"Name?"
"Harleen Quinzel." The detective looked up over the rim of his glasses. "Look, you have my ID in your hand. If I was gonna give a fake name, it'd be better than that.”
"Quinn." Blue eyes snapped up to the man in the opposite corner of the room. "You just beat a man's teeth in. You're in no place to pull rank here." Commissioner Gordon's voiced drilled out from under a too-thick mustache while he leaned against the windowsill. The slight arch in his back gave the illusion that the ramrod he had permanently inserted up his ass had taken the night off. Best guess, The Bat was on the opposite side of the one-way window into the interrogation room.
Harley crossed her arms over her chest and slumped further into her seat.
"Put his hands on Red." She could feel how smeared her lipstick was around her mouth.
"Dr. Isley is fine. What is not fine is you running around playing citizen's arrest."
"You pigs are all the same," Harley pressed a finger to the tip of her nose for emphasis and put on her best mocking tone, "Leave it to the professionals." She dropped the hand back into her lap and finished with "Until some poor lady ends up in an alleyway" under her breath.
The detective sitting across from her sighed, turning back to look at Commissioner Gordon, who just shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands up. He took a quick three steps and slammed his hands on the table.
"You're lucky the sonuvabitch isn't pressing charges against you!"
Harley couldn't hold back the snort. So lucky, her girlfriend had almost been assaulted.
The detective seated across from her- Harley thought he had introduced himself as Bullock- lifted a hand to Gordon's shoulder before he could get closer to Harley.
He retreated to his place at the windowsill, leading behind a faint scent of coffee and cigar smoke. Surprised his breath didn't reek of Bat dick, as high as Gordon tended to be choking on it.
There were two sharp raps on the window, but Harley couldn't see where they were coming from due to the one-way glass. Bullock excused himself, exiting the interrogation room quietly, leaving the coffee he had poured before they sat down on the table.
"You were almost easier to deal with being Joker's groupie." Gordon feigned a whisper, not looking at Harley as he went to follow Bullock.
"Hey!" Harley spit, standing up from her chair. She had been walked in here with ankles handcuffed, and right now they were the only
thing stopping her from ripping the squirrel off of Gordon's upper lip.
"'Hey', what?! You finally learn to think for yourself, and that's what comes out."
Harley let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding and sank back into her chair. Deflated, she looked down at the cuffs around her ankles.
"You're right, Gordon."
Gordon stopped with one hand on the door handle and looked back at the blonde. On the table, little white clouds of steam danced off of Bullock's forgotten coffee. It reminded Harley of a club she and Pamela frequented when they had first met; wine and kisses shared between them as they watched skillful aerialists descend from the heavens on long satin loops before pulling themselves back up again.
"Excuse me?"
"Look, I'm not stroking your ego or anything else. It's about time I think for myself. Maybe, that means thinking first and acting later."
Gordon raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat.
"Well, I think it's high time you learned that lesson."
Harley licked her tongue across her top front teeth, clearing them of the greasy red paint and smiled at Gordon.
"May I be excused to the ladies room, Mista' Gordon?"
Gordon hesitated for a minute before pulling a set of keys from the pocket of his slacks, bending over to free Harley's ankles.
When he stood up again, Harley gave her best puppy dog eyes, thanked him, and delivered a swift kick to his ribcage.
While Gordon made an attempt to grab her leg, Harley's arm darted in front of her and grabbed the coffee, slinging the whole thing directly into Gordon's face. Rookie mistake.
Gordon retreated to the corner of the room, pained sounds escaping his lips.
"Leave that no-'count mother fucker out of this." Harley jumped up from her chair and raced for the door, pigtails bouncing behind her before she threw a look back over her shoulder, "and shave that fucking squirrel off."
When Harley got out of the interrogation room, there was no sign of Bullock nor Batbrain. This was easier than she thought.
Until the escape alarm sounded. Gordon must have rubbed enough coffee out of his eyes to hit the button.
She muttered a small "fuck" before racing back down the hallway. As she went to turn a corner, she crashed a pile of fiery red curls perched on delicate shoulders and a tiny waist.
"Red!" Harley's hands reached out and grabbed Pamela's arms to steady her.
"Harley, what the hell?!"
Harley could hear thudding foot steps getting closer to them.
"No time, gotta roll!" Harley grabbed Pamela's hand in hers and pulled her down a corridor to the fire exit. What was another alarm going off?
They pushed out of the door and found themselves thrown into rain beating down Gotham streets.
Pamela removed her hand from Harley's and wrapped it around the blonde's bicep. She pulled off her heels and held them in the opposite hand.
"This way!" Pamela, barefoot and makeup running down her face, pulled Harley down an alleyway, running at full speed to the bright yellow convertible on the block opposite the police station. Harley made a mental note that this was not the most practical or inconspicuous get-away vehicle.
Pamela cranked the car as Harley was sliding into the passenger seat, pushing a button that threw the hood of the car back up while Pamela threw her heels behind her into the dark abyss of the back seat floorboards.
As they drove, the sirens of the Gotham police cars became fainter.
Harley broke the silence, "Ever seen Jersey, Red?"
Pamela didn't look over at her, but Harley noticed that her knuckles tightened around the steering wheel.
"Are you not even gonna explain what the hell that was?"
Harley sighed and pulled the bands from her hair, releasing the pigtails. Her hair flopped unceremoniously by her ears in the same places thanks to all the bleach damage and enough hairspray to choke a grown man.
Harley caved, "We might have a small issue."
***
It turns out the small issue was Harley being wanted for aggravated assault against Commissioner Gordon. Jersey wasn't going to be far enough. So, Pamela kept driving until the gas light came on.
The sign across from the gas station welcomes them to the town of Eagle, population 6,000.
Pamela moves the rear-view mirror down to her eyes. Her makeup has streaked down her face, leaving trails of black and beige down her cheeks.
“Fuck.” It’s a soft mutter, but it’s all she can muster before the tears come down.
From the moment she had met her, Pamela knew that she was gone for Harleen Quinzel. Despite her past, despite her neurotic ex-boyfriend, despite anything.
“So what do you do?” She has a thick, old-timey Brooklyn accent.
“I’m a botanist. Doctor Pamela Isley, at your service.”
She had fucked up, big time. They were on the run. Harley was a wanted woman.
Harley slides back into the now-full car, arms full of gas station fodder.
“Twizzlers or Sour Patch Kids?” It’s only after the question comes that she looks over at the silent tears on Pamela’s face.
“Pammy…? What’s the matter, sweets?” She lets the candy fall into the floorboard and wraps an arm around the ginger’s shoulders.
“What’s the matter? You’re a wanted woman, Harley!”
“Wanted by you, I hope.”
“Dammit, Harley, be serious! You assaulted a police officer!”
Harley moves her arm away from Pamela and slumps back in the seat, “I’ve done worse.”
“Why are you being so cavalier about this?”
Harley licks her lips and thinks for a moment, when she finally speaks, her voice is a whisper. “This is about me, Pammy. This isn’t your problem.” Harley clicks her seatbelt into place, “And if you want to drop me off at a motel and go back to Gotham, then I wouldn’t blame you.”
The world feels like it’s spinning entirely too fast, and Pamela feels like she’s about to throw up. She doesn’t know what else to do, so she does.
While she’s leaning out of the driver’s side door, Harley is rubbing a hand in soft circles on her back, unscrewing the cap on a water bottle she bought. Or, one that Pamela thinks she bought.
God, she didn’t hold up the gas station did she?
No! No, she would have wanted you to pull off by now. She definitely purchased the food. Or, at least stole it non-violently.
When she pulls herself back into the seat, she wipes her mouth with her discarded jacket before throwing it back in the back seat. She drains half of the bottle of water before she speaks again.
“It’s my fault.”
“What are you talking about?” Harley has cracked open a bag and has a Twizzler hanging from her mouth.
“That guy, at the bar. You wouldn’t have been at the police station.”
The Twizzler falls out and into Harley’s lap.
“Stop it, right now Red. This is the furthest thing from your fault. If you blame anyone, blame that sack of shit.” Harley crosses her arm over her chest.
“You don’t have to put yourself in harm’s way for me.”
“I do if someone hurts my best girl.” Harley lets her arms fall from her chest and puts a hand on Pamela’s thigh, letting her fingers absently trace the pale skin where her dress has ridden up.
Pamela smiles at that, and doesn’t say anything else as she cranks the car and pulls out of the station.
“Where are you going?” Harley doesn’t sound anxious, or scared, or any of the things that Pamela believes someone who had a warrant for their arrest should be.
Pamela intertwines her fingers with Harley’s and brings the hand that was on her thigh to her lips and kisses the tattooed knuckles of Harley’s hand.
“Wherever you are.”