mahem | open post;

harley darling, do me a favor, won't you?

Didn't you say you were just going to make a sandwich before you left?

Why does my kitchen look like you blew it up?

Hey, HQ. You want that hair tie back?

(They drove the stolen car for miles. Eventually, Ivy convinced Harley to take Cass to a safer place. They holed up in one of Ivy's warehouses and fucking researched foster organizations.

And then Cass was gone.

And Harley was left with Ivy, Ivy with stars in her eyes for Harley. Ivy, who wanted to take care of Harley. She was going through something, obviously. She finally left the Joker behind still very recently. It was still a wound. (Ivy wanted to be the one to heal it). Harley was the psych but Ivy could see the changes and emotions Harley was having.

Imagine Frank in the background, with Bruce peeing on him. In front of you, Ivy and Harley will be curled up on the couch. Knees touching, bowls of cereal in hand. Did it matter that it was late at night? No. Ivy was with her best friend.)

You... you ever hear that song by Prince, "If I Was Your Girlfriend?" (in a tone that suggested a weird follow-up)

[ Usually, they trade off favors. He'll help her out intimidating some jumped-up mob guys who need to be shut down, then a few months later he might swing by needing some explosive power to take out a vampire nest. Little things, mostly an excuse to get into each other's orbit for a while. It's not as often as either of them might like, they've both got shit to do, lives to live, but somehow they make it work. And when it works, it really works.

This time, she's running the show. As always, Hellboy's happy to turn up where she needs him and punch who he asks her to punch, he's learned not to ask too many questions and chalks it up to assuming whoever else she might have asked might have done a messier job. And he wants to watch her back. Literally and figuratively.

He's doing that now, or really watching something a little lower down than her back, legs spread wide and a beer in one hand, taking up a decent part of a shadowy corner booth in the sort of bar that dive bars don't want to be. Something electric and thudding with bass is playing through hidden speakers overhead; the floor is sticky and everything smells like spilled beer and cheap, sugary vodka mixers. For some reason there's a hockey game playing silently on the TV above the bar. It's exactly the kind of joint Hellboy ends up in the most, where he usually feels at home, give or take a round of tequila shots -- he'd be the first to admit he's not a man of taste and refinement. And when it comes to Harley, he can't help but think he's hitting above his weight.

She doesn't make him feel it though; if anything she makes him feel more wanted, more accepted than he's felt in a long time, since before the Professor's death. And damn if he doesn't feel like the luckiest guy in the room every time she looks at him, every time he gets a glimpse of her ass, her tits spilling out of her top, the smile she flashes him -- everything.

He takes a swig of his beer and watches her with hooded, glowing eyes, not bothering to hide the grin that keeps creeping back around the edges of his mouth. ]

[ it would be an ass-backwards terrible idea to break into harleen quinzel's apartment, but then again, digger's always been the king of bad ideas. the man always had a slippery sort of charmed luck to him, too, until the day it ran out and the flash caught him.

also, he's drunk as a skunk.

he'd picked the locks on her door, then tripped over an old pizza box at the entrance, which conveniently dropped his head enough that his face wasn't immediately skewered by the booby trap which sent a bolt slamming into the wall right above him. (a crossbow? who fucking uses crossbows?)

he stumbles a little trying to weave his way through the mess, which is right about when the hyena might've chewed his arm off — but it turns out digger is good with dogs or dog-like things, and maybe the animal recognises a kindred spirit to its mistress, yet another half-crazed thief winding up on her doorstep, and so even the hyena lets him settle. hey then, brucey bruce bruce, the man says, as he stoops to scratch the beast under its massive jaw.

he shouldn't be out of prison yet — those pesky multiple life sentences — but then again, he's always been pretty good at slipping out of a noose.

so he's slumped on her threadbare sofa in the eclectic chaos of her flat; the man looking rumpled, disheveled as ever, a fresh bruise blooming under one eye and his clothes smelling of stale beer. there's a bit of whiskey soaking his beard, which bruce is contentedly licking off his cheek. his own GCPD wanted poster is crumpled and stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. and digger tips his head back and decides to wait for harley to get home. maybe he'll just doze a little.

she might shoot him when she gets in, spotting an intruder — but hell, there's worse ways to go, as they both know so well. ]

[ it's not like they ever get a choice around when they're dragged out for another mission, shot up with a bomb in their necks and dropped into some hostile territory because the government needs bodies who will do the dirty deed for them — especially the ones who already have a rap sheet so they can be disavowed if they get caught. it's kind of a perfect plan, so diabolical that it almost makes harley respect amanda waller from a boss bitch standpoint. almost.

right now, she's not feeling very generous toward their leader for a lot of reasons, chief among them the fact that it's christmas and she's stuck in some shitty motel in a forgotten corner of the world because apparently criminals don't get to have time off for the holidays. part of her wishes she could be back in gotham now, especially around this time of year; there's the big tree lighting that some random rogue always tries to blow up just to lure the batman out of hiding, but harley mostly likes it because the city itself turns into a winter wonderland, white flakes falling on everything — even arkham — and making it feel like they're in a little snowglobe of their own.

but instead, she's sitting in a motel, no air conditioning, sweating her butt off even though what she's wearing barely amounts to anything that could be considered actual clothes, her trademark pink-and-blue pigtails long-since chopped off now that she's officially split off from j. having dropped onto one of the lumpy queen-sized mattresses, she's listening to the crappy tv play one of those animated holiday specials in some other kind of language, but the sound of weird scraping at the door sends her reaching for her bat and trying to catch whoever it is on the other side by surprise. ]

Yeah, just try to break into my room, you piece of — [ when she throws open the door, bat leveled in her other hand, her head just tilts in visible confusion. ] — tree?

[ his boots scrape against the floor as he walks into the room. it looks like some shabby motel, except much more outdated than what he's used to, something he'd find on a planet where the tech advancements are backed up. the instructions he'd been given had told him to come here, with an added suggestion to "get comfortable", though he does little of that as he keeps his large jacket on, long as it extends down to his shins, collars propped up to cover his neck, making him appear even larger than he is, as if he ever needed the help.

peering around, it remains empty, meaning whoever he's supposed to be meeting hasn't arrived yet, leaving him to consider that he probably could have waited out longer to let him get here first, maybe planted himself in the shadows across the hall to get a read on them to maintain the advantage.

but it is what it is, and he sighs before he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a carton of cigarettes so he can guide one of the sticks to his mouth, lighter soon following to brush the flame against the end, a bright concentrated glow in contrast to the low lighting that fills the rest of the room.

from there, he tosses himself onto the bed, a weak frame resulting in a high pitched squeak as he leans his back against the pillows, pulling up his feet to stretch across the mattress, boots and all. it did say to get comfortable, didn't it? ]

[ He hasn't celebrated a holiday that even resembled a holiday since before he shipped out. They just sort of became days when he was overseas and then once he fell in with the wrong folk after he got home, they were nothing. Just days that blended into one shit storm. After that he got shipped to the Casa de Waller and then holidays didn't exist period. It was just one giant slog until you died, or you felt like dying. Once he got loose though and he found Harley once more those little things like holidays mattered. Birthdays. Special moments locked in dates. Anniversaries. Anniversaries of anniversaries. Floyd's a methodical man, but even he needs a calendar to keep those things straight. Holidays though are easy. The days don't change. He can't get tripped up from a Leap Year or something stupid.

Christmas as far as he can remember is a pretty decent one to celebrate with his girl for the first time. There's no tree yet, but she's done her own version of holiday decorations. They're unique. Special you could even say. The tree though is something he's going to do. Stealing it feels wrong. Buying it makes his skin crawl, but he wants it to be special. Any schmuck can steal a pine tree from some fucking lot and call it a day. No. Floyd pays because his baby deserves that much. He pays a punk kid ten bucks to help him drag it inside and then gives him the boot. He doesn't own a tree stand so he improvises. Just like he does with most of the decorations and the ornaments. They don't match worth a damn, but he figures they're more--them. ]

Whatcha think, Bruce?

[ He surveys the tree from a distance. Bruce isn't paying attention. He's busy sniffing around a spare room that he's shut the door to. It's a gift. A gift for her and a gift for Bruce in a way. A surprise. One that was incredibly fucking expensive on the black market. The only way you can sort of buy a hyena. Except this one's a lady. Little fucker deserves something nice and he knows Harley will like seeing Bruce happy. He's got some more materialistic gifts wrapped in newspaper under is tree, but those are for later. After the whole hyena thing.

Floyd discards his t-shirt onto the arm of the couch. Damn thing was covered in sap and pine needles. This has left him shirtless in a Santa hat and some rough looking jeans, but none of that matters. He checks his watch and lets out a low whistle. ] Fuck. [ She should be back soon which is exactly why he adopts an almost awkward pose by the tree as he waits for her to get home. When the keys jingle in the lock and he sees it open he grins. ] Merry Christmas, baby doll.

text—

no subject

no subject

no subject

throws a thing at you

birds of prey-ish

skwad christmas;

dupverse, twin face hell edition

from the grave cause i felt festive