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“Quinn.” His eyes bore into hers, as though he were attempting to melt a hole into her head.
He really thought he scared her. As if. Batman rarely even gave her a bruise.
“Bats.” Harley swung her mallet over her shoulder, flipping one blonde ponytail with it. She gave him one of her award-winning, shit-eating grins to accompany it.
“How ya doin’? Feels like forever since I last ran into ya.”
“Not long enough.” His voice was completely flat, like Wile E. Coyote when he gets run over by the steam roller in those old cartoons. She liked eating Froot Loops while she watched them. Batman did not come with Froot Loops, except the kind that riddle and make jokes and blow up hospitals.
“Ya mean to me, Bats.” She dodged out of the way of his fist and, twisting her body around, slammed her mallet into his back. She giggled at the stiff grunt that fell out of his mouth and took off running, leaving the mallet behind. It was too heavy to carry across rooftops. Besides, this wasn’t her good one anyway, and she could always come back for it. They were on a roof, hundreds of feet above the city lights and traffic. Who the hell was going to come up and steal it?
She could hear his hushed footsteps trailing her in quick succession. She had to give him credit: he was weirdly quiet for a 6-foot-plus man carrying the muscles of Arnold Schwarzenegger and enough armor to outfit a tank.
Harley took out her grappling gun, one that she totally didn’t steal from whichever one of the Bats wore red, and aimed for the water tower a few buildings over. She had practiced plenty on much shorter heights and distances before graduating to skyscrapers. With a pull of the trigger the cable shot out, jerking to a halt when it hit its target. The spring activated and the rope began to wind back up, pulling her off her feet and into the nothingness beyond.
"Whoopee!" she hollered into the night, her grin nearly splitting her face open. She flew through the air like a bird, or maybe a bat, and she couldn’t hold back the laughter that erupted from her throat. The adrenaline high had her practically bouncing from rooftop to rooftop, dancing along the edge of oblivion as she sailed across Gotham City. It was like being on a rollercoaster, but way more dangerous and way more thrilling.
When she’d hit the concrete Batarangs would start zipping past her ears, attempting to catch her while she was still on the ground. Noticeably, he never tried to hit her while she was airborne. What a sweetie.
It was a little hard to grip a suitcase full of cash in one hand while holding onto dear life with the other, but she was getting the hang of it. Up, down, soaring through Gotham's Financial District. Zooming by Wayne Tower, skimming across the Iceberg Lounge, her grapple gun hitting every crane, gargoyle, and any other makeshift anchor she could find. She was flying, and she was without a care in the world.
Minus the one trying to arrest her.
“Ya trying to catch me, Bats, or are ya just out for a nightcap?” She asked when he got close enough to hear. They probably looked like Batman and Robin right then, gliding through the evening sky with him right on her tail. She needed a little cape. Not yellow, though. That was an awful color, and Robin picked the worst shade possible.
“Are you trying to get away,” he hissed, and she could practically hear him gritting his teeth as he swung closer, reaching for her leg. “Or are you just out for- “
There was a snap, sharp, splintering like a lightning strike. The loose cable that ricocheted out nearly whipped her in the face and she almost lost her grip trying to avoid it. There was another noise a half-second later, a harsh crack of bones, and then the distant, wet thud of a waterlogged garbage bag hitting the ground. But the garbage was bones and organs, and the water was blood, and the bag itself was a thin layer of human skin.
“Holy Jesus!” Harley screeched, and she was glad she had been far enough in the swing that there was no lost momentum from her panic. As soon as her toes touched the pavement she rolled, landing flat on her back, her lungs working overtime to regain breath.
In less than five seconds, grappling went from her new favorite thing to her least favorite thing.
She lay there listening to the city noises, of dogs barking and horns blaring, sirens wailing in the distance, all unaware of what just transpired. Hell, she wasn’t quite sure what just happened. She hadn’t seen a damn thing, too frightened and shocked to turn her head back.
The broken cable whipped about in the night breeze, the claws wrapped tightly around a smoke jack sticking out of the pavement. It looked like a snake slithering across the air, winding itself up and striking out again with every gust of wind.
Harley waited with bated breath, waited for another grapple to come flying over the edge, or the sliver of a cape to swing over the eave. This was Batman; he was always okay, right? He could survive damn near anything: piranhas, giant man-eating plants, giant man-eating crocodiles, giant man-eating sharks, giant man-eating clowns. Surely, he caught himself and was on his way back up to yell at her. Besides, there hadn’t been any screaming. Wouldn’t he have screamed if he was falling to his death?
No, she thought grimly, he probably wouldn’t.
She waited. She didn’t know how long, and it probably wasn’t all that long, but it felt like hours. In the back of her head, she knew she was afraid to look.
She slowly rose from her position on the ground. All she had to do was check and see. She’d look, and he wouldn’t be there, and then he’d appear behind her and be like “Quinn” and she’d punch him in the jaw. It would be great.
She peered over the edge of the building. She had no idea how high up she was. Five hundred, 600, 700 feet? Way, way too high up for someone to fall and not be either really hurt or really dead.
Squinting, she let her eyes adjust, and there. Below, far below, she could see what resembled one of those police chalk outlines. It was a blob of black and broken limbs, a pool of cape and blood, only noticeable because of a single streetlamp lighting the alleyway.
With no further hesitation, she whipped out her cell phone and dialed in a number.
It rang four, five times. A click.
“Hey, Red.”
“Harley.” Judging from her curt greeting, she must’ve been busy. Probably watching that one cooking show she liked, or watering her plants, or seducing some poor fool into giving her all his money. But Harley Quinn was nothing if not persistent.
“I gotta problem.”
Ivy sighed. “Not unusual.”
“Mmhmm. So y’know how ya needed that cash for your chemistry project? And I was real nice and volunteered so I could try out my swinging-”
“Yes. Did you get it?”
“Yeah, but uh, Bats-”
“He caught you, didn’t he?” She sounded exhausted. Harley didn’t notice that there had been background music—definitely watching The Great British Bakeoff—until the noise stopped. She evidently had paused it. “I’ll break you out.”
“No—he didn’t catch me, Red. He, uh, fell.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. It felt fitting, a moment of silence for the fallen. “Fell?”
She was actually shocked. It took a lot for Ivy to be surprised at anything, especially since she started dating Harley Quinn of all people.
“Yeah. That grapplin’ line he uses to haul his fat ass everywhere? Snapped like a goddamned toothpick, just fell. Heard ‘im bounce off the walls and smack!” She clapped her hands together, forgetting she was using one to hold her cell phone, and narrowly managed to catch it before it fell down the abyss that Batman was currently lying in.
She fumbled with her phone, nearly dropping it again before it returned to its position at her ear.
“Ya still there?”
“Yeah. You drop your phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t break it. That thing was fucking expensive as shit, and tech waste is terrible for the environment.” There was the sound of the microwave door closing, and a few beeps before the telltale humming of the motor arose.
“So, is he dead, then?” Ivy asked. Harley wasn’t quite sure if she was excited at the prospect, or genuinely concerned for his well-being. Sometimes Red liked Bats, and oftentimes she didn’t. Her tone betrayed nothing, and if they were face-to-face it would have been easy enough to read her, but over the phone her voice was impassive.
Harley looked over the edge again, careful to grip her phone tight.
He was lying there, completely still. She was fairly certain his limbs were all intact, but she was so far up it was hard to tell.
Was his suit enough to absorb the impact? At this height, she wasn’t sure much would.
“I’mma check. I just wanted to check in wit’ ya, since I’ll be late.”
“I swear to God, if he’s playing dead so he can get the jump on you, I’m beating him to death myself.” Ivy hissed. The microwave beeped eagerly in the background, and the sounds of the cupboard opening followed. “My focaccia is done reheating and I’m coming up to that infamous dessert disaster in season four. Call me if you need backup or to drag his corpse out of there.”
Harley made a smooching noise. “Gotcha, babe. Love ya!”
“Love you always, darling.” She heard another click, and Ivy hung up.
Going by her nonchalance, Harley was fairly certain Ivy didn’t really believe her, or at least, she didn’t believe the idea of Batman falling to his death. She didn’t blame her. She just saw it happen and she didn’t believe it.
She looked around. She was a little afraid to use her grappling gun after seeing what happened to Batman’s, but that seemed to be the only way she was getting down there.
“Alright, Bats,” she muttered as she carefully tied the rope around a vent tower, “ya better hope this thing holds better than your own’s, or when I die and we’re both hauntin’ this godforsaken alley, I’m beatin’ the shit outta ya ghost on the daily.”
She left the cash sitting on the roof. She would come back for it when she was done.
Harley took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. After seeing what happened, she was really not looking forward to rappelling down a skyscraper, but she didn’t see any other way down. If he was actually hurt, she couldn’t just leave him there without medical attention.
Well, she could, but that wouldn’t be very nice.
“Okay, Harls. You’ve done all kinds of batshit crazy stuff. No need for cold feet now.” She muttered to herself as she tied off another double fisherman’s knot. She probably should have asked Ivy to come pick her up with her vines or something, but that would take too long.
With another fearful look down, Harley braced herself against the edge and began her descent.
She landed shakily, brushing the sweat from her forehead as she surveyed the area. Notably, there was a group of rough-looking thugs crowded in the middle of the alleyway. It didn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to guess what they were crowded around, or what they were planning to do.
“Aye! Scram!” she screeched. The men looked at her with their bats and guns and other assorted weapons raised into the air, obviously unimpressed by her entrance.
That was, until she pulled her .32 out from the holster on her belt. She shot a round into the brick wall behind their heads, then another, and the men scrambled out of the alley like she had lit their asses on fire. Even the gunmen left without a single objection.
Wow. What a bunch of wusses.
The goons left the Batman's limp body behind. He was stretched out on the pavement, limbs tossed about amidst the pile of garbage he landed in. Harley felt the wooden remnants of a crate crunch underneath her shoes as she carefully approached the Bat. The noise didn’t make him groan or turn; he was silent as the grave, and completely motionless to boot.
She looked down at him. It was dark, very dark, with the only light that streetlamp at her back. All she could make out was the stark white of his exposed jaw.
He didn’t like being touched. If she touched his face, he’d grab her wrist, toss her over like a ragdoll and steal that cash right back. Easy way to check.
She reached out, slowly, preparing to snatch her hand back when he inevitably grabbed at her, but there was no movement. For the first time since she met him God knows how many years ago, her hand brushed against his skin. It was cold and clammy, and she could feel the barest hint of stubble and old scabs dotting his chin. She trailed her fingers over his cheeks, down to his lips, up to his nose. He didn’t so much as twitch.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and turned on the flashlight.
His usually pale skin was about four shades paler. A mixture of blood and cerebrospinal fluid was pouring out of his nostrils and pooling between his rapidly purpling lips. Blood soaked the ground around him, and she wasn’t even sure where most of it came from. It seemed to be leaking between the armor plates.
She lowered the side of her head to his face, hovering above his mouth, and felt her heart still. She watched for chest movement, but with the suit it would be next to impossible to tell.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six-
A small, but warm puff of air against her skin, and a shuddering gasp escaped his lips. He was still alive, but she was afraid it wouldn’t last.
She needed to check his eyes and pulse. Her hands went to remove his cowl but paused midway. She had seen a spark of light from below while she was climbing down from the building, then a yelp of pain. The tech in the cowl had somehow survived and was ready to shock her if she dared to try and remove it.
She also had a sneaking suspicion that, not only did he have a traumatic brain injury, but the pseudo-helmet was the only thing keeping his head together. Literally.
She remembered studying such cases in med school. The bodies of suicide jumpers who, for all intents and purposes, seemed totally intact with no visible injuries. Once you tried to move them, however, they’d fall apart. The force of impact liquified them internally.
She picked up a heavy, gauntleted forearm and it felt. . . gross. Floppy. His suit was probably acting as a second skin, preventing the bones and blood and organs from spilling out onto the cobblestone.
She resisted the urge to vomit.
Harley shone the flashlight over his eyes. His pupils were so blown out she couldn’t see the blue of his irises. No matter the angle the light hit, they remained wide and still, as if they weren’t being directly exposed to 50 lumens.
“Batman,” she said, “Can you hear me?” She was speaking slowly and loudly, making sure to enunciate every word.
No response. The cerebrospinal fluid alone indicated a severe TBI, not to mention the unnatural stiffness of his body and the mydriasis. He very well could go into hypovolemic shock, if not neurogenic, and she wouldn’t be surprised if his spine was affected.
She couldn’t move him, not without help.
She would call 911. She should call 911. The EMTs would come out here with a backboard and a cervical spine collar, IV fluids and nonrebreather masks, and a quick ride in the ambulance to their prepped ICU room at the hospital. Things she didn’t have.
But he’d never forgive her. The doctors would have to take off his cowl to treat his head wound (if they could without getting injured, that is), and no matter their contractual oath to privacy, someone was bound to let his identity slip. Who could live with such a juicy secret? They’d tell just a spouse, a friend, or a relative, and then it would spread like wildfire around the city until it hit the front page of the Gotham City Gazette.
His identity was his most preciously held secret. He’d rather die than have his life ruined, or rather, what he perceived as his life being ruined. And Harley could understand. She found that it was much harder to take a girl’s trip to Starbucks when everyone knew you robbed banks for fun.
So, she called someone else.
“Red?”
“Oh my God, you’ll never believe the lore behind custardgate. So, they were making trifles, right, and Deborah—you remember Deborah don’t you—”
“Red.” As much as she wanted to know the lore behind custardgate, the dying man was probably a little more important. “Bats is uh, real bad off.”
“So Deb—Wait.” Ivy seemed to be adjusting the phone, pulling it from her shoulder so she could hold it properly. “He—he actually fell? Like, didn’t catch himself?”
“Yeah, no. He’s completely unresponsive. I could probably kill ‘im if I wasn’t such a nice gal and he wasn’t such a nice guy.” She smacked her lips together. “I can’t risk moving him alone in his condition. Do ya know the other Bat’s numbers?”
Ivy was quiet on the other end of the line. Then: “How the hell would I know their numbers?”
“Well, I dunno. You’ve known ‘em longer than me! We have Batsy’s number!”
“That does not mean—oh God. Uh. I’ll be over. . . where are you?”
“Crime Alley.”
“Jesus Christ, of course you are. Give me ten.”
She hung up. In the meantime, Harley would administer first aid.
She sat behind his head and grasped the edges of his jaw, oh-so-slowly pushing it forward. She pressed her thumbs into the hollow of his cheeks, parting his lips slightly. She was afraid for a moment that the cowl might try and shock her, but weirdly enough, nothing happened.
Well, she wasn’t going to question good luck. Hopefully, in this position, he could breathe a bit better. It was awkward to hold his head, and she found she had to lay on her stomach to get the right angle without jostling him. She shuddered at how gooey he felt.
“’K Bats, we’ll get ya outta here. And then you’ll owe me another toaster, and maybe dinner at Capital’s. No. Dorsia.” Their bruschetta was to die for.
“Also, ya ain’t getting that money back. If it helps, we stole it from Bruce Wayne, and let me tell ya: he’s an ass. Totally deserves to have his money stolen. Have ya met Brucie? I think you’ve saved him a few times. Or maybe ya haven’t. Was that Nightwing? Anyway, he’s cute an’ all, but oh my God that stunt at the reopening of the Mona-”
The hum of a vehicle approached, and Harley’s pink Thunderbird pulled up at the mouth of the alleyway. She breathed a sigh of relief and yelled out.
“Hey, Red!”
And then the Batmobile slammed into the back of the car, hurling it out of view.
Harley’s jaw dropped, and Bat’s head almost dropped with it. It was a good thing her doctor mind was activated and managed not to let his fractured skull smack the ground or his neck flop to the side, or else he’d probably be a vegetable. More so than he already was.
“Red? Oh my God, are you okay?” she called out.
Somewhere in the near distance, Ivy must have exited relatively unharmed. “What the fuck? The fuck did you imbeciles learn how to drive?” She was screaming, and Harley could hear the sidewalk crack as the deep roots of trees began to crawl out of the ground.
“Red,” she said, her voice leaking with exhaustion and unshed tears. She was trying not to cry at the damage done to her precious vintage, and her precious girlfriend, and the stress that was eating away at her soul. She was only barely succeeding, “Red, if you ain’t bleeding out come o’er here and help, please!”
The Batmobile’s side door swung open almost automatically. Harley expected to see any one of the Bat’s comparably colorful teammates exit, flexing their amazing skills of running into bright pink cars parked by alleyways.
Seconds passed by, and nobody came out. Then she actually looked and realized there was nobody in the driver’s seat. Which meant there was no one inside at all. Had Batman managed to call it? Did it sense he was injured and come to his rescue?
Was the car sentient?
“Jesus Christ! You ran my girlfriend’s goddamned car over, you fucking maniac! I swear to God not a single one of you Bats can drive like a normal fucking person!” Ivy was still shrieking, unaware that there was nobody except Harley and an unconscious Batman around to hear her.
“Pam! There’s nobody there! Get over here!”
As if on cue—and knowing the Bats it very well could have been—one of the many vigilantes that patrolled Gotham came whirring to a halt on their motorcycle. Harley heard the screech of brakes and noted that the bike barely stopped short of colliding with the back of the Batmobile itself. It would be just her luck that there would be a pile-up. This was not her night.
Practically flinging their body off the motorcycle, the newcomer flipped into the light to reveal themselves as. . . one of the ones in purple. Not Batgirl. Not Spoiler. The other one in purple, Harley’s mind supplied, Uuuuh Hunter? Huntress!
Lot of purple and red and yellow with these folks. They needed to learn more colors. She wondered if they would accept outfit ideas. Bats never did listen to her when she suggested a pretty cape lining to contrast the black suit.
Watching the Huntress throw her dark, silky hair behind her back, Harley couldn’t help but wonder where her helmet was. Surely, she didn’t want to end up like Batman, limp and useless in Crime Alley of all places. She had to admit though, the woman’s hair was amazing, and it probably looked great flowing in the wind.
As soon as Huntress began to stride into the alleyway, high heeled boots clicking against the pavement, an enraged Poison Ivy was in her face. Her red hair was tied into a messy bun, and she was wearing a green bathrobe and pajama pants with little leaves on them. Her feet were bare. Harley was relieved to see that she didn’t seem to have so much as a bruise on her. Thank the stars above for super plant powers.
“You goddamned dipshit!” Vines were snaking across the road, wrapping themselves around the tires of Huntress’ bike and the Batmobile. Ivy’s nails dug into the skin of her palms, her fingers twitching as she reached into the Green.
Huntress responded in kind, whipping her bo staff out, eyes narrowed dangerously. “What are you doing here? Where is Batman?” she hissed. She was ready to attack, and so was Ivy, and Harley really just wanted to go home.
She took the opportunity to pipe up. “Over here! He fell! And I didn’t push him, before ya ask. His rope thingy snapped.”
There was a moment of silence as Huntress stared in her direction, assessing the situation the best she could. Harley didn’t know Huntress all that well, not like she did some of the other members of the Bat clan. And Huntress certainly didn’t know her.
Why did she have to show up? Of all people, it couldn’t have been someone like Nightwing, or Red Robin, or. . .
Probably just those two.
She glanced at Ivy, who was apparently trying that “deep breathing” method Harley always suggested. It was up to her now.
It was quiet for another beat and then, with a sigh that spoke volumes, Ivy gave the vigilante a stiff nod and stepped aside. The twists of vines and roots retreated to their home in the cracks of the sidewalk. Harley smiled brightly. Red had really come a long way.
Huntress still seemed wary, watching Ivy like a hawk as she carefully stepped into the alleyway, probably scanning for traps. She looked at the half-dead Bat strewn across the pavement, then at the building with Harley’s grappling line hanging from it, then back to the Batmobile.
“This is not what I expected,” she said.
“Yeah, understandable. Were ya plannin’ to move him all by your lonesome?”
Huntress’ brows furrowed behind her mask, crinkling the thin material resting over her eyes, “Well. . . yeah. I’m pretty strong.”
She seemed confused. Harley was too, so that was okay.
“Doesn’t mean ya should move him by yourself. He’s got all kinds of injuries. Ya might paralyze him.” She didn’t mention that he very well may already be paralyzed, or brain damaged, or worse. They’d get there when they got there.
Before Huntress could reply, Ivy was shoving past her. While she was backing off on the displays of outright aggression, she certainly hadn’t forgotten the Thunderbird incident yet.
She looked down at Batman with a stony face. “Jesus fucking Christ you weren’t kidding.”
Harley would have shrugged if she wasn’t trying to keep the Bat’s head from moving. “Yeah, he took quite the plunge. Fell from all the way up there.”
She motioned with her head to the skyscraper. Both Ivy and the Huntress followed with their eyes, meeting at the top and trailing the far way to the bottom. Harley wasn’t good at eyeing distance, but it was pretty obviously a good fall.
“That would do it,” Ivy muttered. She was fidgeting with the tie of her robe. “So, what are we doing with him?”
Huntress gawked as if Ivy just asked whose house they were robbing next. “You two aren’t doing anything! I’ll handle it from here.” She waved her arms, apparently trying to motion Harley to move. Harley did not move.
“Were ya not listening to what I just said? You’re goin’ to kill him, Huntress. Let us help put him in the Batmobile.”
“And then you’re going to pay us for the damages you did to Harley’s car!” Ivy spat.
“Okay. On the count of three. Don’t jostle his spine or his head.”
“Got it.”
“Yep. Pammie?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Great. One. Two. Three!”
They lifted. They got him about five inches up in the air before they had to put him back down.
“Holy shit.” Ivy wheezed. “He’s heavier than a truck. What’s he eating?”
“I think it’s mostly the armor. And the brawn.” Huntress commented. Harley had her handling his upper half since she was very blatantly the most muscular of the three.
“C’mon Red, use that sexy ass the way God intended! Lift with your legs!” Harley had one of his legs, and Ivy had the other. It was like trying to pick up a tree trunk, but you also had to keep it ridiculously steady, and also the tree trunk was floppy and making gross crunching noises.
Ivy was breathing heavily. She was never an athlete. "You seriously didn’t bring like, a stretcher?”
Harley wasn’t sure if she was seeing correctly, since her only light source was that singular street lamp at her back, but it looked like Huntress was blushing a bit. “No. I didn’t call the car. Our uh, tech person got an emergency alert from Batman’s suit and called it over here. We had no clue what the problem was. I figured he just got knocked out during a fight or something.”
Ivy softened a bit. But only a bit. “Your tech person owes us money for damages.”
“Okay.”
“Or Batman. Someone does.”
“Got it.”
Usually, Huntress was more argumentative, but Batman’s condition seemed to have knocked some semblance of civility into her. Same with Ivy, actually. It was like that one Christmas story about the soldiers all singing Kumbaya, except the soldiers were costumed freaks tolerating a temporary allyship while they tried to load a moribund superhero into a giant Hot Wheels car.
“Let’s try again, ladies. On the count of three—and legs, Ivy, lift with your legs. One, two, three!”
They lifted again, and Harley wished they had stolen a folding table or something to load him onto. Picking him up wasn’t as much of a problem as the “not letting him flop around like a beached fish” part was.
They barely had him off the ground, let alone anywhere near the car seat Huntress was trying to pack him into. That was as far as they could go before Ivy’s grip started slipping.
They stood there, bent over and heaving with exertion, and Harley once again considered calling 911. Or a tow truck.
“Wait. I got an idea.” Ivy motioned with her head to put him back down. Huntress groaned, but they lowered him gently back to the ground, nonetheless.
The vigilante straightened up and cleared her throat. “Guys, I can pick him up on my own.”
“We know you can, the problem is the head and the back and the,” Harley waved at him, “everything else! You can’t lift his whole body and not cause damage! He’s squishy and fragile right now.”
“Squishy? Ew. Why would you say that?”
“I mean, did you feel his head? It’s like a water balloon ready to-”
“Quiet. Wait for it.” Ivy hissed. “I’m concentrating.” Her fingers were moving against her palms. Her eyes were closed, her breaths even. Despite her harried appearance, the Bat’s blood on her legs and the sweat dripping from her brow, she seemed at peace right then.
“Does she do this often?” the Huntress whispered. Harley shrugged. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew what her Red what about to do, but it was best not to tell Huntress. She might get the wrong idea.
There was a rumble deep within the Earth like something wicked had awoken from its slumber. It was a surprise to no one when Huntress’ bo staff erupted from its sheath. She swung out, pointing it at Ivy threateningly.
“Give her a second! I promise, she ain’t doin’ nothin’ bad!” Harley cried. “She’s just gettin’ us a little help is all!”
Huntress had hardly opened her mouth to reply when the ground split open. Deep fissures broke through the pavement as the vines Ivy had called upon earlier returned, winding across the ground. One by one, they snaked under Batman’s limp body, forming something akin to a backboard.
Harley and Huntress watched in stunned silence as the plants worked together. Ivy raised her hand, and with it, the vines lifted him into the car as smoothly as cogs in a machine.
She smiled, and Harley’s heart melted at the sight. “See? I got it.”
It was always wonderful when Ivy saw how amazing she was.
Huntress stared. “Huh. Is that going to be a problem?” She pointed at the chunks of cement now scattered about the alleyway, and the vines whipping about like alien worms.
“Yeah, and you’re paying for it.” Ivy snapped. “I’m being nice!”
“Yeah.”
“I’m helping, and here you are, fucking trashing Harley’s car and—you know you could have killed me!”
“That wasn’t me, Ivy.”
“Your tech person could have killed me! Rear-ending someone at that speed? Look at what you’ve done! And now, when I help rescue your dumbass boss who, by the way, we totally could have murdered but we didn’t-”
“Yeah.”
“Because we’re good people! And now you’re complaining about some plants sticking out of Crime Alley? Crime Alley?”
“It’s still city infrastructure. People live here.”
“Fuck you!”
Christmas was over.
His eyes opened slowly.
He blinked, feeling sluggish and sick. The ceiling was white. Everything was white. The lights were far too bright for comfort.
He had been back in the land of living for a few days by then, and unfortunately wasn’t allowed to leave until Elliot gave him the go-ahead. He’d sneak out if he knew Alfred wouldn’t drive him straight back to the hospital.
If he were perfectly honest with himself, he wasn’t sure that he was up to escaping anyway.
He turned his head to the side, feeling the tubes connected to his face pull with the movement. There was something new on the bedside table. An envelope and one of those heart-shaped boxes of chocolates you get at Walgreens during Valentine’s Day.
He grabbed the envelope, noting the little bats drawn on it in pen—wait bats-
“Dear Bats,
I hope you’re feeling better! The little shits you call sidekicks wouldn’t tell us how you were doing, but I was able to politely coax Nightwing into getting this to you. His concussion will heal without a problem, rest assured. Assuming you’re still alive, I sent some chocolates! They’re past their expiration date but personally, I think that’s when they taste the best.
Love,
Harley and Ivy
P.S. You owe me a new toaster and dinner @ Dorsia's. I expect a funny little bowtie around your neck.
The envelope still had some weight to it. Bruce reached in and pulled out two other pieces of paper.
There was an auto repair invoice for a 1965 Ford Thunderbird. The back fenders had to be replaced along with the taillights and trunk.
Then, there was another note written on yellow legal paper.
Bill for Damages
Batman,
I’ll need your insurance info for the car unless you want to pay out-of-pocket. You can probably afford it, so it doesn’t matter to me.
Additionally, for your rescue, I demand:
$500 for emotional trauma and wasted time
$120 for Harley’s mallet, she can’t find it
$10,000 for Bruce Wayne’s money, we can’t find that either
Since you’re probably comatose, I’ll give you a week. If I don’t see the money after that, I’m finding the Batmobile and keying it. Then I'm taking over Gotham.
Ivy
Bruce groaned. It was dated two weeks ago.
He shouldn’t have woken up.