I do not own Suicide Squad.

Still waiting to watch it, boo.

Time at the End of the Day

She checked the Art Deco clock on the wall.

Almost time.

That was good.

Everything was right on schedule.

She ran her hands down her frilly pink and white apron, reading "Kiss the Cook".

Patted at her blond and pink and blue coiffed hair.

And glanced in the mirror aside the sink.

Bright red lipstick and blue eye shadow perfectly in contrast with her unnaturally pale skin.

Just right.

The baby, shadowing her every movement in his rolling seat, bumped her ankles and she cooed at him.

Wiped a smudge of dirt from his precious little chin.

And kissed the top of his sweet-smelling little head before rising once more to the food.

She was checking the temperature of the steaks one last time as the door opened.

Perfect.

And he strolled in.

"Hey Puddin'," she called out happily. "Welcome home!"

She swiftly untied and discarded the apron.

Revealing his favorite outfit, now finally wearable after months of recovering her figure after pregnancy.

A butterfly shouldered, pin-up dress.

Form fitting black bodice adorned with red buttons.

Colored blocked, v-shaped black waist.

Flaring out into a black and white poka dot circle skirt with bright red hem.

Complete with matching red high heeled sandals.

It twirled out slightly when she turned.

Such as now.

And beheld him.

In all his glory.

Her handsome man.

Rich, burgundy dress shirt and dark pants.

Polished shoes.

Silver jacket slung casually over one shoulder.

Hanging up his Uzi on the coatrack by the door.

And turning to gift her with his crimson smile below a slicked back quaff of bright green hair.

"Good evening, dear Harley!" He crowed exhuberantly.

In a few quick steps, he reached her.

Spun around her, narrowly missing the baby's bald head.

Dipped her low into a passionate embrace.

And back up as she giggled.

Then dove back down to scoop up the baby, arms out stretched up toward his daddy.

Unafraid and unconcerned of his startling appearance.

"And how's Daddy's little minion today?"

The baby giggled at the ensuing tickle and toss into the air.

Then the man himself hoisted the child over his shoulder and strode into the dining area.

"What's for dinner tonight, darling?" he called about over his shoulder.

She set the last of it on the table as Dadums strapped the infant into his highchair, adjusting a clean bib around neck.

Reading 'Daddy's Lil' Partner in Crime'.

"Steak. Extra rare and bloody, just the way you like it, Puddin'," she replied proudly. "Baked potato with sour cream and ghost pepper hot sauce, and hard rolls."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Hard rolls?"

She nodded, setting the full bread basket on the table.

Instantly, he grabbed one up and chunked it at an ornate wall mirror.

It shattered and he cackled.

"Now that's a yeast that lives up to its name!"

Shards of the chemically heated sand turned reflective surface fell out of the golden frame and onto the floor, shattering still further.

The baby giggled at tinkling sound and his mother smiled dotingly upon both father and son.

They dug into their food, each feeding the baby morsels of the scrumptious meal.

She told him about her day, cleaning, changing diapers, and helping the baby learn to walk.

And he in turn relayed his day to her.

The bank robbery, the shootings, the terrorizing of the hostages.

They each seemed to have accomplished a substantial amount in the space of a single, humdrum weekday.

Finally, she brought out the dessert, devil's food cake, with dark chocolate ganache.

They enjoyed a shared piece just before her dear one looked up at the clock.

"Ooops, almost late for bowling!"

Leaping up from his chair, he disappeared into the bedroom, changing quickly, and reappearing with his bowling bag.

Wearing his bowling league shirt emblazoned with crossed smoking guns and the moniker "Knockin 'Em Dead".

Toting a black bowling bag.

She knew inside was the customized ball she'd bought him for Christmas.

Glossy black, the visage of a joker smirking around a glowing cigar embossed upon its surface.

He smooched a kiss upon the baby and another, more adult one onto her before heading again toward the door.

"Good luck, Puddin'!" she called out, smiling adoringly.

He grinned at her, vicious and charming all at the same time.

"Heads are gonna roll!"

And he was gone.

She turned back into the room . . .

. . . and slowly opened her eyes.

The concrete beneath her was hard, unforgiving.

Warmed only by her body heat.

The loose, ill fitting cotton prison suit bunched and crumpled underneath her slender frame.

She sat up slowly, head pounding, teeth aching.

"Maybe next time you decide to take a headfirst charge at the bars, sweetheart, you'll remember they're electrified," the automatic-toting guard above her snarked.

She ignored him. And refrained from putting her head in her hands.

Stupid daydream.

Still, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying.

And calmly requested a cup of tea.

Welcome to my brain after a day home with the kids cleaning the house. ;)

My second dream trick fic in two days, ha.

Still, hope you had fun reading 'cause it was fun writing! ;)

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