Harley Quinn (
totalwildcard) wrote2025-02-17 02:48 pm
Apartment Above Needful Things; Monday Afternoon
Soooooo... Harley no longer had a headache? And okay, maybe talking to Atton the day before had helped, a little, something. But come Monday, she was still in something of a blanket goblin mode, huddled in her apartment with comfort snacks and Bruce and bad reality TV reruns.
She'd pick herself up by her bootstraps tomorrow, okay? It was coming, cross her heart! Soon!
Just... maybe not yet.
So far, for Monday, having made it to the couch instead of the bed seemed like enough progress.
(for a guy that knows who he is, and lotsa slow play)
She'd pick herself up by her bootstraps tomorrow, okay? It was coming, cross her heart! Soon!
Just... maybe not yet.
So far, for Monday, having made it to the couch instead of the bed seemed like enough progress.
(for a guy that knows who he is, and lotsa slow play)

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And okay maybe Marc didn't not like doing a lap around the building to make sure Midnight was fine and nothing was actively on fire or whatever. Which covered the immediate area but not elsewhere.
So hrm. Maybe something else to check? Not that he worried or anything - though maybe if he'd bothered to check in with radio he might have a better idea of whether or not he should - but it was kind of an itchy sensation so whatever.
He sent a text over to Harley.
You alive?
What? It was the relevant question as far as he was concerned.
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But then she saw who it was actually from, and her eyebrows went up and her chest did a thing (on the inside, not like in the boob sense) and, oh right, she should reply back exactly right now:
Yeah
And then:
You?
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Instead he went with replying Always am
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But anyway, there were more important things to cover:
Didya come home?
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Yeah. Where are you?
Not that it mattered.
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Home
Cradling a giant cheese ball jar in a blanket cocoon, as you do.
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(At least this instance was a better one?)
Yes please
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That way Marc could give Watts the heads up he was heading out. What Harley did with the time it took Marc to do that and head over to her place was up to her.
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And seemed to actually see her immediate surroundings for the first time in a while.
"... Aww, shit."
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Here
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She got the text, she skittered over to the window. Opened it, stuck her arm out, and called, "Here!"
Keys, flying, as usual.
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(Ignore there being a usual, Marc sure was.)
He let himself in, locked the door behind him, and headed upstairs. He glanced around on the way in case there was anything he needed to be aware of.
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And at the top of the stairs, hovering in the doorway, was Harley: clad in pajama pants and a ratty, oversized tee, her face bare of any makeup. It made her look more than a little washed out, but it was a vast improvement over how she'd looked the previous day (when no one had been there to witness it) in her day-old makeup that had been both cried and slept in several times over. Progress!
She gave Marc a little wave as soon as she saw him. It came off almost shy. "Hiya."
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Nobody would accuse him of being the most observant person but he did pick up on an overall vibe. "You okay?"
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And then she said, "Yeah," and that sounded all crumbly and squeaky and, okay, not enough people ever asked her if she was okay and it turned out lying about it in the face of that was hard.
She did not sound convincing, no. She sounded much more like she was about to cry.
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"What happened?"
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Yeah, no, she was fully coming off as sad, now.
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Marc was pretty sure Harley could handle her own violence, but yanno. Principle of the thing.
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She clearly would have preferred it if violence had been the answer. That sort of thing was so much more simple!
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So Marc held out a hand. A silent offer that she could come closer if she wanted. Maybe there'd be a hug or something.
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Like, sure, she took his offered hand.
But she used that hand to then practically launch herself against his chest. Hope you had good balance, Marc! Because Harley was not accounting for how close he still was to the stairs.
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He wrapped his arms around her, folding her in like she was under his wings. Or under two arms, the hand of one was still awkwardly holding a coat.
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Her face was getting smushed against his shoulder, with a whiny noise in her throat.
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