Archive of Our Own ^beta

The bar smells weird.

But it is adorable, in that you’re a seventy-year-old veteran with PTSD who drinks to cope kind of way.

There are two too many American flags, a wall of never-ending polaroids, leather booths that are cracking at the edges, and, surprisingly, a chain of yellow Christmas lights hanging above the bar.

It’s cozy. The kind of place Puddin—Joker and his men would never hang around. A nice change of pace from leering men in crowded clubs. She can work with this.

But she only has to take one step before freezing in place.

Harley doesn’t recognize him at first, it’s mostly a sixth sense kind of thing that tips her off immediately, but she stares a little harder.

“Holy shit, is that—"

Dirty blond hair a couple inches longer than she’d last seen it, shoulders too wide for his own damned good that’s covered by a black denim jacket of all things, a strong jaw previously hidden by a vaguely republican beard but is now clean-shaven. He’s almost completely unrecognizable but Harley’s pretty sure—

That’s Rick fucking Flag.

As in, Waller’s guard dog and her ex-teammate from that one time she saved the world.

What the shit.

He sure does clean up nicely.

She briefly considers stepping right back out of this place.

You see, Harley’s not sure if she’s up for company tonight. Actually, well, that’s wrong, she is, it’s the whole reason why she’s in this joint in the first place.

(—since her friends kind of ditched her tonight. She’d seen Nova’s Instagram story. All of them are out for laser tag. Harley never got any invitation.)

But Harley doesn’t want to hang out with Captain—Colonel? Colonel Flag here. He’s one of the last people she wants to be seen hanging around with.

Not to mention, she hasn’t seen him since the squad split up after the whole train wreck at Midway City. Barring him, Harley has bumped into everyone on the entire squad. Hell, she’s even seen K.C. twice; granted, it was because she’d had to use the sewers for one of Puddin’s heists—

Anyway.

All she remembers is that the dude was uptight. Ridiculously stiff and not in the good way.

But. Then again. Harley remembers how much fun it was to ruffle up his camo-green feathers. Maybe she should go for another round, just for old times’ sake. And it’s not like he can stop her anyway.

She’s still Joker’s girl to everyone else, despite her membership’s expiry date to ‘Joker’s Girlfriend’ club. No one’s gotta know.

Right now, she can still do whatever she wants.

So, she straightens her shoulders up, brushes away the purple and green lint within the crevices of her brain, and soldiers further into the bar and straight to his side.

He looks to his side to catch her movement first. The double-take he does is kind of adorable, though.

“Quinn?” Beer bottle stopping an inch away from his lips, his eyes widen under his more adorable floppy boy-scout haircut.

“Hey, Flaggy.” She wiggles her fingers, leaning against the bar. She’s glad she went for the non-sequined top this time, otherwise poor Flag would be blinded by it.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, just havin’ a night out on the town.”

He narrows his eyes at that. ‘Nights out’ and Harley Quinn, the Queenpin of Gotham, don’t really mesh well. It usually ends in a case of arson and some form of larceny.

“This place doesn’t exactly look like your scene.” The crease in between his brows doesn’t waver. So far, so good.

“Funny. I was about to say this looks exactly like your scene.” She nudges his shoulder, probably with more force than necessary, but hey, no one said she had to annoy her ex-commander with only her blabbering mouth.

“This seat empty?” Harley points to the leather seat right next to him. Flag glances around.

“Your, uh, your boyfriend joining you for the night?”

Harley stiffens, her stomach turning. Still a little sensitive, she fixes on a wider smile, leaning into his personal space just so she can see him squirm. It works. “Not tonight, Flag. Not tonight.”

He gestures to the seat with the end of his beer bottle.

“Then sit all you want.”

She grins, plopping down onto the seat, the chair giving a little creak as she adjusts her tush. She doesn’t exactly want to flash anyone in her mini skirt, even with the rhinestone stockings providing cover.

She’s briefly overwhelmed with the impulse to steal his beer, but squashes it down. Gotta keep it on the down-low first. Can’t bring out the big guns so soon. Instead, she leans over the bar on her forearms and calls out to the barkeep, “Buddy! You got any Cosmos?”

The old man wearing one of those cute Irish caps snorts at her words.

“Nah, we don’t sell any of those drinks ‘ere.” He turns around to face her, only to blanch.

“Ah, yeah. A-Anything for you, Harley Quinn.”

He nervously looks to the entrance. “Is the Joker with you?”

She shines her teeth at him. “Just me, buddy. Just me and my ol’ friend here.” She swings an arm over Flag’s shoulder—grinning at the way he tenses stiff beneath her touch—and winks at the old man, who nods and scuttles off to make her drink.

Harley ignores how the Colonel tilts his head and the pointed look he shoots at her.

“Thanks, you’re a peach,” she calls after him, ignoring the familiar dismay at being recognized for being his. Which she isn’t. Not anymore.

She clicks her tongue and slides away from the wooden Rick Flag, who takes to staring intently at the water rings on the bar top, ignoring Harley.

Interesting. It seems that he doesn’t want to play ball.

Well, she’ll make him.

“So, no doc around?”

Flag picks up his head, looking almost surprised that Harley’s even talking to him. Weird. But Harley brushes it off.

“What?”

“No Moone to stick your Flag in?”

He grimaces. “Ugh, come on, Quinn—”

“I’m kidding.” She waves a hand then rests her chin on her fist, grimacing when her bare scraped elbow pressed into the cold bar. She knew she should have brought a jacket. “But seriously, where is the little witch?”

Ricky looks uncomfortable.

“Ah.” He looks away from her eyes. “Not around.”

Before Harley can ask why, he answers the question for her.

“Hasn’t been. For a while.”

Oh. Yikes.

“Oh.”

A kindred spirit.

Not that Harley would let him know, of course.

At least Harley can empathize enough to not press on the bruise.

“Looks like we’re both alone on this quiet starry night. We’re like two pods in a pea, I tell ya.” She frowns. “Wait. That’s not right—"

“What are you doin’ here?” he asks, interrupting her for the first time. Rude. But hey, she did warn him, she is vexing.

His question registers soon after, and the smile on her face dims somewhat.

Puddin’ and I broke up.

The words hang heavy on her tongue, but her lips are sealed like glue—sticky as the shame that clogs her skin.

Okay, so, she’s not exactly proud of keeping their break-up a secret, but what’s a girl to do? Her reputation would tank, and besides, people let her do anything.

Like right now. Flag’s letting her sit by him only cause she’s Mr. J’s girl. Harley isn’t exactly keen on getting kicked to the curb for the second time in one night.

Sure, she can just leave, go hang out with somebody else but—

Harley doesn’t have anyone else.

Everyone who knows that she’s done with Mr. J are hanging out doing laser tag. And she doesn’t want to hang out with other people who know her personally, since most of her contacts are connected to Mr. J in some way or the other.

And if Flag’s only hanging out with her because of the Joker, well…

Might as well take advantage of it in the meantime. Might as well throw caution to the wind and do whatever the fuck she wants. Act herself around Flaggy, allow herself to push his buttons, test his limits before she scares him off with how she’s acting.

(She’s learned that most people don’t stick around for long after Harley’s shown her true colors. Such is life.)

“You alright, Quinn?”

She blinks at Flag. He’s staring at her, the line between his brows somehow deeper. Did he really just ask that? To her?

Huh. Super weird.

“Peachy keen,” she hears herself saying.

Before he can ask further questions, because that frown on his face is only feeding the mild anxiety in her tummy, the barkeep slides over what seems to be a Cosmo served in a whiskey tumbler. She shoots him a wink as she takes it into her hand.

She takes a sip. Not bad. Could use a little more lime, though.

Harley sips even more when she sees that the frown still on his face. Seriously, what is that guy’s problem? It’s not like Harley’s done anything yet.

“Say, what are you doing in a dump like this?”

The barkeep glares at her from the end of the bar.

“A beautiful dump, just to clarify.”

The barkeep rolls his eyes and Flag huffs half a laugh.

“Just a way to spend my day off. Wanted to go someplace new. Didn’t think I’d run into a coworker, though.”

“Please, if we’re coworkers, I’m certifiably sane. When was the last time you even saw any of the squad?”

He levels a stare at her, a long look that makes her want to fidget.

“I still lead Task Force X.” Harley blinks. Flag’s still doing that? Why? This kind of shtick doesn’t seem like Flag’s kind of deal. Maybe Waller’s still hanging something over his head.

“Deadshot asked after you.”

“Floyd?” Aw. Damn, should have asked for his number.

“Yeah. In the last mission, he kind of mucked things up for the team but, you know,” he shrugs, “Could have been worse. I owe him one.”

Harley tries not to gape at him, wondering when did he ever start acting like this around criminals like her and Floyd. He definitely wasn’t this lax during their mission together.

“I didn’t know you guys kept in touch.”

The corner of his lips twitches.

“Well, you don’t know what you don’t know.”

She narrows her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“What it means is that after the Joker rescued you, you never tried to keep in touch. You were a little busy, uh, robbing other criminal lairs and banks with him.” He shrugs. “We assumed you forgot about us.”

“That’s not true.” Harley frowns.

Okay yes, she didn’t try to keep in contact with the rest, but when she was being rescued by Mr. J, there was no time to collect phone numbers or addresses. And when she finally got out of prison, Mr. J had so many heists planned that there was simply no time for anything else. In hindsight, she can admit she was a little too wrapped up with the green and purple menace, but c’mon! She thought he died! It’s not like she ditched the squad or anything…

Flag cocks an irritating brow in her direction, like he can read her thoughts.

Okay, so maybe she did.

But so what? Is what her hum sounds like as she waves her drink around.

It’s not like these guys were eager to keep her around. Especially Flag.

Harley is under no illusion that people like her for her dazzling personality and sweet disposition—or that people like her, period. Most of the time, she drags people into her own circle, and they’re far too scared shitless of her tattling to Puddin’ to say anything in protest.

Which, okay yeah, hurts, but Harley’s used to it. It’s just how it is.

As much as she has to be pressed to say it, she likes the squad—with Flag half-included. Which means Harley wants them to like her for her, not because they’re afraid of Mr. J, or because they feel obligated to enjoy her company. And okay, maybe Harley’s afraid to find out what the squad would do if they find out that she and Puddin’—Joker are over.

(—What if they leave? Like everyone else?)

“Well, I’m here now,” she says, viciously pushing those thoughts out of her head.

“For how long? Until the clown wants his jester back?” Flag asks, his question sounding completely genuine, and huffs a derisive chuckle, and Harley has to tamp down the flare of hurt in her chest. She stares at the bottom of her glass.

Harley knows she doesn’t have to keep hearing about her shitty ex, doesn’t have to keep hearing that she’s still entangled with the Clown Prince of Crime.

How much of herself doesn’t truly belong to her.

She tosses back the hastily-made Cosmo, reveling in the soft burn trailing down her throat, the alcohol settling uneasily in her stomach. It pairs quite well with the hurt and heated anger swirling in her chest. She slams down the glass.

“You don’t gotta worry about me raining on your pity party, Flag,” she says, but the words sound gritted, baring her teeth at him in an imitation of a smile before sliding out of her chair.

A large hand closes around her wrist.

“Wait, hold on.”

His grip is slack, light—almost shy.

She turns around, surprised at the earnest remorse—the real kind too—bleeding in his eyes. “I’m sorry. That—That was a shitty thing to say.”

Harley hums sharply, agreeing. But Flag doesn’t look upset by her lack of forgiveness, only looking more… frowny. “Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“Or somethin’.” Her lips stretch, but her cheeks are frozen stiff, aching with the effort.

He searches her eyes, her face, his eyes roving over her in a non-leering way and somehow, it’s more spine-chilling than if it were blatant ogling (—and it’s not necessarily bad.)

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t leave on account of me.”

The way he looks at her reminds her too much of their mission. Rain mixing with tears. Sitting pathetically on a cop car. Back when she thought she lost her world. She still remembers how she grinned even with the painful grief blooming in her chest; she remembers the knowing looks the squad gave her, the unspoken words between all of them.

It’s close to pity, but more dangerously close to empathy. Like he cares.

Maybe he does.

Harley doesn’t move, and the lack of reaction is deemed enough for Flag to let go of her wrist.

It might be stupid to others; how easily that simple touch disarmed her, and how much she needed it, but not to her. Especially in the face of his sincerity.

She deliberates for a moment before sliding back into her chair. She’s rewarded by another one of his small smiles.

Not many people have the decency, or rather the balls, to admit that they did something wrong and apologize for it—forget even trying to mean it.

And she can tell that his is an honest one.

Which is—

Not bad.

(It’s very, very good, in fact.)

“You cut your hair,” he points out. Harley reaches up to her pigtails self-consciously.

“Yeah. You like it?”

“It’s cute.”

Cute. Cute. That can’t be true. Her left pigtail is a little shorter, choppier than the right, and she’s pretty sure her bangs aren’t even straight. She had gone a little too ham with the scissors.

But it’s cute anyway.

“Thanks, Flaggy.” A part of her can’t help but wonder if he’s lying, but the way that his lips twitch up, shy and adorable, tells her he’s not. The thought only widens her grin.

He goes to sip his beer and grimaces.

“It’s warm,” he mutters. Harley knows she’s certifiably crazy, but there was zero reason for her to laugh at his expression, something warming in her because of the smile on his face afterwards.

He glances at his watch and turns to her.

“You wanna get out of here?”

Harley perks up. “Where?”

“Away from this ‘pity party.”

For a moment, she wonders if he’s saying what she thinks he’s saying, but the context clues and the fact that Rick Flag would never do something like that, especially with Harley Quinn of all people, tells her no. (A tinier part of her is a little disappointed. How she’d like to have that broad frame pressed on top of her.)

She barely gives a nod, lost in a trail of heated thoughts, before Flag nods and gets up from his chair.

“Put hers on my tab, Chester,” he says, taking the empty glass from her hand to slide it over the bar along with his beer.

The barkeep inclines his head. “No problem, Colonel. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Harley isn’t surprised Chester doesn’t extend the same courtesy to her. She’s had worse.

She is surprised that Flag holds the door open for her, head tilted and curl of his lips light. An invitation if she’s ever seen one.

She throws every last scrap of caution left in her to the wind and follows him like a dutiful soldier.

They spill out into the streets, with her trying her best to catch up with Flag’s ridiculously long legs—was he this tall back then? She’s pretty sure if she stood in front of him, she’d be eye-to-eye with his collarbone. Christ, maybe Harley should’ve worn heels instead of her boots. And brought her jacket because it’s fucking freezing tonight.

“Where're we going?”

“On a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yeah.” He glances over his shoulder to meet her eyes. “That a little too boring for you, Quinn?”

“Wow, you really are a senior citizen.” Harley cackles.

He gestures with his hands in his pockets. “Well, you got anywhere in mind?”

“Not really.”

Oh! Lightbulb.

Harley really does have the best ideas. “Actually…”

She turns to face Flag, who’s staring cautiously at her.

“C’mon.” She grips onto his wrist, pulling it out of his jacket pocket to tug him in the opposite direction.

“A candy store?”

“Yup!”

She twirls in place to face him with a grin on her face. His eyes glance down to the overflowing pile of candy in her arms.

“You gonna eat that all by yourself?”

“Maybe.”

He shoots her a look when she shrugs.

“It’s my cheat day,” she defends.

She picks up a bag of cotton candy to add to her collection. Cotton candy that’s bubblegum pink and baby blue—just like her hair. Lucky that she didn’t skip her hair appointment yesterday. It would be a crime if the cotton candy coloring outshined her tinged tips.

Harley was ready to bolt out of the shop without paying for it. Paying is for dummies, after all.

But right before she can take a step out of the shop, Flag drops a fifty on the counter with an uttered ‘Keep the change’.

Well, maybe it’s for most dummies.

Harley pretends she doesn’t see any of this and continues on her way, hearing Flag’s footfalls catching up to her own pace. She tries to fight back a grin but fails, and so she rips open a bag and stuffs her mouth full of gummy worms.

“C’mon. Waiting on you now,” she says through a mouthful of melting sugar, only grinning when Flag snorts. Cute.

* * *

Flag doesn’t come around to Gotham that often. Harley can tell. When she glances at him in the corner of her eyes, he’s always looking around, taking in the dirty crime-ridden city, as if the street life were something to be admired. There is a certain charm to the place, she supposes, even though Harley doesn’t usually spend her nights out walking through Gotham City (—considering, nowadays, she spends a lot of her time sitting at home, licking her wounds. But maybe she should do it more often.)

The streets are near empty. The hustle and bustle of the evening fading away; however, still early enough that the city still seems to teem with life. It’s kind of peaceful like this.

It’s silent for a while at first. Only their footsteps filling the air between them. But Harley breaks the ice first, as she always does.

“You want some?” She offers the bag of opened gummy worms.

Flag almost seems to startle, blinking down at her then at the bag. She shakes the bag at him. Anything to even out the scales.

He’s already lessened the amount of wound-licking she’ll have to do later by giving that invitation; this is the least she can do for dragging him along.

To her surprise, he reaches in and takes a couple for himself. What a polite little soldier.

She doesn’t know who starts the conversation ball really rolling, she’s pretty sure it’s her, but it looks like Flag doesn’t seem to mind.

She supposes after leading the ‘Suicide Squad’ for several years, with an ever-changing roster of members, Flag must have gotten used to rolling with the punches.

Harley kind of likes it.

* * *

For how self-aware Harley knows herself to be, she can’t stop herself from oversharing sometimes. And it seems to be more of a recent thing too.

Harley doesn’t have many people to talk to. On a good day, the most interaction she’d get is with her friends during a night out. On a bad day, all she’d say is her usual order to Doc. On a really, really bad day, she can’t muster the energy to even talk to the walls.

So, she supposes that her mind wants to over-compensate for the lack of social interaction that’s been plaguing her days recently.

Which means she rambles. About this and that, about her new furry buddy Bruce—you know, like that hunky Wayne guy—and how she’s got a new cute lamp—the shade’s yellow and everything! Perfectly matches her wallpaper. About how her new skates are chafing her calves so bad.

But Flaggy doesn’t interrupt. Not once. Well, maybe once or twice since she speaks a little too fast for him to catch up, words building up in her throat like blowing bubblegum. And to cut in with his own jokes, their snark ping-ponging without a sweat.

But he doesn’t yell at her for ruining his train of thought, nor does he stop to interject and overtake the conversation. He even smiles and laughs at some points, eyes gleaming like a ray of sunshine. He’s an absolute gentleman.

Harley wonders why she never saw this before. Why he’d hidden this and everything else that makes him so interesting underneath that asshole-y gruff exterior. Sure, it was a mission and they were all antsy to get it done, but how could Harley could have missed all of this? How could she pegged him so wrong?

At least, Harley now understands why that Moone chick was all over him.

“I get it now.”

“What?” he turns to her, tilting his head at her blurted words after a couple minutes of her mulling silence.

Harley grins up at him, shakes her head. “Nothing, Coronel.”

They walk down the streets of Gotham, the cool night doing wonders for the alcohol flush to her cheeks.

“You still workin’ for the Wall?” She asks eventually. That’s what ex-colleagues do, right? Ask after their business and workplace drama?

“Hm?”

“Wal-ler. You still workin’ for the lady? The one with biggest ever-loving stick up her—”

“Yes, yeah, I am.”

Harley cackles. “Still got you doin’ her dirty work, huh?”

Flag frowns, looking like that stern leader she knew back at Midway City. It’s not a bad look to see now. Knowing he can smile and laugh and give her a toothache diminishes the scary-looking effect.

“I’m—I’m not doing her dirty work.”

“Really? You sure ‘bout that? Was I the only one present during our mission together? Cause I definitely remember us being called in to rescue the Walnut’s ass.”

“That was my mission, not her dirty work.”

“Ah. Was threatening to blow up our heads if we stepped a toe outta line your mission too?”

“Uh.” Flag’s face loses that guarded look, melting into something warmer and… frowny again. “Sorry about that. I was a dick.”

“No harm done, Flaggy. My head’s still attached to my neck, as you can see.” Harley’s pretty sure there’s a joke there about losing her mind or head or whatever, but Flag’s frowny face is really turning the skies grey.

“No, I mean it, Quinn. I was an asshole that day. And it’s no excuse but, y’know, I was worried about June, an entire fuckin’ city got decimated overnight, and the fact that world-class criminals were involved—”

“No excuse, eh?” she teases, rewarded once again by a twitch of his lips.

His southern twang slithers into the nooks and crannies of her head.

“I had a lot on my mind. So. I’m sorry for bein’ a dick.”

Harley pretends her stomach doesn’t feel lighter all of a sudden.

“Well, you aren’t being one now. Maybe only half a dick.” His huff of laughter brushes her ear. Harley pointedly ignores the shiver down her spine.

“Besides.” She nudges him as if they were close friends and not estranged ex-teammates who hated each other and saved the world once upon a time. “We weren’t makin’ it easy for you either, Flaggy.”

Flag brushes it off. “You saved my life back there, Quinn. I still owe you one for that.”

“I did?”

“I’m pretty sure it was only cause you didn’t want your head blown up, but yeah, you did.” His tone is a dangerous thing. Softer. Genuine.

The side-eye he’s giving her is more dangerous. Bashful. Super fucking adorable.

“Huh.”

“And, uh.” Flag rubs the back of his head. “I don’t have the authority to do that anymore. After Midway, Waller made sure I have no control over the bombs.”

“Why?”

Then she remembers.

That time in the bar, when she’d callously said We don’t want you here—yeah, she was a total bitch, she knows, but c’mon, Puddin’ sort of died so maybe she deserved a little bitchiness.

But then he’d destroyed that little device controlling their bombs, despite how hopeless the fella looked.

Everything is over. Everything.

You're free to go.

Defeated. Tired. Sad. A tiny bit of how he was like when she first stepped into the bar.

Flag did it when Waller lost her leverage over him. He did that for them, even when his girl was still possessed by a witch. He did it because the deal was off, and he wanted to keep his word. He did it because it was the least he could do. He’d done it because—

He’s a good guy. Not a Good™ guy like Batman is. But just… good. Decent.

He had no reason to. But he did.

“Oh. Yeah. Makes sense.” She nods easily, as if the image she’s built of him in her head isn’t chinking away into tiny pieces with every word that comes out of his mouth. “What kinda task force would the team be if their commander let go of their team members every mission?”

Rich and warm like good whiskey is what she would describe his laugh.

“Not a very good one, I imagine.”

And like good whiskey, it burns her from the inside.

“Maybe you should retire, y’know,” she says, pulling out a Twizzler and chewing down hard, “It doesn’t seem you’re cut out for the job.”

He doesn’t smile at her joke like before, looking sober and gloomy when the line of his shoulders slumps ever so slightly. “Yeah. I probably should.”

She can’t help but rub it in a little. “You really should. Waller doesn’t seem the type to leave any loose ends anyway. Might as well cut the ropes before she’s got the scissors, right?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? It’s not like you and Mooney are still a thing, so what’s the hold-up?”

He doesn’t say anything. And Harley gets a dreadful sinking feeling in her gut. “You’re letting her boss you around like that?”

His lips twist to one side. Like he knows he’s the butt of a joke. “She’s my superior, Quinn, it’s not like I’ve got a say in what she decides to do with me.”

There’s a bitter taste in her mouth, his words sounding an awful lot like her old ones.

“You say you aren’t doin’ her dirty work, but from what I see, you’re the only one gettin’ your hands muddy. And she’s the one getting credit for all of it.”

“Task Force X’s a black ops unit. Whatever we do is kept under wraps. Besides, the people assigned to the team have got it worse than I do. They’re pulled out of their cells without warning, blackmailed into it.” Flag shrugs carelessly. But he doesn’t look careless. He looks like someone who knows his poor odds and is resigned to it. “And it isn’t like Waller’s waving around the team’s success.”

“Yeah, but she’s gets off from the power, probably even climbing up the fuckin’ pecking order when all she’s gotta do is hover a finger over a button,” Harley says hotly, remembering the invasive sharp prick of a nano sized bomb that could pop her head like a balloon.

Waller’s like Mr. J. Only difference between them is that Waller’s gotta blow some heads (haha) to get a semblance of control, and Mr. J’s gotta say a few pretty words before Harley’s bouncing off to follow his orders.

(Harley wouldn’t go as far to say that Flag’s like her, that he’s a harlequin too. But he’s pretty damn close, too close.

Maybe a puppet, or a marionette. Manipulated at will by people who see him as nothing but useful and disposable. Unable to see the strings pulling his limbs, all to create an easy headline for everyone else to stomach.

Worst part of it is, they're going to blame us for the whole thing. And they can't have people knowing the truth.

We're the patsies. The cover-up.

It never occurred to her that Flag could be a part of the cover-up too.)

He doesn’t say a word.

“How’s that any different from Mistah J orderin’ me to distract the Bat? O-Or better yet, keepin’ an eye on his goons, as if I’m their babysitter.” Harley has half the mind to notice the damning words spilling outta her mouth—always revealing far too much, sentimental and feely—so she quickly backtracks, injects a little more venom. “As if I didn’t plan the Iceberg lounge heist myself.”

Flag’s attention snaps to her. “You did that?”

“Yup! That was me.” Is it her or does he actually sound impressed?

Stop it, stupid, stupid heart. One compliment and you’re doin’ an aerial walkover! Why are you so easy?

She rights herself, ignoring how his stare is giving her heartburn. “You gonna report me, Flaggy? Tell her you’ve got one of the OGs back for your little band of misfits?”

“Come on, Quinn. You of all people know no one can get you to do anything you don’t wanna do.”

She winks. “You know me so well, Flaggy.”

Flag turns to her, frowny face flickering back for a second. “For the record, that was a pretty dangerous heist. You could’ve gotten somebody hurt.”

“Pfft, there was one security guard who got his nose broken and another who got his ankle shattered. That’s nothing.” The little teasing glint in his eyes makes her ask though, “And how about off the record?”

“Off the record?” The smile he gives her is so sweet, the cotton candy has got nothing on it. “that heist was pretty fuckin’ impressive. I gotta give it to you.”

Harley beams. “Thanks, Flaggy. You’re the sweetest.”

The light flush coming on his cheeks, along with a twitching closed-lipped smile, makes her heart flip flop again. Why d’you have to be such a slut, heart?

“And come to think of it, babysittin’ all of us that time is pretty impressive too.”

Flag shakes his head, disagreeing. “Lawton did most of the legwork. I had to get my ass saved by all of you.”

“You are very good at being the damsel in distress.”

She elbows him in the side, secretly liking that grin on his face the more she sees it appear.

Flag does seem like the obedient boy-scout type. Harley just doesn’t like how Waller is clearly taking advantage of it. Especially since Flaggy doesn’t seem to be a hundred percent aware how deep Waller’s got him in her pocket.

Harley used to be like that.

“Guess we are two pods in a pea, after all.”

Flaggy hums, those eyes staring at her in consternation.

“Guess so.”

The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s… comfy. Harley can almost call it a certain kind of quiet solidarity. Two people who can’t be more different finding similarities that truly matter.

Harley can probably meet another nutty criminal within a three-mile radius—it’s Gotham, after all—but to find someone who knows what life is like being on a leash is something different. No matter how long Waller extends the proverbial leash, no matter how much Flag tries to delude himself into thinking he’s a man of his own choices, Flag is the government’s—and by extension, Waller’s—property.

(The ink on her shoulder blade singes. She’ll have to get it removed soon. Or tatted over.)

A shiver rolls down her spine and she wraps her arms around herself.

“You cold?” Flag looks at her, a faint line between his brows. It looks a whole lot like… concern—

Oh.

Concern. That’s what it was. The frowny face he’s been making all night at her was because he’s concerned. For Harley.

She can’t deal with the implications of that right now so instead, she just shrugs.

“Nothing like frozen nips to keep ya wide awake.”

Flag snorts. There’s a moment of consideration on his end, but right before the moment loses its momentum, Flag picks it right back up, like the goody-goody Don Juan he is.

“Here.”

He shucks off his jacket, swings it over Harley’s shoulders. Sweet warmth, heady spicy cologne, metallic gunpowder—does he bring this jacket to his missions?—and something inherently masculine envelopes her senses, drowns her in it. Harley’s glad she doesn’t know how to swim.

Somehow, Flag went from grade-A asshole to grade-A gentleman in one night. Harley knows she’s lost it, but this is a little extreme. The way the night turned out feels like a delusion her mind would make up for her. But then again, most of her delusions don’t make anything this kind or sweet.

“Ooh, looks like chivalry’s funeral date was postponed—wait, hold the phone.”

She grabs onto one of Flag’s arms and raises it up to her eye-level.

“Quinn—"

“Holy crap! Your arms!” She takes the other one into her other hand, feeling up the thick muscle. “Your biceps are like the size of my head! Since when did you get all beefy?”

He has the audacity to shrug, as if she should have known he was buff all this while.

Hot damn. Broad shoulders, towering over her with that golden-boy charm and built like shit brickhouse. No words. Truly.

“So this was what you were hidin’ underneath all that ugly gear.” She lets his arms drop to his sides, but pokes him in the stomach, eyes glittering at the tiny little flinch he makes.

“Rock hard abs too. Killer combo.”

He grabs her hand before she can poke at his pecs.

Scars and callouses over his hands—very large hands, might she add—scrape over her own skin. Years of using guns, no doubt, and scarred by the evidence of his not-so-goody-two-shoes history and present.

The contrast is really doing it for her.

She looks up, tilts her head.

“You’ve got hazel eyes,” she blurts out. And incredibly expressive ones too. “Huh. Never noticed it before.”

“And you’re handsy.”

Harley’s face splits into a wide grin. “Part of my charm, Flaggy.”

Flag shakes his head once, looking exasperated but not annoyed. Like he knows what to expect from her and isn’t at all mad about it. Harley doesn’t see that look on people often, no less directed at her.

“Stop calling me that,” Flag chides lightly.

Harley ramps up the cheekiness, so eager to poke and prod Flag toward his limits. So far, she’s seen none of them. “Then don’t call me Quinn. If you wanna, there better be a ‘Dr.’ before it.”

“Fine.” He lets go of her hands. She tries not to pout. “Harley.”

Never mind. Hearing the way his voice coils around her name more than makes up for leaving her hands to freeze in the cold. Gosh, Harley might actually end up liking him.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t bother breaking the eye contact and gives a lazy two-finger salute. “Flag.”

Flag has that closed-lipped grin on his face. He ducks his head a little, likely in an attempt to hide the sudden cold flush to his cheeks, but since he’s one tall motherfucker, the movement only leans his face closer to hers. Close enough she can see more of that ring of green melting easily into the browns of eyes. Up this close, she sees the shine on his lips from when he licked them earlier.

“Harley.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re stepping on my foot.”

“Oh—sorry.”

She pulls away from him completely. “My bad.”

The little side-look he gives her lets her know he’s not as blind as she wishes him to be. But the grin that still sticks to those shiny lips tells her he doesn’t mind all too much.

Harley’s usually shameless, but she’s more than a little sensitive tonight, and she’s definitely feeling grateful that her skin physically can’t get super red—because she’s definitely feeling the heat.

It’s not that Harley isn’t interested, she’d jump his bones right this moment if she could. But it feels… too soon. And poor Flaggy doesn’t even know about the new change in her relationship status. To him, Harley’s still got a man. A sickening, cruel, awful man, but a man nonetheless. Based on what she saw between him and his ex, Flag doesn’t seem the type to get wrapped up in shit like that.

(There she goes, already painting a new fantasy in her head. Classic Harley.)

Harley’s not a good person. But every fiber of her body is a romantic. Hopelessly so. Harley does not play lightly in the matters of her heart, or with others’. She’s not cruel like that.

Which unfortunately means she can’t find it within herself to string Flaggy along when Harley’s still a mess and a half.

And ‘casual’ is right out of the question. She likes him. She likes the sparks of chemistry they’ve had during the night too much to even try something casual. Sure, it’d be fun to climb him like a tree, but she likes his outlandish chivalry and cotton-candy smiles more. Friendship isn’t something that Harley stumbles into often, but when she does, she treasures it as deeply as her own romantic pursuits. (—possibly more)

So, Harley briefly mourns how she won’t get to feel those abs up-close and lets go of those fantasies as fast as they cropped up into her head.

This is so much better than what she can come up with anyway.

“You want some?” She waves the rest of her bag of candy.

“Harley.” She bites back the shiver. “I thought you’d never ask.”

They eventually reach the edges of Gotham’s city park. She hadn’t known they’d walked through the entire place; it takes like an hour and a half to get through it. All they did was talk about Flag’s shitty Task Force X members and bitch about Waller. Well—they also talked about which soups they like best, their favorite ice-creams, who made the best breakfast sandwiches in the city—a lot of talk about food, she realizes.

But now she knows he likes tomato soup, but only if they also serve grilled cheese, that he doesn’t like ketchup but likes Harley’s taste in music, that he likes his coffee black with a shit-ton of sugar, he’s a sucker for high-quality ice-cream but doesn’t mind generic Halloween candy, and that he hasn’t tried Sal’s sandwiches—something she told him he just has to remedy very soon.

Maybe liking Flag isn’t such a bad thing.

Shame that everything has to come to an end. Just like Cinderella, her phone chimes with her alarm to take her meds—meds that she left at her apartment. The look on Flag’s face tells her that he knows what the alarm means.

Harley really doesn’t want to say goodbye, though. But she breaks the silence for the both of them.

(She’s come to learn that Flag never pushes for anything she doesn’t want to give, even for innocent questions, letting her set the boundaries. What a hunk of a gentleman.)

“This was nice. You were nice.”

His lips twitch.

“I’d say thanks but I didn’t do anything.”

Harley wants to argue. He apologized for saying something not so nice when no one else would have done the same. He apologized for something years ago, something that Harley nearly forgot about. He paid for her drink, her sweets. He gave her his jacket. He let her speak as if her words meant something, as if she meant something.

He acted like—

He liked her for Harley. Not because he was scared of Mr. J.

No one has treated her like that in a… long, long time.

And Harley has no words to describe how much that means to her.

“You know…” Flag starts, “Belle Reve’s always open to you.”

He looks at her. No expectation, no ulterior motive, no fear. “The Squad is.”

Harley wants to cry. She doesn’t, though. It’s still a little too soon for that.

She waves a hand. “Eh, I think I’ll pass on the prison cell.”

“Ah. Right.” He nods, sheepish.

It’s not like he’s upset by her rejection or anything, but the fact that she’d turned him down triggers some instinct—a fearful little thing put in there by the Joker—and she blurts out the first thing in her mind.

“Roller derby.”

Please, God, have him say yes. Let me have this one thing.

“What?”

“I-I’ve got roller-roller derby.” She rummages through her pockets, flicking away the receipt used to dispose of gum, and reaching deeper for an old card of her roller derby’s rink. “A match coming up this weekend. If you wanna see.”

He takes it from her fingers, staring intently at the faded words on the piece of paper.

“Only if you wanna, of course—I know it’s not your kinda scene, but—”

“I’ll come.”

“Really?” Her voice almost cracks, nearing a squeal. Rein it in, girlie.

Flag shrugs his shoulders, something adorable tugging at one side of his lips. “I’ll see if I’m free.”

The fear gripping around her lungs lets go.

“I’m holdin’ you to that, Flag.”

Harley wonders if everyone feels this nervous after making a friend. She wouldn’t really know. It’s been years since something this precious was dropped on her doorstep, and Harley would hate to part with it so soon.

Flag’s a special one, she can tell. The kind of special that you don’t notice at first. The kind of special whose presence is a slow and a constant drip, but rather than eroding you, it fills you up, it encompasses you, leaves marks on every part of you, marks that you don’t want to erase, ‘til you can’t even imagine what life was like before they wandered in. Flag’s like that. Lucky that she knows the bad ones well enough to tell ‘em apart from the good ones.

She only feels bad because she wishes she’d seen this sooner.

Flag clears his throat, finally glancing away. “You should run off. Before Joker misses you.”

“Yeah, right,” she says softly, unable to lie to herself that she’s sad this night is ending.

Flag’s something else. And it’s truly such a travesty she never saw it before.

“Puddin’s waitin’.”

She takes a step back, Flag’s pretty eyes finding their way back to her. She has the ridiculous urge to tuck her hair behind her ears, even though her hair isn’t coming out these pigtails any time soon.

“I should—I should go.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them move.

“Are you going that way or—”

“Yeah. I’m just here to see you off.”

Gosh, his smile is so soft. God, his arms are decidedly not. Speaking of…

“Oh! Here, your jacket!”

She slides it off before she can do something dumb like run away with it.

The dismayed surprise on Flag’s face has her spluttering out a reason, “Puddin’s gonna see it, and he won’t be happy.”

There. Easy. Even if it is technically a lie. Not about the dating thing, but about how Mr. J wouldn’t notice it even if she had a neon sign that said ‘This is Rick Flag’s jacket, not mine!!! Suck it.’

Flag nods jerkily, but his hands still hesitate to take it from her.

Another great idea has her snatching the jacket from his grasp at the last second.

At the perplexed expression on his face, she says, “Humor me. Please?”

Flag nods without skipping a beat. Her heart definitely skips a few, though.

She walks around him, his jacket in her hands. She stops at his back—bejeezus, those muscles—and takes a steady breath. Flag stiffens almost imperceptibly. She gets an eyeful of those aforementioned back muscles at work, and she swallows dryly.

She lifts the jacket up to his height and taps his shoulder with a finger. Flag gets the memo instantly, and he slides his arm into one sleeve, with Harley putting the jacket on him like some housewife. She does the same for the other side.

Neither of them says a single word.

She kind of hopes he notices how she lingers, her hands patting on the fabric unnecessarily, dusting away invisible dirt, before stepping away.

“I gotta go.” She points a thumb in some random direction once Flag turns around to face her. He nods, biting down on those sinful lips.

“It was nice to catch up with you, Harley.”

The tiny bit of fear left in her leaves. He does like her company.

“You too, Flag. Though, could have done with less walking. Whatever Nancy Sinatra says, these boots aren’t meant for walking.”

Flag chuckles, the deep sound roiling pleasantly in her tummy. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“Already planning our future together, Flag?” Her mouth runs away from her, and for a moment Harley wishes so desperately for the floor to swallow her whole.

“Maybe,” is what he says, a dazzling glimmer in his eyes that shouldn’t work for her but does.

Harley has nothing to say to that, feeling more out of her depth the longer she stays.

Usually, she’s not so skittish around these kinda things. But her wounds are still open and she’s still so desperately trying to piece herself together without a helping hand around.

Maybe in the future, though, when she’s remade herself into who she wants to be, would she be able to reply with snark and a healthy amount of flirtiness. Not now, though.

Now, Harley only wants to go back home and look up a tomato soup and grilled cheese recipe that will put Martha Stewart to shame.

“I’ll see you on Saturday, Flag.”

Flag nods again, curt and all soldier-like.

“See you, Harley.”

She turns and walks away, unable to fight the urge to glance back again—he’s still staring at her. She waves her fingers at him, grinning wide when he waves back at her.

When she gets back to her apartment, kicking boots off of her worn feet and patting Bruce’s head on the way to her bedroom, she finds that her shirt still smells like Rick Flag, or rather a mix of both of them. Gunpowder and sweetness meshing well despite the sharp contrast.

She opens up her phone and sees another story posted on Nova’s Instagram accidentally. A quick boomerang of all of her friends clinking their Cosmos together.

Harley stares at it for a moment. Then shrugs. She goes to open up google chrome and types in the search bar.

Tomato soup grilled cheese recipe.

Then, in another tab:

Good ice-cream places in gotham

She whistles a tune as she goes to her fridge to check for ingredients.

Flaggy was the one who alluded to planning future things for both of them.

What’s the harm in doing the same?