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Nightwing’s legs dangle over the edge of a gargoyle. He chews on a beef burrito while flexing his feet to the beat of a Taylor Swift song drifting out of someone’s window. It’s an older song of hers. Upbeat. More country than pop. It reminds him of bouncing around the Cave’s gym, back when he was little and trying his hardest to get Bruce to like the music Dick liked. The scheme hadn’t worked, of course. But he still maintains that, of the pair, he has the superior taste in music.
The night air smells like rain and hot asphalt. A few miles away, there’s a rumble of thunder as the storm recedes. Gotham glows neon blue below his perch.
Nightwing might’ve overextended his leg about an hour ago. His calf is tight. And his quads, well… they’re never not jittery. Nightwing takes the hand not wrapped around his food cart burrito and massages his thighs one at a time. He continues to alternate flexing and pointing his feet. There’s a new song playing now. This type of idle stretching is the closest he’s ever gets to sitting still.
Nightwing keeps his comm muted as he eats. Chewing in people’s ears is rude. If he listens closely, really concentrates, he can almost imagine a voice in the faint crackle of static. That or his ears are playing tricks on him, creating sound where he wants there to be. Where there is none.
Batman is imprisoned in Wayne Manor. His jailer is Alfred and his crime is catching a stomach bug. Nothing out of the ordinary, though Bruce had tested his blood for contaminants. Bruce’s newest ward, Jason, twelve and so small it hurts, wasn’t allowed out on patrol without his spooky shadow.
Dick remembered being that young. Feeling safe next to Bruce but striving for independence. Now? He’s gained the independence and lost the shadow. Dick hasn’t decided how to feel about that yet, but he thinks the void weight in his chest reeks of melancholy.
He debates turning in early. Picking up takeout — he’s a growing boy — and going back to his drab apartment, turning on the TV to catch the gymnastics portion of the Olympic Games. Would he feel better or worse, slouching on his threadbare couch all alone?
Nightwing’s cell phone rings as he’s stretching his back, working his way back to patrol-ready. He checks the caller ID. Must be a late night for Leslie Thompkins, too.
“Hiya,” he says.
“Hi, Nightwing,” Leslie says. “I don’t think this is an emergency, but I could use your assistance with something if you have the time.”
“At the clinic?”
“Yes,” Leslie says.
“What’s up?” Nightwing climbs down the building, listening. Before he leaves, he smooches the gargoyle on its snarling mouth in thanks.
“Harley Quinn came in asking for medical care with a fake ID.”
“Is she okay? How does she look?”
“Like I need to give her directions to the nearest women’s shelter.”
“Yikes,” Nightwing says. He really isn’t at all surprised that the Joker is an abusive bastard. “Is she being aggressive?”
“No. She’s skittish, though. Keeps wanting to leave.”
“What do you need me to do? Keep her there? Convince her to let you treat her?” Leslie sighs. The sound is drawn out and tired.
“I’ve been on the clock for sixteen hours today. I don’t trust my judgement. Could you handle her?”
“Anything for you, Doc.”
“Oh, and Nightwing?” Leslie sighs again, “If I thought the police should be involved, I would have called them instead. Harley needs help, not a pair of handcuffs.”
“I’m readin’ you loud and clear. Friendly neighborhood Nightwing only. I’ll be over in a few.” Nightwing mounts his motorcycle and speeds away.
The clinic is stationed on the border of Gotham’s East End and The Bowery, two of the most poverty- and crime-stricken areas of the city. It occupies a renovated strip mall location instead of a free-standing building. The strip mall is decades old, built in the glittering heyday of American consumerism. The clinic only came around years after the neighborhood had gone downhill. Part of the reason Dr. Thompkins had chosen this location for the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic was to clean up the abandoned storefronts. The other reason? Its proximity to the now-infamous Crime Alley.
Everything about the clinic is a little run down. The neon sign is a dull red. It flickers as moths besiege the inside of the glowing letters. The windows are a bit dusty, but not so much that the sun-bleached wellness posters aren’t visible through the reinforced glass.
While entering, Nightwing tries for casual. He smiles as he walks in the staff-only door from the back parking lot. He rolls his wrists. He stretches his hands.
A tired nurse looks up from her coffee and eyeballs him.
“You good?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Nightwing winks and does a snappy little 360º turn for her as he struts, his arms wide. She smiles a bit into the lip of her mug. Nightwing counts that as another win for the night.
As he rounds the corner, he collides with one sniffly Harley Quinn. She rocks back and Nightwing grabs at her upper arms to keep her from falling.
“Woah, hey, sorry,” he chuckles. He decides to act surprised. “Harley? Hey, are you okay?” He doesn’t have to fake his concern. Harley’s got black tear tracks staining her splotchy cheeks. Her eye makeup, an incredibly tasteful sky blue and cotton candy pink combo, is smudged across her eyes like a domino mask. There’s a monster bruise on her jaw. Some dotting her neck, too.
Harley Quinn looks at him for a second, and then leans around to glance behind him. She sighs wetly.
“So the doc called me in, huh? Where’s ol’ Batsy,” Harley sniffs, all mucus and phlegm. It sounds like she’s revving a weepy lawnmower.
“Nah,” Nightwing smiles. He keeps a light grip on her arms and begins rubbing small circles with his thumbs. She’s wearing a tattered secondhand sweater that’s so large on her it’s almost a dress. “I check on the clinic time-to-time. Sometimes one of the nurses will even give me a lollipop. They got the good ones here. Actually, I really want one right now. What flavor do you like?”
“Mystery,” she says quietly, “it’s always a surprise.”
“That one and root beer are tied for my favorite. Hey,” Nightwing says, voice chipper as apple pie as he gently leads her to a nearby nurses’ station. It’s deserted. Being in the clinic this late produces the same desolate feeling of purgatory as a hotel hallway at 2 A.M, he thinks. “Did you know that the Mystery flavor comes from the changeover in the production line? So, like, when they finish a root beer batch and start a cherry batch, there are some in the middle that are a mix of the two. Bam! Mystery flavor.”
Nightwing carefully selects two lollipops out of the glass jar. Another nurse peeks her head out, sees the pair, and raises her eyebrow. Nurses do not like when patients and their guests are not where they’re supposed to be. He hands one of the lollipops to Harley.
“Where’d you say your room was, Harley? I don’t think the nurses want us wandering around alone for too long.”
She crinkles the wrapper but doesn’t open her candy. When she slowly turns and walks down the hallway toward a closed door before going in, he follows.
The room is clinically sparse. Light faux hardwood floors with cabinets to match. The walls are almost a mint green, perhaps a couple of shades darker. A painting hangs on the wall across from the door. It’s plain and uninspiring, similar to hotel room art. Nightwing guesses that it’s a watercolor print. The room smells like bleach and scented hand soap.
Harley leans against the exam table. Her eyes won’t meet his whiteout lenses. He thinks she’s a little embarrassed, though her shoulders have softened since their hallway collision. She tucks her unopened lollipop in her pocket.
If Batman is a brick wall of emotion, then Harley Quinn is currently a funhouse mirror surrounded by flickering rainbow lights that are blinking I AM VERY SAD in Morse code.
Nightwing collapses onto the rolling stool. He spins, mostly because he can’t help himself. Using the patented Batman Silence™ he waits for Harley to start talking. Harley Quinn is a Big Talker. As is he, and Nightwing appreciates a kindred soul. But she doesn’t say anything. She does, however, whip her head toward the door after about thirty seconds of silence. Harley gasps and scrapes her hip along the beige exam table, moving away from the door. Her eyes dart between it and Nightwing. She looks like she wants to bolt.
“Please don’t leave,” he asks. His voice is the warm, gooey honey that comforts traumatized victims.
“You called Mistah Jay?” Harley’s face contorts in ugly betrayal. Nightwing stands, palms up.
“No? No. Of course not. Did you hear him?” he says. Harley nods. He hadn’t heard a thing — the clinic is always quiet this late at night. But maybe she’s more attuned to the Joker’s voice than he is.
Nightwing goes to the door and opens it an inch. He listens. There’s only ambient clinic sounds like the white noise of the air conditioner kicking on, padded footsteps a hallway down, and muffled voices in another exam room. Nightwing slides outside and checks the hallway. It’s neat, sterile, and unoccupied.
“There’s no one there?” Nightwing says, coming back in. Harley is pressed against the back wall. Her arms are crossed in an X against her chest, one hand holding onto the other wrist.
“I heard him,” she says. Which is concerning. He’s concerned. How often does Harley hear someone that isn’t there? Does she only hear the Joker? Was it a flashback, an auditory hallucination, or some other option? Temporary or chronic?
“Okay,” he says, “I didn’t hear him, but if he is here — he’s not — I’ll kick his ass. I’m a professional Joker ass-kicker and I love my job.”
Harley gasps, this time in startled outrage.
“Lang-oo-age! Are ya even in college yet? I oughta wash your mouth out with tha’ soap over there.”
Nightwing laughs. There’s Harley.
“I am totally allowed to swear. Just… not in front of my grandpa.” he shrugs. Harley snorts and her shoulders drop again from where they’d been kissing her earlobes.
“Are you hurt? Can I take a look at your wrist?” he says. Nightwing pats the exam table and smiles. One time, when Bruce had been laid up in the Cave’s medical bay and on the good painkillers because of a knot the size of Topeka on his jaw, he’d asked eleven-year-old Dick if his cheeks always hurt. He’d laughed and said No, B! The only thing stronger than my smile muscles are my flying ones! Bruce had been skeptical.
“When’d ya become Doctor Nightwing, huh? You don’ look stressed enough to be in medical school.” Harley says. But she sidles over and leans against the table again.
“I can go grab an actual doctor, if you want. Or I could do it? I’m real good at first aid, promise.”
Harley hesitates for about five seconds before using her good hand to heave herself onto the table behind her. Her sweater slides up and he can see the four-diamond motif on her black leggings. She’s probably wearing some of her uniform, then. Maybe even everything but her combat boots — Harley’s got on beat up tennis shoes that at one point had been white and pristine.
She sticks out her wrist.
“Take a crack at it, kid.”
Nightwing gingerly takes her hand and rotates it. He pokes at it. Her wrist is swollen but doesn’t feel broken.
“How much does it hurt?” he says.
“It’s jus’ sore,” she replies. “I fell on it.”
“No sharp pains?”
“Nah,” she says.
“Then let me see if there are any braces in here — one sec,” Nightwing rummages through some drawers until he finds a black one in the lower cabinet. “Aha! Here we go.”
“I think it’s a sprain,” he says, wrapping the brace for her. He low-key hates the sound of Velcro.
“Probably,” Harley agrees, bobbing her head. The air conditioner has gone quiet.
“Anything else?” he asks. He doesn’t see any blood on Harley. Just ugly bruises.
“Your outfit is real fabulous,” she says, brushing some of the golden tassels on his suit. He shimmies so they flare out and laughs with her.
“I have great taste. And don’t let Batman or Robin tell you otherwise.” Harley beams at him. With every flash of teeth she inches closer to normal.
He’s about to declare her all well and good, but then Nightwing remembers earlier, when Harley thought she’d heard the Joker. He’s not sure if a mild concussion can cause hallucinations but figures it’s best to investigate all possibilities.
“Hey, can I check your head for a concussion? Real quick. It’d make me feel better,” he says. She nods. Nightwing talks her through everything, including why he has to blind her with a flashlight.
“You wouldn’ make a bad doctor — or nurse.” Harley says. “You gotta better bedside manner than, like, half a my class.”
“Thanks! So where’re you headed after this?” Nightwing says, because he doesn’t want her stumbling right back to wherever Joker’s holed up. “I heard from Commissioner Gordon that you’ve got people who are wondering after you.” Which is only half true. People are worried about her. Gordon had even told him that. However, half of the people worried about Dr. Harleen Quinzel are Batman and Nightwing. He’s not sure who else is asking about her.
“I hadn’ thought that far,” Harley shrugs. Then she huffs. “Not like I can jus’ show up at a women’s shelter.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not supposed to.”
“Says who?”
“It’s easier to do wha’ he says. My puddin’s a lot nicer when only I can hear him, too.”
Nightwing decides to let the comment slide. For now. He runs through a few options in his head. He can only come up with one good one.
The safehouse isn’t far from the clinic. It’s in a humdrum apartment building on the third floor. The pair scale the fire escape and Nightwing opens the window, disabling the alarm before slipping in. He reaches out to Harley and helps her through the window — she's been moving stiffly all night.
The safehouse is stunning in its mediocrity. Bare white walls, unimpressive décor. The living room contains only a large couch, a sturdy coffee table, and a television. There’s also a sizable area rug to muffle the sound of steel-toed boots for the downstairs neighbors.
“Why don’t you sit? I gotta clean up a few things,” Nightwing says. He grabs a duffel bag out of the hallway’s linen closet and removes anything bat-specific from the apartment. He leaves the first aid kit and the pantry’s contents. Luckily, this is one of the sparser safehouses. It’s only used for quick stops, like a patch job or a bathroom break.
Once Harley leaves and gets back on her feet, he’ll need to remember to close out the safehouse’s accounts. And in this case, burn the leaseholder’s identity. He wants to help Harley, but he can’t afford to trust her. Yet. Maybe one day.
(And Nightwing allows himself a minute of daydreaming. His favorite fantasies are the ones that end with a wholesome happily ever after. Say Harley liberates herself. Shucks off the Joker’s influence. She won’t have her medical license anymore, so what could she do? He knows she competed as a gymnast — good enough to get a full ride scholarship to Gotham University. But it’s been years since she trained. Hmm. He’ll have to think about it more.)
But Nightwing can’t help but hope — what if everything worked out perfectly for once?
While Nightwing is clearing the safehouse, he takes out his phone and sends a text to the Batcomputer’s number: Retire safehouse 23-3. Loaned out. Because this isn’t the first time a Bat has loaned a safehouse to a victim. It is rare, though. And this is the first time it’s gone to a rogue. Nightwing is about eighty-five percent sure Bruce won’t be mad about it. He knows Bruce feels responsible for Dr. Harleen Quinzel’s downward spiral into Harley Quinn. Personally, Nightwing thinks the Joker is the number one at-fault douchebag in this tragedy. But the insidious incompetence of Arkham Asylum’s bureaucracy is a close second for the way they failed their psychiatric resident. He gets why Barbara always says Human error will be the downfall of us all, Boy Wonder.
He sets the packed duffel bag by the front door. At some point Harley switched on the TV. The cable network is replaying the gymnastics floor competition. He walks over and slumps beside her on the couch, keeping a respectable distance. They watch it together in silence for about fifteen minutes until one of the competitors lands wrong at the end of a sequence and appears to snap their ankle. In sync, they oof.
“And he’s outta here,” Harley booms as Olympic medics and staff help the gymnast off the mat. “I bet I could do better than them anyway!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Hell yeah! Did’ya know I competed at the national level in college? Got a scholarship for it an’ everything.”
“Wait, really?” he says like he didn’t already know. Like Batman didn’t have a dossier complied on Dr. Harleen Quinzel the minute she was hired at Arkham.
Harley nods. “I specialized in floor, but I liked the vault, too.”
The room is dark besides a nightlight in the small kitchen and the lambent television. It flashes through the bright strobing colors of advertisements. Red for Coke. Blue for Visa. Light, dark. Light, dark. He stares at Harley out of the corner of his eye. Her rounded features change from soft to sharp in the flickering light.
“At one point I considered going that route, you know? Hanging up the cape and going pro. Maybe even compete in — ” Nightwing gestures to the TV and chuckles. The sound is a bit wet around the edges. “It would’ve made Batman happy.”
“You didn’t.”
“I figured — I don’t need a gold medal. I want to save people.”
“When you Bats say cheesy shit like that, no one believes you.” Harley groans and slaps her forehead.
“Cheese doesn’t make it any less true!” he hollers, fidgeting to whelm his momentary vulnerability.
“Oh, yeah?” Harley Quinn gets spicy. She puffs up and turns. “Then don’t ya got damsels needin’ savin’ right about now?” She stabs a finger at him.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Nightwing says. He arms himself with a blinding but sincere smile. “Look, if spending a few hours of my night with you means you get help, be it treatment or breaking free of the Joker… well, that’s better than any gold medal.” And that’s the god’s honest truth. What Nightwing wants in this moment? Harley Quinn, manipulated and abused and isolated, to accept his help.
“You’re a sweet kid.” Harley’s eyes fill with tears. She hasn’t washed her face yet, so the mascara-infused tear tracks from earlier still line her cheeks.
“Wait a goddamn minute, treatment?” she squawks. “I ain’t crazy.”
“I don’t think you are,” Nightwing backtracks, holding his hands up. “But I know the Joker got to you in some way. Sometimes people need help seeing that they’re in an abusive relationship. And that it’s okay to leave.”
“Why does it matter?” Harley says, challenging. “Mind ya own business.”
“Because you matter.”
“Mistah Jay says no one matters — everybody is on the edge of insanity. All they need is a little push.” Harley waves her arms forward, shoving.
“Is that why you became a psychologist? Because you believe no one can be helped?”
“I proved him right. All he had to do was push me. Not even a lot!” she nearly wails the last part.
Nightwing is quiet. Not quite sure what to say, he purses his lips. He listens to the Olympic commentators for a minute before deciding to ask outright.
“Harley, at the clinic… does that happen a lot? You hearing someone who isn’t there?”
“What?”
“I don’t want to diagnose you, that’s more your field of expertise…”
“People ain’t supposed to self-diagnose,” she says.
“Well, no, but most people can tell when something is off. Even if they don’t admit it.”
“Nothing’s wrong with me. I jus’ wanted some adventure.” Harley attempts to cross her arms but hisses when she wrenches her wrist. Nightwing rolls his head to look at her.
“Do you really believe that?” he asks honestly. She rubs her wrist but refuses to answer. They both return their attention to the TV.
“America’s gonna do well this year,” Harley says. He lets her change the subject. For the next hour, the pair chats aimlessly. They talk about nothing: the US gymnastics team, if vampires are real, college entrance exams, and Chinese buffets. They remember to eat their lollipops. The Joker doesn’t come up again. At some point Nightwing stacks his feet on the scratched-up coffee table. He alternates pointing and flexing his feet. He’s relaxed.
And, honestly? He’s enjoying this. Harley is astoundingly easy to talk to. Usually Dick has to drag decent conversation from a brooding superhero and a taciturn British butler. He might’ve liked to have Harley as a therapist. Maybe — maybe! — if he plays his cards right, he could have her as a friend instead.
The thought sends a little flutter through his chest. Wouldn’t that be a happily ever after for the books? Harley safe from and free of the Joker? And his friend? Then he could really make sure she stayed okay, which is something he longs he could do for the other victims he encounters. Sometimes he wishes it were kosher for him to just show up a month or two after whatever tragedy, knock on their window, and talk for a while. After all, he thinks, what’s the point of saving someone if you can’t make sure that they’re truly fine and dandy?
Harley yawns. Nightwing glances at the ticking kitchen clock.
“That sounds like my cue,” he says. He gets up and stretches, groaning. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”
“Okie dokie,” Harley says. “When do I need to be outta here by?”
“Oh, uh,” Nightwing hums, thinking. He bounces on the balls of his feet. “You can stay here for two weeks, for sure. The rent and utilities are paid for this month anyway, no need for them to go to waste.”
“Two whole weeks?” she squeaks.
“Longer if you need,” he decides out of the blue. “Here, let me give you my number.” Nightwing grabs a notepad out of one of the drawers in the kitchen. “This is my work number, so I’ll only be able to answer calls or respond to texts after, like, 9 P.M. Unless it’s an emergency. Then just call twice in a row.” Nightwing walks back to hand her the paper. On it: a phone number and a childlike drawing of the bat signal.
“Does this place gotta landline?” she says.
“You don’t have a phone?” Harley shakes her head. She frowns deeply, and Nightwing can tell that this is a sensitive issue. He holds up a finger and asks her to give him a second.
He powerwalks to the entryway where earlier he’d deposited the duffel bag. Nightwing pulls out a burner phone, a charging cable, and three prepaid phone cards. He gives them to Harley. She gazes at the items like they are keys to a lock.
“I left some of Batgirl’s clothes for you in the bedroom dresser,” he says, “and there are makeup wipes in the bathroom cabinet along with some Tylenol. Oh, and there’s keys and cash on top of the fridge. For groceries or more clothes or whatever you need.”
“I don’t know what I need,” Harley says, nearly cutting him off. It’s high and desperate.
“You don’t have to figure it out now. Besides: come morning, come clarity, I always say.” Nightwing smiles. Harley looks skeptical, but it seems her panic has subsided as quickly as it appeared.
“That’s a stupid sayin’ for a nocturnal vigilante,” she points out.
“Yeah,” Nightwing laughs, “I guess so. But I need to get going — at sunrise I turn back into a pumpkin.” Harley snorts. Nightwing makes his way to the front door. Halfway there, he turns around.
“Promise you’ll give it a week,” Nightwing says, suddenly scared that she’ll flee as soon as he leaves the building.
“Promise ya what?”
“Stay here, or at the very least away from him.”
“Sure,” she shrugs.
Nightwing frowns. He stalks back over to her and sticks his hand out, pinky extended.
“I’m gonna need a pinky promise, Doctor Quinzel.” Harley laughs like he'd reached down her throat like a top hat and pulled out a white rabbit.
“Fuck. Okay, kid.” Harley Quinn reaches out with her good hand, the one wrapped around the little piece of folded paper with his number on it, and promises.