on your shoulder when I was down, talked to me when I needed it, or gave me control of the remote despite protests from Hatter and Ivy—"
"I didn't exactly give you—"
"—who by the way consider you a friend, too, although Ivy in particular would never admit it. You know how she is with men, Professor."
"I thought we didn't want to discuss this here."
"You didn't, Professor. I don't mind what people think." Crane's neighbor looked up from his book but when he noticed her staring, he dropped his gaze again, trying to appear absorbed in his book.
"Well, a little more caution wouldn't hurt either, don't you think?"
"Roger that, Professor," Harley salutes. "Your treat, your lead."
"Please, call me Jonathan."
"That's a rather long name." She tries it out, but her tongue rebels against it.
"It's as long as 'Professor.'"
"Yeah, maybe so, but I'm used to that. You can easily slur it, see: Prrfssrr." She laughs at that, swinging her legs and kicking someone's shins without noticing. Crane smiles. "Can't I call you Jonny? That'd be easier."
His smile falters. "That's... I think that would be a little too familiar."
"Oh, puh-lease. As if Arkham hadn't shrunk if not broken down the boundaries of our personal space. I remember you despise closeness and yet here I am, still sitting on your lap."
"It seems you're right, but you adapt to certain circumstance, as, for instance, an overcrowded bus. Context is everything."
"And this is our context," Harley says and pulls her ponytail tight. "Come on, let's get off here. I need to walk off some steam."
She hops onto her feet and tugs Crane behind her, steering them both toward the door and out into the fresh evening breeze. Ah, freedom. She stretches both hands high up in the air and feels a lightness in her chest that has been missing all day.
"This is so much better, isn't it?"
Leaping to Crane's side, she links arms with him and ushers them along. Now that she has a few hours away from obligations, she's thriving again. What she's lacking in caffeine, her body makes up with endorphins. It helps that she's with someone who knows her, in front of whom she doesn't have to pretend or to prove herself – who's facing the same trials and tribulations each day. They would have so much to share, and isn't that exciting?
"Where to, my new-old friend? We have a lot of catching up to do."