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The being who sometimes called himself Harley Quin was not one to linger. He came and he went, it had been said—going where he was needed and only staying long enough to do his duty. He did not make it a particular point to see a drama all the way to its conclusion. He merely played his role, gave his cues, and as often as not departed well before curtain call.
Nor did Mr Quin make a habit of frequenting any particular establishments. What use had one such as he for Arlecchinos and Bells and Motleys? His was not the sort of presence to be sought out, but rather to be stumbled upon by those unwitting players whom he occasionally assisted. He attached himself to nothing; to no-one; to nowhere.
The final bow would never feature Mr Harley Quin, nor would the programme ever list his name, and that suited him just fine indeed.
Mr Quin first met the man who would one day become Mr Satterthwaite on a dreary, overcast evening in October. It was just before the turn of the century, or so he had been told—time was such a tricky, wily little beast, especially for those not altogether beholden to its nature—and Mr Quin was in the process of witnessing a car crash.
The screeching of tyres against the roadway was what first captured his and many others’ attention. Horns honking and shouts of anger drew the eyes of yet more curious bystanders, and soon a small crowd began to form at the edge of the busy London street.
In the middle of the road, a dog lay on its side, dying but not yet dead. It was obviously a stray, mangy and half-starved, with matted gray fur now darkened with its own blood. Mr Quin could see the protrusion of its ribs as it labored for breath, could feel its fear as uncaring motorcars swerved around its prone body.
It was a sad sight, thought Mr Quin, but not altogether an uncommon one. Already, people were starting to disperse, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues in shallow pity for the “poor, stupid creature.”
Mr Quin himself was about to pass on when something out of the ordinary—indeed, something quite extraordinary—occurred.
Just as Mr Quin began turning away from the scene, a man ran out from the opposing streetside, apparently heedless of the danger such an action posed. Mr Quin paused and stared with veiled interest as the man flew into oncoming traffic and dropped to his knees next to the struggling victim.
The man was young, perhaps in his mid-thirties, and there did not at first glance seem to be anything particularly special about him. He was average-looking, fair and fine-boned, with an almost birdlike quality to his willowy frame. His face was a collection of sharp angles which could charitably be called elfin, but he was certainly not one to turn heads when he walked past.
Yet there was something in this man’s eyes—blue; the same clear blue as the depths of a still lake—that captivated Mr Quin. Those eyes, more so than most people’s, could see, a fact yet further proven when their gazes met quite impossibly across the vastness separating them.
Drivers careened wildly across the road, yelling obscenities from their windows, but neither the man nor Mr Quin paid them any mind. It was as if a silence had settled over the two of them, soft as spider-silk, muffling the clamour of the rest of the world.
A small movement, barely more than a twitch, pulled the man’s attention once again to the poor thing still clutching desperately to life. Its dark eyes glistened with fear and pain, pleading for something beyond its ken—something the man could not hope to give. Even so, gentle hands lifted the wounded creature from the road, cradling it tenderly as one would a child.
With slow, careful movements, the man stood. He ignored angry motorists and astonished bystanders alike, keeping his eyes fixed unerringly on Mr Quin. A few short strides brought him to his destination, and the two men regarded each other somberly for a long moment.
“Can you help it?”
The man’s voice was soft and thin, betraying only a fragile note of hope. It would have been a foolish thing to ask of anyone else, for it was clear that nothing short of a miracle could save the dying animal.
Yet, there was no naivety in the man’s eyes, only a clarity borne of understanding. Something in this stranger, perhaps even without his conscious knowledge, seemed to realize, of all the people on this particular London street, Mr Quin was the one to whom he should appeal.
Something in this man saw Mr Quin, and it made his response all the more difficult to give.
Slowly, regretfully, Mr Quin shook his head. The man dipped his chin in quiet acknowledgement, as if he had expected such an answer but had asked hoping for a different one nonetheless.
Wordlessly, man and beast sank down onto the pavement. The creature, still held in a gentle embrace, let out a whimper of pain as its injuries were aggravated. It thrashed with renewed vigour for a few moments, fearful eyes darting wildly from the man holding it close to the dark figure looming over them, before it finally seemed to tire and slow.
A last, whining breath preceded the stuttering cessation of the dog’s movements, and then, quietly, it stilled in the man’s arms. The light faded from its eyes, and with it went all the fear and the panic and the pain. In that instant, as the man laid it tenderly on the concrete, it finally looked at peace.
Mr Quin knelt. He reached out a hand to brush pale fingers over the dog’s eyelids, sliding them gently closed. Above its head, a clump of weeds sprouted from a crack in the pavement, crowning the deceased with a halo of small white flowers.
After a moment’s hesitation, Mr Quin plucked one and held it out, offering it to the man opposite him like an apology.
Around them, a light rain began to fall. In the dark blue of encroaching twilight, streetlamps flickered on one by one and limned the man’s fair hair in golden hues. Unshed tears glistened on his lower lashes like silver dewdrops before first light. The downward twist of his mouth was at once tragic and heartbreakingly beautiful.
The man accepted the flower with solemn grace. He tucked it into the top buttonhole of his ruined waistcoat—a bright spot of pristine beauty amidst streaks of dirt and blood. In return, he offered Mr Quin a broken facsimile of a smile. A single tear traced a path down his cheek, catching the light as it fell onto the delicate petals.
Mr Quin’s chest ached with some foreign feeling. Before he could think better of it, his hand lifted to cradle the man’s face, wiping away a few more tears that spilled from the corners of those deep blue eyes. Backlit by the soft golden glow of the street, the man seemed almost unearthly, but Mr Quin knew without a doubt that such was not the case. This man could be nothing less than beautifully, painfully human.
Kneeling there on the grimy London pavement, Mr Quin realized with sudden, bone-deep certainty that he would remember this moment for the rest of his existence. Never would he forget the way the man’s breath quavered as he exhaled, nor the warmth of his skin as he tilted his head ever so slightly into Mr Quin’s palm. The soft whisper of lips against the heel of his hand would forever be burned into his memory, as would those clear, kind eyes fixed upon his own.
Mr Quin would remember, even as he himself was inevitably forgotten. Time would obscure the details of this encounter in the man’s mind, rendering everything hazy and distorted, until he would one day be unable to recall anything other than his own act of kindness towards a suffering creature.
Such was the way of things with passers-by like Mr Harley Quin, always merely a footnote in other people’s stories. And yet, just this once, he wished he were something other than what he had always been. He suspected he would like to know—and even, in turn, to be known—by this unusual and empathetic man.
Slowly, almost as if it pained him to do so, the man pulled away. Mr Quin took his cue with equal reluctance, dropping his hand to rest in his lap. He stifled a wholly unnecessary shiver as the chill of the night air settled across his shoulders.
Focusing himself, Mr Quin bent down to take the small body of the dog into his arms. Its pelt was practically black with blood, but Mr Quin paid it no mind as he held the body against his dark overcoat.
He stood smoothly, pausing for the man to do the same. The rain, which had by now lightened into a mere mist, gave a strange quality to the world around them. It was like a sheen of oil had been washed away, bathing everything in a brand new light. Their gazes lingered on one another, watching each other with changed eyes.
“Thank you,” said Mr Quin simply, bowing his head. Then, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the mist.
The being who sometimes called himself Harley Quin was not one to linger.
And yet, there were certain places he found himself returning to, time and time again. Places that called to him, places that seemed to make sense as the backdrop to his character. Places that could make one think of a strange, dark man with an odd name if only one remembered.
An inn where folks of an odd type came and went.
A delightful restaurant with colorful stained glass windows.
A busy London street on which motorcars tended to drive a bit too fast.
And if Mr Quin appeared in each of these settings hoping to spot a specific head of fair hair, or to catch the gaze of a specific pair of clear blue eyes, well.
It worked, in the end, didn’t it?