🩷 Connie (OC) x Riddler x Boomerang, multi-part fic 🩷 constance dorothea drum (connie/conundrum) is my sorta self-insert OC who i like to put into situations!! i'm finally getting around to writing out her backstory and her love triangle and it is filled with fluff and angst and good old smut based in the arkham!verse in terms of character/place design, but divergent as far as the timeline goes fic masterlist • AO3 link • tag: auc fic • plushie doodles by @/march-harrigan
💚 Chapter 1: The Decision Is Made For You, word count: 2.5k 💚 present day: connie is meeting up with a friend to vent about her life (spoiler: it's not good). she has some decisions to make, which is typically pretty hard from her, so it's a blessing when the decision is made for her... right? request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: angst, career changes, kidnapping, ex-librarian is SUFFERING thanks, boomer and eddie aren't explicitly in this chapter but they will be soon!!
There was no reprieve for the wicked, and even less for the good. That was all she could think of as she looked out the window and to the sky, ruminating on the faux philosophic thought and trying to pretend that her suffering was poetic instead of just shit. Christ, even that was depressing. The endlessly grey clouds were beginning to feel claustrophobic, no longer a blanket of safety, a gothic romance waiting to happen. Now they felt like an old rug, and she was being swept up under it with everything else that was easier to forget about than deal with. Rain drops that might as well have been perpetual tears, rolling thunder like pained groans, gusts of wind a mockery of lamenting wails, and flashes of lightning that reminded her of the beginnings of her tension migraines. Gloomy. Grainy. Gotham.
“Hey! You good, Bubby?”
Despite the sorrowful mood that longed to be wallowed in, it did seem impossible not to smile when Harley spoke, her voice high pitched and lilting on the nickname she reserved for her oldest, continuing, friend. And even though she wanted to remain miserable, to allow herself a little bit of a pity party, Connie found herself smiling in response to the question, hoping that she could convince Harley not to worry too much.
“I’m ok. It’s just the same old stuff.”
Harley reached across the table, bruised fingers with red and black chipped nail polish at the ends delicately gripping Connie’s hand.
“Y’want me to psychoanalyse ya?”
Connie almost regretted the snort of laughter, worrying that Harley might be offended, but she could see by the mischievous grin that she was happily mocking herself.
“Yeah, sounds good. I’ll let the struck off criminal with no medical license poke around in my brain to see if that helps.”
Across the table, Harley shrugged and took a long sip of the colourful cocktail in front of her.
“Couldn’t hurt!”
It was obvious that the matter was going to be discussed, inevitable really. Connie wasn’t getting easily, especially not after how long she’d frowned for as the two of them sat together in the seediest bar in the most dangerous neighborhood in Gotham. “People don’t tattle in here!” Harley had said. The only reason they had to choose somewhere as terrifying, given her new career in criminality. Three very long years had passed since Harley had left the Asylum, following a love that Connie couldn’t talk her out of, chasing a dream that she couldn’t hear anything negative about. There had been apologies, of course, for the fallout of those events, and Connie had accepted them wholeheartedly, not wanting to lose the only friend she had. But it still weighed heavily on Harley, who seemed to have a compulsive need to make sure Connie was happy, or at the very least, surviving.
“The motel. Prices went up again.”
“Well, maybe you gotta move to a worse one. No hoity-toity, upscale, fancy living conditions for you. Bed bugs a must! No view, in fact, no windows! Rooms by the hour, discounts if you clean the mess that the last person in before you left behind! And dinner on us if that mess contains bodily fluids of any kind! Dinner will be provided by the vending machines, $3 dollar maximum .”
“Harley… I don’t think there’s anywhere that shitty even in Gotham. And I really am on the lowest possible rung of the budget ladder. Work is slow, the shifts are almost non-existent at the diner, and-”
“What happened to the cafe?”
“Explosion.”
“Typical!”
Harley rolled her eyes, trying to make light of the situation, but her forced smile turned quickly into a frown when she looked into Connie’s eyes, the telltale shimmer of tears beginning to form.
“Oh, Bubby, no! Listen, why don’t you come stay with me for a while, huh? I’m sure Mister J would-”
“No! No, thank you. I mean, I appreciate it, but I want to… I want to make it on my own. And you keep forgetting that I forgave you. You don’t owe me anything, ok? I’m just glad to still have you to talk to, when things get rough. Or rougher than they already were.”
Harley’s hand gripped Connie’s fingers, a reassuring squeeze that said she understood, but wasn’t quite ready to give up her crusade for punishment for her actions.
“Doctor Quinzel, at your service.”
Connie raised an eyebrow, curling her lips into a silent question.
“Ok, ok! Harley Quinn, at your service . I was good, you know!”
“You were. The best. You still are.”
They kept their grip on one another, two hands reaching across the table, meeting in the middle in a firm but caring grip. They stayed that way for a few minutes, the world around them seeming to disappear. None of that meant anything to them when they could be together. They needed one another, seemingly had done all of their lives, so these moments were like a recharge for their souls. That was until Harley squealed in delight and her hands shot up, dropping Connie’s to the sticky table with a thud. Several of the more intense looking patrons of the bar turned around to eye them up, all of them awkwardly looking away when they realised who the noise had come from.
“Hey! Oh my god! I can’t believe I didn’t think about this before, but it just. Makes. Sense!”
Connie felt her chest tighten. Anything that Harley was this enthusiastic about could only be a bad idea. That was almost a given, and Connie had known her well enough for long enough to see it coming a mile off. But rather than interrupt, she let Harley continue.
“You should get yourself a little criminal gig! There’s always guys looking for new goons. I could make a few calls, see if there’s anything going. What kind of crimes would you be ok with committing?”
“Harley…”
“Oh c’mon! Don’t act like you’re above it. You’re in Gotham, Bubby. You gotta play the game .”
She sat with that thought for a moment. It was the last opportunity available, it seemed. And perhaps she was always heading towards this fate. Like destiny, calling her. No one survived Gotham long, and sometimes the only way to prolong your existence was to fall in with the most lucrative career going. But it didn’t sit right with her.
“Harley, I really don’t think I’m suited for a career in enforcement, do you?”
They both looked at her, sitting there in the booth. Her chubby, rounded face could provide ample opportunity for playing herself down and being an unassuming assassin, but she lacked a lot of physicality. Connie wasn’t strong, and she wasn’t quite as nimble or coordinated as was required. At university, Harley could be seen on weekends doing gymnastic training. And Connie could be found in the audience, cheering her on and managing to trip herself up while clapping. And while she was enamoured by other fat women who were athletic, attending Harley’s roller derby games if only to watch the gorgeous, large women engaging in intensely physical activity, Connie’s body betrayed her every attempt at running or fighting. She’d managed to get a bout of motion sickness from her first go at roller derby, and she couldn’t even muster the grace to walk from one place to the other without tripping or skipping. There wasn’t a lot she could say about herself that was kind, but when it came to her physical prowess, that was where she struggled the most.
“An assistant then! People are always looking for assistants. Answer the phones, smuggle the drugs, sell the firearms, sometimes, if you’re willing, they even need people to-”
“I am begging you not to finish that sentence, I don’t want to know.”
“Alright, alright. But it might be your only option, that’s all I’m saying. I mean, I did, and look at me! I’m… well, I’m doing alright, is the point I’m trying to make! Maybe you should do what I did?”
“What? Fall in love and become a criminal sidekick? Ouch!”
Harley kicked Connie under the table, laughing as she did so, immediately forgiving her for teasing that sensitive spot.
“Not quite , but…”
“Harley, did you learn nothing from our course?”
“I learned plenty, Bubby. And look where it got us.”
There was no arguing with that. Years of hard work, masters, doctorates, the professional progress between them impressive on paper before everything that happened. And yet here they both were. A criminal clown’s chew toy and a soon to be homeless loser. Gotham State University should use them both as success stories in their next newsletter, she thought, managing to find a smile for her own joke.
“Ok, I’m sorry to have to break us up, but I gotta be going. You gonna be ok?”
“As ok as I ever am.”
“And you’re gonna be fine walking home?”
Harley raised an eyebrow this time, aware that while she had a reputation, and her baseball bat, Connie was a fairly easy target for the thugs that lurked around every corner between the bar and the motel.
“I’ll be fine, you go do your thing, but be safe, ok?”
With a gleeful wink, her tongue sticking out of her mouth, Harley got up from the table and left the bar, hood up on her black jacket as she retreated into the cold, wet night. And before anyone could say anything to her, crowding around her either for conversation or cruelty, neither of which she was particularly open to, Connie left the bar as well.
Her coat barely kept the wind and the rain from her, cheap as it was, and it was around two sizes too small, so there was no point in trying to pull it around her for extra warmth and comfort. Her face was damp, the freezing cold gusts biting at her cheeks and nose and lips, the almost frosted rain only salt in those wounds as she tried to keep herself sheltered and covered, foregoing her usual attempts at staying alert and vigilant. She wondered why that might be? Had she given up entirely? Probably. Inconsequential, that would be the way to go. She wasn’t out looking for her exit, not actively anyway, but it happened upon her she doubted she would put up much of a fight.
For the briefest of moments, she considered standing there in the street and yelling to the skies “Just come and take me then! I won’t even make the papers! I won’t put up a fight! I’ve got less than five dollars in my pocket and I’m worth more dead than alive! Come on and put me out of my fucking misery!” but she stopped herself, if only because she knew she would barely be heard above the wind and the rain. And there was also a little part of her that worried who might hear. A claim like that might merit her a little vacation to Arkham, and it was far better to rot in the cold of her shitty motel room than be cooped up in there. She’d witnessed it first hand, it was not an option. Never an option.
As the thought of what it might be like to truly succumb to either death or the asylum, a cheerful focus for her on this dreary night, she had all but given up on watching out for those that lurked. So invested in her own little “this or that” hypothetical was she that she hadn’t heard the faint footsteps behind her. Boots on gravel, the light clanking of metal, the shallow breath of someone trying to conceal their nerves.
Even if she had noticed, even if she’d had time to react, it would have made no difference. Her screams would have gone unnoticed against the driving rain and the background cacophony of the myriad other yells and cries of the streets. And whatever weak puns she could throw at her attacker would have likely missed anyway, a lucky one that landed offering no more than a mild irritation to the situation than a deterrence.
No, it was just Connie, oblivious to everything but her own misery, suddenly experiencing true darkness, before she had even registered the pain at the back of her head, the dull thud almost fictional as far as she was concerned in her unconscious state. And she drifted in and out as she was transported by her assailant until she blacked out entirely.
Her first thought upon waking was disappointment that she wasn’t actually dead yet. It felt like a waste of her time. Her bleary vision steadied, focusing in on the view immediately in front of her. A room lit with almost clinical lighting, but it wasn’t clean and it certainly wasn;t somewhere to receive any kind of treatment. It was damp, worn, clearly long abandoned before Connie was left in here. There was a switch on the wall labelled with a piece of paper, and as she stood up to take a closer look she realised first of all that she was seated, and second of all, that she was tethered to the chair she found herself on. Wrists and ankles and her waist, all bound by leather restraints that were a little too tight for comfort now that she was paying attention to them.
“What… the actual fuck?”
If they weren’t going to kill her, she assumed they were going to torture her, and the thought alone was so absurdly perfect. Of course this is how it would go. Of course her life would end in drawn out, pointless agony. Just like how she’d been living it. And with that thought, she laughed out loud, either trying to find the humour in the situation, or finally losing her mind, she couldn’t be sure which and she suspected it might be both.
“This really isn’t funny, you know. Although, you’ll realise that soon enough.”
The voice surprised her, cutting off her laughter and making her sit up straight, back tense against the chair as she strained her neck to see where it might be coming from, and who it might be coming from. There was something familiar about it. Not a known person, not someone she felt she had heard physically. Something she recognised from a recording, perhaps on the news or from her studies.
Footsteps approached from directly behind her, just out of her line of sight with her neck turning both ways, and as her captor continued speaking, she began to place the elements of speech. The tone, the words, the cadence, the dictation, all of it so obvious when she could dedicate her brain to that alone instead of fear and panic and pathetic self-pity at her less than ceremonious end.
“Allow me to introduce myself, only polite after all. Although, I would expect you would know who I am, after all, I make no enigma of myself.”