would've, could've . . .

i was tame, i was gentle 'til the circus life made me mean

[showgal]

the moon is full again. it's how i know this is all a dream. the moon is always full. someone once told me that was a gotham thing. hard to remember who that was. NOWADAYS A LOT OF THINGS ARE FUZZY. a few tumbles too many. the laughing gas probably didn't help. no . . . no. it's all fuzzy because dreams are like that. in this dream, i smile . . . but there's a small, lucid part of me that wants to wake up. the dream has lasted quite a while. a long time in the dark. i mean, EVEN THE DARKEST NIGHT MUST END . . . right?

SHOWGAL is an independent & private retelling of dc's dr. harleen quinzel. mostly headcanon based but hugely inspired by šejić's 2021 harleen run. šejić writes a harleen that is very different and much more grounded than the harley depicted in BTAS, HQAS, or even in the DCU ⸺ and so do i! check out this post for more. 21+ ; told by ophelia. triggering content within, consistent with harleen's source material. this is a story about second chances. it always has been. ⸺ a clown and a kryptonian walk into a bar . . . sm4llville's other wife ♡

links , carrd & headcanons & prompts & icon psd & icon border inspo also at , multi ⸺ hous3tour & lois lane ⸺ b4kerline & tal-rho ⸺ alltootal

harleen quinzel, MD. july 20th, 199x. 5'0". bisexual. she/her.

[nohardheroes]

FORTNITE X DC SUMMER COLLAB TRAILER

Fortnite

→ please don't use, download, or screenshot my gifs without permission or credit! these are specially made and took time to create, so please ask first!

[showgal]

i did buy the sexy harley quinn skin in fortnite

[alphafight]

=͟͟͞͞★ ‎ ·‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ @showgal‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ :‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ / &. /‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ starter call!

“the circus? i used to work at one, madame quinzel, when i was a young boy with nothing much going on for me at the time,”‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ home to home, school to school, district to district — none of the foster homes they’ve assigned him ever really succeeded to hold jean-paul down for very long, and he used to spend more of his time pickpocketing to feed himself, since none of the authorities were really concerned about making sure a pointy-eared orphan was going to school regularly —

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ or the fact that he had caught the interest of one raymonde belmonde, someone he has complicated feelings about even to this day, but in the end, northstar chooses to let bygones stay in the past; he is openly out as a wealthy gay man now, and the demons of his past can’t take away what he’d earned to build up from scratch, brick by brick. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “i enjoyed entertaining people, but in reality, that circus turned out to be a front for a terrorist group, and i watched several of my friends die or be further brainwashed into their ideology, so that stint didn’t last very long.”

“i just accept it as a strange chapter of my life — and remain grateful that i was wise enough to channel my energy into athletics, instead. i don’t reckon i’d have the patience or acumen to devote myself to academia like you, harleen,” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ he tells her with a genuine smile, tilting his head as he chuckles.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “i’ve never really quite enjoyed formal education growing up, i was too inattentive and restless to sit still in one place for too long and understand anything, or well, that’s what my teachers said often about me.”

[showgal]

harley opens her mouth. snaps it shut again. ya know, she doesn't even do the face paint anymore. her skin just looks like this, still bleached from the acid . . . and she flinches at clown costumes, won't leave her apartment on halloween. who came up with circuses, anyways? everyone and their mother seems to have clown related trauma lately.

oh, maybe that's her fault, partially. hey ⸺ she didn't pick the schtick, okay?

" psychiatrist, " she says, holding up her hands. " not therapist. never therapist. in case you were wondering. " good to get that misconception out of the way with everyone she meets, just in case they're expecting anything responsible to come out of her mouth. well. that might be a holdover from her own life. nobody expects the crazy clown lady to be responsible anymore. she tugs at a pigtail, blows a bubble just to pop it. " that's surprisingly common for circuses, ya know. cash heavy businesses. great front. good for money laundering. sorry about your friends? "

she's shorter than him, but that doesn't stop her from trying to press her shoulder to his. she wishes she could fly, if just to hover at the same height as whoever she's speaking with. " i was a gymnast, " she says. " but it's not like i had a choice. i needed the athletics to pay for my academics and i needed the academics 'cause i was terrified of tearing my acl. didn't want a career relying on my body, y'know? " look, she knows how it sounds, when her entire brand is sexy clown. but this isn't a career!

" oooohhhhhhhhhhh, " she says. " i know what this is. you want adderall. unfortunately, babes, the government took my prescription pad. what i can do is give ya the contact for my dealer. he mostly does the hard stuff, but, ya know. whatever. "

[astrophager]

women like to hint at things, right ? or so the story goes. i briefly wonder amidst the chain of texts if that's what harleen is doing now, except if it is a hint it has all the subtlety of a shire horse marching into its stable, and i also don't think she really does hints. brazen from the get go, which is a refreshing relief for my tiny little brain. i've done her a disservice by not taking her to a beach yet, it's true.

ryland is quick to rectify a problem, quicker when it's a personal one, and rewarded in full measure by the way her face lights up when she sees him and her body bounds into his, something almost too forceful to be called a hug but just as forcefully appreciated, reciprocated. there's barely time to answer her questions, but it's okay because he likes listening to her. he hopes the beach isn't underwhelming now that she's here, figures she might have grand miami - esque expectations that he'll have to quash, but just like any other time they hang out conversation flows easily. maybe he should have brought her here in the daytime, but he's a hermit at best, prefers solitude and seclusion to the busy chatter of people. harleen excluded. her 'busy chatter' doesn't seem busy at all, not to him.

she's cold, a fact that stands out icily when he's all warm and prepared and aged beyond his years in his knitwear, and he's mulling offering her some layer of warmth as she skips through sentences — it is late, minutes whizzing by like seconds, because time flies when you're having— she's looking up at him. ryland is still teetering on the fence of whether he should ask if she wants to wear a moth - eaten cardigan his dead grandmother made him when he was younger, watching the goosebumps dot onto her arms in real time, and he doesn't know how long she's been looking up at him, but she is.

❛ mmm. ❜ he offers uselessly, tries to backtrack and make sure she hadn't been waiting for an answer to a question, hugging his knees and feeling heat where her body still presses against his shoulder, heat in his cheeks and heat in her eyes that he can't look away from. she leans in. or at least, he thinks she does. so naturally he does too, jumps the gun before he can be perceived as lacking in interest — is he interested ? a lot to unpack in so short a time — and the end result is not one, but two smackings of anything but lips. his startlement matches hers, a hand coming up to check his nose and lip instinctively. no blood, but she's already laughing and he has to follow suit, leans into it as much as he leans into her giggling form, a momentarily merged and curled shape of amusement.

❛ wow. yeah, um — okay. jesus fuck. ❜ he mimics her as the stars stop circling his head : maybe the expletive alone ought to be concern for a concussion, but he can't linger on it. he can't linger on it because he's been given direct instructions, and suddenly the ball is entirely in his court and they're both aware of it. awareness leads to awkward snorts of laughter in his throat, giggles from her, but somehow that bubbling mess of entertainment makes it easier for ryland to bridge the distance — slowly, his chest still shaking with weak laughs when he feels her breath on his mouth, certainly not aided by how it stutters with her own rivalling titters. ❛ stop making me laugh . . . ❜ he trails off, hand a gentle anchor at her jaw, and it isn't much of a first kiss but it's entirely everything he could have asked for at the same time.

jesus fuck, indeed.

he pulls back barely an inch or two, fingers curling at her jawline rather than holding it still, his breath heavy and catching up in his ribcage. ryland sees stars again, but this time they're different, a glow he wants to capture and hold tight like fireflies in a jar. he never knows what to do after. his inexperience sticks out like a particularly oppressive thorn. ❛ um. ❜ very articulate and enlightening feedback given as always, his lips rubbing together as if pressing in balm, still tasting her there. it tingles. ❛ i guess— that doesn't exactly solve the four bikinis problem, but . . . ❜ he's bashful, woefully so, eyes taking turns dipping to the empty space between them and then back to her. he remembers what transpired just moments before, his mind playing catch up, and pulls away a little if only to assess her wellbeing.

❛ crap, wait— is, is your head okay ? are you still cold ? ❜

[showgal]

she can't remember the last time she kissed somebody. well ⸺ she can't remember the last time she remembers kissing someone. there have been a parade handful of inconsequential encounters, names that are burned into her brain without feelings. kisses she felt like she should give, or might as well give. sometimes a girl's just gotta climb into the most convenient bed * available to her, right?

* harleen quinzel's sexual prowess is greatly exaggerated. for those keeping score at home: no beds, one . . . desk.

ryland isn't convenient. well. he's in front of her, so maybe by definition he is. but he's also her only friend in this too cold city, so she doesn't think she can bear whatever comes next. she ought to think through it. there's a reason she only agrees to first dates with strangers ⸺ the last time she dared to do anything complicated, she ended up underneath her very married psychology professor. that's the desk. the laugh dies in her throat. they call her harley because every old dude in a mid-life crisis has ridden her skanky ass.

harleen opens her mouth, which never bodes well. her cheeks are flushed and she's already over-analyzing. he isn't trying to kiss her again. shouldn't he be? has she misread this entirely, burned their friendship on the pyre of her recklessness? her heart hammers for an entirely different reason now. her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she fails to find any words at all.

and then, because god has completely forsaken her, she winks at him and says, " never had any complaints. "

after that, she has no choice but to own it, though her cheeks flush even deeper. the extent of owning it is ducking her head and hiding her face against his shoulder.

" sorry, " she says. " i don't know why i ⸺ said that? oh my god. what the fuck is wrong with me? and now i've made it awkward. and now i've made it worse by saying it. sorry. i don't know what to ⸺ do? " and she peeks up at him, eyes flicking from his eyes to his lips.

oh, shit. she wants to kiss him again. her jaw burns from where his fingers pressed before she hid her face. he kissed her back, didn't he? what is she freaking out about? perhaps that she's imagined this whole thing, that he's only obliging her because he feels too awkward not to.

" you know what, " she says, and leans in again. this time, she angles her head properly. either they're fine ⸺ in which case one more kiss won't change anything ⸺ or they're already fucked ⸺ in which case they might as well. her hand presses against his cheek as her lips meet his, this kiss not interrupted by laughter. she forgets to breathe, for a second. this time, when they part, she presses her forehead to his, her fingertips tracing the line of his beard. for one incredible moment, harleen is still. and then she darts in again for one more quick kiss. " not cold anymore, " she offers. " but you probably should stay close. "

[showgal]

[  bump  ]  noses  knock,  both  pull  back,  then  immediately  lean  in  again  and  knock  foreheads  instead - @astrophager :) don’t even need to read further this seemed very Them

it's july in san francisco, which means that a gray fog has taken up residence over the city, a wind whipping through the streets that drops the temperature to 15℃. harleen bemoans that she'll never see the sun again. she texts ryland at least twice a week complaining about the fact that she lives in california but can't spend her summer at the beach because it's too fucking cold.

[ sms ] literally can u believe i have lived here this long and havent been to the fucking beach [ sms ] ?!?!?!? [ sms ] i bought like 4 new bikinis before i moved here i was so young and full of hope and optimism [ sms ] this is a big deal i have 400k in student loans and swimsuits r expensive [ sms ] my youth being wasted etc etc

whether he takes pity on her or simply can't bear the complaining anymore is irrelevant. what matters is that he tells her to meet her at ocean beach at eight pm. she gets there, of course, at 7:45. pulls out her phone to text him that she's a little early, but he seems to have expected that; just as she's about to hit send, she spots him on the sand. her face lights up and there's an actual bounce in her step as she runs over to him ⸺ she doesn't even think to take off her sneakers, will track heaps of sand back into her house later because of it.

" ry! " she shouts. " hi! " and then when she closes the distance between them, she wraps him in the biggest hug. he might just be the only person on this planet she likes. " oh my god?! " she says, peering around him to look at the fire he's been sitting by. it's one of several along the beach, illuminating the shore as the sun starts to set. " wait, did you make this yourself?! i didn't know you were allowed to do this here. "

and so they settle into the sand together, wind fanning the flames, ocean waves setting a quiet soundtrack as they break. she chatters for an hour, barely stopping to breathe. she's always like this, with him. the sun slowly dips beneath the horizon, taking with it its warmth. even though she's wearing a sweatshirt, she shivers, pressing her shoulder to his to try to take the edge off. it's mostly a joke, except that he doesn't move. except that she doesn't move. and so she stays pressed against him, her head eventually dropping to his shoulder.

has her heart always hammered in her chest like this around him? her breath catches. she thinks that's new, too. she stumbles over one sentence, then the next.

" sorry, " harleen whispers, fingers digging in the sand, letting the grains fall from her hand. " i think the lack of sleep is getting to me. wow. is it late? it seems late. "

even as the excuse leaves her mouth, she realizes she doesn't want it to. she'd like to sit in this, a little while longer. like to pretend.

she lifts her head from his shoulder, accidentally catches his eye when she does. it's like the world stops spinning, for just a second. she's wrong about so many things. could she be wrong about this? is she about to humiliate herself in front of her only friend in this city?

he leans in. or at least, she thinks he does. hopes he does. she does too, movement sharp and sudden, for fear that he'll think she isn't interested. the good news: ryland is, very much, trying to kiss her just as much as she's trying to kiss him. the bad news: she's turned her head the exact same way as he has, so when she closes the distance, her nose smushes against his before their lips have a chance to meet.

" oh my god, " she says, cheeks flushing as she pulls away. " oh my god, this is ⸺ sorry ⸺ i'm an idiot ⸺ " but he's laughing. and she realizes she is, too. another giggle escapes her and she shakes her head, holding up her hand. " wait, wait ⸺ "

she leans in again, careful this time to turn her face the opposite direction that he has. but she's so focused on not fucking that up that she accidentally bumps her forehead against his, dull thud echoing between the pair. for a second, she sits there in stunned silence, her lips less than an inch from his.

" jesus fuck, " she giggles again, dropping her forehead to press against his shoulder for just a second as she recovers. " okay, so, if i haven't totally killed the mood, how about i just . . . hold really still next time and you can do all the . . . maneuvering? "

this time, when she pulls away from his shoulder, she holds still. but who can blame her if she's still giggling when his lips finally meet hers?

[worldsokayestdad]

Alfred makes up an excuse and BRUCE WAYNE hides behind the mask. Simple. Easy. Not a lot of thought really put into it. He just needed to get out of the Manor and into the streets where all he needed was his fists and his instincts.

The rest mattered less after that.

The night came and his attention was elsewhere. Focused on one thing after another until like a siren song, he finds her. On top of a building. Hovering near the edge. Tenuous and uncertain.

     [ ₁ ] Just like their marriage.

A familiar growl rips through his rib cage. A rage that's unsettling and demanding. And he presumes, more than mitigates, letting the anger he couldn't unseat in his chest in her presence out now as THE DARK KNIGHT. Frustration and tension knotted into ropes inside of him now unclenched.

And it happens as smoothly as it does almost too violently. Too much velocity. Too much force. A man-made wall hitting her like a train and catching her by the arm to pull her back into his chest like a whiplash. Still but deadly. A venomous angry thing that could set off like one of his smoke bombs.

" What do you think you're doing? " Voice seething to the point that his voice modulator can't hide it. It crackles and breaks at some pitch before dragging back down to that familiar sizzle. " You could get hurt without anyone here to stop you. " His hand shook her by her wrist. Purposefully. As if that could knock some sense into her. Now when it was all too late for him to even try. " Is that what you want? "

     [ ₂ ]  Shock unbecoming of him.

It takes over just like a slap and he lets her go. Almost inclined to push her just to get his point through and throws her roughly to the side, away from the ledge to pinch the bridge of his nose and contain himself. BRUCE WAYNE has no room in the shadows. He can't slip.

                  " You should go home, Harleen. "

[showgal]

he's solid. his arms are the thing between her and the pavement twenty stories below. for the first time in months, harleen doesn't feel like jumping is an option ⸺ it isn't that she's blown out the match, rather that she's certain he'll stop her from setting her life aflame. she leans back, her wrist in his grip. if he lets go, she'll tumble to the ground.

maybe she shouldn't trust him. maybe she doesn't.

" my, uh ⸺ " she murmurs, her voice low, almost lost to the wind. " my dad died. right over there. " and she points, with the hand he isn't gripping, to the alley she'd just been staring at. " so it'd be kind of fitting, right? the papers would love it. what a way for the princess of gotham to go. "

one last look over the edge ⸺ it's almost wistful. she takes the shove with a surprising amount of grace, only stumbling for a second before she rights herself. more surprising is that she doesn't come at him swinging. instead, she leans against one of the electrical boxes mounted on the roof, folding her arms over her chest.

" my husband's leaving me. " it's the first time she's said it out loud. her voice wavers, but she recovers quickly. won't cry in front of him. " i'm not sure if he knows it, yet, but he is. so. i don't really have a home to go to. " a little shrug, as if she can be nonchalant about her life crumbling faster than this building. it's the most honest she's been in months.

her sweater snags on the rough metal she's leaning on ⸺ four hundred dollars, down the drain. " and also, " she mutters, tugging the wool free, pressing her fingers against the hole. " i threw his fucking keys off the roof, i don't have my phone, and the bus doesn't go to our address. i'll ask again, bat. you drive here? "

and just like that, the truth disappears. she snaps her fingers at him, all five feet and full of demands, as she turns on her heel and starts for the stairs, assuming he'll follow. just as she hits the top step, she looks back at him.

" i assume you told my husband about that night, " she says. her on her back in a therapy room, her legs wrapped around the joker's waist. one split second where she'd made eye contact with the bat through the exam room window. " that you saw. but did you tell him you watched? "

[busyw0man]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ💋ɞ˚‧｡⋆   𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬  𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞  𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠

send  ‘reverse’ for the sender and  receiver to  swap.  adjust wording as needed!

[  bump  ]  noses  knock,  both  pull  back,  then  immediately  lean  in  again  and  knock  foreheads  instead

[  teeth  tap  ]  teeth  click  together,  followed  by  simultaneous  laughter  that  completely  kills  the  tension

[  breath  ]  one  forgets  how  breathing  works,  pulls  back  too  fast,  then  covers  their  face  in  embarrassment

[  overcommit  ]  one  leans  in  with  way  too  much  enthusiasm  and  almost  topples  them  both

[  eye  contact  ]  one  opens  their  eyes  mid-kiss,  panics  at  the  eye  contact,  and  immediately  turns  away

[  timing  ]  both  lean  in,  both  pull  back,  both  try  again  at  the  exact  wrong  moment

[  hair  in  mouth  ]  loose  hair  gets  caught  between  lips,  forcing  an  awkward  untangling

[  balance  ]  one  stumbles  forward  during  the  kiss,  arms  flailing  before  catching  themselves

[  nose  ]  the  kiss  lands  squarely  on  the  nose  instead,  followed  by  frozen  confusion

[  smile  ]  a  grin  breaks  the  kiss  before  it  even  starts,  ruining  the  moment

[  cheek  ]  nerves  redirect  the  kiss  to  the  cheek  at  the  last  second

[  laugh  ]  a  laugh  slips  out  mid-kiss  and  derails  everything

[  hand  ]  a  hand  reaches  for  the  other’s  waist  and  misses  completely,  grabbing  empty  air

[  hair  ]  fingers  tangle  in  hair  unintentionally,  followed  by  frantic  untangling

[  wrong  angle  ]  they  tilt  the  same  direction  twice  in  a  row  and  just  give  up  for  a  second

[  forehead  ]  pulling  back  leads  to  a  gentle  forehead  collision  instead

[worldsokayestdad]

BRUCE WAYNE should have stayed —      [ ₁ ] Dead. Dead. Dead. He'd been a fool to think otherwise ; to listen to Alfred ; to hope and to dream. There can only be GOTHAM. She had whispered as much when she took away their last breaths from him. He should have never tried to play and now she's come to collect. There can only be his never ending war. The violence. The hopelessness. The helplessness. He doesn't even recognize his own voice when it answers for him. Maybe it was THE BAT doing what always needed doing and what Bruce was never good at.

" It's alright. " It wasn't. But for now it was decided. " It'll be alright. I'll move out to the Lake house. We can have breakfast. Maybe dinner. " The practiced smile. The smooth operator. Lies upon lies upon lies. " You can call the lawyer tomorrow if you want. You have the house all to yourself. " He added, nailing the coffin, kissing every nail head with a precise hammer blow. He cupped her cheek, forced another smile and kissed her forehead. " I'll go. "      [ ₂ ]  Dead. Dead. Dead. Bruce Wayne can stay buried in the last gift his Father gave his mother. And THE BATMAN can go hunting. Everything else mattered a little less.

[showgal]

" okay, " she whispers. " yeah. breakfast. " it's better than nothing, isn't it? it means he isn't leaving, not really. means she hasn't burned them all the way down. harleen pushes herself off his lap, taking a step back. her hands are clasped behind her back and she bows her head ever so slightly. there's a ghost of a smile on her lips that echoes his. they're two people playing out a promise that neither of them know how to mean anymore. " i'll see you tomorrow, b. " and she presses a hand to the top of his for just a second. " no lawyers. it's okay. i'm okay. "

we're okay.

and the next thing she knows, she's standing on top of a twenty-story building overlooking crime alley. she's not really sure how she got here, though the keys to one of bruce's cars drags down the left pocket of her sweatpants. she's wearing her ring again. it throws her off balance, which is a precious thing, when she's teetering along the lip of the building like it's a balance beam. if she listens hard enough, she can still hear her father screaming at her from ten stories below, even if nick quinzel's been dead for a decade.

( if she looks over her right shoulder ⸺ and she won't ⸺ she'd be able to see the narrow alley that he was beaten to death in. he might be alive, if she'd have called the police. is that her original sin? )

the concrete she's standing on crumbles under her foot, hurtling towards the pavement below. the city emptied this building five years ago. it's marked for demolition whenever they can get the funds. she's sure a few residents are still inside, without electricity, without water.

" fuck gotham, " she hisses, her voice lost to the wind that whips around her. " this place is hell. "

her left foot hovers over the edge, over the empty space that had just crumbled away. her arms stay pinned at her sides, as if she'd like to fall. but muscle memory won't allow it ⸺ and the harleen quinzel that got perfect 10's on the beam has to sigh and step away from the ledge.

she'll fall, but she won't jump. she pulls the keys from her pocket and tosses them over the edge without looking; can't hear when they hit the ground.

" and fuck you, " she mutters, spinning on her heel to head for the rotting fire escape she'd come up. and then she faceplants into a six foot something wall of kevlar and muscle, stumbles backward holding her nose ( a little too close to the edge. )

" what the fuck?! " eloquent. " i'm not doing anything. " defensive. " you're fucking obsessed with me. " delusional. " hey ⸺ did you drive here? "

[showgal]

breakfast for dinner is your favorite. - @astrophager <3

favorites are hard for harleen. she hasn't had options, most of her life. all of her clothes have been thrifted; she's lucky to have something that fits, let alone that's a color she likes or a style from this century. food was whatever microwave dinners nick left in the fridge or the radioactive slop they served at school. she didn't know she preferred bubblegum ice cream over chocolate until this year because the soft serve machines at gotham u only had chocolate and vanilla. even in residency, her meals on shift are provided ⸺ mediterranean on mondays, sandwiches on fridays. exploring has never been a priority. it's not even something she knows how to do, to look at something and say "i like that." ryland caught her the other day, force feeding herself some yogurt berry bowl she'd bought half off from the hospital cafeteria. it'd taken ten whole minutes for him to pry the facts out of her: she doesn't like the taste of artificial vanilla & she fucking hates peanut butter. she'd just never stopped long enough to connect those pieces. she hasn't bought the bowl again since then. and since then, it's been an expedition of sorts. what the fuck does harleen quinzel like? ( not sushi. that made her cry. and she very much does not like chicago style pizza, either. it's too wet. ) she's coming off a twenty-four hour er shift, barely awake enough to remember which unit is hers. the scent of pancakes drifts down the hall towards her & she wonders which of her neighbors is awake enough at this hour to be cooking. then she checks her watch & sees it's four pm, scrunches her nose at that unwelcome fact. she shoves her key in the lock, bodyslams the door a little to get it to unstick, then screams.

" oh my god, sorry, sorry ⸺ " she yelps, dropping her bag on her doormat. " i forgot we had plans! oh my god! i'm sorry! all good! nobody call the cops! "

( just in case her neighbors are home at four pm on a wednesday. )

harleen kicks her bag ( the one she just put down... ) so it's out of the way enough to shut the door, then kicks off her shoes, too. she takes one look at her scrubs, then shouts that she'll be in the kitchen in just a second. the scrubs end up in a pile on her doormat, too, and will stay there until she can throw them in the wash on scalding. it's only after she scampers into her bedroom to throw on sweats and a hoodie that she discovers where the smell of pancakes is coming from.

" oh my god, " she says, leaning against the doorframe. " first of all, i'm taking a picture of this. i think it'll do well in your calendar. second of all, i didn't know that i owned a pan. is this your pan? did you bring a pan? " she's grinning ear to ear as she investigates the situation. " this smells amazing, by the way.

" breakfast for dinner is your favorite, " he says, spatula in one hand, apron that says 'i ♡ gotham baddies' hung over his neck.

it's enough to freeze her, for a second. her mouth forms a little o as she considers. is it her favorite? she hates cereal, really fucking hates poptarts. but they'd gone to a diner last weekend where she'd had the best fucking pancakes of her life, and that's exactly what's in the pan, a perfect replica of chocolate chip heaven. her grin gets wider, if it's even possible. her cheeks hurt from how wide she's smiling.

" oh my god, " she says for a third time, because she's apparently been reduced to the vocabulary of a teenager who just got tickets to see their favorite band. " it is my favorite. how did you know?! and let me help! i swear i won't start a fire this time. "

and the knowing is almost better than the cooking. almost, because she hasn't eaten since before her shift started.

[worldsokayestdad]

Again, the impulse strikes him. Eight years of hell summarized in one night. All for her ears. But trust was a dwindling resource for him. Especially after everything. Even if, she may have been right. Maybe if she'd known — He lets out a sigh, looking away, turning his back to her and towards the window. Nothing made sense in this house anymore except his never ending war. How in hell was he supposed to explain that?

" What is there to forgive? " He spun around, confused. " It's over. It's long been over. And it's nothing. Nothing compared to you. " He leans forward, about to cup her cheek and draw her closer, until she fell to her knees. And this time the impulse won over his restraint, he stepped back. A few fumbling steps backward, back into the chair with a quiet thud. His eyes closing in exasperation as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Downing the glass for himself, not enjoying one bit of the bitter liquid now lining his throat. He stared at the glass and slammed it wthout breaking it. The truth just at the tip of his tongue.

" You can have whatever you want. " He murmured, his voice empty and his eyes dark. His chest a vacuum sucking him into himself, hoping to disappear. His fists were hungry and maybe BRUCE WAYNE should have stayed dead. " Maybe some distance will do us both some good. "

[showgal]

it isn't what she wants. she wants him to bleed, but not to go. for once, harleen hesitates. she'd been so ready to attack. to play the vapid, empty wife she so wants to be, to hollow herself out until there's nothing left of the woman that he loved. she can't conceive of any other way to punish him.

and still, he pushes her away. her mouth falls open ⸺ for once, not to provoke or to invite. she stares, eyes wide. there's a tiny upturn of her eyebrows, almost a puppy dog pout; she'd be frowning, if her forehead weren't so fucking frozen.

" what do you mean? " she says, voice cracking, quivering. there's no performance in this. she's scrambling off her knees, tumbling into his lap, practically clawing at his shirt in her desperation to find something, anything, to take hold of. " bruce, baby, what do you mean? i love you. i love you. i'm sorry i said anything. please don't leave me. you're right. she doesn't matter. you came back to me. you married me. i've just been so confused since i got back, i hit my head so hard when i fell ⸺ " and she babbles and babbles, but what good is it?

she'll be angry all over again in the morning.

[deadnow-deactivated20250507]

in retrospect I should have been a lot meaner to that man.

[astrophager]

❛ well, i'd take the doxycycline anyday. the read, i mean. not the drug. ❜ disclaimer is provided in passing as they already swing onto the tide of the next topic and he happily paddles alongside, a vindication way too strong for sharing a niche view on a spread made out of liver, of all things. ❛ okay, hey, hey, hey. ryan is too easy. john is at least, i don't know, mysterious. ❜ it's not mysterious at all. it's probably the most common name in the history of names, and maybe a way of blending himself into the wallpaper that he can unpack later. it could only get worse with joe, and all the average connotations that come with it.

she sure likes her drugs. not taking them, although who knows, but definitely listing them off for whatever situation is appropriate. it's no different to me when i get into a monologue on whatever the latest molecular topic of the day is, and at least hers are sweet and succinct cameos instead of a shakespearean divergence. i want to point it out, but choose not to in case it gets taken as a negative.

her sympathies get a shrug that demeans the hardship of it, when truthfully there's a guilty relief that has set into him quicker than expected. it was always going to go south, so really this is like a bubble bursting that had grown insufferably large, tension surrounding its soapy membrance. ryland apprehensively spots failure before it has a chance to flourish, prepares for it in a mental bunker of his own making, and maybe hurries it along a little. better it be in his hands than an anomaly he can't control.

sixty hours, gotham ? ! this just keeps getting better. he lets out a low whistle that really encompasses the entire spiel. it ends in a reluctance that he can only find charming, knows the pressure of it and tries to relieve it by taking the wheel. he might not talk about himself, but he can certainly talk. he shuffles his chair closer as if sharing something conspiratorial, head stooped just a tad lower to really immerse the feeling of it. ❛ you know, i don't think i've seen snow since i was like, a teenager. so i think you're good on that front. ❜ he wants to ask so many follow - ups, particularly on gymnastics and pilates for starters — what even are pilates other than something moms do ? — but in the interest of giving her some reprieve he shares a more solemn truth than the fact he hasn't seen snow in decades.

❛ i don't like talking about myself either. which makes this all the weirder, by the way. but . . . it's still nice to meet you, harleen. ❜ it is said with a playful emphasis that illustrates him compensating for his prior omission of asking her name, looking up at her from over his glasses with a mirthful smile. ❛ you need any help getting furniture for the new place ? i'm sure someone at work will have some crap to get rid of, at least until you get on your feet. no more floor mattresses or cardboard box side tables — i've been there. ❜ ryland briefly wonders if he's overdoing it, offering help to a near stranger, and he probably is, but there's a need to provide that remains unchecked, a good samaritan at heart albeit a cynical one.

but i don't say nice to meet you often. you see, i try not to lie.

[showgal]

" don't tempt me with a good time. " seriously. she's slept with one person ever*, and the foreplay for that was a heated debate about brain chemistry. she was right, by the way. her froyo is pretty much melted by now, but she'll leave no man behind, continuing to eat ice cream soup. it's expensive, okay?! and she doesn't believe in wasting food.

* sometimes it goes so badly you swear off men for the rest of your life. but the next guy can't possibly be that bad, right?

harleen stares at him like he's grown a second head. " john!? mysterious?! how do you look in the mirror every morning!? surely you forget sometimes. they've definitely called out john before and you've just stood there for five minutes before realizing that that is, in fact, you. you're ryan now. " as if she can just deem it so.

she gives him a thumbs up at the lack of snow. when hell freezes over, right? though her co-residents keep talking about skiing in tahoe, and she thinks she might just be able to afford it if she eats ramen for a month. skiing can't be that hard, right? " oh, so i'm suffering on my own? " she says, but she scrunches her nose in a way that makes it clear she's only teasing. " this is the first normal conversation i've had since i . . . moved here, i think. " her way of saying: it's nice to meet you, too.

surprise shines on her face at his offer; her head tilts to the side, almost like a confused puppy. people don't help, where she's from. not in the narrows, and not in gotham u's hallowed halls. she'd turn him down ⸺ she thinks he's just being polite, but doesn't know how to tell ⸺ except she's really fucking sick of sleeping on the floor. " please, " she says, " except i have to warn you, i can't cook or bake, so my gratitude will be in the form of way too much takeout chinese food. sorry. i wish i was a homemade muffin basket kind of girl. "

[showgal]

here's how it goes. you're thirty-five laying on an exam table in your dermatologist's office. you've got enough fucking scars for a lifetime already, so it has to be your dermatologist's office. you're not going to fuck around like those people who get too drunk in vegas (or cleveland) and then pop into their nearest medspa to let some untrained twenty year old zap their regrets away with a laser they barely know how to handle. no fucking way. you're not risking a burn. the whole point of this is to erase the way your past life is carved into your skin. you want every single tattoo gone. daddy's little monster. property of joker. rotten. i'll wait forever.

your doctor is blonde. smiley. you googled her before you came here, like you google all your doctors. she's only just finished residency, but she matched derm, so you know she's sharp as a whip. you hope she's not sharp enough to match the tattoos to who you used to be. you don't tell her that you're a doctor. that's normal. it isn't that you're not used to that being part of your identity again. it's just that they start to treat you differently when they know, and today, you just want to be invisible.

there's a nice little sky painted on the ceiling. unusual, for a dermatologist. more in place for a dentist, or somewhere that sees more kids. you want to ask her about it, but you can't quite remember how to put a sentence together. she's explaining how the process works, how many sessions it will take, and you smile politely and retain none of it. it doesn't matter if it takes the rest of your life. you'll burn every last trace of him off your skin.

" are you worried about the pain? " she asks, seeing how you press your lips together as you part the gown you're wearing to bare your skin to her. you think you were high when you got these. you don't think he was even in the room. the question catches you off guard, and you stumble over your response. " oh ⸺ no, " you shake your head. you should have just said yes. she looks curious, and you scrunch your eyes shut. " it's just so stupid, " you try to explain to this woman you don't even know. " that i'm here. "

" oh my god, no, " she laughs, and she sounds like nothing bad's ever happened to her in her life. " are you kidding me? this is more fun than most of my cases. why'd you get it? "

why did you get all of these? you think about it for a second. because a mad man made you. because it was part of the systematic dismantling of your identity. because it was a way for him to brand you, to prevent you from ever going back to your old life. but it was more than that, wasn't it?

" i thought it would make him love me. "

she doesn't know what to say to that. offers you a steroid injection for one of your larger scars.

i hate you. i hope you know how much i hate you.

[striborak]

Happy pride month to all my rainbow friends (and rainbow-adjacent pals) 🤩🏳️‍🌈

Wanted to bring back my favourite pride month shirt meme and I just caught up on Poison Ivy so here we are:

[showgal]

happy pride by the way she is bi bi bi bi bi

[worldsokayestdad]

His gaze is focused on her, heavy and pointed, taking in every minutiae of her movement as if was a treasure trove of evidence that he could pin and make sense of later, in the aftermath, with no preventive measure. But it doesn't. He's just extinguishing the fires as they come. And his instinct takes over to catch the glass before it hits the floor. [ ₁ ] Eyes closing. An exasperation clouding his chest like smoke.

" Used to? " He repeats, taken aback by the usage. Although a part of him really shouldn't be surprised. This has been one of the outcomes, inevitable, it seemed on his end. Or maybe he had hoped otherwise but again, didn't see the signs, just the sirens. He sets down the glass, hear it clink, and lean back again into the chair as he rubbed his temple. [ ₂ ] Eyes closing. A blankness taking over his thoughts less he fall again into the unfamiliar and the unattainable. Maybe this was the sign to tell her. That he was dead then as far as she was concerned. ( And he's dead now. ) How the odds were against his survival. How reality was a nightmare of his own making. And how he ruined his chances of anything normal by leaving her behind. But he figured what would it do now? When they barely manage at that?

He pulls his gaze away from nothing and back to her, the weight in his chest dragging, making it harder to breathe. If he stays, he might unravel. If he doesn't, he might lose her. How much more can either of them bare at this point? He looked away again. Too many questions without any of the answers. [ ₃ ] Eyes closing. Resolve waning in his chest. His hand running exasperatedly through his hair before he stands, walking up to her. " It was…irrelevant. A mistake. I came back for you. I came back to you. " The words growing softer with each sentence. " I'm here right now. Is that not enough anymore? "

[showgal]

" bruce, " she whispers, unwilling to look at him. she's memorized every crack in this floor. " i wish you'd just tell me. maybe none of this would have happened if you'd told me. "

and so harleen's fall is once again not her fault. there will always be someone else to blame. today, it's bruce and his imagined mistresses. who knows what it will be tomorrow.

" don't say that. don't fucking say that when it clearly matters to me. " her eyes flick to the glass she'd just put down, half a mind to down its contents, half a mind to fling it at his chest. she's so tired of being the only one in this house who bleeds. " i would have forgiven you. i forgave you for the rest of it. "

she doesn't reach for him. doesn't back away, either. just bites her lip. bites it harder. bites it until she can taste iron on her tongue.

" do i have a lawyer? " she asks. " i assume our prenup doesn't favor me in the slightest. " it's not like she read it. not like she cared about anything other than being his wife. then ⸺ and she's not really sure what compels her to do it ⸺ she drops to her knees, sweats cushioning bone against hardwood floors. " i'll blow you, if you want. "