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Harley, her face flushed red from the cold, barged into the restaurant. In her heavy boots, gloves, and snowsuit, she moved like an astronaut. Unbeknownst to her, she left a trail of melting snow from the door to the table. With some maneuvering, she was able to squeeze herself into a chair. Once she was seated, she unzipped the puffy snowsuit and slipped her arms from it.
"How are the ski lessons progressing?" Crane asked. "Fractured anything yet?"
"Nope, but I went face-first into this huge snowbank and the ski instructor had to pull me out. And guess what!"
"I can't begin to imagine."
"He was. So. Hot!"
Crane choked on his soup.
"I'm totally gonna ask for his number after my next lesson. Anywho, what's for lunch?"
Crane waited for Harley to strip off her gloves and then passed her the menu. She scanned it front and back, then whistled at the prices. "I'm glad I ain't paying for any of this!"
Ah, yes. The mysterious all-inclusive holiday ski trip for two that Harley had won either from an online contest, or from a giveaway at the mall, while never presenting identification or being disqualified for her criminal—and now morally gray but still highly illegal vigilante—activities. Nor had anyone noted or protested that her chosen plus-one was the escaped terrorist known as the Scarecrow.
Whatever.
It was unlike Crane to dismiss his suspicions, but free soup was free soup. If the police barged in, he would take care of it. If Harley had robbed a nunnery and bought a vacation package under an assumed name, more power to her.
"What kind of soup is that, Professor? Looks cheesy!"
"French onion soup," Crane replied.
"Ew, there's onions in it?"
Crane spooned up the thick, gooey layer of cheese to reveal the broth and onions underneath. "They're caramelized, so they're tender and have taken on the flavor of the broth. Even if you dislike raw onion, that shouldn't dissuade you."
"Okay…but do you think they could pick the onions out for me?" Harley asked.
"No. If onions are that repulsive, choose a different appetizer."
Harley hemmed and hawed and asked for some cheese from Crane's bowl and was soundly put in her place. She finally gave up and decided she'd take her chances with the French onion soup.
"What entree did you pick?" Harley asked, returning to the menu. "And how about for dessert?"
"I didn't," Crane replied. "The soup is enough for lunch."
Harley slapped the menu down on the table between them. She gestured at the laminated paper. "All this is free. You gotta take advantage of that!"
"I understand the concept of free. I still don't want anything else right now."
"How about one little slice of fancy Christmas cheesecake?"
Crane sighed. "I'm going to take my soup back to my room and order room service for future meals if you don't stop."
"Okay, forget I said anything. But if you were gonna have an entree, what would you pick? 'Cause there are way too many options. If Red was here, she'd make me get something healthy. And vegetarian."
"About that, why isn't Isley here instead of me?" Crane asked.
"You know the twenty-foot Christmas tree they got in the lobby? That's why. It's so pretty, with the tinsel and the lights. And I already stole five candy canes off it. But Red would probably turn it into a zombie tree and make it eat my super-sexy ski instructor," Harley explained.
"Can't have that," Crane muttered, before actually addressing the question. "You and I have different tastes, so I can't suggest what you should order. Pick whatever doesn't have components you'll spend all day picking off. Something easy to customize, maybe."
"That's a really good idea, Professor. Build your own burger it is!"
Crane wanted to roll his eyes. Harley could have stayed in Gotham and gotten a burger from any of a thousand restaurants. She really did have the palate of a picky child. At least Crane wouldn't have to sit there, embarrassed, watching her make little piles of unwanted vegetables.
"Are you ready to order?" Crane asked.
Harley nodded.
"Completely sure of all your choices?"
She nodded again, harder.
Crane sought out and waved down the waiter who had delivered his soup. The young man hurried over.
"I'm ready when you are," the waiter said, producing a compact tablet and stylus.
Harley froze for a second and Crane prepared to snap his fingers in front of her face and reboot her. Luckily, that wasn't needed. Harley shook her head and then rattled off her order without any further hiccups. The waiter entered everything and took a moment to ask how Crane liked his soup. After receiving a positive answer, the young man tucked his tablet away and headed for the kitchen.
Once the waiter was gone, Harley leaned across the table and cupped her hand around her mouth. "Guess what," she whispered.
"I have a sneaking suspicion, but I'm going to save my dignity," Crane replied.
"He was almost as hot as my ski instructor! Professor, this place is like a Hallmark movie ski lodge, just full of hunks! I wanna go look in the kitchen and see if the cooks are hot, too!"
"We're not going to do that."
Denied her eye candy, Harley had no choice but to sit back and wait. She hummed a Christmas tune to herself and beat out the rhythm on the table. Crane produced a book from the depths of his cardigan's pockets and tried his best to ignore her.
Ten minutes (and several carols) later, the waiter arrived with a ramekin of soup. He presented it to Harley and set it on the table in front of her. She ogled his retreating backside so long Crane cleared his throat and subtly reminded her she was in public and the waiter was probably still in college.
"Yeah, yeah, I know we're not at Hooters," Harley mumbled.
Still uneasy about the idea of onions lurking like sunken icebergs, Harley stuck her spoon deep into the cheesy crust. One tentative bite later, Harley forgot all about hot guys. She had found a new love, and its name was French onion soup.
"It's SO good! Thanks for convincing me!"
Crane watched Harley tear into the soup with all the manners of her pet hyenas. Her passion finally prompted Crane to finish off the dregs from the bottom of his own bowl.
When the waiter returned to deliver the burger and remove the empty ramekins, Crane requested another serving of soup. He figured he could take his time with it while Harley had her fill of bacon cheeseburger.
"You wanna try it? It's definitely a top-ten burger, maybe even a top five." Harley held out the dripping sandwich.
Crane grimaced. She hadn't even offered him the side without a large bite taken from it. "I want nothing to do with your used hamburger, thank you."
Harley shrugged and took another massive bite. Crane tried to distract himself from Harley's lack of manners by returning to his book. Her borderline-lewd moans of beefy pleasure kept him from sinking into the story.
"That was awesome." Harley leaned back in her chair. "You should try your own burger tonight for dinner."
And maybe while Crane was at it, he'd slaughter his own cow, grind his own meat, stoke his own fire, and cure his own bacon. In fewer words: no. Oversized burgers topped with even more grease were very much not his thing.
The waiter arrived bearing Harley's "fancy Christmas cheesecake." From the name alone, Crane expected it to be heavy on red and green food dye, reeking of peppermint extract, and blasted with fragments of candy cane shrapnel. What was laid down on the table was far less artificial and even featured an honest-to-God mint sprig. The crust was a rich red velvet, while the filling was a subtle pastel green.
"Please enjoy." With that, the waiter flitted off with the now-empty burger plate.
Harley sat up. "I wanna eat this so bad, but if I do, I think I'm gonna need to trade in my ski lesson for a nap."
"They'll give you a to-go box, I'm sure. It'll keep in your room's refrigerator," Crane suggested.
"Sure, but it looks way too good to get all nasty and dried out in a mini-fridge. Ugh, why are decisions so hard? Oh, I got an idea! Split it with me?"
"I don't want it," Crane said hastily.
"I saw you eyeballing it. You definitely want it," Harley refuted.
Before Crane could protest, Harley took a knife and bisected the cheesecake. They only had one plate but there were plenty of napkins. Crane unfolded one and scooted his half onto the napkin. Harley handed him a fork.
Crane raised his fork and sliced the very tip from the dessert. As he brought it to his mouth, a pleasant but not overpowering fragrance of mint and chocolate wafted from the cake. The scents translated seamlessly into flavors a moment later.
It was one of the best things he'd ever eaten. Not that Crane had much experience with fine dining. He'd been too broke, then too busy, then too incarcerated. Still, limited palate or not, it was delicious. Crane closed his eyes and savored the cheesecake. It was sweet without being cloying, minty without reminding him of Arkham's cheap toothpaste. In short, it was perfect.
Eyes still closed, Crane took a second, bigger bite. Then a third.
"Ha, I knew you'd like it! Glad I didn't eat my half. Just let me know when you're ready for it."
At Harley's words, something heavy settled in Crane's chest. For a moment he thought he was going to have a heart attack. Then he realized it was something worse.
Emotions.
Positive ones.
How odious.
Crane opened his eyes and found Harley smiling at him. She inched her plate of cheesecake in his direction.
"Thank you," Crane said. He accepted the plate and tipped the remains of his slice onto the stronger vessel.
"Of course. That's what friends are for! And other stuff too, but sharing food's a big part of it," Harley replied.
Friends were also good for entertainment while you ate the food they shared with you. Harley had never found a silence she couldn't fill, and as Crane enjoyed his cheesecake, she regaled him with some of her recent adventures. She occupied a strange niche in Gotham's ecosystem, sometimes a villain, sometimes a hero, sometimes pure chaos personified. Because of this, her tales swung wildly from her "chilling with Batgirl" to meeting the Mad Hatter for tea.
"Then I kicked his butt right off the ledge! But the Bat caught him before he splatted, so I don't have to worry about a murder charge. This time. And even if I did...totally worth it." Harley finished her last story at the same time Crane finished his dessert.
"That was an excellent meal. Oh, when is your next ski lesson?" Crane asked. Lunch had been an unusually long affair, and punctual Harley was not.
Harley checked the time on her phone. "Don't worry, I got plenty of- Uh, oh! Sorry, Professor, I gotta get a move on!"
While Harley slipped her arms back into the snowsuit and grabbed her gloves, Crane considered his choices. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he and his book would have enjoyed a warm, cozy afternoon either in front of the lodge's massive fireplace, or in the peace of Crane's room. Every now and then, however, Christmas miracles happened.
"Would it be acceptable for me to watch? Perhaps to provide some encouragement?" Crane asked.
Harley stretched the word "what" out to about twenty syllables. "You really want to? It's pretty cold out there."
"Just for a few minutes. Long enough to judge this ski instructor of yours, at least."
Harley snorted. "Thanks for looking out for me. You gonna gas him if he turns me down?"
"I never leave home without fear toxin," Crane replied. "Though I will only use it with your permission and if he turns you down rudely."
"Sounds great! See you on the slopes!" With that, Harley hurried for the door as quickly as her snowsuit allowed.
Crane left a tip for the waiter—the cash had come courtesy of a surprisingly rich test subject the Scarecrow had kidnapped around Halloween—and headed back to his room. If he was going to be foolhardy, he was going to need to put on a few more layers.